Mitt Romney: “If I’m elected president of the United States, not only will we have a colony on the moon by the end of my FIRST term, but anyone who can afford to buy a $1 Million Moon Villa, as they will be called, will get a 50% tax break.”

Herman Cain: “Shit, Pizza Hut’s been delivering to the moon since 1987. Only charge an extra 35 cents delivery, too.”

Rick Perry: “No homos.”

Sarah Palin: “It’s my dream that one day, any American, from Joe Six Pack to Joe Millionaire, I love that show by the way, can afford to raise their kids on the moon. Maybe then they’ll stop spiting God by worshiping the unholy sacrilege of Harry Potter and his witchcraft movies.”

Michele Bachmann: “I don’t understand why we don’t already have thriving metropolises on the moon. There are no studies that say a human can’t breathe in outer space. None whatsoever.”

Barack Obama: “No, I will not show you documentation proving that I was not, in fact, born on the moon. There’s not even a colony there yet. Are you hearing yourself?”

Donald Trump: “You want the moon? I’ve been drinking champagne in a limousine on Mars since 2004. Boom. You know what else? I built Atlantis. (Pause for effect) Yep, it’s real. Then, guess what. They wanted lower taxes. So I said, “Boom, ya fired.” Flooded them faster than you can say Ivanna divorce. Haha. No, but seriously. I’ll have the world’s most luxurious, indulgent casino on the moon by 2012. It’ll make Atlantic City look like the top of my head.”

Rick Santorum: “What are you queer? Have you seen what happens when you go the moon? All that frolicking and twinkle-toeing. I ain’t no gay. I’m stayin’ right here.”

George W. Bush: “We have reason to believe Iraqis are hiding weapons of mass destruction on Jupiter.”

His flight. Red-eye. Diamond ring, in pocket. Flowers. Red roses. Chocolates. Her favorite. Gifts from Iraq. Taxi cab. Dress Blues. Butterflies. Six months. “I’m home!” Hopes up. Moaning. Heart drops. Stealth. Bedroom door. Ajar. Stranger. See red. Whiskey and gunpoint. Trembling. Tears. Insanity. Squeeze. More red. This time it is real. A shovel. A hole … two of them. Golden Gate Bridge. Four a.m. More whiskey. Sans gun. Red eyes. Drenched face. Sweet release. Last glance. Red bridge.

The bull desperately slid through the cracked earth after another unsuccessful charge. A third sword stood erect from the left side of his blood-soaked hump of twitching muscle, behind its majestic, withered horns.

The crowd roared as life spilled from the bull. His eyes remained undefeated. But there was also sadness.

One final, pathetic charge. It was over. After 23 years with the company, Ernest was forced into retirement.

We are not the bullfighters. We are the bull.

“I’m really not looking forward to this. They hate us,” sighed Dan, knowing full well, at least he thought, the gravity of the situation he was approaching.

“I know,” Steve shrugged as his freshly-shaven face stared intensely at the ground, toward each and every step he took, “But we have to. And it’s the right thing to do,” now sounding as though he wasn’t only trying to convince Dan, but himself as well.

A brief but noticeably silence occupied the next few moments as they walked through the cemetery, wearing black suits and solemn, fearful faces.

Then, “It was an accident, Steve. Just a god damned accident!” A single tear dropped from Steve’s face as he glanced at Dan, then back at the ground.

Just three days before, Dan and Steve had been in a terrible car accident with what looked to be a typical Soccer Mom van. Yep, a good old 2008 Champagne-colored Mazda, loaded with the quintessential mother and father in the front seat. But “accident” was the operative word. Sure, it was an “accident”, but it was missing a descriptor. An “avoidable accident” would be more accurate.

You see, Dan and Steve had been making their way down off the mountain after a successful weekend on the slopes of Lake Tahoe, where they had encountered their fair share of black diamonds, snow bunnies, vodka shots, and, of course, let’s not forget the cocaine. Dan sure wouldn’t. Oh no, Dan would never forget the cocaine. This was the final “hoorah” before Steve started his first career job at his father’s company. He was playing with the big boys now, B.S. Business Marketing from Carnegie Melon in hand. But Dan wouldn’t let Steve grow up without a final weekend full of “frat boy shenanigans”, as Dan always so elegantly put things.

The morning before Steve and Dan were to drive back to Los Angeles, Dan had convinced Steve that they should both do one final line before making the eight hour drive back to the City of Angels. Hangover setting in and the weight of life starting to settle permanently, Steve didn’t take much coaxing. An hour later, bodies lay scattered across the mountainside road. Dan told the cops it was an ice patch. But Steve knew that was bullshit. He also wasn’t about to go to jail for the next 25 years for negligent homicide. So he kept his mouth shut, as he slowly died inside.

The passengers from one car had survived. The passengers from the other, well, they lay in the in the coffins ahead of Dan and Steve in the Berkland-Holmes Memorial Cemetery.

Steve was sharply brought back to reality.

“Steve! Are you listening to me? I mean, what do we even say to their kids?” Dan was becoming frantic. It was understandable. Deep down, they both knew that they had killed Tom and Melinda Dempsy. Parents of three. Avid church-goers. One doctor. One stay-at-home wife. One loving family, torn apart by some 23-year-old dipshits who thought the rules didn’t apply to them. But if they didn’t show up, what then? They might look like they had something to hide. They’d look like young punks who probably had a few beers before they hit the road. If only it had been just beers. “What do we tell them? Do we say, ‘I’m sorry’? How do you look these children in the eye, knowing that it’s your fault that they will never be the same, that you’re sorry and that everything’s gonna be alright? I knew we never should have even-”

Steve couldn’t stand it anymore. He reached his arms out toward Dan, causing a slight tear in the armpit of a suit jacket that was a 38 Regular, but probably should have been a 40 Long, grabbed Dan’s shoulders and said without noticing the rip, “It happened! Okay? It was an accident, it’s unfortunate, but it happened.”

Their walk through the graveyard seemed like an eternity before they finally arrived at the funeral, which had began five minutes prior. It was relatively early in the afternoon, however Dan and Steve almost simultaneously noticed that it had gotten quite dim, so dim in fact, that they could hardly see the crowd of mourners in front of them. They both gave each other a questioning look, but then shifted their focus on the memorial.

“It’s always sad to see the loss of such young and beautiful lives . . .” the priest continued.

Dan was feeling even more uneasy as he looked around. From the dark faces that he could make out, it seemed as though he and Steve had been shunned by the surrounding guests. Not one person had even looked at them, much less acknowledged them. He had anticipated anger and hostility, but complete dismissal of their very existence was quite possibly the most unnerving reaction he could have anticipated.

“Are you feeling okay?” Steve whispered. Steve himself had noticed the exile, but was doing the best he could to focus on the memorial, and not on himself.

“I don’t know, man. I just feel a little weird right now,” Dan whispered. His face had gone completely pale. Beads of sweat were forming just above his brow and upper lip.

“It’ll be fine. We’re doing the right thing. Let’s just get through this. Okay?” Steve asked harshly. But it wasn’t a question at all. He was fed up with Dan’s selfishness and would have liked nothing more than to tell him to shut the fuck up at that moment, but Steve was too respectful to cause a scene like that, especially since it was he himself who caused this wretched family get together. Besides, on the inside, Steve had the exact same strange feeling. It was a sort of emptiness, a hole somewhere inside of him, and it felt like it was only getting bigger. It was as though someone had taken one of those vacuum extensions that you use to get the crumbs between the couch cushions, and plunged it down into Steve’s throat. He was being sucked away by his own body.

“The two were inseparable. They had grown up together and remained close up until their very last moments. Deep down, I think we all have faith that they are together still, off of the mountain, in a better place.” continued the priest.

Dan was visibly sweating through his shirt at this point, and was beginning to breathe audibly. He glanced over to see Steve, who, despite his best efforts, was feeling the same way. It was a fever and chill at the same time. It was nausea without the diarrhea or vomit. It was a hangover after a bachelor party. It was getting the wind knocked out of you. It was getting a $35 bank overdraft fee on a $2 purchase. It was everything and nothing all at once. And it was unbearable.

‘This can’t just all be in my head,’ Steve thought impatiently, unable to hear a word the priest was saying anymore. Still, not a single person had so much as craned a neck or shifted a glance in Dan or Steve’s direction. This would have surprised Steve, considering the fact that they were both breathing as loud as a couple in bed on their honeymoon, but for the intense agony that he and Dan were going through at that moment.

Suddenly, the darkness began to subside. ‘It’s only 3 pm, it never should have been dark in the first place,’ Steve began wondering if this was all just some dream. Maybe it was all a dream. Maybe they never actually hit that Mazda van while taking a turn at 78 MPH when the sign just before them had said “SHARP TURN – 35 MPH”. Maybe it had all just been the worst, most realistic nightmare he ever had. But Steve knew that wasn’t the case. That hope right there … That was the dream.

Steve turned to Dan, “Something seriously strange is going on, I think we should get out of here.”

“You read my mind,” Dan was clutching his stomach. His face was white with pallor, like you would expect a vampire’s to be, if any such thing had ever existed. Steve suspected that he didn’t exactly have a Caribbean tan at that point, himself.

The darkness that had shielded the faces of the audience was subsiding more and more every second. Before it had basically been a sea of black, but now, things were slowly becoming clearer. Much clearer.

As Dan turned to leave, he realized Steve was not with him. Not just yet.  No, Steve seemed to be mesmerized by something in the audience, or someone.

“Hey … Isn’t that? Is that your dad? And-” he could see clearly, but it was disbelief that slowed his speech, “And your sister? What are they doing here?”

Dan turned back to his original position and peered through the crowd where Steve was pointing. His eyes trained through the still dimly lit audience around them. Finally, he caught a glimpse of what Steve had seen just moments before. It was most definitely his father and sister. And sitting next to them was Dan’s mother and stepfather.

If it were possible for Dan’s face to become any whiter, it happened at that moment. His feet stumbled momentarily, even though he hadn’t been moving. His eyes were locked and for a moment, it seemed as though he was frozen where he stood. Steve’s eyes were fixed sharply on Dan, trying to gauge his reaction, although it was still hard to think with the increasing torment that was occurring within his body.

Finally breaking the stillness, Dan tried to wave at his family to get their attention. No luck. Unbelievable. There was no reason that his family should be unable to see them. Quite frankly, Dan was making an ass out of himself with large, waving gestures during a private family funeral. But what the hell was his family doing there?

After a few failed attempts, Dan turned to Steve, “I’m gonna go see what they’re doing here,” Dan said hastily and almost in a questioning tone. But Steve was already in yet another trance as he gazed in a different direction this time. Now he was locked into the face of Tracy, his college girlfriend of two years. She had been crying, he could see clearly. Her soft, youthful lips quivered as her eye makeup ran down both cheeks and blended into the black dress where they were falling.

Suddenly a loud noise from Dan broke the silence. “Steve! What the hell is going on man?!” Dan was no longer even attempting a hint of subtlety as he shouted back in Steve’s direction.

Suddenly the brightness of the day increased again and had now reached the normal clarity of a February afternoon in Los Angeles. Steve’s eyes widened in horror. He and Dan stood in crippling fright, terrified at what had just been revealed to them.

“And as we keep the bodies of Daniel Smith and Stephen Roberts here on earth, we send their spirits to the great beyond,” finished the priest, “Ashes to ashes and dust to dust. . .”

In a single moment, as if frozen in time they looked at each other, then around at the audience, now easily able to see that it consisted of all their closest family and friends. Their respective graduation pictures sat atop the coffins that were now being lowered into their graves. Some began crying audibly as everyone else sat in silence.

As the coffins lowered, the surface of the earth shook, no longer in small sways as it had before, but sharp tremors that brought Dan and Steve both to their knees. The sky instantly shifted from a bluish-yellow to cavernous black, with only a glow of light around the funeral’s attendees. Steve and Dan’s stomachs simultaneously dropped as if they were back on Colossus, their favorite roller coaster at Six Flags, which they had visited regularly as kids. Those were simpler times. Easier times. When, instead of drugs and women it was cartoons and candy. He didn’t know how, but Steve knew that Dan was going through the very same thoughts in his head at that moment. Then Steve’s ribs began to hurt, and he remembered throwing the game winning touchdown pass to Dan in the Southern California Division One championship as seniors, just before he had been tackled by the 328 lb. Samoan everyone called “The Volcano.” That was the first night Steve tried cocaine. It was Dan’s third. And then he got to try a few more things with the head cheerleader.

Just then, Steve’s nose began bleeding. He looked over at Dan, and found that his was a gusher, already reaching his shirt. The earth was now falling away around them. They couldn’t see it. But they could feel it.

At this point, the 48 people at the funeral of Daniel Smith and Stephen Roberts had all but disappeared. All but five. From the corner of Steve’s eye, he saw the mother and father from the accident, with their three children, walking away from the funeral. Strolling, in fact. The children skipped and tagged each other as they ran and disappeared over the grassy knoll. Steve and Dan both turned full attention to the final earthly vision they would ever see. At that moment, both the father and the mother turned around and locked into Steve and Dan’s eyes, somehow simultaneously, and gave an eerie smile of satisfaction. Steve and Dan looked at each other for a moment.

And then, nothing.

The simple, yet delicate balance of the men's public restroom has fallen into chaos.

It has become more and more apparent to me that men in general have forgotten the previously unwritten rules of the public restroom. So, they can remain unwritten no more.

It is a foul, wretched and animalistic place that requires boundaries, which have been crossed time and again in my recent restroom appearances, so the struggle to restore balance to the modern-anarchical room known as the men’s public restroom begins here and now.

The 21st Century Man’s Guide to the Public Restroom

Rule the First

Keep As Much Distance From All Other Parties As Humanly Possible

When in a very crowded restroom, if your options are (a) brush up against a dude while walking by or (b) avoid him and step in a puddle of unknown substance, go for the latter. Shoes are replaceable, an unintentional male crotch-brush is forever.

This rule is first because it is most important. Obviously the first example is a bit extreme and will ideally be a rarity in your circumstances, but the rule will come into play daily. If there are three urinals, and one guy is on the left side, you choose the one on the right. Never the center. Ditto the stall situation.

This rule seems obvious, but my recent encounters have led me to believe otherwise. It’s a sad day when urinal options are abundant, yet the only other guy in the bathroom with you chooses to stand inside arms-length while holding his piece.

Rule the Second

Don’t Make Conversation

Literally, anywhere else. Just not here. Wait until you’re back at your desk, by the water cooler or in the break room … Just not in the bathroom, please. Even small talk is frowned upon.

God forbid you wait five minutes to tell me how the humidity is affecting your trick knee or why you’re going to take Sam Bradford in the first round of your Fantasy Draft. When nature calls, three things should be on your mind: Get in, do your business, get out. Anything else gets put on hold. Which leads me too my next…

Rule the Third

Don’t Make Eye Contact

This rule is debatable, however, I firmly stand by it for two reasons:

1. The only person you should look in the eye with your pants down is your significant other. So unless he’s your boyfriend, or you managed to sneak your girl in there with you (See Rule the Ninth), eye contact can quickly become suspect.
2. Eye contact is the gateway to conversation. (See Rule the Second)

Rule the Fourth

Always Wash Your Hands

Some heathens and miscreants will disagree with this, but allow me to qualify it before you voice your disdain and shoot Cheeto crums all over your keyboard. When in the privacy of your own home, simple number ones require no post-deed sanitation. But this isn’t the privacy of your own home, this is public restroom etiquette. This is work/a restaurant/your in-laws’ house, and you don’t want to tempt fate on a handshake with your boss/hamburger/knife-sharpening father-in-law.

And in case there are any questions, no matter the venue, (or how careful you think you are) number two requires hand washing … with soap.

Rule the Fifth

Go Home To Brush Your Teeth

I don’t care if you won “Best Smile” in your graduating class or if your dentist recommended brushing after lunch, I don’t want you foaming with a mouth full of fluoride while I’m dropping bombs five feet away. Call it apathy, but I’m just putting myself in your shoes, and I damn sure won’t be polishing my pearly-whites while you’re staining the bowl brown a few stalls over.

Same goes for washing your face and spending more than five seconds messing with your hair. Unacceptable.

Rule the Sixth

Number One In The Stall

Don’t do it. People think you’ve got something to hide, and there’s no room for suspicion in the men’s bathroom.

Rule the Seventh

Are You Seriously Whistling?

Just fucking quit it. What are you Andy fucking Griffith? No. So fucking stop. I don’t care if you’re having a great day. I don’t care if you’re whistling to mask the pain of repressed childhood memories. There should be no sounds in the men’s bathroom except bodily functions and splashing water … Period.

Same goes for humming and talking on the cell phone … Knock it off.

Rule the Eighth

Farting Is Permitted … But Know Your Audience

I’ll be the first to admit, I let them go in the bathroom at work. I mean, I can’t drop them in the office, so out they go in the bathroom. Often, I’ll even let out a small chuckle when it happens. (Farts are funny, get over it) But that’s not to say that I don’t do some thorough investigation first.

If I don’t know everyone who is in the restroom with me, they’ll remain silent but all the more deadly. The last thing you want to do is squeeze one out at the urinal, only to have your boss immediately walk out from the stall. Cue the Gas-X secret Santa gift this December, sans the irony.

Rule the Ninth

Public Bathroom Sex Is A Thing Of The Past

Like the way of the mile-high club, this one is pretty much off limits. You can thank a combination of technology, 9-11, nervous people, the Tea Party and the grotesquely overweight for ruining this for everybody. Not to mention that getting alone time in a public bathroom is as rare as Michael Moore and Bill O’Reilly sharing an opinion. For that I blame the liquid diet and colon cleanse fads.

Sorry friends, our generation missed out on what seemed a quintessential part of past eras. But hey, at least we’ve got “sexting” … just ask Brett Favre and Anthony Weiner.

Rule the Tenth

Respect The Bathroom

Not that there was ever anything funny about it, but this isn’t eighth grade, and dropping a chocolate hot dog on the floor or in the urinal should be an offense punishable by death. Ok … It’s kinda funny. Until you smell it before your dinner. Or see janitor die a little inside as he cleans it. Or need to take a number two only to find the seat covered in it. The bad outweighs the funny in this case, folks.

Simply put: Have a little class.

“My fellow Americans, these past few years of bipartisan bickering and tension can finally be put aside. Through exhaustive research, my team of economists, medical experts and trend projectors have put together a health care plan that can be agreed on by Democrats and Republicans alike,” President Obama addressed an anxiously anticipated room of reporters.

“Everyone in America just needs to stop getting sick and or injured. Simple as that. No more doctor visits. Just stop it altogether…”

A confused and shocked crowd fell silent upon the statement.

Obama, looking slightly disappointed in the lack of reaction from his audience made another attempt at energizing his crowd, “Ya … Like, instead of braking your arm while working your construction job … Just, don’t … ya know?”

The President looked around, bating his audience for a reaction. “And, rather than getting diagnosed with Tuberculosis, which can cost you and the taxpayers thousands of dollars in treatment, not to mention substantial increases in insurance premiums across the board … just stay healthy. Get it?”

Stunned reporters hesitantly began asking questions.

“So, you’re not actually making any changes to the health care process, insurance reform or medical practices?” asked a reporter.

“Look Don, we could sit here and change policy ’til the cows come home, but someone is always going to bitch and moan about the outcome. With our “Don’t You Fucking Get Hurt or Sick” Healthcare Policy, everyone’s happy, everyone’s healthy. Are you really gonna argue with that?”

As a reporter in the front row raised his hand, he accidentally backhanded his fellow reporter next to him in the face, causing a bloody nose.

“Oh goddamnit! You see John, that’s the precise kind of bullshit I was talking about. Are you trying to undermine our new healthcare policy already? Did McCain put you up to this?”

And with that, President Obama told reporters that the press conference was over and that everyone should “Go home, and not,” he repeated, “not get sick or injured, and we’ll all be fine, okay?”

At press time, various “Don’t You Fucking Get Hurt or Sick” Policy opponents, including the Surgeon General, thousands of doctors across the country and citizens who have been affected by the recent outbreak of llama flu have asked the simple question, “Has the president lost his fucking mind?”

Self-immolation has become a popular, sort-of non-violent protest throughout Tunisia, Yemen, Algeria and of course, Jordan.

In an attempt to deter rioting in Jordan, which was sparked by a recent revolution and a regime downfall in Tunisia, Jordan Officials have declared that any protester who attempts to self-immolate will by extinguished, then burned to death.

A recent statement by King Abdullah II of Jordan declared that, “I love the people of Jordan as I love my own children. That is why any citizen of our great nation who attempts to burn themselves to death as a protest to our regime will be extinguished, bathed, and then burned again.”

Less than a month ago, a college-educated Tunisian man was reprimanded for selling produce on the street without a valid business permit. Shortly after his cart was destroyed and fines were levied, the man set himself on fire until death, in an anti-government demonstration. Since then, several citizens from Yemen, Algeria, and of course, Jordan, have taken to this protest strategy to make a point to their respective countries.

We asked a local citizen in Karak, a city in western Jordan, how he felt about self-immolation and how his government was dealing with the very real threat of the current regime’s downfall.

“I was actually going to self-immolate today. But when I found out the punishment for self-immolation was getting burned to death, I was like ‘No way!’ I’m not going to burn myself if the punishment is burning. I mean, have you seen the size of the fire they are using to burn attempted self-immolators? It’s huge! Way bigger than the one I was gonna use.”

It appears that the government’s threat of reprisal has halted, or at least stalled current self-immolation protests until the citizens build a larger self-immolation fire. At which point, the government will likely have to find a new tactic to stop the burning of their people. Or maybe they will again, just build a bigger fire.

If Democrats are Mike Tyson & Republicans are George Foreman, then the media is Don King... And no one wants to be Don King.

Let me start by saying that, to all of the families that are directly affected by this shooting, and to the Tucson community as a whole, my heart is with you. These kinds of events are a stark contrast to what politics should, but unfortunately never will, be. Jared Loughner is likely one of many mentally deranged extremists that is but the canvas upon which American politics has painted.

The Tucson shooting that occurred on Saturday, January 8, 2011, aside from being a community, moral and political tragedy, was inevitable. It was pundit and partisan stupidity that created this event.

Yes, yes, conservatives are getting all riled up now. I see you shaking your heads and pointing your fingers in fits denial. But the truth is that it’s the fault of both sides. It’s the snide comments of the left. The ignorant and hateful comments from the right. The extremists. The Rush Limbaugh’s. The Bill O’Reilly’s. The Sarah Palin’s. The Nancy Pelosi’s. And even the Jon Stewart’s and Stephen Colbert’s. But even more than those people, it is the exhaustive number of media outlets, TV, radio, online, newspaper, etc. that become a megaphone for these voices.

Whether you’d like to admit it or not, our bi-partisan system is becoming downright nasty. And why wouldn’t the way our politicians and political pundits talk to one another affect the way we act? Their speeches, reports and rallies cause us to vote and act in specific ways. So why wouldn’t the subtleties of calling the president and his entire party idiots, while putting cross-hair targets on certain Democratic-run districts potentially cause one extremist to walk into a rally with a loaded gun?

Don’t get me wrong, I know that political nastiness, hatred and assassination attempts are nothing new in American politics. In fact, through the centuries, presidents have been called much worse than most of what I hear about Obama these days. The difference, however, is how regularly we as voters are inundated, with political editorial.

Back when Kennedy was assassinated, television was barely a factor. Radio was booming, sans Rush Limbaugh. Newspaper still ruled. And the internet was still the pipe-dream of some undergrad at Stanford University. So most likely, even for those who closely followed politics, you might have heard about congressional operations, foreign policy, and the happenings of the president two to three times a week.

Go back even further to the Lincoln assassination, and you might have read about civil war happenings in the newspaper or local pamphlets a few times a month.

Now jump back to 2011. It’s Wednesday, around 9 AM. I open up Mozilla Firefox and I can already see six stories about politics, some of which are opinion, blog or editorial. Others, I can tell just by the title, have a slight lean to the left or right. I drive to work. Morning shows talk about the Tucson tragedy. The left is blaming the right. The right is blaming Sarah Palin. Sarah Palin is blaming the polar bears. The polar bears are like, “We can’t even survive in Tucson…”

I’ve been awake for less than three hours; I’ve already been given the rundown on the most important political happenings within the last 12 hours … Not to mention the opinions of every biased, angry, fact-lacking individual with a voice or the writing ability of a 2^nd grader.

My point is this: While political animosity between parties and their constituents is nothing new, our consumption level of media is. We as a nation are taking in more and more media every day. This can be a positive thing. People are more likely to stay informed on national and global events. The problem however, is that journalists and politicians have MORE RESPONSIBILITY THAN EVER to maintain honesty, integrity and respect in their reports. And yet, they seem to be taking that responsibility more and more lightly.

And pundits, we all know that you are technically not journalists and are thusly allowed to report without facts and with as much bias as you desire … but the next time you’re about to go on one of your pre-meditated, ratings-seeking rants … just consider Tucson.

It really wouldn’t hurt to strive toward some honest, intellectual civility, don’t you think? I mean, we all want a better America, right? Our opinions of how to get there might differ, but having arguments comparable to that of an elementary school playground certainly isn’t the answer we’re looking for. And last Saturday has shown us the worst possible results of what happens when we derail like we have.

Trigonometry memories highlighted... Now where's the Recycle Bin?

Maybe we’re all computers. I mean, other than the fact that we are living, breathing organisms, we are collectively built of the same kinds of wires and circuits as the CPU’s that sit before us. One big difference, however, is that when our memory gets full, we can’t just email the IT guy down the hall and ask for a system update or reconfiguration, unless you know a good lobotomy doctor.

But then again, maybe we can reboot. Yoga, meditation, prayer, whiskey, sleep, etc.  We all attempt to find ways to clear our mind so that we may focus on the most important things. When I was driving to lunch today, I realized that I can still remember very specific details of ad campaigns I worked on at my old agency. This is from a few years ago. I can still vividly remember projects from college and high school. And I still remember, like it was yesterday, the look on a girl’s face when I counted her off the swing in 2^nd grade.

No regrets, I waited patiently for that swing.

Then I started to think, how much more could I remember/learn/know today if I could somehow reboot my brain, throw memories of unimportant life events into the Recycle Bin, and clear out some memory? It’d be like turning on a brand new computer, with only relevant information pre-loaded on it. Don’t get me wrong, I believe the fact that (nearly) every life event is as important as the one the precedes and follows it, as they are all building part of a collective work … but honestly, do I really need to remember when and how to use the Quadratic Formula? I still do, by the way.

All of these things weighing on my brain from the past, prepared and ready to be deployed in some useless trivia during some party joke years in the future may be bogging down my information processing now.

I think we could all use a reboot… Any suggestions?

2010 Reflection. See, it's a reflection. Off the water.

This is kind of for myself to see a few years from now. Maybe some of these things will be completely disproven by then. But, here are a few of my thoughts at the end of 2010.

1. I will most likely die of a heart attack while watching a Chargers game.

2. Life is full of ups and downs. It is inevitable. The most important thing you can do is maintain who you are through it all.

3. It’s easy to be a great person when you’re happy and things are going well … but being a great person when the chips are down is true character. I need to work on that.

4. Life goes way too fast to do things that you don’t enjoy. Do what you love. Unless you’re a sociopath and/or a serial killer. Then maybe don’t.

5. Don’t compare your life or relationship to that of your friends’. There are way too many variables to accurately say that they have it better or worse than you. Also, don’t compare it to TV or movies … that’s fiction.

"Eleven happy meals please... You guys want anything?"

6. Less fast food.

7. The hardest part of doing anything new is the beginning. ALWAYS. There is almost no exception to this rule. So if you get past the first day/sentence/mile, it’s probably downhill from there.

8. People’s attention spans are shorter than ever. Get to the point, but also, be prepared to tell the full story just in case you do catch their interest.

9. I should have given more thought to my future when I was in high school and college. Especially college.

10. As soon as you are sure about something, that’s probably just about the time that you will be proven completely wrong.

11. FACT: I will never get bored of watching The Simpsons.

12. The more you live for yourself, the less happy you will be. Live to help others … believe it or not, that’s where you’ll find the most happiness. Again, this does not apply to sociopaths.

13. I actually love to learn. I wish I could have realized that in high school chemistry.

14. Flying a plane at 500 ft elevation over the water, level with the La Jolla cliffs is badass.

15. I get in my head WAY too much.

16. However important it may be, and however much I thought some people were going to change the world, politics is kinda bullshit.

This kid can't even vote yet.

17. The idea of world peace sounds great, but it ain’t gonna happen. Sorry hippies. There’s way too much hate, revenge & stupidity around the world for that to happen. Keep your idealisms; Support your troops.

18. It doesn’t take much for your luck to change. It’s like in Blow, “Sometimes you’re flush and sometimes you’re bust, and when you’re up, it’s never as good as it seems, and when you’re down, you never think you’ll be up again, but life goes on.”

19. Hangovers get exponentially worse every year after age 21.

20. I regret more the things that I didn’t do than the things that I did. In most cases.

And

21. My parents were actually right about almost everything.