And in conclusion may I please remind you it does not say R.S.V.P. on the Statue of Liberty. Thank you very much.

Here's a conversation that just makes you want to push all the red buttons and release all the bombs so we can just start the F over.

So, there I was, in Borders bookstore, pretending to mock the self-help titles but secretly wondering why I can't stop sobbing in the shower, and I overhear a group of young ruffians. Roughly in the age range of fourteen to sixteen. Certainly not four to six. That's a story point you'll be calling me a liar about in a few minutes.

The Sweathogs were passing by an election display. Various gag gifts of republican and democrat jokes, and a number of books dedicated to Obama and McCain themselves (proving that the literary world has its share of hacks and sell-outs as well)

The following conversation has not been altered in anyway, it is being transcribed exactly as it happened. Only the names have been made-up.

DYLAN MCKAY. (The leader. Well, the leader of the rebel children) Hey, who won this contest? The black guy, or the white guy?

SIMON. (The smart one, with glasses and a long blue-shirt that's pretty much a dress) It hasn't happened yet idiot. [This is the smartest statement made in the entire conversation, and likely, this trio's entire day and/or month]

HERMIONE. (Hermione) I think the girl should win, because girls should be in charge of everything.

DYLAN MCKAY. She already got voted off you dumb-ass.

...

Jesus.

Just....jesus.

Shut it down.

Just shut the whole thing down.

Cage goes in the water, you go in the water. Shark's in the water. Our shark.

This past weekend I made a great big to-do over taking three days off, labeling it a "vacation," and taking that vacation 128 miles west of the cities to Glenwood, MN on what the website describes as the beautiful shores of Lake Minnewaska for the life-changing event that is Waterama.

I announce to people that I'm attending Waterama, taking the required three second pause before actually saying "Waterama," which is usually responded with a dramatic pause-less "What is Waterama?" (Occasionally, the very ill-informed call it by an inaccurate moniker such as Water Days, Water Fest, Waterworld, and one time, Water Man. Seriously? Water man!?)

Again, the website tells us that Waterama is an exciting weekend with its 100-unit parade, kiddie parade, lighted pontoon parade, water shows, pageants, dances, sporting events, and running races, as well a variety, days that are crazy*, and state-of-the-art fireworks, making it the largest celebration of its kind in Western Central Minnesota.

Friends, that press release doesn't even begin to describe it.

Waterama is skipping the gym on Thursday, because you know that Friday, Saturday, and Sunday will be spent eating and drinking like an asshole, with cheap beer, corn dogs, various grilled meats, and an endless pizza buffet.

Waterama is when everyone gets back to nature. By that I mean, everyone pees in the lake, and pretends that we're not all peeing in the lake.

Waterama is drinking so much that a closet looks like a bathroom to you at three in the morning.

Waterama, for some, is a yearly high-school reunion in which the less popular feel the need to serve the once-popular their comeuppance for their teenage years by vehemently challenging them to remember their name six beers deep.

Waterama is burying the hatchet with old adversaries, only to discover a new hatchet when they can't decide who owes who a drink.

Waterama is stealing your parents boat and not wanting to, not because they told you not to, but because it's just too much work.

Waterama is stealing Shawn's Miller Chill's when he's not looking. Which is a lot.

Waterama is acquiring too much sun in either a business transaction or quite literally.

Waterama is knowing that whatever happens at this Waterama cannot be told until five Wateramas from now.

Waterama is tying all the boats together, and then discussing the chances of survival were a zombie attack to invade the mainland, failing to take into consideration the zombies can walk on the lake floor like the pirate skeletons in the Disney film, because they're already dead and can't drown. Then they'll crawl up the anchor we've stupidly kept down and eat us all.

Waterama is the realization that we've been taught how to use life-jackets wrong all of our lives. You gotta' diaper it. Much more comfortable. Less life saving though.

Waterama is refusing to let another man put sun-screen on your back for fear of how it looks while wearing a life-jacket as a diaper.

Waterama is not Torgarama, this year more than ever.

Waterama is doing at least one stupid thing, such as riding the four-wheeler through the forest from one house to another, only to realize that fences not only keep the animals in, but keep Four-Wheel riding hooligans out, and then you gotta' check yourself for ticks, and anything that ends with checking yourselves for ticks is just stupid.

Waterama is passing out by nine o'clock on the second night, because nobody goes out on the second night.

Waterama is not eating chicken at the Pizza Ranch, and being threatened with Waterama banishment for daring to skip a Waterwama stage for a previous engagement that isn't the loss of a limb.

Waterama has been known to cause seizures.

Waterama has its own, limitless energy, that enables you to swim from boat-to-boat while not sacrificing your beer.

Waterama is fun still, but not double-decker pontoon fun.

Waterama does not forget, nor does it forgive.

Basically, Waterama is Waterama, and to know Waterama is to love Waterama.

Unless you grew up in Glenwood, in which case, you're pretty f-ing sick of Waterama.

*My phrasing, not theirs.

Enough anguish, enough torment. It's time to dance.

How is that I have virtually nothing going on in my life and yet there's still not enough time in the day to make this blog actually daily instead of fake daily?

Anyhow, this past weekend was ridiculously fun, and here's a few capsulated reviews for your eating enjoyment:

Chris Rock
Chris Rock told us jokes for a good hour and fifteen minutes, and as predicted, there are numerous differences between black men and white men, as well as a number of differences between black women and white women, however we're all startlingly similar in several arenas as well. Our love for pussy and money for example. Not always in that order.

I could tell you some of my favorite jokes, but it's just not the same unless I'm there to recreate the joke with my shockingly accurate and slightly racist Chris Rock voice.

And while all was hilarious in Chris Rock-land, the show did end up feeling a little long. An hour and a half is a long-time to be telling jokes. To paraphrase another legendary stand-up*, Chris Rock's show was like eating pancakes: he started off strong, but by the end you were just fucking sick of 'em.

The Dark Knight
Everything you've heard is not hype. It's accurate. This movie is amazing. Opening frame to final credit, this is a masterpiece of a movie. It's beautiful, it's suspenseful, it's intense, it's dark, it's funny, it's modern-day Shakespeare.

Not only did this movie make me spooge, but I'm pretty sure it made my spooge spooge.

And you can use that on the poster Warner Bros.

Neil Diamond
Now, I understand that I've been hyping up this concert in this blog, on my Facebook, in everyday conversation, hell, I'd wake up every fifteen minutes screaming "Neil!" for a couple of weeks there, so one would assume that short of the revelation that Neil Diamond is the real-life Dark Knight, I'd walk away disappointed.

Well, I did not. I had a great time.

True, Neil's not as spry as he once was, and the cheesy showman has given way to a somber musical raconteur, but it's still Neil. He's still awesome. And you all still want to party with him.

I mean, come on! He's sixty-seven years old! My grandpa's sixty-seven and he can't turn on the TV without the garage door opening. Neil's selling out stadiums and making old ladies everywhere forget that they can't spare the moisture.

I was a little upset with Neil, because he didn't close the show with "Brother Love's Traveling Salvation Show," which would be a lot like Jesus doing everything he did in his life, but then opting to finish his dinner instead of dying for our sins.

I made my feelings known at that tail-end of the concert:

CUT TO X-CEL ENERGY CENTER

(Josh frantically beats on the rail in front of him, foam pouring out his mouth.)

JOSH. YOU'RE NOT DONE YET OLD MAN! YOU SING THE F-ING SONG YOU'RE MOST FAMOUS FOR! GET BACK ON THAT STAGE! DANCE MONKEY!!!!!! DANCE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

CUT BACK TO THE BLOG

Turns out he did end up singing it during the Sunday show. Which is the show my mom attended. So, it begs the question, why would Neil sing that song to my mom, and not to me?

Well, the answer is obvious: Neil Diamond is trying to bang my mom.

And I could not be more okay with that.

And now, now I'm just supposed to go back to my real-life and pretend that this was just another weekend. Oh, cruel Fortuna! What fresh hell have you spun me into now!?**

Oh, if you're wracking your brain trying to figure out what movie the quote is from, don't bother. Neil said it at his show. Before he started singing a song with my mom's picture taped to the back of his guitar no doubt.

*Mitch Hedburg
** Kudos and oral sex to whomever gets that reference.

I'm going to bed before either of you can come up with another clever idea to get us all killed - or worse, expelled.

I think it's possible that I may have to sort out my priorities.

I've been looking forward to this weekend since three days after I was born. The Dark Knight and Neil Diamond. Batman and Jewish Elvis. Two ass-kicking heroes who would and probably have already saved your life, even though you don't deserve it.

Since I was closing on Thursday and opening on Friday, that ruled out a midnight viewing of the darkest of knights, which is just as well, cause I can't quite handle the fanboy crowd anymore. (It's not an almost thirty thing. It's that they're almost forty.)

My work schedule allowed me ample room to attend the second coming of Jesus, cinematically speaking, on Friday night, then work another day shift on Saturday, and Saturday evening to witness the Jazz singer in all his glory, recover Sunday morning for an afternoon shift that will crushingly bring me back to the reality I hate.

HOWEVER

A Chris Rock shaped wrench was tossed into the gears when Justin offered up a ticket to see Chris Rock stand-up and tell jokes on Friday evening.

That knocked the man bat out of Friday night. Saturday was out as a back-up, because of the working, Sunday didn't allow enough time to wake up from the Neil hangover and take in a feature film and process how much those two events have changed all of our lives forever and get to work by three.

That meant a midnight showing, but Hippie Girlfriend, already iffy on the whole Batman thing (Is it possible that there those out there that aren't dying to see this movie? Yes, it's possible. They are out there. And they don't have penis') hesitated when she said 'Sure.' There was also a question mark in there somewhere. She also went as far to suggest that maybe it'd be best to wait until, and we broke up for three seconds after she suggested so, Monday or Tuesday.

A man died for this movie, the least we can do is be punctual.*

Plan C's are rarely employed, and equally rarely successful, however after a few dial-ups and called in favors, I only work half a shift on Saturday morning, off by ten in the AM, making Saturday, Dark Diamond Day. Has there ever been a case of someone OD-ing on awesome, cause there might be Sunday morning.

I was then given a slight pause. I can't figure out what I want to do with my life, to the point of midday anxiety attacks that feel like heart attacks, but the thought of not seeing Batman on opening weekend awakens a fire within me to move mountains.

See, the resources are there, I just need the proper motivation. Was this the proper motivation?

I then saw a poster letting me know that Winnie Cooper (some people also call her Danica MacKellar) will be the Rosedale Borders on August 16th, signing her new "Math is Fun, Especially the Winnie Way" books. I took this as a reward letting me know that my accomplishments for the day were indeed accomplishments of a man who was on the right path.

I'm going to have to fake an interest in Math, and hope Hippie Girlfriend is familiar with the concept of Celebrity Lists, but whatevs, those are August 16th problems.

Three days until Dark Diamond.

*And to all you people claiming that it's just a movie, I'll refer to the summer of 2002, when Justin and I backed over a little girl as we rushed to Spider-Man. Relax, she was fine, her bike wasn't, and we were there in time for the previews.

Sing it again, rookie biatch!

A tale of two cities:

Coon Rapids
Josh, our intrepid, if increasingly scatter-brained, young-ish hero is about to embark on a free round of hitting a small ball with a crooked stick and then walking after said ball.

So, golf, if you didn't get that.

As he's about to fetch his tools for golf from his Why-Won't-You-Die-Already-mobile, he realized that he's locked his keys into his car. While searching for a nearby rock, Josh is alerted to the wonder that is the Coon Rapids Police Force.

A quick 911 call later*, Officer Mark has enters the scene.

He pops open the passenger door with some sort of balloon contraption I can only assumed was created in a super-secret lab. Officer Mark then advised me to make a copy of my key to avoid such a hassle again, told me to remember to follow-through on my swig and not drop my stance, and presumably, if there were an ice cream shop nearby, would've offered to buy a round.

The entire ordeal lasted no more than ten minutes, and Officer Mark heroically rode off into the sunset on his steed, which was weird for two reasons, it was the middle of the day, and if he was riding a steed, how did they radio him?

Everyone involved learned a valuable lesson, and it was the best summer of our lives.

Minneapolis
Josh, our intrepid, if increasingly scatter-brained to perhaps the point of late-twenties Alzheimer's, young-ish hero leaves the Leaning Tower of Pizza with Hippie Girlfriend to drink more at the Green Mill for the celebration of the 30th Anniversary of Andy.

Josh searches for his car keys only to have a Hippie Girlfriend point to them on my front seat.

Across the street, a boy in blue has pulled over a young punk. Josh waits for him to do his business, and as he's about to depart, Josh steps out into the street to wave him down. The officer doesn't see Josh, despite his jumping, flailing, and stopping other motorists to the point of getting honked at.

The officer turns the corner, and Josh attempts to chase him down by foot. The officer's top-notch powers of observation either fail him, or note that there's not a knife sticking out of me, so whatever problem I have will probably work its way out.

A quick call to 911 later, Josh is told to call back when there's a crying baby in the backseat that's close to death, but not yet dead.

Numerous locksmith's are then called, and while all of them are around to answer their phones, they are all booked-solid well into tomorrow for me to pay them fifty bucks for a minute of work.

One agrees to meet us in the morning, and after a quick debate of how cost effective it would be to just break the window, it's decided that's the best course of action.

Cut to the next morning in which Josh's car is no longer there.

Josh assumes his car has been towed, and starts calling around various impound lots -- none of which has his car.

(At this point, I'd like to think Officer Mark somehow sensed my entanglement, sprung up from his breakfast, cried out "My new friend's in trouble!" and began running on-foot to rescue me)

Apparently, what had happened was the car was picked up, and the two truck decided to take a leisurely jaunt across the cities before filing the paperwork.

After paying a hundred and forty to get my car back, Josh asked if they had the apparatus to gain access into my car, where my keys still lie.

"Yeah, we got that stuff."

"Can you help me?"

"Nah. Liability. We could break the car."

"You have my permission."

"Yeah, still no. We have a hammer if you want to break the window though."

After swear-words and pacing, Mom's fella' came to the rescue and retrieved my car keys.

The whole ordeal lasted twelve to fifteen hours, cost me well into two hundred dollars, and disrupted the lives of at least five or six people.

No lessons were learned, and it was the worst summer of our entire lives.

Eight days until Neil.



*I still get that same rush from calling 911 that you did when you were five. Like you were engaging in a life or death affair, or saving the world from nefarious characters.

"I ain't heard no fat lady!" "Forget about the fat lady. You're obsessed with fat lady!"

I have a friend that works in the emergency room at The Hospital, and it is there he has met some of the stupidest people to result from a one night stand. By far, the stupidest individuals all have stories that begin the same way:

"So, there we were, lighting off our own fireworks..."

That being said:

So, there we were, lighting off our own fireworks...

It had already been an eventful day on South Lindstrom Lake. Katie Moen had graciously welcomed a handful us into her cabin with open arms, provided that our arms contained either beer or grindage for us to munch. The boat had died in the middle of the lake, not once, but twice, both stallings resulting from an attempt to visit a place called The Eagle's Nest (Which, much to my disappointment, anticlimactically turned out to be an actual eagle's nest, and not the lone lake club I had envisioned) and both stallings resulting in two towings from various other better boats.

The sun had set when the second towing landed us back at Moen Manor, where upon reaching dry land once more, we saw that Terry Moen, the loving patriarch that he was*, had hopped the border and returned with many illegal fireworks for us to make merry with.

And make merry we did, shooting off various rockets, cannons, and twirlies from the end of the Moen Dock. I, and another cohort called Travis (With our lovely assistant Hippie Girlfriend), fancied ourselves pyrotechnic experts, hastily concocting daring new combinations to dazzle the eye and illuminate the brain.

Some banged. Some whistled. Some fizzled. Some inspired awe in the form of "Oooooh!"

For our grand finale, Terry Moen hauled out this Big Honking MF-er, which if that isn't the brand name, it should be. Roughly the size of two beer cases, the box promised us three minutes of 220 rounds of miniature bombs.

On the surface of this kinda' death trap was the helpful advice "Aim Away From Crowds" along with a series of arrows indicating the direction in which the explosives would make their exit.

We thought.

Imagine, if you will, a box of Captain Crunch. The arrows pointed in such a direction that led us to believe the fireworks would emerge from the end that you pour the cereal out of. Travis carefully built a base, and we aimed the America-themed fun out over the lake.

What Josh and Travis didn't know, perhaps due to their over zealous approach or one of the ten beers that preceded this event**, was that they weren't about to shoot out of the cereal pouring end. They were about to tear through the Captain's face.

Our careful attempts to avoid the crowd had, in fact, aimed America's Birthday directly at the small group of spectators, which included an already significantly tweaking Chihuahua. I want to be very clear about this part, Travis aimed everything, I just lit the fuse. I don't know what that would've done for me in court, but there you go.

Our group was split into two, half on a pontoon, half on the hill by the lake. As soon as I let the fuse, with a stick of incense no less, those parked on the pontoon witnessed a grand finale they've never seen, and never will again.

The all-too-short fuse exploded, knocking me back, and mini-rockets launched past my face in various neon colors.

I tackled down Hippie Girlfriend, threw myself on-top of her, and covered us both in a towel. I'm not sure what the towel was meant to accomplish. It was either because I thought we were already on fire, or this was that one useless towel they accidentally made out of steel.

The scene played out like every way movie or CNN footage you've ever seen. Running, screaming, shielding with various objects both useful and not, whilst fire ricocheted off of trees and houses, and the Chihuahua just ran in a continuous circle, convinced I was trying to kill it.***

Some took off running faster than they ever have up the hill. Trouble was, the fireworks were labeled, and they continued to shoot up, essentially chasing those trying to make their escape.

Hippie Girlfriend and I were safe, and got to gaze into the case of beer that was now a midget with a powerful rocket launcher just how much freedom wasn't free.

220 rounds.

Three minutes.

I was never more scared than I was during those three minutes.

I was never happier than I was when I realized it was done.

After a quick of survey of checking to make sure everyone was still alive and not blowed up, never was there more THAT! WAS! AWESOME!

Those on the pontoon were laughing hysterically, emitting genuine concern every three or four laughs. They beat themselves for not taping the incident, because if they did, you'd be reading the king of YouTube's blog, and we'd all probably be booked on the Today show later this week.

Years of watching fireworks at the Coon Rapids carnival and making the same stupid "Ladies and gentlemen, we're being fired upon" joke when a plane would pass by and finally bitten me square in the ass and grazed my skull.

And it was the best Fourth of July ever.

Twelve days until Neil.

*Aside from thinking my name was Mitch even though he's clearly known me for years.
**Which my friend who works in the emergency room describes as 'job security'
*** Subconciously, I may have been. I'm still pretty pissed about this.

Baby steps to four o'clock! Baby steps to four o'clock!

At my current place of employment, a calendar hangs in the office where they take me when they want to yell at me. It's one of those city distributed deals that cheap citizens throw up on their fridge, or pantry, that lists all the months of the year. When a month passes, it is crossed out, as expected. Yesterday, a sixth month had a line drawn through it. Six more remain, but the point I'm making is that the year is half over.

We're closer to twenty aught nine than twenty aught seven.

It's just the way the poet Seal foretold it during that epic epic jam that occurred in space: Time keeps on slippin', slippin' into the future.

It is for that reason I've decided to create a list of Midseason Resolutions.

What are Midseason Resolutions? Well, I'll tell you:

On the first day of three-hundred and sixty-five days* the average person creates a list of resolutions to better themselves before the next set of three-hundred and sixty-five days. And every fall season, television networks create a new series of series to distract you from all the crying in your everyday life. The same result happens with both the resolutions and the television shows: Some are better than others. Some fly to great heights, some get a bird sucked in the engine before they even get off the run-way.

Some shows are cancelled, just like some resolutions are broken. The difference is that in the middle of the year, a new set of TV shows replace their fallen brethren that came before them. So, why not have Midseason Replacement Resolutions? Sure, they might end up cancelled after two episodes, but you might end with a Grey's Anatomy or an Office.

This year, I'm keeping my midseason resolutions simple:

1. Sort out entire life.

This includes finding a place to live, regaining my sense of purpose, finding my lost ambition, finally learn the ability to focus, and conquer my fear of cleaning the bathroom.

Should be easy and not-at-all too lofty.

Josh's Book Review: How I Paid For College

Fuck this book in its book-hole.

I read this book because I judged another book by its cover. That book: Attack of the Theater People. I thought, "Hey, making fun of theater people is fun. That book should be enjoyable." A bit of research revealed that Attack was a sequel to How I Paid For College, so I read that one first.

It's the story of a cocky-ass fattie who's "born to act and create," particularly in musical theatre. His dream in life is to get into Julliard, which he does, but then his father refuses to pay for it because he feels his son should get a real job. He then embarks on a series of adventures trying to raise the money, including lowering himself to the "normals" and getting a job.

I found myself routing against the main character the entire time, and the too-few moments when real-life would bitch-slap his ass. However, in the end, his behavior and constant belief that he's right, and everyone else misunderstands him, doesn't change, and is rewarded (However temporarily, because the sequel is all about his expulsion from Julliard when they, the bastards, try to teach him there may be more to life than what he knows).

I just realized as I wrote that last line that the circle is complete, and I just turned into every adult that nodded politely when I said I was going to have a career in comedy.

Damn idealistic kids. Get off my lawn.

*sixty-six sometimes. Like this time.