My name is Shawn and I disapprove that last post.

This is something that’s been bothering me the last few days. Looking back at what I wrote, it just doesn’t flow very well. I like being able to create a smooth narrative that’s easy to follow and… it doesn’t. I think it’s because the more I thought about it, the more clear it became that I basically smooshed two blog posts together into one.

The message in the first part? It doesn’t really require me. What I want remembered about me are my relationships to family and friends. I’d like to have a positive impact on the world, but those are the people who are most important to me. As for the quote from Beauty and the Geek… I don’t matter. People don’t have to remember me, but I want the message to have an impact on people’s lives. “Aside from their appearance, they’re really not that much different than I am.” Attribute that to whomever you want—if it turns out that Abraham Lincoln said it first because everything you read on the Internet is true, that’s fine. I don’t care about my part in the equation. You don’t have to remember me, but try to remember that if you look past superficial details, we’re all a lot alike.

Then there was the story at the gas station, which was an interesting experience. A woman in the car had gone into the gas station first (the model’s friend who’d been driving, maybe?) and prompted the guy behind the counter to announce that donuts were on sale. That’s right, it wasn’t cookies, it was donuts. Either way, I’m sure it was still a nice change from egg whites. But I was still talking about how you never know when you might need donuts without looking around and had no idea who belonged to the voice on the other side of the gas pump.

When she appeared around the corner and said she’d been in the fitness competition, she flexed her arm with no prompting from me. I didn’t want to embarrass myself by trying to return the favor. I have wussy-looking arms in comparison. But as she talked about how it was a Miss Minnesota competition and how she placed fifth, I told her that was cool because it was.

The fact that she was in front of the counter when I got in the station was probably a good thing: I wanted to make sure I said “Congratulations” instead of just “That’s cool” (plus cheer about her buying donuts), so I didn’t have time to wander to the back of the station and grab something to eat or drink. A thing that wasn’t good is that because she was an attractive model, a part of my brain said that I shouldn’t pay too much attention to her because I didn’t want to seem like I was fawning over her or something. Thus, when I was in line and heard her say she achieved her goal, I didn’t turn to ask what it was. Top ten? Top five? I don’t know and I feel kinda bad about that.

After all, it was a conversation. She wasn’t preening or puffing out her chest… hmmm… perhaps that’s not the best analogy to use for a fitness model. But it wasn’t like she was saying, “Yeah, screw the other competitors, I’m fucking awesome!” She was proud about placing really high in a Miss Minnesota competition and wanted to tell me about it, but I was trying to be all non-sexist and ignore the fact that she was really attractive, thus completely forgetting about what I said on TV. I didn’t put her on a pedestal and marvel like I might have in the past, but I also didn’t react like I’d want someone else to if I told a story like hers.

Miss Minnesota. Fifth place. She achieved her goal. That’s HUGE. I’d want to talk about it, too, but I stopped listening at the end. I’m proud of myself because I didn’t stare or drool or anything like that, but bailing on the conversation before it was over? Not as proud.

So like I said, two separate blog posts with two different conclusions: I want people to remember the message more than they remember me, but I need to remember the message myself as well.

How do you want to be remembered?

I was surfing through YouTube and clicked on a video of a small panel discussion for The Fault In Our Stars with a couple of the actors and the book’s author, John Green. (Incidentally, John graduated from Kenyon the year after me and the movie is coming out sometime in June.) They were talking about the book and the movie and what not, but then someone asked the question, “How do you want to be remembered?”

That question kept bouncing around inside my head and I kind of have two answers. I know that I want to be a good person and have caring relationships with friends and family. I want to have that close network of people around me who will remember me for what I’ve tried to be, not what I oftentimes am. (It sucks to be flawed, but such is life.)

Then there’s the other part of me who has been in front of a bunch of TV cameras for a worldwide audience and the most important part thing I can remember that appeared onscreen is something I said during my exit interview: “Aside from [the beauties’] appearance, they’re really not that much different than I am.”

That struck me a few days ago when I was at the gas station. I was filling up on Pump 7 and cleaning the windows on my car when a car pulled up on the other side (which I later discovered was Pump 11). After a moment, a voice over the loudspeaker said, “Pump 11, cookies are on sale.” I didn’t know where that was, but I said, “Yay, cookies!” I heard another voice say, “They’re probably stale!” “Hey, you never know when you might need them!” “Exactly!” Then the person belonging to the other voice started walking toward the building and I stopped cleaning the windows to look at her.

She had just been in a fitness competition for Miss Minnesota and came in fifth. Very tan, very shapely and she flexed for me—her biceps were very toned compared to mine. She also revealed that she hadn’t had a cookie in a long time, but now that the competition was over… NOM NOM NOM. (Apparently, cookies seem really appetizing when you’ve spent the last few months eating large quantities of egg whites.)

I saw her again when I went inside to pay and saw that yes, she had purchased a container of cookies. “Yay, cookies!” I congratulated her again on placing fifth, then… yeah. That was it.

I won’t lie, I’m proud of not staring at her like an object. She was just in a fitness modeling competition; I imagine she’d had dozens of people analyzing her appearance for hours already that day. She may have wanted to talk about the competition and I missed the chance to have a conversation, but the likelihood of developing a long-term friendship within the span of a minute or two at a gas station isn’t likely, so I prefer what I did: light banter without staring too much. After all, aside from her appearance, she’s really not that much different than I am. Well, plus her really strong biceps, too.

Stand in the place where you are

I decided today that I spend too much time sitting and lying around. Whether it’s sitting/lying in bed, sitting at my desk, sitting at the dinner table… too much sitting. My butt is getting bigger and flatter. Well, I’m assuming that’s what’s happening—it’s hard for me to get a good look and asking someone to look for me would just be weird.

After searching through the house a little bit, I found a solution: a place where I can use my laptop while standing. There’s a room with a five-level dresser that’s almost chest height. I’ve got my laptop sitting on top of it, I can put my hands on the keyboard without having to hold up my elbows or keep my wrists at an awkward angle… it works really well. Given how infrequently I’m on my feet during the day, though, it’s only a matter of time before my leg muscles get tired, can’t support me anymore and I collapse like a giant heap of Jell-O. But at least I’ll be a giant heap of Jell-O with a sense of accomplishment. And probably still a big butt.

What are you most proud of?

Someone once asked me in a job interview that question: “What are you most proud of?” It was surprisingly one of the most difficult questions anyone’s ever asked me. Not because I don’t have things in my life to be proud of, but because of how few I actually remember.

I imagine it’s somehow related to my having epilepsy. The most likely cause—my own theory and what I usually tell other people—is that I did a lot of medication-hopping during the early 2000’s. My body was becoming acclimated to dilantin, which I started taking in 1991, and I’d been having minor seizures for a few years that escalated to blackouts that would last a couple minutes.

We needed to find a replacement since the older stuff wasn’t working well enough anymore, so we tried a variety of different drugs and different combinations. At one point, the doctor increased the dosage of one medication (I think it was Trileptal) to toxic levels, but thought it would be okay since I was “a big guy.” Nothing worked. I was still having seizures every two months or so.

After having a bunch of wires glued to my head for a week and a half in the epilepsy ward at United Hospital in St. Paul, the doctors found the area in my brain that was the source of the overactivity (flare-ups of overactivity that spread to other areas of the brain is what was causing the seizures) and found a pair of medications at dosages that have kept me seizure-free for almost 12 years.

But the point of this story isn’t “Yay, no more seizures!” It’s “I don’t remember a lot of stuff before medication-hopping!”

I was chatting with someone online about this once and she had no idea how frustrating it gets. I tried to explain that I don’t remember a lot from high school and college. People will tell me stories about things we did together and I’d have to smile and nod because it’s a complete blank. I kept a journal for a while when I was younger and reading it is like reading someone else’s autobiography.

She insisted that a lot of people forget things from when they were younger, but it’s not the same. Most people would remember standing on top of a mountain and looking off into the distance when you’ve been hiking in New Mexico for ten days. Three times. (I vaguely remember part of the second trek because there were dark clouds passing below us and one adult in our group was talking on his cell phone.)

I’ve been scuba diving in the Florida Keys for a week or so and remember that our guide gave me the nickname “Indy” (I was standing next to a kid wearing an Indiana Jones t-shirt) and he had one of those safari-style hats with a strap under his chin so he could wear it while we were underwater. That’s pretty much it. My dad was my diving buddy and has plenty of stories to share about what we did. I smile and nod. That’s all I can do.

When the interviewer asked me what I’m most proud of, I told her it was earning my Eagle award in Boy Scouts. It’s an easy default answer, but I don’t remember it. I don’t remember my high school graduation or getting my degree from Kenyon. I vaguely remember the graduation ceremony from law school, but that could be in part because the featured speaker was putting people to sleep. Literally. People were falling asleep while he was talking about “justice” and “rule of law”. That’s all I remember, but that’s one thing I don’t blame my brain for—a majority of the audience was completely zoned out.

There are plenty of things I can recall since then, but I’m not sure whether they fill me up with a sense of pride. That’s not to say they haven’t been significant:

  • Being on TV.
  • Throwing up on TV.
  • Various encounters with people who recognized me from TV.
  • Auditioning at the local community theater for the first time and getting the lead role.
  • Celebrating after scoring my first goal in an adult soccer league. I played defense, so it took me two years. (I don’t remember the goal itself, just celebrating.)
  • Screwing a video camera down onto a tripod, finding out it wouldn’t sit flat and I didn’t have time to adjust it, so I filmed my older brother’s wedding at a slight angle.
  • My graduation ceremony from Augsburg, even though I wasn’t actually done for another few months. (My final MBA course ended in December, but graduation ceremonies were only in the summer.)

So the question remains: What am I most proud of? Or rather, what can I remember that I should be most proud of? Unfortunately, my answer is still that I’m just not sure. But who knows? Maybe someone will read this, think of a good story about my past, tell me about it and I can start using that as my default answer instead.

Marie Porter doesn’t make Canadian porn

This is an issue that came up on Facebook yesterday and my friend Marie is justifiably pissed.

The Young Turks has a page that shares a multitude of links to articles on their website, www.tytnetwork.com. I don’t want to misrepresent the organization, so I’m copying and pasting the “About” section directly from their page:
________________________________________

Plot Outline
Young Turk (n), 1. Young progressive or insurgent member of an institution, movement, or political party. 2. Young person who rebels against authority or societal expectations. (American Heritage Dictionary)

The Young Turks is The Largest Online News Show in the World.

The Young Turks (Winner – Best Political Podcast & Best Political News Site of 2009) were the first original talk show on Sirius satellite radio and the first live, daily webcast on the internet. But that is not the revolution.

We are a rare show that combines all of the news that people care about in one place. We are not afraid to talk about politics and entertainment and sports and pop culture. But that is not the revolution either.

The real revolution is in daring to be honest with people. We dont patronize our viewers or lie to them. We have real conversations and deliver the news honestly.
________________________________________

In reading that description, the problem isn’t that they’re lying so much as misrepresenting something they used for one of their posts. It’s got a header with three swimsuit models and has a link that sends you to an article called “Canada Wants More Canadian Porn”.

Note that if you click the link above, it goes to their Facebook post and not the article itself. That’s because 1) I don’t want to drive any more traffic to their website, and 2) they don’t use Marie’s picture on their own site, just on Facebook.

Theoretically, those three pictures could have come from anywhere on the Internet. Hell, they could have come from the swimsuit issue of “Sports Illustrated”. (Actually, it’s been a while since I read the swimsuit issue, but the Canadian models might be covering up too much for SI’s standards.) But the pictures didn’t come from just anywhere on the Internet. The middle picture in the header came from Marie’s website.

For those of you who want objective proof, I’ve got two pictures. The first is the post from The Young Turks page with the header on it. The second is from the Queen of Spandex website. I was tempted to take a big screen shot that showed a lot of women and men in swimsuits (rawr…), but decided that I should stick with the picture that they (shouldn’t have) used—it’s on the left side of the page about halfway down.

Take a look at the three women in the header...
Take a look at the three women in the header…
Yes, this is swimming weather in Canada.
This looks like a non-cropped version of the middle picture, doesn’t it?

This could have been a non-issue. Marie Porter does not want herself nor her swimsuit model to be associated with pornography, Canadian or otherwise. If The Young Turks took the post down or changed the header, problem solved. It would be the right thing, it would be the decent thing, it would be the smart thing, but they’ve done nothing. It’s still there and she’s still pissed.

Then again, one of the definitions of “Young Turk” is “young person who rebels against authority or societal expectations.” Marie may want to start searching for a lawyer now.

Is that a franchise in your pants?

As I sifted through the mail this afternoon, I found a plain white envelope with my name on it. The return address didn’t have a name above it, the printer used a very small font that looked vaguely like handwriting, but the font got larger at the bottom where it said, “Your Invitation Enclosed”. Could it be junk mail? I think it could be junk mail.

The paper used to make that plain white envelope was thin enough that I could see some of the writing on the letter inside. In the upper left hand corner (behind the return address), it was really easy to see the word NHance. In other words, Boner Medicine!

When I flipped the envelope over, though, I could see snippets of sentences through the back as well that didn’t make sense:

Join us for a Franchise Opportunity…

2 persons per party, 18+ and older…

Aside from the fact that “18+ and older” is redundant, I’d never heard of a franchise that specialized in medications to treat erectile dysfunction. And how would you franchise something like that? Did the people who sent this expect me to use their name and logo to help sell stuff out of my house, then have me send them a percentage of the proceeds?

When I was done looking through the rest of the mail, I quickly grabbed my letter opener, slid it across the top of the envelope, pulled out the letter and saw the subheading to the NHance logo:

Revolutionary Wood Renewal.

Boner Medicine!