Snail Mail Spam

The mailbox for my NW district apartment is comparable to the rental space it supports - small. Unfortunately, the size and my inability to remember to snag the mail compounds to an avalanche cluster fuck once the miniature door swings open.

This persistent conundrum is worsened by the relentless onslaught of advertisements. Redplum. Rite Aide. Safeway. QFC. IKEA. Clipper Magazine. Ads from unwanted merchants show up weekly. These ads are truly the spam of the snail mail era.

I live in Portland. I vote Democrat. I watched Captain Planet. Because of these reasons, I decided to reuse the never ending supply of paper.

First attempts at repurposing the unwanted ads led to the shitter. Wiping an ass with glossy ads is like cleaning the crack with silk. The sleek surface is built for speed, but be forewarned, paper cuts are an ever present danger. This practice was hampered by the regular clog accompanying every bowel movement. The landlord was pissed.

In an attempt at avoiding another work order for clogged pipes, I began lining the bathroom floor like the cage for a parrot. Toilet troubles be damned! The floor was my bathroom! Disposal and a constant odor not even Febreze could hide led to the downfall of this technique.

Realizing that the bathroom was perhaps not the best place for my reusing plan, and in a scramble to get to a birthday party, I grabbed a fist full of ad and used it as bachelor wrapping paper. This idea is truly solid and I'm still using it today. However, due to the high volume of ads, my social life and miserly soul cannot keep up with the flow.

Apartment decor was the next flash of brilliance. Bachelor pad wallpaper. Similar to the newspaper style wallpaper you might find at a shitty Subway fast food joint, but far more valuable. On the off chance Redplum had sent a Dominos Pizza ad, it could be ripped straight from the wall. This method worked until it was brought to my attention that bachelor pad wallpaper might be chick repellent.

Undeterred from using ads to decorate, I attempted origami. The apartment ceiling would look magnificent with hundreds of paper cranes flying from fishing line. Origami was scrapped after my first crane attempt - I got to step 11 and was so frustrated that my temper tantrum was confused for a domestic dispute. Two officers responded.

In the end I settled on the most logical reuse idea of all. I began mailing the ads back to the distributor with a note demanding they reuse and resend to a more receptive recipient. Weekly ads are saved, eventually slid into an envelope and postmarked for the spam HQ.

Gaia, the spirit of the earth, can no longer stand the terrible destruction plaguing our planet. Recyle, reduce, reuse, and close the loop. Cuz saving the planet is the thing to do. Looting and polluting is not the way. Hear what Captain Plant has to say...

The power is YOURS!

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Zinfandel and White Lilac

After discovering Ron Artest, of the Los Angeles Lakers, had recently filed a petition to change his name to Metta World Peace, my mind started to wander. Metta...meta...Adaptation...blog...I lost The Game.

It occurred to me that this blog may have become legitimate enough for a meta entry. Granting the audience a window into the process behind ShavedGolf. Pulling back the curtain to expose the inner workings of my mental musings and mind mush.

May God have mercy on your soul.

The process starts in a state of vulnerability. Generally an idea will come to me at the most inopportune time: during defecation. To ensure the idea does not escape while on the shitter, I drop everything and duck waddle to the computer to start the fresh composition. As a for instance, I still need to wipe.

Once an idea is hatched and captured, I torture it for days. The idea stews at a low simmer, but as Wednesday approaches, I bring the idea to a rolling boil. Due to procrastination and writer's block, boiling will typically occur only hours away from deadline.

The writing process is much like you imagine it, but more awesomer.

Scented candles and luminescent votives flood the room with fragrance and romance. White lilac stems are hung strategically from my apartment's ceiling to encourage the flow of positive energy. Everyday drab garments are removed and I slip into a lavish kimono made of fine silk and Egyptian cotton. Chi is focused through meditation and hot yoga. A robust and fully matured Zinfandel from Sonoma Valley is uncorked, sipped, and enjoyed. The cares of the day melt away.

Voilà! The masterpiece is written.

After some quick revisions and approval by editors and legal counsel, the product is ready to publish. Like a mother bird delicately encouraging her children out of the nest with loving nudges, my mouse finds the PUBLISH POST button.

My idea is free. The idea that I gave birth to while on the can. The idea that I put through the cerebral pressure cooker. The idea that I brought to maturity through tradition and ritual. It's free. And it's no longer mine. The idea belongs to the world.

Exhale. A long sigh of relief. Exhausted, I retire to my bedchamber with the knowledge that tomorrow the process begins anew.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Orthognathic Necessity

My jaw is crooked. It wasn't always off-kilter. Once I entered my teenage years, the jaw gave the rest of my body the middle finger and went off in it's own direction.

The rebel chin has resulted in pain - a constant headache sensation from ear to ear. Some days the discomfort is mild, other days it can be similar to a migraine. Eating has also become increasingly difficult as my jaw pops, locks and drops it.

Little does my mutinously mutated mandible realize, I'm plotting punishment for its individualist tendencies. Surgery.

Dr. Surgeon says he'll cut my jaw bone in two places in a procedure known as orthognathic surgery. He'll basically move that bitch straight back to whence it came.

There's a catch. Insurance. My provider, Providence Health Plans of Oregon, has denied my preauthorization for surgery. Can't blame them...orthognathic surgery is clearly listed as an exclusion in the member handbook. So while Dr. Surgeon hounds PHP via the appeals process, I've decided to appeal to their more sensible sides here on my blog.

Bacon.

Perhaps the most enjoyable fodder to appear in the average American's daily diet. Delicious, juicy, succulent bacon. Just one problem - I can't eat it. My incisors don't line up making it impossible to enjoy the flatness that is bacon.

In order to process the greasy treat, I must moosh the pig strips into a well-compacted ball. The bacon ball is then pushed to one of two points in my mouth where my teeth touch. Occasionally I leave the pinch of bacon between my teeth and lip like a fatty piece of chew.

Restaurant menus are filled with an ever increasing number of bacon-topped cuisine. They torment my taste buds with bacon concoctions I cannot possibly enjoy properly. Any dish with bacon is a cruel tease - the allusive strips sail straight passed my incisors unscathed.

I've provided the detailed self portrait of my mouth below for the benefit of Providence so they can better appreciate my plight.

Note the gap. There is ample space between the teeth for a piece of bacon to slide right through completely unharmed.

So PHP, if you're reading this, I admit that I'm no surgeon. I don't have a medical degree. I can barely pronounce "orthognathic," much less explain what the surgery entails. However, I happen to enjoy the occasional strip of bacon. On my burger, in my sandwich, adorning my doughnut. For this reason, I beg you to reconsider your declination.

This is not a rant about some unjust insurance company; instead, this is a plea. A submission of desire. An appeal to the taste buds. I long for normalcy in the devouring of bacon. And while the insurance company may dispute whether the surgery is medically necessary, there is no disputing the necessity of the operation for proper bacon consumption.

Can't I have my BLT and eat it too?

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

App Attack

Time and energy are sucked into Facebook like a black hole. Efficiency wanes. Productivity escapes. Quality collapses. Facebook is used as a means to procrastinate; an instrument allowing us to gaze into the lives of acquaintances or, worse yet, complete strangers.

Enter Facebook applications.

As if a single time-waste tool wasn't enough, users are now greeted with a plethora of insidious applications.

Having a name at the top of the alphabet allows me the uniquely horrid position of receiving an invite for just about any application ever to appear on the Book de Faces. Apps recommend and encourage users to send invitations to their "friends." These apps generally suggest the first ten friends from the top of an alphabetized list. The gruesome result is an app inbox filled with the likes of...

Castle Age. Friend Stats. Happy Hour With Friends. Where Should You Be Living? Yearbook. What Badass Animal are you? MyCalendar. Which Jon and Kate plus 8 character are you? FrontierVille. CityVille. FarmVille. Papaya Farm. Nightclub City. Fish Life. Fish World. FARKLE. My Zoo. Knighthood. Mafia Wars. Mobsters 2: Vendetta. The True Age Test. Pirates: Rule the Caribbean! Birthday Cards. ATTACK! What does your sign say about you.. ? (:

...just to name a few. Yes, there were omissions, and no, I did not add that emoticon to the end of the last one.

The reward for successfully enticing a friend to join, as I understand it, is points within the application. If a friend joins Knighthood via your invitation, you'll rank up. If a friend accepts an invite to Papaya Farm, your papaya harvest will be extra bountiful. If a friend signs on to Which Jon and Kate plus 8 character are you?, Kate will push out another one.

Once the application model is spelled out their true existence becomes painfully clear. Pyramid schemes. Every app that encourages and rewards the spamming of friends with relentless invitations can be classified as a pyramid scheme. The only buy in is your time and the respect of your friends.

The reasons for avoiding pyramid schemes are the same for avoiding Facebook apps - both are a waste of time and allow infiltrators access to your life and your powerful, valuable network. Life is too short to be spent sending impersonal cyber "drinks" to your friends. Personal information is profitable and should not be traded to app developers for an electronic nightclub. Relationships are valued and will bear greater bounty than any amount of time spent cultivating two-dimensional crops.

I realize by writing this I open myself up to an onslaught of application invites, and perhaps I deserve that for also ignoring twenty-six friend invites. Just keep in mind, if you're hoping to receive an extra fish in Fish World by sending me an invite, you'll be disappointed and defriended.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf