A ShavedGolf Farewell

The creative process is time consuming and the rewards for production are often minimal. Creativity and creation are commonly rewarded best through personal satisfaction - this satisfaction comes from the knowledge that your creation is beautiful, masterfully crafted and is bringing joy or usefulness to the world.

I no longer feel that personal satisfaction from my blog.

The creative process behind blogging is no less demanding of time. Blogging requires a tremendous amount of effort, dedication and passion. Because my passion has waned, the product has suffered. Because the product has suffered, I feel less satisfaction. Because I feel less satisfaction, the last thread of reward for my efforts is a laugh from coworkers or a Facebook like from friends.

I've decided these nods of approval are an insufficient reward and do not justify continuation of a tired blog.

As I mentioned, I believe the lack of passion impacts the product. The content I produce on a weekly basis feels rushed and I consistently find myself publishing for the sake of claiming I did so on a Wednesday. The passion is gone and the result feels like half-assed entries that barely limp across the finish line.

Time is precious. With my schedule packed and responsibilities ever increasing it has become apparent that something must give. There are so many other creative avenues to explore. Art projects. Short stories. Fiction writing. Novels. Programming. There are so many personal accomplishments left to achieve. Volunteer opportunities. Relationship development. Athletic endeavors such as a marathon or an Ironman Triathlon. Career aspirations. Home ownership. Starting a family.

The blog aids none of these goals and manages to hinder most of them.

At the point where I find the blog to be a roadblock. At the point where I find the process no longer bringing joy and instead becomes a chore. At the point where the content feels like forced dribble. At the point where I could be spending my time on so many other wonderful endeavors. At the point where I pour myself into a project to receive nothing in return. Well that's the point where the project must end. And obviously I find myself at that point.

Perhaps this isn't an end, but rather a new beginning. When a topic stirs passion, given enough time, perhaps a polished post will grace the page once again. But don't expect it and don't come looking for it. I'll come to you.

I've spoken of the blog's demise once before, written a farewell and fooled many people. This time it's with a heavier heart and no hidden gotcha. The end has come. Thanks for being my audience over the last 85 weeks. Your praise always meant so much. Thank you.

The End
xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Cuckold by Cuff Hole

I went to work wearing a nice dress shirt. Neigh, an awesome dress shirt. It's name brand, so you know I paid for it. A beautiful light blue color with the traditional white buttons. The shirt is non-iron so it never wrinkles. The collar points are kept sharp with the shirt's original collar stays. The shirt is crisp, clean and makes me look stellar...

...or at least it did.

At about 3:00 PM this afternoon I was admiring myself in the mirror when I discovered a massive coffee stain dead center of my awesome shirt. Knowing that I hadn't sipped coffee since the early morning hours hurt the most. Here I was walking around the office, strutting my shit, and just generally acting like a bad ass and all the while I had a giant stain on the front of my shirt.

I looked like a goob. I looked like a complete goob and my coworkers didn't have the heart to say anything to me.

*sigh*
Oh well. The shirt can be washed.

I completed my mirror check and moved to roll up my sleeves when...oh...oh gods, no! A hole. This beautiful blue dress shirt has a hole! It's not a big one, but right there in the cuff, a hole.

No longer an "oh well" moment. Holes can't be washed out. This shirt is destined for the dumpster.

But the cuff hole conundrum got me thinking how many of my garments reach the holiness level. Don't get me wrong...I appreciate fresh threads and believe the clothes can make the man. However, it seems I lack understanding of garment life expectancy.

When I purchase an awesome article of clothing, in my mind, it's awesome FOREVER. Those shorts were $40? Good for seven years. A $10 pair of boxers? Good for a decade. Jeans for $50? They'll last until I outgrow them.

But this cuff hole has me realizing that my standards may not be that of everyone else. I realize the shorts I bought seven years ago are ragged and frayed. I realize the boxers my mom purchased during Back-To-School season 2002 have holes and barely pass as a loin cloth. I realize the denim bought who-knows-when makes me look homeless.

But you know why this doesn't matter? Because I feel like a bad ass in these clothes. All of them. All the clothes I keep. As long as I'm strutting my shit and generally acting like a bad ass, I'll get shit done and be the guy I want to be. Clothes do make the man, so long as the man is comfortable in his clothes. The moment attention is brought to my gooberish appearance, I lose that confidence, that swagger, that charisma. Once I quit strutting the article of clothing has outlived its welcome in my wardrobe.

So, friends, what I ask of you is simple. Please, if you catch a stain on my shirt, a hole in my pants, or any visible fraying threads, don't tell me. No fashion critiquing. No mocking. I don't want to know. Because the minute I'm aware is the instant that I start caring and becomes the moment I'm slightly less awesome.

I don't need a new, blue dress shirt...I need less cuff hole.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Welcome Back, Old Friend

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

That's the sound of every man in America sitting his ass down on the couch, cracking a beer and turning on the tube to watch the NFL get underway. Yes, it's that time of year again. The NFL regular season has officially started with tonight's match between the Dallas Cowboys and New York Giants.

So it's time to frost your beer steins, warm up the grill and invite your fellow fans over for rockin' Sunday couch parties from now through December.

Yeah. Starting this Sunday, and for the following sixteen Sundays, the friends come over carrying their favorite potluck dish, the best six pack and their laptops.

The snack table is epic. A plate of buffalo wings. Some roasted weenies in bbq sauce. Thick, wet coleslaw. Guacamole. Cheese and crackers. Bagel Bites. The Taco Bell twelve taco box. Chili.

The fridge comes fully loaded with house beer and is stocked up with guest six packs as they arrive.

The football amigos hang out on the couch all day. We watch the games that matter and even the ones that don't. Hang on every play. Trash talk during commercial breaks. Critique the players' performance, the announcer's dictation and the commentator's analysis. Everyone brings over their laptop to keep tabs on their fantasy players. Women are invited but not encouraged to attend.

...or at least that's how it goes down in my head.

In the end, NFL Sundays become nothing more than a lazy day in my underwear. The friends don't come over. There's no snack table. Maybe some Taco Bell. The fridge is stocked with whatever hodgepodge leftover beer remains from Friday and Saturday night. Plays are missed in lieu of snoozing, scratching or picking at toenails. Commercials are a time for a new beer, a tasty snack, or a Sunday morning shit. Players are mocked. Announcers are mocked. Commentators are mocked. The laptop is ferried between the coffee table, the kitchen table and the porcelain thrown to keep tabs on the fantasy team. Women are invited and encouraged to attend, but rarely seen or heard from after doing so.

The reality sounds cold and harsh, but truthfully, it's not. Football season for me is really synonymous with lethargy and procrastination, but I enjoy the hell out of it. For seventeen regular season Sundays and for all the playoff Sundays that follow, I get to flip on the television and enjoy American athleticism at it's best. I get to marvel at the players. And most importantly, I get a free pass to do nothing.

For those who aren't fans and don't get it, NFL Sundays are akin to your addictive reality television or your Law & Order marathons. You so badly want to turn it off. You desperately want to be productive. Yet something holds you to the couch and keeps your eyes fixated on the TV. Sunday after Sunday, for seventeen Sundays of regular season and four weekends of playoffs, it's the same routine.

What is idealized as a golden opportunity to fraternize with my fellow fans is little more than a lazy Sunday. That's OK. I like it that way.

Welcome back, old friend.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Amusing Searches: The Fourth

Once again it's time for another installment of Amusing Searches.  Why?  Because I'm lazy and have nothing better to post this week.  THAT'S WHY!

After Amusing Searches: The Third was posted, it became clear ya'll need a little refresher on how this shit works.

Step One: someone goes to Google and searches for something stupid.

Step Two: that same someone ends up on my blog via their search.

Step Three: I see the search pop up in my blog stats, laugh hysterically, and mock it on my blog.

It's just that simple!  So here now, for your viewing pleasure, seven of the most ridiculous searches my stats have produced.

raging boner
I find it highly amusing that someone is sitting out there on the interwebs searching for a raging boner.  It's not enough to just search for a boner...you're looking for a penis that is currently raging.  An enraged dick.  That's one ornery shaft.  You won't like it when it's angry. Incredible Hulk style.

champion spray

Raging boners typically lead to champion spray.  Sadly, I believe I know what this poor fucker was searching for when they typed this in.  The search appeared around the time I had written about champagne, and so I can only imagine they misspelled champagne...badly.

women rubbing butts together
Odd.  Really odd.  Not even sure where to take this one.  What's the benefit?  What's the purpose?  I'm just left scratching my head.  Maybe the sight of two women rubbing their butts together is enough to give you a raging boner and you'll shoot your champion spray into a tube sock...?

no mustache no sex

If women REALLY wanted to fuck with society, they would implement this rule.  No nookie without a lip rug.  Extra points for womb brooms.  Think about all the new mustaches that would be introduced into the world!

How could Michelle say no?

Yes, sir.

Gettin' some.

FAKE

twat flossing

Nine out of ten dentists agree with nine out of ten gynecologists, women should floss their twat regularly.  Lackadaisical twat flossing leads to cavities, bleeding gums, and a stinky cooter.

cats doing the dougie

OK...this search seemed ridiculous, but then I youtubed it and was pleasantly surprised.  I don't really get it...but I'm sure it's animal cruelty.

pokemon speed dating
Because Pokemon Masters don't have time for the usual dating scene, there is Pokemon speed dating.  Dating is very similar to Pokemon in that the end goal is to catch them all. Strategy tip for speed dating newbies: don't whip out your Bulbasaur too quick or you'll never get to see her Nidorina.  Lay low, play it cool then Beedrill the hell out of her Weepinbell with your Cubone.


Thanks for searching.  You stay weird, internet.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Hood to Coast Year Four

On Friday we embark on an epic journey from Mount Hood to Seaside, Oregon.  200 miles of blood, sweat and chafe stick.

From here...

...to here.

Epic.  So epic.

Hood to Coast 2012 will mark my fourth journey with our infamous office team of misfit runners and half-wit nut jobs.  Misfit runners because starting year one, there was hardly a runner among us.  Three years later, I believe some of us have earned the right to associate as runners...even if we're still misfits.

And I say half-wit nut jobs because anyone with more than half a brain wouldn't put themselves through the grueling test of endurance Hood to Coast presents.  We are by no means a fast team, but that may make our journey all the more impressive.  While the winners of Hood to Coast 2012 may finish in 22 hours, our team will be out pounding the pavement and churning the gravel for close to 34 hours.  The endurance to persevere and the willpower to finish on a team pacing 10 minute miles is no less impressive than a team pacing 6:20's.

Excited.  Amazed.  Anxious.  Enthusiastic.  Nervous.  Happy.  A plethora of emotions to experience through the anticipation leading up to the event, on race day itself, and through the week following. 

Excited to get out there and put our training to use and spend quality time with great friends.  Amazed that Hood to Coast 2012 is already here.  Anxious about my leadership and remaining responsibilities as captain of my first Hood to Coast team.  Enthusiastic towards our chances of nailing our official estimated finish time and receiving an invitation to compete next year.  Nervous about personal performance and living up to the standards and expectations I set of myself.  Happy that I'm willing and able to participate in The Mother of All Relays.

So bring it on.  Bring on the early start.  Bring on the running.  Bring on the dirty porta-potties.  Bring on the chafing.  Bring on the weather.  Bring on the hardships.  Bring it all on.  Because I know, no matter what, the thing remembered most about any Hood to Coast experience is overcoming all and having a blast.

I'll see you on the beach!

xoxo,
ShavedGolf


P.S. Follow the team's progress, for as long as we have cell reception, on Twitter: @ShavedGolf.

The Terrible Turkey Sandwich

Gawd, I hate work lunches.  The whole thing really ruins my day.  Not only does the meal consistently disappoint, but it has a tendency to drain any energy or motivation I had from the morning.  I could be running completely hot.  Just killing it.  Pounding through the work like a machine.  Then I head to lunch and it doesn't matter what I fuggin' eat, the result is almost always the same: siesta mode followed by long poop.

Today was no exception.  I ate the worst turkey sandwich I've ever eaten in my life.  Absolutley.  Hands down.  The fucking worst.  Yes, I made it.  Got out of bed, took a shower, made a sandwich.  Dumb fucking idea.

I started with cheap knock off bread.  Not really knock off.  It isn't pretending to be bread it's not.  The bread is perfectly aware how shitty it is.  It wasn't name brand bread.  Fuck if I'm gonna pay five dollars a loaf.  I've been shelling out $1.19 for the generic wheat bread.  Not even sure it can be called "wheat" bread.  Doesn't seem like it's any healthier for you.  Looks exactly like the generic white bread with a spray tan.

Anyway.  To make the bread worse, I bought it and immediately put it in my fridge.  I know this will dry the shit out of the bread, but I can't get through an entire fucking loaf before it molds.  Especially in the heat of this chicken tit August.  Why a chicken tit August?  Because it's been really hot and because the healthy temperature of a chicken is 107.5° Fahrenheit.  There.  You learned something new today.  You're fucking welcome.

The bread was next to the jar of mayonnaise.  Now...I spared no expense on the mayonnaise.  It's that olive oil crap that's supposedly healthy for you.  What they don't mention is that it tastes like narwhal semen.  It's foul.  Plus I don't really go through mayonnaise that quickly, so the shit has been festering in the back of my man fridge for longer than I care to think about.  But the bread's dry, so I lather the hell out of one slice with the porpoise jizz.

Every sandwich deserves a great slice of cheese.  My sandwich received cheese but was denied greatness.  Like a foot sinking in mud, the individually wrapped, mass produced, sweaty cheese was squished atop the heavy mayo pool on the bread.  Gooey mayo slopped out the side.  According to the marketing printed on the package, the cheese was allegedly pepper jack, which I can neither confirm nor deny.

The other slice of bread was lonely and demanded my attention.  I decided to moisten the dry slice with Kroger dijon mustard.  The large container of dijon was only recently cracked, but I can already tell it's headed for the dumpster as soon as I can pick up some Grey Poupon.  My newly acquired, bargain mustard just doesn't have enough kick.  Word of advice: don't skimp on the mustard; spring for the good stuff, you cheap bastard.

Now, with my dry bread wetted, it was time to throw down the main course of the sandwich.  Again I had turned to Kroger for my sandwich needs and the meat had originally satisfied.  Unfortunately, like the mayonnaise, the turkey meat has been hunkered down in my fridge praying to see the light of day again.  The deli meat had probably been laying around for a month.  The aging process left the meat dry and mostly anemic.  Devoid of turkey flavor, the meat was nothing but texture.  It was like chomping on chilled, thinly sliced rubber.

What better way to complete the worst insult to my taste buds than to top the terrible turkey with a moldy tomato?  I need to give credit where credit is due.  That tomato really held out.  I bought it the same time as the deli meat.  Yes...one month ago.  The confused fruit only had a couple infected spots and once those were sliced off it would be fine, right?  The problem was twofold.  First, I sliced a huge honking piece of that bitch for the sandwich.  I like tomatoes, so it seemed like a great idea.  Second, NEVER TRUST A TOMATO THAT LASTS A MONTH.  What the fuck was pumped into that tomato?  Likely due to HGH coursing through the tomato's innards, the confused fruit had zero taste.

So all this was thrown together in the haze of my morning fog, transported to work, and was waiting for me at lunch.  Oh the joy.  Just try and imagine the first bite.  Your teeth pierce the dry bread and your taste buds are assaulted with disgusting mayo and lackluster mustard.  Somewhere in the hot mess is a piece of sweaty cheese.  Next up, the tasteless tomato oozing it's genetically altered juices all over your mouth.  Then comes the turkey meat which would double as a patch for a wet suit.

That's what I had for lunch.  Can't wait for tomorrow.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Groupon, I want you back.

Oh hey, Groupon!  Wow...you're looking great!  How have you been?  You know...it's really great to see you. I've been meaning to catch up. Are you busy?  Maybe we could run and grab a cup of coffee.  I bet you know just the place.

Listen...I need to apologize for the way things ended between us. I said and did some horrible things, and worse, I betrayed your trust.

Google Offers and I broke up.  Google just couldn't offer the variety of deals that you can, Groupon.  And remember that bagel shop deal that Google Offers got me?  Well the place closed down before I even got a chance to use the deal.  How ridiculous is that?

Anyway...after Google Offers and I split, I dabbled with some other deal sites around the internet. Just looking for love and cheap deals.  I knew I'd hit rock bottom when I started messaging with Living Social.  Sure Living Social has some decent deals occasionally, but their return policy is garbage and...oh...sorry, Groupon.  I'm sure you don't want to hear about my past relationships.

You know you really spoiled me when we were together.  I think I took it for granted.  I didn't realize just how well you treated me until you weren't emailing once a day with the latest and greatest deals...

I have an admission to make.  I actually never unsubscribed from your emails like I said I would. I just sorta let them pile up.  I ignored them.  Then one day I was talking to my coworkers about how I'd really like a new wrist watch...and the following morning there was an email from you with a stellar deal on a Columbia Sportswear watch.  I bought one.

A few weeks later I was lamenting to friends about how it was summer and I didn't have a barbecue for my patio.  And you know what?  A few days later, you sent out an email about barbecues.  I bought one of those, too.

I'll admit it was a little eerie.  Kinda felt like you may have been stalking me.  You...you weren't stalking me, were you, Groupon?  Oh...hahahah...silly me...of course you weren't. No...you just always seem to know what I want...

So anyway, I've bought a couple local restaurant deals that you sent out recently and now bumping into you like this...Groupon...I miss you.  You're special, Groupon. I mean it.  I know I hurt you, but do you think that maybe we could try again?  You know...start over?  Wipe the slate clean?  Please, Groupon?

It's OK.  You don't have to answer me now.  Just think about it and know that I love you. Groupon, I want you back.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf