Curing the Common Block

Still wet from my morning shower, I sat paralyzed in my desk chair.  Physically fresh but mentally funky.  Fingers on the keys.  Eyes on the screen.  Mind far, far away.  The cursor blinked hypnotically.  I stared at it, hoping it would move on its own.  I cramped.  No.  Worse.  I hit a block.  Perhaps the blank screen would fill with wit if I just gazed at the blinky cursor long enough.  Three minutes passed.  Seven minutes. Fifteen minutes.  Nothing happened.  Nothing came.  It was official.  I had contracted blogger's block.

Panic.  Sheer terror.  The self-imposed deadline was quickly approaching.  Hours away.  What did I have?  Twelve hours or so?  It wasn't enough.  I desperately needed more time.  The big, sexy hook I'd concocted in the shower and forced into web ether looked terrible in type.  Read aloud it was no better.

Suffering from severe writer's cramp and paralyzed by the blank Blogger canvas, I did what any writer with a deadline would do.  Panic.

That was it.  It was all I could come up with in the 24-hour period spent dwelling on the upcoming post.   It was crap.  Garbage.  Backspaaaaaaaace.  The screen was blank again.  The cursor blinked mockingly.  I knew I was in for a rough day.

Experienced writers will tell you there isn't a cure.  There's no magical remedy to fix your mental freeze.  You're a good writer.  OK.  Maybe just a decent writer.  But in that instance of mental meltdown, no one would know it.  The advice they lend is to write.  Write rubbish.  Even when the content is complete shit.  The physical motion will snap the blocked brain back to intellectual writing form.  Or at least writing form.  Poo humor and four-letter words probably don't qualify for intellectual writing.

Never erase.  Never delete.  Ever.  That's the rule.  Let the fingers do the walking and remove the mind from the process.  The block is a mental trick telling the writer that everything put to paper by their hand is crap.  Even if 99% of what you write is useless (unlikely), that 1% could be very helpful in crafting or refining your piece later.  So avoid the delete key or rubber eraser at all costs.

Deadlines are unfair.  The saying you can't rush art applies just as much to a writer's moleskin as it does to a painter's canvas.  Prose always has room for improvement, so the only benefit to a deadline is to excuse yourself of spending the next eternity on your piece.  Comforting, but not when your in a writer's block.  To overcome the sense of impending doom, push the deadline to the back of your brain.  Put it on the back burner.  Ignore the anxiety of the deadline so you can force yourself to write without extreme influence of short time.

Heeding the advice of the so-called experts is easier said than written.  A blocked writer already feels inadequate from the inability to flow prose into their medium, and the exercise of producing crap with the hopes of it turning to gold is a real test of will power.  Forcing fingers to fly across the keyboard or pens to fill paper only to have the dregs staring back is a true lesson in discipline.

So can you do it?  Can you overcome your paralysis and let the stream of conscious take over?  Can you overcome your pride and allow your fingers to produce pure shit?  Can you overcome the urge to hold down the delete key and refrain from erasing the mucky musings?  Can you overcome the anxiety spurred by closing deadlines?  Can you do it?

Can I do it?

Looks like I just did.  This morning I sat in my bath towel frozen by a blogger's block, and twelve hours later I've returned to the same chair, polished up what began as a morning turd, and find myself preparing to hit the Publish button.

Suck it, blogger's block!

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Image stolen from Bear-ing It All.

You Don't Know Me, Groupon.

Sit down, Groupon, it's time we had a little chat. Look...there's no easy or right way to say this, but it needs to be said. You know I really love you and really value some of the stellar deals you've gotten me, right? It was super fun at first. We were two young lovers exploring what the other had to offer.

Well, I think we both know that recently things haven't been as smooth. I haven't bought anything from you in a while and that's because you've been throwing deals my way that I just don't care about.

Half off LASIK surgery? You know I don't wear glasses. Hiking yoga class for 53% off? Does that sound like me? And I really can't figure out why you keep sending all these salon service offers. I told you I like saloons...not salons.

It's like you don't even know me anymore.

Remember when you used to check in on me daily, just once, sending me your latest sweet find somewhere in my city? I loved it. I loved reading your emails. I loved you. But lately I've just felt a little smothered. Every day it's the same routine. Check my email to see what you've sent me. Between the traditional offers, travel deals, and Groupon goods...it's just too much. Honestly, Groupon, nine times out of ten I delete your email without even reading it. You've got to stop. You're turning into a clingy stalker. Seriously.

Ok...so...that's not everything. You deserve the truth. All of it. This won't be easy to hear, but you see...there's someone else. No, no, no, Groupon, please...sit down. You need to hear all of this.

I'm not saying you deserved what I've done, but honestly, Groupon, what did you expect me to do? We've grown so apart over the past few months, and Google Offers was there for me. Google listened. Google Offers is just as in tune with the local scene as you used to be. My first Google was a bagel shop just down the street. Blocks from my apartment! It's like Google knew.

I'm not saying Google Offers gets it right every time. Just this morning Google sent me an advert for heels.com. Way off. Google isn't perfect, but I still find myself attracted to its simple, clean, elegant emails and equally comparable deals.

Look...I'm sorry things ended this way. I know there's other people out there that will treat you better than I did. I wronged you, and I know it hurts now, but I just hope that you can find it in your heart to forgive me someday. I need to do some soul searching, so please respect my decision to safe unsubscribe. I'll see you around, OK?

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Poke Wars: A New Hope

I don't lose. Ever. Ok. So there was this one year of rec soccer where our team went unundefeated. See what I did there? Double negative. Means we never won a single fucking game. But outside of that forgettable low-point in my rec soccer career, I just don't lose. Instead, I merely have minor setbacks in long drawn out conflicts. I may cede a battle from time to time, but it's with the intention of winning the war.

Enter Facebook. Circa 2005. This dude was on the main spread. Remember this dude? Of course you do. The Facebook, and subsequently this dude's mug, took a while to reach my university. State schools had it, but private schools were late-comers to the bookface. So I make an account. I have a profile. I put up a pic. And soon after creating all this bullshit, I realize the only purpose of the site is to poke people. WTF? Poking? What the shit is this, Zuckerberg?

Whatever. I'm gonna fucking own this poking game.

I was, and still am, a pacifist poker. I'm selective. Calculating. I don't start poking wars...I fucking end them. And so it has been for the last seven years that I have mercilessly poked those who have mistakenly chosen to poke first.

Enter cute girl. Circa 2007. Shit. Zuckerberg made the PERFECT online flirtation device. Poke. Poke Poke. Ah shit...this girl's totally diggin' my pokes. Maybe I should talk to her...naw...I'll just fucking poke her like a creepy cyber stalker.

Whatever. That shit fucking worked.

Bam! Relationship. One year. Two years. Three years. Damnit, Zuckerberg, now I have to go check out wedding bands. No. Not musical instruments. I was fooled. Tricked. This shit was a marriage trap all along.

But at some point during year four, we realized our differences. The relationship had been based on Facebook pokes. We had never really built a firm foundation for future success. Reality set in. We were over.

Whatever. I'm gonna fucking own this poking war.

Here we are. Almost two years later. Guess what...still poking the shit out of her. At this point it isn't clear who started it, who struck first, but we know who'll finish it. Me. I never lose. Letting this poking war die would mean losing the breakup, and I have no intention of letting that happen.

So thanks, Zuckerberg. Thanks for making a site where I can relentlessly poke friends, acquaintances, love interests and total fucking strangers alike. The whole idea is pointless and creepy, Zucks.

But whatever. I'm gonna fucking own this breakup.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

White Collar Like Me: Things You Shouldn't Whip Out

Success in a career comes to well-liked individuals. First impressions aside, the approach to remaining well-liked is to be friendly, hard working, and completely ambiguous in beliefs, causes, and shlong size. Along those lines of ambiguity, a successful businessman will avoid whipping out the following three things: religion, politics, and his dick.

So simple to do, yet so often violated by the working world. It seems common sense, but sometimes it's good to review the fundamentals. What's wrong with my religion, my politics, my dick? Why can't I whip these three out and flaunt them like a fanatic/pundit/porn star?

Let's review the keys to successful office place demeanor. Let's review the three things you shouldn't whip out.

Religion
Believe in what you want, but keep it private. Praising Jesus for pots of coffee, reading the Bible on your lunch break, and Teabowing every time you win new business is just bad PR.

The flaunting of religion limits your possibilities and therefore your potential. While the beliefs may open doors among a small circle of like-minded zealots, it will likely alienate a larger crowd. Feigning religion to impress the boss will most likely backfire in some embarrassing way. In the event it doesn't backfire, I hear God's not a big fan of faking it.

Politics
Vote (or don't) for the people and causes you believe in, but keep it to yourself. That faded Kerry/Edwards sticker callously slapped on the bumber of your Geo Metro may seem cheeky and fun to you, but unfortunately others have varying opinions on politics.

Much like religion, politics is a polarizing topic. Unless the office is filled with a gaggle of apathetic non-voters who abstain for lack of ideology and knowledge, you have the potential to alienate many. Avoid the mess of explaining to your conservative boss why you're a flaming liberal and just keep your grassroots mouth shut.

Dick
Flirt all you want, but keep your dick in your pants. Surprisingly an ever increasing number of the US workforce are reporting that they shit where they eat. Four out of ten women report lusting after an office crush while ten out of ten men report fantasizing about that hot piece of ass from Accounting. These statistics are startling when you realize what a dumb fucking idea office romance is.

FACT. More relationships end unsuccessful than end in happily ever after. FACT. Friendship post romantic involvement will end once she starts railing the boss. FACT. You still have to work with that slut and your skeezy boss. Feel free to fraternize with your cohorts but DO NOT fuck your coworkers.

A man's place of employment should be a place he can be proud of. It should be job providing a product or service worthy of standing behind. It should be a fat paycheck to cover the bills. Drama threatens all of this. Your idyllic employment can all come crashing down, so in the interest of self-preservation, you'd be wise to heed this advice. Keep your religion private. Keep your politics to yourself. Keep your dick in your pants.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Twat Tweet 3000

The reports of my demise were greatly exaggerated. There's far too much to say, and my ego simply won't allow critics to break this beautiful blog. I must say I was taken aback by the outpour of support from the StoryTime faithful. Thanks for standing up to censorship or, as I call it, terrorism, but next time, you should really read to the end of the post.

So it dawned on me that some of you may be craving more of me. Can't say I blame you. I'm pretty awesome. For the unawares desperate for daily witticism, varied vulgarity, and sizzling romance there is hope. Twitter. I tweet on my twat when I have something vaguely humorous or ambiguously dramatic to say.

The shameless promotion of this blog post happens to be tweet 3,000 for the @ShavedGolf Twitter account. In celebration of this minor momentous milestone, it seems timely to pay homage to the social media that I use, peruse, and abuse. Here, in 140 characters or less, are the reasons I'm on Twitter and you should be, too.

@ShavedGolf: First and foremost, the superfluous and flowery fluff is removed and the remaining content is the raw information you're interested in.

@ShavedGolf: Follow who you want. What's doing in the @NBA? What's @johnboehner thinking? What's @HotPinkTaco serving? Choose who you want to hear from.

@ShavedGolf: You see what I did there? I put @johnboehner & @HotPinkTaco in the same tweet. #WINNING

@ShavedGolf: @twitter can be used for up-to-the-second breaking news. Follow @CNN, @msnbc, & @CBSNews for more breaking news than you care to be broken.

@ShavedGolf: @twitter provides access to individuals that security wouldn't allow IRL. While you can't touch them, you can at least chat them up.

@ShavedGolf: Example: I don't know @ErinAndrews, but I'd like to. I'll tweet her! Bonus: a response or RT from @ErinAndrews is spank bank GOLD.

@ShavedGolf: Everyone's doing it. From @RyanGosling to @RyanSeacrest. From @SteveMartinToGo to @the_real_nash. From @Justin_Stangel to @justinbieber.

@ShavedGolf: Shit, even @kingsthings is on @twitter and he's older than your grandparents...combined.

@ShavedGolf: But forget those shlubs! I'm on @twitter. You love me. You clearly don't get enough of me. So sign up, log on & enjoy my shit.

Sometimes I tweet. Sometimes I twoop. Sometimes I drunk-tweet. Sometimes I sex-tweet (like Weiner's wiener). Regardless of my cognitive state, location or demeanor, you can be assured of one thing: it's 100% @ShavedGolf 110% of the time.

xoxo,
@ShavedGolf

StoryTime Says Goodbye

Death comes for us all. Even blogs. Bloggers always fear the end. The end of their blog. The hobby that's kept you busy night after night. The writing carefully crafted into a unique piece of art. The words that you hope will entertain friends, loved ones, and the world.

Late last week, ShavedGolf was contacted by the Federal Communications Commission. The FCC email was an obvious template. Poorly written, too...I would know, I'm a blogger. The stock email was to inform me of multiple complaints lodged against this blog for crude humor, foul language, and offensive bigotry against Portland hipsters.

While the email stopped short of being a complete cease-and-desist, it did recommend a change of tone and a new direction for my weekly writings in the interest of avoiding civil suits. This is all paraphrased with sprinkles of assumption, but suffice it to say, the email was enough to give pause.

My creation. My thought. My writing. My art. Despite it's popularity on the web (with well over 11,000 hits in just over a year) had caused enough people anguish that they felt it necessary to contact the FCC. Simply shocking and, frankly, hurtful.

StoryTime for me isn't just some afterthought. The blog is more than just a side project. The weekly postings have quickly become my number one hobby. While it's understandable that it won't be entertaining for all audiences, it's extremely saddening to hear that my content has risen to the point where the federal government is now reaching out to me. Even worse to think that I've disappointed and/or disgraced those that I care most about, my faithful audience.

Unfortunately, after discussing my options with friends, family and my attorney, I've decided this will be my last post. In the face of civil action, I blinked. Some may see this as cowardice, but, simply put, I'm trying to do what's best for my future.

To the StoryTime faithful, a heartfelt thank you for sticking with me. Week after week. Post after post. It's been a privilege and an honor to fill your monitors and mobile devices on a regular basis.

To the handful of individuals that I've offended, truly, I'm sorry. Never once did I maliciously write something with the intent of causing grief. My goal was never to hurt. I'm sorry I let you down.

With that, I'm off to new things, bigger adventures, and a lot more free time on my hands. We've had a good run, but I'm sure you'll fill your 5 minutes every Wednesday night with something infinitely better. Best wishes to all. Cheers.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf





































Just kidding, fuckers! See you back here next week.

Match Money Management

For the money, you'd be hard pressed to find a more entertaining value than a season ticket to the Portland Timbers. The sport is soccer. Either you love it or you don't. I'm not gonna debate the beautiful game with you. 90 minutes of all out effort, constant action, and big sweaty men. Sounds like late night at Embers.

If the game alone isn't enough to get you in the stands, then the atmosphere should be. The fan base for this team is amazing. Rabid, intoxicated crazies chanting, singing, dancing for damn near three hours. The unity on the pitch is enjoyable, but the unity in the seats is just as awe-inspiring.

I bought in as a Timbers season ticket holder in their inaugral MLS season with the intent of saving money. I had been to matches in the past, I had fun, I knew I wanted more. The price was right. 18 bucks a pop if you bought the full season package. Little did I know the team's popularity in the Rose City would make this season ticket decision the only avenue to attend a match as all 20k seats for the tiny Jeld-Wen pitch sell out. In fact, all seating for the 2012 season has sold out.

Needless to say I'm thankful I bought the season pass, but it soon dawned on me that I really wasn't saving money by attending weekly matches. Any savings attributed to cheap season tickets was being unloaded at the jacked-up concession stands.

The prices are truly outrageous. It's a monopoly. Those Jeld-Wen bitches have you by the balls. Once your ticket is scanned, there's no readmitance (not a word). You're screwed. You have to eat their food. You have to drink their beer. They know it and they raise concession stand prices to let you know they know it.

In the interest of helping my fellow man avoid match day financial ruin, I'm going to provide you with some season ticket holder trade secrets of match money management. Translated in laymen's terms: you're going to sneak a lot of shit in.

Water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink...unless you pay $5 or you're smart about it. The skies could not have opened up more than they did Monday for opening night. Torrential downpour is trite but accurate. This rain of biblical proportions makes the cost of a $5 bottle of Dasani feel like a punch in the dick. Really, Jeld-Wen? Five bucks for the sustenance of life? Without this shit, you keel over and die in a matter of days, and Jeld-Wen Field thinks it's OK to price gouge for it.

Calm down. Don't panic. No need to start drinking from the puddles out in the concourse. The stands have exactly four drinking fountains in two locations for match-goers to quench their thirst. I'll save you the trouble of asking the Jeld-Wen concourse henchmen (they don't fucking know anyway) and draw you a map. X marks the spot.

Now if you're sitting in the Timbers Army (yellow section), you are furthest from the fountains. Wouldn't it be great if you had some sort of container to hold water that you could carry with the purpose of quenching thirst at any point during the match? A water bottle, perhaps? Well fuck! Fun fact! They allow you to bring containers into Jeld-Wen so long as they're empty. So bring your bottle, fill that shit at the start, and enjoy H20 for the duration.

OK, so now you have a limitless supply of water and a method in which to transport it. Great. Unfortunately filling up on water will only stave those hunger pangs for so long. You're going to need to establish a food source.

Jeld-Wen Field has any number of different options sure the please any foodie. Savory meat pies from Pacific Pie Co. A Timber Brat with sausage from local Zenner's. Delicious Thai food. Tender BBQ. Qdoba Mexican Grill has two stands. And of course the traditional options are available as well: hot dogs, hamburgers, pretzels, nachos...whatever.

Just one problem. Those tricky Jeld-Wen bitches know you have a stomach. Again, these prices have been heavily tampered with. There's no shame. If you're hungry enough, you'll let your stomach start making the financial decisions. You cannot allow this to happen lest you go broke.

Admittedly, the solution to the food source conundrum is somewhat dubious. While you don't have deep pockets, you do have pockets. Prior to entering Jeld-Wen, I turn my personal garments into a fat man's utility belt. I hit up Taco Bell on Burnside and line my pockets with burritos and Crunch Wrap Supremes (they're good to go). The rent-a-guard lackeys are unlikely to search your person and even less likely to question the warm bulge in your pants.

Sweet sustenance! You have food, you have water. What more could you possibly...oh fuck! You forgot the beer!

You're doomed. There really isn't a viable option for the beer enthusiast to hoard his cash and enjoy his brew. Short of strapping the 12 beer can holster to your chest, you will pay the $7.75 domestic/$8.50 premium beer prices.

Wait. What's that you say? You're only looking to get shit faceded? Well fuck! This we can handle. The solution to the shit face situation is even more chancy than the aforementioned food acquisition.

Where food is a banned item on Jeld-Wen's list, alcohol smuggling is against the law. The OLCC states that any alcoholic beverage intended for park consumption must be purchased within the gates of the alcohol monopoly. It's like the 21st amendment never even passed!

Despite the legal implications, I know you're gonna try anyway. Flasks. Lots of them. Three or four if you have room next to all those bean burritos. You're like a prohibition rum runner. You're a libation liberator. You're...you're...fuck, dude...are you already drunk?

Remember, the key to success with the flask method is moderation. Much like your low tolerance for the hard stuff, Jeld-Wen has a low tolerance for public drunkenness. The Jeld-Wen safety patrol doesn't take too kindly to belligerent individuals. To evade the discerning eye, limit your sauce consumption and save your drunken tirades for the after-party.

Pennies pinched. Wallet secure. Bank account safe. 401k unscathed. With a little effort, some forward thinking, and a dash of luck, even the frugal can enjoy the beautiful game. Jeld-Wen is an amazing pitch, the talented Timbers team impresses, and the rowdy crowd of 20,000 faithful is a sight to see.

Truly, it would be hard to find a more entertaining value than the production gracing Portland's pitch every other week. Match day is joyous for all who attend, so I encourage you to find a ticket and get to a game. It's worth it. The memories will last a lifetime.

Rose City Til I Die

xoxo,
ShavedGolf