Anecdotal Excuses

Oddly enough, I have nothing for you this week. However, I have produced some explanations regarding the absence of content for the week. Excuses are like assholes: everyone's got them, and they stink.

Here now, for your viewing pleasure, please consider the following assholes excuses...

[Excuse Number One: The Ghostwriter's Dog]

Gupo, an Ecuadorian native with an affinity for wellingtons, ghostwrites for this blog.  He has a dark, smooth complexion, hazel eyes and jet black hair.  Contributors of ShavedGolf are paid handsomely - fifty cents American for every page (single-spaced, 10 pt font, Times New Roman).  Gupo excels.  He has a strong command of the English language and a vibrant future in writing.

Gupo has a dog.  We chose him together at the local animal shelter.  Black and tan fur and a mutt in every sense.  After a very logical argument, Gupo and I settled on a name for the mutt - Syllogism.

Ill tempered with a mean disposition towards Americans.  Once, on a brief visit, Syllogism laid a turd in one shoe and puked in the other - my Doc Martins have never smelled the same.  Perhaps it is Syllogism's bigotry that led him to devour some of Gupo's manuscript for ShavedGolf StoryTime.

Unfortunately, for this reason, I have nothing for you this week.

[Excuse Number Two: The SWG Strikes Back]

The definition of "screen" has become very loose over the years - the word now covers all luminescent projections of entertainment.  Sadly, this blog is a victim.  The Screen Writers Guild demanded that I cease and desist my blogging or face dire consequences - solitary confinement with piped in reruns of Mad About You.

My days are now spent picketing local movie houses, and not only am I on strike from writing but from food as well.  A hunger strike until the SWG gets what it deserves: better pay, more control over content, and a submarine fortress...Aquaman style.

Unfortunately, for this reason, I have nothing for you this week.

[Excuse Number Three: Smart Phone Carpal Tunnel]

Carpal tunnel from furious games of Words with Friends has resulted in a smart phone ban by my primary care physician and seven specialists.  My weekly wordsmithing allotment was totally consumed by the game and my friendships began to suffer.  Sleepless nights were common and I began drinking heavily. Much of my days were spent perusing thesauruses and dictionaries for the perfect letter combination.

The stress of games with all consonances or all vowels finally caught up to me.  Police escorted me to a detox cell at the local precinct for allegedly rolling naked in a pile of books in a Barnes & Noble while simultaneously attempting to roll doobies out of the pages of Howard Zinn's A People's History of the United States.

In addition to the WwF breakdown, the smart phone's auto correct had become the bane of my four-letter word existence.  Expletives were constantly being altered: fuck, shit, piss would become duck, shot, loss.  Blog content severely suffered.

Unfortunately, for this reason, I have nothing for you this week.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Accidental Walking Stranger Stalking

There are people in this world with terrible spatial awareness.  They lack peripheral vision.  They are easily distracted.  They seem unconscious to the world.  And somehow, as a pedestrian, I constantly find these people milling about Portland.

Encounters with these day-walking, daydreamers normally ensue as follows: the oblivious one will be roughly a block ahead.  I'll continue walking at my normal click because this Helen Keller of the sidewalk hasn't been identified as such by yours truly.

Now, I'm no Olympic Ecuadorian speed walker.  No, my gait is not that of Jefferson Perez, but I generally walk with purpose.  My accidental stalking victims seem to be on a nonchalant stroll to nowhere.  The difference between us is one of intent - my feet are being used as a mode of transportation, but the vic (as they say on CSI) is out to enjoy themselves.  Out for a merry walk to exercise and daydream.

For some reason the snail finds it necessary to daydream down the center of the sidewalk, thus making any attempt to pass uncomfortable for both parties.  Comparable to camping in the fast lane of I5 while simultaneously star gazing out your sun roof.

Suddenly I realize that I'm too close.  I've caught up.  And worse yet, they haven't noticed my presence.  By the time I'm close enough to recognize I'm slightly stalking this person, it's too late.

Now I'm committed.

To avoid the awkward moment when the slow-walker realizes they're being followed at close range, the stalking must continue.  The stalking becomes premeditated and strategic.  I'm treading ever softer so my footsteps don't give me away. My breathing is calm and controlled.  Hands into my pockets so my clothes don't rustle and coinage doesn't jingle.  I turn my cell phone to silent.

The thinking here is that one of two things will happen prior to them becoming aware: either, A), I reach my destination and no longer have to follow, or B), the stalked turns in another direction.  However, as I continue to close the distance and neither of these two things have happened, I panic, thinking, "How in the hell can I let this moron know I'm behind them without startling the poor ignoramous?!"

Strategies to alert such a person include, but are not limited to:

• Slight cough - not too loud, not to soft, just enough to bring them out of their trance.
• Clearing of the throat - the only danger here...they might then expect you to say something.
• Dragging of the feet - a little scuff on your Pumas might help signify your presence.
• Produce keys from pocket and jingle like a bell - recently tried this method...while slightly unorthodox, it did the trick.

But you know what...screw 'em.  They're hogging the pedestrian thoroughfare.  There's no reason for me to feel socially awkward.  So confidently, boldly, eloquently, I gently clear my throat and say, in the snottiest, pompous, and most standoffish way possible, "Exxxxcuuuuuse me."

The shocked space cadet reacts with disbelief that some creeper is halfway up their pant leg attempting to pass them during their state of mental vacay.

Chest up, nose in the air, I arrogantly parade by the absent minded pedestrian - another stranger successfully stalked in the Rose City.

xoxo,

ShavedGolf

Dr. Comcastic or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Cable Provider

For years those with mediocre social lives have turned to cable television and internet pornography, but to enjoy those simple pleasures one must run the gauntlet with a misunderstood corporation - Comcast.

In a recent move from Beaverton suburbia to alphabet district oasis, I had the displeasure of setting up a new Comcast account. To set the scene, I called the Comcast sales line, was set up with a package, and then had subsequent issues getting a tech to arrive at the agreed upon time.

I've chosen to post the following email to help my fellow man crack the Comcast code and make contact with an often out of touch giant.  You're the customer.  You have a God given right to demand satisfaction.  So stand up, put your pants back on, and follow my lead...

---

To Whom It May Concern:

I was instructed to send an email to this account by @ComcastMelissa because I had voiced a complaint on Twitter regarding issues I experienced when setting up service in my newly rented apartment.

Story goes like this: Called up Comcastical sales line and was getting set up with double play TV and internet.  Guy on the other end was extremely helpful - only tried to up-sell me twice.  After that initial account setup, I was transferred to a call center (guessing it was outsourced) somewhere in BFE (see urbandictionary).  The woman on the other end fought through a shaky phone connection to confirm details of my account and arrange for a tech to install components necessary.  

We agreed on Sunday, 3/27 between 10 and 11 in the morning.  I wrote this down.  We confirmed it at the end of the phone call.

Woke up early Sunday morning (3/27) with a blistering hang over, but was determined to clean and prepare my man cave for the tech's arrival.  Pulled my TV out from the wall, exposed the cable outlet from behind the lazy boy, and lit scented candles.  Like a loyal dog awaiting his owner's return, I sat by the door waiting for the Comcast tech.

10:00...10:17...10:32...10:41...10:56...10:59.5...nothing.

Waited another hour just to be sure the tech wasn't showing up before calling the Comcastical help line.  A sultry female computer on the other end informed me I had an appointment scheduled and asked if I would like more details.  I played her game.  She shocked me when she explained that my appointment was indeed on Sunday, and yes it was between 10 and 11, but NO it was for NEXT Sunday.

I spent the next hour and a half crying.

Reasons why I cried and remain weepy:

1. March 27th happens to be my birthday, so I'll cry if I want to.
2. Called Comcastical help line the next day to speak to a real person and got little sympathy.
3. Techs work the most inconvenient hours for anyone with a job...I'm assuming...most of your clientele have one of these.  I work a regular 8 to 5 job Monday through Friday and don't feel it necessary to take time off from work to come and meet a tech at my apartment.  I'm the customer.  I shouldn't have to work around your schedule to pay you $50 set up fee and $100 monthly.
4. Oh yeah...a $50 set up fee.
5. Cut off from the interwebs for a week longer than anticipated.  Had to read a book and listen to the radio.  The horror!
6. My Facebook Farmville went to hell in a hand basket.
7. et cetera

Anyway...I'm upset.

Sincerely Disappointed,

[ShavedGolf]

---

Result: Received a speedy email response asking for account details and a good contact number.  Received phone call roughly three hours after sending original email from an account rep expressing sympathy, profusely apologizing, and relaying Comcast's gratitude that I took the time to provide feedback.

Comcast provided the following credits to my account:

• Refund of initial setup fees - $80
• Customer Service Guarantee - $25
• HD box fee waived for first six months - $7 x 6 months = $42
• Total credits - $147

Advice: 

• The squeaky wheel gets the grease.  Do yourself a favor and start bitching.  @ComcastMelissa instructed me to contact Comcast via we_can_help@comcast.com.  That email address almost prompted the creation of a new gmail account why_didnt_you_help_the_first_time@gmail.com; however, if you're having issues, contact that address and you will get a response.

• When sending an email, include your account and contact information - if you don't, they'll email back asking for it, so speed the process up for everyone involved.  Include your full name, the number used to set up your account, and a number to be reached at.

• If you are denied satisfaction by the 1 800 help line (1 888 824 8264) and the above email address, then take to Twitter.  Really any form of social media will do.  Keep in mind, Comcast is a communications company...they're keeping tabs on what is said about them on the interwebs.  Blast Comcast on social media and you'll be contacted by a rep...if you burn them bad enough.

xoxo,

ShavedGolf

Spin Wars: Revenge of the Douche

The second installment in the epic saga of Spin Wars. Many have read and can relate to astonishing douchebaggery that is Steve (see Steve the Spin Douche).  Last week the Spin Douche returned with a vengeance.

Spin had been quite enjoyable as of late due to the Spin Douche's absence.  Workouts were peaceful.

Theories of Steve's absence varied - concern/fear/excitement/disbelief that maybe, just maybe, the Spin Douche had stumbled upon my little blog and was too embarrassed to return to a class with a spinmate this vicious and begrudging.  This could never be the case - Steve the Spin Douche is never embarrassed.

My heart immediately sank upon spotting Steve the Spin Douche - my respite from his douchebaggery had been short lived.

On this day, Steve the Spin Douche carried a wide rule, spiral notebook with "P90X" scrawled on the front in sharpie.  It explains a lot.  Spin Douche was proud of the notebook and placed it at an angle at the front of the spin room for display.

Prior to class starting, the Spin Douche let loose with usual unabashed rhetoric including his latest TMI tidbit.  The entire spin class, thirty strong, learned that Steve the Spin Douche was dumped via text message. This over share provided a plethora of visceral responses:

• Who cares?
• No one cares.
• Shocking...
• You date things?

For the next hour we were at the mercy of the Spin Douche and he did not disappoint.   We were treated to the frequent grunts and moans signifying hard work.  He blurted lyrics to songs he only partially knew in true karaoke form.

At some point Steve the Spin Douche lifted his shirt to use as a sweat rag and look at himself in the mirror.  His pudgy tummy clearly affected positively by strenuous spin and yoga classes.  The Spin Douche was proud.  The rest of us cringed.

But it was the end of class that filled me with horror and spurred this installment of Spin Wars: Steve the Spin Douche announced his intention to become a spin instructor.  He explained, with a wide, arrogant grin, that it had been a goal since he began, and he would be taking his instructor test soon to gain certification.  [See initial response here.]

The room began to spin.  I blacked out.

I came to with Steve the Spin Douche in my face preparing to give mouth to mouth.  I haven't been back since.

Subsequently I have found a new gym; dreadful with the knowledge that I'm still not safe. Steve is still out there and his influence is spreading like herpes...

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

One Year Old(er)

Due to my recent increase in years old, I thought it prudent for me to make a bucket list for my twenties.  Let's face it: I'm 25, halfway through my twenties, so I'm pretty much dead.  There are things I must get in order prior to the death of all that is fun and holy.

This list is serious business - none of that travel to Europe or bungee jump bullshit.  I'm talking about stuff that just needs to get done.  Let's begin.

Top Ten Bucket List for a Twenty-Something

1. Dutch oven a bedmate and convince her she did it.  I mean really convince her.  I want her to leave embarrassed.
2. Get the company president/CEO with the timeless "smells like updog" gag.  I'll probably have a job afterwards...
3. Meet Justin Bieber.
4. LARP - Live Action Role Play.  Because, despite my best efforts, I haven't quite reached the level of nerdom that these guys have...Lightning Bolt!
5. Master the art of the mustache.  No...none of that Vote for Pedro peach fuzz.  I'm talking full on Civil War.
6. Do the Dougie.
7. Use "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn" in an equally dramatic and awesome way.  And I still refuse to watch that movie...it's freaking seven hours long!
8. Run a marathon.  Watch people run a marathon.  I'll sit along the course, sip a beer (maybe seven or eight), and heckle.
9. Ride a unicycle into my high school reunion.  Because nothing says "winning" like a dork on one wheel.
10. Touch Natalie Portman.  Not like casually graze... preferably...an inappropriate one.  Yeah, yeah...she's married...she's a mom...I'm a terrible person. 

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Dookie Debacle

Late in my college career I discovered I was missing a GUR (General University Requirement).  Panicked, I jumped into the first available class - one that would fulfill the prereq, allow me to graduate on time, but most importantly, was easy.

Enter Sociology 101.

Mrs. McNally's Soc 101 class was not for slacking seniors looking to coast their way to tassels and diplomas.  McNally was well aware that any senior in her class was not there because of their passion for social, racial, and gender issues.  So the professor treated seniors with, perhaps, more attention than they deserved...especially with her red pen.

Her projects were formidable.  Her grading was harsh.  Her tests were traps.

Yours truly was on the cutting edge of failure...until I wrote the following paper.  Ladies and gentlemen, please consider for your reading pleasure, my unedited, unfiltered, and unprepared Soc 101 grade saver:

---

Norm Violation: Stall Struggles

Public restrooms are awkward.  Restrooms are places we go to do our private business.  Public restrooms are places we go to do our private business publicly.

There is quite a contradiction in that definition, thus the use of a public restroom is awkward.  However, awkward does not mean you are breaking a social norm: everyone has to do it, and if you are unlucky enough to have to do it while out, it is very socially acceptable.

Less socially acceptable activities include flatulence, tinkling in the toilet, and plopping a poopy into the deep water of a large bowl.  These noises may cause neighboring bathroom goers to wince or giggle, but these noises are still allowed.

Our group of three, Blake, Ben and I, decided to attempt using uncommon bathroom noises to violate social norms.  The project design was to have one of us sit in a toilet stall and make grunting and groaning noises every time another man entered the public restroom on the second floor of the UC.  The grunts and groans simulated us struggling with a major turd.  In order to gauge the reactions from our poor victims, one of the group members would join the target at the urinals and wash hands at the sink with them too.  The third group member would watch the reaction of the exiting target.  These roles would rotate as we saw fit for gathering as much data as we needed.

Reactions varied drastically among our sample of college-aged men.  There was everything from laughing to non reaction.  One man who did laugh found the noises, produced by Blake, gave him common ground with Ben to the point where they were able to strike up a conversation:        

“That has to be a joke,” he said.

Ben smiled politely and giggled along with the target.  The laughing was kept to a minimum, presumably because the target did not want the noise norm violator, Blake, to hear him.  Had this been a real situation, the laughter could have been taken as disapproval from peers and these feelings might lead to a confrontation.

            

I was able to experience the post of potty-sitter at least twice.  In both situations I would begin with soft noises, such as coughing, and gradually get louder to what might be deemed as a normal grunting voice.

            

My first target was a non reaction.  The man used the urinal while Blake used the one next to him.  Nothing happened; according to Blake the man did not make even the slightest hint that something was wrong.  He washed his hands and left promptly.  I found this reaction to be what might be expected of someone trying to avoid the awkwardness of pointing out the violation of a social norm (the very action of pointing out a violation is a violation of a norm itself).  This response could also have been a result of the two different people operating at the urinal post.  In the very first situation, where we had Ben in place, the other man and Ben shared a smile at the urinals before conversation began about the difficulty the stall stalker, Blake, was having.  This smile by Ben was perceived, perhaps, as a sign of understanding and an approval of any conversation to come about the noise disturbance.

            

Now, compare Ben’s smile to Blake’s straight face.  Blake did not make an invitation to the target, and thus the target possibly did not feel comfortable being the only one pointing out the norm violation.

            

My second time on the pot was a unique experience.  The target was a friend of mine, so I felt comfortable interviewing him afterwards.

            

Mike, my friend, walked into the restroom and I followed close behind him.  Luckily he went into one of the stalls so he could not see me go into the one along side his.  As before I coughed and groaned, but I also moved my feet slightly with the noises.  This foot movement showed that I was really having a hard time dominating my bowel movement.  Apparently, Mike had enough of my stall antics after only a couple of minutes because he stood up, zipped up, and was out of there within a timeframe that makes me question his own success on the porcelain throne.

            

After some time had passed, and the restroom emptied, I ran out to find Mike and interview him.  I caught up to him on the other side of the UC in the Old Main Market.  He was with his girlfriend, Kate, and they were shopping for snacks when I approached them.  I said hello to both of them with a large goofy grin on my face that must have given my intentions away; immediately Mike looked to my feet to inspect my shoes.

“I knew it had to be you,” he said.  (Earlier that evening I had explained to both Mike and Kate that I would be doing a norm violation paper for Soc 101.  I had also informed them that it would involve the restroom in the UC.  However, neither of them knew which norm I would be violating.)  

“What were you thinking?” I asked.

Mike started but Kate interrupted him, “He just got through saying that ‘someone was having a real rough time in there.’”

“Well how did you feel, Mike?” I asked.
“I just felt your pain, man,” he said.

Mike “feeling my pain” was a form of empathy.  This turbulent turd experience was a relatable one for Mike, but despite his empathy towards me, he was still having a chuckle about it with his girlfriend on the outside.

            

As for my attitude and feeling towards the whole situation, it was a real kick in the pants (no pun intended).  I had a fun time pretending to have a not so enjoyable dookie debacle.  My attitude, however, was largely affected by my hidden identity.  Stalls allow one to hide everything but their feet, so it is a more comfortable experience breaking a norm under these conditions.  I doubt I would have been as brazen if I had been standing at the urinals making a similar commotion (though I doubt very much that anyone could really struggle as hard urinating compared to defecating).

            

Public restrooms are awkward by nature, but to use one is not to violate a norm (rather, a less than desirable series of events have occurred to force the user into a world of uncleanliness and foot-tapping).  The use of stalls and urinal guards helps to lessen the tension within this world.  And perhaps the age-old knowledge gleaned from our kindergarten years gives us the strength to endure the clash of public and private: Everybody Poops.

---

Amazingly this two page poop joke earned me an A+ and saved my college career from a Van Wilder experience.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

The Seven Rules of Beer Debt

Roughly two years ago, I entered a rustic bar along rural highway 30 with a coworker.  We were headed to the Oregon coast - Seaside - after just completing our last legs in the mother of all relays - the Hood to Coast.

We grabbed a celebratory beer.  Coworker paid.

Fast forward to approximately two weeks ago - I enter a trendy sports bar on the east side (Spirit of 77) with a small group and amongst them, the same coworker.  Hurriedly, we order our beers and asked for the check - stopping in for a quick pint before hitting a work related dinner.  After assuring the waitress it was us not her, I exclaimed, "I've got this...I owe you a beer from two years ago."

My declaration of Beer Debt was met with laughter and jeers.  That I would keep true to my commitment made by downing a 22 oz Hamms two years ago seemed absurd to my friends.

Their mockery was met with scorn.  Beer Debt is serious.  Therefore, I give you...

The Seven Rules of Beer Debt

• The first rule of Beer Debt is: you do not talk about Beer Debt.
• The second rule of Beer Debt is: you DO NOT talk about Beer Debt.

This cheeky 90s reference (yes, Fight Club came out in the 90s) is merely to say that the bond of Beer Debt is an unspoken one.  There is no need to discuss Beer Debt publicly - this may lead to, among other things,  disbelief, as my anecdote above proved.

• Third: if this is your first time acknowledging Beer Debt, you have to buy a round.

OK...last Fight Club reference, but seriously, if this is your first time acknowledging the sanctity of Beer Debt, then you've probably been skirting your obligations.  Subsequently, you might be out of drinking buddies.  Time to make new friends and treat them right.

• Fourth: there's no scorekeeper.  

It's like golf - tally your own drinks.  This is the honor system at its best.  Don't keep score what you're owed...unless there's a mooch in your midst...then call that bitch out.

• Fifth: quality matters.

If a friend provides an ancient Bavarian brew from Babylonian times crafted out of mastodon urine, nectar from the Garden of Eden, and fermented in Aphrodite's womb...don't return the favor with a PBR.

• Sixth: Beer Debt is transferable.

Beer Debt can be cashed in for other goods and services.  Food, foot massage, sexual favors - these are are acceptable forms of Beer Debt repayment.  However, it's important to note, this process is non negotiable.  The sixth rule refers back to the first and second in that there should be no discussion of Beer Debt.

• Seventh: the Rules of Beer Debt may be amended.

If it benefits those that dip into alcoholic lines of credit by utilizing Beer Debt, or if abuses are reported in the system, the Rules of Beer Debt may be amended.  Justice shall be handed down swiftly for misconduct or exploitation of the Beer Debt - drinking privileges will be revoked and you will be appointed designated driver.

Use Beer Debt wisely and you will be rewarded with honor, respect, and most importantly, plenty of drinking buddies.

xoxo,

ShavedGolf