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

Mum's Cats

Mum's planned a trip to visit her parents in the motherland and because Dad refuses to take care of kitties I'm vested with the title of Old Cat Lady for two weeks.

With the empowering position of cat protectorate comes three (3) pages of word processed instructions on the proper care of the kitties. The following are excerpts from Mum's cat manual.

Omissions have been made in the interest of brevity and to protect the innocent. Enjoy!

---

DAILY


AM


When you get up, Buddy and Izzy will want to go outside (unless it's raining). Before you feed them or when you eat breakfast, Belle likes to walk around on the deck, sometimes she goes just off the deck but she doesn't stray. Typically this is the only time she goes out unless you are there all day and she shows an interest. I never leaver her out for long.

Clean out litter boxes with litter scoop (morning and evening). [Omission: three different locations for plastic bags to fill with cat shit.] Make sure bag does not have a hole before you start. Tie full bags and put them in trash bin in garage. If litter boxes are not kept clean they will have lots of accidents in an effort to avoid all the dirty spots. I find if I clean it out twice a day I have less accidents [Discovery: Mum has been using litter boxes]. Keep litter fairly full (1/2 way) so that they can bury it and it doesn't smell so bad. Sometimes they miss [Admission: me too], the pads should collect the urine but check underneath just in case it found a way to seep under. [Omission: instruction on cleanliness and pad replacement.]

In morning, please put food on clean plates, pick up old ones and soak in sink before putting in dishwasher. Belle gets 1/2 can of diet food [Addendum: fat Belle resembled black and white Jaba the Hut], if the can has come from the fridge mix it with a little warm water. Her plate goes near the mail box cabinet. Buddy and Izzy: 1 can of classic Fancy Feast on their plates (Izzy by side of fridge, Buddy by kitchen entrance). I usually get all three plates ready then feed Belle and Izzy then Buddy [Notation: feeding order is important]. Belle will always try to clean everyone's plate: I let her unless Izzy is not in an eating mood and has not eaten much (probably means she had a tasty morsel outside [Addendum: occasionally tasty morsel has not been fully consumed and is still very much alive]).


Replace water.


PM


Around 6:00 Belle gets 1/2 can of diet food, mix with warm water if the can has come from the fridge. Her plate goes near the mail box cabinet. Buddy and Izzy: 1 can of Fancy Feast on their plates (Izzy beside fridge, Buddy by kitchen entrance). In evenings I usually feed Buddy first then Izzy then Belle. [Addendum: as the notation above states, feeding order is important; upon asking Mum why the order changes in the evening, I was provided with the explanation that Mum did not want any cat to get a complex over being fed last or an inflated ego by being fed first every time.]


Change water if it looks dirty.


[Omission: verbatim instructions on litter boxes.]


Give lots of love! Referee any fights, if Buddy gets in one of his moods (attacking the other cats or biting you [Addendum: bitch better not bite!]) he may need to go outside to calm down. It doesn't take long for him to regroup and then he can come in again [Admission: my emotional scars don't heal as quickly].


Around 9:30 call cats in (most times Buddy will be out front and comes in laundry room door - he walks very slowly [Confirmation: FUCKING SLOW], Izzy will be out back somewhere, you may have to call her a couple of times, when you hear the rustling in the undergrowth you know she [Addendum: or a velociraptor] is coming). Put a very little amount (no more than 1/8 cup) of dried food on their plates [Addendum: precision is import - 1/8 measuring cup provided to ensure accuracy]. Belle should never stay outside if you are not here - she has no claws. She typically only goes out first thing in the morning - on back deck for brief constitutional [Addendum: my favorite term used by Mum].

[Omission: emergency contacts including, but not limited to, primary care veterinarian, emergency veterinarian, and an alternative veterinarian.]

---

As evidenced by the mandated cat care procedures, Mum loves her cats. Upon arrival to motherland, emails back were inquires about cat conditions and expressions of longing. As a son, yours truly was given gratitude for taking care of the cats [Admission: jealous].

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

Rejected Hood to Coast Names

The Hood to Coast relay - affectionately known as the mother of all relays - occurs at the end of August. The course is simple: run from Timberline Lodge to Seaside, OR (200 miles), relay style. Each participant runs three legs for a rough total of 16 miles. The annual relay event draws teams of twelve from across the globe.

Relay officials have capped this year's event at 1,250 teams. Creative names are used to differentiate these teams - everything from Team Nike to Geezers Running. My personal favorite remains Six Chicks and Their Disco Sticks.

The deadline for team name selection is fast approaching, but unfortunately all of my suggestions have been rejected by teammates. The following are a handful of gems from the blacklisted names:

Sweaty Third Leg - While the first and second legs are sweaty, by and far the third leg is the sweatiest. The third leg is the climax of the relay for any runner. Regardless of the length of your third leg, it is always exhausting. The variation Hard Third Leg was also rejected outright

Runny Mess - Some days I just get the runs - a sudden urge to stretch my muscles and really let loose. Adrenaline pumping and a tingle starting at my core and running down my legs is all the encouragement I need to get off my ass and really unclog my system. This team name was inspired by how I look after the runs - sweaty, haggard, and exhausted. Teammates rejected the name because it aroused painful memories of porta-potties.

Bringing Up the Rear - Admittedly we are not the most competitive team out on the course - last year we were DFL. We have a good time, but we are constantly bringing it up in the rear. This team name is a fair and accurate description of the team's style, but it was rejected because a gaggle of teammates mistakenly believed it was an innuendo for anal intercourse. I can assure you this team name is about everything but sex. The variation Rear Admirals was also rejected.

Swass Attack - Sweat during physical exertion is a natural and desired bodily function. Sweat down your ass crack during physical exertion is unholy and disgusting. This team name was imagined at about mile four. Teammates rejected the name because no one cares for a sweaty ass.

Hooded Warriors to Coast - Abraham didn't get all the skin. Despite the American population's barbaric ritual of Male Genital Mutilation, there are still those out there sporting 4skin. This name was crafted with the intention of showing solidarity towards those who avoided the knife. Teammates rejected this name because they fear the unknown.

The right team name is out there - it's a combination of innuendo, snark, and tongue-in-cheek humor. Our team knows we aren't the fastest - we aren't competitive - but I'll make damn well sure we have an inappropriate name so that other teams have something else to laugh at besides our splits and finish time.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf

CanvassSweeper

Walking the streets of Portland is like playing a life size game of minesweeper.

The ACLU. Green Peace. Red Cross. The ELF. Chances are, if an organization's name is an acrynom or the organization is attempting, in their opinion, to improve the world, they'll bother the unsuspecting pedestrian with "the systematic initiation of direct contact with a target group of individuals," or canvassing.

Over empathizing is not a character flaw I would list on my life resume; however, my empathy does rear its ugly head when it comes to Portland canvassers. So instead of passing by these canvassers and politely telling them to fuck off, I meander my way through Portland like a game of minesweeper.

This game takes a lot of skill, tact, and luck. Skill at dodging drone canvassers begins with early detection. Like a meerkat, I sense the presence of a predator long before they strike. Clip boards. I can see them two blocks out. Some canvassers have caught on and hide their propaganda, so I generally skip over any block that has an energetic, enthusiastic young person standing on the street corner. Old people don't canvass and young people don't hang out alone.

Overlooking a well disguised canvasser or turning a street corner only to find one dead ahead is the time to utilize Jedi mind tricks. Tactfully turn to your pedestrian pal and inform them in a loud voice, and with hand gestures, that you've taken them in the wrong direction and you must immediately cross the street or, better yet, turn back the way you came. Feigning directional impairment provides the illusion that you are dodging for a justifiable reason.

An ounce of luck doesn't hurt. Despite all training and skill, Lady Luck can create openings to avoid the awkward approach. Maybe another poor victim is harassed ahead of you. Perhaps the canvasser drops their clip board. Perchance a renegade bus steamrolls the canvasser.

Failure to avoid is inevitable. Your skill will not save you. Your tact is insufficient. Your luck will run out. The biggest fear is marooning on a street corner with one of these carnivores. Don't speak. Don't make eye contact. Don't move. They're like a T-rex.

More than likely you've been approached. More than likely you're not bothered by flippin' the bird and merrily going about your business. But for those with a conscience, I invite you to play CanvassSweeper.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf