The Time I Hiked 16 Miles and Didn't Wear Underwear

Okay, so this summer I have been doing a lot of "outdoor" things. You know, things outside that don't involve Facebook, Texting, Ipods, and other electronics that make life worth living. It has taken a tremendous amount of discipline to distance myself from the convenience of having a screen to stare at, but I must admit, getting outside, breathing fresh air, rolling my ankle on uneven surfaces, blistering my toes, and chafing in the area right next to my ball-sack and my inner thigh has been really therapeutic.

People operate under the false pretense that they are adequate in nature. I am one of those people. Though I admittedly have no sense of direction and often turn 20 minute trips to Safeway into 2 hour expeditions to find the goddamn strawberry jelly already, I have this impression of myself as an above average navigator. Like if I REALLY needed to, I could locate the North Star, meet Sacagawea and discover some new land. It's just I haven't been confronted with that situation yet.

Through the combination of a few confidence-building hikes, and recently watching "127 Hours," I was feeling relatively confident. 127 hours made me wonder two things. One... why is James Franco so much better looking than every other male on the planet? And two...after watching him hack through his right arm, I thought to myself, "so what? I could do that. Give me a pocket knife and a handsome face like that, and I will saw all of my limbs off. For FUN."

I never got around to decapitating myself, but I did decide to play Lewis And Clark and lead two of my friends into a nature-walk from hell.

Hart's Cove trail-head is just East of Lincoln City, and is supposed to be one of the most beautiful coastal hikes Oregon has to offer. It is also open seasonally from July 15th to January 15th. If you go in the fall, you can hear Sea Lions barking, if you go in the Summer, there's a beautiful waterfall and breathtaking view of the oceanfront, if you go during the Winter, you're an idiot, and if you go on July 4th, you are an unpatriotic asshole who doesn't wear underwear and will get fucked up by thorn bushes, sent by Uncle Sam himself.

We decided to brave the warning sign that read "This trail is closed from January 15th to July 15th, you idiots. Go home. Seriously. Or find a different hike, you dumbasses. Violation of this is punishable by 6 months in prison, a ton of annoying little cuts on your arms from those thorn-bushes, and fines up to $30,000." And by "we," I mean, "me," decided that we drove all this way, and might as well have a horrific nature-walk to write blogs about.

OBVIOUSLY, we decided to proceed, park our car at a turn-off down the road, and walk on the road until we hit the trail-head.

Throughout the 16 miles of walking with good friends, we said things like, "I fucking hate you," "whose god-damn idea was this?" "Sean is such an asshole," "Sean is such an idiot," "Sean is so ugly," and "Why does Octaviano have such nice calves?" and "is it CALFS or CALVES?" We debated this for a solid 20 minutes, which served as a nice distraction from how much we all hated each other for pretty much the entire hike.

Other complaints that surfaced were various joint pains. Knees, hips, and backs "Fucking hurt," and emotions like pride, ability to navigate, and a general feeling of competence were completely obliterated. However, above all of these things, one underlying fact remains:

I was not wearing underwear.

This is a horribly ironic fact. The reason I was going commando was NOT because I enjoy the freedom of having my privates throw a parade in my boardshorts. No, I do not derive some weird joy from the absence of friction. Yes, I may receive unbridled joy from the feeling of air circulating around my MAN PARTS, but that is BESIDES THE POINT.

The point is, I was wearing boardshorts in hopes of finding this so called "ocean" that the sketchy paragraph write-up I read online promised me. The write-up also promised the hike to be about 5 miles round trip. Not 3 times that amount.

DO YOU GET IT? There was supposed to be an OCEAN that I could SWIM IN, but we never got to it, because the trail was overgrown and ugly and hurty and pokey and dumb, so instead, we just got to walk in mud for 16 miles and talk about who the biggest idiot in the group was, which was both unfair and true because I not only ruined the 4th of July, I also happen to be considerably larger than most human beings.

The strangest part of the whole ordeal was not the time where I admitted to my hiking partners that "this chafing is seriously going to make my tinky fall off," or the time Laura said, "You guys are seriously so fucking dumb, why am I friends with such idiots?" Or when we got to the end of the trail that was supposed to be a beautiful waterfall, and Octaviano said "I would literally rather be dead right now than walk back. I am serious. I never want to see another tree, a fucking fox-glove, or a shitty blade of grass for as long as I live."

No, the strangest part of the excursion was the fact that we were all in extremely high spirits at the end. On the drive back to Salem, cool breeze streaming through my fingers, salty trail mix crumbs coating the sun-soaked leather seats, hot air steaming off to remind us there's much more summer to come.

We made it back to Salem barely in time to see our fellow Americans light shit on fire to show how much they love their country, but amidst all the joy of fireworks, glow-sticks, and crushed keystone light cans, I found my return to civilization bittersweet.

Besides the fact that you can fart in nature and blame it on a weird plant or the rotting raccoon you just passed, I really missed the beauty of the random forest service trail that seemed to never end.

A small part of me missed my bleeding arms, sweat dripping into the cuts like wounds salted twice-over. A tiny bit of my soul missed the collective misery shared between new friends...blazing trails and wondering why the hell we didn't just stay home and check our Facebooks.

There's a unique adhesion that takes place when you can all hate something together. Which sounds awful, but is true. For the day, mother nature was our enemy. For the night, she was our best and most missed friend. Undoubtedly, we will meet her again...hopefully this time with underwear, and an in-season trail. But if not, it's all part of the adventure, right? Even the chafing thighs, random insults, and abundance of cuss words. Fuck that trail, but the experience was fucking cool. Fuck yeah.

Being Dumb, Sweaty, and Unemployed: Pretentious People and Their Motives.

Going to a private university is pretty cool. People are always willing to help you, professors are completely open for communication, and there's a real community feel to the whole on campus experience. All for an affordable price of $47,000 a year.

The problem is, because Willamette is a private university, everyone is smarter than you. And if you don't ACT like you are smarter than them, they will smell blood, and devour you at their first chance. This can make for some very interesting interactions. I like to call them pretentious-offs, or smart-offs, for my non-private university readers. Aka mere mortals, aka idiots. Pretentious-offs are kind of like face-offs in hockey, except more teeth, no sticks, and the loser goes to state school.

I am 0 for 7 in pretentious-offs. Here's my latest defeat:

I am looking for a job. You know this because you read every one of my blog-posts, and have a deep interest in what I do with my life. Always.

I decided it would be best to go to the "Willamette Career Center" to find work, because it has the word "Willamette" in it, which is French for "Expensive education," and "Career" in it, which is English for "Find Me a F***ing Job K?"

APPARENTLY, the direct translation of "Willamette Career Center" is "You don't have a job? Or a resume? Or a 4.0 GPA? Why are you dumb? Get out of my office, you tall athlete who is inferior to me because you didn't use 7 big words in the first sentence we spoke."

I walked in to the "I am better than you, you mere mortal Career Center," and my conversation with the "Counselor," AKA "A$$hole" went like this:

"Hey, so I got promised a work-study job this summer, but now I don't have one, because I got screwed over. But I need money, and I have available work-study funds. Who should I speak with to get some advice?"

"What's your name?"

"Sean."

"Sean what?"

"Sean Dart."

(Other woman counselor-lady who looks to not want to devour my face opens her door)

"Do you have a resume?" she asks.

"No."

(eye-roll so loud that it hurt my ears.)

"Come in," she said, in the least inviting way possible. Kind of like the way that you answer the door when a door-to-door feces-salesman swears that it will only be 10 minutes, but 15 minutes later, you have poop all over your carpet, and you just bought a bag of $hit for $39.99. Kinda like that.

"Thanks for your help," I say, before I have received any actual help.

"Have a seat," she says.

I am reluctant to do so, because I just got done working out, and was water-logged in every sense. My shorts were literally dripping. I realized the seat was black-leather, and looked like it didn't want to be touched by Sweaty Sean Butt.

"I'm fine, thanks." I say.

"Sean. Sit." She demanded.

"Okay."

"How do you expect to get a job if you don't have a resume?" She asks.

"I don't know. Work for people that know me? Painting fences and shoveling can't require too much of a background, right?" I say, thinking 'check-mate, ass-lady.

"Cute. You know, Sean. You need to wake up. It's time to wake up" She says, preparing to breathe fire all over her poorly decorated office.

It is at this point that I realize my sweaty bottom is sticking to her nice leather chair, and the plaque next to me says "The only thing better than a good friend, is a good friend with chocolate."

Never trust these people. Anyone with clever stitched-pillows or welcome-mats are to be immediately be dismissed as insane, extremely rude, or at the very least, dragons. It is extremely weird to feel a need to purchase a decorative plate that advertises your fondness of chocolate. Everyone likes chocolate. Get over it, mean-career lady.

"Um...I mean. I am awake. I had a job all year, I just was promised work this summer, and they decided they didn't need me just this last week," I said, reiterating the fact that I am the one getting screwed here, and shouldn't be getting yelled at.

"Don't put your eggs all in one basket, Sean." Butt-head lady says, in that weird way that people use your name 2 minutes after learning it.

Example:

"Hi, I'm Sean."

"Nice to meet you, I am a$$hole career lady, and I look forward to belittling you for the next 15 minutes. This is my job. How do you like my horrible plaque, commemorating my love for chocolate, Sean?"

See? See what she did there? She used my name. Prematurely. This should have been the first red-flag. The second should have been when she asked if I smelled rotten eggs.

I wanted to reply, "No, that's just my body," but I decided leaving an over-sized bottom-stain of sweat on her seat was enough.

She then asked me what my skills are. Sitting here, I could type out my skills relatively easily. I am tall, sometimes I can spell words correctly, and I can tell you all there is to know about every single player on the Los Angeles Lakers' roster. See? Those are my skills. (Insert Napoleon Dynamite Outdated Joke Here.)

However, doing this in person, in front of someone that looks like they want to destroy you, is much harder.

"What are your skills?"

"Uh. Um....uggh, uh,"

"Public speaking? Hahaha," she joked, but she really meant, "why are you a blabbering idiot?"

She went on to use some words with a lot of letters in them to explain why it is important to have a resume.

"Look, it's like you're a product. And you want people to want your services. You need to promote. You need to advertise. You need to sell yourself," she said.

It is at this point that I went into an extremely inappropriate day-dream, in which this career-lady suggested prostitution as a Summer job for myself, then licked her lips, wiped her table-top clean, and offered to be my first customer.

I woke up from my daytime wet-dream to her snapping fingers, and trademark death-stare.

"Look, Shane. I think what your skills would be best suited for manual labor," she decided, which could, and should have been translated to, "you seem big and dumb. So big and dumb that I can't remember your stupid name."

At the conclusion of our extremely constructive meeting, I mean, once she was done passively-aggressively demolishing my fading self esteem, I walked out of there with 2 phone numbers, and a dampened sense of self-worth.

Also, she handed me a packet that read "Your Resume And You: Building Skills to Market Yourself...you IDIOT."

I considered this whole ordeal to be a draw. Sure, she tore me apart, but as I felt my shorts peel off of the leather, and as my dried sweat left the lingering stench of salty gym socks, I felt a sense of accomplishment.

I left my mark in that room. And by 'left my mark' I mean, I literally left a full-sized damp imprint of my gigantic bottom on her black leather seat.

I may be dumb with no resume, but I have a sweaty bottom. That'll show em.

Yeah...yeah it will.

Refereeing a 4-Square Game, and Other Reasons 8-Year-Olds Suck

"Pffffffttttt." The sound of the end of a duct-tape roll being stretched over a recycled cardboard box. It was packing time at Richmond Elementary, and I was soon to be reminded that, indeed, 8-year-olds will liken anything to the sound of flatulence.

"Ppppffffffftttt," I sealed another cardboard box full of posters and math supplies. I labeled it "miscellaneous," which was an abbreviated way of saying "this classroom has no organization, and in all reality, this box contains random $hit that should probably be thrown away. You own 700 plastic triangle cut-outs. And we're in a budget crisis." Miscellaneous.

"Pfffftttttt," I snapped the tape after it overlapped the top of the box, only to hear a couple muffled giggles.

Then, it happened.

An onslaught of high pitched yelps, coupled with hearty "HA-HA-HA-HA's!" before a slew of accusations:

"Sean farted!"

"He farted!"

"Eeeewww! Sean!"

"Oh my gosh it smells like eggs, you guys!"

I have to admit, it was pretty funny. I started laughing, but apparently, that was a bad move. The fill-in teacher of the classroom decided packing was a distraction and informed me, "Sean, your packing duties are postponed for the day."

Rats...what can I possibly do, if I can't make fart-noises with duct-tape? Looking back on it, I should not have asked this question, because the answer was one of my darkest fears:

Referee a four-square game.

If you've ever played four-square, you remember it either as the game you loved because you kicked everyone's a$$ when you were 8, or you remember it as the game that scarred your competitive confidence for the rest of your life.

For a tall, lanky kid who sometimes (always) cried if he got out, getting a red rubber ball smacked at me as hard as the opposition could propel it was not exactly a fond memory of mine.

Regardless, I tried my best to, you know, watch the kids, make sure they don't kill eachother, and always, ALWAYS call out the "Liner's."

"LINER!" The short, chubby 3rd grader screamed to me, on the verge of tears.

"What?" I replied.

"It was a LINER!" He said.

"SEAN! LINER!" He said, his lips quivering as his body was preparing to go into total and complete shock if I called him out.

"Liner? What the hell is a liner?" I said.

"Adult word! Adult word!" Some kid yelled, running through mud-puddles in the distance, flicking boogers on his classmate.

"It hit the LI-yinnnnE! So it's Ooooowwwt!" He said, in that whiny, awful 8-year-old voice that only 3rd graders can manage.

"Okay, Jesus. Fine. Liner!?" I said.

"WHAT!?!?!?" The 2nd grader who just got called out said, as if he just found out Spongebob Squarepants got cancelled.

He then proceeded to protest my call. It was really hard to take him seriously, because he was as tall as my shin, and sounded like John Mcenroe with a lisp.

"Youw can't be sewious! Wewre you evun watching? That's WEALLY WEALLY BAD!" He said, grinding his teeth, contemplating ways he could climb my body to destory me.

Another key element to 4-square is establishing whether "over-handers" are allowed or not. If you play with the "over-hand" rule, you can hit the ball a lot harder. Since there were 2nd graders in line, I decided under-hand only would be best for everyone.

This was a seamless transition for most kids, except for one little girl, who had some sort of thick European accent that I couldn't decipher.

"Soo, like deez?" She said, motioning her hands forward, with her palms facing down.

"No, sweetheart, you have to do it with your palms facing up. Under-hand only," I said.

"Oooog, ooog, so, like deez?" she said, her palms now facing outward, her elbows turned outside.

"No, no sweetheart," I said.

I reached out to turn her hands so that her palms would face upwards. She would not allow it. She provided an immense amout of resistance, and was not letting me rotate her wrists, or move her arms at all, for that matter.

"Hehe," she said, as she stared directly into my eyes with a weirdly menacing grin.

"I vey strong!" she said, in a voice that sounded like she hadn't swallowed her saliva for ten minutes.

"Haha, oh yeah? Have you been lifting?" I said, jokingly, expecting a blank stare in response.

To my surprise, she had been lifting.

"Yez. Mother make me lift milk jug. Over and over. Father have strong arm also!" She said.

"Pushups? Wan see?" She asked.

"No, it's fine...just remember to hit only under-hand, we don't want anyone to get hurt." I said.

Naturally, as soon as she steps foot on the court, she uses her mammoth arms to smack the ball with such force directly at the 2nd grader who is about the same size as the ball, and hits him square in the chest. The force of the ball nearly picked him up off of the pavement, and he started crying on his way to get an ice-pack from the office.

"I did eet!" She yelped, extremely proud of herself.

"No, you are out. You have to hit it under-hand." I said.

"Buh...wha...I...? Ugh...i hit? But...I Hit! I heet ze bol!" She said, in an utter state of confusion.

"You're out." I said.

She looked at me with such confusion and rage, it was unlike any malice I had seen from an 8 year old. She was envisioning me as the milk jug, and I was about to get lifted.

That is, until her friend came along.

"Wanna play house?" Her friend asked.

"Sure," she replied.

Off into the distance she scampered away, laughing about threatening the 4-square referee, and undoubtedly preparing to challenge her friend to a push-up contest.

The Downside of Summer: Things I am not good at

I've spent the last week without a steady job, and I am starting to go insane. Richmond Elementary finished school last Monday, and my work was done last Wednesday. I have spent those 7 days twiddling my thumbs, watching way too much NBAtv, and contemplating the insignificance of my very existence.

Seriously.

As we speak, I just finished a solid three paragraph analysis as to why Nicolas Batum is better than Dorell Wright.

I literally sat down at my laptop, researched their statistics, and organized a thoughtful analysis as to which mediocre NBA Small Forward is better than the other. I am pretty sure Batum is better, but I am even more sure that I am a worthless human being.

My daily schedule has consisted of Breakfast, Facebook, a nap, a workout, then hanging out with friends in the evening. It's the stuff that people write songs, about, right? Warm weather, no worries. Chillin. Just. Chill.

I've recently discovered I am awful at chilling.

However, being unemployed has given me no choice but to be CHILL.

In the last week, I have become a complete and total expert on Wimbledon, the NBA draft, The Today Show, and farting on my couch.

I've also realized I am severely underskilled at "relaxing" activities. You know, "creative outlets," like poetry, playing an instrument, drawing, or anything else requiring skill.

The problem is, I am a sucker for all of these things. I am eternally envious of people with artistic abilities, and try desperately to mimic them.

And by "mimic them" I mean, I end up playing awful, poorly strummed, predictable chords on my guitar over and over again, trying to match my voice to the pitch of the sound coming from the strings on the wooden thing on my lap.

Then I realize it is impossible to match the pitch of 'cats-fighting' with the tone, 'shitty A-minor.'

Okay, cool, so I'm not that good at guitar. I still have to pass the time, maybe I could pass the time by going to the gym. I am good at that.

I am good at going to the gym.

If you ever, every type this phrase, in your life...you know you've reached a new low.

"I can go to an air conditioned room and move my body. I am good at that."

Except I've discovered recently I am not.

You see, I sweat like Shaquille O'Neal in an oven. If Rosie O'Donnel was wrapped in a down-comforter in the middle of a desert, then put in a gigantic frying pan, and asked to work her way out by doing as many sit-ups as humanly possible, that would be me at the gym.

Then, compound the fact that Willamette's gym recently arbitrarily turned off it's ventilation, and you have one sweaty man.

I was doing lunges 2 days ago, planted my heel, and collapsed with all of my weight, and 135 lbs on a barbell that sat on my shoulders. In the first remotely athletic thing I have ever done in my life, I managed to land squarely on my left knee, and not collapse, or die, or snap my body in half.

Nope...I just sat there. On one knee, with a barbell with a lot of weight on it, and no idea what to do next.

Somewhere in my idiot-brain, I decided grunting was a good option.

"Euuugghhhh" I said, to nobody in particular, or anyone that would listen.

Nobody listened. The weight started to slip.

"Shit shit SHIT SHIT SHIT! ! ! !"

Why does cussing seem to cure these situations? Like...if I HADN'T used profanity, there's NO WAY the large bald man next to me would have came to my rescue. Thankfully, I used my potty mouth, and the adult words I uttered saved me from sitting on one knee with 135 lbs on my shoulders for the rest of my life.

"You've got the same problem as me, kid," said the sweaty bald man.

I saw the sweat dripping off of his fingertips, and finally felt normal.

"Sweaty-man syndrome?" I said, half laughing, half wondering why my leg wasn't broken.

"Absolutely. We've got to look out for eachother," he said.

Yes...yes we do. And buy towels. Lots of towels.

In other related news, I was on the elliptical today, and my shoes were so water logged, they were literally squeaking and sloshing with each motion. The girl next to me wanted to vomit, and I do not blame her. I would like to apologize to her right now, and formally admit that I was also extremely flatulent, and want to extend my apology not only to hear eyes and ears, but also her nose.

I am awful.

However, there's always basketball, RIGHT? I've ALWAYS been good at that. Right? RIGHT?

If you ever want to get emasculated in every aspect, do any sort of athletic event with girls. Not necessarily women. They will destroy you. Girls. Always girls, they sometimes have mercy.

I am working/participating in a basketball clinic for men and women. Individual coaches, basketball coaches, strength trainers...really, a solid experience overall.

Besides the fact that the two 12-year-olds that come every day make me want to cry, throw away my basketball shoes, and join the Vigorous Walking team.

I have fallen 4 times so far, once during ball handling drills, twice during agility drills, and seven times when this girl who could almost be my daughter crossed me over.

Okay, I exaggerated a bit. Being a 9-year-old parent would be weird, and probably impossible, but it doesn't change the fact that these girls have me seriously re-evaluating my life, and what it means to be 'good' at something.

Her mother also comes to the clinic, and likes to pretend to coach. And when I say "pretend to coach," I mean, "yell insulting things to me, in some bizarre attempt at motivation."

(after I shoot a lay-up, instead of dunking)

"Jeez, can you even dunk?"

(After I dunk)

"Well, that sure wasn't pretty..."

(After I miss a jumper)

"Does your mother love you?"

(After I lose the ball in a ball-handling drill)

"You were adopted"

(After I curl into the fetal position and start crying uncontrollably)

"You look fat."

The worst was this encounter with her daughter (after a shooting drill where I could not make a shot, execute proper footwork, run without falling down, or exist without sucking):

Girl: "Do you play anywhere?"

Me: (wearing a Willamette University Basketball cut-off) Um. Yes. Yeah, I do.

Girl: "Like, city league or what?"

Me: "No. I play here."

Girl: "For the school?"

Me: "Yeah...this is my second year"

I say this in an attempt to reconcile my ego. Maybe she doesn't know me because I am new.

Girl: "Oh."

(Silence)

Girl: "Keep working hard!"

She says this in the same tone my choir teacher used when she told me I need to sing quieter, and in the same way everyone who I want to hire me for a job says "we'll call you back."

So I did what ANY sane human being would do. I rolled her up into a ball, and dunked her.

Just kidding, I can't dunk.

Just kidding, I can.

Maybe? I don't know. Come to the Salem city-league, and find out for yourself.

I am going to start knitting.

Summer: 1, Sean: 0.

25 Things People Don't Know About Lebron James

If you own a television, have access to a computer, breathe oxygen, or say "ouch" when you stub your toe on the coffee table, you're probably aware of the media downpour going on regarding all things Lebron James.

And when I say "media downpour," I mean, "every single human on planet earth is taking an aggressive, stinky, dense, $hit on Lebron James." Literally, everyone is unleashing their pent up waste, and dumping it directly onto Lebron James' stupid headband in a violent, unrelenting fashion.

Here's a list of things we don't know about Lebron James.

1. Lebron James is actually NOT Osama Bin-Laden. He is a professional basketball player.

2. Lebron James does NOT have a forehead tattoo that reads "compare me to Michael Jordan please."

3. Deshawn Stevenson DOES have a forehead tattoo. Of a crack. His explanation; "it's cuz I never crack under pressure." Got it.

3. Lebron James is 26. Michael Jordan won his first ring at 28. What will you be doing when you're 26? What did you do when you were 26? Were you winning MVP's? Were you being 6'8 260 lbs? If so, thanks for reading. Tell your rich friends about me.

4. Lebron James refers to himself as "King James." Don't beleive me? Read here

5. There is no specific scientific reason that Lebron James wears a headband.

6. There is also no explanation as to why he makes this face.

7. Lebron James did not steal your lunch money during recess.

8. Delonte West had sexual relations with Lebron James' mother. Can we all take a second and feel sorry for Lebron. Okay. Thanks.

9. Lebron James did not have sex with your mom. Probably.

10. Lebron James is leading the 2011 NBA Finals in assists in the 4th quarter.

11. Lebron James is leading the 2011 NBA Finals in times where Stuart Scott, Magic Johnson, That One Barry, and Michael Wilbon say the word "choke."

12. Lebron James always makes the right pass.

13. Except for when he makes the wrong pass.

14. Lebron leads the league in jersey sales.

15. Lebron leads the league in jerseys that were bought, and then burned.

16. Lebron leads the league in jokes at his expense about currency:

-Lebron should play hockey, they don't have a 4th quarter.

-Lebron got asked for change for a dollar, and only gave 3 quarters.

-This was considered especially cheap because Lebron James is very wealthy.

-I omitted #4 from this list, just to make these a$$holes who make up these jokes HAPPY.

17. Lebron James hates quarters.

18. Lebron James could not win a basketball game 1-on-5. Neither could Michael Jordan. We seem to struggle with coming to grips about this.

19. Lebron James allegedly cracks under pressure.

20. Lebron James has a tattoo on his back that reads "Chosen One."

21. So do I.

22. Lebron James is the best player in the NBA.

23. He is not playing like it.

24. He had a triple-double last game.

25. Shit.

Shaq Daddy

A week after Shaq announced his retirement via Twitter, I'm sitting here in a mildly depressed state.

I'm watching an 8 minute compilation highlight film of Shaquille O'neal, which is fine. He's dunking, being 7'1 330 lbs, and smiling while he destroys inferior human beings on the basketball court. Like, actually, as we speak (write) he is a human wrecking ball, annihilating any and every object between himself and rim.

Basically, it's his career summed up in 8 minutes, minus Phoenix, Cleveland and Boston. Nobody wants to remember that. OR MAYBE THEY DO. Did you know Shaq made the 2009 All-Star team? Did you know that he was 36 when that happened? Did you know that Shaq was A LOT more fun to watch when he was young, running, jumping, and sometimes LITERALLY dunking other humans through basketball hoops?

He did all of those things. Now I am watching them. Here are the things I think while I watch. Here's the video. Follow along.

-Shaq just dribbled the ball the length of the court, and dunked the ball with such force that my right arm now hurts. The man is 7 feet tall and over 300 lbs. Do you KNOW WHAT THAT IS LIKE? Because I don't and I really wish I did. Maybe I will ask Shaq.

-His response would probably be something in a really deep voice like "Man, it's coo," then we'd become best friends.

-While Shaq and I are best friends, he would give me a sick nickname like he gave himself 372 times over the course of his career.

-I think my nickname would be "the big, little, less massive diesel."

-I am awful at nicknames.

-Especially compared to Shaquille O'neal.

-He just dunked on Rik Smits. But who hasn't, really?

-He just stared into the camera.

-He looks hungry.

-I am terrified.

-I should mention right now, I put the YouTube volume on mute, and instead, I am listening to Death Cab For Cutie's Transatlanticism. "We Looked Like Giants" is too fitting. The other tracks work well too. Shaq dunking on some dude's head seems way cooler when words like "perpherated sphere" highlight his, well, highlights.

-Shaq just made David Robinson look like a ragdoll. Nobody does that.

-Remember when people thought Arvydas Sabonis could guard Shaq? And by "people," I mean, "Blazer Fans," notoriously the most passionate, and least knowledgable sports fans in the galaxy.

-Scott Pollard's bleached goatee is still awful. He looks like the lead singer of Sugar Ray, whose name fortunately slips my mind at the moment.

-Mark Mcgrath. Damnit.

-If I hadn't watched Shaq his whole career, I'd assume all he ever did is dunk.

-Oh, wait.

-Scott Pollard decided a headband would be better.

-Scott Pollard is a bad decision maker.

-"I need you so much closer," Death Cab, on "Transatlanticism,"

-"I'd like it if you were further away from me most of all of the time on the basketball court," -Shaq's opposition.

-"Get the F**k out of my way," Shaq, to everyone.

-Kobe misses an easy lay-in, Shaq cleans it up for a dunk. Think Shaq had anything to do with the editing? "Kobe, how my a** taste?" Hahaaahaa!

-Shaq did a 360 dunk. In the open court.

-SHAQ DID A 360 DUNK. IN. THE. OPEN. COURT.

-He just pulled down an entire basketball fixture.

-Remember when it was cool to shatter the backboard?

-Shaq's turn around jump hook was unstoppable. You can't ever say he never had moves, Blazer fans, I am looking at you, you IDIOTS.

-Shaw-Shaq-Redunktion. Seriously gives me chills. If you know what this is, please please god leave a comment. If you don't, GROW UP, and GOOGLE IT.

-Shaq was so good in Miami. I blocked this out of my memory.

-Okay, too perfect..."Old age is just around the bend, I can't wait to go gray,"-Death Cab, Sound of Settling, as it pans to Shaq's latter years in Miami. COME ON PEOPLE!

-Shaq should have won the MVP in 2005-06 as well. Sorry, Steve Nash...love ya, but come on.

-Chris Mihm cannot guard Shaq.

-Chris Mihm cannot guard most people.

-Chris Mihm just got beat off the dribble by my oven.

-Shaq just dunked on Shawn Bradley. See (Rik Smits).

-Shaq wore a 6-inch wristband on his right forearm, so his bone would stop bruising from violently colliding with the rim. A functional sweatband? I wish I was kidding.

-It's the same reason Lebron James wore a headband. So his ego didn't literally explode past the limits of his own inflated head. We wouldn't want DIVA BRAINS smeared all over the court.

-Lebron James is the best player in the NBA. Sigh.

-I actually forgot that Shaq played in Cleveland. I just went back to the top of my blog to add it. Whoops.


-The Superman Strut. Nostalgia.

-Shaq...Most underrated passer of all time? Yeah.

-Matt Geiger. Anyone remember him? hahahaha.

-Todd McCullogh. I just realized I've spent half of this post making fun of white dudes Shaq dunked on.

-I just realized Shaq made a career of dunking on white guys.

-Video's done, but his legacy lives on. Plus, there's still at least three more seasons of "Shaq Versus" to look forward to, and his Twitter account will never die.

-Also, he is rumored to become a Poiceman now that he's retired. If you are caught speeding, he will curl you up into a ball, dunk you, then put you between two slices of bread and devour you.

-If you are a white guy over 6'10, he'll probably just leave you alone. He's done way too much to you already. Long. Live. Shaq Daddy.

Going Home, Going Crazy: Dogs, and other things that my mother loves more than me.

You know home isn't home anymore when your dogs are higher in the family totem than you are.

I sat down in the middle of the couch to watch some TV and talk with my mom, back home for the first time in a few months.

"Hey mom, how's it..."

"You know...that's Kobe's spot," My mom interrupted.

"What?"

"That is where Kobe sits." She said, with a dead-serious stare that could have pierced metal.

"Um...he's a DOG!?" I said.

"Sean, don't SAY that! He's right there!" She replied.

I looked over, and Kobe was licking his balls.

"He looks really offended," I said.

He stood up, and nudged me with his nose.

Mom made me move, Kobe sat next to me, and continued licking his balls, as if to say, "Check me out. I'm in your spot, licking my privates, and mom is talking about how gorgeous I am. When you lick your privates on the couch, she threatens to stop paying for your education. Sucks, dude. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go back to sitting here and looking adorable."

How the hell do I compete with that?

Being home from college is AWKWARD. There is no other way to describe it.

You're independent, convinced you know everything there is to know, but you're still probably partially dependent on your parents, because they give you this thing called MONEY which buys you things like AN EDUCATION, and FOOD.

These are important things, and your parents like to remind you of this, by hanging it over your head every second of every day, and it fuels them.

So...fellow 19-22 year olds, where do we turn? I'll tell you where we turn. To the place we ALWAYS turn when faced with adversity. Jon. Bon. Jovi.

Jon Bon Jovi politely says, "who says you can't go home?" To that, I say...well, Jon Bon...I say that. Everyone says that, actually. Home, for college students is not home at all, but rather, a subtle reminder that, while you DEARLY love your family, it's nice to be ALONE and do things on your own, where you can sit wherever you want on the couch, not get ridiculed for cleaning your "personal AREA" and poop with the door open and not get yelled at. Or is that just me? Just kidding. Seriously.

I tried my best to avoid this awkwardness, by being KIND and making my family breakfast. Apparently, I cannot do that right.

"Low heat works better," my mother said, breathing down my neck as I stood over the stainless steel pan.

I was making potato pancakes out of left-over mashed potatoes, and my every move was carefully critiqued.

"You shouldn't leave the handle out like that, it could catch on your shirt and make the pan fall over," my mother reiterated.

"A non-stick pan would be better."

"I do not want hot oil all over the floor."

"Okay. And I do not want to be told how to cook. I am 21. You will enjoy your breakfast, just give me, like, maybe a foot to breathe?" I replied.

"YOU THINK YOU KNOW EVERYTHING!" My mother grunted, as she left the kitchen.

The potato-pancake turned out fine. My mother ate it with a look of disgust.

"A little burnt on the bottom."

(sigh.)

When I go home, it's not like I'm in high school again, it's more like I'm an infant. I need my mother at my beckoning call to do ANYTHING. This is not because I am incapable, but rather, it just feels like I need her by my side to make sure I'm not ruining everything.

"Mom!"

(silence)

"MOM!" (louder)

"What!?"

"C'mere!" I said, from the living room, feeling like a helpless grade-schooler.

"How do you work the TV?" I said, staring at the remote like it was a foriegn artifact. This is the house I grew up in. I watched Power Rangers on this television. I first saw BOBBY FLAY on this television. Now I was staring at this box with pictures in it, wondering how the hell to operate it. I felt like a caveman. A caveman baby.

"Just give it here," my mother said.

"No. I need to hold it. Just walk me through it," I protested.

"SEAN TIMOTHY" She said, in that way that mothers use your middle name to scold you.

A lot went through my head here:

1.) Why did my parents give me "Timothy" as a middle name? It is an atrocious name, and it makes my initials STD.

2.) Why does my mother always have to HOLD THINGS. I want to HOLD the remote. Is that SO BAD?

Anyway, pretty soon it was World War 2 in the living room, a heated debate about "Why you ALWAYS have to HOLD the remote. Why can't you just SHOW ME!? I WANT TO HOLD IT."

It was irrational, immature, dysfunctional, and silly...but I was operating as any cave-man/baby/college student home for the weekend would.

We went on to have a 20 minute argument about what to watch. We settled on Tennis. I am still bitter.

Then it was time to go to the Death Cab For Cutie concert, and I practially had to tackle my mother to get out of the house wearing "unsuitable attire."

My mother chased me around the living room trying to drape a dog-fir covered fleece on me, insisting "it will be below freezing tonight, Sean."

"No, it won't."

"YOU THINK YOU KNOW EVERYTHING!"

I eventually escaped, and did not die of hypothermia that night.

The weirdest part about being home at this age, however, is not the experience of your home no longer feeling like HOME, but once you return to independence, how glorious it is.

As soon as I walked into my extremely ordinary apartment in Salem, Oregon, after a long weekend in Bend, I felt like I was returning to a palace.

You begin to notice, and love, extremely trivial things about your home.

"Dude, mom's dish-brush SUCKS. Ours is SO much better," I said to my brother.

"Our hand-towels are so much softer than moms." I continued.

"Look at how easy our remote is to operate. I know every single button. Do you want me to mute it? I could mute it. Or I could pause live TV, then change the channel. Do you want the Bachelorette to be recorded tonight? Why do I watch the Bachelorette? Oh wait...it doesn't MATTER. It's MY HOUSE. TAKE THAT MOM!"

Unpacking was a ceremony. I turned on my ipod to Death Cab, played it softly while not wearing a fleece. I practically danced around my room, unfolding shirts and shorts in a rhythmic pattern. Every placement of each individual sock was glorious.

"Do you see how SOFT my bedsheets are!? My bed is SO BIG. And SOFT!" I said, to nobody in particular.

"The carpet just FEELS like home!" I said, on all 4's, stroking the spot at the foot of my bed over and over again. It was at this point that I decided "It's my life," and I should really stop listening to Bon Jovi. For good. You CAN go home, I would just say sometimes it's better to not, or at least refrain from making potato-pancakes. But that's never a good idea, because they are DELICIOUS, duhhhh.