Admittedly Hawken

Counterpoint

2009-07-06T23:16:00.000-07:00

My brother, while neither blonde nor blue eyed, is a posterchild of the Nazi temperament. Efficiency! Honor! Killing people who disagree with me! These are my brother's core values. Oh, and don't forget: Holding people to unrealistic standards with which Superman would struggle! as well as Be kind to no one! It would be an understatement to say that Ben is lacking in the patience department, and even more of an understatement to say that he generally expects everyone to be as singlemindedly serious about everything as he is.

Do you like baseball? Don't tell him that because he will begin to let you know how much more he knows about it and how stupid you are for thinking that you know anything about it when obviously you don't know as much as him.

Do you like movies? He will make sure to let you know how much he hates every movie you like and throw in several film theory terms he knows just to put the nail in your film ignorance coffin.

Now, you can see why employers love my brother. He will get tasks done on time, and be better than everyone else, but largely because he pulled off and ate the skin of everyone in his way. Then, while they ran around screaming without their skin, he chased them around with a salt shaker taunting them about how stupid they were and how much better than them he is at life.

Now, imagine that you are on the same team with him. Being on the winning team; that's good, right? Wrong. Because you have to be as good as him, or it's quitsville. "I can't work under these conditions," you will be constantly informed, "Your so-much-less-awesome-than-me-ness is draining all the energy out of the dark, sticky oil that serves as my soul. You're not working as fanatically as I am. You should really read Mein Kampf." He will tell you things like this all the time so that if things go south, he can always say that he'd been telling you for a long time that you sucked.

And what you didn't know up till this point was that he has a well-conceived plan to destroy everyone he knows, and especially the people he loves, just in case he ever needs to use them. Contingency plans are a must in Benhawkofascism.* For an example of this, consider the fact that though Ben and I were the only contributors on Admittedly Hawken, Ben made sure that he was the only administrator. He could/can edit and delete my posts, or even kick me off the blog (which was my idea to begin with) but nothing he did could be touched. So, what you're reading right now may not even be something I wrote.

But I digress. What my brother so characteristically claimed in his previous two (zealous? no! not Ben!) posts, is that I posted so rarely to the blog that it withered like a houseplant in a meth lab due to the soul-crushing loneliness it felt for my words. This is always the final deathblow delivered by my brother in a situation like this. After the fact, when it doesn't matter anymore, he points out your infinite worth. The moment he's made it clear with his actions that he thinks you're about as valuable as a secondhand dog anus, he lets you know that he thought you were great all along and that he told you that all the time (which is obviously a bold-faced lie), and that it's really disappointing.

(Also, I waited till now to write this post because I knew that he'd write a second post showing how I "proved his point." Now you see how long it takes Ben to become impatient about me posting to the blog: he couldn't even wait a full 12 hours. But, this probably won't make sense when you read it, because he'll probably have gone back and deleted his "Point 1.1" post with his magical admin powers.)

When Admittedly Hawken was in full swing, Ben was working and was done with school. Yes, Ben was busy. Of course he was busy. He's Ben, and being busy is what he does. In fact, if you were to take some of his blood out and throw it on paper, it would eventually congeal to form - in black - the words "work work work work work work" over and over again. But as stated earlier, Ben has no patience for anyone who has a lower tolerance for busy-ness. If you are working with him on a project, and you are opposed to developing stress ulcers, he will have none of it. I'm going to school? And working two jobs? And eating breadcrumbs for dinner because the two jobs don't cut the mustard? Well I can just go to hell because those are not acceptable excuses.

So, ultimately, what really caused the downfall of the Admittedly Hawken empire was a hissy fit. Ben couldn't understand how I liked to sleep sometimes, preferred not to have ulceric blood in my stool, and that my full load of classes and jobs didn't quite lend itself to posting between 400 and 3,287 times an hour. That was just unacceptable, so Ben, in his time-honored tradition, decided that he was quitting and that somehow his quitting was actually something that I was doing, and that all bad things that he had ever done had actually been done by me, and that I hated kittens, and also that I caused the Civil War.

AH died because Ben didn't get his way and wanted to cry about it through redirected self loathing. There you have it, my friends.

Point 1.1

2009-07-06T21:22:00.000-07:00

As if to prove my point for me, a day after suggesting we engage in such a dialog, Jacob has already forgotten about the idea and/or lost interest in it (probably because he saw a dog with a puffy tail).

Point 1

2009-07-06T09:59:00.001-07:00

After going dark approximately seven years ago, it's time to revisit the once-hallowed halls of Admittedly Hawken and determine, once and for all, why such a brilliant flagship sunk to the ocean floor so quickly and so unceremoniously.

For the purposes of explanation and clarification (and also, possibly, rejuvenation), I would like to formally open a point-counterpoint dialog on this very subject.

The reason for Admittedly Hawken's demise is simple, and forlorn readers need look no farther than the younger half of this celebrated blogging duo.

My little brother is a talented writer and an energetic wordsmith, but his great mind is also, oftentimes, his undoing. Jacob has never encountered a monumentally important task that, if an ice cream truck drove by, could not be permanently forgotten in a moment.

This infamous levity is the very buoyancy which allows such a brain to remain so agile, but it does not lend itself to finishing projects which it starts, or remaining engaged to said projects over extended periods of time.

Regular incentives (e.g. baked goods, physical violence, physical violence with baked goods, etc.) are necessary to ensure his commitment does not wane. In this respect, he is not entirely unlike a poorly bred hound -- minus the proclivity to sleep in his own fecal matter; a practice his wife now prohibits.

It is this reason -- indeed, this sole reason -- that this otherwise fantastic blog came to an abrupt halt after several weeks of posts from me alone.

Getting My Presents Wrapped Up

2007-12-11T13:37:00.000-08:00

Every year, the Christmas season offers me a distinct reminder of what I miss most about living at home: Having someone else purchase the gifts I plan on handing out.

The Beast has long believed that Jake and I should give each other gifts, but, in our earliest years, she was pragmatic enough to understand that if the task of picking, purchasing and personalizing this gift were left to us, it would never (ever) get done.

Thus, every year, mid-way through December, The Beast would discreetly pull us aside, one at a time, and show us the gift we would be giving.

We would have no idea where it came from, how much it cost, or if had ever been requested.

But then came the catch.

With this much of the process already completed, we, understandably, reacted poorly when asked to do the wrapping. The situation was finally resolved when we, reluctantly, agreed to apply the correct names to the “to” and “from” areas of the adhesive gift tag.

When the time came to give gifts to relatives, The Beast considered her options and decided it was much easier to simply choose and buy another gift, rather than subject herself to the sounds Jake and I would make when asked what we’d like to give to some random relative.

In our defense, our young minds were abuzz with original gift ideas, but The Beast would have none of it.

“What should we give Uncle Carl? I would ask, with all the insight a seven-year-old could muster. “How about a big pile of crap? That would suit him perfectly.”

This comment would cause Hal to burst out laughing (before a quick, cold stare from The Beast silence him), but nothing ever happened.

Jake might helpfully chime in with the belief that our least favorite cousin (if you’re reading this, you know who you are) should be given a gift certificate to a bottomless pit of snakes.

In recent years (ever since the Condom Piñata Incident, at least) the cousins on The Beast’s side of the family have been hosting an annual “Cousins Night,” which precedes the larger family gathering the next day.

It is, as you might imagine, less interesting than the glowing nuance of my words suggests.

The most nefarious part of this event, however, is that the organizers administer Secret Santa-like gift assignments several weeks beforehand. Participation, I am annually informed, is not optional.

[It’s worth noting that a handful of these cousins have long since renounced religion and America, and become devout Communists. As a result, this gift exchange is less of a Secret Santa and more of a Mysterious Marx or Surreptitious Stalin.]

Falling back on life experience, I have, in past years, bought exactly zero of the gifts I have been ordered to give.

I have revisited the familiar ritual of my youth. Although it once took place in our living room, and it now occurs over the phone, the main points and end results remain the same:

The Beast: Do you know you were assigned your cousin Kevin for Surreptitious Stalin?

Me: Yes, I heard that, but I’m not doing it this year.

TB: Yes, you are!

M: Nope.

TB: Well, I found out he wants a [inane gift], can you just go get it?

M: I refuse.

TB: Fine – if you get it, I’ll pay you back.

M: I reaffirm my refusal.

TB: OK, you little snot, I’ll buy it if you just wrap it when you get here.

M: Out of the question.

TB: Will you at least sign the gift tag?

M: Do I have to hand him the gift at the party?

TB: No.

M: Agreed. I’ll see you on the 21st.

Aside from Christmas with the proletariat on The Beat’s side, I am very excited for these upcoming holidays.

From what I hear, The Beast has already wrapped some things Jake is really going to thank me for.

Parking

2007-12-10T14:42:00.000-08:00

In preparation for my trip home this Christmas, The Beast has already drafted a spectacularly long list of proposed activities.

Many of these things on this list are trips to see assorted family members—but a handful of them take place in downtown Seattle.

For some, an evening in the Emerald City sounds like a lot of fun, but to me it just sounds like a lot of walking.

To fully grasp this sentiment, it helps to understand one of Hal’s most passionately held beliefs.

“Those big parking garages,” he has often explained, “are monuments to the weakness and laziness of mere men.”

This belief was extended, of course, to pay-by-the-hour parking lots or any designated park-and-ride area. Putting coins in a street-side meter was even farther outside the realm of possibility.

When it came to finding a temporary place to rest our car, Hal saw a grand game afoot—and he was a player, not the played.

Hal’s reasoning, by his estimation, was simple: He had paid for the car, his taxes had paid for the roads, and he had paid (after finding a steep discount) for whichever event he was attending – no force on earth, hell or hereafter was going to get him to pay for parking once he got there.

This is where all the walking came in.

Since the areas surrounding a major attraction recognize that an influx of people will need a place to stow their automobile, and will be willing to pay for said luxury, it makes sense that every available space will have a pricetag attached to it.

In concentric circles, the prices become much cheaper the farther away they are from the attraction. Eventually those prices drop to zero.

Hal patrolled those outer valences with the intensity and veracity of an ancient predator.

On countless occasions, our trip to the city for Mariners games, ferry rides, festivals and concerts was preceded by an elaborately—comically, even—long walk from the parking spot Hal had so proudly claimed as his own.

Whereas Safeco Field might have been our destination, Hal could not have been more pleased with the spot he’d found on the southern fringes of Portland.

Jake and I, out of a sense of obligation, provided the requisite amount of complaining, but this availed us nothing. Hal, instead, would speak at great length about how his parking spot was free, and that parking several miles closer wouldn’t make any difference.

Over the last 54 years, Hal has avoided paying 65 cents for parking on dozens of occasions. If all goes well, by his 70th birthday he will have saved nearly $40.

The Hawken Family Newsletter -- It's Too Late to Fix it

2007-12-09T12:01:00.000-08:00

I received a gleeful call from The Beast last week.

After weeks of careful planning her favorite project, she was proud to report that the Hawken family newsletter, is finished.

There's a wide variety of things Jake and I dislike about this specific Christmas tradition, but the most unlikable element--by far--is our new found responsiblity of adding content to it.

After drafting my portion of last year’s shamelessly self-congratulating newsletter, I felt I had succinctly and thoroughly summarized the New York experience.

I assumed that, with this task completed, I could, in future editions, focus on more prosaic matters like recently broken bones or the refurnishing of my apartment’s guest bedroom -- the kind of things that get my mother so excited that her eyes roll back into her head.

But NYC, for all its voluminous shortcomings, is a place that does not lend itself to pedestrian fare.

Adding to the excitement of the city is my own inherited narcissism, which, when combined with a major metropolis, finds notably exciting things around every corner.

This trait is obviously the result of a specific gene passed on by my mother which became dominant over my fathers gene which selected for unintentional detached indifference.

None of this really matters now, but I think Gregor Mendel would be happy to know it’s all sorted out.

Thanksgiving Recap

2007-12-09T10:43:00.000-08:00

Now that I've finally finished digesting Thanksgiving dinner, I've had a chance to reflect on how much different it is to celebrate this holiday far away from the people I shared it with as a child.

The primary difference is the vacant spot at the table which, throughout my young life, would be occupied by The Beast and her ceaseless demands that I conform to her Puritanical social norms by not rubbing mashed potatoes in Jake's face, or telling my younger cousins that the dark meat came from puppies.

These constant demands were occasionally outsourced to Hal. I believe Hal would have played a much larger role in limiting the number of obscene references I made about the cranberry sauce, but he was always (and let me emphasize, always) arguing in favor of democracy and capitalism with my neo-communist aunts and cousins.

During the past several Thansgivings spent on the east coast, there have been no such restraints on my behavior, although my wife does not see the humor (nor the history) in my attempts to rub finely ground tubers in the face of the smallest person at the table.

Also missing from this year's festivies was the presence of remarkably intoxicated relatives.

I'm not sure how this tradition began, but, year after year, I have watched with no small degree of enthusiasm as my uncles (and, as we all got older, most of my cousins) began to stagger across the relatively short expanse between the couch and the baked goods strewn about the kitchen.

Once upon a time I could summarize, quite affectionately, this display of alcohol enthusiasm by saying, "Well, it was a fun get together, My Two Drunk Uncles (or MTDU, for short) were in top form again this year."

But now that everyone is older, the amusement goes far beyond MTDU and includes several cousins, spouses of cousins, boyfriends of cousins and, if anyone owned animals, there'd probably be a small dog that couldn't walk straight.

Also missing from this year's celebration (and by "missing," I mean missing from everyone but me) was a wholesale gorging of food that would have made a Roman emperor nauseus.

There are some people that eat too much when they are stressed, or maybe because they are terribly depressed, but not us. At the outset of each holiday, my family consumes an unspeakably ridiculous amount of food for no apparent reason at all. My best guess is that we feel that by doing this we somehow compensate for the starving Pilgrims of yore.

When all has been said and done, how successful and/or pleasant has a Thanksgiving celebration really been? That question can be answered by determing if a question like this is possible on Friday:

Person: How was your Thanksgiving?

Me: Oh man, I ate so much, I thought I was going to die. Like, I
seriously felt like my stomach was going to rupture and I was going to fall into
neurogenic shock.

Person: Wow that sounds awf...

Me: Awesome. So, so awesome.

Family Dynamics

2007-11-26T20:34:00.001-08:00

Note: As with anything brilliant or hilarious, it helps to know some of the basic grammatical rules, possess a familiarity with the classics, and understand why we're doing it too.

Thanksgiving, Minus The Shouting and Appetizers

2007-11-23T17:53:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving festivities are usually characterized by consumption of mass quantities among all those who celebrate it. For my whole life, our family - in conjunction with The Beast's side of the family - has taken this to astronomical proportions.

From the second we enter the door till the second we shamble out to our cars, there is non-stop food. Indeed, it's like a Roman Food Orgy except instead of a vomitorium, there's just a second room full of food. Vomiting is actually frowned on at one of these gatherings.

It is expected that intense training regimen, such as that done by Professional Eating "athletes," is adhered to in preparation for the celebration. In fact, vomiting at my family's Thanksgiving festivities is grounds for discharge from the family. It's a tough rule, but one we hold to strictly.

I remember back in 1987, our cousin Reggie was released from the family, and escorted out of the house, sans clothing, to fend for himself in the woods surrounding Port Orchard, Washington.

Poor Reggie.

Also, a staple of our extended family culture is the escalation of decibel levels throughout the night. I actually had no idea that people spoke using "indoor voices" at the dinner table until just a few days ago as I went with my roommate to his parent's house for Thanksgiving dinner.

Having been accustomed to such focused and dedicated gluttony and such uncompromising loudness for my whole life, I was first very surprised to see that one of the children in attendance didn't touch her food at all. In my family, this sort of blasphemy would have brought upon of us the fate suffered by Reggie back in '87. I was surprised to see that the child was not even scolded much less exiled into the night!

Next, I was learned quickly that customs were different when everybody grew alarmed as I shouted a filthy joke down the table (it being an obvious dysphemism for "passing the gravy," that even a toddler in my family could have picked up on).

Assuming them to merely be pacing themselves, I was astonished to discover that the proceedings not only refrained from getting louder, but actually grew quieter as the night wore on. In fact, by the end of the night, not a single person in the room was shouting!

With my impending nuptials, I begin to wonder if such displays of weakness - both in the stomach and in the vocal cords - are inherent in my fiancée's family tradition. I'm beginning to fear that this may very well be the case.

She will be accompanying me to our Christmas festivities this year, and I'm afraid she may not be prepared for our strict code of conduct.

But on the bright side, I think Reggie will enjoy the company.

Kiss Goodbye

2007-11-16T17:52:00.000-08:00

Note: As with anything brilliant or hilarious, it helps to know some of the basic grammatical rules, possess a familiarity with the classics, and understand why we're doing it too.

Higher Temps?

2007-11-16T17:43:00.000-08:00

Note: As with anything brilliant or hilarious, it helps to know some of the basic grammatical rules, possess a familiarity with the classics, and understand why we're doing it too.

I Can Has Hawkens?

2007-11-16T17:09:00.000-08:00

One of the Intrawebs many benefits is the new mediums of communication it provides. In some cases, it provides not only a new way to deliver that communication, but an entirely new way to present and project critical information.

Alongside Guttenberg and Ferdinand de Saussure, is the keen language of the LOLcats.

Like any proper vernacular, this new mode of communication has its own grammatical rules dictating proper style and usage, detailed treatises on its history, and, of course, a basic grasp of the classics is exceptionally helpful.

Perhaps the LOLcats creator says it best: "The grammar is consistently awful, as if the cat was trying to speak English but just couldn’t get the conjugation right."

In an expression of the sincerest form of flattery, and with a desire to present our family via the most advanced forms of communication possible, we presnt our newest feature: I Can Has Hawkens?

The Gift of Gifts Which are Not for Me

2007-11-11T12:01:00.000-08:00

Ever since I got engaged, The Beast has been gathering baby supplies.

During ensuing 4+ years she has never anxiously asked if and when she'll get her first grandchild, but has instead patiently amassed untold quantities of childrens books, toys and clothing.

It is, by any reckoning, moderately creepy.

I suppose in many ways I am lucky -- most women her age are a source of constant questions regarding when the next generation will begin and what awful family forenames the offspring will bear. The Beast does not trouble herself with such inquiries. She instead ravages the infant and toddler sections of Gap, Sears and Target.

I have seen only a fraction of the things already purchased, and it already wildly outdistances any purchases ever made for me.

Whereas I was expected to happily attend school with imitation Converse (minus the laces) or imitation Roo Shoes (minus the velcro), my future children with be lavishly showered (minus the water) with a wide variety of one-piece velour tracksuits and blue jeans with snaps up the sides.

Watching all of these gifts get dispensed is going to be like watching the disarming of Germany. I can only hope that she has accidentally put some stuff for me in these boxes.

If memory serves, I only received 145 of the possible 147 Transformer action figures. There's still time to complete the set.

The Hawken Family Newsletter: Full of Letters, But Very Little News

2007-11-10T20:39:00.000-08:00

Every Fall The Beast starts planning the annual Hawken Family newsletter. There are very few things that make her quite so excited, and it is one of the things which makes me screen my calls.

Long ago, she gave the newsletter what she considered to be a very clever name (I will not indulge it with a reference), and ever since the annual witticisms have been flowing freely--like concrete out of a sewer pipe.

Long before Thanksgiving, The Beast is already madly typing things and giggling to herself about some clever alliteration or use of terrible Clip Art. As soon as the basics are completed, the barrage of e-mails to Jake and me begin.

She wants, we learn, some input from us about what we've done over the last year, and she wants to know what we think of the articles she has already written.

Each of these articles details one member of the family, and provides a rich level of detail. While The Beast's colorful, lyrical literary style is well suited for a holiday letter, and the design of these letters is meticulously well executed, she is far, far less concerned with facts.

Indeed, she is entirely disinterested.

Year after year I read, with no small amount of interest, of the very interesting life of an individual who, despite sharing my name, bears very little resemblance to me.

Whereas I might have been in college that year, this person has "been working at the store." The year I got married, the other "oldest son, Ben" was "keeping busy with his classic cars and coaching volleyball."

Some years, other things, like ER reruns, limit The Beast's accuracy even further.

In 1999, the family newsletter spoke of Hal, Jake and someone named Travis. Although Travis and I went to the same school and had traveled to the same places, he was the only one that had recently returned from a fact-finding trip to Puerto Rico or written a romance novel set during the Battle of Pharsalus.

Tomorrow I'll be writing my section of the 2007 Hawken newsletter. I'm considering submitting a cartoon or graffiti art instead, but I don't think The Beast will go for it.

MY Son Will Do No Such Thing

2007-11-01T17:16:00.000-07:00

Many don't realize that The Beast has a penchant for op-ed journalism. She recently authored an article for a reputable news organization.

In response to her concerns about my collegiate activities and what she knows "all those kids she works with are doing," she wrote This Article.

Dead Drug Guys

2007-11-01T16:13:00.000-07:00

Every parent, at some point, feels the need to express concern for their children's choices in media.

In addition to banning MTV, Saturday Night Live, Channel 5 News and The Davey and Goliath Show, Hal was quite prolific with his opinions about the music to which Ben and I listened.

A line must always be drawn in the sand. For Hal, that line looked like it had been drawn by somebody with ADD.

He would tell us that our music was noisy, but then, strangely, tell us to turn up the stereo when we were listening to songs like LAP D, by The Offspring. He'd say that we were damaging our ears with our music, but would blast Boston albums at full volume early on Saturday mornings.

There was a method to his madness I'm sure, but I think I need to take several courses in Advanced Physics or Applied Dementia before I'll ever understand it.

One example of my inability to understand his criteria is particularly telling.

A few months after the infamous demise of Kurt Kobain, Ben and I were listening to a tape of Nirvana and my dad grumbled into the room after a long afternoon of hitting things with hammers and deepening the ingrained sweat rings on his t-shirt. "What is the deal with you kids?" he asked, attempting to turn down the volume or, perhaps, destory the cassette. "All you wanna do is listen to a bunch of dead drug guys."

He then proceeded to flip on the oldies station and smiled broadly at the first sounds he heard. "Now this is music," he said, "nobody can play like Jimi Hendrix."

Newfangled Technology

2007-10-31T16:42:00.001-07:00

Mamahawk: I figured out how to use my webcam!

JakeH: Wait... you have a webcam?

Mamahawk: My new digital camera is "Web enabled."

JakeH: I don't think you have a webcam.

Mamahawk: Do I need bluetooth?

Re: Wedding Bells

2007-10-31T16:19:00.001-07:00

One thing that has never lacked in the Hawken home is support.

As heretofore mentioned, I recently got engaged. I couldn't possibly ask for a more encouraging response from my family. The following are transcripts of my conversations:

On the Phone With Hal
Jake: Hey Dad, I'm getting married.
Hal: Excellent! Well, I have to go coach football.
J: But isn't it 10 o'clock at night in Washington?
H: And...?

On the Phone With The Beast
Jake: I'm getting married!
The Beast: Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever you just said. Can you call back later? I'm watching "Dancing with the Stars."
J: Aren't you excited?
TB: Ok, ok, ok, GEEZ! Happy Birthday! [click]

On the Phone With Ben
Jake: Hey Ben, I'm getting married!
Ben: Call me back later, this costs too much.
J: We're on the same provider...and it's past 9pm.
B: MONIES! [click]
J: Huh?

As Real as You Want it to Be...

2007-10-31T13:14:00.000-07:00

bhawken: I think you'll enjoy this piece of news.

Mamahawk: I was just in northern California last week--why didn't anyone tell me about this???

Wedding Bells!

2007-10-29T12:25:00.000-07:00

Regular readers have probably noticed that Jake is posting even less than usual (which, technically, should take him into negative numbers), but this week he claims to have a good excuse: He says he got engaged.

I don't know anything about this, and even his most energetic promises are suspect, but I tend to believe him this time since I could hear sections of a conversation in the background.

Jake: What do you mean? I'm gonna be rich!

Girl: Nope, sorry.

Jake: I mean really rich! I'll buy you Norway!

Girl: Fine, but no touching.

After hearing this I couldn't help but recall the cheery stories Hal and The Beast used to tell about their courtship. I never really paid attention, but the punchline was always the eloquent way Hal asked his future spouse out on their first date.

It went something like this:

Hal: Hey.

The Beast: Is that you Hal?

H: Yes.

TB: Why are you hiding under my car?

H: Do you want to go out with me or what?

TB: I don't think I understand...

H: Do you wanna go to the Super Sonics game on Friday?

TB: I'm busy that night watching four channels of black-and-white TV and not checking e-mails because those don't exist yet.

H: Then I'm staying put.

TB: Fine, pick me up at 6:30.

Hal and Al's Excellent Adventure

2007-10-24T13:59:00.000-07:00

Over the years, Hal hasn't had many kind things to say about Al Gore (or any other elected official), but I believe that the former VP would probably appreciate my old man's efforts to save the planet.

When I was seven, and with no prior warning, Hal suddenly decided to start recycling aluminum cans. This eco-friendly decision did not necessarily make Hal unique, but the way in which he went about doing it certainly did.

Hal recognized that recycling was going on, that anyone could do it, and that, potentially, you could make a couple bucks doing it.

Hal began making contacts throughout the South King County area and securing agreements with said contacts to collect their empty aluminum cans on a regular basis. To augment this bottomless supply of cans, he would constantly (and to our great annoyance) pull off to the side of the road whenever he saw even a solitary can laying along the shoulder.

Not a joke.

Gathering the cans was just the first step, however.

Once the cans were finally brought home the biggest part of the process finally got underway.

Hal specified that each aluminum needed to be crushed via a hand-operated crank or a sledgehammer, and then bagged in monstrous garbage liners.

This was obviously the most labor intensive part of the process and, as luck would have it, included only Jake and me.

We were instructed that all of this can crushing was to be done promptly after our arrival home from school (or during all daylight hours in the summer) before we could start frittering away our time by being happy.

I can still remember Hal saying to us, "You act like this is a prison sentence--I don't think you'll ever do this for much more than three hours a day. On the weekdays. Why are you guys so mad?"

While Hal was conveniently tucked away at work and far removed from all the can crushing, The Beast would sequester herself in the living room and patiently wait for reruns of Quantum Leap (which, at that point, were still five years away).

For the half dozen years it lasted, Hal never provided very convincing reasons for why Jake and I had to do it.

He would, with regularity, rattle off a very shaky story about this being a chance to learn about hard work and how this would be a money-making opportunity that any two kids on the planet would die for.

That fact that justice does in fact exist in the universe was manifested when the scrap yard Hal would use to redeem these cans suddenly burnt to the ground. I say "suddenly" because it was leveled by flames in between two of our visits on the same day.

How can an industrial complex filled with acres of metal and constructed solely of concrete be reduced to rubble via fire? After some reflection, Jake and I concluded it could only be an act of God.

In Hal's mind, this whole can operation was something which we were actually quite enthusiastic about, but we kept our excitement from showing because we were trying to look cool.

To maintain our excitement, Hal did what he could to provide positive motivation.

On numerous occasions--and with no intended sarcasm--Hal would call home from work and tell Jake and me that he had "a big, big surprise" for us. Each time we heard this, we would spend the rest of the afternoon bouncing off the walls and trying to guess what it was bringing. A dog? New bikes? A Toys 'R' Us shopping spree? Our imaginations, as per usual, knew no bounds. We even crushed extra cans in hope of tipping a little extra karma our way.

After hours of breathless anticipation, Hal would arrive home and lead us outside to see the surprise: An unusually large bag of cans. He couldn't fathom why we would suddenly become so upset.

Our heartbreak was partially our own fault. We had forgotten that this had been the "big surprise" each of the last 14 times such a treasure was promised. Each time, as we stood there looking at a bag of cans the size of an obese yak, we would feel a sudden surge of rage unknown to children outside of Third World countries.

The only pile of wrenches in the simple gears of this plan (aside from the incineration of his primary scrap yard) was the remarkably low prices scrap aluminum could fetch in the late 80s and early 90s.

When the cost of the gas necessary to collect all these cans was taken into account, Hal must have been losing money on this venture.

As a mathematician, Hal had to have known this. In the back of his head, I think, he felt that it was money well spent--a chance to teach a fatherly lesson about hard work to his slothful, eccentric sons.

The result?

Jake and I both left home after high school and pursued college degrees and professions that do not involve an iota of physical labor.

And, to this day, neither of us can look at a carbonated beverage with getting angry.

1 vs. 100: Hal

2007-10-22T18:18:00.000-07:00

1 vs. 100

Who is your current employer and occupation? If I've said it once, I've said it a hundred (get it?) times: I do something that has to do with spreadsheets. All day. But that is just what I do. The soul-sucking effect of it is what I really try to focus on.

What levels of education have you completed? I earned approximately 7 majors and 4 minors, and it was excruciating. It made me so miserable that I still haven't forgotten how much I loved it.

Please list your last three jobs: Director of Hating What I do for a Living, Engineer of General Occupational Dissatisfaction, Vocation Discontent Manager.

Marital Status: My two options are "alive" and "dead," right?

How long have you been in your current relationship? The real question is how often I sleep on the couch.

What would your friends say are your best qualities? I regularly overlook their lack of gratitude to have a person like me in their life. I do remind them how lucky they are, however.

What would your friends say are your worst qualities? I make them feel inadequate.

How are you competitive in your every day life? Well, they don't call me "Rock-Man Hawkman" for nothing!

[Editors note: We have never heard anyone refer to Hal this way.]

What is your unique and personal motivation for wanting to be on the show? My oldest son once made a remark about me being less funny than Bob Saget. I plan to personally avenge this insult on Bob. Then we'll see who's laughing.

What is the next milestone in your life if you do not make the show? Being denied by this show does not warrant seeking out a new milestone. I will have forgotten about this application within 30 minutes of submitting it to whatever channel I'm sending it to.

Do you have any military experience? Not just "yes," but "@#$%&# yes."

What is the most daring and dangerous thing you have ever done? Describe the circumstances. It's like Jack Nicholson said that one time, "Have you ever rubbed another man's rhubarb?" I have never understood what he was talking about. But it sounds intimidating. And kind of gross.

If you were going to be in People magazine, what inside info about you would be put up next to your picture? The size of my muscles, something about how clever I am, an apology from my sons about that stupid blog. Besides, People magazine is for wimps, girls and guys who get manicures. Why wouldn't I be in something awesome like Readers Digest?

Describe your most embarrassing moment. Are you kidding? Most people would sell their reproductive organs to be me on my worst day.

What is the weirdest thing about you? I assume that by "weird" you mean "most impressive" or "most attractive to the ladies."

Where would you take your dream vacation? All I need is a series of tourist traps, a discount grocery store so my wife and I can make all our own meals inside our condo, and somewhere to ride my bike until I go into a dangerous spiral of arrhythmia and dehydration. You know, the usual.

In the box on the side, please draw a self portrait.

That aint no joke, suckers!

In the lines below, write a short poem or rap.

I can bust rhymes and cook with thyme;
I can stop crimes and make wind chimes.
The best of the best, there's no need to test;
Even in sweats, I'm still the best dressed.
I don't even like rap and don't trust kids;
But in a man auction I'll get the most bids.
True.

What makes you a great contestant for 1 vs. 100? Apparently you haven't seen my art or my raps...

Besides 1 vs. 100, what game show would you be the best contestant for and why? America's Next Top Ultimate Male.

What’s your favorite board game and game strategy? Stratego Uno.

Have you ever been charged with any crimes, including a misdemeanor or a felony? Most cops are intimidated by me. That's why I get so many speeding tickets.

Have you ever done or been involved in anything that would reflect negatively on you or on the Program. I should be asking you this question.

Have you ever created a website or posted any materials on any website? If yes, describe the website(s) you created and/or the materials you posted. Don't believe anything that stupid blog tells you.

Have you appeared in any magazines, publicly disseminated photographs, advertisements or the Internet? As long as women own cameras, there'll probably be dozens of such photos, but I can't tell you where to find them.

Is there anyone among your family, friends, or work colleagues that would object to your appearing on 1 vs. 100? Is this what people mean when they say "don't player hate?" Because if that's what you're doing, I'm gonna take it out on Bob.

It's Almost Halloween! Are You Ready For Christmas?

2007-10-19T19:28:00.000-07:00

With Halloween nearly two weeks away, the official beginning of the Holiday season is well underway for The Beast.

It's during these fleeting days that she begins writing the Christmas newsletter and planning the menu for Christmas dinner and assorted family gatherings. Although I've never asked, I assume she plans Thanksgiving dinner in early April.

Every December, on the weekend prior to the big day, The Beast's side of the family has a lively get together which, ultimately, results in a lot of drunken staggering. It is not uncommon, in fact, for the party to appear in a sentence like this: "I'm excited to go stagger around at the Riley Christmas party this weekend..."

Now that I have moved far away from western Washington, I see these family members exactly once per year. A full day spent with inebriated strangers can fall one of two ways: Really terrible or fairly entertaining. It has been, with few exceptions, the latter.

There is one Riley Christmas party that stands out above the others, however.

I refer to this specific occasion as "The Condom Piñata Incident."

During my sophomore year of college, The Beast's siblings (and assorted offspring) decided to give that year's gathering a Mexican theme, complete with Mexican food, post-meal festivities and a crippled civil service infrastructure.

This theme was emphasized in three primary ways: handmade salsa, acres of Corona and a piñata.

We spent the entire afternoon singing along to "Feliz Navidad" (well, we sang along to the chorus, at least) and putting guacamole on everything.

To conclude the day, we set our sites on the ornately decorated piñata.

While the menu for this party had been superbly planned, the filling of the piñata had been neglected until the last minute.

The day before the party, in a last-ditch effort to load this paper mache donkey with prizes, my aunt had gone into the backroom of the doctor's office where she worked and filled the convivial burro with whatever she could find.

Fast forward to the night of our party.

The piñata was finally broken by its seventh attacker (Hal) and its contents showered the surrounding area.

As we each rushed in to collect our share of the loot, some specific items became quickly identifiable.

I first came across a pack of antacid, a lone stick of gum, then some dental floss. Next I found a packet of Advil, some laxatives, a toothbrush, a super ball, Bengay, Band-Aids, and a friendship bracelet.

And, finally, a large pile of condoms.

None of the assorted cousins rummaging through these goods were naive, but we were, nonetheless, a bit surprised. In retrospect, perhaps my aunt felt the need to emphasize the positive aspects of contraception since over half of us now lived away from home. Or maybe she just needed something to fill the top third of a paper mache donkey.

Despite the strange prizes we all collected, I will admit that I'm glad it was her that went around the office commandeering office supplies and not my dad.

If he had been given the same task, we would have been gleefully diving for staplers, promotional frisbees, obsolete printer cartridges and "If it's not Boeing, I'm not going!" bumper stickers.

As The Beast's nagging questions about contributions to Christmas newsletters and travel plans begin pouring in, my memories of two-pound burritos and free prophylactics stir anew.

As luck would have it, I'll be making a return appearance at the Riley gathering this year. Perhaps, if I'm lucky, the Mexican theme will be revived and my uncle the jeweler will be the one in charge of filling this year's donkey.

I hope he procrastinates.

Hunter vs. Hunted: How The Beast Used to Greet Me After School

2007-10-18T18:53:00.001-07:00

Whenever I returned home from school as a child, The Beast had a unique way of greeting me.

Its exact mechanics are difficult to explain, but it has been accurately captured by artist Bill Waterson.

My walk home from the bus stop was a simple 3.5 blocks, but it was the final 15 feet that caused all my problems.

Whereas many children happily return home to escape the pressures of a hostile world on a nascent psyche, my final steps across the front deck were fraught with terror.

Remarkably often (though irregularly enough for my guard to go down between events) The Beast would see me coming, or hear my approach along the long wooden planks beneath the awning, and she would quickly position herself behind the front door.

No sooner had I heedlessly and obliviously passed the threshold, when she would issue forth a roar and leap from her hiding place, often knocking me to the ground.

She found this behavior incredibly amusing. While I struggled back to my feet, under the weight of a now-tangled backpack bulging with politically correct text books and a generic brand Trapper Keeper, she would laugh long and hard.

Over time I began to suspect these ambushes and would cautiously approach The Beasts's hiding place. On one particular day when I anticipated an attack, I did something I considered quite clever--I carefully approached her typical hiding spot with the intention of beating The Beast at her own ridiculous game.

But the area behind the door was entirely vacant.

I did not have any time to wonder at any great length where she might be.

As I began to talk toward the hallway, confused at my unusual good luck, The Beast sprung her trap.

She could not have been more pleased with herself. Not only had she scared me worse than any time previous, she had predicted my behavior and capitalized on it.

The vitality of her favorite afternoon pastime remained intact. She had successfully altered her hiding spot (something she would do on numerous future occasions) and remained the single most frightening thing in my life.

One other note: Once, in sixth grade, I refused to enter the house because I knew, somewhere within its apparently innocent confines, The Beast lied in wait.

I had had an awful day, and wanted no part of her shenanigans.

Instead, I sat down on the bench built into the deck, and decided to sit and wait for her to give up her cruel plan and instead come to the door and sweetly greet her child like a typical mother.

After several minutes The Beast realized what I was doing and stealthily left the house via the backdoor, quietly walked around the house, and then snuck up behind my seat and proceeded to make a noise that evacuated my bowels and stalled my heart for over nine seconds.

I worry that someday I will have friends that will throw me a surprise birthday party and I will respond by flying into a sudden rage which will, incidentally, re-break my Trapper Keeper.

Punk Rock and Hand Chickens

2007-10-16T10:51:00.001-07:00

I attribute the love of punk rock I developed in 5th grade to my mother. Allow me to elaborate: I believe that the my love of punk rock, starting around 1993, was the end result of a subconscious incubation that began on August 22nd, 1987.

The occasion was my 4th birthday party. At the time, I was a toehead. As I was running into the house to see what was taking my mom so long with the Kool-Aid, The Beast was stepping out with said Kool-Aid. The next moment was incredibly just like something from a slapstick comedy.

As many punk-rockers of my generation have learned, Kool-Aid is excellent at dying hair. As many hair-stylists will tell you, light colored hair is exceptionally easy to dye. My hair up to this point was so blond, that it was transparent. Let's just say that immediately, I looked like my aspiration was to be an extra in "SLC Punk!" when it was to be filmed 11 years later.

At the time, I cried like a 4-year-old, mostly because I was one, and also because it looked like (and very well MAY have been) a mean joke played by The Beast, but 10 years later I began doing stuff like this to my hair of my own volition.

A couple hours later, after the laughing, crying, opening of gifts, crying, eating of cake, crying and futile attempts to get Red Dye #5 out of my all-too-permeable hair, Hal and The Beast dismissed my little 4-year-old friends and crammed my gifts, the half-eaten cake, Ben and Myself into our stuffy car and drove us the 3-hour distance to see our relatives in Bellingham, WA.

At that time of year, Bellingham is probably the most hustle-and-bustle-y it ever gets. This isn't saying much, seeing as the town was founded by hippies, but any hustle is a lot for a 4-year-old; don't even get me started on bustle. The source of the H&B? A county fair in the next town over.

So, it's my birthday, I've been given bright pink hair, and I've just been in a car for 3 hours thinking about it and probably getting carsick from playing Car Bingo. The obvious next step? Take me to a hot, dusty, over-sized parking lot, filled with the stench of fried food, farm animals and people who were conceived in El Caminos.

While passing a cage of turkeys, I heard their concerned gobbling and my 4-year-old frustrations came to a head. So that I could hear more of the amusing sound, I placed each hand on a bar of the cage, and began shaking the bars as hard as my body weight would allow and screaming at the turkeys. The result was a cacophony of gobbles that escalated to unspeakable volumes, representing clearly the combined frustrations of a hot, grumpy birthday boy and four or five hot, grumpy turkeys.

It is a birthday memory that has been dear to my heart my entire life. To this day, I can't hear the sound of turkeys gobbling without simultaneously laughing and bursting into tears.