Popcorn Day

Doings of Our Generation: The Tired-Off

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Schroeder) — Tue, 03 Apr 2012 20:02:00 +0000

I’ve covered some important phrases of our generation on this blog: The Origin of Epic Fail, and a quite thorough investigation into The Like-Legit-Like Sandwich. Both posts are scientifically accurate. They're like, legit, like...

In that spirit, I would like to explore my generation’s doings.

For the first installment of Doings of Our Generation, I’d like to explore one of the most common:

The Tired-Off

Here’s some information we should all know before we go any further: We humans get tired sometimes. This is why sleep exists. However, sometimes our busy schedules cause us to stay up late or wake up early. Occasionally both happen in the same 24 hours. This usually results in a feeling of fatigue.

Can we all agree on that? Good.

We then go to work or school or church or wherever and at some point in the conversation, we yawn and let slip these fateful words. “I’m tired. I only got like five hours of sleep last night.”

But as we’re saying these things, we can see in the eyes of the people around us that we have just awoken something beastly. Something unstoppable once it’s been started. A pandora's box of no-nos. We try to stop ourselves before we say how many hours of sleep we’ve gotten, but we can’t. The toothpaste is out of the tube. We utter the dreaded phrase “like five hours of sleep last night,” and we can see the people around us instinctually readying their mouths to say that which comes so strangely natural to all people...

“That’s nothing. I got only three hours of sleep last night.”

The Tired-Off has begun.

It works the same as any other Something-Off: a Sing-Off, a Pie-Off, a Dance-Off...they’re all escalating competitions where each competitor has to bring something bigger and better than the one before. And thus begins an onslaught of miserable statement after miserabler statement, all revolving around sleep deprivation...

“Whatever. I didn’t even sleep last night. Too busy.”

“I got like five hours of sleep...THIS WEEK.”

Other people join in the conversation. People we don’t even know.

“I’ve been averaging about four hours of sleep a month.”

“Last winter I took one nap and that was it.”

“From November to March I didn’t even blink.”

“Last time I slept, I was eleven years old. And I only got five hours.”

We wish we had never said anything. Not because we feel like a wimp for complaining about our five whole glorious hours of sleep, but because we’re sure that this will never end.

“I slept once when I was a toddler.”

“I was born without eyelids, and my doctor wanted to fix it but my parents decided not to because they knew how much work I’d have to do later in life.”

“My last name is Nuncaduermo, which means ‘I Never Sleep’ in Spanish. My great great great great great grandfather was known for being too busy to sleep, so he acquired that last name. No one in my entire family has slept a wink since.”

“That’s interesting. My last name is Schlafenie, which means the same in German. Same story. Six generations, no sleep. How many hours did you get last night, again, Brian?”

There's only one loser in the Tired-Off, and what's surprising is that he's the one who got the most sleep.

I’m not even a star athlete in my DREAMS.

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Schroeder) — Thu, 15 Mar 2012 04:48:00 +0000

I dreamt a few nights ago that I, 23 year-old Brian, was on a middle school football team. And it was played on a basketball court. With basketball jerseys. Perhaps it was basketball. There were definitely football elements to the game, though.

Anyway. I was the worst out of all of them. I knew this (1) because of knowledge of my real-life history with sports, (2) because of my lack of interest in all sports, and (3) because when my team referred to the skill level of our opponents, they said, “Don’t worry, it’s like we’re playing a team of Brians.”

Nonetheless, I was on the team. And given that our opponents had the same skill level and drive as yours truly, my team didn’t take the game very seriously. They did fun between-the-legs dribble moves, and little behind-the-back passes all night long. Well, until the end of the game, when they realized that our opponents had somehow slipped an extra point in there and taken the lead.

So we huddled. The team captain started the conversation:

CAPTAIN: What the heck, dudes? How did they get in the lead?

ANOTHER GUY: Yeah! What the heck?

ANOTHER GUY: The heck is going on here!

ANOTHER GUY: The heck!

ME: This is how I always dreamt it was inside an Athletic Elite huddle.

CAPTAIN: Kid! Not now.

ANOTHER GUY: Yeah kid!

ANOTHER GUY: Kid, knock it off.

ANOTHER GUY: Kid!

ME: This is fantastic.

CAPTAIN: Shut up. Okay, we need a plan to get another point in a few seconds. The problem is, they’re all going to be trying really hard to block all of our good players. This is why I think we should give the ball to Brian. Like a diversion!

ANOTHER GUY: Yeah, a diversion!

ANOTHER GUY: Diversions are sweet.

ANOTHER GUY: Diversion!

ME: Bullocks.

I was really unhappy that this was the decision, mostly because that meant I had to pay attention. Up until now I had just been pretending to play and reading Christmas cards.

CAPTAIN: Brian, this is our only chance to win this thing. You have to give 110%.

ANOTHER GUY: “Let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us” -Hebrews 12.1!

ANOTHER GUY: PAIN IS JUST WEAKNESS LEAVING THE BODY!

ANOTHER GUY: Out run, out hit, out play, out hustle, out WIN!

ME: Seriously, the stuff that inspires you guys does nothing for me.

So we got back on the field (OH SH** I MEAN COURT) and lined up the play. And that was the first time I saw who was guarding me.

[I must have really been into those Christmas cards.]

Sliding past my dainty opponent, I took the basketball and made the shot. While hooting and hollering, I took a victory lap around the court, but then stopped because none of my teammates were joining me.

ME: Guys, come on! WE WON!

CAPTAIN: Big whoop, Brian. You made one shot.

ANOTHER GUY: Yeah.

ANOTHER GUY: Kid.

I think I’ll lump this dream in with the rest of the bullying I went received when I was actually in sports.

The day I learned how to ride a dirt bike.

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Schroeder) — Wed, 22 Feb 2012 20:29:00 +0000

Let me preface this by saying that I have a giddy, longing interest in small, self-propelled machines, whether they be motor scooters, four-wheelers, snowmobiles, broomsticks or experimental flying machines.

The only real experience I’ve had on any of these, however, is a snowmobile. And you may remember that I threw out my back after rolling it into a ditch and trying to flip it back over last Christmas.

[Foreshadowing.]

Also, every time I go to my girlfriend Christie’s house, I embarrass myself in some way. (Perhaps this little post about me and a faulty pocket door will refresh your memory.) These instances are always avoidable with the help of something that I like to call “thinking ahead” which is not necessarily something that I’m good at.

[Also foreshadowing.]

It was a beautiful late-August day. Everything was going smoothly at Christie’s Bon Voyage party, and Christie and I were mingling with her friends and extended family amongst folding tables in their open garage. I was drinking a Pepsi and happily munching on some pasta salad. Her brother was taking the kids on dirt bike rides around their yard. The first time he took off with a kid, the bike jerked forward and a few people around me gasped, but he righted it and drove off. My heart continued to beat heavily.

[Foreshadowing. Seriously, I should

have figured this sh** out.]

CHRISTIE: You should try that when he’s done!

ME: What? No. Not while everyone’s watching.

CHRISTIE: No, it’ll be fine! My brother can teach you! Come on, Brian; it’s a small, self-propelled machine...your favorite...

ME: Don’t try to tempt me. I’m not going to learn to ride it. Besides, your dad’s watching; he already thinks I’m a wimp.

CHRISTIE: No he doesn’t! Well, not anymore at least, ever since you finally gave him a firm handshake...

ME: MY NORMAL HANDSHAKE IS PLENTY FIRM. He just wanted to have a Hand Squeeze-Off, which I wasn’t prepared for!

CHRISTIE: And, see? Now everything’s okay!

ME: Still.

CHRISTIE: Just get on the bike. It’ll be fine, okay? Nothing can go wrong.

ME: My eye’s twitching involuntarily.

CHRISTIE: Oh, come on. Let’s go.

So Christie and I walked over to her brother, who gave me hasty instructions. I have to admit, I began to get pretty excited.

HER BROTHER: So just squeeze this blah blah blah when you blah blah blah and let out the blah blah blah but not too much blah blah blah clutch gas brake engine radiator. Sound good?

ME: Sounds great! No helmet or pads, of course.

HER BROTHER: You’re not a wuss.

ME: Damn straight! And I certainly don’t need to know what to do if something goes wrong, especially since I’ve never driven any sort of manual transmission.

HER BROTHER: Of course not.

ME: Sweet! Here I go, Christie’s onlooking family and friends! I’m about to drive a dirt bike for the first time without a helmet on an inclined blacktop driveway!

EVERYONE: GODSPEED, BRIAN!

[Every middle school English teacher on the planet just got a strange tingling sensation in their nose. This story has more foreshadowing than To Kill A Mockingbird.]

So I started up the dirt bike death machine, and gave it a go. I squeezed the blah blah blah and let out some blah blah blah and...oh crap...I didn’t listen to anything Christies brother was saying...and the bike immediately jerked forward a few times, and took off like an unknotted balloon. This is what I believe was my trajectory:

And all I could think about while I flew through the air to my imminent death was:

After my short liftoff, I landed on my side, and slid down the driveway. It seemed as though everything was fine until I realized that the driveway wasn’t, in fact, made out of piles of marshmallows and sweaters but asphalt, to which I had generously donated a few layers of skin on my elbow, thumb, palm, knee, shoulder, and hip.

And then this conversation happened:

EVERYONE: *GASP!*

ME: Oh sweet Jesus.

CHRISTIE’S MOM: Oh no! Are you alright?

ME: Yeah, I’m fine.

CHRISTIE: Oh gosh, let’s get you inside.

ME: Ow. I really should have seen that coming. I feel like there were a lot of red flags.

CHRISTIE’S FRIEND: Wow, how embarrassed you must be!

HER DAD: Let out the clutch too fast.

CHRISTIE: Ooh, those cuts look bad.

HER BROTHER: I CAN SEE BONE!

ME: No you can’t. I’m going to get some bandages.

HER BROTHER: That’s bone I see! That’s what your elbow bone looks like!

ME: Nope. It’s not my bone.

HER FRIEND: It’s going to suck to show up at your second interview at church covered in all those bandages...

ME: What? Oh that’s right. Thanks for reminding me.

HER BROTHER: Can I touch your elbow bone?

ME: If you can excuse me, everyone, I’m going to go disappear for a bit.

And so I went inside and used all the bandages I could find to cover my mutilated body. When I was bandaged up, my body started to actually understand the fact that I had just been thrown onto a driveway like a bony ragdoll and I began to shake. I grabbed some water and sat down inside for a bit. Then Christie, her siblings, and her dad came in.

HER BROTHER: Looks like you should have let the clutch out slower.

ME: Yup.

CHRISTIE: No, it’s not the clutch. He should have blah blah blah, then blah blah blah blah.

ME: Guess so.

HER DAD: Actually, what I think happened was, he took the blah blah blah and didn’t blah blah blah first, and...

ME: It’s really nice to know that there are so many things I did wrong. Let’s keep talking about it.

HER DAD: Well, you know what they say: Time to get back on!

ME: I don’t think so.

HER BROTHER: Yeah! Like riding a bike!

CHRISTIE: Ooh, bad analogy. Brian fell off his bike too. TWICE.

ME: I’m so glad you brought that up.

HER DAD: Let’s go! Back outside to try again.

ME: Thanks, but I’d rather die. Maybe I’ll get back on the bike after some therapy.

CHRISTIE: You can do it, Brian! You just have to take out the blah blah blah and blah blah blah clutch gas brake engine radiator.

ME: Okay. I’ll get back on if I can ride the bike inside a bouncy castle.

CHRISTIE: Huh?

ME: What part of ‘bouncy castle’ don’t you understand?

CHRISTIE: How about trying it on the grass?

ME: Bouncy castle.

CHRISTIE: We don’t have a bouncy castle.

ME: No bouncy castle, no ride.

CHRISTIE: Fine.

And that’s the day I learned how to ride a dirt bike. And by “ride” I mean “immediately and violently crash.”

I still have a scar on my elbow from last August. If only Mederma could reduce the appearance of emotional scarring as well.

If I was exactly what those ad scammers were looking for...

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Schroeder) — Thu, 09 Feb 2012 23:49:00 +0000

While I was watching Doctor Who on a semi-illegal video website because I can’t afford Netflix, this ad popped up on the sidebar...

Which obviously made me say, “OH MY GOSH! This sexy woman with a ferociously enormous butt wants to be my friend on Facebook so badly that she put her friend request in a personal ad so it can find me wherever I am!

And her name is Tionne. How exotic! I'm not even 100% sure how to pronounce that!

We already have two friends in common; I must have showed up on her newsfeed twice and she was all, ‘Wow! That guy’s really hot! I see in him what everyone else misses! I need to be his friend! I will do whatever it takes!‘

She even left a personal message: 'Want to meet me?' ...So personal and inciting!

I should probably click this sidebar Facebook notification and head over to Facebook STAT – I have three notifications that I should check anyway.

*clickclickclickclick*

HEY! This isn’t Facebook! ‘Find hot locals in your area’? Hmmm...Well, obviously Tionne is local because we have mutual friends, and she’s hot, so maybe this is some sort of Facebook shortcut to find her faster. Here’s my name, email, and street address.

$26 a month? I will do whatever it takes to find her. IT’S US AGAINST THE WORLD, TIONNE.

Maybe I’ll take out my own ad."

Road Retorts Re-Revisited

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Schroeder) — Tue, 31 Jan 2012 22:51:00 +0000

What I’m about to share with you has, without a doubt, completely revolutionized the way I see traffic and roads and life forever and ever and ever.

It’s like that day when I first discovered that mittens are better than gloves for the same reason sleeping bags are better than individual padded bags for each one of your limbs.

Or it’s like when Christopher Columbus went on a holiday to go see India but instead found a humongous uninhabited island that may or may not have already been inhabited and that meant REAL ESTATE, BABY.

Or it’s like that time when you first purchased an iPod and you knew it would totally revolutionize the way you exercise, except this time you won’t end up being disappointed in a few months when you realize you never used it and you haven’t worked out at all, but you couldn’t even if you wanted to because your earbuds are lost and the cover is scratched and the battery won’t charge all the way anymore.

[It’s like that.]

This is crazy cool, so buckle your seat belts.

This phenomenon is called The Zipper Merge.

How many times have you been in traffic and you see that the lane you’re in is ending, so you immediately go into the next lane, and then some douchecopter goes speeding past you in the ending lane, and gets a much better spot a half mile ahead? Don’t you just want to punch that guy?

Well, you’re going to feel pretty foolish for wanting to punch such a genius, because that douchecopter was DOING THE RIGHT THING.

That’s right. When you change lanes early, it makes traffic back up much more quickly. The correct way to merge in this situation is to use the extra lane until it ends and then take turns merging at the front. Like a ZIPPER. Did I just blow your mind?

Don’t believe me? Watch the official MN DOT video.

[I know that some of you aren’t from Minnesota or even the United States, but I believe that The Zipper Merge could transmogrify this planet’s hectic roadways into peaceful zippy oases.]

And so I have adopted this new method of merging and let me tell you: It’s liberating. I wish I could zipper merge all the time. I want to shout it from the rooftops. Just think of all the time I’m saving while legally cruising along that empty, ending lane.

But sometimes the world does not accept revolutionaries such as myself, which brings me to my most recent Road Retort:

The Broken Zipper

This is the guy that doesn’t allow you to merge because he thinks your Zipper Merging is really just a glorified budge. This is the conversation that usually goes on between my eyes and his...

HIM: Oh no you don’t!

ME: But sir, please–

HIM: No! You have to suffer like the rest of us!

ME: But it’s totally legal–

HIM: This is AMERICA. Don’t think you can get special treatment.

ME: That’s not what I’m trying to do!

HIM: Kids these days are so entitled.

ME: No, I’m doing this correc–

HIM: When I was young we didn’t even have merge lanes. Lanes just ended with brick walls. It was move it or lose it

back then. Literally

ME: Well now it’s different, sir. We even have signs warning us three-fourths of a mile beforehand.

HIM: You kids and your technology...

ME: Technology, like a road gradually getting thinner?

HIM: ...and your iPods and cellular phones and Tamagachis. It’s all too much for me.

ME: Yes, but zippers. You understand zippers, right?

HIM: Nope. All my clothes are tied together with hair and spit.

ME: Okay, just go ahead. The next person will let me in.

HIM: GOD BLESS AMERICA.

And The Broken Zipper drives off convinced that justice was served.

Even though you’re hurt temporarily, my dear Zipper Merger, let not your heart be troubled for long. For you know that the Zipper Merge is the correct way, the true way, and if everyone subscribed to this way of life, we would live in peace and harmony.

I’ve created some signs that could help spread the word. I expect to see these on t-shirts and billboards for years to come.

An Uncelebrated Popcorn Day

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Schroeder) — Fri, 20 Jan 2012 23:52:00 +0000

Guys, I did it again. National Popcorn Day was yesterday.

[You remember our cast of characters from last year, don't you? They're just as disappointed.]

Yes, January 19th, the day that should have been spent popping popcorn and blissfully throwing it at unsuspecting passerby, the day that should have been filled with a little extra pizazz and a lot of extra salt, NATIONAL POPCORN DAY was once again completely ignored by me, its biggest fan. I spent the day doing stupid non-celebratory things like grocery shopping and working and making Tater Tot Hotdish.

I apologize to all my readers, I apologize to this country, but most of all, I apologize to myself because I’m a narcissist.

I want to go into my cupboards and apologize to the four mini-bags of popcorn in there, but I CAN’T EVEN LOOK THEM IN THE EYE RIGHT NOW.

I feel the need to apologize to people on the street for not attacking them with popcorn yesterday, BUT THEY WON’T UNDERSTAND.

I’ve already created three alarms on my computer for January 19th 2013, BUT MOST LIKELY THE WORLD WILL END BY THEN AND I’LL NEVER GET TO CELEBRATE MY BLOG’S NAMESAKE.

This must not happen again. Next year, on January 19th, which is a Saturday so you should all be available (even you Canadian ones), we will have a party big enough to cover all the sins and transgressions of Popcorn Days Past. I will dress up as a giant popcorn kernel and tackle people in downtown Minneapolis. My hipster artist friends and I will create a whimsical stop-motion video of the life of a man who loves popcorn and rides a giraffe-sized bicycle around searching for it. I will record the official Popcorn Day song, which will be sold on iTunes for all my Faithful Follower(s) and their friend(s) to purchase and wake up to in the morning. And all will be right with the world. Next year, baby.

In the meantime, go back to the very first post this blog ever had and have a mini-celebration of the new holiday I just created for people like me:

See you next year at the party.

The day I learned the truth about Santa Claus

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Schroeder) — Tue, 20 Dec 2011 05:13:00 +0000

Inside my memory, for some reason, is a 60 Minutes episode I watched as a third grader, about a boy around my age at the time who was going to college. He was a genius, and Walter Cronkite or whoever the hell hosts 60 Minutes couldn’t get enough of him. They ran clips of the boy walking amongst people around my current age, discussing blah blah blah with them from their blah blah blah class. Obviously a vivid memory.

The one thing I remember distinctly from the documentary, though, is Walter Cronkite or whoever the hell hosts 60 Minutes asking the boy, “Do you believe in Santa Claus?”

The boy genius, who was in college at the time, said, “Well, I know the Tooth Fairy isn’t real, and I know the Easter Bunny isn’t real, and although my parents have not told me yet, I have deduced that of course Santa Claus is not real.” And I was all...

I was not swayed. I had a firm and steadfast acceptance of Santa Claus AND St. Nicholas, thank you very much, according to my second grade journal.

A year later, however, on Christmas Eve, it suddenly struck me. It was like a beacon of light from heaven, except it was a bitter, cold, lifeless light that illuminated exactly what I didn’t ever want to see, that which my parents and The Flight of the Reindeer and The Santa Clause and The Polar Express worked so fervently to keep me from realizing.

This is the day I learned the truth about Santa Claus.

And as I said in the post about my second grade journal:

When my parents told me that the Tooth Fairy isn’t real, I cried.

I was sad when I found out that the Easter Bunny isn’t real.

When I figured out that Santa isn’t real, I was PISSED.

Suddenly every lie from this wretched holiday was exposed. I felt like Bruce Willis at the end of The Sixth Sense, when **SPOILER ALERT FOR THE TWO PEOPLE WHO HAVEN’T SEEN THE SIXTH SENSE YET** he finds out he’s dead and suddenly everything starts to make terrifying sense.

I saw right through everyone.

My family, The Conspirators.

My older sister, The Traitor.

The worst was when we went to church and, as per tradition, a man dressed as Santa went to Holy Communion. I was always inspired by the thought that Santa, in his busy night, came all the way to St. Elizabeth’s Catholic Church in Holmen, Wisconsin to partake in the body and blood of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. However, with my new understanding how this cruel world works, I was disgusted.

We got home and lo! there were presents on the ground (which explained why my dad “had to go to the bathroom for a long time while we were waiting in the car to go to church”), two piles for me and my sister, who I now realized was playing along just for my sake. As she opened presents, I noticed her saying “Thank you, Santa!” and winking at my parents.

So pissed.

I opened my presents with disdain, knowing it was all an elaborate joke, and that I was the only one in my family not in on it. I remember seriously considering throwing all of my new toys on the ground, stomping on them, pointing an accusatory finger at my parents, and saying, “Santa Claus isn’t real and all these toys are TAINTED WITH YOUR BETRAYAL. I'M LEAVING." Then I'd storm out and move to a place where people aren't manipulative and mean.

But I didn’t. I just played along like a little bitch.

The next day, my parents sat me down.

THEM: Brian, why were you so sad last night?

ME: Because Santa isn’t real.

THEM: [pause, glancing at each other] Yes he is, Brian.

ME: Don’t try to make me think otherwise. Santa isn’t real and I’ve been your patsy for the past 10 years.

THEM: Do you even know what patsy means?

ME: I KNOW DAMN WELL WHAT PATSY MEANS.

THEM: Okay, calm down. You’re right. He’s not real.

ME: Whatever. I’m over it. First the Tooth Fairy, then the Easter Bunny, and now Santa? Who else isn’t real? Grandpa? You might as well break it to me now.

THEM: Grandpa’s real, Brian. You’ve seen him.

ME: Yeah right. And that red light I saw flashing in the sky wasn’t actually a radio tower, as would be the obvious assumption, but the shining nose of Rudolph, which you insisted it was. And all those years, you told me “Wow, Brian, the Santa whose lap you sat on this year must have been the real one.” You seem to say the same things about Grandpa. “Wow, he must be your real Grandpa, the way he looks like your dad and all...”

THEM: Okay, so we spent a lot of time trying to encourage your belief in Santa. We just wanted to keep the spirit alive. Your Grandpa, on the other hand, is totally real. We promise.

ME: And why should I believe you, with your planting sleigh tracks in the front yard snow with 2x4’s and throwing half-eaten carrots on the roof as if they had been eaten by reindeer? Such great measures you took to keep me docile and ignorant! Grandpa’s house is just a cardboard set, isn’t it? He’s just some dude you hired to act all grandpa-like, isn’t he?

THEM: Do you seriously think your Grandpa isn't real? How long have you thought this?

ME: CAN WE STAY ON TOPIC, PLEASE?

This went on for a while, but soon I realized one can’t put spilled toothpaste of Truth back in the tube. Everything was exposed. My innocence dashed. No more fictional characters to believe in. This is probably why I doubt the existence of so many other things now.

It's been over a decade now, and I’ve moved on. And contrary to what The Polar Express says, I can still hear bells even though I don’t believe in Santa.

Happy Holidays, faithful follower(s)!

The day I learned basketball really isn’t my thing.

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Schroeder) — Wed, 30 Nov 2011 19:09:00 +0000

It was really my parents’ fault.

THEM: We just want you to be well rounded.

ME: I weigh 110 pounds and I’m six feet all. There’s nothing round about me.

THEM: You know what we mean. You can do the music thing all you want, but just try some sports. Just try. You’re in sixth grade; you still have a bunch of potential to unlock.

ME: Why should I continue sports, though? I tried football already, and that didn’t work...

THEM: You quit when they started hitting.

ME: THAT WAS MERELY A COINCIDENCE.

THEM: Listen, you know how everyone always says that you’ll be good at basketball because you’re so tall?

ME: Yes.

THEM: Think of this as a way to prove them wrong.

ME: This is a really strange way to talk me into playing.

After much more arguing, I begrudgingly signed up for the basketball team. While the prospect of staying around an hour and a half after school was infuriating enough, I was in no way prepared for how much I would despise the entire experience.

Changing in front of my classmates before gym class was something I had only recently gotten used to. However, changing in front of The Athletic Elite of my grade–I’m talking twelve year-olds with six packs, sideburns, broad shoulders and hair on their legs–was a whole new level of daunting. I hid in the shadow of my locker door as to hide any lack of definition in my puny body, whipped off my school shirt and whipped on my gym shirt as quickly as possible and then high-tailed it out of there before anyone saw that I looked like an actual hairless twelve year-old.

Practice was my tenth circle of hell. The Athletic Elite would be sweaty and intense, making baskets and yelling commands, and then I would be the guy who would miss the ball when it was passed to him, and then try to make a joke, like, “Haha, whoops, so you wanted me to catch that, huh?–” but The Elite were too lost in sport to stop and laugh.

I remember when one of The Elite would be practicing so hard that he would get hurt, like sprain his ankle or something, and have to sit out for the season. That person would still come to practice and watch as we formulated plays, and I remember wanting so badly just to be that guy. I wished that I could just get injured and stand on the sidelines; I would even act like I really wanted to play: “C’mon, coach! Let me in! I’ll be fine! I’m willing to sacrifice my body!” and he would be all, “No Brian, we need you to get well,” and I’d be all, “But this team is like a FAMILY to me!”

Unfortunately I never played hard enough to get injured.

When it was time for our first game, the coach brought out a bag of jerseys. Of course The Athletic Elite elbowed their way to the front to grab the perfectly fitting maroon shorts and shirts. And when I got to the pile there was one pair left. To this day I swear that they were women’s shorts that happened to get mixed in with the guys’. I put them on and walked over to the coach.

[I looked like an embarrassed Pepper Ann.]

By the next game I had bought my own maroon shorts and was ready to play. We were passing the ball around before the game started, a few students and parents had gathered in the stands along with some cute girls who came to make lovey eyes at The Elite, and then coach said the most terrifying words I’ve ever heard:

I knew how this would turn out. It always happened the same way: Coach would choose who would be shirts and skins and that damn finger of his would always land on me accompanied by the disgusting utterance of the word SKINS, and I would have to take off my shirt and the whole gym–including those cute girls–would see that my elbows were wider than my biceps.

For those of you who don’t know what it’s like to be a skinny, unconfident teen with his shirt off in the middle of a middle school gym, let me paint a picture for you: it’s awfully breezy. Any sweat that comes out of your armpits is instantly chilled and every once and a while your funnybones brush up against your sides, leaving you with an image of them being humongous bony protrusions–like elbows on your elbows. You nipples feel both really close together and really far apart and your butt starts sweating because it’s all warm and embarrassed for your upper half. Your eyes dry out from sheer anxiety and you occasionally try to flex or something but it's no use and you miss so many passes that your ears start ringing.

That’s what it’s like.

After an excruciating five minutes, I got to put my shirt back on and we played the game. I remember trying to get into it like the rest of the players (maybe then I could get injured), but no. It was no fun at all.

My shining moment came at the very end of the game. Ten seconds were left on the clock and the ball was passed to me near our opponent’s hoop. The crowd began to chant:

10...

9...

I knew it was my time to shine. Taking the ball in my right hand over my shoulder, I wound up, took three gigantic steps forward and hurled the ball across the court towards our hoop.

As it clanged off the backboard, there was a pause, and then I heard the crowd continue, “8...7...”

Bullocks.

My shining moment was premature. Then the whistle blew.

How did I cover up this mistake, you ask? Well, it wasn’t with a joke this time. My reaction was remarkably similar to Michael Scott’s in this clip:

Go watch it. I have it all cued up for you. It'll take all of five seconds.

That’s right, the old “I’m usually much better than this” charade. Not sure anyone bought it.

And that was the day I learned basketball really isn’t my thing.

And this is why.

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Schroeder) — Tue, 15 Nov 2011 04:32:00 +0000

I must never watch nature documentaries on National Geographic Channel again. It’s quite rare that wander over to that section of channels because the only thing I usually find on there is The Dog Whisperer. And after twelve too many hours of six too many Sunday marathons of that show I just avoid the channel altogether.

Every now and then, however, I stumble upon one of their nature documentaries and end up watching obsessively for their entire two-hour run. The first time this happened was a few years ago when I watched one special about an evaporating water hole in the desert. The water hole started as a bustling ecosystem with alligators, deer, monkeys, and birds happily coexisting and splashing together, but soon enough the pond began to shrink and that’s when things got effed up.

Monkeys started fighting with the alligators over the limited water supply, and everyone was screaming and the alligators were chomping off everyone’s heads and one of the monkeys broke his arm while playing a game of tug-of-war with an alligator using his baby as a rope, and then there was a shot of a mother monkey trying to prod awake the lifeless body of one of her babies and. I. CRIED.

Soon the monkeys either died or went searching for other water supplies (which meant they were probably just going to die), and the birds flew away, leaving a lone alligator in the disappearing water hole. The pond soon turned to mud, in which the alligator got stuck after awhile. At the end of the documentary the once lush watering hole was just a dry, flat area, and the camera zoomed in on a tiny crack in the dirt, where you could see the stubborn alligator, barely alive, forever trapped in his former home.

I turned off the television depressed and a little claustrophobic.

So you’d think that last night, when the new NatGeo documentary The Last Lions came on, I would have watched something else. But apparently my love for animals and beautiful film making makes me forget that I’m probably going to cry at some point during the next two hours.

The documentary was like all those movies about a single mom who has to overcome adversity to take care of her children, except with lions. It starts off with the Mommy Lion happily hanging out with the Daddy Lion and her three cubs. BUT THEN THEY’RE ATTACKED BY SOME ANGRY LIONS FROM THE NORTH WHO WERE FORCED FROM THEIR HOMES BY THE RELENTLESS ENCROACHMENT OF MAN. They were all yelling and swiping and biting at each other and became covered in blood, and I was all...

But the fight is done. Mommy Lion has a cut on her shoulder, and she's scratched out the eye of another lioness. Daddy lion is all banged up, missing an eye, bleeding like crazy, and limping. When the sun rises the next morning he limps away to a quiet place, lies down, and does that heartbreaking thing that lions do in these documentaries: he just chooses to die right then and there.

[Notice this is still the only way I know how to draw a lion.]

Mommy Lion then takes her three cubs and begins to travel south so they can avoid the evil pride who invaded their home. She can’t find any food, and the cubs begin to go hungry. Each time she tries to hunt, hyenas come and try to kill the cubs, forcing Mommy Lion to come and scare them away. And each time the cubs are threatened, it feels like I have a bowling ball in my stomach. I become all sweaty and tense, white-knuckling the armrests of my chair.

They find a herd of water buffalo and the Mommy Lion tries to take some down, but she’s not successful. While she’s off trying something else, the evil buffalo go and trample the spot where the cubs are hiding.

When Mommy Lion comes back, she finds that all her cubs have disappeared. She goes searching and finds only one of them, the girl, who’s fine but scared. Then a some more freaking buffalo come and attack them, and Mommy Lion tries to save the baby, but when she finally gets her out of there, the cub’s back is broken, leaving her back legs limp behind her. Mommy Lion carries her away, tests out her lifeless legs, and begins walking. The cub walks alongside her mother on her front legs, but soon Mommy Lion begins to go ahead of her, and then they’re ten feet away, then thirty. The baby stops, and cries for Mommy Lion, and Mommy Lion looks back, but then turns her head away, and her face contorts as if she’s about to cry.

At this point I’m bawling.

I don’t even want to go on. Right now I’m in the same place I was when I stumbled upon Marley & Me on TBS and I was ruined for an entire week. I get choked up just thinking about it.

Here’s the last half hour: Mommy Lion gets angry and charges into the middle of the buffalo herd without any strategy at all, fails, and because of this the mean lion pride from before see her as a leader and they all reconcile, and THEN MOMMY LION FINDS ONE OF HER OTHER CUBS, healthy as can be, and everyone lives happily ever after.

I’m relieved, albeit shaken.

No more nature documentaries for me. Give me a gory human-slashing flick any day, but it’ll take a while for me to recover from the paraplegic lion cub.

The day I learned that I have good reason to not like Halloween.

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Schroeder) — Thu, 03 Nov 2011 03:22:00 +0000

The day I learned that I have good reason to not like Halloween was on Monday, which happened to be Halloween. I was pondering why I had such a distaste for all things Halloweeny, why I was not interested in doing anything with friends or going to a costume party, and why I scoff at Halloween decorations and other spooky things. And I realized that it’s because I’ve had a lot of really sucky Halloweens.

The last good Halloween I can think of was when I was in preschool and I dressed up as a firetruck.

That was a good Halloween.

After that, it all goes downhill. Like my fifth grade year when I wanted to dress up as a mime but none of my classmates knew what a mime was. I spent the whole day explaining my white face and striped shirt, only to be met with questioning glances. And to top it off, when I went trick-or-treating, I lost a tooth in a Milk Dud. I had to go from door to door holding a wet washcloth in my mouth, which messed up my face paint.

Or there was that time I went to my first Halloween party dressed as an overweight tourist, complete with a sunblocked nose and gray hair. That was the same year I started to admit to people that I was a good singer (I’m a musician. Did you know that?), and the party host made me go up in front of all the attendees with a microphone and sing a song a cappella. So I quickly stripped out of my costume, got rid of my makeup, and sang. All the people in my grade responded with the loudest and most intoxicating applause I had ever heard. However, the hot girl I thought I would impress did not, to my chagrin, fall in love with me despite my lack of muscles and tan, but instead became jealous and ignored me the rest of the night. I went home bummed.

Then there was the high school dance I attended in an inflatable clown costume, and I had a great time until I got diarrhea and had to go home.

Or maybe my junior year in high school, when my friends came to my house trick-or-treating and told me to join them.

ME: No. Don’t you think we’re too old for this?

THEM: Of course not! It’s fun!

ME: But I don’t even have a costume...

THEM: That’s okay! You’ll blend in. Just stand behind us and stick your hand out. The people giving candy won’t even notice.

ME: This seems like the least foolproof plan in the history of plans.

THEM: WE DON’T GIVE A CRAP ABOUT HISTORY, BRIAN.

ME: I don’t think you’re listening.

THEM: Just come with us. What do you have to lose?

ME: Time, warmth, dignity...

THEM: We don’t care.

ME: Okay, fine. Let me get my top hat so I’m at least somewhat costumed.

So I donned a top hat and we went trick-or-treating. The first house we went to, the person handing out candy looked at me...

And then I went home.

Then, in college Christie and I went to a Halloween party where everyone drank except for us, and we had to watch a man feeling up a woman dressed as a lion, and an extremely intoxicated and slightly slutty bumblebee knock everything over.

I'm not even going to draw this one. Just picture a bumble bee with a drunk woman's head on it.

Last Halloween. A bunch of friends and I thought we, nerdy non-partying folk as we are, should head to my hometown (La Crosse, Wisconsin...more bars per capita than any other U.S. City) and test out the bar scene. We ended up in the lofted area of a bar downtown, gazing down at the giant costumed humpfest happening below us. These were the characters:

Popular-looking men wearing sports jerseys (not really a costume)
Popular-looking women dressed as a slutty version of something (be it an American Indian, a she-devil, or some sort of fairy/princess/angel thing)
Funny guys wearing something funny or clever and movement-restricting which they discovered a second too late that it would never get them laid
Funny ladies who wore something funny or clever and movement-restricting that would probably get them laid anyway
One guy standing by the dartboard sans costume who had no one in particular to hang out with so he just stood there bobbing his head and singing along with every song that came on.

My friends and I treated the whole ordeal as a sociology study on the mating rituals of our generation. My favorite part was when I witnessed a drunk and slutty Tinkerbell grinding next to a puffy and broad-shouldered man in a baseball jersey, who proceeded to shove one hand in her armpit and lodge the other in her crotch and lift her up in the air. He then put her down without explanation, and a few minutes later did it again. What made it even better was that Tinkerbell seemed too intoxicated to process what was happening to actually react to it...

And that’s why I just don’t like Halloween. You can enjoy it if you want. Me, I’ll just buy candy for myself and watch Ghost Adventures on the Travel Channel. And write a blog post.

Butt birth: it’s the new hot rage.

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Schroeder) — Thu, 27 Oct 2011 20:15:00 +0000

I can’t believe I’m about to post this dream. A few advance apologies are in order: If you’re a girl who once found me attractive but will never be able to get this image out of your head, I’m sorry in advance. If you’re the pastor or another one of my coworkers from church who I just added on Facebook and you thought you’d check out what my blog is all about, I’m sorry in advance. I would even recommend reading some of my older stories first; I usually write about much more wholesome things, like here or here or here. If you're one of my normal readers, or my one Canadian reader, no apologies. We're tight now; I can tell you anything.

I’ve found that the weirdness of the dreams I have is directly correlated to the unhealthiness of the food I ate the day before. I once tested this with an evil concoction of Doritos and some spicy glop that resulted in a dream I never want to redream.

For the following strange and semi-inappropriate beauty of a dream, I had eaten Big Mac Pizza (yes, pizza with all the fixings of a Big Mac), cheesy popcorn, and five or six fun size Twix bars. I don’t usually eat this way, and apparently not only my body but my mind freaked out about it.

[At least my brain is watching out for me this time, as opposed to THAT OTHER TIME.]

The dream began with me laying on my side on a hospital bed. I wasn’t sure at the time why I was there, but the fact that a doctor and my best friend were in the room with me made me feel a bit better.

DOCTOR: How are you feeling, Brian?

ME: Oh, I’m doing fine. I kind of feel like I have to go to the bathroom tho–WHOAA!!

Suddenly something humongous shot out of my butt. It didn’t hurt, but I knew it was huge. What is going on? I wondered, still not sure why I was there in the first place. And then I heard it: a baby crying. Of course. I was the surrogate father of one of my best friend’s twins, and his girlfriend was in the other room going through excruciating normal birth with the other one. I was happy that birthing a baby through my butt didn’t hurt as much.

DOCTOR: So, do you want to cut the cord?

ME: Oh...no, that’s too weird. I don’t even want to think about it.

DOCTOR: Are you sure? A lot of new fathers find it to be a special moment.

ME: Gross. That’s just not going to happen. I’m not going to cut my butt cord.

DOCTOR: Really? It won’t hurt...

ME: Couldn’t you just do it? You’re the doctor, so you should be okay with this kind of thing.

DOCTOR: No, you should do it. It’s your butt.

ME: But I don’t want to. Seriously, the baby’s not even really mine. Just cut the butt cord so I can stop thinking about it existing down there. It makes me all twitchy.

DOCTOR: Trust me, I wish it didn’t exist either. Here’s the scissors. Cut your butt cord and we can all go home.

ME: My GOD why do you have to be such a baby about this? You could get a better angle anyway. You’re getting paid to cut my butt cord; guess how much I’m getting paid to poop out a baby? NOTHING. I’m doing it out of the kindness of my butt heart. JUST CUT THE DAMN BUTT CORD SO I CAN PUT SOME PANTS ON.

And so he did. I didn’t appreciate the grimace on his face or the way he only used two of his fingers to use the scissors, and stretched out the other fingers as if they themselves were avoiding the task as well.

At this point the dream fast-forwarded a few months and I was carrying the baby in my arms, the one I had birthed, and it was talking to me in full sentences. It would only do this to me, because he and I had a special bond that can only come from a butt birth.

And then I woke up.

Now on to less disgusting things.

Dreambomb, or 50 Word Dreams, or Expectations smashed all up in my face/grill.

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Schroeder) — Fri, 14 Oct 2011 19:05:00 +0000

Here and there I'll have a dream that is too complicated to tweet and not vivid enough to dedicate a whole blog post to. I know what you’re thinking: “BRIAN THAT SUCKS I’M SO SORRY.” It’s okay, reader, it’s okay. I’ve created an innovative solution. It’s called The 50-Word Dream and I’ve done like four of them, so they're a pretty big deal. Here’s the latest installment, with each dream written in exactly fifty words, entitled “Expectations smashed all up in my face/grill.”

Dream #1

As one of the judges on American Idol (they’re just letting anyone do it now), I was pretty sure that Snooki was going to completely embarrass herself. But when she belted out “Oh Happy Day,” I found myself euphorically sobbing with Paula and the rest of the viewers at home.

[No lie, folks: I spent a half hour drawing Snooki as an orange bell pepper with a leopard-skin dress, but decided against it.]

Dream #2

The Humane Society salesperson promised that Gus, an orange kitten with six toes on each foot, was actually an angel sent by God to release a prophesy bathed in heavenly light on Christmas Eve. I adopted him because it seemed like a win-win situation. He ran away before Thanksgiving.

Dream #3

As Harry Potter AGAIN, my friends and I hid from a monster. When I peeked through the blinds, I caught a glimpse of its hideous form: Priceline’s Big Deal. Only a magical chocolate milkshake could destroy him, but the only friend who was predestined to drink it was lactose intolerant.

Dream #4

I was N64‘s Banjo-Kazooie and I was very busy. Leaping between tree stumps, I tossed pizza slices at a gargantuan blue bull to keep it from murdering me. The bull was increasingly satisfied, but the college theatre company that were using the tree stumps for their play weren’t.

And that's what I've been dreaming. Seriously, this Harry Potter Unconscious Fetish needs to stop. I don't know why it keeps happening. However, I think if I started dreaming that I was Banjo-Kazooie all the time, we would have a bigger problem

This post is a fair warning to anyone who shares a living space with me

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Schroeder) — Thu, 06 Oct 2011 21:01:00 +0000

Remember when I wrote this post boasting about how I can, with the help of a few health supplements and some good old-fashioned chutzpa, reduce the duration of the common cold to only about two days? I still believe that if everyone took my ant-cold artillery list to heart, they would feel the same results.

But here’s the deal, friends. Sometimes the common cold is tricky and will disguise its little bastard self as a really bad hangover. You’ll think that you’re merely hurting, and with some water and starchy foods, you’ll be fine in a matter of hours. But then you aren’t fine. The headache’s gone, but you find yourself one full day into the nasty arms of a gargantuan cold–and of course that means one full day behind in your usual battle plans and it’s virtually impossible to get back on the offensive. It’s kind of like, in Calvin & Hobbes, when Spaceman Spiff thinks he had parked his spacecraft on a strange planet but it’s...well here:

[Calvin & Hobbes is ALWAYS relevant.]

This happened to me and I’m now in my fourth day. The very reason I take such an aggressive stance against colds in the first place is because I’m so horribly pathetic when I’m ill. Like unnecessarily and inconsolably depressed. My social skills vanish entirely, and I just become insecure and mope around until it’s gone.

One thing that may interest you, however, is that I occasionally sleepwalk when I’m sick. I think it has to do with the fact that I’m not sleeping well in the first place, and I forget whether I’m conscious or not. Last night my uncle (who I’m living with for the time being) got to see this in full colors. It was one in the morning and he was heading to bed, in the dark.

ME: [Throwing open the door] Chris!

CHRIS: Oh, hi Brian. I thought you were asleep.

ME: I finished my game!

CHRIS: What game?

ME: Das sarros.

CHRIS: Hang on. [turns on the hall light to see his crazy-eyed nephew beaming at him]

CHRIS: You’re doing what now?

ME: Das. Das sarros.

CHRIS: Is that Spanish or German?

ME: It’s with my computer and ... It’s like... [mumble]

CHRIS: Okay...

ME: Here, I’ll do it again. [I run over in the darkness of my room, smack the top my old computer that’s sitting on a bookshelf, and turn back to him, smiling triumphantly.] I did it!

CHRIS: Good job, Brian. Go back to bed.

ME: ‘kay.

And I went back to bed. The strange thing is, I don’t think this qualifies as sleepwalking because I remember the whole thing. It’s just that I was talking about my dream world and the more I woke up, the more that world disappeared.

You guys, this is such a freaking weird and hilarious aspect of my life that it simultaneously amuses and concerns me. And I’m totally okay with that.

I would give this dream a title, but I really don't even know where to start.

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Schroeder) — Thu, 29 Sep 2011 17:31:00 +0000

Sometimes I wake up from a dream and think, “Good job, brain!” and congratulate it for dreaming in a way that maximizes the comedy for good old Popcorn Day. Like this one, or this one, and of course this bad boy, who started this whole crazy blog in the first place.

This is also one of those moments.

The dream started with pizazz: I was parachuting down to my friend’s lakeside cabin. I landed on the lake, and decided to do some walking on top of the water for awhile before I came in. It wasn’t too hard. Really, it’s all in the way use your feet. I’ll show you sometime.

After I wandered to shore, I had to take a wee, and my friend directed me to go in the door and to the right. “The bathroom is being renovated right now so it looks kind of crappy, but it still works.” So I went inside to the right only to find an empty space in their kitchen where it appeared as if a dishwasher had just been.

“This can’t be the bathroom,” I said to myself, “but there’s nothing else around, so what the heck.” I squeezed myself into the little cranny and tried to get in a safe and satisfactory peeing position.

[This is a normal position for me, usually seen when I'm on an airplane, or getting into a car, or going spelunking. I'm just really tall, okay?]

Then my friend came in.

FRIEND: Brian! Brian NO!

ME: What...

FRIEND: That’s where our dishwasher used to be! Don’t pee there!

ME: You TOLD me to pee here! I was just following directions.

FRIEND: Why would we put a crawl-in bathroom in the kitchen?

ME: Okay, listen. You told me to go the right, I went to the right. You told me to look for a crappy half-renovated room, and what the eff am I in right now. You told me that if I found that place I could pee there. Thus, here I am, about to pee.

FRIEND: But it’s not a bathroom. It’s just not.

ME: But it’s a torn-up place to the right when you walk in the door.

FRIEND: Still not a bathroom.

ME: I was just following your directions. All items on the list point directly to this spot.

FRIEND: You’re dreaming.

[Suddenly all the people in the scene minding their own business looked directly at us.]

ME: That’s beside the point. You directed me here.

FRIEND: It was my bad. When I said go right, I meant left. The real, actual, non-dishwasher bathroom is to the left. You may pee there.

ME: Thanks. I really gotta go.

After I had peed, we decided to tour a nearby college. It was beautiful there: vine-covered brick buildings and flowering trees. There was a pool on campus with a poorly made and barely legible sign stating...

While my friends took some time to figure out how two of those items could possibly relate to pool rules, I said goodbye because I had to take off in my MILLENNIUM FALCON.

Good job, brain!

But hold that thought. My copilot and I had just pulled out of lightspeed when he received a prophesy–yes, a prophesy–that we were going to be shot down. I wondered for a while if it was going to be a dramatic and heartfelt death, but then we got hit and my copilot put his hands frustratingly in the air.

And as we spun through space in a sparking, smoky fireball, I realized it wasn’t going to be a very meaningful death at all. Well, that sucks.

After I died, however, I found myself at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry (yes, Harry Potter being the subject of my dreams again) and they were trying to teach me the school anthem, but I kept singing it to the tune of The Angry Beavers’ theme song, which coincidentally is also my morning alarm, which was going off.

So I woke up. It’s not often that you parachute, walk on water, almost pee in a kitchen, fly the Millennium Falcon, and go to Hogwarts all in one night. It’s probably because I had my annual Taco Bell visit that day.

The day I learned the consequences of holding hands with my girlfriend

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Schroeder) — Sun, 25 Sep 2011 01:58:00 +0000

Sixth grade.

[My hair and my complexion haven't changed much. Really, the only thing different about me in this picture is that I'm holding a trapper keeper.]

Regardless of puberty taking its full gangly effect on my mind and body, I had somehow scored a girlfriend. Katie was sweet and cute and we started dating the day we met, the day before Thanksgiving break. By Christmas break a month later we were already fully committed and entranced in each other, meeting each other between classes and walking each other to the next one, standing by each other at recess, and hugging before we got on our separate buses at the end of the day. Our love for each other was apparent to our classmates as well, who would ask us whenever we were apart, “Hey Brian, how’s Katie? :) :) :)” Good, I would say bashfully. “Aw! You two are so cute together!” Thanks.

A majority of the conversations I had with my fellow classmates consisted of those very words and usually nothing more. Everyone loved us. I loved us. By the time our relationship ended nine months later, we had kissed nine times. That’s a kiss a month, people!

There was only one person who didn’t support our relationship. Her name was Ms. Trotz, and she ruled PhyEd with an iron fist. I met her in sixth grade too, after hearing a series of the worst rumors middle schoolers could possibly conjure up in their heads about her. Seriously, they were hurtful and offensive rumors, mostly based on the assumption that she was gay, and she would not be working at the middle school if any of them were true. Being assumed gay in 2001 by middle schoolers is a death sentence with a punishment of three-straight years of name-calling and harassment, trust me. Looking back, I see her as a person who would walk in to her first class every year with all of the kids already hating her. What can someone do in that situation? My answer would be “just get those hateful kids to throw foam balls at each other for forty-five minutes, and keep verbal interaction brief and cold,” which she did. I guess middle school is tough for grown-ups too.

Ms. Trotz, if you’re out there, I feel for you and I’m sorry I contributed in the collective hatred of you from my class.

But I’m still going to tell the story about how you scared me and my girlfriend shitless. This is the day I learned the consequences of holding hands with my girlfriend.

Ms. Trotz had already sent me to the Intervention Room once, (Intervention Room = Detention, by the way, which I think is hilarious.), for “jumping” over the foot-high tennis nets…

TROTZ: Brian! I specifically told you to walk around the nets.

ME: But I was trying to get the ball, I lost my balance and I was going to fall into it...

TROTZ: No, I saw you jump over it.

ME: Well I did, but in the interest of not falli—

TROTZ: See? Go to the I.V.

ME: The Intervention Room?! This is injustice!

TROTZ: You don’t know the first thing about injustice.

ME: YOU don’t know the first thing about my jumping intentions!

TROTZ: [pause]

ME: [eyes narrowed in accusation]

TROTZ: [raises a considering eyebrow]

ME: [hopeful eyebrows, thinking I won her over]

TROTZ: Go to the I.V.

ME: Bullocks.

[Acne is nonverbal angst.]

So our relationship didn’t start well.

I suppose I should mention now that Holmen Middle School had a strict “No Public Displays of Affection” policy. It was preached to us so many times that, when sighted, even the students would take a break from their LOL-ing trapper-keeper conversations to gleefully point and yell, “PDA! PDA!” Only they mostly did it out of fear so they wouldn’t be seen as co-conspirators to such unlawful action.

Katie and I were hand-holders. However, with the privilege of having a hand-holding girlfriend comes great responsibility. Because of the rigid No PDA laws in place, we had to always be on the lookout for teachers roaming the halls. We became really good at it, as if each handhold was a prolonged drug exchange and we had to make sure there were no pigs or canaries around.

[I only half-know what I mean by “pigs and canaries.”]

One afternoon Katie and I were walking hand-in-hand, away from our friends, in the solitude of one of the Middle School’s halls. We were strolling happily along when Ms. Trotz suddenly turned the corner and looked right at us. There was nowhere to hide, no one to blame, and not enough time to release our hold. It was the perfect storm. A cold, evil smile ran across Ms. Trotz face. I still get the chills when I picture it.

TROTZ: My office. Now.

US: [gasp!]

TROTZ: I’m not even going to send you to the Intervention Room yet. I want you to call your parents first.

US: [gasp!]

TROTZ: You know our rules about PDA. I caught you red-handed.

US: [gasp! A pun!]

We walked to Ms. Trotz’s office, shivering in our Sketchers. I could already tell that this would not be a good acne week. Katie went first. She came out with blotchy red eyes. “Brian, you can come in now,” said Ms. Trotz. I sauntered over and dialed my mom’s work phone.

MOM: Hello?

ME: [shakily] Hi Mom.

MOM: What’s the matter? Are you alright? Are you sick?

ME: No I’m fine. I’m just getting sent to the I.V. today.

MOM: What’s the I.V.?

ME: It’s where you go if you get in trouble.

MOM: Oh, like detention.

ME: No, it’s the Intervention Room.

MOM: That’s funny.

ME: I know. Listen, they’re making me call you before I go down there.

MOM: Oh God, what did you do now?

ME: What did I do “now”? What’s that supposed to mean?

MOM: I don’t know, were you playing High Five Spin the Bottle again?

ME: THAT WAS THREE YEARS AGO, MOM!

MOM: Still. Are you SongBombing people?

ME: I won't invent that for another ten years. And it won't even really take off (...YET).

MOM: What did you do, Brian?

ME: The real reason I’m going to the I.V. is…well…I was holding hands with Katie.

MOM: [pause]

ME: Mom? You there?

MOM: Is that really what you did?

ME: Yes.

MOM: Don’t lie to me, young man.

ME: MOM I’M NOT LYING. I HELD HANDS WITH KATIE AND MS. TROTZ SENDING ME TO THE INTERVENTION ROOM.

MOM: Oh. Okay. [Clearly suppressing a smirk--I could hear it over the phone] I guess you need to go to the Intervention Room then.

And so, Katie and I spent an hour in the Intervention Room, filling out a half piece of yellow paper stating what we did, why it was wrong, and promising never to do it again. When we got out, the conversations with our classmates changed. They went from a joyful and coy, “Hey Brian, how’s Katie? :) :) :)” to a more somber:

FRIEND: Hey Brian, how’s Katie doing?

ME: She’s doing alright.

FRIEND: Yeah, the Intervention Room had to have been quite the strain on your relationship.

ME: It’s been tough, but we’re pushing through.

FRIEND: Stay strong.

ME: Thanks.

Billy’s Weird Life, (Also dubbed “the most uninspired piece of writing to come out of Brian’s fingers.”)

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Schroeder) — Thu, 15 Sep 2011 18:21:00 +0000

Sometimes I feel like half of me is Timid & Shy Little Brian, and the other part is his boisterous uncle who is always trying to embarrass him. Timid & Shy Little Brian just wants to stay under the radar and live in anonymous peace, but the boisterous uncle is always yanking him out of it and reminding everyone of the time he got stuck in a his girlfriend’s parents’ bathroom. It is because of this conflict that I write this post.

The problem is that I promised I’d do this in my previous post. About a year ago I posted The Fraidy-Cat Lion, which is an endearing and Young Authors Award-winning story written by me in third grade. Yes, third grade, my rebellious year. Between episodes of playing drums with my pencil and playing High-Five Spin The Bottle with a glove, I was writing the damn cutest thing you could ever imagine. That’s right, Mrs. White and that Meatloaf-doppelganger recess aide, I used the pain from your oppressive fists to foster my creativity! Who’s laughing now?

Then fifth grade came along, and with the entrance of scant traces of puberty, more and more of my adorable creativity took its leave. That year it was announced that we would all be writing books to be entered again into the Young Authors contest. Being a veteran of this kind of contest, I was sure that my story would be a shoe-in for the award. But I wouldn’t let the fame make me sloppy; I wanted my new story to have the same artistic integrity and grounded panache as The Fraidy-Cat Lion. So I started brainstorming.

This was the year that I had started reading the Harry Potter books and I wanted nothing more than to be him. Each chapter of the books filled me with such giddy excitement accompanied by the mournful sigh, Oh my sweet goodness, I wish someone would tell ME that I’m a wizard! It permeated my every thought, and clearly affected my dreams as well. So when it came time for me to choose a story to write, I undoubtedly had one choice and one choice only: to use this passion to write a story about a boy who finds out he’s a wizard and is invited to Hogwarts School Of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Creative.

Even more creative, though, is the title. Ladies and gentlemen, Billy’s Weird Life.

["I dedicate this book to my family"...because they don't know that I played High-Five Spin The Bottle yet and I have to rack up all the points I can before conferences.]

[Billy's dad and grandparents are dead ringers for my dad and grandparents. Really, I did a horrible job concealing the fact that Billy is me.]

[My Calvin & Hobbes influence started early. See?]

[My sister drew Billy for me on this page. That is clearly 8th grade artistry.]

[This is one of my favorite pages, because (1) Again, Billy's dad looks just like my dad, (2) I used colored pencil, crayons, AND gel pens to illustrate this, and (3) I thought that people wouldn't recognize the golden starlike shapes as "sparks."]

[I owned a shirt just like that at the time. Billy = me.]

[I amazed even myself with my mountain-drawing abilities. WATCH YOUR BACK, BOB ROSS.]

[I'm not fully sure what is going on here between Billy's mom and dad, but it seems as though I was hinting at some sort of deeper problems in that relationship.]

[The Chair-Moving Spell: A favorite among weary-legged wizards.]

[Billy ends up being HOMESCHOOLED? What the HELL?]

[Probably not the best idea to end the book with a fragment sentence.]

I did not win the Young Authors Award that year. During the assembly during which the award winner would be announced, I sat confidently cross-legged, ready to stand up and accept the prize. But it never happened. I was crushed.

How could I not have won? Comments written by my classmates on the back cover of the book included such praise, as:

Cool! - Hans

Cool book! It was really GOOD! I liked the idea about "Harry Potter" ~Alyssa~

Very good book! I loved the not very many mistakes. Cool(written with eyes in the O's and a silly, tongue-wagging smile underneath)! - James

I guess that's that. You've now read my embarrassing fifth grade novel. And it's all because of that embarrassment-fixated second half of myself. There aren't any more on this subject, thank God. (Well, except for my seventh grade autobiography.)

DAMN YOU, SECOND HALF OF MYSELF!

My Name’s Harry Potter and I Love Horses

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Schroeder) — Mon, 05 Sep 2011 19:00:00 +0000

I can’t stop dreaming that I am Harry Potter. Seriously, take a look: Not only was I Harry Potter in this post, but I was also Jesus (a puzzle I don’t even want to begin to solve); and I never told you this, readers, but in Dream #3 of this DreamBomb series, I was actually Harry again. I blame J.K. Rowling for being such a good writer of relateable characters. Her, and the fact that I probably secretly wish that I was a wizard and the only time I can say that out loud is when I’m dreaming. When I was younger it was harder to keep it quiet.

In fifth grade I had written a short book called Billy’s Weird Life (which I must admit is quite the literary zenith of a title), about a boy who learns that he is a wizard and goes on an adventure while traveling to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I would totally post the story here like I did The Fraidy-Cat Lion but trust me, folks, Billy’s Weird Life is nowhere near as endearing or funny as that one. It’s really just a poorly formed, copyright-infringing story with “I WISH WIZARDS WERE REAL AND THAT I WAS ONE OF THEM!” screaming between every line. So I won’t post it. (You know I probably will.)

[That's all I'll give you for now. Click to embiggen.]

And once again I have dreamt that I am Harry Potter. Here it is.

My friends and I (you know, Ron and Hermione) were in hiding because, obviously, Voldemort was trying to chase us down. So for those of you who are keeping count, I was the “Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows” Harry Potter, the one who’s all dark and cynical now because he just wants to be a normal famous wizard. Dinner that night was canned pasta alfredo, as in the whole meal was in one can. Noodles, chicken, white sauce. It was even bland in my mind. I choked it down, wishing for some Sriracha sauce to squeeze on top.

But something better than Sriracha arrived. A freaking horse, people. It was light brown and kind of looked like a tall Airedale terrier with a mane. I knew immediately that Dumbledore had sent it.

[Let me stop right here to say that I KNOW that at least one of you Harry Potter nerds reading would interrupt and say, “Wait wait wait wait…By The Deathly Hallows, Dumbledore is DEAD, Brian. He was killed in The Half-Blood Prince and you know it!” I DO know it, my friends. Frankly, I’m a little embarrassed that my unconscious mind didn’t pick up on this when I was dreaming it. I promise it will never happen again.]

I quickly slung myself onto the horse and went on an adventure. It was quite a long adventure and I didn’t know where I was going, but I remember a Rocky workout-like scene, where they cover days and days worth of activity in a short segment, during which the horse and I bonded. It was heartwarming.

[No, not like that.]

Soon enough, in the middle of the night, we arrived a stable owned by a crotchety old man. He let us in, begrudgingly, but I would have to stay in the stable with the horse. I was okay with that, since apparently in my dreams I’m okay with sleeping on a floor strewn with horse poo.

The next night I was introduced to the petulant old man’s wife, who kept dropping hints about my horse being special, which confused me. And then she told me that the reason her husband was mad at me was because he wanted the magical clarinet I had with me.

ME: What?

HER: A magical clarinet.

ME: Why would I have a magical clarinet?

HER: You just do. In your bag.

ME: No way.

HER: Yes way. Look in your bag. See that box? What’s inside?

ME: Woah. A clarinet. And you say it’s magical?

HER: Sort of. It can play like a bunch of magical songs.

ME: Who gives a crap about that?

HER: My husband.

ME: Well he can have it if you want.

HER: Oh, that would be great. Maybe he’ll stop griping now.

It was the strangest conversation. Then my horse, whose name turned out to be Midnight (I know, right?), came out of the stable. He was skinny, but not gaunt skinny; it was more as if a picture of him had been stretched vertically, so he was all disproportionate and lanky. I turned to the stable owner’s wife.

ME: What the heck happened to my horse?

HER: Oh, that. His body reacts to the conditions of storms. See how there’s a small storm forming in the distance? That’s why his body is like that; the storm is small, so he’s small. That’s why he’s called Midnight.

ME: That makes no sense whatsoever.

HER: It does in this state of your brain.

ME: What?

HER: Nevermind.

ME: Can I still ride him?

HER: Sure! Just jump on.

So I jumped on top of Midnight, even though it felt like I was riding a wooden sawhorse (get it? SawHORSE?), and we rode off into the woods. The stable owner’s wife yelled after me, “Oh! And he understands everything that you say!”

This new realization was so exciting for me. No wonder we had bonded so well! I said “Go left!” without moving Midnight’s reins, and he went left. I said “Slow down just a bit,” and he did just that. And then I told him all of my personal secrets because I knew he would listen.

Then I woke up.

I texted Christie right away when I woke up, to share the story with a fellow Harry Potter nerd, and also so I could remember as many details as I could. She replied, saying, “That’s a good one! You should blog about it today.” I told her I couldn’t because I didn’t want to cheapen my relationship with Midnight by joking about it. I’m sure she didn’t know if she should laugh or not.

The day I learned that it’s good to tell the truth about NOT making out with your 3rd grade classmates.

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Schroeder) — Thu, 18 Aug 2011 21:03:00 +0000

I’m pretty sure my 3^rd grade teacher, Mrs. White, had a personal vendetta against me. Or maybe I was just always in the wrong place at the wrong time, like that time I was recounting my most recent laser tag adventure with my friends and got chastised for making a gun shape with my fingers. Sure, it was only months after the Columbine shooting, but as a non-news following ten year-old, I had no idea that making a gun shape with one’s thumb and forefinger was now considered threatening. Well excuse me, Mrs. White.

Then there was that time that I was rolling my pencil from the top of my book to the bottom while not listening to the English lesson:

MRS. WHITE: So Brian, I see you’re playing drums again with your pencil.

ME: Clearly that’s not what you see.

MRS. WHITE: I see what I see, and you’re playing drums!

ME: How does rolling my pencil like this constitute playing drums? I’m not tapping it or anything.

MRS. WHITE: Just stop playing drums, Brian.

ME: What kinds of bands do you listen to? Do they play drums like I do? Can they only play on a slight incline? Does the guitarist play in the same fashion? I can’t imagine how that would work.

MRS. WHITE: Go sit in the corner.

ME: Bullocks.

Because of Mrs. White’s constant raking me across the coals, my tenth year was mostly spent with the sneaking suspicion that somehow I had, against my will, gone bad and was on some sort of inescapable moral decline.

Perhaps my succumbing to that very thought caused me to commit the following act, which haunts me to this day. This, of course, is the day I learned that it’s good to tell the truth about NOT making out with your 3^rd grade classmates.

It was at recess in January and I was hanging out with my mixed-gender group of friends when one of them suggested, “Wanna play Spin The Bottle?”

Silence.

Of course we didn’t want to play Spin The Bottle. I experienced my first semi-crush a year later, and any sort of desire to kiss a girl didn’t develop for a year after that. Spin The Bottle was something that I had always imagined happened somewhere around seventh grade.

(For the record, to this day, I have not once played Spin The Bottle. I think that game is just an allusion that television shows use to help preteens deal with questions about attraction and sexual growth. Maybe it was big in the sixties and seventies, maybe even the eighties, but not once have I heard of someone my age who actually played Spin The Bottle when they were younger. If anyone has, PLEASE take advantage of my comments section and tell me about it.)

After a clumsy silence, my friend quickly covered his steps.

FRIEND: Uh, of course I meant High Five Spin The Bottle. No kissing. Just high fives.

THE REST OF US: Sure, okay. That seems age-appropriate.

And so, we went up on the hill in our playground, circled up, and Tia—the Australian foreign exchange student—took off her Tweety Bird glove and placed it in the center. Then one of my more daring friends spun it and bashfully high-fived the girl it landed on. When it was my turn, I spun the glove and when I saw it landed on someone, I yelled “YEAH!” and high-fived her. This was met with gasps.

ME: What?

THEM: I think you’re taking this all too lightly.

ME: Really? It’s just a high-five.

THEM: It’s high-five SPIN THE BOTTLE. The stakes are much higher. If we were in seventh grade, we’d be kissing and some of us would be getting coupled-off to go have Closet Time. I saw it on The Adventures of Pete & Pete.

ME: I didn't know you watched that.

THEM: We LOVE it! Two brothers, one name. What a hilarious situation!

ME: Whatever. The deal is, we're not in seventh grade. We’re high-fiving like normal, non-sexually committed 3^rd graders; it’s just that we’re leaving it up to the chance of a spun glove.

THEM: It’s so much more than that! This is practice for the world that inevitably awaits us. This game is the single most important stepping stone into our teenage years.

ME: I think you’re over-thinking it.

THEM: I THINK YOU’RE UNDER-THINKING IT.

So I pretended to take it more seriously. We kept this game going for two recess periods, feeling more and more rebellious. There was even talk about one couple actually kissing but that never amounted to anything, because in second grade we had all watched a video about a kid who kissed a girl at school and got expelled and was screwed for the rest of his life, so we were all afraid of that happening.

Then someone told on us. One of the meanest, nastiest recess patrol officers walked up the hill toward us. She looked exactly like Meatloaf. The singer.

***

You would have thought we were just told all of our dogs had died in a mysterious cement mixer accident. We were sentenced to a week's worth of recesses sitting by the outside wall of the school building, also known Azkaban, under the watchful eye of it's main dementor Ms. Meatloaf.

[I'm not saying that Evergreen Elementary hires cocaine users. However, if they hired Meatloaf, then that's exactly what I'm saying.]

It was a tough week. What’s such a mystery about the whole experience is that NONE OF US had the brains to tell anyone, “Oh hey, it actually was High-Five Spin The Bottle. There was no kissing. Just high-fives.” We took our punishment like little baby douche-raccoons, perhaps because we felt like playing this watered-down version of Spin The Bottle was too close to having Closet Time.

What's worse is that I didn’t tell my parents about this incident until parent-teacher conferences a month later, which means that I had nothing but diarrhea for thirty days. And still, I didn’t tell them that we only high-fived instead of kissed until one day, while retelling the story a decade later, I told them the truth. What a relief.

*Honest to God, she looked EXACTLY like that.

**I distinctly remember her saying that. I also remember NOT thinking that she was born yesterday.

***Okay, there's a small chance that this Meatloaf picture is actually Neil Young.

Blogiversary II (And the story of my URL)

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Schroeder) — Thu, 11 Aug 2011 20:14:00 +0000

Four score and two years ago (minus the four score) a 21-year-old man started a blog.

His name was me.

I mean, that was me. I did that. I was the 21-year-old and I started a blog two years ago today. This one. Called Popcorn Day. It’s my second blogiversary today. Are you following now?

It seems like only yesterday I was home fresh from a trip to Europe during which I discovered I had a panic disorder (I’ve found that many of the most successful bloggers suffer from similar ailments) but also discovered I love blogging and couldn’t for the life of me stop, so I started Popcorn Day based on a dream I had once.

As I began to set up the blog, I entered Popcornday.blogspot.com to check its availability. After a suspenseful moment or two spent watching as the words “Checking Availability” added and subtracted periods from their ellipsis, like the colorful pinwheel that Apple uses to say "I'm thinking, dammit," I was saddened to see that the URL wasn’t available. “Who could possibly have a blog with that title?” I wondered angrily. So I typed in the URL that SHOULD BE MINE, pressed enter, and discovered one of the strangest and mysterious blogs I’ve ever seen.

The blog, entitled “Super Queen Gum 2 Your Rescue,” consists of 19 posts, each written either on November 28^th, 2009, or February 6^th, 2010. Every post has one picture, accompanied by a colorful sentence all in caps lock, mostly relating to either this woman’s birthday or Christmas presents.

THIS is why I couldn’t have popcornday.blogspot.com.

I was pissed.

To this day, the woman who refers to herself as Super Queen Gum (yet her name on her profile page is PopCornDay) is an enigma. Is her name actually PopCornDay? Or is it Super Queen Gum, which is just as implausible? Who IS Oldman and why does he go gaga to get Godiva Teddies for her? And where did he get all his money?

I’ve commented on one of her posts to try to get some more information about her, but received no response. Here is my final plea:

Dear Super Queen Gum (2 my rescue),

We share something that I believe is very special: Popcorn Day. When I first discovered our unique bond, I resented you because I wanted your URL. It’s been two years now and not only have I forgiven you but I’ve grown to love your unchanging, brief blog, like an online Pompeii, images frozen just like they were on November 28^th, 2009 and February 6^th, 2010. It’s beautiful, really.

What I’d like to ask of you is that you contact me, in all your colorful, all-caps glory if you so desire. Explain to me the mystery of what Popcorn Day means to you, so I no longer have to wonder. This is all I ask, Super Queen Gum.

Best regards,

Brian Schroeder, your friend from Popcorn Day

And so, I reluctantly settled with Brian-Schroeder.blogspot.com. Someday I’ll write to the douchemeister who owns Popcornday.com and uses it only as a referral to his other site. SOME PEOPLE WANT THAT URL, MAN.

Anyway, happy blogiversary, everyone! Cheers!

Goals for this year:

1. Don’t you DARE miss National Popcorn Day, January 19^th again.

GREAT NEW IDEA: OKakes!

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Schroeder) — Tue, 02 Aug 2011 15:18:00 +0000

Have you ever wanted to make someone happy by surprising them with a sugary treat, and reply affirmatively to their question at the same time? THEN LOOK NO FURTHER.

As the inventor of SongBomb©™, PoemBomb©™, and RapAttack©™, I am proud to introduce new phenomenon which will be sweeping the nation in no time:

OKakes!

OKakes! are the perfect treat for answering questions in a fun and meaningful way! This is how they work:

1.) Someone asks you a question, for which your answer will ultimately be “Okay.”

2.) Instead of answering, drop whatever you’re doing and run away.

3.) Go and make a cake. It could be any kind of cake, really; a big cake, a little cake, cupcakes, petit fours…really, whatever you want.

4.) Decorate your cake with frosting, and squeeze “OK” onto it.

5.) Bring your newly made OKake to your friend who asked you the question.

6.) They will then reply to your tasty treat/answer with a smile, laughter, a hug, or tears of joy. They’ll LOVE it.

OKakes! are a most versatile concoction! Check out what these fine customers have used them for!

. . .

See? They’re a perfect idea! Call now for an OKakes! Starters Pack, complete with OKakes! Guide to the Perfect Positive Response, including tips for making OKakes! in advance!*

*It is recommended, especially for the smaller OKakes!, that you keep the letter O and K on the same cake. If not, your friends may wonder why you have KKKakes! sitting around your house.

I hath drunk from thy healing waters, Princess Owatonna

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Schroeder) — Fri, 29 Jul 2011 21:39:00 +0000

My parents are relatively trustworthy people. However, when their college friends come over for the weekend and storytime rolls around after a few beers/dirty martinis, I think I have a valid reason to trust them less. This is what went down that night, as they recounted their many visits to the guys’ hometown, Owatonna, Minnesota:

MOM’S FRIEND: Oh God, did they ever make you drink from the Owatonna Princess?

DAD: Those are some healing waters, right there!

MOM: Oh yes. I had to drink from the Princess.

DAD’S FRIEND: And she was healed of all her infirmities!

[They all laugh. I stare. The conversation shifts.]

ME: Whoa, hang on. Wait a second. What is this Princess fountain?

DAD: You’ve never drunk from the Owatonna Princess fountain?

ME: Nope.

DAD: Yes you have! Of course you’ve drunk from the Owatonna Princess! You’re my son, and Schroeder boys drink from the Princess.

DAD’S FRIEND: Healing waters!

[Smirks. Snickers.]

ME: No, I haven’t.

DAD: Are you sure?

ME: I swear by the Princess herself.

DAD & HIS FRIEND: SWEAR NOT BY THE PRINCESS!

MOM’S FRIEND: Ugh. I refused to drink from the Owatonna Princess. It was too gross and I’m not that kind of lady.

DAD: Well you need to. How do you expect to ever experience the fullness of joy without drinking from the healing Owatonna Princess Fountain?

DAD’S FRIEND: [Stands, gesturing towards heaven.]

O, Princess Owatonna,

one sip of thy cool flowing waters

is all that I desire

…or need.

Bless me with thy watery beauty

that falls freely from thy willowy locks…

I need consume nothing more!

[They snicker and punch each other in the arm. A knucks bump is shared.]

I would say that I had reason to be concerned. Though they very well could have been talking about an actual fountain somewhere in Owatonna, this was beginning to sound like either a reference to some bizarre drug experience or a disgusting sexual encounter. NEITHER OF WHICH I WANTED TO HEAR ABOUT. (I wouldn’t even include them on my other sex blog.)

Needless to say, I dropped the subject, assuming this was some sort of deranged local Owatonnean practice or rite-of-passage that I really didn’t want to hear about.

Weeks pass and I forget about the Princess. On one weekend my dad and I take a road trip to visit my grandpa, who lives in Owatonna, for his birthday. We eat angelfood cake and the conversation mysteriously shifts to, you guessed it, the Princess Owatonna Fountain.

DAD: Can you believe Brian has never drunk from the Princess?

MY AUNT: YOU MUST DRINK FROM THE PRINCESS!

DAD: Healing waters, right there!

ME: You know about the Princess Fountain too?

MY AUNT: Of course! It’s the very heartbeat of Owatonna history and culture! You have not LIVED until you have drunk from the Princess.

By the smirks on their faces, I can tell that they’re putting me on. This is obviously some sort of inside joke that all Owatonneans have about some kind of frat-house initiation that they all do to outsiders which ultimately ends with the visitor embarrassed and sore, possibly dripping wet and feeling a little violated.

DAD: I’ll take you to the Princess before we leave today.

ME: Like sh** you will.

DAD: Hope you brought your camera!

ME: I’m uncomfortable.

DAD: You could blog about this!

ME: IF I live to make it back to my computer, which I’ll probably use to tell the authorities about you instead.

DAD: Can’t you trust your father?

ME: Not if he’s from Owatonna.

DAD: This is non-negotiable.

ME: I need to make some calls.

Before we left town, Dad drove me to a park with a stream running through it and he said, “There she is. Princess Owatonna.” And I saw this:

[Click to embiggen so you can read THE EPIC LEGEND.]

Princess Owatonna is REAL. And it’s an actual fountain. From mineral springs, which do have healthful and sometimes healing qualities.

I took a drink. It smelled like sulfur and tasted slightly of metal. I’ve drunk from natural mineral springs before in Bad Hamburg, Germany and I’ve had much worse—warm waters that tasted like liquid sand or human sweat, which were apparently wonderfully good for my health and well-being. This, however, was cool and refreshing, though a little mineraly, and I have no idea how it cured a dying Native American princess. Frankly, I was just happy that this experience didn’t leave me tarred and feathered.

So how about that? My parents are relatively trustworthy people.

The day I learned why it's wrong to spit on the ground

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Schroeder) — Tue, 19 Jul 2011 21:03:00 +0000

I led a conflicted existence in second grade. As you’ve read from my journal from that year, my struggles with being a musical kid in a football-dominated elementary school as well as the fact that my best friend was a forbidden GIRL gave me a lot to worry about. I walked a thin line those days, making sure to remain as masculine as possible as to not lose my present male friends or damage future rendezvous with the lady-folk. There was a standard in second grade, and I was constantly struggling to meet it.

Spitting on the ground, I soon discovered, was really quite a novel idea. My dad did it occasionally, baseball players in movies did it all the time while chewing what appeared to be a big brown sock, and so I began as well. My friends also joined me in this venture, and soon we were a gang of spitting hoodlums, not walking a dozen paces before generating as much saliva as we could in order to leave our slimy, foaming signatures on the playground blacktop.

[It was increasingly necessary to stay hydrated in second grade.]

As far as I can remember this was an activity that had no negative consequences, and was something that set us apart from everyone else. We were golden. Little did I know that our actions could cause something so dangerous, so life threatening, that even fifteen years later it would remain a globally destructive and horrible epidemic for which there is still no end in sight.

A fellow student (and by fellow student I mean complete a**hole tattletale who doesn’t even deserve to share the same playground with me) came up to my friend and I and questioned our behavior. Actually, it was less of a question and more of a TAUNT.

JERK: Why do you spit on the ground?

US: Because it’s COOL.

LOSER: It looks kind of messy.

US: IT’S COOLER THAN YOU CAN EVER IMAGINE. YOU SUCK!

BUTTFACE: No I don’t! I’m telling the teacher that you’re spitting on the ground!

US: Oh yeah?!

My friends and I then sent a barrage of spit-tooies to the ground to demonstrate our defiance.

Then the teacher walked over and sent us to the principle’s office.

My rebellious vigor dwindled slightly.

Okay, I may have cried.

So there I was sitting in Mr. Eaton’s (the school’s principal whose round stature encouraged a slew of puns about his last name) office, and he began interrogating me.

MR. EATON: Why were you sent here, Brian?

BRIAN: I spit on the ground.

MR. EATON: Is that all you did?

BRIAN: More or less.

MR. EATON: Excuse me?

BRIAN: That’s all I did.

MR. EATON: Okay. Did you ever spit ON anyone?

BRIAN: Not unless the peripheral damage of my giant loogie splashed someone in the nearby vicinity.

MR. EATON: So, no one?

BRIAN: To be honest, I was the one who was the most at-risk in that situation.

MR. EATON: Okay. So you were sent here because you spit on the ground?

BRIAN: Yep.

MR. EATON: And I’m guessing that I’m supposed to tell you WHY merely spitting on the ground outside is a bad thing.

BRIAN: It would make this whole situation a lot clearer.

MR. EATON: Something that sounds truthful, then, so that your limited six-year-old understanding will accept it as absolute fact and I can get you out of my f***ing office?

BRIAN: What?

MR. EATON: Nothing. See, the reason that it’s bad to spit on the ground is … that, uh … um … There’s this disease going around called AIDS, and it’s really bad.

BRIAN: Really?

MR. EATON: Really. And spitting on the ground spreads it. So what you’re doing is dangerous.

BRIAN: I’ve never heard of AIDS before.

MR. EATON: You’ll actually learn about it in class next year, and by then you’ll probably have forgotten that I even told you this.

BRIAN: Interesting. So what’s this disease like and how does someone catch it?

MR. EATON: Oh, you don’t want to hear the specifics; it’s really complicated.

BRIAN: Try me.

MR. EATON: Alright, it’s not passed through saliva as though someone could absorb it through the soles of his or her shoes, the only way that that could happen is if you had blood in your saliva and they had an open wound on their foot, which shoes really prevent from happening anyway. Usually, though, it’s actually sexually transmitted.

MR. EATON: See what I mean?

BRIAN: Vaguely.

MR. EATON: Close enough. Go back to recess.

I left his office with a new knowledge about the consequences of my actions, and a creeping feeling that he was feeding me complete bullsh**.

And that’s the day I learned why it’s wrong to spit on the ground.

(Because you could kill someone.)

Dreambomb, or 50-Word Sagas, or I’m Doing Something I Really Shouldn’t Be Doing.

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Schroeder) — Tue, 12 Jul 2011 20:16:00 +0000

Another round of dreams I’ve had that are too small to devote a whole post to, so I lumped them together as short stories, written with no more or less than fifty words each. Just like the other 50-Word Dreams, these four share a theme. This time, it’s “I’m Doing Something I Really Shouldn’t be Doing.” I hope you enjoy your face off.

Dream #1

While sharing a pool with three women (it wasn’t a sexual dream, like the other blog), our conversation was repeatedly interrupted by one girl making a sound like a muffled car horn. My frustration increased to the point of consciousness, where I discovered the sound came from my snoring dog.

Dream #2

Mom was sick, so I agreed to assist her in eating the potato chips held between her toes. When our new Romanian maid arrived, I let her take my place. (It’s a two-person job anyway.)

“She’s doing it wrong!” my mom croaked immediately.

“Be patient, Mom; it’s her first time.”

Dream #3

Secretly lighting cigars to celebrate God knows what, my friends and I smoke (but oh dear Lord don’t inhale) happily at my roommate’s cabin, making sure to avoid the gaze of disapproving parents. Suddenly one approaches and all cigars are extinguished, save mine, which I shove wholly in my mouth.

Dream #4

The tour of a WWII destroyed mansion was getting boring when, upon inspection, I discovered a Krisp Kringle hidden amongst the rubble.

Oh boy! My favorite crunchy, chocolaty treat!

Then I saw another.

And another!

They were everywhere! It was like a Krisp Kringle egg hunt!

I stole them all.

The end.

Happy Flowerth of July!

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Schroeder) — Mon, 04 Jul 2011 21:46:00 +0000

PEW! PEW! PEWPEWPEW!

["Aww! Cute little ones!"]

paTOP! paTOP! Fsssssshhhhhh KAPOW!!

["WHOA! Didn't expect that one to come out amongst the others!"]

KARSH! KIRSH! HHHWWWWOOOOOOOO!!

["Ooh pretty! This is probably the grand finale!"]

Shoop! Shoop! Shoop! Fizzzzzzzz!

["Oh they surprised me again! Nice little interlude!"]

kaTOE! kaTOETOETOE! TOE!

["OHLOOKATALLOFTHEM!!"]

I could do this all day.

If only we could grow Tom Thumb donuts, I'd never have to go out for the 4th of July again.

I just really like pocket doors, okay?

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Schroeder) — Tue, 28 Jun 2011 21:35:00 +0000

I’ve had to say that so many times in the past couple days. All because of this story…

So I was at Christie’s last week, and since we had a lot of errands to run that day, we decided in the morning that I would use her parent’s master bathroom to shower and she would shower in the other bathroom in order to save time.

Routine procedure. We’d done this before. However, soon everything went wrong.

You see, Christie’s parents’ bathroom is one room with a shower, Jacuzzi tub, and sink, and there’s a smaller toilet room inside with its own pocket door.

And I love pocket doors.

I think it’s cool how they can just disappear into the wall making that cool sliding noise, and have their own special hook-like locks that are different than other locks. I also like how, though the door has handles on the side, to pull it out of the wall you must push on the little hook lock and pull it with your finger to close it. My grandparents had one at their lake home, and I used to play with it all the time. Pocket doors are like little extra walls that are actually doors that appear like Inspector Gadget’s arms.

I just really like pocket doors, okay?

So after I turned on the shower to let the water warm up, I decided to take a little wee in the tiny toilet room. And of course I closed the pocket door and locked it. After I had flushed, I went to unlatch the pocket door and it was stuck. The little knobbity-switch thing didn’t turn all the way.

It took me only a few seconds to realize the gravity of the situation.

"1. I'm trapped in a 3x5 foot toilet room.

2. I locked the door to the main bathroom.

3. The windows are closed.

4. The shower is on.

5. Christie is showering elsewhere.

6. No one else is home."

The best thing about this situation was that I still had clothes on.

I was trapped in the bathroom.

With the heat in the toilet room rising because of the now steaming shower, I began to use my escape game skills to find a way out. Unfortunately, I found no screwdrivers (escape games always have screwdrivers) or secret compartments opened with a code I found written on the side of a bookshelf. (This reference is only relevant to the ten people in the world who actually play escape games…Sorry, the rest of you.) The only tool-like things available were Christie’s mom’s jewelry, and I considered trying to use some of it to unscrew the screws on the handle, but when I imagined her mom having to call in firemen to break down her bathroom doors with axes to get me out, I was thinking that coming out with a handful of bent and broken jewelry would probably not be the best idea. So I continued thinking.

[Only the first five seconds of this video are relevant, but for some reason I couldn't help but put it up. Call me adorable.]

And then it came to me. The wall opposite the pocket door faced the main entryway in their house. So I started knocking. And knocking and knocking until Christie’s dog started barking. I felt like Bear Grylls when he sees a boat in the distance from the deserted island he’s stranded on, which means he can board the boat, or you know, be picked up by the Discovery Channel helicopter...either way, the end credits are rolling.

After about fifteen minutes of knocking (during which Christie has admitted to taking a long shower, reading, and cleaning her room because I was taking so long in the “shower”) Christie finally came down to yell at her dog and then realized the bizarre The Tell-Tale Heart-like knocking coming from the other side of the wall.

She knocked back. I sent another knock.

CHRISTIE: Brian?

BRIAN: knock knock knock knock knock

CHRISTIE: BRIAN?!

BRIAN: Christie! You’ll never guess what happened…

CHRISTIE: What?

BRIAN: I’m trapped in the little toilet room because the pocket door’s lock is broken.

CHRISTIE: (trying and failing to open the locked bathroom door) BRIAN!! Why did you lock it?

BRIAN: I just really like pocket doors, okay?

CHRISTIE: But the other door’s locked and the windows are closed and the shower’s on.

BRIAN: Thanks, but I have already established that.

CHRISTIE: I don’t know what to do!

BRIAN: Well, are there hinges on your side?

CHRISTIE: No.

BRIAN: Are there screws on the handle?

CHRISTIE: No.

BRIAN: Bollocks.

While Christie was trying to unlock the door with a bobby pin, she called her mom (which made me glad I didn’t use her jewelry). Hearing one side of the conversation, I remember Christie saying, “I asked him that too…I guess he just really likes pocket doors.”

Christie’s mom then came home with a family friend/handyman who took a coat hanger and unlocked the bathroom door and then used a screwdriver to unlock the pocket door, revealing me, sweaty, red-faced, and unshowered in the doorway.

I would love to say, “And then I woke up,” but this was no dream, folks. I had been in there for an hour.

That whole time-saving thing that Christie and I had planned was kind of ruined at that point. And I still hadn’t showered.

I just really like pocket doors, okay?