SITTING.

"Is this seat taken?"

CLICK ME

There's something about sitting that makes you as useless as a "Z" block (see image above). Aside from transportation and defecation, there's really no situation where seated is the optimal position. About three months ago I came across the infographic STANDING to the left of this paragraph. According to this stylized Surgeon General's warning, taking a load off (not to be confused with pinching a loaf off) can really take a toll on your body. When I first made this discovery I thought to myself, "This doesn't apply to me. I exercise for at least thirty minutes a day and subscribe to Men's Health Magazine." Then BAM! Third box down, first sentence:   

"Sitting 6+ hours a day makes you 40% likelier to die within 15 years than someone who sits less than 3. Even if you exercise."

After a quick calculation, I concluded that I spend approx. 70 hours a week on my ass. I immediately spammed my coworkers, sprung out of my wheelie chair and began searching for an object that would raise my laptop to eye level. After commandeering an Ikea side table from one of our meeting rooms, I was one step closer to prolonging my date with death.

I never said it looked cool. That Nick Carter circa 1990s haircut isn't helping our cause, pal.

 My argument for standing may have spawned from those "irrefutable" health approximations, but it strengthened once I got to thinking about all of the other reasons why sitting kinda sucks.

"Mark! Stop playing with yourself!"

Exhibit A: Crime & Punishment

As a romantically mature kindergartner at Myrtle Beach Primary School, I used to chase my female classmates around the jungle gym, lick their arms from wrist to shoulder and claim I just French kissed them. As a result, I would be banished to the corner like the pint-sized deviant to your left while fellow students berated my victims for having "COOTIES!" If I chased kindergarten girls around now, my punishment would be similar except I'd be sitting on a much sorer rectum in the corner of a jail cell after some perpetual inmate named Sodomy Steve demolished my colon. Either way, the punishment is the same. You're forced to sit and think about what you did.

See? ^ Clucker.

Exhibit B: Sitting Is Sad 

What do you do when you're down on your luck and no one seems to give a cluck? (Get it? There's a fowl by Neo's feet, and it couldn't care less about his emotional state. Ahhh, F-U. I thought it was funny.) You sit. You sit there like Keanu, just wallowing in self pity. Have you ever seen someone standing in self pity? NO! Because standing = winning. What do you do once you've discovered the source of your depression? You get off your ass and do something about it. What if you never sat in that steaming pile of sorrow in the first place?   

"Hey George, get a load of my obelisk."

Exhibit C: Sitting Isn't Intimidating

For as awe-inspiring as the Lincoln Memorial may be, imagine if honest Abe was upright, arms crossed and glaring down at you over those chiseled cheek bones. Our slavery ending forefather currently looks like he's about to tweak his foreskin to Washington's Monument. Either that, or the Jefferson Memorial put him in timeout. When my dad used to give me commands like, "Clean up your toys" or "Stop licking stains on the carpet," I didn't actually listen until he propelled himself off the couch and towered over me like a cresting tidal wave. When a man stands, you know he means business.    




Although my chair-free months have been met with spiteful insults, scathing commentary and accusations of attention whoring (and that's just to my face), I will continue ignoring my right-angled critics and remain a stand-up guy (triple meaning).

How you'll feel after a few months of standing. Unfortunately, you'll still look like Mr. "Backstreet's Back" up there.

SALONS.

Props to Sam Chow & Sam Wheat (Ghost reference) for the killer hair.

There's something about salons that make me feel like a virgin (HEY!), touched for the very first time. A male's first time. Not that painful, bloody, emotional mess you ladies experience during your inaugural romp in the sack (or backseat of your parents car, or broom closet, or wherever the kids are banging these days). That's more like a trip to the dentist. 

"Who wants a filling!?"

About once every two months I nervously pick up the phone and arrange a boutique-call with my stylist. When the big day finally rolls around I stand in my closet for at least thirty minutes trying to decide what to wear (A decision that's usually dictated by what color will hide nervous belly sweat the best). I then spritz myself with cologne, take a final glance in the mirror and say, "Go get her, Tiger!"

Or lion.

Like most losses of virginity, I gave into the gentle caresses of a stylist as a result of low self-esteem. My emotionally tormented youth began with my first bite of cheeseburger. As my teeth tore through that delicious medley of bovine by-products, my body said goodbye to the chance of getting laid before the latter half of my high school career. By the time I was eight, I looked like I ate half of my classmates. Therefore, my hair was the least of my concerns (Unless it fell into my food. Then we got PROBLEMS!). 

I used to get my hair did at what our forefathers called, "barbers." Barbers have two specialties, bowl cuts and buzz cuts. I'm ashamed to say I've rocked both, or I guess I should say "rolled both," due to my rotund physique. But things changed in 11th grade. I decided I wanted to trade deliciously unhealthy food for the touch of a woman. After a summer of intensive training and a timely growth spurt, I was finally at a point where girls didn't cringe at the sight of me in a swimsuit. However, one problem persisted. My HAIR. 

My junior yearbook picture. CRIPES!

I remember the final straw like it was yesterday. The season was autumn, the skies were overcast, my hair was freshly butchered and the school was being evacuated due to a bomb threat. The single-file evacuation line was disrupted by a frienemy who broke form to sprint up to me and say, 

"WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO YOUR HEAD?". 
"Dude! Shut up!" I begged. "I got a haircut yesterday. PLEASE don't draw attention to it." 

He nodded in agreement and reoccupied his original place in line. Somehow I knew I hadn't seen the last of him. No sooner did we reach the government mandated safety distance, I was encircled by approximately a dozen of my male peers. 

"Oooooooh shit." I thought as they stoically surrounded me like a military battalion. 
"A-ten-HUT!" the previous provocateur yelled.

Like cooperative soldiers, each of the participating troublemakers gave me a strong salute, placing their hands in a straight line across their foreheads to resemble my bowl cut. With little else to do in the "safe zone" besides pluck blades of grass and play grab ass with one another, students from all grades began migrating over to see what all the laughs were about. People I didn't even know joined in on the joke. Before I knew it, I was staring into a sea of salutes.

I'm somewhat ashamed to admit this, but I cried. I cried like a little boy being picked on by his older brother. So who did I run to after the damage was done?

"I just became the laughing stock of the WHOLE SCHOOL!" I complained to my older sibling.
"Why?" He asked, already knowing the answer.
"My haircut!"
"Duh. I could have told you that." 
"Then why didn't you!?"
"Mom told me not to!"
"Mom knows!?"
"Mark, anyone with eyes can see that your barber used a razor and a popcorn bowl to mangle that mane."
"Well what do I do!?"
"Do you have fifty dollars?"
"Yeah."
"Then leave it to me."

Justin reached for his phone and dialed his stylist, Orlando (pronounced: or-LAWN-dough). 

"Get in the car." He commanded.
"But why?" 
"Because you look like a mushroom and unless that's how you want to be remembered for the rest of your high school career, I suggest you do as I say."

I did as he said. Moments later I was standing in the foyer of my first hair salon. The smell was vastly different from the burnt pubes and aftershave scent I had grown accustomed to at my regular barber shop.

"Welcome back, Justin. Is this the emergency you were talking about?" asked the ridiculously hot receptionist sitting at the front desk.
"This is it." Justin responded, gesturing to my head with both hands.
"Wow! You weren't kidding." she said after studying my dome.
"Barbers." Justin explained.
"Barbers." she confirmed.

We took a seat by a coffee table containing every fashion magazine known to (wo)man. A far cry from the Guns & Ammos and Motor Trends I was used to skimming at my regular chop shop. Before I could even open an issue of GQ, a gorgeous woman retrieved me from the leather sofa and led me to the shampooing station. She sat me down at a sink and began lathering my hair with her pleasantly boney fingers. It kind of tickled, but in a good way. So good, in fact, I had to cross my thighs. She left me in a trance of tranquility so deep, I hardly remember the haircut itself. The next thing I knew, I was being spun 180 degrees to see what was made of my "emergency."

I returned to school the following day ready to confront my critics head on. I waltzed up to the ring leader of yesterdays ridicule, tapped him on the shoulder and struck a Superman-esque pose.

"Hello, MATT."

He turned and assessed my new do.

"I see someone got their ears lowered." he acknowledged.
"That. I. Did." I responded with pride.

Matt paused for a moment, desperately trying to think of a new insult. He was stumped, or so I thought. 

"HEY EVERYBODY!" he screamed. "Mark got ANOTHER haircut! What a pussy!" he shouted while running around the pre-class common area.

That whole ordeal taught me two very important lessons. 1) There's no way to avoid grade school mockery. 2) If you're in need of a self-esteem boost, skip the insecurity sex and just book an appointment at a salon.

BROTHERS.

My older bro in all of his glory.

There's something about brothers that's kind of like gravity. Sometimes they keep you grounded, and other times they just push your ass to the ground and threaten to do it again if you say anything to mom. In my case, "brothers" means "brother," and today just so happens to be this goofy gent's birthday (see picture above). What better gift could I possibly give him than a blog post I will never directly show him? And thanks to his complete aversion to virtual social networks, the odds of him stumbling upon this post lie somewhere between the chances of me writing the next great American novel and winning Taylor Swift's heart with a Tweet. Therefore, IT'S GO TIME MOTHA F%$KA! (NOTE TO SELF: Inappropriate threat for a biological sibling.)

"STOP CALLING ME FAT!"

I'll kick things off with a fun little tale of trust (or the abuse thereof). One day in my youth while mother ran to the corner store and father brought home the bacon, Justin was assigned the task of making me breakfast. His instructions were simple.

1. Poor Rice Krispies into a bowl.
2. Add milk.
3. Hand to Mark. 

Easy enough, right? Not for my brother. Somewhere between steps 2 and 3, Justin chose to improvise. After taking stock of any additional ingredients lying around the kitchen, he decided to spice things up a bit by spiking my cereal with our dad's Jack Daniel's.

     "Justeen, why ma millk broun?" asked infant me. 
     "Because I put chocolate in it!" responded my demented brethren.

My vocabulary wasn't very vast at that age, but I could distinguish the syllables of "chocolate" from a mile away. I took a gasp of excitement so large, the Jack Krispies practically funneled towards my mouth like a water spout. Just as I started to dig in with my eating utensil, Justin valiantly shouted, "WAIT," slapping the spoon from my hand.

     "Wha u dooo dat, Justeen!?" I inquired with tears gathering in my tiny eyes.
     "Because it was POISONED!" He confessed.
     "U possoned mhe?" I questioned, completely befuddled.
     "No! I SAVED you. And you can thank me by not telling mom." He explained, pouring the tainted cereal down the drain.

And that's kind of how things went during my early adolescence. Justin would come up with a sick practical joke and I'd be his involuntary assistant. Our roles remained the same until he hit puberty. Faster than a teenage boy's voice cracks around a cheerleader, I became a convenient deflector for his classmate's cruelty. The more his peers dissed him for being tall and gangly, the more he insulted me for be short and tubby.

Me & Justin

But I'm not going to turn this entire birthday post into a roast. Fact is, there have been some very "aww" worthy moments during our life sentence as siblings. For the sake of being fair and balanced, I'll share his most recent (and arguably most significant) impact on my existence.

Once upon a time, I was preparing to pack up my entire life and move from Myrtle Beach, SC to Austin, TX in TWO WEEKS. I didn't have a car. I didn't have any friends or family out there. I had no fucking CLUE where I was going to live. I had a stack of student loans you could see from outer space. And, I had just over a grand in my bank account. My stress level was so high, my blood pressure tests resulted in a frowny face emoticon and a "911." I seriously contemplated rejecting the job offer I was moving for and spending the rest of my life as my mom's roommate. Then I got a call from Justin.
   
     "Congratulations!" he started.
     "Congratulations my ass! I don't think I can do this." I responded.

I proceeded to rattle off the aforementioned worries and insecurities. Just as my anxiety skyrocketed, Justin did what big brothers and gravity do best, he kept me grounded. I'm paraphrasing, but his pep talk went a little something like this,
     
     "Look, you ungrateful little prick. Have you opened up a newspaper recently? There are thousands of unemployed people out there trying to maintain a mortgage and a family, and you're boohooing over an exciting opportunity to move halfway across the country for a full-time job. Stop being a little bitch and recognize how fortunate you are."

His inspiring words worked wonders. By the time I hung up the phone I had stopped being a "little bitch" and started scouring Austin's Craig's List for subleases. It's because of Justin I'm typing this post from the capital of Texas, in an apartment I'm paying for, with the salary I'm earning, from the job I would have probably overlooked if it weren't for my older brother (try reading that 10 times fast). 

So Happy Birthday, Ringworm (our term of endearment). If you're reading this, I'm writing the next great American novel, cuddling with Taylor Swift and reminiscing on life as your little brother. Consensus? I don't hate it.

Me & Justin

FREEDOM.

The Embodiment of America

There’s something about freedom that’s kind of like a free kitten (or puppy for all of you dog lovers). You don’t realize how much of a mess it causes until it’s yours. Now before the NSA gets all Patriot Act on my ass, I’d like to make something clear. I LOVE AMERICA! I LOVE FREEDOM! And I LOVE STEPHEN COLBERT! (Side Note: That pic is my current wallpaper.) That being said…

My first beef with freedom is my inability to blame others for my shortcomings. Have you ever complained about not doing something you wanted to, only to have a parent, friend or total stranger ask, “Well, why didn’t you?” Growing up, the answer was simple, “My parent(s) wouldn’t let me. :( ” Nowadays when someone hits me with that puzzling inquiry, all excuses point back to one culprit, ME. I was too lazy. I was too scared. I was too busy Yelping (Check out my profile at okmarkok.yelp.com). Whatever the reason, I have the power to change it, and I HATE IT!

I own that hat.

My next gripe about independence revolves around guilt. As a middle-class Caucasian American, I essentially have no right to complain about ANYTHING. Not because of an oppressive government regime that will lock me up and throw away the key, but because I would have to be a total dick to complain about my “hardships.” Earlier this year I received a note on my door reading, “We’re sorry. Due to a busted pipe, your water will be shut off for then next 48-hours.” My immediate response was something to the tune of, “WHAT THE F#%K? No water!? How am I supposed to shower!? How am I supposed to LIVE!?” No sooner did my impromptu temper tantrum begin, I opened my web browser to find a banner ad informing me, “Women in Third World Countries spend thousands of hours a year collecting and carrying water.” Well that’s just great. I was an insensitive asshole, without running water.

"Ma, why doesn't she just drink bottled water like the rest of us?"

My last lament on liberty is how often we take it for granted. To quote the most patriotic movie of all time, “Freedom isn’t free.” We Americans spend so much time complaining about our middle-class problems (see the previous paragraphs), we often forget to put them into context. This blog alone would get me sent to the shackles in China. Muammar Gaddafi would probably anal rape me in Libya. And Vladimir Putin would probably poison me if I were in Russia (Yes, I know Medvedev is “in charge” now).

Whether you’re a Prius driving, patchouli wearing, yoga practicing liberal or a heat packing, Bible toting, Palin loving conservative, watch some fireworks and realize how lucky you are to call yourself an American. Unless you live in Texas. (Droughts = Un-American)

PARENTING.

There’s something about parenting that worries me more than a barista in training making my latte (They NEVER get it right!). I used to go on and on about how much I wanted children. My paternal ambitions were partially an attempt to trigger a hot girl’s maternal instincts, but the majority of me genuinely wanted to be responsible for bringing another human being into this “wonderful” world. Then it hit me, the world sucks.

I’m sure every generation of parents had their obstacles, but due to my lack of time machine I’m just going to stick with the present. For starters, go to any news site and read the first five headlines. On any given day, 3 out of 5 will have something to do with the collapse of our global economy, international feuds and/or the latest everyday object that's silently killing you with cancer. And that’s just the foundation of my fatherly fears.

Let’s examine our children’s role models? Little girls can't seem to get enough of that the multi-personality disorder Salvia toker known as Miley “Hanna Montana” Cyrus. If the thought of your little princess (or effeminate prince) idolizing this trailer park mainstay isn’t enough to make your skin crawl, what about that filth named Ke$ha? Although Ke$ha will most likely overdose on drugs and STDs before I procreate, somewhere behind some record producer's studio is a dumpster full gutter skanks willing to suck off anyone necessary to take her place. And it would take no less than five posts to address the messes on VH1 and MTV, so I’m just going encapsulate ALL of my disgust (and trust me, there’s a lot of it) into one word, “Snooki.”

WARNING: THIS IS SOMEONE'S DAUGHTER!

It’d be one thing if you could shelter your innocent darlings from such horrific (or whorrific) influences, but that's next to impossible in our over-connected society. You would have to home school your children in a 4th World Country to avoid their moral contamination. And I dare you to physically discipline your little angel if they get out of line. If you so much as sternly ask your child to, “please behave," Social Services will kick down your door like you're harboring terrorists. Terrorists who spank their children. However, I think they look the other way on waterboarding.

"I want you to know I'm mildly disappointed in you. Now go finish your ice cream."

And don’t even get me started on the state of organized sports. If Little Johnny puts down the Wii-mote long enough to summon the arm strength it takes to aimlessly swing a bat at a tee, he’s immediately showered with trophies, juice boxes and Little Debbie snacks. In the future, sporting events will be a test of player attendance. May the most participatory team win!

CONGRATULATIONS! You're reading my blog!

Point of story, if it weren’t for beacons of perfection like the lovely Taylor Swift, I’d be scheduling my vasectomy right this second. If a candid up-skirt picture of Ms. Swift stumbling out of a sports car ever pops up on TMZ, it’s “snip snip” for me.

"Never mind that rustling, Taylor. It's just me and my binoculars."

FIRSTS.

There’s something about firsts that get my heart beating faster than Eastern European house music. First dates, first day of a new job and currently, my first blog post. After a quarter century of spiking my anxiety by trying new things, I’ve come to a few conclusions.

1.) Love Thy Lowered Expectations – Think about a baby’s first words. Whether it’s “Mama” or “Murder,” parents go APE SHIT over their little diaper filler’s first syllables. It doesn’t change as you age. I learned this fun fact at my first waiting job. After giving my inaugural table the worst service they’ve ever had (probably ever will have) in their lives, I uttered the five magic words, “This is my first day.” Just like that, their frustrated scowls transformed into a 50% pity tip. For the next three months, every shift was “my first day.” Point is, don’t be afraid to suck at your first attempt. You’re going to, but no one is going to hold it against you.

2.) Just Do It, Damnit! – This ties into stratagem number one. The longer you contemplate outcomes, the higher you raise your expectations. This epiphany brings me back to my eighth birthday at my aunt’s lake house. I was standing on top of a fifty-foot-tall boat dock thinking about all the ways I would die if I followed my brother’s lead and dove into the lake. I thought of everything from hitting my head on a rock to diving right into the Loch Ness Monster’s gaping mouth. Just as my twisted logic got the best of me and I began to retreat, my brother bear hugged me and lunged us over the edge. No thoughts of death passed through my mind as we plummeted to the depths below. I was too busy just doing it. Thanks, Nike.

3.) Time Heals All Fails – Nowhere is this more apparent than relationships. Think back on your romantic history. Was there ever a time when your first date was your best? HELL NO! And if so, leave the bitch (or bastard). This ties into points 1 and 2. No one expects a first date to be flawless. As a matter of fact, it’s those endearing mishaps that you laugh about on anniversaries. You have to put yourself in those horribly awkward situations in order to learn how to make things less miserable. For example, If you lightheartedly refer to yourself as an alcoholic, only to find out that your date’s dad’s drinking problem tore her family apart and placed her in perpetual psychological therapy, you may want to avoid reminiscing about keg stands and beer pong on your next date (or calling her again). Either way, you won’t know how to improve unless you fail.

So here's to my FIRST blog post. It's all uphill from here.