PASSIONS.

Lord Voldemark

There's something about passions that are kind of like Horocruxes. (Suck it, Harry Potter haters!) Passions, like Horocruxes, are the things you put your soul into. (Side Note: Unlike Horocruxes, you don't HAVE to murder someone to develop a passion. It just helps if you do.) Whether it's an activity you tirelessly pursue or an object you're never seen without, these are the things that keep you alive once Death hits you with an "Avada Kedavra" curse. No, your deceased Grandpa can't be reanimated from that pocket watch he carried around since before you were born (especially if he's a muggle), but I dare you to say he's not resurrected in your brain every time you look at that timeless time piece. Taking note from the king of Horocuxes (whose name must not be spoken), I've devised a list of seven things that bear a piece of my soul.

FOOD

Starting left and moving clockwise: Dagwood's Chicken Salad Melt, Palmetto Pigs all-you-can-eat BBQ (Plate #1), Grecian Corner Chicken Souvlaki w/ side of Tangy Hot Sauce. (Not pictured: A lot of other INCREDIBLE food.)

I'm not sure what the attendees of my funeral would say if I met an untimely (probably bike related) end, but someone better utter something to the effect of, "Although that jackass forgot to wear a helmet, he never forgot a good meal." I don't mind the thought of my decaying corpse being devoured by maggots, so long as they enjoy it. Then I can truly say I've become what I love. (Side Note: That's a lie. I want my body donated to science, NOT insects. Those little shits wouldn't appreciate my sweetness.)

kangaROOS

Note To Roommate: I DID sanitize the counter after this picture was taken.

For going on 8 years now, these shoes have walked me through the most pivotal moments of my life. When I prematurely (double meaning) lost my virginity on an inebriated whim, my Roos were there (scattered on the floor, but still there). For the six years I spent "finding myself" through higher education, my Roos were there. When I flew out to Austin in hopes of landing my first full-time job, my Roos were there. And every morning when I rummage through my wardrobe, my Roos are there. Although these pocketed sneakers can only hold a few items (a heartfelt letter from a dear-old friend, ticket stubs from the 2004 NCAA Lacrosse Final Four and a School of Rock guitar pick, to be exact) they hold more memories than I can count. I'm all about donating clothes to the homeless, but these low-top time capsules will stay with me until the day I die.

MUSIQ (and other soul music)

Brothas and Sistas, pour some cognac and click this link for one soulful ass Grooveshark playlist.  

To the untrained eye, I'm the whitest thing since a Klan robe. (In all fairness, I never said what Klan. You racist!) But before you go judging this milk by it's carton, read the ingredients. You'll be surprised to see how much chocolate I contain. Don't believe me? Pass the Courvoisier and ask me to karaoke ANY song on that playlist and I won't miss a word (I was going to say "beat," but my rhythm matches my skin pigment). I've loved R&B since I put every penny of my bed-making allowance towards a Tony! Toni! Toné! cassette tape. Although it's hidden beneath my nearly translucent epidermis, I got soul (and I'm super bad (at proving it)).

THE LION BLANKET

AKA, my invisibility cloak.

Say what you will about a 25-year-old man who still owns a "blanket," but this thing has been protecting me from the Boogie Man since before I could speak. Although I no longer believe this Leo linen keeps the monster under my bed at bay, I DO hold true to claim that this blanket contains magical powers. I challenge any of the two remaining people who follow this blog to show me a more climate controlled cover. Whether it's the dead of winter or heat of summer, this mythical throw keeps me nice and cozy from head to toe. Speaking of, it reaches my feet! as a 6'2" dude, that's HUGE!

UP MARRIAGE MONTAGE

NEVER have I felt such a roller coaster of emotions in such a short span of time. You can probably attribute a million of the 2,555,119 (current) Youtube views to me alone, and it STILL taps my tear ducts. I wish I could have seen the initial shock on my face when Pixar played the MISCARRIAGE CARD! That production studio has more balls than Carl and Ellie have balloons. (They've also got a lot of nerve. Cars 2, Pixar! REALLY!? Brave better be one HELL of a movie.) Up is still battling it out for the title of my all-time favorite movie, but I can confidently say that this clip is my FAVORITE MONTAGE OF ALL TIMES! (Sorry, Team America.)

FEDER-BEAR

This little guy gets around (http://www.menstennisforums.com/showthread.php?t=97997)

What started as a ploy to annoy one of my old roommates has become one of my most childish and cherished traditions. Anytime I travel for an extended period of time, I leave room in my backpack for this TY tennis player. He's left his heart in San Francisco (as you may have noticed). He's celebrated Halloween on Bourbon Street. He's rubbed elbows with David Schwimmer at the SXSW Film Festival (before I permanently relocated to Austin). And he's constantly nagging me about our next destination. (NOT literally. I'm not THAT crazy.) Some people may pass down precious jewels or pocket watches (see opening paragraph), but the most valuable (emotionally speaking) item in my will will be this adventurous Beanie Baby.

FRIENDS & FAMILY

Which side of the ledge are you on? (Hint: Enemies and Frenemies belong on the left.)

My final and most important (also most cliché) Horocrux is the group of individuals who guard and protect my other passions. Sure, a lot of my friends and family may ridicule me for bringing Feder-Bear on our journeys or for wearing my Roos to, well, anywhere, but they would NEVER take a Basilisk's fang or Gryffindor sword to one of my passions (or each other, hopefully). More so than a delicious meal, a delightful movie or a nostalgic article of clothing, these select individuals carry the only piece of me that can truly insure my immortality, memories.

So, one remaining reader (if there is one), what are some of your quirkiest Horocruxes (passions)?

 

BIRTHDAYS.

So this is what my baby boy will look like?

There's something about birthdays that makes them so much better for contemplating your existence than New Years. Unless your birthday is January 1st, making resolutions to get your lazy ass to the gym or to stop touching yourself so much are no more meaningful on New Year's Eve than they are today (unless today is your birthday (like Sarah Gatling's (Happy Birthday Former Roommate!))). Your TRUE New Year's Day is the date you slid down your mother's cervix like the countdown ball. In the midst of my birthday binge drinking and attention seeking, I like to take stock of the previous year while thinking of ways to improve my life for the long haul. In honor of my 8/8/86 entrance into this world, I came up with 8 ways to better my being by my 26th birthday.

 

Maintain My Blog

For every zillion people with a blog, approximately five of them keep up with it after their first handful of disappointing posts. My biggest fear when entering the blogosphere was not low readership (that was a given). It was falling victim to the three-month dump. Like a romantic relationship, the third month seems to be the point where you either lose interest or make a commitment. I intend to go steady with this digital diary.

 

Join the Elites

No, I'm not talking about the brave men and women who risk life and limb to ensure our freedom. I'm talking about the gluttonous boys and girls who spend a majority of their income on meals and activities they will then glorify or chastise via Yelp.com (http://okmarkok.yelp.com/). I have been bleeding at the fingertips to win the "Review of the Day" award ever since my first review. Unfortunately, Elites are the only ones eligible for such an accolade. 

 Be A Winklevoss

The Social Network left me with two insatiable desires. First, I want to become a billionaire before the age of 25. (Wait, 2011-1986 = 25. SHIT!) The second thing I've been dying to do is row crew. Every weekend I plan to roll out of bed before the sun breaks the horizon, throw on a Harvard University hoodie (Note To Self: buy or steal a Harvard sweatshirt) and glide up and down Town Lake (Gmap it) on one of those hydrodynamic vessels. What's stopping me? Good question.   

  
Expand My Magnet Collection

Yes, I collect magnets. NO, it's not as lame as it sounds. Or, maybe it is. Either way, I purchase one of these refrigerator mementos every time I travel to a new destination. Thanks to my obsessive compulsive sentimentality, every trip to the kitchen results in a wonderful journey down memory lane. However, that mental voyage has recently become a reminder that I need to get out more. Sam Chow, ready your couch. I'm coming to NYC before my next birthday.

Get Laid

Whoa, whoa, WHOA! Before you point the finger of perversion in my direction, allow me to explain myself. I, unlike many people I know (ladies included) have been blessed (or cursed) with the ability to remain pleasantly celibate for ridiculous lengths of time after a break up (Record = 2.5 years without so much as a kiss). After reading multiple Men's Health articles suggesting that sexual starvation is harmful to your health, I figure I better "get down on it." You know, for my health. 

Write Something Substantial

Not that Yelp reviews, blog posts and the slew of promotions I've concocted since becoming a copywriter are meaningless. They're just not how I intend to leave my mark (3rd person pun) on the world. I'm talking about a meticulously crafted manuscript or screenplay that immortalizes my literary voice while leaving me a suicidal alcoholic in its wake. I would gladly go the way of Hemingway if I could write (and breed cats) like him.

Nix the Negativity

Contrary to what I just said about one of the most notable and quotable authors in literature, I think it's time I tune down my neuroses to slightly less Woody Allen levels. I don't want to completely deactivate my misery receptors (contentment is a writer's Kryptonite), but I'd be nice to yawn for once without wondering whether or not that involuntary action was a symptom of Parkinson's Disease. I'll start by convincing myself that someone is actually reading this.

 
Marry T-Swift (And so begins the optimism.)

Stop rolling your eyes and read me out. As cheesy as it is, I've always had a soft spot for the saying, "Aim for the stars and maybe you'll reach the sky." I may never exchange marital vows with this driven, wholesome, talented, beautiful, etc., beacon of female perfection, but if I can find a lady who personifies those same qualities I'd gladly put some babies her belly. And if I can't, I'll just become the crazy cat guy (a.k.a. Ernest Hemingway).




So there you have it. Those are the eight goals I intend to pursue until August 8, 2012. If you have any words of advice, encouragement or defamation (I'm counting on you, Jack Rozier) feel free to share them with me and the 3 other people who read this blog. Speaking of sharing, if telling people your birthday wishes is bad luck, then I'm as f%&ked as this little darling.

CRUSHES.

There's something about crushes that can hype you up like a Starbucks Trenta or leave you crashing like hot coffee spilling on your crotch as you approach an intersection. As a man whose head permanently resides in the clouds, I'm no stranger to the these involuntary infatuations. A playful smirk from a personable store clerk can send my imagination running all the way to the altar. Once the fanciful thoughts of two (sometimes three) well-behaved children, a successful writing career and a home overlooking a mist cloaked lake subside, I'm crushed (CRUSHed! I get it now!) upon my the return to the real world.

But similar to a morning cup of coffee, a bittersweet daydream can awaken dormant aspirations and put some pep back into your step. The following crushes are what keep me trucking.

Raise your hand if you saw this coming.

THE CELEBRITY CRUSH

Like a cup of decaf, this variety of crush resembles the real deal, minus the debilitating crash of genuine rejection. As much as I go on about Taylor Swift (and anyone who knows me knows how much I go on about T-Swift), I am well aware that this will NEVER happen (most likely). Does it bother me when she's linked to celebrities like Jake Gyllenhole and Johnny Mayhem? No(t really). But does it put a smile on my face to imagine a fairy-tale scenario where we meet on the set of a commercial I've written for her and she whisks me away from the advertising industry to begin our holy matrimony? Ask me what I'm thinking about the next time you see me pulling a pudding face (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YyKhP6x0tXE) and I'll let you know.

Roger Federer was a close 2nd.

THE MAN CRUSH

Like a Mocha Raspberry Soy Frappuccino, society suggests that straight men should steer clear of this queer (as in peculiar) blend of reverence and adoration. However, a Man Crush is as natural and nonsexual as admiration for your father (Unless you're into dudes. Then it's probably just a crush.) Growing up in Myrtle Beach, SC, there was a shortage of hometown heroes (unless you're inspired by Vanna White). Then came a satirical pundit by the name of Rev. Sir. Dr. Stephen T. Colbert, D.F.A., who used his coastal South Carolina upbringing to insurrect the Republican Party and inspire me to pursue a life outside of my home state's pie-shaped boarder. Do I want to roll around in the sack with this man? No. But, would I like to roll around in a golf cart with him for 18 holes as he offers me wisdom and whiskey? More than a one-night stand with Ms. Swift. (Two-night stand? Tough call.)

If I told you, I'd have to kill me.

THE TRUE CRUSH

Like shotgunning a Four Loko and smashing the empty can against your noggin, this kind of crush can seriously F-U UP! One second you're Parkouring down the street over an out-of-the-blue text message from your sacred seductress, and the next you're wondering why she took 3 minutes and 58 seconds to respond to your response. A True Crush is the ultimate assessment of emotional maturity. Like Spongebob during a boating exam (See? Maturity.), I crash and burn every time I attempt this test of romantic temperance. Should I quit? NEVER! One, because I honestly have no control over the development of these subliminal obsessions. And two, the sense of optimism I experience during these bouts of passion are far more pungent than the crushing hangover that occurs once I realize it wasn't meant to be.

Like pimples and unprovoked erections, crushes are just one of those unfortunate things we have to overcome on our personal journeys to self-actualization. If you care to share a tactic, anecdote or insult on the topic of "Crush Management," feel free to leave it in the comment section below. Otherwise, I'll be crushed. (ZING!)

That's what I get for wearing camo-cargo shorts (and such shitty photoshopping).

LENGTH.

To quote Neil Armstrong?

There's something about length that can turn the most mild-mannered gentleman into the next Norman Bates. Whether it's penile insecurity, long waiting lines or the relentless pursuit of cardiac arrest (I'm looking at you, Pheidippides (Google it)) men go absolutely PSYCHO (Get it now? Norman Bates?) over matters of length.

One of my regular readers, who shall remain nameless (but pictured below), ignited my longitudinal anxiety by suggesting that my posts may be a little too lengthy in both size and required reading time. I had always hoped my first accusation of being and lasting too long would be under sexier circumstances, but this cherished friend got me thinking, "Maybe my posts ARE a bit verbose?" 

I'm a little too long for this lady. (That's not what that straw said.)

To humor this nameless childhood friend (who will HOPEFULLY understand that this is all in good fun and not hold the use of her likeness against me), and to see if I can't get a few more followers (Eric's getting lonely), I'm going to refrain from writing another novella and leave this post a little shorter than normal. If the girth of my words was your gripe, let it be known in the comment section below so I can close the case of my missing readership. OR, better yet, suggest a new fan generating tactic for next week's entry.

And I can't legally say what I'll do for followers.