- If a tree falls in a forest, and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?
- Is a bird in the hand really worth two in the bush? Your hand is going to be covered in bird poop and feathers as a result. Let them stay in the bush.
- Narwhals are aquatic unicorns.
- When you kill an undead creature, is it now re-dead?
- Are there womanatees? If not, how do manatees manage to reproduce?
- A woodchuck could totally chuck 24 pieces of wood per hour (assuming a woodchuck could chuck wood).
- Pro wrestling is a soap opera, but with men in tights fighting each other.
- Shakira's hips don't lie because they are incapable of human speech or thought. They're hips; that's not the correct part of the human anatomy for telling lies.
- "American Idol" should be renamed "American Person No One Will Care About in a Year."
- How do British people tell if it's summer or winter? For that matter, how do San Franciscans?
- I don't think Luca Brasi is actually sleeping with the fishes. I think he's dead.
- If Pitbull had his own bobblehead, would just his left hand bobble? (That's what you call an inside joke)
- I'd take vampires over zombies anytime. Vampires are way more vulnerable (garlic, daylight, holy water, sharp wooden objects, and in some lore decapitation and silver work, too) and I'd much rather face something I could potentially reason and bargain with.
- The platypus proves that either God or Nature has a sense of humor.
- If a tree falls in a forest, and hits a mime, does the mime make a sound?
Monday, July 29, 2013
Dylan's deep thoughts
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
"I'm a little bit country..." "I'm a little bit gangsta..."
There's so much division in this country. Politics, religion, class, and the big one - race.
Racial tension is running high these days. Just look at the controversies surrounding the George Zimmerman trial and the Supreme Court's Voting Rights Act decision.
Well...I'm going to do it. I'm going to bridge the widening gap threatening to tear our great nation apart. I'm going to show how two distinct subcultures of this country have more in common with each other than they think.
I know nobody asked me to do this, but I'm going to anyway.
You're welcome, America.
How will I accomplish this? Simple: with the power of music!
Music is often a strong identifier, sometimes even creator, of many subcultures. What would hippies listen to without The Grateful Dead or Phish? How else would punks, goths, and emo kids know how to dress and accessorize without inspiration from the latest alternative rockers? Where would a hipster be without his/her indie bands you've never heard of?
These are all small examples compared to the two groups I'm going to attempt to bring together; to illustrate the basic similarity of their fundamental beliefs/behaviors/attitudes.
I'm talking about urban vs. rural. Black vs. white. Inner city vs. never-seen-a-real-city. I'm talking about rap vs. country.
Let's face it - these two genres of music, generally speaking, have very different stars and usually attract two very different kinds of audiences. Race is just one difference, but it is a big one.
There are examples to the contrary, obviously. But I bet Darius Rucker doesn't see a lot of similar faces when he plays a concert (though he probably does see a few very confused Hootie and the Blowfish fans at every show). Hip-hop as a whole does include many white faces these days. But hardcore rap remains a genre dominated by and associated with African-Americans.
However, there are strong similarities between country and rap, and within the subcultures they fall under.
Turn on the radio. Whether it's country, hip-hop, or gangsta rap, what do you hear? What are they singing about? What are the biggest hits?
Whether it's "U.O.E.N.O", "Rich as Fuck", "Boys 'Round Here", or "Red Solo Cup" the theme remains the same. Parties, alcohol, sex, and drugs. The preferred alcohol may vary, the party locations differ, the drugs often illicit in one (cocaine, marijuana, ecstasy) and legal in the other (tobacco, nicotine), but the overall story remains the same. Loose women, hot guys, and wild times for all involved.
I realize, of course, this is nothing new. Rock 'n roll, before becoming the name of a music genre, was a euphemism for sex. That genre has long been blamed as the instigator for decadence and sin (to which I ask, what do you think Frank Sinatra is singing about in "Strangers in the Night"?).
Along those lines, love and sex are two common themes in country or rap/hip-hop. Male country singers seem obsessed with girls in denim short-shorts, and rappers don't mind turning their attention in that direction either (I'm looking at you, Sir Mix-A-Lot!). But you can find the softer ballads of love and desire in both as well.
However, country and rap/hip-hop are full of douchebags. Grade-A assholes. Men (and some women) who are looking to flaunt what they got and take whatever they need. There are plenty of country and rap artists willing to fulfill that role.
People love a bigshot, a braggart. They may not want to admit it, but they do. People aspire to have money, fame, wealth, and legions of men/women flocking toward them. The people singing onstage have that already - the common man/woman wants a piece of it, too. That's why popular music trends toward songs that glorify a bigshot lifestyle, regardless of genre. Many country and rap artists exploit that to the fullest.
Doesn't matter if it's Lil Wayne or Toby Keith. Rappers may be obsessed with "swag," but it was cowboys who invented swagger.
And don't get me started on guns! On one hand you have the fanbase that will cling to their guns at the expense of law, order, and human lives; and on the other you have the group that applied the rules of gang warfare to the music industry (sorry, folks; Tupac really is dead). As antagonistic as these two subcultures can be toward one another, the one thing they can agree on - keep the guns!
That's what makes this so funny. Rap and country are two sides of the same coin. Rap and country artists, and the subcultures surrounding each, revel in their differences from mainstream society.
Lots of country singers have proclaimed, in song or otherwise, how they are different politically and socially from the rest of America (see "Boys 'Round Here" ... God, that song is pretentious!). And their fans agree. Country music, rural America, and conservative politics are like connecting pieces of the same jigsaw puzzle.
In the same vein, rap artists and fans identify with a mindset in which the American government and people have treated them horribly for generations. Naturally, there would be a backlash. African-Americans came to this country as slaves and have faced treatment as second-class citizens (to varying degrees depending on time and location) ever since. No wonder rap takes shots at the system; at white people! No wonder a song like "Fuck tha Police" exists! No wonder there is a mutual distrust going on.
Now I know a lot of this blog has been generalizations and stereotypes. There are plenty of meaningful country and rap songs. Not all country singers and fans are ignorant rednecks and not all rap artists and fans are thugs. But there are enough that fit each stereotype, or at least pretend to for the sake of appearances within their subculture, that the generalizations contain strong elements of truth.
Each genre represents their unique subculture, yet do so in surprisingly similar ways. The similarities are so apparent yet the relationship so frayed that if it weren't so funny, it would be really sad.
There has been crossover between the two genres. Justified may have the greatest theme song of any show on TV right now. Blake Shelton claims to not know anyone who can do the dougie, but that sick beat suggests he's been hanging out at clubs where the people do.
However, if the Brad Paisley-LL Cool J controversy and criticism is any indication, there's a long way to go.
This blog has merely been a lighthearted attempt to encourage more crossover; not just between music, but between people. To point out the sameness of two unique sections of the American social landscape. While also taking cheap shots at both (because that's how I roll).
Because at a basic fundamental level, everyone is the same. Country or rap. Black or white.
So if you're a fan of country music and start ragging on how rap music objectifies women, take another listen to "Honky Tonk Badonkadonk" or "She Cranks My Tractor." And if as a rap fan you start degrading all country singers and listeners as bigoted, ignorant rednecks, take another listen to any Jay-Z album and count the number of times he uses the N-word because it's probably more than any country album.
Racial tension is running high these days. Just look at the controversies surrounding the George Zimmerman trial and the Supreme Court's Voting Rights Act decision.
Well...I'm going to do it. I'm going to bridge the widening gap threatening to tear our great nation apart. I'm going to show how two distinct subcultures of this country have more in common with each other than they think.
I know nobody asked me to do this, but I'm going to anyway.
You're welcome, America.
How will I accomplish this? Simple: with the power of music!
Music is often a strong identifier, sometimes even creator, of many subcultures. What would hippies listen to without The Grateful Dead or Phish? How else would punks, goths, and emo kids know how to dress and accessorize without inspiration from the latest alternative rockers? Where would a hipster be without his/her indie bands you've never heard of?
These are all small examples compared to the two groups I'm going to attempt to bring together; to illustrate the basic similarity of their fundamental beliefs/behaviors/attitudes.
I'm talking about urban vs. rural. Black vs. white. Inner city vs. never-seen-a-real-city. I'm talking about rap vs. country.
Let's face it - these two genres of music, generally speaking, have very different stars and usually attract two very different kinds of audiences. Race is just one difference, but it is a big one.
There are examples to the contrary, obviously. But I bet Darius Rucker doesn't see a lot of similar faces when he plays a concert (though he probably does see a few very confused Hootie and the Blowfish fans at every show). Hip-hop as a whole does include many white faces these days. But hardcore rap remains a genre dominated by and associated with African-Americans.
However, there are strong similarities between country and rap, and within the subcultures they fall under.
Turn on the radio. Whether it's country, hip-hop, or gangsta rap, what do you hear? What are they singing about? What are the biggest hits?
Whether it's "U.O.E.N.O", "Rich as Fuck", "Boys 'Round Here", or "Red Solo Cup" the theme remains the same. Parties, alcohol, sex, and drugs. The preferred alcohol may vary, the party locations differ, the drugs often illicit in one (cocaine, marijuana, ecstasy) and legal in the other (tobacco, nicotine), but the overall story remains the same. Loose women, hot guys, and wild times for all involved.
I realize, of course, this is nothing new. Rock 'n roll, before becoming the name of a music genre, was a euphemism for sex. That genre has long been blamed as the instigator for decadence and sin (to which I ask, what do you think Frank Sinatra is singing about in "Strangers in the Night"?).
Along those lines, love and sex are two common themes in country or rap/hip-hop. Male country singers seem obsessed with girls in denim short-shorts, and rappers don't mind turning their attention in that direction either (I'm looking at you, Sir Mix-A-Lot!). But you can find the softer ballads of love and desire in both as well.
However, country and rap/hip-hop are full of douchebags. Grade-A assholes. Men (and some women) who are looking to flaunt what they got and take whatever they need. There are plenty of country and rap artists willing to fulfill that role.
People love a bigshot, a braggart. They may not want to admit it, but they do. People aspire to have money, fame, wealth, and legions of men/women flocking toward them. The people singing onstage have that already - the common man/woman wants a piece of it, too. That's why popular music trends toward songs that glorify a bigshot lifestyle, regardless of genre. Many country and rap artists exploit that to the fullest.
Doesn't matter if it's Lil Wayne or Toby Keith. Rappers may be obsessed with "swag," but it was cowboys who invented swagger.
And don't get me started on guns! On one hand you have the fanbase that will cling to their guns at the expense of law, order, and human lives; and on the other you have the group that applied the rules of gang warfare to the music industry (sorry, folks; Tupac really is dead). As antagonistic as these two subcultures can be toward one another, the one thing they can agree on - keep the guns!
That's what makes this so funny. Rap and country are two sides of the same coin. Rap and country artists, and the subcultures surrounding each, revel in their differences from mainstream society.
Lots of country singers have proclaimed, in song or otherwise, how they are different politically and socially from the rest of America (see "Boys 'Round Here" ... God, that song is pretentious!). And their fans agree. Country music, rural America, and conservative politics are like connecting pieces of the same jigsaw puzzle.
In the same vein, rap artists and fans identify with a mindset in which the American government and people have treated them horribly for generations. Naturally, there would be a backlash. African-Americans came to this country as slaves and have faced treatment as second-class citizens (to varying degrees depending on time and location) ever since. No wonder rap takes shots at the system; at white people! No wonder a song like "Fuck tha Police" exists! No wonder there is a mutual distrust going on.
Now I know a lot of this blog has been generalizations and stereotypes. There are plenty of meaningful country and rap songs. Not all country singers and fans are ignorant rednecks and not all rap artists and fans are thugs. But there are enough that fit each stereotype, or at least pretend to for the sake of appearances within their subculture, that the generalizations contain strong elements of truth.
Each genre represents their unique subculture, yet do so in surprisingly similar ways. The similarities are so apparent yet the relationship so frayed that if it weren't so funny, it would be really sad.
There has been crossover between the two genres. Justified may have the greatest theme song of any show on TV right now. Blake Shelton claims to not know anyone who can do the dougie, but that sick beat suggests he's been hanging out at clubs where the people do.
However, if the Brad Paisley-LL Cool J controversy and criticism is any indication, there's a long way to go.
This blog has merely been a lighthearted attempt to encourage more crossover; not just between music, but between people. To point out the sameness of two unique sections of the American social landscape. While also taking cheap shots at both (because that's how I roll).
Because at a basic fundamental level, everyone is the same. Country or rap. Black or white.
So if you're a fan of country music and start ragging on how rap music objectifies women, take another listen to "Honky Tonk Badonkadonk" or "She Cranks My Tractor." And if as a rap fan you start degrading all country singers and listeners as bigoted, ignorant rednecks, take another listen to any Jay-Z album and count the number of times he uses the N-word because it's probably more than any country album.
Monday, July 8, 2013
Camping
In general, I'm not a guy who gets out much. I'm a homebody. Going outside is dangerous; there's too many bugs and I don't so much as tan as burn/melt in the sun.
Long vacations are also a rare occurrence for my family - too expensive and there's too much to do at home. I like being comfortable, and nowhere am I more comfortable than the familiarity of my couch or bed.
Naturally, you'd expect my view on something like camping to be similar to this:
But in actuality I love camping!
Camping is another pastime enjoyed by my father and I (along with sports and Bruce Springsteen). In particular we love a good fishing trip. Fishing is what makes camping all worth it for me; despite the fact we might be the worst fishermen in history. I still can't properly set-up a fishing pole on my own, and together we've broken more poles and lost more bait than I care to remember.
I can still remember the first fish I ever caught. We were fishing in Lake Oroville with several relatives. I was trolling along in a motorboat we rented when I felt a sharp tug on my line. I thought I had something, but as I reeled it in there was absolutely no resistance. I figured something had merely nudged my hook, until I finished and on the end of my line was the tiniest rainbow trout I've ever seen. More of a minnow really. We threw it back.
I waited six years before I ever caught another fish. To this day, I've only caught three in my lifetime. And dad isn't much better than me.
Our mishaps aren't just limited to fishing, though. We once spent almost four hours to set-up a tent.
We have this really large tent - can easily fit four people with room to spare. It's also about 40 years old and there's no instruction manual. We used to struggle with this thing every time. You'd think we'd learn from the previous year's struggles, but nope. We would still get confused about which tube connects where? Is this the right part? Is the ground flat enough? This doesn't fit! (That's what she said).
On one particular occasion, maybe four or five years ago, I can remember we arrived at the campsite at 2:00pm, and it was getting dark by the time we finished setting up the tent. We finally color-coordinated all the tent poles ourselves and now we can get that tent up in less than an hour. Maybe 30 minutes if the camping gods are on our side.
Another memorable moment came a couple years before that one. It was my dad, myself, Uncle Darrell, and one of my friends camping together. I can't remember where it was now, but I remember it was the same exact campsite we had been at the year before. But there was one difference on this occasion: we arrived during ant mating season.
Everything was fine the day we arrived, but the next morning the air was thick with large black ants, flying to and fro in search of mates to start new colonies.
I don't know if you've ever seen flying ants, but in large numbers I can tell you that they are absolutely terrifying! They look like black wasps, and at first we thought they might be those. But they didn't sting any of us, and I remembered there being a colony of ants at the edge of the campsite the year before.
We did attempt to eat breakfast amidst them all, during which one landed directly in the middle of dad's back. I told him not to move as I crept in to swat it away. Keep in mind, we still thought they might be wasps at this point. Dad panicked, however, and took the cup of water in his hand and attempted to splash his own back in an attempt to get the ant/wasp/whatever off of him. Except his aim was a little off and instead of splashing the bug he splashed me.
So I was tired, hungry, surrounded by bugs, and now soaking wet.
We spent most of the morning in our tents and the afternoon hiking trails to get away from them all. By nightfall they were gone, and there were considerably less buzzing around the next morning.
But camping is one of those things where you expect things to go wrong. You anticipate failing at something and coping with it. Getting lost on the way, troubles with tents or fishing poles, bug bites, trouble starting a fire, etc. If you do that, the experience is much more satisfying for all the things that go right.
Take roasting marshmallows, for example. You might burn through a whole pack before getting that one perfect s'more, but that one tastes soooooooo good. Same goes for fishing. Nothing tastes better than a fish that you've caught and cooked yourself.
Something my father always does is have a steak dinner on our first night of camping. It takes a lot of preparation beforehand, the seasoning and keeping it fresh on the long drive to the site, but it is so worth it to enjoy steak cooked over a campfire. Nothing compares (not even a fish you've caught yourself).
Dad also makes pancakes from scratch on the last morning of every camping trip, using one of those Colman portable gas grills.
Wonderful tastes aren't my only fun memories of camping, though. There's the hours spent chatting with relatives on the fishing boat; the excitement when somebody caught a fish! Everyone huddling around the campfire together and sharing stories. There's days on the beach when camping near Santa Cruz. The time racoons tried to sneak into my cousins' tent (that caused a common, all right).
The time my uncle had the largest fish we've ever seen on the line. No, not a fish...a shark! A whale! No...the Loch Ness Monster! Whatever it was, we got it close to the boat, but the camping gods weren't on our side that day. We had forgotten the net that day, and this behemoth tore the hook off the line and got away. They say you always remember the one that got away, and I can tell you all four of us on that boat that day still talk about that one. And the fish grows bigger with each telling of the story.
The time something big was rustling in the bushes one night. I was about ten-years-old, and scared to death! Suddenly, a great big stag pokes his head out through the shrubbery. Couldn't see the rest of his body, just the neck, head and towering antlers, but he clearly towered over my father and uncle who were with me. He just took a look around the campsite, and disappeared without a fuss.
For all my instinct to avoid the great outdoors, I still love our semi-annual camping/fishing trips. Those memories (the good, the bad, and the frustratingly funny) will stay with me forever. And I greatly anticipate my next trip and the memories that will follow.
Long vacations are also a rare occurrence for my family - too expensive and there's too much to do at home. I like being comfortable, and nowhere am I more comfortable than the familiarity of my couch or bed.
Naturally, you'd expect my view on something like camping to be similar to this:
But in actuality I love camping!
Camping is another pastime enjoyed by my father and I (along with sports and Bruce Springsteen). In particular we love a good fishing trip. Fishing is what makes camping all worth it for me; despite the fact we might be the worst fishermen in history. I still can't properly set-up a fishing pole on my own, and together we've broken more poles and lost more bait than I care to remember.
I can still remember the first fish I ever caught. We were fishing in Lake Oroville with several relatives. I was trolling along in a motorboat we rented when I felt a sharp tug on my line. I thought I had something, but as I reeled it in there was absolutely no resistance. I figured something had merely nudged my hook, until I finished and on the end of my line was the tiniest rainbow trout I've ever seen. More of a minnow really. We threw it back.
I waited six years before I ever caught another fish. To this day, I've only caught three in my lifetime. And dad isn't much better than me.
Our mishaps aren't just limited to fishing, though. We once spent almost four hours to set-up a tent.
We have this really large tent - can easily fit four people with room to spare. It's also about 40 years old and there's no instruction manual. We used to struggle with this thing every time. You'd think we'd learn from the previous year's struggles, but nope. We would still get confused about which tube connects where? Is this the right part? Is the ground flat enough? This doesn't fit! (That's what she said).
On one particular occasion, maybe four or five years ago, I can remember we arrived at the campsite at 2:00pm, and it was getting dark by the time we finished setting up the tent. We finally color-coordinated all the tent poles ourselves and now we can get that tent up in less than an hour. Maybe 30 minutes if the camping gods are on our side.
Another memorable moment came a couple years before that one. It was my dad, myself, Uncle Darrell, and one of my friends camping together. I can't remember where it was now, but I remember it was the same exact campsite we had been at the year before. But there was one difference on this occasion: we arrived during ant mating season.
Everything was fine the day we arrived, but the next morning the air was thick with large black ants, flying to and fro in search of mates to start new colonies.
I don't know if you've ever seen flying ants, but in large numbers I can tell you that they are absolutely terrifying! They look like black wasps, and at first we thought they might be those. But they didn't sting any of us, and I remembered there being a colony of ants at the edge of the campsite the year before.
We did attempt to eat breakfast amidst them all, during which one landed directly in the middle of dad's back. I told him not to move as I crept in to swat it away. Keep in mind, we still thought they might be wasps at this point. Dad panicked, however, and took the cup of water in his hand and attempted to splash his own back in an attempt to get the ant/wasp/whatever off of him. Except his aim was a little off and instead of splashing the bug he splashed me.
So I was tired, hungry, surrounded by bugs, and now soaking wet.
We spent most of the morning in our tents and the afternoon hiking trails to get away from them all. By nightfall they were gone, and there were considerably less buzzing around the next morning.
But camping is one of those things where you expect things to go wrong. You anticipate failing at something and coping with it. Getting lost on the way, troubles with tents or fishing poles, bug bites, trouble starting a fire, etc. If you do that, the experience is much more satisfying for all the things that go right.
Take roasting marshmallows, for example. You might burn through a whole pack before getting that one perfect s'more, but that one tastes soooooooo good. Same goes for fishing. Nothing tastes better than a fish that you've caught and cooked yourself.
Something my father always does is have a steak dinner on our first night of camping. It takes a lot of preparation beforehand, the seasoning and keeping it fresh on the long drive to the site, but it is so worth it to enjoy steak cooked over a campfire. Nothing compares (not even a fish you've caught yourself).
Dad also makes pancakes from scratch on the last morning of every camping trip, using one of those Colman portable gas grills.
Wonderful tastes aren't my only fun memories of camping, though. There's the hours spent chatting with relatives on the fishing boat; the excitement when somebody caught a fish! Everyone huddling around the campfire together and sharing stories. There's days on the beach when camping near Santa Cruz. The time racoons tried to sneak into my cousins' tent (that caused a common, all right).
The time my uncle had the largest fish we've ever seen on the line. No, not a fish...a shark! A whale! No...the Loch Ness Monster! Whatever it was, we got it close to the boat, but the camping gods weren't on our side that day. We had forgotten the net that day, and this behemoth tore the hook off the line and got away. They say you always remember the one that got away, and I can tell you all four of us on that boat that day still talk about that one. And the fish grows bigger with each telling of the story.
The time something big was rustling in the bushes one night. I was about ten-years-old, and scared to death! Suddenly, a great big stag pokes his head out through the shrubbery. Couldn't see the rest of his body, just the neck, head and towering antlers, but he clearly towered over my father and uncle who were with me. He just took a look around the campsite, and disappeared without a fuss.
For all my instinct to avoid the great outdoors, I still love our semi-annual camping/fishing trips. Those memories (the good, the bad, and the frustratingly funny) will stay with me forever. And I greatly anticipate my next trip and the memories that will follow.
Tuesday, July 2, 2013
The Last Bozo
I've spent enough time sufficiently embarrassing my good friend, Big G. It's time to get back to what I do best: embarrassing myself!
At the end of every school year, my high school holds a scholarship ceremony. All sorts of awards created by the school, members of the community, and military scholarships are handed out to the most deserving students. They reward those who have shown academic prowess, aided the community, or are willing to learn the art of war (can you guess which aforementioned group hands out those?).
Students receive an invitation in the mail if they've won something, but they never reveal what it is you've won until presentation time.
I wasn't really surprised when I got my notice in the mail that I'd won something. I finished high school with fine, if not quite stellar, academic marks and spent a lot of time doing volunteer work. No doubt my school was rewarding me for my fine work in and out of the classroom with a healthy scholarship to advance my soon-to-begin college career.
The ceremony was held a week before graduation in our school theater (or "theatre", if you're one of those pretentious people). Nothing too fancy or ostentatious, but I did get a new suit for it (my parents even forced me to wear a tie). My father flew up from San Francisco. This was a big deal for my household. They probably had higher expectations for this pending scholarship than I did.
So we sat and watched, with my friend Puma and his family adjacent to us, waiting for my moment to shine.
Puma was a two-time winner that night, and was a runner-up for a third that we know of. It was a scholarship we had both applied for (certain ones required an application sent in for consideration) and was given out to seven students, with the presenter saying three other applicants narrowly missed out. Puma and I never did figure out who the third unlucky fellow was, but we agreed he probably was indeed a "fellow" since all seven winners were women. Damn feminism! When will MEN ever break through the glass ceiling holding us down?!?!? Am I right, fellas? (This is called irony.)
The night wore on. Puma got his two scholarships. One of our classmates and former friends sat right in front us (a total nerd turned bro). He received about a dozen scholarships that night.
We were getting close to the end of the evening when my time finally came. It was an $850 scholarship left in the name of a former custodian named Teruzo (I'm sorry to report I no longer remember his last name). Teruzo had evidently become a familiar figure at the school back in the day; a character who everyone loved. So much so that everyone knew him as "Bozo."
As the presenter was going on describing the man behind the scholarship and its purpose, I thought to myself, "Oh no... an award honoring a janitor named 'Bozo?' This is going to be, isn't it?"
Sure enough, the recipient of the scholarship was announced as "Dylan Hoff!"
I was the winner of The Bozo Award.
Puma mercifully waited until after the ceremony was over and we had walked outside to start the taunting.
My father was the only person who seemed to get more enjoyment from this than Puma. I vacationed in California for much of the ensuing summer, and I found the entire Hoff family was well aware of my distinction by that point. I had cousins, aunts, and uncles calling me "Bozo" for about a year after this.
While my own relatives eventually forgot about it, I assure you Puma and his family have not. Making matters worse/funnier is that my school has not handed out any scholarships in "Bozo's" name since I won it. I am the last winner of The Bozo Award. The Last Bozo. A fact that Puma and his whole family find to be the funniest thing in the world.
But you know what? I can live with that.
I've spent my life cracking jokes and playing the fool - by accident and sometimes on purpose. I enjoy playing the fool. I can't fully describe why, but I'm happiest when others are feeling good. I've found my sense of humor is usually the best tool I have to make others smile. That's one of the reasons for this blog.
That's why I was actually pleased to win The Bozo Award. It earned me a lot of good-natured ribbing, but that's kind of the point. It felt like a recognition of years of hard-work put into my craft. Work that continues, as I attempt to maintain the mantle of The Last Bozo.
If nothing else, this is how I want people to remember me by. To remember the guy who could bring others joy.
Dylan Hoff: The Last Bozo
At the end of every school year, my high school holds a scholarship ceremony. All sorts of awards created by the school, members of the community, and military scholarships are handed out to the most deserving students. They reward those who have shown academic prowess, aided the community, or are willing to learn the art of war (can you guess which aforementioned group hands out those?).
Students receive an invitation in the mail if they've won something, but they never reveal what it is you've won until presentation time.
I wasn't really surprised when I got my notice in the mail that I'd won something. I finished high school with fine, if not quite stellar, academic marks and spent a lot of time doing volunteer work. No doubt my school was rewarding me for my fine work in and out of the classroom with a healthy scholarship to advance my soon-to-begin college career.
The ceremony was held a week before graduation in our school theater (or "theatre", if you're one of those pretentious people). Nothing too fancy or ostentatious, but I did get a new suit for it (my parents even forced me to wear a tie). My father flew up from San Francisco. This was a big deal for my household. They probably had higher expectations for this pending scholarship than I did.
So we sat and watched, with my friend Puma and his family adjacent to us, waiting for my moment to shine.
Puma was a two-time winner that night, and was a runner-up for a third that we know of. It was a scholarship we had both applied for (certain ones required an application sent in for consideration) and was given out to seven students, with the presenter saying three other applicants narrowly missed out. Puma and I never did figure out who the third unlucky fellow was, but we agreed he probably was indeed a "fellow" since all seven winners were women. Damn feminism! When will MEN ever break through the glass ceiling holding us down?!?!? Am I right, fellas? (This is called irony.)
The night wore on. Puma got his two scholarships. One of our classmates and former friends sat right in front us (a total nerd turned bro). He received about a dozen scholarships that night.
We were getting close to the end of the evening when my time finally came. It was an $850 scholarship left in the name of a former custodian named Teruzo (I'm sorry to report I no longer remember his last name). Teruzo had evidently become a familiar figure at the school back in the day; a character who everyone loved. So much so that everyone knew him as "Bozo."
As the presenter was going on describing the man behind the scholarship and its purpose, I thought to myself, "Oh no... an award honoring a janitor named 'Bozo?' This is going to be, isn't it?"
Sure enough, the recipient of the scholarship was announced as "Dylan Hoff!"
I was the winner of The Bozo Award.
Puma mercifully waited until after the ceremony was over and we had walked outside to start the taunting.
My father was the only person who seemed to get more enjoyment from this than Puma. I vacationed in California for much of the ensuing summer, and I found the entire Hoff family was well aware of my distinction by that point. I had cousins, aunts, and uncles calling me "Bozo" for about a year after this.
While my own relatives eventually forgot about it, I assure you Puma and his family have not. Making matters worse/funnier is that my school has not handed out any scholarships in "Bozo's" name since I won it. I am the last winner of The Bozo Award. The Last Bozo. A fact that Puma and his whole family find to be the funniest thing in the world.
But you know what? I can live with that.
I've spent my life cracking jokes and playing the fool - by accident and sometimes on purpose. I enjoy playing the fool. I can't fully describe why, but I'm happiest when others are feeling good. I've found my sense of humor is usually the best tool I have to make others smile. That's one of the reasons for this blog.
That's why I was actually pleased to win The Bozo Award. It earned me a lot of good-natured ribbing, but that's kind of the point. It felt like a recognition of years of hard-work put into my craft. Work that continues, as I attempt to maintain the mantle of The Last Bozo.
If nothing else, this is how I want people to remember me by. To remember the guy who could bring others joy.
Dylan Hoff: The Last Bozo
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