Farewell, Bothell! We hardly knew ye

I return to blogging to announce GF and I are moving into a new place! We signed the lease this week for a studio apartment in Seattle (Not "Seattle." I'll now be living in the actual city limits, so I won't be using my code phrase anymore).

I thought I'd take this time to reminisce on the things I'll miss, and the things I won't miss, about our now former home in Bothell (We're moving, so I see no reason to keep that anonymous).

Bothell sounds like the name of a planet in Star Wars, but it's actually a quiet town east of Seattle. When I say quiet, I mean dead. Nothing happens here, from what I can tell. GF's theory is that people live in Bothell, but no one actually does anything here. They go to Seattle, Bellevue, or Redmond to work, eat, and have a good time.

There are a few things, however, I will miss about Bothell. That sleepy-town demeanor is one I rather like, frankly, so I'll actually miss that.

I'll also miss a couple of restaurants that GF and I became familiar with. GF and I discovered a few places in Bothell and Redmond that offered some of the best Mexican food I've had in Washington. And I'll deeply regret moving farther away from the milkshakes, french fries, and old-school vibe of the Ranch Drive-In (The burgers weren't that great though).

I will not miss living right across the street from a fire station, however. Especially when I was unemployed and staying at home a lot, I've had to put up with a lot of sirens, horns, and flashing lights since moving to Bothell. Thankfully, they tended not to blare the sirens at night, but the lights would still cut through the blinds as we slept.

Although I will kinda miss watching the paddle-ball games between firefighters during their down time. They'd park the trucks out in front and you could see them smacking a ball back and forth over a low net inside the station. It was a little amusing on particularly boring days.

As for our actual apartment, the list of things I'm not going to miss far outweighs the things I will.

I won't miss the strange musty smell I notice when I walk in after being out of the apartment for awhile.

I won't miss the sweaty toilet. For whatever reason, the toilet gets water condensation all over the outside, which then drips to the bathroom floor. It seems to mostly occur when there's heat in the apartment, and the only way to keep it in check is to directly point a running fan at the toilet.

I won't miss the windows constantly fogging up and attracting water condensation during the fall and winter months.

I won't miss the moldy bathroom and bedroom walls. It plays hell with my allergies, not to mention other health issues it raises. Even as I'm writing this I'm having one of my worst days in recent memory - half the apartment is covered in mucus right now because of how much I've been sneezing today.

I won't miss the college students who try to park in our spot during classes when GF is at work with the car.

I won't miss the chain-smoking old lady next door who sits right outside our front door. If the windows are open, the smell of nicotine and tobacco wafts into our place.

I won't miss our apartment's poor air circulation. I believe this is what is behind the sweating toilet, foggy windows, and weird smell. There's a permanent humidity/mugginess that hangs about our apartment, and is most pronounced when we are both home and/or when one of us is cooking or showering.

I won't miss our smoke detector, which we have to remove every time we cook because the stove sets it off. It's not even very close to the kitchen!

And I certainly won't miss our landlord and maintenance guy. Let's call them Joey and Ricky, respectively.

Joey, essentially, doesn't care. He is landlord for four or five different apartment buildings around the Eastside, and seems to focus more on his non-Bothell ones. I think he considers us lower-class because we live in Bothell. When we had to pay our first rent plus deposit in person, he invited us to his place, but then refused to let us in. We handled the transaction outside his front door. GF's theory is that he had a "lady friend" over for a visit, but my theory now is he just doesn't like his Bothell apartments and their inhabitants.

We've come to him with some of our problems, and Joey's response has been nonchalant at best.

Sweaty toilet? Keep the bathroom fan running well after you've finished your shower (It doesn't always happen after a shower, and, like I said, only pointing a different fan at the toilet does the trick).

Moldy walls? Nothing I can do about that. Keep the window open all day and maybe point a fan at the wall (Thanks, but the fan is already pointed at the toilet!).

Maintenance guy not very fast at coming around to repair things? "Don't worry, I'll light a fire under his ass." Result: maintenance guy still doesn't show up.

Ah yes - Ricky the maintenance guy. I think Ricky's main problem is he's overworked. Judging by my conversations with him, he's Joey's guy for all, or at least most, of the apartments. So even though he lives right by us, he has to commute a lot to the other buildings - which seem to get more of a focus.

Ricky once drilled a couple holes on our side of a wall when one of our neighbors had a leak around their bathtub. It took him more than a month to go about patching up and painting over those holes. Weeks after he had already solved our neighbors' leak. He wound up having to paint the entire wall because he accidentally used the wrong shade of white paint, which then took four days to dry.

His response to our mold problem was the same as Joey's - "nothing I can do about it."

We have a towel rack in the bathroom that is sliding off the wall. It's been that way since June. Twice Ricky has promised to come fix it, and skipped both those arranged times. The first time he apologized and said he's been very busy working on renovations to apartments in Kirkland. He has not responded to our attempts to contact him since missing the second appointment in mid-July.

Joey has also been informed of the towel rack, and still nothing has happened in the two weeks since.

For all its (many) faults, there are a few things I'll miss about this dump. We have several shrubs and small trees in front that do a good job keeping the hot sun at bay during these summer months (Although GF doesn't appreciate the lack of natural lighting). Also, the old apartment is quite large for a single bedroom. Our new place isn't going to be nearly as spacious or have as much closet space.

But the thing I'll miss most of all is the mystery of our neighbors in apartment #1.

Apartment #1 is the home of the chain-smoker I mentioned earlier, but it is also the home of several others.

When we first moved in, five people were living in #1. The old smoker lady, a middle-aged woman, a 20ish year-old woman, a teenage guy, and a little boy. What's odd was two things - Number 1: They were all African-American and appeared to be related, except for the chain-smoker who is white. Number 2: All the apartments in our building are only one bedroom. Where the hell are they fitting five people in a one bedroom apartment?

Then there's a third strange thing about our neighbors. Four out of those five people from when we first moved in are now gone!

In their place is a different teenage African-American boy, a different African-American young boy, and a white teenage girl. I noticed the change shortly after New Year's. The old white lady and her cigarettes remain the same. Furthermore, I've lately noticed the latter two newcomers, the girl and younger boy, don't seem to be around much anymore.

My theories about the rotating cast of characters include A) It's a halfway house. B) The old lady owns the lease to that particular apartment and rents it out to people in need of temporary cheap housing. C) Same as B, except the old lady is also a cannibal/witch who needs to find new tenants/food every few months.

Now that we're moving I guess I'll never figure it out. But as long as the new place is free of mold, weird smells, and a muggy atmosphere, I think I can live with that.

The wait is over!

I'm proud to announce my long national nightmare is over! I'm no a longer a leech living off the bank accounts of GF and my family. I'm gainfully employed!

I've been offered a job as a copywriter for a local eCommerce company here in Seattle. I don't want to give away too much information in such a public space, so I'll just pretend I'm reading off the company policy document again and refer to them as The Company.

I haven't actually started work yet. The Company and I have been going through the paperwork and such, but I start next week. Once I do start, it will mean the end of one of the most trying challenges in my life.

Since graduation day on May 5, 2012 I searched high and low for work. My search took me from "Seattle," to San Francisco, back to "Seattle," then to other parts of "Seattle" (The ironic part is my job is actually in Seattle proper), and everywhere in-between. I scoured the West Coast, from Ferndale to Bakersfield, looking for work.

At first my search was solely focused on what I studied - journalism. I was looking for some small town newspaper that needed a plucky young reporter or editor. As time wore on, it became clear I wasn't getting a job in that field. No one wanted to take a chance on someone so inexperienced, thereby denying my ability to gain any experience, in a field struggling in these modern times.

Truthfully, doubt had already crept into my mind during my senior season at WSU about my commitment to news media as a career, but I figured it was too late by then to turn back. The ensuing job search didn't help matters.

I tip my hat to my college colleagues who are succeeding as journalists at big city and small town newspapers alike. I'm not cut out for it. The next Woodward or Bernstein I am not.

My job search turned to other avenues. I was determined to still use my skills as a writer/editor in some capacity. I started looking for work as a copywriter, content editor, copy editor, or proofreader at various company's marketing/advertising departments. Everybody needs somebody to write or look over their written content.

Still I was met with defeat. Even attempts to find other jobs proved fruitless. I very nearly earned jobs as a dishwasher/busser with The Cheesecake Factory and as an after-school tutor with the Boys & Girls Club. I rejected the former when it became clear I wasn't going to get along my bosses and the latter, after selecting me as a finalist following three interviews, hired someone else.

On it went. Unable to even get a job as a burger flipper, dishwasher, or grocery clerk (One grocery store manager told me bluntly, "We probably aren't going to hire you. Any other questions?") my self-esteem plummeted considerably. I felt overwhelmed; sometimes depressed.

GF started worrying we wouldn't be able to live together anymore - the financial strain was too much for her at times. That prospect, more than anything else, is what kept me going; kept me from giving up.

If it wasn't for the love and support (And incessant nagging) of GF, my family, and some of my friends, I don't know how I would have gotten through it all.

But that's all over now!

It took two applications, two writing exercises, and two interviews, but The Company finally hired me as their new copywriter.

You know when you buy something online there's a few sentences and/or some bullet points describing the features of whatever product you're buying - that's what I'll be doing. I'm the guy describing what your money is getting you. The Company even allows for some wit and whimsy in their product descriptions, which is right up my alley.

I'm looking forward to being employed again, although I realize there are some things I won't be able to enjoy as much anymore. I'll have to stop watching Netflix and funny Internet videos all the time, probably cut back on my blogging, and I'll be seeing less of GF and my family (My new job comes with a lot of late nights). But it'll be worth it to be a productive member of society.

Although I will miss not being able to sing this as my theme song anymore.

In conclusion, I'd like to thank all of you who supported me through this tough time. It's been a rough couple of years, but you've stuck by me. And in case you haven't figured it out by now, I greatly appreciate people who stick by me through life's rough patches.

Thanks to all the readers of this blog! Even if I have to cut back on blogging, I promise not to abandon it completely. It's still a fun little hobby. I have too many stories yet to tell, and I'm sure I'll have some new ones in the days ahead.

Thank you!

Several more of Dylan's deep thoughts

• Do people in Seattle really ever have to save something for a rainy day? You only have to wait a couple of days that means.
• Thanks to calendars and clocks, everyone's days are numbered.
• You should absolutely put all your eggs into one basket. It is wasteful and time-consuming to use extra baskets for something as small as eggs. 
• Why are Flintstones vitamins the most delicious vitamins ever invented? I loved those as a kid!
• Do kids still own ant farms? Is that still a thing? Where can you even buy ant farms anymore?
• Do you think anyone has tried a termite farm as an alternative to an ant farm?
• It's not a graphic novel. It's called a comic book. Get over it.
• If I had a Twitter account, all I would ever post are the lame puns I come up. It would be a daily version of this blog basically. This is my Twitter account.
• Despite having the motto, "Eat Fresh," Subway sandwiches don't taste very fresh. 
• I've never wanted to eat a sandwich I've found just sitting in a real subway.
• Work production around the world must be almost nonexistent during the World Cup. This is America - we can't even call the sport by its proper name - but every office is filled with people watching the games.
• Did Spain forget how to play soccer since the last World Cup? 
• Of all the mythical fantasy realms imagined over the years, Westeros and the other lands of Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire are the worst. No one would ever want to live in that world.
• What if the White Walkers are just tired of human shenanigans? All the political scheming, backstabbing, wars, environmental damage, etc. Maybe they just want to cleanse the world of the real evil. #TeamWhiteWalkers.
• I read that the thing all of America's mass shootings have in common are the shooters are mentally unstable. You know what else they have in common? Guns! Weird, right? Maybe there should be rules or something preventing dangerous people from owning guns. Maybe that's why this doesn't happen in other well-off countries. Or people can just keep dying, I guess.

Characters

I took a little vacation and visited my father in San Francisco last week. It was good to get away for a little while and relax in my favorite city with some of my favorite people. I escaped the doldrums of unemployment and "Seattle" life (Although it appears the former is coming to an end quite soon!). Instead of engaging in my usual pastime (Constant worrying) I got to enjoy the good life by the Bay.

By "good life" I mean "an angry black man insulting you and challenging you and your father to a fight while lamenting how shitty the country has become since WWII."

The incident started off innocently enough. My father and I were on our way to our second Giants game of the week. We hopped on a bus headed downtown and took seats in the back, which was deserted except for one old man in the very back corner. As soon as we sat down, this man said something unintelligible to us. Neither of us understood him, so we both just politely nodded and said "Hello," and went about our bus ride.

Out of the blue, the guy starts saying to himself, "Look at these two white motherfuckers. Just look at 'em! These two white motherfuckers..." This goes on for the rest of our 30 minute bus ride.

He occasionally has some other words for us. "Try me! Just try me! See what happens!" "You won't say nothing because you already know what you'll get. You know!" "I served this country in WWII. I protected it, I saved it; and look at it now! Look what you white motherfuckers have done to it." "I know what y'all think of me." "What has this country come to?"

I just want to take a timeout here to point out the man was roughly 65-70 years old I'd estimate. Unless he was in the service while he was still wearing diapers, he didn't fight during WWII.

Other passengers board the bus and quickly become uncomfortable with the monologue coming from the back. A couple people try sitting in the back with us, but leave shortly thereafter. Our new friend comments on this: "Scared off another one!"

My dad and I quietly sit through the entire tirade. Not once did we leave our seats, but neither did we speak to or make eye contact with our antagonist until we reached out stopped (At which point I was tempted to thank him for his service to our country, but thought better of it).

We recognized the situation immediately once he got going. Years of riding San Francisco buses have made us very familiar with the "characters" - as my dad calls them - you'll bump into. Dad calls them characters because it's nicer than calling them crazy. They might be mentally ill, or drunk, or just angry at the world and looking to start something. This particular guy I think fell somewhere between the last two options; he was periodically sipping out of bottle in his hands.

Bigoted Fake WWII Veteran is just one of many characters I've had the "pleasure" to meet. So today I'd like to share some of my most memorable encounters.

The most memorable has to be the incident between the Holy Man and the Overprotective Mother.

I was riding the 22 Fillmore a few years ago to meet my dad at his office. The 22 is a notoriously crowded bus line. It is a long route that runs from one end of San Francisco to another - north to south and back. Thus, it is a heavily used bus because of all the ground it covers.

This day was no different - people were packed in tighter than sardines. You couldn't help but become very familiar with your fellow passengers.

A mother and her teenage daughter boarded the bus and tried making their way through the crowd. Along the way the daughter apparently bumped into a middle-aged gentleman who took offense. He started yelling at the girl demanding she show a little respect for her elders and berating the mother for not controlling her daughter better. "The Bible says to respect your elders!" He went on and on about that.

The mother quickly shot back, however, with even greater venom than the Holy Man. Overprotective Mother didn't like this stranger speaking to her daughter in such a loud voice. She started going off about how it wasn't her daughter's fault, about how crowded the bus is, and about how disrespectful Holy Man was acting.

Things got very heated between the two. Finally, the Holy Man just threw his hands up in the air and said, "I'm just going to let God handle it! God will sort you out later!" He repeated that phrase a few times while Overprotective Mother continued trying to have an argument he wasn't interested in anymore.

My stop arrived and I got off the bus without ever knowing if God did descend and resolve that conflict between them. I haven't ridden the 22 Fillmore since.

Not all characters are raving madmen or madwomen, however. Many street-wise philosophers also ride public transportation.

I was riding BART from Berkeley to San Francisco a couple years ago and got to listen to a raggedy dressed man sitting behind me went on and on about how people don't really connect anymore.

"We're all like ants. We just run around and bump into each other without really knowing where we're going. We're all just ants. No purpose, no direction, no meaningful contact. Just running around like crazy and getting in each others way."

It's the only time I've actually pondered something a character had to say. He makes a pretty good point. We are like ants, you know? If you really stop to think about it. Except for, you know, ants actually having a pretty solid social structure with each ant having duties to perform for the good of the colony.

But my most haunting character experience has to be the Lonely Passenger.

I was returning home from a haircut when I noticed a mournful voice crying on the bus. It was quite loud and very sad - lots of moaning and lamentations like "Oh God!" and "Why? Why?"

The only thing was, I couldn't see who was doing the crying. The bus was very crowded and I didn't notice anyone who seemed to be the source of the crying and moaning. And everyone on board had that classic zombie bus stare going. You know, the one where you just shut off and don't make eye contact with anyone because you're packed in tightly with a bunch of strangers and just want to get through this bus ride. It is also a common reaction to meeting characters.

Because I couldn't see anyone crying and everyone had the bus stare going, the only logical conclusion I could form was I was riding a haunted bus. Some poor soul spending an eternity on a bus, I guess. Sounds worse than Hell to me.

Characters are a common occurrence on San Francisco buses. If nothing else, they serve as a stark reminder that there are plenty of people with harder lives and more problems than you.

For some reason, though, I've never encountered any in Seattle. I've become a frequent bus rider in this area since last year, but not once have I had an encounter with a character. The closest I've come is a story GF told me about a racist bus passenger yelling at a Latina couple speaking Spanish on the bus, then everyone else shouting down the racist, and the bus driver telling him "Tengas un buen dia" when he got off. But I've had no such luck. (Racism is a common trait in characters. This guy and Bigoted Fake WWII Veteran are good examples.)

I'm curious as to what is it about Seattle buses (Or at least Sound Transit buses, since that is what most of my bus rides are on) that keeps characters away. Is it the higher bus fare? Does the greater Seattle area just have less characters than the Bay Area?

It might just be that Sound Transit is pretty much for commuters traveling between cities, so it doesn't attract as many characters as an inner city San Francisco or Seattle bus. However, that doesn't explain all the characters you also see on BART.

Someone should form a study on this. I'd like to see data comparing and contrasting Seattle and San Francisco characters and their tendency to use public transportation. I'd do it, but it looks like I'm finally going to lose all my unemployment free time soon. Although I will also be riding Seattle buses more frequently...

The ballad of Bad Motorscooter

By now you should be somewhat familiar with my good friend Bad Motorscooter. He's been mentioned a couple of times now, but I figured it is time he got his own personal blog post as I've done for others already.

This is the story of how I met the man...the myth...the legend...Bad Motorscooter!

Our friendship started off as all good ones do: we happened to sit near each other in English 101 (That class produced three people I still call friend). On the first day, our teacher had us form small groups and go through basic ice-breaking discussions to get to know each other. 

That's how I learned some basics about Bad Motorscooter. He was born in Idaho, but grew up in South Africa and Scotland. He'd taken some time off from college (Motorscooter is a few years older than me) and chose WSU to resume his studies in neuroscience. His fiancée also attended WSU; in fact she was in the very same class (Temporarily. She soon got an exemption having transferred from another university).

We remained seat neighbors for the rest of the semester, working on a couple of class projects together too. His quick wit and predilection for randomness kept an otherwise mundane class interesting. 

For example, our classroom had very tall windows that reached all the way up to the high ceiling. One day our teacher needed the shades pulled down to show us a slide presentation, but one of the them was pulled all the way up and out of anyone's reach. So Bad Motorscooter went and scrunched himself into the windowsill and proceeded to shimmy up to grab the shade and pull it down. He looked like Spider-Man. If Spider-Man didn't wear a costume and was a ginger.

Another story illustrating his randomness is the time Motorscooter visited the campus multicultural center and tried joining the African-American group. Motorscooter explained to me that he was looking for a support group to help adjust to living in Eastern Washington in the good ol' U.S.A. He was raised in South Africa, has ancestry from the region - he didn't see what could go wrong. 

They turned him down. It was carefully explained to him how the group is for black Africans/African-Americans, not South African whites. Bad Motorscooter is as white as you can get. He's whiter than Wonder Bread. He's whiter than me even. It was an honest mistake on his part.

It seemed like the good times would come to an end at the end of the semester as gave our final group presentation together and bid farewell to the end of English 101 and the start of Winter Break.

Fate had a different idea in mind, however.

My first class of second semester was GenEd 111 (Basically a history/political science class). As was customary for me (Because I'm a total nerd), I saw in the first few rows. As the back rows quickly filled up, there were still seats available near me when none other than Bad Motorscooter walked in just before the bell rang.

So we became seat neighbors again. Motorscooter wound up relying upon me a lot for this class because his schedule often caused him arrive to class late or forced him to skip it entirely (Tardiness would become a familiar factor with Bad Motorscooter. Just saying, bud. You can't deny it!).

Our friendship finally blossomed outside a classroom during this semester. We made a routine to hangout after class on Wednesdays at Zoe's Coffeehouse - located on the bottom floor of the building that eventually became my home away from home at WSU. It started off as a way to fill him in on what he'd miss from class and to intellectually discuss what we were learning, but quickly became an excuse to find out more about each other.

From there things just spiraled onward. Movie nights became a semi-regular occurrence. He became particularly fond of MST3K when I introduced it to him, and we watched modern cheesy movies such as The Expendables, Daybreakers, and The Green Hornet. 

We became fans of the local improv group, Nuthouse - even got pulled onstage one time during a special Halloween show. Improv comedy can be really hit or miss, but Nuthouse pulled off some amazing shows.

Motorscooter and his wife eventually started picking me up for church every Sunday at Simpson UMC.

Just as he roped me into joining "Inspire!," Motorscooter and his wife were strong influences in getting me to join the "Inspire!" Spring Break service trip during my junior year. We worked and played with kids on a reservation in Idaho. I could go on forever about that trip, so I'll save it for a future blog post someday.

(Side note: I'm ashamed to admit I haven't come up with a privacy-saving nickname for Motorscooter's wife yet. I really don't want to just keep referring to her as "His Wife." I'm open to suggestions if you are reading this. I've been considering The Mistress of Divinity, since you just graduated and sounds really badass, but it seems a little wordy. Congrats on that again, by the way! Now back to the blog...)

But most of all we just really enjoyed each others company. My best friends can make me laugh and enjoy myself just by getting together and talking. Motorscooter is a perfect example. He can take any conversational topic and take it to the absurd, which is a personality trait we definitely share.

For example, let me describe the origin of his nickname on this blog. He was giving me a ride one afternoon and playing on the radio was some 80's power ballad neither of us recognized. Every time the chorus came around, the singer would sing about this guy who was "a bad motorscooter." I assume this was the PG radio-friendly version of more obscene phrase, but that choice of wording was so silly we laughed the rest of the drive making "bad motorscooter" jokes.

"That's one bad m..."
"Shut your mouth!"
"What? I'm just talking about motorscooters."

You get the idea. It became a funny little inside joke that I now use as his codename on this blog.

The best thing about Bad Motorscooter, however, is that he was there for me when others weren't.

Junior year was by far my most stressful year of college. Classes were naturally challenging, but Fall semester also included a very unexpected job promotion that led to more stress and Spring semester included something similar to the fallout of the 9th floor.

I'll keep this short. Sophomore year I became part of another large group of friends; similar but different to what happened freshman year. I could talk with them about problems and important things for one thing. Secondly it wasn't a total sausage fest this time around. They were all great fun, really helped make sophomore year my favorite year of college.

Suffice to say there was a falling out junior year. All I know is gradually they started phasing me out of parties and activities and collectively gave me the silent treatment. To this day I don't know why. It was a very painful experience for me, and I'm unsure if I'll ever blog about it entirely.

Yes, I've noticed how this keeps happening to me.

Abandoned and ignored by people I thought were friends, it was time for Bad Motorscooter and The Mistress of Divinity (MoD for short maybe? I don't know yet) to shine.

I think we saw more of each other in those few months than any other time during our friendship. We hungout almost every weekend and his attendance at "Inspire!" and church increased after it had slacked off earlier in the school year.

I took him to his first ever basketball game, a NIT quarterfinal game in which the Cougs beat Northwestern in overtime.

It was during this time I really got to know MoD more too (Still not sure if it works). We'd certainly been friends before this, but now it felt like it was more or less on the same level as what her husband and I had. To show my appreciation, I surprised her with a gift one day - the first LEGO Harry Potter game. Between that and Super Mario Bros, a lot of my visits with them involved playing the Wii.

I spent a lot of time at their apartment, but never once did I feel like a third wheel. It never felt awkward whether other friends were also there or when it was just the three of us. Their warmth and affection helped me through junior year more than anything else. Which is why it was so sad to say good-bye at the end of that school year.

Bad Motorscooter graduated that year and MoD got accepted into Claremont, so they were moving to Southern California.

Since May 2011, I've only seen the two of them twice. Once when they visited me in San Francisco for a couple days that summer. The second time during another "Inspire!" volunteer trip, this time to Los Angeles. I have not seen them since, and sometimes that breaks my heart a little when I think about it.

Fortunately, Motorscooter and I usually call each other every month or so. Once in a long while he gets on Facebook and comments on something of mine or vice versa. That's how we keep in touch now.

I am notoriously bad at keeping in touch with friends separated by distance, but for Bad Motorscooter I make that extra effort. He was my wingman through most of college, my anchor when the world threatened to pull me down, and remains to this day one of my strongest friends.

He's one bad motorscooter!

Battle of the sexes: Round 4

My "Battle of the sexes" blogs, hilariously highlighting areas where GF and I struggle to find middle ground, are among GF's favorites. Because in her mind everything she does differently than me makes more sense, which is of course utterly ridiculous! I'm clearly the rational one! I recommend anyone who hasn't read the others to go back and look; then judge for yourself.

Now on with the latest edition...

I grew up around video games
She did not and doesn't see the appeal

I never learned how to ride a bike
She just got a new one

My favorite TV shows right now: Justified, Hannibal and Game of Thrones
Her favorite TV shows right now: Hannibal, Game of Thrones and New Girl (One of these things isn't like the other)

What she listens to in the car: Country music stations or CD mixtapes
What I listen to in the car: Classic rock station or my Zune (Yes, I'm one of five people in the world who use a Zune)

Her favorite singer: Ingrid Michaelson
My favorite singer: Do you seriously not know by now?

Patience is my middle name
She dislikes my middle name

Places she wishes to travel to: Scotland, Sweden, India, Central or South America, Denmark, Africa
Places I wish to travel to: Back to San Francisco. Maybe other parts of California (I just don't have that urge like she does)

I never want to know spoilers. Maybe vague hints, but no details. I'm willing to give vague hints if asked, but dislike giving away major plot points
She always wants spoilers and demands to know what's going to happen ahead of time. I have to stop her from giving me spoilers if she knows more than I - she freely tells all

What she wants for dinner: A homemade meal cooked to perfection
What I want for dinner: Food

When she cooks: The kitchen remains tidy and clean
When I cook: Pots, pans, utensils, and sometimes ingredients scattered everywhere

When she washes the dishes: Dish rack is neatly organized
When I wash the dishes: Dishes are haphazardly assembled in dish rack; water surrounds the sink area (It's called Lake Dylan. I don't know how I do it every time)

I deal with any spiders in our apartment
She deals with any bees/wasps anywhere near me

My unhealthy obsessions: Bruce Springsteen (Answer your question from earlier?), Godzilla, MST3K, gangsters
Her unhealthy obsession: Serial killers (Should I be worried about this?)

My opinion on fictional serial killer Dr. Hannibal Lecter: He's a monster! Intelligent and charming, but a monster
Her opinion on fictional serial killer Dr. Hannibal Lecter: He's so cool! And he only eats people who are evil or just rude

Back from the brink

I got to spend most of the past weekend with my mother. Sunday was Mother's Day, after all.

Two months ago I didn't expect I'd get that opportunity.

Friends and devoted readers (Which is basically two names for the same category) know my mother has incurable cancer. There's no going back for her, it's just a waiting game for us all. At the beginning of this year, I thought the waiting was over.

Mom's latest chemotherapy treatments wrecked havoc on her body. She couldn't keep any food down so she was losing weight at an astonishing rate. Fluid starting building up in her body, giving her a bloated look. Her strength rapidly deteriorated; her muscles couldn't support her. She was practically bed ridden, yet couldn't climb the stairs up to her room anymore - she moved into the downstairs guest room.

Mom spent roughly half of January and February in a hospital. Sometimes it would be just a night or two, other stays were for a week or more. She was in and out more times than I can recall - the trips became so frequent she and my stepfather would forget to tell me.

Doctors struggled to figure out the problem and put a stop to the fluid build-up. And all the while I planned for the worst. I awoke every morning expecting the phone call that she finally passed on.

But the call never came. The doctors isolated the fluid problem and now have it relatively under control. Mom is off the chemotherapy, and her appetite is slowly returning. She's undergoing physical therapy to regain her strength and has successfully gone from using a walker to a cane to move around. What's more, the doctors say her tumors, while still active, show no signs of growing.

Her doctors' best estimates are she should carry on for another two years. That might not sound like a lot of time to you, but it seems like an eternity compared to the amount of time I thought my family had left with her three months ago.

(The doctor's first estimated she'd be dead within five years when she was initially diagnosed, but timetable already passed. Then they thought, like everyone else, that she was on her deathbed at the start of this year. So they could easily be overestimating or underestimating again. I guess that last bit really isn't totally reassuring, is it?)

"I came back from the brink," was how Mom described it.

Yes, she did. But technically she's still clinging just out of reach of the jaws of death.

She's still very weak and frail, unable to climb the stairs on her own and always in need of sitting or laying down. Recovery is far away, and a full recovery is obviously impossible as long as the cancer remains in her system.

During this weekend, however, all I could think about was how good it was to see my mom again. Even as she nagged me about asking someone in town about a job, all I could feel was a sense of gladness that she was still here to nag (Plus, she actually apologized afterward. My mom apologized for something! That's a big deal!).

I live my life one day at a time. The future, for better or worse, is coming regardless what I do. I can prepare for it, I can even change it in small ways, but one way or another it is coming. If I spent every day mourning over my mother's impending doom, or my futile search for a career, or whether climate change will destroy humanity - I'd be in a state of perpetual depression and fear.

I don't do that. I live for today.

I recycle that plastic bottle, I keep sending out those resumes, and I enjoy still having my mother here. I can solve the problems directly in front of me, tackling bigger problems one day at a time. That's all I have any control over. That's how I can impact the future.

Obviously some problems are beyond my power to fix, but I can still focus on what I have now as opposed to what I may lose tomorrow.

For the present, I am glad. I choose to be glad because I know somewhere down the line, perhaps in two years or perhaps a little longer or shorter than that, my happiness will sour. But for now I'm enjoying what I have.

(The Wish - conveniently translated for all my Spanish-speaking readers for some reason)

King of the Monsters

As you already know, or should have picked up on from reading this blog, I am a nerd. Maybe not the bespectacled, Elvish and Klingon speaking, A.V. Club and Nerdist reading, mathlete, cosplayer you see at conventions; but a nerd nonetheless.

Star Wars, Star Trek, Spider-Man, The Incredible Hulk, Batman, Mystery Science Theater 3000, Rooster Teeth, Game of Thrones, J.R.R. Tolkien, Harry Potter, the vlogbrothers (not to mention John Green's books), the superhero movies year after year, the list goes on and on...

My nerdy tendencies preceded all that, however.

Before my bedroom was filled with copies of Star Wars movies, books, and action figures. Before I waited in line at midnight for the latest Harry Potter novel. Before I riffed alongside with Joel, Mike, Crow, and Servo. Before I dreamed of living in The Shire or knew all the kingdoms of Westeros. Before I imagined my face under the masks of Spider-Man, Batman, or Zorro.

Before all that, I was the biggest fanboy of this guy...

Oh yeah!

Godzilla! The King of the Monsters! The biggest thing to ever come out of Japan! Toho Studio's greatest creation!

I don't know when exactly I discovered Godzilla, because it feels like I've been watching his movies all my life. By the time I was 7-years-old I had already memorized all of his classic films (Well...except for one. Somehow Godzilla Raids Again escaped my attention until a couple years ago) from Godzilla's golden age of 1954-1975. By the age of nine I was moving on to his more recent films, which at the time weren't readily available in America and none of which were dubbed into English.

Besides the movies, I had books about the Big G. My favorite for awhile was an encyclopedia of Godzilla knowledge called The Official Godzilla Compendium that allowed me to recite every little detail about the movies, the characters, and most importantly the monsters. I could give you the size and measurements of almost every one of Godzilla's friends and foes, and what kind of superpowers, if any, they possessed. I could recite monster stats like some people recite baseball statistics.

Throw in an assortment of action figures and cartoon series, and I had just about everything a Godzilla fan would want.

Godzilla was the unquestioned champion of my boyhood. I didn't want to be a firefighter or police officer when I grew up. I wanted to be Godzilla!

Even Roland Emmerich's disastrous 1998 American adaption didn't deter my fandom.

(Not to mention the unforgivable sin of casting Matthew Broderick as your lead character.)

Utterly unstoppable against the forces of man and monster alike, there was no hero more impressive to little Dylan. No other character on TV or film could get my blood pumping like watching Godzilla prepare to lay the smackdown on some unwitting foe.

When depicted as a terrible monster of destruction, however, there was nothing more dreadful to imagine than Godzilla coming to shore. I actively planned escape routes out of the city in case Godzilla attacked (Because he is obviously real). I still tended to root for him even as the villain though.

I bring all this up now because on May 16th my childhood hero returns to the big screen in the extremely original titled movie: Godzilla.

There's no way I'm not seeing this. Even though many of the Godzilla films are barely watchable as an adult (Especially if you watch with English dubbing), I fondly remember my former awe of his greatness.

It is hard to suspend disbelief with even the more recent Godzilla films. Trust me, I've re-watched a few lately in all my excitement for the upcoming film. There are obviously people in rubber suits or puppets playing the monsters, and the armies and cities are clearly models. You can see the strings in some movies. Combine that with how goofy most of them, especially the ones geared more for kids, and sometimes you feel like the best way to watch them is through MST3K.

Yet there is still something endearing about many of those movies. With limited special effects capabilities, ridiculous monsters, and unbelievable plots they really tried hard to make serious movies.

However, the aforementioned American-made Godzilla from 1998 puts even the worst of the originals to shame. It's not even a real Godzilla movie; the monster bears little to no resemblance to the classic Godzilla. The monster walked less upright, laid thousands of eggs, was easily wounded, ate fish instead of subsiding off radioactive fallout, barely used his radioactive fire blast, went from Japan to New York City instead of, oh I don't know, somewhere along the West Coast, and changed size from scene-to-scene (Great work from the continuity team on that last one).

That was not the real Godzilla. (My favorite scene from the last Japanese Godzilla film is when Godzilla OG battles American Godzilla...and it lasts like ten seconds before American Godzilla is blasted into atoms!)

So I have a lot of hope resting on his new film by Gareth Edwards. The director's only previous experience was a well-received small budget monster film that featured genuinely interesting human characters and storyline in addition to the monster effects.

I'm doing what I can to avoid spoilers, but judging by the trailers released and a couple interviews I've listened to, Edwards seems to have the right idea of how to treat a movie like this (Casting actors like Bryan Cranston and Ken Watanabe also helps).

Before Godzilla became a megastar that Toho cranked out year after year while turning him into a children's hero in order to make boatloads of money, the original film was a dark metaphor for the destructive capabilities of the nuclear era - produced by the only country ever attacked with atomic weapons.

Godzilla is a direct result of nuclear testing; a dinosaur mutated into an angry representation of what atomic weapons are capable of. He is a killing machine; laying waste to everything in his path.  

Gojira is rife with images of sinking ships, crushed people, and burning cities. The scenes where a widow comforts her children that they'll be with daddy again soon, followed by the aftermath sequence showing a devastated Tokyo complete with hospitals filled with burn victims can be hard to watch even by today's standards.

Many of these scenes and the overall message were edited when Gojira first came to America. They were replaced with awkwardly interjected scenes featuring American actors explaining the story. I highly recommend seeing the film in it's original unedited Japanese format for all its moments of destruction and dark comedy. I took GF to see the original Gojira last weekend on a big screen at SIFF Cinema Uptown. It was GF's first experience with Godzilla, and I'm proud to say she enjoyed it.

Many other Godzilla films also contain important messages about topics such as corporate greed, environmentalism, and bullying. I'm hoping Edwards can instill that sense of destruction, but with a purpose, like those movies did.

Naturally, I have my concerns about this new film. The previous American attempt, the inexperience of the director, and my skeptical approach to films in general all weigh on my mind. But none of that will be enough to keep me away from opening weekend!

Godzilla has starred in 29 (Or 28, depending on who you ask) movies so far - this movie could bomb and still be objectively better than half the list. There have been some real duds in there (I'm looking at you, Jet Jaguar!) The question is can the film also succeed with purists like me, who still think Godzilla looks just fine as a guy in a suit.

Here's hoping this is the restart of a beautiful relationship between myself and a gigantic mutated reptile.

Blogger's update:

I have now seen the film, and I am satisfied with it. Not ecstatic, but satisfied.

My main critique is how little Godzilla action there is. You go through half the movie before seeing Big G, which isn't bad in itself, but you don't get to see him actually do much until the very end of the film. There are two incredibly frustrating cutaways from monster fights to boring human characters doing nothing of note.

Saving the big fight for the end is a tried and true Godzilla trope, but once you've unveiled Big G you have to give us a little something - not literally close a door in our face.

Second complaint, as already mentioned, is boring non-Godzilla characters. I couldn't care less about Elizabeth Olson and Aaron Taylor-Johnson. The two characters I did feel anything for were played by Bryan Cranston and Ken Watanabe, but one of them was dead within a half hour while the other did little more than provide story exposition (Yet was still more interesting Taylor-Johnson and Olson).

Overall, however, Godzilla kept me entertained. I was grinning through half the movie at every scene with or even just hinting at Godzilla. None more so than the scene were they show his spikes glowing blue just prior to unleashing his fire for the first time - I almost popped out of my chair for that part! The inclusion of other monsters for Godzilla to fight was a nice surprise and Edwards did a great job in showing us how truly big and destructive giant monsters can be in the way everything reacts around them.

As I said weeks ago, even a mediocre film would technically be better than half the Godzilla movies in existence. This one pretty much fits the film - it's pretty standard as far as summer blockbuster movies go. But to a Godzilla fan, this goes down as a huge success and I look forward to the sequel.

Inspiration

I didn't look forward to my sophomore year at Washington State University. My excitement level was pretty damn low as I made that soon-to-be-familiar ride across state.

I hadn't heard anything from the guys of the 9th floor all summer, and wasn't sure how I'd handle it even if I did. I barely knew anybody else at WSU. I had no idea who my new roommate in my new dorm was or what he'd be like. I was terrified of the prospect of actually focusing on stuff related to graduating as a communication major instead of random freshman focus classes. And to top it all off, my dog died over the summer.

So yeah - morale was pretty low. Not an all-time low, but still fairly far down.

But my savior was at hand, and his name was Bad Motorscooter (Not really, but that's what I call him for the sake of this blog to preserve a shred of his privacy).

The man who calls himself "Lord of the Dice" (For his awesome dice rolling abilities. Very handy in board games and gambling) phoned me on the day of my arrival and invited me to a Sunday lunch he was having with friends.

Bad Motorscooter and I kept in touch throughout that summer via email. I related my adventures in San Francisco and "Seattle" while he described what married life was like in Pullman, having gotten hitched over the summer. Seeing him and his lovely new wife again was one of the few things I eagerly anticipated about sophomore year.

I met them both at Basilio's, an Italian(ish) restaurant in what constitutes for Pullman as "downtown" (I recommend the Bistecca Steak Sandwich). What I did not anticipated was the number of friends they were having lunch with.

I soon found out that they had all just come from church together and this was a weekly post-church lunch they enjoyed. Bad Motorscooter neglected to mention any of this on the phone.

At the time, my spiritual beliefs were nebulous at best. Neither of my parents were religious, but I did join an Episcopal church's youth group when I moved to "Seattle" so that I, an outsider, could find a source of socialization in a small tight knit community. But any actual beliefs in God or the authenticity of the Bible stories were little to none.

Suddenly mingling with ten churchgoers out to lunch, eight of them complete strangers, was not what I expected when Bad Motorscooter invited me to lunch with "a few friends." However, I made do. With one exception, we were all 20-something year-olds attending WSU, and I wasn't the only newbie at the table, so we all relied upon familiar ice-breaking talking points.

"What's your major? Where you from? What year are you? Favorite Bible passage?" I kid with that last one. There was little church talk other than the campus pastor, whom paid for lunch every week, asking me a couple basic questions about attending church now or previously, and informing me there is a good Episcopal church in town should I be inclined. More on her in a little bit.

It was awkward at first, but seeing Bad Motorscooter again more than made up for it.

He called me up again a week-and-a-half later. We hadn't spoken since that lunch as we both readjusted to the school cycle. He told me of a barbecue being held on-campus in a couple hours, and suggested we meet there for a free meal and some more catching-up.

The barbecue turned out to be a yearly "Welcome Back" event hosted by the Interfaith House (Then known as the Koinonia House). The top two floors were a multi-faith center for the community and the bottom floor a popular coffee shop.

In addition to Bad Motorscooter, I recognized some of the people from that lunch several days ago. The Interfaith House was an important center for multiple religious communities in Pullman, so naturally the campus pastor Motorscooter had introduced me to was there as well. I learned her work was done primarily out of the Interfaith House.

The following Wednesday, Bad Motorscooter called me again. He told me he was attending a program at the same place we had met the previous Wednesday for the barbecue. He said it was a weekly Christian themed gathering, but it was a time and place we could always meet amidst his busy schedule.

Even though we both knew a religious based event wasn't really my thing, I went anyway. It was an opportunity for us to hang-out, and I had done the church youth group before so I knew I could survive whatever this one had in store. And like my youth group years before, this was an opportunity to meet people and socialize at a time when I didn't have much opportunity to do so.

(Plus, there was free food. Bad Motorscooter clearly knew the way to my heart. I was out the door the moment he mentioned free food).

As it turned out, I really wasn't prepared for what they had in store. I wasn't prepared for the amount of warmth, attention, and fun that awaited me.

The moment I walked through the door, I was immediately greeted by two members of the group and asked to grab a plate and sit down. I soon found myself not hanging-out with Motorscooter so much, but getting acquainted with almost two dozen attendees at this weekly gathering.

They called it "Inspire!" It was a weekly program held at the Interfaith House designed to attract Christian students and give them a place to explore and discuss their personal faith with others of similar, yet different, religious backgrounds. Every week also featured a free dinner, singing, and more often than not some sort of game or activity meant to creatively illustrate lessons or values of faith.

The program was primarily led by the campus pastor I'd met twice before, who was working becoming a full fledged Methodist priest, and a WSU molecular bioscience professor who represented the local Episcopal church in this joint program. They were helped by a small team of students who volunteered or were nominated by others to lead the group - called peer ministers.

The singing was the hardest adjustment. And I'm not talking about the evening's main activity of separating into groups and creating rap verses about Bible passages (There was an "I'm On a Boat" version of Noah, if I recall). No, I'm talking about the warm-up to that - the Christian folk songs sung all together. I got pretty comfortable singing traditional hymns at my "Seattle" church, but this was a brand new experience. Sitting amidst a large group of people my age enthusiastically singing songs like "Down to the River to Pray", "I'll Fly Away", and "His Love Endures Forever" was unnerving. I knew zero of their song selections. I was used to strict and formal hymns, accompanied by choir and organ; not these accompanied by acoustic guitar and bongos.

At the end of the evening, the campus pastor came up to me and asked if I'd consider attending "Inspire!" again.

"Yeah, I think I will," was my answer. "Not every week, but you'll be seeing me again."

I returned the very next week. And the one after that. And after that. In fact, I didn't miss a week of "Inspire!" until the following school year, and that was only due to my work schedule. I also started attending the local Methodist church. I even served as peer minister my entire senior year when I was nominated by no less than seven people - I was taken completely off-guard!

At first it was something to do on a Wednesday evening. Free food, nice people, fun activities, and discussion and reflection with people my age - what wasn't there to like? I even got use to the singing eventually. Then as I found new friends and a new job, I started making time for "Inspire!". I went out of my way to make sure Wednesdays between 5-7pm were clear.

"Inspire!", and more importantly the people of "Inspire!", slowly became the most important part of every week.

It became a place I truly could be myself and everyone accepted me for it. I didn't have to hide anything. I opened up to those people in ways I rarely do with my own family even. When things got rough, I could always look forward to Wednesday evenings cheering me up and providing people to talk with, which became especially important by the end of my junior year. I'm sure I'll get to it eventually, but that year was so rough it marked the first time I think I ever cried in public (At least since I was a baby anyway).

It also truly opened my eyes about faith. I stuck with my youth group all through middle school and high school because they were among my first friends after moving. I felt a certain obligation to stick with it, they were good, fun people to be around, and I recognized the importance of having even a small community to claim membership with.

It wasn't until "Inspire!", however, that I really started seeing the value of religion. I basically went through the motions before. But inside the Interfaith House, and eventually inside Simpson United Methodist Church, I really felt it; I got the connection. I still don't remotely consider the Bible as a factual book, or actually believe in an omnipotent being watching us all, but I understand the important messages held within that book. The messages of strength via love, faith, community, and family.

Plus, Jesus really was a rebel bucking against authority. I like that about him, although people don't like to emphasize that as much these days. He would have really looked good in a black denim jacket.

Another thing I appreciated about "Inspire!" was how good everyone was about welcoming all people. It was one of the few, if not only, Christian groups in Pullman to accept gays and lesbians. Gay-bashing, contraception-hating, conservative Christians are the worst!

"Inspire!" was such great fun too! Good Lord, those people were all ridiculous! I don't know how it managed to attract the goofiest people imaginable, but it did, and for that I'm so thankful. It was an honor and a privilege to know such people; to form friendships that grew beyond the walls of the Interfaith House. My friends from "Inspire!" will always have a special place in my heart and mind. Even if I do a shitty job of keeping in touch with them. I'm really awful at that - my bad.

I don't know if all of this was Bad Motorscooter's plan from the beginning, but it worked. "Inspire!" became my favorite, my most important, thing about WSU; and that's saying a lot. Introducing me is something I'll always owe him for.

Blogger's note: I was "Inspire!-ed" (I know, I know; but it was too easy to pass up) to get back to writing by the news that the Interfaith House was in danger of closing down. Thankfully, reasonable steps have been taken to calm the issue, and for that I'm very glad.

The art of wrasslin'

I have a secret shame. I don't talk about it with even my closest friends. I've mentioned it in passing a few times on this blog, but that's about the extent of my public acknowledgment of it.

My dirty little secret is: I am a pro wrestling fan.

It is my guilty pleasure. Some people have Twilight, some have reality TV, others have giant bacon and cheese filled corn dogs. I have World Wrestling Entertainment (WWE) - the premier pro wrestling organization of today.

It is one of the most ridiculous, over-the-top, fake-y, hyper-masculine things on television. It's guys and gals wearing nothing but tights while they grapple and throw each other around a ring. It's soap opera for men. It's all scripted, meaning it's not even a real sport, and the storylines aren't always well-written at that. At times it is downright sexist, homophobic, and racist (although they've gotten a lot better about steering away from that).

Yet it is one of the most entertaining things on television and I love it!

I bring this all up because WWE hosted its marquee event this past Sunday: WrestleMania. The 30th annual WrestleMania to be exact. More than 75,000 people filled the Mercedes-Benz Superdome in New Orleans for this year's event while millions more watched at home (including me).

WrestleMania is the biggest, boldest, flashiest wrestling event of the year. The uninitiated will probably balk at the comparison, but WrestleMania is the Super Bowl of pro wrestling.

Now this is not boxing or MMA fighting. Pro wrestlers are less like athletes and more like action movie stars. Except they never break character and do all their own stunts on a weekly, if not daily, basis.

Pro wrestling is like a never-ending action movie; or perhaps a comic book is a better example. It's basic good vs. evil storytelling with larger-than-life characters. Imagine if Chris Evans had to always be Captain America in public, or if Tom Hardy always had to wear the Bane outfit. That's a pro wrestler for you. They are performers.

The competitors aren't battling each other based solely on skills, merit, and strategy. There's a team of writers who come up with plots, create new characters, develop rivalries, and decide when it is time to crown a new champion. The wrestlers themselves have a say in this process as well as they are the ones who practice and plan out every little move that occurs inside the ring (when to apply headlock, when to bounce off the ropes, when to hit him with the chair, etc.), but the outcome is predetermined by others.

WrestleMania is a time to end many rivalries and plotlines and begin brand new ones. Sunday night was no different as WrestleMania XXX (they even use numerals like the Super Bowl) started a wonderful new journey while also closing the book on the single greatest achievement in WWE.

Allow me to introduce you to The Undertaker.

All you need to know about The Undertaker is he is the best. Besides being a physically gifted freak of nature (6'10", approx. 300 lbs. but with tremendous agility and balance for his size), he also took one of the silliest character gimmicks ever (zombie mortician) and turned it into one of the most awe-inspiring wrestling careers ever seen. He's probably my favorite wrestler of all time.

He's so good at his job, you truly believe he's supernatural.You believe he feels no pain! You believe he controls the elements of lightning and fire! He once floated to the ring!

And just to further add to the mythology of The Undertaker (real name: Mark Calaway), he owns the greatest undefeated streak in sports-entertainment. Undertaker has gone 21-0 at WrestleMania.

To go back to the Super Bowl analogy, imagine a football team that won each and every time they appeared in the Super Bowl. And I'm not just talking five or six times in a row - I mean 21 Super Bowl championships.

Each year for the past 9 years, the story has been someone builds up the courage to try and break "The Streak" only to fail like all the others. 2014 was no different. His opponent on Sunday was Brock Lesnar (real name: Brock Lesnar, surprisingly). You may recognize him from his time in UFC.

Despite Brock being 13 years younger than Undertaker, and being a former NCAA Division I Champion and former UFC Heavyweight Champion, Lesnar had zero chance of defeating Undertaker. Taker's a living legend, a god even, to wrestling fans. "The Streak" is legendary; nothing can stop it.

Until Sunday night. Because Brock Lesnar pinned The Undertaker.

What should have been obvious to all of us, a 36-year-old former (actual) amateur wrestler and cage fighter defeated a 49-year-old semi-retired glorified stunt man, instead shocked us all to the core. In a real fight, any rational person would pick Brock to win. Pro wrestling, however, is anything but rational.

I was frozen for a few minutes trying to comprehend what happened. I waited for a replay to show some botch by the performers or trickery on Lesnar's part that might lead to restarting the match, but it was a clean victory. And then I saw the obviously planned ahead of time graphic pop up on-screen: 21-1.

The silence was deafening inside the Superdome.

I stormed around the apartment for the next ten minutes in utter amazement and frustration. They ended The Streak! To a part-time wrestler, of all people!

I couldn't understand the logic to it until I realized they were going for just this sort of reaction. Take a look at those faces I linked to up above: this was probably the biggest surprise in pro wrestling since Hulk Hogan turned heel  in 1996 (heroes and villains are called faces and heels, respectively, in pro wrestling).

No one saw this coming. I hate to say it, but another fault of pro wrestling is how usually predictable it is. The writers get lazy and re-hash similar storylines all the time. Certainly not I nor any of the people in the Superdome expected this; and according to rumors only six people in the entire company knew about the planned ending.

I was mad as hell, but they had accomplished a sense of surprise I haven't felt since I was a little boy and thought all of this was real.

Luckily, WrestleMania XXX wasn't over yet. The main event of the evening was Randy Orton defending his unified WWE World Heavyweight Championship against wrestler-turned actor-turned wrestler/actor Batista (real name: Dave Bautista. They didn't really try hard with his stage name) and Daniel Bryan. (real name: Bryan Danielson. I shit you not.)

Basically, the story is Randy Orton was awarded the two major championship belts (every wrestling promotion has multiple titles so that lower-tier wrestlers have something to strive for) by the company's CBO and COO, Stephanie McMahon and Hunter Hearst Helmsley (better known as Triple H, though is real name is Paul Levesque).

Batista just returned to WWE after a five year hiatus to start his film career, and earned a shot at the unified championship.

However, the audience couldn't care less about Batista and Randy Orton, so a storyline was invented that gave Daniel Bryan a chance to earn his way into the championship match as well if he first beat Triple H earlier that same night (Triple H being a decorated veteran wrestler). You see, a sub-plot to all this is Daniel Bryan has continually been put down and screwed over by Stephanie and Triple H since last August because they don't deem him "championship material."

Following me so far?

Just like with Stephanie and Triple H essentially portraying their actual roles within the company on TV, this is a bit of mixing fact with fiction - something WWE loves to do.

The thing that drives me and many fans crazy is that pro wrestling doesn't always favor the best wrestlers. Too often guys who have the "right look" are put over instead as the top guys because they are more marketable. Hulk Hogan and John Cena are the two most famous examples of this. They've mainstreamed pro wrestling better than anyone else, however, Cena is only an average athlete while Hogan's in-ring skills were complete garbage even during his prime.

Cena and Hogan.

Batista is a guy who fits that mold - he looks like how you'd imagine a pro wrestler to look; like a musclebound meathead. Randy Orton falls somewhere in the middle because he is a better wrestler than Batista, Hogan, and maybe Cena, but has earned more championship spotlight than he really deserves because his body looks like it's been chiseled from marble.

Daniel Bryan, on the other hand, looks like a garden gnome (and is roughly the same size too). He's the complete antithesis to what normal people would picture if they tried to describe the average pro wrestler. He's a long-haired, bearded, 5'9", 200 lb. vegan who looks like he should be working in a record store.

However, Bryan is one of the most gifted wrestlers I've ever seen. He alternates between flying all over the ring to launch himself into his opponent and tying them into knots with submission moves. He started as an indie wrestler, wrestling in gyms across the country in front of tiny audiences with little to no television cameras recording the action. He started making a name for himself and was signed by WWE in 2009 and debuted the following year.

Wrestling fans are commonly divided between two categories: casual fans and "marks".

Casual fans tend to go along with everything fed to them by the promotions. Boo the heels, cheer the faces, and buy up all the merchandising.

"Marks" are people who are able to recognize the better athletes and tend to cheer for them regardless of hero or villain status, which, to be fair, can change on a dime in the world of pro wrestling. They are usually more rabid and boisterous too, and aren't afraid to complain when the product feels shoddy. I like to think of myself somewhere in-between a "mark" and a normal fan.

Many "marks" also keep tabs on indie wrestling, so Daniel Bryan was already well-known in those circles.

Over the last three years, especially the last eight months, Daniel Bryan transformed from beloved indie hero of the "marks" to the most popular guy in the WWE. He turned a single-word catchphrase into the most fan-driven movement since "Stone Cold" Steve Austin during the height of pro wrestling's "Attitude Era" of the late 90's.

You know what; let this WWE video promo help explain the Daniel Bryan situation to you. It does so better in four minutes than I can in 4,000 words.

I could watch that video and listen to that song all day.

WWE management finally decided to listen to the fans. So after months of having the WWE Championship stripped from his grasp, Bryan was given his chance to shine on the biggest stage of them all - WrestleMania XXX.

And he did it! He won the WWE World Heavyweight Championship by competing in two matches on the same night and defeating three of the most decorated superstars in WWE history! Despite long odds and several dirty tricks by his opponents, Daniel Bryan won both matches and won pro wrestling's biggest prize.

Bedlam broke out in the Superdome! Bedlam broke out in my apartment for that matter, as I jumped all over the place! I was my eight-year-old self again. Even GF celebrated a little bit - she generally prefers to just mock wrestler's ring attire or silly speeches on the rare occasions she watches with me, but even she likes Daniel Bryan.

Therein lies the payoff to a long-running well-crafted story, and therein lies the reason I love pro wrestling.

In one night, WWE presented the climax to two thrilling stories that captivated fans. And as my regular readers should know by now, there's nothing I love more than a good story. WWE doesn't always get it right, but when they do it is magical.

On one hand, The Undertaker's greatest accomplishment was tarnished in what is probably the final match in a storied career. Now that the shock has worn off a bit, I can see the genius behind it. I can see that Undertaker, at 49, is ready to retire and was willing to sacrifice "The Streak" to provide a reasonable explanation for fans as to why. Only time will tell for sure, since wrestling retirements must always be taken with a grain of salt (see: Ric Flair, Hulk Hogan, Mick Foley, and countless others). Meanwhile, Brock Lesnar is now villain of the century for committing the heinous act of finally breaking "The Streak."

On the other hand, a storyline that has infuriated fans for many months finally found a happy ending. Daniel Bryan achieved his childhood dream and sits atop the most popular pro wrestling company in the industry. He holds the two biggest championships in pro wrestling history in the most dominant wrestling company ever. A fan favorite that everyone can get behind now is the top man.

A man who once lost a championship match in just 18 seconds.

A man who was fired in 2010 for an incident deemed inappropriate for TV (he "strangled" a man with a necktie. Back in the day this would have gone without incident, but WWE has kept things PG since 2008). Bryan was brought back that same year because fans and wrestlers alike demanded upper management to give him a second chance.

That's what helped add the sense of realism to all this. Bryan was treated like garbage from the get-go. It truly seems like WWE management never imagined he'd reach these heights. Over the last four months, I've watched the show change dramatically in order to adapt to Bryan's rabid fan movement (and to the sudden resignation of one of their top stars, but I don't have time to get into that mess).

Now they've hit upon something that, in a matter of two short days, seems to have reinvigorated wrestling fans worldwide.

Already new stories are being put into the works. Last night's episode of Monday Night Raw saw Bryan secure his new title reign with some unexpected allies. It showed signs of new blood preparing to take the step into the limelight. The fear will always hang over fans like me that management will change their mind on this new direction, that they'll let Bryan have just a short-lived title reign and go back to having Cena, Orton, and Batista always wearing the belts, but that kinda adds to the excitement and tension. Even if they do, I know I'll come back so I can see the next Daniel Bryan rise to the occasion.

That's why I love this insane fictitious "sport." It is usually mindless action and stupid comedy, but every now and then something truly shocking and amazing happens. Sometimes they hit upon some good story-telling where good usually triumphs, but only after evil gets plenty of solid victories to cast doubt into your mind. Even though the Daniel Bryan one is clearly inspired by Austin's rise to fame, they've assembled the perfect cast of characters to make it feel fresh again.

And let's not forget the great athleticism. Yes, pro wrestling is fake, but only to a certain degree. Ask Mick Foley how fake this felt. It still takes great strength and agility to pull off the moves the truly good wrestlers perform. I admire the men and women who pull it off and trick my mind into thinking it's all real. Daniel Bryan and The Undertaker are two perfect examples of this. I look forward to much more from the former, and always remembering the memories of the latter.

Now say it with me: YES! YES! YES! YES! YES! YES! YES! YES! YES! YES! YES! YES! YES! YES! YES! YES! YES!

Even more of Dylan's deep thoughts

• Good and bad things come to those who wait at about an equal pace, I find. 
• Why didn't Damocles just move out of the way? That would clearly solve the problem of the sword hanging above the throne and his head. Just step to the side and you're out of danger.
• A rolling stone gathers no moss; which explains the longevity of The Rolling Stones.
• I think The Rolling Stones are under a curse in which if they ever stop playing music they'll finally die of old age
• Never trust a man with three first names.
• Ten gallon hats cannot actually hold ten gallons of liquid.
• St. Patrick's Day combines American's two favorite pastimes: reveling in ethnic pride and getting drunk. This is not unique to Irish-Americans.
• Sadly, baseball is no longer America's favorite pastime; but you can get drunk at a game. So that counts.
• With that said, Opening Day should totally be a national holiday. (Go Giants!)
• The sequel to Prometheus should be a buddy film about Noomi Rapace and Michael Fassbender's head.
• Better yet, someone should make a movie about "Prometheus and Bob." Or an "Action League Now!" film.
• The American health care system is messed up. It sucks; and no politician wants to actually fix what's wrong with it. (No, this isn't based off anything personal that happened to me recently. Where did you get that ridiculous idea?) (But seriously: fuck our health care system!)

The fall of the 9th floor

Before starting my freshman year at WSU, my father told me: "The friends you make your freshman year are the people you spend the rest of your time at college trying to get rid of."

Those words proved rather prophetic. Although it didn't take me nearly that long to terminate my relationship with the gang from the 9th floor of Stephenson North.

Things initially remained pretty tight between us all after Winter Break, but by February there were some distinct cliques formed on the floor. There had always been the unsocial kids on the floor, who weren't part of the gang and kept to themselves, but those of us who constituted the true heart and soul of the 9th had previously operated more or less as one homogenized group.

By February, however, that unit was split largely into two groups.

The first group was sort of the "cool" kids. Alex, August, Matt, and Hayden formed the core of this group, along with several non-9th floor students. They spent more and more time hanging out behind closed doors, which had previously been unheard of on the 9th floor. All of us had open door polices - if one of us were home, our door was generally open and anyone could walk in. But they also had reason to spend more time behind closed doors as they started spending more time engaging in unhealthy (not to mention illegal) drinking and smoking habits.

The second group, on the other hand, kept the open door policy going. Steven, the Dans, Colton, Nick, Mike, Billy, Tyler, and myself were the primary members of this second group. We were basically the "nerdier" contingent of the 9th floor. In that second semester, we entertained ourselves largely with epic video game battles or watching movies (not that there wasn't drinking and some "herbal relief" going on. Our group just spent considerably less time doing this. And none at all, in my case).

The rest didn't fit in with the other two groups. They were like free agents who might drift between the two social groups or just started doing their own thing.

It's not like the different social groups completely cut off all interaction together - there was definitely crossover. In general, however, these distinct cliques were formed. You might hangout with someone from the other group a couple times per week, but you'd see your own clique members everyday.

Personally, I didn't find this so bad. Video games and movies are right up my alley, so I had no regrets about my particular group.

At least, not at first. Even this group of friends proved short-lived.

As the school year drew to a close, I started growing weary of the 9th floor. And frankly, I sensed many of my floormates growing weary of me.

I never touched a drop of alcohol before turning 21 and to this day I've never smoked, snorted, injected, etc. any drugs. This earned me quite a bit of grief during my four years at WSU. People looked at me funny whenever I told them "I don't drink." Some people treated me like I was diseased because I didn't enjoy such vices.

It's nice now that I'm out of college because people don't treat you like a freak for not regularly drinking alcohol or ingesting drugs. My body is a temple reserved only for food - and lots of it!

My tastes and personality often give me a certain (arguably false) sense of maturity. I'm an "old soul,"  as GF likes to put it. There's only so much sexual or scatalogical humor I can stand before it goes from funny to stupid. Needless to say, that attitude didn't mesh well with a bunch of 18/19-year-old dudes who, to put it nicely, generally acted more appropriate for their age. Not that it was always penis and fart jokes, but it was pretty close to always.

Things would just get uncomfortable for me sometimes. I felt like I really had little in common with these guys, and that they were feeling the same way and doing their best to get ride of me.

These factors, combined with my knack for social awkwardness even amongst my closest friends, proved to be my undoing.

Even amongst the smaller, "nerdier" clique, I became an outsider. They started doing activities without me. When I was around I sometimes got left-out in conversation, which was preferable to the increasing amount of mockery and condescension some 9th floor members threw my way.

Sadly, I had few friends outside of the 9th floor. Yet I was growing more and more fond of the few I did have as time wore on. In particular my friendship with an older, bizarre, ginger-haired South African/Scottish neuroscience student I met in English 101 (known alternatively as "The Lord of the Dice" or "Bad Motorscooter" for the purposes of this blog).

The 9th floor gang was good for a loud, rowdy time, but they weren't the sort of friends I could have real conversations with. They weren't the sort of guys I could talk to about important things.

Bad Motorscooter, for all his eccentricities that I hope to detail in a future post, was that type of friend. A conversation with The Lord of the Dice might start out sociable, become deeply personal, then move on to politics, before winding up as a discussion on Japanese fetishes (kittens and heels...kittens and heels. I shudder just thinking about it). You could have a good laugh, a good cry, and intelligent conversation with him all at once.

Bad Motorscooter reminded me of Big G and Puma from high school, or my Berkeley friends (who I really must get around to writing about in more detail someday). Friends I could rely upon in any situation.

Hell, they aren't friends - they're like family.

The 9th floor was a pretty cool group to hang with, but they weren't family.

After the school year ended, my contact with the guys from the 9th floor pretty much ended. They didn't seek me out, and I responded in kind. Thanks to social media I can tell you that much of the friendships built on the 9th floor did continue, some just for a little while and others to this day, but I had no such luck.

The days of the 9th floor were over; for better or worse.

However, the next chapter of my college career was poised to begin. Starting with my arrival to Olympia Avenue, walking through the doors of Murrow East 113, and a phone call that led to a chain of events that forever changed my life.