Bringing Sand To The Beach

Let me preface this by saying, I love to travel and I love the beach. If I could spend the rest of my life exploring tropical islands, I'd do it in a heartbeat.

I remember growing up I had an unusual fascination with the movie, Blue Lagoon. I was mesmerized by the tropical setting, often imagining how cool it would be to get stranded somewhere so beautiful. It would be an added bonus if Brooke Shields was also on the island, but not mandatory.

I also love Gilligan's Island. I didn't find out until my late teens that the set was actually a sound stage and not some tropical paradise, but it was still very pretty.

Another favorite is the Leonardo DiCaprio movie The Beach. Although the story line was weak, I was captivated by the scenic beauty. If I see that movie on TNT I have to stop and watch, it is so beautiful.

Last night, after Lindsay returned home from the gym, I said something that caused her to prematurely classify me as a stage two pervert.

"You're turning into a real Denise Austin" I said.

No sooner than I uttered the word Austin she swung her head around, "How do you know who Denise Austin is?".

Like Blue Lagoon, Gilligan's Island and The Beach, I also enjoyed watching Denise do lunges and jumping jacks with the beautiful tropical background.

I obviously wasn't watching for the exercises.

Go West Young Man

In a rare early spring snowstorm this past weekend, seven inches of snow was dumped in our yard. Yes, seven inches.

What must it have been like hundreds of years ago to be riding six deep on a horse and buggy headed west with no certainty what the road ahead would bring? Crossing the wicked plains in late March could have brought many surprises for Jeb and his family of five. Imagine one day galloping westward across the hills of Kansas with the early spring sun beating down on the covered wagon. The children, Jedediah, Jacob, Josiah, Johanna and Bill running shirtless in the fruited fields enjoying their home for the day.

They didn't know what cold fronts were. They didn't have radar or weather.com. I'm sure they had no idea one day it could be eighty, then the next day a blizzard.

Forty mile an hour winds, snow blowing sideways penetrating their only shelter, the tattered covered wagon. Jeb and his children huddled close together not knowing when it would end and if they would even see tomorrow.

Although I am sympathetic to their hardship, at least they didn't have to endure a snowstorm and being home bound without the internet...

What a long weekend.

I Forgot

I don't have many talents. I can't play golf, I'm a bad bowler, and I stink at basketball.

One of my few talents is my ability to remember the most random things. I can't decide if this is indeed a good trait, or a bad one.

I remember that in 1979 while living outside of Columbia, Missouri, my brother attended Two Mile Prarie School and our neighbor's name was Harvey. I was four.

I remember that in 1983 my mother rented a house for six months in Garden City, Kansas. It was on Third Street, two houses west of Mary street, near the Garden City water tower.

I remember that my aunt and uncle lived on Antelope Street, I haven't been there in twenty five years.

I remember that my childhood friends phone number was 793-8901. I haven't dialed that number in more the twenty years.

Lindsay and I got in a fight last night because I thought our anniversary was July 3rd, it's the 2nd.

Look Who's On the Catwalk

We don't have kids, but plan to in the future. When that day comes I have promised myself that I will always be truthful to my child, no matter what.

I was sixteen and saw an intriguing ad in the Kansas City Star, "Models Wanted, 16-24 male/female for print and TV." After reading it, I remembered a talk I had with my dad.

"Son, I'm sure there are tons of girls who would like to go get a soda with you after school. You've got a charm about you, plus you're a good looking young man."

Looking back, what my dad was really saying, "Son, there is probably a desperate girl out there who will go somewhere during daylight hours and drink a Coca-Cola with you. You're not totally ugly."

I didn't get it then. All I heard, "you're a good looking young man".

I called the agency and set up an appointment. They didn't even hesitate, 4PM Tuesday afternoon. I was pumped. I had my slacks ironed, a nice button up shirt ready to go, this was my big break. I thought to myself, "How could they not like me, my dad said I'm good looking?". I was already thinking about who my agent was going to be.

I stepped out of the 1984 rust colored Corolla with a confidence that I had never felt before. I am not sure if it was my late grandfather's wool trench coat or the twelve ounces of LA Looks hair gel, matting down my pumpkin pie haircut, but it was game time and Luke Jensen came to play.

The whole process lasted about fifteen minutes. It was a casual visit with a nice middle aged woman.

I was so excited when I left, I had to get to my car quickly so I could write down all of the things that I needed to do before I could proceed to the next step:

Call a dermatologist and see if they could help my face as apparently it was suffering from some sort of break out, call a particular salon and get a hairstyle, not a cut, but a style, and maybe see about joining a gym.

I never went back.

If you're a parent, and having a talk with your son, make sure instead of saying, you're a good looking young man, say, you're a good looking young man, not model good looking, but good looking.

Personal Foul

I will be the first to admit, being a child has its challenges. It took me becoming an adult to finally realize, although fun and adventurous, being a kid isn't easy. Sure, we had our educational obligations, household chores and sleep, but those were the easy aspects of being a kid. As I reflect on my youth, I remember the challenges I faced during the countless hours when I was not busy perfecting the art of study, or surprising mom by voluntarily dusting the dining room hutch, or simply getting some shut eye. It was the downtime that caused me the greatest stress.

Perhaps it was my youthful innocence that made me think it was socially acceptable to dress up as an NFL football referee; complete with stirrups, yellow flag and black whistle, and officiate fake football games in my backyard. Looking back, I can only imagine the fact that my neighbors were surely gathered around the window, carefully peeking through the curtains, snickering as they watched me alone in the backyard call a face mask penalty complete with the appropriate hand gestures. I can't help but feel sorry for old man Jilgendorf who was trying to take his Sunday afternoon nap to the constant tooting of my whistle signaling the end of a play that never occurred. Sadly, I think about what my poor mother was thinking watching her youngest son place the football on a line of scrimmage that didn't exist. What could she have possibly been feeling; joy that her son was expressing his creativity, or sorrow that her little twelve year old boy was a freak? Although she would never admit it, I have a feeling I know the answer.

Looking back it amuses me. Although I chuckle about it, I am proud. I am proud that I was able to use my imagination and do things that made me happy and kept me out of trouble.

Driving home yesterday, I saw what appeared to be a 12 or 13 year old boy sitting on the curb, alone, blowing bubbles. I felt sorry for the kid, how boring. That's all his youthful mind could come up with, bubbles.

It brought a tear to my eye, I felt sorry for the kid. I had to stop. I asked him if he'd like to come to my house and dress up as a referee, he screamed for his mom and she called the police.

Times have changed.

Do You Know Corky?

Lindsay and I have a very special relationship. In a room full of hundreds I could tell a joke and she would be the only one to laugh. We compliment each other's sense of humor quite well. I can say things to her that I wouldn't say in front of anyone else, and vice versa.

Yesterday Lindsay flew in from Detroit. Me being the chivalrous soul that I am, I had the distinct honor of picking her up from the airport. As I approached the arrival roundabout, I received a text, "we're here, waiting for gate to open...btw Corky Thatcher is in front of me".

In case you're not familiar, Corky Thatcher was a television character on a 90's TV series, Life Goes On. The character, played by Chris Burke, suffers from downs syndrome on the show and in real life.

This was unlike Lindsay. We both have a very raw sense of humor, but poking fun at individuals with special needs is not a common practice in our house. I kind of chuckled, but responded, "That’s rude". The two of us often cross the lines when it comes to blue humor, but this was a little farther than we normally stray.

As I continued my wait, the phone beeped, it was a text message from Lindsay. I was assuming that she would explain that she was sorry and try to justify that if the president could get away with such gaffe, so could she.

That was not the context of the text. Not at all. It was without question the most shocking text my wife has ever sent:

"No, he really is."

My wife sat right behind Corky Thatcher on the flight. I have never been so jealous of her in my life. I loved Life Goes On, I even had a secret crush on Corky's sister played by Kellie Martin. What are the odds?

I had to see for myself, so I did make my way to the luggage carousal, and sure enough, Corky Thatcher, in town for a conference for individuals with special needs. What a great guy!

Sign Here

For obvious security reasons, I will leave Janet's last name out of this blog. In an effort to protect her family from the media whirlwind that is about to forever change her family's life, I will simply refer to her as Janet.

It is quite possible that Janet is about to overtake Garth Brooks as Owasso, Oklahoma's most famed resident. No longer will visitor's come from near and far to set up camp outside of Garth's house, just to catch a glimpse of country music's brightest star. Nope, it's a family vacation for four to Owasso with the hopes of a brief encounter with Janet. Like a nasty outbreak of cholera, Janet's fame is quickly spreading across Oklahoma and areas well beyond the lower forty eight. Janet's arrival into the world spotlight could only be overshadowed by the return of the Messiah.

Janet is the customer at Target that decided to use her very own personal ink pen to sign the credit card signature pad.

Thank you Janet, you make it easy.

If I Could Turn Back Time

I always loved the Cher song, If I Could Turn Back Time. Yes, I just used the words; loved, Cher and song in the same sentence, call me what you want. It would have been cooler if Bon Jovi, or maybe Gun's and Roses would have sang it, but it was Cher. It's still a good song.

Anytime I have regrets in life, I always find myself humming the chorus of that song, it's kind of the anthem of regret for me. I'm sure a lot of people imagine what they would do different, turn back time. Whether it's not making a certain career choice, a big purchase, or a certain girlfriend that wasted six years of your life. We all have things we wish could change.

This weekend my wife is out of town, and far, far away. I am home alone, watching basketball, drinking Diet Dr. Pepper and eating chex mix. It's heavenly. The only thing missing is my girl Raven from Night Trips. It's times like this, when your life is briefly adjusted that you really have time to think about things, what's important, and what's not so important.

It's sad, but I think this weekend has opened my eyes. After a lot of reflecting, thinking about life, and the future, it is painfully obvious that if I could turn back time I would have never filled out that stupid bracket. She is 2,000 miles away and I still have to get calls every five minutes reminding me that she is kicking my ass.

I can't even type any longer, I'm gonna go turn up Just Like Jesse James and eat chex mix.

Hurry home pumpkin.

I'm A Pretty Big Deal, People Know Me

Now days, you see them everywhere. On the roads, in the malls, and in restaurants. Everywhere you look, someones got one on.

Like anything, when first introduced, they were ultra cool. You could be walking through the mall and see someone with one and instantly drift off into a fantasy world in which you dreamt that perhaps one day you would have one. I can't even count the number of times I got busted staring, amazed at what I was seeing.

As time passed, they went from cool, to straight up annoying. The price dropped, anyone could afford them, and all of the sudden, everybody had one. They are now everywhere.

I am speaking of the Bluetooth. Yes, the little wireless device that goes into your ear and allows you to talk on your cell phone without even holding the phone. It is a great concept, and very useful when you are behind the wheel. Some states are requiring a handsfree device when talking on your phone while driving. This is exactly what the device was created for, to allow people the luxury of using the cell phone in the car safely.

Unfortunately, there are people who abuse this new technology. I'm talking about the very important businessman who must finalize plans for an upcoming appointment while strolling though the mall on a Saturday morning. The man who is so important that he must have it on while dining with his family at the local Mexican cantina just in case the big call comes. I can't forget the most annoying of them all, the airport BTU (Bluetooth User). Yes, the guy who has a very important top secret transaction that must be discussed prior to takeoff.

"I'm at O'Hare. We need to keep the cost below 65 million, that's all I can do. That's all I can do today, 65 million. Yeah, I'm at Ohare, on my way to LA for a meeting. Yeah, Ohare. 65 million is the deal, you let me know. I'm sitting in first class, so I'll be the first person off the plane. I'll call you from LAX."

Neat-o, your at the worlds busiest airport, and you have a cell phone, you are special big guy, let the world know. Talk loudly, then give people a dirty look when they turn their head to see what all the ruckus is. Yeah, you must be like the president you're so important.

I feel so embarassed when in this situation. Airports are annoying as it is, but couple the normal annoying airport occurances with the guy sitting next to you at the gate screaming into a device that sticking out of his ear, kill me.

I just spent sixty dollars on my own Bluetooth device, and I assure you, I am going to take being a BTU to a whole new level.

I'm off to church, then the library.

We Be Bangin'

Fourteen.

Yes, I said fourteen.

Not the number of pounds I've lost on this weeks diet. Not the age of my ex girlfriend. Not how many cold fellers I plan on having tonight watching basketball.

Fourteen is the number of text messages I received yesterday telling me about the upcoming gang initiation in which three random women will be shot at Wal Mart.

Yes, fourteen people sent me a message that read, "Gang initiation is this Friday night. Don't go to Wal Mart. Three random women will be shot as part of the initiation".

These people are frightened. Visibly shaken and stirred. Seeking shelter, safety from the band of Ak-47 wielding thugs.

I feel for them. The thought of getting out of your car, excited about the upcoming purchase of some Diet Orange Shasta, Pretzel Nibs and some new socks, and BANG BANG BANG. Getting gunned down by a gang of hooligan's on a Friday night at Wally World. Your last breaths taken in the parking lot of Wal Mart. That is a frightening thought.

I think it's a hoax. In the case that it's not, go to Target.

Connect The Dots

"Dad, will you buy me the new Beastie Boys tape?"

"You got any money?" he responded.

I heard the you got any money question a lot growing up . My dad is well educated, and an all around pretty smart guy, that's why I always struggled with it. If I had money, I wouldn't have asked, but he never connected the dots.

This continued most of my adolescent life, sadly into my adult life, always asking for a hand out, the answer was always the same, "if you can pay for it, you can have it". As you can imagine, it was quite frustrating.

Something unusual happened this week. My dad, voluntarily, paid for my bracket in this years NCAA bracket pool at his office. Ten dollars.

Sadly, I feel bad, part of me wants to send a check. I have a job, I can afford it. It feels like a handout and that bothers me. The other part says, heck no, win that jackpot and laugh all the way to the bank!

Of course, the latter is the route I will take! Straight to the bank, then to the music store. I will call my dad and say, "yeah I got the money" and I will buy that Beastie Boys tape.

I finally connected the dots.

Them Nanners Look Good

My wife has recently kicked her "Whole Foods" shopping into high gear. Apparently the food at Whole Foods is better for us than the food purchased at a normal grocery store. We now shop separately, each Sunday I go to Reasor's,the local chain, she goes to Whole Foods.

I appreciate the desire to eat healthier, it has been a lifelong struggle for me. My goal is to have a chicken breast instead of a Big Mac. Her goal is to have natural foods, with no preservatives etc. That is great. I wish I had that will power and determination to eat healthy.

I have kind of adapted the, I'm gonna die someday, might as well eat lots of gravy mentality. OK, maybe not to that extreme, but seriously, you're going to go someday, when it's your turn, it's your turn.

I would hate to go this way:

One of the most deadly spiders in the world has been found in the produce section of a Tulsa grocery store. An employee of Whole Foods Market found the Brazilian Wandering Spider on Sunday in bananas from Honduras and managed to catch it in a container. The spider was given to University of Tulsa Animal Facilities director Terry Childs who says this type of spider kills more people than any other. Childs says a bite will kill a person in about 25 minutes and while there is an antidote he doesn't know of any in the Tulsa area.

I will let you know, but I suspect I will have a sidekick at Reasor's this Sunday.

What does this flag mean to you?

I started this blog as my own kind of personal escape from all of the negativity prevalent in today’s world. It certainly has provided me with a nice escape. I no longer spend as much time watching the news and reading newspapers, saturating myself with all of the world’s problems. I am much more content since I have quit focusing on all of the media garbage with which we are constantly bombarded. My blogs usually consist of random things that occur in my random life. It is fun, meant to hopefully put a smile on someone's face. This particular blog is not fun. It's sad, angry, and pathetic. I have to say it. It is not directed at an individual nor any political party. It is not a jab at George W. Bush, or Barack Obama. It is directed at a society that has failed.

I am fortunate enough to work for a good company and make an average living; our company make’s money; and we don't ask Uncle Sam for help.

I really try each month to fulfill my personal obligations. I pay my bills on time, have good credit, have a home mortgage that is paid on time, but it's still a struggle. Like most Americans, it's a challenge to save money. With that said, I still find a way.

I believe in paying taxes; taxes help provide us all of the nice things we have grown to love about our country. On April 15th, I will write a check for five thousand dollars to the Internal Revenue Service. That is my responsibility as an American citizen as I know it helps make a country a better place. I will do it, and I will do it on time. FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS that I could be saving!

Guess what? Poor decisions fostered by greed, arrogance, poor ethics and integrity, and questionable morals, of many of our corporate and political elite have placed this country in economic jeopardy. These people do not want to be held accountable for their conduct nor accept responsibility for their actions. It is no wonder that many of this country’s children have these same traits…they have been taught by experts.

I wish our current administration well in solving these problems and know they will try. But, it really bothers me that because of the current economic quagmire caused by these self-centered hypocrites, many of us suffer.

Seventy three employees of AIG were given a bonus of more than a million dollars…EACH! Are you kidding me? Am I asleep and is this a nightmare?

Because my company must tighten its belt to help itself survive, I no longer get my modest bonus that was strictly on my measured performance. Not a penny.

These self-righteous greedy suits get a million dollars for doing a crappy job; I get nothing for doing a good job so we can bail them out. Something is wrong.

I hope someone fixes the problem, the REAL problem, for good.

"Hi there happy!!!"

I knew it would happen. I have been writing a blog daily for the past two weeks. Everyday I write one, I ask myself, "is today the day?". I am actually surprised it has taken this long, two weeks, that's pretty good.

I have been getting random emails from friends who have checked out the blog. There are a few people who enjoy it, which is awesome. I started doing it as I was looking for something to do other than spending countless hours in front of the television. I enjoy it, and I am flattered that there are people who enjoy it. I certainly didn't expect it, but I appreciate it.

However, with anything in the world, there is that one person. The one person, who no matter what, is not going to be satisfied.

"Congratulations you've just won the lottery!"

"That sucks, I have to pay taxes."

You see what I am getting at. Some people always find the negative in everything. I got a message from and old friend a couple of days ago:

"I hate your blog."

Are you serious? I will be the first to admit, my blog is nothing special. I am some guy who writes some lines each day for my own amusement. Some people read it, most don't. No biggie. To say, "I hate your blog", eat a bowl of dead crickets.

I hate Coors Light, I don't drink it.

I hate rap music, I don't listen to it.

I hate Iran, I don't go there.

If you hate my blog, keep reading it, I want you to be miserable!

Who Needs Debit Cards?

There is something about stepping into a grocery store that causes my blood pressure to sky rocket. The moment those automatic sliding doors part way, a transofmation takes place where I abanodon the nice, polite fella persona, and convert into the devil.

Satan.

Dahmer.

Jensen (In grocery store).

They're all the same.

I had to make a quick run to the market to pick up some salad dressing for the salad I brought for lunch. One item, should be quick and painless, right?

As I am making my way from the condiments isle to the checkout, I began the search. The search for the shortest line. Since there wasn't a self checkout, I had to resort to a real life human to ring up my $2.49 bottle of lite ranch dressing. I hate being obvious, so I kept my head still, shifting my eyes from side to side, inconspicuously searching. This was a very important decision. It could be the difference in a mild heart attack or an enjoyable remainder of the day.

I narrowed it down to two choices; the lady and child with a moderate amount of items, or, the dreaded elderly woman with the normal; bread, milk, eggs and boost. Normally, the younger lady is the obvious choice. For some reason I can't explain, some super natural intervention led me to the older woman. Perhaps she could take one giant leap forward for the elderly. Maybe today was the day I could get behind an elderly lady in the checkout line and leave the store with a smile. Was it possible?

As I approached the express line, I noticed that the little ol' lady appeared to have it together. Her hand held basket was empty, all of the items were neatly organized on the conveyor belt. The checker seemed to have it together. She was definitely scanning the items at an acceptable pace. I was feeling good. "Once this lady gets done, I'm gonna be quick" I thought to myself. I had just one item, my cash ready to go. This was going to be painless.

"11.46" the cashier said to the old lady.

I heard the total as I was scanning up and down the magazine rack, laughing at the various headlines. I was thinking to myself that it was about over. Then, out of the corner of my eye I noticed something that puts me into full on, code red, get out the defibrillator, panic mode.

Adjusting her shawl, digging deep into the abyss of her purse, the sweet little old lady pulled out her checkbook.

That's all it took. I lost. There is nothing worse. Once again, I have been defeated by the sweet innocent old lady and her checkbook.

I will try again another day.

Where Ya Headed?

I have always been fascinated by hitchhikers. Every time I pass one I want to pull over and ask,

"Where ya headed?"

"Where ya coming from?"

and

"What's in that fancy backpack?"

It was a late spring Friday afternoon in the mid 1980's. Mom, Megan and I were making the weekly two hour trek to Grandma's house in Herington for the weekend. As we pulled out of town, we all three noticed the approaching ominous black sky. In Kansas there are thunderstorms, and there are THUNDERSTORMS. This was definitely going to be the latter.

Mom made the executive decision to turn around and seek shelter at our house in case things got as ugly as they looked. As we headed back into town we noticed a couple of men hitchhiking. Due to the approaching storms, she sought our counsel and asked if we should pick them up. Being smart young children, we said, "Heck No". Mom disagreed.

Not to be judgemental, but these two were definitely not featured in the 1988 Highway Hunks Wall Calendar.

Mom pulled the car over, rolled the window down and shocked everyone with her question. Myself, along with the hitchhikers were expecting the standard, "where ya headed?"

Mom threw a curve ball, which to this day, remains the most amusing thing to ever come out of her mouth,

"You're not going to kill us are you?"

The stunned hitchhikers responded with, "No."

Thank God.

We took those fellas back into town and dropped them off at the nearest Love's to figure out the rest of their travel arrangements.

To this day we are thankful that they said no, if they would have said yes, we'd be dead.

Today I saw a hitchhiker which has left me more perplexed than ever. As I was heading back from Little Rock on I-40 I noticed a man with his thumb out in the westbound lanes. As I drove past, it hit me; the man is thumbing his way west, but walking east.

I wanted to stop and ask, but I was scared he would have said yes.

Howdy Cousin, Wanna Dance?

No matter what part of the country you live in, it seems there is a neighboring state that is the focus of all redneck, inbred jokes. In my case, it's Arkansas. Ever since I can remember, the answer to all the foul cousin jokes has been Arkansas. I haven't been there in a LONG time.

My grandmother briefly lived in Arkansas. I remember one hot summer day going to a local rummage sale in her small town and making a one dollar purchase that forever changed my opinion of Arkansas and it's fine citizens.

I was no older than twelve, and it was an old, authentic US Air Force uniform. I was excited to wear it, but I wasn't satisfied with just wearing it, like any proud pre-pubescent teen, I wanted to show it off. I made the mile or so jaunt to the local five and dime for an ice cold cola. On my way back, chest held high, proud of my new found glory, I noticed a good sized rock traveling toward my head. Luckily, I ducked and missed it. More rocks were hurled my way, along with obscenities that would make any twelve year boy old blush. I distinctly remember, "Soldiers Suck" and the ever so pleasant, "Go fight a war you SOB."

I was just a kid, wearing a cheap Air Force uniform, purchased at a garage sale. Seriously.

Now, more than twenty years later, I read this in the news:

"Ten children at an Arkansas day care center drank windshield wiper fluid after a staffer served it from a container mistaken for Kool-Aid."

Come on people, get it together.

I am headed to Little Rock later tonight to see my buddy Justin Moore tear up the stage at a local honky tonk. If there is no blog tomorrow you will know that aforementioned honky tonk accidentally served me some wiper fluid instead of crown n' coke, or I ran into a long lost cousin and the sparks flew.

You got that plane where?

An interesting fun little factoid about myself, I love airplanes. I love flying. I have a tendency to run outside to watch the planes fly over on approach to the Tulsa Airport.

I have a flight simulator on my home computer. Lindsay thinks I spend entirely too much time handling my joystick, but I love it. I have flown in the biggest of jumbo jets, and the smallest single piston aircraft. I dream of someday obtaining my pilots license and having my own plane. The joy of flying, I can think of nothing better.

However, who in their right mind would fly in an airplane built in your garage? Last week a plane crashed at an airport outside of Tulsa. The headline included the phrase, "a plane, built from a kit". Two words I never want to hear in a sentence; plane and kit. I am sorry, and this is hateful, but if you build an airplane in the garage...never mind, I can't say it.

I would swing on a homemade swing set, I would play tether ball on a homemade tether ball kit, and I would plant my sprouts in a homemade garden, but fly in a homemade airplane. Not a chance.

I'll just stick to my computer game and the snug seat on my next United Airlines flight.

Happy Friday.

Why I'm Large

I know what is going to happen after this blog is published.

Ring...Ring, "Hello."

"Luke, this is Bob from the New England Journal of Medicine. I read your blog regarding the link between obesity and laziness and we'd like for you to come work for us!"

OK, that probably won't happen, and I am probably not the first person to link obesity and laziness, but I'm still going to address this issue based on this first hand, I was there, account:

I was enjoying a nice day at the office, doing my thing, making magic happen. I opened my little refrigerator by my desk and noticed a nice plump orange. It was one of those big naval oranges. I could just imagine biting into it. I love oranges. They are my favorite fruit. I can always remember liking oranges since I was a little kid. I love em'.

I stared at that orange for a few minutes, just thinking about how much I was going to enjoy eating it. I was so excited. It was about to become the highlight of my afternoon.

After a few moments, I decided that I was not in the mood to peel it, so I just grabbed a bag of Chili Cheese Frito's and snacked on them.

That's just lazy! I have made a promise to myself that this will never happen again!!!!

Would You Like To Buy Some Cookies?

I am not what would be considered a real suave businessman. I would be hard pressed to turn a profit at a garage sale. The first time I heard the term EBIDA, I thought my friend was talking about his cousin in Botswana. Unlike some people in the world, I know this. I don't pretend to be something I am not.

However, I must address a legitimate business question.

The past month all I have heard people talk about is Girl Scout Cookies.

"I'll trade some Do-See-Doe's for the lemon kind."

"The cookies are here!!!!!!!"

"Mom, I'll just eat one sleeve."

Cookie this, cookies that. We all love Girl Scout Cookies. The rule in our house, one box per day. We often break that rule. It's hard. They are so darn tasty.

Why is there not a girl scout (hold the sick-o jokes) knocking on my door once a week? It seems to me that this could be the biggest business in the world. Who is going to say no. If they're so good, and people rave about them this time of year, put those lil' girls on the streets 365 days a year and make some real cash. No more weekend getaways to Camp Wannamkakka, it's a week at the luxurious Grand Wailea resort in Hawaii. Bring your favorite Weblo girls and let's get this party started!

Maybe the Girl Scouts aren't as greedy as the rest of America and they are happy earning a decent profit without exploiting the rest of us in the process.

Thank you Girl Scouts!!!

I Seen It Coming...

I am one of those freaky people who enjoy thunderstorms. I would be the guy out on the street corner with a video camera as an F-5 blows by.

"Wow, sure is a big one, it's coming right at us, awesome."

Dead.

Yesterday the National Weather Service issued our first Tornado Watch of the season. Most people get a little edgy, not me, I was pumped. Oddly enough, living in the Midwest most of my life, I have never seen a tornado. However, all the ingredients are right for this to be the year. Obviously living in Oklahoma increases the odds. Our new house sits up real high on the northwest side of Owasso, the perfect spot to view nature's fury in action.

I left work a little early yesterday to get a front row seat. The conditions seemed perfect. It was getting dark, a little muggy, a steady breeze. I was salivating out of the mouth. I had the camera ready, the radar up on the computer, all I needed was one to fire up. I had dreams of chatting with Charles Gibson via satellite on Good Morning America:

"Charles, I seen it coming over the hilltop towards our house, it sounded like a freight train. I told my ol' lady to put some clothes on and get to the basement. I ran outside straight to the playground. The kids was all playing and didn't even see it coming. They all know I ain't supposed to be by the playground, so when they seen me they all ran home. I ain't a hero, I was just in the wrong place at the right time".

It didn't even rain last night.

Thanks to the NWS for getting me all excited. I'm sure there will be another.

Do you like Cookies and Brownies???

This afternoon while hard at work I got a text, "It's not urgent but call when you're not busy".

Lindsay never texts things like that. Knowing her as well as I do I immediately call. Something is awry.

"Hello" she said.

"What's up?"

She responded, "I did something that is probably going to make you mad."

I know her. We have been together for four years. We have this connection.

"How fast were you going?"

"87 in a 75".

Lindsday will be hosting a bake sale in our neighborhood for the next few Saturdays. Anyone interested in brownies, cookies and a nice assortment of baked goods is invited to stop by.

Call for directions.

What time is it?

I think it is appropriate to acknowledge some dislikes I have with the time change.

After a wild Saturday night at the UFC party, I am passed out in my bed. I am snoring, dead to the world, when all of the sudden I wake up to the sound of what I think is possibly a meteor crashing through the roof. In a haze, I stumble to the kitchen where I find Lindsay.

Disoriented, I asked what the heck was going on?

“Sorry, changing the clock on the microwave and accidentally knocked the pot on the floor” she responded.

Why do the media outlets tell everyone to spring forward at 2AM? There are people who actually get out of bed at 2AM to do this process. Why do some folks not realize that you won’t get a ticket if you change the clock at a time other than exactly 2AM? From now on I think it should be broadcast that you can spring forward before you go to bed, whatever time that may be. Eliminate the 2AM from all discussions. That way there is no confusion.

Another thing I hate, which happens for the first few days after the time change;

“What time is it?”

”Five, but it’s really four.”

No, it’s really not four, it’s five. The clock says five, the five o’clock news is on, it’s five.

The good thing about the time change, it signals that spring is near. It stays lighter later and that means we have more time to get outside and enjoy the outdoors.

I hate to cut this blog short, but I have to get on the air, my show starts at three. Oh wait, it’s only two, I guess I can screw off for another hour!

Public Apology

In an effort to avoid a certain KO, I must apologize for the misspelling of Quinton's name in my previous blog entry.

He looks like a blog reader, so in the case that he stumbles across this, "I'm sorry Q", you wimp.

Hmm...What shall we call him???

Precious? Nah.

Twinkles? Mmmm, nope.

Tootsie wootsie? Definitely not.

The gentleman pictured above is Quenton "Rampage" Jackson. I was introduced to him last night (via the TV) at my friend Mike's UFC watch party. Prior to last night, the only real knowledge I had of this man was his recent run in with the law that made headlines.

In Webster's dictionary there are more than 450,000 words. I am convinced that if I spent the next week looking, I would not be able to find a more fitting nickname for my pal Quenton.

Rampage, "violent or excited behavior that is reckless, uncontrolled, or destructive".

When I look in those eyes, I do not see a man who enjoys a nice picnic in the park surrounded by daisies, skipping merrily, chasing butterflies, or hugging the air.

I see violent or excited behavior that is reckless, uncontrolled and destructive. A rampage.

That's what I saw last night when he defeated Keith Jardine in the UFC pay per view event. For my first fight, it was awesome. I now consider myself a fan of UFC. I won't pay for it, but I'll certainly invite myself to another party to watch it for free. You should do the same.

Just don't hire a babysitter who goes by the name Rampage.

Somebody Has To Say It

I would imagine that most of us at one point or another have thought about what we would do if all six of those Powerball numbers matched. To one day wake up and read the numbers in the local Gazette only to find that all of your dreams have come true, the daily struggles of how to get by were gone. Anything you want is now yours. The possibilities are endless for me. I could think all day and night about the cool things I could do.

Which brings me to my point; why do only morons win the lottery?

"Congratulations Roger, you have just won 196 million dollars from the Kansas Lottery!! What are you going to do with all that money?"

"I gonna get me a new truck and maybe go on a vacation"!!!

What! Roger, you idiot! You just won 196 million dollars, you're on TV and that's all you can come up with. I'll buy you a damn pickup truck and I'll pay your family's way to Jamaica. You give me the 196 million and we're both happy; you get your truck and a nice vacation, and I get the remaining $195,965,000.00

Seriously, who picks these people?

If you happen to be one of the chosen few, would you please do me a favor? Get on that stage with that big grease board of a check and say, "I'm going to buy a jet, 20 houses around the world, have strippers on call 24 hours a day, gamble everyday until I die, buy a life supply of Benson & Hedges, hire a hit man to take out all of the people who have ever made fun of my double chin and give a little bit to my church."

Good luck.

I hope to see you on the news tomorrow when I wake up.

You want me to do what with that nozzle?

So yesterday I get a text message from Lindsay, my wife, with the picture of this gas pump. She said, "Look at the gas pump I had to use". I got quite a chuckle as it is rather old school, and not something you see everyday living in a city. It became apparent that night when I got home Lindsay, seven years my junior, really is A LOT younger than me. This story is in Lindsay's words:

I was in the middle of nowhere and very low on gas, my GPS didn't show any gas stations for miles and I knew I was going to run out. Then, like a mirage in the desert sky is this tiny building with one gas pump. I pulled up to the pump and walked inside this small one room station and asked the lady, Glenda, which was proudly displayed on her embroidered apron, if this pump was real. She looked at me like I was an idiot. She responded in a gruff tone, "yes it's real". It is a weird feeling when someone who probably didn't have much of an education, if any, makes you feel as dumb as I felt. Avoiding the pot holes and oil stains, I made my way back to the pump. After a moment of examining this foreign object, I removed the handle and put the nozzle into my tank, pulled the trigger, nothing. Embarrassed I had to make the journey again, I braced for another round of, wow, this city girl is dumb. My next question, "how does it work" received the predicted flippant explanation, "You lift the nozzle out of the holder, and then flip the lever that says pump." Back across the parking lot, trying not to fall in my heels, I proceeded to accomplish the unthinkable, filling my car with this ancient ass gas pump. So excited for what had to be my final encounter with Happy McHapperson I returned inside to my new BFF and told her I'd like to pay. The blank stare I got made me think perhaps I accidentally said, "I hope you die a slow and painful death". It was the longest silence. Finally, she mustered the energy to utter in her ever so pleasant tone, "How Much?" Holy s*&t. I had to walk outside and get a frickin' meter reading so I could pay for my gas. What's a girl to do, again, I trample across the worlds worst excuse for pavement to read the meter. The meter read $22.11. Part of me wanted to tell her one dollar, but I am a woman of class. As I take a step towards the station it hit me how ugly things were about to get. I knew what was coming from the old, disgruntled lady. I pictured a shootout, a hole in the back of this isolated so called gas station with my corpse never to be found. I had no options, I had to ask her. I imagined the look of death I was about to receive, but I had to ask.

"Do you take American Express?"

Silence.

A blank stare.

Then finally, "Duh, this is a gas station, yes!"

Lindsay survived this awkward encounter with Glenda the angry gas station clerk.

I love technology and how things have advanced in recent years, but I think there should be some sort of class or seminar that teaches kids what life was like before cell phones, computers, DVR's and of course, pay at the pump gas stations.

I'm getting older.

Not How P-Diddy Rolls

Friday is finally here and I have a smile from ear to ear. Not because it is Friday, not because it is sunny and 80 outside, not even because I get to stay away from the office for the next two days. Although all of those things are exciting, they are not nearly as exciting as what I get to do tonight. Tonight...drum roll please...I get to stay in a motel. Yeah, I said it a motel. Not a hotel, but a motel.

I have been invited to judge a battle of the bands competition tonight at the world famous Tumbleweed's in Stillwater, Oklahoma. I figured what the heck, music and beer, not a bad Friday night. So I will make the 45 minute drive to Stillwater, where apparently there must be some sort of gun show or something going on because there is not a hotel room to be found. However, there is a motel room, and it has my name on it! Fifty dollars a night, no lobby, no fancy breakfast, probably not even HBO. However, I bet it has an ice maker down the dimly lit breezeway, probably an old machine that I can use to get an ice cold cola, and most importantly, a window AC unit that I can use to make that musty room the perfect temperature.

I haven't stayed in a motel since the early 80's when my grandparents drug us to Colorado Springs for vacation. I love the memory of backing that 26 foot station wagon into the parking stall, jumping out of the back, and standing right at the door to our room. There is something about motels that I love. Anymore, they're rarely seen in areas that normal folks frequent, but on occasion, rolling down a blue highway in rural America you'll see one of these beauties just waiting for you to come rest a spell.

Next time you're making your way down Route 66 or another stretch of American roadway and in need of some shut eye, don't forget about motels, they need love too!

Not Quite Tiger

In no way is this post designed to be a "look what I got to do" self serving post, but, guess what I got to do! Ha just kidding! My friend Steve who works for Capitol Records called me and said, "Hey Darius Rucker wants to play golf when he is in town, you want to join us?" Yeah, I'm talking about Darius Rucker from Hootie and the Blowfish. Here's the dilemma, I am the worst golfer in the world, I am also a huge Hootie fan, and most recently a huge fan of Darius' country project. What do I do? Actually, it was an easy decision, hell yes I'll play golf with Darius Rucker!

So I picked Darius up at the hotel on a Friday morning and the two of us drove to Meadowbrook Country Club. We talked about Rhianna and Chris Brown, Country Music, and Charleston, SC (his home is there, and that is my favorite vacation spot). So the conversation is good, hard to believe this guy has sold more than 25 million albums and he has less of an ego than a lot of the artists who I have met with much less success, but I have to tell him. I can't wait any longer. So I just blurt it out, "Darius, I suck at golf, I just thought you should know." In the same voice as when he sings "with a little luck" he says, "ahhh man no pressure, I play with Tiger all the time." WHAT, my sorry ass is sharing the course with a guy who plays golf with Tiger Woods. This got ugly quick. If there was ever a time I wanted to contract Mad Cow disease, this was it.

I tried, but I didn't get Mad Cow. So we are on the # 1 tee. I really truly suck at golf, I am HORRIBLE, I'm not being humble, I am that bad. So here I am, in my brand new golf shoes, new golf shirt with a collar, Darius Rucker and Steve standing behind me along with all of the golf pros and club members who wanted to see Darius. I could think of only two things; the Southwest Airlines commercial, "Wanna Get Away"--oh yes, I'd catch a flight to Fargo at this point, and Tiger Woods. This guy plays with Tiger frickin' Woods. Wow!!! Oh well, I lay my brand new Nike ball on my brand new tee. Get my Big Bertha out and step to the plate. I feel the eyes, all of them, watching intently.

The ball does not get more than one foot from the point of impact before it hits the ground, dirt flies everywhere the ball dribbles, luckily past the women's tee box. All I can turn around and say, "I may have to settle for a bogey on this hole." The rest of the day went that way. At not one point in our round did I hit anything that could have been mistaken for a golf shot, not once. What I take pride in is that I was smiling and laughing for the entire 18 holes. It was an awesome day. Why should I let a bad golf game ruin my day, I suck at golf... anytime I step on the course I'm gonna stink, so a bad round of golf isn't going to ruin my day. The cool thing was, it didn't ruin Darius' day either!

Darius has a new CD in stores now. It is country, and it is amazing. Anyone who enjoys music ought to go get it. It is one of those albums that you can listen to all the way through. He's had one #1 so far, another on the way and probably a couple more before it's said and done. My favorite song is Learn To Live. One of the best lines, "you gotta live to learn, so you can learn to live".

That was what my day golfing with Darius Rucker was all about! Living, and I loved it!

Time for a change

What do these names have in common: Anthony Federov, Mikela Gordon, Constatine Moralies, Chris Sligh, Ace Young, and Antonella Barbella? Besides the fact that I misspelled most of them, each one of these individuals were contestants on past seasons of American Idol. I didn’t Google these names, I remembered them. They didn’t even win, or come close to winning, but I remember them. Why, because I was an American Idol fanatic. I’m sure my manhood is being questioned, as it should.

My girlfriend Lindsay, (now my wife) and I would race home from work, cook dinner and plop down in front of the TV. Three nights a week, without fail, we were glued to the television. Somebody died and there was an evening wake, NO WAY, have to watch Idol. Free courtside tickets to watch the basketball game, NOPE, have to watch Idol. President Bush invited us to the big house for dinner, SORRY, have to watch Idol. You see what I’m saying. We NEVER missed this show, we even had a DVR, but this show was much too important for us to miss.

What happened? I can no longer sit through an episode of my once favorite show. I’m bored by it; it’s the same old song and dance for me. I have to ask myself, did it change, or did I? Part of me believes there’s a new format on the show, new judge etc, Idol has changed. The realist in me says I have changed; I’m getting older, or maybe smarter. Times are changing, and I’m changing. Change is good, embrace it, and don’t be scared of it. I want to be a better person, and without change, it won't happen.

By the way, I'm not going to miss Idol, I’ve got the Real Housewives.


JENSEN-out

My first blog

I've been sitting around lately, watching a lot of news. I usually catch a little Keith, maybe some AC 360, Larry King. I have CNN updates on my Blackberry, I get the stock updates hourly, yahoo.com is my homepage on my desktop, which I am constantly checking. Sitting around tonight, I said enough is enough. Why do I constantly subject myself to this stuff. It is beyond ridiculous. I am spending my free time hearing how awful our country is, how our President sucks (depending on the channel), how we're all going to lose our jobs, a nuclear attack is imminent...you get my point. It is overwhelming, and I am fearful there are others like me out there.

That's why I am doing this, it gives me something to do, makes me feel productive and enhances my typing skillz. I hope I can stick with it, I tend to get bored easily. I hope that someone will read this and go, wow, that guy has a point. Quit watching this garbage. Let's get back to living our lives and controlling what we can. I can do nothing to help with the deficit, (hell I'm not even sure if I can spell it), I can't fix the unemployment rate, I can't make the stock market go up. What I can do is this; work hard at my job, provide for my family by living within our means, treat people with respect and be the best person I can be. That's what I am going to choose to do. It's too easy to let the worlds problems consume us and bring us down. Screw that. That's not how I roll.