Cowabunga!!!

A lot of people talk about how America’s youth are “our future” and some paragon of wisdom and talent, and how they are gonna be way better with technology and all this other stuff about how great the children of America are, but I just wanted to take this opportunity to reel in everyone’s expectations a little bit and point out that these kids — though filled with potential — still have their flaws and shortcomings.

Take something as simple as sharing, for instance. If you came over to me and asked to borrow something of mine like a DVD or a Kleenex or something, I would totally let you (I would probably even let you keep the Kleenex). But I was at work today, and there was this kid who had all these Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle action figures that he was playing while he was waiting for his mom who was in a meeting or something. And even though he looked to be about four or five years old (definitely old enough to know how to share) and had plenty of action figures to share (at least six or seven different ones), he wouldn’t share with anyone, no matter how much I asked or how politely. And it’s like, dude, you only have two hands, so you couldn’t possibly be playing with more than two of them at once, at the maximum. But I’m telling you, this kid wasn’t hearing any of the great logic I was pointing out to him, he was being totally stubborn for pretty much no reason. So next time that some hippie, bleeding-heart liberal chump tells you that “America’s children represent everything that’s great about the future of our country,” you thump your pointer finger in their chest a few times and tell them that these kids don’t deserve any of our time or respect until they learn the basics of the modern, civilized conduct fitting for an adult. And that if the little brats can’t master something as basic as letting me use their Donatello for even five seconds to do a freaking awesome superkick, then maybe they deserve all the global warming and melted icecaps and extinct species that we’re gonna leave for them. So there.

In other news, I saw Leatherheads last night, and I’ll sum it up with the following: George Clooney is an amazing actor, a decent director, and an average writer. However, he is an awful actor/director/writer. If you really can’t wait till this Thursday for a new episode of The Office and really need to get your John Krasinski fix, then see it. Otherwise, rent it (and hope they photoshop someone prettier in over top of Renee Zellweger. She’s gross).

There’ll be an update of decent significance in the next day or two, so keep your internet close at hand and be on the lookout.

Peace, love and rock!
Dustin


Remember, sharing is caring!

The Cardinal is a Horrible Mascot (You Feel Me, Otterbein-ers?)

As you may or may not know (or care), I spend my roughly one-hour commute each morning listening to Colin Cowherd on ESPN Radio’s LA affiliate (that’s 710ESPN to you SoCal-ers), and today one of the main topics was the recent “scandal” about some pictures of Matt Leinart throwing a party at his home in Phoenix, AZ (home of one of the NFL’s worst franchises and birthplace of my little sister…you decide which is more impressive). One of the shortcomings of radio (even “HD” radio) is that so far it’s just sounds — although mark my words, someday they’ll invent something that can transmit pictures in the same way; right through the air to your home, like magic. So all I knew about these pictures initially was the description I heard from Colin & Co. on his radio show this morning. They used pretty much every tabloid buzzword/adjective to describe these photos (such as “scandalous” to “appalling” to “sexually explicit” and everything in between), so naturally when I got into to work today, the first thing I did was hop on espn.com and check out the photos for myself. And I was stunned. Shocked. Horrified. …But not for the reasons you might think. No, I was taken aback at these pictures not because of how “wildly outrageous” there were, but rather for how TAME they were. I figured for the media and the NFL to be making such a giant deal out of these things, that they would’ve been really incriminating — but to the contrary, they’re essentially just normal pictures of people at a party. One is of Matt Leinart sitting in a hot tub with three or four average-looking chicks (sidenote: remind me to talk to ML about his standards — you’re a starting NFL quarterback now, Matty, you can’t be seen around any group of girls that averages less than a 8.6 on the traditional 10-point scale. You think Tom Brady got to the SuperBowl by dating cheap sorority girls? Of course not. Now go get yourself a supermodel like a professional would), another is of him holding a beer-consumption-device for a chick (I’m told these are called “beerbongs." We never had them when I was in college. Honest, mom and dad), and the third is of Nick Lachey awkwardly standing kind of near a different chick (any party where Nick Lachey is the second-most-famous guy in attendance is probably not one that qualifies as “wildly outrageous”).

And that was it. Just three relatively normal party pictures, taken by a 24-year-old millionaire and a few of his friends. Now I’m no millionaire, but I have far more incriminating pictures than that floating all over the internet — in most cases, because I put them there myself. So if those pictures of Leinart “cement his status as a bad-boy party animal,” then I’m Gene Simmons, Wilt Chamberlin and Captain Kangaroo all rolled into one (don’t let Capt’s outside appearance fool you, he knows how to party hard). The point is, our culture spends all of it’s time teaching our youth and teens that their only goals in life should be to A) make a lot of money, B) make a lot of friends, and then C) once you acquire both, go nuts! Think about it. Why does a song like “Party Like a Rockstar” (and that less-creative song of the same theme by Nickelback) get made, and then become wildly popular? Because that’s exactly what we want: to party like rockstars without responsibility or consequences. Can you imagine a song called “Go Out to A Poetry Reading Then Spend a Quiet Evening Politely Discussing It, Making Sure to Get Eight or Nine Full Hours of Sleep Each Night” ever making it in to the Billboard Top 40? Of course not…and it’s not because I didn’t try, believe me. So Matt Leinart — after a lifetime of having this line of thinking seared into his brain — does exactly what the song(s) suggest: he gets wildly rich, then parties like a rockstar (or pro athlete in this case). And what happens when photographic evidence of a twenty-something millionaire living like a twenty-something millionaire surfaces? Leinart gets blasted by every sports writer, radio host and paperboy in the continental United States (they’ve yet to discover radio waves in Hawaii and Alaska).

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not encouraging excessively illegal/immoral behavior, and I’m not suggesting that Matt shouldn’t have been home taking care of his eighteen month old son instead of doing body shots off of Nick “98º is the Poor Man’s N’Sync” Lachey; I’m simply pointing out that we, as a society, are spending WAY too much time and energy deploring Matt Leinart for taking a picture with some girls when meanwhile there are guys out there like Pacman Jones (awaiting trial for, among other things: aggravated assault, manslaughter, conspiracy to commit, and several other felonies) and Chris Henry (arrested on FIVE separate occasions since 2005 for everything from gun-possession to drug running to beer-bottling a man’s winshield) who barely get a bi-line on espn.com’s front page. And then to top it all off, I get to hear from everyone that Matt Leinart is “the bad role model of the NFL.” I don’t have kids yet, so I can’t say for sure, but I’m pretty certain that if I had to decide who was the worst NFL role model for my children, and my options were:
1) a guy who keeps military-grade guns and hard drugs in the trunk of his car,
2) a guy who pistol-whips strippers after “making it rain,” or
3) a guy who one time decided to drink a beer using a funnel and a hose instead of a cup,
— I think I’d feel safest about option 3. And that list doesn’t even include a certain canine enthusiast that used to play for the Atlanta Falcons.

To wrap this rant, let me just add that I think we can (and should) challenge ourselves as a society to tackle bigger and more salient issues than the drinking/partying habits of a millionaire who’s three years over the legal drinking age.

Matt Leinart, this Bud’s for you. Cheers.


If Leinart's in trouble for those pics, then this will probably be Exhibit A in the trial to lock me up for life.

April's Fool

This may come as a shock to many of you, given my naturally ridiculous outlook on life, but I really don’t like April Fool’s Day much. Mostly because when I make a “joke,” it’s typically something like a bad pun about an obscure movie or TV show or something. No one laughs except me, and we move on with our day — no one gets hurt. But on April Fool’s Day, it’s like the world’s definition of a “joke” goes from being something starting with “a priest and a rabbi walk into a bar,” and transforms into “which of my friends can be the biggest A-hole.” If I open a bottle of ketchup and it explodes all over me, I don’t think “gee, what a great joke,” I think: “what the hell, why did Kevin cause a bottle of ketchup to explode all over my clothes?!” That’s not April Fool’s Day, that’s “Kevin’s a D*** Day.” Also, I don’t really get where the “fool” aspect of it comes into play. When I put a spoonful of sugar on my oatmeal, and it turns out to be salt because someone switched it out for April Fool’s Day, is that supposed to make me the “fool” for trusting that there was sugar in the sugar container? Or is the guy who switched it out supposed to be a fool like a court-jester for having pulled the prank? Because I’m pretty sure if any court jester had pulled that kind of trick on a king back in the day, the king would’ve had him decapitated quicker than you can say “jay slash kay.” Regardless of the origin, I suggest that we — as the civilized group of humans that we are — put an end to the low-brow, low-class, tasteless humor that April Fool’s Day represents and take a stand for dignity and honour (it’s extra classy to spell words the British way).

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go take a dump in a bucket and hide it in my roommate’s room before he finds out that I switched out his milk with a jug of rotten milk I’ve been hiding under the radiator until today.



...just another one of the hilarious jokes I plan on playing on one of my friends today.

The Second Trimester Begins

A wise monk by the name of Hugh Downs once said, “the best way to apologize for any wrongdoing is to simply pretend it never happened in the first place.” So rather than apologize for not updating this guy in almost two months, I’m simply going to ignore my negligence and continue as if I’ve done nothing wrong. So far, so good.

In a little more than a week, I will have been in LA for three full months. That means in the coming days, I’ll be starting my second trimester as a resident of southern California. Obviously, I’m curious about what to expect in the next trimester, and I’m sure you are, too. In order to put myself (and you) at ease, I’ve done a little research on what we can expect during the second trimester of LA living. For the ease of the reader, I’ve changed all the occurrences of the phrase “the baby” to the much more interesting descriptor, “Dustin.”



Week 13: You can't feel it yet, but Dustin can move in a jerky fashion — flexing the arms and kicking the legs. This week, Dustin might even be able to put a thumb in his mouth. Dustin’s eyelids are fused together to protect his developing eyes. Tiny ribs may soon appear.

Week 14: The effect of hormones becomes apparent this week. For boys, the prostate gland is developing.

Week 15: Dustin's skin starts out nearly transparent. Eyebrows and scalp hair may make an appearance.

Week 16: Sixteen weeks into your journey, Dustin weighs a bit less than 3 ounces. He can now make a fist. Dustin’s eyes are becoming sensitive to light. More developed facial muscles may lead to various expressions, such as squinting and frowning

Week 17: Fat stores begin to develop under Dustin’s skin this week. The fat will provide energy and help keep Dustin warm.

Week 18: As the nerve endings from Dustin’s brain "hook up" to the ears, he may be startled by loud noises. Dustin can swallow this week, too.

Week 19: Dustin’s delicate skin is now protected with a pasty white coating called vernix. As Dustin’s hearing continues to improve, he may pick up your voice in conversations — although it's probably hard to hear clearly through the amniotic fluid and protective paste covering Dustin's ears.

Week 20: You've probably begun to feel Dustin’s movements. Dustin now has thin eyebrows, hair on the scalp and well-developed limbs.

Week 21: Although the placenta provides nearly all of Dustin's nourishment, Dustin will begin to absorb small amounts of sugar from swallowed amniotic fluid.

Week 22: This week, taste buds are starting to form on Dustin's tongue, and Dustin's brain and nerve endings can process the sensation of touch. Dustin may experiment by feeling his or her face or anything else within reach.

Week 23: The testes begin to descend from the abdomen this week.

Week 24: Sense of balance develops. Thanks to a fully developed inner ear, which controls balance, Dustin may have a sense of whether he is upside-down or right side up. You may notice a regular sleeping and waking cycle.

Week 25: Dustin’s hands are now fully developed, although the nerve connections to the hands have a long way to go.

Week 26: The hair on Dustin's head is longer and more plentiful. Although Dustin's eyes are fully developed, they may not open for another two weeks.

Week 27: This week marks the end of the second trimester. Dustin's lungs, liver and immune system are continuing to mature — and he has been growing like a weed.



There you have it. I know I learned a lot, and I’m really excited about some of the things I have to look forward to (especially that sense of balance!) in the coming weeks.

I promise to have a more legitimate update for you starting tomorrow, as the clamor for what I’ve been up to has risen to an all-time high. The masses have spoken, and they want more Dustin (and really, who wouldn’t?), so I must deliver.

Until tomorrow,
Dustin

This is where babies come from: the beach.

It's Adjective Tuesday!

Whether you like your Tuesdays Fat, Super, or SuperFat (personally I prefer Black Tuesday: October 29th, 1929; the day of the Great Stock Market Crash of 1929…good times), there’s no denying one simple fact about this magical Tuesday: you are on the internet with too much free time on your hands.

I know it’s been awhile since you’ve heard from me, but it’s because I put myself on blog-writing probation out here until I found a job. The theory being that if I had let myself get distracted with less-important things (such as blogging, facebooking, etc.), that I wouldn’t devote enough time to the more-important things (such as finding a job, paying rent, eating, etc.). BUT, I am glad to say that I have found gainful employment out here (much harder than it sounds), which means I can get back to blogging my heart out to the six (or fewer) of you who are out there reading this! Hooray! High fives all around!

So with all that tomfoolery out of the way, on with the updates!

-I Left a Corporate Job in a Cubicle for a Corporate Job in a Cubicle…in a Skyscraper-
I’ll kick off the updates with info about my aforementioned employer. I work in the HR dept. (that’s Human Resources department to those of you still in school) of UCLA Medical (that’s University of California: Los Angeles to those of you still in winter) as a lackey to the HR Director (that’s slavemaster to those of you still in the free world). I’ll spare you the boring details of my job, but the basic idea is this: UCLA Medical is building a new hospital opening in April-ish, and between now and then they’re hiring a ton of new people to work in said hospital. My job is to help the HR Director lady make sure all these new people get oriented properly and that they are fooled into thinking their jobs are much more fun than they actually are. All things considered, it’s a pretty sweet gig, with an even sweeter view overlooking West LA from the eighth floor of a 100,000-story building (according to my best guess). The downside is that it is literally on the opposite corner of the city from where I live, which means I’ll have about a seventeen-hour commute every morning to get to work. But I suppose that’s better than being homeless (ask me if I still feel that way after driving it for three months).

-Oh, Excuse Me, But I think You Dropped This Name-
Look, I’ve tried to fight it for years, but I’m just going to stop pretending and embrace it: I’m a Name-Dropper. I know it’s like the most annoying thing in the world, but I can’t help it. It doesn’t matter how unimportant or unknown the person is, if I run into Damian Lewis (the main guy in HBO’s Band of Brothers, props to T-Gates for spotting him) at The Apple Store, or meet a girl who was in Wedding Crashers at a frat party, or have a sitdown with the creators/writers/actors from It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, I’m going to tell you. I’ll do my best to try and kick this habit, but until then, expect me to base 100% of my self-esteem on how many D-List celebs I can stalk in a week. Cheers.

-I Prefer British Idioms to American Vernacular-
Let’s face it, when it comes to the English language, the Brits got it spot on (I mean, English is named after their country for crying out loud!). Don’t get me wrong, I love shouting “wazzzzup” at my homies and prefacing all my sentences with the word “dude” as much as the next guy, but you just can’t beat phrases like “cheers, mate” “bloody hell” and “bangers in the mouth.” So my advice to all of you is to start working as many British words into your vocabulary as possible. Don’t barney me like a berk on this one, you’ll sound cooler, classier, and all your mates will be impressed by you quicker than you can say “Bob’s your uncle!” …And let me know how long it takes before you get your arse mullered by the rozzers.

-A Formal Apology to My Posse-
Now that I’ve updated and enlightened you a smidge, it’s time for me to apologize officially for being so lackadaisical about answering/returning phone calls. I really want to catch up with and talk to all of you, but in between job-hunting, running around the city and the East/West time difference, I haven’t been doing as good a job as I should be. No worries though, I intend to fettle that situation straightaway.

-Rock Out With Your Barack Out-
Today (Super Tuesday) is a big day for people who care about the world of politics (which isn’t me), and even though I maintain my vast disinterest in the political realm, I thought I’d say that at this point I think I’ll be casting my vote for Sen. Obama, unless I see fit to change my mind betwixt now and November. I usually try to avoid politics of any sort because I believe that everyone is lying and altering the truth to work in their favor, but the presidential election is always a big one, and I like to have some idea of who I’m voting for and why rather than pick blindly. I’m definitely not voting for Hilary, and McCain, Huckabee and Romney have yet to show me anything impressive, whereas Barack seems like a solid, energetic dude with some good plans for governmental cohesion. That’s good enough for me.

-From UALC to UCLA to…-
At the referral of a couple of people whose opinions I respect, I’ve been hitting up a church out here called Bel Air Presbyterian on the Westside. I like it a lot so far, and it reminds me a lot of the Xalt service at UALC (though the people aren’t as cool, obviously ;). I have pretty engrained spiritual/religious views, but the Presbys of Bel Air seem to have their heads screwed on straight, spiritually speaking. I’ll let you know how this new church relationship progresses as I explore where God wants me to be out here.


-Peyton Was Just Being Polite When He Clapped-
I don’t want this post to degenerate into an endless stream of swearwords, so I’ll keep my comments on Superbowl XLII (or Amateur Hour) as brief as possible:
Eli Manning is not a good quarterback. He threw several shoulda-been interceptions (someone tell Asante Samuel to practice some catching drills in the off-season), managed the offense poorly, and made some truly awful in-game decisions. But thanks to David Tyree’s incredibly athletic circus catch in traffic, Eli’s 59.5 minutes of flaws are being overshadowed by one good play that was just as much luck as it was athleticism. As a lifelong pro/college football fan, I understand that luck is just as much a part of the game as the stripes on the field, so I’m not suggesting the Giants should be stripped of their title, I’m just saying that if the Pats/Giants played ten games in a row, the Pats would win 9/10. Unfortunately for Patriots fans, the one that they lost just so happened to be the Superbowl. And Tom Brady (hands-down best quarterback currently in the NFL, and will likely surpass Favre as the all-time greatest if he chooses to stay in the league long enough) got about as much support from his O-line in that game as Vick got from PETA to help pay court costs. Credit the Giants D Coordinator for keeping pressure on Tom “Eli Wishes He’ll Ever Get to See 18-1” Brady, but as the offensive line, it’s your job to give your QB the protection he needs, regardless of how many people are blitzing however often. You can’t let your quarterback get sacked, hurried, and knocked down for the entire game, then expect him to trust the pocket enough to make the plays he needs to lead you to a comeback victory. Even a perfect QB (and Brady’s close) wouldn’t make passes while buried shoulder-deep in the turf. Oh well, there’s always next season. Maybe the Bengals will make the playoffs finally and then I’ll REALLY have a reason to gripe when they get pounded.

-Does the Facebook Bumper Sticker App. Ever Work Properly for Anyone?-
I admit it. I’m a full-on facebook addict. I’m in a support group (on facebook) that’s trying to help me, but so far, no dice. As a true facebook connoisseur, my biggest pet peeve is when simple facebook applications simply don’t function for what is apparently no reason. This annoying problem is most prevalent in an app called “Bumper Sticker.” I get bumper stickers multiple times a day, but whenever I try and view them or send them to my buddies, 99% of the time, the application just sits there and does nothing, or it freezes, or it goes blank. Now look, I’m not asking for full perfection or awesome graphics or anything, all I’m saying is that if you’re going to make an application, just make sure it can actually do what it claims to. If it can’t, no big deal, just don’t put it out there for the world when you still need another six months to work out the bugs, ok? Ok.


Well gang, it was another long one, so props to you if you stuck around to the end, and I’ll try to have shorter, more frequent (and hopefully less boring) posts for you Interneters in the near future!

Much love,
Dustin



Apparently these are the ridiculous Californian gas prices I was warned about...yet this is cheaper then what I've paid in Ohio before. Funny, that.

Facebook is the Cocaine of Our Generation

Hey guys, Dustin here, happy to be back on the habit since we now have cable and internet in our house, thanks largely to Aaron “Let’s Get This Done” Covington.

First off, I’ll point out the obvious: that I made it safely to LA, I have a bed and clothes and things in a room that’s all my own, and yes, it’s warm here (special apologies to those of you living in the 614, where the high temperature will be a whopping 13º on Sunday). I am still unemployed (cue the naysayers’ snickering softly in the background), but have some decent prospects ranging from casting director for a reality TV show, to Starbucks barista (my top preference at this point) and everything in between.

To give those of you who are unfamiliar with the city some incentive to visit me, I’ve found out firsthand, that all the “bad” things about LA, really aren’t that bad. The traffic is heavy, but manageable (also, any city where U-turns are kosher is tops in my book); the gas prices are higher, but only slightly (I just filled up for $3.19 a gallon…not unreasonable); and there are no other flaws with this city, period. My house is pretty centrally located to everything (20 minutes away from south bay, maybe 5 or some from Hollywood and downtown, and 15 from Burbank, Studio City, Culver City, and two seconds away from USC campus, etc.), so it’s been handy for re-learning my way around town.

It’s been nice to see my Cali friends, though there’s still a few I’ve yet to catch up with (I’ll make it down to San Diego soon, Kyle, I promise); and my roommates have been solid thus far.

Other than that, I’m still the same old me, just wearing flip flops more often. Your guys’ phone calls, texts, emails and prayers have all been vital in keeping me going, so thanks in advance to all of you for being the best posse ever (regardless of the state).

I’ll update with new info as I have it, and I’d be happy to go into more detail in any area you’re curious about if I haven’t covered it here already.

Much love,
Dustin

...Apparently I still have some unpacking to do.

Overconsumption of Sobe Energy-Drinks Makes Your Urine Neon-Green

Not to be confused with the short-lived 1970’s TV show of the same name; Benson, Arizona, has what I believe to be the ONLY Dairy Queen in the nation that is still a cash-only establishment. After double-checking with the DQ attendant on duty that I was still in 2008, and that I hadn’t accidentally been time-warped to some point in history where credit and debit technology hadn’t been invented yet; I quickly decided to make the Wendy’s down the street my dinner-supplier (normally Wendy’s would’ve been my first choice, but I’d just eaten there for lunch, and I don’t like to repeat fastfood joints in the same day if I can avoid it). As it turns out, customer service at the Wendy’s in Benson, Arizona, has really gone downhill since Dave Thomas passed on to the big drive-thru window in the sky. The apathetic individual working the window managed to mess up my order on three different occasions in a span of about five and a half minutes. If he could’ve seen my interaction, Dave would’ve been turning over in his grave like an all-beef patty on an industrial-sized electric grill.

Poor food service aside, it was another superior day on my Quest for the West (catchy, eh? I just came up with that). Covered 724 miles in a little less than 11 hours — unfortunately, most of the journey was in the half of Texas that hasn’t been given the gift of cell service yet, so I didn’t have the bonus of the random phone calls and texts that have brightened my days thus far, but I survived nonetheless.

The hands-down high point of the day was an interaction I witnessed from afar, somewhere in Bufu, Texas (population: 3 gas stations and an Arby’s), where a tourist in a minivan stopped a local resident to ask him for directions. The twist? The helpful local resident just so happened to be mounted on his white and tan horse at the time of the incident. That’s right, this particular country gentleman (fully clad in the kind of exclusively denim-and-leather outfit that would’ve made The Dukes of Hazard say, “maybe try not to be such a stereotype, ok?”) just happened to be spending his Sunday afternoon strolling around town on his calico horse, dispensing directions and fashion advice to anyone in need. Only in Texas, boys and girls, only in Texas.

Before I sign off for the night and focus on more important things (Sportscenter and Super Troopers, in that order), let me just add this special bonus message for all my friends in the trucking industry: Semi-Truck Drivers, YOU DO NOT NEED TO PASS ONE ANOTHER ON A TWO-LANE HIGHWAY!!! I don’t know if it’s some giant point of pride in the semi-trucking industry when your rig can pass someone else’s, but when I have my cruise control set at 88mph (just fast enough to activate the flux capacitor in case I get hit by a bolt of lightning), then have to slam on the brakes because you and your truck buddy felt the need to have a slow-motion drag race, it makes me hate Al Gore for inventing the wheel. I don’t know if truckers get paid by the hour, or the mile, or the number of flannel shirts they own, but whatever it is, I’ll double it if you guys can just please stay out of the fast lane when I’m around. Ok? Ok.

Tomorrow’s the last leg of my journey, and I’m not sure if I’ll have internet access when I arrive, but if I do, you can expect a full update on everything from how awesome my new place is to how awesome the weather in California is. You’re excited, I can tell.

Much love,
Dustin

Very Few Attractive People Hang Out at Truck Stops

A big howdy to y’all from the mighty town of Abilene, Texas. Today’s drive (clocked at just under 10.5 hours) was pleasantly uneventful, so I’ll just give you the highlights while I watch the New England Patriots extend their 16-game streak of untouchability against the Jacksonville Luxury-Cars.

Highlights from Day 2:
+Got even better gas mileage today than Day 1.
+Made two-fewer stops today (Hardees for lunch, Subway for dinner, no dedicated bathroom stops. Probably a bad idea in retrospect)
+Declared Arkansas the worst state ever.
+Tried a different kind of Sobe energy drink today. Not thrilled with it, but I’m going to keep giving these guys a shot because the regular Sobe drinks are so freaking good, at least one type of their energy drinks must be decent.
+Ran over a cat doing about 80 miles an hour on the freeway. That is, I was doing about 80 —I don’t think the cat could’ve been going much faster than 10mph or so. On the upside, it was actually a Jeep that first hit the unlucky tan-and-white puffball and launched it into my path (the cat had decent hangtime) before I could react, so I’m pretty sure that it was already dead from that Jeep’s first hit, thus leaving my conscience clean and my PETA membership safe from revocation. +More awesome texts and calls today, keep ‘em coming! But note that I don’t respond to texts while I’m driving, so don’t take it personally if my reply-time is slower than usual.
+Drove through the first (and only) patch of rain thus far at the TexArkana border.
+Avoided all rush hours in all cities! Hooray!

And that’s about it. Be sure to come back tomorrow night to hear the latest from the trip and get an exclusive look at my new 12-step program on how to become an alcoholic. It’s guaranteed to change your life.*

Much love,
Dustin “I Don’t Actually Belong to PETA” Heveron

*Disclaimer: Guarantee for changed life does not necessarily imply that the aforementioned change will be for the better. Dustin Heveron Inc. assumes no responsibility for problems/fines/diseases incurred as a result of the program, including (but not limited to): alcoholism, herpes, leprosy, puppies, all felonious and/or criminal charges, “sexy dance moves,” herpes, tax-evasion, road rage, and herpes. All rights reserved. Friends don’t let friends text and drive.

I'm (Jay)Walking in Memphis

At approximately 8pm Central Time (9pm Eastern, 6pm Pacific), I wrapped up an 11-hour day of driving (stopping only to eat some Taco Bell, urinate twice, and purchase one Sobe energy drink) by checking into room 225 at the Hampton Inn located in the heart of Memphis, Tennessee. And after all these years I finally realize what Mark Cohn was talking about in his 1991 hit song that shares its name with this blog post. What I used to think was just a mediocre-at-best tune about someone who liked Elvis a little *too* much, actually turns out to be a mediocre-at-best tune about the ridiculous jaywalking problem that is running rampant in the city. All I have done in this town so far is drive to the nearest SonicBurger, then back to my hotel. A total roundtrip time of maybe 2-3 minutes of road travel. Yet in that 2-3 minutes, I almost ran over —not one —not two —not three, but TWO different pedestrians who were jaywalking across a heavily-trafficked Memphis road in the middle of the night at two different points about a mile apart from each other. And this wasn’t the kind of jaywalking like you do on special occasions like New Year’s Eve where it’s you and a bunch of your friends in brightly-colored, sparkly clothing quickly sprinting across the street when you know for sure that the cars aren’t traveling faster than 6mph, and that you’re in no real danger. Quite the contrary; I’m talking about the kind of jaywalking where gentlemen who were clad head-to-toe in entirely black or dark gray clothing slowly meander diagonally across the middle of a four-lane highway (where the posted speed limit is 55mph) with all the urgency of someone in line to pay their taxes. This wasn’t jaywalking, it was suicide walking. It took all of my cat-like reflexes to avoid the first guy; and it was just sheer luck I missed the second guy…and I probably ran over four or five other jaywalkers along the way that I didn’t even know about. The moral of the story is: I don’t care how poor or homeless or lazy you are, if you’re gonna jaywalk, just invest the 45¢ it costs to buy a neon-orange construction vest with reflective strips…or if you really do have a deathwish, at least have the decency to hop in a bath with a plugged-in microwave like a normal human being, rather than do something that’s gonna result in me spending 15-20 years in a Tennessee maximum security prison for vehicular manslaughter. Try not to be so selfish, ok?

Ok, I’m off to the pool for a bit, then it’s time to crash in preparation for another 650-mile journey tomorrow. Be sure to check back in tomorrow for more Dustin-y goodness, and a rant on why the Teletubbies would make better drivers than most Kentucky natives (no offense, Sarah Hiance).

Much love,
Dustin

P.S. Adrian Jones is on the coast, and Dustin Heveron is in Tennessee? Something isn’t right here…

Second Star to the Right and Straight on Till Morning

Well gang, after all the hubbub and hullabaloo and shenanigans, the day has finally arrived, I’m mere moments away from walking out that door and not coming back (except for frequent visits, of course), and I must say, I feel a little bit like Peter Pan returning to NeverLand. And if LA isn’t a true Neverland, I don’t know what is...in fact, I can already almost hear the LA folk saying, “You never should’ve come out here,” “You’re never going to make it,” “You never paid February’s rent,” etc. Cynics. And just like the delusional, green-tight-clad sprite himself, I feel that this trip is partially my attempt to never grow up — I left a great “real” job, watched the bulk of my friends get married and start their grown up lives, and saw others march decidedly into adulthood; giving up the fancies of children for the hard facts and cold realities of the “real” world. Dreams dismissed, flights of fancy balked at, and no more flying across the night sky in your pajamas just to have a nightcap on a clock tower with a few of your closest friends.

But the question I leave with you even as I myself am leaving is this: what if it’s all true? What if "growing up" is more of a mean prank the world plays on you than something mandated by the number of years you’ve been around? What if right around the corner is a world where all your dreams come true and you’re the king of your own destiny? What if happy thoughts are all it takes to fly? Well I can’t answer for any of you, but I can say without a doubt that if there’s even the slightest chance that any of that is true, then it’s a chance worth taking.

And so with that I make my aim geographically LA, but my actual destination is my own personal NeverLand that waits for me right around the corner. That might all sound naïve and absurdly optimistic to all of you…but if “naïve and absurdly optimistic” isn’t the definition of NOT being a grown up, then I don't know what is. So this Pan gets his last hit of fairy dust (coffee), prepares to not become a Lost Boy (one wrong turn in Texas and I could end up in an ocean), and consume a lot of Wendy’s (Jr. Cheesburger Deluxe, no onions). I’ll try and update nightly once I’m safe in the Wi-Fi of my hotel so that you know I’m okay, and as always, your thoughts and prayers are appreciated as I try to take a little joy to a city whose main hobby is extinguishing the light from those who enter its walls. I love you all.

Dustin