Gooseberried

Happy Birthday, Jim!

Thank you, kindly for guest blogging for me all these years.  Hope you have a great one!  :)

Brace Yourself

Heed the title's warning, dear reader. I'm going to let you into my world, let you taste some of the sweet ambrosia of my hopes and dreams. I warn you because once you begin to understand the face blasting glory of my aspirations, you may never return to your normal life again. You'll thirst, but no water or wine will quench you. You'll stay up nights, staring out your window to the stars above as your significant other slumbers, unaware that your heart beats only for the fevered dreams of a madman you once received a glimpse of on a blog.

With that out of the way and your feet firmly planted on the ground, dear reader, allow me to tell you about the Hammock House.

The Hammock House is an idea that grew out of a desire to live with my best friend after college. It started about a year ago and it has grown, over time, to be a symbol for all that is good in our futures. If you've ever seen a pair of young men discussing ideas before, you know how these things get out of control.

The house is so named because of the extreme comfort of hammocks. Our mutual love of hammock leisure is the single seed idea that has grown into a monster. It started with one hammock for each of us. Soon there were hammocks in every room. Then we decided we could replace the stairs with a series of hammocks that could act as a relaxing slide (This idea has since been scrapped because there is a good chance we will need to escape a fire eventually).

These days, the Hammock House involves four of us. Me and my friend Blake, the fellow progenitor, and Kevin and Phil, two of our friends that we know are willing to try crazy and stupid things.

The walls of the house will be filled with whiteboards, upon which ideas, plans, lists and grievances will be written. Like Prince's microphones littered about his estate, our whiteboards will allow us to write any idea down at any time in any room. Room which will be host to contraptions and deathtraps. Yes, deathtraps. As though it were a game, intricate Gold Ruberg machines intent on either hurting or trapping fellow housemates will be placed here and there, with the inventor ever present, crouched in anticipation of glory.

Video games and verbal abuse will run rampant, contests of masculinity and exuberant victory dances will ensue. Imagine you as a child living in the kind of house you would want - this is the basis of the hammock house.

We all understand that the Hammock House wont last a full year and there's a good chance one or more of us will be permanently injured, but it's worth the risk. The Hammock House is four men attempting to live out their childhood dreams of a world when they were grown ups and could play with their friends when they wanted, doing whatever they wanted for as long as they wanted.

Glorious.

-Jim

Designer Gooseberried

Well, I got my new computer, y'alls!  I decided to go with a lappytop and I took Cristy's suggestion of Delilah for her name.  I like the D names too especially since my old computer's name was Dora. 

Now on to the bad news...

I was using a copy of Photoshop from my friend, Jim, whom you all know.  So, I never actually had the software myself and therefore, when Dora died, she took my copy of Photoshop with her.  As well as some other photos I wanted to edit and publish but alas, they are gone forever.  That also includes all the photos I had stored of me which I was thinking of potentially using for my photo over there at the top of my right column, above the ads.  So, I'm hoping Jimmer will come through for me again with another copy of Photoshop since the thing is so damn expensive.  Until then, I've decided to use a pre-made Typepad design which I actually quite like.  I normally design my banners in Photoshop and since I don't have it...I think you get it.  Also, no new photo until I get some editing software of some sort.  I'm self-conscious about my devil, red eyes that always come out in photos because my pupils consistently look like I'm stoned.

All in all, I didn't lose too many things when Dora passed.  There's a few things I wish I still had but all things considered, it could have been much worse.  At least now, I'll have more motivation to write since I can take Delilah with me to coffee shops, the library, etc.  I'll be getting back into the grove of things soon, so please bear with me!  As for now, Bowie wants to go outside since the high here today is 70 when only last week it was snowing. 

We will return soon!  :)    

Jim Reflects

I've been meaning to write something for the 'berried for awhile now, and Michelle's post about going back in time and slapping some sense into the teenage you was just the kind of brain candy I could use.

Unfortunately, if you noticed in the comments of that post, there isn't much I would really want to tell myself at any age. I couldn't go back and de-angst myself or change anything that would really result in a fantastically different future for myself or even a slight increase in my quality of life.

And it's not one of those "I'm happy things went how they did because it made me who I am today" things because, as I am now, I'm nothing special or interesting. I haven't been forged in the fires of tribulation, made tough and lean by adversity because I was never that shaky to begin with. Since third grade, I've known exactly who I was and was comfortable with it. I was Jimmy Hansen, damnit, and I was fantastic. Smart, athletic, devastatingly handsome and moderately well liked within the school.

However, I've never been and will never be happy with who I am, and I don't think anyone should ever be that way. The moment you're content with who you are, you become complacent and run the risk of entirely losing who you actually think you are. I think it's good to think of yourself as a constant work in progress, to wake up every day with the idea that you're going to take steps towards improving yourself. We can all be a little healthier, a little more worldly, a little bit broader of horizon and I'm not sure I'd like to meet the person who disagrees with that.

It's part of the reason I couldn't think of much to say to myself as a teenager beyond "get laid when you have the chance because you and your hand will be getting very intimate over the next few years." I have enough on my plate dealing with myself as is; I can't even imagine the problems I'd have to deal with if I nudged myself in one direction or the other. I probably wouldn't even be here on Gooseberried because I probably wouldn't have gone to NAU and met the lovely and talented Michelle.

Yes sir, I'm happy enough with the way my life is headed and where it's been. I've already done a lot of things most people aspire to do before they die such as travel to all 50 states and spend a month traveling around Europe with some friends. I've tasted what is supposed to be the best beer in the world (and agreed with the rating) and eaten many, many, many delicious styles of cheese.

While I'm on the subject, I think it's funny that I've done all of those things and yet still haven't had sex, and most sexually active people I know still have all of those things on their lists. I think most people would agree I'm still the loser in that regard.

I've taken the time to do a lot of little things that everyone wishes they could slow down and do partially because I've missed out on all the academic opportunities. Sure I graduated high school with a 2.8 average, but I spent the time I could have been proving what a good little worksheet completionist I was having breakfast with a group of friends at Ihop during first period.

I think if I could actually go back in time and meet the younger me, I would end up not saying anything important and instead just fucking around climbing the local mountains with myself.

Well, that's not true. I'd go back and steal my girlfriend from myself. She was into older guys.

Jim agrees

It's true. Before Michelle scooped me up and squeezed the occasional entry from me (a process that sounds much sexier than it actually is) I had been blogging for about 8 years. I started some time in middle school and you can already imagine the quality of the writing and the pearls of wisdom I was able to muster at that age.

Regardless, every single entry was saturated with honest emotions. I made and lost a few friends with the entries but I was cocky and angry enough to believe - nay - to know that what I was saying was right and that anyone who decided to get in a fight with me was just an idiot. It was an unhealthy attitude, but it was the most productive writing I've ever produced. Though in the real world at that age I was lying rather often (rather big lies, too). I was honest and without regret on the internet. Unfortunately, my early entries have been lost to the ages as various sites I used have disappeared or I would regail you with bits of 8th grade wisdom such as "everyone except me is stupid" and "you are stupid but I am not."

I was versatile and, as you can tell, have since discovered many more ways to express the same ideas.

The reason I mention this, beyond Michelle providing an easy prompt, is that it's stranger being honest and opinionated like that when not only are people you don't know reading your words but it's not even your page. I am a guest, a boorish intruder. I am that guy at the end of the night who doesn't pick up on subtle hints like "Well I have to get up early tomorrow," and "Gee, it's late."

I could tell you that this weekend I was taking care of my friend Blake's dog and another dog from one of his family friends, but you have no idea who Blake is or why you should be excited to read about how fat Chloe has gotten. If I told you that the extra dog is going blind and headbutted my testicles several times quite by accident (though the last time had a hint of malice in the motion) you might laugh at the low humor, but you have essentially no connection to me, the dogs or the situation. I could explain it all, of course, but the sheer space necessary to really get into the story of my weekend with strange dogs would be, well, a blog unto itself. Think of how much time you've spent with Bowie on this blog.

So I have to write things that are honest and open enough that you can connect to them even if it's only akin to the manner in which you might nod slightly whilst passing a distant acquaintance on the street.

Or, seeing as how I now have my own tab and extremely flattering picture here on Gooseberried, I should quit dicking around and introduce myself proper so I can join Michelle in writing fearlessly and providing you - yes you, dear reader - with the type of blogging you can proudly display on your list of favorites. Or at very least, give you some tidbits of information about the goings on in my life and perhaps we can all live vicariously through one another.

Jim has priorities

I recently took a look back at some of my writing from 2008 and came across this:

"I suppose it's weird that I've been not only single for a couple years, but flingle as well. Yes, flingle as in without flings. You're goddamn right I'm a genius."

I laughed. I don't too often laugh at my own writing so this really caught my eye. I miss the cocky Jim. He was alright. That being said, I still agree that my situation doesn't work in my favor, or at least won't for awhile, but eventually will find me perfectly suited for the ravages of age. I happen to be, shocking though it may be, one of four people to have ever seen my penis if you count myself and my parents. Maybe you're reading this and smiling softly because hey there, Jimbo, way to go, way to be a decent person and care about more than pussy.

Then again, maybe you're not naive and you realize that this handsome and strong young man didn't choose to wait, he had waiting thrust upon him by factors outlined in a beautifully written entry on a world famous blog.

Most guys would lie to themselves and mention how it could be perceived as a good thing to be one of those guys that isn't just after pussy, but the cruel reality is that eventually, something like this is going to turn from kind of endearing to very unsettling. Maybe it already has and I'm digging my own sexual grave by refusing to lie, I don't know.

I think of my problem in terms of priorities. Most guys my age have one priority: cumming in and on everything allowed/getting drunk and then cumming in and on everything allowed. I understand and accept that college age men are not known for their stability and responsibility. Unfortunately, I've been stricken with a rare psychological disorder known as oldness. It's very scientific stuff.

There was a brief period after I reached puberty and discovered that girls don't have cooties but, in fact, have the very opposite of cooties that I was all about future sexual relations. I was, dare I say it, like every other pubescent boy. Unfortunately, that period only lasted about two or three years until something went horribly wrong. While all of my friends were fucking many anonymous partners at swinger's clubs and gleefully attending key parties, I had already progressed beyond the "fuck everything" stage and somehow acquired the biological inner workings of a middle aged father.

In fact, I'm not even looking forward to making kids as much as I am to just having them. My list of priorities, in turn, has taken a strange and disturbing turn and "fucking" has slipped below "being a father" which causes several logistical problems to say the least. So, in addition to the previous Jim that spoke of my general inability to successfully date anyone, my biological clock is working far beyond its means. Eventually, that will work to my advantage.

When I am actually a middle aged father, I won't go through a midlife crisis where I wonder what happened to me. I'll experience a midlife un-crisis, where everything finally calms down and I feel like nothing's wrong with me at long last. My wife and I will rarely have sex, I'll set a good example for my children and live a relatively simple life and shake my head slowly as all of my friends who spent these years dipping their dicks into whatever pussy came their way suddenly have to deal with a diminishing sex life and an end to the crazy adventures of youth.

Or I'm lying to myself in assuming that, with an attitude like mine, I will be a father at 45. In a way, I think I would kind of enjoy that. I think of all the money I don't spend on dates or steady relationships and how much fun I have laughing with my friends about the ridiculousness of my social life. Without the oddity of being what I am, we'd all have to come up with someone new to rag on and let's be honest, Phil gets a little touchy sometimes.

Jim is a dope

I moan often about my troubles with women. Most other troubles are far worse, this is true, but when I wake up I'm not treated to an aching reminder of how expensive replacing that car battery was (Maybe that sort of thing gets you off, I don't know, I don't judge. I'm sure it's very normal for a man to develop sexual feelings for his car battery kind of like that time I got hot and bothered looking at a ceiling fan. It's totally natural. It just reminded me of some other time when something not creepy happened. Right fellas? Right?).

Unfortunately, my troubles are entirely my own. I don't struggle against overwhelming odds. I'm intelligent, moderately witty, devastatingly handsome and I have my shit together. Well, all my shit, that is, except the part of my shit that controls my ability to understand and interpret flirting, and the other part of my shit that has the ability to "pull the trigger."

You see, I am a simple man. If a woman smiles, or laughs, or touches my arm or blinks the right way or coughs the right number or times or uses and intricate system of toe taps, shallow breaths and ancient sanskrit tablets to convey her positive feelings towards me, I just smile and think "My, she certainly is nice! Hum de dum de dum."

I am prone to hyperbole an a vain attempt at humor, but I have - on dates mind you - thought the words/sounds "hum de dum." Yes, I know how pathetic I am.

So why should this bother me? I meet many friendly women, that can only be a good thing, yes? Oh sure it's sunshine, lollipops and fruit baskets for awhile then those nice girls date someone infinitely more masculine and perceptive than I and I always get the same question/exchange.

"Jim, why didn't you ever make the move?" or "Why didn't anything ever happen between us?" or more to the point and my personal favorite "I wanted to fuck you that night and you didn't even notice."

Well excuse me. I am thick and unassuming and I didn't want to think you were a hussy and just wanted to jump my bones, miss. I apologize for thinking of more than hopping in the sack or possible mauling your face with my hideously chapped lips that night. I had my reasons to...you know...to....

Nope. I can't defend myself on this one. As an American male, I have failed and will continue to fail until some poor woman takes the time to grab me by the shoulders, splash my drink in my face and shout at me "James Hansen, you are a worm. A worm and a coward. Now get in my Hyundai. I am taking you back to my place where you will disappoint me in the bedroom and we will someday be unhappily married."

And I will consent. I always do. I am easily swayed and this mystery woman certainly presented a valid argument.

Before you write this off as "emo" or "moping" please bear in mind that I'm entirely aware of how this looks and often laugh about it with my friends. This is simply my condition. So ladies, if you're looking for a lovely, all expenses paid evening with no mention of the sexual act and absolutely no possibility of making a move, drop me a line.

Jimazoid loves beer, but not in that way

Since I turned 21, I set out to become a beer lover. Having only the crudest of reference points (Miller, Bud, Coors, etc.) I was under the impression that beer was not meant to be enjoyed, but rather forced down our throats by sheer force of will. Then I took a stroll into the local bevmo when I was back in California for summer. I made my way back to the beer section and it was like my first kiss - a whole new world opened up to me, my fingertips tingled a little bit and I lost control of bladder and bowel, completely embarrassing myself and then Jessica never talked to me again.

I walked out of the store that day with about 150 dollars of new and exciting craft beer. Over the next few months, things continued about the same way. I grabbed a friend and together we dove deep into the world of interestingly flavored beers. I think that's what surprised me the most once I really started getting into beer - you can put absolutely anything into a brew. I haven't had a cheese flavored beer yet, but I had a beer bottled with a whole chili in it, and it tasted like nachos which is close enough for me. Side note - never drink a beer that tastes like nachos. It's fun for a sip or two, but working your way through a six pack is torturous. I digress.

My friend and I have split off into two kinds of beer appreciation lately, however. To put it simply, he has become a beer snob. He writes his little reviews of the beers he drinks using words like "lacing" and "mouthfeel." Maybe some of you reading this are beer snobs. Maybe you're sitting in front of your computer right now with a tulip glass full of some high end Belgian IPA and you understand full why you're drinking that style of beer from that style of glass. I am deeply bothered by snobbery in any area, beer most of all. Some things, like paintings, can't help but bring out someone's snob side. It's inevitable if you're going to discuss paintings that you take on a bit of a snobbish persona, it's just the nature of the beast. But paintings are often meant to be considered in those ways. You have to delve into who the artist is, why they chose the particular subject, medium and style and what emotions they're trying to convey.

Beer, on the other hand, is supposed to be consumed and enjoyed in addition to various activities (like driving, or holding a baby, or smoking crack) instead of as the centerpiece of said activities. Some may argue about this, saying that a finely brewed beer can be dissected and enjoyed on a much deeper level than the three bottles of Fat Tire you just knocked back with a buddy, but they are, as I have made clear, snobs and are to be beaten about the neck and face until they either learn the error of their ways or are knocked unconscious and are no longer a threat to the fun of the party. Brewers, however, who have the final say about their own product as any artist would have over his or her painting, explicitly tell people to drink their beers as any other beer, excepting the retching that comes with drinking Coors Light.

So it's New Years, pop your champagne bottles or uncork your wine. Crack a fine brew or two - I know I will - and enjoy every drop of whatever you choose. Smack your lips and try to pick out individual flavors if you must, but don't forget you're amongst friends* and nobody likes a snob.

*Unless you're drinking alone in which case head over to your neighbor's place. Nobody wants to drink alone, and nobody will turn you away if you show up with booze.

Jimazoid: Xbox saved my marriage

[He's back everyone!  Jimazoid, that is.  To see more written by my oldest guest blogger, click on the Jimazoid category at the end of this post.]

Up until a few months ago, I'd been blogging for about 7 years. It's always been something I enjoyed doing for a few reasons.

I fancied blogging as my way to communicate with the outside world without the insufferable agony of dealing with the outside world. I also figured I could get across my ideas and my humor in writing a little better than I could with words. Then I discovered the joys of Xbox live voice chat with my friends.

It turns out, the corny idea of male bonding over things like video games, beers, babes, sports and more beer might actually be true. Many of you are years ahead of me on this one, but I'm a late bloomer and I could do without all the judgmental stares. Yeah, you. As I've discovered, I blogged for so many years because I didn't talk for about that many. I had all of these stories and ideas to get out there to prove how amazing I am (and I am quite amazing, thank you very much) and putting it on the internet was infinitely more comfortable and gratifying than talking to anyone about it.

I might also add that I have about the same luck with guys friends as Michelle does with girlfriends, but because I am a guy nothing ever comes of it. Guys who are not "bros" generally share a kind of unspoken agreement that though they may not be close friends, they will be friends and refuse to talk about or ever deal with their animosity. I assume women have the same kind of thing, but they seem to take it to passive aggressive torture instead. I digress.

Xbox, however, brought me and one of my friends together in ways only cheesy buddy flicks can truly capture, and through him I became a lot better friends with a few more of my acquaintances back in California. Then, once we had the teamwork and comradery down to a science, we started jsut fucking around and joking while we played various games. The joking around led to stories and tales of jow, of woe and of exceptional triumph over seemingly insurmountable odds (like that time I ate a 15x15 at In-n-Out and ralphed all over a strangers car).

Then when it came time to sit down in front of some kind of word processor and write something for the internet to read, I had nothing left. I had dipped into my well of inspiration and entertained a very small group of fine, upstanding gentlemen and I was tapped out when it came time to write things for my blog or for Gooseberried.

Now, I know nothing I have described is abnormal. People talk and tell stories and then they don't need to tell any more stories, but it's especially strange to me because, as I said, I'd been blogging for 7 years and the change was so sudden. It's like being obsessive compulsive for a few years, and then waking up and realizing you don't have to go through all of your rituals in order to stave off an anxiety attack.

I'm not sure I know how to function in this new world I've stumbled across. I imagine this is how Lewis and Clark felt when they looked to the west and realized they weren't going to be able to update their blogs for awhile.

Jimazoid: Hoobastank? I hardly know her!

Apologies if the title whizzes over your coiffure, but that's the kind of mood I'm in. It might make more sense in a bit here, but then again it might not. Also I wanted to type coiffure. Impressive, no?

I decided to write a little something that almost comes close to connecting to something Michelle's written about at some point because I'm all about trying new things. That and Tzatziki. Goddamn, I love Tzatziki.

Anyway, the head honcha of 'berried mentioned she's training for a big run and, as I saw on her little twitter thing off to the side there, she's dealing with the whole motivation thing. I'm not going to say I have any special insight just because I happen to have a deep, borderline fetishistic love of running because everyone deals with the motivation thing in one way or another.

I don't want to go so far as to say "nobody wants to do anything" but I'm definitely thinking it so hard that it just got typed there. Everyone has shit they just don't want to deal with but have to because it's the dirty filthy means to a hot steamy, sweaty moaning end. (If that doesn't sound good to you, feel free to replace those words with "Happy joyous, unicorn riding") Shit that you have to kick yourself in the ass (or pay others to do and then call you a little slut, not that this writer has ever enjoyed the services of Mistress Spankenhoffer) to get done.

Personally, I've been trying to get myself to add some more parenthetical information to the things I type. It's not easy but I think I'm pulling it off.

But really, for me it's been just getting any writing done that isn't part of some larger project. I'm not at a loss for ideas, but the actual process of writing anything down has become rather excruciating lately and I can't just sit down and type away like I used to. Now, where I bring it all together is in the next sentence. Whenever I really need motivation to get the things done that I've been avoiding/dreading, I remember some of the advice that my high school Cross Country coach gave me right before we set out on a 12 mile run at 10,000ft elevation.

"You're going to have about an hour or so to think about this, and I want you to make good use of the time. When someone asks you why you drove six hours in a cramped district van to get up on top of this mountain so you could spend a week punishing your legs and your lungs, what're you going to say? Why are you here, guys? I say this because the answer is what's going to get you through the rest of the season, it's what's going to push you to dig deep at the end of that race when Fillmore's (our rival high school in the division at the time) coming up behind you. There's no single reason for any of you to be here doing this, so I can't help you. You need to find a reason."

Part of why I loved the speech so much is because if I closed my eyes while he was speaking, it was like I was in Remember the Titans, except we were all white and most of us were wearing short shorts. Cross Country was a confusing time. I digress.

His last sentence graces several doorways and walls that I know of because most of the guys there that day like to use it to get out of bed in the morning while everybody else is sleeping so they can squeeze in a few miles before work. It's nice because the reason doesn't have to be set in stone. You don't have to focus on winning a race or losing ten pounds or getting fast enough to outrun the police because you want to rob a bank but you don't have a car and your friend is being a little bitch. I mean, come on, nobody ever remembers the driver, they just want the armed robber.

Every time you strap on your running shoes, or mount your bike or sit down in front of that stack of TPS reports that have to get done, you can take a second to find your reason for doing whatever you're doing that day. It gets easier every time.

Some days I was running because I'd eaten an entire pie the night before and I needed to work it off, other days I ran because it was hot out and that meant Dierdre would be taking her shirt off in about four miles. Awesome.

I could go on for days about Dierdre's bitchin' rack, but I should really wrap things up.
I suppose what I thought I was getting at but never really did is that you should try to find a reason for everything you find yourself doing. It sounds cliche, but it's not just focusing on a goal to get past the obstacles in your way. It's not "what are you getting out of this?" it's "Why are you doing this?" I think you'll find that if you can answer that question on a regular basis, whatever you're doing will probably be easier. If not, at least it'll feel a little more purposeful.

Additionally, I think you'll find that if you actually type out "I think you'll find," you'll feel like a complete douche bag.