I Wouldn't Date Twitter

Dave, why are you not on Twitter?  Your hilarious quips need to be shared with the mobile community.  You would totally command a following every bit the equal to the one enjoyed by that person who shares links to amusing cat picture GIFs.  Whoops.  Pardon me.  I was just daydreaming again and reminding myself how awesome I am.  I didn’t realize I had started typing.  Anyway, I’ve had a couple people encourage me to join the exciting world of tweeting and hash tags.

Twitter has never been very appealing because my cell phone isn’t equipped to handle the necessary interaction.  Sure, I could sit down at home, log in via my laptop, and spend minutes (hours?) trolling through the laundry list of people I follow just to see their quirky comment of the day.  But I have Facebook for that.  Should I feel the need to actually respond to something, now we’re talking about a real relationship.  I can either sit patiently staring at the computer screen waiting for some kind of response or become that guy who gets back to you hours (days?) later.  That puts a damper on the immediacy of communication that people have become accustomed to these days.

Despite the technological limitations I would be forced to operate within, I warmed to the idea of using another outlet to advertise my thoughts to the world.  Ego always trumps practicality.  Besides, who isn’t looking for one more way to waste some precious minutes of the day?  Twitter, I can slot you in from 5:45 [after Facebook] until dinner every night.  That was until I learned that each tweet limited you to… 140 characters?!?!  Surely, this had to be some gross oversight by the creators.  At 140 characters, I’m still warming up the keyboard and making sure all the letters still work.  I can make usability concessions but creative ones?  That is where I draw the line.  Nobody boxes Dave Younker into such a small corner!

I am fully aware that I can be a bit verbose at times.  Any co-workers who have read some of my emails can attest to that statement.  I just can’t help myself.  I’ve received “good communicator” on my last couple reviews so I feel compelled to live up to such praise.  My boss even informally mentioned that my communication skills are something a woman will appreciate one day.  Still waiting…  In all seriousness though, I am working on trying to deliver the same quality without as much quantity, at least at work.  In order to practice, I am self-imposing a strict 1,000 word limit on this entry.

Nowhere was my wordiness as apparent as it was in my online dating profile.  Before I deactivated my account, I came to the realization that my profile was longer than everyone else’s.  I subscribed to the belief that people would want as much information about me as possible in order to make the best informed decision they could.  Wouldn’t it be wonderful if everyone did that?  Truthfully, I think I just saw it as another opportunity to write about myself.  I would probably try to make a living off that if it were actually possible. 

In hindsight, it’s possible that my profile (and emails) contain too much information to be comfortably consumed in one sitting.  With regards to a dating profile, there is also something to be said for being succinct.  You don’t know the person so you’re going to make assumptions.  The less you give them, the less likely they are to misjudge you.  As with emails, you should strive to educate the audience on what is absolutely necessary so the important messages do not get lost in the sea of words. 

I once heard a guy lamenting about the existence of things like Facebook and Google in terms of dating someone.  You truly can pre-learn a ton about the person.  He was right; where is the excitement of the discovery phase?  It was a refreshing point of view.  It even made me rethink the point of this entire blog.  At the very least, I may trim the fat from my profile if I ever decide to reactivate it.

Once I resigned myself to the fact that many of my female counterparts were not going to be as forthcoming in their profiles as yours truly, I began to focus more on how something was said versus what was said.  The ability to express one’s self in coherent sentences is an underrated trait.  If her profile tried to merge TEN sentences into one or she chose the wrong application of there/their/they’re, I had no desire to continue.  Yeah, but she’s really hot.  OK, maybe I’ll look at the rest of her pictures. 

There is an entire generation of people growing up under the pretense that it is acceptable to write using incomplete albeit phonetically correct words.  You get text message conversations that go something like this:  

Person:  R u comin 2nite?

Me:  No.

Person:  Your lame

Me:  Maybe but you are you’re an idiot.  See?  I can truncate characters too AND do it properly.

 

I am going to throw some of the blame for the deterioration of the English language towards Twitter.  With the aforementioned character limit, I suppose you have to get creative in order to get your message across.  While I can appreciate that ingenuity, I’m not sure that’s a habit I want to develop. 

Of course there are times when I get lazy and stray from proper capitalization and punctuation, such as during an informal IM conversation with one person.   However, I try to make it a point to use actual words and not a bastardized, adopted version of one.  More importantly, I understand the concept of stepping up my game when there is an audience or when the situation warrants it.  My dad showed me some emails he received at work and I wondered if the author graduated high school let alone college.  What passes for professionalism these days?

I think

Is She A Bee With An Itch?

How many times have you wondered if that girl you barely know is a bitch or not?  Sure, we’ve got our premonitions and we’ll open up the debate amongst friends over drinks.  If you’re like me, however, you want something a little more concrete.  You want your suspicions validated.  Well, my friend, today is your lucky day.  I’m going to let you in on a little secret.  There is a handy little social cue that you can employ to determine whether you’ve misjudged her or if that big “fuck you” on her forehead is simply written in clear marker.

When you pass a woman in the hall or on the street, pay attention to where she looks.  It’s that simple really.  She can do 1 of 3 things.

1.       She looks you in the face.  While you may appreciate this (and you should), it is unfortunately the least telling response.  She might be a very genuine, friendly person or she might be fake and insecure.  I’ve seen it both ways.  Sorry, I can’t help you with this one.

2.       She drops her head and stares at the ground.  This hints at someone who is shy or socially awkward but she’s passed the test.  She may not feel comfortable exchanging pleasantries with you but it’s nothing personal.  She’s someone that is still worth the trouble. 

3.       She turns her head to the side or pretends to be distracted with something she may be carrying.  Congratulations!  You’ve spotted yourself a stone-cold biotch. There is a very subtle difference between looking sideways and looking down but the corresponding messages couldn’t be further apart.  There is a certain air of superiority about these women.  They don’t want to acknowledge your presence but they can’t look down either.  That would be showing too much deference to an inferior species.  A casual sideways cock of the head gives a seemingly neutral response but that’s what they’re hoping you think.  If they’re carrying something, that just gives them a convenient excuse to avoid the confrontation.  I guess it’s possible someone sent them a text message at that exact second.  Probably as possible as the words on the sheet of paper they’re carrying suddenly morphing into something more interesting.

I should mention that I make it a point to look at everyone I’m passing, especially at work since they are people I will see on a regular basis.  I can be a bit aloof myself at times but I want to be available to return any acknowledgement of my presence.  I’m more than willing to shoot a head nod someone’s way or offer the obligatory greeting.  Per usual, I will wait for the other person to engage.  It’s like a game of chicken that I always win.  Either they make the first move or I become invisible and pass right through.  Fortunately, I’ve never had to stare down someone only to be met with the same expressionless reaction.  How weird would that be, right?

I had been giving this rule some thought lately and getting some positive results.  I wanted to do some more field research first before sharing this with you, but fate gave me a nudge today.  At work I saw someone approaching me down the hallway at a distance.  Lo and behold, it was someone I had pegged for a bitch.  My mind immediately switched into observatory mode and I readied myself for the cold shoulder.  It was a long hallway.  As I honed in on my test subject, the excitement swelled to delirious proportions.  Finally, our paths crossed and it was time for the moment of truth.  Sure enough, her head rotated 90 degrees. (Yeah, that was a bit anti-climatic. Sorry.)

Validation!  Score one for the Younker Rules.  I was literally grinning (quite stupidly I’m sure to anyone who saw me) as I walked back to my desk.  There are always exceptions to the rule, but this is a rule I’ve come to adopt.  I feel comfortable stating that this particular maxim is about 80% accurate and that’s good enough for me. 

Gentlemen, please use this powerful detection device to your benefit.  May it save you future headaches.  I would like to qualify this rule by adding that it is not intended to completely deter you from interacting with women who fall into category #3 above.  We all know that there is a difference in the tolerance level of bitchiness you’re willing to put up with when it comes to girlfriends versus friends who are girls.  These people may have a place in your life and you still love them for who they are.  I’m merely trying to help you define the person so you know what to expect.  Feel free to take this rule for a test drive on people you know (or think you know) or on new people you’d like to get a feel for.

Ladies, at the risk of disproving my brilliant theory, please do not alter your default voluntary response when passing somebody.  You are what you are even if the truth hurts.  Besides, I’m sure there is some sort of male equivalent.

The Hardest Question You'll Ever Answer

I recently organized an after-work outing and 8 people showed up.  That’s actually about twice as many as I had mentally prepared myself for.  I don’t know why I just opened with that statement; it really is extraneous information for the purposes of this story. 

At one point during the smashing success of my mixer, I felt myself slipping away from the discussion.  My inner child craved for some more attention, so I tried to switch the topic of conversation back to me.  I posed a question to all my fellow drinking co-workers.  Which of these is most likely to happen first?  I buy a house.  I get a girlfriend.  I leave Applied [current place of employment].

This truly was a thought-provoking question (at least I thought so).  Even I myself could not come to a decision on which scenario was most likely to play out first.  Gun to my head, I would choose… … BANG! I’m dead.  Others eventually settled on one of the choices and argued their position.  

Naturally, I don’t want this spirited debate to die at the Brickstone dinner table.  I would like to open the voting up to everyone who is fortunate enough to be reading this.  However, before you lock yourself into a premature vote, I’d like to be sure you have fully considered each option.  Therefore, I will be providing supporting arguments for and against each life-changing event happening next. 

I’D LIKE TO REQUEST THAT EVERYONE LEAVE A COMMENT WITH THEIR VOTE BELOW.  I encourage all voters to reference whichever argument swayed them to vote (or not vote) a certain way.  Additionally, if you choose to ignore all of my beautifully articulated points and come to a conclusion on your own, I would love to know your reasoning.  It’s not likely but I may have overlooked something glaring.

Arguments for Buying a House

Vegas odds makers would likely make this the slight favorite.  The general consensus at the table seemed to favor this option too.  I certainly have the financial means to make this option happen.   I am also more confident in my ability to handle the problems that could potentially arise from owning a home.  There can only be so many ways to fix a leaky pipe or crack in the ceiling.  You never know what kind of crazy is awaiting you with a woman or how demanding your new boss will be.  Money is often a necessary component of owning a home and being in a relationship.  You can feel relatively certain (assuming you employ a competent laborer) that spending money on your house will improve the value of your investment.  That same level of assurance does not transfer to women.  We cannot overlook the social stigma of a 30-year old still living at home.  I guess I’m the poster child for someone who was coddled and cannot function on his own, right?  There is a certain twinge of embarrassment that stabs at me every time I have to relay my living situation to someone I’ve just met or some old friends of my parents that I haven’t seen in a while.  I usually just hope that muttering “Peotone” when asked where I live will be sufficient for their inquisition.  It probably goes without saying that bringing someone back to my parent’s house to hang out (buddy or girlfriend) is a less than ideal setup.  You’d think this bevy of reasons would spur me to go get that house.  It is worth noting that I have talked more about buying a house more than I have about doing the other two options.  Sub-consciously, that is where my focus resides.

Arguments against Buying a House

Simply put, have you seen where I live?  It’s nice and quiet in the country (see: away from people) but still easily accessible to major roadways for travel.  There is an in-ground pool and spa.  I have internet, high-definition satellite TV, and (usually, even if I have to grill it) a dinner waiting to be consumed.  Heck, I even get my laundry done for me.  Did I mention that all of it - room and board, utilities, food - is free?  All that I need to do is help out with chores around the house (which I'd still be doing on my own anyway).  Seems like a small price to pay.  I’m going to get my ass kicked out after my parents find out about this, aren’t I?  I know people are just humoring me but I often receive exclamations of jealousy when explaining my living situation to them.  They’d “totally still be doing it if they could” and tell me "I'd be crazy to ever leave with that set up".  I get along with everyone in my family.  It’s not like I have a girlfriend so my privacy need is pretty low.  Given all of this, would you leave?  I also get a little smile whenever I view my savings account balance.  A down payment and mortgage would undoubtedly threaten that smile.  I’ve also talked about getting a house off & on for years now, so at what point do you think I’m just crying wolf?

Arguments for Getting a Girlfriend

This option did get a little support so it’s certainly worthy of your vote as well.  Women are the least risky long-term option.  As a finance major, assessing risk is ingrained in the way I think.  In relationships, you can pull out at almost any time without any lingering effects.  (I briefly considered changing those words after I read them back to myself because I did not intend for that to be a sexual pun at all.  Actually, maybe you weren’t even thinking along those lines.  Well, now you are, and for that, I apologize for possibly inadvertently offending you.)  Depending on the seriousness of the relationship, you may have a broken heart to tend to.  But it will mend over time.  If you get in over your head with a house, the consequences are even less pleasant.  Your financial security could be in serious jeopardy.  Even changing jobs can have long-lasting effects.  The next girlfriend probably won’t hold your past relationship transgressions against you, if she even knows about them.  A wrong job selection can set your career back years, and your history is in full view to the next potential employer on your resume.  It’s a bit of the “chicken or egg” paradox, but adding a girlfriend into my life might be what actually motivates me to buy a house.  At this point in my life, I can’t be wasting too much time on someone who isn’t “the one”.  Actually, I can’t be wasting too much time period.  I’m fighting a losing battle against Father Time.  If we accept the premise that I’m looking for someone to eventually marry (and maybe have kids with), then I really need to accelerate my timeline.  You’d have to think that basic instinct would kick in and shock me to my senses.  Plus, I think there is some latent confidence bubbling inside me.  While getting ready for a wedding a couple weeks ago, I couldn't help but notice myself in the mirror.  You clean up pretty good, Dave.  A girl could do worse.

Arguments against Getting a Girlfriend

I wonder how anyone who knows me or has read this blog can legitimately think this option has a chance.  While buying a house or getting a new job is just something I would have to do, I think getting a girlfriend will require a fundamental shift in the way my mind works.  “We accept the love we think we deserve.”  That isn’t one of my pearls of wisdom; it’s from The Perks of Being a Wallflower, which I read and watched recently.  I think the line is poignantly perfect in this argument.  In the book, as in life, that counsel is used to explain why people settle for inferior partners and self-perceived nice guys are doomed to sit helplessly on the sidelines while the jerks get the girls.  I may have thought that way in the past but I think it applies to me for a different reason these days.  I’ve grown increasingly accustomed to my relationship status.  It’s all I’ve ever really known.  I figure that’s just how it’s going to be.  Sure, there has been a random date here or there but never anything serious.  You’d be surprised how much easier it gets to accept with each passing day.  Yeah, yeah, I know the onus is on me to initiate change.  Theoretically, this should be the easiest of the 3 changes to execute.  I just fear I’ve gotten past the point of no return.  I don’t want a girlfriend; I want to want a girlfriend.  That is a whole other problem onto itself that really needs to be solved first.  There is also the fact that I am really selfish.  It takes a certain level of narcissism to dedicate (and name) a blog about yourself and expect others to read it.  I even get tired of hanging out with my best friends after a couple consecutive days of activities.  Interacting with someone almost exclusively?  The thought frightens me a little. I just don’t know if I’m capable of loving someone else as much as I love myself.  No one has ever really tried to call my bluff either.  When someone asks me about a girl and I tell them that I wouldn’t subject her to me, that isn’t entirely lip service.  I don’t want someone to give me their heart when they are only going to get half of one back.  We accept the love we think we deserve.

Arguments for Leaving Applied

This is a bet for those who prefer chasing dark-horse options.  I only tossed it out there because everybody loves a third-party candidate who gives them something to at least think about.  While houses and girls have filled past blog submissions and littered conversations with semi-interested parties, the subject of work has often flown under the radar.  I think that is precisely why it deserves your consideration.  There has not been any pressure to leave my job.  It’s often when you are not focused on something that the best opportunities present themselves to you.  If you subscribe to the belief that one of these events is a prerequisite for the others, getting a new job could be the first domino that needs to fall.  I’ve talked about my hesitation to pursue a girlfriend without my own bachelor pad.  Well, I’d be much more inclined to take on that sizable home purchase if I was earning even more money.  Let’s even take away the goal of home ownership.  It sure would be nice to be making more money.  I feel like a man of my intelligence and abilities should be earning more and I know I could get that elsewhere.  It’s also annoying listening to people with inferior talent discuss their bigger salary.  If you are still not convinced of this option, then perhaps you are a student of history.  You see, this option has actually happened already which is more than I can say for the other two.  I’ve changed jobs once in my adult life (and most people make several such changes).  Why not again?

Arguments against Leaving Applied

Dark-horse options are often exactly that for a reason.  Not surprisingly, leaving Applied did not receive much support during the initial discussions.  I’ve complained far less about my job than the other two options, so it would stand to reason that this facet of my life is the least likely to change any time soon.  Truthfully, I do enjoy where I work.  Sure, I wish the pay was more, but the benefits and 401k match are pretty good.  I’ve maintained a working relationship with my co-workers and supervisor.  It is also close to where I currently live and that’s a hidden cost I do not have to bear.  I would gladly sacrifice a little salary for the convenience of working this far south of the city.  In the grand scheme of things, your time and stress-level are more important than money anyway.  I do not like change.  Once I find something that works, I generally stick with it.  The grass isn’t always greener on the other side.

P.S. I was going to include “death” as a 4^th option but that would have killed the entire debate.

Showing My Armpits Who Is Boss

You may have noticed but I like to call attention to the fact I’m single.  Once in a while Sometimes Often I think I enjoy lamenting about not having a girlfriend more than I would enjoy actually having a girlfriend.  More on why that is at another time.  One of the side effects with drawing such attention to my “predicament” is that everyone with a passing interest in my happiness feels compelled to rectify the problem. 

Sometimes it’s well-intentioned words of support.  Other times, it’s a more invasive outreach.  I usually have to come up with some excuse to duck the blind date or “chance” encounter being proposed.  My bridge club meets that night and the old guys get cranky when we have to reschedule. / I’d love to but I bet my friend that I could stay in for 30 consecutive nights and I could really use that money. / Research has proven that 73% of all relationships involving travel distances greater than 20 miles fail.  Wanna play a fun game?  Guess which one I’ve actually used.

I’d ask you all to stop but I get off on the fact that I inhabit some region of your sub-conscious.  Sorry, but that prime piece of real estate on your temporal lobe is not for sale.  Screw you, Younker, you’re not that important!  Yeah, you’re probably right.

Anyway, the most recent person to try their hand at DY Matchmaker (fun for ages 8 and up) was my good friend Josh.  The backdrop is that Josh hosts a bitchin’ party around the 4^th of July every year.  Truthfully, that event and its stories deserve its own submission*.  This year Josh informed me that one of his female friends had requested to be set up with one of his friends and he figured I would be the best fit. 

I’m not sure if his pool of potential suitors was being limited to those coming to his party or everyone he knew in the greater Chicagoland area.  He threw me a name and suggested I chat her up.  As I’m prone to do in situations like this, I panicked through some thinly veiled sarcasm.  He scolded me, “Don’t be a pussy and don’t be self-depreciative.”  Well, with my go-to approach and backup plan having been summarily dismissed, I began to scramble for ways I could engage this girl. 

After I decided to make a conversation with this girl a problem for Future Dave, I began to resent Josh just a little bit for putting this pressure on me.  How dare he assume that I would be a best fit for anyone?  The inner grade-schooler in me whined.  Can’t a guy go to a party without having to talk to girls?

I departed for the party without any sort of game plan for talking to this girl.  Fortunately, it was about a 35 minute drive, so surely I’d be able to come up with something good, right?  About 10 minutes into the trip, I began to curse Past Dave for being so negligent with his duties.  It was also around this time that my armpits began to get visibly upset, so I tried to console them.  This is not your fault, armpits.  Everything will be fine.  This is nothing to cry over.  God help me, I even pleaded with them to dry those tears.  When my attempts at providing a calming, fatherly influence did not work, I broke out the proverbial belt.  I chose to silence my silence my armpits by gagging them with my t-shirt. 

You want me to tell you what happened with the girl?  Tough shit.  Actually, there is nothing to say.  No, really, there is NOTHING to say.  Fortunately, there was no one anxiously waiting my appearance so the onus was all on me.  When someone eventually called out her name I summoned the full strength of my perceptive powers, I discovered who the target was.  At least I could close the book on that mystery.  I did and promptly went back to enjoying the party.  My armpits?  I fluffed my t-shirt and they played ball.  I tried to be nice, but they had to choose the hard way.  It’s not the first time they’ve made that mistake.  Sadly, it probably won’t be the last.

*I suppose I’ll relate a few stories from this year’s version of the party. 

I like to consider myself a social chameleon.  I’m not a very outgoing person by nature, but I can sit down in most circles with the belief that I can offer something worthwhile to the conversation should I feel so inclined.  As I chomped into my plump, juicy Johnsonville smoked sausage cheddar-dog, a comrade from my younger brother’s class and his girlfriend sat down next to me.  As I watched them bite into their whatever (it wasn’t meat and that’s all that really matters) burger and listen to the girlfriend talk about the Sanskrit class she was taking, it became abundantly clear that I was out of my element.  It was in my best interest to wolf down my food and make some excuse about checking out the lake.  Boy, it looks like the waves are really rippling today.  I can’t recall the girl’s name but I’m going to call her Luna because of her striking resemblance to the actress who played Luna Lovegood in the Harry Potter series.

As usual, there was a fireworks display at this year’s party.  So what?  That’s not exactly unique or exciting for a 4^th of July party.  Your protest may be true but what if they were EXTREME fireworks?  Well, what else would you call it if the pyrotechnic crew (aka Josh and a few others at the party) narrowly escapes death or the loss of limb several times?  Seriously, there were more than a couple fireworks that could not have ascended to a height greater than 30 feet before exploding and raining down on those in the immediate area.  I was watching from afar but couldn’t help inching a few steps back and yelling a “HOLY CRAP!” with each successive launch.  I should add that these were legitimate fireworks (Josh doesn’t mess around). 

In closing, there was even a reference to my three strikes policy at one point during the day’s festivities.  Sure, the person tried to use the policy (incorrectly might I add) against me, but that’s progress as I see it.  The policy is out there and it is actually guiding people.  Get over yourself, Younker.  You don’t influence me!  Yeah, you’re probably right.

Peotone High School Archives, Volume 2

II. The Reeve’s Tale

This video was shot during senior year (circa 2001) for Mr. Preuss’ British Literature class.  The different groups in class were tasked with acting out a different story from Geoffrey Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales.  My pals Josh Bult and Clayton Thompson were in my group, which meant that Chaucer was likely going to be rolling over in his grave at our interpretation of his masterpiece.  Leanne Rekau and Dana Borchardt were also in our group.  We lured out Jon Solita to do the filming.  Our particular story was The Reeve’s Tale.

There was a bunch of setup for the story but it didn’t seem very worthwhile to act out.  Therefore, we blatantly ripped off the Star Wars intro, and just piped in the words from the story, with some minor revisions.  People said I should have tinkered with the words because the daughter is referred to as being fat.  We were seemingly implying that the one of the girls in our group (Dana in this case) was fat.  Hey, don’t blame me, blame Chaucer.

The story has a mill in it, which was kind of perfect because Peotone is sort of noted for its “Old Mill”.  We had all intentions of filming the opening scenes at the mill, which you see after the intro.  However, this was in January or February.  The wind was whipping and we were freezing our asses off.  After it became apparent that we couldn’t pick up audio at the mill, we relocated back to my house.

As you see me for the first time, I’m rocking the Michigan jacket that I still have today.  I guess some things never change.  I’m playing the role of Alan and that’s Clayton with me portraying John.  God, I hate listening to myself talk, especially the 17 year-old version of myself.  There were definite parts of the script and acting that could have used more thought, but I think that adds to the charm.  For example, as Clayton and I run off the first time, you hear me question that move because we’re supposed to have a horse. 

Josh is Simpkin the miller who I decided to make murderous for no apparent reason.  I’m pretty sure it was a weak attempt at a Simpsons reference.  Clayton screws up his line (he’s watching the trough come through the corn?) but it was so cold that we didn’t give a damn.  Truthfully, there is a lot we probably would have left in regardless of the weather.  I also chuckle every time I see the inserted clip of the woman we feed the horse to.  To this day, I have no idea who that woman actually is.

As we transition to Josh’s house, we’re seen drinking IBC root beer.  I think every high school video depicting drinking uses that product.  We filmed the final scenes in Josh’s attic.  I decided that “performing my magic” was the way I wanted to describe sleeping with the miller’s daughter (Dana).  I couldn’t help but turn a little red at this part when the class was watching the video.

Perhaps my favorite moment is when Clayton takes the baby’s bed and flings it to the floor with complete disregard for what it’s supposed to be holding.  I always felt a little bad for Dana because she had to call me “her love” and make it sound like she meant it.  Few things could drop you faster on the PHS social ladder than showing affection for Dave Younker, even in a scripted production. 

As tempting as it may be to laugh at my “sly devil” comment and wink to the camera, be sure not to miss Clayton’s response while doing so.  As I rolled around on the floor grappling with Josh, it occurred to me that I had little idea of how such a fight should look.  Josh gets a few slaps in but I make sure to deliver the “People’s Elbow” into Josh’s spine. 

I remember doing several takes of the part where the wife (Leanne) hits Josh over the head with the spade because she didn’t make it look believable enough.  Finally, we convinced her to really hit him and boy did she take a good whack.  I’ve watched it a few times now and I can’t for the life of me make out what Clayton says after he throws the pillow in my face.  If you can decipher that, I’d love to hear it.

It just wouldn’t have been our style to end the story with a legitimate lesson learned so we created a setup where Solita got to say “in my ass”.  As an added bonus, enjoy the few outtakes at the end.  The outtakes end with the car ride back to my house from the mill.  With some Led Zeppelin jamming in the background, Solita makes sure to reference the male reproductive organ a few times.  Ah, the old Bonneville. My first car. Good times.

I don’t remember what grade we got on this but I think it was a favorable one.  I think Preuss just appreciated we put that much effort into the project, so he was willing to overlook the artistic liberties we took when retelling Chaucer’s work.  I can’t say this was the best video he got to see (spoiler alert) but I know he enjoyed it nonetheless.  It was Preuss’ first year teaching at Peotone, and the bar was set for future British Lit classes.  I was told by future seniors that our video and others were replayed for them.  Pretty cool.

Watch the video here

[Obligatory disclaimer that I do not own the rights to any copyrighted material in the video.  This video was created and is being shared for completely non-profit purposes.]

Peotone High School Archives, Volume 1

Recently I was able to rescue some footage shot during high school that was thought to be lost for all time.  Our group made several little short movies during high school and my friend Tom was fortunate enough to even have some of them on a VHS tape.  I converted this tape to DVD and uploaded the videos to YouTube.  I shared this on Facebook but I’m not certain how many people saw them.  Additionally, I’ve found that YouTube has removed the audio portion of at least one of those videos due to copyright infringement. I assure you if I could make any money off this, I would have done so.  Just to be clear, I don’t own the rights to any copyrighted material.  I’ve since uploaded these videos to a hopefully less scrutinized area, so you’ll need to follow the link at the bottom.  As a bonus, I’m offering you some behind-the-scenes commentary on each video.  Hope you enjoy it!

I. I Shot The Sheriff

This video was shot during senior year (circa 2000) for my Public Speaking class. We had an assignment to lip sync a song. It didn't need to be filmed but we decided to have a little fun with it. Yours truly is featured as Bob Marley. Kyle Pedigo, Tom Prokop, Brian Delaney, Tom Coursey, and Clayton Thompson took part in the drug bust and faked playing instruments. Josh Bult joined for the song and may have been the only one actually playing something. The man behind the camera was Jon Solita. Collectively, they became The Wailers, affectionately known as the NEPCO Gang (inside joke) for our purposes.

If we were going to sing about shooting the sheriff, then by golly we needed to show someone being shot. The set up was to have me, as Marley, purchase some pot from a drug dealer (Pedigo). A raid would ensue and I would shoot said sheriff (Delaney). I borrowed a rasta wig and applied a ton of brown paint to my face, neck, and hands. It took forever to wash off that paint once we were done. One detail I overlooked was pants; I don't remember Bob having pale white legs. We borrowed some police equipment and riot gear from Coursey's dad, a Will County cop. Mr. Coursey had issues with us portraying Will County cops, so a Cook County patch was acquired and taped over the uniform's actual badge. You can see this when the camera zooms in on the dead sheriff.

There is not a whole heck of a lot to say about the song. I regretted being filmed holding a sheet of paper with the lyrics.  I knew the words; the sheet was strictly precautionary.  I also want to reiterate that my lip syncing was on point the entire song.  About halfway through, it appears as though I am a little behind.  I assure you this is entirely a technology glitch.  I’d like to commend Delaney for his enthusiastic delivery of the chorus, which is apparent from the song’s opening line.  Coursey looks hilarious standing there in the riot gear, and Bult gives us a nice a little jig at the end.  I do my best to get down with my reggae self as the song plays out to the end.  It was a fun night and I’m pretty sure we got an A on it.

Watch the video here.

The Summer Of Dave

I wanted to share something positive with you all.  I really did.  I just cannot help but feel a little snake bit.  I know, the problems in my life that I write about are all fairly minor, relatively speaking.  Everything is all relative though, isn’t it?  I’m writing this by candlelight because the power is out and I can’t watch the Blackhawks in the Stanley Cup Finals.  Ah, first world problems, as my friend Tom would say.

A few weeks ago I was in a pretty good place mentally.  Truth be told, I was even contemplating composing a “final” contribution to this blog.  See, I had figured that The Younker Rules had simply run its course.  Perhaps I was too arrogant in thinking that my writing would influence any real change in my life.  Perhaps I was just running out of things to say.  My “rules” were and are pretty stupid I suppose.  I’ve followed them for most of my life and haven’t exactly gotten the results I hoped for.  This failure extends to many areas in my life, most of which I’ve written about in some form or other. 

I’ve learned that no one gives a damn that you bestow strikes upon them for failing to show up to a scheduled event.  They are not any more inclined to hang out with you in the future.  I’ve surmised that girls won’t be impressed by some crazy, outside-the-box approach to dating.  The game has been played in largely the same way since the modern world came to be.  You also can’t have a defined list of criteria and choose to explicitly follow it.  Eric Carmen’s All By Myself just popped up on my iPod.  That's not relevant, but it's still fitting I thought.   I’ve discovered that the universe is not trying to give me a sign with every little thing that happens.  It has better things to do than convince me why I shouldn’t go to that party.

The definition of insanity is repeating the same experiment over and over expecting different results.  They say rules are meant to be broken.  If there were ever a set of rules to which this mantra applies, then surely it is mine.  It feels like I’m committing suicide in the slowest, most painless way possible.  Think about a million tiny paper cuts all over your body.  Shockingly, the potential abandonment of all the principles I’ve held near and dear to my heart for so long didn’t really bother me.  I was probably just on the positive swing of my attitude pendulum, but I was ready to unleash a new mindset.  This was going to be the ‘Summer of Dave’.  I was going to try and make myself more available for social functions.  I was going to take on new challenges.  Heck, I might have even gone after a hypothetical girl who my former rules would have precluded me from engaging.

Things started swimmingly enough.  I was going to be playing on a co-ed kickball team.  Words cannot express how pumped I was for this activity.  In addition to kickball being a sport I reckon I’d be pretty good at, co-ed events are generally pretty fun on their own merit.  The chance to hang out with some new women?  Why not?  I should give credit where credit is due.  My friend Abi did a lot of the legwork to fill out the roster, especially the female portion of it, which I would never have been able to acquire on my own.

As fate would have it, I get news that the league was cancelled due to a lack of teams.  Now, just in case there were going to be enough teams, fate had a backup plan to derail my summer fun.  Around the same time, I screwed up my knee playing basketball.  Of course it was during the seventh and final game of the night.  The play was eerily similar to the Derrick Rose torn ACL injury in the way it unfolded.  As I crumple to floor, I assume the worst. 

The worst case scenario usually plays through my head at times like these.  Maybe it’s because I’ve never had a serious injury like that and I feel gypped.  I waited a few days and the pain didn’t really subside so I figured it was time to schedule a doctor’s appointment.  I should preface this by stating that I rarely ever go to the hospital.  I have had the good fortune of being a fairly healthy person (I have not used a sick day at work since 2008!), and I usually just try to tough things out. 

When I called to set up an appointment with an orthopedic doctor (it was my knee after all), they said they didn’t have any openings for a month.  A month?!  They referred me to family practice.  To illustrate how long it has been since I’ve gone to have anything checked out, I should mention that my primary doctor no longer works there and the entire hospital has moved locations.  They also gave me the same run-around about it being a month before any doctor could see me.  What the hell is going on this world?  Is the entire health of the south suburban population deteriorating that much?  Are people scheduling appointments for every teensy little pain that afflicts them?   Is the hospital that badly understaffed? 

By this point, I was getting a little perturbed on the phone.  Fortunately, I kept my cool.  I may be seething internally but it rarely bubbles to the surface in the form of any external rage.  Did I ever say before that I hate talking on phones?  I feel like I have but it bears repeating.  I need to get over this fear because apparently my new role at work is going to require me calling some insurance agencies.  Can’t they just respond to my emails?  Calling hospitals is no different.  I’d like to schedule an appointment to have my knee checked out. … … What’s wrong?  … … I, uh, don’t know exactly, but it hurts to bend it and walk.  [Insert some generic questions about how it happened and my responses.]  Then they start asking about my insurance and I get a little nervous.  I have health insurance of course, but again, I use it so infrequently that I’m not sure I’ll have answers to all of the questions they pose.  It’s like expecting me to remember my debit card pin # when I use it twice a year.

My parents have suggested that I should over exaggerate my illness or pain when I am looking to get an appointment.  It’s a back door way through the system.  Even the fine, upstanding Gene Younker advocates this approach in certain instances.  Perhaps he just realizes better than I how to play the game.  In this particular case, I would hardly call my situation an “emergency”.  Sure, I was limping around in a bunch of pain, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t life-threatening.   Yes, I wanted to get it looked at soon, but it didn’t need immediate attention.  It just never seems right to me to advertise aches and pains as more than they are when someone else out there may really need the attention pronto.  There has be to some set of rules in place, doesn’t there?

Perhaps it’s that false sense of entitlement that our generation is often accused of, but I feel like the medical industry should be more accommodating of me.  I ask so very little of it; when I do, I want some attention, dammit!  It’s kind of like when I schedule parties or an outing. (That reminds me. I keep putting off the after-work event I’m supposed to schedule.)  I do it so infrequently that I kind of just expect you to show up.  Maybe that’s why the whole “three strikes” thing came about.  I felt the need to punish these insolent people in some way.   Alright, I better stop and re-focus.  This is starting to become about the old rules again, and they’re supposed to be a thing of the past, right?

Anyway, I finally worked it out so that a physician’s assistant could see me.  Fine.  Whatever.  I just needed something to ease my injury paranoia.  It was with a Dr. Kirby.  Ugh.  I just cannot escape that name. (Cheers if you know what I’m talking about.)  The doctor said that rest was the best medicine for my injury.  He said it could very easily take 8 weeks (or more) to fully heal.  That’s not exactly the answer I was looking for but I was certain that it was just doctor-speak to be sure I used extra caution.  I took the anti-inflammatory pills I was prescribed and wore the knee brace I was instructed to purchase.  He did order an X-ray albeit on the wrong knee, but I knew that wasn’t going to show anything.  I wanted an MRI; I’ve never had one.  Back to feeling like I’m missing out I guess.

Things started to get a little better and I was entertaining the idea of being back in action in a couple weeks.  I was able to mostly walk without any pain and I even managed to stagger around the yard and cut the grass with a push mower.  That was a week ago. 

I lined up a sub to play for me in softball this past Monday.  Given the progress my knee was making, I felt like my return was near.  I decided to bring my equipment along (just in case) and even pondered the idea of being a DH (I’d just have someone pinch run if I got on base).  I was itching to get back out there in some form.  I wrestled with the idea of hitting during the drive to the field.  As the de facto manager, I ultimately left my name off the card when filling out the lineup.  There was no sense in taking any unnecessary risks.  I was even a little proud of myself; I had resisted every urge in my body to make the responsible choice. 

We play doubleheaders and in between games, two of our players needed to leave for an emergency (a legitimate one).  There was no way to find 2 replacement players in such short notice.  Fortunately, my friend Brian was sitting in the stands (in regular clothes) watching the game.  We pressed him into duty but that still left us 1 short.  It didn’t take a genius, at least to me, to figure out where the 10^th was going to come from.  I was dressed for the part and had my equipment.  Yes, we could have played with 9, but I didn’t want to put the team at that disadvantage.  My earlier logic was tossed out the window at this point.  As I’m prone to do, I saw the departure of our other 2 players as the signal that I should get out there.

I decided to play pitcher instead of catcher because I figured it would be more painful to bend down and catch the balls.  It was incredibly frustrating being on that mound at less than 100%.  There was a popup that dropped because I could not spring off the mound quick enough.  There was a ground ball hit back through the middle that I could not bend down to grab.  Both were plays I would have made under normal circumstances.  I’m not sure if the opponents just assumed those were plays I never make, but it bugged me to even think they would consider that possibility.

When it finally came time to hit for the first time, a teammate pulled me aside and asked if I really wanted to do this.  No sense in trying to be a hero, he said.  I heard him but I wasn’t really listening.  I’d be fine.  Truthfully, I was really hoping to get walked to make things really easy.  Unfortunately, the opposing pitcher wasn’t going to be so gracious.  He pumped in the first strike (you start with a 1-1 count, for those unfamiliar with the game) followed by a ball.  The next pitch, however, was too close to take.  I swung – an all arms swing because I can’t put any torque on my knee – and lined it to right center.  At that moment, natural instinct took over.  I quickly turned in the box and attempted to take off running…*POP*…instant pain shot through my leg.  I uttered some unintelligible groan and delayed my recognition of the injury until I was able to hobble down to first.

I knew I was done for that game.  As soon as I heard the ump call time, I didn’t even try to signal for a pinch runner.  I just told their 1^st baseman, “I’m done”, and staggered off the field to the closest dugout, which belonged to the opponents.  I eventually made my way to a vacant table behind the field.  At this point, everything became a little too much for me.  I realized that I had probably made things much worse.  At the very least I had delayed my full return.  It also served as a reminder that I wasn’t all that close to returning anyway.  I slammed my batting gloves down and yelled an F-bomb at the top of my lungs.  I didn’t care who was going to hear it.  Naturally, this drew some raised eyebrows and concerned looks from everyone within earshot.  The courteous park director offered to get me some ice but everyone else stayed away from this crazy, swearing guy who had emerged.

Perhaps what finally pushed me to schedule that doctor visit was sitting on the bench watching my buddies play softball.  I don’t get overly amped up to play softball but the harsh truth of not being able to play makes me miss it even more.  Maybe I’ll stay away from the fields for most games to make it a little easier on myself, but does that make me a poor teammate?

So this injury is why I’m feeling so negative.  Forgive me in advance if I act a little ornery towards you.  This was supposed to be 'Summer of Dave'!  In addition to all of the missed softball games, I’ve had to turn down multiple requests to play golf or tennis.  I haven’t been able to bring myself to schedule another doctor appointment because I don’t want to admit what happened.  I’m not sure it’s needed either.  The knee still hurts but not really much worse than it did before the softball incident.   It’s just going to be a slow recovery I think.  I’ve already written off the entire softball season.  On the bright side, I can finish the season with a 1.000 batting average.  It looks like I’m going to have a lot of time to continue contributing to this blog.  Is my injury a sign from the universe?  OK, someone seriously needs to tell me to stop looking for them.

[UPDATE:  As everyone knows by now, the Blackhawks won Game 1 by a 4-3 score in a 3 OT thriller.  We were trying to listen to the game by streaming WGN radio through a mobile phone.  Unfortunately, there was the little matter of getting the generator to run so the basement wouldn’t flood and the food wouldn’t spoil.  The folks are on vacation in Italy so the duty fell to me and my brother.  Responsibility sucks, by the way.  So we didn’t get to hear, let alone watch, much of the game.  Approximately 15 minutes after the game ended, power was restored.  Of course.  Why wouldn’t it be?  Game 2 tonight.  GO HAWKS!]