I enjoy unique names. This probably stems from some deep psychological desire for a name that isn’t exceptionally boring. (My middle name is Mortimer though, so take that.)

(Note: My middle name is not Mortimer.)

The names I find particularly baffling and fascinating are ones that are pronounced in ways that completely defy spelling, or ones that seem unpronounceable because they are so ridiculous.

I have three examples in particular in mind: Hermione Granger, Brett Favre and Alex Skjong.

Hermione Granger, as we all know, is one of the main characters in Harry Potter. We also all know that until the movies came out, we had no idea how to pronounce her name. Herm-ee-one? Her-me-onee? Who-man-chu?

I mean, what the crap? Is she a space shuttle or something? Or a boat. Sounds like the name of a boat.

It got to the point where you would just pass over her name without pronouncing it in your head and just accept the fact that Ms. Rowling is talking about the smart girl who Harry has no romantic interest in for reasons that nobody can wrap their head around. Then the movies came out and we all called collective bull shit because it turns out her name is Her-my-nee.

Admit it; you thought the exact same thing.

Brett Favre, on the other hand, has an unpronounceable name because he spells it wrong. We all know Favre’s story and I don’t want to give him more attention because I am convinced he spells his name wrong simply to get more attention. Farve. It should be Farve. Why isn’t it Farve?

I am almost positive he spells his name incorrectly to draw more attention to himself, because everything he does is to draw attention to himself thus making his name not so much interesting as annoying.

Last, we come to Alex Skjong. The lesser known of the three, but the name (and blog) I find most interesting. I can’t get over the ratio of consonants to vowels. And the kj in the middle fascinates me to no end. I, for obvious phonetic reasons, pronounce this name “ska-jong.” I will always say “ska-jong” regardless of the correct pronunciation. In fact, I don’t want to know the correct pronunciation because it will ruin the mystery that surrounds it. Plus, I like saying “ska-jong.”

You can draw it out and make a gong sound, and who doesn’t love a good gong sound?

Perhaps I just have some weird compulsion because my name is Eric Johnson, but dammit if I don’t find other people’s names interesting. That, and I just like back-to-back consonants that seem out of place. I mean, kj? What the hell is that?

Although, in my defense, I was out of town from June 30^th to July 4^th. As for the next seven days? I dunno.

I got nothin.

Although, here are three pictures to explain my absence:

In other words, I ate a massive chili dog, went to a baseball game, and put on some fancy pants. Yes, apparently all that took two weeks.

Alright, alright; I know what you’re thinking, and you’re right. This is a completely ridiculous fantasy. I don’t even have a doorbell.

This rather lengthy digression stems from the following conversation I had at the Como Park Zoo in St. Paul:

Person 1: “I want a penguin.”

Person 2: “Me too.”

Person 1: “Should we climb over the fence and grab one?”

Person 2: “No.”

Person 1:

I’ll let you all guess whether I was person 1 or person 2.

All monkeying around aside (yeah, I went there) I want you to know what a delightful (and delightfully free) afternoon you can have at Como Park; especially now, during the summer months, when anyone who isn’t a complete wiener is looking for as many outdoor activities as possible to occupy their time.

I lived in St. Paul for about a year and a half, and while the apartment I lived in was nice, the thing I miss most about St. Paul was being just a few blocks away from Como Park. Between the zoo, the lake and the golf course, it was fairly easy to occupy my free time.

Free afternoon? Play a round of golf.

Need to unwind after work? Stroll around the lake.

Want to ride a zebra? Zoo it up.

(Note: I don’t think you can actually ride the zebras.)

And, if you’re into winter (shudder) there is also a cross country ski trail that I will just assume is enjoyable.

What’s nice about Como Park is you can spend literally an entire day there and keep yourself entertained. It’s a great place for a date because you can have a picnic, and impress your lady (or man) friend by making up random facts about various animals that sound real so (s)he won’t question you. Plus, the animals are totes adorbs.

I know Como Park isn’t exactly a new or exciting phenomenon, but it’s a place most people don’t think to spend an afternoon. I don’t recommend this line of thinking. Taking in Como Park really is a great, free way to spend the day. I’ll even throw this old, tired cliché at you: There’s something for everyone at Como Park!

Plus, there is a small chance that you will get mauled by an escapee jungle cat. What else could you ask for?

Read this and my various other shenanigans on tkTwincities.

I know this to be true because in Bloomington there is a giant billboard for Kemps with a photo of Mr. Mauer. Driving past this billboard recently, my passenger (a non-baseball fan mind you) proclaimed, “Joe Mauer is a joke!” Quite emphatically, might I add.

She went on to say – because this conversation had been preceded by one about how delightful the little chocolate plug at the bottom of a drumstick ice cream treat is – she will never eat a drumstick again. A bold claim, indeed, but the point comes across loud and clear: “I will not eat a treat endorsed by Joe Mauer, no matter how delightful it is.”

Twins fan or not, the gauntlet is down. The love is lost.

Mauer has alienated himself from his teammates, his fans and the random Minnesotans who didn’t really care about him before. Now everyone just hates him.

Mere months ago it would’ve been hard to argue that Mauer wasn’t just the face of the Twins, but the face of the entire state. (Sorry, T-Paw.) Mauer was the homegrown stud with a heart of gold. He put up big numbers, and everybody loved him.

Now? He’s public enemy number one. The $23 million homegrown dud with legs made of those wrist slapper things that never curl when you want them to.

It used to be that Mauer could do no wrong. He hit. He threw. He charmed. Hell, girls pretended his sideburns were hot, even though nobody actually likes sideburns. And those Kemps commercials with his mom? They were the most adorable thing anyone had ever seen.

Now everyone is throwing Mauer under the bus. Jose Mijares called him out for poor pitch selection, and exactly zero people in the Twins organization come to Mauers defense. Ron Gardenhire even said he wishes Mauer would have called for a slider. (Granted, if Mijares really wanted to throw a slider, he could have shaken him off, but I digress.)

The most telling thing about the Mijares/Mauer flap wasn’t who was right and who was wrong, it was that nobody, and I mean nobody, in the Twins organization defended Mauer. Nobody has defended Mauer for months. The entire Twins organization has treated Mauer questions with complete and total apathy. Perhaps this is sign of frustration that Mauer wasn’t on the field, and the team just didn’t know how to answer the questions, or perhaps it is a sign that even the organization is questioning Mauer’s grit and determination.

The fans certainly are.

Mauer has a lot to prove at this point, and that is new territory for him. He’s always been the golden boy. Probably since the day he was born.

He’s the baby of the Mauer family and the most athletic. He was the best in high school, in the minors and, for awhile, in the majors. I’d venture to guess he’s been babied his entire life. Treated like a star. Given a $184 million contract like a star.

$23 million a year to be the best player on the Twins.

Being a $23 million player isn’t just about hitting .330, however. It’s about leading a team. Stepping up and playing at 90% when you’re body is feeling 75% healthy. You give up your right to “take it easy” when you sign on to be the franchise player. At $23 million you don’t get to take three months off unless something is broken or torn. You step up and lead the team by example.

Mauer has yet to do that, and it’s time for him to prove that he can.

It’s time for “Baby Jesus” to grow up.

From tkTwincCities

Unfortunately, I can’t write about fireflies. Aside from there being (I assume) some sort of contractual obligation that nobody other than Owl City sings, writes, or speaks about fireflies, I just don’t know how you come up with original thoughts on the topic. I could, for example, tell you the experience was magical – perfect as perfect can be – with hundreds of lightening bugs illuminating a winding lovers-lane, and how beautiful the moment was for oh-so-many reasons.

All that is true. Truly. It’s also a cliché. And clichés, as any good writer knows, are disgusting. Unusable. They infect an entire sentence, paragraph, page and piece. Clichés leave the reader wondering why the writer couldn’t come up with their own thoughts.

Originality is at the crux of nearly everything, which is mostly a vanity play, because all people strive to be the first or best at something. The one who gets credit for an idea. People are vain creatures.

And vanity is most rampant in the written word. Subtly, perhaps. Hidden, often. Existing, always.

Nobody sits down to write thinking, “this is going to be a masterpiece that stands the test of time,” but everyone who writes believes they have something interesting to say. To even begin the process you have to formulate an idea. The idea stems from something in your own brain that makes you believe that you have the world’s most interesting piece of information to share. Even in the most private of formats, writing is vanity.

I spend the majority of my time thinking about writing. Most often telling myself I should write more. Sure, writing can be a therapeutic practice on many occasions – quite helpful indeed – but the only reason anybody ever writes something, is because they want someone to read it.

In other words, I spend the majority of my time thinking that I should be sharing my thoughts with the world, because clearly my thoughts are exceptionally interesting. And clearly, I must be able to articulate them in a way that is exceptionally interesting. And clearly, I am exceptionally interesting.

Basically, I’m a pretentious asshole. Because I write. And want you to read it. And assume you want to read it.

Anyone else confused?

The weirdest part about the whole writing process is that I write something wanting readers and because I feel like I have something interesting to say, except I spend the majority of my time telling myself I have nothing interesting to say and assuming that nobody will read the inane ramblings of a jackass.

Maybe that’s how all writers think. Perhaps writing stems from a lack of self-confidence that leads one to hide behind their own words. I don’t think I have ever heard a writer say, “I really enjoy my work.” Maybe there is a writer out there who does, but I just find that very hard to believe.

The lack of self-confidence mixed with vanity is a contradiction. How can you not think you have something interesting to say as a writer when writing is a practice in vanity?

I, naturally, do not have an answer to that question.

Seeing as how I started this blog as an attempt to formulate daily thoughts, and ramble about whatever is on my mind it probably doesn’t really matter that I’m throwing out a bunch of scatterbrained jibberish. That’s how my mind works. It’s an abstract palace of random ideas that may or may not be congruent.

Usually not.

Hell, I’ll probably go back to read this post, and realize that none of it makes sense. Then I’ll make a joke about how few people read my writing and go on my way.

Alright. Let’s press on.

Have you ever been shopping with your girlfriend, wife, or – actually those are the only options that wouldn’t be exceptionally awkward – and they decide to go Victoria’s Secret? After pondering the positive ramifications of their decision, you begin racing through a set of questions in your head that all encompass some variation of, “wait, am I supposed to go in too?”

You could simply ask your significant other if she wants you to accompany her into the land of bras and panties, but questions often lead to conversations and, honestly, who wants that? Besides, the answer becomes pretty obvious once you reach Victoria’s Secret and see the stable of significant others lounging around outside the store.

Along with that one seedy guy who isn’t actually waiting for anyone.

There’s a level of camaraderie amongst this group of men. It’s unspoken, of course, because nobody wants to kick start a conversation with strangers about their girlfriend’s undergarments (hell yes, I just said undergarments), but it’s there nonetheless. There would probably even be a knowing glance from man-to-man if the guys weren’t all busy trying to avoid eye contact and pretending they are reading a fascinating text or email or that their last Words With Friends play wasn’t 10 minutes ago.

Now, admittedly, I enjoy the little intricacies of odd social situations. Or the intricacies that I imagine, at least, so I probably spend more time finding humor and interest in a situation like the Victoria’s Secret “waiting area,” than most, but whatever. You’re just missing out if you don’t.

Every one of those guys is experiencing the exact same thing at the exact same moment. That’s rare. Especially since every guy is reacting the exact same way: pretending that they aren’t doing what they are doing.

The moral of which is, as always: people are weird.

Just ask the group of teenage boys who brazenly marched into the store. By themselves. No girls. Someone should probably tell them that the room full of empty bras and panties doesn’t necessitate a room full of naked women.

Words to live by.

Now, for the most part, I will defend Minnesotan accents to the death. Sure, they make us sound goofy from time to time, but for the most part we Minnesotans enunciate far better than the majority of United States citizens. Just ask Bostonians, New Yorkers, and New Jers…uh…ites? Eyans?  Onians?

And don’t even get me started on people from the south. Really? That’s the English language? Nobody can pull that accent off. Well, cute girls can (see Underwood, Carrie), but cute girls can pull pretty much anything off.

Accents, however, are not nearly the most interesting aspect of regional dialects. No, what is interesting about regional dialects is the different words people use for various objects. It’s amazing that people who are from the same country can have so many different words for the same thing. And, of course, there is one debate that reigns supreme in the land of regional semantics: Soda vs. pop.

The country is divided quite simply on the soda pop debate: the coastals say “soda” and the Midwesterners say “pop.” (Southerners says “soda pop,” but who really cares?)

As a Minnesotan, I am clearly entrenched in the Midwest and, as such, have spent most of my life referring to the soft drink as, “pop.” However, in the last few years I have made the conscious decision to refer to this beverage as “soda.”

Upon doing minimal research, I discovered that the drink was first referred to as “soda” because of soda fountains in the 1800s. All the little chitlins would gather round for a nice carbonated beverage at the local soda saloon and (often, apparently) pharmacy.

The term “pop” was first coined in 1861, after the first sodas had been bottled, and although I can’t say for certain why it was called pop, I am going to venture the following logical guess:

It’s the sound a bottle makes when you open it. POP!

The carbonation of the drink shoots out the top producing this popping noise. Obviously. You’ve all had a soda before, so you’ve all heard the sound.

What does this have to do with me making the switch to calling the drink soda instead of pop? Well, aside from the original name being soda, I’ve come to the conclusion that I can’t handle referring to something simply by the sound it makes.

Really? That’s the best we can do?

All I can picture every time someone says, “pop” is a foolhardy person pointing at the beverage and saying all bewildered, “look at it pop.”

Yes. It pops. Congrat-u-freaking-lations. That’s like calling fireworks “flash-flash-boom-booms.” I feel like Minnesota is better than that. Wisconsin isn’t, but Minnesota is.

As a final point, I saw someone somewhere on the internet (detailed, I know) defend “pop” by claiming there are so many different soda related items (soda crackers, baking soda, etc.) that to refer to the drink as simply “soda” is illogical; which, of course, is like saying referring to pickles as “pickles” is illogical because there are also pickled beets and what not. They followed this argument up by saying that the technical term is “soda pop” and if you just refer to it as “soda” you are dropping the noun “pop” and using only the adjective “soda.”

The stupidity of that statement is so baffling, I don’t even know how to respond. I’m speechless. Or writeless. Or whatever.

Also, for the record, pickles are pickles because because pickles is the noun that has been bestowed upon the tasty treat. It doesn’t matter that they are technically pickled cucumbers, and that other things can be pickled. Pickles are pickles. Just like it doesn’t matter that there are other types of soda. Soda is soda. Deal with it, world. That’s just the way it is.

Alright, then?

I stared at him for a moment, blinked exactly three times and said, “Uhhhh…no. I think it’s made up.”

To answer the burning question on all your minds, yes, Dinoshark is exactly what it sounds like: A movie about a dinosaur shark hybrid. As IMDB user Matt Layden so aptly describes the film, “A dinoshark comes out of hibernation from being frozen for millions of years, to dine on some human flesh.”

Fascinating.

Allow me to state right now I have never seen the movie, but I was pretty confident in telling this man that a dinoshark doesn’t, in fact, exist, and he probably isn’t going to have to worry about one eating him anytime soon. Also note that this exchange about Dinoshark led to the following conversation:

(This conversation was 100% serious, mind you. Sarcasm free.)

Him: “Why do people believe in these weird things? You know the abominable snowman? I don’t think that’s real.”

Me: “Yeah, I don’t think he’s real either.”

Him: “And that one that lives in the sea? What’s it called?”

Me: “The Loch Ness monster?”

Him: “Yeah, that one. I don’t think that’s real either.”

Me: “Yeah, it’s pretty unlikely.”

Him: “Where do these stories come from?”

Me: “I don’t know, I think people just like making things up.”

Him: “Well, I know one thing that’s real, and that’s God. And that’s good.”

Me: “Yes.”

Him: “Have a nice day.”

Me: “You too.”

(End scene.)

Contextually speaking, this conversation made some sense (minimal, obviously, but some nonetheless) however I am not going to give you the context, because, as is true with most stories, less context is more interesting. Plus it leaves you wondering what I do with my time that would lead to such an in depth conversation about Dinoshark.

Life’s a mystery, I tells ya.

The answer is, of course, “yes;” so stop being a jackass.

Sometimes, the ideas flow like, I dunno, something that flows well. Clearly this is not one of those times.

When I sat down to write, I did it because in creating this blog I decided  I wanted to get on a regular writing schedule. The “regular” portion of that requires me to write every day, even when I don’t have anything particularly interesting to say. On the very off chance that you haven’t completely given up on this post already, you are probably becoming more and more aware that this is one of those “I don’t have anything interesting to say” times.

Honestly? I blame Facebook. I don’t even like Facebook. It’s annoying. But you know what? The reason I didn’t start writing tonight was because I was putzing around on “the book.” (People call it that, right?). Sort of, at least.

Really my point is quite simple, and quite simply this: Writing is hard. Most of the time it feels like a cop out when you can’t come up with something interesting to say, even though it isn’t. Interesting narratives are hard to create, and failing to do so on a given day is part of the writing process.

Which sucks. Totally.

Stupid Facebook.

1. Movies that suck spectacularly because they are aimed completely at children and thus have a poorly constructed storyline and bad jokes.

2. Movies that are clever with a well-conceived storyline and dialogue that appeals to both children and adults.

Now, as a 24-year-old, childless male, my Netflix queue ain’t exactly overflowing with Pixar princesses and Disney dragons. If I end up watching an animated film, it’s usually at the persuasion of a second party (most often of the fairer sex.)

Having said that, I enjoy well done animated films. As a self-proclaimed movie snob (also known as an “asshole”), I tend to over-analyze most everything I watch. It is rare that I can just sit down, watch things blow up for an hour and a half, and come away feeling satisfied with my movie going experience.

I need some depth. Or perceived depth. Or some way of making people think I have depth.

The depth of dialogue and story is exactly why Disney is so much better at making animated films than everyone else. Disney’s never-ending string of writers, producers and directors have figured out a very simple fact about children’s movies: It doesn’t matter what the dialogue and story is, as long as there are few jokes, songs or shenanigans the kids can giggle at. They’re all too high off pixie sticks and whatnot to know what is actually going on in the movie anyway, so why not write the story and dialogue in a way that is interesting to adults? And that’s exactly what Disney does.

I, for example, watched Tangled the other day (at the persuading of not one, but two members of the fairer sex). What transpired was four 20-somethings watching a children’s movie together, with each feeling quite content with that choice.

What the writers did with Tangled is take a simple fairytale in “Rapunzel,” and turn it into a clever storyline, mixed in some songs and tossed in a sassy chameleon character for good measure. There’s nothing spectacular about it, but it tells a good story and keeps the viewer interested. I laughed, and had the room been infested with small children, they likely would have laughed as well.

Throw in the fact that the Mandy-Moore-voiced-princess is pretty hot – the plot revolves around her turning 18 so that’s okay for me to say … you know, aside from the fact that she’s a cartoon – and what’s not to love about Tangled?

It’s unlikely that I am going to start loading my Netflix queue with children’s movies anytime soon, and bad animated films are still pretty brutal, but as long as Disney keeps pumping out entertaining movies, it really won’t take all that much persuading to get me to watch.