Choo Choo, Mudder Fuggers!

I've been in the midst of my lifestyle change for nearly three years. During that time, I've been trying new methods of staying active and proving that I could do new, unfamiliar activities. Indoor rock climbing. One-hundred-and-six-degree Bikram yoga. And most notably, 5K and obstacle runs. I've always been fat, and even after losing more than 100 pounds, I still am. But I've really grown to love running, even if I don't have the most speed, most stamina nor best form. After running an obstacle mud race in March, my buddy and running mate suggested we do Tough Mudder, a 10-12-mile mud, dirt, water, ice, electric shock and ice bath filled obstacle course that requires not only physical strength and endurance, but also mental grit. It took a week, but I agreed to run!

Months of running, gym time, rock climbing and yoga led us River Ranch, Fla. It was finally Saturday Nov. 2, the day we'd been waiting for since March. The team had assembled, we'd obtained our running bibs, our faces were painted, the pre-race instructions were given and we were off! Trent, Kyle, John and Ally ran ahead while Gabe, Leanna and I brought up the rear. Throughout 12 grueling miles, we ran, jogged, walked, trudged, dealt with rain, sloshed through mud and muddy water, crawled through water while being electrically shocked, climbed over walls, ran up a half pipe, fully submerged ourselves in a container full of ice, and one of us even did most of it all while barefoot. It wasn't a pretty run on my part. I was the slowest person on the team and the last to cross the finish line, but goddamn it, I finished that mudder fudder!

Finishing Tough Mudder was important. The ends are almost always important. But it was the means by which I finished that make me most proud of myself and, more importantly, most grateful to have run with my teammates and thousands of runners I didn't even know. Before running, every participant took a pledge that stated that we understood Tough Mudder wasn't a race but a challenge, would make teamwork and camaraderie our top priorities and were to help our fellow Mudders complete the course. Just like with the other aspects of Tough Mudder, I definitely was not underwhelmed with the execution of that pledge.

Whenever I was tired and walked instead of ran, complete strangers, having seen “Randy Love” on the back of my shirt, would address me as such and encourage me to pick up the pace. My upper body strength is decent but I'm still approximately 270 pounds, so I would not have been able to climb the walls or make it up the half pipe had it not been for my teammates and the random runners who TOLD me I was going to climb said walls and then helped me over the obstacles. When I was nearly finished with an obstacle and needed a mental or physical push or pull, Gabe, Leanna and whomever else was nearby grabbed my hands and got me through. During mile 10, after climbing through an inclined muddy pipe, and 90 percent of my get up and go got up and left, I can't even count how many strangers yelled something like, “COME ON, RANDY LOVE! YOU GOT THIS!”

Approximately four hours and 15 minutes after we began running, Gabe, Leanna and I ran across the finish line the same way we ran across the start line: together! Our white shirts tainted grayish brown, we hugged it out with me knowing without a doubt I would not have finished without them. I'm physically fit to an extent, yet I'm still 50 pounds over weight. And no matter how much I enjoy running, even I have my limits. I wish I could say thank you to those girls in that team with the black and orange shirts who, every time they passed me, yelled “IT'S RANDY LOVE!” I want to buy a drink for the team who let me have some of their vodka and Red Bull. I want to be Facebook friends with the group from Jacksonville who walked the mile with us in the chest-deep muddy water. I wish I could give a coat and some hummus to George, the man with “Mediterranean blood,” who we had to coax into jumping in the ice bath. I want to thank Gabe and the Mudder volunteers who pulled me up Everest. I want to wish well the man who hurt his knee and had to pull while in the 11^th of 12 miles.

It's now Sunday evening. I'm home, typing while laying in my bed and watching TV. My legs and feet are sore beyond belief. My right elbow hurts a bit when I bend it, and I'm constantly finding bruises, cuts and scrapes on multiple parts of my body. Tough Mudder was one of the most grueling experience I've ever had, one that's left hobbling when I walk. I should want to spend weeks in bed watching TV. Fuck all of that noise. I can't wait to heal so that I can get back to my workouts. Because when – I said when, not if – I compete in my next Mudder, I want to finish earlier, contribute more and not have to be the one who needs lifting out of or over an obstacle. Tough Mudder, I'm coming for that ass in 2014!

Let's get dirty!

In November, I ran my first mud race. It wasn't a traditional one; it was zombie-themed. Instead of having copious amounts of obstacles, the race only boasted about 10 obstacles but a lot of zombies chasing and grabbing at you. My friend, who also ran the race, kept talking about wanting to do an all-out tough mudder, an idea about which I politely nodded. I'd seen tough mudder YouTube  videos and heard about how grueling they could be. So the idea of running one honestly frightened me.

But after I ran the zombie race and did better in it than I thought I would, I became more open to the idea of running an all-out, balls-out (figuratively) mudder. Lucky for my friend and I, someone at the event was passing out fliers for the Dirty Food Adventure Run on March 9. After much contemplation, self-doubt, visions of mediocre, dirty glory and desire to continue to do new things, I decided to run this race. I decided to face my fear of failure and looking stupid and inept in front of people who seemingly know what they're doing. I resigned myself to that fact that I would have to push myself harder physically than I have ever before. By doing this race, I'm setting myself up to run approximately four miles while completing nearly 30 obstacles during the run.

I'm confident in my ability to go the four miles. I've done three 5K (3.1 mile) races, and in each of those, I ran most of the race and walked for a while to catch my breath and re-up on energy. Adding another mile to the race doesn't seem like it would be the tricky part. What will really test me is the obstacles. More specifically, the climbing obstacles. From the video that I saw, there will be two different forms of rope wall climbing, cargo net climbing and a jump into some deep-ass water, followed by a swim in said water. So there's where I need some help. I've recently taken up rock wall climbing to help build my strength. But if any one has any advice on what I can do to best prepare for the climbing obstacles, please feel free to share. Also, I need someone to teach me how to swim. Hooray for stereotypes.

Below is a link to a video someone took of while running the race. If you, my tens of readers, have any tips for me on what I should do to prepare, let me know. And if you have words of encouragement, send them my way.

Brandon D.

Pig speech...continued.

On Tuesday, my friends hosted what I believe is their seventh annual Christmas party. What has become a tradition is passing around peppermint pig, listing the things that year for which you are thankful, then pummeling the pig with a tiny hammer. Although I named quite a lot of people, things and experiences for which I was grateful, there are some I forgot to list. And the party was full of things for which to be thankful. So here we go.

I'm thankful that the crew is back together. Having to hang out with portions of the crew at different times and not mentioning those times to other crew members really sucked.

I'm thankful for people loving me exactly like I am but who will always encourage me to better myself.

I'm thankful for my NE Florida crew, Central Florida crew, Tally crew and all the friends and family that are out there.

I'm thankful for people who are on the same DRANKIN level as I am.

I'm thankful for gifts that come from the heart and that fit the recipient like a glove (figuratively speaking).

I'm thankful for people who buy a shit load of pizza when you have the drunk munchies.

I'm thankful for people who don't get mad when you get shit wrecked wasted, brown out, get lost in their two-bedroom condo and then mistakenly barge into their bedroom like Chester the molester.

I'm thankful for coconut water and Pedialyte.

I'm thankful for some of the most delicious brownies ever.

I'm thankful that said friends' floor is a surprisingly comfortable to sleep.

And I'm thankful to get to live the life I live with the people I know. And I can't wait to continue this journey.

Happy holidays,
Brandon D.

Fear and self-loathing in Jacksonville

I've been eating better for two years and working out for almost as long. As I have gone through this process, I've tried to keep my workout routine varied and ever-expanding. I want to push myself to do things I never thought I would be able to do, things I never thought I would WANT to do and things that would push me out of my comfort zone. Since I have a slightly crippling fear of heights but want to gain some climbing abilities for an up-coming four-mile run and obstacle course, I decided to try my hand at rock wall climbing.

One of my friends -- looking at you, Trent! -- is an avid climber is constantly preaching the glory that is supposed to be climbing. He has been constantly telling me how much of the body it works and how it breaks the monotony of gym workouts. But I can be a pretty vain person at times. As much as I tell myself that other people's opinions don't matter to me, I put way too much emphasis on what I think of me. My appearance, my behavior, my actions and how well those actions are executed. Even when I started my #GetRight plan, It took me a month and a half before I worked up the courage to step into a gym. It took me about five months after that before I would go into the weight room and attempt to work out with the people who looked like the worked out for a living. Those same apprehensions always made me say thing like "that's nice" or "I'll do it one day, I swear" whenever my friend mention the benefits of climbing. But if there's one thing I hate more than looking like a loser doing something in front of a crowd of people who are well-experience at said activity, it's letting fear and apprehensions keep me from doing things.

As soon as I stepped foot into the rock gym -- I do mean as soon as-- I knew that I would not come out of this venture with the highest of self-esteem.I don't lack the strength to climb, but finding the right hand and foot holes and not being afraid of the fall proved more difficult than I expected. I got the privilege of watching more experienced climbers practically sprint to the top of the wall while I had to talk myself into climbing higher than the halfway mark. Starting courses that were supposed to be easy but not being able to climb even a quarter of the way made me thing twince about what I've really accomplished while on my #GetRight plan. I just hope no one saw me frozen for 45 seconds in the middle of the wall, too afraid to climb up, climb down or just let go.

But today's activities weren't horrible. If I had to evaluate my performance, I'd say I did OK. Eventually, I got acclaimated with the wall and was able to climb higher and faster. I got an amazing workout; my arms and thigh are still ringing. Despite the self-deprecation and awkwardness, I want to go again. Like, now! But the climbing brought me back to reality. For the past week, I've been riding euphoria waves after celebrating two years of good living and at least 105 pounds lost. Although I've had some amazing progress, I'm constantly reminded that even after 2 years of living right, I'm still more than 50 pounds overweight. Sure I'm able to run now, but in the time it takes me to run two miles, some of my friends can run 3.1 miles. I enjoy lifting weights, but my bench pressing weight is atrocious for someone who has worked out for almost two years. And when I see 18-month before-and-after weight loss pictures of people who now have rock hard bodies, I have to take a 30-minute time out to tell myself that I started at a much higher weight and that's why I'm not in Randy Love g-string shape.

Guess who won't be deterred, though. Take your time; I'm hourly. This guy!!! I'm going to go back -- with a partner, a group or by my damn self -- and I'm going to do better than I did today. I'm going to eventually climb with ease, find better climbing route, not being afraid of the height, and not worrying about how I am percieved in a room full of experiensed climbers. I want the muscle game, strength and agility climbing will give me, and I want to conquor this run/obstacle course next year. I guess I just had to face my fears and struggles head-on before I could progress. I feel a lot better now.

Until next time,
Brandon D. Oliver

P.S., I had no idea climbing would be so uncomfortable on my bat and balls!

Happy Two-Year Anniversary to Me!!!

 Imagine a man who couldn’t climb two flights of stairs without being winded. A man who wore long shirts to hide his inevitably appearing butt crack when he sat down. Someone who refused to go shopping with people so he could avoid the envy of being the only person who couldn’t find clothes that fit. That guy was me two years ago before I decided two years ago today to change my less than ideal situation. I had spent the better part of 26 and a half years eating fast and junk food, avoiding physical activity and remaining stuck in my ways. But on November 30, 2010, I took the first steps of quite the eventful, life-changing Journey.

When I embarked on my #GetRight plan, I first decided to give up fast food, vending machine items and sodas. Living in Palatka, Fla., giving up those items is basically like eliminating 80 percent of available food and drink from my diet. I forced myself to cook more, incorporate more fruits and veggies into my diet, and eat five smaller, healthier meals per day as opposed to three huge fattening meals. To keep from getting bored with eating only sandwiches and fruit, I have spent the past two years looking up new and healthy recipes and stepping out of my comfort zone to find more diverse foods that wouldn't pack on the poundage. And what I thought would be the hardest part of getting my shit together -- but turned out to not be that bad -- was limiting my alcohol to only Fridays and Saturdays. But fuck that policy on my birthday and holidays.

A month and a half after revamping my diet, I joined a gym and forced myself to go there four to five times per week. It took me that long to work up the courage to step all 370+ pounds of myself into a building full of people who could run miles, do different versions of pull-ups and push-ups and bench press what looked like a gajillion pounds. But getting my shit together was all about conquering my fears and pushing myself to new heights. So I made myself spend at least 90 minutes a day in USA Fitness after I got off work, sacrificing my evening frolicking time but probably saving myself some money. After a month of working out and a first week of being more sore than a new hooker just before dawn, working out became easier and shockingly very exciting. Light working out lead to intense working out, which lead to distance running, which lead to a once unthinkable desire to participate in various 5K races.

It's been two years and my body has gradually shrunk by at least 109 pounds. Since the mere thought of stepping on a scale two years ago would have made me shit myself, I don't know what my weight was on that November day two years ago. But I know 370 pounds was the lowest amount that I could have weighed. I was wearing 4X shirts, and my size 54 pants didn't actually fit waist level. After some hard work, sacrificing a lot of things that once brought me joy, periods of self-doubt and self-deprecation, body envy, reading health blogs and tons of advice from people with workout and food knowledge, I made it down to 261 pounds. (Side note: I'm currently hovering between 260 and 270). I'm finally able to find clothes in stores and sections that don't read "plus-size," and it is way more gratifying than I thought it would be. Wearing XL shirts and size 42 pants is AMAAAAAAZING!!!

As mind-blowingly orgasmic as the aesthetic Team #GetRight results are, the other weight loss benefits far outweigh them. I am way more energetic than I once was. Seriously! It's like I smoked a joint full of Five Hour Energy: Life Version. Sitting down for more than an hour makes me restless. I've done three 5K races and found out I love camping (but only for 24 hours or less; I don't shit in the woods). Along with the abundance in energy came an adrenalin shot of confidence. Now, when I say "I'm the shit," I actually believe it. When I go to the beach, I take off the undershirt I would have worn two years ago. Healthy eating and regular physical activity has made my immune system as impenetrable as Alcatraz. My hair and skin is just as healthy as the rest of me. I've been introduced to lemon water, Greek yogurt, hummus with pita bread and a host of other uppity items. I trip over and run into things in the gym because I'm too busy checking out myself in the mirrored walls. And my stamina, flexibility, endurance and sex drive have shot through the roof. Too bad I'm not getting laid right now. MESSAGE!

Though amazing, the #GetRight journey has not been easy. I came into the weight loss plan knowing I couldn't undo overnight what took more more than a quarter of a century to do. But I wasn't prepared for how long this process would take. Or how often I would hit a bump in the road. Plateaus can go fuck themselves, fuck their mothers and then go fuck themselves all over again but in a different orifice. Spending weeks busting my ass, giving up McDoubles and having all kinds of food guilt when I decide to have a cocktail only to see that I haven't lost any pounds makes me want to savagely beat a baby. A baby human! And that's why I'm glad I had people, some of whom had already experienced what I was feeling, who gave me workout/eating advice and or boost my spirits right before my fist hit the babies' cranial soft spots.

It's been two years, and I can say, without ego, that I have accomplished tremendous feats. But my #GetRight plan is not complete. I'm closer 270 pounds in this ten-pound weight range on which I'm currently plateaued, so I still have about 50 more pounds to drop. But for now, I will enjoy the moment. I would also like to express my gratitude to all the people who have encouraged me, given me advice, recommended weight loss blogs, offered exercise tips and have "liked" my countless Facebook and Twitter workout posts instead of unfriending me. I also want to encourage everyone else who is on Team #GetRight. Keep doing what you're doing, and keep bettering yourself, whether you're getting right your health, finances, company you keep or whatever.

This has been an amazing journey that has surprised me countless times. And I don't plan on stopping. LETS DO THIS!!!

-Brandon D.

P.S.: Being able to better see your penis is a huge plus. Too bad others aren't seeing it. MESSAGE!

The Reason I Want Nice Things

For as long as I can remember, I've been fat. I have no problem being called fat because it has always been more accurate than saying something asinine like "big-boned" or "husky." I have always made it a point never to put myself down for being obese. Frankly speaking, I am too awesome, droll and worth-wild of a person to let my weight bum me out. Not to say there weren't times -- many, many times -- I wished I wasn't fat. So on Nov. 30, 2010, something in my head ignited, and I decided to stop wishing and start taking action

When people began to notice my body shrinking, they would always ask what made me, after nearly 26 and a half years, decide to lose weight. Not wanting to get too personal or take up too much of anyone's time, I would always spout off something generic. "I just wanted to get healthy." "I figured the time was right." But since I feel more comfortable writing than speaking, let me tell you all why I really decided to get my shit together.

I push myself in the gym, I suck in the chilly autumn air while on my three-mile runs, and I continue to shun the foods I used to love, all because longings and desires deep in my mind, heart and gut. The vain, superficial desires to which I cling but dare tell no one because admitting I want the things losing over 100 would afford me would make me sound vulnerable.

But I can't help it if I want to go into any store and find any shirt, blazer or pair of pants in my size. I want the "Big & Tall" sign to no longer be my beacon when I enter a department store, and I want to no longer have to pay $1 or $2 more for my size.

When I'm out and about with my more active and athletic friends, I want to be be able to keep up with them. Though I scoff when they tell me about the rock walls they climb and the hard-core, nearly physically impossible obstacle course they plan to run, I secretly long to do those things with them and be able to hold my own.

When I board the plane, I don't want to be faced with the ultimatum of paying for two seats or having to leave the plane. And, not to be too demanding, I'd like to be comfortable in whatever window, middle or aisle seat I'm assigned.

Although calling Shotgun is usually a display of victory, I don't want people to let me sit in the front seat of their cars because they think I will be more comfortable and or that it will free up more room in the back seat.

When I'm at a club or bar, I want to be the man the sober women approach. I want the quirky, attractive woman in the restaurant to send smiles and batted eye lashes across the room to me. I want the ladies in the supermarket to eye-fuck the shit out of me as I reach to back of the top shelf for the last Arctic blue Gatorade or bend down to find the Lipton green tea. Vain? Yes. But women don't tend to flock to someone who can crush them. I thought my wit, humor, individuality and authenticity could over-shadow my size, but I guess I was wrong.

I find children repulsive, but if the day comes when I want to have some of my own, I don't want to decide against procreating because I'm afraid of passing along my fat gene.

Whether the remainder of my life is long or short, I want it to be as healthy as possible. Numerous people in my family have diabetes; my late grandfather even had his legs amputated because of it. I do not want to spend the last days of my life in someone's hospital bed or wheel chair. And dying from an obesity-related stroke or heart attack in my 30s is not how I envision my story ending.

Although I'm getting in shape so I can be as healthy as I can be, I can't deny my ulterior motives. Some of my motivations to shed pounds seem reasonable while others are a bit absurd. But when people ask why I always eat Subway and why I'm in the gym four to five times a week, I want to clue them in to why I'm really busting my ass to drop down to 200 pounds. But my vocabulary fails me, and all I mutter is "I want to be a little healthier."

Public Men's Room Etiquette

Aware as I am that this country is more diverse than I can possibly imagine, I thought one thing was common knowledge among a large portion of the U.S. population. Though never taught in a classroom and rarely spoken aloud, bathroom etiquette whilst in the men's room should be -- or so I thought it was -- firmly ingrained in the recesses of the brains of all American human males ages 13 and higher. (I've lived in or been to another country so I can't speak for their men's room practices.) It's come to my conclusion though that numerous men either don't know or simply disregard the rules of the public toilet. 

As I am a man who seeks solution and enlightenment rather than condemnation and judgmental verbal barbs, I present to you the (cue movie trailer announcer voice) MEN'S ROOM ETIQUETTE MANIFESTO...

-There is no talking. It's a men's room, not a smoking lounge. There's no need to chill out and regale someone with tales of your life. It's not that we don't care about the UFC fight or the burgers you grilled on Labor Day. On the contrary; another man might have the perfect seasoning combination to make those burgers pop. But the men's room is no place to discuss that. Or anything else! Shut the fuck up, handle your business, and get out as soon as you can. 

-The no talking rule applies to friends and family. I could be talking to my buddy as we are (what we think) randomly walking around the office, but once we reach the men's room door and realize the other also needs to hit the head, all talking ceases. And during our time in the restroom -- especially when the down-there parts are exposed to air -- nary a word is to be spoken. Once we're both zipped up and out of the restroom, the conversation can resume. And if you walk into the men's room and see someone you know, simply acknowledge their presence by nodding without looking them in the eye. Which brings me to my next point...

-Do NOT make eye contact. Specificity is needed; don't let your eyes make contact with any part of anyone else's body. Not all bathrooms have the barriers between the urinals. And if I quickly (less than one second) scan my surroundings and notice you trying to get a view of my bat and balls, I will break the rule of silence and yell accusations and insults as loud as I can. Was your glance at my Duke Rainier Worthington III really worth the public outing?

-Stay out of the middle. Just like in every other instance (except sex), personal space is a very big deal. If there are an odd number of urinals, never is it acceptable to use the even-numbered urinal(s). If there are three urinals, don't use the second; if there are five, don't use the second or forth urinal. The even-numbered urinals are there simply for decorative purposes and are not meant to be used. If some inconsiderate chap decides to release his golden river in an even-numbered urinal, use the urinal at least three spaces away. If there are only three urinals and someone is at the middle urinal, use the stall. 

The exception to this rule is if you're in a public bathroom with a plethora of urine receptacles. Choose whichever urinal you'd like as long as it is at least two spaces away from the next person. If you can, choose the one closest to the ends. 

-Don't use a stall if you only have to pee. Unless motivated by the even-numbered urinal predicament and the urinals are in working order, you should not be in a stall if all you have to do is pee. Be a man, and stand at the urinal. No one wants to look at your member. No one wants to critique your stance or the way you count the wall tiles in front of you. Not to offend, but using the stall to pee is seen by many as a sign of weakness and insecurity.  

-FLUSH THE GODDAMN TOILET! Even though it's not your bathroom, clean up after yourself. If you take this years Browns to the Super Bowl, why would you not flush the toilet? ... I'm waiting! Why...would you not...flush...the fucking toilet? This is a public restroom, and you are a gigantic bag with which one douches if you leave the restroom unsuitable for future users. Five days ago, instead of using a portable toilet that molested my sense of smell and sight, I took a piss NEXT to the portable toilet, much to the chagrin of the people driving along A1A and the Hispanic family 20 feet away loading their car. Please don't make me have to make this choice while in a public restroom. Along with flushing the toilet, don't leave solid objects in the urinals, throw away your trash, and quit splashing water everywhere. Behave like a respectable man.

-Wash your hands!!!!! I don't care if you have to poo, pee, or just blow your nose, washing your hands is something that should be first nature. Not second nature; first nature! Think about it. When you leave the  public restroom, you're going back out into and interacting with the public. You'll be touching a lot of what everyone else has to touch, and I'm pretty sure everyone would appreciate not having to come in contact with your urine, penis, pubic hair, poo, ass and or snot residue. Don't do your business, leave without washing up, and then have the gall to shake people's hands. Take the 10-30 seconds and clean your hands. I will judge the fuck out of you and alert as many people as possible if I see you leave the restroom without washing your hands. And if possible, when leaving the bathroom, don't make direct contact with the door knob/handle. 

Guys, have I missed any restroom rules? If so, post them in the comment section. Ladies, I'm aware there is a beehive of rules and regulations surrounding the ladies' room. If you're allowed to divulge your rules, what is a no go when it comes to the ladies' room? 

Thanks for listening and (hopefully) sharing,

B.rand

Come inside my world

I wish the entire year looked and felt like spring in late march in north Florida.
I believe my fear of rejection has crippled a vital span of my life.
I aim low because it's my belief that when I aim high, things can't possibly meet such expectations. Me and my dreaming big, eh?
I'm always apprehensive about calling, text messaging, IM'ing and any other form of reaching out to people because I always feel like I'm imposing on their free time.
I'm not a simple man and neither are my tastes, despite appearances.
I love writing and appreciate when writing's done well, i.e. song lyrics, scripts, magazine articles, etc.
If I lose a lot of weight and someone decides to do one of those before-and-after photos, I want my before/fat photo to be one of me smiling and or having a good time. I'm not a sad/disgruntled person.
Having said that, sometimes I just want to be left the fuck alone and not talk to anyone or do anything.
But most times, I crave interaction with other people.
I wish I could be the center of attention (in a good way) when I go out.
I believe hard work and skill speaks for itself, and as a result, I don't ass kiss.
I wish people loved Y Tu Mama Tambien as much as I do.
When it comes to friends, it's definitely about quality, not quantity. Who wants a lot of half-assing friends?
I hate hate hate hate hate my bald spot and gimpy leg. The gap in my teeth, though, I feels makes me more distinguished.
I love love love love love that I'm awkward and weird and random because trying to be like the masses seems like way more work than I'm willing to put into anything
I don't care if I ever get married; I won't rule it out, but I never pray about it happening. But I do not want kids.
I wish there was at least on person who truly got me 100 percent.
I make it a point to have at least one great belly-aching laugh a day.
The older I get, the less fucks I give. And the less shame I have.
At least twice a day, I think of going to the bank, getting every dime I have to my name, getting in my car, and just driving somewhere far and never returning.
If I won a huge lottery, I would put half of it in an interest-earning acct, and with the rest I'd travel the world non-stop.
I have wanted to write scripts for quite a while, but Tarantino makes me want to direct.
I don't have lots of close friends, but the ones I have I treasure more than they could imagine.
I hate when the biggest deciding factor behind any choice is wondering what people would think of you if you did or didn't do what you're deciding to do.
I love standing in the rain with no umbrella and just enjoying what God has given me.
I have an unexplained and oddball fascination with cornfields. Whenever I pass one, I want to pull over, get out of the car and frolic in the corn.
I find myself fascinated by how people look naked. People go through a lot to dress themselves and present their personality to the world via clothes and accessories. But seeing them naked is almost like seeing who they really are.
I get bored easily.
I always feel like people are hanging out without me.
If I knew I could live forever without, I would devote one day to doing every drug known to man, drive a motorcycle extremely fast, and go skydiving once a week.
I always thing about what life would be like if I had super powers. Telepathy is boss.
I think it's time I stopped.

Laissez les bons temps rouler

Once upon a time, there were four fun-seeking and free-spirited young adults who wanted to travel to New Orleans to take part in Mardi Gras. There was Beaumont the Devilish, Jack the Awkward, Simon the Inappropriate and Winston the Mischievous.

The members became whole in Tallahassee and made their way to the Big easy, stopping only to pee, get gas…and to sleep for six hours in a cheap Mississippi (redundant, much?) motel. Arriving in N’Awlins too early to check into their ridiculously over-priced hotel, our heroes hit the town early in the afternoon in search of beignets (ben-yays), crawfish and alcoholic beverages. Please don’t bother judging the group; they’re all adults and fully-functioning members of society. If they want to have hard liquor at 1 p.m., goddamnit, they are allowed that privilege.

Having not showered in more than 24 hours, the group members were happy to finally check in, shower and grab a power nap to prepare for the night’s adventures. Awake, dressed, and tipsy off two bottles of wine between the four of them, Jack, Simon, Winston and Beaumont made their way to the nearest 4 Loko dispensary they could find. Unwisely, they ignored the prophetic words of a wise local black man on the streets. “Y’all brown baggin’ 4 Loko? Y’all gon get fucked up! Don’t drink two.”


Fast forward about an hour later, Jack’s drunk as shit at 6 p.m. They crew is still drinking, in Popeye's, and Jack’s making Katrina and levee jokes…loudly! Realizing he was too drunk too early, Jack threw away the Loko and the quartet made their way to the parade. Being the first there for the parade meant we were front row once the festivities started. Later, Beaumont, Winston and Jack decided it was time for another Loko, while Simon wisely opted for a Bud Lite. Simon’s wisdom was a godsend and presumably kept one, maybe two, of the group members out of jail.

What started as a trip to drop off some of their beads in the hotel room turned into chaos. Beaumont, drunk off life, two cups of wine and two and a third cans of Loko, was put under constant supervision by the group. Winston, the enabler of many things wicked, didn’t have as much of the Loko as Beaumont, but was just as drunk. Among many things, the two raced down the hotel hallways and threw numerous broken beads around the hotel room. Beaumont even began demolishing the metal towel rack in the hotel bathroom.

Jack, merely partially drunk, went into wrangler mode, taking it upon themselves to talk down the two drunkards and, in numerous instances, physically restrain Beaumont from leaving the hotel. But the devilishly elusive Winston could not be contained, and headed out into the night. Not wanting to leave Beaumont -- now passed out -- alone, for fear he’d wake up drunkenly disoriented and expose himself to the public, Jack and Simon called it an early night and were asleep before 1 a.m.

On Saturday, after Winston and Beaumont slept off the booze, the group had some orgasm-inducing Cajun food. They then checked out of their hotel and loaded up their car just in time to get caught in parade, stand-still traffic while baby Hurricane Katrina pelted the city. Incredibly cranky, our weary companions were finally able to drive in the rain 35 miles -- 24 of which were over one bridge -- to their hotel for Saturday night.

Determined not to let dickhole-like weather muck up what was meant to be an awesome trip, the four took solace in the cause of and solution to all life’s problems, booze. At Daiquiris and Creams (yes, Creams), they discovered they could buy daiquiris in the following sizes: small, medium, large, half gallon and gallon! Simon and Jack drank half of their half gallon daiquiris, took the party to Outback (thanks, N’Awlins, for not having open container laws) and got ready for the night’s festivities.

Simon, Jack and Beaumont had no idea Bourbon St. would be so densely packed. After fighting their way through the crowd to get to the Hand Grenade hut, seeing titties of various sizes, colors and pleasantness along the way, the gang shelled out $5 to set up shop on a balcony to be more discriminate with the way they distributed their beads. The rain may have left behind winds and chilly temperatures, but the crew didn’t it ruin their night. They gave out beads, saw someone they knew from home, ate a diet-mutilating (and thereby great) burger, made fun of a half naked woman drunkenly rolling around in garbage juice, among other things. And one of them, not the one society would dictate, even earned a gift of his own.

Sunday arrived and with it, came time for our protagonists to head home. But not before someone got tattooed. Leaving New Orleans around 1 p.m., our weary heroes made it to Tallahassee around 10 p.m. to drop off one of their companions. Thanks to almost no gas stations being open when the car carrying the remaining three was almost on E and a hellishly slow drive on a 10-mile stretch of road when they were 28 miles away from home, the three arrived at their homes in less than stellar mood. Subsequently, two of the group members were “sick” when it came to work the following morning.

Although there was an early night and the weather kept us from doing some of the things on our list, Amanda, Andrew, Matt and I had a great time in New Orleans. We came back with this story and many more that would make this blog way longer than it already is. When/if we ever go back to Mardi Gras, we will have learned from out mistakes (easy on the Loko, book hotels more in advance) and build on the good times we had (eat more great food, bring our own booze so we can save money but still get good and drunk). And as fun as road trips are, if money allows, we’re flying. I hope you had as much fun reading about the adventures of the Fantastic Four as we did living them. We continually live happily ever after.

Yo mama!

Every now and again I hear about an obscure, cult, and or limited-released film that might be worth my time. After watching the well-advertised, commercially-successful Pan's Labyrinth, I perused the movie's trivia page on IMDb.com. It noted how Maribel Verdu's modest, subservient character in the movie was different from the sexpot characters she normally plays, i.e. Luisa in Y Tu Mama Tambien. I have no qualms about the fact that I love seeing naked people, especially naked people simulating sex in the name of art and cinema. So immediately I looked up Y Tu Mama Tambien and was surprised that it was as critically acclaimed as it was, that it was and still is the highest grossing film in Mexico's cinematic history, and that I'd never even heard of it. So, as an antidote to my cinematic ignorance, I went to Video 21.

I'd like to take a moment to clue you all in on the wonderful wonderfulness that is Video 21. It's not just a movie rental store; it's the greatest fucking video store I've ever visited. They have damn near ANY movie you want to see. Mainstream movies, independent movies. Movies from years and years past. Cult B and blaxploitation movies. Foreign movies that were never officially released in the United States. This place even has a back room full of porn for sale and rent. Why anyone would pay for porn is beyond me, but that's another topic for another day. Video 21 shames Blockbuster and Redbox. 
  
"Tambien" is about two 18-year-old boys fresh out of high school (or secondary school. Whatever everyone other than Americans call it) whose girlfriends are spending the summer in Europe. (Side note: if you send your lady to Europe alone for more than a week, she's coming back single.) The friendship is an unlikely pairing. Julio's family is working-class, while Tenoch still has servants who prepare his meals for him. Breaking the summer monotony, they meet Luisa, who's married to Tenoch's cousin, and invite her to road trip to a beach that doesn't exist in hopes of at least one of them sleeping with her. Although she initially declines, she gives in and leaves her stable life behind after her husband confessed to her his multiple infidelities.

The lively trio drives through rural Mexico smoking pot, regaling each other with tales of their respective relationships with their partners, talking about and subsequently having sex. It would be unfair to say Luisa is easy, but that fortress is definitely not impenetrable. And those loose castle gates stir up some deep-seated and repressed emotion as well as a few naughty yet spiteful confessions. 

I love this movie for so many reasons but the movie's greatest selling point is director and co-writer Alfonso Cuaron's tendency to make the background seem more like a character than just the setting. Different time throughout "Tambien," the video plays but the audio is muted, allowing a narrator to add more depth and information to the scene. Narration topics range from the real-life political shift in 1999 that put an end to a 71-year political party's reign to the harsh lives of some of the poor people the trio pass on their way to the beach to Tenoch's hesitance to touch anything in Julio's house and Julio's reticence while in Tenoch's house. Initially off-putting, the narrations serve as a way to show the viewer that the movie isn't just about Julio, Tenoch and Luisa. There are other, more important things going on around them that make their arguments seem petty. It's easy to see how much Cuaron appreciates the landscape, from the seldom-traveled roads to politically stirring metropolitan areas to the beach that turned out not to be so made up.

Although the movie is funny, erotic, insightful and at times chaotic, "Tambien" makes me extremely sad. In an effort not be be a heaping bag of homemade vinegary douche, I'll let the ending and other key parts of the movie stay a secret. But during this 106 minutes of cinematic delight, we witness how easily life can change for the worse. Whether it's a family losing their livelihood or a girl dying way too young due to her harsh living conditions, no one is exempt from hard times. But the saddest part of the movie is how easily negligence and inconsideration can shatter a friendship that until a carefree poon-hounding car ride was considered unbreakable. To me, it mirrors how I am not as close to friends with whom I thought I'd never go a day without communicating.

Do yourself a favor. Put Y Tu Mama Tambien in your Netflix queue. If you see it available at Redbox, invest the dollar plus tax. If you happen to be in Blockbuster or the vastly superior Video 21 and they have a copy, jump on that shit and ride it out of the store. This is not a movie that will leave you nonchalant about it. Turn on the English subtitles and let it wash over you like the surf over the shore.

Status Update

Since Nov. 30 I've been trying to get my shit together. In my desire to lead a healthier lifestyle, I have given up fast food, traded sugary drinks for water and fruit juices, and fucked up fruits and veggies like they owed me money. As a result, my body feels a bit healthier, but more importantly, it feels cleaner. I felt guilty during the holidays when I ate a Christmas tree Reese's. I get a bit put off when I see a large amounts of fried food in one place. I can't visibly tell tell if I am losing weight, but I feel like I'm doing better in regards to my health.

But my quest for better living requires me to lose weight. Lots of weight. And to do that, simply eating healthier won't cut it. So now that the gift buying of the holiday season is over, I have money to spend on a gym membership. Fortunately for me -- more specifically, my wallet -- working at PRC gets about ten bucks knocked off my monthly membership fee. So on Jan. 10, for the first time in roughly seven years, I went to a gym.

I feel a bit ashamed to say this, but I was and still am (to an extent) intimidated by gyms. I am a bit unfamiliar with some of the equipment. I'm not sure if i should work on shoulders and legs in one workout or if I should do abs and back. My inability to run a mile without stopping to briskly walk. My overall heavy-duty frame. There are numerous aspects of working out that make me feel very insecure. But I don't like living in fear. And I definitely hate feeling inadequate. So the insecurities and fear can go kick rocks; show me to the treadmill.

My fears proved to be unwarranted since at least half the people were either as out of shape as I and or significantly older. It doesn't take a nuclear physicist with a minor in marine biology to work a treadmill or curl a 20 pound barbell. Working out is like riding a roomy, extremely heavy bike. After about a day or two, I should be back in the swing of things. I think what really has me worried is the amount of effort I'll have to put into working out to finally see physical results. And the amount of time it will take for me to even get close to my goal weight range.

So here's to me keeping my shit together and making these gym visits a daily thing. I appreciate all the encouragement from everyone and will use it as fuel to keep me going. Keep me on my game, folks.

B.Rand

Smooth Operator, indeed

Unless you have been living under a cluster of rocks for the past ten + years, you know that I am a huge Sade fan. I'm talking hide-in-your-bushes-type of fan. So when it was announced in September that the group would be embarking on a world tour in 2011, there was no question in my mind that I was going. And just as obvious was with whom I would be attending.

My Pop Culture buddy, Lindsay, and I have drummed it into each other's head for at least five years that if Sade toured, we'd go. No matter how far we'd have to travel. So when the tour roster listed a show in Sunrise, Fla., I figured it would be an ideal situation. I observe my birthday a month late with a trip to South Florida, PC would scoot ten minutes up the road, and we could both enjoy a no-doubt amazing, once-in-a-decade concert.

So today, Dec. 6. Lindsay and I synced up with laser like precision, hundreds of miles apart, and order our floor seats, literally five seats away. If you notice me becoming extra frugal in the coming days, it's because these floors seats were my Christmas and birthday gift to me from me. But seeing a great friend, getting away for a weekend and seeing Sade is well worth the shekels I spent.

So in preparation for this concert, I want to lay down some rules. More like fair warning.

(This is an important one) DO NOT plan anything for July 15 and 16, 2011 and expect me to be there. It's just not happening.
-Be prepared for an excessive amount of Sade posts on all of my social networking sites the closer to the concert it gets.
-Do not judge me if you receive text message of me geeking out while at the concert.
-And definitely don't judge me if I call you before, during or after the concert in tears, a la white woman at a Michael Jackson concert in the 80s.
-Help me find the best possible set of clothes to wear. Normally, dressing up for these types of things aren't very important to me, but one must look his best if he's going to impregnate eight people in one night.
-Keep me motivated to Get My Shit Together. It's been clinically proven that the more weight you lose, the more people will want to have sex with you. And with Sweetest Taboo playing....I'm just sayin.
-Don't bring any Sade hate my way during concert time. I respect everyone's opinions, likes and dislikes. But I don't want to have to call you a so-and-so AND a such-in-such just because you write "DISLIKE"  under one of my Sade-related posts.

This concert is a huge deal for me since I've rarely gone to concerts, especially one of this magnitude. I'm not even joking when I say that watching the Sade concert with my PC is #2 on my bucket list. I usually hate setting my excitement bar so high because it always seems that when I do, whatever I was looking forward to never meets my expectations. But this show, in conjunction with Getting My Shit Together and my new lease on life, should make for a astounding summer and belated birthday.

Deuce deuce,
B.Rand

Support the Get My Shit Together campaign

I'm not going to be predictable and wait until Jan. 1 to make this declaration. Now is the time to speak it. Now is the time to start it.

I, Brandon Davon Billingsworth Oliver IX, am getting my shit together.

If that's too cryptic for you, I'll break it down. I'm not sure if anyone has noticed; I try my best to hide it. But I'm fat. Not funny, child-like Zach Galifianakis fat. I'm talking "he'd be Precious if it weren't for the appropriately-fitting clothes, visible neck, sunny disposition and the penis" kind of fat. I don't like being Preciously fat. Not to say that I harbor any self-hatred or dreams of extreme surgery. I just don't like being fat. But I figure if a man can walk on the moon; if black people can go from slaves to politicians; if Michael can go from soil brown to pearl white; then I can get my fat ass in the gym and produce some worth wild results.

I've tried numerous times before to get my straight-man's Richard Simmons on, using countless methods -- i.e., unsupervised workouts, cabbage soup diet, aerobics, fasting, two weeks of P.E. the summer before my high school freshman year, etc. I now realize what I lack when it came to my previous weight-loss attempts was support from my family and friends. They weren't being pricks; they just didn't know I was trying to get my non-combative Billy Blanks on. Any time I tried to carve the fat, I treated it like secret so well-guarded even the Illuminati wouldn't discover it. I'm not sure if it was out of embarrassment or just not wanting to get people's hopes up, but it was my secretive pet project.

But as I get older, my level of fucks given diminishes. As a result, I don't mind if people know I have a desire to get my beach body in time for Speedo season. I actually want people to know. Since I moved back home, I've noticed my life getting better, bit by bit. New job, getting closer with and making friends, road tripping, getting health insurance. But one should never get complacent. One should strive to get better and better with each day. So next on my agenda is improving myself physically and aesthetically -- the Get My Shit Together campaign. In an effort to get my shit together, I have to part with some of my old ways.

I rebuke thee, fast food.

Get thee behind, snack machine.

Get the hell out of my face, sugary, caffeinated beverages.

Adieu, sweet foods.

Sugar, we're just not going to be able to meet up like we did in the old days.

Fried foods, I'm no longer your beaten wife. I'm not coming back...OK, maybe a bit. But it won't be like it was.

Hit the bricks, large portions.

Taking an elevator up one flight of stairs, we've never been friends, and it's going to stay that way.

Pork, to me, you are now swine. And you know how black folks feel about swine.

Milkshakes and fatty ice cream, GTFO

And as much as this kills me to say it, alcohol we can't see each other like we used to. Whenever Jose, Jim, Comrade Smirnoff, Mr. Sinclare and the rest party too hard, I wind up bloated yet inexplicably in the mood for two McDoubles and fries.

So what I need from my family, friends and readers is your support in my journey to hit the 200-250 lb mark. I'm looking into a gym membership in Palatka. Once I start going to the gym, I need you all to make me keep going. Encourage me to pack my lunch for work and not hit up any dubious eateries. Support the lie that cucumbers and carrots are just as delicious as Ruffles and Cheetos.

So, family, friends, readers and "friends," I need your help with this, my most daring adventure yet. Keep me motivated; don't let me stop. It's a bit unrealistic for me to completely give up the aforementioned foods/drinks, but make sure if you see me with any of them, question it. If you know of any foods that are a must for my healthy diet, I'm open to your suggestions. Hell if you know of any cookbooks I need in my life, do not hesitate to suggest it. And once I start going to the gym, I need you all to make sure I go on a constant basis.

Support the lie that cucumbers and carrots are just as delicious as Ruffles and Cheetos,
B.rand

Down the A1A

***I DON'T MEAN TO MAKE THIS A HABBIT, BUT I WROTE THIS LATE AT NIGHT/EARLY IN THE MORNING. IT HAS NOT YET BEEN PROOFREAD. GO EASY ON ME***

Two weekends ago, I was on Facebook and Twitter. All fucking day long. I could think of nothing in Palatka to do. And the only options that came to mind was spending money that didn't need to be spent on things that didn't need buying. I could get a tattoo, but that's nothing to do on a whim (although I plan on getting it). I could fill my tank and drive to St. Augustine or Orange Park to see a movie I could see in Palatka. Needless to say, by the time I finished deciding, I'd wasted hours online and watching movies with the caliber of Scream 3.

So as a way to both take advantage of my new-found weekends off, and to prevent two weekends' worth of boredom, I decided to have, what Steve Harvey calls, a Wonderful Weekend. I've always talked of taking a road trip, so I figured why not use this weekend to make it happen. It was a spur-of-the-moment trip, so unfortunately it would have to be a solo road trip. But if one can't enjoy oneself alone, how can one truly be happy around others.

I had no idea where my destination lie, but I knew the route. Although I can't swim -- even if it was a means to get to Halle Berry Island -- I have a bizarre love of and appreciation for the beach and the ocean. The sound and force of the waves, the full-body massage given by the wind, the richness of the foliag

e's green, and even the annoyance of the sand lingering to your body even hours after leaving the beach. It seemed like a no-brainer to cruise the pavement along the Atlantic Ocean coast on Florida's A1A. Who cares where I ended, so long as I got to see some sights. But after thinking of a college friend, I settled on Melbourne, Fla. since she always had good things to say about it.

With a limited amount of money to my name, fewer clothes and belongings and a beat up car's tank of gas, I made my way toward St. Augustine and hit the coast. Although going 45 mph for about an hour and a half was about double the time it would have taken on the interstate, the experience was a lot more fulfilling. In the span of 30 seconds, I relived five elementary school grades' worth of field trips when i pass by and took pictures of Marineland. When I passed that spot I think we visited for biology class in 9th grade, I relived how promising life seemed at age 14. I mad a vow to bust my ass as a writer/comedian, earn incredible bank and buy up beach front property after passing expensive house that I can't afford after expensive house I can't afford.

Although it rained intermittently, I made it to Melbourne in one piece. And as soon as I paid for my sub-par, marginally too expensive room, I set off for the beach. The light was fading but I had Eva Mae and I was ready to use her. It's been almost four years since I've used my 35 mm film camera, but I used this weekend an excuse to break out the old girl. The click of the shutter, the winding of the film, the quest for the perfect light. All nuances I had almost forgotten fluttered in my mind like swarm of coked-out butterflies searching for the last bit of pollen. Or whatever butterflies go apeshit over.

And on that note, I can't omit how extremely excited I am about how the pictures will look. The digital age has spoiled us. We've forgotten how it felt to take a roll of photos, drop them off at a photo lab and actually wait two to three days for them to be ready. Forgotten how we didn't know within three second's time how the photo would look. Forgotten that the photo relied solely on our artistic eye and ability with the camera. That once we snapped the photo, it could not be undone. So even tho many of the pictures were taken when the light was low and I had no tripod, or taken while i was driving and

had minimal time to focus, I am literally wet (in the mouth, perverts) with anticipation over the outcome of my photographic endeavors.

On my back home Sunday, I stopped at New Smyrna Beach and relaxed in the sand with a good (so far) book. I figured there was no point in driving up and down the coast without actually stepping foot on it. After getting some sun, and looking at a few big ass turtle, I made my way to St. Augustine to eat good food, watch True Blood and conversed with some great people.

Pulling into my driveway in Palatka at 10 p.m. Sunday, my first thought after "thank you God for not letting me die on the road in Titusville," was that no matter where you go, you always appreciate home when you come back. But as I took the most fantasmic shower I've ever taken, even as my body begged for sleep, my the cogs in my mind began to turn. What will be my next adventure? Although I crossed 2 and a half things off my bucket list by taking this trip, what will I take on next?

Keep an eye out.

B.rand

Giving away movies. Holla at me if you want them

After assembling my new DVD shelf, I came across a few DVDs that either I didn't like when i watched them or the movies lost their appeal in my opinion. So before I just take them to Goodwill, I'm trying to see if any of my friends would like them for free. Please message me and let me know if you want any of them. First come, first serve. The list is as followed...

A behind the scenes look at The Real World: Back to New York (Don't act like you don't remember Coral)

Robin Hood: Men In Tights

Little Children

The Women of Brewster Place

Finding my way

I wrote this at almost 4 a.m., therefore I did NOT take the time to proofread this yet. But I needed to share.

I'm was lost for quite some time.

There was a time when I knew exactly what I wanted to do with my life. I graduated high school with the intention of spending four years at Florida A&M, where I would become the master of all things journalism. After college, I would move to New York--or any decent-sized city that was a far away from Palatka, Fla. (distance- and remsemblance-wise) as possible--and start my own music or movie magazine. But the more I wrote, came up with, an copy edited stories, and the better I got at it, I knew that I would never have a fulfilling career with it.

As a result, I somehow managed to turn a two-year stint at Winn-Dixie into a nearly decade-long "career." Sans the health insurance and benefits. During the latter half of my money-handling, chicken-frying, bread-baking period at the W/D, my funds dwindled, the majority of my friends moved away and moved on with their lives, and I became satisfied with the meager situation I had worked out for myself. Actually, the better term would be "worked my way into."

It's perplexing and, to an extent, frightening that signs could dangle all around me and friends could throw out all the hints, yet I barely noticed anything. So caught up in keeping or finding a steady eight-hours-a-day job just for the sake of having a steady, eight-hours-a-day job, I didn't realize that I was one of the only people who memorized Saturday Night Live sketches (not the Lonely Island parody song). Never took into consideration that I had movie movies on my shelf than pennies in the bank. That I once took the utmost pleasure in cranking out short short stories every week for my eighth grade peers to peruse. I never put two and two together to come to the conclusion that what I did with blogs and social network status updates, I could expand to larger media.

After intense internal battles, countless previously empty words and one hell of a bombshell dropped in my chunky lap, the urge to write hit walloped me like Gucci Mane wallops hip hop music's reputation. But not only did I get the desire to churn out a screenplay, I got the desire to be funny and finally get paid to do it. I am a funny bastard, and I say that without any traces of ego. Why should I not be SNL's star performer, the creator of It's Always Sunny in Orlando, or Moses in the 2012 independent film Othello 2?

No matter the dream, it can come true if you believe. And know what the hell you're doing. So in order to make a fraction of what many of you might consider my unattainable goals attainable, I have purchased from half.com my first screen writing book. After work tomorrow, I will begin my extensive research of Second City and Groundlings improv comedy troupes. Because although I can write and make people laugh, these skills need molding.

God it feels great to have some focus in my life and to have goals set for myself. I love that I get ideas for stories and scripts from the most random conversations, people and objects. Although I curse this new found canyon of ideas for keeping me awake at 3:13 a.m. blogging, I'm more excited about my future than I have been since I received university acceptance letters in the mail in 2002. It's been quite a long time coming, and I have a feeling it will be a long time going, but I am quite content.

Don't take it the wrong way

I wrote this at almost 4 a.m., therefore I did NOT take the time to proofread this yet. But I needed to share.

Dear Reader (please don't be so presumptuous as to assume YOU are the person I am referencing),

I hope this letter finds you in great health and spirits. I'm writing to let you know that I have been inspired to write a story. Not a short short story. Not a short story. But a hell of a story that I would like to turn into a script. It would make me the happiest man int he world if this idea blossoms into a story and then a script and then a critical and commercial cinematic gem.

But I have a problem, one which might derail this unstable dream of mine. The story I want to tell is about you. It's about you, me, him, her, and them. Putting this story on paper, I will undoubtedly air some laundry that won't be Gain clean. I beg you to see things from my perspective, though. I don't mean to damage you feelings or our relationship, but the story that's been placed in my heart is far too weighty for me to continue to allow it to be spoken in hushed voices behind everyone's back. Especially when this Everyone is involved.

I apologize if my telling of this story sours your feelings toward me, but please hear my other reason for bringing outsiders into our business. My writing this tale isn't purely for recognition. It's therapy. The best therapy someone with no insurance or money can afford. There was a time in my life when I was confused, hurt and angry. Not many people understood me, so I don't know why I was surprised you didn't either. Although I would consider us friends now, there were times when I didn't like you. I didn't like you, me, him, hear, and I really didn't like them. Because therein lied the source of my confusion, hurt and anger.

At the risk of sounding repetitive, I would love it if you were not cross with me once you read what I have to write. This will not be a work of pure fact. There will be embellishments. I will take traits from numerous people and mold them into a character you might mistake as being 100 percent you. I hope you know how solid our relationship is now and how much I treasure you and what you've done for me. I just really need to write what I've been suppressing for so long.

Please stay with me,

Brandon D. Oliver

Better Late Than Never

Early in June I got a text message from Amanda telling me to make sure I take June 26 off from work. The message said, that since she was going to miss my birthday, she was planning something legendary on the 25th and would not be in any shape to go to work the next day.

Amanda told me she, Matt, Chelsea, Adam from CT and I were going out to dinner and then birthday shenanigans would later ensue. The dinner reservations were at 9:30 p.m. and I was hauling ass to get to Staug (St. Augustine for you not-in-the-loop folks) so the restaurant wouldn't discard our reservation time. When I get to the Hopcrafts' apartment, I notice the place was candle lit, there's a long table in the center of the living room, and Amanda had a look on her face that indicated she'd been up to no good.

SURPRISE...HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

It is imperative that I talk about how much planning went into this party and how great everything looked. The powers that be managed to wrangle up about 11 or 12 people for whom I really care and probably had better, more productive things with night. Since Amanda and Chelsea were at Bonnaroo music festival during my birthday, they put together a swagtastic gift bag complete with Adult Swim merchandise, Family Guy lottery tickets, two condoms and two 40 oz Buds. The latter of that list is the most impressive because you can't get 40 oz beer in Florida; they went out of state to get that gift. Then there was the wall, which the Hopcraftshave fashioned into a giant chalk board, that had personalized, non-generic birthday messages, such as "TWSS," "Red drink," and for whatever reason, a pennis drawing. I know how i spelled that. And when I thought "these guys and gals have really outdone themselves," Amanda brings out my buddy Andrew who drove all the way from Tallahassee. And then -- yes, there's more -- Amanda and Chelsea manage to get Jake Seymour, my favorite teacher from any school I've attended, on the phone for a brief chat.

So if this humongous, booze-filled, dick in a box-like gathering wasn't great enough, after dinner we headed out for phase 2. The group headed to the Clover Room, a hole-in-the-wall bar/club near the beach, where my night and ears were rocked by Silver Lake Drive. If you don't know who SLD is, you need to Youtube them immediately. One of my classmates is in that band, and they do astounding covers of songs of varying types. Hearing them play "Crazy," "You Got Me" and Dirty Diana is audio equivalent of watching hot naked Brazilian women on a trampoline. And then there's the liquor; try to keep count: Two-thirds of a 40, three cups of sangria, two gin and tonics, three gin and OJs, a Jager Bomb, an Irish Car Bomb (that I don't remember drinking), and shots poured into me by dancing bartenders when "Pour Some Sugar On Me" came on.

Fast forward to the day after; I now know why Amanda practically ordered me to take the day off. I slept until almost noon, and the latter half of that sleep was with a cat on and or next to me. I got "sick" three times, and at 10:10 p.m. on June 26, I'm still a tiny bit hungover. But I did get to eat a $2.99 breakfast, after all the "sickness" was out of me.

I haven't blogged in a while because nothing note-worthy has moved me to write anything longer than a Facebook or Twitter message. But I had to share with anyone who would listen or read what a great time I had. I tried not to make it obvious, but the past few years for me have been awfully shitty, and in January 2010, I felt lower than I would have ever thought was possible. But instead of letting me wallow in self-loathing and sorrow, certain family members and friends have done everything they could to lift my spirits. Whether that be letting me move back home, buying a huge bottle of Seagram's that literally had my name on it, or writing me uplifting messages on social networking sites, these people have helped me turn my life around and have forced me to see the positivity in life and in myself.

When I saw my friends gathered together, saw the extensive planning that obviously went into throwing this all together, the only thing I could do was take a moment to myself and thank God for allowing people to be so thoughtful. So if you were present for either of my birthday celebrations, had anything to do with them or merely considered showing up, thank you for being awesome.

B.Rand

Now we get mad?

In light of the fallout over John Mayer's Playboy interview, let me just say that we (black people) waited too long to get mad. And we decided to get mad at the wrong person. Black people, we have a big part to play in this mess.

Some (not all) people of color got very pissed at Mayer for simply saying "nigger" and stating that, sexually speaking, he preferred white women. But let me clue everyone in on something. Ever since I can remember, full grown black adults -- celebrities and normal folk, alike -- have been disrespecting each in the same manner.Yeah, I said it.

"That nigga trippin." "You my nigga." "Nigga, you gon play Spades or what?" Sound familiar? And don't try to spout off that -a vs. -er mess, because it's the same damn word. Just misspelled for the sake of slang and an imaginary since of camaraderie. So please let's not wait until 2010 to get upset when a famous white person says nigger (without actually calling a black person a nigger) when we've been calling each other that since the slave days.

Blacks calling blacks nigga/nigger might be bad, but what I find worse is how we address black women. And even worse is many black women's acceptance of such misguided terms of endearment. Black people started off being mad, even protesting, when women were called bitches and hoes in music. But somewhere, somehow, black people grew complacent. And then we grew to accept it.

Now it's almost a commonplace to hear someone -- man or woman, black, white or purple -- refer to a woman as a bitch or ho and no one raises a brow. Words cannot describe how irritated I get when women express their friendship with another woman by calling the other woman her "favorite bitch." Or when I hear women singing, word for word, Baddest Bitch and applying it to themselves as means of empowerment.

How can you be mad at someone for saying nigger when you call yourself nigga, bitch and or ho or when you're shaking your ass to "Bad Bitch?"

As for Mayer's dick being a white supremacist, lighten the hell up and look past the not-so-politically correct metaphor. What Mayer is saying is that his sexual preference lies with white women. Don't act shocked and dismayed. He was just being honest. Mayer said he'd be down for dating and inevitably sleeping with black women, but so far in his life, he's only slept with white women.

Isn't it sexually natural to prefer one's own race to another? Aren't there black men and women who state their disinclination of dating and sleeping with white people? Yes. So why are people getting their panties in a bunch because John Mayer prefers white women? Do you really think black women were breaking down the walls to get to his member? And if you really want to make Mayer all-inclusive, then hunt his white ass down and ride his melanin-deprived dick until the wheels fall off.

Over 200,000 people have died in Haiti. Genocide is still taking place in Africa. Despite the Saint winning the Super Bowl, New Orleans is still trying to rebuild. With all the life-threatening issues going on in the world, why are we most worried about what John Mayer said? Hell, with the exception of saying nigger, I'm not upset with him. Had he used different phrasing, his interview would have been either the funniest interview this year or just another article that no one, including Playboy "readers," would have read.

Find a new cause,

B.rand

One hell of a decade...

Here we are. The last day of one crazy decade. The Aughts have been filled with some crazy events: terrorist attacks, natural disasters, celebrity meltdowns, Youtube. But what I most notice about the double 0's how much I, and the people around me, have changed. At midnight on Jan. 1, 2000, I was a avid church-going high school sophomore who secretly and internally let out one great sigh of relief when Y2K didn't cause the world to implode. Right now...I'm whatever I am now, but I know I am not what I was then. During the 00's, I...

Moved out of my parents' house
Seriously debated moving back in with my parents when times got really tough
Made some friends I now consider to be brothers
Got my first F in high school
Got in two auto collisions
Attended FAMU, hated it, begrudgingly took a liking to it, loved it, made friends with people completely different from myself while there
Learned you can't handle ANY kind of FAMU business over the phone
Developed a thicker skin and much higher standards
Discovered my passion
Discovered what is definitely not my passion
Began secretly judging people when they use poor grammar
Lost a little of my faith
Lost some family and friends (whether by death or drifting apart)
Became a cousin quite a few times and an uncle twice
Got a lap dance from a moderately attractive stripper who wouldn't shut the hell up
Expanded my mind and became more accepting in almost every sense possible (ALMOST)
Began to think of family's mortality
Started drinking
Smoked weed
Saw half of a Ting Tings concert
Came to the realization that I am certainly self-destructive and might be a fuck up
Forged post-high school friendships (or acquaintances) with people whom, while we were in high school, I didn't quit like
Realized the genius that is Tarantino, Lee and Burton
Got some tattoos
Saw some friends naked
Ghost-rode the whip
Almost killed a bi-racial student journalist while playing freeze tag
Learned to appreciate sports and politics
Did some dipping of the skinny
Got my niece to not be afraid of me
Became more confident, yet more self-conscious
Gave my life to The Famuan and didn't feel bad about it at all
Killed people...with laughter
Ate a candy peppermint pig on numerous occasions
Became a movie geek
Learned how to cook thanks to Food Network (Shout out to Giada, Rachel, Bobby, Paula)
Realized where my parents were coming from when they used to say "Music today just isn't the same"
Lost a tooth
Still didn't learn to swim
Stayed single while countless friends got engaged/married
Got really drunk at Colin's wedding and passed out on the way home
Fit five people in a two-door Honda Civic coup and scoured Tallahassee to find Speakerboxx/The Love Below
Voted for the first time
Voted for the first black president and cried like a baby when he won (BTW, I didn't vote for him because he was black)
Shot nude photos for a photography class...and got a B on the project
Became determined to one day take a road trip, do improv comedy, write a book/screenplay, and visit a foreign country with my homies, among other things
Embarked on a one-hour road trip JUST to visit Krystal's (Harold and Kumar will do that to you)
Bore witness to one of the worst attacks in American history
Had a great Easter 2009
Was annoyed with the bad times but absolutely loved the good time
Peed off a balcony on numerous occasions
Took part in a semi-nude chocolate pudding slip-n-slide party that evolved into breaking and entering into an apartment complex's pool where numerous people got naked and everyone turned the hot tub water brown with pudding
Wore my hair in more styles than I care to admit
Had great times with my cousins at our reunions...especially in Daytona
Was present at my first bonfire
Witness a friend vomit on himself AND my damn chair
Got kicked out of a store simply for browsing and returned three days later with my sister, cousin and their friends, gathered nearly $500 worth of merchandise, had the cashier ring it up, and "all of a sudden" decided I didn't want to pay for it. Don't fuck with the Olivers

I know I've done more with my life during the past ten years, but these times stand out to me. Even in the bad times, I was fortunate enough to be surrounded with friends and or family. The B-rand of today might seem more crass and foul than the Brandon of yesteryear, but images can be deceiving. I am more patient, more understanding and wiser than I once was.

I have a greater appreciation of people, places and experiences because I know tomorrow isn't promised. My parents might not be alive tomorrow. My big chance might not exist tomorrow. Even monuments and cities, once thought unshakable, might vanish tomorrow. So I think what I'm trying to say with all of this is that the 00's have forced me to live more in the moment. Why waist moments when our time is running out?

What stood out about your decade? Do tell?

Happy New Year
B-rand