Happy Festivus!
Skipping the backstory to explain the origins and purpose of the fabricated holiday, and argue the merit with which it deservedly finds its place among celebrated holiday traditions, I want to let you know the grievance I'm hoping to denounce this coming year: negative attitudes.
We're all guilty of being a bad attitude bandit at some time or another. Whatever the reason, we allow ourselves to condemn any situation we face or idea we're presented with. If we allow ourselves to be subjected to such poor opinions, for no reason other than contempt, we fail ourselves and those around us. Nobody benefits. Who wants to have friends without benefits? Zing!
The main reasons I've found for a negative attitude to saturate a person's logic are:
1.) They don't care about being an asshole, thus having no inner drive for life improvement and are content with holding a general disdain for life.
2.) They're surrounded by such an environment habitually and know nothing different.
3.) We fail to recognize the manner in which we're acting, within ourselves.
Wow, Reed, that's some real groundbreaking shit! Yeah, yeah... stick with me.
We can all agree that we enjoy being in one of two social scenarios.
1.) A positive environment of happiness, encouragement, thankfulness, respect, care for others, recognition of accomplishment, etc.
2.) A negative environment of gossiping about our contempt for others, an institution (work, school, religion, politics, etc.), or the inability to find enjoyment in something.
Guilty as charged! It's so easy to get sucked into the negativity which has become commonplace in our society, and thus our everyday lives. The fact that we've accepted the use of the term "haters" as slang for people trying to bring you down only reinforces how normal it's become to be a pessimistic jerk-face. While it may be a good way to vent, trying to use the disparity of personality, style, achievement, social standing or appearance of others to pacify your inability to accept your own standing in life, is a pretty shitty tool in the proverbial toolbox of resources for self-fulfillment. Wouldn't it be cool if everyone was cultivating a positive environment full of acceptance, understanding, helpfulness, appreciation, recognition and encouragement, so we could enjoy feeling like we have a stellar foundation of support for our lives, all the time?
Yeah, dude. That sounds wonderful. How you gonna pull that off?
By recognizing that it starts with me, myself and I - the man in the mirror (thanks MJ!). I have to decide to be positive. If I can be what I want to be, with a steadfast determination that resists any attacks to the contrary, others will follow suit because attitudes are contagious. Negative people don't stick around to kick it with the positive ones. They either get a better attitude and enjoy themselves, or they piss off and go throw a pity party with Negative Nancy, Bitter Bob, Hatin' Hank, Sour Sally, Pauli Pessimist and Gloomy George waiting to get their self-righteous gifts from the fictive Grinch. Unless I'm delusional or misinformed, I recall that even he couldn't overcome the power of positivity diffused by Cindy-Lou Who and the Whos of Whoville. This is the year I decide to let my heart grow and be more positive, for goodness sake!
Wednesday, December 23, 2015
Tuesday, December 22, 2015
Better Late Than Never
Roughly a year ago, I decided the ancillary resolution to reading more was to start writing, as well. I remembered the blog I created in college as a class requirement and figured what the hell, I might as well use it to throw down all of the thought-vomit that entertains me throughout a given day. Well, nearly a year later and here I am finally following through on that. It's not like I never procrastinated in college, or high school, or ever, so I won't dwell on the delay. Just know that I'm rather excited to finally make this a priority and see how it goes. I find myself amusing, but have no idea what the greater response may be. I hope to provide humor, reflection, lessons and food-for-thought through the anecdotes of my daily encounters, paired with my perception, told with my personality.
Outside of the brief bio I'm hesitant to revise, I figure I should try to better describe who I am. Let's start with my super-awesome name. Born the 1st of 2 son's, my mother knew she wanted me to have a name beginning with the letter "R". While watching "The Flintstones" one night during her pregnancy, the credits rolled, and across the screen it flew, like a pitch rips past a batter for strike 3, the man who voiced Fred Flintstone was Alan Reed. There you have it folks, Yaba-Daba-Doo! I was born Reed Stephen Gunderson (the one and only) on Christmas in July, 1987; just in time to enjoy the 90's and early 2000's in all their glory. Also, perfectly timed to graduate college during the worst recession since the Great Depression - but that's a different story (If you haven't deciphered my millennial pride yet, you'll catch on). I love my name but, upon being socialized and spending time around other children, was instantly subjected to constant teasing. "Read me a book, REED!" was a common jab in grade school. I was literate so I rolled with the punches (it wouldn't be until my 20's the "Reediculous" mantra would be so beautifully born). Soon enough, as we became sexually over-educated immature punks, we sat in music class learning about how you "blow the reed" to play the woodwind instruments... Haha, joke's on you suckas!
If you're not offended and mildly amused at this point, we may be building a special connection. Similar to the one I have with any sort of sport or game. Competition is in my DNA and I can't sit idly by watching someone else enjoy a game if I have the chance to play. Since I was an youngin' with a top-notch bowl cut, fresh L.A. Gears and incredibly shiny Umbros, I participated in sports, so it's no coincidence I now work for a minor league baseball team in my hometown. The team also finally came to fruition right before the economic downturn so, in a way, we're in the same proverbial boat. Set to endure the 10th season of Revolution baseball, in the 10th year since I graduated high school, I look forward to a great season. We'll catch up on all of that later - it's kind of boring and I know you'd much rather know about the beginning of my highly decorated little league career instead.
I started playing T-ball at the local YMCA when I was like 3 or 4. I had the absolute coolest glove in town; green and yellow in color with a giant cartoon image of Leonardo, the coolest Ninja Turtle at the time (I've since decided that Donatello is the coolest since he wore purple and kicked ass with a giant stick), in the palm of the glove. I distinctly remember not wanting to hurt Leo by letting a ball hit him on the head, thus learning how to catch a ball in the web of my glove. That would come in handy when trying to catch line drives during my pitching career later on in little league. Nonetheless, I work out at the very same YMCA these days and damn I'm jealous of those kids getting to terrorize the court playing sports without a clue of the strategy or technique their coaches are trying to teach them!
As I've drifted through life, one thing is clear. I need to stop and remember to be a kid sometimes. Enjoy time to play and don't take things too seriously. So, the same way teachers made me write silly stories in grade school that my mother loves to use as blackmail, I am now making myself write similar memoirs here to remind myself to keep the kid inside alive. For your reading pleasure or subject for persiflage, I launch the initial rambling of Reediculous' Millenial Memoirs.
Outside of the brief bio I'm hesitant to revise, I figure I should try to better describe who I am. Let's start with my super-awesome name. Born the 1st of 2 son's, my mother knew she wanted me to have a name beginning with the letter "R". While watching "The Flintstones" one night during her pregnancy, the credits rolled, and across the screen it flew, like a pitch rips past a batter for strike 3, the man who voiced Fred Flintstone was Alan Reed. There you have it folks, Yaba-Daba-Doo! I was born Reed Stephen Gunderson (the one and only) on Christmas in July, 1987; just in time to enjoy the 90's and early 2000's in all their glory. Also, perfectly timed to graduate college during the worst recession since the Great Depression - but that's a different story (If you haven't deciphered my millennial pride yet, you'll catch on). I love my name but, upon being socialized and spending time around other children, was instantly subjected to constant teasing. "Read me a book, REED!" was a common jab in grade school. I was literate so I rolled with the punches (it wouldn't be until my 20's the "Reediculous" mantra would be so beautifully born). Soon enough, as we became sexually over-educated immature punks, we sat in music class learning about how you "blow the reed" to play the woodwind instruments... Haha, joke's on you suckas!
If you're not offended and mildly amused at this point, we may be building a special connection. Similar to the one I have with any sort of sport or game. Competition is in my DNA and I can't sit idly by watching someone else enjoy a game if I have the chance to play. Since I was an youngin' with a top-notch bowl cut, fresh L.A. Gears and incredibly shiny Umbros, I participated in sports, so it's no coincidence I now work for a minor league baseball team in my hometown. The team also finally came to fruition right before the economic downturn so, in a way, we're in the same proverbial boat. Set to endure the 10th season of Revolution baseball, in the 10th year since I graduated high school, I look forward to a great season. We'll catch up on all of that later - it's kind of boring and I know you'd much rather know about the beginning of my highly decorated little league career instead.
I started playing T-ball at the local YMCA when I was like 3 or 4. I had the absolute coolest glove in town; green and yellow in color with a giant cartoon image of Leonardo, the coolest Ninja Turtle at the time (I've since decided that Donatello is the coolest since he wore purple and kicked ass with a giant stick), in the palm of the glove. I distinctly remember not wanting to hurt Leo by letting a ball hit him on the head, thus learning how to catch a ball in the web of my glove. That would come in handy when trying to catch line drives during my pitching career later on in little league. Nonetheless, I work out at the very same YMCA these days and damn I'm jealous of those kids getting to terrorize the court playing sports without a clue of the strategy or technique their coaches are trying to teach them!
As I've drifted through life, one thing is clear. I need to stop and remember to be a kid sometimes. Enjoy time to play and don't take things too seriously. So, the same way teachers made me write silly stories in grade school that my mother loves to use as blackmail, I am now making myself write similar memoirs here to remind myself to keep the kid inside alive. For your reading pleasure or subject for persiflage, I launch the initial rambling of Reediculous' Millenial Memoirs.
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