Dear Faithful FMA Followers (if there are any of you left),

I think we’d all agree that Five Minute Answers is a good thing. Some of us might even go so far as to say it’s the best thing the internet has ever done with its clothes on. I would agree. But, alas, as the saying goes, “all good things must slowly diminish in quality and frequency until they are nothing but a shadow of their former selves which feel as though they are being maintained purely by compulsion and obligation and are eventually ended altogether by a combination of apathy, exhaustion, and audience abandonment.” Something like that.

So here’s the deal: I’m tired of working for a living and want to start writing for a living. In order for that to happen I need to start writing for people who have money. While I don’t doubt the financial stability of any of you good people (except you, Hustedt), none of you have been exactly throwing support checks and tax-deductible donations my way either. So, seeing no patrons on the immediate horizon, I will be taking an indefinite sabbatical from Five Minute Answers to pursue other, more profitable endeavors.

It’s been a lot of fun writing this for the past six months, and – who knows – perhaps I will return to it one day. But it won’t be anytime soon, so you can save yourself the 5-10 seconds you spend every week coming over here to see if anything new is up. I’m pretty sure I’m Facebook friends with all of you, so you’ll know if/when FMA starts spitting truth again.

In the meantime, I’ll leave the site online so you are free to peruse the archives and relive some of the life-changing moments we’ve shared. What we had was real and no one can ever take that away from us.

Also, brace yourself for the latest literary venture from Kent Woodyard Industries going live on the Intertron on 11/1/10 (not quite as cool as 10/10/10, but still, there’s a lot of ones and zeros in it). I don’t want to spoil the surprise, but here’s this: it will be the single most mind-blowing thing you’ve seen in the five years since Ok Go did that thing with the treadmills. Seriously, that good.

Thanks again for reading, linking, and commenting. It’s been a hoot. We’ll meet again, you can count on it. And if that day never comes…keep your ear to the grindstone.

hugs and kisses,
Kent

Belligerent in Beantown

Saw Ben Affleck’s new movie, The Town, last week.  It was good.  Really good.  Like, scary good.  It was one James Earl Jones cameo and one Scarlett Johansson bikini scene away from becoming my favorite movie of all time.  Seriously, it was that good.

What it lacked in two-pieces, and guys who sound like Darth Vader/Mufasa, The Town more than made up for with my other action movie essentials including, but not limited to: depictions of armed robbery, nun masks, a car chase involving a minivan, Boston accents, John Hamm, and one of those interrogation scenes where the cops are really letting the criminal have it and they’re telling him how he’s gonna go to jail forever cause his friends have already ratted him out and how he better confess or they’re gonna give him the chair and right when you think the perp’s about to crack he leans back in his chair, smiles, and tells the cops to go eff themselves and you realize that they got nothing on him and he’s totally gonna get away with it.  I love that.

There’s a lot to love about The Town, but that’s not what I’m here to talk about.  I’m here to share a thought I had while watching the movie.  The thought was this: why is it that movies set in Boston always make the city out to be a terrible place filled with equally terrible people?

I’ve never been to Boston.  But I would like to check it out someday.  It seems like a nice enough place and my friends who hail from there have nothing but great things to say about it (usually involving the adjective “wicked”).  By all accounts Beantown is a beautiful place.  But there’s a different story being told at the movie theater.

Me and Tom Brady’s Wife: A Word on Fantasy Football

Can I talk to you for a few minutes about fantasy football?  It isn’t often that I use the words “fantasy” and “football” in the same sentence, and when I do it usually has something to do with Tom Brady’s wife.  Not so in this case.  Those of you who know about the internet have probably already guessed that the fantasy football I’m talking about today is the kind where people form leagues, assemble teams made up of NFL players, and then compete against other teams in their league while accruing points based on the weekly performance of the NFL players on their team.  It is every bit as nerdy as it sounds.

Fantasy football represents the latest in a long history of things created by nerds which were then appropriated by normal people to use as we see fit.  Facebook, pop rocks, and Death Cab for Cutie are a few other examples.  Whereas fantasy football was once the realm of people who were bored with Dungeons and Dragons yet still confused by human interaction, it has now been embraced as an acceptable leisure activity by whole legions of men who occasionally speak to women and have never seen Tron.  Even more surprising are the scores of young women – Dakota Fanning and Malia Obama among them – who have joined fantasy leagues, though it is speculated that most have only done so in order to have an explanation for their repeated Google searches for “Mark Sanchez + fantasy.”

Since fantasy football is both mainstream and divorced from reality you may have already guessed that I am an enthusiastic participant.  In fact, having enjoyed a modicum of success in a league last year, I made the questionable decision to join two leagues this year.  This pretty well guarantees I will spend more hours of my week thinking about fantasy football than I spend on, for example, sleeping.  And in no way is that depressing.  I look at fantasy football the way I look at eating a Double Down from KFC: probably not the healthiest addition to my life, but a damn good time while it’s happening.

WTF, California!?

Talk to just about anyone who lives in California and who is not running for public office and you are likely to find a person with a conflicted relationship with their state of residence.  This is because California is the state equivalent of the Gosselin family: gigantic, entertaining, attractive in parts, and cataclysmically dysfunctional.

On the one hand, you live closer to pretty places and pretty people than 95% of Americans.  On the other hand, you are 95% more likely to know a Raiders or Lakers fans than the average American.  On the one hand, you can go entire fiscal quarters without seeing a cloud.  On the other hand, you are governed by people who don’t know what a fiscal quarter is.

As a reluctant transplant to the west coast, I am absolutely and unashamedly a member of the abovementioned “conflicted majority.”  There are times, like when I’m at the Shamu show at Sea World, that I love it.  But there are other times, like when I look at my pay stub, that I hate it.  And there are still other times, like when I hear Katy Perry singing about the girls here, when I hate myself for loving it.

This new, semi-regular FMA feature will focus on the latter two events.  It will highlight the several dozen moments in any given week when I am forced to ask, “WTF, California?” and promise myself that I’ll move at the earliest opportunity.  You want to feel good about California?  Watch Entourage or listen to the Red Hot Chili Peppers.  You want to know why you should never, ever, for any reason, girl, job, or dream move here?  Read on.

Not Quite As Gay As It Looks: A Word on Body Boarding

If you’ve got a few minutes, I’d like to share with you some thoughts on body boarding (aka “boogie boarding” aka “surfing for fat people”).  Body boarding, for those unfamiliar with it, is similar to surfing in that participants are in constant danger of shark attacks, tsunamis, and drowning, but it differs from other board-centric sports in that it is impossible to look cool while doing it.  This is partly because you have to wear flippers, and partly because the thing you’re riding is called a “boogie board.”  It also doesn’t help that you’re lying on your board rather than standing on it.  In this ignoble position, it looks as if the ocean is chasing you, possibly with the intent of forcible sodomy.

This is body boarding.  Needless to say, Jack Johnson won’t be writing an album about it anytime soon.  But this is the aquatic hobby I’ve chosen for myself, and – being acquainted with the less-than-badass imagery it calls to mind – I am here today to explain myself.

First off, if you think boogie boarding is in any way similar to what you’ve seen the special ed kids doing with kickboards in the shallow end of the public pool, you need to watch this video.  I’d like to see a five year-old with floaties take on one of those monster waves.  (Note: Seriously, I’d love to see that.)  Of course, all that flipping and 360ing and getting barreled looks nothing like the kind of body boarding I’m doing.  I’ve only been at it for a month.  Most of the time I look exactly like a retard with a kickboard.

Me and Mr Favre

What do you do when your hero turns to the dark side?  Who do you root for when Captain America joins the Taliban?  Who do you listen to after Ricky Martin turns gay?  These are questions I’ve had to consider more seriously over the past two years as I’ve struggled to figure out what my relationship with post-post-post-retirement Brett Favre should look like.

For the better part of the past two decades, mine and Brett’s relationship was one of, what I’d like to think was mutual, respect and affection.  I thought he was the coolest.  I thought his accent was sweet.  I thought his Wranglers commercial was sweet.  I thought it was sweet that he used to be addicted to Vicodin.  I thought his wife was hot.

But then, without warning or provocation, he went all Tiger Woods and abandoned the only people who have ever loved him in order to shack up with the NFL’s equivalent of a Perkins waitress: The Minnesota Vikings.  As has been well-documented on ESPN and Jared Allen’s Twitter feed, Brett has spent most of the Obama presidency joining, rejoining, retiring from, and thinking about retiring from the Minnesota Vikings.

For most of the sporting public, the annual Brett Favre Retirement Fair has been nothing but fun.  It has the fame mongering of Jersey Shore, the high stakes of Mad Men, and only slightly less substance abuse than both.  At the very least, it is more watchable than the Little League World Series.

Get With The Program: Old People and Computers

My message today is for old people.  Are you an old person?  Let’s find out.  Do you routinely eat dinner before 5:00pm?  Do you like the way butterscotch tastes?  Have you consulted the yellow pages in the past five years?  Smell yourself.  Do you smell like a medicine cabinet filled with old sweater vests?  If you answered yes to any of these questions, I’m talking to you.  If you answered no to all of them, let me say 1) congratulations on having awhile left to live and 2) go ahead and keep reading anyway – because who doesn’t love laughing at old people, am I right?  I’m right.

My message to octogenarians and their ilk is this: you need to learn how to use computers.

It was cute for awhile.  Your fear of the digital world was almost endearing at first. We all had a laugh when you said, “who glued this typewriter to my television?”  We couldn’t help but chuckle as you wrote your name in Microsoft Paint before getting bored and wandering off to look for some cottage cheese.  You were so innocent, so ignorant – childlike in your amazement and helplessness.  You were funny.

Well the joke’s over, Grandpa.  Your campaign against all things computer has now moved past amusing and settled somewhere between annoying and enraging.  Those typewriter-TVs have been with us for thirty years now.  You need to learn how they work.  They’ve been around longer than most of your grandkids.  You know how to work your grandkids don’t you?  You give them candy and in return they sit quietly while you tell your Dust Bowl stories.  Computers are no different.  You give them sequences of letters and symbols and they give you jokes about house cats that you can send to your extended family via electronic mail.  What’s so hard about that?

Living on the Edge: A Word on Suburbia

Can I talk to you for five minutes about suburbia?  If there’s one thing I know – and I’m not saying there is – it’s suburbia.  This is because since late-1992 I have had considerable and consistent exposure to cul-de-sacs, tiny trees, ice-cream trucks, and other hallmarks of “residential communities within commuting distance of a city.” With the exception of a few weekends where I’ve been taken to the woods and been made to sleep on the ground after miles of forced marching, I have done most of my growing up in the suburbs.

Unlike many of my contemporaries, I am not bitter about this.  I don’t feel that my development has been stunted because I know more Starbucks employees than I do gang members.  I don’t feel my worldview has been somehow dimmed because I can speak intelligently on the difference between Lowe’s and Home Depot but can’t tell you how to make “purple drank.”  My parents felt it important that my 2^nd grade teacher have a higher IQ than me and that my ride to school passed car dealerships instead of trash can fires.  So they moved me and my brothers to the suburbs.  As a result, I have never participated in a drive-by or eaten at Popeyes.  Woe is me.

While my affection for suburbia runs deep, I’ve also spent enough time in 7-11 bathrooms to realize that the suburbs aren’t perfect.  Chick-fil-A isn’t open on Sundays.  The Wendy’s by my apartment took the Junior Bacon Cheeseburger off the dollar menu.  Some movie theatres still don’t have stadium seating.  I think you’ll agree, suburban living isn’t always a cakewalk.  And even when it is a cakewalk, it’s probably not a delicious Baskin Robbins ice-cream cake.  So what if we have driveways and garages?  Life is still hard; doesn’t matter if you live on Twisting Oak Terrace or Martin Luther King Blvd.

That said, there is one thing the graduates of Malcolm X College have that me and my friends in the Whole Foods dining area do not: excitement.  It goes back to those drive-bys and trash can fires I mentioned earlier.  While not always pretty or pleasant, life in the hood is at least more dangerous than life in the burbs.  Which means it’s more exciting.  Which means it’s more fun.

Can’t We All Just Get Along: A Word on Grown-Ups

Can I talk to you for five minutes about grown-ups?  I feel justified in addressing this subject for several reasons.  For one, I have recently become a quarter-centurion and am considered by some of the more spiteful members of society to be one of those very people of whom I intend to speak.  For another thing, I have spent the better part of the past two years working with, for, around, and (**insert other preposition except aboard, between, and betwixt**) grown-ups.  In my capacity as pseudo-adult and entry level employee I have meticulously observed the ways of the grown-ups as if I was Jane Goodall and they were the Oakland Raiders.  This essay is a preliminary report of my findings.

(An article of clarification: By “grown-up” I mean any and all human persons over the age of thirty-five.  I also mean any person between the age of twenty-three and thirty-five whose life includes any two of the following: a spouse, a child, a mortgage, a 401k, a crock pot, a graduate degree, a pet cat, a mattress valued at over $700, frequent flyer miles.)

Most people entering the grown-up world have a skewed impression of what they will find there.  This is because, for the first two decades of our lives, our interactions with adults are always on their terms.  They teach our classes, coach our teams, preach our sermons, and sire our siblings.  They dress better than we do, cry less than we do, and use words like “dilapidated.”  In this way, they are able to convince younger generations that they are mature, responsible citizens who have figured stuff out and generally have their lives in order.

Well, after two years of eavesdropping on secretary gossip hour (aka “lunch”) and being cc’d on catty email exchanges, I can report that grown-ups categorically and unequivocally do not have their stuff [sic] together.  Look past their business casual attire and improved vocabularies and you will find most working adults to be as petty and insecure as your average fraternity pledge.  It’s shocking and more than a little disappointing.  I was told the drama and backstabbing would end after cheerleading camp.  Apparently not.  Turns out the “grown up” in grown-up is almost as big a misnomer as the “Dr” in Dr. Phil.

Quarter Life Complaints

If you’ve visited my Facebook page in the past four days or if you happen to share a last name with me, you are probably aware of a recent milestone in my life.  Last Thursday marked the 25^th anniversary of my arrival on the earth.  Crazy right?  Here you were thinking July 8^th was significant only as the date of The Olive Branch Petition and as the birthday of Toby Keith.  Well, surprise! It’s also the day I receive 75% of my annual Facebook wall posts.

Since 25 is widely regarded as the age by which college graduates are expected to have their acts together some of you are probably wondering how I’m holding up.  The short answer is: better than expected.  The long answer is: Katy Perry and Scarlett Johansson are both 25 and if it’s good enough for them, it’s good enough for me.

In fact, 72 hours into my twenty-fifth year, I am pleased to report that it is not half the joyless post-post-adolescent moonscape I anticipated.  Not yet anyway.  Though I am now expected to be able to do adult things like apply for a car loan, write an RSVP, and hold my liquor, I am also three years younger than the average eHarmony user and that – I suppose – is something.

I do, however, have one complaint I’d like to bring against 25.  It is this: turning 25 is the first “milestone birthday” that is not accompanied by an increase in freedom or the introduction of new vices into my life.  I mean, technically I guess I am allowed to do some things today that I could not do last week.  I can rent a car.  I can run for congress.  I can…nope, that’s pretty much it.  And that’s my point.  Who gives a crap about that stuff?