Negativity was the new hotness. Being right trumped being reasonable, emotional entitlement trumped patience, easily offended replaced equanimity and mean-spirited reprisal was regularly karate-chopping friendly humor in the face. Or maybe my underpants were tighter- I dunno. Either way, it was a bummer. Still, I think it may have been the underpants.

It’s not like myopic self-interest is new, but when did our inherent id-loving, Little Brother Syndrome narcissist start giving toilet-cleaning swirlies to its more benevolent and upstanding big brother, Charity?

I’m not sure where we start down that rickety road and I don’t know if I’m all that interested in laying blame. I do know I’ve been happy to jump on the bandwagon at times, but I’m frantically trying to unhitch. And while there’s still room for disagreement and disappointment (I’m lookin’ at you, Old Man Winter… Jerk), there’s way more room for consensus and optimism. Way more.

Sure, selfishness and its countless, self-interested motivations have always maintained a steady decibel level but its dominance or submission to optimism in our lives reads from a barometer that’s probably set internally. By that I mean we find what we choose to focus on. When we look beyond the constant stream of negative news and professional fear-mongering, otherwise overlooked gems of decency that form most folk’s personal foundation– their good and inspiring bedrock– glistens a little brighter.

All this gobbledy-gook/happy talk started this morning when I walked into a grocery store and passed an otherwise gruff-looking, bearded Dad carefully pull up the hood of his 2 year old son before walking out into the rain. Not sure why, but the ball peen tap from his simple gesture of sensitivity cracked a tender ray of light that’s grown into fullblown illumination in the hours since. Despite the seemingly increased popularity of cynicism, most people remain good. Life remains beautiful- a beauty found in things we’ve simply come to “expect” and often overlook.

It’s the dude who waved me into traffic when I thought I’d be stuck watching an endless procession of cars go by. It’s the giddy smile of my kids when I walk in the door and the sacrifice of my lady-Friend preparing another boring, dry, redundant meal so I can reach my fitness goals. It’s the easily pigeon-holed and overweight kid tenderly cradling his baby sister while she finds security in his arms. It’s the ticket lady in the parking garage who smiles and believes you when you say you really didn’t get a press pass parking validation. It’s the work acquaintance who cuts time out of his evening to cheerfully stop by and fix a fritzing electrical socket. It’s the grandfather who leaves his oxygen tank–and ultimately, his life– to run up the stairs to save his grandson.

In short, it’s the flecks of gold in the sifting sands of everyday.

The brightness of people and life are too easily clouded if we take the lazy shortcut to cynicism, sarcasm and finding ways to be offended and victimized. For many of us, it’s habit. We do it all the time. Transcending that soul-clobbering stuff takes just a little more effort as we sift and prioritize our focus on the abundant grains of kindness, charity and humanity in others.

Personally, I’ll take the combined brilliance of optimism and its resultant satisfaction- a refreshing perspective that easily counterbalances the dead-weight of sulking self-absorption and worry.

Just a thought.

In the mean time, Bearded Dad–whoever you were– high five for the wake-up call.

Every year it happens the same way: Summer shows up at June’s front door all full of apologies and promises. Then, 2.8 months later, Summer packs up and sneaks out the back door while that cheap replacement Fall comes clomping in asking where she can put her stuff.

And every year I tell Fall to stick it and every year I run out the door and sweet talk Summer and every year it’s the same thing: “Yeah, ok. I understand. You’re right. You need your space. No biggie. I know we’ve been spending a lot of time together but let’s talk about this.”

And every year Summer smiles and I think everything’s OK and I look away to see Fall unloading a cot, an ash tray and sixteen hairy cats in the living room. And every year when I turn back, Summer’s just a couple tail lights turning left and the shade trees have gone from green to yellow and orange. “What the crap, Summer? We got matching tattoos! What am I supposed to do with this thing? What’s your problem? Fine, leave! Indian Summer’s way less clingy and thinks I’m TOTALLY FUNNY and HOT!”

Then the leaves are gone and the grass is yellow and there aren’t any more warm days and that sweet Indian Summer turned out to be some “bump-into” fling who ran off with her ex-boyfriend D-bag Winter and now D-bag Winter’s flipping me the bird and cackling and rubbing snowy salt in my wounds.

Sigh. Every year.

At least we’ve got this picture.

That means I’m back in a cushy pair of Saucony’s and running a leisurely 10-minute mile at all hours of the day– but mostly at night because A) Cache Valley’s star-lit, cricket filled evenings can’t be beat and B) lower chance of running into/being seen by people I know. I’m not sure what happened between October 2009 and June 9, 2010, but the choice of filling my closet with Medium sized T-shirts and 30-waist pants now feels like a poor one, my home-run hitting, Kardashian rivaling butt’s got some seam-splitting back and the feeling of jiggle when I go down a flight of stairs is 236% overrated.

Being a “tall guy”, convention says all my vertical space helps in subtly stashing weight– that or people are lying when they say “You aren’t faaaaaat”. Still, I’m pretty sure it’s the latter, because the mirror tells me my hard-fought six-pack is gone, my arms look like unwrapped tubes of Pillsbury sugar cookie dough, and if I shaved my chest I could make some enticing cleavage.  That and the other night when I pushed my gut out and jiggled it for “I’m overweight I tell ya!!” effect, Little Dude disgustedly crinkled his nose and said, “Don’t do that, Papa. It looks like you ate 325 sheep and turned into a fat dude.”

Not to say I’m crying about it. Every year over the last four (d**n you, aging metabolism!) I come down from the off-season and have a pants-too-tight realization that motivates me into fighting shape just in time to shirtlessly enjoy the later half of summer… before I gorge myself into a 15-20 pound ice cream/pizza/burger/chocolate chip cookie “I’ll eat what I want because I deserve it” weight gain over winter.

Of course, I blame Tony Horton and his P90X. Once you realize the key to weight loss and sculpting a “Holy crap– that’s me!?” body, it’s easy to fall off the bandwagon because you know the formula– and know that it works. The real frustration is I’m rhetorically punching myself in the rhetorical privates for giving up all the dedicated sweat equity and egg-white eating from last year. After all, what’s the fun of setting goals if you can’t practice achieving them over and over?

Answer: No fun.Or I’ll just keep telling myself that.

In the mean time, I’m logging miles and flipping that Ragnar Relay guy breath mints.

Also:

This looks like a shark.

D-list celebrities want attention for doing nothing.

Night time looks dark.

Kids look like miniature grownups.

I’m a dude.

Suburbans look like really big SUVs.

Women have boobs.

My palate is decidedly lowbrow. Keep your bisque, banache and Frenchy/Italian-ey suffixes. I’ll take a fat pile of baked mac and cheese, pizza, Famous Star or condiment-loaded ballpark hot dog and wash it all down with a warm chocolate chip cookie chaser.

It’s not that I don’t know any better. I’m not afraid of the fancy stuff and enjoy eating dead plants and animals whipped and sculpted into savory dishes I’ll never remember the name of. But when it comes to preference my tastebuds are happiest when they’re slumming it in the warm, fat-loaded embrace mass-appeal chain concepts pack into every calorie-busting bite.

Like I said: lowbrow palate.

It’s this same palate that gets me all anxious and prone to stupid-idiotness any time I whiff potential defeat for a go-to comfort food establishment. Case in point: the local Bajio.

Excuse me while I get all prosey: Bajio’s sweet rice and tangy lime chicken– spiked with fresh tomatoes and tempered with a dallop of sour cream– has me by the gastronomical sweet spot. Sadly, their service makes the word “slow” clock in like a greased Michael Phelps. And while the importance of my in-line wait time before I luxuriate in someone else preparing my food ranks evenly on the scale of importance with “some Kardashian chick was in a bikini today”, we all have our vices.

So, in the interest of continually indulging mine, I wrote an email that went something like this:

LOGAN BAJIO NEEDS SOME RAPIDO

Greetings!

I love Bajio. And even though we’re not officially an item, I did do awkward cartwheels when the Bajio franchise opened doors here in Logan, Utah.

[Blah, blah, blah, concerned about slow service, blah, blah.]

In short, I complain because I love. The thought of a Bajio-less Logan Utah makes me sad.

Thanks for listening.

Best-

Dan Vinton

Despite my best intentions, I reread the email and felt like the keyboard equivalent to the whiney douchepot who storms into a business and conspicuously/emotionally complains while the other patrons feign indifference. Of course,while pretending they aren’t annoyed, “everyone else” is imagining the cathartic justice of picking up the half-eaten burrito on their plate and slapping Mr./Mrs. Douchepot in the face with it.

Sigh.

As tampon commercials go, “that time of the month” looks like the happiest week in a girls life with all that joyous prancing, flower picking and confident self-hugging. And with tampons playing look-alike with party poppers, that pretty much says it all, doesn’t it?

Yeah, but I have a Mom, three sisters and a wife and from what little I choose to know about the whole “Congratulations, you’re not pregnant!” thing, tampon ads are big fat liars.

So props to Kotex’s advetising, I guess. After years of perpetuating one of the greatest lies ever told (“Periods are the BEST!”)*, they’re apparently feeling guilty:

*They’re not?

Thanks, this guy.

Which makes this statistical work of art endlessly fascinating. Below is a territorial map indicating the allied gastronomical-political influence of America’s most popular burger chains. Personally, I was a little teary-eyed in seeing In-N-Out’s failure to make the list even in Southern California, but Jack-In-The-Box (Famous Star!) and Carl’s Jr. (Western Bacon Cheeseburger!) ate some of my pain.

Thanks, Weathersealed!

Wendy’s apparent Utah dominance is a little surprising, considering the 24/7 lines that wrap all the McDonald’s around here. Personally, I haven’t willingly eaten a McDonald’s made burger since “hairy” was a reference to my head and not my back, but I still say this: Whether you like your “meal-in-one” fresh off the backyard grill or warm off a teen-greased assembly line, long live the burger.

And it was wincingly painful.

The only time I’ve ever felt more uncomfortable and awkward was the time Marina Middle School’s “Three Hotties”  caught me picking my nose in 7th grade English class– and honestly, watching a dude flubber while his fiance-reject “ugly cries” and sucks up to the camera may have eclipsed that. I cringed so hard I actually felt inner tension pulling me up my own butt.

Not that I don’t understand The Bachelor‘s appeal. As a kissing cousin to the man-mystery of why adjusted women call themselves Twi-Moms and long for a lanky, pale teenager with the mind of a dirty old man, The Bachelor simply swaps the vampire fantasy for a “real-life” dude who could hand-craft a diamond ring by squeezing a rock between his pecs– all while washing the kids’ laundry on his abs.

The Bachelor is simply a Lady-Friend oasis. A 60 minute escape from a reality where their bachelor has succumbed to a hairy belly that looks like a sack of pudding and the kids are A) crying about going to bed or B) wetting it. It’s a reminder of the rush and romance of their own courtship that lost a little bloom when fairy tale gave way to a doughier, “you didn’t flush!” reality.

To be fair, I’m sure the Ladies roll their eyes when they see a bunch of dudes horking pizza and”OOOOOH!!”ing while watching adrenalized “Eff”-dudes grapple and punch one another into oblivion in a chain-link octagon.

Still, after seeing/listening to 10 painful minutes of The Bachelor‘s verbal nausea (“You’re an amazing woman– I’ll always love you…but never tell the girl I picked, OK?”), there’s dudely solace in knowing if Octagon Carnage XXIIX ever hands out any eye rolling moments, it won’t be at my expense– it’ll be at the expense of the guy waking up with a fist-induced headache.

Chili’s, why’d you do us so wrong.