So, what skill could I teach?......That's tough......I know how to do a few crafty-type things, but due to my having the attention span of a 4 year old, I don't really know any one skill in depth enough to teach.
However, if anyone is having (or has had) issues with stress, I may have the solution, or at least some relief, to your problems. The "Hotdog" is a little technique that was developed my Junior (?) year of highschool (and it still works, 4 years later). If you are familiar with the rhyme "let's get the rythm of the head, ding-dong, let's get the rythm of the feet, (stomp, stomp), let's get the rythm of the hands, (clap, clap), LET'S GET THE RYTHM OF THE H-O-T-D-O-G", than you should get the basic idea of the move itself. It basically consists of rotating at the waist, although there are several variations (little kid run, thrust-rotate-thrust, full body shake). It's just an amazing way to burn off all your stress. So next time you find yourself getting really tense, or frustrated, give it a try.....it'll make you feel loads better.
I personally swear by this technique.....hope it works the same for you!
Let me know if a demonstration is needed, I'm always willing to do what I can to spread the "doctrine of the Hotdog"!

Just to clear up any confusion, my user photo is of Conor Oberst, not me. Sorry to disappoint all of you who fell in love with "my" soulfull brown eyes and indie-cool hair.... you have my permission to continue imagining that I look like that if it somehow makes my journal more readable. I may post my own picture someday though.....I hope it's not a let down!

Have you ever see a 6 foot, 350 pound, college football coach skip down the hall when he thought no one was looking?
Or witness an entire "macho-er than thou" college basketball team mount each other like dogs to "get a deeper stretch" during warm ups?
Or been immersed in a sea of shirtless, black short-short spandex-clad wrestlers seemingly out of nowhere?
I have..................Jealous?

Missing Image ;(

M.Ward.......M. Ward and Bright Eyes......M. WArd and Bright Eyes and Mary Kate.....M. Ward and Bright Eyes and Mary Kate and a road trip......so fun...I could go on....but I'll spare you.
So Febuary 22nd, I had better be pressed up against the stage in Club Laga....immersed in a sea of (God love 'em) obnoxiously obsessive Connor Oberst fans (I swear I'm not one of them).....singing and swaying and ...... sweating (you try listening to "Lover I Don't Have To Love" and not break into a sweat) I have had too many let-downs latley and I need this to work out!
ANyways, thanks for agreeing to go with me MK.....hopefully, you don't end up despising concerts as much as Mike and Beast....I seem to have that effect on people. Check out M. Ward (picture above, link to the right)....it's good stuff.

Missing Image ;(

The following is taken from Chuck Klosterman's book "Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs".....It's a guaranteed chuckle (and if it doesn't make you smile at least, than I pity you....have you no joy in your life?)

I'm pretty careful when it comes to my socks. Certain philosophers (Emilio Estevez in St. Elmo's Fire, for example) have speculated as to why socks so often get lost whenever people do laundry, but - until recently - that had never happened to me. In the span of fourteen years, I had never lost a single sock. But then I lost a sock in October of 2001. And then I lost another two weeks later, and then a third around Thanksgiving. And it slowly dawned on me that something was afoot. "What in the name of Andrew W.K. is going on?" I asked aloud while sorting my freshly cleaned garments. Why were my socks suddenly disappearing like Chinese Panda Bears? What had changed?
The answer: Mr. Smokey.
It occured to me that the only aspect of my laundering that had changed in recent weeks was my newfound affinity for petting a feline of unknown origin. Accessing the public laundry room in my apartment complex required that I briefly walk outside of my building's back door, where I consistently encountered a large grey cat I liked to call "Mr. Smokey". Despite our initial differences, I struck up an amicable relationship with Mr. Smokey; whenever I saw him, I would scratch his kitty ears and his kitty tummy, much to his kitty delight.
Or so it seemed.
Evidence began to mount suggesting that Mr. Smokey was using this weekly exchange as a diversion to steal my socks, one at a time. It's still not clear why he wanted my socks, since it had always been my assumption that kittens wanted mittens (in order to acquire pie).
However, there was no other explanation for these disappearances. In fact I have reason to believe there was a whole network of cats involved in this: Perhaps Mr. Smokey stole my attention while a second cat (or cats) pounced into my laundry basket, snaring the best available footwear and fleeing into the darkness. I'm convinced an even larger cat ("Mr. Orange") from a neighboring building was part of the conspiracy.
"How often have I said" asked coke-addict Sherlock Holmes in "The Signs Of Four", "that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?" This is true, I am nothing if not logical.
Mr. Smokey must die.