When I was about 14, my Dad started teaching me how to drive. Well, he started before that, but not in earnest until I was 13 or 14.
When I was 7, he bought my brother and me a motorcycle for Christmas. My dad could ride a motorcycle before he could walk, which made his up-bringing naturally peculiar, and he assumed that we’d take to it like he did. And oh, I so wanted to. I thought that motorcycles and dirtbikes were amazing. I had dirtbike magazines, and would watch motorcycle movies, and would pretend that my bike was a motorcycle, complete with the joker card attached to my bike with a clothes pin to spank the spokes of my bike. But after my first go on the motorcycle, with my dad perched on the seat behind me, and the front tire blotting out the sun as I popped the most outrageous wheelie after revving it up as high as it would go and spastically releasing the clutch, I never wanted to ride that motorcycle again. My dad was disappointed, to be sure. My big brother had more success, and I didn’t ride a motorcycle until 20 years later.
But that’s a whole ‘nother story. Actually, that’s the whole ‘nother story in its entirety. You’re welcome. But let’s get back to my dad teaching me to drive. It was decided, not by my brother or me, that our Dad would teach us to drive. We loved and worshipped our Dad. The thing is, and this is really a very minor thing, sometimes, and only sometimes, he’d get just a wee bit on the . . . loud side of things. If you ever met him, and many of you have, you’d know he’s a great guy. The salt of the earth. Sure, he’s an ass-kicker (seriously, the guy had two broken arms, and still kicked the crap out of a guy. And you thought that the UFC fighters were tough. They ain’t got nothin’ on my old man), but he’s also one of the most generous souls you’d ever meet. It’s funny when he and my mom are out and about in our home-town. It’s always “Hi, Danny. Hi, Mrs. Martin.” He’s a friendly guy, and my mom was one of three math teachers in the High School, so everyone in town had her as a teacher at some point.
But he would, and really, I hesitate to use this phrase, scream like a little girl during his driving instruction (That’s funny. It didn’t hurt near as bad as I thought it would). Admittedly, we were pretty bad drivers, and it’s likely that he’d scream at us just because he was afraid for his own life. We talked to our mom about her possibly taking over our driver’s education, but she only replied that HER father had taught her how to drive, therefore our dad would teach us how to drive. It was a rite of passage. I’m not sure if it was rite of passage for fathers or kids, but it was a rite of passage, dammit. If I wasn’t going to be bar mitzvahed, the least I could do was be taught to drive by my dad.
We’d go way out in the country, out by the marble quarry, for those familiar with Wheatland, and initially, I’d sit on his lap and steer while he worked the pedals. Eventually, he let me take the driver’s seat, and with white knuckles I would grip the steering wheel, yet somehow still manage to weave from one side of the road to the other. My favorite part of the day was when he took over again, and raced like a bat out of hell back to town, our stomachs dropping as we breached each hill. It was hilarious fun. My brother told me that we actually left the ground, a la the Dukes of Hazzard, but I strongly doubted it, though I never let on. My dad was the mack daddy of drivers.
Being the strange kid that I was, I wasn’t worried about my physical safety while driving, or piloting a few thousand tons of machinery. No, I was worried about driving on an academic level. Specifically, I was worried about steering and applying gas. Not how to do these things, mind you. You just turn and stomp. No, I was literally worried that I would not know how far to turn the wheel to go around a corner, and that I wouldn’t know how hard to step on the pedal to make the car go the speed I wanted it to. I assumed that this was a skill that you learned after years of practice, and that each driver literally thought to themselves “okay, I’m making a 90 degree turn. Therefore, I have to turn the steering wheel 270 degrees at just the right moment” (my mom was a math teacher, and it shows). I didn’t understand that as you’re driving, if your turn isn’t sharp enough, you just turn the steering wheel a little more, or if you aren’t going fast enough, you just apply a little more pressure, or less, depending on the speedometers reading. I eventually mastered the pedal to such an extent that I recently had to take a class in order to keep my license. I thought that you were supposed to collect speeding tickets, like baseball cards. The really good ones are the most expensive. I was wrong. What I really learned after 8 hours of “Blood on the Highway” videos was that it would be a great idea to invest in a radar detector.
But despite discovering how to use the gas pedal, I still had a problem with weaving within my lane. I had it firmly in my mind that your car should stay in its lane and NEVER EVER MOVE. If you started out 1 ½ feet from the center line, then by God, you should be 1 ½ feet from the center line when you are a mile down the road. That never happened for me, though. Swerve, swerve, swerve. Back and forth between the centerline and the line on the shoulder, like a little ping-pong ball.
I told my dad about it, and he gave me a piece of advice that’s stuck with me ever since: “You don’t steer a car. You just aim it.”
That’s some damn good advice. Just aim. It’s so wonderfully Zen, so very Taoist. Such a very long way to get to the point.
I’m a thinker. Scratch that. I’m an OVER-thinker. I usually try to steer when I should just aim. When I was an adolescent, I was such an overthinker that I almost became a hermit. I would analyze any social situation to infinitesimally small pieces of minutia. I went on one date in high school. Carolyn Teter, God bless her, asked me to home-coming one year. I was a horrible date. I’m still grateful to Carolyn though, otherwise I would never have gone on any dates. I couldn’t talk to girls without trying to analyze absolutely everything that was said. I’d take a conversation about anything, and dissect it over and over again in my mind, desperately trying to find a clue that the person I was speaking to was secretly in love with me.
My near-monastic life lead to the rumor that I was gay. I wasn’t gay. Not by a long shot. Oh, if many of you knew how I longed to ask you out. . . But still, wasn’t gay, didn’t really care if you thought I was. I was always surprised at how cavalierly some people would approach me and just ask point blank “Hey. You gay?”
Almost every conversation I entered in high-school had the same theme: I would be thinking about what you wanted, what you wanted to hear, what I should say, and most importantly, the best way to extricate myself from the conversation smoothly. I certainly wasn’t aiming, I was trying to steer those conversations for all that they were worth. And when I was trying to steer, I wanted so badly to be liked that nothing came naturally, and everything was more awkward. It wasn’t until my SENIOR year that I actually made any close friends in high school.
Then I went to college. A fresh start. And I learned to aim a little more and analyze a little less. I was still shy, still overthought most things, but I was getting a little better at just aiming. Just letting life happen without trying to steer it. I got my first girl-friend and my first kiss.
The frustration is, though, when you see those lucky few with auto-pilot. Those people who were simply born on the right trajectory, who seem to ooze confidence and charm out of their pores. I hate their freakin’ guts, but it’s only jealousy. (Truth be told, I think that I have a fair amount of confidence and charm, mostly because I’m awesome, yet humble.) Their seemingly effortless path through life makes me question why my own path isn’t easier, and further feeds my neuroses and over-analysis.
But mind you, this “aim” I’m referring to is merely a way of getting through life without being totally blindsided or paralyzed by the self-doubt that typically comes with over-analysis. Furthermore, thinking in and of itself is not evil. Quite the reverse. Academic thinking is a wonderful thing. And the unexamined life is not worth living, after all. However, when I use the term “thinking” or “over-thinking,” I mean an almost obsessive analysis of a situation that will likely hinder your life rather than shed any light on it.
Unfortunately, my aim at times proved to be a little aimless, and it took me quite a few years to finish my Bachelor’s degree (8!). After working full-time for a while, I started school again and let my aim take over. I took up Philosophy. It’s a lot harder than you’d think, and utterly worthless, but I don’t regret it. My aim was getting a little better. Best of all, I married someone who didn’t mind that I was a Philosophy major. Hooray for my aim! (Yes, Sarah, you were a Bullseye.)
I ended up in Law School. Didn’t plan on it. Just where life took me. In fact, the thing that made me first consider going to Law School was an off-hand remark made by my mother-in-law’s friend about how angry it would make my father-in-law (a doctor) if I went to Law School. (Doctors and lawyers have a natural animosity because they are sadistic butchers while we keep the wheels of society running smoothly.) Yes, I started Law School because of a joke someone made at my father-in-law’s expense. Because I’m me, and think that almost everything is funny, I think that that is absolutely, brilliantly hilarious.
Now, here I am. A lawyer. Not wildly successful, but very comfortable (Of my many (read: few) flaws, being too ambitious has never been one of them. Thinking almost everything is funny, however, is a flaw that I proudly possess.). And I was just described by a client as “cool.” I’m in criminal law, not because I ever planned to be, but that’s where I ended up when I stopped trying to steer.
My over-thinking does still rear its ugly head. Not that that’s a bad thing, but I will never be your Jimmy Buffet parrot-head with a devil-may-care attitude. I will try to continue to aim down life, and realize that I’m just going to have to drag along this insufferable, sarcastic, terribly shy (yes, really) very occasionally insanely neurotic, yet testicle-smashingly handsome person along with me.
I will never conquer my overly-analytical moments. To this day, I still have Sarah read emails and my replies before sending them, just so she can tell me “that person wasn’t implying that you were stupid. And you shouldn’t curse in an email to a Judge.” But, like a toddler boy being toilet trained, the older I get, the better my aim. I suspect when I’m around 75, I’ll have this whole life thing down pat.
You don’t steer your life. Hell, you couldn’t if you tried, you damned control-freak. You just aim it, and see what happens. Dad, thanks for the advice. Mom, Dad taught me how to cuss. Whew, am I glad to get THAT off my chest.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Me and my filthy, filthy mouth (Degree of difficulty: no actual swearing)
I love to curse, to cuss, to swear, to use bad language. My mother told me when I was growing up that cursing was lazy, and showed the lack of imagination of the user. How gloriously wrong she was. The foulest language is the most colorful, unique, attention-getting, emotion-inspiring language of the lot. And I use it often, and I daresay well.
There’s a fine distinction between simply cursing and cursing well. I’ve known several people who feel that curse words should be used as commas, or used in place of “ums.” It becomes routine and ineffective. Eventually, it becomes silly, and finally stupid. What a crime, to take brilliantly powerful part of our language and render it toothless by wielding it incorrectly.
My history with the Almighty Swear started very early in life. My sainted father had a keychain made for him by a friend that was a small bronze circle with one word etched in the middle. As far as curse words go, it’s one of the most versatile, and applicable to practically everything, despite its humble beginnings as a noun. It is the slang term for feces. Just that one word. It was, much to my parents’ dismay, the first word I learned to spell. I recall returning home from kindergarten one day with a paper that my teacher had sent home with me. In my five-year-old opinion, it was art. I had drawn a stick figure man sitting at a table, and a stick figure woman standing nearby. The man was holding a newspaper, and in a large speech balloon over the man’s head was the word, the only other word besides my own name that I knew how to spell at that point.
Mind you, I don’t recall that tableau with my parents and the newspaper ever actually happening, so I don’t know why I chose to immortalize it on the back of a kindergarten worksheet, but there it was. I proudly showed my parents. My parents did not show pride in return. Instead, it was gently explained to me that the word was inappropriate for children. I was taught that phrase that has haunted children for generations : “Do as I say, not as I do.”
You see, my sainted father would, from time to time, and on appropriate occasions, swear. My mother didn’t swear in front of me until long after I graduated from high school (Just between you and me, it still tickles me to hear her swear. It’s a rare occurrence, and almost always a quote, but she’s such a sweet old lady that hearing foulness coming from her mouth leaves me slightly and quietly hysterical.) My sainted father is a wonderful cusser, definitely one of the best. He knows not to bandy swear words about just to swear, but rather to punctuate a point. And everything I learned about the craft of swearing I learned at his knee, or rather from the passenger seat. I not only inherited my father’s propensity towards the obscene, but his road rage as well, and we both loudly and happily voice our objections towards other drivers with every vulgarity at our disposal.
I didn’t begin cursing myself until I reached the ripe old age of 7. I remember the day. I was feeding the dog, and I quietly said that word to myself that I had used when in Kindergarten. I felt horrible for the rest of the day. I knew my parents would find out some way, and I would be punished. But nothing happened. I questioned my older brother, Brett, who was an expert at all things (as an older brother ought to be). He just laughed at me (like an older brother ought to do).
Later, Brett would dare me to say certain words when we were waiting in the car for my mother to return from some errand. At this point, I have to admit that I had a certain paranoia regarding my parents. I was convinced that my parents had taken our Thunderbird to the Ford garage to be fitted with listening devices, and that every word I said was being recorded. I was convinced that my brother, who was an expert, was also an agent of evil. Still, when your big brother tells you to swear, you swear, lest you feel the wrath of his scaly hands on your forearm administering a “Native American Rope Burn.”
As time went on, and I wasn’t caught, I became more and more daring with my cursing. I started cursing with friends at school. I was cavalier, but chivalrous. I typically wouldn’t use profane language in front of girls. Okay, maybe chivalrous was the wrong term. Guarded. Girls were more apt to tell on you than boys.
And life proceeded. I learned to use cursing to make others laugh, to emphasize a point, to gross others out. I still never cursed in front of my parents out of respect. Me and my filthy mouth left home and went to college, where I met a wonderful girl. Our second date was giving blood (romantic, eh?). I gave blood first. Before the nurse took her blood, I commented on the enormous gauge of the needle. The nurse told me to shut up. And this delightful girl said, “Man, that hurts like a . . . “ Well, you know the story of Oedipus? Think of the curse word that best describes him. That was the word. And I knew it was love.
Cursing as an adult is an interesting thing. I eventually became comfortable enough to curse in front of my parents, beginning with the master curser, my swearing sensei, my dad. I swore a few times around him and he didn’t say anything. And so it went. Never accept a car ride from my father and me at the same time. We turn the air blue.
With my mother, I was a little more hesitant. I was a man, dagnabbit, and should be able to say what I wanted. Still, I hid my swearing in nonsensical sentences, like “fart it to crap.” But in the end, the real me percolated to the surface. I try as much as possible to refrain from dropping f-bombs around my mother, mainly because my father does so as well. But she knows that despite all her efforts, I’m at heart a lover of language. Of dirty, dirty language.
Even now, as a full-fledged adult with full swearing rights, cursing seems to have its own patterns and etiquette. Generally, if an older male uses profanity in your company, you can feel free to use it in his. If he doesn’t, then typically one doesn’t use profanity in his presence as he may deem it “crude.” In this context, “crude” is apparently a bad thing. If a younger person uses profanity in your presence, then it really depends on the circumstances. If a woman uses profanity in my presence, then she inadvertently opened the flood gates for yours truly.
I love language. I love the sound of it. I love how words string together to make beautiful poetry, or even better, terrible poetry. I love the feel of language on my lips.
But my favorite part of language isn’t the noun or the verb or the adjective. It’s the profanity.
Oh, hell, yes.
There’s a fine distinction between simply cursing and cursing well. I’ve known several people who feel that curse words should be used as commas, or used in place of “ums.” It becomes routine and ineffective. Eventually, it becomes silly, and finally stupid. What a crime, to take brilliantly powerful part of our language and render it toothless by wielding it incorrectly.
My history with the Almighty Swear started very early in life. My sainted father had a keychain made for him by a friend that was a small bronze circle with one word etched in the middle. As far as curse words go, it’s one of the most versatile, and applicable to practically everything, despite its humble beginnings as a noun. It is the slang term for feces. Just that one word. It was, much to my parents’ dismay, the first word I learned to spell. I recall returning home from kindergarten one day with a paper that my teacher had sent home with me. In my five-year-old opinion, it was art. I had drawn a stick figure man sitting at a table, and a stick figure woman standing nearby. The man was holding a newspaper, and in a large speech balloon over the man’s head was the word, the only other word besides my own name that I knew how to spell at that point.
Mind you, I don’t recall that tableau with my parents and the newspaper ever actually happening, so I don’t know why I chose to immortalize it on the back of a kindergarten worksheet, but there it was. I proudly showed my parents. My parents did not show pride in return. Instead, it was gently explained to me that the word was inappropriate for children. I was taught that phrase that has haunted children for generations : “Do as I say, not as I do.”
You see, my sainted father would, from time to time, and on appropriate occasions, swear. My mother didn’t swear in front of me until long after I graduated from high school (Just between you and me, it still tickles me to hear her swear. It’s a rare occurrence, and almost always a quote, but she’s such a sweet old lady that hearing foulness coming from her mouth leaves me slightly and quietly hysterical.) My sainted father is a wonderful cusser, definitely one of the best. He knows not to bandy swear words about just to swear, but rather to punctuate a point. And everything I learned about the craft of swearing I learned at his knee, or rather from the passenger seat. I not only inherited my father’s propensity towards the obscene, but his road rage as well, and we both loudly and happily voice our objections towards other drivers with every vulgarity at our disposal.
I didn’t begin cursing myself until I reached the ripe old age of 7. I remember the day. I was feeding the dog, and I quietly said that word to myself that I had used when in Kindergarten. I felt horrible for the rest of the day. I knew my parents would find out some way, and I would be punished. But nothing happened. I questioned my older brother, Brett, who was an expert at all things (as an older brother ought to be). He just laughed at me (like an older brother ought to do).
Later, Brett would dare me to say certain words when we were waiting in the car for my mother to return from some errand. At this point, I have to admit that I had a certain paranoia regarding my parents. I was convinced that my parents had taken our Thunderbird to the Ford garage to be fitted with listening devices, and that every word I said was being recorded. I was convinced that my brother, who was an expert, was also an agent of evil. Still, when your big brother tells you to swear, you swear, lest you feel the wrath of his scaly hands on your forearm administering a “Native American Rope Burn.”
As time went on, and I wasn’t caught, I became more and more daring with my cursing. I started cursing with friends at school. I was cavalier, but chivalrous. I typically wouldn’t use profane language in front of girls. Okay, maybe chivalrous was the wrong term. Guarded. Girls were more apt to tell on you than boys.
And life proceeded. I learned to use cursing to make others laugh, to emphasize a point, to gross others out. I still never cursed in front of my parents out of respect. Me and my filthy mouth left home and went to college, where I met a wonderful girl. Our second date was giving blood (romantic, eh?). I gave blood first. Before the nurse took her blood, I commented on the enormous gauge of the needle. The nurse told me to shut up. And this delightful girl said, “Man, that hurts like a . . . “ Well, you know the story of Oedipus? Think of the curse word that best describes him. That was the word. And I knew it was love.
Cursing as an adult is an interesting thing. I eventually became comfortable enough to curse in front of my parents, beginning with the master curser, my swearing sensei, my dad. I swore a few times around him and he didn’t say anything. And so it went. Never accept a car ride from my father and me at the same time. We turn the air blue.
With my mother, I was a little more hesitant. I was a man, dagnabbit, and should be able to say what I wanted. Still, I hid my swearing in nonsensical sentences, like “fart it to crap.” But in the end, the real me percolated to the surface. I try as much as possible to refrain from dropping f-bombs around my mother, mainly because my father does so as well. But she knows that despite all her efforts, I’m at heart a lover of language. Of dirty, dirty language.
Even now, as a full-fledged adult with full swearing rights, cursing seems to have its own patterns and etiquette. Generally, if an older male uses profanity in your company, you can feel free to use it in his. If he doesn’t, then typically one doesn’t use profanity in his presence as he may deem it “crude.” In this context, “crude” is apparently a bad thing. If a younger person uses profanity in your presence, then it really depends on the circumstances. If a woman uses profanity in my presence, then she inadvertently opened the flood gates for yours truly.
I love language. I love the sound of it. I love how words string together to make beautiful poetry, or even better, terrible poetry. I love the feel of language on my lips.
But my favorite part of language isn’t the noun or the verb or the adjective. It’s the profanity.
Oh, hell, yes.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
In which I describe my apparent t-shirt fetish
My t-shirt drawer is full to bursting. I decided that I should winnow out a few, maybe give some to Goodwill, maybe throw some away. However, during my culling process, I discovered that I have an unnatural attraction to my shirts.
This shirt has holes in both armpits. But, then again, it was my first Miskatonic University t-shirt, and I wore it to my first Nine Inch Nails concert. Back in the drawer.
This shirt has a bleach stain on the front. But it’s my only other Sandman (a fantastic comic by Neil Gaiman. Check it out) t-shirt besides the long-sleeve one with Death on it. No, I’ll just color in that white spot with magic marker.
This shirt is from my first bike race. This one’s from my second. Here’s my third and fourth race shirts. Okay, new rule. We keep all bike related shirts.
I got this t-shirt when I joined the Nine Inch Nails fan club. I got this t-shirt when I resigned from the Nine Inch Nails fan club. I got this at my first Nine Inch Nails concert. I just ordered this one from NiN.com . I got this one at my last Nine Inch Nails concert. It has the Jane’s Addiction logo on it, too, complete with a naked chick. It doesn’t fit, but NIN and Jane’s Addiction? Yeah, that’s a keeper.
I bought this one in the Denver airport. It’s orange and says “Denver.” How clever. I never wear it because it’s so ugly. But then again, it’s still practically brand new. Into the drawer with you.
“The Dunwich Horror”? Another Lovecraft t-shirt. It came with an audiobook on CD that I ordered, I think. I ordered the extra-large, which the manufacturers apparently thought meant 7 foot tall, and not 6’2’’ with a little extra roundness around the middle. And it’s a marbly dark brown. How hideous. It looks just like someone had wiped there ass on a white t-shirt over and over again. I’ve only worn it twice. Still, like the Denver shirt, it’s practically brand new. And it’s from H.P. Lovecraft.
Another Miskatonic University t-shirt. It’s fine. A few University of Wyoming t-shirts. Man, I’ve had these for years. I graduated college in 1998, and law school in 2001. These are some old, well worn shirts. And this one’s starting to smell. But do I really want to get rid of all my Wyoming gear? No. It stays.
A t-shirt my father-in-law bought me that says “VIRGIN” in huge letters, with “records” in smaller letters underneath it. I’ve never worn this shirt. It’s too new to throw away, but do I really want some poor person to have to walk around with a t-shirt announcing their virginity? No. I’m sure I can wear it under something else.
Here’s another t-shirt from my in-laws. It has Franz Kafka on the front. They got it in Prague. They bought me the European extra-large, which is like an American medium. Jesus, how tiny are those Europeans, anyway? I’ll give that one to Sarah. She likes pretentious things. That’s why she married me, after all.
Man, there’s a lot of black in this drawer. Here’s a red shirt with no markings on it. Great shirt. Keep. A Blue shirt with a faux white shirt under it. Keep. My Indycar Racing shirt. Definitely keep. It makes me look like I have awesome pectorals.
My Innsmouth High School Swim Team shirt. I will never part from this shirt. It’s so esoteric that only one person has ever “gotten” it. Too esoteric? Nah. Keep it.
Two Nirvana t-shirts. Do I really need two? Well, one describes a concert that I never went to, and the other has the word "Motherfucker" on the back. So I guess I do need them. Never know when you may need a shirt with "Motherfucker" on it.
My Reverend Horton Heat shirts. Man, I have a lot of band shirts, especially from someone who took violin lessons as a kid. This one that says on the back "Playing every state in a drunken state" I never really cared for. I WILL throw this one in the Goodwill pile. Still. . . I got that from the time that Jenny Ingram and I went to Denver to see them play. We had a hysterically good time, and we ate Greek afterward. I'll hold onto it for a little while longer.
And on it goes. I’ve disposed of several white undershirts, but nothing else. I wear a lot of dress shirts, so my t-shirts go unused. And Sarah steals some of my shirts.
But, oddly, what I really want are more shirts. These shirts are each a treasure, but I need some fresh blood to throw in the mix. Maybe I should get that STP shirt at K-mart?
This shirt has holes in both armpits. But, then again, it was my first Miskatonic University t-shirt, and I wore it to my first Nine Inch Nails concert. Back in the drawer.
This shirt has a bleach stain on the front. But it’s my only other Sandman (a fantastic comic by Neil Gaiman. Check it out) t-shirt besides the long-sleeve one with Death on it. No, I’ll just color in that white spot with magic marker.
This shirt is from my first bike race. This one’s from my second. Here’s my third and fourth race shirts. Okay, new rule. We keep all bike related shirts.
I got this t-shirt when I joined the Nine Inch Nails fan club. I got this t-shirt when I resigned from the Nine Inch Nails fan club. I got this at my first Nine Inch Nails concert. I just ordered this one from NiN.com . I got this one at my last Nine Inch Nails concert. It has the Jane’s Addiction logo on it, too, complete with a naked chick. It doesn’t fit, but NIN and Jane’s Addiction? Yeah, that’s a keeper.
I bought this one in the Denver airport. It’s orange and says “Denver.” How clever. I never wear it because it’s so ugly. But then again, it’s still practically brand new. Into the drawer with you.
“The Dunwich Horror”? Another Lovecraft t-shirt. It came with an audiobook on CD that I ordered, I think. I ordered the extra-large, which the manufacturers apparently thought meant 7 foot tall, and not 6’2’’ with a little extra roundness around the middle. And it’s a marbly dark brown. How hideous. It looks just like someone had wiped there ass on a white t-shirt over and over again. I’ve only worn it twice. Still, like the Denver shirt, it’s practically brand new. And it’s from H.P. Lovecraft.
Another Miskatonic University t-shirt. It’s fine. A few University of Wyoming t-shirts. Man, I’ve had these for years. I graduated college in 1998, and law school in 2001. These are some old, well worn shirts. And this one’s starting to smell. But do I really want to get rid of all my Wyoming gear? No. It stays.
A t-shirt my father-in-law bought me that says “VIRGIN” in huge letters, with “records” in smaller letters underneath it. I’ve never worn this shirt. It’s too new to throw away, but do I really want some poor person to have to walk around with a t-shirt announcing their virginity? No. I’m sure I can wear it under something else.
Here’s another t-shirt from my in-laws. It has Franz Kafka on the front. They got it in Prague. They bought me the European extra-large, which is like an American medium. Jesus, how tiny are those Europeans, anyway? I’ll give that one to Sarah. She likes pretentious things. That’s why she married me, after all.
Man, there’s a lot of black in this drawer. Here’s a red shirt with no markings on it. Great shirt. Keep. A Blue shirt with a faux white shirt under it. Keep. My Indycar Racing shirt. Definitely keep. It makes me look like I have awesome pectorals.
My Innsmouth High School Swim Team shirt. I will never part from this shirt. It’s so esoteric that only one person has ever “gotten” it. Too esoteric? Nah. Keep it.
Two Nirvana t-shirts. Do I really need two? Well, one describes a concert that I never went to, and the other has the word "Motherfucker" on the back. So I guess I do need them. Never know when you may need a shirt with "Motherfucker" on it.
My Reverend Horton Heat shirts. Man, I have a lot of band shirts, especially from someone who took violin lessons as a kid. This one that says on the back "Playing every state in a drunken state" I never really cared for. I WILL throw this one in the Goodwill pile. Still. . . I got that from the time that Jenny Ingram and I went to Denver to see them play. We had a hysterically good time, and we ate Greek afterward. I'll hold onto it for a little while longer.
And on it goes. I’ve disposed of several white undershirts, but nothing else. I wear a lot of dress shirts, so my t-shirts go unused. And Sarah steals some of my shirts.
But, oddly, what I really want are more shirts. These shirts are each a treasure, but I need some fresh blood to throw in the mix. Maybe I should get that STP shirt at K-mart?
Thursday, June 24, 2010
In which I save your relationship
I’m certain that everyone thinks that being married to me would be a little slice of heaven, that every day would be like getting a champagne sponge bath from Brad Pitt and Johnny Depp while Oprah gives you a caviar enema, and 6 burly yet finicky Greek men clean your house and an albino monkey whose farts smell like chocolate feeds you grapes, at the same time Stevie Wonder arranges roses to spell your name, his hands bleeding from the thorns, and your name horribly misspelled and not actually resembling any word or language that you’ve ever seen, but hey, it’s Stevie Wonder.
I’m not going to lie to you. Being married to me is exactly like that. But it’s not all bleeding blind guys and farting monkeys. No, I’ve really had to work to be this perfect. I’ve made my fair share of mistakes And since you are all my friends, I will give you my tips for a successful and happy marriage. And please bear in mind that it always helps if you are vomit-inducingly attractive and well-nigh irresistible, such as I am.
I could’ve provided more (or frankly, after you’ve read them, you’ll see I could’ve likely chopped a few), but ten is such a nice, round number.
1. YOUR COMFORT IS NOT AS IMPORTANT AS YOUR SIGNIFICANT OTHER’S FRAGILE NERVES: If it’s somewhat late, and the kids are all asleep, and your significant other is still up puttering around while you lay in your bed, all warm and toasty and comfortable and sleepy, and if you notice that the bathroom light is on, and it starts to bother you, I mean, just really get on your nerves, and you start wondering who left that light on, and you suspect that it was your significant other, and you don’t want to leave your comfy little haven, DON’T scream as if a limb has just been severed in order to gain your significant other’s attention and have her run into the room so that you can ask her to turn the light off. Yes, it seems like a perfectly ordinary solution to a perfectly ordinary problem, but you will find that the resulting tongue-lashing further hinders your sleep. Though it’s understandably a struggle, and your significant other is up anyway, it’s best just to get up and turn it off yourself.
2. YOUR JOKES ARE NOT ALWAYS FUNNY: Realize that any joke, no matter how hilarious, does have an expiration date. The first time your significant comes home after a visit to the hair salon and doesn’t look noticeably different, some gentle chiding will be seen as all in good fun. The 40th time, not so funny. I will admit that I have not taken this lesson to heart.
3. JOKES ABOUT YOU, ON THE OTHER HAND, ARE ALWAYS FUNNY: As a corollary, jokes about YOU have no expiration date. You will repeatedly have to hear the story about the time that you were sent to the story for a gallon of milk, and returned with an enormous block of cheese, a half-gallon of Cholula, and a 12-pack of Coke, and no milk. You won’t understand why this is noteworthy, but you will look appropriately sheepish each time the story is told. You will also have to hear about the time that you swallowed a very old antibiotic pill found by itself in a pill bottle in the back of your medicine chest because you said “Hey, I paid for it.” Luckily, though, your drunken escapades will most likely not be fodder for jokes at your expense, as long as you don’t bring up your significant other’s drunken escapades.
4. HOUSEWORK: Occasionally, DO a little housework, and then scoff if offered any thanks. Say things like “Hey, it’s my house, too.” This will reinforce to your partner that you are 1) responsible, and 2) willing to do a little housework every now and then. If you are willing to do a little, hopefully, your partner will not expect a lot. And removing your belt from your pants does NOT qualify as housework, though it should.
5. DIRTY DIAPERS: No one’s falling for it. Everyone can smell the dirty diaper, and since the kid’s in your lap, you should just bite the bullet (which seriously brings up some disgusting mental pictures) and change the diaper. DON’T ignore the dirty diaper. Also, DON’T scream in disgust while changing the diaper. DON’T try to describe the smell, and the havoc it’s wreaking on your olfactory nerves. And most of all, DON’T try to parlay the one time you changed a diaper into not changing the next ten. I mean, you’re good for like five or so. DON’T be greedy.
6. THE MARITAL BED IS NOT JUST YOURS: If your bed is big and comfortable, and you yourself are likewise big and comfortable, it’s not kosher to fake a communicable illness so that your partner feels that they should sleep on the couch and allow you to hog that big old bed all to yourself. Yup, that’s a DON’T. Among the infectious diseases that you shouldn’t fake include: Spanish Influenza, whooping cough, the plague, scurvy (which I don’t think is actually transmittable), smallpox, and just a general vague malaise. Also, don’t fake restless leg syndrome in the hopes that your partner will simply get the hell out of bed just to get away from your jostling person.
7. DROPPING F-BOMBS: DON’T use excessive profanity. The quandary is, of course, the definition of “excessive,” which will undoubtedly differ between partners. Here’s a hint: your definition is far too liberal. Your partner’s draconian definition of “excessive profanity” is correct, damn it to hell.
8. ANNIVERSARY GIFTS: When it comes to Anniversary Presents, DO religiously stick to the traditional Anniversary Present scheme. Your significant other will think that you are hopelessly romantic to give traditional gifts. This is true. What else is true is that you have to put little to no effort into deciding what an appropriate gift will be. Some wonderful schmuck came up with a list for you! The great thing about this particular tip is that you can admit it to your significant other and he/she won’t care. (Who are we kidding? There’s no “he.”)
9. SUGARPIE HONEYBUNCH: Avoid pet names for each other at all costs. It’s just sickening. I do call my wife by her maiden name, but avoid “babe,” “lover,” “fancy face,” “fancy feast,” “toots,” “stinkfinger,” “shifty,” “honey,” etc. This will likely not save your relationship, but it will make me not hate you. Or hate you less.
10. SAY IT OFTEN: Most importantly, tell her that you love her every day. Make a game of it. Try to find the most inappropriate time. She’s changing a diaper? “Love you.” Left the door open when using the restroom? “Love you.” On her hands and knees cleaning vomit off the floor? “Love you.” Up to her shoulder in a cow’s ass? “Love you.” Screaming at a telemarketer? “Love you.” The spontaneous admission of love is the most sincere, probably.
I hope that you can use this to improve your relationship. I’m no Dr. Phil because I’m not excessively overweight, I have a full head of hair, a relative dearth of homespun wisdom, and I don’t have a PhD in Home Economics (which may or may not be true about Dr. Phil). What I do have is almost 38 years of being wonderful, and 43 years of a successful marriage where I have rarely been referred to as an asshole.
Enjoy friends, and remember the most important rule regarding long-term relationships: your partner knows all your dirty little secrets, your secret anxieties and phobias, everything embarrassing about you, and is still willing to call the pizza place because you‘re uncomfortable on the phone. Do you really want to let this person out of your sight?
And please keep my wife in your thoughts as she tries to clean out the caviar.
I’m not going to lie to you. Being married to me is exactly like that. But it’s not all bleeding blind guys and farting monkeys. No, I’ve really had to work to be this perfect. I’ve made my fair share of mistakes And since you are all my friends, I will give you my tips for a successful and happy marriage. And please bear in mind that it always helps if you are vomit-inducingly attractive and well-nigh irresistible, such as I am.
I could’ve provided more (or frankly, after you’ve read them, you’ll see I could’ve likely chopped a few), but ten is such a nice, round number.
1. YOUR COMFORT IS NOT AS IMPORTANT AS YOUR SIGNIFICANT OTHER’S FRAGILE NERVES: If it’s somewhat late, and the kids are all asleep, and your significant other is still up puttering around while you lay in your bed, all warm and toasty and comfortable and sleepy, and if you notice that the bathroom light is on, and it starts to bother you, I mean, just really get on your nerves, and you start wondering who left that light on, and you suspect that it was your significant other, and you don’t want to leave your comfy little haven, DON’T scream as if a limb has just been severed in order to gain your significant other’s attention and have her run into the room so that you can ask her to turn the light off. Yes, it seems like a perfectly ordinary solution to a perfectly ordinary problem, but you will find that the resulting tongue-lashing further hinders your sleep. Though it’s understandably a struggle, and your significant other is up anyway, it’s best just to get up and turn it off yourself.
2. YOUR JOKES ARE NOT ALWAYS FUNNY: Realize that any joke, no matter how hilarious, does have an expiration date. The first time your significant comes home after a visit to the hair salon and doesn’t look noticeably different, some gentle chiding will be seen as all in good fun. The 40th time, not so funny. I will admit that I have not taken this lesson to heart.
3. JOKES ABOUT YOU, ON THE OTHER HAND, ARE ALWAYS FUNNY: As a corollary, jokes about YOU have no expiration date. You will repeatedly have to hear the story about the time that you were sent to the story for a gallon of milk, and returned with an enormous block of cheese, a half-gallon of Cholula, and a 12-pack of Coke, and no milk. You won’t understand why this is noteworthy, but you will look appropriately sheepish each time the story is told. You will also have to hear about the time that you swallowed a very old antibiotic pill found by itself in a pill bottle in the back of your medicine chest because you said “Hey, I paid for it.” Luckily, though, your drunken escapades will most likely not be fodder for jokes at your expense, as long as you don’t bring up your significant other’s drunken escapades.
4. HOUSEWORK: Occasionally, DO a little housework, and then scoff if offered any thanks. Say things like “Hey, it’s my house, too.” This will reinforce to your partner that you are 1) responsible, and 2) willing to do a little housework every now and then. If you are willing to do a little, hopefully, your partner will not expect a lot. And removing your belt from your pants does NOT qualify as housework, though it should.
5. DIRTY DIAPERS: No one’s falling for it. Everyone can smell the dirty diaper, and since the kid’s in your lap, you should just bite the bullet (which seriously brings up some disgusting mental pictures) and change the diaper. DON’T ignore the dirty diaper. Also, DON’T scream in disgust while changing the diaper. DON’T try to describe the smell, and the havoc it’s wreaking on your olfactory nerves. And most of all, DON’T try to parlay the one time you changed a diaper into not changing the next ten. I mean, you’re good for like five or so. DON’T be greedy.
6. THE MARITAL BED IS NOT JUST YOURS: If your bed is big and comfortable, and you yourself are likewise big and comfortable, it’s not kosher to fake a communicable illness so that your partner feels that they should sleep on the couch and allow you to hog that big old bed all to yourself. Yup, that’s a DON’T. Among the infectious diseases that you shouldn’t fake include: Spanish Influenza, whooping cough, the plague, scurvy (which I don’t think is actually transmittable), smallpox, and just a general vague malaise. Also, don’t fake restless leg syndrome in the hopes that your partner will simply get the hell out of bed just to get away from your jostling person.
7. DROPPING F-BOMBS: DON’T use excessive profanity. The quandary is, of course, the definition of “excessive,” which will undoubtedly differ between partners. Here’s a hint: your definition is far too liberal. Your partner’s draconian definition of “excessive profanity” is correct, damn it to hell.
8. ANNIVERSARY GIFTS: When it comes to Anniversary Presents, DO religiously stick to the traditional Anniversary Present scheme. Your significant other will think that you are hopelessly romantic to give traditional gifts. This is true. What else is true is that you have to put little to no effort into deciding what an appropriate gift will be. Some wonderful schmuck came up with a list for you! The great thing about this particular tip is that you can admit it to your significant other and he/she won’t care. (Who are we kidding? There’s no “he.”)
9. SUGARPIE HONEYBUNCH: Avoid pet names for each other at all costs. It’s just sickening. I do call my wife by her maiden name, but avoid “babe,” “lover,” “fancy face,” “fancy feast,” “toots,” “stinkfinger,” “shifty,” “honey,” etc. This will likely not save your relationship, but it will make me not hate you. Or hate you less.
10. SAY IT OFTEN: Most importantly, tell her that you love her every day. Make a game of it. Try to find the most inappropriate time. She’s changing a diaper? “Love you.” Left the door open when using the restroom? “Love you.” On her hands and knees cleaning vomit off the floor? “Love you.” Up to her shoulder in a cow’s ass? “Love you.” Screaming at a telemarketer? “Love you.” The spontaneous admission of love is the most sincere, probably.
I hope that you can use this to improve your relationship. I’m no Dr. Phil because I’m not excessively overweight, I have a full head of hair, a relative dearth of homespun wisdom, and I don’t have a PhD in Home Economics (which may or may not be true about Dr. Phil). What I do have is almost 38 years of being wonderful, and 43 years of a successful marriage where I have rarely been referred to as an asshole.
Enjoy friends, and remember the most important rule regarding long-term relationships: your partner knows all your dirty little secrets, your secret anxieties and phobias, everything embarrassing about you, and is still willing to call the pizza place because you‘re uncomfortable on the phone. Do you really want to let this person out of your sight?
And please keep my wife in your thoughts as she tries to clean out the caviar.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Sometimes, it can only get better.
This morning, after an anxious two-year-old had climbed into our bed during the night while wearing a subpar diaper, I was awakened when I felt urine running down my back. It had an interesting effect on my attitude. Frankly, if you start the day by getting peed on, things can only get better.
Friday, May 21, 2010
In which I explain that I did not use the Princess Potty
We have a two-year-old is currently undergoing the world’s most laid-back potty training in the world. It’s a method that worked on the older two, and it seems to be working on her. Essentially, we provide a small potty, and if she uses it, fine. If not, we continue to change her diaper. No incentives, just options. Slowly, she’s introduced to underwear, which she completely soaks with urine, but is slowly preferring to her diapers. Eventually, she’ll wear only pull-ups to sleep in, then WOO-HOO, only one more to potty-train.
We bought the potty some time ago. For this kid, we went all out and bought “The Princess Potty:” a little throne-shaped potty that has two sensors on the bottom of the bowl. When the sensors are touched, an adorable little fan-fare is played, and it changes each time. It’s adorable until you realize that it’s a turd or a cup of pee that is spanning the sensors and triggering the fan-fare.
I think we got this potty from Sears, and had given our two-year-old the choice between the princess potty, and a frog potty. (My wife was pulling for the frog potty because it would’ve matched the bathroom’s décor, but she was willing to honor our daughter’s choice.) Our daughter chose the princess potty, and ever since it’s been installed in our front bathroom next to the toilet.
As I mentioned before, we’ve had this potty for some time, and Lord knows how long it sat on the shelf before we bought it. It works fine except for. . . sometimes. Sometimes, the fanfare plays when no one is in the room. In the middle of the night, we’ll hear the electronic fanfare. Walking by will sometimes set it off, and sometimes . . . well, you’ll see.
I use that bathroom on occasion. We have a bathroom in our bedroom, but this one’s closer to the living room and my precious, precious TV. The other day, I was using it in the usual manner (I won’t go into details. You’re welcome.) when the Princess Potty, nestled right next to the toilet, played it’s regal fanfare.
Hmmm, I thought, and continued my bidness. Then it played again. And again. Luckily for me, I was not the sole audience. My two older daughters were right outside the door.
“Don’t use the potty, Daddy!”
“That’s not your potty, Daddy!”
Then raucous laughter. I hollered my denials, but it only fanned the flames as the tiny toilet continued to play.
“Mommy, how come Daddy can use the potty when he said that we can’t?”
“Don’t sit on it, Daddy! You’ll break it!” And the fanfare played on and on.
Tiny fists beat at the door as the two-year-old realized that her potty was playing, and that she wasn’t on it. Eventually, I reached over and dismantled the cursed thing. I don’t know why it played over and over again. It was like something out of a Poe story. I put new batteries in, and it stopped malfunctioning. I don’t know if that was what the problem was or not, but it was all I could think of to do.
The funny thing is, when I first assembled it, I had kinda, just a little bit, wanted to try it. It’s not something that had been nagging at me, or that I was obsessing over. It was just, you put something together, you want to try it out. Take it for a test drive. Be the first to use it.
But please know and believe, as my oldest three children don’t, I did not use the Princess Potty.
We bought the potty some time ago. For this kid, we went all out and bought “The Princess Potty:” a little throne-shaped potty that has two sensors on the bottom of the bowl. When the sensors are touched, an adorable little fan-fare is played, and it changes each time. It’s adorable until you realize that it’s a turd or a cup of pee that is spanning the sensors and triggering the fan-fare.
I think we got this potty from Sears, and had given our two-year-old the choice between the princess potty, and a frog potty. (My wife was pulling for the frog potty because it would’ve matched the bathroom’s décor, but she was willing to honor our daughter’s choice.) Our daughter chose the princess potty, and ever since it’s been installed in our front bathroom next to the toilet.
As I mentioned before, we’ve had this potty for some time, and Lord knows how long it sat on the shelf before we bought it. It works fine except for. . . sometimes. Sometimes, the fanfare plays when no one is in the room. In the middle of the night, we’ll hear the electronic fanfare. Walking by will sometimes set it off, and sometimes . . . well, you’ll see.
I use that bathroom on occasion. We have a bathroom in our bedroom, but this one’s closer to the living room and my precious, precious TV. The other day, I was using it in the usual manner (I won’t go into details. You’re welcome.) when the Princess Potty, nestled right next to the toilet, played it’s regal fanfare.
Hmmm, I thought, and continued my bidness. Then it played again. And again. Luckily for me, I was not the sole audience. My two older daughters were right outside the door.
“Don’t use the potty, Daddy!”
“That’s not your potty, Daddy!”
Then raucous laughter. I hollered my denials, but it only fanned the flames as the tiny toilet continued to play.
“Mommy, how come Daddy can use the potty when he said that we can’t?”
“Don’t sit on it, Daddy! You’ll break it!” And the fanfare played on and on.
Tiny fists beat at the door as the two-year-old realized that her potty was playing, and that she wasn’t on it. Eventually, I reached over and dismantled the cursed thing. I don’t know why it played over and over again. It was like something out of a Poe story. I put new batteries in, and it stopped malfunctioning. I don’t know if that was what the problem was or not, but it was all I could think of to do.
The funny thing is, when I first assembled it, I had kinda, just a little bit, wanted to try it. It’s not something that had been nagging at me, or that I was obsessing over. It was just, you put something together, you want to try it out. Take it for a test drive. Be the first to use it.
But please know and believe, as my oldest three children don’t, I did not use the Princess Potty.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Traumatizing Children by Killing Animals in Literature; or Why I Hate “Where The Red Fern Grows”
Sometimes I just like to yammer about things. This is one of them.
My daughter’s third grade class is currently reading “Where The Red Fern Grows.” I remembered being forced to read this as a child. I only remembered the one scene where a boy falls on an ax and dies. Lucky for me, I had an older brother who warned me about the axing. Of course, since he was an older brother, he had to tell me about it in gruesome detail, adding nasty, blood-spurting touches that weren’t in the original. God, I miss him.
Anyway, I likewise warned my daughter that there was a disturbing scene in the book, and explained it to her very briefly, depriving her of the hilarious trauma that my brother dispensed to me. Her teacher had also warned the class before reading that section. But I remembered nothing else about the book.
She has been enjoying it so far. Over dinner tonight, she told us the plot that she had been told, about a young boy in the Ozarks who wanted nothing more than two hounds. After dinner, she wanted to watch the movie, despite the fact that her class had not yet finished reading the book. She was worried about how it would end, having overheard a snippet of conversation among classmates about the death of a dog. Jokingly (as is my wont), I told her that it ended Hamlet style, with everyone dead. I then reassured her that I had no memory of how it ended, so it probably wasn’t as dire as that.
So, we watched in on Netflix. Turns out, I wasn’t far from the truth. Along with the previously mentioned death of a child, one dog was killed by a mountain lion, and the other died of a broken heart, refusing to eat until it starved to death. My daughter was bawling. Trying to comfort her by telling her that she was crying over the death of fictional dogs only made me look like an asshole. Which I so wasn’t. I was the realistic dad. Thing is, though, when your kid’s crying over something sad in a movie, they don’t want realistic dad, but sympathetic mom. But I digress.
Why the hell is animal death so prevalent in classic juvenile fiction? And why the hell do teachers make us read it? Really. Old Yeller? He was a good dog. Got shot in the head. Sounder? That was another fun one. Charlotte’s Web? The dread specter of death loomed large for almost the entire book for that damn pig, but it was Charlotte who got it in the end.
I had a book once, an anthology of short stories for 8th graders. There was a story in that was seriously, for lack of a better phrase, fucked up. A young boy befriends a kitten and takes it home. His parents, not animal lovers, tell him to get rid of it. So the boy makes a noose out of a shoelace and strangles the kitten to death.
This was in a book for children. Dear God, why? I wish I still had the book. I’ve told people about it, and, horrifically, everyone believes me, because we’ve all read those sorts of stories as kids.
I absolutely understand that children shouldn’t grow up in a vacuum, believing the world to be a carefree charming place where only bad people in Batman movies die. And animal death is still less significant than a human death, and Disney slaughters parents by the hundreds in their movies.
But still, when trying to instill in children a love of literature, shouldn’t we try to preserve their sense of wonder a little while longer? Do we need to cram death down their scrawny little throats at such an early age? I lost various relatives throughout my childhood, including my brother when I was 15. Reading about it as a child? Not a barrel of laughs. More like a keg of lay-awake-at-night-staring-at-the-ceiling-contemplating-your-own-mortality-in-your-Spiderman-Underoos.
Why are these books classics? We all (barring teachers, naturally) have read them exactly one time: back in school when we were made to. And then we never read them again. Who’d want to?
Of course, as adults we read these sorts of things, because they are made for adults. “Titanic” is one of the top-grossing movies of all time. Women love to watch it and weep. For men, it’s “Kill Bill Vol. 2.” (Why did it have to suck so bad, Quentin? WHY?) We can separate cinematic or literary death from real death. But kids can’t. Everything is so realistic and immediate for children.
If I were a smarter man (and I’m already pretty smart), I’d figure out a way to get these books out of schools. Kids should be reading much lighter fare, like the “Wizard of Oz,” or “The Phantom Tollbooth,” or Chilton’s manuals. Let them wait a little while before death rears its ugly head in their lives.
Still, I suppose my up-coming children’s novel “Death Zoo” should at least sell well to schools.
My daughter’s third grade class is currently reading “Where The Red Fern Grows.” I remembered being forced to read this as a child. I only remembered the one scene where a boy falls on an ax and dies. Lucky for me, I had an older brother who warned me about the axing. Of course, since he was an older brother, he had to tell me about it in gruesome detail, adding nasty, blood-spurting touches that weren’t in the original. God, I miss him.
Anyway, I likewise warned my daughter that there was a disturbing scene in the book, and explained it to her very briefly, depriving her of the hilarious trauma that my brother dispensed to me. Her teacher had also warned the class before reading that section. But I remembered nothing else about the book.
She has been enjoying it so far. Over dinner tonight, she told us the plot that she had been told, about a young boy in the Ozarks who wanted nothing more than two hounds. After dinner, she wanted to watch the movie, despite the fact that her class had not yet finished reading the book. She was worried about how it would end, having overheard a snippet of conversation among classmates about the death of a dog. Jokingly (as is my wont), I told her that it ended Hamlet style, with everyone dead. I then reassured her that I had no memory of how it ended, so it probably wasn’t as dire as that.
So, we watched in on Netflix. Turns out, I wasn’t far from the truth. Along with the previously mentioned death of a child, one dog was killed by a mountain lion, and the other died of a broken heart, refusing to eat until it starved to death. My daughter was bawling. Trying to comfort her by telling her that she was crying over the death of fictional dogs only made me look like an asshole. Which I so wasn’t. I was the realistic dad. Thing is, though, when your kid’s crying over something sad in a movie, they don’t want realistic dad, but sympathetic mom. But I digress.
Why the hell is animal death so prevalent in classic juvenile fiction? And why the hell do teachers make us read it? Really. Old Yeller? He was a good dog. Got shot in the head. Sounder? That was another fun one. Charlotte’s Web? The dread specter of death loomed large for almost the entire book for that damn pig, but it was Charlotte who got it in the end.
I had a book once, an anthology of short stories for 8th graders. There was a story in that was seriously, for lack of a better phrase, fucked up. A young boy befriends a kitten and takes it home. His parents, not animal lovers, tell him to get rid of it. So the boy makes a noose out of a shoelace and strangles the kitten to death.
This was in a book for children. Dear God, why? I wish I still had the book. I’ve told people about it, and, horrifically, everyone believes me, because we’ve all read those sorts of stories as kids.
I absolutely understand that children shouldn’t grow up in a vacuum, believing the world to be a carefree charming place where only bad people in Batman movies die. And animal death is still less significant than a human death, and Disney slaughters parents by the hundreds in their movies.
But still, when trying to instill in children a love of literature, shouldn’t we try to preserve their sense of wonder a little while longer? Do we need to cram death down their scrawny little throats at such an early age? I lost various relatives throughout my childhood, including my brother when I was 15. Reading about it as a child? Not a barrel of laughs. More like a keg of lay-awake-at-night-staring-at-the-ceiling-contemplating-your-own-mortality-in-your-Spiderman-Underoos.
Why are these books classics? We all (barring teachers, naturally) have read them exactly one time: back in school when we were made to. And then we never read them again. Who’d want to?
Of course, as adults we read these sorts of things, because they are made for adults. “Titanic” is one of the top-grossing movies of all time. Women love to watch it and weep. For men, it’s “Kill Bill Vol. 2.” (Why did it have to suck so bad, Quentin? WHY?) We can separate cinematic or literary death from real death. But kids can’t. Everything is so realistic and immediate for children.
If I were a smarter man (and I’m already pretty smart), I’d figure out a way to get these books out of schools. Kids should be reading much lighter fare, like the “Wizard of Oz,” or “The Phantom Tollbooth,” or Chilton’s manuals. Let them wait a little while before death rears its ugly head in their lives.
Still, I suppose my up-coming children’s novel “Death Zoo” should at least sell well to schools.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
In which I complain far too much about the high five.
The other day, a lady at work was especially pleased about some relatively innocuous thing. She was so pleased about this little bit of nothing that, spying me on the other side of the freakin’ room, she raised her hand and shouted with glee “High Five!”
You always have to announce the high-five, otherwise people will think that you’re waving at imaginary animals or asking for permission to go to the bathroom.
I was in a dilemma. She was standing on the other side of the room, a full 10 feet away! Do I look disdainfully at her waiting hand, perched in the air as if to say “raise your hand if you’re a dumbass,” and thereby “leave her hanging”? Or do I run across the room at full tilt, slapping her hand as hard as I can, possibly throwing an elbow or shoulder into the mix to make things interesting and possibly bloody? Or do I sheepishly wander over and return her high five, and then lock myself into the bathroom until the shakes stop?
I chose an alternative option. I performed my best Elvis karate move, with several spins and kicks, threw my own hand in the air, and let her walk across the room to give me five.
Lord, I hate the high five. It was cool back in the day, when only athletes did it to celebrate a touchdown. Now, every schmuck who wants to celebrate some minor victory is doing it.
“Good job with the lasagna, mom. High five!"
“This Anderson report is replete with typos. High five!”
“You didn’t wet the bed! High five, grandma!”
"Great sex, hon. High five."
I’m always besieged with questions when someone raises the fish belly-white palm of terror. Do I clasp their hand and give it a little shake, knowing that the moment of discomfort would be funny, but realizing that my own discomfort would probably overshadow theirs? Do I return with the same hand, or the hand closest to them? In high school, a relatively popular kid wanted to high five me for a particularly fine basketball shot in gym class (which, in retrospect, really was cause for celebration. I sucked). We were standing almost side by side, but facing opposite directions. He raised his right hand and announced that this was indeed an invitation to high five. I had a split second to decide whether to use my left hand to reach across his body and slap his right hand, or to use my right hand, thus creating a symmetry of hands used, but also resulting in a very awkward twisting of my body in order to reach his raised right hand. Either way was awkward, but if I chose correctly, I would be part of the popular crowd. If I chose unwisely, I would be shunned for the rest of high school, a pariah.
I used my right hand, contorting my body to reach his right hand, essentially putting my shoulder into his face. End result? I couldn’t get a date until college. Those things may be unrelated, but I have my doubts.
If you’re really that desperate for human contact, why not go for the belly bounce? Nothing says congratulations like jump into the air and smacking your belly against the belly of a relative stranger.
And you? Why do you hate the high five? And if you don't hate the high five, why do you still enjoy the high five even though you shouldn't?
You always have to announce the high-five, otherwise people will think that you’re waving at imaginary animals or asking for permission to go to the bathroom.
I was in a dilemma. She was standing on the other side of the room, a full 10 feet away! Do I look disdainfully at her waiting hand, perched in the air as if to say “raise your hand if you’re a dumbass,” and thereby “leave her hanging”? Or do I run across the room at full tilt, slapping her hand as hard as I can, possibly throwing an elbow or shoulder into the mix to make things interesting and possibly bloody? Or do I sheepishly wander over and return her high five, and then lock myself into the bathroom until the shakes stop?
I chose an alternative option. I performed my best Elvis karate move, with several spins and kicks, threw my own hand in the air, and let her walk across the room to give me five.
Lord, I hate the high five. It was cool back in the day, when only athletes did it to celebrate a touchdown. Now, every schmuck who wants to celebrate some minor victory is doing it.
“Good job with the lasagna, mom. High five!"
“This Anderson report is replete with typos. High five!”
“You didn’t wet the bed! High five, grandma!”
"Great sex, hon. High five."
I’m always besieged with questions when someone raises the fish belly-white palm of terror. Do I clasp their hand and give it a little shake, knowing that the moment of discomfort would be funny, but realizing that my own discomfort would probably overshadow theirs? Do I return with the same hand, or the hand closest to them? In high school, a relatively popular kid wanted to high five me for a particularly fine basketball shot in gym class (which, in retrospect, really was cause for celebration. I sucked). We were standing almost side by side, but facing opposite directions. He raised his right hand and announced that this was indeed an invitation to high five. I had a split second to decide whether to use my left hand to reach across his body and slap his right hand, or to use my right hand, thus creating a symmetry of hands used, but also resulting in a very awkward twisting of my body in order to reach his raised right hand. Either way was awkward, but if I chose correctly, I would be part of the popular crowd. If I chose unwisely, I would be shunned for the rest of high school, a pariah.
I used my right hand, contorting my body to reach his right hand, essentially putting my shoulder into his face. End result? I couldn’t get a date until college. Those things may be unrelated, but I have my doubts.
If you’re really that desperate for human contact, why not go for the belly bounce? Nothing says congratulations like jump into the air and smacking your belly against the belly of a relative stranger.
And you? Why do you hate the high five? And if you don't hate the high five, why do you still enjoy the high five even though you shouldn't?
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
In which I try to become gay for science
(Note: I wrote this some years ago, but I still think it's funny.)
Recently, I once again heard the strains of the tired debate regarding whether homosexuality is learned, or whether it is innate. According to one of the people that I was eavesdropping on (who I like to call Person A), homosexuality is a learned trait. Practicing, as well as presumably closeted homosexuals have consciously chosen to become sexually attracted to the members of their own sex. Since heterosexuality produces babies, and since baby-production is paramount to the continuance of the human race, heterosexuality is natural and instinctive. Therefore, ergo, ipso facto, homosexuals choose to be homosexuals.
Not so, said the other person to whom I was eavesdropping on, Person B. Would a person choose to be vilified, to be tormented, to be shunned by family and friends? Person B suggested that person A was presupposing a natural teleology. At this point, I dropped the thread of the conversation after realizing that I had successfully stolen both of their wallets.
Nevertheless, it raises an interesting question, one that seems very easy to answer. Is homosexuality learned? If it is, then a heterosexual may consciously become gay. However, try as I might, I’ve found no heterosexuals willing to take the leap and “become gay.” I certainly thought that, among the community of those insisting that homosexuality is learned, that a hearty few may have tried for the sake of science. Imagine my surprise to find no studies or experimentation (at least, no recorded nor admitted experimentation) from these august fellows. Certainly they wouldn’t make these broad generalizations, thought I, without some field research. Surely Pat Robertson tried to become gay to show that it was possible. But such was not the case.
Being of a very slightly scientific bent, I became determined to turn myself into a homosexual. If I were successful, the same community that insists that homosexuality is learned have also provided resources to negate the effects of my self-imposed brainwashing. I could learn to be “un-gay.”
I immediately discovered that there were two major stumbling blocks that I had to overcome. First, I am amazingly heterosexual. My first memories are of gazing longingly at lovely, miniskirted legs and juicy boobies. If I were to become gay, I would have to work very hard to overcome my absolutely natural heterosexuality by becoming attracted to men and un-attracted to women. I figured that, if I can first achieve the step of becoming attracted to men, that I could then lose my attraction for women later. How hard could that be?
The second stumbling block? I’m married. Having man sex would necessarily mean that I had to cheat on my wife. I explained to her my experiment, also explaining that it would answer an age-old question. While she admired my scientific zeal , she was not willing to overlook our wedding vows to the extent where she would permit me to have sex with other people, scientific necessity or no.
This was troublesome. How could I ensure that I was well and truly gay without some field work?
Then, I had an epiphany. “Eureka,“ I stated simply. I realized that since I was quite thoroughly interested in heterosexual sex long before I had ever actually engaged in it, I could become a non-practicing homosexual, with all of the desires of homosexual men without the physical contact. This had the added benefit that I did not have to decide whether I would rather be a top or a bottom.
I started my experiment by watching movies about gay culture, and by watching a lot of television. Unfortunately, I have a very limited attention span, and fell asleep during my third hour of Will and Grace. I did watch enough to notice some traits of gay men. Most gay men in television are neat and thin. I am, while not some great galumphing elephant, not thin. Neither am I neat.
I explained my predicament to a lesbian acquaintance. While I was genuinely interested in becoming gay, I refused to lose weight, and was far too lazy to become neat. She explained to me that this was Germans call a “stereotype.” She told me that gay men come in all shapes and sizes, and that some can be quite messy.
Relieved that I could still maintain my messy, chubby lifestyle and still be gay, I then began the arduous task of becoming attracted to men. Her advice came a little late. I had already ordered and paid for what I had determined from gay media to be the consummate “gay outfit:” a pair of leather shorts, a mesh tank top, a motorcycle hat, aviator sunglasses, and army boots.
I realized that, in order to become attracted to men, I would have to look at them. To become truly gay, I theorized, I would have to look at a naked man. I decided to begin with the closest man at hand: me.
I disrobed and looked at myself in the mirror. I admired the line of my jaw, the way that my hair was tousled. I admired my sweet smile. My physique did leave some to be desired, even by a dedicated homosexuality student. I have a washboard stomach, you just can‘t see it. It was somewhat difficult to see my ass, but no matter. I still had the penis to gaze at.
My penis continued to dangle, flaccid. Apparently, looking at myself had no impact whatsoever on my libido. I decided that, since I was learning to be homosexual, I merely had to look longer. Sooner or later, I theorized, I would find myself attractive.
I had to give up after four hours. By that time, I had not had a single erection, nor a single erotic thought. I had shaved an interesting pattern in chest hair, looking like a large owl. That was a hit with my wife.
At the end of this stage of the experiment, I realized that, if I were to become gay, apparently I wasn’t my type.
I decided that I had bitten off more than I could chew by leaping directly to naked men. Instead, I would look at clothed men and slowly work myself up to naked men.
I had to find men. But how? I researched the question online. Unfortunately, searching for places to find men on the internet led me back to naked men. That was more than I could handle during this phase of my learning. I decided to hit the street.
I began checking out men at the office and in the grocery store. I watched men bend over, and watched men use jack hammers. I watched men play football in the park with their shirts off.
I noticed two things. First, men in my area are ugly and fat. Second, that I was not aroused, though I did seem to provoke the ire of the young football playing gentlemen, who thought that I was “creepy” to be watching them play their game while seated only a few feet away wearing my shorts and tank top, tenaciously taking notes. According to one young man, you could “see my nuts” from the way that my new shorts gaped while I sat cross-legged.
I changed my tactic, and tried approaching men, thinking that, if a man were to be attracted to me, my libido would be polite and be attracted in return. I began shaking a lot of hands, holding them just a little longer than is considered polite. I began commenting on men’s clothes and on their physiques. I employed every bit of my flirt knowledge at these men, but no takers. I ran into the same problem with the men that I had ran into with women when I was still dating: they thought I was kidding.
Living in a fairly small town which had certain fixed views about homosexuals, I didn’t feel that I could come on to any of the gentlemen that I spoke to. I was also unsure if any of these men were scientifically dedicated enough to support my experiment, nor open-minded enough to accept my explanation without resorting to fisticuffs and name-calling. I therefore determined this part of the experiment over.
Having spoken to and admired a fair number of men, I decided to ease back into looking at more sexually explicit men. I had exhausted my single resource of seeing a live naked man, and turned to the internet to provide more for me.
This experiment ended quite poorly. I found myself routinely unaroused by any images I found. Naked men themselves seemed to be inadvertently hilarious to me. Naked men engaged in sexual contact with other naked men was, while interesting and novel to my burgeoning homosexual mind, caused nothing to stir in my loins. One particular arrangement was fascinating. One man penetrated another man. The first man was penetrated by a third, who was himself being penetrated.
I tried to capitalize on my fascination with the final phase of my experiment. While I could not have sexual contact with any man, I could still provoke orgasm while fantasizing about a man. I would masturbate.
I tried thinking of all of the men I had seen that day. I tried thinking of the pictures. I was momentarily elated when my penis became erect. However, in retrospect, that was most likely because the little guy always gets that way if I handle him enough.
Sadly, I could not achieve orgasm. With weary arm, I type this. I have tried to become a homosexual, and have failed. Even after a long afternoon of experimentation and earnestly trying to learn to become homosexuality, I have decided that it is simply impossible.
However, it does provide an answer to the age-old question. Homosexuality is not learned. It is innate. If any of the blowhards who insist that it were otherwise were ever to give it a try, they would soon learn that I was right.
While I admit that I looked forward to becoming a homosexual for the sake of science, I’m glad that I’m still attracted to my wife, and don’t have to undergo the doubtlessly arduous un-gaying procedures.
I’ll accept my Nobel Prize, now. And I’m still wearing the clothes. For comfort.
Recently, I once again heard the strains of the tired debate regarding whether homosexuality is learned, or whether it is innate. According to one of the people that I was eavesdropping on (who I like to call Person A), homosexuality is a learned trait. Practicing, as well as presumably closeted homosexuals have consciously chosen to become sexually attracted to the members of their own sex. Since heterosexuality produces babies, and since baby-production is paramount to the continuance of the human race, heterosexuality is natural and instinctive. Therefore, ergo, ipso facto, homosexuals choose to be homosexuals.
Not so, said the other person to whom I was eavesdropping on, Person B. Would a person choose to be vilified, to be tormented, to be shunned by family and friends? Person B suggested that person A was presupposing a natural teleology. At this point, I dropped the thread of the conversation after realizing that I had successfully stolen both of their wallets.
Nevertheless, it raises an interesting question, one that seems very easy to answer. Is homosexuality learned? If it is, then a heterosexual may consciously become gay. However, try as I might, I’ve found no heterosexuals willing to take the leap and “become gay.” I certainly thought that, among the community of those insisting that homosexuality is learned, that a hearty few may have tried for the sake of science. Imagine my surprise to find no studies or experimentation (at least, no recorded nor admitted experimentation) from these august fellows. Certainly they wouldn’t make these broad generalizations, thought I, without some field research. Surely Pat Robertson tried to become gay to show that it was possible. But such was not the case.
Being of a very slightly scientific bent, I became determined to turn myself into a homosexual. If I were successful, the same community that insists that homosexuality is learned have also provided resources to negate the effects of my self-imposed brainwashing. I could learn to be “un-gay.”
I immediately discovered that there were two major stumbling blocks that I had to overcome. First, I am amazingly heterosexual. My first memories are of gazing longingly at lovely, miniskirted legs and juicy boobies. If I were to become gay, I would have to work very hard to overcome my absolutely natural heterosexuality by becoming attracted to men and un-attracted to women. I figured that, if I can first achieve the step of becoming attracted to men, that I could then lose my attraction for women later. How hard could that be?
The second stumbling block? I’m married. Having man sex would necessarily mean that I had to cheat on my wife. I explained to her my experiment, also explaining that it would answer an age-old question. While she admired my scientific zeal , she was not willing to overlook our wedding vows to the extent where she would permit me to have sex with other people, scientific necessity or no.
This was troublesome. How could I ensure that I was well and truly gay without some field work?
Then, I had an epiphany. “Eureka,“ I stated simply. I realized that since I was quite thoroughly interested in heterosexual sex long before I had ever actually engaged in it, I could become a non-practicing homosexual, with all of the desires of homosexual men without the physical contact. This had the added benefit that I did not have to decide whether I would rather be a top or a bottom.
I started my experiment by watching movies about gay culture, and by watching a lot of television. Unfortunately, I have a very limited attention span, and fell asleep during my third hour of Will and Grace. I did watch enough to notice some traits of gay men. Most gay men in television are neat and thin. I am, while not some great galumphing elephant, not thin. Neither am I neat.
I explained my predicament to a lesbian acquaintance. While I was genuinely interested in becoming gay, I refused to lose weight, and was far too lazy to become neat. She explained to me that this was Germans call a “stereotype.” She told me that gay men come in all shapes and sizes, and that some can be quite messy.
Relieved that I could still maintain my messy, chubby lifestyle and still be gay, I then began the arduous task of becoming attracted to men. Her advice came a little late. I had already ordered and paid for what I had determined from gay media to be the consummate “gay outfit:” a pair of leather shorts, a mesh tank top, a motorcycle hat, aviator sunglasses, and army boots.
I realized that, in order to become attracted to men, I would have to look at them. To become truly gay, I theorized, I would have to look at a naked man. I decided to begin with the closest man at hand: me.
I disrobed and looked at myself in the mirror. I admired the line of my jaw, the way that my hair was tousled. I admired my sweet smile. My physique did leave some to be desired, even by a dedicated homosexuality student. I have a washboard stomach, you just can‘t see it. It was somewhat difficult to see my ass, but no matter. I still had the penis to gaze at.
My penis continued to dangle, flaccid. Apparently, looking at myself had no impact whatsoever on my libido. I decided that, since I was learning to be homosexual, I merely had to look longer. Sooner or later, I theorized, I would find myself attractive.
I had to give up after four hours. By that time, I had not had a single erection, nor a single erotic thought. I had shaved an interesting pattern in chest hair, looking like a large owl. That was a hit with my wife.
At the end of this stage of the experiment, I realized that, if I were to become gay, apparently I wasn’t my type.
I decided that I had bitten off more than I could chew by leaping directly to naked men. Instead, I would look at clothed men and slowly work myself up to naked men.
I had to find men. But how? I researched the question online. Unfortunately, searching for places to find men on the internet led me back to naked men. That was more than I could handle during this phase of my learning. I decided to hit the street.
I began checking out men at the office and in the grocery store. I watched men bend over, and watched men use jack hammers. I watched men play football in the park with their shirts off.
I noticed two things. First, men in my area are ugly and fat. Second, that I was not aroused, though I did seem to provoke the ire of the young football playing gentlemen, who thought that I was “creepy” to be watching them play their game while seated only a few feet away wearing my shorts and tank top, tenaciously taking notes. According to one young man, you could “see my nuts” from the way that my new shorts gaped while I sat cross-legged.
I changed my tactic, and tried approaching men, thinking that, if a man were to be attracted to me, my libido would be polite and be attracted in return. I began shaking a lot of hands, holding them just a little longer than is considered polite. I began commenting on men’s clothes and on their physiques. I employed every bit of my flirt knowledge at these men, but no takers. I ran into the same problem with the men that I had ran into with women when I was still dating: they thought I was kidding.
Living in a fairly small town which had certain fixed views about homosexuals, I didn’t feel that I could come on to any of the gentlemen that I spoke to. I was also unsure if any of these men were scientifically dedicated enough to support my experiment, nor open-minded enough to accept my explanation without resorting to fisticuffs and name-calling. I therefore determined this part of the experiment over.
Having spoken to and admired a fair number of men, I decided to ease back into looking at more sexually explicit men. I had exhausted my single resource of seeing a live naked man, and turned to the internet to provide more for me.
This experiment ended quite poorly. I found myself routinely unaroused by any images I found. Naked men themselves seemed to be inadvertently hilarious to me. Naked men engaged in sexual contact with other naked men was, while interesting and novel to my burgeoning homosexual mind, caused nothing to stir in my loins. One particular arrangement was fascinating. One man penetrated another man. The first man was penetrated by a third, who was himself being penetrated.
I tried to capitalize on my fascination with the final phase of my experiment. While I could not have sexual contact with any man, I could still provoke orgasm while fantasizing about a man. I would masturbate.
I tried thinking of all of the men I had seen that day. I tried thinking of the pictures. I was momentarily elated when my penis became erect. However, in retrospect, that was most likely because the little guy always gets that way if I handle him enough.
Sadly, I could not achieve orgasm. With weary arm, I type this. I have tried to become a homosexual, and have failed. Even after a long afternoon of experimentation and earnestly trying to learn to become homosexuality, I have decided that it is simply impossible.
However, it does provide an answer to the age-old question. Homosexuality is not learned. It is innate. If any of the blowhards who insist that it were otherwise were ever to give it a try, they would soon learn that I was right.
While I admit that I looked forward to becoming a homosexual for the sake of science, I’m glad that I’m still attracted to my wife, and don’t have to undergo the doubtlessly arduous un-gaying procedures.
I’ll accept my Nobel Prize, now. And I’m still wearing the clothes. For comfort.
In which I complain about the plight of the older white guy
I’m a white guy, and have been for a considerable time now. I was never asked to be a white guy, but rather had my white-guyness thrust upon me. Sure, everyone knows that being a white guy comes with certain privileges. We make more money than our female counterparts. Up until recently, we were in charge of the country for over two-hundred years. And advertising agencies focus primarily on us.
Why is that? Because being a white guy typically means that you possess four things: 1) pale skin, 2) a penis, 3) money, and 4) the driving desire to spend that money as quickly as possible on things that you “need.” Our “needs” are much different from the rest of society’s needs. We need electronics. You might think that we just want it. Nope. We NEED it. They make us a whole person. They emphasize the aforementioned penis. And advertisers know this. They know that we need bright, shiny objects, so they prey on us. It’s dreadful to be so exploited. But if you aren’t a white man, you won’t feel my pain.
18 to 35 year old white males are the life blood of the economy. If it weren’t for their reckless spending, this great country would’ve gone to hell a long time ago. So you’re welcome.
I’m no longer part of this demographic. At a certain age, you begin to realize, “man, I really don’t need this crap. Why do I need a CD player that holds 100 CD’s when I only own ten, and haven’t bought a CD since I discovered Napster?” But I’m still part of the community. An adjunct professor of white-guyship, and I’m used to being treated as such.
I graduated from law school in 2001. After I passed the bar and got my first job, I started dressing nicer and was a little more well-kempt. And it showed in the respect I was given. I’ve been stopped for speeding so many times, but if you are wearing a tie, you are much less likely to get a ticket. Cashiers are extra nice to me, offering me valuable programs that I’m sure that the stores only offer to white guys. Enter almost any retail business in a suit, and the employees will automatically think you’re from corporate, and you will receive the ass-kissing of a lifetime.
Yes, life was good for little old white me. Until recently.
I was working for a friend of mine until last May, when I discovered it would be much more lucrative to work out of my house and be my own boss. I make a respectable living. It would be crass to state precise figures. Let’s just say that I’m not exactly Bill Gates, but I’m not Bob the Hobo dancing for quarters in front of the bar, either. I’m only Bob the Hobo on weekends for fun.
Since I was my own boss, I decided to do something that I haven’t done since I was a philosophy major in college: I started growing my hair out. It looks a little strange to see a guy in a tie with a pony-tail, sure, but I always liked my long hair, and I decided that I could do it if I wanted to.
But somehow, this mane, this Samsonesque head of hair has somehow demoted me in the eyes of society. I am no longer treated with the level of courtesy and respect that I was previously when I was a clean-shaven, short haired, obviously middle class white guy.
Case in point; this weekend, we went to Mesa so that I could engage in that most white guy of pursuits, bike-riding. We got rooms at the Marriott at a special rate. When I went to check in, I was wearing green shorts, a “life is good” t-shirt, and my favorite hat. It’s one of those distressed ballcaps with a Woody the Woodpecker logo on it. Since I was wearing my hat, my excess hair trailed down the back of my scalp, and I will admit that for all purposes, it looked like I had a mullet.
I told the nice lady behind the counter my name. She asked for picture ID and a credit or debit card. I handed her my License and my debit card. She looked at it skeptically, then pointed to a sign on the counter that read “Debit cards will automatically deduct the amount of the room from your account.”
“Sir,” she said, in a voice dripping with disrespect for my white guy status, “your debit card is going to be automatically charged.” I contemplated my response. Should I immediately start crying, begging her not to run my debit card? Should I throw some more cards on the counter to shut her up? Should I flash my Bar card at her? Instead, I simply smiled and said “well, that’s not going to be a problem.”
The bane of the white guy is the white trash guy. Don’t get me wrong, I love the white trash. I make most of my money from white trash. Without white trash, we wouldn’t have Eminem or Kid Rock, though they’ve also given us Insane Clown Posse. I forgive them that, though.
But this person, this non white-guy, assumed that I was not in the favorable demographic. I daresay that she looked down her nose at me.
It’s becoming increasingly more obvious that I’m losing my white guy status. I’m too old and too hairy. Businesses don’t want me like they once did. I’m like a very masculine, dying flower.
I don’t want your pity.
But I need it.
In which I complain about toilet seat covers
My beloved wife of many years (I’m too lazy to count), has recently installed a toilet seat cover on the toilet in our bedroom. Well, the toilet in the bathroom adjacent to our bedroom. While it would certainly be more efficient just to have a crapper next to the bed, it would be a little off-putting to wake up to see the love of your life “dropping off the kids at the pool” as it were. So it’s housed conveniently in the small bathroom NEXT to our bedroom. Sorry for any confusion.
Anyway, Sarah has attached this large, furry, white cover onto our toilet seat cover, which means that the toilet seat itself cannot be raised to its proper vertical position, suitable for man usage. Instead, if raised, it tips over and comes down with a clatter, rendering itself essentially a penile guillotine. Or, it would be if I were much, much shorter, and liked the feel of cold porcelain on my junk.
So the seat remains down. And despite over three decades of daily practice, I’m still not a crack shot with this thing. My aim can be a little wild at first. Therefore, the seat gets a dowsing because we need to make the outer cover look fancy when the toilet is not in use. And do I complain.
No. Why? Because I don’t want to look like I don’t know how to operate a toilet seat. And, frankly, I’m not the one sitting in my used Diet Coke.
You are so welcome for being exposed to a part of my life that you never thought that you wanted to hear about.
Friday, March 19, 2010
In which I show remarkable restraint
I'm showing remarkable restraint today. Right now, in fact. If you've chosen to click this link and are reading this, then you are currently witnessing my restraint.
You see, I badly wanted to post that I hate urinals that flush automatically because I'm always afraid that the motion detector is covertly taking pictures of my junk.
The thought struck me at Olive Garden, and I thought it was darned funny. And the use of the word “junk” sends me into paroxysms of raucous laughter. It’s just funny.
But it’s crude. Tasteless. So I won’t write it.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking “how could you know what I’m thinking? I’ve met you before, and you’re no mind reader.” Touché. Two points, however. I admit that I really don’t know what you are thinking, but rather, based upon my experience with human nature, I assume that you are thinking what I think that you are thinking. And secondly, there’s a reason that no one has ever uttered the phrase “that pedantry looks good on you.”
To which you are now probably thinking that use of the word pedantry is unnecessary, and pedantic in and of itself. I am now extending my middle finger toward you, and continuing my narrative.
I assume (satisfied?) that you are thinking “Casey, you just wrote it down. You’ve shown no restraint at all.” Ah, but I did, because I didn’t write it down. I sorely wanted to, but good taste won out. You are also thinking that “paroxysms of raucous laughter” is somewhat redundant, since no one ever is sent into paroxysms of mild chuckling. And you call ME pedantic?
So, please, admire my restraint. It’s for YOU, after all, that I’ve restrained myself and kept my filthy, filthy thoughts to myself.
So, yeah, you're welcome.
You see, I badly wanted to post that I hate urinals that flush automatically because I'm always afraid that the motion detector is covertly taking pictures of my junk.
The thought struck me at Olive Garden, and I thought it was darned funny. And the use of the word “junk” sends me into paroxysms of raucous laughter. It’s just funny.
But it’s crude. Tasteless. So I won’t write it.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking “how could you know what I’m thinking? I’ve met you before, and you’re no mind reader.” Touché. Two points, however. I admit that I really don’t know what you are thinking, but rather, based upon my experience with human nature, I assume that you are thinking what I think that you are thinking. And secondly, there’s a reason that no one has ever uttered the phrase “that pedantry looks good on you.”
To which you are now probably thinking that use of the word pedantry is unnecessary, and pedantic in and of itself. I am now extending my middle finger toward you, and continuing my narrative.
I assume (satisfied?) that you are thinking “Casey, you just wrote it down. You’ve shown no restraint at all.” Ah, but I did, because I didn’t write it down. I sorely wanted to, but good taste won out. You are also thinking that “paroxysms of raucous laughter” is somewhat redundant, since no one ever is sent into paroxysms of mild chuckling. And you call ME pedantic?
So, please, admire my restraint. It’s for YOU, after all, that I’ve restrained myself and kept my filthy, filthy thoughts to myself.
So, yeah, you're welcome.
My Celebrity Playlist
iTunes has a section called “Celebrity Playlists”, where celebrities allegedly hit shuffle on their iPods, and then note which songs came up and explain why they had downloaded the song. While I’m no celebrity, I am certainly well-loved, admired, respected, envied, and despised, so I thought that I’d give it a try myself. Of course, I will try to include as little Nine Inch Nails as possible, despite the fact that they are the best band in the world, especially if you like nasally, atonal warbling. Which I do. Very much.
1. Perfect Circle: “Imagine”—a chilling remake of the John Lennon classic. It’s certainly a tour de force, an instant classic, and if you don’t like it, then you are an imbecile.
2. Nine Inch Nails: “Perfect Drug (Meat Beat Manifesto)”—When I die, I want Perfect Drug played at my funeral. It’s my favorite song. It’s got that menacing beat, repetitive lyrics (the object of the song certainly knows that she is “the perfect drug” since it’s repeated ad nauseum), and a catchy little tune that sticks in my head faster than a Wiggles song (Have you ever heard "Fruit Salad?").
3. Disturbed: “The Sickness”—Another over-the-top audio assault. It’s a fantastic song, apart from the “I hate you, mommy” aside.
4. Iggy Pop: “The Passenger”—I love this song so much that it’s actually my ringtone. Rumor has it that a movie’s being made about Iggy’s life, with Frodo Baggins playing Iggy. I certainly hope not. Iggy is a classic, named after an Iguana. Just a little musical trivia.
5. Golden Earring: “Radar Love”—Just about the perfect Man song: it’s about driving fast and radar love, a concept which I admittedly don’t understand. But radar! And driving!
6. Ministry: “Jesus Built My Hotrod”—I’m a pushover for songs about cars. This one may be about cars, but the lyrics are indecipherable except for the occasional “I wanna love you”. Still, it’s awesomeness in audio form. It’s the other song I want played at my funeral.
7. Billie Holiday: “What a Little Moonlight Can Do”—Aren’t I the eclectic one? Billie rocks.
8. Nirvana: “Lithium”—I still love Nirvana. In a way, I’m glad that Cobain took the path of least resistance, because I don’t have to keep up with Nirvana. What I have is all they are ever putting out.
9. Beethoven: “Moonlight Sonata”—Most beautiful piece of music ever.
10. Edith Piaf: “La Vie En Rose”—A close contender for most beautiful piece of music ever. Edith “The Sparrow” Piaf had an amazing voice, but according to the internet, she was not much to look at.
11. Peter Murphy: “Cuts You Up”—Just awesome. Peter has this really deep, haunting voice that I dig.
12. House of Pain: “Jump Around”—It was popular when I was college. A little silly, I know.
13. Nancy Sinatra: “Bang Bang”—I don’t remember buying this one.
14. Ratt: “Way Cool Jr.”—Hmmm. I don’t actually like this song. I think I bought a “Best of” album for one song.
15. Cyndi Lauper: “Time After Time”—Wow. Didn’t know that one was on there. A nice song, though, right?
16. Cyndi Lauper: “True Colors”—Two Lauper’s in a row, eh? Must have been feeling nostalgic when I bought that.
17. Sounds for Life: “Tibetan Singing Bowl”—What the hell? And it’s over an hour long.
18. White Lion: “When the Children Cry”—Um. . . well, I have children and sometimes they cry, so it seemed like a good idea. . .
19. PM Dawn: “Die Without You”—Well, I remember liking it when Sarah and I were dating.
20. Gino Vannelli: “Wild Horses”—Christ. Never mix booze with browsing iTunes.
21. Whitney Houston: “I Will Always Love You”—Don’t you judge me.
22. Cyndi Lauper: “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun”—I give up.
1. Perfect Circle: “Imagine”—a chilling remake of the John Lennon classic. It’s certainly a tour de force, an instant classic, and if you don’t like it, then you are an imbecile.
2. Nine Inch Nails: “Perfect Drug (Meat Beat Manifesto)”—When I die, I want Perfect Drug played at my funeral. It’s my favorite song. It’s got that menacing beat, repetitive lyrics (the object of the song certainly knows that she is “the perfect drug” since it’s repeated ad nauseum), and a catchy little tune that sticks in my head faster than a Wiggles song (Have you ever heard "Fruit Salad?").
3. Disturbed: “The Sickness”—Another over-the-top audio assault. It’s a fantastic song, apart from the “I hate you, mommy” aside.
4. Iggy Pop: “The Passenger”—I love this song so much that it’s actually my ringtone. Rumor has it that a movie’s being made about Iggy’s life, with Frodo Baggins playing Iggy. I certainly hope not. Iggy is a classic, named after an Iguana. Just a little musical trivia.
5. Golden Earring: “Radar Love”—Just about the perfect Man song: it’s about driving fast and radar love, a concept which I admittedly don’t understand. But radar! And driving!
6. Ministry: “Jesus Built My Hotrod”—I’m a pushover for songs about cars. This one may be about cars, but the lyrics are indecipherable except for the occasional “I wanna love you”. Still, it’s awesomeness in audio form. It’s the other song I want played at my funeral.
7. Billie Holiday: “What a Little Moonlight Can Do”—Aren’t I the eclectic one? Billie rocks.
8. Nirvana: “Lithium”—I still love Nirvana. In a way, I’m glad that Cobain took the path of least resistance, because I don’t have to keep up with Nirvana. What I have is all they are ever putting out.
9. Beethoven: “Moonlight Sonata”—Most beautiful piece of music ever.
10. Edith Piaf: “La Vie En Rose”—A close contender for most beautiful piece of music ever. Edith “The Sparrow” Piaf had an amazing voice, but according to the internet, she was not much to look at.
11. Peter Murphy: “Cuts You Up”—Just awesome. Peter has this really deep, haunting voice that I dig.
12. House of Pain: “Jump Around”—It was popular when I was college. A little silly, I know.
13. Nancy Sinatra: “Bang Bang”—I don’t remember buying this one.
14. Ratt: “Way Cool Jr.”—Hmmm. I don’t actually like this song. I think I bought a “Best of” album for one song.
15. Cyndi Lauper: “Time After Time”—Wow. Didn’t know that one was on there. A nice song, though, right?
16. Cyndi Lauper: “True Colors”—Two Lauper’s in a row, eh? Must have been feeling nostalgic when I bought that.
17. Sounds for Life: “Tibetan Singing Bowl”—What the hell? And it’s over an hour long.
18. White Lion: “When the Children Cry”—Um. . . well, I have children and sometimes they cry, so it seemed like a good idea. . .
19. PM Dawn: “Die Without You”—Well, I remember liking it when Sarah and I were dating.
20. Gino Vannelli: “Wild Horses”—Christ. Never mix booze with browsing iTunes.
21. Whitney Houston: “I Will Always Love You”—Don’t you judge me.
22. Cyndi Lauper: “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun”—I give up.
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