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Numbers Don’t Lie

2009-12-11T07:36:00.000-08:00

This week the Bengals travel to Minnesota with a chance to clinch the division with a win. The play-off math indicates that we must win one more game to secure the division and our berth in the 2009 play-offs. It is the biggest game since Pittsburgh and certainly, given Pittsburgh ’s performance to date, a more worthy opponent. The Vikings are loaded with talent. They have an awesome defensive line. They have playmakers all over the place, with big time names like Percy Harvin, Adrian Peterson, and Jared Allen. Brett Favre is having an MVP caliber season. To make matters worse, their head coach, Brad Childress, has a special head set that makes him look like a telemarketer. What’s that all about? Is that an unfair advantage?

But, fear not Bengal fans, for this week reason is on our side. Reason encapsulated in the pure, distilled form of Math. Numbers don’t lie. If we win Sunday, we win the Division. Numbers will also impact the game in other ways. If you watched last week’s Sunday night game you saw the announcers go on and on about the season Brett Favre is having and, in particular, the incredible decrease in interceptions against his career average. Of course, he went on to throw 2 INTs that night. The fact that he threw 2 picks is key to my point. Football may be a game of inches, but it’s also a game statistics. Maybe not to the extent of baseball, but in general a player’s performance is measurable. If it wasn’t, you wouldn’t care about Peterson’s 40 time or his average yards per carry. Granted, the season and the player’s shelf-life is much shorter which makes football statistics less meaningful than baseball. But, I argue that Brett Farve and his Ripken-esque streak of consecutive games played gives us a tremendous body of work to review and make projections off of.

Based on his career stats, he throws about 20 interceptions per year and he averages 34 attempts per game. How many passing attempts per game does he have this year? The answer, 33.6. Sounds pretty consistent to me…

But wait, you say, “He only has 5 picks so far….”

I answer with “Balderdash! There is plenty of football left. Statistics will prevail!”

A zebra doesn’t change his stripes. Although a 40 year old QB can change teams and vacillate more than Hamlet, he cannot change who he is. The immutable laws of math dictate that inevitably Brett must throw more picks. This Sunday he threw 2 picks. By my calculations, he owes at least 15 more to equal his career average. With 4 games left, that’s 3 or 4 picks a game. The 2 on Sunday night were just a down payment, the beginning of a torrent of interceptions thrown by Favre to close out the year. He may finish below his average, but he won’t finish 50% below average.

Like the infamous Viking pleasure cruise from a few years ago, there are going to be balls everywhere. Leon Hall, Jonathan Joseph, and Chinedum Ndukwe will have a field day. All they have to do is reach up and grab them. I predict a 4 turn-over day, three INTs from Brett Favre and 1 forced fumble from AP. Cedric Benson and company will get their 100+ yards a game, and we will grind away on the ground eating time of possession like Pat Williams at a Golden Corral. Carson will throw at least one touchdown pass. Chad will probably get fined for wrestling with the Vikings mascot. With the math firmly on our side, it all adds up to an AFC North-clinching Bengal win.

VIva La Revolution

2009-11-20T12:25:00.000-08:00

In the movie Event Horizon, Captain Miller pilots his ship, the Lewis and Clark, to rescue an abandoned ship. The abandoned ship, named The Event Horizon, was designed to harness the power of the black hole to travel through space. Of course, the engineers who came up with idea neglected to consider alternative possibilities. They learned the hard way that Black Holes not only connect two points spatially in this reality but also inter-dimensionally. You may go into the Black Hole intending to exit at Alpha Centauri, but instead find yourself seeing dead people and hearing Latin phrases while and you and your crew go murderously insane. The Bengals enter the Black Hole that is Oakland Colliseum this Sunday. Will we emerge with an easy road win and one step closer to the playoffs? Or will we be warped to an alternate reality as the Eagles were a few weeks back? A world where a playoff caliber team is destroyed by the unlikely Oakland Raiders.

Jamarcus Russell has been benched to be replaced by Gratkowski. I like the Bengals facing new quarterbacks about as much as the Reds like facing rookie pitchers on the 1st big league start. To make matters worse, we haven’t had much luck in Oakland or against the Raiders in general. We’ve never won in Oakland. The last time we played the Raiders in a game that mattered we lost in the 1990 Playoffs. That game is more known as the game that ended the football career of Bo Jackson. That playoff loss marked the beginning of the Lost Years, also known as Bengal Football 1991-2003. Those of us that lived it, we know how bad it was. Coaches and quarterbacks entered and exited the building in a seemingly constant stream. (Except for Dave Shula who somehow hung around for 4 years.) I think until recently the Curse of Bo Jackson has hung over this franchise like a dark cloud, a specter, a boogie man roaming the halls of PBS. Every bad snap, every locker room outburst, every muffed punt, bad tackle and busted draft pick, somewhere Bo Jackson smiled and thought about what could have been.

But that all ends on Sunday. The Curse of Bo will be banished for good. The Bengals will emerge on the other side of the Black Hole unscathed. Any lingering doubts as to the veracity of this team were trampled into the shoddy turf of Heinz Field by Bernard Scott’s cleats and then further crushed beneath Ben Roethlisberger’s falling body. The Bengals are for real. But last week’s victory over the Steelers goes far beyond simply serving as a bandwagon booster and announcing the emergence of a new national press darling. Last week’s win was a deafening salvo, a volley fired straight into the ranks of the NFL establishment. Revolution has come to the AFC North and beyond. This weekend, we march on to Oakland, but have no doubt about it, our destination is Miami. Prepare yourselves, Comrades, for the long march ahead. Viva La Revolution!

Bold Predictions For Week 9 Against the Ravens

2009-11-06T13:23:00.000-08:00

The weathermen predict a beautiful fall day for the 1:00pm kick off at PBS. I predict a wild AFC North cage match with a chance of death and or dismemberment. We go into this game as healthy as we have been all year. I am not sure we will exit the game in the same way. Ray Lewis almost decapitated Chad during their last meet up and that was before they lost and before Chad sent key Raven’s defensive player’s deodorant. Ironic because I would think Chad would want Ed Reed and company to stink up the joint. You don’t tug on Superman’s cape, you don’t spit in the wind, and I am pretty sure you don’t taunt Ray Lewis. To say the Raven’s are going to try to be physical on defense is probably an understatement as well as a given. (Yet I am sure that will be the pregame commentary from whatever hack happens to have the pregame analysis).

The Bengals haven’t been great at home this year. I’ll give them the Steeler game, but then again, so did the Steeler’s. The Bengals want this game to maintain control of the AFC North, but the Raven’s need this win to remain relevant. And a desperate Raven’s team is a dangerous team. This will be a good game. A low scoring game. It will be a game decided by defense and special teams and a few bizarre occurrences. Below are just a few strange things that will happen this Sunday.

1) Ray Lewis strokes out during his pre-game rant and while he decides to play anyway, his left side is partially paralyzed which limits his effectiveness. Bratkowski takes advantage and runs Cedric Benson off the Right Tackle even more than usual.

2) Andre Smith makes the transition from eating donuts to eating Raven blitzers. For once, the coaches don’t complain about the weight gain.

3) The Raven’s Defensive Coordinator dials up the pressure in an ever increasingly exotic array of blitzes, at one point even blitzing with an angry midget , who slides beneath the arms of an confused Bobbie Williams and actually lays a hit on Carson Palmer. The midget harmlessly bounces off Carson’s knee brace and draws a flag for un-sportsman like conduct.

4) After dodging in and out of the pocket all day, and keeping plays alive with his feet, Carson Palmer gets the game ball and an invitation to appear on Dancing with the Stars. I can only hope that he draws Edyta as a partner. Meow!

5) Cedric Benson, having difficulty staying angry what with all the positive press coverage, when not on the field spends most of his time driving bamboo shoots under his finger nails while staring at a picture of Ed Reed. By the fourth quarter, he just snaps and literally runs through and over top of a screaming Ed Reed for a 40 yard TD scamper. Oh the horror….

6) A record is set for injury time outs and on Monday following the game, both teams list their entire roster as questionable. Mike Tomilin crys foul, while somewhere in Boston Bill Belicheck chuckles to himself, “Amateurs!”

In summation, the Bengals win a wild one : 17-14. I’ll leave you with one final prediction. In the aftermath of this violent struggle, Marvin Lewis , ala Invincible, will appear on local TV and radio programs imploring able bodied men from the ages of 18-35 to appear at PBS for emergency tryouts for the upcoming Steeler game. Given my 9.4 40 speed, I do not make the cut. While initially crushed, I am later grateful when I see Troy Polamalu kill some dude from HR who tries to catch a ball over the middle.

The Costanza

2009-10-23T08:00:00.000-07:00

(I have attempted to cross-post this on Cnati, but it appears they may not take it. Hope you enjoy. Who Dey!)

Some of you may know that William Safire passed away last month. Among a great deal many other things, Mr. Safire wrote a weekly column for the New York Times on language frequently dealing with new words or new uses of old words. In his honor, I would like to propose a new word that springs from the crushing disappointment of last week’s game against the Houston Texan’s.

Coats: Kōts verb definition: to make an error, to perform poorly, to self- destruct.

I know what you’re thinking: the loss wasn’t all Coats’ fault. Caldwell had plenty of drops. There were blown assignments and coverages. Stupid penalties again were prevalent. While I agree and do not pin the loss solely on Daniel Coats, I do find his performance crystallizing. So close, yet so far away. Full of potential, but ultimately doomed to fail.

The Bengals have shown a disturbing trend to self-destruct. This isn’t the first Bengal team to Coats it. This trend existed before this game, before this season, but I believe we have the players to finally beat the trend. After all we did cut St. Louis. We can win, in fact we have. But if we are going to make it to the play-offs we have to start playing complete games. To do that, we have to stop self- destructing. The way I see it, in order for the Bengals to fully put their inner-Bungle behind them, something drastic must be done. I think as a unified front of Management, Coaches, Players and Fans, we have to collectively pull a Costanza. As in George Costanza of Seinfeld and DO THE OPPOSITE. We have to break the cycle. This is a call to action. I’m not talking about a rally cap here. This is bigger than that. I’m talking about messing with the very fabric of space and time.

Apparently Katie and Mike are already on board, they were busy dealing with Jerry Jones for a Tight End. They didn’t close the deal but still…when’s the last time you heard of the Bengals trying a mid-season trade? That’s the Costanza, baby!

When Bratkowski is in the booth on 1st down, instead of running Benson right side? He’s got to give ‘em the ole Costanza and throw a pass.

When Carson reads blitz and decides to audible, Carson must Constanza their asses and keep the same play on.

When the play is designed to go to Coats, you guessed it, just go ahead and slip them a Costanza-roo and throw it right to him. It’ll catch the Bear’s defense off guard.

Beyond the team, we as fans can contribute.

If you sit on the right side of couch, sit on the left.

If you normally eat the wings, eat the legs and vice versa.

If you drink Bud Light, reach for the Nati on Sunday.

I am prepared to do my part in this massive effort to un-jinx this team. Instead of watching the game from the comfortably thin air of the 3 deck in PBS, I am going to wake up Saturday and drive to Chicago and watch the game in a dark bar surrounded by men wearing Urlacker jerseys. Broad shouldered men, whose names end in vowels.

When the dust settles Sunday night, I can’t tell you if the Bengals will be 5 and 2 or 4 and 3. But I can tell you that desperate times call for desperate measures, and these times call for the Costanza.

The Black Flag

2009-10-22T12:43:00.000-07:00

I stared at him. And he stared right back at me. Insolent and Brooding. Defiantly upright, and glaringly out of place. Again and again, it repulsed my advances with an electric razor. Equal parts of fascination and repulsion forced me closer to the mirror. It was even more disgusting up close. It looked less like a hair than a thorn, and emerged from my face almost parallel to the ground and then turned abruptly 90% towards the sky like a sapling searching for the sun.

It wasn’t there yesterday, but it was here today. With grim determination, I grabbed it with my bare hands fully prepared to physically uproot the abomination. To my dismay, I found I could not grip it. It had some sort of defense mechanism, an oily substance that oozed from it, rendering plucking bare handed quite impossible. I grabbed a pair of tweezers. As I stared at my target, I brought my weapon ever closer. A small but persistent fear began to set in. I found myself thinking of icebergs. Icebergs have the greater portion of their mass beneath the sea. The pilot of the Titanic under estimated an iceberg and people died. A hair that big, that evolved, might rip a big crater in my face coming out. I could bleed out in the bathroom all alone. My resolve shattered and my hands shaking, I put the tweezers down.

How did I come to be here in front of the mirror wrestling with a part of my body turned against me?

We constantly fight a war, ceaselessly suppressing a revolution embed in our very DNA. Oh Deoxyribonucleic Acid! You double-helix’d traitor! Over time, as the rebels cells wear down the established order, we begin to see the effects of aging. It starts small, a hair falls out, or perhaps you tweak your back getting out of the car. As the rebels gain momentum and power, male pattern baldness sets in. Next thing you know, your back always hurts and maybe your knees start to ache when it rains. The war rages on. You eat better, you exercise. You think you might be turning the tide on middle age. Then it happens, the Forces of Decay send up a signal to mock you. A thick black bristle, conspicuously placed. Its message is un-mistakable: We are in control.

What evolutionary purpose could such a growth have? If my whole body was covered in them, I would likely be impervious to assault from most primitive weapons. However, one or two random super hairs offer no protection against my enemies. Perhaps its emergence is intended to signal to females of the species. Stay away from this one, he is too old to be a reliable mate.

No one warned me of long dormant follicles, secreted in bizarre unfortunate places. No one told me they lay in wait as a biological countdown sequence ran down to zero before releasing their boar-bristle progeny. Nobody prepared me for this. Where’s the cute book in the library that warns little Timmy that one day, all his hair will fall out, that his eyebrows will try to merge and his waistline will expand without warning. There are plenty of books that warn Timmy about death and dying. There are no books that say, “Timmy, One day, all of a sudden, you’ll be disgusting. There’s nothing you can do to stop it, all you can do is manage it the best you can. Good luck.”

Its Scary to be a Bengals Fan.

2009-10-09T03:51:00.000-07:00

It’s hard to be a Bengals fan even when you’re 3-1. This team is making me a nervous wreck. My heart has been in my throat every weekend. Every game to date has been scary. Our supposed lay-up game last week was a panic attack inducing, possession swapping OT fest. Following this team is like walking a tight rope. I’m afraid to look down, afraid to take another step. Most of all, I am afraid we’ll go from 3 and 1 to over and done before November.

The game in Baltimore is still a few days away and I am already breaking into cold sweats. This game is the test. And that scares me. The Ravens, as a team, scare me. Flacco’s arm scares me. Ray Lewis, I don’t care who you are, is flat out scary. Jesus, even their stuffed Mascot is a little scary – like some ‘roided up Jeckel or Heckel.

Lewis and Bratkowski talking tough about establishing the run against a very stingy Baltimore defense scares me. Larry Johnson was the last back to get over 100 yards against them. He hasn’t been good for years and Cedric, while revitalized, is no Larry Johnson.

Flacco throwing bombs to Kelley Washington scares me. I know he’s their number 4 or 5 threat but who was Massaquoi last week and where did he come from?

Carson Palmer running for 1st downs scares me. He looked like the Tin Man left out in a hurricane, squeaking and creaking his way down field. Ray Lewis will kill him if he tries that this week.

Laverneus Coles’ hands scare me.

I’ll cover my eyes every time the kicking team comes on because with the exception of Huber, they scare me.

The reality is, we don’t need to win this game. There is no shame in losing to Baltimore at Baltimore. We can lose this game and still stay in the playoff hunt. We can lose this game and nobody will care because nobody really expects us to win. But winning this game will signal to the world that the Bengals are for real. It will establish us as real contenders in the AFC North and put us in the driver’s seat going into the second quarter of the season. But more importantly, it will signal to all those long suffering fans that maybe, just maybe, it’s OK to believe. And believing again scares me most of all.

I’ll watch the game, parked on the couch in my Geathers jersey, with my hands half covering my eyes. I might make my wife hold my hand. I know the odds are against us. A win is improbable at best. But as a wise man once said, “Never tell me the odds.”

Somebody hold me....

The Power of the Sandwhich Thin

2009-10-01T16:51:00.001-07:00

I walked by a man working on a presentation yesterday. I couldn’t help but notice that the title of the slide was: The Power of the Sandwich Thin. The power indeed. It was in that brief passing moment that I truly grasped the absurdity of my job. Now, don’t get me wrong. I am sure that were I to read the presentation, I would discover that Sandwich Thins don’t get enough credit for the sales they generate. I’m sure they are like the unsung hero of the bread aisle. Everybody just assumes that the standard loaf is the where the action’s at, but they don’t see the numbers behind the numbers. They don’t see the Power.

I work in a field where it is your job to convince others that your Product A, any Product A, is the answer. And it doesn’t really matter what the question is.

Profit not where it needs to be? Have you looked at our Sandwich Thins??

Not getting the right basket ring? Check out the retails on these.
Can’t get Health Care Legislation passed? How about you invite the House and Senate over for Turkey and Cheese Sandwiches, served on our new line of Sandwich Thins. That’ll get them working together.

Can you feel the Power?!

In general, I do a pretty good job of not thinking too much about the industry I’m in. Because on one hand you can argue that it’s all a big meaningless game, and the person who sells the most stuff – regardless of what it is, wins. And in its defense, it can be a very interesting game. Every day in my world, there are millions of dollars in play. It can be very dramatic and very exciting One could also argue that the people who buy and sell these goods are passionate people who care about good retailing and good product. Some do. Others….not so much. And the really good ones enjoy the game and accept it for what it is.

I enjoy the game sometimes, and then sometimes I remember that I am getting all worked up over the equivalent of a piece of bread. A thin piece of bread, shipped in a plastic bag, made in a factory by underpaid workers and focused grouped until some marketing person feels comfortable enough to generate a slide entitled The Power of Sandwich Thins. And when I see that slide, I feel anger and a silent but persistent hunger for something….more. We spend more time on our jobs than most any other developed nation. We’re only given so much time on this planet and we squander it sitting under fluorescent lights designing ridiculous power points for the things that nobody really needs.

I have friends who once stated their goal was to work as little as possible. I laughed at that notion a few years ago. I thought it was both un-ambitious and perhaps a bit lazy. Now I realize they were geniuses, prophets, and visionaries of the highest order. Of course, my enlightenment comes after a large mortgage, 2 car payments, 2 kids and other miscellaneous debt. So it looks like I’ll keep making those stupid power points a bit longer. But someday, someday I will break these shackles that bind me to my laptop. I will crush my mouse beneath my feet, throw my blackberry down the dimly lit corridor and shout to the mottled ceiling tiles “Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, free at last!”

Time to prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet...

2009-03-26T19:28:00.000-07:00

Like everyone else, I have a Facebook account. I find it both fascinating and frustrating at the same time. Picking a profile picture is nothing short of an exercise in self-psychoanalysis. What image of yourself do you want to project to friends, acquaintances and random strangers?

Do I go with one with the goofy smile: Hey, look at me! I’m a fun guy!

Maybe me and the wife: Hey, look at me! I’m happily married!

No, me and the kids: Hey Look at me! I know all of you dads got World’s Greatest Dad Mugs for Father’s Day….but seriously I’m the real deal. Your kids/spouses….they all lied.

No wait….Me with my shirt off in black and white: That’s right! All you ladies who passed up on this are so…so…sorry now!

Every picture you post says something about you. What if I say the wrong thing? I recently posted a picture of my kid in a Storm Trooper Helmet. But all you could see was the helmet and the blaster rifle. Which basically says: Yup…still a hopeless dork.

Then there are Status Updates. I wish my life was so interesting that I had something to say that I thought anyone would care about. Mine are usually something lame like:

I just ate a huge burrito.

Or, because I am supposed to be funny I spend 5 minutes composing a 1 sentence witticism that usually isn’t that funny. For Example:

Chris is pulling like crazy…the data that is.

I spent 5 minutes writing that update. It was dumb and mostly gross and didn’t get a single comment.

In the guise of making a page about you and your life and keeping everyone up to date with what’s going on in said life, you come to realize, there isn’t a bunch going on.

And then it hits you. Wait…..I’m boring?

After looking at some other people’s pages, and all of their mundane updates and the little details that make up their specific versions of life you come to the conclusion that all of your lives are kind of the same. You work, you raise your kids, maybe you go out occasionally. My life appears to be just like the lives of everyone else out there.

Then the walls really come tumbling down. Wait…I’m not special?

Facebook’s insistence that I update my status and in turn see other’s updates has left me searching for more interesting things to say about my day than my “friends’” days and I have come up dry. In doing so, it has created a small hole in the insulating balloon that is Chris’s Theory of Inherent Specialness. Which has existed since roughly 1st grade and basically states that I am more special than you or anyone else for that matter. Your awareness of that fact and the veracity of the same are in no way connected. In fact, if you can’t tell I’m special, I’m sorry but you obviously just don’t have an eye for such things.

I’m not sure how to deal with that puncture. It takes years to build a good defense mechanism. I’m not sure I’m ready to abandon Inherent Specialness. This isn’t some moth-eaten teddy bear or a tattered blanket we’re talking about, it’s an integral piece of who I am. No, getting rid of it simply won’t do.

Luckily though, I don’t have to. The fact of the matter is, because of the accessibility and openness of Facebook, the really interesting things, the really juicy things are kept secret. As they should be, I might add. Because you never know who’s reading. Just because I look boring on my Facebook account, doesn’t mean I really am. Yes! This might work! There’s so much going on, you don’t even know! I am so cool, I can’t even write half the shit I’m up to because it’s just too much for the general public. My boss, and two ex-girlfriends are “friends” for crying out loud! They couldn’t handle this kind of intensity. Do I feel bad that I cannot freely share the awesomeness that is my life? Sure. But it’s the right thing to do. I don’t want to make the rest of my friends jealous or feel as if their lives are less meaningful or less fulfilling. What kind of “friend” would I be if I constantly displayed my superiority with killer profile pics and hysterically funny Status Updates? The answer is not a very good one.

The New Guilt

2009-02-17T18:38:00.000-08:00

My friend, who greatly enjoys poking fun at my liberal tendencies, tends to send me news pieces that highlight the absurdity of some of my positions on things. In particular, he has seized on Global Warming and the growing hysteria surrounding it. He makes a very adroit observation that popular media and popular media consumption habits tend to greatly distort the facts surrounding phenomenon such as Global Warming. He often mentions disposable diapers as an example. Some of you may remember hearing news reports years ago about what overwhelming percentage of the world’s landfills would be composed of these ecological dirty bombs, and at the time, some of the reporting conjured images of streets in the near future filled with diapers and nowhere to put them because the landfills were already packed full of Pampers. He could very well have also mentioned Killer Bees. In 8th Grade I was ready to move to Canada because I was scared to death that Africanized Honey Bees were swarming my way. His point is valid; we have a natural tendency to make things bigger, more dire than they really are. Maybe it sells papers, maybe it gets attention of research dollars or government money, and maybe it feeds our need to have something to worry about.

The most recent article from him, see link below, deals with the high carbon footprint of eating beef. Due to the energy it takes to feed, transport, and cook and the by-products of all those things, Beef has a disproportionate ratio of pollution to nutrition. By eliminating beef, the article suggests we could cut emissions by significant amounts.

http://www.breitbart.com/article.php?id=CNG.e36a67d49c1127a8c17cc38ed4a4c27e.211&show_article=1

While the research is interesting, I cannot help but find it tiresome. Does everything have to be viewed now from a pair of Carbon-Value Glasses? How far away are we from buying and selling things in a new alternate currency based on Carbon Credits? The goal of the Environmental Movement should not be to grind eco-responsibility into everyone’s face over every decision they make. All that will do is engender resentment and eventually the worthwhile message of conservation will fall on deaf ears. The goal should be, and it is in fact what is being achieved to date, is a raised awareness of Environmental Issues. Being more efficient, being more conservative of all of our resources is good corporate and good individual philosophy – especially in this economic climate. One could argue that common sense and the environmentalists have finally found common ground. Walk into a Kroger and see the number of people using canvas bags, look at the sales of CFL’s. (Although one could also argue we need a return to robust “Fuck It All” American consumerism – if just to lift is out of this current morass.) Regardless, my point is people are getting the message; let’s not nag them to death!

Academic funding is shifting more and more to “green” topics. Scholars who need papers published continue to find more and more obscure things to study, and the news media will pick up the juiciest ones - the more dire, the more sensational, the better. Polar Bears: Extinct In 10 Years! New Orleans: Melting Ice Caps and A Modern day Atlantis! Killer Bees Nesting In Millions of Disposable Diapers! And we will continue to eat it up, eager to feel shittier about ourselves and our world.

I have been puzzling over what drives this phenomenon. This collective need to feel bad about something. Or more specifically why did we all start caring about the Planet? When did a formally small cause, exclusively the domain of so called Hippies and Tree Huggers, become a middle class obsession? What makes a significant percentage of the population rise up and suddenly exclaim, “Oh we’re so bad, punish us! Tell me more about how bad for the Planet my actions are.” Why did all of the sudden people start caring about the Planet? Why do I see 30-50 year olds using canvas bags and buying Hybrids?

Then it dawned on me. Much has been made of the so called “generational shift.” We just elected a black man to the Presidency; the Boomers are stepping down and making way for Gen X or whatever we are. That ushers in all sorts of new things. It’s more than Obama taking the White House Business Casual. We’re going to put our fingerprints on this era in countless ways. Among the countless things we need, we simply must have our very own Guilt. Our Parent’s had Racism. That was OK, but we’ve always wanted our own thing. Besides, our work there is done, just look at who our President is. No we need something else, a new white liberal guilt for a new era.

I got just the thing…the whole world.

In Defense of Bow Ties

2009-01-19T05:40:00.000-08:00

In his new book, David Sedaris disembowels the bowtie by calling it an announcement to the world that you can no longer get an erection. I both love and despise Sedaris because he’s a very good writer, but I feel compelled to defend the bowtie.

I have worn one occasionally. It’s an odd choice, I know. A 80 year old saleman I had the pleasure of knowing once gave me a bowtie as a thank you gift. I wore it in his honor, and kind of liked it. I still wear it from time to time, but I still struggle with it.

It’s geeky to be sure. Certainly I don’t believe it would qualify as sexy. Unless of course paired with a tuxedo. But for daily wear, it’s anachronistic, dorky with a certain Orville-ian under tones. I get a range of responses when I wear one. I get bemused looks, stares. Some will say it’s fun. Some will say, “It’s you.” Which I think might be a back-handed insult.

I’d like to think it marks you a different, thoughtful…the smartest guy in the room. Or perhaps, the geekiest. I remember once in elementary school, at the beginning of my descent into unpopularity, the other kids started calling me a nerd. I was wounded but more so, I was outraged. I thought that secretly I was just as good if not better than any of them. It was ridiculously unfair and innaccurate to call me such a name. I decided after one particularly brutal bus ride home that if they wanted a nerd I would give them one. Clearly they didn't know what a real nerd was. Perhaps I could help them see the difference. And so in deaf to my mother’s pleading, I parted my hair down the middle and spackled it in place with palmful after palmful of mouse until my hair gleamed like plastic. Not satisfied with the effect and eager for more self-inflicted pain, I taped up the nose of my glasses. You want a nerd? You got one.

It was a terrible decision. A classroom of fourth graders is like Lord of the Flies with Erasers and Notebooks in place of Conch Shells. Nobody understood the statement I was trying to make, it only served to cement and justify the original verdict. I never recovered socially and served out my time in public school with the other freaks and geeks.

I consoled myself with the knowledge that I wasn’t really a nerd, that was the label they assigned me. I was much, much more, they were just too blind and stupid to see. In my wildly dramatic pubescent years I would imagine the most popular people in my class realizing the error of their ways in a variety of convenient scenarios. One week it was a terrorist attack at school where I saved the day. Another it was an earthquake or a tornado, always some cataclysmic event that up ended the social structure and created an opportunity for me to shine and recreate myself. To my dismay, the apocalyptic event I fervently wished for never happened. Embittered, I took solace in my own company. While painful at the time, it freed me to some extent from the tyranny of the herd, but also fueled a compensatory superiority complex. Overtime, as my wife and most people who know me will tell you, I fell quite in love with myself. An affair which continues to this day.

Maybe that’s part of what a bowtie is to me: defiant, self -segregating, a little arrogant. I’ll wear a bowtie if I want to, I’ll blaze my own fashion trail. You’ll come to appreciate both it and me if this building’s hit by an asteroid.

Just knowing how to tie one, enforces a feeling of superiority. Men will ask, “Is real bowtie?” I’ll smugly reply, “Yes, it is…I tied it myself. I know lots of things. Grand things. Things you’ll never know because while you were with all the other cool kids, I was at the library….becoming awesome.”

Notes from Abroad...

2009-01-15T17:34:00.001-08:00

Today is the last day of my Portland adventure. Portland is a different kind of town, with different kind of people. I knew I was in a foreign land when I was walking through the concourse. I have never seen so many dreadlocks, artificially colored hair (in obvious shades of black, pink and blonde), stupid hats on members of both sexes, patchwork skirts, Birkenstocks, Doc Martens and other post-punk /hipster/hippy essentials.

Some other observations:

Station Wagons are cool. Waiting for my ride to the apartment, every other car was a Subaru Outback. A guy in the office has one. I could probably make a fortune buying the things in Cincinnati and shipping them into the Northwest. I also saw people driving glorified golf carts on busy highways, they looked like little Luigi’s from the movie, Car’s.

But as much as they love their Subaru’s and alternative electronic vehicles, the roads are really meant for cyclists and pedestrians. Heaven forbid you turn do anything they perceive as a trespass against them. Hippies may still exist in Portland, but they’re angry hippies. The Peace Sign is apparently a tired relic, the middle finger and salty language rule the streets.

Also you don’t need a crosswalk, its common practice to walk into the road wherever it suits you, apparently cars have to yield. Too bad I almost took out a Patchouli Wearing Dipshit before someone told me that.

The Natural Look is in. I cannot wait to go back to Cincinnati and see a girl in make-up, with her hair combed and in clothes that don’t look like they came from the wardrobe department of Reality Bites.

I was talking to a girl at Starbucks. Apparently there is a Stagnant Air Alert for the whole metro area. As she told me this with a dead serious look on her face, napkins were blowing off the countertop from the breeze.

It’s a neat city. Great people watching, great food, full of natural beauty. But it’s time to come home before I dye my hair or start shopping for glorified station wagons.

Ahhh...Travel

2009-01-13T10:05:00.001-08:00

It’s been almost a year since I have been a business trip. Foolishly I have been looking forward to going. I miss travel. Or maybe I missed the idea of travel. All I know is, as I started the 2 hour drive to Indy to catch my flight, I was excited.

The ride up was uneventful and I arrived in plenty of time. I went right through security, and found a seat near an power outlet. To the novice traveler, finding a power outlet in an airport to keep your laptop and blackberry going is critical and usually impossible. I plugged in, powered up and prepared to enjoy the free Indy Airport WiFi. Again, another plus because most airports you have to pay for a day pass. Well, you get what you pay for. I had at least 3 tasks which I was counting on delivering while I waited, all of which required broadband access to send. I logged onto the wireless, and was rewarded with a blazing 2MBPS connection. That’s about as slow as dial-up. My browser wouldn’t even open let alone send anything.

To make matters worse, either through cunning planning to discourage siphoning free power or just bad luck, my power supply was right beneath a loudspeaker. Every page, every announcement shook the fillings in my teeth. They also had this strange military style naming convention.

“Can Mr. Jones come to Checkpoint Bravo to retrieve a lost item”

When did I enter the Green Zone? Don’t do it Jones….it’s a trap

“Would the owner of the black Ford Bronco come to Checkpoint Alpha?”

Fuck…are they going to detain him?

I worked away, and as the endless stream of pages and announcements blared on, the blood slowly trickled from my ears.

But, the plane left on time, and I had an exit row so it was all good. Until I landed in Denver.

I had an hour between flights. I always check my departure gate and time off the screens just in case there was a change. Then I physically check the gate. Both my ticket and the screen said B35 – there were people waiting, we had a plane parked outside but no gate agents. I decided I had time to grab a quick plate of dinner. Driving and total transit time to Portland was going to be 11 plus hours, better eat while you can. I grabbed some Chinese Panda or whatever the fuck it is, and sat down at the gate. While I ate some indifferent fried rice and a slimy, sickly sweet honey chicken, I noticed the gate still wasn’t manned. That’s when the fun began.

I walked to the nearest manned Frontier gate.

“Excuse me, where is the flight for Portland?”

“Portland?! That’s Gate 50, you’ll have to hurry?”

Gate 50 was on the other side of the Concourse. I took off running.

Past the foodcourt. Past Gates 40-49. Down a set of stairs. Down a Corridor. All the way to Gate 50.

“Portland?” I ask breathlessly.

“Portland? That’s up at gate 33! You’ll really have to hurry?

“I’m sorry, my hearing was damaged in Indy and I’m still recovering. Did you say Gate 33??? Are you sure?? I was just up there, they sent me here.

“Yes, you better run!”

I blindly followed her command.

Off I went. Down the corridor. Up the stairs. Past gates 49-40. Past the food court. Past Gate 35, where I just was, to Gate 33.

Really Breathlessly and with no conviction whatsoever, somewhat pleadingly, “ Portland?”

“Portland?!”

“Yes… What Gate?”

“55, but you’re really late”

“I was just down there, the screen says 35, they sent me here.”

“I have no control over the screens, the city controls those. It’s definitely at 55,and you need to hurry”

At the time, I was thinking, “Lady, I could give a shit who runs the screens, I don’t need a lesson on airport politics, I need oxygen, a bag to throw up in and perhaps a golf cart!” But I was too winded to fight, and I didn’t have the time.

“Fuck. Call them and tell them I’m coming!”

Off I go. By now, people openly pointing at me and the polite ones are smiling in disbelieve. The assholes are flat out laughing hysterically. None of which I can get upset about, as this made the third time I had sprinted by them, uttering profanities between gasps for air and Chinese belches.

So, back down the stairs, up to Gate 55 (just on the other side of 50 by the way), I get on the plane, and just as I am congratulating myself on making it just in time, the Pilot comes on to announce the flight is delayed. I spend the next 5 minutes catching my breath and convincing my stomach not to forcibly eject the Honey Chicken and the next 20 waiting to take off.

Ahhh, Travel….

The Urban Appalachians

2009-01-10T04:52:00.000-08:00

My office is in a questionable part of town. Occasionally there is the odd shooting or stabbing down an adjacent alley or inside the local bar. The local community is a blend of recent Hispanic immigrants, black people and the people I recently discovered should be called Urban Appalachians. Now when I hear that term, I think of a fashion movement like the Urban Cowbody Movement, except the fashionable sort in this part of town aren't wearing coonskin caps or over-alls. Neither are they filling their days moonshinin' or outsmarting the Revenuers. The only the thing vaguely Appalachian about these people is an accent and speech pattern that might have originated in the mountains, but on the way here was drug through several trailer parks and an Eddie Murphy special.

Regardless of what you call them, they do make for great people watching.

The window from my cube over looks a parking lot for a Check N Go, which must be some sort of rallying point for several of the local Urban Appalachians. Most days around 4:00pm, if I am lucky, I'll see a 12 year old Maroon Chevy Lumina, all beat to shit, with no hubcaps and a busted tail light .

The last time I saw it a few weeks back, it sat there idling with the windows cracked. I could see at least 4 people in the backseat, and two in the front, The girl in the front seat's probably 14 and she's bumming a cigarette from her mom. Everyone in the car is smoking in fact it looks like the car's smoldering from all the smoke wafting out of it. Up comes a two more people to the car, one on crutches. The passengers get out, more smoke billows from the doors, everyone but the girl is overweight, the women have terrible bad highlights. They look like a pack of fat hyenas.

To my surprise, they all try to pile back into the car. Now there's 5 people in the back seat, some one riding in the lap of the front passenger seat but they can't close the door because the crutches are in the way. Not to mention they're all sizable people.

So they pop the trunk, and the trunk is so full of junk that stuff literally springs out. Clothes, cans, pop bottles, paper. The wind catches a plastic Walmart bag and a few empty cigarette cartons and they swirl around the parking lot. Nobody makes an effort to pick them up. The injured party hobbles to the back, and tries to jam the crutches into the trunk. The girl, cigarette clenched between her lips, hops out with her school back pack and helps her force down the trunk lid. They all pile back in and lurch into traffic.

I often wonder where they were going. Why they all needed to go there, and why they all needed to be there at the same time. The bus stop was on the opposite corner. I'll tell you right now, if I walked up to that car, and it was my ride? No way. I be all like, "Look, there's already 4 of you fat bitches in this backseat. My ass is hurt. I'm on crutches. I don't need this shit. I'm taking the bus. I'll see you at Denny's in 15 minutes."

I wanted a image to go with this entry. By the way, you won't believe what comes up on google if you type in Fat White Bitches. I had to go wash my eyes. Now the images below, aren't what I wanted but you might need to see them

Cubicle Tales

2008-12-19T07:50:00.001-08:00

Where I work, the men have a special bathroom we reserve for major transactions. The reason being is we frequently have guests in the building and nobody wants to walk into a seriously polluted bathroom before a sales presentation. It's kind of a mood killer.

For the past several months, someone has been stealing all the TP in the Men's Room. Now the only reason we ever go to this room, by necessity, requires the use of toilet paper. Realizing a second too late that there is none can cause major problems. Not too mention if you do catch it in time, you have to do the walk of shame with 4 or 5 rolls in your arms down the hall, past the receptionist,on the elevator and then into the bathroom. Nothing like meeting your 10:15 appt in the elevator, while you have an arm load of TP. "Hey, I'll see you in about 20! Are you ready to be impressed...by my presentation?"

Yuck!

It's bad enough that when the elevator stops, everyone knows you're going to take a shit. After all, the bathroom is the only thing on the floor. But when the elevator stops, and you got off with an armload of toilet paper, every assumes its about to get hella messy in there - like you have Cholera or ate wicked bad Mexican.

For months we assumed girls were raiding our bathroom to stock theirs, because we never saw girls doing the walk of shame. We even hid toilet paper in secret places, and eventually that too turned up missing. I went in there yesterday, to discover the toilet paper I just stocked the day prior was missing. In a rage, I walked into the lady's room, and they had like 20 rolls neatly lined up and ready for immediate use. I took 6, and decided to tell the other guys so we could contemplate and plan our revenge.

Later that day, my boss walked up to me and he had that, "I need to talk to you about something vibe." So I stopped working and asked him what was on his mind. He then proceeded to ask about the bathroom situation and whether I had noticed the toilet paper was missing. I told him I was all over it, I knew who was doing it, and it was game on.

He then said, " No....I've been taking it, because you guys cannot put the toilet paper on the dispenser."

I was shocked. This has been going on for months! Rather than just say, "Hey guys, it bothers me that you don't do X, can you fix it. He deliberately stole TP in some demented, passive aggressive gesture! I could see it being a little funny for a week, but this has been going on for almost a year! This is where I work? How busy is my boss, if he has time for goofy shit like this?

Am I wrong in thinking this is outrageous? See Poll.

Booty: A Call to Action

2008-12-16T08:45:00.000-08:00

From the time we are very young, we obsess over sex. We think about it constantly, even long before we know what it really is. When we finally do get to experience it, we have no clue what to do. A point that is surely much more disappointing to her, than it really is to the young man at the time. The phrase, "That's it?" comes to mind as she ponders what just happened and says a silent goodbye to her dearly departed Flower.

And so most of guys out there enter the world of copulation with, shall we say, something lacking.

Over time, with lots of practice and late night cable, (and for today's generation) the Internet, we get better....or so we think. We get married, we have careers, we have children. Our lives are busy. Yet still the quest continues. Not surprisingly, we still find ourselves coming up short.

It's the weekend. The optimal time for couples to "reconnect." We don't have to go to work, we don't have to get up early the next day. Finally you get the kids to bed. You sit on the couch watching football. Perhaps you didn't bother to shave. You may have forgot to shower. "Fuck it", you said after waking up, "It's Saturday." You're wearing dirty jeans and a nasty t-shirt with food stains on it. Drinking cheap beer and belching loudly while using your fingers for a Q-tip. Occasionally you might fart unapologetic ally, I know I do. By the third High Life, we're all starting think about a little about "Sumpum, Sumpum...you know wut I'm sayin??" Which unfortunately maybe precisely how we phrase it to our respective wives and significant others. Looking over, we realize the object of our affection has fallen asleep.....again.

Yet, we never stop at that moment and seriously wonder why. I mean, look at us in all our manly majesty. Who couldn't wait up for that?! The time has come for change.

Let me be clear here, I am not speaking of a little man-sculpting and a dab of cologne. I preach a more holistic gospel. We have to create an environment that rather than encouraging failure, fosters the successful pursuit of poon. We can no longer seriously expect our women to transition seamlessly from, "Married With Children" to "The Red Shoe Diaries." No more can we Bundy it up all day, and then expect to go David Duchovny all night. We must groom! We must bathe! We must pretend to have manners!

It's not 1953, Gentlemen. If we expect dinner, Men, we must set the table.

Now if you will excuse me, I must go and clip my toe nails.

The Ending of an Era...

2008-12-11T18:38:00.000-08:00

I left work early yesterday to pay my final respects to a bygone age. My friends were in town from Las Vegas for the holidays. As I have joked before, I may be the only person in the 21st Century to have two friends run off to join the circus. In my case, it was the Cirque du Soleil. Two very talented, very fortunate individuals that had the right combination of circumstances and ability and are making the most of it. I couldn't be happier for them.

We had agreed to meet at McDonald's before moving on to the final destination. As I pulled into McDonald's, I could see them ordering while I spent 10 minutes in the car finishing up a phone call. It's funny how time passes and lives change. Yet, somethings don't. As soon as I took my seat at the table, we could have all been 17 again.

Back then we spent nearly every weekend together. Mostly doing really stupid stuff like playing with explosives, making really bad horror movies, sitting around watching 1970's Blaxploitations films. To the day, Black Belt Jones is in my top 10 favorite movies. (YouTube it.....it's fantastic! If you can handle that, try a little Dolomite.) To this day, we can have entire conversations using lines from those movies.

But the Bogarts (look it up, its a BBJ reference...), were here for a special purpose. My good friend, one of my oldest friends, was finally cutting his hair. He had been growing his hair out since I met him in the 9th grade, when he had a mullet. His hair yesterday was long, but thin....real thin. It was probably time. But Rick's hair, for me, was like that last bastion. That last marker of a bygone age. Rick and Carus might have moved to Vegas. Greg might have gone to UK. I might have taken a "real job," had kids and become self absorbed, but I have always had faith that we would always be like we always were. Perhaps it is because I feel like I have changed so much, and Rick has always been....Rick, the very thought of Rick actually cutting his hair was very disturbing to me. Much like our relationship, Rick seemed less upset about the cut than I did. Damn his eternal calmness! I have always despised it as much as I have admired and failingly tried at times to emulate it. The three of us stood there in a circle and heckled him while the stylist did her job. When she was done, Rick had 8 inches of braided hair in his hands and some gel in his hair.

I have to admit, with tremendous relief, Rick didn't look that different. We all sat down over conies and caught up. We told stories. We laughed. I only checked my blackberry once. It was great. The circumstances which brought us all together almost 20 years ago changed as soon as we went to college, but the dynamic that exists between us has not. We grow older, our lives evolve. I would be a liar if I said our paths were convergent. But it's good to know that in spite of our very different lives, the connection is there, and it will always be there. Even if Rick's hair isn't.

You Lazy Bastards...

2008-12-02T09:01:00.000-08:00

I had just finished up a killer presentation. I was all excited when I hit print key and was very eager to review it with the sales person. I was already wishing I was the one making the call and thinking about the look on the buyer's face when I dropped this bad boy on him. I rushed over to the printer and....Nothing.

What the...? I looked at the display screen.

"Tray L1 empty, please load.....Tray L1 empty, please load...."

Son of Bitch! I grabbed some paper, reloaded the machine and walked away

I thought I might as well grab a glass of water while I waited for my print job to complete. I approached the water cooler warily, for I could see it was low. Actually it was empty as I discovered after pulling the valve. Well, not completely empty, I think some dust and cobweb rolled out. I decided to check down into coffee, but a glaring red light and empty carafe greeted me.

Dammit! Who does this things? Its bad enough to drink the last cup, but to not make more and leave the coffee maker on is a crime against humanity. I am sure its in the Geneva Conventions somewhere...

I flipped off the coffee maker. For that matter, I also turned it off, and then proceeded to rip off the empty jug from the cooler. I went down the hall and carried a new jug in, reloaded the cooler and poured myself a glass.

All this exercise and moving around, got other things moving and so I stopped to go to the bathroom, and that's when it happened.

The Hat Trick!

In the history of the office only I have achieved the Dubious Distinction that is the Hat Trick!

There, hanging limply on the dispenser, was an empty toilet paper roll. Not just empty. Stripped completely bare! Not even a scrap of white adorning it's ugly, corrugate face.

In the span of 1 hour, I personally reloaded the printer, refilled the water cooler and restocked the bathroom. It's unheard of.

You people I work with everyday... You Lazy Bastards!

You are officially on notice!

The List (With Commentary)

2008-11-27T04:37:00.000-08:00

Happy Thankgiving!

I am sitting at the table, looking at my 1/3 completed tile floor in the main room. By some serious fallacy of judgement, we decided to invite people over today for dinner. Dinner in a construction zone...how charming. It did get me thinking that no matter what, something will always be going on with this house, so really if I wanted until I was done, it'd be 20 or 30 years before someone came over.

Jill and I went to dinner a friend's home last week. It was a lovely home, very clean. Completely decorated - probably less than 4 years old. There were no hammers lying on the kitchen table, no mortary footprints on the hardwood, and their garage didn't look like a contractor's storage area. Actually it looked sanitary - like an ER. The whole thing was depressing. I hate them.

It makes me think of all the things I need to do here. Here's an abbreviated list for your reading pleasure. I accept donations of time and material.

1) Finish Slate Floor in Living Room - OK. Real slate - completely irregular. Some pieces are really thick, some are much thinner. They're not necessarily square. Its totally free style - throw the spacers out and just start laying down stones and hope that grout fixes all. Scary. I hope it looks good, because this floor is literally set in stone.

2) Fix almost every door in house: All of a sudden the doors in my house don't close. I'm not sure if the house is settling or preparing to fall down around my ears. All I know is a bedroom door that doesn't close with a 5 year old in the house is like playing Russian Roulette with the Kid's Psyche. "Mom...What's Daddy doing to you?" That would be a mojo killer for all of us, I think.

3) Fix the master bathroom: How does a supposed nice house have the Master Bath of a Flop House? Cheap Ass Light fixture with 4 out of 6 bulbs working. Shower Stall with a door we have to wedge shut with an old razor handle, and a floor that creaks and groans as if to say, "If you eat one more piece of cake, you're going through this fucking floor. In fact, you better move the couch to catch your fat ass - because its going to happen." And a toilet that only flushes when it damn well pleases. Oh and big blue and pink vagina-flower wall paper - ick. That has to go.

4) Window Coverings: We're cheap, and one of things we never got around to doing is putting blinds or drapes in the front windows. Only because there were bigger fish to fry and we were unsure of our decor intents for those room. Big Mistake. Apparently our neighbors monitor our every move, and discuss the latest intel over their dinner table. This past weekend, I received some technique tips from my neighbor, who thought I was going about a project all wrong. How helpful.....does he have any other technique advice he wants to share? Maybe a little something for me and the Missus?

5) Replace Exterior Wood Paneling: Here's a good idea for all you aspiring builders out there. Use MDF to build exterior wood panelling. It handles moisture very well - in fact it's like a big fucking brown sponge. I replaced one column this fall, I have one additional column and then several sections of bad panelling and trim on the bump out. The bump out also contains part of the Master Bath - so maybe its just the whole thing is bad. Like an cancer slowly spreading from the Bump Out, into the Master Bath, out to the bed room door and then down the stairs to slowly dissolve everything to crap. Maybe the house is falling down...

6) Garage Door: I was in the garage the other day when I heard a rattle, a groan, and then a slapping-boingy sound. Then I ducked because something was flying through the air. Turns out, it was a door spring. Can you buy those?

That's enough for now...any more and I'll contemplate arson.

That Was Stupid....

2008-11-23T03:30:00.000-08:00

Did you ever do something, where even as the idea formulated in your brain, you instinctively knew it was a bad idea? But yet despite the warning bells going off in your head, you did it anyway.

Yeah, well. I looked at my 401K yesterday. Holy........Shit.

I knew it would be bad, but I couldn't buy a bottle of cheap whiskey and a cheaper whore with what's left! (I guess like the rest of America, I'll be making some tough decisions in the future...)

Now here's what pisses me off. When the Market was booming in the late 1990's, I worked at a restaurant. When I got a check, which was rare, I contributed $15.00 a week. The company didn't match. I had no idea what fund out of the three we had to choose from to use, so I just did whatever. Every quarter, no matter which lousy fund I had my money it, it grew at like 20%. That money actually became my down payment for my first house. And I was sold on the concept of investing.

Now I work in a real job, with a better pay check. I believe (d?) in the 401-K concept so I put at least 10% of my salary away. I study the funds. I re-balance. I diversify. One year ago today, after being employed for almost 8 years, I ran the numbers and thought that by the end of 2010, at the latest, I would have 6 figures stashed away. And I felt great! I was delusional.

The closest thing I'm getting to six figures now would be the Star Wars guys in my son's toy room.

The market rallies one day and plummets the next. There's no real rhyme or reason to it. Everyone says its going to get worse, and I tend to believe them. Through every high, and more frequently every low, I keep telling myself that I am buying at a value price. The Market, I reason, is undervalued. I resist the urge to slash my contribution or move what's left into a safer sector. First of all, is there one? Second of all, I move that money and I realize all those losses and basically give up on getting it back. I can't do that yet.

When you get into a 401K, you hear a lot about maximizing matching funds, give yourself a raise first, research etc. But my favorite is: Invest in the Long Term! The reason being even though the market fluctuates, the average gain is 8% over time. Even in periods of retraction, the market typically wins back its losses in less than two years.

You financial bastards better be right. I'm a Maker's Mark kinda guy, and this Kentucky Tavern stuff is killing me!

Dear Jim: I'm sorry, I'm leaving.

2008-11-15T04:01:00.000-08:00

It's been a long, brutal election cycle. The new President isn't even in office, and the opposition is already posturing for 2012. I've seen Palin's and Romney's face as much in the past week as I have heading into the election. As a nation, we've become hyper-politicized. Unfortunately, it's changed everything. We used to consciously avoid political discourse in polite conversation. We didn't want the public at large to associate us as a Democrat or a Republican. Media outlets went to great lengths to avoid any type of real or perceived bias. We treated politics like we treat religion - you're free to vote, or belief as you like but keep it to yourselves. We were all just citizens.

But now I find, bias is everywhere. You cannot buy a cup of coffee without having a political statement printed on the cup. Everywhere you turn, there's a bumper sticker, a T-shirt. You pick your news channel based on what brand of politics you prefer. I thought the news, was the news. But we're not consuming news anymore, we're consuming commentary - and we want our commentators to mirror our beliefs. You disregard news from sources you don't prefer. Depending on which side you lean to, Fox News or the New York times is either the last remaining pillar of civilization or the a virtual fountain of lies and propaganda. The urge by media or companies to appeal to the center, I think has been replaced by an urge to sell a split electorate.

Fox News wants the red states and millions of voted for McCain, and so they load up with programing to appeal to those viewers - its newsertainment, and MNSBC does the same thing on the other side. And they can both make ton's of money doing so.

I'm not sure politics as a marketing strategy is a healthy idea. I'm not sure that's the way to heal partisanship and bring this country together. By continually focusing on what makes us different, we lose all the things which tie this whole country together. I'm also not comfortable with the Politicization of Truth. Our facts sets depend on which side we're on. We pick and choose from the all available facts to build our chases. Shouldn't we use all the facts? Shouldn't media outlets report the entire story, not just the part that sells? What are the long term effects of a society that gets its information filtered to suit their tastes? Shouldn't we form our opinions and make our decisions on the sometimes hard, uncomfortable, and distasteful facts? I fear over time, this trend will make us a more narrow minded society - on both sides.

The alarm woke me up yesterday morning and Jim Scott was on the radio. I've listened to Jim for 10 years. In recent months I've noticed that his political commentary has become more and more pronounced. Every news story has a personal slant from Jim. Snarky, Sarcastic, Biting. The guests have a more political slant. On Election Day he interviewed Ted Nugent, who certainly is qualified to weigh in all things political, and Ted used his 50,000 watts and 30 seconds of air time to call Barak Obama a Socialist.

I don't mind that Jim Scott (or Ted Nugent) has an opinion. I don't mind that he doesn't agree with me. I'm used to it. Most people around me don't. But I don't want New-Sertainment at six in the morning. I don't want to be sold at 6:00am, and I don't want to buy at 6:00am. I could care less if it was Jim Scott, or Al Franken bashing on Sarah Palin. Either way, it's too damn early! I want the news. I want the weather. I want the traffic. And I want cheezy old Jim Scott working in his silly, old school Select Comfort Commercials. But I cannot do it anymore. I changed the station.

Today I switched to NPR. I was afraid there would be snarky commentary from a left perspective. Instead is was calm, news reporting with no commentary. Perhaps because NPR is a non-profit program, they haven't felt the urge to chase a demographic. You might be thinking, NPR is essentially liberal radio, but I didn't hear that. They did cover much more international news. It wasn't as business focused as WLW was. They didn't do Traffic and Weather on the Ten's - which I missed dearly. But it wasn't partisan.

I'm sorry Jim Scott, but we're through.

Things That Outrage Me...

2008-11-10T08:52:00.000-08:00

It's been awhile since I've went on a rant. It's been a while since I've taken the time to call some people out. It's been....to0 long. A lot of bullshit's been going down, and I've got a shovel. So...

I overheard someone today say, that if they took into account last year's weather and temperatures, that it would disprove global warming. That was annoying, but what he said next outraged me. And I quote, " Its so silly to think that anything we could do, would cause global warming or.....hurt this planet." I almost jumped from my chair. I must also add, that the person spouting this garbage working in the organic department of a major grocery store, trying to convince other people to buy recycled products, sustainable goods etc. See the disconnect???

And we're off!

1) Listen up, Moron! One year cannot make or break a trend. See definition of trend. I don't have time to provide it. Also, neither can one continent, region, zip code or church parking lot. There's a reason its called Global Warming, not Kentucky Warming, or 45202 Warming.

2) As for Man not being able to hurt planet. Sit Down and Listen. Since you seem to repeat whatever you hear from Fox news, or Rush or whatever "non-biased" source you pick and choose from, I need you to please realize that some of I what I will cite, relies on Scientific Research. I know this is a scary thought for you. You've spent several years insulating yourself from Science. But I assure you, Science is your friend. Science's best friends are Learning, Rationality and best of all....Measurable Data. It makes your cars go faster, makes you medicines, lifted us out of the Dark Ages and also helps us better understand ourselves, the world we live in and our relationship to it.

Now I know that God gave the planet to Adam, and it's been handed down for thousands of years until it's in your chubby, non grateful hands. My only comment there is, if you truly belief that story, then why would you belittle anyone or anything that wants to take better care of God's Gift to you.

Wait...I know why....its because you are a hypocrite. Big Head-Slap over here People! And an even bigger, "Duh!" I guess we all should have seen that one coming!

But I digress, in my ranting. Here are few examples of man's adverse effect on the planet, or what I like to call, examples of bad stewardship. In no particular order:

Strip Mining, Superfund Sites, floating islands of garbage in the Pacific, Chernobyl, Trace amounts of synthetic material in ground water, Ozone Layer deterioration, Acid Rain, increasing rates of cancer and autism, increased extinction rates of animals across planet. I don't have time to hot link all these now. I am also sure there is much more and better examples I could use, but I'm pressed for time and still a little pissed.

Now that's just detailing man's negative effect on the planet. I could go off like Mount Vesuvius on global warming and bury your sorry ass is cloud of ash 10 feet deep. "Scientists" called "Archaeologists "would find you hundreds of years from now and undoubtedly would deduce from little things they like to call "Facts"that you are not just an ignorant jackass, but the worse kind, that being a purposefully ignorant jackass!

And yes, I am a Captain Planet, and yes I believe that we can by our actions and choices do good or bad to our communities, the people around us and the ground on which which stand. I'm not perfect, I live in a big house and I drive to work everyday. I own an SUV. But I do what I can, I recycle, I compost, I try to make my house as energy efficient as possible, I use those stupid canvas bags. It's not much, but its a start. The first step is admitting there's a problem, how much progress can we make if we cannot agree on that?

Taking Back Sunday

2008-10-29T09:52:00.001-07:00

Most you know that I am an ardent Bengal fan. You can insert any joke here that you want about their current record (win/loss or prison), coaching (or lack thereof) or players (or the pack of Girl Scouts impersonating real NFL players) , or ownership(I really cannot comment further...I'm too tired) . I have heard it all before, and repeated most of it...yet for some reason, I am a season ticket holder.

Going to the games in a year like this is horrible, but since you pay months in advance, you kind of resign yourself to it. You show up late, you leave earlier, you divest yourself emotionally and you hope for better next year. You play the Barge Game or the Escalator Game to pass the time. (The Barge Game is where you bet which direction a barge will pass, in what quarter, and what type. I.e.: 1st quarter, heading east, a coal barge. Whereas the Escalator Game is where players take bets on when the escalators will turn from up...to down. Start of 4th quarter is always a good bet, but the bold can sometimes reach for late in the 3rd quarter)

The real bummer is Away Games, where you have this beautiful HD TV set up. All summer long you look forward to and make plans to drink beer and eat nachos and watch football. But when they're this bad, you don't want to. If you do, 4:00 comes around and you realize you've wasted your day. You're pissed. You thought today might be the day. They have to win sooner or later..... recent seasons have shown us you might sit through 10, 11 horrible games to get that one win. People...it's not worth it!!!

This season, rather than watch on TV, I decided to do something positive. As a symbol of what life could be like, if we didn't invest ourselves every year into this terrible team. Something I could look at for years and say, "All this....because I took back my Sunday." And we can. We can all take back our Sunday. We can lift ourselves up from the wretchedness that is our existence as fans, and look forward to Sunday once again.

Here is how. Pick a project...any project. Put the game on the radio if you must, but come kick-off, abandon the TV and start working. Maybe it's painting a room, mowing the yard, staining a deck. Something physical that says, "I didn't waste my time."

Maybe they'll be better next year, maybe they'll be worth the investment of time. But not this year. My project is the dining room. My wife and I laid a tile floor on Sundays. Call it... Fan Therapy. The first step is always admitting you have a problem.

Here goes, I'm a little nervous.

Hi! My name's Chris, and I am a Bengal's fan. I have been in recovery for 9 weeks. This is my project.

Shopping...Because I'm a Black Tie Kinda Guy.

2008-10-21T17:41:00.000-07:00

This weekend I get the rare opportunity to wear a tuxedo. I have wore a tuxedo exactly 4 times in my life, all of them were when I was under the age of 21. My wife's firm is having a big black tie/formal wear gala. This event forced Jill to look for the perfect gown and me to go shopping for a rented tux.

First of all, why isn't there places that let you rent designer gowns? Aside from fit issues, I believe a large part of it is stigma. A woman wouldn't be caught dead in a rented outfit, yet most men wouldn't dare purchase a tuxedo. But I say...James Bond doesn't rent shit. He either buys it, steals it, or fucks you until you give it to him for free. But...I'm not 007, so I'm renting. But I digress.

I want to talk about how different the process was for Jill and myself as we prepared for the Gala.

For Jill's dress, we looked at fabrics, hemlines, backs, fit and finish. It had to be long and slinky....but not too slinky. Her firm had sent out full color, multipage guidelines for his and her outfits. No little black dresses, nothing too short, these colors were in, these colors were out. There was lots of selection and lots of guidance, plenty of helpful sales associates.

At the local men's store, I looked at a laminated 9 page catalogue, half of the tuxedos were suitable for rap videos and maybe Junior Prom. The Clerk couldn't have been less knowledgeable or less interested in helping me to avoid looking like I was going to Junior Prom. While I didn't read the emails regarding men's wear from her firm, I can assume white tux with matching bowler hats and canes are not the look they want. But....peak lapels or no peaks? 1...2....3 button? What about the pants? Actually seeing or trying on a given tux would be nice, after all they only have nine styles....but no. He couldn't even bring himself to get up to measure me, he had some girl do it.

My whole experience lasted 15 minutes, and I have to say I feel cheated. Jill on the other hand, spent hours.

My wife went to no less than 6 different places and travelled well over 50 miles searching for the perfect dress. I went to one place, and took what they gave me.

Now I know what you're thinking, "You're a man, what's the problem?"

Here's the problem. If I look like a douchebag in a rented tux Saturday night, it's going to take more than a few free Manhattan's and several eye fulls of 65 year old cleavage to make me feel better. Jill had the opportunity to try on several dresses, go to several different retailers and ultimately pick a dress. Now she may have picked out of exhaustion, or despair but it was her choice. I feel like I was herded into a narrowing shoot and then assigned a tux.

Maybe that's fine....maybe it's better...but if I run the risk of looking like a dolt, I want more control. I want complete responsibility.

I pick the tux up tomorrow. Maybe I'll post pictures for some feedback.

The Fart Rule

2008-10-08T14:37:00.000-07:00

Being a parent is much more involved than I imagined it ever could be. There is no such thing as autopilot, or taking plays off. You cannot assume that kids will just grasp what seems to you like simple concepts, or that their senses are attuned to the subtle differences between two things.

Take my son for example. We have been having a really rough time with sporadic accidents. Disturbingly, these accidents had been increasing as of late. And they weren't of the urine-variety. Let's just say, I've been going through a lot of Shout on laundry day. Clearly he is too old for this behavior.

Initially I assumed it was laziness or distraction. Maybe he was too busy playing. He always tells me he just didn't make it in time. We tried to shame him and warn him that other kids might make fun of him. I was beginning to worry he had some sort of colonic issue, but then I began to think like a little boy.

Question: What's really funny to a 5 year old boy?

The Answer: Farts.

What might happen if you're trying to force out a fart to impress other 5 year olds?

The Answer: A Shart

Shart(verb) def. To accidentally crap one's pants in the process of farting.
Sentence example: We have to leave now....I think I just sharted.

I tested this theory with a bed side chat, man to man with my son. I have to be honest, this wasn't the 1st serious farther-son conversation I envisioned having. Be that as it may, we discussed the chronology of his accidents in detail and my shart theory seemed to resonate.

In response, we devised The Fart Rule. The Fart Rule eliminates confusion that exists between where a fart ends and a crap begins. A border that my son apparently has issues perceiving.

The Fart Rule: (i) Henceforth it is mandated that when the urge to fart is felt, we are to immediately and without hesitation head to the nearest restroom. (ii) There is no be no penalty for false alarms. (iii) Failure to follow said rule, may result in the unfortunate label of Mr. Poopey Pants following offender well into Junior High.

Its been several days now, and I have seen marked improvement. That is to say, his underwear has been relatively unmarked. He came home today all excited. "No accidents today Dad, it was a close one, but I followed the Fart Rule"

Its not a family moment Norman Rockwell would have painted, but it was a moment.

Compassion is for Pussies

2008-10-04T05:35:00.000-07:00

I have a cat named Gary. No...I didn't name him after Sponge Bob's snail. I had a dickhead neighbor when I was kid named Gary. Since then, I've never met another Gary that I liked. In fact, the name Gary is a stand in for anyone you're kind of stuck with but don't have much affection for. Gary is somebody you don't want around. I don't want this cat. I cannot get rid of him. He is Gary.

Gary doesn't use the litter box 100% of the time. Let's be honest, Gary only uses the litterbox when he damn well feels like it. I've got 3 litter boxes, which are cleaned regularly. I feed him special food from the vet. He has no underlying medical reason for his behavior, my vet gave me some bullshit explanation of "seasonal urinary disorder." Apparently he sees a lot of this type of behavior in October. I said, "Cool. Then what the fuck's wrong with him in September, August, June.....oh there was March, and July....." Then he tried to sell me even more expensive food. It doesn't mean anything, there's no reason. Gary don't care. He'll piss on your floor and then hack up a hairball on your table. That's how he rolls.

I'm in the process of laying a new tile floor to replace a carpet which he utterly and completely destroyed. He pissed on my new subfloor within hours of having it laid. And then took a crap in the center for good measure. That's his way of saying, "Whatever, I own this motherfuckin' joint."

Such provocation. So much justifiable cause. I want so desperately to be rid of him. But getting rid of cat that has litterbox issues is impossible. My parent's won't even take him as an outside cat! He's Gary. And so the moral delima rages. I could scoop him up and take him to the pound right now. I wouldn't have to throttle the life out of him with my bare hands, they would kill him for me after a few days. I could comfort my children with the notion that some happy family picked him up. It's perfect. Yet I hesitate.

I squirm at the thought of being directly responsible for the death of an animal. I don't want the look of reproach and disappointment from my wife, or the clerks at the SPCA. Hey, I'm not a bad pet owner! I have 2 rescue dogs and 3 cats. I just want to give back one. I've done my part. I saved my share. You cannot save them all. Gary is clearly beyond redemption. I haven't known one Gary to ever change. This one won't either. But I cannot bring myself to pull the trigger.

The Conspiracy

2008-09-29T11:00:00.001-07:00

(This was written in the summer of 2007. I am posting it here for the first time for a comrade in arms. Thanks for the saw, Doug!)

I am a home owner. Or as the saying goes, the home owns me. Taking out a mortgage is somewhat like buying yourself into slavery. Would people clamour and shop for just the right loan, at just the right interest rate and look for the just the right neighborhood with just the right house if they really understood the reality of the transaction? I am not even really talking about the monetary slavery that we willing run towards like lemmings to the sea. After all it’s the American dream…and we sign our names on the dotted line. The real nature of the servitude is not the money, no… I submit that it’s the incessant demands of the house itself.

Yet I am not alone in my confinement. My enslavement isn’t individual in nature, it’s a way of life for most of the country. A lifestyle propagated and encouraged by our peers, the government, lending institutions and major retailers. It’s a conspiracy, a sham and damned con-job. How bitter is the irony that the very instrument of our slavery is seen as a symbol of our independence? It’s been cleverly woven it into our world view, our very ideals of the “good life.” Home ownership is seen as a rite of passage, a sign of financial security.

I can see the room full of powerful men, a secret society that quietly behind the scenes runs the entire country. They are thinking of ways to retain their power when someone suggests, “The tattered masses will be too busy to revolt, if they know they have to paint the fence this weekend!” The Freemasons or whomever they are chuckle in their secret lair as they count their money.

I remember when I moved in to my current home and I thought, “WOW! I’ll have to put my tools away – I’ll never need them here!” I was like a teenager in love, and I was completely blind to any faults the object of my affection might have. When you first move in, you see nothing but the glittering potential.

“One day we’ll get new countertops!!,” you exclaim breathlessly.

After a few months of living together, the veneer begins to peel away.

“Why does this door stick?”

“Why is the basement flooding?”

“How many different types light bulbs does this fucking house have and are they having a contest to see how many can burn out at once?

And then there is the outdoors.

“25 god damned flower beds and the only thing that grows well are the fucking weeds!”

“I swear to God, if that pool doesn’t clear up, I’m going to fill it with sand.”

“Well, at least crabgrass could be construed as a type of grass.”

I admit that part of the problem is the current American obsession with DIY, or Do-It-Yourself. Home Depot seduces you with the tag line, “You can do it, we can help!” (The clever co-conspiritors!!) I admit to being susceptible to this message. I even subscribe to Handyman Magazine, and I have Peg Board up in my garage to organize my ever burgeoning tool collection! I am embarrassed at just how desperate and lame I have become. But how could I not! Consider my heritage! Take the fact that my Dad can do just about anything when it comes to “home improvement”. He was doing DIY when most guys in the 80’s where busy buying Members Only Jackets! I swear to God if we dropped him in the woods with an ax, a hammer and a crate of nails he would have erected a 10,000 square foot cabin, with running water and electricity up within a week. I would stop by to check on the progress and he would have already started a putting green right off the massive, fresh-stained back deck. How do you keep up with that? (The answer, I am beginning to discover is…you cannot!)

Why do you think immigration is such a hot topic now? The Free Mason, Illuminati, String-Pulling, WASP Bastards, know that the Mexicans waiting outside Home Depot represent for many of us homeowners, our only hope at ever getting caught up. They are like soldiers for hire in our struggle for true independence. Soldiers who work very…very cheap. For a hundred bucks and a sack of McDonalds, I could get 9 or 10 things off my list in one day! With Jesus and Hector by our sides, I and the countless other home owners have a chance. But that chance is perceived at being to dangerous to those in control, and so each day the INS rounds up thousands of willing soldiers and sends them home, and a few more miles of fence go up. Soon they will all be gone! The Cabal will sleep better at night and middle class, home owning America will toil on alone.

Sometimes I wake up in the morning and as I look around the house and all I see are things which need to be done. I begin to make a mental list and as it grows longer my mood darkens.

“Look at that bullshit! There must be a leak in the master bath shower….I wonder how long this fridge is going to last, look at this goddamned carpet…disgusting, I have to replace it, that curtain rod is loose. Scratches in hard wood floors…..”

My wife will come down and see the look on my face, “ What is wrong with you? Oh Chris! Dammit! Don’t tell me you’re thinking about the house again. I can’t handle this today!”

She half threatens, half pleads.

“I can’t help it!” I explain, “Look at this…this….crap shack! We’re living like animals!! I could work on this house everyday for my entire life and never be done! ”

I jump up and grab my keys.

“Where are you going?!” she asks chasing me down the hallway towards the front door.

“I have to find some Mexicans before its too late!” I shout as I head for the car.

At this point it is appropriate to feel pity for my wife. She’s a very talented, intelligent woman who happened to marry a very strange man. Well….A strange man who happens to be on to this massive charade in which we all live.

In the end, it’s the constant erosion of time that gets you. For even if you do repair every little thing, update and improve all the flowerbeds, doorknobs, faucets and counters, you realize that the Unholy Cabal enslaving us, has a silent partner in their venture. A devious and cunning addition…Time itself. Time is the catalyst, it’s the hand that stirs the pot. Even as we sleep it continues to work, undoing what we have done and creating new projects. Its like a malignant currency in which we trade and barter through out our daily lives. The constant balancing act between Work, Family and Home Improvement.

“I cannot tackle that project today! Our kid has baseball practice and we are supposed to go the park today.” There is always a reason, always a commitment that keeps you from tackling the List. Time snickers at us as we back out of the garage. I look in as the door rolls shut and add another item to the list, “This garage is trashed, I have got to organize that!”

I have two great hopes in my personal revolution. For the only way to win, is to finish. The only way to finish is to get help. And if I cannot find a Mexican, then there is only one other way. Thus, my great remaining hopes. One is my son Jonathan. He is only 4 right now, but I hope one day to enlist him in my battle. He could weed, mow and skim the pool, maybe do some cleaning inside as well. That will allow me to focus on the stuck door, the leaking shower and the cracking chimney. Maybe I’ll even get to that damned garage! The other hope currently resides in my wife’s belly with an anticipated arrival date of October. Sometime as I set on the couch, with my wife by my side, surveying the crap shack I pat her stomach.

“Bring me a son!” I think to myself. “It’s our only hope. With two son’s and myself, I just might have a chance.” I glance across the room and see a light bulb has just burned out, I mentally revise my list for 9th time that evening.

Even in my greatest hope, the seeds of my destruction lie. It takes years to make a child truly useful in this epic battle, and by then they may be too “busy” with school or college or girls or whatever to help their old man out. Even what help they do bring will be begrudging. They’ll never be true believers. It will never be a personal struggle for them. That is, until it’s too late and the cycle repeats itself with them.

I can see Jonathan with his future wife now, touring developments with a realtor Realtors are also in on this scam big time.

“ My dad used to do all sorts of projects and I would help. We can fix this place up!”

His sweetie will hug him and silently think about how lucky she is to have a beau who is good with his hands.

My Dad used to tell me, between expletives as he worked on my childhood home, “ Don’t ever by an old goddamn house!” He should have said, “ Don’t ever buy a house!” But it wouldn’t have mattered. I didn’t listen to him and my son won’t listen to me.

Black Wednesday

2008-09-27T05:00:00.001-07:00

I recently started back at work full time, in the office. I quickly realized that after taking a year off, I was running really low on work-appropriate clothes. My shirts were stained, ratty or both and all my pants were worn looking and fit kinda funny. I looked like a homeless guy impersonating an office worker.

So I met up with my wife for lunch and we went on a shopping trip. Shopping for me has always been pretty easy. I've worn the same size clothes for like 15 years. I quickly went through the racks, picked out some clothes and headed for the dressing room. That's when it all went wrong.

I tried the first pair of pants. Hmmmm...a little tight....must be the brand.

I tried the next pair of pants......Are you sure this is the right size?? I quickly checked the label and confirmed that yes...the pants were my size.

I tried the third pair. I thought, "You have got to be fucking kidding me!" I tried sucking in, but that wasn't an effective long term solution. I reflected on the number of times since I started working again that I had untucked my shirt and taken my belt off in the car on the way home, then raced to change immediately on entering the house. It wasn't the old pants...nothing shrunk. It was me.

Do they make grown up pants in Husky sizes????

My wife, aware of the lapse in time since I had gone in there, tapped on the door, "Everything OK?"

Never...in my life, since maybe I was 16 did I have to utter these word....

"Uhhhh.....(deep breath)....I think I need the next size up."

Not that anybody does....but I really don't want a gut. For as long as I can remember, I have always been able to eat whatever the hell I want, and still wear my pants from 10 years ago. Its more than just a pants size, it's a lifestyle. A bag of Keebler Chocolate Lovers Cookies and 12 pack of High Life a week, limited exercise - that's how I roll. I don't want to diet and I don't want to feel compelled to exercise.

As my wife searched for the Husky size, I began to hear murmers and sounds reverberating through the changing area.

It was every other boring, overweight and underpaid sales guy with a gut and an ugly shirt saying, " Welcome to the Club! What took you so long?....Want a Twinkie? Have I told you about my Fantasy Football team yet? "

It was the sound of thousands of attractive women getting a little more disinterested. Assuming of course they could be any less interested in a 30 something, married, bald guy with outrageous debt and bad teeth.

It was the Grim Reaper snickering from the other stall, laughing at the passing of my invincibility. "I've been waiting for you..." he commented with an outstretched boney finger.

My wife dutifully returned with the next size. Much to my dismay, they fit. In fact, they felt great.

Time to find some ugly shirts.

Product Review: The Dual Fan

2008-09-25T09:25:00.000-07:00

If you find yourself in need of fan, as I did this past weekend, allow me to help you in your selection.

Target had this little gem (the fan on the left...) on sale along with all their other fans. It priced just under $30.00 and offers the unique benefit of being two fans in one, which you can position independently to draw air flow. The picture on the box sold me, as it depicted a Kama Sutra-esque montage of positions you could use depending on your specific cooling needs. I was interested by the one showing the Kneeling Camel Position, which is where the fan being placed at the bottom of stairs, has the top fan reaching skyward and bottom fan angled slightly upwards....I know.....dirty.

Right away, when I removed it from the box, which was easily 3 ft tall and 2 feet wide, I was underwhelmed by the size. The package was approx 45 % Styrofoam by volume. What emerged was two tiny little fans, the bottom one you cannot even swivel! But I thought perhaps... little fan, big heart. After plugging it in and putting in position, I discovered I can move more air hyperventilating while watching Kim Kardashian dance.

In summary....a double fan does not a good fan make. For that matter, two small fans, does not a big fan equal. However, Kim on Dancing With Stars does me, a fan make. Is that proper grammar???

The Games Kids are Playing these days...

2008-09-19T04:54:00.000-07:00

During dinner conversation my son told us he was playing a game called "Pinch Your Weenie!" at school today. On further discussion, and after I shot water out my nose, the game is exactly what you think it is, only it was a girl running around pinching the boy's weenies. They of course were running away and trying avoid the Weenie Pinch. I think that's logical. It doesn't sound like a good idea to me.

However, I want that girl's full name. If Jonathan's smart, he'll remember this as well. By the time they get to high school....she could be a lot of fun. Maybe to much fun...I cannot wait until he starts dating, and I can say, " So Sport, whatcha gonna do with Donna tonight, play a little Pinch the Weenie? You used to love that game back in the day. Donna, what you think? Are you a fan?"

Yup...that ought to mortify him and her.

How Long has it Been?

2008-09-16T05:30:00.000-07:00

In the spirit of the blog, http://www.thingsyoungerthanmccain.com/, I started thinking about how much the world has changed since the Bengals last won a playoff game. My first pick... Russia.

The USSR dissolved in 1991 and when the dust settled we were left with Russia, Ukriane and a handful of Baltic states. Which paved the way for our current diplomatic crisis over Georgia. So there you go Bengal fans, our new/old enemy Russia is newer than the last playoff win.

Disturbance on Cincinnati Streets!!!

2008-09-12T08:48:00.001-07:00

You all know I am highly anxious to say the least about Sunday's game. A stange thing happened to me a few minutes ago when I was walking downtown. As I walked through Fountain Square, I saw wrappers, paper cups, all sorts of garbage being blown south towards the river. Which was weird, because it wan't that windy. I crossed over and walked up towards Main, and the garbage was rolling more Southwest. How curious I thought, after all the wind hadn't changed directions.

I started to follow a Skyline cup, as it rolled down Main and then took a right onto 4th....What the Hell is going on here? As I continued to walk, I saw more and more trash, garbage and detritus rolling along, all in the same direction. I followed the flow to 3rd street, and that's when it hit me.

It wasn't the wind blowing the trash, it was some sort of enormous vacuum emanating from PBS. The suckiness of it, it was so strong, it was pulling all the garbage into the stadium area. Then I noticed, all the leaves on the trees sorta pointed towards PBS, the blades of grass all leaned towards it too, the clouds seemed to dip a little lower in the sky immediately above the stadium, birds wouldn't fly over it.....

Strangest thing I have ever seen.

Do you think this is a bad omen for Sundays game???

A Vince Young Moment

2008-09-11T11:17:00.000-07:00

As my Mother will tell you, I've been hurtin' for a while now. I've been hit pretty hard by how poorly we played this past weekend. The looming home opener on my mind kept me from sleeping last night. I decided, impulsively to go for a drive. I forgot my cell phone. Strange that I should have found myself on the Roebling Bridge, holding my season tickets.
Even stranger, the next thing I know, Marvin's there! He came with the Police, a Psychiatrist, a Negotiator and Mike Brown!

"Why are you here?" I asked.

"Your family is concerned about you. They were afraid you might do something rash. Put the tickets down, son." Mike smiled at me encouragingly.

Meanwhile, Marvin was screaming at me," YOU DO WHAT YOU HAVE TO DO!!"

Mike Brown, wrestled past the Police Line, and pleaded for me to please place my tickets on the ground. "Don't do anything rash!" he counselled.

"But Mike....Marvin..." I stammered, "I'm just so tired. It's been so long! I don't know if I can do it anymore! What happened to the O-line?"

As I said that, I sub consciously extended my arms, my tickets flapping in the late night breeze, dangling above the muddy waters of the Ohio.

"I won't even get face value for these....WHY...Oh God....Why did I commit to the seat license!"
Marvin laughed inappropriately, "If you are a fan, be a fan!"

And the laugh is what saved me. For there right next to me was Mike Brown. The whole time Mike had been creeping ever so closer, his pruney fingers ever so slowly getting closer and closer to the tickets. Distracted by the flashing lights and calming voice of the negotiator, I hadn't even seen him! Twelve hours later, it still creeps me out to think of how fast....how sneaky he was.
I stepped away and jerked the tickets back, just before they fell in his grasp!

"You dirtballs! You tried to take advantage of me.....AGAIN! You're not here to help!"

I stuffed the tickets back into my pocket and backed away. The Police quickly surrounded me. After a few nods of sympathy, and a brief conversation with the Negotiator, who offered be $30.00 for my two seats (he has friends in Memphis), I was released.

Marvin and Mike, of course, will chalk this whole incident up to a big misunderstanding. Which in a way it was, I mis-understood the direction the team was going in I guess. I'm still going to the game on Sunday, but I might watch it from behind my hands. I'm scared of what I might see. But I'm not unloading my tickets just yet. One things for sure, don't underestimate Mikey....he's sneaky-fast! He got us all once and he almost got me a second time last night!

Bengals Game 1: Its Not Their Fault

2008-09-08T08:49:00.000-07:00

Everything that can be said about Sunday's game, has been said and will be repeated through out the week. From the weary "What else did you really expect?" to the "Blame Brat!" to of course, "Its all Mike Brown's fault." Marvin claims we were out-played and there are no excuses. Being a delusional season ticket holder, I cannot accept that we are as bad the pre-season and game one showed us to be. Therefore, I NEED excuses to keep me from going off the deep end and realizing the amount of money I have and will continue to waste this year. So, here is my excuses for why they played so poorly.

1. We didn't know the Ravens could run that fast and hit that hard. I mean the Raven's hit really, really hard. I know they have pads and all, but I was intimidated watching on TV. And they way they went after Carson....they're not suppossed to do that!

2. We had a really good game plan coming into the game...in fact it was awesome, its just that the Raven's didn't do what they were supposed to do. What are we supposed to do...make adjustments? Come on ! That's not the coaching staff's fault, tip you hat to the other sideline I guess.

3. Chad couldn't wear his new jersey, and that was very upsetting for the whole team. I'm suprised they had the heart to even take the field.

4. It was very, very loud in that stadium and and we couldn't hear the blitz coming, sure they had 8 guys on the line with 4 of them pointing right at Levi - but we never heard them coming. The commissioner should make it a priority to handle excessive crowd noise. Deal with that , please, especially on make or break 4th downs. How are they supposed to play if nobody can hear anything?

5. We didn't have enough film on Flacco or the new head coach....I mean come on....we were going in blind. How were we to know that Ravens would Blitz in a dizzing array of packages and then pound the ball? Where did that come from?!! And that Linebacking core.....who knew???? Next week it's Kerry Collins and he's been around forever! Lots of tape on him! We'll be fine!

6. The Defense was sooooo tired by the end of the game. We'd been on the field soooooo long. You cannot expect these poor guys to be in football shape after 6 weeks of camp and preseason. They needed a rest. Luckily we'll have from January until OTA's to catch up.

7. Like NBC's annoucing team said, this is the first time the recievers have been together with Palmer in a game situation. In today's game you cannot expect your top players to practice with rest of the team and be just like everyone else. They're too special.

I'm excited about Sunday against the Titans, and I'm not worried at all about their rushing performance this week or their aggressive defense. The Bengals will be fine.....I will be fine....and everything......is...going.....to....be......(deep breath)....OK

The Perfect Drink

2008-08-29T09:06:00.000-07:00

Is there anything more delicious than a Manhattan? A martini glass fresh from the freezer, all frosty and anxious. An enormous cherry just waiting to realize it's potential in the perfect blend of bourbon and vermouth. A float of ice drifting on the top born of aggressive, expert shaking. You know it’s ready to pour when the tin has frosted over and you cannot feel your fingers. Just a whisper of cherry juice….not too much, only enough so there’s a subtle under current. These things require, no demand, an easy touch.

After the first few sips of this delightful cocktail, you can feel the tension leave your body. The couch feels a little more comfortable, the game a little more watchable, the very world a little more manageable.

You take your time, you savor it. With each passing drink, you think, “God…this is a good drink!” You congratulate yourself on bypassing the High Life in the fridge. Then, almost by surprise, you see your glass is empty…or is it? There alone is the Cherry. All that time you sipped, and chatted and congratulated yourself on your wise decision, that Cherry was there. You may have forgotten, but she has not. She has patiently waited for you. And while you took your sweet time coming home to her, she greets you warmly. She’s not upset, and she won’t deny you. Ever so gently, yet greedily you pluck her from the glass by her stem, and take her into your mouth. The burst of flavors is ecstatic, boozy perfection. Shhhhh…Don’t ruin it with words.

Can it get any better? There’s only one way to know, and the shaker left idle on the counter beckons you. It’s Friday….why not.

It’s a three day weekend, you deserve a great drink. Here’s my recipe. Share with a friend or loved one.

For two delicious Manhattan’s.

2 Martini Glasses chilled in the freezer for at least 30 minutes
6 oz of Maker’s Mark (You could use another Bourbon….but why??)
1.25 oz of Sweet Vermouth….the red one silly.
A minimum of 2 enormous cocktail cherries with stems. The biggest you can find. Size does matter.

Pour liquid into mixing tin and fill with ice. Shake it hard. No harder you pussy! You want to bust that ice up.

Remove glasses from freezer. Gently lower a cherry into each glass. Or two if you have the stamina.

Add 1 Teaspoon of cherry juice to each glass.

Give the shaker a final shake, and pour equally into each glass.

You’re welcome.....

For Whom the Bell Tolls

2008-08-27T12:49:00.001-07:00

Each passing second of the clock brings us closer to the Bengal's season opener. Each passing second inevitably crashes into the next. A mournful, pealing sound resounds through Bengaldom. The ringing of bells. Funeral bells.

It seems like just weeks ago when we were young and naive and looking forward to the season. We lauded Zimmer and Fitzgerald and whispered about Chris Perry, giddy in our disbelief and unwilling to speak too loud lest we jinx it. We were so excited to have football back, we didn't seem to mind that Jeremi was fat, that TJ wasn't practicing.

With each passing second, Reality takes its insidious toll on us. Trade Rudi Johnson? A torn labrum? Mike vs Marvin? Chris Henry? Then there were the preseason games. Do we have a 1st team offense? Carson with a broken nose? The clock ticks on and the questions pile up, but Marvin's not talking. At least not in English. As Marvin said last week, being frustrated may well be our choice, but being concerned and skeptical as to what type of product will be on the field in Baltimore is an inevitable conclusion based on the evidence to date.

I face the opener with both anticipation and dread. I hope the clarion call of victory will drown out the dirges in my mind, but until the game clock expires the ringing (and the hand wringing) will continue.

Youth Soccer: An Inside/Outsider's perspective

2008-08-20T13:52:00.000-07:00

Those of you that know me, know that from time to time I tend to get in over my head. Regardless of if it's home repair, gardening, raising kids etc. I recently volunteered to coach kids soccer, the challenge is....I know nothing about soccer. And so, here I am again, in over my head, and to top things off, I have a double header this weekend to coach. Here are some comments on my experiences over the first couple weeks.

This is the first sport we've played where we have real practices. Now, previously coaching T-Ball, I am used to kids getting bored, playing in the dirt or peeing on second base because they can. The Good news about Soccer: Its pretty much constant movement and thus hard to get bored. The Bad news about Soccer : 12 constantly moving 5 years old kids + 1 ignorant coach= total bedlam.

Miscellaneous Game Observations

Soccer changes possession like Basketball except you have a confusing array of methods to put the ball back in play. Sometimes its a Goal Kick, other times it's a Corner Kick, sometimes you just throw it in. But...you have to throw it a special way. No lob passes. Why can't you just inbound the damned ball?? During practice when a ball goes out, I lean on the kids heavily....

Alright....what the fuck just happened???

"Uhhh......OK...who touched it last?"

Some kid raises his hand.

"Were you defense or offense?"

" I'm playing Forward!"

Forward?! What the Fuck is that...never mind, just go with it!

"Great! Now kids...what do we do when the Forward (I do the hand quotation remarks, because at that point I thought the kid was making that term up...) kicks the ball out of bounds?"

The ones that have played before scream out, " A Corner Kick!!!"

Super! Another term I don't know...

"Great!!! Now...who can show me one?!"

And that's how I survived the 1st practice. Every time, play stopped, I just starting asking questions. By employing the Socratic Method I was able to draw the knowledge out of the kids and conceal the fact that I am just an idiot with a whistle. Who said Philosophy Majors were useless?

In 6 on 6 Youth Soccer, there are positions like Goalie, Forwards, Strikers and Full Backs. Oddly and most perplexing to me, Fullbacks are on Defense. Other comments: Getting a 5 year old to stay in the Goal Box is hard. Getting both of my Fullbacks to stay out of the big scrum consisting of both team's Forwards is impossible.

Teaching kids that were raised on Barney to steal the ball away from someone else is very hard. I try to tell them it's OK, they won't get in trouble...but most of them don't believe me. The only thing harder than teaching them to steal, is trying to convince them that passing is a good idea from time to time. I have 5 little Beckhams on the field and every time they touch the ball they're going downtown and taking that size 4 ball straight to the House!

I'm doing two games from 2:00pm-to 4:00pm this Saturday, you should come out. I guarantee entertainment and something that loosely resembles a couple soccer games.

Tactical Remodelling

2008-08-14T09:14:00.001-07:00

I spent 20 minutes today duct-taping a $500 leather ottoman that was destroyed by a team effort from my son and our two dogs. We spent all day cleaning carpets this past Saturday cleaning stains and odors that were the result of spills or excretory processes from one of our 5 animals and/or 2 children. I am actually considering buying a used commercial Rug Doctor.

Over their tenure in our house, the dogs have ate 2 couches, a mattress, multiple blankets, countless articles of clothing, kids toys and wood trim. Yes wood trim…no I don’t know why. As for my three cats, I have three litter boxes in the house….three. I built a special litter box platform. Yet still they go through spells where they prefer the carpet.

As my wife and I think about decorating projects we cannot afford, we actually have started designing with a mind towards life with pets and kids. Carpet is out, hardwood is in. Overstuffed is out. Ballistic nylon or heavy leather is in. Tile is looking good! Anything white is out of the question. How scrub-able or easy to clean is it , is an often considered discussion point.

Since I appear to be doomed to live in ma petite menagerie, I propose an alternate design to what we have discussed thus far. (My apologies to those who have heard this before…) I want to install hose bibs in every room. I want to tile the walls to the 4 ft mark, build out the wall so that it curves into the floor, and then sink a drain in the middle of every room. For furniture, I am envisioning plastic inflatables. At the end of the day, pull out a hose, spray everything down, squeegee toward the drain, and move to the next room.

We then banish all animals from the basement and upstairs, doing so by removing both stairways. We’ll move through the house on fire poles and retractable rope ladders to make sure they cannot come up…or down. It’s the only way to have certain zones of the house which are completely animal free. No hair, no urine, no funny smells, no tracked litter, coughed up hairballs, claw marked furniture and so on and so forth.

And unlike simply shooting the animals or taking to a shelter, (so they can kill them for us) there’s no guilt, no woeful looks from children and wife as I do my very best Evil Noah impression and load the Pilot full of animals to take the Animal Shelter. Who’s with me? Anyone know where I can get a nice wrap a round inflatable sofa with cup holders? Football season is upon us.

Bengals 2008: Yes...No....uh...Maybe???

2008-08-06T10:27:00.000-07:00

There are dozens of websites that will give you their thoughts on the upcoming Bengals season. Of those dozens, 2 or 3 will actually know what they are talking about. I don't have the football intellect to keep up with the serious armchair analysts, so here's my thoughts and observations on the 2008 Bengals.

1) This is my favorite time to be a Bengals fan - all the glittering potential. Right now we all can go sleep at night thinking Chad's going to be fine, Rudi's going to rush for over a 1000 yards, River's hold out won't hurt him and the Zimmer/Fitzgerald tandem are going to fix what several other coordinators and position coaches couldn't.

2) Jeremy Johnson is fat. He couldn't run through a block and open up a hole if there was a box of donuts, a gallon of iced Grape Kool-Aid, and a comfy couch and a PS3 on the other side waiting on him.

3) Ahmad Brooks: 200 watt physical ability, 25 watt mental ability. Will we get it right with Rivers????

4) Jordan may look like Carson but thus far seems to be playing like the #4 QB, rather than the #1 QB.

5) This division is winnable. Ravens are retooling, the Browns over-achieved last year, and the Steelers aren't looking too healthy right now. The flip side is we aren't scaring anybody either.

6) Seeing Chris Perry at camp moving fast, cutting and taking hits made my nipples hard. All bets are off if he stays healthy.

7) Eric Ghiaciuc.......maybe not up to filling R. Braham's shoes? Can we compete successfully with a project at this position like Whit or Bobbie when it's game time?

8) How tired are you of saying, and hearing, " "This team will go as far as the Offense takes them?" Great! Will they get on the field enough? Having said that....once again I find myself very enthusiastic about our Offense and wary about our defense. I like what I saw in person at the Scrimmage and read of the reports from camp....but its not real football and we open with 4 tough games this year and then have a brutal schedule the rest of the year.

9) Will special teams ever be special again? I like Corey Lynch and Kyries Hebert....and I bet Darrin Simmons does too. I think they will be back up to their form from a couple years ago.

P.S. Dear Darrin: Please don't let Glenn Holt return anything but his playbook this year!

Add it all up and what does it mean? I have no idea. But I cannot wait for Monday Night.

The Death of Cool

2008-08-05T08:40:00.001-07:00

Cool passed away today in Burlington. Cool was survived by two thirty something's with kids. They couldn't stay for the service as they had to get to soccer practice, but sent a nice note and flower arrangement. In their note, they vowed to go out on "date-nights" once a month to remember Cool and their former relationship with their since deceased friend and partner. The cause of death was complications from a long struggle with domesticity. It's health took serious blows following a large mortgage, graduation from law school and the birth of two children. The fatal blow was dealt when the Pilot was brought home and subsequently parked next to the Accord.

I had one of those how lame am I moments earlier this week. I was mowing in the grass, and I looked in the driveway and took note of my wife and I's cars. Two Hondas. Now don't get me wrong, Hondas are great cars. Dependable, affordable, good gas mileage and very, very practical. Not to mention completely, helplessly and utterly uncool.

There's the problem. It's kinda like shoes. Sometime, you need a cool, snazzy pair of shoes. Something strappy perhaps for the ladies, something shiny for the men. You know, for that big night out. Driving a Pilot or Accord is like always wearing sensible shoes no matter the occasion. Comparable with wearing tennis shoes with a suit(in non ironic fashion), or flats with a really nice dress. But flats and gym shoes are all we have to wear...everyday....for the foreseeable future. Driving an Accord isn't exciting, it isn't cool. How could it be? Its a 4 door sedan produced in the hundreds of thousands! You get confused in parking lots because there's a million other cars just....like...yours. Which implies, that said occupants of all those cars, are really nothing special either.

I've never had a cool car. I went from heaps of junk to a sedan my company paid for. Kinda like going from Pro-Wings to Rockports. The Accord is the business causal of automobiles. My wife had a Mustang at one point, but the way she drives it would be wasted on her now. (She has a chronically light right foot.) She used to have a Jeep, which I guess was a little more hip than a Pilot. After the Jeep passed on, perhaps it knew we no longer had what it took to be "Jeep" people, we purchased a Pilot. A Pilot is an SUV for people who don't like the look of minivans, but still have to haul kids and soccer equipment around. It even has a column shifter. It's the Mom-Mobile.

So staring right back at me, as I paused mowing the yard, was Business Causal and Mom Jeans with a Applique Sweater. I wanted to argue, "But we're so much more than that!" But the people driving by had their windows rolled up, and all they saw was a bald guy mowing the lawn in front of a nice house with two Hondas in the driveway.

Hey Buddy...Nice Pole!!

2008-08-04T11:11:00.000-07:00

All right, I'm going to write something that might piss my 4 readers off. I'm driving home last night, and I pass this house with an enormous flag pole in front. It was probably 50 ft tall, and clearly dwarfed the surrounding structures. Thankfully, it was flying the US flag on top, and the state flag underneath. Around here though, it could have been flying any number of flags including but not limited to Dale Earnhardt (your choice) , UK, OSU, or even the Stars and Bars. But I'm going on record here. Unless your house is a mayoral or governor's residence, or an official building, you don't need a flag pole that big.

I can understand wanting to fly Old Glory, that's what the standard 6 foot porch poles are for but you don't need a pole that can be seen 3 subdivisions over. Your house isn't Mt. Suribachi or Porch Chop Hill. Even if you are stuck in a Adjustable Rate Mortgage, I think its safe to assume you didn't give life or limb for your Contemporary Colonial. Besides, its already well within previously defined US territory, so we all know what country your 1/2 acre lot belongs to.

So then, why feel the need for such a strong statement? Are you are in fact, a closet communist? Cleverly hiding your Stalinist leanings beneath the looming shadow of your enormous metal pole, which also serves as a convenient radio tower so you can send secret messages back to the Kremlin. Are you just that kinda guy? The kind of guy who wakes up with Lee Greenwood blaring and sports a high-lighted mullet with stars and stripes underwear? I see that big Hummer (No not the H2...the Real Deal) parked in your driveway.....do you have the biggest TV on the block, the gas grill that rocks the most BTU's. Are you compensating? All that "Bigger" in your life to make up for something else perhaps???

I can't say. I don't even know who this person was, but as an American citizen, I just have to ask: Just because we can do something, does that mean we have to? Could we perhaps control ourselves, at times even be accused of being somewhat understated?

I know...I know....that's crazy talk.

What is up with this Cat?

2008-07-31T08:28:00.000-07:00

Over time, since I welcomed yet another animal into the house, I have been hit with the realization that I am stuck with a cat of decidedly low moral character. She's a complete and total whore, a slut of Zeus-ian proportions, a big fat, gray and white Jezebel. It's has really gotten a bit out of hand!

Its not just that she always in my face, that's almost all cats. Its not that she's always rubbing herself against me, the furniture or sleeping dogs. (Although I do feel bad for the dogs, they aren't even aware of the violation....) What gets me is the heavy eye contact, the twitching, the beckoning mews and the suggestive poses she strikes. I am convinced there is intent behind her actions. What's more disturbing is she appears to have set her sights on me! I'll be watching TV and a look over and on the arm rest there's a cat's ass in my face, all twitching and convulsive. She's looking over her shoulder at me with these smoldering eyes purring softly, "Come and Get Me...Daddy."

Ick.

It's disgusting. I mean for Chrissakes my kids are in the room! My wife is right next to me! We could have company over...it doesn't matter. She has no pride, no sense of decorum! No sense of morality or even the barest fiber of decency!

I've tried sitting closer to my wife, trying to send that unmistakable signal that I am taken, but she doesn't seem to care. In fact when she gets the opportunity, she'll try and sit right between us. Worse than her low and filthy ways is her persistence. The little hussy simply won't be denied. I shove her away, she comes right back! I push her away again, and she just takes it out on the nearest animate or inanimate object.

I've never seen anything like it and I find it all rather disturbing. I've cut her off from casual contact, she can't handle it. Until she accepts the fact that I'm not interested, I think its for the best. Maybe after time, we can be friends...but not right now. For now, I think she needs the time and distance to learn how to love herself.

Paging Dr. Kovac....

2008-07-29T09:46:00.000-07:00

This past week, my son was doing what he called, “Crazy Jumps” off the side of the pool deck. Including a spinning corkscrew move where he spun his body as he leapt into the water. About the 7 or 8th jump, he miscalculated and I heard and audible “Pop!” as his chin hit the concrete pool deck. I was convinced he’d knocked his teeth out, but after hauling him out of the water, he appeared to be intact. Upset, but with all of his teeth intact. Then I looked under his chin and found the 1 inch wide gaping gash that surprisingly wasn’t bleeding that much. I called out for Jill to get her shoes on and off we went to Urgent Care.

As an aside, before I say the words, “Urgent Care” in the future, I will precede them with the symptoms and severity of the injury. Telling a mom, “Lets go to Urgent Care,” really doesn’t give her enough info and so they fill in the blanks with images of split skulls, missing limbs, and disembowelment. Lesson learned....and sorry babe!

Now, the 4 of you that read this blog regularly might remember our earlier visit to the Urgent Care where we were treated by Luka Kovac’s poor cousin.

http://thatsgreatwhattaboutit.blogspot.com/2008/04/ugent-care-some-times-dog-bites-you.html

Well, as luck would have it, he was there again. He was dressed a little less like Balki from Perfect Strangers, but still the same guy.

At first he was very nice and sympathetic and told my son how brave he was. I thought, maybe I got this guy all wrong. We get Jonathan on the little bed and he’s nervous but ready to go. Then Dr. Bartokomas comes in with the syringe. Now I know this is an essential step, obviously you have to numb the area before stitching up a kid. But do you have to come in and wave it in the kids face. My son went from nervous to spastic. I mean, come on Doc! Let’s work together here! I’ll distract him and you come up under the chin where he can’t see. I’m not sure how they do it in Armenia, but here in America, we baby our kids a bit!

So now I’m coaching my kid through this like he’s giving birth. Which, by the way, is about how he’s acting. And judging by the squirming and crying, I’d guess he was going Natural.

“OK Honey, just breath, you’re almost there!”

My wife didn’t buy that shit during either one of her deliveries and Jonathan didn’t buy it either. Although he didn’t threaten to kill me, so I guess that’s a step in the right direction.

It took 10 minutes to get 2 stitches in, and because Jonathan was writhing in sheer terror the whole time, they were all jagged. His chin looks like a Halloween Frankenstein costume. My wife is pretty against going there again, and I am sure Dr. Kovac wouldn’t miss us. But the idea of waiting in an Emergency Room isn’t real appealing. I should probably come up with a alternate place though, since my son (thanks to my immediate family) has like 6 super hero costumes that he leaps through the house in and its only a matter of time until we go back with our first broken bone, second stitches or ruptured spleen.

Dancing With Myself...Oh, Oh, Oh, Oh!

2008-07-23T08:16:00.000-07:00

By 8th grade, my social awkwardness having been compounded by a vicious struggle with puberty, I had resigned myself to the fact that I would never have a girlfriend. Odd given my mindset at the time, that it never occurred to me to skip the 8th Grade Dance. One would assume the purpose of said dance would be, in fact, to dance....with members of the opposite sex. I went with no such intention. In fact, I decided to invite a friend to hang out with.

I remember how excited my Mom was when I nervously asked if a friend could come over before the dance. I also remember how her face crumbled a little when I told her it was my friend Dave. I can't be sure, but I think my parents breathed a big sigh of relief when I actually got married.....to a girl.

When I arrived at the dance, a DJ was spinning Top 40 hits from the likes of UB40, Def Leopard and Debbie Gibson. There was a throng of kids gyrating in a half circle around the stage. I took my position with the other pariahs against the folded up bleachers. After a while, I got hot and bored and decided to go sit on the stairs in the hall.

I had been sitting there for a while when I saw Julie walking towards me. Julie was reed thin, with skin so pale it was almost translucent, long brown hair and big blue eyes. We had a few classes together and we were friends. I also harbored a super secret crush on her, but was pretty confident those feelings weren't mutual. She wasn't a "cool" kid, but she was certainly higher on the social strata than I was. I started to slide out of her way so she could pass through and instead she stopped in front of me and put her hands out.

"What are you doing?" I asked suspiciously.

"Asking you to dance, Silly"

"Uh.....I don't really know how....but OK, if you really want to."

Great enthusiasm by the way! Way to make her feel special. Where's your poetry and song lyrics now, Romeo? How about, "I'd love to!" or "I was hoping you'd ask!" or even "Cool!". No...I went with "OK..if you really want too." Looking back on the moment, I can see know that I was doomed from the start.

We entered the gym. I was about to pass out because I was hyperventilating. Holding hands was the most action I had ever had. I could hear my heart pounding in my chest, my ears were so red they were burning and my hands.....oh my God, my hands! My palms were sweating so badly that holding my hands had to be like holding two wet sponges. How hot was that?! I prayed that it would be a short song and that we would stay in the shadows. We stood there hand in hand waiting for "Pour Some Sugar on Me" to end.

The first strains of Whitesnake's, "Is This Love?" began to flow through the speakers and she lead me onto the dance floor. She ploughed deeper and deeper into the crowd until we were right in the center. There we were, right beneath the DJ booth and underneath the white hot spotlights. It was simultaneously my worst nightmare and my greatest dream come true! There I was, with a girl, in front of the entire class. This moment could make or break me. I fumbled with my hands unsure of where they should go. I followed her lead and put my arms around her body and rested my hands on her back. It felt awkward and awesome all at the same time. I could smell her apple-scented conditioner. We began to slowly rotate in a counter clockwise circle, bodies close together. My heart was beating so hard, I was sure she could feel it through her shirt. I tried to make small talk, but my tongue wouldn't cooperate. I tried to smile at her, but I think the look I gave was one of sheer, bug eyed terror. Everything I had dreamed of was right in front of me. I was closer to a girl than I had ever been before. I could feel her breath on my face. I could feel the straps of her training bra for crying out loud!

We made it all of 3 small revolutions, when she abruptly pulled away and said, "This isn't working."

She melted into the crowd and left me there, fixed in the spotlight, frozen, alone. My arms extended like I was dancing with an invisible friend. My mouth gaped open in confusion and horror. I pushed my way out of the crowd and left. I was humiliated, devastated and enraged at my own ineptness. The gates of paradise were right there before me and I couldn't even step through them much less dance through them. I had always told myself that if I ever got a chance with a girl that I would make good. It was just a lack of opportunity, they didn't consider me, think of me, or even see me for that matter. But now I had been measured, and found lacking. I had to face the hard truth that it wasn't just them, it was me too.

Breaking Out The Randy

2008-07-16T14:10:00.000-07:00

By third grade, while still not really over Kelly, I was ready to “get back out there.” The pretty girl who had curly brown hair and wide blue eyes and who sat a couple rows over from me had become my new infatuation. Her name was Christy. Once again I decided to whisk her off her feet in elaborate, dramatic fashion. The one thing I knew for sure back then, was that third grade girls are desperate for romance. What they needed was a change from the same old tired routine. In order to be successful with the fairer sex, it seemed to me at the time that I should counter-program a little bit. I needed to be different than the other boys out there. Play ground antics and hair pulling were so common, every boy did it. It was all so…..2nd grade. A more sophisticated woman, a 3rd grade woman deserved…no she required a more sophisticated touch. So while others simply chased the girls they liked, or teased them or perhaps shared their juice boxes, I turned to poetry and craft to win the heart of my love. What could go wrong? How sweet, how thoughtful…how utterly and stupidly naïve.

The only problem with poetry was, I didn’t know any poetry and the few attempts I made at writing it sounded like this:

Dear Christy, you are so nice
I’m pretty sure you don’t have lice
I think you are really cool
I am glad you are in my school

So, I decided that I should borrow some verses. Since my family wasn't really one to have any Poetry Anthologies hanging around, I was forced to turn to record liners and the lyrics printed within them. My parents were going through a pretty big country phase with the old turntable so I had the very best of Oakridge Mountain Boys, Crystal Gayle, Waylon Jennings, and of course Randy Travis to choose from. After several hours of pouring through lyrics, I found the perfect song. Once she read those words, I was pretty confident it would be a done deal.

I busted out my crayons and my filler paper and drew a very impressive heart. I then transcribed word for word, in my very best handwriting, the lyrics of the most powerful love song that I had ever heard. The song that would melt her heart, make her love me while telling her exactly how I felt all at the same time. The song was “I’m going to love you forever.” By one Randy Travis.
I can still remember some of the lyrics:

I’m going to love you forever
Forever and ever, Amen
As long as old men sit and talk about the weather
As long as old women sit and talk about old men.

(OK, in hindsight, maybe I should have gone with my original poem!)

Regardless, I colored the page, double checked my spelling and then folded the note with me very best, newly learned note fold. Folding notes was very big. You didn’t just fold it in half or use an envelope. You made a bird, or a flower or something. I couldn’t do birds or flowers, so I did the one that had a little corner sticking out, and when you pulled that, the note opened up. I wrote, “To: Christy, From: Chris.” I think I might have put some hearts on the outside, because I knew that shit went over big on Valentine’s Day and I thought it might help here. After all, she’d never expect hearts, a fancy fold and Randy Travis on a Wednesday in September. Who did? No one else would be stealing my thunder, I had no competition to worry about, I was golden!

The next day, I hid the note in her desk and took my seat. My palms were sweating, my feet were tapping, I was a nervous wreck. How would all my hard work go over? It had to work! What other boy would go to all this trouble?

It took her forever to find the note. I swear it was like 8:34 or something before she finally reached under her seat and pulled out the note. A surprised look of excitement flashed across her face. She examined the note, took in the delicate folding, the hand drawn detailing. I could see her interest being piqued. Then she examined the address line. A frown crossed her face. A quick glance of her eyes in my direction, and then it happened.

She quickly crumbled the note, still unopened and tossed it back in her desk.

She never even read it! All that work. All of the emotional investment! My Heart, my Soul and Randy’s Lyrics were all on that piece of wide ruled filler paper that she so carelessly crumpled. I wanted grab Christy by her shoulders, shake her hard and scream at her, “I wrote out Randy Travis lyrics for you damn it!!! In my best print handwriting! Damn you callous hussy and damn your kind!”

I was wounded, stunned and angry. My return to the market was both brief and humiliating.

Nobody’s Fool: A Brief Dating History

2008-07-10T09:29:00.000-07:00

I remember vividly my first crush. Kelly. It was the 1st grade. She wore a checkered dresses with matching ribbons, I wore hand me down jeans and a pair of Pro-Wings. She sat in the first chair, in the first row, next to the door and the pencil sharpener. I sat somewhere in the middle back of the class. Anonymous. Unknown. I must have sharpened every pencil I owned 6 times an hour trying to catch her eye. I volunteered to sharpen anyone’s pencil, I brought extra from home. All to no avail. I began to doubt she would ever know I existed, much less the way I felt about her.

And then it happened. To my utter shock and disbelief she walked up to me on the playground one day…and then she spoke. To me!

“I am putting on a play about the Wizard of Oz. Would you like to me the Cowardly Lion?”

I grinned from ear to ear. Of course, the Cowardly Lion was a crap part. I would have been a much better Scarecrow or even Tin Man, but at least I wasn’t being asked to be a Flying Monkey. The Lion was a major character! Perhaps she noticed me after all. But this, this was bigger than the play, or the part, this was my window of opportunity!

I blushed and stammered my consent. I am not sure I actually spoke any English. She smiled and whirled around to assemble the rest of her cast. I immediately began planning.

The play was only a few days away. Not exactly a Broadway production, but hey it was the first grade. I would show her how much I cared. I would be the best Lion ever! When she saw me in costume, locked in character, doing my very best whimper, snivel and roar she could not help but see me as the missing piece from her young life. And, we would live happily ever after. That’s what I thought at the time anyway.

I ran home after school and immediately started assembling my costume. Let’s see there’s a 2 year old pair of yellow footie-pajamas. Cut the feet out, the arms and legs will be a little short, I’ll have a bit of a wedge, but for lion-yellow skin you cannot beat it. Hmmmm….a mane. I needed a Mane. AH Ha! A paper grocery bag cut with my Mom’s good scissors into a fringed collar! Now for the tail……Into the shed I went, and I emerged with a frayed piece of rope. My costume was complete. Now I waited.

The day of the play, I secretively packed my costume in a bag. I didn’t want anyone to else see it. The secrecy, of course, doomed me. Perhaps someone would have stopped me if they had only known. My plan was to change in the bathroom just before class began, so as to maximize the surprise. Besides, I didn't want to get upstaged. When I came into class, and my Love saw me (after all, she sat right next to the door) she would know how much I cared and instantly be smitten with me. Victory was in my grasp!

But when I burst into the door wearing my too short PJ’s and my rope tail with paper mane and with what I thought was an excellent roar, stunned silence greeted me. I looked at Kelly, and she lowered her eyes. Then the laughter came. First the back of the room, then the front. Kelly, even the teacher was laughing. People were crying they were laughing so hard! Come to find out, there was no play! There never was a play, none that existed other than in my deluded, love-addled mind and perhaps in the fleeting thoughts of one Kelly Napier. Thoughts she quickly forgot and discarded, along with the tattered remnants of my heart. I scuttled back to the bathroom humiliated.

Some time later, she had the gall to ask me to perform in her production of Little Orphan Annie. I icily refused.

“I am not your fool anymore.”

My bitterness over this issue, while somewhat cooled today extended long into high school. Regrettably, my future with the opposite sex did not give me cause to forget. But rather, it was a parade of humiliation and heart break well into my late teenage years. A pain that I stoked and nutured like a small fire, a pain that was as damning as it was formative.

The Great Pee Contest of 1982

2008-07-04T13:21:00.000-07:00

I cannot remember how it all started, but I vividly remember exactly how it all ended. It was primarily me, Jeremy Woods, Mike Cobb and I think one of the Flerlage twins, probably Kevin, but really it was open to any and all first graders. During bathroom breaks, especially after lunch, we would all gather in front of the troughs and face off.

The boy’s bathroom in my elementary school had two long trough-style urinals. They weren’t really that long, maybe 3ft each, but when you’re 6 years old they seemed really big. They ran along the wall and were sandwiched between the sinks and the stalls. There was just enough room on either end for a little boy to stand.

I had waited all day for this moment. Last week I was edged out by Cobb and I was determined to win this week. The preparation was Olympic in nature: I drank lots of water, and I waited. I sweated, shook and crossed my legs through lunch hoping today would be the day of my triumph.

I dashed into the bathroom as soon as I could, awkwardly running trying not to bounce too much lest any of the precious liquid and the thrust it would provide escape. I was the third up. Kevin was squeezed between the urinals and the sinks, his back arched and on his toes, he let fly an amazing steam that cleared the first urinal and splashed loudly into the second. The crowd murmured in approval at the very solid showing. Pride flushed his face as he zipped his pants and took his place in the crowd. Mike stepped up, and I knew right away I would have my work cut out for me. Without even making the appearance of effort, he broke all previous records and thoroughly painted the drain! Not the first drain, but the drain of the second urinal! It was unheard of!! Applause broke out and some in the crowd left not believing such a feat could be duplicated much less broken. He smiled in modest satisfaction and joined the dwindling crowd to see what I could do.

My confidence was rattled, but I stepped into the gap and took a deep breath. I close my eyes, focused and let it fly. I opened my eyes, I was one with the stream. It cleared the 1st urinal, it cleared the drain! To my disbelief, it cleared the second urinal and began splattering the stall wall!!! It was the mother of all pees! It was unbeatable! A huge grin filled my face and I turned to see the look on the faces of my classmates.

What I saw instead was the horrified face of the Special Ed teacher, Ms. Wolfe. My classmates had scattered upon her entrance, leaving me all alone. My grin quickly faded.

“What are YOU doing?!”, she screamed.

There was no appropriate response. I hung my head. I wasn’t sure what was worse, the trouble I was in or the fact that no one would ever believe me. During the march to the office, I tried in vain to tell someone to check the stall wall to verify the record, but I was silenced by my captor.

The Pee Contests stopped that day, and for the rest of the year Mike Cobb held the bragging rights for the Longest Pee Ever. The students talked about it in whispers and hushed tones of admiration over Fish Nuggets and Mexican Fiesta’s. Mike was a made man over it and would from that moment on be one of the cool kids. My claims on the title were uniformly rejected due to a lack witnesses. Worse yet, The Big Bad Ms. Wolf had seen my little dog which was a source of great amusement for all. I cannot say for sure that moment marked the beginning of my descent into the social abyss that is Nerd-dom, but was certainly a major landmark on the way.

Timing is Everything

2008-07-03T07:22:00.000-07:00

How was I supposed to know? The simple fact is, there was no way for me to know. So why do I feel like such a jerk, yet find the whole thing funny at the same time?

I was totally dragging yesterday at work. Coffee alone wasn't doing it. I said hello to Sandy who sits next to me. I tried to be nice and start a little conversation. Sandy would have none of it and was giving me these really short, curt answers. I assumed it was because she was pissed I was sitting next to her and she knew that peace and quiet in the workplace was completely and totally over. My old cube was upstairs where the cool sales people all sat and we had a pretty good time. Since I started back part time, I had been cast in the pit with the other part times and CSR's. If I was going to survive, I needed to wake up and I needed to get the party started down here. A little rockin' music was needed. Since I was recently moved from the fun floor to the no-fun first floor, I decided Billy Idol's Dancing With Myself was an appropriate theme song for the morning. I quickly found the song on You Tube, cranked my speakers up and got my groove on.

To make the morning even better, the Internet was working poorly so the song kept stopping and starting, right when I was really starting to feel it. So I had no choice but to keep starting it all over. After 15 minutes of Billy and (finally) a complete playing of the song, I wheeled around in my chair, "Billy Idol totally rocks!" I looked around the office to see who was with me on my love of Idol. To my surprise, there were no high fives waiting, just a lot of blank looks. In fact, Sandy was now crying. I though, "What the Fuck? This floor sucks....who doesn't like Idol? Something must be up."

So I emailed one of the ladies upstairs, "Dude, whats up with Sandy, she's like crying and all I did was play some Idol."

She replied, " She's a wreck. Her husband left this weekend!"

I quickly typed back, "Are you kidding me?!! Jesus Christ! I've been playing Dancing With Myself since like 8:05 this morning!"

Seconds later her response flashed across my screen, " You IDIOT!!!!!"

I suppose the dissolution of a marriage is grounds for a temporary loss of love for Idol. It would also explain the looks I got from everyone else, who was in the know. Although, I think the song is clearly appropriate for the situation. It could be argued that my timing was probably a bit off. It might be appropriate for the Acceptance phase of grieving. At the moment, she's clearly in the Depression stage of grief. When she hits Angry I could play Alanis Morisette, maybe next week I should focus on Patsy Kline or Billy Holiday. I have no idea what to do for Bartering. Maybe the Lets Make a Deal theme music???

The Sponge

2008-07-02T08:49:00.000-07:00

We’ve grown up in an age of media bombardment and so most of us have a filter that allows us to ignore most advertising. My five year old has no such filter. While a 2 hour movie, or even a 30 minute cartoon might not command his rapt attention or completely sink in, a 30 second TV spot is perfect. He’s always been quick to pick up an advertising jingle, but we’ve advanced in the past few weeks. Every toy commercial he sees is the toy he most urgently wants at that moment. 45 seconds later, it’s a different toy. Lately at appropriate times, he has even been recommending products to me based on the commercials he has seen.

While Working in the Garden

“Dad, You need an Aqua Globe.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s this thing you fill with water and it’s a snap! (he tries unsuccessfully to snap his fingers) All you do is place it in the soil (yes, he used the word soil) and it does all the work. You don’t have to lift a finger! They can work as many as 10 days!!! They come in all sorts of funky colors, but they are not available in stores. "

“Wow, I should get one of those.”

“Yeah…but they aren’t available in stores so you should call now.”

While Discussing Work

“Dad, Are you going to work tomorrow?”

“Unfortunately, yes I am.”

“Well,” He looked at me very seriously and nodded his head sagely as if he were about to give me some really good advice, “ You should talk to your work about Aflac.”

“Aflac?” I said, “What’s that?”

“Insurance, Dad. Ask your work.”

I am not sure how a 5 year old sounds patronizing but my son can do it.

Waiting on Pizza Delivery

My son, currently dressed as Batman, asks me if I have ordered the pizza yet, to which I reply that I had. He looks at me and squints his eyes through his mask, points his finger and in his deepest voice growls, ““You’ve got 30 minutes!”

“ What should I do?” I asked him.

“Dad!” He looked at me impatiently, and then answered gravely “That’s your decision.” He then took off down the hallway, cape flying behind him.

Wrap Up: Worst Vacation Ever

2008-07-01T08:31:00.000-07:00

We were released from the hospital at roughly the same time. The official diagnosis: One case of heat stroke and one case of badly bruised kidneys. The remedies: Less sun for him and less fun for me. My father in law was advised to stay out of the heat and drink lots of water. I was advised to lay off the booze and stop chasing lizards. This was difficult news to take because during the testing, I was plotting my vengeance on the lizard.

The week’s events had taken their toll on us all and the wind was taken out of our collective sails. The remaining days were very, very low key. By Friday, my father in law was feeling much better, and my urine was a nice pink color, like white zinn, which while shocking was much better than the merlot from earlier in the week. We had endured bulldozers, surprise guests, heat stroke and kidney damage on top of all the struggles that go with living with a large group of people for several days. It was time for the vacation to be over, probably past time.

Amazingly the week didn’t dampen our enthusiasm for family vacations. Almost every year we load up and caravan to the same part of Florida. We’ve never stayed at the same place, but we talk about The House all the time. My friend and I reminisce about the Perfect Day that came to an abrupt end when we all ran to the hospital. In spite of several attempts we’ve never been able to recreate it. Perhaps the sun’s a bit brighter, the beer a bit colder and the water a bit blue-er just before disaster. I still remember how damn good that shrimp was before Gary showed up. We’ve endured each others personality quirks, kids, bad cooking, bad weather, crappy and/or small houses, but nothing has compared to Worst Vacation Ever. Every time we get together when vacation comes up, we talk about it. Now, several years later we can all laugh about it. No matter how bad it gets we can always fall back on, “Well….Dad still’s still conscious and Chris isn't peeing blood, so we got that going for us."

Worst Vacation: The Hospital

2008-06-30T04:10:00.000-07:00

My father in law was immediately admitted and they began to run a tests. We did what everybody else does in the hospital, we sat there and waited. At some point, I excused myself to go to the restroom. I was standing at the urinal when I noticed something odd. I was pissing dark red, kinda the color of a nice Merlot. I puzzled over what could be the cause. Could it be the accumulated red dye from all the daiquiris? I didn't hurt anywhere, of course I was still I little tipsy.....I decided to get a second opinion. The last thing I wanted to do was alarm everyone else when they were already all freaked out.

I went to my wife and tried to explain it to her using the wine metaphor. Her eyes widened in concern, then narrowed in accusation," Did you hurt yourself when you jumped off the deck?"

"What?" I asked, " No way! It was only 15 foot jump! Besides, I think it's getting better. You want to see it?" As I walked away I began to get concerned, " Hmmmm...Could I have hurt myself trying to catch that damned lizard?"

I took a huge McDonalds cup with me the next time I had to pee. I rinsed it out, and started to take a sample. It was still a dark winey red. I thought that maybe the bigger the sample, the less red it would be. I'm not typically very girlish or anything, but I was sorta getting freaked out. So I kept peeing, and it just kept getting redder. So I filled that cup to the brim with warm, wine-red urine. That bastard was so full it had a meniscus, and it was still dark red.

"Fuck....."

Jill was waiting for me outside the bathroom.

I opened the lid, "See, its not that bad! I think its already getting a little better!"

"Ah....Chris....Goddamn it! What the hell is that?! You have to show the nurse right now!"

So I carefully walked to the nurse's stand and began to explain that I might need some help, but wanted a professional opinion. I told her the whole story about the daiquiris and the lizards, and then I placed the 44oz, warm, dripping paper cup on her desk.

"What is that?" She asked.

"Its a urine sample, I though you'd like to see it, you know maybe analyze it."

"Get that outta here!" She gave me a look like I was some sort of idiot. I was just trying to be helpful.

And so I found myself admitted to hospital.

Dropping Like Flies Continued

2008-06-25T04:12:00.000-07:00

A few more sips of my Corona and I began to formulate a plan. A lizard would never, ever anticipate an aerial assault. If only I had a net....wait...I could use my hat....that'll work!!
I sat my book down and intently watched the dunes below. My target darted out of the grasses, and I dove off the deck, hat in hand.

I hit the sand really hard and rolled down the dune. I quickly checked my rolled up hat.....nothing. My friend look down from the deck at me laughing. It was a much bigger drop than I had anticipated and the lizard much, much quicker and more devious than I had anticipated. Shocked and more than a little pissed I didn't catch him, I dusted myself off and started walking up the steps. I was thinking about how I would alter my technique on the next dive when I heard screaming from inside the house.

"Now what?!" I thought

"Oh My God! Dad's had a stroke! Someone call 911!" It was sheer panic inside the house.

We could hear the ambulance coming from down the beach. My father law was dizzy, disoriented and weak. He didn't know his own name. Which was pretty scary. We all sobered up quick. The EMT's checked his vitals and loaded him on a gurney and zoomed off to the hospital, sirens wailing. We all piled into various cars to follow the ambulance to the hospital. The definition of what a good vacation would be had just changed, and none of us were worried about sleeping quarters, bulldozers or who was cooking dinner that night.

Part Four: Dropping Like Flies.

2008-06-24T07:37:00.000-07:00

OK...that last one was way too long. I'm going to condense for the next part.

It was 10:00am and I was on my third Corona. I was leaned against the railing of the porch, reading. Everyone else was already down on the beach. The bulldozers were gone, Gary was gone, the sky was blue. It was the perfect day.

Out of the corner of my eye, 15 feet down, I saw lizards frolicking in the sand dunes. Sip by sip, page by page, I found the lizards increasingly captivating. I though to myself, "I wonder if I could catch one."

There was no way I could catch one on foot. I was too slow and heavy from the beer. Oh how they taunted me with their rapid feet and joyous scampering. I simply had to catch one. But how?? Only surprise would work.

The Worst Vacation Ever Part 3: The Surprise Guest

2008-06-23T10:30:00.000-07:00

It was early in the evening, the workers and bulldozers had long gone the way of the setting sun, and we all sat down at the bar for a few cocktails. A pleasant ocean breeze swept across the deck and the lovely sound a whirring blender intermittently punctuated the laughter and conversation. There was a big bucket of fresh chilled peel and eat shrimp. We were drinking, talking and laughing off the unplanned for presence of bulldozers on our vacation. This vacation was still going to be great. Then we heard the doorbell ring.

Somebody left to go answer it. When they came back, they tried (and failed miserably) to keep a pleasant face while announcing that Gary and his family were here. At the time, I did not know Gary. But I couldn’t help but notice that those who did quickly blanched, their jaws dropped and they all turned to face my father in law, giving him an accusing look that said, “ What did you do?!”

Being completely in the dark, I could only think, “Who the fuck is Gary and is that really his name?” I instinctively knew it couldn’t be good though. I have never known a Gary that I liked. I had a neighbor named Gary once, and he was a dick. Based on the reactions of those that knew this Gary, I wasn’t expecting to be pleasantly surprised.

I later learned that this particular incarnation of Gary, while of no biological relation, was my father in law’s stepson from his 1st marriage. There must have been a rift or an estrangement between the two some time in the past. Gary had moved away to Florida after this, and it had been several years since anyone had seen or even spoken to him. In my father in law’s mind, it was past time for a reconciliation. So my father in law had taken it upon himself to invite Gary and his family to spend some time with us. Since this decision was not shared with the family, and since the house while big, was quite full with paying guests, not too many people were excited. Not mention those that apparently knew Gary weren’t real excited to see him under any circumstances, let alone what was supposed to be a relaxing family vacation.

Regardless of my extreme prejudice against all Gary’s big and small, and not withstanding the overwhelming lack of enthusiasm his arrival had generated amongst those that knew him, there stood Gary in the doorway. He was carrying an open 12 pack of Naty Lite, several cans light, one in his hand. A slight, wiry man with a sun-weathered unshaven face, dirty yellowed eyeglasses and trucker cap that wasn’t intended to be ironic. He bore no resemblance in any way to anyone else I had ever met in the family. He had two adorable children, a little girl with tangled blond hair and a smaller girl still in diapers. He wife stood slightly behind him, a cigarette perched between her fingers, sending a steady plume of smoke in the air. There was a collective moment of silence before we gathered ourselves and welcomed them into the house.

Kids are always seem to better in awkward social situations than adults. It was seconds before their children were playing and running through the house with the rest of the kids. On the adult side, there was stilted conversation and introductions, some minor chit chat. One of Gary’s kids, not doubt too excited to stop playing, accidentally wet herself. His wife promptly removed the wet clothes and hung them on the porch rail, not bothering to rinse them. Gary shrugged as if to say, “What are you gonna do? Kids gotta pee…” then graciously took off his shirt and gave it to his daughter to wear. Gary shirtless and stripped down to his awkwardly short jean shorts was as much a treat for me as it was all the ladies in the house. He did the legacy of his name proud. It was about then we collectively decided to move to the bar, some of us faster than others. I sprinted.

It couldn’t have been much past 9:00, the once bubbly pre-guest conversation flattened out and began to drag. Soon yawns started filling mouths, and I knew something had to be done. If it was one thing this evening was going to need, it was cocktails, and lots of them. My wife, our friends and I are all ex bar-tenders and we had a very well stocked and equipped bar established. I was determined not to loose a night, especially if I had to dodge bulldozers by day. We would all have fun by God! Little did I know I was throwing gas on the fire. I stepped behind the bar and fired up the blender, not yet aware of what I was getting myself into.

It was quickly apparent to me as I worked behind the bar making drink after drink after drink, that whoever the hell they were, the one thing Gary and the Missus could do was put a serious hurtin’ on a bar. The slurping of straws in empty glasses gives me flashbacks of denim and hairy skin to this day. The Naty Light was gone and forgotten and the rum was disappearing fast. Gary had long since entered the bleary eyed, slurring, clumsy stage and was working on the belligerent, falling down stage. He wasn’t even bothering to peel the shrimp any more. His wife was weaving in her chair, eyes half closed still holding a cigarette, which was about to burn her fingers. She could have tumbled from her stool at any minute. We had all dealt with drunks before but there was no protocol for cutting off drunken house guests, who were somehow related to everyone here. Plus it seemed mean to keep drinking in front of them, which I most certainly would have done.

Thankfully my father in law interceded and quietly asked us to close the bar, and take all the booze with us. We locked it in our bedroom and waiting for the next step. There was no way Gary and family were driving anywhere that night. They would have to stay with us. To further complicate things, their children were still running around the house like wild Indians. How would we get the kids to bed? Where were the diapers and pajamas? Where would they all sleep? Every room in the house was taken. We all started to argue about where to put them. I knew one thing, in his condition, there was no way Gary could help me blow up an air mattress. Besides we were already doubled up with our friends. Plus we were the Booze Alamo. I was half concerned he might try to break in at any moment. Our room was off the table.

After much whispered arguing, we made room for the kids on the floor of the bunk room and Gary and his chain-smoking wife were directed to the couch. We all silently prayed we wouldn’t see or hear them doing it in the middle of the night. But I admit to being curious if his wife could have sex and smoke a cigarette at the same time…while being drunk. I bet she could.

They stayed the next morning long enough for breakfast, after which Mrs. Gary put the little girl in the now dried clothes from the night before. They never had been washed. Gary put back on his shirt and they left. I have heard his name mentioned once since then.

The Worst Vacation Part II: Beach Reconstruction

2008-06-19T09:18:00.000-07:00

The next morning, I was awoken way too early by a curious beeping sound. My head was still fuzzy from all the frozen margaritas, so I thought it was an alarm clock going off unattended. I made my way out of the closet, and started to search for the offending clock. To my surprise, it was coming from the beach. I opened the sliding glass door and stumbled outside. I was so shocked at the time, I do not remember having a specific reaction to what I saw. By specific reaction, I mean one other than….What…The…Fuck?!

There in front of me was an enormous, smoke-belching, metal tread-having, bright yellow bull dozer tearing up the beach and leaving huge tread prints all over the place! The noise was enormous! Clanking wheels, hydraulics, the big diesel engine. It was so close to the deck, I could spit on it. Or throw up, which at the time seemed more likely.

“What….The….Fuck… are you doing?!” I yelled over the din and gestured at the driver.

“Beach Reconstruction!” he yelled back.

“How long you gonna be doing that?”

“All week long!” he said with a smile as he put the bulldozer back in gear, lowered the blade and rumbled on.

A few minutes later, I heard the beeping sound again, as he backed up, turned around and came back towards our location. After a few cycles, it became apparent he would be working the half mile or so that was directly in front of our house. And he would be doing that…wait for it…. All….Week…Long.

Breakfast on the deck that morning was unforgettable. A huge spread of biscuits, eggs, gravy, and assorted meats. The clear blue water and cloudless blue sky contrasted nicely with the Caterpillar Yellow of the bulldozer. The smell of diesel smoke and the rumble of steel tread grinding through sugar white sands blended effortlessly with the sounds and smells of the Gulf.

“Can you pass the bacon?!”

“WHAT?!”

“I said, ‘Can you pass the bacon?!’”

“WHAT?!”

“How about this locations?!!”

“Oh!.....THERE IS NO MORE BACON!”

The Worst Vacation Ever. (Part One)

2008-06-18T13:08:00.000-07:00

I always look forward to summer vacations. We are big time beach people, and for as long as I have been going on vacation, we have shared our vacation time with either friends or family. It’s great for economic reasons and it’s great now that we have kids because they typically have someone to play with. It also allows us to have a parenting break from now and then. I love taking turns cooking meals. I love sitting on the porch after kids are in bed, drinking beer, talking and listening to the waves. Sometimes we get on each others nerves, sometimes nature doesn’t cooperate. Over the years we’ve had some great times. But one year, the laws of nature demanded balance, and we had the worst vacation ever.

When we first checked into the house, we quickly decided it was the best house we had ever rented. To this day, it still is. It had tons of space. Space is key when you’re staying with 6 kids and 10 adults in one house. It had 3 levels, a kid’s bunkroom, tons of bathrooms, a 2 deck porch facing the ocean with build in cushioned benches, a huge kitchen and living/dining space. But the best part was, on the beach level, there was an outdoor bar complete with blender, icemaker, fans and stools. This looked as if it was going to be the best vacation ever! And for a few days…it was.

The first storm clouds appeared the very first day, when we arrived after driving all day to discover a complete free for all over bed rooms. It was like a land rush, only you were trampling over Grandma and Grandpa, and little nieces and nephews to secure the best rooms. Weighed down with luggage and still stiff from the drive, we were screwed from the word “Go!”. Before we could react, we had been left with one room, with one bed, to share with our close friends who had also made the trip. As a consolation prize, we were issued an air mattress and told that one of us could sleep in the walk in closet. Not a great start, but we laughed it off went down to the bar to have a drink.

On the way down, I helped my father- in- law get the flip flop prints off his back, and put ice on my 5 year old niece’s black eye. Once we made it down to the bar, things started to look up. One drink turned into several, and truth be told, by the time we went to bed, the closet didn’t seem that bad. Dark, but cozy like your mother’s womb. The down-side, we did learn inflating an air mattress in the dark while intoxicated is very, very hard. In fact, impossible.

At this point, I was still convinced it was going to be a great trip!

A Brief Update

2008-06-18T12:35:00.000-07:00

I am working on a series of posts about the worst vacation ever. Every vacation we have taken since, regardless of what challenges we may encounter, has always seemed great when we stop to think of the one really bad one. Its a story I must tell, lest my subconscious supress it.

I also started back at work this week and thus Emma started day care. So there will be work stories and day care stories. Oh, T-Ball starts Saturday and I am coaching 4-5 year old....alone. That should be loads of good stuff to write about. Also I was trapped and sexually molested by a whorish cat in my own bathroom. So plenty of material to work with....lets just hope I have the time to post.

Sorry I have been so quiet.

Things Not To Do: The Liquor Store

2008-06-05T18:54:00.000-07:00

Being a Stay at Home Dad even for so brief a time, I have accumulated lots of knowledge. Most of it gained through painful experience. Today I learned a new lesson. Did you know, dear readers (all 6 of you), that it is generally speaking frowned upon to take your 7 month old to a liquor store?

Granted, I was purchasing for vacation and so my cart was steadily filling before I noticed the stares. I think it was when I grabbed the second large bottle of rum that I saw a fellow customer in the wine section visibly blanch, her eyes fixated on my 90 proof shopping binge. Then the man in cold beer shook his head as I price shopped bourbon. By the way, Maker's Mark over-priced, but also delicious.

Then there was The Alleged Alcoholic's Walk of Shame I had to take when I pulled out of the line for the register to get Creme De Banana. Every customer I wheeled by, regardless of the MD20/20 or the 30Pk High Life they were eagerly waiting to purchase, had the same reaction. First the smile for my daughter, and then when they saw my cart, their expression changed to a mixture of concern and disapproval. I could almost feel their tsking and head shaking behind my back. "What a shame. That poor child doesn't have a chance..." It also didn't help that Jim, the cashier, knew my name.

I wanted to turn around and explain to all that all this booze was for a vacation. That there would be 4 adults and we had these special drinking cups and designated cocktails for daytime and evening hours, we would be drinking through out the day, and through out the course over the week! If you really if you took that into consideration, I really should be buying more. I thought about how that might sink in, and I realized it was best to just keep quiet.

As I sit here enjoying a large delicious Manhattan, I don't feel the need to justify my shopping trip to anyone. If they spent all day with a 7 month old and most days with a 5 year old, they would want to bulk drink too. Never the less, to avoid the withering glances, perhaps next time I might leave her in the car with the windows up in the middle of a 90 degree heat wave. That way we all feel more comfortable. or perhaps just leave her at home in the play pen with a box of Cheerios and a sippy cup. I'll leave the box shut, so she'll be entertained trying to open it, and then get the tasty oat circles as a reward for her diligence.

The Love Parade....An Update.

2008-06-05T18:29:00.000-07:00

So, we recently attended my son's preschool graduation. It was a very cute event. They all wore little yellow gowns and mortar board caps complete with tassels. They performed a song, we watched a video of each of the students answering questions about the future, and they passed out diplomas. But the best part was yet to come. Each student was given a special award. Haley was named Most Athletic. Dustin was named Class Clown. Alex was Nicest Person. I waited with a mixture of dread and anticipation for my son's turn. I was guessing Biggest Spaz or given some issues we had earlier in the year that continue to pop up from time to time: Best Pants Wetter. As it turns out my son was given a very unique award: the award for Best Hugger. Ahh my little Cassanova. I'm getting major mileage out of this when he's older. I'm going to hang it up every time he brings a girl over.

"So Tiffany, now you and Jon have been on a couple dates, how do his hugs measure up? They're supposed to be pretty good. I am sure he told you he once got an award for Best Hugger? Its right there on the wall....."

The Monster Within....

2008-06-02T10:40:00.000-07:00

We've all seen and heard stories of overzealous sports dads. Most of us say, "Oh, that's terrible!" and we shake our heads and pride ourselves on our better judgement. Then something happens that make you realize just how fine the line is between engaged, teaching parent and raving lunatic nutjob parent. This weekend, I saw the line, and kicked grass on it.

I was not athletic as a child. Gangly and in need of glasses, I was possibly the worst ball player on the worst team in our Knothole League. I can remember my Dad's frustration with me at times. "Keep your eye on the ball!", he would bark from behind the cage. The problem was my eyes were so bad, I couldn't see the pitcher clearly let alone the damn ball. At the time, I thought the kids on the mound were throwing some serious heat, because I never saw the ball unless it hit me...which it often did. Over time, it became obvious I needed glasses, but that year marked the beginning of the end for me and ball based sports. It was my decision, but years later, I regret quitting. I wish I had kept playing.

I quit because I was intimidated because I sucked and because I really didn't know that much about the games. I had a zero sports IQ. With my son, he may or may not play, but I want him to understand the basics of many sports. And so it was, that this past weekend, I found myself playing catch with my 4 year old. One day was baseball, and the next day was football. His schedule...not mine. There's no organized training regimen yet.

My son's catching technique is the same for both sports, just add a glove for baseball. Hands palm up, arms out, elbows bent. Kinda like he is carrying an imaginary armload of wood. He then makes a scooping motion with his arms. If its football, he sometimes traps the ball against his body. If its baseball, he wonders why anything other that a pop up or grounder is "too hard to catch." There is no lateral movement of the glove or body, and no natural use of the hands or wrists to "catch."

I puzzled on this phenomenon that evening, and as we started throwing football the next day, I puzzled some more. First I tried throwing the ball left or right of him. He would then do a ballet like spinning-scoop move. He kept the arms in, and his feet stayed planted in the same place. I tried throwing low, and he did a bailing motion like his boat was sinking. I threw high and he scooped so hard I thought he might do a back flip. Well.....at least the effort was there. I tried showing and talking about using the hands, moving to the ball, keeping the ball in front of your body...even if that means moving your feet. All to no avail.

Then as I gripped the nerf football for the next pass I had an idea. A wonderful idea! A wonderful, terrible idea. The next pass was thrown a little harder, then harder still. Balls bounced off him and caromed into the neighbors yard. He laughed and kept scooping. He giggled and kept bailing. Then, I as my resolve set in, the line between teacher and wacko blurred. "He won't get his hands up....He won't catch naturally....I must break this scoop-shit. He'll get his hands up by God!"

Then I zipped one right at his pretty blue eyes....hard. I saw them widen in shock and then he hit the deck and ball slammed into the wall behind him. He popped up, indignant, "Dad, you threw that at my face!"

"The ball slipped...if you'd catch with your hands you'd be fine!"

After the 5th high heater, my son told me he was ready to play by himself. I protested but to no avail. I left the yard, puzzled, frustrated and only slightly sheepish. I didn't think I had erred until much later. At the time, I was more upset that he never did put his hands up. That's how it happens people. That's how you go from progressive parent to a dad that deliberately threw at his own kid. And a Dad that at the time thought he was doing him a favor. Whether you vocalize it or, think it to yourself, the familiar lines bubble to the surface, passed by generation to generation, "It's for your own good Son! This hurts me more that it'll hurt you!"

I always wonder what stories my son will tell about me to his friends and kids. This one should probably make the list. I can hear it now, " You kids have it Sooo easy....my old man used to throw at my face trying to get me to catch the ball the way he thought I should catch it.....and I WAS ONLY FOUR!!!!"

A Trip to the Circus

2008-05-28T04:48:00.000-07:00

I had a case of High Life's, a pitcher of extra spicy Bloody Mary's, 2 bottles of water, sunscreen, the dusty box I stashed my balls in when I started staying home with my daughter, and an apple pie. I was ready, but I was going to be late. It was already 4:26am and I was still making my way up 275 to the rendezvous point. The goal is to get on the road by 4:30, so we can get into Indy by 6:30 and thus are in the infield by 7:30. If we missed the infield by a handful of cars, I was dead.

We were in line for the infield when things started to sour. First the Bloody Mary's ran out. Mental note - 1 full gallon next year. Then, the most devastating blow of all. We were denied the infield. It was full, and had been for almost an hour. Which is good, because that means it wasn't my fault. Its bad, because we're still shut out, and next year we'll need to leave even earlier.

The infield is a massive lawn party. A 2.5 mile oval chocked full of grilled meat, cold drinks and people....lots of people. This is my favorite part of Indy. Want to see what the college kids are up to these days? Come to Indy, but I'll give you a hint, it's not the responsible consumption of alcohol. Want to see scantily clad jail bait? Come to Indy, and while you're at it see 1998's jail bait trying to reclaim their former glory after 10 hard years of partying. See the subtle mating rituals of 19 year old studs in baseball hats and flip flops" "Hey....Hey You in the blue....Show Us Your Tits!!!" See 50 year old's try the same tactics. (Many of whom have bigger tits than the jail bait they are engaging.) Share food and drink with total strangers, make an ass of yourself or just watch everyone else. The infield is a teeming circus and in turn we are all spectators and performers.

But not this year. Denied and desperate to even get a spot, we sweet talked our way into Suite Parking. It sounded good because it was free and it was across the street from the track. But it was on the wrong side, so we were 2 miles away from our seats. Worse, Suite People don't tailgate, grill out or play games. To blend in neither could we. It was like taking a kid to Ringling Brothers and then sitting in the parking lot full of locked cars, but no people, hiding from the rentacops. It was less than ideal. It was...not so Sweet. We would have to find other ways to amuse ourselves. It was so bad we left for the seats early.

The long walk afforded us some time to play. We developed a game I call Big Dick. We go into the bathrooms separately. With the high levels of beer consumption, the restrooms are always full. They have these big long troughs that are 20 ft long, in multiple rows, so there's no real privacy. I walk up the trough and a co-conspirator slides in next me on either side. We then proceeded to violate every man-rule about urinal etiquette. They came progressively closer, until their shoes are touching mine, one looks to me, makes eye contact and says, "Hey....Nice Dick!" The other says, " Yeah, I couldn't help but notice the size of it myself." We have a conversation in high volume about my "massive" member, watching the response of people. Some got the hell out of Dodge, some pissed on themselves because they were laughing so hard, some craned their necks to try and get a peek (...disturbing). We must have done it 5 times on the way in, and it was funny every time.

We tried to talk our way into VIP tents, with no luck. When that didn't work we tried to get free stuff and badgered every poor track employee from here to our seats. When they wouldn't give it us anything, or were nasty about it, we told people ahead of us that they were giving out free hats. It didn't matter we didn't even have a hat. You should have seen the crowds converging on them. In the new car show area, we tested out the new model year Chevy's by piling in, arguing loudly as to whether or not there was room to have sex in the back seat, checking the trunk size by climbing into it, pretending to drive, and asking the cute sales girls ridiculous questions about PVC valves and Di-Forcal Modulators . We were 30+ year old punks. Like kids let loose in the Mall again. I'll see you out front at 9:00pm Mom....of course I'll be good.

We did eventually get to our seats, we sit right off Turn 4. We have a good view of the turn and the straight away. The cars are so fast, you barely see them as they come through the turn, and then they fly by multicolored blurs. Its very hard tell what's going on. The engines have such a distinctive, high pitched sound and are so loud. Once the pack spreads out, its a constant din of screaming engines. My ears rang for 24 hours after the race. You rely on the scoreboard to tell you how your drivers are doing, and in a word, mine did crappy as they always do. The race is the climax to the day, and while I have learned to enjoy it, thanks to various and sundry gambling games, it's really an excuse to come to the show, the Circus. Sometimes I leave halfway through and wander the infield mingling with the masses -many of whom have no interest in the race at all. They just come to perform.

By 4:30-5:00pm, when the race was over we headed back to the cars. We grilled out for the second time, started to rehydrate and sober up. By then after 12 plus hours, I was tired of the circus and ready for home, but I am already looking forward to next year. It's a great day, I'm not sure I could or would want to do it more than once a year. But once a year, its a great day.

The Love Parade

2008-05-20T07:54:00.000-07:00

I come from an emotionally reserved, some might say stunted, family. We love each other, but its not something you really talk about. Its expressed more in deeds and a long term presence rather than words. Tough, Stoic Love is a fine art and the best and most often tool used in our collective toolbox. "Deal with it." "Life's a bitch and then you die." "People in Hell want Ice water but they haven't put a fountain in yet!" and my personal favorite: The Deadline for being upset over loss of a girl/boyfriend, cat, etc. "You have 24 hours to feel bad, and then move on." Those phrases and others like them have become the voice in my head and are quick to my lips with my children. I think this served and continues to serve to prepare us all for what is undeniably at times a tough, cruel world. A world where pussies need not apply, especially to our family. Which is interesting, because I would say the members of the family are all sensitive souls in their own way, but we all have a somewhat M&M like exterior to protect us. Otherwise we might melt.

I was shocked when I first started dating my wife. Her Mom and her Step Dad hugged her all the time. They said I love you, like some people say, "Hello." Trying to go anywhere was insane. It was a ritual of multiple hugs with hand patting, kisses and "I love you's", and that's if we were were just going to the movies. It was complete culture shock. It drove me crazy then, and to some extent it still does. Overtime, I have come to accept it and realize that its well meaning. Its just not my way.

It is however, my son's way. He used to kiss me all them time and I put the brakes on that. Now he tells me he loves me at least 30 times a day. He says it when he runs out of other things to say. He says it if he thinks the room is too quiet. "I love you" is my son's go to phrase to pass the time. It drives me crazy. No doubt, he was fawned over by my wife's parents, and so inadvertently they have created this Sensitivity Monster to torment me.

To make it worse, those hippies at Preschool taught him to sign "I love you," which makes another fun, multicultural way to torment me. " Hey Dad!.....Look....I (Eyes wide open, earnest. hand pointing at his chest)....LOVE (Arms crossed, still full eye contact)...YOU! (Both hands exultantly project forward and pointing at me, big grin across his face.)

I finally snapped last night, after the 27th verbal and non verbal "I love you" since he had come home from school.

"Dude. I know you love me, you told me 27 times already and probably more than that that the day before. Its driving me mad! You don't even know what love is. The more you say it. The more you cheapen it. Once a day is fine, maybe even too much, how about once a week. Whatever. But I need you to give it a rest!"

He walked away shoulders slumped. What kind of asshole Dad tells his kid to stop telling him he loved him? I felt bad for a minute, and then I could hear the collective voice of my ancestors living and deceased, "Good Job! That's Tough Love Baby! And he's got 24 hours to Deal With It."

And it was also right about then I knew I was screwed because he would and did tell the In-Laws on me. And boy did I hear about it.

"Why that's the most beautiful thing he can say..."

"How could you...."

I stuck to my guns

"Its the most annoying thing he could say, when he says it often as he does. Beside, I didn't ban the phrase, I just asked for a brief moratorium so that all the extra, surplus "I love you's" floating around my happy home will have time to settle. Once the air is safe, we'll impose a ration system and Casanova will be issued a stamp card and as long as he doesn't over do it, the Love Parade can begin anew."

I could tell she didn't approve, but he's going to school soon and he needs to get the M&M shell going like now, otherwise his ass is going to melt.

Responsibility is Bullshit.

2008-05-17T04:44:00.000-07:00

I remember in my college days, I had a serious affair with Eastern Philosophy. I was seduced by its decidedly non-western views regarding materialism, our place in the world and the focus on the moment before our eyes. I can hear the haughty sophistication in my voice, "People should really live in the now, who knows what tomorrow will bring. All this consumerism, possessions, the rat race...it distracts from the beauty of life."

Such bullshit. Fast forward 10 years. I live in a big house with a pool, I drive a new SUV, I have 2 kids and I have a 401K I monitor religiously. And I like them all. And I'll tell you something else, I don't feel empty.

I run the financial numbers in my head all the time, "Lets see, X dollars in this account, Y in that one, Z in that one, compound interest........I should hit 1MM by the time I am 60."

This too is all total bullshit on my part as no one knows what the market will do, what my contribution rate will be over time or if the magic 1MM dollar amount will be enough. This misses entirely the point, that by the time I am 60 most of that million dollars will likely be earmarked for future acquisitions, really exciting shit like dentures, a new hip and a shower handlebars.

Even so, we take our pretax deductions giddily like schoolboys hopped up on pixie sticks. We have an alphabet soup of 529's, FSA's, and side IRA's. We set aside a percentage for cash savings. We monitor our equity and wait for the day our student loans are paid off. We pay the bills. We see the money come in like the tide, and just as quickly roll back out. And let me tell you, when that tide rolls back out, it doesn't leave a fucking drop on the beach. My bank account's like the Sahara on the 30th of the month. My Dad couldn't find a freaking penny on my financial coast with his best metal detector and a shovel. And that's bullshit, my friends because he has some nice metal detectors!

The net effect....I have no goddamn money for me. I still sweat the bills as much as I did when I was busing tables, reading bullshit Buddhist tracts and trying to make the rent. I drink cheaper beer now than I did in college. That's bullshit, it's tasty...but it's still bullshit!

We work hard. I want to spend my money, its what we've been trained to do as Americans. Work hard, make money, spend it all, have lots of kids....and repeat. The less "free" money we have, the more compelling the urge is to spend it. I am like a dog straining against his master's leash. I am caught between logical discipline and genetic/culturally implanted urges of wild financial abandon. I want to single handily prop up the sagging economy buy going on a capitalistic bender that would make Warren Buffet blush. I want to roll into the mall and swipe my card so many times it bursts into flames in some poor shop girl's hands.

But I won't. And I think that's bullshit. Because when you work hard, and you do the right things, you want to feel like you're getting ahead. I'll be honest, paper statements don't get that job done. After all, money on paper isn't real. It's bullshit too.

That's where I am at. And I hope that last bullshit's not true. And that's no bullshit. Otherwise, what's it all for?

Changes

2008-05-12T03:51:00.000-07:00

I am nearing the point in time when I will begin returning to the office a couple days a week, thus beginning the process that eventually lead to me returning to work full time. I have mixed feelings about this, but mostly find myself wishing I had more time. Staying at home with Emma has been a life changing experience. It is hard for me to describe the connection I feel to her. I also feel that in many ways, the experience has changed me for the better. I am given daily instruction it humility, patience and anger management. I know when she's tired, when she's hungry. I know how to make her laugh and I know when she just needs to be held. But not all the lessons and changes are necessarily good things.

I leave the house regularly and venture into public in spit-up stained shirts. Once you've been barfed on for the 500th time, you just stop noticing. Unfortunately, the people at the bank or the grocery look at you like you're freak. On inspection in the mirror though, a good size glob does look Lewinski-esque.

It is very hard to be taken seriously by anyone when you always wear a pacifier as a pinkie ring. As I walk through the house, if I see a pacifier, I slip it on my pinkie. I do the same thing with rubber bands, if I see one, I put it on my wrist. I don't why, but its apparently a pretty common affliction with office workers. I see plenty of guys and girls with rubber band wrists. I have never seen any other men with pacifier fingers.

I shave maybe every three days, if I had a garment care tag, it would read, "wash when needed." Which is apparently every 2-3 days. I wear pajamas until 10:30 in the morning. I go the grocery store and look at the mom's wheeling their brood through the store, and I think. "Jesus, make an effort. Do something with your self and burn that velour track suit!" Then I see myself in the reflection of the freezer door. Hmmmm perhaps I shouldn't be the first to cast stones....

I stopped to watch a scene from When Harry Met Sally, and then almost cried during it....

I saw a snake in my yard this week and danced around like a girl until it slithered away. It was a foot long for crying out loud!

I had to change the station on a Discovery Channel program, because they were dissecting people. Something that never bothered me, but this time for some reason really affected me.

Now, I am not one to subscribe to gender roles (obviously), but something is going on here. Perhaps going back to the office for a few days a week might be a good thing. Perhaps there needs to be a bit more balance. I got plenty of maternal things in my life. I cook, clean and baby sit. Maybe I need some more masculine things in my life. Go back to work, eat lunch at Hooters, talk sports at the water cooler. One thing is for sure. I need to get out of the house a little before I grow boobs, my dick falls off and I buy a velour track suit in an amazingly unflattering color.

Chris Tries: Farming

2008-05-01T14:30:00.000-07:00

While it was all cold and snowy this winter, I became nostalgic for the days when I was a young child and we always had vegetable gardens. I decided this would be the Spring that I brought the garden back. I envisioned my son and I working in the sun, picking beans into woven baskets and chasing each other around the tomato plants a la Don Corleone. Only I don't have a massive heart attack and die.

Living as I do in the suburbs, I don't really have the room here for a respectable garden, so I used some land of a relative. It really is a great spot, good soil, good light. However it's 20 minutes away. Which was somewhat a strategic blunder. Guess how much time a day I spend working the land? I get out there about twice a week. I wonder if the cost of vegetable saved in the end will equate to gasoline consumed?

After my first day of working on it, I was dirty and sweaty from being man handled by a rented tiller. That stupid thing jerked me around and drug me all over the place, but didn't seem to make a dent in the heavy grass. After I finished or gave up, however you wish to define it, I walked into the local gas station. I am ashamed to admit I walked in with a little swagger. Like I was this full time badass farmer who scratched out a living from the earth with his bare hands. I cut off this pussy in a golf shirt and khaki shorts to get in line and sighed heavily as I paid for my four dollar bottle of Evian.

The clerk asked me if it was a tough day.

I replied, "Getting ready for planting time!"

He nodded his head, and I nodded back as turned to leave. Needless to say, I didn't tell him my planting would consist of less than a 20 x 24ft plot. I'm a retard.

Chris Tries...Saving the Planet

2008-04-24T11:49:00.000-07:00

O.K. I know its been a while since my last posting, but I've been busy. For the four of you that read this, you may recall the last "quirky" thing I tried (straight razor shaving) in an attempt to save money. Needless to say, it was disastrous. This time, I am trying to save the planet by using reusable bags.

Its seems like a very simple thing. Use these canvas bags, so you eliminate the need for environmentally harmful plastic bags. Theory and practice, though are always two different things.

Attempt 1: On the way the store. Arrive and get a great spot near the door. Not the far door, but the one closest to the liquor store. Proximity to the liquor store is key. I get out, get a cart and realize I forgot the bags. I turn around, go back to the car and decide to save the planet next week. This spot is too damn good.

Attempt 2: I actually make it the store with the bags. A crappy spot, but I have the bags. I do my usual shopping. The first problem I encounter is where to keep the stupid things. I have my daughter in the kid area and food in the cart. I settle for the bottom, but they keep falling off. Then I get to the checkout lane...

I actually thought this part out. I've seen how these motley collection disinterested teens, retirees and Jerry's Kids bag normally and I knew they would need all the help the could get. I actually offloaded my cart in the following order: Plastic bottles, jugs and cans, followed by all boxed, non squash able goods, meat, produce, bread and chips. I passed my 5 sacks down to the baggers, who looked at them like they were recently pulled from a men's urinal.

I encouraged them, " Hey, I'm trying to save the planet. The bags will carry a lot of weight though so load them up....by the way I also sorted the groceries for you so it will be easier to bag..."

No response.

What ensued was what always happens, they put 2-4 items in each bag, regardless of smashability, packability or my well though out system. They then used 14 more plastic bags to handle the rest. My personal favorite was when they sarcastically double bagged a roll of paper towels and a lime. It was their little way of saying, "Fuck you....and Fuck the Planet, I get paid $5.00 an hour, which simply isn't enough to motivate me to help you with your meaningless attempt at Being Green..."

Attempt Three: Not one to be fooled twice, I tell the waiting baggers "OK why don't you guys take a smoke break and I will bag these on my own." The cashier smiles and begins ringing groceries at an inhuman pace. My neatly organized supplies are smashed in an in comprehensive heap as I scramble to keep up. I see the scowls from the people in line behind me. By the end I am frantically stuffing whatever I can grab into the nearest canvas bag. Can bread ride with canned good....sure. Fruit with fresh chicken....why not?!! Nobody said saving the Planet would be easy, and if it takes a raging case of salmonella to do it, at least I can say I did my part.

I am still using the bags, I do save a nickel for each bag. I wonder what they'd do if I brought in like 20 bags, and then bagged them like they typically bag. 2-4 items per bag. I would save $10.00 every week....hmmmm.

Ugent Care!: Some times the Dog Bites You.

2008-04-10T10:00:00.000-07:00

To set this up a little bit, in a severe lapse of parental judgement, I let my son watch Rambo II early in the week. Lets just say he's never looked at his toy guns the same way.

I was in the kitchen, cooking dinner and trying to keep my dogs from stealing my infant daughter's teething biscuit. They had taken up position on either side of her high chair in a high stakes bet on which tiny arm would toss the biscuit. It would be winner take all. They were waiting for the inevitable moment when she would drop it. I asked Jonathan to make sure they didn't get that biscuit. They had alreay stole 3 this week.

Never one to do anything half way on a normal day, my young Stallone took his responsibility very seriously. I heard him roar in suprisingly throaty, gutteral tone for a four year old, " Alex!" He charged my shepard-mix Alex, who immediately turned tail and ran....right into a corner. (No doubt shocked by the ferocity of his battle cry!) In a panic she, rolled over in submission. Focused on his mission, Jonathan continued the attack and dove head first into Alex's huddle mass. She yelped, bit and ran upstairs to hide. The whole thing took 3 seconds. Before I could put my wooden spoon down, Jonathan was crying and holding his face, with blood streaming between his fingers.

So off we went to Urgent Care. We walk into the lobby, and I am sure we made quite an impression. My son with his lacerated face, me in a dirty shirt and flip flops, Emma covered in Sweet Potatoes and strapped in her carrier and my wife, who had just come from work. I am sure the Nurse on Duty would later comment, "Didn't they looked like a family that would bring their kid in with a dog bite and then blame the kid for it! And what was up with that poor filthy baby?! Fucking Red Necks! Probably had mean dogs in the house to guard their meth lab!"

The Doctor came into the treatment room, at least I think he was a Doctor. He was of Eastern European decent. He looked like a poor man's Luka Kovac from ER, except no personality and apparently no one was on set to tell him how to dress. I was half convinced he had escaped from a gypsy caravan or a used car lot and had just stayed at a Holiday Inn Express last night. Strange shiny dress pants, a maroon shirt with embrodery stitching on the collar and cuffs, and scuffed up brown work-shoe looking things. He walked up to Jonathan and started poking and prodding the cut. No introduction, no words, no reassuring banter with the little patient.

He looked at me in disbelief when I told him the family dog bit my son. I then added, that it really wasn't the dogs fault. After some super glue, antibotics and a $50.00 credit card charge we were on our way. He quickly went to the next treatment room. I sure he was thinking, "How many filthy hill jacks do I need to treat before I can return to my mother land?"

Whatever Luka, don't they have dogs in Bosnia?

The Championship Game

2008-04-09T05:02:00.000-07:00

There's been some tough decisions, and some upsets and now its time for the final game. Willie vs Geathers. In many ways its the best of the past vs a bright light for the future. Bright lights can and do burn out before they reach their potential, and the Past is simply that...the Past.

The case for Willie: One could argue that during his tenure, he has represented the best of the Bengals. His number, and his name stand for something. It stands for preserverance in the face of adversity, it stands for diligence, reliability, excellence. Willie may be the last player left from the really bad teams of the 90's. The fact he didn't quit in disgust is in itself amazing. Willie's value is brought into focus, when you compare him to knuckleheads like Dillon, Chad Johnson, Pickens, Henry, Odell. As a team, there hasn't been much to celebrate. It got exciting there in 2005, but other than that, its been a long dry spell with some very bad football played.

Summation: Willie's stengths lie in the fact that his jersey, to me anyway would represent the attitude and the type of player on and off the field we should be heralding. His weakness, lies in the fact that during his tenure the Bengals haven't done anything and appear to taking backwards steps.

The Case for Geathers: I really like his athleticism, what he's shown to date and continued room for development. He to me represents the hopes of what the Bengals could be. Fast, Physical, Adaptable, Aggresive. His weakness: Will he develop to his potential?

Summation: Geathers is all about the Believers, and The Hope. The fan that looks to the future and sees the promise of a better tomorrow. The Optimist who sees the very best, and quickly forgets the very worst. There are two kinds of fans and season ticket holders: The one's who have hope, or the one's that sell their tickets to Steeler fans or whomever else is buying that week.

The winner: I cannot believe this. I was thinking Willie the whole way, but the promise and hope of a better tomorrow is as much a part of the American Dream as it is a part of being a Bengal fan. I am a homer. I am sucker, and fool who has been blinded by his love for his hometown team. Please, Mr. Brown, let me write you another check! When I bring my money to the stadium in the near future, I will come home with Geather's jersey. Not for what he has done, but for what he represents.

Jersey Tourney: Final Four

2008-04-07T04:36:00.000-07:00

I think I need a new jersey for the 2008 season and have been working a NCAA tourney style bracket to decide my purchase.

The Final Four:

Geathers vs Jobu 12: I suppose the key question here is could Geather's be a God of Defense? Because and I quote Ghostbusters, " Are you a God?" Ray of course answers, "No." Gozar replies, " Then DIE!!!!!!!" The divine typically punish those who aspire to higher heights than allowed. See the Tower of Babel or Icarus. Geather's is coming back to his natural position. We have a new D Coordinator - which could be good or bad. Could Geather's dominate off the line? I think he could but there are so few that are game changers, The Freak in the day, Strahan certainly comes to mind. Its a pretty tall order. But in the end, It was Cerano who hit the curve ball, not Jobu. I shall put my faith in mankind and Geathers will advance to the Championship match.

Willie vs Old Faithful a.k.a. Justin Smith: I like my battle worn #90. But this isn't even close. Its Willie beating Justin the way Kansas beat UNC or Memphis torched UCLA.

Championship Game: Willie vs Geathers...Who Ya Got?

Suggestions for the Workplace...

2008-04-04T05:51:00.000-07:00

Most of us go to work everyday, and spend at least some time on the internet, so I think this topic is relevant to the internet community at large. I was recently forwarded an email by a friend who works for a large company in the area. The email basically asked their employees how long it had been since they had a sober weekend, and then challenged them to try it. It also directed them to an internal hotline for counseling if the failed the "challenge." Now, 1st of all...I am of the firm opinion that seeing Saturday Night Live with double vision is not only an unalienable right, but it also makes SNL better. In fact, drinking makes many things better. Now that idea really got me thinking.

Perhaps this major company has it all backwards. In stead of going all Henry Ford on their employees and trying to regulate their personal life, how about embracing the consumption of alchohol at home and in the workplace! People, I am talking about real change here! I submit to you, dear reader, that perhaps if the practice of the baccanal arts were permitted in the work place, it would be more productive, and most certainly a happier environment.

I give you the British Navy as my example. In the 18th and 19th centuries, they owned the high seas. Aside from the occasional buggery below decks, the ships ran on booze. Since water was unreliable, they drank beer...lots of it. And once a day, all hands received a grog ration consisting of a pint or more of rum. Yet, British warships were the model of efficiency and productivity as demostrated by their nearly 200 years of dominance on the waves.

Think my friends, of what we could do, if only we traded our coffee cups for beer mugs and our water bottles for flasks.

Jersey Tourney: The Elite 8

2008-04-03T09:56:00.000-07:00

And Now you know why Chris Henry was never selected to the field.

Ahmad Brooks vs Geathers: Tough call. Brooks has all the physical talent in the world and maybe now with a headset on defense he can get in the right position and be where he is supposed to be. For now though he hasn't established himself yet and I am not sure of his long term future with the team. I love how selfless Geathers was in moving to linebacker last year. I also love it when Dave Lapham calls Geathers "Jumpy Junior." Plus he was plenty of time left on his new contract, Ahmad, I am sorry but you're out. Jumpy is going to the final 4.

Shane Graham vs Jobu (jersey #12): With Chad playing his games, (what was the ESPN phone interview all about anyway?), Chris Henry gone, Perry and Irons still on the shelf and a defense that at a minimum is questionable, it may take divine intervention to craft a winning season. Jobu, of Major League fame, could give this team the spark they need. If its one place where a Vodoo God would fit in...its in the jungle. Shane is money in the bank, provided the snap and hold are good, but even as much as I value Special Teams( Come on Special Teams....Be Special!!!!) , I just cannot bring myself to wear a kicker's jersey. Jobu...Welcome to the Jungle.

Palmer vs Justin Smith: I cannot bring myself to buy a Palmer jersey. I had a heated conversation with my friends on this topic. My opinion is, if they make a pink girls jersey and sell it at Dick's, I cannot follow the herd and wear it. Nothing against Palmer, I think he's awesome. But I gotta be me, and if its between buying nothing and keeping old tattered #90 and putting on the number 9 with everybody else. I'll stick with 90.

Willie vs TJ: Geez. I really like both of these guys. Its like #1 seeds facing off. I think they make pink 84 jerseys, that's a strike against TJ. Willie cannot be around much longer, do I want to invest in a player who won't be on the field in 2009? Willie has seen it all, done it all lived through the bad, the not so bad and the terrible. In stark contrast to some of his teammates, he has always done it with quiet, workman like class. Willie Anderson's 71 will stand for something long after he's left the field. Welcome to the Final Four, Big Man.

Hung Over with Kids: Part II

2008-04-03T05:36:00.000-07:00

There are three things that I want to do when I am hung over. They are as follows: 1) Lay on the couch all day, until guilt or necessity propels me forward. 2) Eat McDonalds French Fries and wash them down with the largest Coke they sell. 3) Have delightfully lazy sex. There was a time in my life when all of my wildest Hang Over Dreams could come true. That time was before children. On the bright side, I was reasonably sure that I could get my son on board with the McDonalds part of the plan.

Sex is completely off the table. For some reason, my wife has difficulty getting in the mood while holding a 5 month old in her arms. For me it was our son careening through the house with not one but two light sabers engaged a vicious and loud duel with the cunning (and invisible) Darth Vader. Assuming we surmount those obstacles there is also the issue of privacy as it's hard to use the bathroom without our son barging in to ask questions like " Ummm....Have you seen my Spiderman Mask? Dad....It really stinks in here."

I can only imagine the interruptions if by some miracle, my wife and I were to go upstairs. We would soon hear his steps on the stairs and then hear him grabbing at the door knob.

"What are you guys doing?"

"Can I help?"

He starts knocking on the door and jiggling the cheap brass door knob.

"Ummm...my power ranger, the red one....he's fighting my alligator."

He then realizes he's locked out.

"Mom.....you shouldn't lock the door."

"Mom...are you OK?"

"Dad...(he's thinking of something else to say)...Ummm Dad...I love you."

If all that wouldn't kill your Mojo, then you are more motivated or desperate than I. Having seen all this in my mind's eye, I knew there was no way in hell there would be Hangover Booty.

Well, at least there's the couch and glorious HDTV. Only the couch didn't really work out either. I abandoned that after Jonathan vaulted over it in an attempt to get the upper hand on his nemesis. When he saw me get up, the torrent of talking began.

Daddy....D-A-D-D-Y (he spells it out now too) do you want to play light sabers?

Dad, Dad, DADDY! Look at this Hot Wheel ...isn't it Crazy!

Mom, watch this!

Guys! Look at Me!

Hey, I farted!

Dad....can you fix this?

Can...Ran...THAT RHYMES!!!!

Dad Dad Dad Dad Daddy DADDY, D...A...D...D...Y

Mom.....(a long pause, as again he's run out of things to say)...I love you.

There was only one thing left to do. I grabbed my keys. "Hey Jonathan, do you want to grab some McDonalds?" Of course he did, and so we went. Half an hour later, with my greasy fingers clutching the 48oz tub they served my drink in, I slupped the last drops of ice cold sugary goodness. I was feeling better.

Jonathan stared at me from across the table. "Hey Daddy....now can we play light sabers?"

Second Round Match Ups - Jersey Tourney

2008-04-01T08:20:00.000-07:00

Boomer vs Palmer: 1988 vs the future. Will Palmer get us to the Super Bowl? I believe he can. For the record, I believe he can do it with out Chad. Palmer advances.

Akili vs Graham: I am not sure which is lamer. Can you wear a kicker's jersey if you are not related to him? I have to go with it though, as he stands to be the most prolific and productive kicker in Bengal History and with our defense in transition and inability to run lately, he's been a key component of our offense. Shane it is...

M. Brown 00 vs Jobu #12: No commentary needed, I am over people blaming Brown and will not participate any more. Jobu #12, bring me a winning season please.

Geathers vs J. Smith (bye candidate): This is tough as I already have the jersey and it has that worn tattered look that says, "I was here before you and will be here after you" credibility you cannot get from buying a Palmer jersey in the Pro Shop before the game. But Geather's could be a stud....Since I need another filler candidate (since I suck at making brackets)....both advance)

Munoz vs Willie: Tough matchup. I have seen Willie play in person and followed his career. I was a pubescent nerd who didn't really get football in when Munoz was at his brightest. I know, I know...my loss. But I have to go with Willie on this one. He was there in 1999 at my first game, and he's still there now, and he is and always will be one of my favorites.

James Brooks vs TJ: Very similar players. Heads down, getting the tough yards. Sometimes over shadowed by peers. How much more does TJ have in the tank??? Lets find out...TJ wins.

A Brooks vs Leon Hall: A pretty boy corner 1st pick vs a supplemental pick that may or may not be. I like defense, and I like linebackers more than corners. Corner's are the Wide Receiver's and thus the Prima Donna's of the Defense. Ahmad Brooks.....don't let me down.

Who Ya Got!
Next round match ups: Ahmad Brooks vs Robert Geathers, Shane Graham vs Jobu 12, Palmer vs Justin Smith, Willie vs TJ.

Hung Over....With Kids Part II

2008-04-01T08:05:00.000-07:00

Coming soon....

Hung Over.....With Kids

2008-04-01T06:58:00.000-07:00

I did something Saturday night, that I haven's done in what seems like an eternity. My wife and I went out with friends and bar hopped. We drank....alot. We took shots. I played drunken pool with stangers and smoked at least 12 cigarettes....maybe more. The cab dropped us off at 3:00am.

The next morning, I felt like I had just walked through the Gobi desert, snacking on Cigarette butts from an old ashtray while someone banged cymbals right behind my head. I stumbled to the bathroom, drank about a gallon of water from straight from the faucet and immediately ingested 3 Advil. My first though..."Hmmm....where's my pants?" I squinted at the alarm clock and knew I had a precious 90 minutes before both kids were back. My thoughts immediately turned to food and an overwhelming urge for Grease.

After a delicious breakfast of bacon, fried eggs, gravy...more gravy, biscuits... lots of coffee, I retreated to take a shower. As soon as the water hit me and the steam floated up, I smelled the stale smoke as if I were wearing a cloak of all the disgarded butt-ends consumed by the entire bar. I looked at my feet expecting there to be a small pile of Camel Light filters around my feet. I thought about the previous night. Seriously...did I really speak French to some strange girl and did she really claim to be in the wine industry....in Ohio???? Did I really sing along to Journey and drum on the table to Jame's Laid?...(Great song though!!) Did I really seriously discuss the moral delima of fighting skinheads? Why did I do that 4th jager bomb??

A ringing doorbell interupted my hazy recollections....Crap!!! They were back!

Final 1st Round Match Ups

2008-03-27T04:44:00.000-07:00

I've drug this 1st round out enough. Second Round NCAA games start tonight, so its time to roll. BTQ - I am no bracket genius so I find myself in the position of needing an extra competitor. Someone who gets a bye and goes straight to the next round, or a consolation pick from a player who already lost.

Shane Graham vs Jim Breech: I have to go with Golden Graham. He's going to set the Bengal All time record, and if not for some bad snaps he would likely have kicked us to the playoffs. Plus I have his autograph on a mini football!

#1 Fan vs Mike Brown: Both stupid, but #1 Fan is the guy who sits in front row on the Bengal's sideline and wears a hard hat and huge foam fingers. He is an icon. Like Highlander than can be only one. Mike Brown, wearing double zero, moves on.

Jobu #12 vs C-Dawg (#75): C-Dawg is just too stupid. If the Bengal's need anything on their side, it's Jobu. Which woul;d work really well as I have always wanted to go to a game dressed like someone on a ealy 20th century safari - I could bring in the lost idol of Jobu to assure a Bengal's win.

Ndukwe vs Geathers: I really like both of these players. Geather's has shown awesome potential and Ndukwe really came on strong in his rookie season. The decision for me goes down to last year when we had no healthy linebackers, and Geathers stepped up and played out of position, and after a few games really helped shore up a badly porous unit. Its Geathers, although Ndukwe is poised to have a big year in 2008.

Any suggestions for the bye candidiate? Fulcher?

More 1st Round Matches

2008-03-24T08:08:00.000-07:00

Tim Krumrie vs. Anthony Munoz - Who doesn't remember the Leg Incident during the 88 Super Bowl. Tim was and still is the embodiment of Tough. However, there is one Bengal in the HOF - right or wrong. That one man is Munoz and he's the only big man moving forward this time.

Big Willie vs Stacy Andrews - The Student vs. The Master. Everyone knows Willie's days are numbered, including the Bengals since they franchised young Andrews. Stacy was solid in relief last year, and he may well be a jersey we see around town for a long time. That all remains to be seen. Willie has been the the rock of this organization for years. He's outlived them all, Shula, Coslet, he blocked for the Akili's and the Klingers and the Palmer's and Esiason's. Through it all he has quietly become the Gold Standard for O Linemen. This may be his last year, but man with # 71 on his back makes a statement for how the world should be, and endorses the best of what is the Bengals...as opposed to the man with 85 on his back. But don't feel too bad, I was fooled too.

Ahmad Brooks vs. Ken Riley: Nobody knows who Ken Riley is, but the Bengal record books sure do. Ahmad Brooks is a tough, physical athlete who may become a great player. Ken Riley was a great player. But enough Big Names of Bengal History are moving forward. The past is adequately represented. The future must also get its do. If its one thing this team needs, it is a presence in the line backing core. The coaches and scouts believe Ahmad can be that presence, and so do I. Don't let me down Ahmad.

Jersey Tourney: RB's and WR's(plus one CB)

2008-03-21T03:34:00.000-07:00

Cris Collinsworth vs. TJ: (Or the Over Achiever vs the Angry One.) Cris, in spite of the funny way he spells his name, his gangly body frame, and the fact that he's white, still manages to be near the top of all Bengal receiving records. TJ, playing behind Ocho Stinko, has cracked the top ten, before last year's breakout season. Given the uncertainties surrounding 85, 84 will have another big year, maybe a huge year. However, TJ wants a new contract and he seems always angry, always with a little chip on the shoulder. How chippy will he get over a new deal? Will Mikey pay big money or renegotiate for a 30+ year old receiver? If not, how ugly could that get?

I'm going to roll the dice here, even though Cris is the safe choice, and I fear a storm is brewing with TJ. TJ has the greater potential, and I love his athleticism and fearless playing. I am may regret this choice by training camp, but its TJ moving forward.

James Brooks vs Icky Woods: Its a lighthouse vs a shooting star. One Glorious Year in the Sun against a solid 7 year career. JB is in the top 5 of most rushing stat categories all time for the Bengals and was carrying the ball before and after Icky. Mr. Dependable. Icky pounded his way the SuperBowl, made up a dance, and gave the commentators something to talk about. Then he was hurt the very next year and pretty much out of football. He put the Bengals on the map though. You ask someone in California about the Bengals and if they are the right age they'll say, the Icky Shuffle. You ask them about James Brooks and they'll say, "Who?" Longevity and Dependability have to mean something. Taking Substance over Flash is what Cincinnati is all about, I submit as evidence Pete Rose, Chris Sabo, Ryan Freel and James Brooks as my examples. (Hear that Chad?! The nation may love you, but we're tired of it!) Its James Brooks. Just thinking about Chad pissed me off.

Leon Hall vs. Chris Perry: Battle of the 1st rounders. A China Doll versus a Pretty Boy. I admit, I met Leon's national media campaign with Macy's with disdain. What he do besides get drafted? Nothing! At least Chris Perry had some good carries his first year. That shining flash of potential still burns in my mind and in Bratkowski's playbook. But what has Perry done since then....Nothing! Its Not Yet versus Maybe Never. I'll take Leon Hall and Not Yet, which implies maybe this year. I am not convinced Perry will ever play again...ala KiJana.

Jersey Tourney - Opening Matches - QB's.

2008-03-19T05:23:00.000-07:00

Boomer vs. Kenny: I was in Junior High in 1988, I had a Welcome to the Jungle Sweatshirt with the Jim Borgman cartoon on it. Boomer must advance.

Carson vs. 2008 1st Pick: Lately we haven'd had the best luck with 1st picks...hmmm Dave Pollack and Chris Perry, and Leon was solid at the close but shaky in the start last year. Its the unshaven one by a mile.

Akili Smith vc David Klingler: ( There was a last minute substitution as KiJana tripped down his stairs on the way to the match and couldn't compete) I had to do some reseach on this one. I remember Klingler being dismally bad, and while Akili had a reputation for being stupid, he did have some good games. It turns out they both tried to back up Brett Favre post Bengals and both washed out. Klingler was out of football by 1998. Get this -Akili hung around in various organization, finally getting released by the Calgary CFL team in 2007! Maybe he was too stupid to know when to hang it up. But for sheer longevity, and those few brilliant flashes, one against the Browns ( and their dud QB Tim Couch) I gotta give it to Akili.

Jersey Tourney: The Matchups Round One

2008-03-16T11:19:00.000-07:00

Who you Got???

Boomer vs Ken Anderson

Collinsworth vs TJ Houshmanzadeh

Leon Hall vs Chris Perry

Tim Krumrie vs Anthony Munoz

Shayne Graham vs Jim Breech

Ahmad Brooks vs Ken Riley

Carson Palmer vs TBD #1 Draft Pick

#1 Fan vs. Paul Brown

Willie Anderson vs. Stacy Andrews

Chinidum Ndukwe vs. Robert Geathers

KiJana Carter vs. David Klingler

C - Dawg #75 vs. Jobu #12

Icky Woods vs. James Books

Two is So Much More Than One

2008-03-16T05:04:00.000-07:00

I pride myself on being smarter than the average bear. Given my intellect, one would think I would have seen the pattern developing. I am not saying I would change anything, but perhaps it would have alleviated my occasional sense of shock and wonder at just how much work two kids can be.

Let me take the Reader back in time.

We'll start with a mid summer's night eve in the year 1995. Jill and I sat in our small apartment, looking at the claw marks on our second hand couch, and sniff testing piles of dirty laundry on the floor to see if our cat Rambo had pissed on them. We thought, maybe our cat was lonely. So we found Rambo a friend, and named him Smokey. What ensued was less a a tale of friendship, than a 4 year long Tom and Jerry episode with two cats chasing each other through the house at all hours of the night, knocking over, clawing up and urinating on twice as much stuff. The lesson, two is much, much more than simply two. And really in this instance, not that good of an idea.

Lets go to Spring of 1999. Our dog Alex, having eaten two additional second hand couches, countless undergarments, and one very large hole in our bed,(yes our bed) was becoming a marital strain. My wife theorizes that maybe all Alex needs a friend to keep her company while we are gone. Next thing I know, I am cleaning up T-Rex size piles of poo off my hardwood floors, going through 40 lbs bags of Dog Food on a regular basis and taking walks in sub-zero temperatures twice a day! Again the lesson, Two is so very much more than One.

Let's fast forward to fall of 2006. Our first child Jonathan was going on 4, life was starting to settle down. For some inexplicable reason, we start talking about a second child. Here we are in March of 2008, and our daughter Emma is here. I love my daughter, and I wouldn't trade her for the world. My point is, that we somehow continued to delude ourselves that one more of anything, doesn't really mean twice as more...it's exponentially more. Going to breakfast is an adventure. Sleep is a luxury. (I remember that every time I am up twice a night with Emma, then Jon comes in at 6:30 am wanting watch cartoons.) Running simple errands requires supplies and thorough mission planning. Getting baby sitters is at least 4 times as hard. We measure our days by feeding cycles and nap times, watching carefully for signs of melt downs, while trying to make sure Jonathan doesn't feel ignored. We work, we cook, we clean, we do the laundry, take care of the pets, play with the kids. By 10:00pm, we collapse and prepare to repeat.

Its 6:00am, and I hear Emma cooing through the nursery monitor. I walk into her room and look down on her in her crib. She flashes a huge toothless, gummy smile, wriggles and squeals in delight, then reaches out her arms for me to pick her up. Later that same day, Jonathan struggles with a word in one of his books, repeating the sounds over and over again until it suddenly clicks. He says the word out loud and you can hear the satisfaction and the joy of discovery in his voice and literally see it glowing in his face. He laughs out loud, amazed.

Two is so much more than Two. It's Exponential.

Riddles for You..

2008-03-14T13:42:00.000-07:00

I entertain my son with riddles after school. Here's my latest.

Riddle One
What has feet but cannot walk, tells you distances but cannot talk?

Riddle Two
What has spine but no bones, words but no mouth, leaves but no branches?

The Tournament

2008-03-13T03:29:00.000-07:00

In the spirit of March Madness. I am thinking about creating a tourney format to decide my jersey choice for 2008. The field is as follows:

Bengal Greats Division:
Boomer
Collinsworth
Brooks
Munoz
Jim Breech
Ken Riley
Ken Anderson

Current Players Division:
Willie Anderson
Chinidum Ndukwe
Shayne Graham
Robert Geathers
Ahmad Brooks
TJ Houshmanzadeh

Novelty Division

KiJana Carter
David Klingler
Neil Rackers
Number 1 Fan (already taken..is it like Highlander?)
Jobu #12
C - Dawg #75
Mike Brown...what would his number be? 0 for number of Super Bowl Appearances or maybe 91 for the year Mike took over?

I know this bracket is uneven - I am going to have to come another division or a bye system. I also welcome any entries and suggestions.

Bengals 2008 Season

2008-03-12T04:55:00.000-07:00

I recently had to mail in my check for this year's season tickets. My seat license in finally paid off. This concept is marketing genius and complete consumer bamboozlement. You pay enormous sums of money for the privledge of spending more money to buy a seat in the upper deck where you freeze your ass off and spend $7.00 on beer in plastic bottles, watching what has lately been a dissapointing team. My seats are under cover though...

Never the less, this is going to be a big year for me, as I need a new jersey. Justin Smith, my "high-motor" having #90 has gone to San Francisco, home of the hated 49's. Picking a new jersey is tough because in a drunken stadium, you can been ridiculed for wearing the wrong one. Poor guys who bit on the Akili jersey or maybe the Klingler have been laughed out of the stadium. Although now that the pain is dulled with time, they might be hilarious to wear.....I might need to look for one on Ebay.

My jersey selection critera and selection process is very rigid. I like defensive players or non-spotlight guys like line men or full backs or even special teamers. I like high character guys - I don't want to be like the 50,000 people who had Odell jersey's the past 2 years and were covering the name with Duct Tape. I also like guys that are going to be around for atleast 3+ years since jersey's are damn expensive plus they look better as they get worn out. I also don't necessarily want to have the same jersey as everyone else. That means typically no Chad, Carson, TJ or the latest 1st round draft pick.

The way I see it, I have 5 months until training camp, so I better start now. I'll be breaking down players and options in future entries.

Patcher Sealer

2008-03-10T09:35:00.000-07:00

This weekend I did something I haven't done since I was 12. I built an snow fort!!! I accomplished this feat with my wife, and the instruction and assistance of my sister. In a testament to just how cool my sister is, she recently purchased "snow forms" that she

found in a junk shop - just in case a snow like this happened. The snow forms make approximately 6 x 6x 10 inch bricks - which are marvelous for fort making. But the key to success was the Patcher Sealer. Patcher Sealer was a term my sister and I have used since we were kids playing in the sandbox, it refers to any substance used to both patch and seal. Its form varies depending on the situation, but in this case, Patcher Sealer was additional snow packed around and inbetwen the cracks and bricks to re-inforce the structure and allow for the gradual curving of the walls to form a roof. Without Liz's stern and unyielding instistence on tremendous amounts of Patcher Sealer - this structure would not have been possible. For the record, I am 32 and my sister is 29.

What Happened in Here?

2008-03-07T12:12:00.000-08:00

There's things in life you just have to figure out for yourself. You can be given some basic instructions, maybe a demo or two but at the end of the day, its up to you to master the skill set. I believe, or atleast I have until recently that ass wiping was one of the skills.

After providing basic instruction on premise, technique, quality control, and disposal, one hopes that after an initial "learning" phase the student perfects their own technique and everyone moves forward....cleanly. The events of yesterday have made me question this view, and I may have to develop a 200 level class in remedial ass wiping for my 4 year old. I'll share my syllabus shortly, but let me tell you what has made this seem necessary.

I enter the kid's bathroom to clean it. The first thing I do is flip on the lights. I almost passed out. It looked like someone had powerwashed a monster truck after Mud-o-Rama in there. There were multiple large smears on the floor. Did someone try to draw with a melting Snickers Bar? I cannot nor do I want to imagine how that happened. Above floor level, from the physical evidence, it looks like the right hand became, shall we say, soiled. You could trace his steps:

The Flush Lever....Brown.
The Toilet Seat...Brown.
Toilet Lid....Brown.
Edge of Vanity Top, Right side...that's right...Brown.
Sink, Right side...Brown.
Soap Dispenser...Brown. (That motherfucker was thrown OUT right away!)

Atleast the physical evidence suggests hands were in fact washed. I blasted the whole room with Scrub N Bubbles and walked away for 20 minutes before returning, with a whole roll of paper towels. It was about as bad as it gets. So, I guess that along with evidence gathered while doing a load of my son's underwear - lets just say it was disgusting and I immediately threw out the Shout bottle afterwards - its time to go back to school.

I'm Still Here

2008-03-07T12:09:00.000-08:00

Its been a while, I just haven't had anything to write about. For the 4 people that regularly check this page, I apologize.

I have a few new stories to tell - so I promise they'll be up soon. Besides - its not like my phone is ringing off the hook with buyers dying for my products.

Another Career??

2008-02-29T12:10:00.000-08:00

What would I do if I wasn't in sales? What happens if this current opportunity doesn't pan out? I have given the matter some thought, but really haven't come to any definite conclusions. So I thought maybe I could list some of my options here as a way to cheer me up.

1) Sales in another form - There's still plenty of rejection to go around.

2) Permanent Stay at Home Dad - Dump the day care and completely loose my mind.

3) Full Time Philospher - Well, I did get a degree in it. OK you can stop laughing now. No seriously. Cut it out, I'm getting a complex.

4) Teaching - Find the solution to (Benefits+Fam Friendly Hours+Migraine Headaches+dealing with other people's kids+ going back to school) I believe that equals Vomit to the 3th power!

OK. As you can see I have no idea what to do if this doesn't work. I welcome your suggestions.

Its Friday...Whattaboutit.

2008-02-29T11:42:00.000-08:00

Its Friday. My parents took Jonathan for the night, an occurance that isn't as exciting as it used to be since Emma still in the house. Friday's used to be a party night, we'd actually go places called restaurants. We'd order food and people called waiters would bring it to us. We would talk about everything and nothing. We would never discuss feeding and napping schedules, dirty diapers, discipline issues. We might have a few cocktails. We might even take a cab home. Saturday morning we would sleep in and then go out for breakfast.

Growing up sucks. I want my Fridays back.

Anatomy of a Sales Call

2008-02-26T11:19:00.001-08:00

You spend months preparing your product line. You carefully gauge the marketplace and develop a sort of menu of items which you will offer prospective customers. In order to protect the innocent (as well as the guilty) and keeping with the menu anology, allow me to summarize my most recent sales call.

The Customer: Oh, I really like the sound of that turkey dinner! You might have an opportunity there!

Me (playing the role of the waiter): Well, you have excellent taste, the Turkey dinner is one of our finest offerings and I assure you will not be dissapointed.

The Customer: There's just one little thing. I'm not a fan of mashed potatoes, can you sub soup for a side? Also I don't see where it says anything about Sweet Potatoe Casserole on the menu, and if I'm going to have turkey, I must have the Casserole. That's what I always have with Turkey.

Me: I can always go back to the kitchen and see what we can do, however I can make no promises, but rest assured we will do whatever we can to make your dining experience a pleasant one.

The Customer: Oh I forgot to mention, about the turkey....I'm actually slightly allergic. Can you sub Pork Chops? Oh and I don't want to pay more for my 3 course dinner than the cost of the grilled cheeze I see on the kid's menu. And of course, the dessert is complimentary and I assume the meal is guaranteed? I mean, what happens if after I order it and it gets to my table and I've changed my mind or I don't like it?

Me: Ok, let me make sure I understand. You want to pay $2.00 for a turkey dinner, no turkey sub pork, no mash, sub soup and you want us to do a custom casserole just for you.

The Customer: If you can do that, I might order it. Also, no one else gets the casserole. Its an exclusive item just for me.

Me: Let me see what I can do. Hand me that menu please.

(At this point I shred the menu into 80,000 pieces and walk back to the kitchen cursing. I am unsure whether I should throw the bitch out, or try and accomodate her. In the end, I grab my keys and head to the car to pick up some goddamned sweet potatoes. She better like marshmellow fluff and the bitch better order up in a big way!)

This is what desperation will do for you. You want an order so bad you make somebody their very own casserole.

Spidey Kickin' It Live....

2008-02-25T16:46:00.000-08:00

Shaving: A brief comparison

2008-02-25T04:50:00.000-08:00

During my recent road trip, I packed my old Mach 3, forgoing the straight razor experience before a major appointment. On my return, I shaved with straight razor. I jotted down some notes after each attempt.

Mach 3: Oh my God! The Speed....It was like shaving with lighting. No thought necessary - just go! How I have missed you my old red handled friend. Over every nook, every curve, against and with the grain. I felt like the God of Facial Hair Removal. Technology, Why hath I forsaken thee???

Straight Razor: This just takes forever. 1st Pass not very close - lets go for 2. Holy Shit! My face is on fire. I am bleeding. Maybe this stupid thing still isn't sharp enough. How can you shave what you cannot see?! The blade is too wide, and 4 inches long - no part of my face is 4 inches long. This sucks. Oh the burn!!! This experiment is a stupid idea.

I refuse to give up yet, I did spend money to buy this equipment...and I am stubborn. One month is its the Mach 3 by a mile!

The King of the Road Award

2008-02-23T04:21:00.000-08:00

The one's for all you truckers out there. When mere mortals could see but one lane, you proved us all wrong by blasting past us on whichever side was convenient. When I was worried about safe stopping distances, you were wise enough to know that if you couldn't stop your truck in time, my small Accord sure as hell wouldn't stop it either so on you pressed.

After all, that load of toilet valves wasn't going to deliver itself to down to Hobart's Supply and you get paid by the mile, not for earning safe driving merit badges.

As you rumbling by my window, seemingly inches away from my door, I hoped the guy in the Element didn't brake, the traction didn't shift, or your massive center gravity didn't pull me into your 18 wheels of hard driving, valve delivering, Accord-shredding fury.

Congratulations all you truckers out there - way to show us that regardless of weather, locations, or time of day you're still King of the Roads and King of the Douchebags.

Drive On....Jerk!!!

The Biggest Dick Award

2008-02-22T09:21:00.000-08:00

This one's for you, Guy Who Almost Rear Ended Me! Hey the roads may be slick, there might be an asshole in front of me with his hazards on, but that didn't stop you from tailgating me down the expressway, flashing your brights at me every few second as if I had somewhere I could go. Is that rythmic flashing Morse Code for "Asshole Alert?!" You didn't even back off when you almost hit me, after Hazard Guy tapped his brakes for the 4th time. No instead, you veered your Big Dick Tough Chevy Truck hard to the right, cut off a snow plow and then cut off Hazard Man, causing more brake lights....more fishtailing and more general mayhem. Nicely Done Sir!! Unfortunately I believe I saw you in a ditch a few miles down the road. But even that didn't stop you, in fact you probably had a big, throbbing 4- wheeling boner. When I last saw you, you were hooking up your Big Dick Winch to pull your Big Dick Truck out. All by yourself. Tell me....does having that truck make you feel better when your spend your Friday nights at home alone watching gay porn???

Just Curious.

Assbag!

The Super Safe Award

2008-02-22T07:22:00.000-08:00

This one's for you Mr. I Drive a Honda Element with Ohio Tags! That's right... for you!! For driving a constant 35 miles an hour in the left lane. For driving the entire length of 74 E, with your hazards and your brights on. Hey there big guy...we saw you , and always knew exactly where you were for the three hours we were stuck behind you!! But wait there's more!!! For conspicuously tapping your brakes for no apparent reason other than to maintain the optimal safe crusing speed of 35 miles an hour . Your driving prowess or lack thereof caused numerous fish-tailing vehicles behind you as they reacted to your brake lights and almost got me rear-ended by another award winner to be mentioned later. You were the most annoying (but safe...) driver on the road. Congratulations.

Idiot!

The Great Douchebag Convention of 2008 - And Lo There Was a Great Sea of Assholes...

2008-02-22T04:34:00.000-08:00

I drove last night from Chicago to Cincinnati during some pretty nasty weather. It was the whole snow, sleet freezing rain experience. Now in days of yore, a night like this might be spent huddled close to the fire, drinking a hot cocoa and maybe reading a book or playing charades. But in this day and age, when the white stuff falls, its a sign for all assholes in the area to pour onto the freeway and parade in a Tour de Force of world class, mind boggling douchery. No Convention would be complete without some Member Awards, so based on my experiences I am going to be handing out a few today. More to follow.

Quick Hits

2008-02-20T02:49:00.000-08:00

1) Its an interesting statement that I can wake up at 5:30am, and feel completely rested. Its amazing how much more rest you get when the stars align and Emma sleeps through the night, Jonathan doesn't have an accident, and no animals need let out. Its the parental trifecta! Why am I typing now?! I should have gone for S-E-X - It would have been the best morning ever! File that under opportunity missed....dumbass!

2) I LOooooooOve cereal!!! Emma ate like a champ yesterday with her first feed - like 1/4 cup. Which is a lot. I attribute her sleeping to her eating so good. Fav Thing of the Day: Gerber Single Grain Rice Cereal. Give It Up for the eerie blue baby on the box!!

3) Today I take the fight against the word NO into enemy territory, with a daring commando raid to the North West. Big appointments tomorrow in Chicago. As I look out the window and see the snow piling up, I can see it will be an interesting drive up. I will battle the elements with it's snowy roads, white out conditions and sub freezing temperatures as well as the buyers for the possibility of hearing the words YES. Wish me luck.

One Liner, 2/19/2008

2008-02-19T16:24:00.000-08:00

Stupid, Big Ass, Starship Enterprise-Looking, Motherfucking Highchair.

A Seat for All Occasions

2008-02-19T13:24:00.001-08:00

I just finished assembling a high chair that looks like something from a Star Trek set. It's ridiculously huge. Fully assembled it takes up the same square footage a Barkalounger would. Before you ask, the answer is yes, the high chair actually does recline. Why I am not sure....but it does. It has a meal tray, which looks like it could hold an entire Thanksgiving Dinner Buffet on it as well as smaller "snack" tray which fits beneath it. I mean, Jesus Christ, no wonder our kids are fat!!

On top of that, the stupid thing has toys attached.

"Don't play with your food dear...play with this fun plastic fishy thing!"

Great...now not only am I going to have a fat kid but an overstimulated one as well. Does this monstrosity come with a Ritalin trial pack?

I am looking for a place to put the Enterprise. Where ever it goes, it must be the focal point of the room - it's just to big to ignore. Should I put it in the bay window, maybe by the fireplace. While trying different options, I trip over scads of other seats. Let's ennumerate them just for fun.

The Seat for Bouncing- Complete with vibrating action and light flashing, narcolepsy-inducing, sing-songing, Rattle Rack. For when you kid needs just a little more going on.

The Seat for the Car - aka the Pumpkin Seat. This one I admit is essential.

The Swing Seat - again much like the Enterprise, an insane usage time to square footage consumed ratio. This one swings at 6 different speeds and has a electronic song and "naturescapes" sound system built in. I don't even have a fucking MP3 player, and she's got Naturescapes!!!

The Jumper Seat - This one's pretty cool . So cool in fact, I am suprised it's still legal. Essentially a plastic seat, a nylon cord, with a big spring and a c-clamp that attaches to a door jam. Its half parachute training, half bungee jumping. I want one my size I could suspend from our roof over the pool.

My Son's Booster Seat- His Booster Seat?! Why the hell's that in here???

That's 5 seats, for one butt! That one butt spends more time strapped to my chest than in any of the "must have" seats combined! Lets not forget the moving voilation in OH and soon to be KY for failing to use a booster seat on my older child.

Where's the My Kid's Being a Shit, My Back Hurts from this Damn Carrier, and All I Really Want is this Kid to Stop Crying so I Can Drink a Beer in Peace Seat. That's the bastard we're missing.

If you find one, I'll trade for it.

Am I Lloyd Dobbler?

2008-02-18T10:43:00.000-08:00

I was watching Say Anything last night (insert gay joke here), when I saw certain similarities between myself and Lloyd. Could I have been Lloyd???

The argument for a similarity:

1. He goes after a girl way over his head, and gets her. Granted my wife didn't get a fellowship to study overseas, but she did get full rides to undergrad and law school. I took 7 years (that's right...seven) to get an undergrad degree. By the way did I mention mu degree was in Philosophy and did I further mention I earned it at NKU. Not exactly Harvard over there...

2. Has no clue what he wants to do with his life, except that wants to be with Diane and he doesn't want to sell anything, process anything or buy anything. OK -While I am a sales person, in high school - I had no idea and certainly didn't want to be a sales person and really just wanted to be with my future wife. Still not sold on the sales career, still like being with my wife.

By the way, to be a real sales person, you have to sell stuff. As I have commented before I haven't sold crap in months.

The Crap Market's been off....its not my fault

Our Crap is priced to move, but maybe there's just to much of it out there.

Crap is a nutty business..its hard to predict.

3. Lloyd was an underachiever. I drew some really fantastic bubble art on lots of scantron tests my Senior year, a fact my GPA reflected and a fact that probably cost me some scholarship money when I did finally decide to go to college.

4. Parental conflict - In both my case and Lloyd's there was some pretty intense parental dislike and conflict we had to negotiate. Granted I never had to meet them in jail, but I did have to go to Outback with them alot. That's kinda like jail isn't it, Mate? By the way, who puts skinless cucumbers in salads anyway? Devious Down Under trickery!

5. I taught my wife how to drive a stick on our second date.

The argument against -

1) I do not own a trench coat and never owned one with shoulder pads.

2) I never had a boom box I could hold over my head, and if I did it certainly wouldn't have Peter Gabriel playing in it. I think I would have played Barry White....Can't get enough of your Love Babe would have gone over great with her parents!

3) I didn't have a huge blue land yacht to get it on in and my old hippie painted 86 Nissan Sentra really didn't have the same feel or comfort level to it.

4) Lloyd was cool, I was never that cool. Maybe I should have had a trench coat with shoulder pads.

5) I never called anyone in the rain from a phone booth. John Cusack's always doing that shit. That might have upped my cool factor too.

6) As I mentioned above, I am in sales and not kickboxing.

February 16th

2008-02-17T04:20:00.000-08:00

An extra set of hands makes all the difference.