Taking Back Sunday

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.

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

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

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

(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

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

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???