Cubicle Tales

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

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...

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...

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)

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....

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.

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...

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

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???

The Games Kids are Playing these days...

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?

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!!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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???

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

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!!

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?

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....

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!

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

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.