I Don't Judge; I Only Ridicule

Weekend at The Stanley Hotel

2006-06-25T01:31:00.000-07:00

Christa and I celebrated our third wedding anniversary this weekend. I decided to book a room at the Stanley Hotel, which inspired Stephen King’s The Shining. Some say the hotel is haunted.

I didn’t see any ghosts. I don’t believe in ghosts, so I’m not sure I’d be able to see one if one existed. Ghost stories never frightened me because I don’t believe people have souls. I enjoy the idea of ghosts and souls and heaven and hell; I think they’re fun concepts. In reality, I believe the truth is less interesting. When we die, our brains stop working and our hearts stop. That’s it.

We’re at the Stanley Hotel and I’m not seeing any ghosts. Christa goes to the gift store and buys me a copy of The Shining so I can understand why she’s creeped out by the hotel. As I said, I’m not scared by ghost stories, but this book fucking terrified me.

If you’ve only seen the movie, it’s a story about a haunted hotel. However, the book is much more complex. The book is about a father dealing with alcoholism, and the father’s efforts to fit into society, save his marriage and be a good father. His five-year-old son has the gift of reading thoughts and seeing the future, yet the boy is too young to understand much of what he sees. But the boy senses emotion.

Early in the book, we learn that the father occasionally loses his temper, once accidentally breaking the boy’s arm by grabbing him. We learn that the mother often thinks about “divorce,” a term that means nothing to the boy but invokes a feeling of unhappiness and deep despair. Occasionally, the boy senses his father thinking “suicide,” a new term with the darkest emotion the boy has ever sensed.

The son loves his mother and worships his father. He prays his mother won’t leave his father, which she often thinks about. He prays his father will stop drinking, which is a destructive activity the boy can’t understand, but he sees it destroying his father in the future. As the father slowly loses personal battles that will destroy his family, the boy sees his family’s terrifying future.

I relate to the boy because I loved my father, yet I feared his anger. I relate to the father because I love my son and my biggest fear is screwing up. The characters are complex and the battles are frighteningly real. I’m an emotional wreck.

Maybe I’ll try to relax tonight by watching a feel-good movie like “Nightmare on Elm Street” or “The Exorcist.” Maybe I’ll watch a comedy like “The Omen” or “Salem’s Lot.” If you want to scare me, screw the ghosts and devils. My personal demons are much more terrifying.

I’m Disappointed by My Son

2006-06-05T22:31:00.000-07:00

My cats have let me down. I was convinced I could train them to jump through hoops of fire and catch Frisbees, but alas, they weren’t smart enough. I taught one of them to sit and shake hands, but my hopes were dashed when I saw her trying to eat a rock. I thought she might have actually caught an animal trespasser, but it was just a rock. My cats are useless.

While we can openly complain about our pets, we cannot openly complain about our children. I’m going to break that rule. I have a problem with my son.

My son is uncoordinated. He can’t catch a football, even with clear instruction. “Catch the ball with your hands, not your chest,” I explain. “Spread your index finger and thumb on each hand like an L, and put your hands together to form a triangle. It’s a window. Look through the window and keep your eyes on the ball, and catch it with your hands.” He listens, but when the ball comes at him, he’s overwhelmed. It always slips past his hands and hits him in the face. This upsets him.

Before you accuse me of being too demanding, I’m using a Nerf football. It’s like a sponge. It bounces harmlessly off of his head, but he cries like a girl when it hits him. Sometimes he throws a tantrum.

As I said, it’s a Nerf, a sponge. Perhaps he’s bipolar, or has A.D.D. He doesn’t have the patience to learn. I vow to keep an open mind.

I’ve discovered that my son has a speech impediment. I’m starting to think that he’s bad at sports and lazy with his speech because he’s lazy in general. He doesn’t have the wherewithal to pronounce words properly, and despite my daily efforts, he has no interest in learning to shoot from the baseline or to sink a three-pointer when he’s faced with a full-court press.

I’ve noticed that his choice of TV shows has gone downhill. I put on his previously favorite channel, the Discovery Channel, and an interesting documentary about the United States Military’s cover up in Roswell is suddenly interrupted by a crying spree that demands to see Bugs Bunny. Clearly, he’s regressing.

I have given up football and basketball for baseball in hopes his hand-eye coordination will make up for his lack of agility and toughness. I hit the baseball to him, and he tries to catch it with the wrong hand, the one that’s not wearing a glove. I explain that the glove is meant to catch the ball, and he smiles and agrees.

Once again I hit the ball to him, and he has the glove not on his hand, but in his mouth. The ball falls harmlessly on the turf. I’m bereft of options.

“He seems book-smart,” my family offers. I know they’re being overly optimistic. He yawns when I mention the Grapes of Wrath. He refuses to discuss the parallels between the McCarthy hearings and Arthur Miller’s “The Crucible.” I no longer bother with any Shakespeare written in verse because iambic pentameter merely lulls him to sleep.

I’m disappointed by my son. He tries, and he fails. Those are the breaks. We can’t all succeed, and my son is living proof. Sometimes you fail as a parent and your son turns out to be a loser.

I help him out of his baseball uniform and I put his books back on the shelf. I change his diaper and he cries like a girl, so I sing to him as he sucks on his binky and drifts off asleep in his crib. Maybe he’ll kick it up a notch when he learns to walk.

Of course, I’ve got to keep in mind that at two years old, children become very competitive. He needs to learn to be a man before then. Perhaps, when my wife’s away tomorrow, I’ll start to be harder on the boy.

I Found the Bible in Front of Me...

2006-06-01T21:40:00.000-07:00

I’ve been going to a lot of weddings lately, and I’ve been picking up the bible due to lack of entertainment. I’m an agnostic, but I’m fascinated by the Old Testament. I’ve been reading Exodus and it’s a hoot.

I’m currently working on a summary of Exodus, from my agnostic point of view. Exodus is a laugh riot, so please stay tuned.

Wait, so I’M the idiot?!?

2006-05-18T19:32:00.000-07:00

NBC Nightly News devoted 20 minutes the other night on how scientists have found a link between sleep and a human’s ability to remember things. They attempted to prove the link by testing their theory on rats.

They deprived rats of sleep and watched to see if sleep depravation affected their memory. This is what’s known as an easy gig. How the hell do you know if a rat can’t remember something? Does he misplace his keys? Does he forget to file his taxes? Does he call his rat buddies by the wrong name? You’d never get fired from this job because it’s impossible to judge your progress when no one knows what the rats are actually thinking.

These scientists make a lot of money. Their salaries are paid from grants donated by people afflicted with the malady the scientists research. Finding a vaccine for polio cost millions, but it was worth it. People are donating millions to fight AIDS, and it will be worth it when we find a cure. In the meantime, scientists are fucking with rats in hopes of linking sleep depravation to memory loss.

My son is a month old. My wife and I suffer from sleep depravation. The little bastard screams every two to four hours, demanding to be fed. Christa and I haven’t had a full night’s sleep since he was born.

I’m waiting tables to earn additional income. I’ve waited tables on occasion for the last 15 years, but lately I’m really bad at it because I’m unable to form complete sentences. The response, “Yes, ma’am, coffee… will bring” doesn’t bestow confidence in your waiter. My tips have suffered.

I was making an omelet before I went to work. I have impaired motor skills due to lack of sleep and as I cut an onion, I cut off the end of my thumb. Christa took me to the emergency room and we tried to fill out a form, but neither of us knew the date. We asked the clerk what the date was. She told us, and we looked at each other with blank stares. We then asked her for the month.

We weren’t always stupid. We both held good jobs and could engage in lucid conversation. We haven’t had a full night’s sleep in a month, and we’ve suddenly become unable to function in our community.

This leads me to one of two conclusions: either having a child biologically affects both parents and makes them stupid, or sleep depravation adversely affects memory and motor skills. Rather than spending millions watching rats for months, I suggest the scientists come to our house and watch us for an afternoon. We can prove their theory.

Caring for an infant has been the most difficult thing I’ve ever done. I don’t do well without sleep, so I can tell you with absolute certainty that sleep depravation affects my memory, my mood, and my motor skills.

If we decide to have another child, I’m going to find a job where I can turn off my brain. If Christa wants another kid, I’m going to prepare by getting a graduate degree in science. That way, I can turn off my brain and get paid to fuck with rats.

There’s a Good Chance I’m Becoming an Idiot

2006-05-16T16:31:00.000-07:00

Christa and I went to bar that features karaoke. If you’re unfamiliar with the concept, karaoke is an interactive event involving bad music without lyrics. The lyrics are removed so drunks can parrot the words to see if any are in key. They rarely get any in key, but they praise each other’s performances. It’s like the singing Special Olympics.

People have a desire to express themselves. Lloyd misses his sweet home Alabama. Maureen is not a holler back girl. Danny has friends in low places. Milton can’t drive 55. They all have a story to tell.

For some reason, we encourage people to convey messages in public places, rather than in front of the bathroom mirror where they belong. If an amateur has a desire to perform, he or she should stick to one of the two things that work: pornography or network reality TV. People bereft of talent and personality can orally pleasure a horse and people will watch. Failing that, they can do porn.

We all long for our own network special. “An Evening with Dave.” “Daniel’s Baby’s Hilarious Comedy Hour.” “Charlene and Her Cats Sing the Classics.” These shows are fun to perform, but painful to watch.

Karaoke and reality TV are rotting my brain. I was fascinated to learn how Ozzie handles his kids. I watched every episode of Joe Millionaire. Now I’m hooked on Bravo’s Top Chef.

Top Chef is a reality series where contestants compete to prepare food for complete strangers. Which is the top chef? The hot head? The slut? If I opened a restaurant, who would I hire? Dave is obviously creative, and he’s great at the front of house. Tiffany is a bitch, but she can run the back of house. My brain is rotting.

What’s my problem? If I ordered a meal in a restaurant and asked to watch the cook prepare it, I’d be a lunatic. If someone puts the cook on TV, I’m a discerning viewer.

I was sitting in my study and I had the occasion to do long division. I vaguely remembered to cancel the six and carry the three. Suddenly, I wondered why Jerry Rice is dancing with the stars. Does he need the money?

I cleared my head and attempted simple subtraction. It occurred to me that he’s also on that Average Joe program. What does Jerry have left to prove? The man is a legitimate Hall of Fame receiver and often appeared on major networks when he played football. Why is he suddenly content with Spike TV and Fox? It’s a question I’ll never answer.

Another question I’ll never answer is where Survivor came from. I remember hearing that it was originally a Danish program and the challenges were so tough that some of the contestants died. I never confirmed this, but I doubt it’s true. A tough Danish TV show?

The Germans have had balls, but not the Danes. I can’t remember which side Denmark was on during World War II. I know it wasn’t the Axis. An axis is three; it was Germany, Japan and Italy. The Danes were neutral or they were one of countries the Germans conquered in the first week of the war. I have no idea.

The Danes are jealous of the Swedes. I understand nationalistic jealously because, as Americans, we often look to the English for guidance. To be jealous of the Swedes is like being jealous of the Canadians. Canada, in case you’re unfamiliar, is the big state above Montana. Canada used to be part of Minnesota until the Alaskans flexed their muscles and separated it to make Alaska the biggest state in the union. The Canadians were out-muscled by the Alaskans. Canadians are an odd breed: none of them know the words to “Oh Canada;” they think their official sport is hockey, yet it’s really lacrosse; they regard “Zed” as a number and a letter; they really like their Molson. What was I talking about?

Right, reality TV is rotting my brain. I go to the store and buy 25 limes at 25 cents a piece. As I attempt to do the math, I wonder if the fruit stand owner’s kid is his own. Maybe he could get a paternity test on Jerry Springer. When I smell our neighbor’s kid smoking pot, I wonder if Montel would send him to boot camp. The newlywed neighbors seem happy, but I wonder how they’d fare on Temptation Island. I’m not afraid people think this is how I want to be entertained. I’m afraid this is how I’ll eventually want to be entertained if I continue to be immersed in this crap.

If you keep a goldfish in a dark room, he’ll adjust to the environment and lose his color. If you keep him in a small bowl, he’ll adjust and stay small. If we continue to be entertained by nonsense and random idiots… well, you do the math.

Enough is enough. I want some answers.

2006-04-14T22:00:00.000-07:00

I write about personal experiences. This year, I became fed up with the Bush administration. I’m a moderate who prides himself on listening to both sides, and I’ve had enough.

I am not anti-military. I’m proud of the men and women who volunteer to be in harm’s way to protect us. In return, I believe we have an obligation to ask why they’re risking their lives. We deserve explanations from the people who send them into battle, and if we don’t get honest answers, we have a duty to do what our soldiers cannot- question authority and become outraged when we’re not told the truth.

We invaded Iraq. Three years later, we wonder what we accomplished. The Bush administration has sacrificed thousands of American lives, spent billions in Iraq and incurred huge debts. Iraq is worse off because there is no stability in the country and a civil war is brewing. In the process, we insulted members of the United Nations, an organization we created, and we galvanized the Muslim world against us.

Whether we are Republicans or Democrats, most of us have something in common; we’re not stupid. We invaded Afghanistan after 9/11. We were madder than hell, and invading a country made us feel better. Let’s not fool ourselves about why we invaded Iraq; it has oil, and it was run by someone who refused to play nice with the U.S. We all agree that Saddam Hussein was a ruthless dictator that killed innocent people. We all agree that he had to go. However, we need to ask our leaders whether ousting him from power in Iraq (i) was our job, (ii) was our place, and (iii) was worth the oil. If we can’t justify one of the three, we need to learn from our mistakes.

I don’t blame the Republicans. Most Republicans don’t lie and they don’t steal. They don’t justify breaking the law by citing their religious faith. Most Republicans are honest, good people. The problem is, they’re not the Republicans currently in power in Washington. The honest Republicans want answers as well.

I want the individuals representing me, whether Democrat or Republican, to think through each issue they face. If they decide to invade Iraq, and their decision costs thousands of American lives and billions of dollars, we have a duty to ask questions. We must question them daily and ask what they intend to accomplish. We’re entitled to honest answers, and we’re entitled to assess the results.

As citizens of a democratic country, we must remind ourselves that demanding honest answers from our elected officials is never too much to ask. When we don’t get the answers we demand, we have a duty to become outraged.

When our elected officials don’t accomplish our goals, we need to make a change. If we disagree on moral grounds, we have a right to fire them. If we’re being lied to at the expense of any of our citizens, we have an obligation to stop the deception. We don’t need more rhetoric; we need answers.

The duty to effect change is ours.

Celebrity Watch List

2006-04-12T23:13:00.000-07:00

By Christa

As Doug’s wife, and a very bitter pregnant woman, I’ve decided to channel my rage by instituting a “Slap a Celebrity” short list. I don’t know whether I’ll have the rage to keep it up long term, but right now I’ve got the hormones, and the evidence to make it happen.

1. Sharon Stone: Seriously, how much does this woman need to be slapped? It’s a chronic condition with her. I saw “Basic Instinct”. I saw “Sliver”. I can even remember, back quite a while, when she showed a promising start in a little known, but very amusing film called “Irreconcilable Differences”. But jeez! If I have to hear her wax intellectual about her incredible IQ or how she proves herself to be more of a woman than the rest of us by incessantly showing off her hooch, I think I will puke. Seriously, put that thing up and get yourself a hobby. We all get that you have a vagina. So you like to show it off—that does not make you a revolutionary, it makes you a porn actress.

2. Tom Cruise: Do I really need to go into detail here? I hear he’s congratulating himself on freeing several people from a drug-addicted life. I find it more likely that he’ll send Katie Holmes into a crystal meth death spiral. She doesn’t look 100% sober these days, which would explain her ability to tolerate him. Also, he claims psychiatrists tried to medicate his supposed dyslexia. Now, I know a little bit about dyslexia, and there has never been a chemical treatment for dyslexia. It’s not considered a psychiatric disorder. No one medicates it. Ever. ADD is often chemically treated. So is depression, psychosis, bipolar disorder, and many other conditions. But not dyslexia.

3. Chloe Sevigny: I will refer you to gofugyourself.typepad.com. Seriously – who dresses like this?

4. Susan Sarandon: She’s been setting herself up as some kind of political expert. Based on what qualifications? Starring in “Rocky Horror Picture Show”? She’s a great actress, but I don’t think celebrities are really qualified to analyze our complex political structure.

5. Brad Pitt: I always thought Jennifer Aniston married down. And let me tell you, I’d far rather spend time with Vince Vaughn than Brad Pitt. First of all, I have a theory that any man who is rated as “The Sexiest Man Alive” is bound to get an ego complex. Secondly, he once stated that he doesn’t shower because he thinks au naturale is more attractive to women. Maybe he was kidding. I hope so. Third, he and Angelina as a couple just give me the creeps. His constant yammering about his desire to parent bores me. It just seems like another way for him to feed his own ego.

And just to prove that I am not completely bitter (although I admit I’m close), I would like to identify a few celebrities that I think are utterly underrated:

1. Jeanne Tripplehorn: Her roles (especially in Big Love) really make me feel better about getting older. How hot is she? I never understood why the guy in Basic Instinct dumped her for Sharon Snore.

2. Mandy Moore: This chick is funny. First of all, she’s with Zack Braff, who is a riot. Secondly, she played the role of the fundamentalist princess in “Saved.” She was a great guest star on “Entourage” (I think she made the second season). And, she’s starring in a parody of American Idol. I’m sold.

3. Kelly Carkson: I like her more all the time, and I have no idea why. She’s got a great voice and she’s not a paparazzi hound.

4. The writers at Gawker: They’re not traditional celebrities, but they have a great sarcastic voice that actually makes me care about stuff in New York that I don’t understand. And they constantly rip on Sharon Stone. I fantasize about having friends like them so we could trade snarky emails.

5. The writers at Go Fug Yourself: See above except change Sharon Stone for Chloe Sevigny.

I’m Thrilled Just to Be Involved

2006-04-05T11:08:00.000-07:00

I was watching a special on HBO featuring Jenna Jameson, a porn star with abnormally large breasts. I became bored and flipped the channel to a reality TV show about a plastic surgeon in Hollywood, Doctor 90210. In this particular episode, three sisters had breast augmentation surgery. The doctor on the show kept encouraging them to get bigger implants because he assumed that’s what they wanted. This leads me to ask, what’s up with the big fake tits?

I’m a guy who enjoys looking at naked women. But for some reason, the sight of a bleached blond woman with huge, comically round breasts does nothing for me. I usually assume these women are either unintelligent, or crazy due to self-esteem issues.

To be judgmental of people who choose surgery is unfair. If you have a deviated septum or a cleft palate, by all means, correct it. Some people have webbed toes that can be changed by a simple operation. I even understand rhinoplasty; if your nose makes you feel self-conscious, change it. We all want to fit in.

The operations I don’t understand are the ones meant to make people stand out. Botox injections to increase her lips? Hunh? OK, so she saw a woman with big lips and thought it was sexy. It’s an odd characteristic that looks sexy on some people, but it’s not a requirement to be sexy. Cheek implants are the same thing. A woman can be hot even if she has small checks.

My wife and I occasionally have this conversation. We’re committed to being married, so she doesn’t fear me looking at other women. When she asks me what I find attractive about a particular woman, she’s often astounded by my answer. I’ll enjoy a woman’s smile or her demeanor. I’ll like her teeth or the sparkle in her eyes. A woman carrying a few extra pounds can charm me with an odd sense of humor. I don’t think in terms of how they’d look with bigger tits or different cheeks or fuller lips. I find women attractive, and if one of them happens to be naked, I’m thrilled just to be involved.

Christa, her friend and I engaged in a discussion about which actresses we find attractive. Her friend admitted that she has a thing for Natalie Portman. Christa fancies Kate Winslet. I’ve always enjoyed Kirsten Dunst and Keira Knightley. I’m not suggesting that this proves anything; I just noticed that none of us picked Jenna Jameson, Jenny McCarthy or Pamela Anderson.

To many of us, breast implants are like a facelift; they’re obviously fake and they make us think the woman is willing to let society’s unreasonable expectations push her around. To us, women with obvious facelifts seem too desperate to age with dignity. And women with big fake tits seem too desperate to rely on other traits. If a woman with small breasts asked us why we think she’s sexy, we could quickly come up with a list of ten, at least one of which would include her figure.

Before you conclude that I’m being too hard on women who have had breast augmentation, allow me to set the record straight. If you’re a woman with big fake tits and you want to show them to me, I’ll be thrilled just to be involved.

WE’RE Pregnant?

2006-04-02T22:37:00.000-07:00

When it comes to grammar, I have a list of pet peeves. It drives me nuts when people pick “I” instead of “me” merely because there are two objects in a sentence. “Thanks for having Bob and I over,” she’ll say. “We picked the BMW because we wanted a car that works for both my wife and I,” he’ll brag. I want to tell them to take away the other object and see what happens. Right, the word is “me.” It’s just that easy.

The difference between principle and principal seems minor, but it isn’t. The principal is the major part of something. A principle is an intangible idea. A mortgage broker asked me to sign a document stating that my first payment went towards the principle of the loan. I caused a scene at the closing. My wife thought I overreacted, but the first payment was a thousand dollars. I’m not going to pay someone a grand for the idea of paying down a loan.

I have let a lot of stuff go. I’ve stopped arguing with people in the corporate world who insist on making nouns verbs. I don’t criticize when they chair meetings or table ideas. I even let it go when they leverage money- lever is a verb, leverage is the result, but it has become a verb in their world. Whatever.

A phrase that used to drive me nuts is “we’re pregnant.” I always looked at men funny when they used this phrase. Only one of them is pregnant. However, I now understand that this phrase is correct. When you’ve been through the process, you understand its meaning.

I once wrote a letter at work requesting information. My boss suggested that I replace the word “I” with what he called the “Royal We” to sound more respectful. The idea is that everyone knows “we” refers to only one person, but it sounds nicer if it seems to apply to a group. “We need more information so we can make a decision.” It takes off some of the personal pressure.

There is no Royal We in pregnancy. We means we. If the smell of chicken makes her sick, WE are not having any chicken in the house. If a Hallmark commercial makes her cry, WE will have a rough time watching prime time TV. If she craves pancakes Saturday morning, WE will have breakfast at a diner. If she can no longer get a lap dance from a stripper because she suddenly has no lap, WE are not getting all coked up and going to a strip club. We have to make sacrifices.

The phrase “we’re pregnant” conveys many ideas. Among them are “we no longer have sex,” and “we’re miserable because we can’t get drunk together,” and “we’re cranky because the fetus just learned to dance.”

When in public place, “we’re pregnant” means “please give us unsolicited advice.” Apparently, every woman needs a lecture on the benefits on breastfeeding and every man needs to be advised not to tell his wife that she’s fat. Most people are given the benefit of the doubt regarding their ability independently to come to obvious conclusions, but neither of your abilities can be trusted. After all, you’re both pregnant.

“We’re pregnant” also serves as a warning. It means, “one of us is volatile and the other is in charge of damage control.” I don’t mean to point fingers, but I’ve been the easy-going one lately. I understand that hormones are to blame; I just had no idea what I was up against. I’ve been confronted with some surprises.

My wife burst into tears because I laughed at the television. She informed me that the only thing I care about is situation comedies and this makes me a jerk. She had a meltdown when I didn’t immediately ask to see a picture from her third ultrasound; it proves that I don’t care about my son. She recently cried because working full time has caused the cats to hate her. None of these is solely her problem; each of them is ours.

She talks about how being pregnant wears her out. The feeling is mutual. I can’t tell her that, but I’m as ready for it to be over as she is. If my son isn’t an instant freakin’ bundle of joy, he’s going to be an only child.

I don’t know what it’ll be like to have a baby in our house, but I know one thing for certain- I can’t wait until I’m no longer pregnant.

On Screwing up Our Children for Life

2006-03-29T12:52:00.000-08:00

As an expectant father, I have been wondering how I will ever learn to raise children. I have no idea how to deal with a baby, so I’m relying on one of the few things I know how to do- research. The more I fear something, the more I research it. I’ve done a lot of research about having a baby in my house. After many hours of reading I’ve concluded that parenting books are of no help whatsoever.

If you want to engage in an exercise in futility, take a book by Doctor Sears, famous for his attachment parenting theories, and compare it to a book by Doctor Buckman and Gary Ezzo, famous for their Babywise method. Read a chapter on a specific topic in one book, and then read the corresponding chapter in the other. The differences in their advice will drive you insane.

Look at something as simple as feeding your child. Dr. Buckman says we should put him on a schedule in hopes of getting him to sleep through the night. Babies who are fed on demand become fussy, he explains, and will never sleep well. However, Dr. Sears insists that we feed him whenever he demands food because babies know when they’re hungry. He insists that babies who are not fed on demand become dehydrated and malnourished.

Dr. Sears demands that we let him sleep with us; he recommends the creation of a family bed. To deny the child attention will make him too anxious, which will screw him up for life. Dr. Buckman says we shouldn’t let him sleep with us; we should learn to recognize his cries and let him cry himself to sleep if he doesn’t sound agitated. To give him too much attention will make him needy, which will screw him up for life.

Dr. Buckman stresses the point of parents creating a “date night,” a time to leave the kid with someone else and reconnect as a couple. He tells parents to spend at least 15 minutes each night talking solely to each other, ignoring the child. He underscores the importance of showing the child that we have strong marriages, so the child doesn’t fail to understand his role in the family and become screwed up for life.

Dr. Sears vehemently disagrees; he instructs us to wear the child in a sling and take him everywhere we go. He observes that in some primitive cultures, the child doesn’t even touch the ground until he’s two-years-old, at which time they have a historic “ground breaking ceremony,” declaring the child ready to touch the ground. Systems like this, he insists, are instinctual ways to make our children feel loved and safe, which will stop us from screwing them up for life.

If a child has trouble sleeping, Doctor Sears recommends rocking the child to sleep or putting him in a car seat on top of a running clothes dryer. Doctor Buckman alarms us of the danger of using sleep props, such as rocking cribs, and tells us, quite specifically, never ever, under any circumstances, to put the baby in a car seat on top of a running clothes dryer.

These guys act like two children arguing over a toy. I think we should take the same approach our mothers took with us when we argued incessantly with other children. “That’s IT!” we’ll scream. “I have had enough of this! If you two doctors don’t stop fighting, I’m going to take away the baby! I was willing to make an effort, but you guys HAD to start bickering. You’ve ruined it for everyone. I hope you’re happy.”

“It’s all his fault,” Doctor Buckman would say, lamely. “He was being mean, and he said I was hyperscheduling.”

“Well, he started it,” Doctor Sears would whine. “He hurt my feelings when he called me a primitivist.”

Upon hearing this, we would rely on common sense and send them both to “time out” until they apologized to each other and agreed to play nice. Hey, we might be better at parenting than we originally thought.

Like the experts, parents tend to wind each other up. We have spirited discussions about how many ounces of juice a baby should have, and how many hours of TV are appropriate for a toddler. We talk about articles on the benefits and dangers of breastfeeding. We use strange words like attachment, directed feedings, high-need babies, sleep props, family beds, and infant management tools. We read; we worry. We try to discredit each other’s methods. We discuss different theories, and then we become angry and storm off. We end up sitting alone in our houses, where we worry some more. Let’s face it; we’re a mess.

I’m the youngest of three children. My sister and brother were a year apart, and I came along 11 years later. With my brother and sister, my mother followed Doctor Spock’s advice. She picked them up at times, she let them cry at others. She forced the kids to read instead of watching TV. She monitored their homework and made sure they ate their vegetables. When my sister and brother complain about what a hard ass she was, it seems like they’re talking about a completely different person.

My parents hadn’t had a child for more than a decade, so they had relaxed their standards by the time I was born. I have fond memories of spending an entire Saturday in front of the TV. On school days, I remember eating breakfast while watching “Whammy! The All New Press Your Luck.” My mother would serve me apple pie and hot chocolate. For lunch, she’d pack me a sandwich, a Cheeze ‘n’ Cracker Handy Pack and a Chocodile. Occasionally, my sister would return from college and openly question my mother about my strange diet. “Oh, hell,” my mother would say, “if he wants popcorn for dinner, give him popcorn. It never killed either of you kids.”

The older version of my mother had the benefit of what we, the new generation of parents, lack. We lack perspective. She watched her kids grow for 13 years. Sometimes she succeeded; sometimes she failed. Her successes and failures had little to do with the amount of effort she invested. When her third child came along 13 years after the first, she already knew what wise grandparents have learned; raising kids is not a science, so we might as well relax, enjoy them, and go with the flow.

Pick a card, any card

2006-03-23T16:46:00.000-08:00

Today I was in charge of picking a pediatrician. My wife insisted that it is my job. This struck me as odd because she’s been in charge of the child-related decisions so far, which is fine by me. But for some reason, she insisted that I find our son’s doctor.

I called the first number on our insurance list and began arguing with the receptionist. Yes, I told him, I understand that we’re to bring the child in three days after he’s born, but I need to meet my son’s doctor before I commit to having him treat my child. He decided to transfer me to a nurse and he put me on hold. It then occurred to me why this was my job- when I hire a professional, I’m a pain in the ass.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a pain in the ass with everyone. When a handyman installed our ceiling fans, I was amazed by his skills and I followed him around the house, praising his choice of drill bits and large collection of screwdrivers. A refrigerator repairman showed me how to adjust the feet on our refrigerator so that it leans slightly to the right, which causes the door to slam shut. I gave him a $20 dollar tip. Our mailman’s name is Bill and I routinely offer him beer as I thank him for our mail. He always refuses the beer, but he seems to appreciate the offer.

When I’m dealing with a doctor or a lawyer or an accountant, the stakes are higher. I have an obligation to pay attention. If I don’t accurately describe my aches and pains, the doctor won’t know which tests to run. If I forget a W-2, my taxes will be wrong. If I forget about a prior conviction in Delaware, my lawyer will be caught flat-footed at my sentencing hearing and the judge will reject my plea bargain with the D.A. and sentence me to 15 years for my latest deviation from Federal law. Sure, it would be better to do time in a Federal prison, but they could send me to Kansas. I guess it’d be easier to do time in a nice prison in a dull place, but where would I go when I’m on parole? If I’m required to stay at a half-way house and work in Wichita, forget it. Give me a nice cell, three square a day and access to books and TV and I’d be happy. I could get a Master’s degree in something and still catch every episode of Jerry Springer and Blind Date.

What was I talking about?

Right- picking a doctor. I spent the morning researching doctors for our son, and I learned a couple of things. First, if you have insurance, consider yourself lucky. You can choose a doctor. People without insurance choose a location, and then they get the doctor that can see them first. It’s like the TV show Scrubs, only without J.D. and Doctor Cox’s witty repartee.

Second, if you have the luxury of choosing a doctor, pay attention to the first question they ask you. If their first question is “Do you have insurance,” rather than, “What type of insurance do you have,” hang up the phone. If you have options, use them. You don’t need to bring your child to a clinic where the patients’ biggest concern is that it hurts when they pee. That stuff is contagious.

Third, ask to talk to a nurse. They’re usually jaded, which means you can get past the required professionalism and go straight to the candor, if you turn on the charm. After asking a couple of standard questions, confess your ignorance and ask for their personal opinion. “Look, I’m just trying to do the right thing for my kid. I want to find a doctor with practical, common sense. If it were your kid, where would you start?” You’ll be amazed by the information they’ll give you, both good and bad, about the doctors they’ve worked with and have taken their children to.

“I’d take my daughter here, but, quite frankly, Dr. Duffy is too judgmental,” she says. “He’s always going on and on about this or that and scolding people. I don’t need anyone telling me how to raise my kids.”

“You’re preaching to the choir,” I say.

“Damn straight. And that attachment parenting is bullshit. Breastfeeding a four-year-old? I say, woman, keep ‘em in your shirt when you’re outside of your house. We don’t want to see them. If I wanted to see your privates, I’d go to a smoky club with a wad of ones and pay seven dollars for a Coke!”

“Right,” I agree. “So… where should I take my son?”

“Oh, go to Doctor Miller on 23rd. He’s very good.”

And so it’s settled.

I find it ironic to offer advice on picking a doctor. I don’t know anything about being a doctor, so picking one is like blindly picking a card from a deck. And I have no idea how to be a good parent, so each day is a new adventure. The only hope I have is the ability to learn from my mistakes. We’ll keep you posted.

Tell me, will my neighbors always aggravate me?

2006-03-13T22:34:00.000-08:00

I was reprimanded for complaining about the odd traits of my neighbors. Our neighborhood has a Mexican flare, which is why we picked it. When I complain about my neighbors some insist I’m being politically incorrect.

I once complained at a cocktail party about the Mexicans’ love of musical car horns. The listener accused me of being racist. I had to point out that “Mexican” is not a race, but a nationality. Nationalities are fair game.

I grew up studying Spanish at the insistence of my father. I spent every vacation after junior high in Mexico where I worked as my parents’ translator. I loved every minute of it. I loved Mexico because I fell in love with the Mexicans.

My favorite difference between America and Mexico is the Mexican phrase, “No hay.” Literally, it means, “it doesn’t exist,” but the connotation in Mexico means a lot more. No hay is the explanation one receives when a restaurant doesn’t have an item on the menu. You’ll point to a dish on the menu and order it, and the waiter will respond by shrugging his shoulders, explaining that it doesn’t exist.

Americans demand an explanation using their American version of logic. If it doesn’t exist, they’ll ask, why is it on the menu? The Mexican will understand the words, but not the logic behind the question. To be a gracious host, the Mexican will politely offer an explanation. “Sometimes it exists,” he’ll patiently answer, “but not tonight.”

This response doesn’t usually satisfy the American. The item is on the menu and it’s what he wants, so he expects the waiter to do something about it. The Mexican will politely say again, “no hay,” and wait for the American to order something else.

The beauty of no hay is that it’s never an apology; it’s a statement of fact. The first time it’s used as an update, the second time it’s used to say, “I don’t know why you’re upset; it still doesn’t exist. What can I do about it? You need to relax, my friend.” That’s why I love Mexico; the Mexicans understand the priorities of life.

Sometimes I’m embarrassed by the behavior of Americans. When you go to another country you are an ambassador. If I were to poison a 15-year-old’s opinion of all Americans by being uptight about the use of starch on my polo shirt, I’d be mortified. If I tainted this boy’s impression of all Americans, I’d be the one to blame. I am not suggesting that anyone should let people take advantage of him, but let’s show respect and pick our battles.

What horrifies me the most is the American habit of shouting to bridge a language barrier. I’ve never had a Mexican shout at me, neither here nor there. In Mexico, you can often spot an American because he’s the one shouting, “NO, I SAID SCOTCH! ON THE ROCKS! YOU KNOW, ROCAS. SCOTCH ON THE ROCAS!”

I’m critical only of the Americans that go to Mexico and don’t make the least bit of an effort to fit in. My Mexican friends remind me that the majority of Americans traveling to Mexico are well behaved and treat their hosts with respect. They remind me that while we have our jackasses, to be fair, so do they.

My love of Mexico brought me to a neighborhood with a Mexican influence, but I’m baffled as to why my Mexican neighbors love musical car horns. Every sunny weekend afternoon they parade cars down my street and blast horns singing “La Cucaracha” and “The Yellow Rose of Texas” and wake me out of a deep slumber.

I’m also baffled by Mexican yard sales. These extensive sales consist of nothing but crap, and not one item costs more than five cents. Suddenly my neighbors’ yard becomes Maria and Felipe’s “Everything’s a Nickel Store.” I’m not sure how to say that in Spanish, but I assume it’d be something like, “Toda Nuestra Mierda es muy Barata.”

I sometimes complain about our neighbors. It’s not because they’re Mexican or yuppies; it’s because they’re human. I hit the 7-11 to grab a quick cup of coffee at 7:45 AM and Maria and Felipe are in front of me, holding a jar that contains the profits from this week’s yard sale. They have a pile of change the clerk has to count and they’re buying a week’s worth of groceries. The jar, as usual, contains nothing but nickels.

When I become frustrated I hit the coffee shop instead of the 7-11, knowing the patrons at the coffee shop are yuppies instead of Mexicans. I stand in line and Chad orders a chi tea latte while asking detailed questions about a piece of asparagus quiche that will require delicate warming. I suddenly realize that it’d be quicker to count a jar full of nickels. As I reflect on my misfortune, I think about all of my neighbors.

I think about justice and karma. I imagine them paying tickets for violating noise ordinances with their musical car horns. I imagine others being chastised for shouting English at a Mexican waiter. I think about their maddening penchant for reminding people they’re American, and their insatiable desire to do all of their shopping with nickels at a corner store. I think about their yard sales, their chi tea, their Cinco de Mayo traffic jams and their 4th of July drunk fests.

Then, I think about my jar of nickels. It’s a standard jar that looks like everyone else’s, the same type of jar we all put change in on a daily basis. My jar is the one I’m filling to retire and live happily ever after with my odd Mexican hosts and the gringos that embarrass me. I hope, eventually, I’ll live in paradise and I’ll be forced to grow to love my neighbors for who they are.

Please Kill Me Now

2006-03-11T13:23:00.000-08:00

Today I went with my wife to what has got to be the most annoying store on Earth, Babies “R” Us. Even the name aggravates me. “R” is not a word, nor is it cute merely because it’s backwards. I get the Toys “R” Us joke; kids are dumb and make mistakes when they write. But with babies it doesn’t make any sense; babies can’t write, so they’re not going to write a note and hilariously mistake a backwards R for the word “are.” Let the joke go and buy a fucking vowel already.

I also hate the store because it’s filled with people who are a complete pain in the ass for one of two reasons: they are either bitter because they have to attend a shower and the small gift they decided to get costs $65, or they’re crazy because they’re pregnant and they’re dealing with unbridled hormones.

My sole job at Babies “R” Us is to return a stroller while my wife picks out some items. I stood in the return line behind two yuppies who were making a simple exchange more difficult than launching a rocket to the moon. They were the only people in front of me, yet I still had to wait 15 minutes as they found the exact item that matched the theme and colors of little Bradford’s room. Clearly, these people needed to be shot.

I’ve stopped worrying about whether I’ll be a good father. When I walked around the store it became obvious to me that there are no requirements to be a parent. It doesn’t matter how annoying or stupid you are, you can still reproduce. Usually I’d never agree with the Nazis, but they might have been on to something with the mandatory sterilization. I think it’d be a good idea for the really annoying, and those stupid enough to enforce absolute themes in rooms.

I’m waiting in line to return the stroller. I don’t know why I’m returning the stroller other than it is what I was told to do. A stroller, in case you’re unfamiliar with the concept, is a mini chair on wheels. I have no idea what the criterion is that separates the right mini chair on wheels from the wrong mini chair on wheels, but there are some things I care so little about that I’m unable even to feign interest.

After the yuppies are done torturing the return woman, it’s my turn to talk to her. She is visibly annoyed, and obviously very short of patience. “How can I help you?” she asks, somehow making it clear that the word “help” is meant to be ironic.

Because I’ve been standing in line for 15 minutes, I have had the opportunity to familiarize myself with the store’s return policy, which is posted on a gigantic sign above the counter. It is impossible, I am informed in bold letters, to return something for cash without a receipt. If there were ever a circumstance, hypothetically, when you might have a Babies ‘R Us item without a receipt, say, by receiving an item as, say, a gift at a baby shower, then you may only return the item for store credit. Fine. Whatever.

“I’d like to return this item for store credit,” I tell the woman.

“Do you have a receipt?” she asks me.

“No I don’t,” I say, “so I’ll take the store credit.” She looks at me as if I had just taken a bite out of a live kitten.

“You don’t have the receipt?” she asks again. I explain, once again, that no, I do not have a receipt. She stares at me as if she’s sizing me up. Then she sighs a frustrated sigh and starts typing, acting as if she’s making a grand exception for me because deep down she feels bad for retarded people.

I am forced to give her my first and last name, my address, my zip code, my phone number and my wife’s first and last name, and then with great effort she checks my driver’s license and takes copious notes. She returns to the computer, types in an astounding amount of information, and finally asks why I’m returning the item.

“It’s the wrong kind,” I say.

“How so?” she asks.

“I have no idea.”

“Well,” she says while glaring down at me, “I have to put something in the computer, so I need a reason for the return.”

I stood behind the yuppies for 15 minutes and I heard a long list of reasons various items were completely unacceptable. “You need a reason?” I asked. “Fine, I’ll give you list of reasons. Put down that little Bradford’s room is a nautical theme and something with a train just wouldn’t work. Put down that despite the fact that he’s still in the womb, I’m absolutely certain Bradford will love the Cookie Monster, but hate Elmo. Put down that I know for a fact Bradford has a strong dislike for that particular shade of powder blue. You need some more reasons?”

The woman then did something that totally surprised me; she smiled. I might be retarded, but she liked me because we had something in common after all, a mutual dislike for Babies “R” Us customers.

Music Soothes the Drunken Lunatic

2006-03-06T16:21:00.000-08:00

I’ve never considered myself to be a musician. I play music, but I’d feel like a fraud if I claimed to be a musician. I consider myself a “musician by default,” a guy who just happens to play music in front of people.

Unfortunately, the truth is less interesting. I’ve actually worked the last 10 years to get where I am, which seems pathetic when I think about it. But I remind myself of the time I’ve put in so I don’t constantly assume that every compliment paid about our band is a lie. There’s no reason for complete strangers to approach us and say nice things, so to assume they’re all a bunch of liars seems unfair to them.

My musical career began when I was a freshman in college. I bought a $20 acoustic guitar and I learned three chords. The night before our final exams, I played “Louie Louie” and “Wild Thing” for six hours straight. At two in the morning my roommate emerged from his bedroom, calmly took the guitar from my hands, walked outside and threw it in the swimming pool. Without saying a word he walked past me, returned to his room and quietly shut the door. I fished my guitar out of the pool and was astonished to find that it was finally in tune.

After a couple of years I bought an electric guitar and splurged on music lessons. My guitar teacher was a really good player, but despite his best efforts it became clear that I’d never be very good at the guitar. I enjoyed music theory, though, so I explained to my teacher that I wanted to switch to bass. He was thrilled to hear this and after a couple of months he suggested that we put a band together.

We weren’t a very good band, but to be fair, I wasn’t a very good bass player. But we stuck with it, played crappy gigs in horrible bars and often spent more money on drinks than we were paid.

The nice thing about playing bass is that you usually have the opportunity to play with people who are better musicians than you are, so you can learn from them and get better. As you improve you can “trade up” and join a better band. This is what I’ve been doing for the last ten years- learning from smarter people and trading up.

I suppose I’ve accomplished what I set out to do because now I’m playing the better bars in town. We’re not rock stars by any means, but we make decent money and the bar owners treat us pretty well. They usually buy our drinks and occasionally offer us a meal. People actually put money in the tip jar. We’re no longer forced to play “Mustang Sally;” instead, we’re allowed to do originals if we throw in an occasional cover tune. The quality of our gigs has come a long way.

When I think of the dives I used to play I laugh because these are places I wouldn’t be caught dead in now. They were horrible, smoke-filled shit holes with customers who tried to buy beer with food stamps. One thing has stayed the same, though; no matter where we play we still get approached by insane drunk people.

It always starts the same way, but always surprises me. A seemingly sane guy will approach us during a break and tell us that he likes the band. I’ll thank him for his kind words and then we’ll have a brief discussion about our musical interests and influences. After a while, I politely excuse myself to use the restroom and then we start the next set.

At our next break the guy returns, this time much drunker. “I really like the band,” he’ll repeat, “I think you guys are great.”

“Thanks again,” I’ll say while shaking his hand. “And thanks for hanging out and listening to us.”

“Yeah, I really like you guys,” he’ll slur, not letting go of my hand. “My brother used to own this bar but he traded it for box of kittens.” Suddenly it becomes apparent that this guy is a complete lunatic.

It’s never the same guy twice, but there is always a drunken lunatic waiting to take me by surprise and leave me lost for words. “Like I said an hour ago, I really enjoy your music,” he’ll say. Then he’ll add, “I ride a bicycle made out of sand.” What do you say to that? I still have no idea.

Sometimes he’ll walk up to me out of the blue and say, “That last song you did, I really enjoyed it. I killed a guy once with a bag of wrenches.”

Occasionally, he’ll introduce himself. “Yeah, I can hear that you were influenced by Jimi Hendrix. What’s your name?”

“Doug,” I say, shaking his hand.

“Nice to meet you, Doug. My name is Colonel Sanders. I’ve got friends in my shoes. My right sock is Patrick Henry. He’s a rapscallion. My left sock is Elizabeth Taylor, but we just call her Pinky.”

I can’t explain where these people hide during the day, or where they get money for alcohol. I can’t explain why they enjoy dive bars and upscale wine bars as well. I can’t explain why they approach me and tell me I’m a good musician. OK, the last one I can explain; clearly, these people are crazy.

The Bilingual Kitten

2006-03-05T13:24:00.000-08:00

I’ve decided from here on out, I’m going to speak nothing but Spanish to our kitten. Our adult cat, he’s a lost cause. If I speak Spanish to him, he looks at me as if I’m insane. But with the kitten, there’s still time.

I have no reason to speak Spanish during the day, and vowing to speak only in a foreign language to something that lives in my house is a big commitment. I figure I’ll give her a Spanish nickname for starters and we’ll see where it goes. The kitten has a small head. Her head doesn’t go with her ever-growing body, so I’ll call her Small Head. From now on, every time I address her, I’ll address her in Spanish and her title will be Small Head.

“Hola, Cabezita,” I’ll say, “como estas?” At first she’ll probably respond with the tiny American meow she always uses, but I’ll give it time. “Que haces tu, Cabezita?” I’ll ask as she chases an ant. “Oy, Cabezita, dejame en paz!” I’ll protest late at night when she bites my feet from under the covers.

Eventually, she’ll alter her response to fit the circumstances. Like a child forced into a new linguistic environment, she’ll adapt. She’ll replace her small English meow with an equally small one, but in Spanish. “Cabezita,” I’ll say, “como estas?”

“Miau,” she’ll respond, in Spanish.

“Tienes hambre?” I’ll enquire. “Quieres comida?”

“Miau!” she’ll cry, triumphantly. And then I’ll fill her bowl with the usual dry kibble.

True, her life won’t be more interesting, but at least she’ll be bilingual.

If you want the last word, apologize.

2006-03-04T01:30:00.000-08:00

I’m baffled by some people and their social behavior. I am forever reminding myself that people are raised by different standards and what horrifies one is perfectly acceptable to another.

My father had a set of standards and made his expectations very clear. It was never acceptable, in his mind, to shake hands with someone while sitting. It was never acceptable to fail to serve guests alcohol immediately upon their arrival at a social gathering. In his world, you could eat an entire meal with a salad fork or drink water from your wine glass, but to rob a man of his right to a firm handshake or his right to consume alcohol upon entering someone’s home, well that was just plain rude.

My father raised us to believe that the purpose of an apology is twofold. To offer an apology is (1) to beg for forgiveness for a certain act, and (2) to promise not to do the act in the future. People are never required to accept your apology, especially if either element seems insincere. This is what I call a full apology. Although not required, when a gentleman is offered a sincere full apology, he must always accept it.

I’ve stopped demanding apologies from people who are not in my family because it’s alarmingly common for people to offer partial apologies. They apologize for doing what they did and leave it at that. In their mind, they are then discharged from responsibility.

A partial apology is what you’d give the judge at your sentencing hearing. “Your Honor, I’m real sorry I done what I done. I think about it a lot and I’m sorry.” The guilty party is not required to offer the other half of the apology until his parole hearing, during which he is expected to assure the parole board he’s turned over a new leaf and, if released from prison, he’ll never make the same mistake.

Receiving a partial apology after reminding someone he owes you a full apology is maddening. It’s like drinking a pot of coffee to prepare for an all-nighter and then being informed it was decaf. You missed your chance to fill your stomach with liquid; now you’ll be tired, bloated and forced to pee, while missing all the benefits caffeine would have provided.

When offered a partial apology, you still have to accept it, or you’ll look caddy. “But I apologized!” they’ll protest. “What the hell more does he want, flowers?!?” I’m sometimes surprised by the brazenness of these partial apologies. I was once betrayed by a friend and I confronted him. I demanded a full apology and explained that if I didn’t receive one, I’d end our friendship. He had the balls to offer, “Well… I’m sorry you felt the way you did.” This, of course, was not an apology, but an insult. The subtext was, “I’m sorry you’re a pathetic little baby; now go get your binky and cry yourself to sleep.” The sad thing is, I accepted his apology before I thought about its meaning. I ended our friendship, but he left our relationship with the intellectual upper-hand. What a clever bastard.

I don’t often demand apologies because I find the whole process to be taxing and silly. When I demand an apology, I’m doing so only because I want to spend more time with the individual and I want him to understand my pain and promise he won’t hurt me again. A partial apology is the worst of both worlds; not only did he not make a promise never to repeat the behavior, I’m now barred from mentioning the previous incident if a similar one happens in the future. If I do, he’ll look to an audience, point at me, and say, “Why do you keep bringing that up? I thought we worked it out but you keep harping on it. Why do you insist on beating a dead horse?!?” Now he’s successfully changed the subject AND accused me of being a petty animal abuser. This technique works amazingly well if your conscience lets you get away with it.

The prize for the lamest apology in history has got to go to my youngest nephew. My wife and I were in a swimming pool with my oldest niece. We were all laughing when my youngest nephew walked by the pool, and my niece teased him. Christa and I laughed. He became furious and grabbed a rock, and threw it with amazing accuracy at my niece’s head. As it struck her with great force, he went for another rock in hopes of getting off a second shot. Christa and I were horrified.

“HEY!” I screamed. “You drop that rock, young man! That was completely uncalled for!” Realizing what he’d done, he dropped the second rock and stood, silent. “Apologize to your sister,” we demanded. He crossed his arms and glared at me. My sister, his mother, ran out of the house to find out what happened. I explained that we teased him and he hit his sister in the head with a rock. My sister yanked her son into the house for a stern lecture.

Later that day he told me he was “grounded” and it was my fault for telling his mother. “Hey,” I said, “you deserved it. You hit your sister with a rock and then you refused to say you were sorry.”

He shrugged and thought it over. “Well,” he offered, “I said it in my head.”

Where’s my father when we need him?

The Legacy of Embarrassing Our Children

2006-02-27T23:47:00.000-08:00

To paraphrase Dave Barry, the ability to embarrass your kids is the greatest power a parent possesses.

My brother named his daughter after running through names and thoughtfully examining whether the name could inspire schoolyard ridicule. Patricia was out because Patty rhymed with fatty. Josephina was out because Jo rhymed with ho. Jennifer would be shortened to Jen, which rhymed with pen, as in pigpen, so that was out. Elizabeth could be shortened to Lizzy, which sounded like lezzie, and this might invoke a round of teasing my brother could prevent. My brother chose his daughter’s name very carefully.

For years I hid the fact that my middle name is Kent. I don’t know why; I’ve since decided that Kent is a great name. I know at least three people named Kent, all of whom I like. My wife’s names are Christa and Marie. The kids couldn’t think of a joke involving her names, so because of her abnormally long legs they called her “Froggy.”

Kids can be cruel. To be teased about a name is one thing; to be teased about a physical characteristic is much worse. I kept Christa’s experiences in mind when we agreed to name our son. We’ll call our son Charles, after my father and grandfather, because he’s the first Palmer to carry my surname. For a middle name, I convinced Christa to name him “Nimrod.”

You’re probably thinking that Nimrod is a terrible name, one that begs for ridicule. Nimrod was my father’s great, great grandfather. Nimrod was the mighty hunter from the bible (I’ve never read a bible, so bear with me). Nimrod is a regal name. And more importantly, Nimrod is my son’s Calling Name.

To survive in life, you need a first name and a surname, or family name. The middle name is extra. Most people only hear their middle name when they’re in trouble. It’s best to find your child a middle name, or Calling Name, that sticks.

When I was outside during the summer and I heard someone shout, “Doug,” it was my mother and I could ignore my family for an hour. If I heard “Douglas,” it was my father and I’d respond by asking him for another half hour. If I heard “Douglas Kent,” I knew all bets were off; it was time to come in. Douglas Kent was my Calling Name. I’d come inside against my will before I’d give the neighborhood bullies an excuse to tease me by calling me “Douglas Kent.” To this day, if you were to call me Douglas Kent I’d immediately become submissive and ask you what you want me to do. When we call little Charles Nimrod, he’ll come running. Just wait and see.

A parent’s power to embarrass his children is a cornerstone of their relationship. No one could embarrass me like my father. He didn’t have to call me names, he just had to do something that I thought reflected badly on me. My father embarrassed me the most when I was in my early 20s and he suddenly decided to learn Spanish.

Some people are blessed with musical ears. They can sing the correct notes and they can reproduce regional dialects with amazing accuracy. My father was not one of these people. He frequently claimed to be tone deaf and often told the story of how the army tried to train him as a radio operator, but when he couldn’t distinguish different tones well enough, they reassigned him. I don’t know how anyone could be too tone deaf to work a radio, but if you ever heard him whistle you’d believe him immediately.

My father was a lawyer who worked for the same law firm for 25 years. When he could finally retire, he took to retirement like a duck to water. He was happier than I’d ever seen him. During Thanksgiving dinner he announced that he and my mother were moving to Mexico and that he was going to learn to speak Spanish. My sister, brother and I launched into a fit of involuntary laughter. “What?” he said, “You don’t believe me?”

“Oh, we believe that you guys are moving to Mexico. We were laughing about the other part.”

“You don’t believe I can learn to speak Spanish? Ohhhh, I’ll learn to speak Spanish; just you wait and see.”

My father learning Spanish was my family’s version of hell freezing over. My brother and I were confirmed bachelors, so when my sister asked when we were going to get married, we would respond, “Yeah, we’ll get right on that... just as soon as Dad learns to speak Spanish.”

After they had lived in Mexico for five years, I stayed with my parents over the Christmas holiday. They lived in a condominium complex full of other American and Canadian retirees, all of whom seemed to know each other. I casually sipped a beer in the pool and a man with gray hair, a deep tan, navy tattoos and a huge belly approached me.

“And who do you belong to?” he loudly demanded.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “what?”

“Who do you belong to? Who are your parents?”

“Oh,” I said uncomfortably, “Ha. Uh, Phyllis and Ed. They live in number 37.”

“Ah yes,” he bellowed, “I enjoy your father. He’s a good man. He reads the local paper in that chair every morning while drinking his flavored coffee. I can’t stand the stuff, but I like your father. It’s great to have someone down here who is fluent in Spanish.”

I quickly corrected him. “No, Ed PALMER. Short guy, glasses, beer belly…”

“Yes, yes,” he continued, “the staff loves to have one of us gringos to talk to. Your father talks to all of them. They love him.” I was baffled. Clearly, my father hadn’t paid him to say this; that wasn’t my father’s style. Maybe he was thinking of someone else, although he did seem to know about my father’s habit of reading the newspaper by the pool while drinking crappy coffee. Perhaps this man was drunk. Or crazy. That was probably it; he was a crazy drunk. While I was mulling this over, his wife strolled up.

“And who is this?” she asked, looking me over.

“This is Ed’s son,” he announced. “I was just telling him how great it is to have someone down here that speaks Spanish.”

“Oh, Ed’s very good,” she said quietly. “He translates articles from the paper for us every morning. If it weren’t for him I don’t know how we would have fixed that embarrassing situation with the beer man.”

This was officially a mystery I had to solve. Something didn’t add up. I noticed the other days when I awoke around noon he was drinking coffee and studying his list of Spanish words. Around one in the afternoon he’d switch from coffee to beer and head to the pool. Maybe this was when the misunderstanding was occurring. I was fascinated and determined to solve the mystery, so I set my alarm for ten the next morning.

I walked out of my room as he was returning from the pool, Mexican newspaper in hand. “Ah, I see you’re up,” he said. “I was about to study my Spanish.” He offered me a cup of crappy coffee, sat down, opened his notebook, and started to memorize words.

I sneaked up behind him and peered over his shoulder to see his vocabulary list. He had carefully written it by hand, and it contained a group of random nouns, followed by their Spanish equivalent. Towels… toallas; clean… limpias; dirty…sucias; gardener… jardinero.

“Desnatar,” he said, startling me. “Do you know what that means?” He had noticed me reading over his shoulder.

“Uh, no,” I stammered, “I don’t.”

“To skim,” he said proudly. “Neto. You know what that means?”

“No,” I admitted, “I don’t.”

“Net.” He eyed me suspiciously. “I thought you took Spanish in college.”

“I did,” I explained feebly, “but those words never came up.”

“Well, you should get in some practice while you’re down here.” He returned to his studies. I was dismissed.

I went to my room and returned with a book, determined not to let him out of my sight. At 12:45, he jumped out of his chair, grabbed a beer from the fridge, and announced that he was going to the pool. Bingo. Now was my chance. I planned to follow him, not so closely that he’d notice, and watch him in action. He went out the door. I waited a couple of beats, then followed him.

The first person he encountered was the maid. “Good day,” he said in Spanish, “you are the maid.” Yes, she agreed in Spanish; she was indeed the maid.

“You have clean towels,” he observed. She again acknowledged his perceptiveness. He continued in Spanish, “You will take these clean towels and replace the dirty towels in my bathroom.” She agreed again. “Carry on, good lady.” And he was off.

The next stop involved the gardener. “You are the gardener,” he announced. The gardener stood, perplexed, and slowly agreed that he was the gardener. “You have a shovel,” my father said. “You will take that shovel and dig a hole. You will put that bush in that hole. And then you will use that hose to water that bush.”

The gardener stood, silent, and looked around the courtyard. Finally, he said in Spanish simply, “Yes. That is the plan.”

My father was pleased. “Carry on, good man!” He gave the gardener a friendly pat on the shoulder and he was off.

He walked around the corner and suddenly broke into a sprint. It was unlike him to run; to see him sprint surprised me. He was a lot quicker than he looked. I sprinted as well and I almost ran into him as he stopped dead in his tracks. He was staring at the pool man. “You…” he said slowly with careful emphasis, “have a net. You are skimming the pool.”

And so went his practice of Spanish. God bless him; if quitting the practice of law made his days empty, he had successfully filled the void by learning a foreign language. My mother was thrilled that he had a hobby that would prevent him from following her around all day and nagging her. Who was I to judge?

On my next trip, my father had moved beyond nouns. Now he, with the help of an actual Spanish teacher, was conjugating verbs and focusing on more difficult concepts. Our mutual knowledge of Spanish gave us a topic to discuss. “Did you know,” I asked him, “that if you put an “ito” or an “ita” on a noun it makes it smaller?”

He was interested immediately. “It does?”

“It does. Take the word taco. A small taco is a taquito. A small casa is a casita.” He was impressed. “It’s like the suffix “on,” which makes things bigger. A big head is a cabezon.”

“Ok, tell me more,” he asked.

“Alright, if you take certain nouns and modify them, they become the person selling the noun or the store that sells the noun. A manguera is the person selling the mango. A zapateria..”

“Is the store that sells zapatos. The shoe store,” he finished. “That’s FASCINATING. I’ll have to try that out.”

It was Sunday and we were on our way to the supermarket. When we arrived at the lot in front of the store, there was a man with a whistle directing traffic. He had his son with him, who stood next to him, watching his father at work. We parked and my father quickly approached the man.

“You are directing traffic,” my father said in Spanish. My father raised his eyebrow as if he was about to make a particularly profound point and said, “you are the … traffic director.” The man looked at my father as if he’d tried to strike him with a live chicken. The boy moved to hide behind his dad’s legs, a motion that was not lost on my father.

“You!” my father exclaimed, pointing to the boy, “ you are the … mini traffic director. Your father has a whistle. Do you have a mini whistle? Do you direct small traffic?” I smiled at them and gently pulled my father away, as if he was a lunatic I was taking for a Sunday drive. He’d traumatized yet another Mexican family with his practice of Spanish.

As if that weren’t bad enough, on my last visit before he died, my father had concluded that he knew all the words his Spanish teacher could teach him, so he decided to learn the words his Spanish teacher refused to translate out of respect to mother. My father figured that cab drivers would teach him dirty words and phrases if he offered to buy them beer. He was right.

I followed my father into a bar that turned out to be in a bad part of town. Three rough-looking guys noticed him, and their expressions suddenly changed from suppressed anger to friendly surprise. They loudly welcomed us and offered my father a dirty phrase, which he carefully recorded on a cocktail napkin and placed in his pocket. My father bought them a round of beer.

My final dinner in Mexico with him is one I’ll never forget. He and my mother took me to Casa Loma in honor of my last night in town. As we walked in the door I could sense the quiet elegance of a truly fancy restaurant. Quietly sophisticated music played in the background. A group of well behaved and well dressed guests dined in the foreground. A very attentive maitre d’ spun around to greet us the moment we walked through the door.

“Hello!” he said in Spanish. “Senor Palmer! How are you?”

“Hello, Miguel,” my father answered in Spanish. “I am well. In fact, I am a sex machine. How hangs your cock?”

Miguel was shocked. He immediately covered his mouth and looked wide-eyed at my mother. My mother has a keen sense of humor and after 46 years of marriage was done trying to control my father. She recognized a lost cause when she saw one, so she simultaneously smiled and shrugged as we were escorted to our table.

The rest of the night didn’t get any easier for the Casa Loma staff. My father tried out all of his new phrases. Jose had been making the special Casa Loma salad for years and my father knew him by name. “Hello, Jose!” he said in Spanish. “How are you, you randy son of a bitch? How are your bastard children and your whore of a wife?” Jose was lost for words. My father spotted the bartender. “Arturo! Hey!” he shouted across the room. “My cock, your ass, five minutes! See you in the bathroom, you filthy pubic hair!”

Looking back, it’s appropriate that my father’s power to embarrass me ends with a surreal dinner. After his death, I’m left with fond memories and a series of stories people will never believe unless they were a witness. I intend to leave my son with the same type of memories.

I hope my son will eventually understand my efforts. I hope people will approach him, knowing he is my son, and tell him silly stories. I hope they tell him stories that during my lifetime he’d be ashamed of, but after my death would make him proud. I hope he understands the sense of humor I inherited from my father and grandfather. And more importantly, I hope he understands that these stories, in their own way, create a legacy.

The Essence of Laughter

2006-02-23T15:23:00.000-08:00

My wife and I recently spent some time with my 17-year-old nephew. Jack and I have always been very close and we’ve always enjoyed entertaining each other. Christa is an appreciative audience, so Jack and I were inspired to hold a contest.

The question was, “When was the time you laughed the hardest in your life?” Jack’s sense of humor never fails to amaze me, and he launched into a story without batting an eye.

Jack’s was 15 and one of his friends had an obnoxious younger brother. This kid was a brat. He’d often hit his older brother and his brother’s friends in the nuts; he’d deliberately hang up the phone in the middle of their calls; he’d wipe boogers on them when they weren’t looking, and when he’d receive the well-deserved pounding as retribution, he’d immediately run crying to his mother and tell on his brother. He was that little shit from your childhood that you grew to hate so deeply.

On the day that was the focus of Jack’s story, the Little Shit was in rare form. He unplugged the Play Station in the middle of a heated competition. After everyone picked a program on tv to watch, he stole the remote. He blew his nose at one of them. He grabbed one of their Spanish textbooks and threw it in the toilet. The Little Shit deserved the swift hand of justice.

The three 15-year-old victims of the Little Shit’s torment chased him, grabbed him, and gave him one last chance to repent. After a passionate plea for mercy, he was released. The Little Shit immediately spit on two of the victims and punched the third in the nuts. After a brief pursuit, he was apprehended again.

He kicked and screamed. He squirmed and bit. He flailed about and attempted to place amazingly accurate strikes to their groins and eyes. The Little Shit needed to be restrained.

One of the victims found a cardboard box that was big enough to hold him. The three of them stuffed the Little Shit into the box as he tried to scratch out the eyes of anyone within reach. They placed him back in the box and, after carefully poking air holes in the top, duct-taped the box shut. As the Little Shit screamed obscenities from the box, they put him in the backyard to weigh their options. The verdict was “Dizziness by Bouncing,” and it was unanimous. They proceeded to put the Little Shit on the trampoline, to be bounced silly.

They gently started to bounce him. They gave him options to repent, but the box uttered obscenities that would make the devil from The Exorcist blush. Having exhausted their options, they bounced him in earnest. The box caught one boy’s bounce and jumped three feet in the air. Upon landing, it caught another bounce, this one squarely, and sailed six feet in the air, away from the trampoline, and landed roughly in the grass with a loud “thump”.

The boys stood speechless and stared at the box. The moment before they decided to panic, the Little Shit kicked open the box, jumped up while shouting obscenities, and collapsed on the lawn, too dizzy to run. At that moment, Jack explained, he laughed the hardest he ever had in his life.

It was a great story. Christa and I were in hysterics. It was my turn so I told a story about the time I watched an uncomfortably bad “dog and pony show” in Europe. The singers couldn’t sing, the dancers couldn’t dance and although I couldn’t understand the comedic sketches, I could tell by the audience’s reaction that they were horrible. The second to last act featured a magician doing what was the cheesiest and most cliché magic act I’d ever seen. At the end of his act, he pulled a young, lanky redheaded boy on the stage. The grand finale involved the magician pumping the boy’s arm like a faucet on a well and coins starting shooting from the boy’s ears. The boy stood there, terrified.

It was obvious how the trick was done, but the boy’s reaction was priceless. He stood petrified with fear as coins shot from his ears. Two big German ladies in front of me started laughing, and this made me laugh as well. The final act was a musical number and the German ladies and I attempted to stifle our laughter, but this made us laugh even harder. Then the laughter became contagious. In the middle of a soulful ballad, the audience was in hysterics. I’m sure the singer was deeply offended, but there was no stopping it. We were still laughing after the show.

This wasn’t the hardest I’d laughed in my life. I wasn’t lying, but I hadn’t thought the question through. There exists a theory that laughter is a release of tension. To laugh the hardest would involve a time when I held the most tension. This isn’t an easy moment to relive, but I will to prove my point.

My real story involves a long weekend my wife and I took in the mountains. It was interrupted late one night when my older sister called and calmly explained that my father had experienced “a mild stroke.” I called my sister back immediately and took solace in her calm assurances that it was not a big deal. After I parroted my sister’s news to my wife, she made me realize it was a big deal; the phrase “mild stroke” was an oxymoron. Christa had experienced losing a father and I knew immediately that she was right. We left early the next morning and headed back to Denver.

I saw my dad on what happened to be the best day of his post-stroke life. He was on a respirator and unable to speak, but he reacted to me and mimed that he was embarrassed about all of our efforts to come see him. He said to me without words that I should go back to my business and not worry about him; he’d be fine. My mother came back in the room and he went through the same pantomime. “You’re overreacting,” I said to her calmly, “he’s fine. Look at him- he’s embarrassed that we’re here making a fuss.”

The doctor came in, and my father answered his questions with the same series of embarrassed, voiceless shrugs he gave my mom and me. A nurse came in and he repeated the mime. A friendly member of the janitorial staff emptied the wastebasket; my father repeated the same pantomime to him with new enthusiasm. It was then I realized this was not a “mild stroke.”

I still held hope, we all did, that he’d recover, but his health got progressively worse. They moved him from the intensive care unit to a place where they could “care more specifically for his needs.” I kept telling myself it was the place where he’d recover, but my wife and family knew better. They knew he was sent there by an insurance company looking to minimize its costs because he was about to waste away while his life was casually prolonged by machines.

After ten weeks of my father not being able to express his opinion, and more importantly, not being able to leave the bed to take a shit, my mother announced that it was time. “He can’t use a restroom,” she calmly explained, “and he’d be furious if this is how he’s remembered.” My mother was smarter than us. She knew him better than we did, and she held the veto power on any issue on which my father couldn’t vote. We weighed our options. “Maybe there’s a chance,” one of us would say, “that he could still return to your condo in Mexico and look at the sea.”

The romantic notion was lost on my mother. “Our condo is on the third floor. Someone would have to carry him up the stairs.” We reminded her that the people he met in Mexico liked him. “Yeah,” she said, “because he learned Spanish just to spite them. He refused to be at anyone’s mercy, so he studied their language so he could get what he wanted. If one of the people whose respect he earned by speaking Spanish was required to carry him up the stairs, he’d be mortified.” She had a point.

We met with the doctor and, against his advice, told him to shut off the machines. Enough was enough, we explained. My father hadn’t been conscious in weeks and he was wasting away. The doctor made us sign all kinds of forms to limit his liability, then told us to return at 1 PM the following day and he’d turn off the machines.

I don’t know how terrifying it would be to see your own death moments before it happened, but seeing your father’s death coming has got to be a close second. I couldn’t sleep, so I sat on the floor of my kitchen with our kitten, and cried my eyes out.

The kitten’s name was Kazoo. We adopted Kazoo from the shelter. “He was found in a garage” was all that they could tell us. For some reason, we chose him despite that fact that he was black, very young, spastic and smelly.

Kazoo was hyperactive and hypersensitive. He’d hear a noise outside, which could range from someone firing up a lawn mower to a sheepish mailman quietly placing letters in our letter box, and he’d sprint away and hide under our bed for hours. When we moved from a condo to a house, Kazoo had a meltdown. He hid for days.

The funny thing about having a sensitive pet is that the pet seems to understand emotions. When Christa or I were upset, Kazoo would comfort us by purring in our lap or doing figure eights around our legs while stroking us with his tail. He was easily traumatized, but very perceptive. It was an odd combination.

As I sat on my kitchen floor, crying, Kazoo came over to sit with me. He got up and walked to his bowl, ate nervously, and then returned to comfort me. This went on every five minutes. He was worried.

I started imagining all the things I’d never do again with my father. I’d never have a beer with him. I’d never laugh at a sitcom with him. I’d never seek his advice. I’d never have dinner with him. I’d never talk to him. I’d never see him alive. This was the pinnacle of my nervous breakdown. I reached the point of hysterical crying where your body makes you stop so you can take a breath. As I took a reflexive pause from crying, I noticed how silent the house was. There was no tv on; there was no traffic outside. I wondered how loud I was crying and whether it woke up my wife. As I pondered the silence, I started to hear a slurping noise. I cleared my eyes of tears and I focused on Kazoo. He was sitting two feet away with one of his legs in the air, as if he was playing a cello, and was frantically licking his ass.

I watched him with an odd interest. I’d never had a cat before, so this exercise was new to me. I was wondering what it’d be like to be required to lick your own ass when, suddenly, I was startled by a really loud noise. It made me jump.

The noise surprised me, but I knew immediately what it was. It was a fart. Kazoo looked at me, terrified, with eyes like saucers. My instinct was to comfort him like I did the hundreds of other times a noise startled him, but I was lost for words. We just stared at each other, and he looked at me as if he expected an explanation. He farted into his own mouth. What do I say?

Because I failed to comfort him, he got up and walked around in circles, investigating the cause of the noise. He’d never farted before, and farting in his own mouth had to be an odd first experience. As I watched him investigate, it suddenly struck me as an incredibly funny concept. What if, the first time you farted, it just happened to be into your own mouth. That would have to be the most terrifying experience of your short life. I mean, I was an emotional wreck, but at least I had the advantage of understanding basic bodily functions. I couldn’t imagine what this cat was going through.

I started to giggle as I watched him try to figure out what happened. He looked at me as if he was offended by my laughter. I actually apologized to him, and attempted to stifle my laughter out of respect. This just made the laughter worse. I was worried about offending a cat. A cat that just farted into his own mouth. This set me over the edge.

I’m trying to imagine what the scene looked like. I was lying on my kitchen floor in the fetal position, rolling back and forth with hysterical laughter. Tears ran down my face as the situation just got funnier. I looked at Kazoo and he was glaring at me. It was clear that he was furious. Another hilarious concept. I gasped for air and got a cramp in my belly. I felt like the laughter was going to make my lungs implode. My God, it felt great.

I finally got a hold of myself and wiped away the tears of laughter. I giggled like a school girl as I thought about what had happened. Kazoo stormed off in a huff. That was the hardest I’d ever laughed in my life.

The next day I went to the hospital to watch my father die. As my family and I waited for the doctor, I broke the silence and told them what had happened to me the previous night. As I hadn’t told the story to anyone, it was like I was reliving the events that had traumatized me so deeply. Before I reached the climax of the story, I had them howling with laughter. “That’s the dumbest story I’ve ever heard,” one of them said, “but fuck, that’s funny.”

My point is that if someone were to ask you to describe the time you laughed the hardest in your life, your first instinct would be to tell a story about a happy time when something mildly embarrassing happened. If the theory is correct and laughter is a release of tension (and I think it is), the time that you laughed the hardest in your life would involve a time when you were the most disturbed. To tell this story would involve invoking uncomfortable memories and shedding tears, but a story like that goes over HUGE at dinner parties.

The Pregnancy Test

2005-10-12T12:42:00.000-07:00

The other day I was sent by my wife to the local grocery store to buy an early pregnancy test. I’m one of those weak-willed guys who tries to be helpful, but I refuse to buy tampons because I am simply too embarrassed. I'm occasionally left holding a purse, but only when completely distracted. I have never, for the record, carried a maxi pad or a tampon due to a significant other’s lack of pockets. I might be weak-willed and easily embarrassed, but a man has to draw the line somewhere.

I’m walking around the store feeling self-conscious. I’m not sure where a pregnancy test would be located, but I have my suspicions. I suspect that it’d be near the naughty supermarket items, the ones I always avoided looking at when I shopped with my mother.

I headed toward the Naughty Isle. In a sudden feeling of panic, I decided to make a detour towards the soft drink isle. I considered purchasing a diet coke, but then again, the events that would follow might merit a red bull. If I got a red bull, I could hit the liquor store and pick up some vodka. Of course, that might send the wrong message; this was no time to get liquored up. A diet coke would do. Ok, let’s find the damn pregnancy test already.

I grabbed a red bull, vowed to drive past the liquor store without going in, and headed towards the Naughty Isle. A young woman stood in the isle, staring at some items thoughtfully. I looked out of the corner of my eye as I passed. Toothpaste. She was thoughtfully staring at toothpaste. Ah, to be young and free of responsibility.

It turns out the really naughty section of the Naughty Isle was at the other end, away from the toothpaste. I swallowed hard and headed towards it. Right in the key section of the Naughty Isle, a young man stood, examining condoms. As I made a pass by the key section, I tried to look and not to look at the same time. I was trying to spot a pregnancy test, but I had to keep walking; the last thing you want when you’re buying condoms is to have some weird dude like me looking over your shoulder. I failed to spot a pregnancy test as I breezed by.

I went and examined the oranges. They were orange, all right. I looked at the jalapenos. They don’t look hot, but they’re vegetable fire. Ok, time to breeze back by the Naughty Isle.

He was still standing there, weighing his options. I kept walking. I was now in the meat section. I wondered who plucks the chickens. Would it be worse to be the guy who plucks the chicken, or the guy who hits the cow on the head with a hammer? I was stumped. Ok, back to the Naughty Isle.

He was still standing there. What the hell was he thinking about? I’m no Hugh Heffner, but I understand that there are only two types of condoms, lubricated and unlubricated. And because there is never any reason to get the unlubricated, there’s really only one. What was his problem?

I was now reading greeting cards. People get paid to write these. I have no idea how much, but they’ve got to be laughing all the way to the bank. What’s with all the kittens? Ok, here we go again.

He was still standing there. What was wrong with this guy? That “ribbed for her pleasure” gimmick is nonsense. Make a decision! I’ve got somewhere to be!

After a trip to the ethnic foods isle where I thoughtfully asked myself why I’d never tried matza, I returned. He was finally gone. Thank the Lord Jesus. I went to the naughtiest section of the Naughty Isle. Condoms, lubricants, tampons, maxi pads… I looked back at the condoms and noticed a series of pregnancy tests above them. Yes, Alanis, THAT’s ironic.

I stood motionless, wondering how I could make a wise decision about what was perhaps the most important purchase I’d ever made. They all looked the same and I’m completely unfamiliar with the concept. I’m quite familiar with the condom section, so logic follows that I’ve never had to familiarize myself with the pregnancy test section.

As I stood at a critical part of the Naughty Isle, a couple of young men repeatedly breezed by me. The poor guys needed condoms. Thanks to me they were now thoughtfully staring at outdoor light bulbs in the next isle or an enormous fish in the seafood section. I needed to get out of their way.

I picked one. I don’t know if it was completely accurate, but we got a result. I’d tell you what the result was, but that story would involve me sitting here, frantically breathing into a paper bag. We’ll keep you posted.

With a Family Comes Responsibility

2005-08-17T16:34:00.000-07:00

My wife recently informed me that I’m in charge of emptying the cats’ litter boxes because, as a future parent, I need to get used to making certain sacrifices. She’s always taken care of this task and I’ve always been grateful because if I smell a particularly odd fart, I run from the room.

I’ve never changed a diaper; the thought of smelling human feces terrifies me. I avoid sitting down in a public restroom. If I work close enough to our house that I can run home to take a growler on a lunch break, I’ll do it. The whole thing freaks me out, and I want no part of it.

My wife once went out of town for an entire week. She told me to clean the litter box and she was very clear about my job. When you’re married to a procrastinator, you become good at issuing ultimatums. She said, “It’s up to you to clean this litter box. I do it everyday, and occasionally I skip a day, but if you wait more than two days, it’s disgusting. If this litter box isn’t cleaned at least once the entire time I’m gone, it’s your ass. ” No problem, I assured her. Easy money. No worries. It was as good as done. I could do it in my sleep. I was lying because I had no intention of cleaning the litter box. But I know an ultimatum when I hear one.

I waited until the day before she retuned. She called me and asked, “Did you clean the litter box?”

“Oh, yeah,” I lied, “every other day, like you said. Hey, I gotta go. See you tomorrow!” I quickly hung up the phone. It had been seven days since the litter box had been cleaned. The kitchen smelled like a water turtle had died in my sock drawer. I’m intimately familiar with that smell because when I was six my pet water turtle escaped, fell into my sock drawer and died a slow August death.

I had to clean the litter box. It was horrible. In anticipation, I went to the corner bar and got liquored up. I returned with a positive outlook on life, but I was still faced with a kitchen that smelled like the Grim Reaper had taken a shit in my sink. There was no more avoiding it; I had to do what I had to do.

I covered my nose with the neck of my shirt in hopes of diffusing the odor. It’d didn’t help; the smell hit me as I caught a glimpse of a cat turd. I gagged, involuntarily. I backed up, put the cover back on the box and took a breath. I could do this, I told myself. I waited until my gag reflex relaxed.

I again took the cover off the litter box and tried not to look. I took the poop spoon, closed my eyes and vaguely fished for a prize. I found three or four. I tried not to look as I directed the spoon out of the corner of my eye, towards the trash bag. As I directed the spoon, I spotted the prizes and my gag reflex got the better of me. I threw up in my mouth. Dammit, man, pull yourself together! I swallowed the vomit and turned away to regroup. This was rough. Let’s get this over with. I can fight through it. I’ve done far more difficult things than this. I again covered my mouth with the neck of my shirt.

As I told myself on my third try that I was an invincible warrior, I failed to swallow the vomit that involuntarily shot up my throat, and I puked inside my shirt, which ran down my stomach, into my shorts. I had officially puked into my own underpants. I imagined the warrior trophy I’d win for this battle. Brave men receive Purple Hearts for risking their lives; I was trying to convince myself I deserved a medal for attempting to conquer a gag reflex inspired by cat poop. I’m a sorry excuse for a man.

I never told my wife this story. Now that I tell it, it proves to be cathartic. I’ve since confessed my fear that I’ll never be a good father because I’ve never changed a diaper. My older sister has let me enjoy her children and has never, bless her heart, put me in the awkward position of changing one of her kids because she knows I’ll end up puking into my own underpants. I do amazing things like magically taking coins out of the kids’ ears, but if something smells like a dead water turtle, they’re off to be handled by someone responsible.

It’s strange to fear being a father merely because of a gag reflex, but that’s my major concern. With a family comes responsibility. I’ll have to deal with poop. It makes me gag, but I assume I’ll find some new resolve from deep within me. I know for a fact that if stranger broke in our back door, I’d fight him to the death to protect my family. Let’s hope I have the same resolve the first time my child craps his or her pants.

“Future Me” Is a Sorry Excuse for a Man

2005-07-28T15:01:00.000-07:00

I’m a procrastinator. If I have a deadline, I will wait until the absolute last minute because I’m convinced I’ll kick it up a notch and get it done. The problem is that I usually do, and that’s why I continue to get away with procrastinating so brazenly. It drives people I work with nuts. Normal people do not intentionally try to screw themselves by waiting until the ultimate last minute.

It’s strange that I’d put myself in that position because I know I’m hurting my chances of meeting a deadline by waiting until the last minute, but I figure if I wait long enough, someone else will do the task for me. Unfortunately, that person is still me. I’ve taken to calling this person "Future Me."

Future Me gets screwed all the time because I don’t give a rat’s ass about him. If it’ll screw him, I’ll even procrastinate at doing things I enjoy. If I go out drinking and get a good buzz on, I’ll look at my watch and realize that if I left at that moment, I could almost get eight hours of sleep. I’m one of those people who really need eight hours and I know it. I enjoy sleeping, but I put it off. Instead of leaving, I think, ah, I’d need eight hours but Future Me will be fine with five, four and a half at the bare minimum.

Poor Future Me wakes up exhausted and hung over, yet again getting the short end of the stick. I’m a complete dick to him. And he puts up with it. What a pussy.

I sometimes wake up feeling tired. I don’t enjoy showering when I’m tired, so I go downstairs and watch tv. I wait and wait and wait. Finally, I head towards the shower, almost guaranteeing that Future Me will be late for work because I was watching Bugs Bunny. I drink a Red Bull in the shower thinking it might enable Future Me to make up the time on the drive. The "Red Bull for Breakfast Method" always gives him stomachache, but that’s not my problem. Screw Future Me. It’s his fault for letting me walk all over him.

I get to work, sit in my office and look at all the tasks I have to do that day. I decide to surf the web for seven and a half hours, leaving these tasks for Future Me, and leaving him only a half hour to complete them. The thing is, he’ll probably work his ass off and get them done on time, just barely. He’s a hard worker, and he doesn’t have the balls to put a stop to the way I abuse him. Future Me has no spine. I have no respect for him.

He often cleans up after me. He throws away my empty beer cans in the morning. He fixes my mistakes before the boss notices, and then lets me spend his paycheck. He even knows I'm nailing his wife, yet he does nothing to put a stop it. What a schmuck.

I’ve been meaning to take the picture I used in this post off of my computer at work, but I keep procrastinating because it makes me laugh. If someone were to discover it, which is bound to happen, I’d get in trouble. But screw it; Future Me thinks quickly on his feet and he’ll think of something. He always defends me, even though I treat him like crap. He’s a sorry excuse for a man.

My wife really wants kids and she’ll get them, because I married a strong woman who usually gets what she really wants. The problem is, we’re just not sure who she’ll have them with. I keep recommending Future Me. Sure, he is usually sleep-deprived and often hung over, but he’s helpful and he’s a hard worker. The one thing I do know, though, is that neither of us will let her have children with me. I’m far too irresponsible and lazy to be a father.

Spare Change: An Oxymoron

2005-07-26T15:24:00.000-07:00

As I was walking down the sidewalk in front of my house the other day, a guy was coming towards me from the opposite direction. This situation always makes me nervous because I hate that last second, gay little "excuse me" dance I’m sometimes forced to do when another person and I aren’t collectively smart enough to plan our pedestrian traffic.

I’m watching the guy, but I’m not looking directly at him. You shouldn’t look directly at people while walking down the street lest they get confused and assume you actually want to talk to them. The only thing worse than colliding with an individual when walking is being forced to hold a short conversation that requires you to pretend like you’re interested.

So, we’re getting closer and closer and I’m committing to the left side of the sidewalk. I’m hoping he’ll realize this and commit to the right. It’s all I can think about; the tension is palpable.

After a few tense seconds, I notice that he sees me and he’s clearly committing to the right. I breathe a sigh of relief. Another effeminate Excuse Me Dance averted.

Moments before we pass successfully without colliding or conversing, this guy does the unthinkable; he moves into my path, forcing me to stop dead in my tracks. I’m baffled as to why the system of each picking a side to avoid a collision broke down. I look at him, demanding an explanation, and he asks me if I have any spare change.

I look the guy over as I stammer to come up with a patently fake apology for not having any change, and I notice he’s wearing khaki pants and a polo shirt. The guy is dressed better than I am, and he wants me to give him change.

Shouldn’t he be holding a sign or doing a trick or something? Shouldn’t he at least be telling me a story about how he just ran out of gas and forgot his wallet? This guy wasn’t making an effort at all! I wanted to ask him what happened to his bongo drums or his crappy guitar with only three strings, two of them Ds.

Somewhere along the line, I missed something. I missed the point in time when it suddenly became socially acceptable to ask people for change at any time, in any social situation. I need to try this out; it’s so crazy it just might work.

Waitress: And here’s your sandwich, no mayo, like you asked. Is there anything else I can get you?
Me: Yeah, you got any spare change?

Doctor: Well, Doug, I have good news. The test results came back, and the tumor is benign.
Me: That’s great, Doc. Hey, you got any spare change?

The Judge: Mr. Palmer, I understand that you and the District Attorney’s Office have agreed that you’ll plead guilty to indecent exposure, which is a Class Three Misdemeanor, in exchange for them dropping the other charges. Is this correct?
Me: Yes, Your Honor.
The Judge: Well Mr. Palmer, I have reviewed your record and I will accept your plea.
Me: Thank you, Judge, I appreciate it. I just have one question.
The Judge: What is it?
Me: You got any spare change?

Brilliant! They’ll never see it coming. Lord knows I didn’t.

This brings me to my next question, what the hell is spare change, anyway? People are referring to coins like they’re spare tires. It’s like they’re asking for something you’ll never need unless an emergency situation develops. "Hey, can I borrow a quarter?"

"Borrow it? Oh, no need! Take it! I have another one and this is my spare! I can’t imagine why I’d need TWO!"

All of my change still works. It’s all legal tender. None of it is "spare." I can always use it because if I get enough coins, I can trade them with someone for paper money. That’s why I collect them.

I feel like explaining this to these people. Of course, that’d never work; if I did that I’d actually have to talk to them.

"Thank You" Notes

2005-07-25T12:39:00.000-07:00

I was taught as a child to be gracious. Whenever someone gave something to me, I was taught to thank that person. When I opened a gift at Christmas that I hated, I was coached on ways to look someone straight in the eye, and lie about the how much I liked it. My parents had a point; if I was gracious when receiving a gift, I was bound to get more.

As a child, we had a system for thanking relatives for gifts. The most common occasion was when a relative was at our house and we’d receive a gift that required a fake "Oh my!" from the crowd and a quick hug from the child. It got more complicated when we received a gift from an absentee relative. If a grandmother sent a gift while she was far away, we’d be put the phone with her to explain how much we liked her liked her gift. God forbid, she sent money, because this presented a new problem.

If someone sent one of us kids money, we were required immediately to call that person and explain how much we liked money. This was easy to do. Apparently, we were a little too convincing because my mother started requiring us to make a second call explaining exactly what we did with the money, complete with a narrative account of shopping and an explanation of how we narrowed down our choices to select the particular item.

On my tenth birthday, my maternal grandmother sent me ten bucks. My mother called her and handed me the phone, telling me to thank my grandmother for the money. I did. In fact, I told her I was thrilled because I could finally buy the Fisher Price Adventure Men Safari Set. This was the Adventure Men set that had the tiger in a cage and a plane that hooked onto a boat that could actually land in water. I was allowed to play with it for twenty minutes, and then I had to call Grandma Helen again to explain how I spent the money.

I told Grandma Helen in great detail how I bought the set and how I put the tiger in the cage, and took the tiger out of the cage, and how I put the net around the tiger, and how I flew the plane (without the boat attached), and how I floated the boat in the pond (without the plane attached because the pond was frozen), and how I finally attached the plane and landed, roughly, in the mostly frozen pond with the plane attached to the boat and the tiger in the net inside the cage in the back of the plane and it floated. It floated! I felt like I was giving her too many details, but she seemed to like the story. She told me our conversation made her day.

It might seem like an odd drill to some, but my family will give people money if they can be involved somehow when that person spends it. I’ve adjusted to it. To this day, when my mother or Auntie Jeanne cuts me a check for getting a year older, I’ll tell them exactly how I spent it. "Thanks for the check," I say, "We spent it in a strip club where Christa and I snorted cocaine off of a stripper’s tits." OK, so maybe we don’t tell them EXACTLY how we spent it, but we call them and thank them.

A couple of years ago I worked with my wife, back when she was my fiancé, to write thank you notes after she had a wedding shower. We got all kinds of gifts. It was really nice to receive gifts, but we both felt guilty and paranoid about how we should thank the gift givers.

The funny thing about a wedding shower is that people like to have fun, and they give you semi-inappropriate gifts, like gift certificates to a lingerie store or an adult store. Our dilemma was whether we had to tell these people how we spent their gifts. My mother’s answer was always a resounding "yes," so we thought about ways to do it.

Here’s the thank you note I wrote for Christa to send to her Aunt Maeby, who gave her a gift certificate to a lingerie store: "Dear Aunt Maeby, thank you for the gift certificate to Victoria's Secret. The lingerie I purchased was the perfect gift; on our honeymoon it made Doug harder than a bonus question on an Asian calculus exam. Love, Christa"

Undaunted, Christa wrote my thank you note to my big sister. "Dear Jeannie, Thanks for the gift certificate to Fascinations Superstore. The lubrication we bought came in handy on anal sex night when it was my turn to be punished. Kisses, Your Brother Doug"

We, of course, never sent these notes.

I kept thinking about the process of receiving a gift and the need to do the right thing so we can keep a gift, without being greedy. As I understand the drill from my mother, if someone sends me a specific gift to enjoy, I’m free to enjoy it and I can casually mention to the gift-giver the next time I see her that I liked it. But if someone sends me money, I have an obligation to spend it wisely and immediately tell the generous person giving me the gift how I spent it.

Apparently, if someone sends me money, he or she has a right to know how it’s spent. This person is allowed to look over my shoulder as I weigh my options. It’s like pay-per-view; give me 20 bucks and you can watch me shop. It's a ticket to my shopper cam.

This is when I came up with my latest "brilliant idea."

I’m going to set up a website where my wife and I will accept money for a purchase at an adult store, and we’ll tell you exactly how we spend it. For a price, I might even snap a couple of pictures. We’ll totally be able to finance our sex life.

Maybe I’ll get a catchy domain name like, "DirtyChrista.com" or "ImDougsFilthlyWhore.net." The jury’s still out on this one, but let’s face the facts; I’m a freakin’ genius.

Of course, I still haven’t run this one by the wife.

The Three Martini Lunch

2005-07-18T15:02:00.000-07:00

Every time I open the paper they’re putting some former hot-shot executive in jail for securities fraud. Apparently, these people deserve to do hard time because they robbed their companies of billions of dollars. They bought private jets, went on wild vacations, and worked short days that they broke up with a three martini lunch.

I immediately became jealous. How did I miss this trend? Sure, they’re going to prison, but I spent my time being honest and working a dead-end job that lead me to my present position where I’m bored and underpaid. That’s when it hit me; I’ll never have the private jet, but with a little effort and planning, I could have the three martini lunch.

I told Christa about my idea. She opened the phone book to find a number for AA. But I persisted and I eventually convinced her it was in the name of science. Or at least in the name of wasting a day of corporate time while gaining a great story. So we picked a day and agreed that she’d meet me for our three martini lunch near my office.

I picked a bar within walking distance and Christa took a cab; we might be derelicts, but we’re not irresponsible. We grabbed a table and braced ourselves for the adventure.

The waitress approached our table and handed us two menus. "We’re having a three martini lunch," I said cheerily.

"Unh huh," she responded, unimpressed, glancing at her watch, which read something like 11:56. She then asked us if we wanted something to drink. I ordered two martinis. She looked confused. I felt compelled to explain.

"It’s like in the old days, you know, with the big corporate executives. We’re going to have a nice lunch and drink three martinis, and they we’re going back to work."

"So you want two martinis?" she asked.

"Actually we want six martinis, but, yes, let’s start with two." She walked off, noticeably annoyed. She brought two martinis and left us with our menus.

I don’t know if you drink martinis, but every time I order one I rediscover that they’re nothing but booze. "Holy crap," Christa said after taking a sip.

"Yeah," I agreed, "this is going to be rough." But we pressed on and drank our first martini. It was now around 12:15. We ordered two more.

We drank about half of the second martini and decided that to pull this experiment off, we’d need some food. We ordered lunch and tried to nurse the second martini.

With our food came the third martini. The booze was catching up to me. I put ketchup on my salad. Christa buttered her napkin. At this point, I became convinced that a three martini lunch was the best idea ever. I dug into my third martini with gusto and told my wife how sexy she looked. She smiled and was obviously ready for some hot lovin’. I paid the bill, hailed Christa a cab and told her that I’d see her later, if she knew what I meant. She did. I staggered back to work.

When I sat down in my office, it was 1:34. I proofread some letters, sent a couple of emails and did an hour of random tasks. I looked at the clock. It read 1:39. Apparently I had gained the ability to make time stand still.

The rest of the day didn’t go any better. I spaced out a conference call I was supposed to be on, so I was blindsided with a host of issues I hadn’t thought about, and I came across like a complete idiot. I typed an email in hopes of rescheduling another call under the guise of having an emergency meeting with my boss. I miss-typed the word "boss" three times. At one point, I dozed off briefly. I was a mess.

The longer the day progressed, the slower time moved. And I still didn’t get a damned thing done. I got home to find my wife sleeping it off. I woke her up and told her I was ready for some action. She told me to do something very dirty to myself, which I won’t share here, and then she rolled over and went back to sleep.

My conclusion is that these so-called "corporate raiders" are amazing cats. They’d work a half day, have a three martini lunch, falsify some financial statements in order to misappropriate millions of dollars, and then fly the private jet to the Bahamas for dinner. I had three martinis and I couldn’t lace my shoes.

I wonder if they’ll do better in prison than I would? But that’s an experiment I have no interest in trying.

Our Slice of Heaven

2005-07-18T09:50:00.000-07:00

There is something liberating about buying a house with your mate. It’s a feeling of accomplishment that sinks in over time.

I come home to a small house with enough room for our pets to roam, a sensible garden where I can put seeds in the ground and watch them grow, and an extra room where we’ll eventually raise a kid or two. I frequently realize that I have all the riches a man could ever want.

Occasionally, we look over the fence. This inspires us to take evening walks around the neighborhood. We get excited about other neighbors’ projects. We actively discuss ways to improve our neighborhood and we sometimes attend neighborhood meetings. We have become, for lack of a better phrase, complete yuppie dorks.

We know that we won’t change the world, but we’ve chosen this little corner of the world to live in and we’re proud of ourselves. We want to improve our neighborhood so we can have our family and friends over and present them with our small portion of the world.

I went to England and met a lot of really nice people who were vehemently concerned about attending to the world, and if they had spare time, attending to their community. These people gladly opened their homes to me and showed me the historical tourist attractions my guidebook demanded that I see. However, at the end of the day they’d be the most proud of the tour where they’d walk me three blocks and show me the modest church that the neighborhood had maintained since 1702.

I’d look at these churches, which were typically about the size of a 7-11 or a suburban Arbees, and I'd be completely unimpressed. The modest stone structures stood virtually unchanged for about three centuries. I’d look for a chronological reference, and I’d inevitably think something like, "In that span of time we built the Empire States Building and the twin towers. When small group of assholes destroyed the twin towers, we resolved to build something bigger. You people maintained a brick photo hut for three hundred years. Nice work."

Then it struck me; they’ve lived here since 1701 and they’ve taken pride in their community. Three centuries ago, they had the same grandiose feeling of accomplishment of owning a house and making a difference in their community. They’ve maintained this church, and their neighborhood, for three centuries. That puts my tiny 3rd generation corn field to shame.

It’s nice to have a different perspective. It’s nice to come home to my sensible row house built in 1902, with its porch built in early 2003 that stops the basement from flooding, its air conditioning added in mid-2004 that stops my wife from throwing a broom at me, and its small hot tub added in 2005 that creates weird smells and sucks up our disposable income. I take pride in what I have, because I’ve hit the jackpot.

We recently planted a grapevine and a raspberry bush in our insanely small garden; it’ll be a huge attraction in five years. A hip restaurant is opening down the street in August. Geno’s liquor store is a landmark.

And did I mention there’s a church down the street?

Your Blues Band Sucks: And Other Things I've Been Meaning to Tell You

2005-07-15T10:44:00.000-07:00

Does your blues band suck? If it looks anything remotely like this, I think we know the answer.

What lead to this? Lemme guess. Your friend Joe can play guitar. And Mike plays drums; he's not good enough to play in front of people, but he knows a guy who is. In fact, this guy teaches so he must be good.

Joe has a buddy who plays rhythm guitar, but you really need a bass player. Rhythm is like bass, right? HOME RUN! You have a rhythm section! You all try to sing, but you all agree that everyone in the band sucks. The drummer knows a singer through his daughter’s soccer club. And what's more- she's HOT!

Learning a lot of material is tough. You start with Mustang Sally and it holds together pretty well. The other stuff doesn’t. You add more blues tunes since they’re pretty easy. You write a couple of blues songs and you’re cooking with gas, baby!

Eventually someone will ask what kind of music you play, and you’ll explain that you’re an original blues band. This is where I lose my patience.

If you’re in a blues band and you claim to play originals, you should be ashamed of yourself. You’re a fraud and you know it. Your "originals" are songs someone else wrote decades ago with your words over them. You know who else does that? Weird Al. And even he’s not full of enough shame to call his songs "originals."

I know your argument and you’ll make it because you don’t know any better. It’ll go something like this:

Me: These songs aren’t originals.
Aimee Traci Smith from the Aimee Traci Smith Blues Band: But they are originals.
Me: No, they’re not. They’re blues songs.
Aimee Traci Smith from the Aimee Traci Smith Blues Band: But they’re not I-IV-Vs. For instance, "Blues About My Man Over There" is a I-IV-vi-V. It’s original.
Me: That’s not original; that’s Crossroads. Do you own any Robert Johnson or Eric Clapton?

So, save it, Aimee Traci Smith from the Aimee Traci Smith Blues Band. You’re a blues band. You even chose to put the words "blues" and "band" in your title. Yeah, we know people come out to see you and say nice things after watching your soulful performances. But keep in mind it might also have something to do with the fact that your music is predictable so it’s easy to understand, and you have tits. I’m not sayin’, I’m just sayin’.

But this begs the question; why are so many white people attracted to the blues? I'll tell you why in three:

1. The blues is easy (I IV V). Joe can really lay down his Stevie Ray Vaughn licks without being responsible for things like melody and chord changes.

2. The blues is familiar.
"Is this the one about the big-legged woman?"
"No, this is the other one."

3. The blues is great for middle-aged white people.
"I'm in love with a big-legged woman"
"WHAT’D HE SAY?"
"I said I'm in love with a big-legged woman"
"HUH?!? DID HE SAY PIG TAILED WOMAN?"
"Hey, I'm in love with a big-legged woman."
"OH! HE SAID BIG LEGGED WOMAN!"
"Yeah, I'm in love with a big-legged woman, and it's going to be the death of me."
"I UNDERSTAND! THIS IS A GREAT SONG! THESE GUYS ARE GREAT!!"

I don’t claim to be better a musician than anyone. In fact, I don’t even claim to be a musician. But for the love of god, please, on behalf of all of us white people, stop claiming to be "an original blues band." You’re making all of us look silly.

Tangental Communication

2005-07-13T19:12:00.000-07:00

My wife often starts conversations with me in the middle. Most people start them at the beginning, usually by using an informal introduction of the subject. “You remember Phil? Well, remember how he went to Bermuda last year?” Or perhaps something like, “So, I’m at work yesterday and you’ll never guess who called me.”

Not my wife. Our conversations often start like this:

“Well, imagine how I felt.”

“What?” I ask, fearing that she’s been talking for a while and I missed it.

“I mean, do you think to expect some common courtesy is too much to ask?”

“Uh,” I stammer, “I’m going to say, no.”

“You’re damn right, no! The NERVE of some people. I’m going to call her and tell her I’m not coming.” And she’s off.

Actually, my wife’s habit is not that bad. She starts conversations in the middle, but at least when I tell a story, she will wait for the payoff. Some people don’t, and it drives me crazy.

I was having dinner with my friend, Mike, and his wife, Julie. Julie is one of these people.

Me: By the time I realized what had happened, she had my wallet and both bags of hash, and I’ve got to fly home and work the next morning, despite an itching sensation.

Mike: Man, that’s awful!

Julie: Yes. That’s quite a story.

Me: But wait, it gets worse. I get back from Europe, and I’m sitting in the Free Clinic, you know, trying to fix the problem. I call in sick to work.

Julie: Mike and I went to Europe. I got this watch. See?

Mike: Yes, dear, he’s seen the watch. (To me) So. You’re at the Free Clinic.

Me: Right, waiting in the waiting room for my appointment to fix my “problem,” while my new boss is wondering where I am.

Mike: Man, not good.

Me: All of a sudden, out of the blue, in walks MY BOSS’ WIFE.

Mike: YOUR BOSS’ WIFE? What was SHE doing there?

Me: She was arranging a fundraiser, and apparently she had a meeting with members of the clinic’s administration.

Mike: Oh, THAT SUCKS! What’d you do?

Me: What could I do? I sat there and avoided eye contact and hoped she wouldn’t recognize me.

Julie: Yeah. My boss’ wife never recognizes me either. I think she thinks I’m a temp. I’ve been there for five years.

Mike: (To her) Unh huh, I know dear. (To me) So, what happened?

Me: Well, I’m sitting there, and she doesn’t notice me. I figure I can pretend to go to the restroom, and then I can escape.

Mike: Good plan.

Me: Yeah, I think so too. I wait a couple of beats, and then I decide to go for it. But right as I decide to get up, the nurse walks out with a clipboard and calls my name.

Mike: No!!!!!

Me: Yes.

Mike: No!!!! Oh SHIT! You’re screwed!

Me: Maybe, … or maybe not. I think for a split second, and I decide to sit there and pretend like I’m not me.

Mike: Hunh? Really?!?

Me: It’s a different nurse, and my boss’ wife has met me only once. I figure if I pretend like I’m someone else, the nurse will figure the person she’s calling has left and I’m someone else waiting for an appointment.

Mike: Not my first thought… but, ok.

Me: Clearly, I hadn’t come up with a “Plan B,” yet; at this point, this is the best I’ve got, so I go with it. The nurse calls my name again and I sit in silence and I read my magazine.

Mike: So?!?

Me: So, I’m not about to own up to the fact that I’m ignoring the situation. And I have no reason to believe either of them knows me.

Mike: Does it work?

Me: Well, there’s this silence. And it just keeps going.

Mike: Yeah?

Me: Yeah. You can hear a pin drop. So I keep working it, reading my magazine. She doesn’t call my name again. It’s still totally silent. I figure the nurse has gone back behind the counter. After a few moments of silence, I breathe a sigh of relief figuring I pulled it off.

Mike: No shit?!?

Me: No shit. I continue to read my magazine in silence. I take a subscription card from the center of the magazine, fold it, and put it into my pocket, like I’m going to write for a subscription because the magazine’s that good.

Julie: Which magazine?

Me: What?

Julie: Which magazine?

Me: Oh. Uh, Sports Illustrated or Cosmo or Style, or something. I don’t remember.

Julie: I like Style.

Me: Yeah… great. So, I’m sitting there, planning my escape. I look at some more ads; I dog ear the page of an article I’m reading, and I set down the magazine as if I’m getting up to use the restroom. It’s finally time for me to make my escape.

Mike: Nice.

Me: So, I get up and stretch, like nothing is wrong; I carefully set the magazine down as if I’m saving it until my return from the bathroom; and I head towards the hallway.

Mike: 10 points for style.

Me: Yeah, I’m in the moment. As I’m walking towards the hall, I slyly glance up.

Mike: Yeah?

Me: And both the nurse my boss’ wife are staring directly at me.

Mike: NOOO! Oh SHIT! Ha! What did you do?!?

Me: We’ll it’s obvious they know who I am, and it’s obvious they know that I’m trying to play it off as if I didn’t hear the nurse calling my name. My first thought is that I should blame it on an inter-ear problem, but then I realize that’s not why people go to the Free Clinic. Suddenly, I panic and I decide to fake a seizure…

Mike: A SEIZURE?

Me: Yeah.

Julie: We once had a dog that had seizures.

Me: Huh?

Julie: Our dog. He’d have them every time there were fireworks in the neighborhood or thunderstorms.

Me: Right. Anyway…

Julie: (Adamantly, because it’s finally her turn to talk) We took him to the vet many times and they put him on this medication, but we could never get him to swallow the pills. I have the same problem with pills. I usually break them up with a spoon. Mike, on the other hand, can swallow almost anything without even taking a drink of water. I remember this one time we both got sick in Cancun…”

I never got to the payoff. It was another great story ruined. The rash, by the way, eventually went away. So did the job.

What’s wrong with these people?

Political Correctness? WTF?

2005-07-13T10:29:00.000-07:00

What’s up with all of the retarded people at rest stops? We had a gig in Kansas not too long ago and every time we pulled into a rest stop, it was Tardville. Yeah, I used a form of the word “tard.” Don’t get your panties in a bunch, Ramona. I know it offends some people. These people need to relax.

So, tell me, am I still supposed to refer to people with black skin as “African Americans?” I know that was hip for a while, but not everyone with black skin is from Africa, so it presents a problem. I simply use the term “blacks.”

The term “black” merely refers to the color of someone’s skin. So what? I’m a white guy. I have white skin, so call me white. It doesn’t upset me. Let’s call a spade a spade. But don’t call a black guy a spade because apparently it’s derogatory to compare someone’s skin color to a suit of cards. I’ve no idea why, but I’m sure Diamond Joe, the Drunken Red Indian, would agree.

I met this guy who was tiny. He was. He was this miniature version of a regular-sized person, complete with these funny little legs and these hilarious little shoes. I called him a midget. He corrected me and told me he was a dwarf. I told him he was just plain tiny. He laughed. I laughed. We shared a moment. He was a nice guy, that tiny little fucker.

I told a friend about the tiny little fucker. She accused me of being a racist. I told her to relax and not to feel too bad for the little guy; at least he wasn’t a Mexican. She accused me of being anti-Semitic. I told her to buy a dictionary because she clearly had no idea what the words “racist” and “anti-Semitic” actually mean. She told me to go fuck myself.

I’m sure she never took my advice and remains as naïve today as she was before our conversation. Like her, a lot of people have vague ideas about what it means to be politically correct but they don’t understand the point.

The idea behind using politically correct terminology is to bring peoples' unconscious biases into awareness and to help them learn what different people might find offensive. In other words, we, as a society, want to force you to use vague and awkward terms to describe other people because we realize that, deep down, you’re nothing more than a shallow, hateful, racist asshole. Bully for us.

We’re being too hard on each other. Stereotypes exist because there are different traits among different groups of people. To refuse to acknowledge these traits is just plain silly. Here’s my gift to you: the benefit of the doubt. I think you’re inherently a good enough person not to turn the acknowledgment of a trait into racial hate.

So, you can relax. Gay men DO lisp. I know, not all of them do, but enough do to validate the stereotype. So what? Mexicans DO fancy musical car horns and DO hold extensive yard sales containing nothing but crap. Yeah, I know; not all of them, but enough. Black people WILL wear just about anything on their heads. Jewish mothers ARE over-protective. And heterosexual adult males DO spend most of their post-pubescence fantasizing about getting repeated blow jobs from lesbian twin sisters in the back of a ’57 Buick. Yeah, I know, not all of them do, but ENOUGH. Just enough.

My point is this: I think you’re smart enough to acknowledge trends unique to certain races without turning them into a blanket feeling of hate. I know I am. Let’s start giving each other some credit, and let’s start cutting each other some slack. THAT’s the way to ease racial tension. I too, have a dream.

What is up with all this blogging, anyway?

2005-07-13T08:41:00.000-07:00

I didn't think people read other people's blogs until I got a job that required me to sit at a desk nine hours a day. Now I feel like saying, "The Internet? Yeah, I've read it."

Occasionally I come across a really great blog or a site where the author inspires me. I really enjoy zug.com and the stuff John Hargrave writes. The guy is hilarious, even when he isn't eating soap or giving strangers updates about his penis. He posted a travel diary on his trip to Costa Rica and I hung on every word. Yeah, I read a DIARY. This is odd because I couldn't finish Anne Frank's diary, and she was being chased by Nazis.

I also really enjoy Fark.com and rockandrollconfidential.com. The guys responsible for those sites are geniuses. All they do is make fun of people, but they do it with grace and style that really tickle me.

Now I have a blog too? I'm amazed the Internet isn't full yet.