Long Odds, Short Stories

Dear Santa ...

2011-12-20T09:54:00.000-05:00

Sir,

Perhaps last year around this time you read my mock article about work conditions in the North Pole? If in anyway that offended you or your elves, I express my deepest regrets. With the recent downturn in manufacturing and pressure on labor unions from big business, perhaps the timing of my post was insensitive. I'm writing today to make amends - please accept my most sincere apology.

In keeping with my sense of contrition, I am going to write a letter of thanks rather than of wants. To be honest, I have all of the things I need and want, or at least rationally could use. I have no need of, to quote from The Grinch, packages, boxes, or bags. In a season too focused on "getting", I would like to give thanks for what I have already.

First, I have a most wonderful home. It is secure, in a wonderful town full of remarkable people, many whom I call friends. Sure, it has some peeling paint, a few drafty windows, and some mismatched fixtures. But it is not a mere house; it is our refuge and escape. We all sleep peacefully, each of us surrounded by comfort. What more could I dream of?

Secondly, thank you for my son. He is perfect in every way, meaning that as far as people can be perfect, he is wonderfully real. He is healthy, optimistic, athletic, respectful, and courageous. I watch him grow with a sense of awe and wonderment, knowing that I couldn't be more blessed.

But I am more blessed, as I also am graced to be the father of a beautiful daughter. She is wise, philosophical, clever, and strong. She is emerging as the kind of young woman anyone would like to know, a balance of beauty and ability - with a slice of humility - that forebode great things. A unifier, she is not so interested in the little things like labels, fashion, or popularity. Rather, she seems to see one's soul and she measures it carefully. Woe to those who pose as something they are not!

Lastly, Santa, I give thanks for Mrs. Odds. She is beyond description as a mother, friend, and partner. We have gone down many roads together, and when I stumble, she lends me her strength. When I am angry, she is calm. When I am silly, she is patient. When I joke, she laughs, even when I'm not a funny as I think I am. She is hot, too, but as gentlemen we'll avoid the details, right?

So, as you and the elves prepare to bless the world with presents, tidings of joy, and special memories, perhaps you can give a little more to some soul other than me, as I already have the gifts I cherish most.

Respectfully,

Mr. Odd

Life and Small Things

2011-11-19T20:07:00.000-05:00

Mr. Odds has been a busy, busy fella'. Funny how normal life can be so full of ... things to do, places to be, people to see. Tonight sort of became the night I had to at least write down, for others to know, that my cup nearly runneth over. We Odd folks just had a night out, but it was slightly more special than some other nights out.

My niece came out from the big city to stay with us, the third time she's done that this fall. When I was in college, I NEVER wanted to hang with oldies like us, but she's her own judge, jury, and executioner. What makes this small thing no such thing is how she found herself in Beantown, a freshman at one of the great schools. She got here without her dad's guidance, love, and company. Her mom clearly picked up the slack, but the deck was stacked. See, her dad's life was shortened through a barbaric act of violence six years ago (he'd be 47 for those who keep score). She could have gone off the rails, but somehow she didn't. Instead, she is a happy frosh doing the college thing, visiting her aunt, uncle, and cousins for a simple night out on the town.

For her uncle, though, it ain't no small thing. It is a miracle from the wreckage of my brothers untimely death. A mundane, everyday miracle to be sure, but nonetheless I can't believe my beautiful niece just broke bread with my two little Odds, who everyday are less little. When did she grow up? When did my own kids become so grown up? How did I get a chance to be more than an uncle to her? How lucky am I that Mrs. Odd gets it? I once hoped and prayed my niece would see us as her family, in our boring grandeur. I didn't pray for big miracles, I prayed for small ones. And this one prayer may have been granted.

I think, now, I may set my eyes higher. I pray I'm there to walk her down the isle for her wedding, or at least there to watch her mom have the honor. I pray I see her full of life, happy and fulfilled. I pray she is as whole as she can be. I pray that my brother knows I'm still here for him, doing what he should be doing. I pray that if things were different, he'd have done the same.

The Best of the Best

2011-05-17T09:50:00.000-04:00

Perhaps you missed the big political headlines earlier this week, so let me get you up to speed. Just eighteen short months from the next presidential election, and a bevy of national Republican figures are jumping into -- and in some cases officially not jumping into -- the race to challenge President Obama.

Perhaps the biggest surprise non-candidate for the Republican nominee was former Governor Mike Huckabee. In a statement released to Faux News, Huckabee's press secretary Eileen Wright said, "The Governor decided the time to run isn't now, especially since four of the seven likely voters for the Governor moved to Idaho and declared themselves Sovereign Citizens. Additionally, polling data indicates most Americans would vote for themselves rather than waste a vote."

Following soon on the heels of Gov. Huckabee's first and probably last smart political decision, Donald "The Donald" Trump announced he, too, would not enter the fray to become the next former Republican candidate for President. Pundits on both sides of the isle speculated that Mr. Trump would indeed run, if for no other reason than to plug his show Celebrity Apprentice. But in a statement announcing his non-candidacy, he stated that he wanted to continue to make gobs of money by hawking crappy properties and manipulating the court system to, as he put it, "Bugger the working class 'til they pronounce me King of Siam." Interestingly, NBC announced it is renewing Apprentice because they litterally couldn't find any other quality programming. Apprentice will anchor NBC's fall Thursday line-up, when executives at the ailing media giant hope the show can buoy several new shows, including Lepers 'n Love, When Hairy Becomes Sally, and Erectile Malfunction: The Hans Ruffer Story. When reached for comment on Mr. Trump not joining the Repulican slate, Democratic staffers at the DNC broke into tears. Rumors continue to swirl, however, that "The Donald"'s hair is still continuing to explore a run for the White House, given that it was polling several points higher than the head it rests upon.

These two latest announcements leave RNC insiders anxious about the dwindling field. Some have expressed serious concerns that every eligible candidate is withdrawing, leaving them stuck with Sarah Palin ... again. One staffer, who asked for annonimity because of fear that Mrs. Palin would hunt her down and kill her with a big-ass gun, said, "Sarah Palin is Satan's Bride, and even Beelzebub is scared shitless by that souless harpy!" Other RNC insiders fear that the early exit of party favorites such as Haley "Even Too Redneck for Southern Men" Barbour and Mitch "Who the Hell Are You Talking About?" Daniels opens the door for former Governor Mitt Romney, who insiders worry is literate, experienced, and telegenic. Pollsters indicate likely Repulican voters prefer to vote for candidates they can identify with, which makes Romney an unsavory choice. Says one insider, "Mitt is smart, doesn't watch NASCAR, and eats with utensils; the typical Republican voter just doesn't understand that fancy college talk, neither."

The big winner of the week was, of course, Newt Gingrich. In announcing his candidacy, he spoke to reporters about character issues that have dogged him throughout his careers, especially in terms of extra-marital affairs. "I'm not perfect. At least five or six interns turned me down while I was Speaker of the House." Gingrich's wives, ex-wives, girlfriends, one-nighters, hookers, and former President Clinton all hailed the news. President Clinton was overheard praising Gingrich's move, stating, "Ha! Dogged by character issues? Newt-baby has sure dogged some characters. Maybe him winning will put the gap in my character into perspective. Huh-huh, "the gap" ... get it? The gap..."

Super Powers

2011-01-31T18:03:00.000-05:00

I love superheroes and superpowers. Maybe because I grew up with "The Savage Sword of Conan" and Christopher Reeves, and I was at the opening of the modern Batman series. I love "The Watchmen" and dream of flying without mechanical assistance. I used to imagine longingly of having a magic ring that allowed me to become invisible, especially when I was a gawking, awkward seventh grader. I still wish I could stop time and watch "Groundhog Day", wondering what I would do with a do-over, over and over.

The other day I struck on the magic power I would want, if only one was allowed or gifted. I've given up on flying because I have a clumsy streak. I can see me taking off on my maiden flight and immediately crashing into a transformer or a low flying Southwest flight or a goose. Splat. Either me or the goose. And invisibility? Kinda' creepy for a forty-something sneaking around, don't you think? And stopping time? I'd get older while everyone else was frozen in space. And it would get boring and too quiet pretty quickly.

No, my superpower du jour is ... heavenly singing. First, I can't sing. At. All. Babies cry, birds fall stone dead from the sky, and loved ones reconsider their relationship with me. Secondly, singing - music in general - universally makes people peaceful, happy, and joyous. Sure beats beating my enemies to a pulp or lopping off their heads. And lastly, I could sing myself onto American Idol. And I'd win.

And winning is fun.

AP Newsbreak: More Question Arise from Labor Dispute at North Pole

2010-12-19T14:31:00.008-05:00

By Yukon Cornelius, Associated Press – 1 hr 37 mins ago

Reykjavik - A civil suit was filed on behalf of the North Pole Toymakers Union in Reykjavik on Friday, alleging unsafe work conditions, racial discrimination, and animal abuse and/or misuse. Named in the suit is the sole executive of Christmas, Inc. (CI), President of Operations and Plant Director Mr. Santa (NMI) Claus. The filing of the civil suit follows quickly on the heels of the opening of a criminal case by Interpol, which is investigating several alleged crimes committed by Mr. Claus, including slavery, animal neglect, prostitution, harassment, breaking and entering, intentional inflection of emotional distress, and trademark and copyright infringement. It is believed charges are pending and that an arrest is imminent. The timing of these dual actions comes at a difficult time for Mr. Claus and CI, already struggling to keep up with a changing business climate and competition from cheap labor markets in Asia.

Mr. Claus, who Interpol states has gone by several aliases during his infamous career, including the ironic Saint Nicholas, Father "Who's Your Daddy" Christmas, Kris Kringle, or simply "Santa", had no comment about the impending civil or criminal actions. Calls to the Public Relations Office at CI were not answered or returned. According to court filings, no attorney has been appointed for Mr. Claus in the civil suit.

Others, however, have not been so tight lipped in addressing the allegations. Mr. King Moonracer, a popular winged lion who acts as the nearby Island of Misfit Toys' (IMT) Chief Executive Officer, was quoted recently challenging Mr. Claus's distribution system; "I was the first to utilize available technology for flying around the world each night in search of unwanted toys. Kringle illegally copied our infrastructure, adapting it for his questionable service. Regardless of his questionable use, the system is the product of IMT and we have not received compensation for the impermissible use of our internally developed system." Moonracer further states that Kringle intentionally violates the airspace of IMT and has filed multiple complaints with the FAA, citing unsafe vehicle operation, unlicensed pilots, noise disruption ("Those damned bells!" stated Mr. Moonracer), and illegal dumping. Apparently the flying reindeer have been indiscriminate in handling their waste.

It is not only Santa's neighbors who allege misdeeds. Perhaps the most serious allegations relate to work conditions at Mr.Claus's factory. "It isn't a factory; it's a sweatshop," alleges one Mr. Charles Springer, now known to former colleagues as Charlie-In-The-Box. "I was pressed-ganged into service, required to keep elves contained on the work floor, using coercion and even force. I didn't want to, but I went along because I needed the job. Times are tough, you know. When I spoke out, I was physically restrained and placed in solitary confinement in a cell the elves refer to as 'the box'. Eventually I spoke out so often, I was deprived of my freedom for weeks at a time, earning my unfortunate nickname." The emotional pain, according to Mr. Springer, has robbed him of the ability to earn a living. He seeks redress from Mr. Claus. "I am speaking out on behalf of the elves. Someone has to stand up."

Mr. Springer's story is substantiated by affidavits signed by Sam the Snowman and Hank, the so-called "Tall Elf". Neither was available to speak with reporters, but through their lawyers issued a statement, which reads, "The North Pole has changed, and not for the better. Mr. Claus has abused his power, and seems fixated on self-gratification and personal debauchery, often seen bright cheeked (signs of alcohol abuse) and ranting 'Hoes, hoes, hoes' merrily. The whereabouts of Mrs. Claus is unknown, but Mr. Claus clearly has been keeping company with some unsavory women in her absence."

Other instances of abuse of workers is evident in the narrative of one Mr. Hermey. Mr Hermey was initially brought to the factory to work off "immigration fees" for himself and his immediate family. "I didn't want to make toys. I was training to be a dentist. But that dream was taken from me," Hermey testified at a recent hearing into the matters at hand. "My immediate supervisor was a portly and ill-tempered lackey. He wore a goatee styled to resemble Josef Stalin. He was outraged at what he perceived as my intentional, persistent disruption of the assembly line. And the music! He used to imitate Lawrence Welk's famous introduction, "Ah one, and ah two" and sing carols all year round. It was unbearable."

Mr. Hermey recounts the tale of escaping the confines of the plant in his soon-to-be released autobiography, titled Unsaintly Nick; The Dark Underbelly of Christmas.While in the woods outside of the plant, living off of melted snow and stale cookies, Mr. Hermey met a starved, skeletal reindeer, whom he called Rudolph. "The stories Rudy told me just broke my heart. You know Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen, Comet and Cupid and Donner and Blitzen? But do you recall why they are famous? They were bullies, four-legged, jack-booted thugs. Poor Rudolph, you see, was afflicted with a red-nose, a very shiny nose. He was terribly anxious and self-conscious about it. When Rudy would get nervous or anxious, you would even say it glows. All of these dominant reindeer used to laugh and call him names. They never let poor Rudolph join in any reindeer games. Totally exclusionary behavior. Typical playground bully crap. And Rudy's story wasn't unique. They domineered every other reindeer who aspired to elevate themselves out of poverty. They repressed any and all fair competition; they ran the whole show, with Claus's blessing. That's why they are famous and you have never heard of Rudy or the thousands of other reindeer trapped in an endless cycle of servitude and pain." More of Mr. Hermey's narrative, including his desperate escape from the frozen north, is contained in his book, available from Amazon.com on December 19th. He wouldn't comment on the fate of his friend Rudy, other than to remark that he no longer eats meat.

On the criminal side of the ledger, local police agencies have been given updated warnings from Interpol regarding Santa's potential illegal entrance into homes on Christmas Eve via the chimney. Extra police around the world will be on duty this Christmas Eve, given recent threats posted on Santa's Facebook. In a rambling post dated last week, Mr. Claus stated, "Oh! You better watch out, you better not cry, you better not pout, I'm telling you why: Santa Claus is coming to town! I'm gonna get you and your (darned) cookies, bitch. I'm making a list, checking it twice, gonna find out who's naughty or nice. Oh yeah, mother (freaking) Santa Claus IS coming to town!" With a chilling coldness, Mr. Claus finishes his missive by darkly stating, "I sees you when you're sleeping, I knows when you're awake. I knows where you live."

The sun has set on the North Pole for the year. Clearly, the dark times facing a once proud Santa Claus won't brighten with the arrival of spring. Facing countless legal problems, Mr. Claus's erratic behavior and poor business practices caused one insider to warn, "Jump in bed, cover up your head, 'cause Santa Claus comes tonight. And the long arm of the law is waiting!"

Don't Ask, Grow Up

2010-12-03T17:01:00.017-05:00

"It's important that we're clear about the military risks," said Gen. George Casey, the Army's top officer. "Repeal of 'don't ask, don't tell' would be a major cultural and policy change in the middle of a war."

With all due respect to the Honorable John McCain (R-Arizona) and General John Casey, it is indeed time to repeal the military policy commonly known as "Don't Ask, Don't Tell." And to the hot-heads, pick 'n choose moralists, and pseudo-conservatives, save the "This is about special rights for gays" argument for somewhere else.

The reason why "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" (DADT) has outlived its usefulness (presume it has a usefulness at some point, please) is that serving in the armed forces for the purpose of defending the US Constitution -- and the United States from all enemies, foreign and domestic -- is a duty that anyone, regardless of religion, race, gender, or creed has a right to fulfill. If you can hold a rifle, fly a plane, maintain a vehicle, or do any of the myriad of tasks required by our modern military, your color, race, sexual preference, political beliefs, of anything else that makes you who you are is -- must be -- subordinate to fulfilling your duty while in the service of our great, special Nation.

Let's run this out to a logical conclusion. Consider these scenarios: Black soldiers won't fire on black enemies? A Christian won't fly a mission against a Christian opponent? A woman, in the execution of an order, won't fly a Predator (MQ-1) and launch a Hellfire missile against a Taliban target that might be female? Silly, really. Check your history. There is no evidence -- none -- that indicates gays or lesbians can't, haven't, or won't execute their assigned mission. In other words, if one can do the job, they should be allowed to do the job. I would honor - and you should, too - any veteran, whether they are like you or very different than you. In some way, honoring a veteran who is different than you might be even more important. I call you to remember the story of the Tuskegee Airmen, African-American aviators who served in World War II with great distinction, while at the same time being actively discriminated by their own Nation. You don't have to like "gayness", or for that matter anything else. But is morally wrong to disallow someone from serving their -- our -- Nation because you are uncomfortable with them.

I feel compelled to dismantle two points reported this week in the hearings on the matter of DADT. First, early this week, the Senator from Arizona "misspoke" when he questioned Robert Gates' service record, in a thinly veiled attempt to show that his own service record (and Mr. McCain, indeed has honorably served our Nation) makes him more expert to speak about DADT than Mr. Gates. Look up Gates' record if you want, but trust me when I say Mr. Gates has ample -- even extraordinary -- experience to discuss the impact of the repeal of DADT on the command structure of the modern US military. And Mr. Gates, after a long, serious, conservative study of the impact of gays serving openly in the military, has gone on the record saying repealing DADT won't negatively affect our ability to defend ourselves.

For a moment, allow that these honorable gentlemen's service records balance each other out; then deciding on the future of DADT comes down to what is right, not politically popular with one's base. Sadly, McCain is arguing against comments he has made in years past regarding DADT, and sullying his outstanding record in a drive to the right for short-term political gain. Don't go right, John. Be right. Apologize for the cheap shot against Mr. Gates' record, acknowledge your concern, bias, and phobia. And then, get on the right side of history.

General Casey's comments are far more insidious -- and more troubling -- than he perhaps he intended. First, while he was testifying under oath and in uniform -- and I trust speaking from the heart -- he approached speaking dishonorably by publicly challenging the command authority. His answers approached what will be interpreted by some, if not most, as insubordinate. He -- in fact and by law -- must support any change to (or preservation of) DADT without hesitation. He may have personal opinions -- even professional opinions -- but they are not valid in this domain. He may have done serious damage to not only his career, but worse, caused real harm to the command structure by indicating, passively or by implication, that following orders are a choice or preference. Following orders in the military are not subject to personal opinion. Ever.

What is his shield, his rally point? That the US can't change policy while at war. This statement is far scarier, far more fanatical, than his view point on DADT. Does he really believe we can't change course or policy while in a war? That, my loyal reader, is terrifying. First, we have been at war for nine years with no end in sight, although one might rationally debate whether an actual legal state of war exists. Can he really posit that we can't change any policy that affects the military while engaged in armed conflict? Well, we already have, multiple times. We have changed policy on stop-loss. We have changed command structures. We have changed policy that affects strategy in Afghanistan, just like we changed policy about how we executed the mission in Iraq, forgetting for a moment that we changed the goals and mission profoundly while in that ongoing conflict. To not change policy in the face of new tactical or strategic understanding, is preposterous on its face. We can expect to be at war -- or in a state of semi-active armed conflict -- for years to come. General Casey would have us deny Americans the right to serve until we are conflict-free? We would deny access to serve to our fellow citizens until it is convenient and easy to "give" those rights? No, sir. We must do the right thing, the American thing, most importantly when it isn't easy. We may not be at peace in our life time; the Constitution doesn't prescribe rights only when we are happy, safe, and prosperous. We must do what is right, even when we don't want to. In fact, we must do what is right when even considering change causes us great trepidation.

This issue is not about being gay, or accepting gay lifestyle. This is an issue of rights, of supporting the Constitution, of maintaining a military representative of all Americans. To those who say that there is something wrong about being gay, you may hold that opinion and I honor your right to believe it. I can - in turn - think you are wrong, but I must accept that your belief -- as unpleasant as I find it -- is your belief. But as a Nation, we must respect all citizens' rights and access to our institutions. We must allow anyone able to serve simply to serve. Mind your own business, and if you don't want to know if the veteran marching in the parade is gay, don't ask. But grow up, would you? If they are willing to sacrifice their safety, their health, even their life, to preserve your rights, do you really care if they are gay? America, it is time to grow up.

Blink

2010-10-09T15:50:00.007-04:00

"Poor Man's House" is playing on our television, which is hooked up to our Xbox 360, which in turn is connected to our family laptop. That's a lot hardware, a lot of gigs and IP addresses and 1's and 0's flying around, all so I can watch a slide show of my kids' summer fun. After all the horsin' around with the machines, I got THEM to do what I want. Now playing - "Let My Love Open the Door" by Pete Townsend. Ah... bliss. On the screen, Ms. Odds vamping with a good buddy. My heart swells, my eyes water, and I leave the present, traveling back to August and then even further back.

When Patty Griffin sang "Poor Man's House" to me for the first time, Mrs. Odd and I were driving a green Tercel around the hills and mountains of Vermont, without a penny or a care. Even while I sit on our couch on this fine October day, nursing yet another injury, watching hi-def pictures of the little Odds make tie-dye t-shirts and catch frogs scroll by, I feel the Vermont sun on my arm, as its rests on the window sill of the Tercel. I'm here today and there, too, almost sixteen years ago. We never called the Tercel by its name; it was the "tersil" and we thought that great humor. The "tersil" wasn't around a few years later when we first watched "Grosse Point Blank" and heard Pete Townsend sing his acoustic version of "Let My Love...", but I remember so clearly cranking the soundtrack in our little rented bungalow, just about the time we found out soon-to-be Ms. Odd was going to join us. Who says time travel is impossible? Hmmmm?

I'm now watching piles of stones, mounded up to serves as landmarks for hikers, also know as cairns. With the clear New Hampshire sky in the background, as blue as blue can be, the yellow lichen glows like gold, the granite dark and strong. The cairns aren't designed, per se, but each has a personality and uniqueness, a sculpture of sorts. Nature did the lion's share of the work, the many and anonymous hands of hikers merely arranging the stones, one a top another, for the sole purpose of helping the next hiker to his or her destination. Now playing - Jason Mraz's "Curbside Prophet" is lightly yammering and fibbidy-dibbidy-blibbidying along, throwing me back just seven or eight years back, driving to and fro outside Baltimore. Little Odd had joined up by now, and our foursome was gaining traction. Oh, and here comes James Blunt and "High", which steers me west, out to West Virginia. The picture in my mind's eye isn't available on the current slide show, but it is as bright in vivid in my memory as any on the screen - bright gold, red, and orange leaves and five beautiful kids, throwing leaves and laughing and eager to be. Just to be.

Crash Test Dummies singing "Superman's Song"... I loved the Dummies cause I can approximate the lead singer's deep, rough baritone. Seventeen year's ago, living with Ed and Mary, two goldfish Mrs. Odd and her friend Meg rescued from a coi pond before it froze. They would travel with us to Vermont, north from our little garage apartment, riding in a cooler in the front seat of a U-Haul moving truck I drove over the Middlebury Gap in a thunder storm. I remember looking up, perhaps an hour later, into the wide expanse of the dark night sky, watching a meteor streak from west to east. Our wedding was only weeks away, Mrs. Odd already setting up house in a barn. Yep, a barn. Ed and Mary weathered the trip just fine, out living half a dozen or more store-bought fish. They had quite nice little run, until we got sick of cleaning the filter, and let 'em loose in Lake Champlain. God, I hope they didn't breed.

Wrapping up this post with "Under Pressure" by Queen and David Bowie. There are no pictures on the screen, and this brings up my oldest memory, gray and hazy. I'm walking from school to my part-time job vacuuming floors in a women's clothing store, with my Walkman on. I had no idea what lay ahead. Funny thing is, I still don't. I just hope the songs keep playing.

Head Movies

2010-10-03T11:15:00.011-04:00

Sleep is so boring, and since I was little kid, I always felt I was going to miss something exciting while I snoozed away my life. I blame my parents - hey, who isn't blaming someone else for what ails 'em nowadays? - as they were the most fun, the most relaxed, the most full of love and laughter just after they put us three cherubs to bed. Go figure? What could that possibly mean?

The party always started around nine, after the kids were fed and had run circles around the house. Us, clad in our little one piece jammies with the slick covered feet and bright colored flammable polyester fabric, shuffled off to bed and the dark confines of our rooms. Then the stories and ribald jokes began to float of waves of louder and louder laughter, up the stairwell and through the just-cracked bedroom door. When it was an especially good gathering, the clinks of ice in glasses would compliment the laughs, like a bright ribbon wrapped around a present. The smell of cigarette smoke, when it evoked images of maturity and the mysteries of adulthood instead of cancer and emphysema, would begin to tickle my curious, wondering little mind as I lay wide-eyed and smiling under my covers. I fought sleep like the past-his-prime boxer, slowly succumbing to the relentless onslaught of an unbeatable opponent. Consciousness would leave me, as if I'd been clubbed, me unaware that I'd even left one world for another.

It isn't much different now, for me. True, I'm the now parent and it's my own kids I tuck into bed every night, kissing their brows and thanking a God I don't really believe in for their presence in my life. I love my kids every minute of everyday, often stilled in mid-thought by the miracle they are to me. But I know this best, remember it most poignantly, as I put them into bed. In this moment, between today and tomorrow, feeling the blessing of childhood and the unadulterated power of love a son and daughter has for a father. A father, who may or may not be an idiot, who stills feels like he's a child, who lives an adult life with more than a small measure of nostalgia for a simpler time.

When my kids are asleep - or in my daughter's case, often pretending to be asleep in order to attend to the adult mysteries she should but can't resist - I begin the slow approach to sleep myself. Even though I often go a million miles an hour, I'm usually anything but tired. Perhaps it the momentum of of trying to do twice the amount of thinking, twice the amount of living, twice the amount of remembering, that makes just stopping impossible for me. My body betrays me; my body almost never feels tired. My brain exhausts itself - becoming a racing but idle engine - but it clings to consciousness stubbornly. It wants to find the party, chase the action, watch the next episode, hear the next joke. It - me? - hates the idea that something is going on and I'm not there.

Enter the director. When my smarter self finally buts my dumber self into its place, puts down the book, shuts of the television, and hits the lights, the movies begin. I've trained myself - over decades - to give my brain a little treat, a bow to its base programming. I allow my creativity to ramp up and run a scene from the movie of the life I would live if I were not responsible for anyone or anything. I make myself the director, executive producer, and star of an action movie, where I play the hero, the good guy, the protagonist. To date, I've been the leading man in brain-movies with themes ranging from drug dealing to zombie apocalypses. I've been falsely imprisoned for murder - abandoned by my family - only to lead a daring escape from prison to pursue righteous justice. I've fought corrupt FBI agents, who frame innocent men for crimes they commit. I've landed jumbo jets full of desperate passengers, I've stolen Cessnas and flown to to safety. I've lived on desert islands, with an adoring, beautiful women (when I was younger and single...) and alone (now that I'm married). I've broken into bank vaults, into meth labs, into mansions of serial murders and robber-barrons. I've caught touchdown passes, thrown touchdown passes, run for touchdowns, intercepted and returned the ball for touchdowns. I've hit homeruns and caught game winning flyballs, too, although I can't recall ever casting myself in a soccer game.

As the scene unfolds and refolds, the director calls "Cut!" and "Action!" over and over, trying to get the scene just right. The angle, the lighting, the dialog, the plot - all must be perfect. It can take me weeks, even months, to get one scene just right, months and years to get the whole movie in my head. And just as it was when I was a young boy, no matter how I weave and dodge, sleep always drops the curtain, turns off the lights in my head, sends home the stars and crew. And when the director in my head has done his best work, the real me switches from today to tomorrow without awareness.

Riding the Edge

2010-09-06T09:12:00.012-04:00

This summer has been a great one. The weather has been downright stunning, especially here in the Great White North; hot, dry, sunny. But isn't just the weather, it is the confluence of our kids' lives, our home life, our goals, our hopes. It is a little weird to know that, no matter how great the future might be, this simple time of beauty, growth, love, laughter, and peace in our family has set a new high water mark. Even when we didn't get along, it was civil and understandable. Pinch me, but the Odds family has been surfing the crest for months. Crap, I just jinxed it!

Years ago, I said pretty much the same thing to a friend of mine in Puerto Rico, how our life was bucolic, happy, even mundane. Then we were robbed, our dog died, Mrs. Odd's grandmother passed, and my mother and brother died. I spent a year or three wishing I said, "Naw, life sucks." Truly, for awhile I irrationally thought my big mouth had brought down the Big Hurt. I'm yankee enough to be hardwired that you don't get too up, and that being down is a normal, common part of life. I don't like being down, but I do like climbing back up. Having stated that, Mrs. Odd has taught me over the years that it is okay --maybe even normal -- to be happy with little things, to have simple distractions, and that there is no such thing as jinxes.

See, I can't help feeling that I've run this streak of happy luck all the way out. Yeah, even though I don't believe in jinxes, curses, fate, or design, I can't escape completely from my foundation, my inner self. I can't but feel that God or Death or the Three Sisters tapped me on the shoulder last weekend, as if to say, "Yeah, we see you. You seem a little too happy, brother boy." Tap, tap.

Why the worry? Why the glance over the shoulder? Let me set the stage. I took up road biking again, after years off. Mrs. O hooked me up with an entirely sweet (...expensive) bike, and I took to it like cheese to macaroni. Starting in late May, I started riding hard, often, and every day out, a little faster. I was good wearing my helmet, and maybe not so good cranking my i-pod with motivational tunes. A few weeks into my new pursuit, I set two goals; a thousand miles by end of the summer and break forty miles per hour. So all summer, ride-train-ride. June passed by, and I saw it happen from the road. July passed by, and I saw it from behind the bumper of tourists visiting my town. August arrived, and my miles count was edging past 800, but I was having trouble breaking thirty-eight miles per hour. And then we took a weekend in Vermont.

If you have not been to Vermont, imagine a world that is always tilted 5 - 10 degrees. I lived there for nine years, but didn't really notice. But the first day out on my bike, and it became the key feature I cared about. The state should change its name to plain old Mont. But with the hills and mountains came the extra boost I needed, and on that first ride I broke forty three times. Wahoo. Hair on fire. Indestructible. "I'm flying!"

And so it went. Gathered up the miles, built up the legs, and started thinking, "Can I break fifty?" It really never occurred to me to ask, "Should I break fifty?" So now it is last Saturday, and we are in Vermont again, way up the big hills. I get geared up, and ride uphill for awhile. Delayed gratification, you see. And then I aim the handle bars downhill, and "Whoooooosh." Thirty. Thirty-five. Forty. Forty-one. Forty-two. Curve. Shitfuckshitfuckshitfuckshitfuck...

Tap, tap. My sweet bike has breaks. I began to gently pump the breaks. Shitfuck. Tap, tap. Pump the breaks, stand on the pedals. Shitfuck. Wobble. In my head, I yelled, "What the fuck was that?" Tap, tap. Pump the breaks, stand on the pedals, lean back. Wobble, wobble. Shitfuckshitfuck. Wobble, wobble,wobble. SHAKE, SHAKE, SHAKE, WOBBLE, WOBBLE, WOBBLE. Aloud, with a resigned voice, "Oh, SHIT!"

The curve was coming for me. My bike was breaking apart. I was going forty miles an hour. And in a brief flash, I thought of Little Odds and Buttons, and wondered, "What didn't I teach them?" Pump the breaks, stand on the pedals, lean back, navigate the curve. Wobble, wobble, wobble. Pump. Wobble, wobble. Pump. Look for soft landing area. Pump. Wobble. Pump. Smoother. Smoother? Pump, smoother, pump, smooth. Pump, pump, stop. What happened to "Tap, tap" I wondered? I found myself in parking lot, standing astride my most excellent bike. I wasn't dead. I didn't wipe out. I was gonna go home in one piece. Huh, didn't see that coming.

So Sunday, Mrs. O and I spent the first part of the day at the pool. She picked me up from that very parking lot Saturday and I decided to take Sunday off. Sunning. Reading. Eating. Swimming. Checking my balls. Pinching myself. As the day went along, Mrs. O suggested we take a Alpine Slide ride. Sure, I said. What could go wrong? Tap, tap.

So up the hill we went. Tap, tap. And I sought out the fastest cart. Tap, tap. And I bragged that no one ever gets hurt on these things, those signs are for insurance purposes. Tap, tap. Brakes? Who needs brakes. Tap, Tap. Off we went, swoosh! Faster, faster, faster. Tap, tap. Faster, faster, faster, CURVE! Tap, fuckin' tap!

So how did it end? I stayed in the track. The cart didn't. Funny thing how skin reacts to friction on cement. Tap, tap. We got you, sucker! And strangely, as I ripped down the track and felt my skin flay, and saw stars as my jaw cracked on the track's edge, I thought to myself, "This isn't as bad as yesterday would have been. I really got away easy this time!" Tap, tap.

Summer Falling

2010-09-04T17:44:00.007-04:00

Spring's eternal hope bursts upon the Earth with exuberance, energy, and boundless optimism. A seed breaks from its winter husk, and reaches for the sun, a new, slender sprout. It twists and turns, reaching higher and higher. Its company is other gentle flowers, only just beginning to grow, each beautiful, simple, fragile. The attentive Gardener gently weeds the soil, watering when the flower is thirsty, fertilizing to encourage growth and strong roots, The flower and her companions know no frost, for the the Gardener covers them when its cold. The flower and her companions know no blight, no pestilence, nothing more harmful than an occasional strong gust of wind. Around the flower buzzes life, heard in the joyful voices of the birds and crickets and bees. What for so long is seen as simple sprouts begin to show buds, each young flower similar but none the same. Awaiting their blooming, there is nothing but happiness in spring.

Soon spring gives way to summer. Almost overnight, the flowers' buds burst into the the air, bright colors and complex shapes. They shine nearly as bright as the sun, enlivening their surroundings, to the envy of the old oak and stone wall. The Gardener takes time to admire, knowing the flower did more work than he. The garden is so full, so dynamic, so alive, even a small patch such as this surpasses most works of man. But the garden is not one thing, but many, many hundreds. The Gardener focuses on the one lovely flower, and his heart swells with joy. He sets aside his trowel and rake, and rests from his labor.

And later, some time later, the Gardener is working a new patch of garden, coaxing more flowers to bloom. Upon his knees, he focuses on the young, immature stalks, knowing how fragile and exposed they are. A quick, unexpected gust of wind rocks the old oak, and a loud crack splits the air. The Gardener looks up, and at first everything seems in order. He stands and covers his eyes, shading his view from the strong summer glare. Almost instantly, his hands drop to his sides. He walks quickly to the flower bed, a gnarled branch from the oak driven into the soft soil.

For a moment, he naively thinks all is well. Most flowers' colors remain bright, as they sway gently in the breeze, reaching for the sun as ever. But alone on the ground lays a lone flower. While still beautiful, it is painfully, heartbreakingly clear the flower is broken, lifeless. The Gardener forgets for the moment the rest of the garden, and thinks only of the fallen. Surrounded by life, this loss feels so much more poignant. Some time later the Gardener returns to his toiling, but he thinks not of what is to come, but of what might have been. Soon his latest plantings will need his full attention, but for now the lone flower stands alone in his memory.

Stars

2010-08-24T21:11:00.009-04:00

Along time ago, I put on a cloak that I thought I was supposed to wear. I was a young man of seventeen, so perhaps that excuses or explains things. Since then, my definition of manliness has changed an awful lot. The combined gifts of fatherhood, loss, love, marriage, friendship, and a bit of maturity all conspired to make it all but impossible for me to wear just one guise. It (manliness...) is, if I were to quantify it now, richer, gentler, less sure, complex. As a teenager, however, I thought differently. In my view, being a man was a role with a narrow sets of attributes; tough, simple, linear. Looking back, I was following a cliche, not modeled by any real man but constructed by movies, rock stars, and athletes. I was not philosophical about my persona; I just simply became a jock. At the time, my other choices were band dork, D & D geek, or nerd. Jock seemed, frankly, the best - safest? - choice. I wore my mantle proudly, figuratively and literally. So you can visualize it, imagine a lanky kid with growing muscles, wearing cut-off sweats (80's short) and my local football team's practice jersey. If that doesn't paint it clearly, how about Larry Bird, just shorter? A real man's man, no? Oh, yeah, add a puffy mullet haircut, too. I practiced flexing in the mirror, for crying out loud.

And then unexpectedly and against my wishes, I found myself on a dock by a lake, nestled in the deep woods of New Hampshire, looking up at a night sky peppered with millions and millions of stars. I was sitting next to another young man (maybe 20) who I had already pigeon-holed into a fifth unnamed category, quantified by traits like eccentric, feminine, artistic, intellectual, light-hearted. In other words, about as opposite from what I was trying to be as could be imagined. Steve was, in short, not a man's man, and thus I didn't want to have anything to do with him. But circumstances out of my control put the prototypical meat head in close proximity with ... with ... this random, odd, undefinable guy. I was quite sure this night, leading a bunch of little kids on camping trip, was going to be hell.

As the night wore on, I unexpectedly found myself dropping my judgements and preconceptions he told outrageously funny jokes and recounted summers past full of pranks and misadventures. He casually about talked about girls he had crushes on, love affairs and broken hearts, good sex and bad sex. He talked about being an A student while causing all sorts of mayhem in high school and college. He wasn't shy about the fact that he couldn't fix a car engine, never played sports, or that he didn't really give a shit about being popular. Without mocking me, he made it really clear that what he thought was cool was what he decided was cool.

As the night progressed, I began to realize this guy I'd decided was a total freak was post-cool; at the time I thought he had changed before my eyes. In hindsight, he didn't change at all. In the span of a few hours, my trajectory had changed just a degree or two. It was me who changed, or opened up, or grew up. Or at least started to be a real man. That is, a man who thought. I didn't change overnight and had lots of growing to do, but my path that night changed irrevocably. Frankly, the journey continues, but I started it that early summer night.

And I remember most clearly the moment I laid the cloak aside. As he talked about his life, I began to share a bit about the inner me. The inner me that was unsure, a boy who felt unimportant, a child who was scared by a big, big world. I'm not sure of my exact words, but Steve grew quiet for a minute or so. Then he directed my attention to the stars. He said that we, as humans, are staggeringly small in the universe's scheme of things. We all are, ultimately, tiny and insignificant in comparison to any one of the billions of stars. As he paused to think, I could feel a deep sense of cold dread seep into my soul; was he indeed saying I was as unimportant as I felt? But then Steve changed the direction of his observation, with this simple idea; what if you are kind to just one or two other people? What if that kindness lifts them up, so that they feel hopeful or happy or stronger, and they in turn pass that optimism onto two more people. Pretty soon, a lot of people - a really large group of people - may be a bit happier, kinder, gentler. What kind of power does that give you? How small are you, really?

In that one moment, under the veil of the night sky, the world I knew became infinitely more rich and exciting. This simple statement of hopeful goodness gave me a new, powerful philosophy to call my own. Either consciously or unconsciously, Steve had applied his own axiom to a young, scared boy, and in that small window of shared time and conversation, changed my life. And I still go back to the dock, traveling back through time, and hear the water lapping against the pilings, and smell the woodsmoke, and feel the warm summer breeze. And I see the stars, the infinite expanse of the universe splayed across the horizon, and I feel so, so small. Yet, strangely, I feel free.

Hero vs. Celebrity

2010-08-17T20:58:00.008-04:00

James Bradley wrote, in Flags of Our Fathers, that "Today the word 'hero' has been diminished, confused with 'celebrity.' ... Celebrities seek fame. They take action to get attention... Heroes are heroes because they have risked something to help others." I got to thinking about his words as I finished his book last night, having also recently watched an ABC Good Morning America clip showing U.S. servicemen and servicewomen reuniting with family and friends. Mr. Bradley puts it down well enough for me not to try to rewrite it in my own words.

My own truth is this; there are very few true heroes. And this is okay. There are more than few truly good, generous, caring, humble people out there. So, they are virtuous. And let me be clear, we need the virtuous as much as the heroic. Both categories deserve the most credit and honor, although those truly virtuous or truly heroic would most likely share whatever credit they are due, which is ironically evidence of virtue. And as bonus, probably true. In my experience, both heroes and the virtuous needed others' love or camaraderie to stay afloat. They encouraged others to serve, thus amplifying their own efforts. And often, they were materially supported by others as they, in turn, served those same folks and society at large.

As I mentioned, we need virtue. We can all seek to be virtuous and achieve it in some humble measure. We can all serve our fellow citizens. We don't all have great courage, nor do we -- if we are lucky -- find ourselves in situations where personal courage is required. If we do find ourselves in danger or moral crisis, we are best served by simply serving our pursuit of virtue.

While we all can seek virtue, seeking heroism is contradictory. Seeking heroism is reckless, although being heroic isn't. You just don't seek it, nor do you know if you have it. Simply put, seeking virtue thrusts some of us, unwittingly, into heroism. We should honor heroes for their courage, while perhaps highlighting their basic service and pursuit of virtue equally.

Mr. Bradley's father was virtuous by choice and action. He was, by his own admission, heroic by accident. He wanted to be remembered for the latter, and he didn't particularly care for or about the latter. We could do worse than to follow his ideal.

Fabric Rent Assunder

2010-08-17T20:05:00.009-04:00

If we are lucky, we are helped by those around us in the pursuit of weaving a rich, colorful nurturing cloth which we can wrap around for comfort, peace, warmth, and rest. If we are wise, we hug it tight in the coldest weather, and we tend it when storm clouds are distant rumblings. We repair it frayed edges with careful, gentle stitches, adding patches, a new border, sewing small tears without too much worry about the small ridges or scars our handicraft leave behind.

When I started out, mine was a simple blanket, small, light, brightly colored. As I grew, so did my blanket, looking less singular and more like a quilt. Our mother took care of it for me, darning holes with unconditional love, sewing her spirit and love into our lives with each stitch. As I grew older, the tapestry became richer, more complex. Samples from other's blankets were added to mine, bound forever, irrevocably. Some were great fields of blue and gold, others tartan or fleece, denim and nylon. Others, small and nearly insignificant, dark with moody blacks and grays. They served as borders between greater colors, never more than humble accents. My quilt became less of just me, even as it became more indelibly mine. It became ours as it became mine, woven with shared pieces of friends and family. And it was strongly made.

Along the way, our mother taught me to thread a needle, to handle a box stitch. Nothing fancy for me, but enough to make my own repairs or to add a little patch of color that caught my eye. The gift of the blanket from my mother, and later her teachings and guidance, gave my more than just myself, infinitely more than I could have created with my own hands. With her love, I became part of my own tapestry, adding, mending, designing. Her gift remains beyond calculation.

The seamstress is gone now, her wise hands stilled, her own majestic tapestry folded and stored safely in the cedar chest. Her lessons, those she could share, have been taught and I can simply look to my own quilt if I need to remember. I run my hands over the cloth, feeling its varied textures. My eyes wander over its landscape, startled by the seemingly randomness of the squares of my quilt. I alone now care for my tapestry, doing my best to keep the fabric clean, adding new scraps here and there, never pulling out sheers to trim away a worn, tired corner. Although I have learned to snip a bit of mine away, giving it happily to others who sew their own now. And in return, they unknowingly give to me small new squares to add to my ever-changing quilt.

And look closely! You still can see my clumsy, incomplete stitching along the great rent she left upon departing. I can't quite pull the edges of the rip all the way closed, and that incompleteness seems to be right, or at least alright.

Silverfish

2010-07-27T00:03:00.008-04:00

Little Odd is, by and large, a typical all-American kid. Of course, what all-American means has changed over the years. When my dad was eight, the Depression was still lingering, and World War II was almost four years in the future. When I was eight, Jimmy Carter was the President-elect, disco was dying, and cassette tapes were the rage. So Little Odd will have to look back and figure out what was what in his day. But in 1938, he would have fit in as a 'normal' boy, and the same can said if he'd been cruising my neighborhood on a green plastic skateboard.

L.O. likes baseball, and he loves football. He avoids vegetables without being too obvious. He doesn't shampoo his hair when he showers most nights, although he wets it down, mostly. He eats a lot of Popsicles during the summer, so much so that his lips take on an unnatural orange, purple, or red hue for entire days. He wears pajama bottoms but no pajama tops; the bottoms he favors this summer are starting to show his growth and its threadbare knees. He loves his sister, unless you ask him. He gets along with his sister, or at least until he doesn't. He wakes up early so he can watch extra t.v. and not fuss with anyone over the remote; after all, it's summer and we are pretty loose 'bout screen time if there is no bloodshed.

He got his first athletic cup today, and after figuring out which way is up, came out to the garage where I was working so he could show me how hard he could smack his fist into his crotch. He was wearing a t-shirt and some funky Underarmor boxer cup-holder pants, and he stood beaming in the driveway smacking his front goods. As he slapped and danced like a drunk monkey, he quipped, "Mom says I have a huge package!" I kept a straight face and made him promise to not tell his principal, who happens to be be Mrs. Odd's boss, that or any details about his cup.

He likes frogs, toads, dogs, tigers, and whales. He thinks the Patriots should sign T.O. He plays so hard some days, it is tiring just to look at him. He wants to have really long dude hair, because either some kid in his class does or because Tom Brady does. On this topic, I can't be sure who influences him more, and it could be both equally. His coif looks vaguely Leif Garrett/Shaggy/Joaquin Phoenix ... think Commodus in Gladiator. And he went through a phase when he was mad about creating origami. He is getting so big, I strain to carry him to bed when he falls asleep downstairs. I used to pretend to strain when I lifted him up, whereas now I pretend it doesn't hurt. Go figure.

Like I said, he is all boy. Willing hugs for mom, subtly less so with me. His is pure joy; happy, healthy, funny, strong, smart. His Achilles' heal turns out to be silverfish, these creepy, two inch long bugs that crawl out of our drains in the basement. I guess his imprinting moment came when he was in the family room in the basement, half watching t.v., half napping. Apparently he sort of felt something on his face, so he swiped it away, and lo and behold, a two inch furry, alien-looking critter was crawling across his head. It was hard to tell exactly what unfolded, as he stormed up the basement stairs screaming at the tops of his lungs, flailing like a marionette puppet on speed.

With all that he has going for him, I guess a little irrational bug fear is totally fine. And to be honest, silverfish are just a bit too freaky for me, too. I guess that makes me just like Little Odd.

Be bery, bery quiet...

2010-07-20T13:01:00.009-04:00

You, dear reader, are aware that The Washington Post is publishing a series of articles on the expanding role of "security" in America, in response to the 9/11 attacks. The authors of the series have spent two years investigating the ever-expanding super-secret world of secret security secretly designed to keep secret America's secret security. They secretly put together all the secrets they learned on a secret website & blog called www.TopSecretAmerica.com. They describe our secret security and intelligence structure, which has secretly become so bloated and "so secretive that no one knows how much money it costs, how many people it employs, or whether it is making the United States safer." (AP) I kid you not, this is true.

Here's some of what they learned (...and don't tell anyone, as it is secret):

Some 1,271 government organizations and 1,931 private companies work on Top Secret programs related to counterterrorism, homeland security, and intelligence at over 10,000 locations across the country. Um, that's like more than a hundred.

Over 850,000 Americans have Top Secret clearances. Where do I get me one?

In the Washington area alone, 33 building complexes for Top Secret work are under construction or have been built since September 2001. When you go out and count them yourself, please remember to do so discretely.

The (aforementioned) blog will anchor the Top Secret America site providing updates on Top Secret America coverage, original journalism and insight around related national security matters...including a searchable database illustrates information about government organizations that contract out top secret work, companies they contract to, the types of work they do, and the places where they do it. Okay, I pretty much stole most of that paragraph from the AP verbatim. But it makes it even funnier.

A map displays locations of all the clusters of Top Secret activity and some basic information about those areas. In case you get lost?!?

Each of nearly 2,000 companies and 45 government organizations has a profile page with basic information about its role in Top Secret America. Um, really? A profile page for all of the top secret work? How secret is this whole thing anyway? Come on, you can tell me.

... readers can filter searches by companies doing a specific kind of work, all companies mentioned in the story, or all companies with more than $750 million in revenue.

The Post estimates the number of contractors who work on Top Secret programs to be 265,000. Let's see... $40,000 (median salary that I made up...) times 265,000 equals $10,600,000,000. A year... What do you think they spend at Staples on office supplies?

The NSA plans to expand by two-thirds its current size over the next 15 years. Giggle. I thought the NSA was supposed to be ... well, secret.

Do you get the feeling that Elmer Fudd would do a better job of keeping a secret?

1984

2010-07-15T14:51:00.004-04:00

No, Van Halen fans, I'm not talking about "Hot for Teacher," although ...heh, heh... I am always hot for teacher. Mrs. Odd is, of course, a teacher and a major distraction for boys above a certain age!

In this case, it is Mr. Orwell and his wee narrative I reference. I read it in 9th grade, which was like, um, forever ago. Or in other terms, 1984 (...the year, not the book) was still in the future. It was one of the few pieces of literature I read in school (as in involuntary, compulsory, 'cause They said so...) that I liked and sort of got the point. I remember distinctly feeling creeped out by the idea of a wall-sized t.v. that never turned off and constantly being monitored. Omnipresent screens, poli-business mega-entities, loss of individualism. It was, frankly, scary-assed fiction.

So I found myself on JetBlue flying to the New Orleans a week or so ago, and I got to thinking about the seat back in front of me. Now there is a phrase I never imagined I'd write. But I did truly find myself contemplating the seat back in front of me. If you have flown JetBlue or other carriers recently, you know what I'm talking about. There is an 8" screen embedded in the rear of the headrest, so you can watch whatever you want to watch during the flight. Or can you?

Okay, so it wasn't a huge wall-sized screen, but when it's only eighteen inches from your face, does the size really matter (Okay, size matters...snicker, snicker)? And you know what? You can't turn it off. Nope. You can dim it 'til it's dark, but "off" is "off" and "dim" is "on, just not bright." Okay, Mr. Orwell, nice call.

So what did I do? I took a picture of the screen, which shows a slightly plump woman staring back at me, hands open in what can only be described as a beseeching gesture. She's sitting on what looks to be comfortable living room furniture, and she is trying to make eye contact with me, I swear. Yeah, I took the picture with my iPhone, which I rarely use as a phone but use constantly to check e-mail, take pictures, watch YouTube videos, and plan my life. The irony of having a computer-camera-radio thingy in my hand, on an airplane, taking a picture of t.v. that doesn't really turn off struck me as very nicely Orwellian. Again, Mr. Orwell, well done. Oh, then I posted the picture to Facebook, so my friends can keep track of my very interesting life.

Let me be clear here, in case you were wondering. We were not going to New Orleans to do mission work. We were going to New Orleans because no one in New Orleans knows who we are, and we wanted to let off some steam. A little of this, a little of that. But a little of this or that without our neighbors leaning over our table or the chance encounter with a student. So, no cameras was the rule. Turns out we sort of ignored the fact that our phones are cameras, but we were pretty good about not taking pictures of every moment, snaring just a few snapshots to capture the crazy that is New Orleans. But I couldn't help notice how many cameras there were, stuck to the sides of buildings, light poles, in lobbies, outside clubs. Even in a city where being anonymous is a right, we still were being imaged an awful lot. How anonymous were we?

People talk about not wanting Big Brother in their lives, but I get the sneaking suspicion that is all talk. Maybe it's a post-9/11 thing, or an outgrowth of the technology boom, or that we are all a bit A.D.H.D., or that we are self-important and need to prove our worth to everyone else, or that we just like gadgets, but for for all the blather that we want privacy and no interference from outside forces, we do spend a lot of time and treasure guaranteeing the opposite is true. I find the irony of this so delicious, I think I'll share my thoughts with some complete strangers. Oh, wait...

"Fuck" Gets a Bad Name

2010-05-25T20:56:00.009-04:00

"Fuck" is entirely disrespected and unfairly maligned in today's lexicon. This might be a hard band wagon for some to climb aboard, but I'm here to help you climb on up and get behind "fuck" as the word to use when no other word will do.

First, it can be and often is any part of speech you need. A verb? "I was fucking around on my computer instead of working." An adjective? "I've got a fucking headache." A noun? "The fucker fucked me." Look! Twice in one sentence, as a noun and a fucking verb. An exclamation? "Fuck!" An adverb? "I lost my fucking dumb dog." "Fuck" is fucking versatile.

Secondly, it's like salt. Add just a little for flavor, or a whole bunch for guilty pleasure, even when you know you shouldn't. As an example, you can liven up a simple imperative sentence such as, "Sit down" by adding a little fucking dash of "fuck". Thus, you have, "Sit fucking down." Two shakes gets you "Fucking sit fucking down." You don't even need a fucking exclamation point.

Third, using "fuck" liberally allows you to speak Boston correctly. Anyone who followed the Sox in 2004 knows that Nomar was actually a last name, and that his full name was, in fact, Fuckin' Nomar. Sort of like Cher, Madonna, or Sting, except with a "fuck" thrown in. It works for the Celtics, Bruins, Pats, and Sox in general, too. Right now? It's the Celts, the fuckin' Bruins (lost 4-3 in the playoffs to Phucking Philly), the fuckin' Sox (who are in 4th behind the fucking Rays, the fucking Jays, and those fuckers from New Fucking York), and the fucking Pats and fucking Bill Belichick, who had an awful fucking draft. The Celts will be the fucking Celts if they don't win the NBA championship. No "fuck" means they are winning, and "fuck" means anything less than a championship. Clean and easy to interpret.

But the truly overlooked beauty of the word is this - it is democratic. "Fuck" offends everyone, regardless of race, sex, religion, or creed. "Fuck" is color-blind, deaf to gender, and unflinchingly neutral to all matters of faith. I'm sick of people using "retarded" to describe something or someone really stupid, as there is a real and painful meaning to the word "retarded". I'm equally sick and tired of folks throwing around "gay" for all things dumb or feminine, as one of my closest colleagues happens to be gay, but utterly unfeminine and smarter than 99.9% of the rest of us fucks. I would be happy to never hear "n****r" again, and anyone with an ounce of class should stand up against anyone fucking backward enough to use it. I'd be almost as happy to never hear "bitch", "c**t", "slut", or "whore" to describe any woman. All of those words hurt all women, and frankly usually aren't even accurately applied.

Thanks for fucking reading my fucking post. It is my sincere hope to hear a bit more "fucking" in my daily life, and a lot less of those other cruel, insensitive slurs. If I've offended you in any way, I'm fucking sorry. But at the same time, if you are all fucking worked up about it and took this seriously, you probably need a good hard ...

Fear Sells

2010-05-11T21:21:00.011-04:00

"So, first of all, let me assert my firm belief that the only thing we have to fear is fear itself -- nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror which paralyzes needed efforts to convert retreat into advance." - Franklin Delano Roosevelt

I'm a history geek, so I'm often curious about what our ancestors would think about modern American life. It is, in some ways, an idle curiosity, as there is no possibility FDR, my grandmother, or Chester Nimitz (please, insert your own favorite historical figure) are going to show up on my front porch and sit down for dinner, a glass of wine, and have a quick chat about the state of affairs. But it would be cool. Very cool.

So, we are left only with their words, writings, and perhaps our own cloudy memories of the actual lives they lived. If you stop for a minute, can you imagine what Martin Luther King did in the morning when he woke up? Wrote speeches about civil rights or checked on his kids? Made coffee? Checked the lawn for burnt crosses? Imagine what Eleanor Roosevelt did in between her moments of greatness. Shopped for comfortable shoes, maybe. Worried about what Franklin was doing, and perhaps who he was doing it with. Surely, they lead extraordinary lives and shaped extraordinary times, but they also had to live through some very ordinary events. I don't know what they were (shaving? eating breakfast? paying bills?), but I have every faith the giants of history weren't brilliant all the time. Amazing people, but people nonetheless.

So back to FDR's famous quote. The famous opening masks the more important phrase, that "nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror which paralyzes needed efforts to convert retreat into advance." I would love, as mentioned earlier, to ask him to share his opinion about how our generation is handling fear. There seems to be ample evidence that we not only seem paralyzed by our modern fears of international terrorism, unemployment, stock market fluctuations, cyber-bullying, or rampant gun violence -- to name but a few -- but that we are drawn to stories of macabre and horror with almost an addict's need.

You don't believe me? Okay. I'm not trying to convince you, but turn on CNN or Fox, or your local news. What are the stories about? Kidnapped kids, oil spills, massacres in Iraq, mine disasters, teen suicide, hordes of illegal immigrants, crooked politicians... Need I go on? Even many advertisements are now geared towards making you feel crappy about yourself or your life - your smile isn't straight enough, your credit rating is too low, your daughter is going to get kidnapped out of the mall if you don't have a tracking device on her cell phone. Try to watch the news or the ads impartially, and see if you want to argue.

But why? In my humble opinion is that fear sells. Not exactly a new idea, I understand. But think about it for a minute. 9-11, two wars, a typhoon, a mega-quake, Katrina, the BP spill, Abu Graib; the list of shitty things that have happened in the last ten years seems profound and unique, worse than at anytime in our history. Add to that the 24-7 news cycle, instant and near omnipresent access to news and media. Mr. Orwell, you were off by a mere 26 years - not bad, old salt. It's hard to not be exposed to all of these compelling, heart wrenching, oft-tragic stories.

Step back, though, from the brink. How idyllic do you think life was for a stock broker, say in late 1929? Or for a farmer in Oklahoma in 1933? Or a black man Birmingham in 1955? Or a woman looking for a corporate job in the early 1970's? I don't mean to imply that life is easy nowadays; quite the contrary, especially if you are out of work right now or your mortgage is "under water.' All I'm posing is that the crap we seem to be mired in is just that - crap. Shitty things have been happening to nice people since the first cavemen had his hunting club jacked by a rival tribesman. The difference, then, seems to me to be a matter of how we cope with adversity.

See, I think modern Americans think bad times are a new phenomenon, when in fact bad times have always been there, in between the good times. Even more probable, bad times have always run concurrently with good times. What is different, though, is that we too often think we have some right to be free of fear, pain, loss, or anger. But in truth, there is no such right. In fact, we should be afraid of the influence of social media on our teens, we should be angry when crimes are committed, we should be sad when a young child is taken from their family, we should be worried that an oil company puts profit ahead of safety or environmental concerns.

What we shouldn't do is to succumb to the idea that we are victims, or that we are powerless to deal with what we see as a bombardment of tragedy, or that what we going through in our personal lives or as a society is unique to our times. I recommend that we embrace that we are afraid, but reject that that fear should rule our every decision -- or non-decision. It is okay to be sad, but not at the expense of also recognizing small joys found in the smiles of children or in the kinds words from strangers. I say that while we recognize our losses, we take time to account for our gains. In short, the glass is always and has always been both half-full and half-empty. Only individuals can choose how they see it.

So, fear sells. But don't delude yourself - you can choose to buy it. Or you can choose not to. You are equipped with all of the gifts your ancestors possessed - and perhaps far more -- but you alone can exercise the one truly universal, undeniable American - human? - right; free will. You have every right to retreat, which may make every bit of sense. But you also can advance, even when that course of action may seem to be the irrational choice. But for me, irrationally advancing seems so much more appealing than being rationally in retreat.

Can you think of any other words that describe you?

2010-04-27T19:57:00.000-04:00

Little Odd is is filling out his "Letter to My Camp Counselor" for his first overnight camp adventure. There is a list of adjectives that one can circle to describe oneself, including such terms as shy, outgoing, athletic, musical, sarcastic -- no, really -- and a whole bunch more. In his "yes" column are outgoing, athletic, friendly, smart, funny, and excited. In the "no" column are sarcastic (phew!), popular, quiet, shy, noisy, and non-athletic. At the end of the section, there is a blank space preceded by the direction, "Please write any other words that describe you." After some thought, he wrote, "Tall."

It made me wonder what words would I write to describe me. Perhaps philosophical. Definitely sarcastic. Quiet when I'm not noisy. Distracted, stressed, reflective, achy, stubborn, tough, thoughtful, reserved, cautious, polite, dark, optimistic, handy, erudite, and occasionally verbose. Oh, and "Tall." Plus, and I don't know the word for it, but one who possesses unusually large calves.

What word describes you best? Just one word. One word. One. Me? Fortunate.

Shake the Money Tree

2010-04-13T20:01:00.001-04:00

On the way to Little Odd's baseball practice tonight, I was able to catch a few minutes of NPR. My commute nowadays is measured in seconds, not minutes, so I have lost touch with NPR. I used to listen to Click & Clack, "Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me", and public radio news with near-religious fervor. When I traded in two hour commutes, the loss of quality radio time was small price to pay

Lately my news comes from CNN and the Boston Globe (Boston.com), and while those source are informative, they are closer to junk food for the brain, served in small samples. Tonight I had a chance for a little brain salad, listening to a debate about US debt as it relates to GDP. I was relishing the chance to listen to a rational discourse from intellectuals regarding our economic future.

For awhile, I got what I hoped for. Detailed. Specific. Jargon-filled. Calm, thoughtful, well-presented. Deep. Slightly beyond me, a radio program that makes the listener stretch. It was good and good for me. And then it screeched to halt.

See, one of the guests went partisan. Up to that moment, I was unaware of party affiliation or political slant. Up to that very moment, the back-and-forth was the essence of thoughtful discourse and even exchange of ideas. And "BOOM!", it was as if I was listening to Fox News, news being just a word to put after Fox. What was the offending line?

The speaker, a Republican congressman, speaking about oft-dreamt of, rarely seen reduced spending in Washington, stated, "...My party isn't in control, but when they are, we will be able to seriously discuss reduced spending rather than increased taxes as way to balance debt loads as they related to GDP." Okay, I'm using quotes when I'm really just paraphrasing as best as I can recollect. But I'm close to getting what he said, so bear with me. Rant coming...

Who the HELL is he kidding? The Republicans had the White House and majority control of one or both houses of Congress for the better part of eight years, and just HOW did the Republicans control spending? Puh-lease. Cut taxes? For some. But reign in spending?!? If the Democrats now spend money like drunk sailors, the Republicans spent money like meth-addled lunatics throughout the decade. For the record, during the Clinton era, the Fed ran surpluses. Sure, things were trending down, so I don't blame the collapse of the market, the housing bubble burst, the sub-prime mortgage meltdown, and the whole fucking mess just on Bush. Alan Greeenspan missed a few things, now didn't he? But one thing is clear; nobody -- right, left, or unaffiliated -- has a record of reducing spending at this point.

What the HELL happened to my little radio Nirvana-moment? First, did Mr. Red-State forget that people who believe Republicans can control spending don't listen to NPR? Second, if you said NPR to someone who DOES believe Republicans are the party of fiscal restraint, they would scratch their heads and wonder what the "P" stands for in National Rifle Association. Third, did Mr. Oklahoma-Needs-a-Tea-Party-Militia actually think that the NPR audience, people who would sit still and hang on every word regarding currency policy with China, would miss his quip about the lamentable loss of fiscal sanity under the Republican controlled Congress? Dude... F.U.C.K. You and your weird Alice-in-Wonderland twist on the last ten years. The Distinguished Gentleman from Shang-ri La needs to stop smoking the pipe. And with no offense intended to morons, this guy went from Mr. Worth Listening To to "Oh, what-a-moron, I'm changing the channel to ESPN radio" in a split second.

So to sum up, NPR can't even host a sane, boring, fact-based discourse on US debt policy without some fool throwing out some blatant partisan, pop-culture crap. Yeah, NPR is a liberal haven, but at least it used to be clever liberalism. Tonight, even behind the sometimes-deep discussion, the us-versus-them thing showed up. Maybe I will run for Congress, on a platform of solving our debt problems by growing money trees. What's worse, I'm gonna' win.

Thanks for the Reminder

2010-03-16T19:48:00.000-04:00

Dear God,

Thanks for the reminder. Last night, for some reason beyond my understanding, I stopped in my daughter's room. Initially, I suppose I went in to turn off her reading light. You know, to be green. But in the hushed darkness, I quickly found myself sitting on the rug, next to her bed. The rest of the world stopped spinning, and whatever worries I was carrying left me. I found myself sitting on the floor, listening to her soft breathing. She's a light sleeper, so she became aware of my presence shortly. In between sleep and wakefulness, she smiled. "I love you," she whispered. I kissed her on her forehead but didn't get up to leave. She quietly slipped back into full sleep, and I lingered for awhile soothed by her steady, peaceful breathing. For a few moments, I was the best version of myself, the father and man I hope to be. My daughter unwittingly gave me the best gift I've received in a long time. Maybe someday soon, when I can feel the world spinning around me too fast, or when I've made a mountain out of a mole hill, I'll recall her gift and be reminded of what I really am.

Respectfully,

Odd

Grief and Sadness

2010-02-27T21:58:00.000-05:00

I am making myself write tonight. I don't want to, and I am not feeling it. What I want to do is play X-box 360 Call of Duty, Modern Warfare 2. Escape. Be distracted. Disengage. Be less human, more machine. Feast on visual stimulation, glut on loud noises, simulated explosions, and on-line banter. To feel like I'm doing something, faster, bigger, stronger. All without moving. Or at least without moving more than my thumbs and the small muscles in my eyes. I want to be without being. Alive without living. But I'm gonna' write this bastard out.

A rut, you say? Four years. No, actually five. Sure it is winter and who doesn't have a cold, which makes one feel a little closer to blue than yellow. But for the better part of five years, I've been working on finding space for Grief and Sadness in my life's house. Suddenly five years ago, I met Grief, shook his cold hand, and stuffed him in an old foot locker. I took the trunk to the attic, and that was that. Life goes on, right? Right? I followed the only rules I knew. Tough it out. Suck it up.

Fucking Grief, he sneaks out of the box a few days later and pops up next to me in my car on the Baltimore Beltway. Back in the box, motherfucker. Back into the attic, thank you very much. Perhaps it was okay if Grief was treated like children in the Victorian era, seen but not heard. I could occasionally look stricken, but I didn't let Grief be heard. Occasionally, sure, Grief would pop off the lid and surprise me unexpectedly. In the shower. Raking leaves in the yard. Hugging my daughter. Fucking cretin, get your hands off my family. Back in the box. Get. In. The. BOX.

I had Grief pretty well figured out, six months in. Locked the box. Shoved it deep in the attic. Way away in the darkest corner. Piled it under life's flotsam and jetsam. Sure, when I was home alone, I sometimes heard Grief banging around. But as long as he didn't come downstairs, into the daylight, the sunny-warm light, I could handle a bit of banging around.

So what does Grief do? The bastard finds a friend in Sadness, and damned if the two of 'em don't bust that trunk wide and come rumbling down from the attic. Thunder on the stairs. You should have seen the look on their faces; wide smiles and a gleam in their eyes, as if saying, "Hey, we don't like the attic and it's nice day, so we are STAYING." Mischief makers they are. Like Loki, but not as Dungeons & Dragons.

Or maybe more aptly, like Thing One and Thing Two, just with black stripes on their unitards. Yeah, imagine trying to catch just one of those bastards and getting just one of 'em back into the box, the box laying broken and ruptured? Little manic-happy motherfuckers running all over the damn house, messing up things and getting spots on shit. Like trying to put toothpaste back in the tube, my brother. Like toothpaste.

But like I said, I fall back on what I know. Tough it out. So I chase Grief and Sadness all over the place. The fuckers don't sit still. They hide. They sneak. They run. And they never sleep. Oh sure, I'd grab one by the collar and wrap him up in duct tape, all the while trying to shove him into something I could hide away. Sometimes I get lucky and grab hold of Grief, but when I would, Sadness would hop on my back and pull my hair. So I shaved my head. He'd grab my ears. Frisky little rascals.

So I've given up on the attic. Hey, they don't want to be shut up all the time. Can you really blame them? But they can't have run of the house, either. Little monkeys. So I'm making up twin beds in a spare guest room. They can jump up and down on the beds and tack up their idols on the bedroom walls. But they gotta' follow house rules; early to bed, no whining, and have some manners. And I'm bringing in some new friends for them to play with. "Boys, meet Joy, Silly, Happy, Smiles, and Love. Girls, this is Grief and Sadness. Now, go play."

Okay, that was way better than X-box.

Days to Remember to Forget

2010-02-21T19:51:00.000-05:00

Sanity apparently took the weekend off. In its stead? A poor substitute teacher, known as Surrealism. Today started like any other Sunday, but it went south quickly. Perhaps the gray, pallid clouds of a New England February chased our friend Sanity to Naples or Cocoa or St. Pete's in search of warmer weather?

The first sign things were upside down was there was no milk for the coffee. There was no milk because I had used it all cooking Saturday night's mac n' cheese, which in of itself was a hint that Surreality was coming to visit. I cooked dinner. On a Saturday night. The mac n' cheese was wicked freaking good, I'll have you know. But when Mrs. Odd woke up and brewed up a batch of coffee, there was no milk and no happy Mrs. Odd. A smart man would have jumped in his truck and run to the corner store for a gallon of 2%, but I'm not a smart man. I'm a man. So I sat on the couch, sipping my coffee black, and suggested that Mrs. Odd could swing by the bagel place on her way to grab the milk. Yeah, stupid and dumb.

So while Mrs. Odd trudged to the local bagelry and corner market, I got on our shared laptop to check on my dozens and dozens of Facebook friends. As the little machine booted up, I noticed that my son was already logged on. Odd, I thought to myself, as he was just getting out of bed when I rallied myself at 8 o'clock. Him in bed at eight was a sign I misread in the moment, but alas, hindsight is, well, twenty-twenty. I suppose in my case, hindsight could mean I can see an ass when I look in a mirror. Back to the laptop. What was weird about my son being logged onto the computer was that I was online at one a.m., checking Facebook for the dozens and dozens of friends who are not awake at 1 a.m., and he was distinctly not awake at that early hour. So how did he log on? Hmmmm? And when did he log on, if he was just getting up? Hmmmm? Sip coffee, check Facebook, wait for bagels, forget about son's use of laptop...

Fast forward to Mrs. Odd's announcement that there were bagels. Oh, goody! I meander out to the kitchen, get in line for the toaster, and make myself an 'everything' bagel with olive-pimento cream cheese. Good, good. Mrs. Odd joins me in the family room, and I casually remark, "Hey, why didn't you get onion bagels? They are my favorite. I don't really like 'everything' bagels." Yeah, hindsight. Stupid, dumb, selfish. "Man, meet caveman. Caveman, meet dead husband." So I eat my 'everything' bagel (it is not a metaphor, I swear, just a bagel) in in oddly uncomfortable silence that I didn't recognize until now, twelve hours later. Fucking cavemen are embarrassed for me, for Christ's sake. Mrs. Odd and I eventually head out to the kitchen around ten o'clock, and a bulb sort of flickers in my head, and I call my son up from the basement. He bangs up the stairs, and says, "Yeah, Dad?" And now the flickering bulbs lights off in my head, burning with a sudden incandescence rivaling a lightning strike, and before I can stop myself, I say to my son, "What were you looking up on the Internet this morning?" Mrs. Odd looks at me oddly. My son looks at me like a deer in the headlights. I start to feel Surreality tickling me under the armpits, an uncomfortable sensation that reminds me that I am an IDIOT. Tickle, tickle.

And my son sheepishly mutters, "Boobs." And because I'm a stupid, dumb, idiotic, caveman, I laugh. Mrs. Odd is trying to figure out how the hell I got to the point that I was asking our son about his Internet search predilections, and why in the world would I laugh out loud when he calmly announces that he got up at his usual 5:30 a.m. rising time, and spent two and half hours Googling "Tit Viedos". Yes, "Tit Viedos"; his spelling not mine. I checked the laptop's history, and that's how he spelled 'video'. He got 'tit' right, which is after all, phonetic. A C-V-C word, probably not on his weekly spelling list. Oh, did I mention my son is seven?!?

Yeah, today was surreal. That was what happened before lunch. The rest of the day pretty much followed suit. For the first time in a long, long time, Monday is looking pretty damn appealing.

What Are the Odds

2010-02-05T21:37:00.000-05:00

Fate. The very word suggests -- if in a disorganized, non-linear fashion -- the existence of a higher power. If not a higher power, certainly a more powerful force than everyday Joe or Jane. With no evidence of one God, the likelihood of three angry sisters spinning and cutting threads of life seems no more -- or less -- likely. It is too hard to envision a cabal of disembodied decisions-makers spinning each and every life onto its course. Think of the planning. Think of the paperwork. What a huge margin for error.

Randomness seems too, well, random, in the context of an alternate theory to fate. Just that one might ask "Why?" cries for something greater than a lucky confluence of 1's and 0's lining up just so. Force your mind's eye down past dust particles, past motes, pass microscopic microbes, keep thinking smaller. Atoms? Protons? Go to the smallest thing known or imagined, so infinitesimally small that we have haven't imagined how small they are. How can even a googleplex of these nottalots leaning slightly to the... let's say the left, somehow actually make it so Romeo never meets Juliet? Or, as likely, make it so Shakespeare writes a play about Romeo and Felicity?

The mere fact you are reading this means two people in your life thought something akin to affection for at least -- ahem...-- a few minutes. Lust. Like. Love. Maybe a lifetime of all three, maybe some span of time between five good minutes and 50 years. Think of the odds that you are sitting in front of your computer, reading this. What are the odds that just you are reading just this. Destiny? Luck? Fate? Chance? Well, how the fuck do you explain just this one insignificant phenomenon? Even in the time it took for this sentence to be written, billions of billions of occurrences occurred. Explain the origins and import of just one, completely. I could throw my sock across the room a thousand times and it will never happen the same way. And throwing a sock is not really all that interesting.

So, how can you (...or anyone...) explain love? If a leaf can fall an infinite numbers of ways from the branch on which it grew, how can love be explained? Come on. Love is preposterous. The simple fact that two people actually meet, like each other enough to share another moment, and perhaps even one day fall in love is so unlikely, so foolish a notion, no reasonable man or woman would believe it possible. And it happens every second of everyday, and that is so tremendously, wildly improbable yet so utterly, so wonderfully sure, it staggers the mind.

Someone recently mentioned, affectionately, that my parents were an unlikely couple. Aren't they all.

The Death of Common Sense

2010-01-25T19:28:00.000-05:00

Have you noticed that the national political parties spend most of their time pointing out what the other party is doing wrong? The Republicans blame the Democrats for the ridiculous spending the Federal Government is doing. The Democrats blame the Republicans for delaying progress, offering no new ideas for righting what is wrong in the country. What a bunch of dumb-ass, self-delusional nonsense. It makes me wonder what Harry Truman, Dwight D. Eisenhower, or John F. Kennedy would say. Probably that we are a nation of idiots. And I'm not talking about the fun loving Red Sox-Kevin Millar sort of idiots, but actual idiots. Like, stupid.

As an example, we are spending money hand over foot to fight wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. As a reminder, we invaded Iraq, in part, to dismantle their weapons-of-mass destruction. We must have scared the shit of out of the Iraqis, as they uninvented any and all weapons-of-mass destruction before they actually made them. How many billions of dollars and thousands of lives have we wasted? Many of both. And for the record, the Republicans led the charge, the Democrats followed like cows, and the American public bitches and complains. Perhaps most vulgar, we watch CNN or Fox and let the news media scare the piss out of us, and keep throwing money at Iraq. Or Yemen, or Nigeria, or fill-in the failed state of your choice. But as the old saying goes, if you break it, you buy it. We broke Iraq, so I guess we own the mess. Ka-ching.

Afghanistan? Maybe worth the fight. Not to save the country. The Russians broke it, the Taliban buried the pieces, and we smashed whatever was left. Except the poppy fields. So we have cheap heroin, so we have that going for us. And we don't want to piss off Pakistan, even though 3/4 of what is left of Al Queda is in...Pakistan. With friends like that, who needs enemas? But I can see staying in Afghanistan to smash the little terrorist groups that get organized enough to buy some AK-47's, cell phones, and 155 millimeter artillery shells. But let's be honest, what would be a good outcome there? Democracy? Less violence? An end to narco-terrorism? Less US causalities? Oh yeah, we have major military commitments on the Korean peninsula and small ones all over the damn place, too.

How about here at home? Starting in the Reagan-era, the conservatives behind the conservatives have systemically emasculated the Federal government, except the industrial-military complex. Practically is every case, we shop out real jobs in poorly regulated bid processes, spending lots of tax revenue for private companies to make some bucks and do piss-poor quality work. We stopped really regulating private business (banks, insurance, communications, etc.) in the 80's. Sure, it was piecemeal and didn't happen overnight, but we allowed the Federal government to become what we actually fear most. Fat, stupid, open to partisan politics, impersonal. For every example of good government, anyone who reads a paper or watches the nightly news can list a half dozen examples of the Fed fucking up.

But the American public is complicit. I'm socially liberal, but can't quite get over the fact that lots of groups -- on the left and right -- want someone else to fix their problems, pay for the pet projects, or make them feel better about their shitty existence. Our older population want entitlements that outstrip our ability to pay for them. Wall Street and the banking community want protection from risk. The housing sector wants double digit sales of new and existing homes, and at the same time wanting home values to grow by 10% a year. Huh? Supply and demand dictates that as more homes are available, prices should flatten out, if not go down. And their seem to be a few houses for sale. We spend a bunch of money to bail out the banks and are surprised that that money didn't end up in our hands? Really? But who wanted the banks to fail? My money is in a bank. My home loan is owned by a bank. We do stupid things, we watch stupid things happen, we listen to stupid things from politicians from all stripes, and we get angry. We don't do anything much, but we do angry well, don't you think?

Jobs? Well, as long as we ship out simple jobs to India, China, or other rim nations, does anyone think we'll have real job growth? No one wants to drop $120,000 for college, then drive for UPS. Could we create new jobs without a stronger manufacturing base? Maybe our country can employ 180 million adults in the film industry and video game design. But I doubt it. We need to develop industries that we keep control over. We need less accountants, stock brokers, and lawyers, and way more nurses, teachers, doctors, scientists, and engineers.

Let's sum up. We spend too much, save too little, expect too much, don't deal with change well, and don't pay attention for long. What are we, teenagers? If we spend a lot to save some dirt farmer in Afghanistan, we should raise taxes. If we want better infrastructure, perhaps you might also consider spending less on shit like a Mars program, F-35's, or a big fucking wall that doesn't keep illegal immigrants out of the country. Less urban violence? More jobs, a bit of dignity, laced with a hope for a safe, reasonably healthy retirement. Cheaper oil? Drive a smaller car. Too fat? Eat less. Sick of the news? Turn off the television. $50,000 for a tennis courts in Montana? Sheesh.

Swirly

2010-01-18T16:19:00.001-05:00

It's winter in the northland and I've got a mild cold. Laggy, draggin' ass, headache, sinuses full of cement. Pretty much like the rest of the year. It's snowing out, but not in a Norman Rockwell sort of way. It's January and it gets dark early. Or it stays dark. So last night, needing uninterrupted sleep for 8 hours, I took a dose of Tylenol Cold. I put on a movie, climbed into my bed with my latest end-of-the-world novel in case the movie didn't take, and immediately zonked out. It was like 8:30, and I was in the slot for a good, deep night of Z's.

Deep into the r.e.m.'s, I had a most vivid and disturbing dream. I don't analyze my dreams, when I remember them, which is rare. But this dream literally knocked me awake, it was so strong and compelling. I was so shaken by its timber and tone, I has adrenaline fueled shakes when I awoke around midnight. I slid out out of bed and went downstairs, grabbed a glass of milk and four chocolate chip cookies, scarfed 'em down, and played Call of Duty 'til four. By that point I was tired again and managed three more hours of sleep before the day started in earnest.

The dream? What I remember is that my son came into my bedroom crying out of guilt. See, he had given a smaller, weaker friend a swirly. For those uninitiated, it means one stuffs another's head into the toilet and flushes it while their head is in the bowl. In reality, my son would not do such a thing, but dream-boy was crying out to dream-dad, devastated that he'd bullied his friend. As dream-dad, I wigged. I seized my dream-son and dragged him to the bathroom. I grabbed him around the midsection and inverted him over the toilet. I remember the toilet was filthy looking, although in real life our toilets are reasonably clean. In the dreamscape it was speckled with shit, although I distinctly remember in the dream it wasn't crap splatter but rather sprinkles of rich chocolate powder. As my dream son screamed and pleaded for mercy, I was pleased that the toilet was not filthy, but rather chocolaty. And then I gave my dream son a swirly, so he'd know what it felt like. Wow, what an asshole I was as a dream-dad.

So, before I went down for cookies and milk, before I made the world safe one digital killing at a time, I crept into my real son's bedroom. He was snuggled up in bed, either dream-free or having happy ones. I leaned closely to his ear and gave him a gentle kiss. It must have tickled, as he turned over and sat up a bit. He smiled sleepily at me and said, "Hi, Dad." I whispered, "I love you" and gave thanks I was not the father of my dreams.

Silly, huh?

Angry White Man

2010-01-16T07:57:00.000-05:00

The next time you look in the mirror and see a fat, bloated, bitter man looking back at you, pinch yourself. At least you are not Rush Limbaugh. I expect to see horrors and tragedy coming out of Haiti, but I sort of thought it would come from people who are hungry, injured, desperate, and scared. Oddly, the most shocking and offensive I've seen or heard was from Jabba-the-Republican himself. In his infinite wisdom, he said the US should do nothing more for Haiti, as "our" dues have been paid through income taxes. Snuggled like a pig in blanket, in his climate controlled radio booth, snacking on pork-rinds or babies or whatever that fat-fuck guzzles. Wesson oil? Souls? Common sense?

He makes me think of the Captain from the movie Wall-E, except genetically crossed with a snake. I apologize to all snakes, as even snakes have mothers. Rush could be dropped on an island full of cannibals and make it out fine. Not 'cause he could save himself, as he's a push-up away from a coronary. No, instead, I can imagine the cannibals sitting around at dinner time, saying something like, "Yeah, I'm kinda' hungry but I AIN'T eating that SHIT." If Rush were drowning, I wouldn't throw him a line. My boat already has an anchor.

Rush is a loud-mouthed racist. A bigot. A chauvinist. He also has a Constitutionally guaranteed right to say anything he wants. What he seems to forget too often, and certainly this week, he also has a right to say nothing at all. Rush, shut up.

Sometimes I Need to Forget

2009-12-20T07:41:00.001-05:00

(Riffing off of Vodka Mom)

Sometimes I need you, sometimes I want to think I came from another world, that I have no Earthly ties or memories or feelings. But when the ornaments come out, at this time of year, your ghostly caresses are lovingly cold and irresistible. Too cold for me, too strong. My wife knows it, and she has at least the strength to say, "These feeling are too much!"

Me? I walk past the decorated tree, with its mutt-world of ornaments, some from my life, some from my kids, some from lives no longer flickering, and I realized this morning I haven't looked directly at the tree. I have been very tired, and I wonder if looking at my family's ornaments, and the emotion that they would require, has been beyond me. I'll wait another day or two, as I'm getting stronger everyday. But I will look at them and remember not that only one set of hands is left to hang them, but many hands went into the memories they hold.

Role Player

2009-12-16T19:41:00.000-05:00

I was sitting with my kids watching CNN tonight when Tiger Woods was named "Athlete of the Year". This is not going to be an essay about Tiger, although I love the irony that he became famous, in large part, by using his wood and became infamous, in large part, by using his wood. Over the last ten years, commentators on golf spoke fawningly of his "big wood" game. More recently, others have gamely spoken of some fawning over his "big wood".

So no, no rant about fidelity, nor criticism of the super-rich, or how spending so much time away from your family can strain the bonds of any marriage. And can we agree that the news media and the entertainment industry no longer are separate professions? And finally, no, this not about heroes falling, because no matter how much you love or revile Mr. Woods, no golfer is a hero. Great athlete? Yes. On the level of Martin Luther King, JFK, Captain Sullenberger, Eleanor Roosevelt? No, not even close.

What has transpired these last few weeks is more about us than Tiger. We keep looking for role models who are flawless, who are above reproach, who don't make mistakes, who are everything to everyone. We are, it seems, seeking superhumans. But I feel we are actually seeking something inhuman, if we expect perfection from a golfer. Or a president. Or an actor. Allowing kids -- and even adults -- to put these people, or any people, on a pedestal so high, yet precarious, is a fool's errand. But we keep acting the fool. So, perhaps we should look elsewhere for our guides.

My dad, as an example. He's been gone for almost twelve years, but there doesn't go a day where I don't wish I could ask him for advice. He served in the Marine Corps for 26 years, helped raised three kids, honored his wife, respected his mother, coached Little League, and made a living that allowed all three of us to go to college and graduate without debt. He also was fashion retarded, had an old-school Irish temper, and thought doctors were for pussies. He rarely swore, so "pussies" is my word. He could fix anything, treated everyone with respect, and I can't recall him trashing anyone he'd ever met in person. He also scraped off all of the lead paint from the side of our house and stored it in a tin trash bin in our garage. He was a deacon at his church. He liked opera. He did his own taxes. He called everything "that thing", and when he sent me to fetch it, he'd say "Get the thing...on the thing, by the thing."

See, my dad was available to me. His role modeling showed me both nobility in a regular man, and the mundane life of a very regular man. He farted. He had bad breath, especially in the morning. I saw him shave. I saw him tired. I heard his stories. He taught me what I needed and what I didn't need. I didn't always get him, nor him me. When I needed someone else to show me about being a good person, I had a former OSS agent and Ma Bell line crew manager to tell me to "Don't worry, be happy." I had a camp director who had a major physical disability, who made a place safe for young men and women to grow up. When Dad couldn't get me, he sent me places where others could carry me.

I never had need of a superhero. I didn't fall prostrate for the icon of the moment. I never bought into someone else's image of a real man. I didn't idolize a shortstop, a rock star, an actor, or a pitchman. I didn't idolize anyone, or more aptly, any one. Perhaps the most significant lesson my most important role model gave to me was to diversify my portfolio. When someone I admired inevitably behaved like, well, the way we all do in our worst moments, they didn't fall far because I never held them too high. Maybe what we can learn from Tiger is that we put him in a pantheon reserved for gods. And we humans are many things, but we are not, nor ever will be, gods.

Golem

2009-11-29T19:41:00.000-05:00

In a dream, I awoke outside of my body. I was sitting, small and powerless, on the headboard of my bed. Lying in my place was a animated version of me, a golem. It look liked me, moved liked me, somehow knew my routines. Oddly, I even knew my golem's name. It was Carl, very proper. Very Prussian. As I stared, Carl opened his eyes - he did not awake, as he was neither asleep before his eyes opened nor was he truly awake after they did - all before the alarm sounded. He rose stiffly from my spot in the bed before even the dogs began to stir. He found my house slippers, worn with the prints from my callused feet, without needing to see. He found the bedroom door in the pitch darkness, and scuffled zombielike down the upper hallway, mimicking an even more hollow echo of my routine. He dumbly descended the stair, skipping the top step - which squeals a protest if you tread upon it - just as I would have. I watched him head downstairs, perched mute over his left shoulder, floating unembodied, neither cold nor warm.

Only our very dumb dog Costello followed him to the kitchen, for our less-dumb dog Calvin seemingly detected that Carl was merely a shadow of an idea of me. Calvin somehow knew to wait for my wife, who asleep didn't notice I was gone, replaced by a hollow vessel of clay, breathed to life by a cold breeze from long dead ghosts.

I watched, trapped in my dream, as Carl let out the very dumb dog to relieve himself. The golem - my golem - stood rock still in the doorway, looking beyond, not at - very dumb Costello. I wondered if Costello would eventually notice that Carl failed to acknowledged his existence with a biscuit or a kind word. Carl went back to the kitchen, and without thought or emotion or even pause, made coffee. He never stopped to look out the window or smile or fart, he just kept slowing doing what I normally did. After some small clatter of glass on plastic, the carafe was set and the percolation began. I noted grimly that Mr. Coffee showed more light and color than Carl. I wondered, too, whether Carl would feel as alone and scared if it were him trapped overlooking my shoulder.

Abbruptly but without fanfare, I began to feel my dreamstate begin to fade. The kitchen floor hard and firm under my slippers. A smell, familiar to me, the tart odor of coffee. The throaty growl of the furnace kicking on in the basement. I was mildly shocked that Carl had gone so quickly, leaving without so much as a word or a nod, leaving me standing at the counter in a blackened kitchen, alone with a very dumb dog. I stirred a bit, and absently scratched an itch on my shoulder. It felt real, if inconsequential. I spun and headed to the family room for a bit of CNN, rubbing the stubble on my chin. It was then, passing through the dining room, that I saw Carl briefly again, looking back at me in the mirror. He need, I noticed, a shave.

In No Particular Order

2009-11-27T11:23:00.000-05:00

Here's my personal "To-Do" List:

1) Fly in a World War II single engine fighter, preferably a P-51 Mustang. A FAU Corsair would work, too. And a P-38 Lightning would suffice, even though it has two engines.

2) Visit Normandy, France.

3) Live in the wild, unplugged and self-sufficient, for a month. Not alone, but I would do it alone if no one wants to come along.

4) Meet the President.

5) Win a scratch ticket for more than $100.

6) Have a perfect shave - no nicks, no missed whiskers, no doubt about it.

7) Hit a walk-off homerun.

8) Give my wife a perfect gift, at the perfect time.

9) Host a huge blow-out food and beer extravaganza, for like 300 friends. Sorry, but no kids.

10) Stay up to see the sunrise in New Orleans and remember it.

11) Coach an undefeated team.

12) Drive a car on a closed race track.

13) Write or illustrate a children's book.

14) Build something from start to finish, like a boat or a cabin.

15) Live on the water, or on the shore really. Ocean or lake, no matter.

16) Ride a bike for a long, long time.

17) Break up a fight. And walk away from it.

18) Learn blacksmith skills.

19) Have a reason to wear a tux (that fits...), and whatever the reason is, my wife gets to dress up, too.

20) Drive across the country.

Okay? Did I miss anything? I will let you know how it goes.

Cleaning Out the Mental Attic

2009-11-27T10:53:00.001-05:00

I've had my driver's license for twenty-five years, as of today. Luckily, only one minor crash in the intervening years. It was only a month or two after I got my license, and the wreck involved barbecue sauce, black ice, and a cute girl named Rachel.

Why do people go to malls, especially on "Black Friday"? Does anyone remember what "Black Tuesday" meant originally? As a retailer, wouldn't "Green Friday" paint a better picture. It is all about the money, right?

Speaking of which, whatever happened to Christmas? I am as "politically correct" as the next guy (person?), but it is sort of weird that wishing someone "Happy Holidays" has replaced "Merry Christmas." I'm agnostic, but I have this gut feeling that if I'm gonna' give and receive from Santa Claus, I probably should give a nod to Jesus. Poor guy.

Speaking of whom, I would like to go to a mall with HIM, even on "Black Friday". I know that I am assuming a lot here, like that HE will come back. Would you? Or that he'd want to hang with me. Or worse, that he shops on Amazon and wouldn't be caught dead - again - in a freaking mall. But because I imagine he would have some pretty funny insights into our culture, it would be worth the traffic to head out on the road today. Sharing a Starbucks with Jesus at William Sonoma, now that would be cool.

Changing topics. If you could call the previous mental effluvium 'topics' at all. I've been tweaked a bit by the phrase "bucket lists" over the years. At first I thought if you want to do something so bad, get off y'er ass and do it. But I've softened my stance a bit, especially since I have kids and responsibilities and a wife and two dogs and chores and, well, other shit that gets in the way sometimes. Priorities, brother. Since I can't really do everything I want on a whim right now, maybe making a list makes some sense. I worry that my list will feel like a "honey-do" chore list. But then again, I worry about how much I worry, too. I'm gonna start working on my list, but I'm not sure I can get to twenty. Can I borrow some of yours?

I Still Believe

2009-11-16T20:57:00.001-05:00

I checked the calendar. It's only November 16th. I'm sitting next to a bowl of Halloween candy. The yard is full of fading leaves, wilted by rain and sun. It's 54 degrees outside, and Thanksgiving is still more than two week away. But unexpectedly, I got everything I wanted for Christmas tonight. No bags, no boxes, no ribbons - except in my daughter's hair, damp from her shower.

The world has been spinning a bit too fast lately. Too many days in a row where I could feel our little planet spinning at a thousand miles an hour, hurtling through the empty void of space. But tonight, for a time, everything stood peacefully still, wrapped not in blanket of snow, but one of quiet time, just us watching a movie. On a school night, no less. My darling wife, at least as tired as me, asleep happily on the couch. My daughter perched on my lap, head resting on my shoulder. My son, snuggled between us, our dogs curled up at our feet. No e-mail, no phones, no bills to pay, no meetings, no laundry or dishes to squabble over. Just us and a movie. Maybe not your favorite, but mine. Fred Claus. Thanks, Paul. Thanks, Vince.

There's something about dancing elves, kids hopeful for a happy Christmas, and two brothers seeking redemption that mixes well for me. Maybe because my brother and I never quite got the chance to say one more "I love you, man" or because I'm a sucker for a down-and-out orphan kid from the city. Or more likely, I'm a fool for a happy ending. We watched the movie blissfully, giggling as Vince and the elves shook it out to Elvis, or chortled quietly - trying to let Mrs. Odds sleep - when Santa and Fred slugged it out with snowballs. It was all so good.

And when Annie Lennox started to sing "Holy Night", I was done in. I felt tears well in my eyes, and soon after felt them tip-toe down my cheeks, reminding me that I'm not as tough as I look. I remembered my mom and how she would try each Christmas to capture her three adult children in one magic moment, long after Christmas became about gifts, UPS, and credit cards. I thought about all the things I would say to my brother, and wondered if he would remember the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle he gave me when I was twenty, sagely stating that one should always get at least one toy on Christmas. Leonardo stands in my office, reminding me of better times and good advice from one seriously unlikely source. I felt my daughter's weight pressing against my chest, but the tightness there wasn't from her alone. Perhaps like the Grinch, my heart was growing three sizes too big.

So Santa, thanks for coming early this year. Really, there is no need for anything else this year. Well, for me anyway. There are lots of other kids, big and small, who could use a hula-hoop or baseball bat, a puppy or maybe a visit from their brother, sister, mom, dad, or other loved-one. And don't pay too much attention to the naughty-nice business. We all want to be nice.

MASH

2009-11-10T17:40:00.001-05:00

My eight year old came home yesterday from school with some new skills. He'd learned how to play the game M*A*S*H* which, for those uninitiated, is a grid-elimination game where the host asks the guest to give multiple answers that will predict their future. The categories presented by our own mini-Alec Trebec were "Your Future Spouse", "Your Dream Car", "Favorite Place", "Perfect Job", "Net Worth", and "Number of Kids". It turns out that this playful little exercise ended up being something of a source of conflict for Mrs. Odds and myself, and I walked right into it.

So, here are some handy tips, boys. First, don't let your wife go first. She'll get a dreamy look in her eyes and try to list Clooney four times under "Future Spouse", and I simply don't measure up to George. Secondly, after your dearest finds out she is going to be the next (...or first?) Mrs. George Clooney, her finding out that Bridget Moynahan is your next ex-wife, somehow makes YOU an asshole. In fact, listing anyone other than her is a bad strategy. Third, don't try to rationalize with your eight year old how replacing his mommy with Bridget might lead to getting Tom Brady's autograph, in a hastily sketched awkward custody visit-scenario. With that line of thinking, I just should have listed Giselle Bundershplintz, but I erroneously thought we were playing for fun.

The "Your Dream Car" should be safe, but watch out. I listed an Audi TT as one of my choices, but it sounds an awful lot like an "Outy Titty" to a kid. Ooops. And don't list New Orleans as your favorite place, if - for example - you just fought a knock-down-spit flying-caffeine fueled battle Royale with your spouse about wanting to visit the Big Easy, to which she replied, "Go ahead, asshole." My wife's net worth, according to my son's calculus, turned out to be $1.00. She was not pleased or amused that I "won" all the money in the world.

Perfect job? She listed singer, writer, artist, and teacher. Cute, sweet, potentially real vocations. I listed sniper, cartoonist, inventor, and President. Apparently not cute, sweet, or potentially realistic. Crap, I thought it was a GAME. Under the withering gaze of Mrs. Clooney, I desperately explained to my son that he had said I am a really good sniper just the other day. This hasty backpedaling, as it turns out, was at least a triple error on my part - I let my kid watch me play X-Box 360 Live, I admitted indirectly that I play enough to be good at video games, and that I taught my kid what a sniper is. Again, ooops.

You know, my gut warned me against playing. And my gut is big enough to be heard clearly. I might have escaped permanent harm with the "Number of Kids" question, as I insisted that whatever number of future spawn I got, it had to be preceded by "two plus..." and I avoided teaching my son the term "vasectomy."

Hey, Nice Rock

2009-11-02T19:29:00.000-05:00

Albert Camus? You have to be kidding me. Albert. I bet he got his le ass kicked on le playground. But crap if I don't identify with Albert Camus (Cam-ewwwww!) and his essay Le Mythe de Sisyphe. I hate most things French, but I think Bert has it about right.

Consider the original Myth of Sisyphus. Mr. Sisyphus (And yeah, he probably got teased on the playground, too. "Hey Sissy-phus, your tunic is showing!") pissed off some Greek god or goddess. I forget who, but even money it was Zeus. That dude had temper issues and couldn't keep his hands off the ladies. So anyway, Sisyphus sticks his finger in the eye of the immortals, and as punishment, he is eternally destined to roll a honkin' big rock up a hill. And right when he gets to the pinnacle, the rock rolls back to the bottom. Push, roll, repeat. Push, roll, repeat. Give credit where credit is due; the Ancient Greeks knew torture. Dick Cheney must love his classics. So Sisyphus was, well, damned. Pissed, sore, blistered, bitter, lonely, and so on.

But back to Albert. He posits that Sisyphus was all that -- blistered, sore, exhausted, etc. - AND happy. Happy? At first blush, one might think Albert had his head up his derriere. But roll with me and Albert here. All of the toil and struggle, the failure and misery? Part of the human condition. The rock exercise is simply a metaphor for our simple little human condition.

In other words, Sisyphus had a purpose. He had goals, He was determined (So, okay, fine, Zeus or Hera or Hades or Mars or whoever made him do it...). Don't measure Sisyphus by his failure along the way, but instead on the total of the journey he took. Why must he be sad or full of self-loathing? Perhaps he was content to push his rock, living in the moment, taking in the view, full of hope that one day -- one day -- he'd get the rock to the top and earn a rest. He didn't know any better but than to hope.

So push your rock. It might roll back down the hill, and if it does at least you have a choice. Quit or roll it again. Quit or roll again. Me and Albert, I think we are rollers.

The Gift of Swearing

2009-10-30T17:22:00.000-04:00

"You're a monkey fuck," I casually retorted to friend (I'll call her Happier)recently. I had a big smile on my face when I said it, and my tone contained no rancor, bile, meanness, or spite. And obviously, it isn't true. Or I'm fairly certain of that, but I can't be totally sure. Happier is very nice and has an unassuming demeanor, so I can rule out with reasonable confidence that I wasn't stating a fact when I called her a "monkey fucker". Happier was around when I threw out another favorite of mine; fuck-stick. Happier even said she wanted to work that into her own lexicon. I took that as the highest of praise. Happier thinks a I swear good. Or well, for you grammar ass-lickers out there.

Perhaps my gift for artful language construction is a product of a strict upbringing. When I was a kid growing up in the 70's, I would get grounded for saying "suck", even if I was helping my Mom vacuum. So "suck nut" just feels liberating to me now. I was a generally nice and happy kid, so it wasn't like I had a lot to swear about, but if I said "shit", I just started running for my life. We were so square (quadrangle?), that I remember the first time my Dad said "shit" in my presence. Dallas Cowboys on t.v., in the basement, Dad sitting in a highback lounge chair. It was maroon. Not my Dad, the chair, you fuck-stick.

One great irony was I ran around, as a kid, yelling with glee that my bike was the "balls!", and my new dog was the "balls!", and Mr. B. my English teacher was the "balls!" That is, until a kid who grew up in Manhattan embarrassingly asked me if I knew that "balls" was a synonym for testicles. My parents loved that things were the "balls!" but if I uttered "crap" I was grounded for two weeks before I could say "Sorry, sorry!"

It was the 70's, so it was fine to call my brother a "retard", but if I called him "stupid" I got ... well, grounded, of course. My sister, who was a bitch -- and can still channel her inner-bitch like a pro -- could not be called a "bitch." Jerk was fine. Bitch, grounded. Terd, dung, scat, poop, "B.M." (short for bowel movement I learned years later) all on the approved list. But "shit" was verboten. Go figure.

So here's my tip for swearing like a mad sailor. Take any general-use curse word (fuck, shit, ass, dick, etc.) and add it to a totally benign term. For example, "fuck" plus "wad" makes "fuckwad." Dick plus the verb dangle plus -er becomes "dick dangler." I don't know what it means, but it sounds good. "Ass" plus "rope" plus -ing? "What, are you ass-roping?" Again, I don't know what it means, but it sounds better than plain "You ass." Go practice with a loved-one and let me know how it works out, would you?

When you are ready for the next level, add two nice words to make a new swear that makes people go, "Ewwww!" The advantages here are many-fold, not least of which is you gain plausible deniability for later, especially if you rip one at work or when fighting with your spouse. Or if the kids hear it, heaven forbid. An example would be mixing "pillow" with "pounder" for the very gross "pillow pounder." (Not mine originally) Hair and glue? "She's got hairglue!" It implies bad things, so don't use it if you don't want the responsibility. These aren't safe for rookies, so don't blame me if you get dumped, punched, slapped or sued, you fucktard.

Actually, the best use of forbidden words / inappropriate phrasing I've ever heard came from my wife's grandmother, of all people. I'd like to think she knew what she was doing, but I'll never be sure, as she passed away a few years back. At ninety-four, she had been picked up from her retirement community for a visit with the kids, grand kids, great-grand kids, and our very large, friendly dog. As our house-cow nuzzled her and laid his monster-sized head in her lap, she gently petted his head and scratched his ears. The room grew quiet as she travelled back in time to her youth. She spoke lovingly of her time on the family farm, and how she used to drive a horse and buggy. But her favorite pet was her cat. Oh, how she loved her cat. She came back to present and looked lovingly at her many family members gathered around, and said, "Oh, how I used to love rubbing my pussy."

Boy, did she HAVE the gift.

Almost Brilliant

2009-10-26T22:41:00.000-04:00

You know how mayonnaise and ketchup and all sorts of condiments now come in bottles that rest on their lids so the good stuff is always right where you need it? I thought that up. No shit, for real. I was walking up and down the aisles of a Price Chopper in Vermont like 14 years ago and the idea just came to me. We were there just because it was the first grocery in our area open 24 hours. Life was pretty boring, so much so that we thought going to the grocery store at midnight was actually entertainment. We were wilder once.

Somebody stole my idea though. Because it wasn't a month later that I saw Hines ketchup in the now ever-present inverted containers. Bastards. Sneaky damn bastards. How did they steal my idea and get it to market so fast?

Voice recognition. Yep, thought that up, too. Perhaps you are familiar with Dragon Natural Speaking and Ford's Sync? They owe their thanks to me, although some may claim otherwise. But I know what I know. In fact, I'm only typing this entry to spite the "stealers" out there.

It's not just commercial endeavors, either. When it comes to world events, I'm like a modern day Nostradamus. I had the US invasion of North Korea pegged, except George "W" Bush wrecked my prediction with the whole Afghanistan and Iraq wars thing. Technically speaking, both Afghanistan and Iraq are in Asia, so I think I'm still good on that call. Or close enough, anyway.

So folks, ride my coattails to the next big thing. Here's my latest prediction; a public option for health care reform. Bank on it. It's a lock.

Is it Just Cramps or CANCER?

2009-10-26T21:42:00.000-04:00

So let me figure this one out. One can mix up cramps for cancer? That sounds wicked fucking scary. So if I eat a pair of egg, cheese, and sausage sandwiches for breakfast, leftover steak for pre-lunch, two grilled roast beef sandwiches for real lunch, a pound of pistachios for a tweener, and top off my daily intake with a full dinner of Polo Marsala, two beers, and two diet cokes, it's not cramps. I had cancer Saturday night? Huh, I thought it was overeating.

...or...

Flat belly
Slim legs
Amazing butt
Get them in one amazing workout!

Really? One work out. Fuckin' A. One? I'm in, sign me up. It almost sounds too good to be true. I can workout once. I can do this.

...or...

Gorgeous for less; 67 best buys for your skin, hair, body and more! To get gorgeous for less, I should buy...67 products. Not counting toothpaste and deodorant, I'm gonna say, in my lifetime, I won't buy 67 total products. Skin, okay, requires lotion I suppose. Hair; shampoo. And okay, fine, conditioner. Body? If you count feet, Desenex for crud that grows between my toes. But what's the 'more' here? Elbows? Eyebrows? The taint? Is there a product that treats elbows and the taint? That would be novel.

...or...

Alicia Silverstone's Diet Makeover? Alright, can we agree on something? Alicia Silverstone's diet needed a make-over? I throw the flag on that one. She was hot ten years ago, remains hot today, and will die someday, but it will be a hot death. Did she blow up like a Sumo wrestler? Steak and cheese diet not work out for her? I guess I missed the day she was fat. But I feel pretty good stating her diet probably wasn't made over. Tweaked, maybe. But she looks to be pushing 100 lbs. now, so I bet we'd all be happy with either of her diets. And her genes. Can I have her genes, please?

For the record, I'm a dude. I am sitting next to a recent issue of Health Magazine, and I am going to go for broke here. I'm not the target audience the editors of Health had in mind for this issue. I'm pretty sad that my daughter and wife might be.

My tips for gorgeous for less, amazing ass, and cramps vs. cancer:
*get rid of your mirrors (free - can't get less than free)
*wear baggier pants (okay, not an amazing ass, just a well-hidden one)
*talk to your doctor for cancer diagnosis ($20 co-pay)

Who needs a magazine? I give this advice for free. Do you feel better yet? I do.

Forty is the New Black

2009-10-25T14:57:00.000-04:00

A hundred years ago, forty was worth a big party. Hell, if you survived measles, polio, infections, pneumonia, and childbirth, you were something special. Nowadays, turning forty is as remarkable as turning, well, thirty-nine. So why do people get all nutty about forty?

My wife turns forty today. She's hotter now than she was ten years ago, and she was really cute then. She's more accomplished now. Wiser. Funnier. Deeper, reflective, patient, stronger... Who wouldn't want to turn forty, I gotta ask? At least if you could do it with her grace & style. She has done stuff that anyone would see as admirable, like raise two beautiful kids, be cast in a musical production, work full time, and all while putting up with me. Puh-lease. I know a lot of people that could never handle what she does, ever - at forty, or at any age. And frosting - she fits in clothes that she could have worn fifteen years, for Christ's sake.

She's not really special today. She is special everyday. For forty years, fifteen with me. I don't think a cake and a card really would be a fair reward, and since we just rebuilt our kitchen, we can't afford a treasure to match her. She just caught me staring at her. I acted dumb, as I was thinking mildly lewd thoughts and was distracted from my writing. A bit of blond hair is spilling out from her baseball cap, and it's sexy as hell. She is cleaning our new kitchen with 409 while I stare.

See, that's my point. I like her more and more. I find her more and more attractive. She's formidable, unpredictable and reliable, powerful and gentle. If she was sexy and funny at thirty-five, just imagine how incredible she is now? So everyday is worth a celebration. Today, it just comes with cake.

Dear Mom & Dad,

2009-10-07T17:47:00.000-04:00

I wrote God a few weeks ago, but he's a lousy pen-pal. No response, not even an e-mail. Sheeesh. Guess he's busy. Maybe I have the wrong address. Would you check for me? I haven't written you in a long while, so please excuse my poor manners.

I had a poignant memory of you today and wish your were closer, so we could have shared it together. I'm sure you feel the same way. It's silly really, but I got home from work today and our kitchen is totally finished. And I thought of you immediately. Instead of sitting in the new kitchen, I went outside and listened to the wind howl and watch the neighborhood trees contort. I remembered when you remodeled your kitchen and the pride you shared with us when you finished the project. You were so happy and felt so good about what you accomplished. We feel the same way, and I know some our success and accomplishment is due to you. So thanks for showing us the way. I just wish you could come over and have a cup a coffee and a long chat. A chat about anything. But you can't come over and I totally understand. But I can still wish it, right?

"C" is sitting at the peninsula doing her homework. The light is so good, it makes even doing homework feel nice. So you can imagine how cooking makes us feel. Mom, I can see you helping make the turkey at Thanksgiving. It makes a great mental picture, even if it won't happen this year. Mom, you would absolutely drop dead (sorry, awkward wording...) to see how much she's grown since you last saw her. She's starting to be a young woman, although most of the time she's still just a girl. She's so gentle, I wonder how I could be her dad, given that I'm an ox. But wondering aside, I'm really glad I am. Dad, she'd melt you in a minute, you softy. So far, were doing pretty good with her.

And "W"? He's great. Dad, he can throw a ball like no one's business. And he can draw! At seven, he puts pencil to paper and ideas just take shape. Is it wrong to be jealous of your kid's talent? And origami... he folds paper into shapes so graceful, intricate, and delicate. I'm in awe of his care and craft. Both kids miss each of you. Almost as much as I do.

So, that's about it. For today, anyway. I think of you far more often than I write. And I know you can't write as often as you wish, so don't feel bad. You would if you could. I hope you are happy and well. Say 'hi' to my brother, but I'm still mad at him. Love him, yes. Like him? Not yet. And if you see God, would you tell him I'm not writing until he does!

Love,

Odds

Just Listen to Yourself

2009-10-06T19:06:00.000-04:00

Uh-oh. This is going to be a rant. I may sound like an OF, Republican, Angry White Guy, or Lou Dobbs. I'm channeling Dennis Leary. Hear me out.

Years back when I lived in Vermont, I was listening to the radio and heard a report (now infamous) about a women who successfully sued McDonalds because she burned the skin of her nether-parts with hot coffee. She stuck a Styrofoam cup of steaming hot Joe between her legs and drove away. Or started to, until through the normal operation of her motor vehicle, her thighs squished the cup and the molten coffee boiled her... well, parts.

For the record, I think McDonalds is in league with Satan. And styrofoam has a half-life that makes uranium look like a mayfly and will be in landfills until Hell freezes over, thaws out, and freezes again. But...

What kind of moron puts hot anything in their crotch? A stupid moron. Sort of like gettin' mad when you drip hot glue from a hot glue gun on your hand. It's called hot glue 'cause it is...hot fucking glue, numb-nuts. So, hot coffee parked in your special place?!? Well, duh.

When did needing someone else to pay for one's own stupidity, ineptitude, tom-foolery, natural ability, height, heart condition, or whatever else ails you become normal? If not "pay for", then replace it with "fix" or "solve" or any synonym for solve without the complaintant taking any responsibility for the alleged affront. And this is when I really sound like an OF, (Old Fucker for those not in the know), so get ready.

No, Kentucky Fried Chicken didn't make you fat. You made you fat. Or you and the genes your parents handed down. So sue yourself, fatass. No, pot holes don't get fixed in a timely fashion 'cause most towns and cities are broke, so vote for higher taxes, dumb-ass. That tar shit is pricey. No, you should pay $3.00 a gallon for gas. It's called supply and demand. They have oil, you want oil. So, sell your S.U.V. and buy a hybrid. Or walk, which - surprise, surprise - might help with your KFC issue, by the way.

Screwed up kids? No, it is probably not your school's fault. It is probably yours. No, really. Your teen is smokin' dope? Um, put down the scotch-rocks? You think your kid's teacher doesn't like your kid? Um, do you like your kid? If you won't raise your kid 'cause it is unrewarding, don't complain when the school tries -- and fails -- to do the job the way you want it done. If you want schools to do all the work, vote for higher taxes. And be prepared to not agree with everything that happens.

In favor of the war in Afghanistan? Vote for higher taxes. Them Predator drones? Nope, not free. Not free at all. Like the state of the VA nowadays? Who does? Do the math, friends. Two active wars, defense projects like the F-35, robotic weapon systems, and medical costs for head injuries suffered by the brave soldiers standing up to do the work we (...yes, we...) asked them to do. So, to quote from Good Fellas, "Fuck you, pay me." You want security and want it for free? Hey, that's funny.

Not in favor of the war? Exactly who, then, is gonna protect us from those who really do think America is fat, lazy, and arrogant? Or those who think of women as good for breeding and nothing else? Remember this - the Taliban killed the ideal of pluralistic schools in their homeland, as well as eradicating ancient, historically significant religious shrines that weren't their religious shrines. Pro or con war, we are going to pay. Pick your poison. But it is going to hurt.

See, this rant is about us. We want stuff, but we don't want to pay for it. We want to be taken seriously but act like children. Actually, most children act better than a lot of so-called grown-ups, but you know what I mean. We want good government but don't want to -- or can't -- understand making hard, compromising choices. Pundits mock universal health care in Canada or the U.K., but most of us couldn't tell anyone else thing one about universal health care. We want to be thinner, but our exercise regimen consists of walking to our car twice a day.

Schools don't teach values? Then you teach values. Politicians are all crooked? The run for fucking office! Want erectile function instead of dysfunction? Take Viagra but for the love of all things good, don't complain about your health care costs rising. At least something is rising that makes you happy, right? Gas too expensive? Drive less. Don't like you kid's soccer coach, volunteer to coach. Got a gut, do sit-ups. Boss an asshole? So what? Takes one to know one.

See, we all have complaints. Too often, we also seem to think someone else should take responsibility for them. We want our cake. But we don't want to pay for it and we want it nut & gluten free, too. Take a minute and stop yammering. Shhhhh. The problem, my friends, might not be "them" but "us". Just listen to yourself. I just don't want to.

R

2009-09-26T23:32:00.000-04:00

There are ways to thanks friends. A card, a 12-pack of beer, a ride to the airport. Common place, really. Can getting your own blog entry, which the friend will probably never read, count? We'll see.

We (my family) have the fortune of owning a boat. Not a yacht. A boat. 13 foot whaler, a floating brick. A money pit. But its a boat. And it spit the bit today. The boating season (who knew...there is a boating season) ends shortly up here in New England. If you wait 'til the harbor freezes over, you waited too long to pull your boat. So today was the day to get our third child out of the water. We were all present for the big day, primed for one last family adventure, one last excursion onto the big, bad ocean. And the boat wouldn't start. Nothing. Nada. Zip. We know shit about boats, except ours needs gas, its small, and it costs a lot of money to operate. Money we don't have. But its a boat in a place where having a boat is synonymous with having a house. But it won't run today.

But my friend, he loves boats. Being on the water for him is relaxing. He likes fiddling with cables and gear and massaging cranky boats into life. Me? If I could sink my boat outside the harbor and not get caught, I would do it. So when we tried everything we could think of to get the brick to run (which admittedly isn't too much), we called our friend. Could you give us a tow? I'm quite certain he had a nap all lined up this afternoon, but instead he hauled his ass into his boat and came to the rescue.

No, we were never in danger. No one was gonna get hurt if our boat sat in the water another weekend or three. Realistically, we would have been out five hundred bucks and been anxious until our little hobby was safe on land in our driveway. But he hooked up some lines and tied some knots and spent his whole afternoon bailing us out of a jam. And he was glad to do it.

Above and beyond the call of duty. A day wasted saving his buddy's pride and bank account. And what did he want in return. Not a damn thing. So he's getting a blog entry and a fifth of Maker's Mark. And what did I get? Sure, my boat is in my driveway, for which I'm grateful. But really what I got was affirmation that moving to my new home was the smartest and best thing I've done in years. I got a reminder that friendship isn't about cards or gifts or even witing an essay, but rather about something much less quantifiable. I was reminded today that friendship shows up when you need it the most and expect it the least. Today it showed up and turned a bad situation into a memory.

Thanks R.

UCK!

2009-09-22T16:02:00.000-04:00

We are a strange group, us humans. If you don't believe me, walk around in public at a mall, visit your kids' school, or watch the news. We are not always bad -- sometimes even good -- but surely and definitely we are a weird species.

Take fashion as an example. For the record, I have two (yes, count 'em) shades of khakis and four different colors of plain shirts to wear to work, so I think I'm eminently qualified to comment on haute couture. I was driving to work the other day, when I saw an amply rear-endowed mother of one bent over in the passenger compartment of her SUV. She was clearly struggling with either the carseat or her kid, who was in turn struggling with having to sit in the car seat. I've been there - not so much fun. I could tell from her body language that she was fried and on the verge of losing it.

But that's not what I noticed first, truth be told. I noticed her gigunda ass. I'm not commentating on the size of her posterior; my own seat cushion ain't so small either. No, in fact I wasn't even "window shopping"... You know, checking out the merchandise without intending to purchase. My wife and I agreed years ago that it wasn't worth fighting over if one of us checking out someone else's goods. Look, don't touch.

No, what attracted my attention was the dazzling bright, hot pink sweats with "UCK!" spelled out in pt. 1024 font across this poor soul's graciously full buttocks. My first thought was, "Uck!" as in gross, but why would someone wear that on their ass? I then realized the passenger door was obscuring the first letter or...gulp!... letters. My next thoughts? "Fuck!" Followed by "Suck!", "Truck!", and finally "Canuck!". But why would a grown woman wear "Fuck" on her ass? Or suck, truck, or Canuck for that matter. There are no good answers to those questions, my friends.

As I pulled up at the light near her house, the full spelling came into view. It read "Luck!" I don't know who should be more embarrassed. Me, for thinking uckfucksucktruckCanuck. Or her, for wearing a neon sign-esque pair of pants with letters so big you could see 'em from the space station, on a butt that could be rented as billboard space. But either way, "Luck!" was not helping her wrestle the car seat and/or rebel two year old into place.

Like I said earlier, we are an odd bunch. And my fashion tip of the day? Wear khakis.

Snap Shot

2009-09-04T14:24:00.001-04:00

If one could graph the relationship between intelligence and wisdom, what would we find? I fear that my intelligence drops in direct proportion to gains in personal wisdom. What one might call this an example of a divergent series, I suppose.

I used to be smart but my overall brain power is diminishing in relation to the context of the world I inhabit. While I think my intelligence approaches zero, it will never be nothing. Conversely, I am more wise after each passing experience. My quotient of wisdom may approach infinity, but it will never be infinite.

I miss being smart and sure, while I like my growing perspective. Why can't I have both? Will I be a happy idiot when I get older? The idiot part seems assured.

Strangeness of Strangers

2009-08-30T21:32:00.000-04:00

We seem to have an addiction in the family. Yeah, we have alcoholics and we have workaholics and we have other -olics that I can't even imagine. No, this is a different vice, albatross, cross, whatever you wish to call it. We need chaos. Pressure, deadlines, too many balls in the air. If we don't have it, we make it. If we can't make it, we borrow others'. Our current drug of choice is a kitchen remodel. Good buzz, a bit pricey, but it should quiet the monster for at least a year, right? Right?

I slink out of the house on a beautiful, cool summer day to one of our regular dealers, a shady dude known as Mr. Home Depot, "D-poh" in the parlance of the street. I showered before I left the house, but I already feel dirty. I'm there for the second time in two days, looking to score a shower and a vanity, oh, yeah, and a faucet. I'm nervous, because I'm a poser. Not a contractor, you dig? Just a kid from the 'burbs. I grab one of the flat carts, trying to look mad. No basket cart for me, no way. I navigate to the back row, way past the paint and the pvc and light fixtures to the bathroom section. It's dark and scary, and frankly sort of seedy. So I grab my stash and slink to the front to pay for my haul. In and out, don't make eye contact with the other addicts and junkies. Get out to the parking lot with my huge-ass cart and my huge-ass boxes, trying to do this on the lo' down. Anonymous. Fumble for the key fob. Pop the trunk. Lift the tail gate. Got to load the Honda and get back to my 'hood.

I can barely lift the first box, which is the size of a coffin and weighs as much. Christ, the carton is bigger than than the bathroom where it will be installed. I get it man-handled onto the rear gate of my Element, and I go white. It's too fuckin' big to fit in the car. I'm naked in the parking lot, sweating cold rivulets of panic, watching the other addicts watch me. Oh shit, oh shit. I got to get out of there. I call my wife, needing to hear her voice, needing her to know that I can't get the fix home, no little pick-me-up coming home with Daddy. I'm busted and shaking and crazed.

And this preppy, tired looking 40'ish woman stops and smiles at me, shakes her head. She knows why I'm there. "Don't jam it in," she says. "Maybe put it on the roof." I think to myself, "Well if I could lift the monster that high off the ground, I'd just adjust my blue tights and red cape and fly the fucker home." Thanks a lot. At least she didn't point and just laugh. I'm in a bad way. Why did I ever get hooked on chaos in the first place?

But the next guy, he ambles over and stops. He looks at me, at Box-zilla, at the car. And he shrugs. "Need a hand? Looks heavy." No judgement. Just a do-gooder. And for the next ten minutes, as I try to get my lever my shit into the back of the damn car, at least three more guys quit their own missions for a moment and offer to help. Nice guys. Friendly faces. Helping out a brother in need. I say, "No thanks" but their kindness calms me down. I think. I find a knife in my kid's tackle box and cut Box-zilla down to size. When I'm done, I've jimmied the bastard in enough that it only hangs out the back the the car about four feet. I cram the other shit in and get ready to leave, when the prepster comes on out of the D-poh with her own little bag of goodies, and laughs. "So you jammed it in?" Bitch.

I get on home, shaking from my trip and praying to get the monkey off my back. The high of the fix doesn't last. Chaos keeps on calling.

Dear God,

2009-08-10T18:55:00.000-04:00

How are you? Please take no offense that I have recently publicly identified myself an an atheist. I was tired. Today, I'm agnostic. For the record, on Saturday I was Episcopalian. Attention deficit, religious identity disorder?!? ADRID... Do they make a pill for that?

Respectfully, you have a tremendous sense of humor. The depth and breadth of your creations, and the interactions between them, create a panoply of ideas, emotions, and memories that spin this humble man's head in dizzying fashion. So, thank you for the last week. It was very entertaining. Can you take a minute to help me figure out how it is all connected?

As you know, we attended the annual clam bake in Wareham last weekend. It's been going on forever and a year, but the word on the street is this was the last year. The man who has done the heavy lifting (literally) for the event is tired. After all, he's raised (with his wonderful wife) four children to adulthood and a pack of grandkids that grows algebraically -- if not exponentially -- every year. He's done it all without expectations, and I think he is a classic stoic and noble. And his hands are always dirty. Oh, and he has cancer. He didn't tell anyone, of course, but word got out. Maybe someone will step up and keep the fire burning (and the seaweed steaming), but if not, it has been an amazing run.

We drove up to Maine and spent some time on the water with friends. This family from Maryland we visited with has beautiful children and as a couple, a grace and bearing that makes one realize there are lots of really great, nice normal people on our little blue marble. We fetched sea glass from the shore, surfed in warm Maine water (...okay, there is no such thing, but it was water and we were in Maine), and kayaked out to this little lonely island to poke around an abandoned lighthouse. Exploring the island, I wondered what it was like a hundred years ago. I studied the pealing lead paint and contemplated our footprint on the environment. I imagined the world taken over by zombies and how this island would measure up as a refuge. Really.

We zipped over to Vermont for the wedding of a very good man. My in-laws took our our kids so my wife and I could play adults for a night. I remembered why we moved closer to them, and even with the oddness that is my wife's family (and I know odd families), I could not help but feel a brimming sense of joy that my son's grandfather thinks playing catch with him is better than anything else on the planet. I found myself, during the service at the wedding, reciting the Lord's Prayer and feeling comforted by its words and patterns. I looked at Jesus on the cross and wished it had gone otherwise for him; he seemed like a good fellow. I sat next to my wife and remembered our wedding, all of the hopes and dreams we had. It gave me a sense of optimism I hadn't felt in some time, knowing this young couple was going to give a life together a chance - I hope they realize their dreams and make some new ones on their journey together.

I crossed paths with my favorite uncle who was diagnosed with lung cancer and given two years to live...twelve or thirteen years ago. He's had a good hand all along. I saw my aunt (not my uncle's wife) and was oblivious to the fact she's still an alcoholic. I heard the theme song to Jaws in my head as we kayaked out to the aforementioned island and at the same time told my kids that sharks were not remotely interested in us. I slid head first into home in a meaningless softball game to break up the shutout the opposing pitcher was spinning. I was safe and my knees are killing me. A friend told me tragic news that was welcome tidings to her. I stayed up late to watch A-Rod hammer a walk-off homerun off a rookie in the fifteenth inning. Our puppy Abbott chewed his leash off to gain his freedom and then chewed off Hobbes' for good measure.

So, yeah, it was a good week. Rich. But I feel like a 7th grader reading a Bronte novel; I get the plot, character, and setting but have no idea what it means. So, sir or madam, any chance you could lend me your teacher's edition? I feel bad that I don't get it. I'm the dumb kid in class. But I do thank you for everything that you threw my way last week. For an atheistic leaning, currently lapsed Episcopalian agnostic, that sounds like a prayer. Or a request for a little extra help in the form of enlightenment.

Warmly,

Long

LUFFEW

2009-07-10T00:35:00.000-04:00

We've been married fifteen years. Today. 5,475 days, not counting leap years. Christ, I get bored in like twelve minutes. I fast forward through fight scenes. I get bored unless something or someone is actually burning, bleeding, or screaming.

Strangely, happily there has been no burning in our marriage. True, there has been a little bleeding. For example, I fell off a ladder this week. My wife (the topic of the entry) was holding it, right up until I asked her not to. No shit. I asked her to turn off the hose. Whomp! I dropped 16 feet. And bled a bit. But if you are paying close attention, she was holding the ladder. That is mature love. Not particularly poetic but oddly poignant.

Screaming? Some. Good natured, mostly. I'd like to tell you it was always impassioned and heartfelt. However, a lot of times one of us was dehydrated, hung-over, stupid, or in some other way being an ass. I have taken more than my fair share of turns being the jerk, but my wife ain't afraid to take her turns, either. Like I mentioned earlier, this love is adult, seasoned. Sort of like...well, the hell I know what it's like. (For the record, my first idea for a metaphor was smoked barbecued ribs.) Put it this way - every day I wake up and am surprised she is still here. She gets bored easily, too. And I'm a handful. Sexy. But a handful.

I could stay true to the genre and extol my wife's virtues, but that would be pedestrian, and given it's our anniversary, totally predictable. Can I skip to the end and tell you she had a lot to offer? Cute as hell. Complicated. Nuts. Unpredictable. Stubborn. Oh, wickedly stubborn. Patient. Okay, I'm not exactly skipping to the end... To summarize, I won and married up.

For the younger readers, there is no such thing as a fairy tale marriage. Watch "When Harry Met Sally" for a primer. For the folks who are long married, you go ahead and decide if we have have it good. We keep saying we do, which is miles harder to say than "I do."

But I know this (...and I know very little for sure...) - I am a better man and person because I met and married my wife. She may scratch her head at times and come up short when she weighs how things have played out, but I scored.

So, it's 1:00 a.m. Technically speaking, we are in our 16th year now. I wonder what this year will bring? Whatever shakes out, I know who will be holding my hand. Fifteen years? Easy.

Oh, thanks. And I love you.

Prime and Prejudice

2009-07-02T14:02:00.000-04:00

A few years back, a student of mine gave me a book on prime number theory because he knew I liked math. Okay, he was ten and he picked out a book about Bernhard Riemann and the greatest unsolved problem in mathematics. Oh, his dad is researcher at Johns Hopkins and was voted top ten smartest Americans alive. And his mom has two doctorates and is a professor at Hopkins, too. What a bunch of slackers...

So I get this book and I'm gonna' read it, damn it. How hard can it be, honestly? I cruised through the first eighteen pages or so; the first chapter is essentially about a theoretical card trick and convergent series. But by chapter two, I start to dribble and drool a bit. The author gets into the history of mathematics in 18th century Germany and little anecdotes such as "Ah, shucks, wasn't Gauss a cut up in class! Oh, don't talk to me about Euler." Throw in a sentence like, "N / pi (N) - log N. (Pronounced "N over pi of N tends asymptotically to log N" by page 45 and I might as well be reading sanskrit. But... I. Am. Gonna'. Finish. The. Book. Damn. It.

Three years later, I am finally done with the freakin' book. Guess what? I read the whole damn book only to find out that the author wasn't kidding - the problem is still unsolved. Oh, what a buzz kill. Berhard Reimann dedicated his life to this problem and he died from an ear infection or something tragic, and he never did come up with an answer (proof...) to whether or not there are infinite prime numbers. Oh, sucks being him. I spent bits and pieces of three years reading about his struggles but I am not dead, at least. But I wanted the Disney ending to the story, I must admit. For Riemann and me. For him, peer recognition and fame (...he was loved by an adoring wife...). For me, enlightenment (...I am loved by an adoring wife...). We both were ROBBED!

Then I reread the second to last chapter. The autor wrote, "As Andrew Odlyzko told me, "Either it is true, or else it isn't. One day we shall know. I have no idea what the consequences will be, and I don't believe anyone else has, either. I am certain, though, that they will be tremendous. At the end of the hunt, our understanding will be transformed. Until then, the joy and fascination is in the hunt itself, and -- for those of us not equipped to ride -- in observing the energy, resolution, and ingenuity of the hunters. Wir mussen wissen, wir werden wissen."

We must know. We will know. In the meantime, admire the passion of others, even if they use really big words.

When the Phone Rings Again

2009-06-01T21:48:00.000-04:00

Life is a peculiar thing, I've found. There are little forks along life's path all the time, and sometimes great divergences, splits in the course of life. I had never really noticed the little ones, as they are sort of like back county roads. All the views are interesting, and they all get you where you are going eventually. The big ones, well, they spin you and turn you and change you abruptly. And everything comes at you so fast, so damn fast. Some times you see the sharper turns coming, some times you don't.

My youngest child, like his older sister, was (and remains...) a pretty good sleeper. Once he went to bed, he was down for the count. Most nights, my wife and I got to sleep through the night, six hours or so. Sure, once in awhile one of our kids got the stomach bug or had a spell of night terrors, but most nights were wonderfully mundane.

One late Saturday night --so late it was Sunday already-- our 3 year old Will woke early. Five o'clock or within minutes of it. He padded his way up to our room and stood next to me quietly until I sensed his presence. I wasn't startled, 'cause kids do that kinda stuff. Sort of Ninja in a onezie... Most nights, I would gather him back up and tuck him in his bed, keeping the habit of separate beds intact. But he'd been pretty good of late, and he was damn cute and snuggly, so I let him crawl into bed with me. He nuzzled up and was asleep in seconds. I took a deep breath and exhaled contentedly. We might sleep like this 'til 8:00. A nice, lazy start to a Sunday.

I had barely left consciousness when I was jarred awake again by the phone ringing. My first thought? Naw, this couldn't happen again. This time it had to be a wrong number. My adrenaline kicked in and I knew my day was going to start, for better or worse. I reached for the phone, gulped, and answered with a cautious 'hello'. I prayed I wouldn't know the voice on the other end. It was my sister. Hello, surreality.

"Hey, um, oh my god. Dan's dead." I'm pretty sure that's what she said, but I know she said more too, because I remember she said she had gone to a Green Day show and the local police were waiting for her when she got home. That the Florida State police had called her local police office in suburban San Francisco, because they couldn't find my brother's parents. I can remember her telling me that my brother had been shot by a neighbor. I remember yelling "Fuck!" as I tried to make my body go down the stairs, away from my angelic sleeping boy and my sweet wife and my gentle daughter.

And in that thirty second span, I knew my life --and that of our family-- had turned and twisted and veered off course. Life had turned suddenly -- a second time in less than 8 months -- onto a superhighway of loss, sadness, discovery, and grief. But unlike the sudden loss of my mom, this new highway also took me past hate, anger, denial, and hurt. I have been on some back roads lately, and I'm remembering how much I used to love casual drives through life's lesser travelled roads. But I can still hear the roar of the highway. It scares me. But I'm still driving. Just don't call, okay?

Don't say it...

2009-05-17T19:32:00.000-04:00

When I was starting out, I landed a job in an after school program helping kids out, keeping an eye on them, teaching a bit, and generally having a lot of laughs. Which is good, 'cause the pay stunk. We used to make extra snacks for the kids, in the hopes there would be leftovers and we'd have something for dinner.

At one of our requisite trainings on dealing with kids and conflict, the director of the program mentioned she didn't want us to ask the kids to say 'sorry' if they hurt another child's feelings. At the time, I thought she was wildly out of touch, a do-gooder, a liberal. But her point was simple and straightforward. If a kid just says sorry, what really have they done to fix their error? They had to address the problem they caused directly. Actions, not words.

Years later, I have come to believe she was -- is -- absolutely right. The word 'sorry' is a cheap out, junk food, a distraction. Too many people -- famous or not -- seem to think saying you are sorry means anything. On the famous side, take Manny Ramirez as an example. Suspended for 50 games for using juice, he was expected to say sorry to his teammates. Not even to the fans, mind you, not that it would matter. He makes millions of millions, screws his team, and his teammates are supposed to listen to an apology? Oh, sure, he's gonna cough up 7 million while he sits by the pool, but when he comes back, he'll start collecting the 20+ million owed to him. If he were sorry, he'd go to every game and take tickets at the turnstile, maybe lug some popcorn or beers to the fans (...and pay for it, too), and take turns washing the team's jockstraps. Maybe he is sorry, but what I'd like is to see him do something to fix the mess he caused.

It's not the rich and shameless that worry me, though. It's us regular folks. My kids, as an example. Our daughter, bless her kind soul, leaves her junk all over the house. When I'm tripping all over it, the first thing out of her mouth is "I'm sorry, Dad." I'm not interested in how she feels about me tripping or disrespecting the rest of the family, but I'm very interested in her picking her stuff up. It's simple, really. Don't say 'sorry' because it doesn't do a whole lot. Instead, I'm trying to teach her to pick up before it is a problem, and when she forgets, I'm really hoping she'll start saying "I'll get it picked up now."

To be honest, I'm fighting a losing battle. But I love long odds, so I'll keep chipping away. The next time my daughter leaves her cleats in the kitchen and I call her out on it, I'd be perfectly happy if she just spoke the truth. "Dad, I'm not sorry. My feet were hot and I took off my shoes immediately upon entering the house. Then I saw the puppy and forgot all about the shoes. My feet feel better and, boy, the puppy really is cute." Oh, if she then puts her cleats away, that would be cool, too.

Stuff Goes BOOM!

2009-05-04T20:54:00.000-04:00

I want to work for Myth Busters. What a crazy good job, no? Adam and Jamie are building a cannon with match heads and a shaved-down bowling ball. I mean really, what COULD be better? Okay, so they missed their target the first time but it would have left a mark. The damn ball went 1500 feet! They get paid to blow up, maul, spindle, and otherwise totally trash random stuff. Oh, the glory.

My favorite personal stories of wrecking stuff? Drum roll, please.

Number 5 - tennis ball cannon. I was like ten and my brother (14'ish at the time)duct taped a couple of tennis cans together and had himself a homemade mortar. Into his highly crafted, well designed device went about a pint of gas. Next, a tennis ball. And finally, a match. We ran, expecting a huge WHOMP! and a flaming tennis ball to arch through the summer sky into the baseball diamond behind our neighbor's house. What actually happened was the gasoline leaked out of the bottom of the mortar and caught merrily on fire. The puddle of burning gas spread out on our lawn and we charred about 50 square feet of grass and dandelions. Kinda' funny...now.

Number 4 - fluorescent light bulbs. I had this sweet gig at my summer camp working maintenance before all the kids showed up. Good money, clean living. Every spring we would hit the grounds and clean up after long, hard New Hampshire winters. Little bit of this, little bit o' that. Learned how to sweat joints, a bit of carpentry, and even took a turn with dowsing rods. But the light bulbs, oh man. For some reason there were like 60 of these long-ass fluorescent bulbs that were no good and me and a buddy were tasked to get rid if them.

So we load up this flatbed with the bulbs and a bunch of other crap and drove over to this massive, empty dumpster the size of a tractor-trailer. I climbed up into the bed of our truck and grabbed one of these 6 foot long bulbs and tossed it overhand like a spear, not really thinking about it as I let go. The sucker flew straight as an arrow and disintegrated in this amazing slow-motion implosion. It was beautiful. For the next fifteen minutes, me and John threw these oddly graceful tubes of glass into the side of the dumpster, howling like mad men as they transformed from tubes to dust in a split second. We dreamed we were Zeus, hurling thunderbolts from Olympus. We were gods, wearing Dickeys and leather gloves.

Number 3 - oh, brother, what hath thy done? I was not a fan of church as a kid. Pretty much fought my parents like a feral cat when they woke me up Sunday mornings and said, "It's time for church, buddy." About every six weeks or so I'd outlast mom and dad, freaking out so royally they probably figured bringing the Antichrist with Tourette Syndrome to church was not gonna' look too good. Of course, I'd get grounded, but hell, once you go ape shit, go all the way, right? Two weeks with no television versus not having to sit in church listening to some wacky sermon I didn't understand, the whole time making paper airplanes out of the bulletin. Easy time, brothers and sisters, easy time.

So this one Sunday I go nutty, push my parents over the edge, get grounded, and get to climb back in bed. I'm in under the covers, wondering why my parents still love me and I hear this hiss, followed by an angry gurgle, followed by a muted thump, and culminated by a mad cackle from my brother. (I think I was still ten; it was a very good year) A few minutes pass, same drill. A few more minutes, repeat.

Okay, so now I'm curious because the next sound I hear is the bathtub draining in the kids' bathroom. And then my brother is whipping off my covers and dragging me out of bed, saying "You gotta see this, you gotta see this!" And I'm in the bathroom and he's holding up a bottle rocket. And I'm looking at him and I've got no idea what the hell I'm supposed to see. I've seen bottle rockets before, no big whup. And he goes into this frenzied, breathless description about shooting the things into the tub and how they whip around in the water like angry bees, and I'm looking at him like a dolt, and he looks at the empty tub and figures he can shoot one into the toilet and I'll get the big thrill.

So, before I can even start to get worried, he lights this rocket and it shoots out of his hand into the 1/2 pint of water at the bottom of the toilet. It hisses and bubbles and, wham! There is this big old hole in the bottom of the crapper. I look at him and he looks at me. I say, "Hey, I think you blew up the toilet." And he says, "Naw." And I, with even thinking about it, reach into the toilet and bring out this honkin' piece a porcelain and hold it up. "No, you blew up the toilet."

Number 2 - Duck, you sucker. Okay, so when I was kid we had records. Yeah, I'm that old. And back in the day, our parents mostly left us to our own devices. So me and this good buddy were bored with our Legos or whatever, so we decided to play some of my mom's records. We were that bored. Neil Sedaka, Paul Anka, stuff like that.

One of the album covers had this brunette totally covered in whipped cream, showing a tad of cleavage. Racy. After holding the cover at every possible angle to see if we could look down this woman's breasts (no luck...), I flipped the jacket at my buddy and the damn thing flew like a Frisbee, nearly clipping my pal in the head. He picked up a record, without thinking it all the way through, and gunned it at me. So like a pound of vinyl came winging at my head at mach 2, missed me by a hair, and shattered on the wall of my living room.

Smart kids would have crapped their pants and hidden the evidence. We obviously ate a few too many paint chips, 'cause we grabbed two armfuls of my mom's records and hauled butt over to the park near my house. We spent the next hour winging records at each other like little rabid ninjas. When they broke, we flung the jagged pieces at each other. It was really, really fun. God, how I didn't end up hurt or sent to reform school, I will never know. My poor mother...

Number 1 - Down with the ship. My dad's sister won this sunfish by saving labels from Kool cigarettes, but she lived in Rochester and we lived on the ocean, so she gave us the boat. So one day in 1975 this truck pulls up and off-loads this sailboat. I'm a kid and I'm happy that we got a boat. My dad, he is practically bursting with pride. We haul this 12 foot rig up to the local family beach every Saturday for the next few summers, and dad teaches us the basics of sailing. When you are seven, that is called bonding with dad.

When you turn fifteen and dad -- who is six foot, two inches -- still crams his ass into the Styrofoam sunfish (yeah, no wonder my aunt gave it to us...), it's called future therapy sessions. Hell, he loved this boat so much he actually fiberglassed it to get it to last longer. I think sometime after I turned twenty, he finally gave up on the idea he and I were gonna' go sailing in it again and used it to store the recycling in the garage. He couldn't throw away anything, and certainly not his prized possession, his yacht.

Well, dad passed away when I was thirty. By that time, I had learned to love everything about the guy. Except the damn boat, which was still in the garage full of old Boston Globes and Opera Digests. And my poor mom, she needed to do a bit a cleaning and saying goodbye, so she called the local dump and they told her the freakin' boat would cost $600 to dispose of because -- in 1998 -- it was considered a hazardous-material! She was on the verge of tears. Her heart was tearing up, as she was mourning my dad, but she hated the damn boat as much as me. I gave her a hug and asked her to go to the store to get me a diet coke or something random.

As soon as she left the house, I got out some big ole' contractor bags and an axe, and knocked that fucker into fifty pieces. Stuffed 'em into the bags. Drove up to the dump, and merrily pitched the bags into the maw of the town's massive compactor. Not the greenest move ever, but when mom got home, no boat. She looked at me, I looked at her, and that was that. Loved my dad, but bustin' that boat up probably saved my mom.

I have a respectable job nowadays. I don't get to break much, and I keep a close eye on my son. Someday, though, I'm gonna have to find some crap around the house we don't need or want, and he and I are gonna bust it all to hell. And then watch Myth Busters together.

Prime Number Theory or Zombies?

2009-04-21T19:48:00.000-04:00

I used to be smart. Not rocket scientist smart, but not the dimmest bulb in the chandelier, either. But given a choice between studying prime number theory or reading about zombie holocausts, I lately seem to opt for spending time with shambling, walking moaning dead.

Maybe I was exposed to too many fumes from old fashioned model glue when I was a kid - I wonder if my parents ever questioned how quiet I was as I put together Zeros, Wildcats, and Mustangs? Or were they just glad I was quiet.

Maybe the mercury I used to play with on my desk in my bedroom, extracted from a broken thermometer I accidentally purposely broke and the pirated from my 10th grade chemistry class play a role in my diminished capabilities?

Maybe the seven or eight diagnosed and undiagnosed concussions play a factor? Beside getting hit in the head of the sledge hammer, I flipped off a second story porch and landed on my pumpkin, got cold cocked walking out of a bar in New Orleans, played football for 8 years, and did any number of stupid and silly things that rang my brain-bell a bit too loudly.

Another possibility -- which is more chilling, frankly -- is that I'm not dumber as I get older. Could it be that that I'm the still reasonably bright guy I was years ago, but that I like -- prefer -- reading Zombie fiction? Is it possible that, while I find prime number theory fascinating, I get more emotional satisfaction reading about dead people eating living people, who become dead people, who then try to eat yet other living people? What's up with that?

But here's my cold-hearted self-reflection for the day. Prime number theory is spinach. Zombies are buffalo chicken wings. I eat spinach 'cause it's good for me. I eat wings because I love them.

I suppose it's also possible that I'm just dummer and like crap that's basically bad for me...

2009-04-20T08:06:00.000-04:00

Okay, I never quite got this Cialis ad. What's the point of having perma-wood if you don't touch your wife? And the water in the tub would get wicked cold. Shrinky, shrinky. Frankly I think this would have been much more effective as a plug for Extenze.

Oh, you think that hurts? Well...

2009-04-18T21:52:00.000-04:00

Here's a strange little phenomenon I've noticed with the kids I have taught over the years - they like to talk about scars. I've had some great, special moments with kids, magic moments where they have the "Aha!' moment or master some skill, or sometimes let me know that the mom and dad are getting a divorce.

But one universal conversation I have every year - a really fun, everyone-gets-to-play sort of conversation - revolves around getting hurt. Maybe the unifier is that no matter how different we are, no matter what age we are, no matter what our parents do for a living, we all wipe out once in awhile. Good solid, emergency room trips for stitches wipe outs. Medical intervention required. I.V. tubes a bonus. Surgery? Golden.

I mean, we all eventually go ass-over-tea kettle on our bikes, right? That's good for a concussion or 9 stitches on the chin. Half the people I know have walked through a glass storm door and need to be sewn up after. I have students or former students who have fallen out of bunk beds and broken arms, had sisters push them wonky and knocked them off a porch, been run over by a out-of-control snowboarder. Man, they love to tell me about a gusher or a compound fracture or some 106 degree fever they survived.

These revelations always start when some kid makes it back to school after a bout of conjunctivitis or pneumonia, or some overnight in the hospital. I tell 'em how glad I am they are back at school, which I mean whole heartedly. And cause I'm a klutz and stupid and love to do dumb things at least once in awhile, I can always commiserate. "Oh, yeah, I had pink eye in 10th grade." Or "My son, he stuck his hand in a bowling ball return machine and almost lost a finger." Or "Yeah, you remember when I left school last year to have neck surgery? We were playing Flinch, 'member? You were there. It was a rainy day recess!"

I have an ace. When some kid tells about his uncle who fell out of a third floor apartment while trying to fix a gutter downspout, I pull out my card. "Yeah, well I got hit in the head with sledge hammer." Kids love that one. I don't know why, but they do. Maybe 'cause I'm still here. Maybe 'cause they like to know their teachers are mortal and bit stupid. Maybe they like gore, who knows. But most times when I roll out the sledge hammer story, the groups gets quiet and there are a few nods of approval. They rub their arm which used to be in a cast, or scratch their scalp where some E-room doc glued a bleeder closed, or maybe think of Uncle Jimmy who was in a wheel chair all last winter.

And we start to scatter to class or carpool or basketball practice, and I think to myself "Be safe, kids." But not too safe. Scars remind us we are living.

You Using the Whole Fist, Doc?

2009-04-18T08:22:00.000-04:00

So, I have a serious medical condition. It's called Fried-Bender Syndrome, and it's very rare, and very painful, and chronic, and non-specific, AND asymptomatic. But just 'cause there are no signs of the disease doesn't mean I don't have it.

I know I suffer from this malady because I self-diagnosed. I'm qualified, you see, to make a diagnosis because my wife is qualified to make a diagnosis. She's qualified because her sister is a doctor. I believe technically that makes me a Doctor-in-Law, but that sound pretentious or distant --off putting -- and I want my patients to feels like I care. Just call me Doctor.

Another reason I'm qualified to make this diagnosis is because I made up the name for the syndrome; making up a syndrome name has certain perks, naming rights if you will. Right number one...diagnosis authority. Voila.

So this condition, you may not have heard of it, right? There are random and disconnected symptoms. This is TRUE, I swear. I get disabling stomach pains. Like the feeling of getting kicked in the lemons, but higher. It always comes on at night. This little freight-train of joy -- thankfully -- happens infrequently. Over the eleven years I've had it, I've gotten pretty good at hearing the train whistle way off in the distance. I can hustle the kids off to bed, get some work done, say good night to my wife, and so forth. Then I find the bathroom farthest away from anyone and barf my brains out. It usually lessens the pain. Then I brush my teeth.

I'm not bulimic, but thanks for the concern. I like eating as much as the next guy, may be a little more, if you know what I mean. But after putting up with this weird little ritual for two-three years, I talked with my wife about my concern. Remember, she's almost a doctor. We looked at diet. Nothing. Stress. Not really. Food allergies. Nope. Years went by. The kids grew up and started to noticed that once in awhile Dad puked.

So when my kids noticed my syndrome, I had had enough of putting up with Fried-Bender and set an appointment with my doctor. He actually went to med school - apparently that provides additional skills that my wife and I did not possess - who knew?

This is where it gets awkward for my audience. The fellas out there know that when you approach 40, anytime you tell your doctor that your digestive system is out of whack, they are gonna check the Exit Door. That scares us (the man-boys). And the chicas? Not a lot of sympathy coming my way, given that doctors prod around their pipes from like 13 years old on up.

But man-boys, we are conditioned. Especially if you are old enough to have seen Fletch. I see anyone put on a Latex glove, I hear strands of Moon River in my head. Every time. School nurse puts on a glove to help a first grader with a bloody nose? Moon River. Watching C.S.I. and that chick that used to be on West Wing puts on a glove to pick-up a shell casing? Moon River.

So, in the days ahead of my appointment, The Voices start in. "You are gonna get probed. You are gonna get probed by a 300 hundred pound man with a goatee. You are gonna get probed by a 300 pound woman woman with a mustache. Something is gonna get stuck in the Exit Door and you're gonna end up in the Emergency Room, ass-n'ked, face down, with the hand of some orderly STUCK in the Badlands." Yeah, The Voices can be cruel.

So, I drive on over to the good doctor's office. I'm controlling The Voices and I really want to figure out this stomach pain thing. Enough already, right? I'm sweating lightly. Tell the doctor about my history and the first thing he says is, "We better check your lower G.I." Okay, I knew it was coming, so I shush The Voices. I'm a bit startled by his use of "we" but I'm good, I'm in control. I knew at least he was not gonna probe me. Come one, after years of med school and a successful practice, anal exam have to be the first thing a good doctor delegates. I'm right, because he says to me, "I'll go get the nurse-practitioner." The Voices scream, "Dead man walking. Here comes the pain. Here comes the humiliation." I begin to pray to God. I never pray, so I know the odds that God is listening to my frequency are not good. But I pray nevertheless. "Small fingers, small finger, small fingers. Blind man, small fingers, blind man, small fingers..."

Things go awry when the door opens. Apparently God hears my prayer but he has a very good sense of humor. Very clever guy, this God. Because into exam room number 5 walks the hottest medical staffer I have ever seen. M.I.L.F. Babe. Fantasy material. Sultry. And she has small hands, really pretty hands. The Voices love this! "A hot chick is gonna see you naked. Don't pop a wood..."

I'm married. I like being married. I have never been naked around another woman since I got married. I belong to my wife in really good ways. I'm old skool. But The Voices, they are bastards. "She's hot. Damn, she's hot. She's gonna like you. She's gonna lay her hands on you and you are gonna be naked. You, my friend, are gonna get seduced in exam room number five." The Voices even dig up some cheesy porn-soundtrack music to play in my head.

So, I'm on my side before I know it. Facing away from Nurse M.I.L.F., thank you GOD. She leans close to me and quietly says into my ear, "This will be easy." Oh, The Voices are going bananas now. "Wha-hoo! Bring it on!" And this one Little Voice I can barely hear says, "She sees all sort of asses everyday. This isn't fun for her. This is her job, dude. She isn't gonna find this awkward. Sure, if she has to stick her finger in someone's ass today, you might not be the worst. But NOTHING is going to HAPPEN." I focus on this one Little Voice.

Glove snaps. Moon River. I'm sweating. Nurse Hottie's hand on my hip. I stop breathing. EXIT DOOR breached. I am definitely not breathing. EXIT DOOR exited. Breathing again.

She leans in again and quietly says, "There you go. That wasn't too bad."

Sister, you have no idea.

I've decided to stick to self-diagnosis. The therapy for Fried-Bender is to lay off eating 5 pounds of french fries for my first and only meal at dinner time, add some fiber, and drink more water. It seems to be working. Maybe I am a doctor.

Are you surprised? Really? Come on, really?

2009-04-16T22:17:00.000-04:00

...Binghamton, New York

...Pittsburgh

...Wampum, Pennsylvania

That's this month. After the Virginia Tech shootings two years ago -- or Columbine ten years ago -- why does anyone express surprise at the horror of mass shootings or demonstrate shock when some poor 11-year old kid kills his soon-to-be step-mother? It is NOT the horror some people feel when they learn of these tragedies that knocks me for a loop -- Christ, these shootings damn well better horrify us. No, what knocks me out is that people actually seem genuinely surprised, shocked by these shootings. What does it say about me that I'm more surprised to learn there is town named Wampum than someone was shot there?

Shocked? Come on, really? What would shock me, what would surprise me, would be when there are no mass shootings for awhile, no stories of inner city kids getting shot inside their apartments during drug-deals-gone-bad, no kids killing their cousins while playing with dear old dad's loaded Glock 17.

Folks, shock should be reserved for shit that happens that doesn't happen all the time. Little green aliens, shock! Jesus among us again, shock! The Cubs win, the Cubs win...yep, shock. 14 people gunned down trying to learn English? Nope, it's just Friday.

If anyone bothers to read this post, I predict two kinds of responses. First, let's imagine the nice folks who have never been around guns or been victimized during a gun crime or just live in some happy suburban bubble. Those nice folks (...and I'm almost one of 'em) are gonna think I'm a bastard (cold hearted bastard, how could he not be shocked?), because they are darned shocked when they learned about some poor town half away across this country that gets ripped inside out when some quiet, shy neighbor goes loco and kills his ex-wife, her mom, her two kids, and the neighbor who came out on the porch when she heard the gunfire. These nice folks are gonna try to tell me they were shocked when they heard that the shooter's neighbors were shocked that the shooter went loco. Come on, you were NOT shocked. Look in the mirror. Fine, you were horrified, but shocked? Nah, you were horrified, turned off CNN, and took your kid to softball practice.

The second response group? Kind of a muddle, this one. An amalgam. I'll be nice and call them the Patriotic Brotherhood of the Second Amendment. The P.B.S.A. has an eclectic membership. Handful of legit hunters, some military guys (retired, active), toss in some angry white guys (...and I am one of those), couple of RNC members, Wayne LaPierre, and some underemployed 20-somethings; like I said...an amalgam. Odd bedfellows. Whatever. Their response will be rather less monolithic. There might be a "enforce the guns laws" comment or two, perhaps a "right to bear arms" thought shared. Even money that one comment cryptically warns the Federal Government is a threat and we need the guns, and I kinda' expect I'll be called a pussy, although it will be misspelled P-U-S-Y. But all of those comments will miss the mark, friends. I'm not railing against guns, kids. I'm simply saying drop the shocked bit, would ya'?

With all of the guns kicking around, shit, people are gonna get SHOT. Duh. Are people shocked when there is a traffic accident? No. Hurt? Maybe. Scared, sure. Not shocked, though. With all of the millions of cars out there, we all half expect to get run over twice a week on the way to work. No surprise when it happens. But with millions of guns in millions of homes, we are going to keep being shocked when random people get shot by other random people? Stop it. You are not shocked. You might be faking it.

So, let's make a deal. Let's retire 'shock' and 'surprise' in this arena. It's unseemly. We come across as posers. Let's focus on being horrified. I think a lot of us are horrified. Maybe not horrified enough, but I think at least it's real feeling. My only real concern about horrified is that it will soon be meaningless, too.

You see, when my brother was shot and killed by a neighbor, I was 'shocked' and 'surprised' for awhile. I have spent a long time being 'horrified', and truth be told, it's starting to wear off. I think resigned is next.

When The Phone Rings

2009-04-16T20:25:00.000-04:00

So, parents of young kids, you know that finding time to "get some" with your loved one is pretty hard. Christ, there were times when our kids were very little that finding time to fool around was like orchestrating a landing on the freakin' Moon. Everything-- everything -- had to go right.

Most days, I played it like this. Saturday, mid-afternoon. "Okay, second child is down for a nap (early in sleep cycle, but not too early), first born child perched in front of Barney (early into video tape, but not too early) -- in the basement, where there will be adequate distance from the raucous love making about to occur on the second floor." Sound barriers, check. Better shoot for noise discipline, so I'm going to ratchet down from 'raucous' to 'gentle' or even just 'awake'.

"Next, find wife." Hope she showered since going to work Friday. Don't hold out hope and I'm desperate anyway.

"Apply moves." Given this phase of life, "moves" translates to a head nod towards upstairs. My wife usually obliges -- she likes me. Some days she even takes off her bright yellow rubber gloves that she was wears when she scrubs the kitchen.

"Perform act." No details available.

So this one particular Saturday, we had won the nooky lottery. Our oldest child had goddamn, honest-to-god midday, four hour play date. Our youngest is practically begging for a nap before our Play Date Mom Heroine has even turned the corner of our street. Yeah, she picked up. So second child is tucked in asleep before the front door swings shut and my wife, anticipating the 'moves' has already gone upstairs to primp. Primp! Holy shit, I'm gonna win. I'm a Red Sox fan and I know suffering. This is like my own personal "1918 - in your face Yankees, four game comeback, World Series win" moment, but with sex. I'm gonna win.

So we are at 'it' quick. It's not art, mind you. But it's good. Fun. We are worriers, so the phone is close by and there is an unspoken agreement. If the Play Date Mom Heroine calls to say our child is miserable, we will pick-up. Begrudgingly.

So we are 45 seconds into what promises to be 270 seconds of the best fun we had had together in months when the phone rings. You saw that coming, of course. My wife actually pauses before she lunges for the phone. She paused before she pounced on the phone, at least. She loves me.

"Hello," she answers. She sounds husky. Pause. Recognition. Pause. "Yeah, he's right here."

My wife hands me the phone. Why me? She can tell Play Date Mom Heroine we'll be right over to pick up crying/puking/skinned knee child, right?

"It's Jane W_ _ _ _ _ _ _," is all she says. Jane is my mom's best friend. What the hell is she calling for. I have a conscious thought that I'm not going to get laid after all. I was going to be Billy Bucknered by a middle-aged lady in Maine, for Christ's sake.

"Hey, Jane," I say into the phone. I feel surreal but I don't know why.

"Peter, it's your mom, honey. She's gone." Jane's voice cracked.

So did I.

Beef sticks anyone?

2009-04-16T19:43:00.001-04:00

I'm all out of my dirty little secret, so I head to the Mobile station (a.k.a. drug dealer) down the road from my house to stock up.

I go in and ask the dude behind the counter for three tins. Routine. Except it's three instead of two. Nah, I don't have a problem. He asks to check my I.D. For the fourth time. I'm 41 years old. Sure, I'm too old to chew but, Christ, I'm too old to be carded, right?

Odd thing, but I like convenience counter clerks. They are wacky folks by nature. I try to imagine how the hell they ended up working second or third shift at a Mobil Mart. I wonder if I could hack it. Does it require a degree? But the clerks, they are okay mostly. I'm polite, so maybe that's why they warm up to me. They tell me all sorts of shit. One dude nearby has two thumbs on one hand, this little extra digit that sort of protrudes benignly (hey, it might even be angling for jauntily) from his other -- real? -- thumb. Wicked nice guy, though. Last time I was in, he was trying to pick up this hot chick who was buying lottery tickets or some shit. I admired his pluck, but come on, what are the chances she's gonna hang around the pumps 'til his shift is over?

I digress. So I'm at the Mobil Mart tonight, thinking to myself that getting I.D.'d for chew at 41 is either funny or fucking pathetic, when I notice a plastic box on the counter full of meat. Really. When I first walked in, I was checking to see if there was any Copenhagen, and then I eyeballed the 3-pound Reese Peanut Butter nougat ass expander. I didn't notice -- at first -- the black walled and clear top Lexan box with convenient pull-drawer Meat Stick dispenser. But damn if I didn't start to fixate on that little modern convenience. I mean, who doesn't want a Meat Stick from a Mobil Mart? "Yeah, I'll put $20 on pump 4, two scratch tickets, black coffee and ...whoa! a couple of Meat Sticks." They're two for a freakin' dollar, brother. Get four. Then I notice there are two of these Meat Stick magic boxes on the counter. These little babies must be hot sellers.

And the dude, he looks at me and I look at him. He sort of shyly says, "Yeah, I got here today and they (...right, the THEY people) told me to push the Meat Sticks." No shit? No shit.

Chuckling to myself, I left the Mart and headed back to my truck, thinking we are going to Hell in a Prado knock off. I'm mean, what pathetic -- fat? -- fuck would buy meat from a Mobil Mart counter? And right about when I was feeling sorry for -- and a bit ashamed of -- this nameless, faceless loser, I put my hand in my coat pocket and felt the reassuring presence of my three tins of Copenhagen.