Die You Little Bastards

One of my friends has cancer. I’m sure there is never a good time to get this news, but being young and having small children seems like the shittiest possible time to take this kind of challenge head on.

Anyways, I made the mistake of reading their update before I attempted to go to bed for the night, but only accomplished a mixture of cursing my pillow and making lists in my head.

The thing about a new disease is that sports metaphors surface as an analogy for the treatment. These metaphors might be needed to help us wrap our minds around an invisible “them” that only surfaces in test results or reports.

Since I have no medical knowledge and limited magical ability (none of which is applicable in this situation), I do have a suggestion that make the Man vs. Cancer easier to conceptualize….The Cancer needs a characterization. In sports, there is always a THEM.

In this case, since my friend is an OSU fan, I suggest that we call this cancer MICHIGAN. (I would call my cancer "Phil Collins" and I bet his wife would call her cancer "driving the speed limit")

Let the doctors use their fancy medical terms, we can show our support by saying:

“Hope you kick Michigan’s ass this week”

“Remember, only John Cooper let’s Michigan get him down”

“Yeah, Michigan does suck”

Again, I got nothing here of tangible value, just suggestions to kick around while your sitting in the hospital going through treatment. If there is any good news, this is not a great time for the state of Michigan or their famed football program. I guess if you have to fight Michigan, this is the time to do it. There is something to be said for good timing.

Since this is the extent of my contributions, I will just say “Good luck against Michigan this week!!!!”

Holy Shit

Do you ever have one of those moments where two separate and seemingly benign events merge in your head, creating a juxtaposition that makes the world a little bit clearer? I had one of these moments yesterday as an outcome of the most unlikely of daily chores--- a dirty diaper.
For those of you that are in the process of snacking and are members of the Too Much Bodily Information Society (my old crew), I’ll sanitize this version and only say that my boy Q had a blowout. For the most part, blowouts are not that uncommon of events, but they still leave me in a state of shock when they turn up. Being an old pro at this daddy gig, I do my fatherly chore of ½ cleaning and ½ calf roping with the minimal level of swearing, while mixing in my rendition of Elmo’s world.

As we returned to the living room, I found my corner of the couch and Q returned to playing with his “Life in the Manger- Baby Jesus Action Figure Set”. As my head tipped back and I watched my boys replicate battle between the Wise Men and some random Smurf figures (yes, we add a few new adoring figures to compliment the set) my mind was flooded with some new Christmas questions:

Did Baby Jesus have monster blowouts that made Joseph look to the heavens in bewilderment?

Since Jesus was born long before Pampers, what did they use as diapers in 0 HN and what long term damage did these occurrences’ cause?(Speaking of which, what is the proper calendar reference for the time Jesus had taking the human form? It’s no longer B.C and not yet A.D. In the absence of an answer, I’ll just call it HN- Here Now).

Was a monster blowout the origin for the phrase JESUS CHRIST!!!!!?
This expression is quickly followed by the question—What is your mother feeding you?

Did Jesus ever get in trouble at family gathering for horseplay (camel play?) with his cousin John the Baptist?

Was it impossible to get the family together for holiday gatherings since John’s family was Baptist and celebrated Christmas, while Jesus’ family was Jewish and observed Hanukah?

Did Jesus ever feel resentful that only got presents once a year- Birthday and Christmas on the same day? I think this might have been overshadowed by the fact that his biological father sent him to be beaten, dragged through street while being ridiculed and then nailed to a large wooden structure?

Did Mary ever have to have the following conversation when dealing with Jesus’ and his toddler siblings James or Jude?

"Push, Me” announces little James
“Who pushed you son? Asks his concerned mother.
“Jesus” replies a crying sibling.
“Jesus, what have I told you about doing unto others?”
“He took my sandal” Jesus explains.
“Come on son, you are the Prince of Peace. Stop shoving your brothers”

In retrospect, maybe these thoughts brought out more questions than revelations. I do feel a new bond with Joseph, as a member of some Dad’s Club. According to the tale, Jesus took the human form for his 33 years, so I guess the real moral to the story is that child rearing is difficult whether you are raising the Messiah or your own brood. In the end, everyone has to deal with some degree of Shit!

WHAT DID I MISS?

Where the Hell have you been?

Ok, Ok. I’ll admit that I’ve most likely violated some level of implied pact between writer and reader. In said relationship, I agree to write things that are humorous and in general don’t suck, while you dear reader are morally obligated to faithfully read each essay with a sense of amusement while withholding any comment about my many typographical errors.

Over the past few months I’ve frequently heard the question, “Why aren’t you writing?” This is a fair question and I’ve attempted to answer it myself. From time to time I’ve even found myself checking this site myself, hoping to see something new posted. I too feel a little twinge of disappointment when I have to see the same old Mother’s Day Card Post. (It doesn’t escape me that this is totally irrational behavior since I am the sole contributor to this site, yet it has happened multiple times). On the surface, I wasn’t writing anything fresh. But there was a deeper subconscious reason that I came to realize my lack of writing.

The real reason I haven’t been posting……….. I didn’t want to die!!!!!!!

I read an article a few months ago about technology Bloggers who were keeling over dead from the continuous stress of posting. Not from mainlining heroin or eating too much of that delicious port wine cheese spread….from blogging. I lay in bed at night wondering:

Can Blogs Kill?

I’d heard that Woodie’s guitar killed fascists and the pen was mightier than the sword, but were blogs a loaded gun pointed at a writers head? What have I gotten myself into?

As the winter weather broke into spring, I closed my laptop and decided to refill the place in my head where good writing originates. Since then, I’ve been spending my free time either reading and studying, trying to see things from a different perspective. For the first three quarters of my life, I’ve measured years on a rolling calendar of August to June. The few summer months in between were used to slow down and look around (sage advice borrowed from Mr. Ferris Bueller), take a swim and read about whatever interested me for that day. My calendar is now synced with Corporate America, which runs on a calendar of budget cycle to budget cycle without a break for individual discovery. This summer, I’m trying to relive that summer of investigation.

Then a few days ago, I heard a news report about an 108 year old blogger. Like the previous bloggers, she had also assumed room temperature. Making it to 108 made me wonder if blogging was the death sentence that I earlier suspected. Up to this point I’d never heard of Ms. Olive or her site. With no previous frame of reference I’m left to wonder if her long life was a by product of her dedicated blogging, her strong genetic constitution, or maybe the fact that she was writing geriatric erotica while maintaining a diet high in vegemite. Whatever her secret to a long life was, she made it to 108 and I began looking for the right time to revive the WhiteBoard.

Just as my search began for a sign, the universe complied.

For my money, there is no better spectator entertainment than human acts of vanity gone wrong…..well, other than police car chases broadcast live from a news helicopter.

My sole purpose for watching pageants, award shows or high school plays is to see someone trip and fall down. It is not that I wish life altering harm to anyone; I just want to see how they are going to react when the unexpected happens. I take full responsibility for this deviant joy and fully expect the karma of the universe to extract revenge at some point in my life. This is why I try to be very mindful of being in front of large groups. In my heart I know someone, somewhere is silently wishing “Fall, Fall, Fall”. Judge if you wish, but what is your reaction when you see this? (If you are using a reader, you have to visit the site for full effect)








I got you universe----I’m getting back to it.

OPEN NOTE TO HOLLYWOOD:

If there were some way to combine police chases and people falling, I would be hooked. I don’t think I’m the only one. I believe there is an untapped demographic of reality/trauma based viewer that is willing to invest more of their leisure time given the right opportunity. And by the way, if there is any way you could sprinkle in trivia questions or those little factoid bubbles from VH-1’s Pop Up Video, I might never leave the house again.

The Perfect Card

I'm always ready for a good quest. By quest I mean any expiditon that doesn't involve extended time (read--more than 15 mintues) inside a major retail establishment, require me to speak with more than 3 people in a 12 hour peroid of time, or any activity that might require shaving or a tie. Yeah, I love a good quest.

This week, I decided to put Hallmark’s reputation to the test and to see if they really did have a greeting card for any occasion. With Mother’s day around the corner, I was in search of the perfect card to say “ To my wife--in spite of it almost killing you (literally) twice, thanks for the two great boys and have a Happy Mother’s Day”. I figured there must be one or two card options with colorful, non-cartoon options, out there for just this type of circumstance.

As I was reading though the available cards, I was distracted by the message printed on a light coral green card displayed in the Mother’s Day Card section. “To My Dad’s Wife, Thanks for Making Dad so Happy”. It took a minute for my mind to digest this statement. I needed a minute to analyze the situation,“If it’s Dad’s wife, wouldn’t that be their Mom…ah, step-mom…oh, step-mom that is not highly regarded…ah ha, welcome to reality”.

I was then distracted by one of the boys or some shiny object inside the store, so I failed to look inside the card to see the rest of the greeting. Ever since then, I’ve been creating my own insert to the card. Here are a few of the possible options:

To My Dad’s Wife, Thanks for Making Dad so Happy…..

… I’m still not going to call you Mom.

… It’s still creepy that your 10 years younger than me.

… FYI, a bikini top is not acceptable to wear to a 5 year-old’s birthday party (did you notice the absence of a pool).

… But please stop telling people we look alike.

… Although I still think you are a gold digging bitch.

I never did find the card for my wife that I was looking for, so I instead opted to focus on a more traditional card to express my love while apologizing for wrecking cars. It’s always harder around the holidays to be on the fringe of the general population.

Happy Mother’s Day to everyone who played the role of human incubation machine.

Back and Refreshed??

I have a very clear memory of being 9 years old and wondering if I would always have to vacation with my parents or if I would someday take a trip on my own. At the age of 9, I had financial standing, no ability to venture beyond the limited distances available to my BMX, and no idea where the roads lead beyond my town. As I sat in our southbound van, I tried to understand how grown ups knew where to go, what to do, and questioned whether I would someday be able to travel independent of them.

As I grew older, I found a source of income and discovered where the roads lead…..to adulthood. I can officially say that I’ve completed my first vacation where I served as one of the “Adults”. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve traveled a lot since turning 18, but the trips were never as structured or choreographed as the family vacation, where I’m playing the role of the Dad. Trips to this point consisted of a duffle bag of random clothes, a search for a truck stop when hungry, and filling a day of napping, reading and drinking a beer or two. Oh, how the agenda has changed.

On this trip, I was able to spend quality time with the family and show the boys the ocean as I had planned. We were also able to see the sunset on the beach a few times and I witnessed my first shooting star while sitting outside watching the stars come on in the sky. My little Q slowly discovered that I was correct in my warning not to eat the sand, but not until he had his second handful. My objective of reading multiple books was reduced to my week long attempt to finish one Rolling Stone Magazine in between the coming and going of events.

Deep down, I wanted to use this hiatus as a time to listen to what the universe was trying to tell me. I was able to do this and the message that I heard was “NEVER BUY A MINI-VAN”. That’s right, the universe and some higher power is anti Mini-Vans. The great Mini-Van debate has been raging in our house for some time now. We decided to test drive the idea (see what I did there?) and see how family mobile would work while on vacation. Captaining the Mini-Vessel was OK up to the point that I crashed the damn thing while trying to make a right hand turn on Tampa’s illogical, non-liner street system. (Side note: Never utter the phrase “I’m the greatest driver ever”, because you too could end up getting a ticket within 12 minutes. The universe does have a since of humor).

The damage was limited to the front section of the bright red chick magnet, so a little glue + amateur car repair on the front light allowed us to drive the dream machine home. It’s looked like something out of “Pimp my Ride” in an alternate reality where masking tape is the new chrome. I guess if I’m truly listening to the Universe, it also doesn’t want me to own a Lexus—since that is what I hit.

As I drove home in the wee hours of the morning, the vacation turned into a weeklong blur of feedings, changing, baths, and the other normal events of life that don’t go away just because you are sleeping on someone else’s sheets. What stood out were the little moments of ice cream cone runs after dinner, sitting outside under a blanket in the dark, the phrase “there is sand on my toe” uttered 100 times by a little mouth, and the enduring knowledge that these car seats are headed for a Jeep.

It’s time to start resting for the next vacation.

Spring Break

Prompted from a lunch conversation over Gyros, this little blog is quickly approaching it’s 6-month anniversary and ready to celebrate it’s 1300 hits. I’ve been thinking about the appropriate way to celebrate this occurrence and I’ve decided to take the New Years Eve approach—small noise maker followed by some much needed sleep.

I’m taking a mini-sabbatical for the next few weeks to read a few books, teach the kids about sand, and show them the ocean in person. Also, I want to collect my thoughts and see what builds up in my head. I have an illogical optimism about these types of grand results.



When I opened up my Time Magazine to find 100 of the most likely candidates for the PERSON OF THE YEAR award, I was a little shocked not to find my picture. Not that I’ve done anything globally noteworthy, but it would be nice to be nominated. This is the same type of surprise that I experience each year as I’m watching the NBA draft and I’m not selected. I’ve got good floor awareness, I can defend the back door cut, and the Knicks can’t get any worse. I could help.

Anyway, I’m taking a little break from the world of online publishing. If you haven’t already subscribed with and RSS Reader or via Email, now is a good time so you don’t miss anything in early May.

PEACE!!!!!

ps—TIME is taking nominations for new candidates.

Believe in Magic

Today I have a previously unpublished essay entitled HOUSE OF MAGIC posted on Indie Blogger. The essay is a flushed out idea based on an earlier Thought Nugget. Stop over and take a look. Hope you enjoy.

Next Generation of Book Promos

One of my favorite authors has a new book coming out April 15th. Being the addict that I am, I already had plans to buy the book when it came out. Apparently, there are trailers for books now and this one looks good.



Harlan is the real deal. I found his Myron book series about 5 years and went on a bender until I caught up on all the books. I met him a few years back on a book tour look forward to each new release. If he's new to you, check him out.

Can I Follow You?

One of my roles of being a good husband is to spend family time each week while American Idol is broadcast. As my sons dance with the people on TV and my wife provides her color commentary of each contestant (the female version of what happens when I’m watching Poker), I sit and watch marginally talented contestants sing classic songs based on their 90 second interpretations.

I’m not distressed by the amateur talent show quality of the event, but at the reaction of the audience that loses its mind for each performance, as if it really were the Beatles returning from the dead. These Idol fans will cheer for anyone, regardless of their talent level.

The compelling aspect that American Idol is missing is the authenticity of Showtime at the Apollo. Here is a show where a lack of talent will get a contestant booed off stage before they finish their act. The contestants know this coming into the event, so a marginal performance isn’t attempted. Eight Time Grammy Winner Lauren Hill was booed off the stage at age 13 during an amateur night performance. There was nothing polite about it, but the event is grounded in realism. (This reaction to performance followed Lauren Hill later in her life, when Bishop’s walk out during a performance at the Vatican because of editorial content, not her performing ability).

The practice of idolatry is a risky proposition. This behavior can be downright dangerous if you choice to idolize anyone that is still living. Yet, popular culture is rooted in the elevation of individual to mythic proportions, only to await the documentation of their Icarucs like fall back to reality when their true self doesn’t match the public perception that is created. As a safety precaution, the practice of idol worship should be abandoned as a step in the maturation process from childhood to adult—similar to the belief in Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, Social Security or The saving grace of Organized Religion.

The other show that I can’t stop watching is the Moment of Truth, where a contestant is enticed to reveal embarrassing and potentially damaging information in front of loved ones for opportunity to win easy money. The show works because it tears down the unspoken believe of goodness that one person has for their spouse. Relationships work not just because of the things we know about our partners, but also those things that we believe to be true. We want to believe that they are honest, trust worthy and think we look good when we are rolling through the house in our sweat pants and uncombed heads. This show destroys the façade that we are always idolized by our family, just because they are a member of our family.

I too know that I too am susceptible to Idol worship, so I shy aware from meeting those people that I might put on a platform. This caution started when I was when I was in elementary school and saw Huckleberry Hound holding his Huckleberry Head while smoking a cigarette at King’s Island. The seeds questioning authenticity were planted. These seeds matured with an epiphany while at church. I was in the church gym on a weekday and heard something in the sanctuary. When I investigated, I saw the Preacher practicing his sermon for Sunday—- a verbatim delivery of what I would hear Sunday. Up to this point, I didn’t realize that church was a production, just like any other stage show with actors that played a part. Sunday mornings were never the same after that week. The pageantry and spirituality of church melted away and the operational machine of a performance was now visible, like a fog burning off to show the city on the horizon.

So it began-- my fear that the people I look up to in some manner are indeed human and could really be assholes in real life. I decided in most cases, it was better not to know the real person. What would happen if I met Coach K and he had a tremendous case of body odor that created a sensory memory that surfaced every time they were on TV? What if I accepted an outstanding offer to meet Mike Ness (front man for Social Distortion) before a show and as I enter his dressing room I found him watching Fox News, with Genesis playing in the background, as he is getting a cucumber detox face peel?

This is not to disapprovingly characterize those with life altering BO or anyone who likes wrinkle free skin (but you do need to check yourself if you are listening to Fox News or Genesis) they just don’t fit into my vision of what my Idols are about. I’m sure it’s similar to the shock experienced by legions of Anne Rice’s Goth followers when she revealed that she became a born again Christian and no longer subscribed to the world of vampires. But in my world, I want my aging Punk Icons to be a little cantankerous and not in search of a good skin treatment.

Adventures of a Lost Boy

I assumed the fetal position when I returned home from my first workout in six years. I quietly thought to myself, “Honestly, I use to be in shape. I have photographic evidence to prove it”. As I lay very still, I scanned my mind for the time in my life when working out was a staple of my daily routine. This was a long ago time when I was a card carrying member of the Peter Pan Society, where I refused to leave the halls of the closest academic institution that would have me. Since entering the “Real World”, I’ve allowed time to my muscles to enter a stage of atrophy, as I divided my days between a mix of office cubes and non-descript conference rooms—keeping time to the Tic-Tock Crock.

As the weather starts to break, I decided that it’s time to begin my delayed New Year’s Resolution. The first step in this physiological transformation is the reintroduction of physical exertion into my daily life as a planned activity. During the hibernating months of winter, I am comfortable living under the delusion that playing basketball once a week is adequate fitness (this delusion also allows me to believe that I can still compete in a game of hoops with guys younger than me). However, my current physical condition is not reflective of the term “in shape” so, it’s time to begin the springtime metamorphous.

Much like Peter’s return to Neverland, my return to the gym was different than I remembered. The contrast from my days of working out on a college campus in between classes and the world of suburbia took some adjustment.

Rules of the New World-

#1 Good Morning Captain Hook- You have to win the internal debate to get out of bed when the alarm clock goes off. It’s early, it’s cold and every muscle is still asleep. Step One- Feet on the floor. My optimal time of day is late morning, about 10:17 am. If you want to really get the most out of me, you should schedule this time. Unfortunately, the only time that is available in my schedule is 5:30-7:00 am, so I’m forced to rise with those people that have paper routes. This small accomplishment of being vertical will set the tone for the day. Get up, get out, get moving.

#2 Think Big Picture- The first day that I reached the fitness center, I caught myself circling the lot looking for a space closer to the door. If you’re going to get up and go work out, eliminating extra steps to the door is counterproductive. I became hard to rationalize looking for a closer space when I was paying to wake up early and travel to a place where I was going to simulate walking on a stationary devise. (The only exception to this rule is rain—there is never a reason to be wet in the rain) I was a little shocked that I wasn’t the only car in the parking lot, which leads me to #3.

#3 The 80 year old crowd dominates the morning- When you work out early, there are old people everywhere. I thought old people needed their sleep. Is this why they are eating dinner early in the evening? I half expected to see Steve Guttenburg leading a water aerobic class for his fellow Cocoon cast mates. When the bars close at 2:30 am, is this when the old timers come out to play? It’s not entirely awful working out with the older crowd, since they tend to stay on the machines and leave the free weight area for me to be alone. But there are dangers.

#4 I was crop dusted by an old woman- I was sitting on a flat bench, resting between sets, when an grey haired woman in a purple jump suit wandered away from the world of circuit machines and into my world of free weights. Instead of picking any other part of the vacant area, she chose to use the bench next to me to perform her tricep kick-backs. As I resumed my chest presses, I’m suddenly engulfed in the distinct odor of decay. Only two possibilities came to mind; either she is rotting before my eyes or this old bag just farted on me. I cut my set short and returned the weight to the rack as I wondered, “What’s happened to the respect of the elderly these days”?

#5- Coming to terms with your limits- It’s a daily battle between my ego and mind’s reality while working out. Questions like these arise: Is it more disgraceful to struggle while bench pressing 125 lbs or dropping 200 lbs on your chest and cracking your sternum? Should I sacrifice the form while performing bicep curls with the 30 lbs weights or use the small, purple plastic coated 15 lbs. dumbbells. My mind keeps arguing, “We used this weight the last time we worked out”, but idealism doesn’t make the weight move.

#6- Emphasis on Diet- The sudden expenditure of stored calories caused my body to seek replenishment in the tastiest manner possible. With each additional set, thoughts of Philly Cheese Steak or Fresh Glazed Doughnuts fill my mind. It’s critical to resist the urge to stop on the way home for a meal. Each food item must be equated to a workout event. Small French fry= 200 sit ups. I’ve also found that a diet of late night pizza and beer doesn’t enable successful workouts as it did in college. I now need to take some form of Protein supplement to repair my sore muscles or the top part of my hair will never be clean again.

After a few weeks in, the process of transformation is getting better and the incremental results serve as motivation for continued advancement. My expectations have shifted from the days of running with the other Lost Boys and finding constant adventures, to improving my overall health and impressing my darling “Wendy”.