Just Thought Ya'll Should Know

Today is Texas Independence Day.

On this day in 1836 the Texas Declaration of Independence was created at the Convention of 1836 at Washington-on-the-Brazos.

This marks the most badass moment in the history of the world.

Everything I Needed to Know About Life I Learned at Scruffy Murphy's

Scruffy Murphy's is a nominally Irish and fully dilapidated bar in Waco, Texas. The floors are concrete. The walls are tagged with all sorts of writing and drawings conveying all sorts of messages, mostly inappropriate. Of the six or so pool tables in the bar, none has a clean, unscarred felt surface or all of the required balls. This means -and I've seen this done- missing balls are shared among tables playing at the same time. A straight cue stick is a pipe dream. Every drink is served in a plastic cup or from a cold bottle. The odd assortment of furniture that comprises the seating on the patio was salvaged from fast food restaurants that couldn't make the grade. I once spent an evening at Scruff's (as the initiated call it) during a thunderstorm. There were more buckets catching rain water from the many holes in the roof than there were patrons at the bar. One of the two urinals in the men's restroom is usually out of order and the door to said restroom, if opened wide enough, exposes anyone relieving oneself to pretty much the entire length of the bar. Scruff's is an unapologetic shithole.

In short, it's my favorite bar.

The usuals at the bar are mostly upper classmen and townies, but at about closing time the population of the bar swells to standing room only as people who struck out at the nicer bars look for one last chance to meet (the running joke is "meat") that special someone, emphasis on someone. The one exception to this routine is St. Patrick's Day when the bar is packed inside and out from about six in the afternoon to closing time. I have thought on more than one occasion that the bar survives the other 364 days of the year on the profits it makes every March 17th.

In the many nights I spent at Scruff's (many more than I'd care to admit), I learned some valuable truths that have been proven again and again as I attempt to navigate my way through this caustically funny life we all try to seem so good at.

- Karaoke is one of the last great egalitarian endeavors of our time. One can absolutely belt out a song with perfect pitch and confident showmanship and receive the same cheers of appreciation as one who mumbles and strains one's way through a song one had no business singing in the first place. It's not about being good, it's about entertaining an audience. Humor and courage can get you through most situations even when talent is lacking.

- Finding a mate is as much about ratios and good fortune as it is about being really, really good looking. Anyone who has spent much time at a bar at closing time can attest to this. There's really no rhyme or reason to love -and I use the word loosely here -it's about meeting someone with the same goals at the same time.

- Never ever, ever, ever get into a drinking contest. Ever. They're dumb, unsafe, unhealthy and do very little to prove anything about anyone other than the fact that those participating are desperate to prove their worth to their peers. This is sort of the lush's version of keeping up with the neighbors. Just because you own a Porsche doesn't mean I need to buy a Ferrari. In the end, we're both assholes.

- There are very few things worth getting in a fight over and almost none of those things happen at bars. Having said that, there is no shortage of people in this world who will fight at bars over girls, perceived slights, lewd gestures from the karaoke stage, or spilled drinks. Avoid those people. If you can't, there's no shame in walking away.

- If you should ever find yourself in the back of a truck, in Mexico, in the early morning, on the way to a drug dealer's house, you have made some poor choices in life. Reassess your decisions and friends but remember every detail of your adventure so you can recount the story to people like me at a bar like Scruffy Murphy's. A well told story goes a long way.

- Never, ever, ever, ever piss off the bartender. There are multiple ways to do this in a crowded bar, but all of them can be avoided if one remembers to not be an asshole. Servers are underappreciated and have to deal with the type of people who get in fights at bars. Be patient. Be clear. Say thank you. Tip well.

- If you should find yourself airborne and parallel to the ground after having been thrown out of a bar (possibly for pissing off the bartender), it was your fault. People who are paid to keep order are often bigger and stronger than you and once they're involved it's too late to say sorry. Be accountable, follow the rules, and you'll get to leave most places of your own accord.

- If you should find yourself involved in a conversation about driving cross country RIGHT NOW to go to a casino, take some time to collect yourself and make a better decision. If you don't take that time, remember every detail of your adventure so you can recount your story to someone like me at a bar like Scruffy Murphy's. A well told story goes a long way.

- If you are employed in a high visibility job like, oh, say assistant football coach at a Big XII university, do not piss on the bar at a place like Scruffy Murphy's. The bouncers will throw you out, the media will get wind of it, and you will no longer have a job. This is especially true if the team you help coach has been consistently horrible during your tenure as an assistant. Even if you're an asshole, someone may look up to you and your employer may expect you to behave in a manner befitting a role model.

- If you go to a bar together -and I'm talking about couples here - go home together. Dance with who brung you, no? This does not mean either of you is going home with someone else. If that's a worry then you're in the wrong relationship to begin with, it means that when one or the other of you is ready to leave, you both leave. This may mean you don't get to stay until closing time, but it will go a long way to proving where your priorities lie. Chalk this up to life lessons learned the hard way. Being unified and supportive helps the gears of love go around.

- The best tasting beer is the beer that costs the least.

- Know thyself. If you're the type of person who goes to Scruffy Murphy's, then you're the type of person who goes to Scruffy Murphy's. Don't try to church it up. People will respect you more if you know who you are and say what you mean.

- If the bar is closing, it's time to go home. Nothing good ever happened after closing time.

Conor Oberst, You Magnificent Bastard

So, Bright Eyes...where to begin?

Firstly, I want to call Bright Eyes a band, but since it's really just one guy can you do that? I find this obnoxious in the same way I find it obnoxious when, speaking about Nine Inch Nails, one feels the necessity to stop and refer only to Trent Reznor as if wrestling with the one man band conundrum. Speaking of, there's this great street performer in London who plays dozens of instruments at the same time. They are all strapped to his legs and feet and there's a drum on his back and horns on frames that run across his face and he carries a guitar and sings. He's truly a one man band. I guess I just answered my question. Moving on...

Secondly, I get tired of Bright Eyes fans. If you are one, don't be offended, I am too. This is convenient because I sometimes get tired of myself so at least I'm being authentic, right? It's all the weightiness of the world and the tight jeans on guys, and the tiny t-shirts (also on guys) and tortured beauty of it all (not the guys, but the dance of life). It just seems so self consciously artistic that I want to burp and do a keg stand just to offset the sensitivity.

Thirdly, and this is my weakest point but I feel like I have to throw it in there or else I won't respect myself when I click "post"- Conor Oberst once did a show in Houston during which he stated something along the lines of, "If I were from Texas, I would shoot myself." Even among the emo kids in attendance there were probably enough gun owners with the weaponry on hand to oblige him. I mean, it IS Texas.

So why the "magnificent" in front of the "bastard?" Quite simply, lyrics like these:

Some plans were made and rice was thrown
A house was built, a baby born
How time can move both fast and slow
Amazes me

And so I raise my glass to symmetry
To the second hand and it's accuracy
To the actual size of everything
The desert is the sand
You can't hold it in your hand
It won't bow to your demands
There's no difference you can make
There's no difference you can make
And if it seems like an accident
A collage of senselessness
You aren't looking hard enough
I wasn't looking hard enough

An argument for consciousness
The instinct of the blind insect
Who makes love to the flower bed
And dies in the first freeze
Oh I want to learn such simple things
No politics, no history
Till what I want and what I need
Can finally be the same

I just got myself to blame
Leave everything up to fate
When there's choices I could make
When there's choices I could make
Yeah, my heart needs a polygraph
Always so eager to pack my bags
When I really wanna stay
When I really wanna stay

When I wanna stay (x4)

The arc of time, the stench of sex
The innocence you can't protect
Each quarter note, each marble step
Walk up and down that lonely treble clef
Each wanting the next one
Each wanting the next one to arrive
Each wanting the next one
Each wanting the next one to arrive

An argument for consciousness
The instinct of the blind insect
Who never thinks not to accept it's fate
That's faith, there's happiness in death
You give to the next one
You give to the next on down the line
You give to the next one
You get to the next on down the line

The levity of longing that
Distills each dream inside my head
By morning watered down forget
On silver stars I wish and wish and wish

Move on to the next one
Move on to the next one down the line
Move on to the next one
Move on to the next one down the line

You get to the next one
You get to the next on down the line
You get to the next one
You get to the next on down the line

That bastard.

Smitten

I heart Chicago.

It's official, Chicago is on my list of cities that, were I to suddenly become God (unlikely), I would scoop up and move to Texas. That may sound ridiculous to you, but if it does you're probably not from Texas. Just saying. Other cities on this list are Buenos Aires, San Francisco, Denver, London, and Charlotte.

Chicago makes the list because it's a beautiful city and it's strikingly well planned compared to the midwestern city I live in. It's the little things. The freeway has express lanes with exits only at the major streets and local lanes with exits at every street. There is a well developed and utilized public transit system. Someone is paying traffic cops to keep an eye and direct traffic at almost every major intersection. Everything has an accurate and easy to understand sign. There are parks throughout downtown and things happen there. By "things" I mean events other than muggings or soirees with hookers.

I can't imagine ever being bored in Chicago. Is that possible? There are so many museums and restaurants and parks and bars and events that you would have to be terminally dull to not come up with something to do. Then there's the history: The Mob, riots, prohibition, baseball, the fire, the railroad, and Oprah. Yup, Chicago is definitely my new "city crush," and right at Valentine's Day (oh yeah, there's the Valentine's Day Massacre as well).

My one complaint is that it is cold in a way I just can't handle, and not for a brief period every year. It is cold with a capital C for a few months every year. I mean, I'd be thinking marriage with Chicago were it not for the cold...and the wind. Like Katt Williams says, you have to buy your coat from there for there. This is part of the reason that, were I to suddenly become God (still unlikely), I would move Chicago to Texas. You can't change cities though, you have to love them for what they are.

*Sigh*

Ah Chicago, we could have been perfect for one another.

Inter-American Relations

I overheard the conversation I'm about to recount outside a packed restroom at Crew Stadium last night. A particularly savvy beer man had set up shop right outside the restroom and was selling beer faster than he could pour it. Almost everyone in line was buying. Whether a Mexico fan or a USA fan, the same series of actions was preformed in reaction to the beer man's peddling. First, the buyer would look confused at the oddness of the context in which the beer was being offered. Then the buyer would reluctantly but agreeably shrug his shoulders and ask for a beer. Next, the buyer would take his first sip from his new beer and smile contentedly knowing he was mere feet away from creating room in his bladder for what he had just purchased.

I was in this line, sipping a newly purchased beer, when a Mexico fan, wearing a lucha libre mask, Mexican flag cape, and Mexico jersey walked up to get his picture taken with a USA fan decked out in a full red jumpsuit, USA flag cape, and red, white, and blue painted head. I say "head" because it was most certainly his whole head and not just his face. Both men were spectacularly drunk. Neither man spoke the other's language.

Pancho Villa: Oye, compa! I picture?

Captain America: Fuckin'-A man! USA! USA! USA! Cool.

Pancho Villa [just after the picture was taken turning to Captain America but only being able to look him in the chest]: Joo drun.

Captain America [laughing]: Bo-rach-o! Awooooooooo! You too, man. It's cool if you don't come do my lawn tomorrow.

Pancho Villa: Ho-kay. Ho-kay.

[Both men laughing and hugging]

Pancho Villa: Joo weening es luckee.

Captain America: What!? That goal was awesome! That's not luck! The Alamo was lucky, motherfucker!

[Both men laughing, hugging, high-fiving, laughing, sipping, hugging, and high-fiving again]

I think the two superfans took another picture together, but by that point I was past the threshold of the restroom and could no longer see them. Those of us in the line who had heard the conversation (and understood both sides), eyed each other uneasily. I mean, on the one hand, it really was a comical display. On the other, it was sort of a parody of US/Mexico relations and did more than touch on overt racism. I suppose the men could have actually known one another and that Pancho Villa actually did Captain America's lawn, but I'm guessing that was not the case.

I was mulling this over in my head and trying not to think about how horribly I needed to use the restroom when images of fans in El Salvador, Honduras, and Mexico City popped into my head. Hmmm. Borderline racist drunken hugging and laughing? Or, Overtly violent battery throwing patriotic rage?

The Mexico fan in front of me turned around and we made eye contact.

Me: Viste esos borrachos?

Him [surprised look]: Si, si. Hay pendejos aqui y alli!

[both of us laughing]

Me: Vamos a ganar, sabes?

Him: No, no guerro! Vamos el tri!

Me: No creo que si! Estas borracho tambien?!

[both laughing]

Our conversation ended as we reached the front of the line and we finally got to relieve ourselves. Apparently etiquette on both sides of the border precludes conversation during urination. As an aside, I once broke this rule at a Baylor basketball game when I glanced to my right to see Drayton McLane, owner of the Houston Astros, making use of the urinal next to me. He had just traded Billy Wagner and I had to let him know I, as a long time Astros fan, did not approve. Drayton was friendly and understanding and then said he'd shake my hand but his were otherwise occupied at the time.

Relishing my sweet relief, I sighed contentedly. Yes, there are dumbasses here and there, but thank God we can all go to a soccer match and support our teams without the riot police getting involved...

...and thank God the US won!

I Want To...

1. Be in a fight - I used to get the crap beaten out of me by my best friend in elementary school. We would be in one or the other's front yard playing army (we were neighbors) and then Adam would snap and land some bruising punches to my back or chest. Mostly, I was confused by this rather than hurt. Adam was really and truly angry at an age when I was most concerned with whether or not my mom, on a cleaning binge, would ship some coveted toy off to Goodwill. My parents argued when I was growing up, but Adam's parents could be heard screaming at one another over the fence. He was a kid in a thorn bush and pounding on me must have given him some release.

My gut reaction to any physical altercation has always been to break it up. As I eventually grew to 6'2 and 215 lbs, my stature seems to have served as a deterrent to most possible brawls. I was once punched in the head at a concert, but I instinctively laughed at the kid who threw the punch and I think this dissuaded him. Who wants to fight someone who laughs at your best shot? It's not that I want to hurt anyone, but to quote a great movie, "How much can you really know about yourself if you've never been in a fight?"

2. Live in the woods for a year - There is something about being alone in the wilderness that completely subverts your conception of what is truly important. When concerns about electrical bills, clothes, email, debt, and relationships are replaced with concerns about food, shelter, water, and beauty life seems to come into brilliant, vibrant relief. As the poet said, "God is in His heaven and all is right with the world."

3. Do something really and truly badass as an occupation - My father has a non-sexual man crush on my brother-in-law. My brother-in-law flies F-18s. My brother-in-law is the GI Joe of my family. My cousin's kids think he's an astronaut and my grandfather, a WWII pilot, gets all misty eyed and excited when he talks aviation with him. I thought all of this was a bit hilarious and not born of a small dose of envy, but then I visited my brother-in-law at his air station and got to watch F-18s tear the sky in half and I realized he's kind of a badass.

4. Work my way around the world - Who wouldn't want to do this? Obviously, I'm speaking from a perspective of leisure and not of necessity, but can you imagine having the freedom to set out east or west, land in a country, and stay until you've worked and saved enough to move on to the next locale? You'd be like Kane from Kung Fu. The road would be your home. Bandits, scrapes with the law, exotic loves, mysterious diseases, revolution. Imagine all you could see and all you could learn?

5. Be multi-lingual - I had Spanish working in my favor for a while, but then I moved to the Midwest. Not a whole lot of Spanish being spoken here. I envy the Europeans I meet who speak French, English, German, Italian, and Spanish. I think I'd take all of those but throw in some Arabic, Farsi, and Chinese for good measure. Oh, and Russian. Maybe if I did 4 I could crawdad my way into 5. Hmmmmmm...

6. Take a bow to the roaring applause of thousands - Does this need explaining? I was reading an author the other day who wrote that when he was younger he wanted to learn to play the guitar, but then realized he could give a damn about the guitar and really just wanted to be a rock star. I was in a punk band in high school and played the bass guitar. I think (I know) I practiced less than anyone in the band. We all started in the same place, but I was rapidly overtaken by my best friend (and lead singer) and soon found myself on the wrong end of a, "I think we're moving in opposite directions," conversation. Getting kicked out of a band is a little like being dumped, but by more than one person at the same time. I guess I got my just rewards. They really were artists. I just liked being on stage.

7. Write a book - Ahhh, the ego.

8. Plan, execute, and get away with a heist - This may be my answer to number 3, although I'm sure my father would not approve. I have always loved heist films. Don't mishear me, I'm not talking about a mugging or a simple burglary. I'm talking about a HEIST. I'm talking about donning a skin tight, temperature controlled skin suit, rappelling into a laser guarded vault, cracking a safe using an advanced gadget (preferably something involving algorithms), and pilfering an invaluable and unique artifact or jewel or government secret. If there's a moral subplot (a la Inside Man) the heist would be that much cooler.

There's a lot more here, but "ten" lists are tedious and I have recently compiled one of those. Who wants to become predictable?

Boobs, Wings, and Story Value. Not Necessarily in That Order

I have a confession to make. This is not easy, and in writing what I am about to write I fear I may significantly damage conceptions of what you all think of as essentially Me and leave in the wake of those conceptions a polluted shell of a person with whom you would rather not associate. But I have to get this off my chest:

I have been to a Hooters restaurant. More specifically, I have been to three Hooters restaurants.

I immediately regret my decision to use the expression, "I have to get this off my chest," but you must forgive me. I mean, I'm the type of guy who goes to Hooters restaurants.

This indiscretion (or these indiscretions) occurred in July of 2008 and October of 2008. On all three occasions I was accompanied by the same two friends. To protect their identities, I shall call them Bill and Dick. That was a lie. I'm pretty sure they could care less whether or not they are named as willing patrons of Hooters. In fact, Bill may have a collection of Hooters apparel or, at the very least, a frequent diner's card. I mean, this is a guy who bought a signed copy of a Hooters calendar to give to mutual friends of ours on the occasion of their WEDDING (I may have encouraged this). In fact, I'm pretty sure Bill has dated a Hooters girl before. I guess I'm just protecting my identity. Ok, in the interest of accuracy: To protect MY identity, I shall call them Bill and Dick. Better?

Hooters is an interesting place. Somehow, although Hooters is essentially a strip club at which the women never actually disrobe, it has been marketed as a family restaurant. And I have to admit, during all three of my Hooters experiences, there have been actual families dining alongside the gawking men I expected to be there. Maybe it's the fact that it's less sleazy and more tacky; or that the ridiculous outfits, campy songs, and decent wings (seriously, they're quite decent) lend to it an air of all-in-good-fun legitimacy; or maybe it's the best example ever of it-is-what-you-say-it-is. Regardless, I'm not here to deconstruct Hooters and its implications in a feminist sociological construct. I just know that Bill, Dick, and I have been on three different occasions and that on all three occasions, although I reluctantly sulked to the door and muttered under my breath that I could not believe I was about to go to a Hooters, I left with laugh weakened abs and a story to tell.

The first Hooters I ever went to was in West Virginia just inside the border with Virginia. Think about that for a moment:

Hooters...

West Virginia...

If you're like me -and if you're still reading this we probably have some similarities- both Hooters and West Virginia set off a slide show of images in your head. Now, If those images were published and if that book of photos became popular and if it became so popular that it spawned a following of similar books such that a new category for those books was created and if those books were sold in your local bookstore, I like to think the label telling you where to find those books amidst the romance novels, history books, and literature would read,"Moonshine Erotica." Just saying. And before you become offended, remember that I was in the midst of this Moonshine Erotica with two of my best friends and that we were not necessarily unwilling participants.

We stopped at the Hooters on a lark. We were on the last leg of a road trip that we did not want to end and we figured story value for stopping at a Hooters was worth the delay in our trip. To be honest, not much of note happened at that first Hooters. Which is to say, nothing surprising happened. Which is to say, all of my preconceived notions (see the previous paragraph) were confirmed. Which is to say, it was hilarious, but in all the wrong ways.

The most notable thing that happened at that first Hooters was the taking of a solemn vow between Bill, Dick, and me that we would stop at every open Hooters we passed on the way home. I know that doesn't sound too terribly earth shattering, but we still had an eight hour drive in front of us (at 3PM) and had to be at our respective jobs early the next morning. Story value makes teenagers of us all.

After a thirty minute drive from Hooters number one, we found ourselves at Hooters number two (also in West Virginia). This Hooters was quite a bit more active even though the dining room remained almost totally empty through the duration of our five hour stop. Yes, five hours. Those five hours produced a series of events and conversations that caused me to wonder if perhaps Bill, Dick, and I were the unwitting targets of a hidden camera show. Bill hula hooped with in the parking lot with our waitress, a ridiculously well endowed college student studying to be a nurse. In an effort to steer our conversation with said waitress away from Bill's amorous proclivities, no doubt heightened from his hula hooping experience, I asked her what kind of nurse she eventually wanted to become. She replied, stone faced, that she wanted to be an RN nurse. A nurse nurse. Ignoring the redundancy of this statement, I followed my initial question with, "When are you done?" I was thinking that since we had already been discussing school she would answer with something along the lines of, "Next spring," or, "Next fall," but was instead answered with sincerity that she would be off work at eleven thirty that night. She seemed even more confused when I explained the true intent of my question and then could not figure out when she was scheduled to graduate. She really tried too. For about four or five minutes she stood next to our table, bit her lip, counted on her fingers, and muttered the names of classes already taken and those left to take. Finally she just threw her hands up and answered, "I don't know. A few years."

Our most rewarding interaction of the evening was with our waitress the nurse nurse and her best friend, also a waitress and suspiciously the only Hooters girl seemingly doing any work. It went something like this:

Bill: So, you're working here to save money for school?

Nurse Nurse: Yeah, but I also gotta buy a new car. Mine's wrecked.

Dick: What happened to it?

Nurse Nurse: It got wrecked.

Dick: Right...but how?

Nurse Nurse: Well, my friend and me were comin' back from a promotion and we were on the Interstate and I wasn't payin' attention because I hate drivin' and we hit a Laz-E-Boy.

Bill, Dick, Me [in unison and quite surprised]: You hit a Laz-E-Boy on the Interstate!

Nurse Nurse [with a horrified look on her face]: Oh ya'll don't worry! No one was in it.

This did it for me. Not only is West Virginia the type of place in which a Laz-E-Boy on the Interstate is not uncommon, it is the type of place where it is in fact so common that a Hooters waitress, noting the horrified looks on our faces, would see fit to explain to us that it was all ok, no one was in the Laz-E-Boy. Still laughing in dismay that Laz-E-Boy fatalities happen with some regularity on the West Virginia highway system, Nurse Nurse's waitress friend walked over to see if we needed anything.

Bill: Nurse Nurse is a piece of work!

Waitress: Yeah, she's my best friend.

Me: That story about totaling her car is unreal.

Waitress: Oh! I was in the car when she totaled it!

Dick: You hit a Laz-E-Boy? On the Intersate?

Waitress: Yeah, but don't worry. No one was in it.

Mercifully for us, by the time we left Hooters number two every other Hooters we drove by had long since closed. Our conversation for the rest of the trip was limited, each of us regretting staying at Hooters so long, but also no doubt mulling over the evening's happenings and keeping a keen eye out the windows of the car for rogue living room furniture and those unfortunate souls who might be occupying it. It would take a few months of recovery and an invitation to a wedding in South Carolina for Bill, Dick, and me to be reunited with the Hooters franchise. Staying in a beautiful resort town on the ocean, we had numerous respectable choices when it came to dining, but, as story value was now back in play, we opted for a Hooters just off the highway.

Parking in the nearly empty lot of the restaurant and repeating my usual hushed objections to eating at a Hooters, I felt naked and branded by the cold stares I imagined coming from the passing cars in the heavy traffic behind us. Bill and Dick laughed, shook their heads at my self-consciousness, and reminded me that in a matter of moments I would be laughing and carrying on just like I did at the Hooters' in West Virginia.

As it turns out, Hooters in South Carolina is hauntingly similar to Hooters in West Virginia. Who knew? Realizing this, I began to wonder if "story value" was just what we said to make ourselves feel not-so-dirty when in actuality we enjoyed Hooters, even would have picked Hooters over any other restaurant in the city. I Was still contemplating this and what it said about me on a basic level when I snapped to and realized Bill was buying a Hooters calendar. Not only was he buying a Hooters calendar, but one of the girls at the restaurant was in the Hooters calendar and she and the other girls were signing it. At this point, Bill told the waitresses that we were in town for a wedding and that the calendar was actually going to be a gift for the lucky couple. No one seemed surprised by this, and after the waitresses were finished cooing they unblinkingly asked for the names of the soon-to-be-married so they could scrawl well wishes throughout the months of the calendar.

After they were done, I thumbed through the calendar to see what had been written and came across it in October. Scrawled across the oiled breasts of a Hooters girl on all fours:

Carl and Shannon

Congratulations!

Huggs n' Juggs!

Indeed.

Snow

It's snowing again today. I woke up this morning...well, late morning, and went to let out Mazzy to use the restroom. We both kind of stood at the door for a second adjusting to the new blanket of white that had been gently tossed over everything. Small, swirling flakes were still quietly adding to what had already landed.

"Son of a bitch!"

I found myself surprised that it had snowed so much without my knowing, which, in and of itself, is surprising. You think I'd be used to it by now. But there is something alarming about going to bed in one world and waking up in another. You feel like you've been snuck up on.

"Damn snow. You got me again."

If I wake up early enough, if the sun has yet to rise, I can usually tell it has snowed even if the blinds are closed. All of the light shining from street lights, houses, the moon, and the stars is reflected off the snow and things take on an odd and spooky glow as if the world has been turned into the negative of a photograph. It's light, but you can't tell where the light originates. Everything glows a weak rust color and resembles the set of a Tim Burton film. The trees are silhouettes with just the hint of texture and my mind can't seem to fully adjust to the fact that I can see much better than I logically ought to with the sun still tracking across the sky on the other side of the planet.

Early morning is definitely the best time of day after a fresh snow. It's a quiet, gentle blue and the stillness of the world under it's antiseptic blanket of white gives you the sense that you may be the only thing moving. Sounds are muffled by the softness of the white all around you, the plows haven't yet dredged up the filth of the streets below, and tires and footprints haven't scared the surface of the perfectly finished frosting surrounding you. It's lonely, but in a beautiful way. The frantic energy of work, errands, and travel has been buried and for a few serene moments the only thing of any importance is that you are alive and that the world can be still.

Guerrilla Sledding or Why I'm Really Still 15 Years Old

When my family was living in Saudi Arabia, my sister and I were just reaching the age at which Driver's Education was offered back in The States. My father, realizing his kids would soon be sequestered in European or American boarding schools, must have felt the clock was ticking on his opportunity to provide sage instruction on the proper use of a motor vehicle (Do all fathers feel this?), and took my sister and I out on the roads around our house to help us get our feet wet.

As I recall, my sister did just about as well as any first time driver. She listened intently, nervously eyed the roads, and depressed the accelerator and brake with a little too much urgency. I, on the other hand, couldn't stop giggling as soon as the speedometer hit 35mph. The giggling was uncontrollable. I didn't feel it coming, it just flowed out of me and did not stop until the vehicle was in park and I was out from behind the wheel. I can't tell you why I giggled -and it was most certainly giggling and not laughing - with so much glee, but something about driving was so much fun. It was completely new to me and the sensation of complete freedom and untapped power was delicious. My sister called me Dr. Giggles.

I was reminded of this just the other night as I was hurtling down a steep, snowy slope... at night...warmed by a few (several) sips of rum...on a pirated sled...in cycling tights. This was my first sledding experience. Growing up in places like Texas and Saudi Arabia precludes much snow time and at a certain age I guess you just assume your acceptable window for sledding has slammed shut, at least until you have kids. Thank Christ I have friends who do not think this way.

Armed with a four wheel drive vehicle, ridiculous winter attire, sleds of suspect origin and craftsmanship, and a designated driver, six of us set out to accomplish the more-difficult-than-it-sounds task of finding a sled worthy hill in a flat Midwest city. This rapidly morphed into Guerrilla Sledding. Piled mounds of plowed snow, front yards with steep embankments, and church parking lots became brief and hilarious victims of Guerrilla Sledding. The quality of any actual sledding was highly debatable, but this is also about the time my giggling started. Again, it was most certainly giggling and not laughing or the more adult sounding, "chuckling."

Eventually, we arrived at a sledding specific hill in a public park and behaved like idiots until our clothes began to freeze. I'm pretty sure we contributed nothing to the actual art of sledding -Sled. Crash. Collect self. Stand. Grab sled. Run back up hill. Repeat - but something blessedly new was sledded into my head. Each time I plunged down that hill I was six and my dad was throwing me high into the air above his bed so I could land in a pile of blankets and pillows. I was eight and I was spending all of a summer evening jumping from the high dive into the deep, cool water of the pool below me. I was twelve and I was riding my first roller coaster with my now gone friend, Andrew. As soon as the ride stopped we would leap from our car, sprint to the back of the line, and do it all over again. We counted our roller coaster rides at over thirty that day. I would give anything for one more.

Each time I found myself crumpled in the snow at the base of the hill I felt a little lighter and a little younger. Staring at the night sky, catching my breath, and listening to the muffled laughs of my friends, I exhaled the frustrations of the winter and giggled uncontrollably. There is something about repetitive fun that blows the soot out and makes us all children again. When you've done something so fun that logic dictates it be immediately done again, hold on to it. It's a way back. I hope I can always get back to fifteen.

Things I Have Done For Which I Should Rightly Be Ashamed

1. When confronted with an unfamiliar or otherwise off-putting food at the dinner table, I would smuggle said menu item from the table in my underwear and deposit it in the toilet, backyard, under my parents bed, or in my dad's golf bag. That's right, my underwear. I do not recall ever having been caught, although my sister was once nabbed attempting a similar caper when she miscalculated the number of oranges that could be successfully flushed down the toilet.

2. Growing up, our neighborhood grocery store sold tomatoes labeled with traffic cone orange stickers that said, "JUMBO SIZE." My sister and I carefully peeled multiple of these stickers from the aforementioned tomatoes and surreptitiously stuck them to my mother's bottom. We thought we were hilarious until my mother found the stickers - but not after having walked through the entire grocery store - and began to cry. My heart broke.

3. In third grade I excused myself to the restroom. Our classrooms were arranged so that two rooms shared a small corridor between them in which a girl's and boy's restroom was located. Once inside, curiosity and God-knows-what took hold of me and I decided to shit in the urinal. I cannot tell you why I decided to shit in the urinal, but I did. Log laid and damage done, I went to wipe and realized there was no toilet paper. Instead of requesting toilet paper and risk being found out, I went about the rest of the day with what I have since heard called, "A muddy bottom." Before too long, the teachers whose rooms shared the restrooms were informed of the urinal intruder and started trying to identify the perpetrator. I kept my cool, did not crack, angelically denied any knowledge of the foul deed, and made it to the end of the day undetected.

4. I stole dirty magazines from one grandfather and took them to the house of my other grandfather. My two grandfathers could not be more different. In the car with my mother and sister, packed, and on our way out of town to begin a four hour drive home, I realized I had left the aforementioned dirty magazines under the day bed in my grandparent's sun room. I tried to tell my mother I had forgotten something but, in a hurry to get home, she dismissed my worries and said we would have whatever it was I had forgotten mailed to us. Seeing no way out, I confessed what, exactly, the forgotten items were. I like to think an image of my grandmother walking into the post office of the tiny, tiny West Texas town in which my grandparents lived to mail her daughter-in-law two old Hustler magazines briefly flashed through my mother's mind. Moments later, back in front of my grandparents house, my sister and I were sent in to retrieve the illicit periodicals from beneath the day bed. At some point, I wondered aloud to my mother whether we could just go home and blame it on my older cousin Mike. My mom eventually sold me out to Mike and everyone in my family enjoyed a hearty laugh at my expense the next Christmas. Perhaps this was just considering the JUMBO SIZE incident.

5. I spit on a kid in sixth grade. Again, I can't tell you why, I just did. Sixth graders can be cruel and it pains me to admit that I was not immune from such behavior. We were on the bus. I got caught. I had to endure a tongue lashing from my blind middle school principle. As a sign of how far gone I was in the sixth grade, it took all of the self control I could muster to not stare at the massive magnifying glass on her desk. I may have stifled a chuckle.

6. I once shot a toad with a BB gun. I almost cried as I watched what I perceived to be panic spread across his face. He took more than two hours to die.

7. Not learning my lesson that animals and BB guns do not mix, my best friend and I would shoot the LONGHORN BULL that lived in the pasture behind his house to get him to charge us. I had to take an IQ test in a post graduate educational psychology class and, remembering this, wondered if perhaps there had been some mistake in the scoring.

8. Drunk, heart broken, and in college, I called my ex and left the shockingly original message, "Fuck you" on her answering machine. The next day I had to call back and apologize. As a note to any drunk, heart broken college males: Drunk dialing is not the way to try and win back an ex.

9. Feeling that a youthful, immature engagement was deteriorating, I logged on to my ex fiancee's email account to search for proof of my doubt. Thus began a painful, spiraling demolition of a five year relationship. As a note to any post college, heart broken or otherwise panicked males: In any relationship, if you search for a reason to doubt, you will find a reason to doubt.

10. I left the really bad stuff off this list. I mean, come on! There is such a thing as too much disclosure.

Fighting It

How do you know when you hate your job or just something else about your life?

I ask because I'm at a bit of a crossroads but am somewhat stuck with concern to which direction I want to travel. I think it would be rather easy to decide if my job was the root of my discontent if I had a "bad" job. I mean, if I woke up every morning and had to lance boils or sanitize Port-O-Johns or clean geriatric genitals, then it might be an easier question to answer, but I have a "good" job. It's secure, serves the Greater Good, pays well (I just got a raise in fact), and looks good on a resume. But I feel like I'm furiously spinning my wheels. In fact, I feel like I have stomped the accelerator to the floor, am enveloped in the acrid smoke of burnt rubber, and am trying to ignore the fact that sparks are starting to fly from exposed rims.

There are those bench mark ages in people's lives by which they measure what they have accomplished against what they had envisioned they would accomplish. I'm coming up on thirty. I know it's a sign of my youth that I think of thirty as old, but damn. Thirty? Thirty years of life experience, education, relationships, chances to contribute, life-changing moments, and here I am at 2:30AM writing on a blog wondering what the hell I am going to do with my life.

I think the thing that irks me the most is that I feel like I'm waiting for something to happen. It would be nice if my own personal Yoda would knock on my door and, in some bizarre syntax, tell me, "Direction in this you should go." Or if the embodiment of all my romantic leanings would approach me on the street, smile, and say, "Hi, I'm perfect for you. Let's get hitched." It doesn't really work that way, does it? And logically, I know you have to make your own way but sometimes I feel like my job gets in the way of those clear, determined moments when you stand up against the inertia of whatever has come before and slice into what you want to come after.

Right now I feel like a passenger in a plane taking off under bad weather. It's cold and gray and everything has the salty filth of winter on it. As cliche as it seems, finally being given the go ahead (or taking the go ahead), speeding down a runway, blowing the mist from my windows, and knifing through the clouds in my head sounds like pure, liberating joy.

But I don't even feel like I've packed my bags yet.

Should Sarah Palin Shampoo My Crotch?

I thought for a moment that I would call this entry, "Why Sarah Palin Should Shampoo My Crotch," but then I decided my opinion would get lost in what is obviously an inflammatory title.

But then I let my dog out to use the bathroom and I started to think about this presidential race, Obama, McCain, Palin, Biden, the debates, everything that enrages and displeases me about the Republican ticket, and I decided that "Why Sarah Palin Should Shampoo Crotch" is actually not that bad of a title.

This is a hugely important election. I haven't met anyone who is "on the fence" with concern to their ultimate selection come Election Day. In fact, most people I encounter, spit vitriol in the direction of any perceived affront to their selection for the next President of the United States. So why not go with the Sarah Palin title? Republicans in this country over the last fifteen years have played the victim more expertly than Yo-Yo Ma has played the cello. How else could a party that spent the primaries crucifying Hillary Clinton for her "feminist" views turn around and, with a straight face, claim that Sarah Palin is being unfairly criticized because she is a woman? How else could a party that has been in power for the last eight years presume to call itself the party of change? How else could a party that consistently sides with the wealthiest five percent of our nation's populace purport to be on the side of "the people?" It's lunacy.

In the face of this sort of delusion, my choice of a blog title is completely inconsequential. We're talking about a party that has spent the last eight years driving our country into the ground, wheels sparking, engine flaming, bodies burning and still has the audacity to cry foul when the "liberal media" (what the hell is Fox News?!) suggests that the emperor may, in fact, be naked. No thanks. No high road for me. Sarah Palin, you may shampoo my crotch. and give it a nice trim while you're at it.

Dear God, WTF?

There are some things for which God should rightly answer. I'm not talking about big existential questions like, "Why are we here?" Or, "Why, if motivated by love, do You sprinkle a healthy dose of murder and mayhem into the world?" I don't think those questions really have answers, or at least shouldn't. I mean, if you knew the answers to those types of questions, why keep plugging away?

I'm talking about more basic questions like, "What the fuck is with the Duck-Billed Platypus?" Or, "Mormons? Really?!" Petty? Insensitive? Probably, but knowing the answers is not really going to spoil me for whatever comes next, and I think some questioning in that vein could give God a chance to show off his sense of humor. What I'm really turning over and over in my mind at the present moment is the nature and purpose of Poison Ivy. Why is this particularly virulent little bitch of a vine so prevalent in my part of the world? Specifically, my backyard. And why does my dog so desire to eat the chipmunk that lives under the protection of said virulent little bitch? And why, after hunting this innocent chipmunk, does my dog see fit to rub lovingly, almost cat-like, against my legs, arms, or any other area of exposed flesh? A sensitive moment of love between man and his best friend loses all of its touching, age-old warmth when man wakes up the next day to seeping blisters of itching unholiness on the backs of his legs. The STD parallel is just beneath the surface here, but I'm having trouble articulating herba-bestiality...which is probably a good thing. Just know that I feel betrayed and also very, very, very itchy.

So God, what the fuck? Poison Ivy? I mean, really?! Please, in your infinite wisdom, have some higher calling for urushiol. Please let this oily, nefarious resin somehow be associated with a cure for cancer or AIDS. Please have something up your sleeve other than a burning, itching, seeping, unsightly rash.

Let us pray.

Fight Club

I am on my last set of contacts with no back up plan in place. My back up plan (read: glasses) was lost in a massive snow drift back in February. I just received a bill for $93.00 from a dentist I have not seen since last November. Perhaps this is punishment for not scheduling my sixth month cleaning. I recently received a massive paycheck from the 40 + hours of overtime I worked last pay period, but more recently received my car insurance bill and it reflects the utter recklessness with which unmarried men in my age bracket drive. I am nearly out of checks and I have a stack of bills sitting on my desk which includes the aforementioned mystery dentist fee and an angry letter from my cable company in which they threaten to cut off my cable. This is interesting as I have not had cable service since June as I requested it be cut off. Partly this was out of spite for their poor service in repairing the cable after my neighbor's tree nearly crushed my house and partly to save money for a rainy day...or a mystery bill from the dentist. I set up an IRA account last Christmas and began the process of rolling over my Texas Teacher's Retirement account, but apparently the managers of said fund do not want me to do this. Despite the fact that I sent every document they requested and notarized the hell out of each one, I continued to receive vague and frustrating rejections from them in the mail saying that my documents had not been notarized. Today I received two notices that since I had not responded in a timely manner they are assuming that I want to leave my retirement money in their management and have closed my request. Bastards. Also, I cannot get my financial advisor to return my correspondence with her. Today I went to the pharmacist to refill a prescription for Nexium that usually costs me $45.00 and was asked to pay $76.00. Were it not for the burning hole in my stomach I might have balked, but who wants a burning hole in their stomach?

It sort of feels like Alexander and the No Good, Horrible, Terrible, Very Bad Day right now. I could go on and on about any number of lesser things, but the preceding paragraph seems to have encapsulated the point fairly well. I'm tired and feeling more than a little overwhelmed and stretched. Recently, the only times I feel free and easy are when I am playing soccer, and I guess "free and easy" is a little bit misleading. I got my first yellow card for dissent this Sunday (and by "first for dissent," I mean first EVER for dissent) and committed a healthy number of fouls trying to marshal the midfield of the men's league team for which I play. I remember one summer before I went to college playing with some friends in a men's league (read: beer league) in which we absolutely demolished every team we played against. Usually after the third or fourth unanswered goal we scored the challenges started flying and middle aged men with knee pads and rec specs started Kung Fu kicking us as we flew past them. I recall how ridiculous I thought this was. How could balding, overweight fathers with their kids on the side line plummet into violence and profanity in a Sunday league that was competitive in name only?

It started to dawn on me a few years later, when I was asked to play in an exclusively Hispanic league by the guys with which I worked a summer construction job, that ninety minutes on a Sunday was an escape from all of the bullshit I listed earlier. These guys would haul off and punch an opposing player in the face simply because they thought he might get around them. It wasn't so much about reliving glory days as much as it was about running out (or punching out, or kicking out, or slapping out, or spitting out, or gouging out, or cursing out) the frustrations of adulthood and all of the pressures that come with not making enough money and not having enough time.

So here I am on Monday. I had my ninety minutes on Sunday to play like a monster. I have the ankles and the feet of someone who was in a shin kicking contest. I scored my goal and got my yellow card and read about it on the blog our team keeps to report the weekend's result. Then I read it again. And now what? Too many bills to pay, not enough money in the bank, and an expensive hole in my stomach. The thing is, it doesn't get any easier. Marriage. Kids. SERIOUS commitments. I guess manhood is figuring out how to negotiate all of this and manage to keep your head and to cherish your commitments. I'm not their yet, but I have another match on Sunday.

I Am I Said or Am I Cracking Up?

Something broke for me a few weeks ago and it was a good thing. I've been stuck in a six year rut and I'm finally serious about getting out of it, but that's for another post and a more serious frame of mind. This morning I've been singing Neil Diamond songs and not to no one in particular.

I woke up early with errands to run before heading off to work this afternoon. The most pressing of these tasks was to take Mazzy Pants to the vet followed closely by purchasing the most nuclear strength Liquid Plumber money can buy. I'm tired of watching my whiskers float around in a shaving creamy bog of warm water in the basin of my sink knowing that I'll have to come back later and flush and wipe the detritus away.

It was a glorious morning, cool and sunny. Mazzy Pants gleefully slobbered out the window of the car on our way to the vet, unaware that within the hour she would have a fecal wand unceremoniously thrust in her pooper, multiple vaccines peppered around her shoulders, blood drawn, and that nasty bordetella gunk sprayed up her nose. She performed swimmingly and even showed off for the vet and the grooming ladies who have no idea what a bitch she can be. She has her moments.

At the grocery store I bought my Liquid Plumber and returned to the car where Mazzy was waiting in the passenger seat. As I sat down I eyed the newly chewed lid of my coffee cup and then had the following one-sided conversation with Mazzy. She's smart, but she can't talk.

Me: I am, I said! [That's right. The Neil Diamond song]

Mazzy: Confused and slightly alarmed look.

Me: I am, I cried!

Mazzy: Whimper.

Me: Mazzy, no one wants dog in their coffee. No one goes into Starbucks and says, "I would like a grande bold with room for dog." That just doesn't happen.

Mazzy: Stares

Me: Oh, you're out of Verona? How about Golden Retriever? Do you have any of that?

Mazzy: Shifting in her seat and looking out the window

Me: No one hears not even the chair!

I took the lid off my coffee cup and finished the rest sans dog slobber, but I didn't let up on the Neil. Mazzy, embarrassed, stuck her head further out the window as I launched into "Sweet Caroline," but she couldn't escape. I was on a roll and I was cracking myself up.

This is the most ridiculous post ever.

Laying Pipe

"You-a see that? Be-a careful near it, it-a can kill you."

These were the first words of advice my Bosun, Sal Piscneri, gave me on my orientation tour of the drill ship I would be working on for the summer. Amidst all of the pipes and, machinery, and endless noise, I wasn't quite sure what he was nodding toward, but I didn't have time to clear things up because he was already moving on to the next death trap.

"That-a thing over there? It-a can kill you. Keep-a your eyes up."

His heavy Italian accent added to the unfamiliarity of my new workplace and the short, terse sentences he employed left me wondering if perhaps something was being lost in translation. Like, how, exactly, I would meet my demise if I was ever caught on deck and unaware.

"You see that-a rope ova there?"

"Can it kill me?"

"Absolutley. Don't-a get-a caught between it and the railing. It'll cut-a you in half."

Finally some detail, although now I wasn't sure if I had really wanted it. Our tour continued in this macabre manner moving aft down the entire port side of the ship and then back forward up the starboard side, a journey that even at a brisk pace with no stops would easily have taken fifteen minutes. Everything could kill me and there were certain areas I was absolutely forbidden to go unless I was accompanied by a senior crew member, my very presence alone in those areas enough to result in sudden, gruesome death.

It was the summer after my first year in grad school and as all of my classmates were spending their time doing research in libraries and foreign countries, I was floating in 9,000 feet of water in the Gulf of Mexico trying not to get killed. My father has made a career of negotiating the perils of various drilling installations and the previous summer had offered to try and get me hired on as a summer hand but retracted his offer when another summer worker was, you guessed it, killed. A year later his faith in the safety of the profession had been reestablished - or at least he thought I was no longer dumb enough to get myself killed - and after a few phone calls to old buddies, I was on my way to Houston to complete paperwork and pass a pre-employment physical.

The paperwork hinted at the possible dangers of the job, but in a much more officious way than Sal would once I got on the ship. The physical was comprised of the usual hurdles - a drug test, a blood test, and a health screening - but it also required that I spend a day in a Houston office park lifting all manner of bulky equipment while climbing up and down stairs and crawling up and over and through various obstacles while my heart rate was monitored and I tried to look unstrained by the heat and the weight. There was even mechanism that tested my back strength and required me to strap into a contraption that most closely resembled the crazy forklift suit Ripley from Aliens uses to fight the queen alien at the end of the movie. I managed to look not nearly as tough. After all of this, I had no idea what I was getting myself into until I met Sal and we embarked on our journey around the ship.

The Discoverer Spirit was huge and floated over an hour by helicopter off the coast of Louisiana. Looking down at the water at the beginning of the flight, I could see hundreds of drilling platforms, pipelines, and gas wells. The depth of the water was clearly visible as one shelf dropped onto another and the gulf changed from a sandy brown to a chocolate brown to an earthy green and finally a deep and radiant blue. Gradually, there was nothing but water in every direction, the depth and the distance too large an obstacle for all but the most advanced operations. The helicopter droned on over the shimmering expanse until I could finally make out a ship looming in the distance. As we neared, the ship grew larger and larger until our helicopter lit upon it like a fly on a horse's back, it's full scale dwarfed only by the flat desert of the gulf.

I followed the other crew members out of the helicopter, grabbed my duffle bag off the deck from beneath the whirring blades above my head, and hustled my way into the heliport's waiting room where I would be logged in and given instruction on what the hell I was supposed to do next. Oil field workers are an interesting bunch...to put it mildly. They come from all over. Some are educated. Some are not. Some have families. Some don't. Most have nicknames and all can curse more creatively than anyone you'll ever meet.

I expected a lively bunch, as I had grown up hearing about guys with names like Bigfoot and Bama. I'd heard stories of macho smartasses eating roaches in the galley of the rig to get a laugh and piss and vinegar Scotsman climbing towering derricks in gale force winds singing "I'm From Glasgow" as if it were a summer day. There were other stories about sharks, practical jokes, fights, and storms.

One of my favorite stories came from a work buddy of my dad's, a burly ass-kicker of a man named David Arp. David lives in Colorado and once walked up to a buddy of mine who had just moved there, having never met him but intending to invite him to dinner as a mutual friend, and said, "You Ross?"

When my friend answered that he was, David responded, "I know a guy in Texas thinks you're a big pussy."

And that's David Arp.

David's story has as it's main character a guy called The Liar. This story allegedly occurred in Saudi Arabia as a crew of workers was waiting for a helicopter to take them out to a rig located in a particularly remote corner of the country. A helicopter safety video was playing on a TV nearby and The Liar started to tell everyone that he was on the helicopter the day the video was made. Used to his antics, everyone humored him as the helicopter weaved through the desert terrain and a voice-over related the specs and safety information of the helicopter shown. As The Liar was really hitting his stride, the chopper on the video slammed into the side of a cliff and disintegrated into a roaring ball of fire. There was a one beat pause and The Liar said, "Yup. I was the sole survivor."

Having heard these stories, having worked construction jobs before, and having met guys like David Arp, I assumed I would be ready for the characters who were about to enter my life, but I really wasn't. In most jobs, one works with maybe three or four truly interesting people. In this job, everyone had a story. Everyone was a story. After a few nights spent not getting myself killed, I began to relax enough to start actually listening to the conversations happening around me in the break room. Drilling is a 24 hour a day operation. Each hitch I worked was comprised of two weeks on, 14 days of work, 12 hours a day. During each shift, we had two fifteen minute breaks and one thirty minute lunch. The break time is really all the time anyone has to catch up on the two weeks spent not on the rig, and catch up they do. There were stories of benders, strip club fights, and cheating wives. Tool boxes, cars, and livestock were discussed along with an ongoing and incredibly well-reasoned debate about whether the Big XII or the SEC was the better football conference. All of these stories were punctuated by the word "fuck" in all of its forms.

"You know what scares the fuck outta me?"

"What's that?"

"Motherfucking spiders, man! Them motherfuckers are fuckin' sneaky little fuckers. I can't motherfuckin' stand the motherfuckin' thought of those motherfuckers climbing all fuckin' over me!"

"Yup. Spiders are fuckin' scary motherfuckers."

"Fuck yeah, they are!"

"One time I was driving my truck down 85 at about harvest time and one of them big motherfuckers - you know the kind I'm talking about? - Those sumbitches with the green on 'em and those big motherfuckin' legs?"

"Fuck yeah, I do! Those motherfuckers are motherfuckin' huge!"

"So I'm driving and notice one of them motherfuckers climbing on my motherfuckin' windshield. I just about fuckin' shit myself!"

"You stop and smash that fucker?"

"Fuck no! I started swerving and swatting at that motherfucker, but I couldn't hit the motherfucker! I ended up pulling the motherfuckin' truck into the motherfuckin' ditch and jumping the fuck out! The bitch of it is I hate motherfuckin' spiders so motherfuckin' much, I didn't even put the motherfuckin' truck in park. Bent up my front end!"

"Holy fuck! What happened to the motherfuckin' spider?"

"Motherfucker was actually on the outside of the motherfuckin' windshield."

I couldn't make this up and I apologize for the profanity, but that's just about as accurate as I can make it. The best part is that the two guys having this conversation were both well over six feet tall and also muscle bound from years of manual labor. Just as they finished their conversation, another massive rough neck of a man sitting across the room chimed in with, "You know what I motherfuckin' hate? Snakes."

After the summer was over, I had to bite my tongue to keep from saying "motherfucker" in polite company. My girlfriend, not qualifying as polite company, wanted to sew my mouth shut.

"Hey Baby, want to cook a motherfuckin' meal tonight or motherfuckin' eat out?"

The work was actually not that difficult. My job title was Ordinary Seaman (yes, that joke's been made) and I was responsible for all of the odds and ends on the ship...plus whatever anyone happened to need me for at the moment I was walking by. There was a lot of painting, inspecting life boats, inspecting fire extinguishers, inspecting fire hoses, helping the welders, tying up supply boats, untying supply boats, and, on one particularly unlucky night, cleaning out the shaker room.


*****MORE LATER******

The Fainter

My family is prone to embarrassment in glorious and impossible ways. I'm not talking about the crushing, public humiliations of a nasty divorce or a DUI or an out-of-control gambling addiction that results in bankruptcy and foreclosures, but the comic opportunities for embarrassment that present themselves on a daily basis and that most people are able to avoid. My mother has mooned an Easter procession in England and an entire upscale French restaurant in Chicago, both accidentally (she is adept at this, the mooning thing). She also wrote, distracted and flustered, on a disciplinary referral in her first year of teaching, "Student asked repeatedly to spit out cum," when she meant to write "gum". My father has fainted in a Subway sandwich shop and at a driving range, the second time requiring stitches from the fall, and my sister and I have managed to expose our asses AND faint in public on multiple occasions, thankfully not at the same time...yet. Come to think of it, our public embarrassments seem to revolve around either faintings or moonings.

My first brush with this family proclivity occurred when I was in sixth grade. We had just moved to a small town in Central Texas and I was having my first experience as The New Kid. Students in this town attended one of two middle schools and there weren't a great number of new kids in any given year. I was a novelty and attracted the attention of everyone simply because I was a fresh face in a social landscape that had remained largely unchanged since kindergarten. It was the second day of school and our teacher, Mr. Catlin and nurse, Mrs. Zenner, thought it would be a good idea if Elsie, the token diabetic, demonstrated to the class how she checked her insulin level and gave herself injections. Sixth graders are cruel and I'm sure it seemed a good idea to them to educate us all on Elsie and her condition so we didn't turn her into the Piggy of the sixth grade.

Elsie stood bravely in front of the whole class and began to explain diabetes to us and how it effected her life as we huddled around and looked on with morbid curiosity. She pulled out her small kit of syringes, vials, and blood testing equipment and launched in to her daily routine. She had a small and timid voice and it was obvious she was nervous, perhaps sensing the speed with which sixth graders can become monsters to the unfamiliar.

"First, I have to prick my finger," she said as she pulled out what looked like a small desk stapler. She positioned the lancet over her index finger.

THWACK. A small bead of blood rose to the surface of her finger as she continued.

"Then I have to dab the blood onto the insulin meter." As she said this, the small bead of blood transformed into the LARGEST TORRENT OF GORE I have ever seen flowing from someone's finger.

"Oooh. Sometimes this happens. I need a tissue please," she blushed in her tiny pixy voice.

The gathered crowd pressed closer as Mrs. Zenner and Mr. Catlin explained to us how often Elsie had to prick her finger during the day and rhetorically asked us how much we would like it if we had to do what she had to do on a never-ending basis. I started to feel odd. I imagine I was like most 12 year old boys in that blood and guts didn't really bug me. In fact, I had spent the majority of my childhood enthralled by war movies and Indiana Jones movies and all manner of other things in which people met with untimely and gruesome deaths. Moreover, through years of soccer and bike riding and general rambunctiousness I had experienced many cuts and scrapes and busted teeth and was often more impressed with battle wounds than disgusted. Lightheadedness was not in my experiential context. I pushed closer, ignoring the spreading weirdness in my head.

Now the blood was dripping all over Elsie's diabetes kit, arm, and desk. The room started to narrow and the voices of the other kids sounded like an old recording, tinny and distant. I began to realize what was going on. I was going down. I was torn though. Should I return to my desk at the back of the classroom and appear as though I was shunning Elsie and her diabetes? Should I announce, as the new kid no one knew, that I was going to faint and needed to lay down? Or should I soldier on, flex my legs, and hope like hell that I was able to hold on? I managed to do none of these things. By the time I realized there was no escape, it was too late to make it to my desk.

I came to pressed uncomfortably against the wall with a lump on my head. The crowd that had encircled Elsie and focused all of its sixth grade judgement on her and her bleeding finger was now hovering over me with a bemused look of incredulity. As it was the second day of school and I was the new kid, no one knew my name, not even Mr. Catlin. Mrs. Zenner was gently tapping my cheek to bring me back around and warmly repeating, "New kid. New kid." I was mortified. My eyes finally focused on Elsie peering over the backs of the other students with an expression I can only describe as victory. There was a kid weirder than her. I tried to explain it away by saying that I had not eaten breakfast that morning, but the damage was done.

The rest of my sixth grade experience did not fair much better. The very next day at lunch, sitting by myself and trying to ignore the hushed whispers and stares of my classmates, I pierced a stubborn packet of taco sauce with my fork and succeeded only in having it spray me directly in the eye. The laughter was deafening. I also got braces that year, tried unsuccessfully to fake my way through a Christmas band concert because I had not practiced my instrument and, for the first time, had to shower in a shared locker room as one of the later bloomers. Oh, and I was The Fainter. Elsie flirted with popularity.

It should come as no surprise then that, when the following year my mom and dad told my sister and me we would be moving to Saudi Arabia, I greeted the move with anticipation. A fresh start! The day I fainted I had made a fantastical wish to move as far away as possible and now it seemed like that wish was coming true. Yes, I was nervous about being the new kid all over again, but I had learned from my first new kid experience and I was reasonably confident that I could negotiate the discomfort and carve a niche for myself that did not involve being one of the pariah. How much worse could it be?

We arrived in Saudi Arabia in the middle of the summer and had a couple of weeks to try to acclimate to the ridiculous heat, harsh sunlight, and utter unlikeness of the new culture we found ourselves in. The American school my sister and I were to attend operated on a trimester system and classes were set to begin in early August. Eighth grade. New beginnings.

I remember walking to school that first day drunk on an exciting mixture of anxiety, hope, and reservation. I coolly made my way into Mrs. Snakenberg's English class and immediately the room went silent. Our small town in Central Texas didn't get many newcomers, but Dhahran, Saudi Arabia was positively starved for fresh blood. My face did nothing to betray the nervousness I was feeling as I made my way to a desk and sat down. I was a cagey veteran at the new kid game and I was not going to wind up in the same position I had found myself in back in Texas. Namely, I was not going to wind up pale, clammy, and prone on the floor.

I took notes and ignored the curious stares of my classmates as Mrs. Snakenberg explained the interdisciplinary project with which we were going to begin the year. We were charged with inventing a product that would benefit us in our daily pursuits and we would be required to complete a portion of the project specific to each of our core classes. In addition, we would be given time at the beginning of each English class to be devoted to the actual construction of whichever product we decided to create. This was already a better start than witnessing the self-mutilation of the class diabetic and I walked home after a catastrophe free first day of school hopeful and excited about my new social potential on the other side of the world.

That evening at home I decided I would invent a headlight system for my skateboard ( I was a skate punk, replete with long, shaggy hair and baggy pants. Sue me.), and I marched off to school the next day, skateboard in hand, geared up for day two of the new me. I settled down in the corner of Mrs. Snakenberg's classroom and began cutting strips of Velcro in an effort to determine the best way to attach two small flashlights to the sides of the skateboard's deck. A couple of other kids strolled in just before the bell, sat down at the table with me, and started to ask me questions about where I was from and what my dad did for the company. This was good. This was normal. I easily fielded their questions, made a few jokes, and felt genuinely comfortable in my new school. I was easing into what I imagined would become a good time. Then Brad, the Canadian kid across from me, poked one of the wheels of my skateboard with the Exact-O Knife he was wielding and asked, "What's that made of?"

I reflexively swatted at his hand, fearful of him cutting the wheel, and wound up making direct and forceful contact on the tip of my middle finger with the tip of the ridiculously sharp knife he was holding. The resulting slice was surgical and deep and began bleeding profusely. Fuck. I gripped my finger and ran out into the hall to a water fountain to survey the damage. The inch long cut on my finger was pulsing blood with my increasing heart-rate and the warm water of the drinking fountain only caused it to bleed more. The sickening feeling of queasy faintness began to creep up on me.

I collected myself and walked back into the classroom to Mrs. Snakenberg's desk where she was answering a question from another student. Whatever the student had asked, the answer was taking forever and I began to dance nervously from foot to foot as the situation crept closer and closer my nightmare scenario. Finally, the student accepted whatever had been explained to her and Mrs. Snakenberg turned to me. She must have realized something was wrong because her expression changed from a gentle and open smile to poorly concealed alarm.

"Mrs. Snakenberg, I....".

I came to on the floor gazing up at a ring of students eerily reminiscent of the ring that had gathered around me back in Texas. My head hurt and as I sat up I felt something hanging from the mop of sweaty hair on my head. As my classmates chuckled, I realized it was a hot glue gun. I had fallen over backwards and landed directly on top of the Egyptian girl who was sitting Indian style behind me. My dead weight had pinned her upper body across her lap and onto the floor. In some pain, and quite rightly more than a little perturbed, she had forcefully rolled my limp body off her back causing my head to crash into the hot glue gun she was using to construct her project.

As Mrs. Snakenberg set to work cutting a chunk of gluey hair from the back of my head, she ordered a student to go get a glass of water and began to ask me what happened. I was relieved this time to have a gruesome injury to blame for my fainting and I held up my hand sure that the gaping wound on my finger would be more than enough to explain why I was in my current position. I was surprised, therefore, when the displaying of my hideous, gushing stab wound did not produce the squeamishness I expected among the gathered crowd. I looked down at my finger to see what now looked like a completely bloodless paper cut. Shell/core effect had withdrawn all available blood to my vital organs and my hands were now pale, cold, and, to my disappointment, bloodless. No evidence of the carnage existed.

As the other students snickered and made their way back to their projects, I leaned against Mrs. Snakenberg's desk and tried to disappear. It was sixth grade all over again. I was The Fainter. I was sipping on a box of fruit juice the Assistant Principle had stopped in to give me (I had tried again, in an effort to mitigate my embarrassment, to use the old 'I didn't eat breakfast this morning' excuse), when a beautiful blonde-haired classmate with infinite blue oceans for eyes crouched down next to me and put a wet towel on my forehead.

"Are you OK," she asked as she stroked my forehead.

"Um, yeah. I'll be OK. I'm just embarrassed," I responded.

"Oh, don't be embarrassed. I saw the cut when you walked out of the room. It looked really bad. I would have burst into tears. It really must have hurt."

Wait a moment! This was different! In spite of myself, I had managed to parlay my unmanly and highly embarrassing fainting habit into an intimate and tender moment with the hottest girl in the eighth grade. My luck was changing. I could see it now, we would fall madly and deeply in love and my time in Saudi Arabia would be spent in the delirious throes of teenage romance with this gentle and angelic being of God's perfection!

I started to smile and say something else, and then, in keeping with millions of years of evolution and survival instinct, my body decided that the contents of my stomach were no longer important to digest and that the devotion of energy thereto could be better utilized in facilitating my recovery.

I threw up into the trash can next to us.

I heard a chorus of "ewwws" from the rest of the classroom and, through watery eyes, I saw the calm and caring expression of my desert angel transform into a contorted face of disgust as she dry-heaved, dropped the wet towel on my forehead, and retreated back to her project. I was no longer just The Fainter. Now I was The Vomiter too.

The rest of eighth grade was largely forgettable, which, given the standard I had set for myself in sixth grade was probably a good thing. I kept my head down and escaped into soccer, skating, and the knowledge that I would leave Saudi Arabia for boarding school after ninth grade anyway (all western teens were required to do this). Mostly though, I learned to laugh at myself, which I have discovered is an essential component of maturity. Sixth and eighth graders are more than adept at laughing at other people, but it's an older person's ability to laugh at himself that makes him tolerable. Ninth grade was much better. I wasn't the only one who developed a more philosophical outlook on life's embarrassments and the shared burden of knowing that my classmates and I would soon be shipped away from our family's and each other softened the edges and cultivated genuine camaraderie. I'm still in touch with some of the people who saw me faint and vomit on that day.

Still though, it would have been nice to stop at fainting. I could have done without the glue gun and vomit.

A Pain In My Ass

It's time for baseball and there's nothing I can do to stop it. Even now the TV echoes in the other room with the squawks and bleats of Baseball Tonight. The summations of today's games, the tiny sprouts of season making and breaking story lines, and the way-too-soon speculations on October are all blasting forth from my television. I join in out of habit more than anything else. I have already called my father a thousand miles away to discuss the Astros' first game and the brush with which it has painted the next six months of our lives'.

Baseball is like a girlfriend I can't break up with and can't bring myself to marry. Baseball is my common law. Whether I like it or not; whether I secretly watch the NFL draft; whether I will always and forever lust after and cherish my first love, soccer, she owns a part of me. I typically roll my eyes at sports pundits and legitimate writers who wax philosophical about baseball and its place in American lore. I tire of the sepia-toned nostalgia that is invoked to lionize America's Pastime as if there was an age when things were perfect and simple and pure. If baseball ever inhabited the realm of perfection, it was only in the minds of kids who didn't know any better when a dad coached your Little League team and your biggest concern was not catching a fly ball with your eye.

For me, the opening of this season has been welcomed with what I can only characterize as reluctance. I did not follow spring training. I did not follow the Astros' roster moves or rotation adjustments or farm team development the way I used to. I woke up yesterday wishing the Astros weren't opening their season for another few months. This is partly due to geography. Away from the local press coverage and easy familiarity of scores of fellow fans, I have been able to view the sport and my team from a perspective I have never before experienced. But why reluctance and not pleasant surprise? Why uneasiness and not excitement?

Baseball has all the same problems of every other major world sport. The athletes are spoiled. The owners are greedy. The advertisers drive and buy and pervert anything organic. Drugs cast doubt over the legitimacy of the whole thing. These are givens in modern sport. They are the laws of the land and no amount of wishing will bring back the smell of freshly cut grass and the mystery of a pack of unopened baseball cards. What has me down is the information, the constant, infinite barrage of information.

Baseball, more than any other sport, is driven by information. There are percentages to calculate, averages to be mindful of, and tendencies to consider. There are streaks and match-ups, from the pertinent to the ridiculous. There always have been. This off-season the information, usually delivered in tight jabs and crisp hooks, was composed of massive upper-cuts and wild hay-makers. Did Roger Clemens knowingly use performance enhancing drugs? Did Andy Pettitte sell him out? Is Miguel Tejada in serious trouble? What is the legacy of Barry Bonds? Is baseball doomed? Is ______ a Hall of Famer? It left me punch-drunk and weary and led me to view the whole American Spectacle with bemused disgust. Still though, I checked on my Astros, albeit with considerable less frequency, on the internet and in the newspaper.

And then it caught my eye: Anal fissures. Kaz Matsui, the Astros new second baseman, was going to miss the first part of the season after undergoing surgery for anal fissures. Seriously? The indignity! I checked multiple sources just to be sure I had read correctly, and there it was on every website and in every newspaper. Kaz Matsui - 15 day DL Reason: anal fissures. Of all the things the whole world could know about Kaz Matsui, the thing that has launched his career as an Astro is the unhealthy state of his anus. It finally hit me. I do not need to know this. Moreover, I do not need to know 90% of what is written or speculated about in the world of sport. Call it voluntary ignorance or delusional naivete, but our sports culture suffers from a disease of information. We care deeply - too deeply - about our athletes and their lives. Sportscenter is Us Magazine and People for jocks and has-beens. It intrudes on the perfection of our memory and the sanctity of our youth and diminishes the beauty of human competition with updates and soundbites and anal fissures. Goodbye to all of that.

I'll continue to follow my teams in whichever sport they compete and I'll celebrate their wins and bemoan their losses with the same passion I always have, but this season will be a season of rehabilitation for me. It's back to simplicity. Not the simplicity of a time that never existed or a veneration that borders on obsession, but a stream-lining of information and a perspective that extends no further than the lines that mark the field. I'm trying to cure the malaise. Get well baseball. And get well Kaz Matsui.

Fort Dwayne

A few weeks ago I was on a road trip with some friends and our pre-mapped route provided us the underwhelming privilege of experiencing Fort Wayne, Indiana. I'm sure Fort Wayne has something going for it, and I have even thought to call Mayor Tom Henry to ask what exactly that is, but I've just not gotten around to it. Wikipedia tells me that Fort Wayne is defined partly by the geographic anomaly of being nearly equidistant from Detroit, Cincinnati, Chicago, Indianapolis, and Columbus. This is sort of like being the asshole of the Midwest. The city in which my Alma Mater is located has the similar distinction of being located almost exactly between Austin and Dallas. The result is that the city -and I use "city" loosely- has been confined to a history of mediocrity and underdevelopment. I remember thinking upon my arrival at the campus that the city seemed to be shingle-tacked together with things that fell off trucks making the trip between Austin and Dallas. Downtown was dead and the leaking urban sprawl blazed all the glory of a melted wad of gum in a hot summer parking lot. Most of the sensible people who grew up there had long since scattered to one of the big cities. Fort Wayne has the same sort of atmosphere...but more so.

It was in this state of observation that I realized Fort Wayne is not accurately named. At least, the name does not seem to fit the character of the city. Wayne is a classy name. It's Old English and means "wagon builder." I don't know too much about Old England , but I'm sure the wagon builder was a solid member of the community and a staple of the emerging gentry post Dark Ages. Sort of like a precursor to Ford back when that name meant something. John Wayne. Bruce Wayne. Wayne Gretzky. There are some pretty important and culturally significant Waynes out there. An Academy Award winner. Batman. The greatest hockey player of all time. Wayne is a good name. Too good for Fort Wayne, and certainly not in keeping with the character of the present populace, which is why I am proposing a name change.

Ladies and gentlemen, I submit for your approval: Fort Dwayne.

I love it. I love it because it fits. "Dwayne" is Gaelic in origin and means "swarthy". If there's one thing Fort Wayne is, it's swarthy, and I'm not talking about demographics. It just seems to be a dirty city, as if the accumulated exhaust from all of those trucks on their way to Detroit or Cincinnati or Columbus or Indianapolis or Chicago has tainted the whole city and left with its character. That, and the guy in the gas station we stopped at who was looking at porn and chewing on a massive wad of tobacco looked like he could be a Dwayne. Is there anything more perfect?

So, let's make this happen. All in favor of Fort Dwayne, stand up and be counted! Get on the horn to Mayor Tom Henry and demand Fort Wayne, in the name of justice, truth, and progress, rename itself Fort Dwayne. If they (or he) ask you why, respond, "You live there, right?"

Dusting Off the Letter Jacket (Not Really)

I am officially old.

I knew this was coming. I knew it when my knees started to hurt after long runs. I knew it when gray hairs started to sprout like weeds in places that had once been a dark, golden brown. I knew it when my hair line began its slow withdrawal from my forehead. I knew it when, after playing a soccer game, I became sore the day after the day after the game. I knew it when my feet hurt, and my back hurt, and legs ached...for no reason. I knew it when I didn't want to sleep with every attractive girl I met. I knew it when I started to say things like, "Hey guys, it's almost ten. I have work tomorrow. Take it easy."

Mostly though, I knew it when I got an invitation this week to my ten year high school reunion. Ten years. It doesn't seem like it's been that long. Now, I know the trendy thing is to groan and roll my eyes and talk about how much I don't want to go and how ridiculous high school was and on and on and on. I have to confess though: I had fun in high school. Lots of fun. Big amounts of fun. I want to go to the reunion. I'm not saying I want to go back and do school all over again, but I am curious to see how people are doing...and what they look like (another confession). Who got fat? Who got hot? Who is married with ten kids? Who is wildly and deliriously successful? Who is half drunk and belligerent? Who do I wish I had know better? Who am I embarrassed to have held in high esteem?

So far, I have only spoken to a few people about their intentions to go to the reunion. Two of those people are ex-high school girlfriends who are now both married and trying to make babies. I can't help but think those interactions may be a little awkward.

"Honey, I want you to meet the guy I used to sleep with in high school!"

I'll also be going alone, which could make the preceding even more awkward and casts my reluctant aging in stark contrast with where I thought I'd be at this point in life. That's another entry I don't feel like wrapping my mind around at the moment....

Maybe I won't go? It did occur to me that I would have neither the time or the money to make a trip to Texas for a high school reunion unless the reunion was somehow magically scheduled for the same weekend I will be appearing in the wedding of a friend of mine. I'd just have to wait for the twenty year reunion. This would allow me time to settle and be well and truly on with my life before I had to meet any exes' husbands or worry about why I didn't quite feel like an adult yet. Well, you guessed it. The scheduling genie nailed that one. I really have no excuse.

Probably for the best. I'd be almost forty at a twenty year reunion. God knows what my "This is how I know I'm old" list would look like. More gray hair...everywhere? Sagging belly? Buick? Rampant conservatism? I'll go and feel awkward and physically old yet practically immature. Could be fun.