tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78317261721819796822024-03-13T18:56:55.024-05:00mundane affairmundane affairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10170233296730328966noreply@blogger.comBlogger73125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7831726172181979682.post-89735484751831852322010-01-11T08:25:00.032-06:002010-01-20T11:00:15.734-06:00Strangeness<span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Strange days make for strange dreams make for stranger days still. The other night's: a doozy.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I was in Austin, a city I've never been to, attending a gig at </span><a style="font-family: verdana;" href="http://sxsw.com/">SXSW</a><span style="font-family:verdana;"> in a small, packed, dimly lit club. I had no idea who was about to perform but I wanted to get closer to the stage. Then the crowd turned to me in unison and parted. As I walked to the front I overheard murmurings like, "Praise be!" and, "Oh, yes, this is great! He can help us." I saw that the people were trying with little success to fasten a large leather tarp to the stage floor. I grabbed a corner and started instructing them to secure rivets by the monitors and to smooth out the tarp surface. When we finished, a road crew came out to set up the band's gear. Moments later </span><a style="font-family: verdana;" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/No_Age">No Age</a><span style="font-family:verdana;"> took stage and started rocking out. During the first song </span><a style="font-family: verdana;" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Randy_Randall">Randy Randall</a><span style="font-family:verdana;">'s guitar broke in half and a roadie came out to replace it. I couldn't see the roadie's face but she was wearing a ridiculously long flannel shirt with sleeves that nearly touched the ground, and she had a cigarette clenched between her teeth. When she turned around I realized she was none other than </span><a style="font-family: verdana;" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alison_Mosshart">Alison Mosshart</a><span style="font-family:verdana;">. Alison Mosshart looked down, pointed to me with her cigarette (</span><a style="font-family: verdana;" href="http://www.thekills.tv/KILLSSITE/press/16.jpg">looking like this</a><span style="font-family:verdana;">, to be exact) and said, "Hey, you! [Me?] Yeah you. You look familiar..." "Oh! I mean... Yeah," I responded, referring to </span><a style="font-family: verdana;" href="http://img22.imageshack.us/img22/3645/vvfull.jpg">that one cool time that was not a dream but actual reality</a><span style="font-family:verdana;">. She reached down and grabbed my hand to hoist me up. Massive applause from the crowd, then we walked backstage. As we were walking, a chalice containing some sort of glowing blue potion appeared in her hand. The potion was reminiscent of </span><a style="font-family: verdana;" href="http://www.grubgrade.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/08/GM1SqueezeIt1.jpg">Squeezeits</a><span style="font-family:verdana;">, specifically </span><a style="font-family: verdana;" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Squeezit">Berry B. Wild</a><span style="font-family:verdana;">. She insisted that I drink it, "But not all of it!" I misheard her on that last part and accidentally drank it all, every last drop since it turned out to be fairly delicious. Then we were both all, "Oh no!" and I started asking her what was going to happen to me. "I... Honestly? I have no idea," she said. "What do you mean you have no idea?! What is this stuff?!" I asked, freaking out, trying to cough up the Squeezeitesque liquid and wiping my mouth on my sleeve like a madman. "Never mind. This way!" she said, laughing. So we started running down a long, dark hallway and I began to feel pretty goofy.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">This break is to denote where I briefly woke up and then fell back asleep, re-entering the dream precisely where I left off, which almost never happens to me.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Alison Mosshart led me into a tiny room where there were several doors of varying shapes and sizes. A light was shining under one of the tall ones. When I asked her what was behind the tall door is when I realized I was alone. I decided to turn the handle and cross the blinding threshold anyway. The door slammed shut behind me, and when my eyes adjusted who did I see standing in the middle of the room? Why, </span><a style="font-family: verdana;" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Matt_Damon">Matt Damon</a><span style="font-family:verdana;">, wearing nothing more than a white bath towel tied around his waist that was branded with </span><a style="font-family: verdana;" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hyatt">Hyatt</a><span style="font-family:verdana;"> symbols. Matt Damon was dripping wet and standing in front of a mirror flexing these abnormally huge muscles, and when he saw me he grew angry and screamed, "THERE YOU ARE! God </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" >damn</span><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> you. I'm gonna end you, boy!" I was so, so confused at this point. I tried asking him, "Wait, who? Me?!" and then, "Did I drink your potion? I'm so sorry if I drank all your potion, Matt Damon!" None of it worked. He grabbed me by the throat and punched me in the face, which sent me flying backward until I hit the wall. Lying on the floor, my face bleeding and my nose smashed in, I saw a shelf built into the wall that held dozens of </span><a style="font-family: verdana;" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Starbucks">Starbucks</a><span style="font-family:verdana;"> coffee mugs. As Matt Damon walked toward me, going on and on and on about teaching me a "hard lesson," I quietly grabbed a coffee mug from the shelf. When he picked me up by the shirt I turned and broke the mug over his head, which sent him to the ground crying. His cries were not those of a man, but of an infant. I quickly opened the door and closed it behind me, putting my back to it and collapsing in the previous room which was now lit with candles. Alison Mosshart had reappeared and was pacing around the candles in a circle. "Where were you?!" she wanted to know. "Where was </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" >I</span><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">? Where were </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" >you</span><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">?! And what the hell is </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" >Matt Damon</span><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> doing here, huh?! He's pretty pissed!" I stammered. "I don't know who that is," she said flatly. I couldn't believe it. "You what? You... You don't know who Matt Damon is?!" I asked, crazed about what had just happened to me but, strangely enough, a little more crazed that she had never heard of Matt Damon. "Oh my God, your nose!" she exclaimed, grabbing my face and smooshing my cheeks and lips together like a fish. She then led me through another door and into a different room where she started feasting on the blood from my nosewound. As luck would have it, the pain began to subside. "This is awesome! We're gettin' all </span><a style="font-family: verdana;" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/New_Moon_%282009_film%29">Twilight</a><span style="font-family:verdana;">!" I exclaimed, to which she replied, "Quiet! Quiet, man! We gotta heal your nose to save the world!"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">This break is to denote where I awoke.</span></span>mundane affairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10170233296730328966noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7831726172181979682.post-75930918923034982992010-01-09T13:00:00.002-06:002010-01-09T13:07:05.140-06:00'09<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5uqI_CDnSDDNoY31McunzciD1qIadZgfczNOL7CTjMbsJ009YSRaJR5xRY7UqJrmrXDIWyRJHvBgx1a8bDJiIt5mDOYailOerfvmSvm8bQkVoG1dhwDDcxHlaovX3xLnc5KGBK_pJEGMF/s1600-h/page1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 309px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5uqI_CDnSDDNoY31McunzciD1qIadZgfczNOL7CTjMbsJ009YSRaJR5xRY7UqJrmrXDIWyRJHvBgx1a8bDJiIt5mDOYailOerfvmSvm8bQkVoG1dhwDDcxHlaovX3xLnc5KGBK_pJEGMF/s400/page1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424817359013538018" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAmjgQSdl0ENrYBM5ZmFB1HiUovDx5W-OEgZVtPbQ7W0KNWnKPMvXLxVaSlYxivkj-eT2RQAXIIkt3O1iyROqYxquuH318PvX_-lUEgHXfVDz230BuRxV4lsbZHUI7fcA9aAfSNiPoTNmr/s1600-h/page2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 309px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAmjgQSdl0ENrYBM5ZmFB1HiUovDx5W-OEgZVtPbQ7W0KNWnKPMvXLxVaSlYxivkj-eT2RQAXIIkt3O1iyROqYxquuH318PvX_-lUEgHXfVDz230BuRxV4lsbZHUI7fcA9aAfSNiPoTNmr/s400/page2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424817591438464434" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8Lkxi_jQEA45ct1qcfQDaeelwSlPNLlomdoES-fFOfnWwJ4D9I8gUzGlFB-rAKM_0kLFVjitrpZpW5gUz3lbgRJOwCaBO2cs_JVcVj5ShrjAIR94Eyu6UnTrfbiy_Gwa1srP2HtDy4mF3/s1600-h/page3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 309px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8Lkxi_jQEA45ct1qcfQDaeelwSlPNLlomdoES-fFOfnWwJ4D9I8gUzGlFB-rAKM_0kLFVjitrpZpW5gUz3lbgRJOwCaBO2cs_JVcVj5ShrjAIR94Eyu6UnTrfbiy_Gwa1srP2HtDy4mF3/s400/page3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424817748227178770" border="0" /></a>mundane affairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10170233296730328966noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7831726172181979682.post-40212030053640392532009-10-07T19:13:00.018-05:002009-10-26T21:27:17.373-05:00Here's What I Wonder About...<ul style="font-family: verdana;"><li><span style="font-size:78%;">When a dog barks, is it just barking the same word over and over and over again? Because I hear no real inflection or variance in a dog bark (all right, maybe a </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:78%;" >little</span><span style="font-size:78%;">). So in terms of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">dogspeak</span>, is it possible that a canine is programmed with one word and one word only? Like: one dog can only bark, "Apple! Apple! Apple!" while another can only bark back, "Sunsets! Sunsets! Sunsets!" If this is even close to being the case, how do dogs communicate with each other? (Disclaimer: I live near a dog park.)</span></li><li><span style="font-size:78%;">Why don't crazier things happen in public more often, such as people melting down, sobbing, throwing tantrums or simply making loud noises? Why is man generally behaved?</span></li><li><span style="font-size:78%;">Given the abundance of distractions in our world, coupled with a person's capacity to act like a downright idiot sometimes, why don't car accidents happen more frequently, right in front of our eyes? Talking about witnessing them on a daily basis here. Same goes for people tripping, falling down, bumping into each other, dropping things, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">etcetera</span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">etcetera</span>.<br /></span></li><li><span style="font-size:78%;">Why were General Mills cereals like <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/General_Mills_monster-themed_breakfast_cereals"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Franken</span> Berry</a> not more popular?</span></li><li><span style="font-size:78%;">Why were General Mills cereals like <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wheaties">Wheaties</a> </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:78%;" >ever</span><span style="font-size:78%;"> popular?</span></li><li><span style="font-size:78%;">Do bugs have feelings and personalities like we do? Think: spiders.</span></li><li><span style="font-size:78%;">Why are mom and dad so behind the curve with technology? They treat typing on a computer like keying on a typewriter; they don't go back to edit mistakes; they only forge ahead, their index fingers poking letters and numbers haphazardly, their noses inches from the keyboard; their attempted e-mails are always laden with typos and at times completely indecipherable. They have cell phones, but use them like tin cans and string; they only turn them on to make calls, then they shut them off; they're practically unreachable, but when I'm unreachable I return to my phone to see 16 missed calls, zero <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">voicemails</span>; I call them back and their phones are off; they also don't program people's numbers into their phones, but rather dial them from memory each time they want to call someone; at one point dad had a small paper list of phone numbers that he'd carry with him and fish out of his pocket whenever he needed to place a call. And then there's the time mom called me to ask if their home computer "has Google."<br /></span></li></ul>mundane affairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10170233296730328966noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7831726172181979682.post-72535302467721437372009-09-29T15:16:00.010-05:002009-09-30T11:16:43.257-05:00For the Nth Time: Pigeons<span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" >I've already written too much about pigeons, but I must write about them some more. I've simply learned that much over the past month. Things you should know:<br /></span><ol style="font-family:verdana;"><li><span style="font-size:78%;">Studies (my studies) show that pigeons have a short-term memory of, on average, six seconds. While this does not sound like a long time, it, yeah, turns out it's really not that long of a time at all. To show this one pigeon just how stubborn I can be, I scared him (going to assume they're all male here) from my windowsill approximately 20 times in a two-minute span. Each time he acted all, "What?", like he had never seen me before. It went something like this: Surprise! Surprise! Surprise! Surprise! Surprise! Surprise! Surprise! Surprise! Surprise! Surprise! Surprise! Surprise! Surprise! Surprise! Surprise! Surprise! Surprise! Surprise! Surprise! Surprise!</span></li><li><span style="font-size:78%;">I have refined my scare-off tactics based on pigeon response. Today, I lock eyes with the offending pigeon, crouch and slowly spread out my arms like an attacking predator might, or like I might if I had wings. If the windows are open and I feel like throwing in a little <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">somethin</span>' extra, I will also hiss, like my pet cat might if she were a puma. Nine times out of 10 this works. But then they come back. (See No. 1)</span></li><li><span style="font-size:78%;">If I remain at the window after I've scared them off, I can clearly see the pigeons poking their heads out from the rooftop, craning their fat, little necks to see if I am still there. It takes them a really long time to notice I am standing in the same place, right in front of the window, but when they realize it they pull away like lightning - <span style="font-style: italic;">almost as if those past 10 seconds of us making eye contact never even happened.</span><br /></span></li><li><span style="font-size:78%;">Within this particular flock of pigeons that nests in/on/around my apartment, I know which are the smartest, and which are the dumbest. I recognize them on an individual basis, and could pick one out of a lineup if I needed to (and I might, have to). I could even recommend which ones need a bath the most. God, some of them are so dirty it's ridiculous. When they're not partying at my place they've got to be hanging out at Jiffy Lube or something.</span></li><li><span style="font-size:78%;">Outside of Clarence, I have not given any of the pigeons names.</span></li><li><span style="font-size:78%;">I have stared deep into a pigeon's eyes, and I can tell you there is nothing there. This is officially the world's dumbest animal, folks.<br /></span></li><li><span style="font-size:78%;">In a fit of rage, I once burned through an entire tray of ice cubes on a pair of pigeons that wouldn't scram.</span></li><li><span style="font-size:78%;">My landlord actually recommended I fill a spray bottle with bleach to, "See how they like that? Not so much, eh?"</span></li><li><span style="font-size:78%;">I have not tried No. 8, yet.</span></li><li><span style="font-size:78%;">I have interacted with pigeons for a long, long time now, and I still cannot list a single benefit they bring to this earth. Is there one? Because if there is it's lost on me. Unless it's screwing with people and getting them to spend time writing about pigeons. They're pretty good at that.<br /></span></li></ol>mundane affairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10170233296730328966noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7831726172181979682.post-7683764631934478152009-08-24T15:05:00.012-05:002009-08-24T22:35:24.407-05:00Oh, Whoops. More Things<span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">And now for some things that have happened:</span><br /></span><ul style="font-family:verdana;"><li><span style="font-size:78%;">I was on a train and there was a fly trapped inside our crowded car. The thing really took to this one particular guy and it made his entire ride a living hell. It showed no interest for any other person, and all of our eyes followed the fly as it buzzed around this guy's bald head. So he's harumphing and shooing his poor arm off and finally he just snaps and starts rolling up the newspaper he's been trying to read. He sets down his bag and goes, "I'm gonna hit 'im!" You know, giving people fair warning to get the hell out of the way. So he's got his tube of newspaper and sees the fly land on the window. He winds up baseball style, his elbows near people's chins, pretty good form actually, and explodes this juicy bug all over the door. He was sweating and concluded with a big, "Thanks!" The rest of us went back to thinking about other things.<br /></span></li><li><span style="font-size:78%;">One night I turned on my bedroom lamp to see the biggest centipede I've ever seen. The thing was the size of a goddamn kielbasa, not including its legs. Pretty gross. Had it not been so close to my bed I might've let it live. Might've. So I quietly got out the vacuum and connected the hose attachment. I wondered if the centipede could see what I was doing, or if it even had eyes for that matter. I got the hose right next to what I believed to be its head and hit the switch. The hose started sucking in air loudly, but not quickly enough to unglue the centipede from the wall. The ugly thing really had that much mass. So I had to guide him in, sort of using the hose to slurp him up. It was a pathetic death. He didn't even try to fight me or at the very least run away. I went to bed feeling superior.<br /></span></li><li><span style="font-size:78%;">While my neighbors were moving out of our apartment building I heard them talking about me in the hallway. I got to wondering: Is this eavesdropping, or talking behind someone's back?</span></li><li><span style="font-size:78%;">I asked my landlord to fix my leaky bathroom sink, and came home to find my kitchen covered in a film of sawdust. The floors, the counters, the sink, my cat's food - all of it dressed in wood shavings. I opened the back door and saw part of the staircase had been rebuilt, and concluded he used my kitchen as his personal wood shop for the day. Guy didn't even try to clean up. Obliviousness, or DGAF-ness? Not sure. He did fix the sink though.</span></li><li><span style="font-size:78%;">I didn't ask my landlord to fix anything, and came home to find a huge black streak running across my bedroom wall. It ran waist level around my bed, which is strange because there is less than a foot of space between my bed and the wall - </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:78%;" >and nothing on the other side of my bed</span><span style="font-size:78%;">. So what someone was doing shimmying around my mattress, to get closer to nothing, is both lost on me and concerning. Not to sound vain, but my logic was soon in the gutter and I started checking crevices for video cameras and audio equipment. It made me paranoid for a few days, but mostly I just reverted back to living my life as I did before. If they really, really want to, let 'em watch, y'know?<br /></span></li><li><span style="font-size:78%;">This pair of pigeons moved into my apartment, into the small spaces on either side of my AC unit. I found sticks, feathers, pigeon crap and other bird belongings on the inside of my window sill, and my cat playing with it all. So I kicked them out. Sure enough the next day they were back, building and pooping in their new home simultaneously. I evicted them again! By the end of the week they would hear me come home and pretend to not be there. Right. Because that works. That's when I started going out onto my porch and throwing ice cubes at them, every night, for the subsequent week. At first you could tell they had no idea what an ice cube was, but then one of them got hit in the face. Now they don't come around anymore, and I can once again drink my drinks cold.<br /></span></li><li><span style="font-size:78%;">This summer I went to my family's cottage in northern Michigan for eight days. There is a dining hall there, filled with families clad in Polo sweaters and whatever argyle accessories their country clubs had left in stock. They eat there three times a day, and by the end of my stay a young girl was openly flirting with my cousin and me in front of her parents - using milk as her calling card. Yes, she flirted with us via milk, taking multiple unnecessary trips to the dairy bar and consuming close to five glasses of milk per meal as she eyed us up from behind her tilted container. That's 15 glasses of milk a day. We thought of asking her if she had a calcium deficiency but agreed the odds of that actually being true were rather good, and plus we didn't want the flirting to stop. Ever. So we kept on watching her watch us as she worked on her bones.<br /></span></li></ul>mundane affairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10170233296730328966noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7831726172181979682.post-53224994875229356762009-06-14T21:53:00.009-05:002009-06-15T22:53:33.890-05:00My Crooked Digit<span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Recently I broke my left index finger during a company softball game. I caught a pop-fly to left field very, very sloppily, and God I wish this story was cooler. Anyhow, the thing swelled up over night and by morning it looked like I had a big, purple grape on the tip of my finger in terms of size, shape and color - my pointer-turned-fruity-finger-berry.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">So I went to urgent care for X-rays and a splint, and was then referred to a hand specialist. The hand specialist took even more X-rays and made me a custom splint, one molded to fit and snugly encase my finger. Then they moved me to their physical-therapy ward. Physical therapy. For a finger! I went on my way and over the next few weeks diligently practiced the circuit of finger exercises the four women had taught me as they braced various parts of my hand and forearm and repeated statements of encouragement like, "You can do it, Dave!" and "One more. One more! Come on, push it."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Now, apparently I was supposed to take off the splint daily to clean and air out my finger. Either they forgot to tell me that part or I was not paying any attention when they explained it, because by the time my next appointment rolled around some 20 days later I hadn't removed the thing since they strapped it to my busted <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">phalange</span>. The implications of this didn't fully dawn on me until an (alarmingly) attractive hand specialist who was definitely not there the previous time was asking me to ditch the splint so she could check and see how my skin was healing, all in a tone one might use to get a madman to surrender a loaded weapon.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">As I started unraveling the tape I got a small whiff of something big, something </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >awful</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">, and knew things were about to get pretty embarrassing for me. With each strand I removed the smell permeated higher and deeper into the small room we were sitting in, both of us staring at my crooked digit with expressions of profound curiosity. "How could this have gotten so disgustingly bad?" we asked ourselves. We both knew the answer. The odor had soul, breathing and growing like a healthy, living organism or ecosystem of sorts. It was a stench entity - its presence staggering, its weight a heavy one - and for some reason she kept getting closer to my finger and scrunching her nose, with the kind of fascination and caution paleontologists probably use while unearthing fossils. This made me even more nervous.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">By the time the splint was off the entire room stunk like old tacos, or like I had unwrapped leftover Indian food I'd forgotten about in the back of my refrigerator for months. Woof freaking </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >woof</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">. My skin was warm and pigmentless and steaming, and at one point I thought I heard it hiss. All I could say was, "Jesus," and then started apologizing to her. I half asked, half asserted that surely she'd seen and smelled worse from patients, and she half asked herself the same question, half lied to me that she probably (probably!) had, with an unsettling question-mark-type-tone at the end. Not good. My finger didn't even look like it belonged to a living thing. It looked more like that of a zombie, or like I'd been hanging out in a graveyard and dug up a freshly buried body to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">de</span>-finger out of spite. It was gray and sort of transparent-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">ish</span>, and there was still plenty of purple in there, my good ol' grapes gettin' nice and ripe.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">My next appointment is in two days. This time around I've cleaned my finger every single day, but over the weekend a bartender told me I was cute and "have good hair" and said he'd like to do a shot with me free of charge if I let him sign my splint. So it has the name Perry on it now.</span><br /></span>mundane affairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10170233296730328966noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7831726172181979682.post-17679281020373801602009-04-28T22:03:00.018-05:002009-04-29T11:02:59.818-05:00Here are Some Things<span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">January? I really haven't posted anything since </span></span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: verdana;font-size:78%;" >January</span><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">? Boy am I ever disappointed in myself. If anyone still reads this old thing I apologize. I started some other writing projects that've grown into something larger and nastier than I originally anticipated. Plus I work during the day, but that one never seemed to get in the way before... Whatever.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Anyhow, here are some things:</span><br /></span><ul style="font-family: verdana;"><li><span style="font-size:78%;">My car was recently towed because the new neighbors couldn't fit their couch between it and the vehicle parked in front of me when they were moving in. How this is legal I do not know (couch could've been really nice or something). But what I do know: I paid $15 for a cab ride to the impound on the outskirts of the city, $170 for the release of my "hazardously parked" car and $2.50 for a dozen eggs on my way home.</span></li><li><span style="font-size:78%;">If it's late at night or dark enough, nine times out of 10 I will go to the bathroom sitting down. Simply takes too much effort to aim or do otherwise. And I must say: you ladies are really on to something.</span></li><li><span style="font-size:78%;">I have met (several) people from the Internet. Some are cooler than others, but all are very real (people). I've played air instruments with just about every one of them, using props like tennis rackets, yardsticks, kitchen utensils, other people's limbs or sometimes no prop at all - perhaps the truest air instrument there ever was. We talk about it on the Internet afterward.<br /></span></li><li><span style="font-size:78%;">Last year I received a huge, heavy package addressed to an old tenant, and after six months of unreturned phone calls from the kid I caved and opened it. It was a wooden media cabinet that required assembly. I felt the same disappointment as I did when as a youth on Christmas morning I unwrapped the last present in the corner and saw it was not a caged ferret.</span></li><li><span style="font-size:78%;">The couple behind me who owns that dog <a href="http://mundaneaffair.blogspot.com/2008/06/ode-to-margot-may-you-soon-rest-in.html">Margot</a> or <a href="http://mundaneaffair.blogspot.com/2009/01/margot.html">"Jenkins"</a> or whoever fought this morning over a list of </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:78%;" >chores</span><span style="font-size:78%;">. Dude doesn't work, so when his girl stormed to the bus stop he ranted to ol' INSERT DOG'S NICKNAME OF THE DAY HERE about how she's a royal pain in the ass (he really used that word), is generally unappreciative of his contributions to the household (used that one, too), always makes him clean the goddamn (used it) toilet, etc. (did not use "etc."). I listened to all of this while clipping my fingernails.</span></li><li><span style="font-size:78%;">My cat's personality is even weaker and less interesting than my own, so we make for quite the pathetic pair. However, there is this: once while she was eating I made a sudden movement in the kitchen and scared the crap out of her. Literally. I wanted to yell at her but thought that might make her go again. I was forced to clean it up in silence. Do you see? Weaksauce. Zero to negative "wow."</span></li><li><span style="font-size:78%;">Most times I continue to consume milk way, </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:78%;" >way</span><span style="font-size:78%;"> past its expiration date, so long as it passes a preliminary smell test. And when it does, I'll tell ya what: it's </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:78%;" >fiiine</span><span style="font-size:78%;">.</span></li><li><span style="font-size:78%;">In my cupboard I found a bag of unopened sugar that I purchased exactly one year ago this month. That thing passed a smell test </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:78%;" >and</span><span style="font-size:78%;"> a taste test with flying colors, which is less impressive because Google tells me sugar has an "indefinite shelf life" or something. More noteworthy is the fact that in 365 days I had not one use for sugar.</span></li><li><span style="font-size:78%;">In addition to sheer laziness, a small oversight on my part prevented a pair of slacks from being included in one or two (approx./max.) trips to the laundromat. They fell off their hanger the other day but kept that neat, folded shape all on their own. They could've danced right across the floor. I added it up on my fingers and found that soap's felt the poor things but once in the six months I've owned them.</span></li><li><span style="font-size:78%;">To date, the biggest come-on I've ever received came from a transvestite prostitute (pre-op, clearly) while I was walking down the street in broad daylight. Yes I stopped to ask her/him what that even meant anyway; yes I turned down the proposition upon interpreting her/his motions; and yes it's so dirty I won't be drawing any diagrams or explaining it any further. Doesn't mean it didn't make me feel a <span style="font-style: italic;">little bit</span> cool, just sayin'.</span></li></ul>mundane affairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10170233296730328966noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7831726172181979682.post-68697481125882997102009-01-23T09:07:00.006-06:002009-01-23T11:58:36.446-06:00Margot?<span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">So I've been working on some other personal writing projects and my friend <a href="http://socialtnt.com/">Chris</a> had to remind me that I still have a blog (thanks, Chris!).</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Remember </span><a style="font-family: verdana;" href="http://mundaneaffair.blogspot.com/2008/06/ode-to-margot-may-you-soon-rest-in.html">this post</a><span style="font-family:verdana;"> about Margot, the mutt next door whose owners coddle her like a newborn Homo sapien? Well it's been a little more than seven months since I wrote that and much of their silly, gag-me-with-a-spoon behavior has remained the same. That is, until yesterday.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Somehow, over night, all vocalized fanfare for Margot ceased and the next morning they cheered on the rising sun with much of the same verbal diarrhea - but for some dog called "Jenkins." No doubt this confused the hell out of me, and I actually became somewhat concerned about where oh where did our dear Margot go?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I think there are a couple possibilities here. First off, it's important you understand just how much I know about my neighbors without having ever interacted with them. In my worst moments when I am cold and alone and haven't eaten in days or whatever, the walls and floors that separate our two apartments become so thin that I feel like I'm actually living with this couple. Sounds and smells permeate our divide and it's as if we're one happy party of three (five if we include their dog and my cat). I can tell you that last night they made pasta with meatballs, Parmesan cheese and a dash of what smelled like Tabasco sauce. Ben must have wanted to try something new, which is odd since Beth doesn't really like spicy dishes all that much. "This has some kick!?" she borderline complained. Had I been able to see them, I'm sure Ben grinned at that very moment and shoved a huge forkful of volcanic pasta into his gourd. Maybe it was his way at getting back at her for when she told him to turn down that My Morning Jacket record he was blasting the other day. Poor guy had to turn it off right in the middle of my favorite song.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">What I'm getting at here is that if I know all of the above, I'm confident I would know if Margot had died. Growing up, my family and I euthanized the equivalent of an entire zoo of animals, and I can assure you there's a period, however brief, where owners grieve a little bit after putting down their pets. So where does this leave us? I honestly think they just started calling Margot "Jenkins," which is so cruel and backward it almost doesn't make sense, for one because it connotes a doggie sex-change and for two because these two dolts practically worshiped every turd Margot laid. Something like that would be so grossly out of character for the pea-brains.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Then this happened: as I awoke today to more incessant cheering for "Jenkins," I got to the window just in time to see Ben and the beast walking to the nearby dog park. They were about 50 yards away, but even from that distance I could tell by the shadow, shape and gait of "Jenkins" that he is almost certainly </span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" >a different dog</span><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">. He is still very ugly, much like Margot was ugly, but he embodies the essence of ugliness in different, almost </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >uglier</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> ways - like where Margot's folds and crevices and snout resembled that of a prized pig, the stocky, teetering trot of "Jenkins" mimics that of a wild boar combing the forest floor for grubs. Boy, Beth and Ben sure know how to pick 'em.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Margot, where art thou?</span><br /></span>mundane affairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10170233296730328966noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7831726172181979682.post-56726967984319345372008-12-04T11:38:00.003-06:002008-12-04T12:41:36.860-06:00Ziggy Played Guitar (Hero?)<span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Alright, dudes. Time to cut it out 'cause this is really getting pretty ridiculous. You're what, 28 now? 30? So stop playing Guitar Hero already. I come home from work exhausted, you're playing it. I wake up in the middle of the night and wipe the drool from my face, you're playing it. I eat cereal at dawn and my cat and I we look at each other there in the darkness, you're playing it. I play (real, actual) guitar, you're playing it. To the point where I know your high scores. To the point where I know when one of ya's botched a lick or two. And that ain't right. No one wants that. So just start taking (real) guitar lessons already (and </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: verdana;">man</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> is this sad that I even have to differentiate between "real guitar" and "Guitar Hero," but so be it). Come up and jam with me, I don't care. Just start doing it right. Start doing it f'real.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Last night you had what sounded to be some sort of Guitar Hero party. How you ever coerced anyone into attending is beyond me. I think I even heard girls, too, so you'll have to share with me that bit of miracle-working as well (I mean, really, cut the crap and tell me: </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: verdana;">how</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">?!). And it just sounded terrible, all of it. You've got guys standing in front of the TV, pushing the controller buttons that I hear clicking through the walls and the floor and I can just imagine the little plastic guitars strapped to your chests. Not that anything </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: verdana;">I</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> do is cool, per se, but this is just pure, unfettered lameness. You've got people in the background screaming out as if they've just witnessed a car wreck every time you miss a note on the solos. Seriously? I think one of you is even a doctor. Oh God my head just exploded.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">But I have to remind myself that this is likely your way of getting back at me for all those times I turned my amps up to 11 (every time) and the wood slats rattled beneath my feet as a couple of us played awful (but </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: verdana;">real</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">, mind you) guitar. Yes, you were likely jealous or pissed that we were not, in fact, participating in digital video games, but in </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: verdana;">life</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">As you clicked those final notes last night on "Ziggy Stardust," it reminded me that, while the song and album were written around the completely ridiculous premise that an extraterrestrial rock star has come to planet earth, in human form, to save mankind (right?), it is nonetheless about an extraterrestrial rock star who has come to planet earth, in human form, who plays </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: verdana;">guitar</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">, not Guitar </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: verdana;">Hero</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">. Even if Bowie had written this stuff yesterday, I'd like to think it still would have manifested itself in identical fashion, and not be about some guy who uses a joystick and controller to make young, feeble hearts melt. 'Cause that's not sexy, and sexiness is what Bowie has always strived for (obviously).</span><br /></span>mundane affairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10170233296730328966noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7831726172181979682.post-16830936151530320232008-12-03T09:53:00.020-06:002008-12-04T09:42:56.768-06:00Those Poor Drunk People<span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" >Sweet Jesus. So I haven't posted since October? Terribly sorry about that. Not that anyone reads this thing anyway. Yes, let's see here... yep, by the looks of things traffic has always been, and continues to be, a very definitive zero, which I guess means I'm neither ahead nor behind, just in a weird, non-living state of paralysis of sorts, so...<br /><br />ANYWAY.<br /><br />This morning it hit me, what is surely one of the greatest modern quandaries out there: what did all the drunk people do for emotional release before the advent of the telephone? Drunk-dialing seems so commonplace nowadays, even <span class="me">passé</span>, dare I say, what with texting and any given impersonal communication flavor of the week, but what the heck did all those hoards of inebriates do when they were hanging out and getting wasted in saloons and neared that I-guess-I'm-feeling-vulnerable-enough-to-tell-her/him state in which they thought it prudent to contact some poor sober soul and spill their guts out to him/her, that apparent long-lost lover on the other side of town or the county or the country or whatever?<br /><br />Did they break away from the barroom brawls and people swinging on chandeliers and other assorted tomfoolery to teeter-totter up to their room, or maybe through the tumbleweeds and down to the general store, and (I'm imagining this by candlelight) scrawl a poorly worded, mostly illegible letter and stumble it, in spurs, to the local post office or mailbox (if they even had those?)? Did they remember to get stamps along the way? OK no. Well wait a minute, what if they couldn't even read or write in the first place? Because that would obviously pose significant problems. What <span style="font-style: italic;">then</span>, huh? Maybe they just grabbed the nearest person who knew how to read and write and straight-up verbalized - probably pretty passionately, with sweat dripping down their brow, with phlegm flying from their mouth that was in no way intended for a spittoon - what they wished to be emoted by ink and quill. But how awkward would that be for the scribe? Psh.<br /><br />Maybe this is the whole <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maslow_hierarchy_of_needs">Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs</a> thing coming into play (clever bastard); you know, as you saunter home from the saloon and up your front lawn you're likely to care first and foremost about, say, making sure a wolf hasn't plowed through your whole lot of sheep while you were out hootin' and hollerin' with your drinking buddies <span style="font-style: italic;">before</span> you decide to cruise Facebook at 3 a.m., haphazardly poking your crushes, and even complete strangers, in your e-warpath. It just kinda works that way.<br /><br />So take all of this, got it?, k, and think now of all that bottled-up emotion - the pent-up sentiments and years of emotional solitude spread out over varying <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blood_alcohol_content">BAC</a> levels (usually pretty high ones considering all of that moonshine and whiskey, or so I've read) - and what've you got? What you've got are barrels full of volatile little man hearts strapped with lit sticks of TNT, getting absolutely plastered in the proximity of women in bustiers and various corralled animals is what you've got. And that's pretty damn scary. Laws (the few that existed) were practically begging to be broken.<br /><br />Or maybe there were just a lot more face-to-face confessions and confrontations, which would have rocked something fierce to witness. Can you imagine? I barely can, this tarnation. And just think: these people in these impaired hullabaloos were usually carrying <span style="font-style: italic;">guns</span>. My God. Talk about being guilted into love. What if your assailant/lover-to-be was packing eyes full of tears, veins full of booze <span style="font-style: italic;">and</span> a hip holster full of lead?<br /><br />OK, OK! I'll marry you!</span>mundane affairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10170233296730328966noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7831726172181979682.post-80535382661242620162008-10-16T10:52:00.009-05:002008-10-17T09:27:32.862-05:00The Kid's Name was Jesus (or "Jesus B" or "El Otro Jesus")<span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">So I used to work with a guy named Jesus. He was a huge Hispanic dude with jet-black hair. The only thing Jesus and I had in common was that we were both part of the lowly Wilson Hall cafeteria staff at Michigan State University. I knew nothing about him, but I was forced to read several (what I hear are, but don't know myself to be, because they bored me to sleep) acclaimed books about a man named Jesus growing up, so I felt like I somehow knew the person with the holy name whom I washed dishes next to on Wednesdays.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">You'd be correct in assuming that Jesus is not a common name. I feel the same way. Especially not at MSU, ya know? Jesus was in fact the only dude named Jesus on the cafeteria-staff lineup. But, for inexplicable reasons, Jesus' name was never </span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" >ever</span><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> used without his last initial: B. Sort of like </span><a style="font-family: verdana;" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Susan_B._Anthony">Susan B. Anthony</a><span style="font-family:verdana;">, but with less Anthony and less Susan and a whole lot more Jesus. Jesus </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" >B</span><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">. Perhaps even more confounding, though, was that no other staff member's name was used with their last initial. Nay. On our name tags we were Daves and Dans and Marys and Beths, and it was clear going down the daily task schedule...</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">- Dave: dishes</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">- Dan: condiments</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">- Mary: cereal</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">- Beth: buffet</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">- Frank: salad bar</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">- Ron: milk machine</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">- Jesus B.: waffle maker</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Jesus </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" >B</span><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">? What in the. Well thank heavens they specified, I thought they meant the <span style="font-style: italic;">other</span> Jesus who works here - Jesus </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" >A</span><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> is he?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">So I ask you: why did management do this? Was it so they didn't frighten people into thinking that Jesus had risen from the dead and come back to planet earth in the living flesh not to walk on water or cure diseases or end wars - but only to work tiny little miracles of Belgian goodness on a waffle maker in East Lansing, Mich.? Because that's the only explanation I can come up with. A </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" >don't freak out he's not really Jesus </span><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">type thing. Though I </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" >guess</span><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> Jesus C(hrist) would follow our beloved Jesus B, right?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Overall, a good experience. This man basically led me to believe that whoever Jesus C was, he was probably an everyday person just like you and me - one who can wear hair nets and blue latex gloves with best of us.</span></span>mundane affairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10170233296730328966noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7831726172181979682.post-42236723720295511372008-09-09T21:24:00.004-05:002008-09-10T09:56:24.141-05:00I Can See Clearly Now, My Hair is Gone!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;"><span class="Apple-style-span">I can see all obstacles in my way!</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Except for obstacles that just aren't visible (aka </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;font-size:78%;" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span">in</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;"><span class="Apple-style-span">visible), of course. Bias; hatred; viruses; gale-force winds; glass ceilings impeding the upward mobility of long-haired, middle-aged men in the workplace. You know, obstacles of </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;font-size:78%;" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span">that</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"> nature. Can't exactly see those now, can I? But then again, neither can you. For the rest of 'em, all of those seeable obstructions out there, I will be aware of them </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;font-size:78%;" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span">miles</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"> in advance. This race of life has a new harbinger, folks.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;"><span class="Apple-style-span">God this rules.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Tonight I had my first haircut in something like nine months. I could have had a baby by now, if only I were a woman. But I'm a man, so I chose to grow my hair out over the span of nine months to pay homage to all of you new and expecting mothers out there. This was not nearly as glamours or rewarding or pretty as what you've all got cooking and going on up in there, but it made me feel sort of important. To myself, anyway. And that's pretty important to me.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;font-size:78%;" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Anyway</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;"><span class="Apple-style-span">, the woman who cut my hair was very nice and asked why I was even cutting my hair in the first place (!) - she </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;font-size:78%;" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span">actually liked it</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"> the way it was. All fluffy and mangy and uncontrollable and long and poking me in the eye and mouth like that. Apparently she was </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;font-size:78%;" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span">into</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"> that sorta thing. Ugh, just my luck. I almost up and left.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;"><span class="Apple-style-span">So she gets through cutting my hair and all that jazz, like five pounds of my head now sitting in my lap and on the floor, and I start to feel confident - in strange, unfamiliar ways - with my new do. So what did my new do and I do? Well, we figured we would "get the party started" with the new style we'll be sporting for my next approximate pregnancy, and I elected to ask this woman out on a date, outside of the salon, what with her being a hair dresser and me with my newly chopped hair and all (cut by the very same person I would be dating, mind you, which equals a cuteness factor of gag-me-with-a-spoon, according to leading market analysts). Yeah, seemed like a good idea at the time, but get this: </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;font-size:78%;" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span">she said no because she is a lesbian</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;"><span class="Apple-style-span">! I know, right?! I believe her exact words were, "No, I'm a lesbian." The humanity. Honestly.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Just kidding. Or am I?</span></span></div></div>mundane affairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10170233296730328966noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7831726172181979682.post-13187100464432983982008-08-26T10:33:00.009-05:002008-08-26T12:51:23.547-05:00My Little Reading Rainbow<span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">What follows should not make much sense to you. At least I hope it doesn't. But today it dawned on me that I have only recently gotten into reading. On my own time. As a hobby. In just the past year or so, I have finally evolved into one of those semi-intelligent (looking) beings who has a book in his hand most of the time. And I think this is a good thing.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Here is why.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Once a discouraged, pigeonholed youth, I have known far too well the pain of scoring a lowly 18 on the reading section of the </span><a style="font-family: verdana;" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ACT_%28examination%29">ACT</a><span style="font-family: verdana;"> exam, and the labels that come with such a poor performance. An </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: verdana;">18</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">, guys. For those of you not familiar with this standardized college-admissions test, each of the five parts - English, math, reading, science reasoning and writing - is scored out of 36 points. And for those of you who flunked the math portion - either out of sheer lack of numerical inclination or the fact that you forgot to bring a calculator on exam day - my reading score of 18 is equivalent to 50 percent. See: abysmal. See: beyond repair. See: half-broken. See: </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: verdana;">chance</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">.</span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: verdana;"></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">This was my problem: I was always the slowest reader in my grade, missing reading assignments and deadlines left and right. Regardless of the book or subject matter, I was usually stuck somewhere around page 13, re-reading several times over the 12 that came before it. And this took me </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: verdana;">days</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">. It was frustrating to say the least. I would fall so far behind that I'd have to resort to relying on things like </span><a style="font-family: verdana;" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/CliffsNotes">CliffsNotes</a><span style="font-family: verdana;">, the early Web and simply what my friends and random passers-by told me happened in these acclaimed works. Little did they know they held such power, and every bit of my trust. They could have told me anything. They could have told me </span><a style="font-family: verdana;" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Holden_Caulfield">Holden Caulfield</a><span style="font-family: verdana;"> is a transgendered individual struggling in the wake of a botched sex change, coming to grips with his/her maritime responsibilities aboard the USS Mushroom Stamp. And lest I forget "</span><a style="font-family: verdana;" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Catcher_in_the_Rye">The Catcher In The Rye</a><span style="font-family: verdana;">" is an autobiographical memoir of </span><a style="font-family: verdana;" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/J.D._Salinger">J.D. Salinger</a><span style="font-family: verdana;">'s mixed-up prepubescence at sea. You see, I would have taken all of this at face value, and failed, miserably. By all accounts, I should probably still be in high school, repeating literature courses in dizzying, merry-go-round fashion.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">It's not that I couldn't retain anything I read, my mind just tended to wander and think about other things while my eyes followed strings of words, left to right, down the page, only going through the physical motions, no further. I would catch myself doing this and have to re-read what I had just skimmed past, what I had failed to process. </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: verdana;">This</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> was my problem, and it became rather apparent on the ACT, where would-be scholars are forced to read a series of passages and answer corresponding sets of questions. A tall order for yours truly, back then. This was the opening of the kimono, so to speak.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Perhaps most confounding about my test results (once my immediate family and I let go of our explanatory theories of miscalculation, results mix-up and severe damage to my temporal lobe) was that I did fairly well on the other sections, somehow managing a 32 for English. A 32! I wasn't sure what a 32 signified, but I knew it was a hell of a lot better than an 18. And I remember wanting to shave a couple points off that score and reallocate them to my valiant attempt at reading. My letters to the ACT board went unanswered, so I assumed this was not allowed.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Thank God the ACT averages your scores from all five areas for one composite score, or I may have never been accepted into a university. If there was no composite score, admissions departments would have just laughed at my applications, feeling bad enough to want to help me, but not bad enough to help me with their own education programs. So they would have sent me another program - complimentary copies of "</span><a style="font-family: verdana;" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Reading_Rainbow">Reading Rainbow</a><span style="font-family: verdana;">" - instead. I would've felt insulted. I also would've watched all the episodes after getting over it. Every one of 'em. Because that was a good show.</span><br /></span>mundane affairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10170233296730328966noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7831726172181979682.post-16081290298995191642008-08-20T13:24:00.001-05:002008-08-20T13:29:04.879-05:00The Art of Listening<p style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size:78%;">I posted this one over at <a href="http://haroldskids.wordpress.com/2008/08/20/the-art-of-listening/">Harold's Kids</a>.<br /></span></p><p style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size:78%;">For those who missed it, yesterday’s <a href="http://www.twebinar.com/" target="_blank">Twebinar</a> was all about the importance of listening in building, maintaining and further developing a brand. Which seems obvious, of course, but is certainly much harder to, well, <em>do</em>.</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size:78%;">The Twebinar series has been great thus far. Once you get over some of the technical glitches and spotty audio/video, it’s refreshing to hear communications pros discuss the topics-at-hand. This week, the same general tenet was repackaged 70 different ways:</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size:78%;">Yes, listening is important, and it’s something all companies, regardless of size, should be doing, what with the myriad new-media tools that are readily available to us (often for free, other times for a nominal fee, such as the one offered by <a href="http://www.radian6.com/cms/home" target="_blank">Radian6</a>, the organizer of the Twebinar series [shocker!]). Why? Well, for starters, considering all the avenues consumers have to voice their opinions online, it’s no longer a mystery what your customer thinks, feels, likes and dislikes about your brand, and it behooves you to monitor this dialogue that’s already happening, for it’s a dialogue that will continue to happen with or without you. So participate!</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size:78%;">But it doesn’t end at listening. Nay, you should probably do something about all of this feedback, right? Wouldn’t want to look like you don’t care all that much about these folks, would you? So once you’ve monitored and processed the raw commentary that’s out there, take it to the marketing teams, take it to the product teams, take it to <em>all</em> of the decision makers and see what you can do to better provide what people want to buy! At the end of the day, people just want to feel like they’re being heard and valued in some way, shape or form anyway, so isn’t this your big chance? Your big break?! Unfettered access to all of this testimonial — it’s beautiful. After all, won’t that make your brand more successful, if you can provide <em>exactly</em> what your target buyer is looking for? Methinks.</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size:78%;">But what do <em>y’all</em> think? I’m all ears…</span></p>mundane affairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10170233296730328966noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7831726172181979682.post-90510867409249695422008-08-15T09:28:00.029-05:002008-08-18T09:56:28.243-05:00iPoding, Together*<span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Hey, cool kids: want to be even </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" >cooler</span><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">? Dweebs, dorks, doofuses: want to be </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" >cool</span><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">?</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> Boy, have I ever got the thing for you. Just the thing for </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" >all</span><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> you cats.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">What follows is quite possibly - no, </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >is</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> the best idea I've ever conceived. I'm rather proud of it, too. It's been my brainchild. My baby. My special little personal pet project that I've been piloting all across this country the past few years. Detroit, San Francisco, Chicago. Some town in Indiana. Most of northeastern Ohio. Unbeknownst to your city and its residents, you have all witnessed this incredible movement-in-the-making in one form or another.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Perplexed, law-abiding citizens could have sworn they saw an apparition take to the streets, amid a loud, amateur recitation of... </span><a style="font-family: verdana;" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/London_Calling"><span style="font-style: italic;">London Calling</span></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">? Sleepy souls have been shaken awake by obnoxious hollering in the alley - noise that was somewhat reminiscent of but not nearly as good as </span><a style="font-family: verdana;" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Born_to_Run"><span style="font-style: italic;">Born To Run</span></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">. Some dude brushing his teeth, getting ready for the early shift at the steel mill, yeah he could've sworn he heard an a capella version of </span><a style="font-family: verdana;" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Let_It_Be_%28Replacements_album%29"><span style="font-style: italic;">Let It Be</span></a><span style="font-family:verdana;"> last night. You know all those people in the restaurant? In the bar? What they saw those kids thrashing around and losing control of their limbs to was </span><a style="font-family: verdana;" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Separation_Sunday"><span style="font-style: italic;">Separation Sunday</span></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">. They weren't having corresponding seizures. The stomping on the roof? The breaking glass</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">? </span><a style="font-family: verdana;" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Southern_Rock_Opera"><span style="font-style: italic;">Southern Rock Opera</span></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">To some of you, namely my parents, this will only further solidify my place in this world as a social outcast. </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" >Three square meals a day, clean sheets, a roof over his head, a college education... all that for this?</span><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">To others, the below will seem like the most brilliant bit of brain juice ever spilled - the worthiest model ever devised, the most forthright social experiment ever carried out - and these people will burn with envy that they weren't the first to think of such a thing. And then they'll try it out for themselves. In public. And they will </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" >love</span><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> it. It will be obvious. You will clearly see them loving it.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">This is by no means a complex thing, so I'll spell it out in the simplest terms...</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Grab someone who likes to rock out. This could be anyone. A friend. A friend of a friend. An acquaintance. Someone you don't even particularly care all that much for. A stranger, even. The bottom line is that this is the most important component of the plan, so whomever you choose, just be sure that you've seen him/her rock out, heard he/she likes to rock out, or get the vibe that he/she is capable of letting go of all inhibitions for one reason and one reason alone: the sake of rocking out. Got 'em? Great. (Secret: once you have mastered most everything in this post, you will come to view a companion as an enhancement - something that is not entirely necessary to execute and enjoy all of this, but rather a great add-on. Yes, you will come to learn how to do this alone, free of embarrassment, I swear.)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">The next necessities are far from immaterial materials. They are requisites, and critical ones at that. Without these, you will just look even more stupid than you're already about to look. So make a list, check it twice. Two (2) iPods. Two (2) sets of headphones. One (1) good - and I mean really, really good - rock album. Any of the aforementioned albums are fine choices. Prime, credible choices, if I may say so myself. Lastly, one (1) public place. It can be anywhere. Just get out there.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">You see where I'm headed with this, don't you? I told you it wasn't rocket science. In fact, it's really just a better version of those long car rides or first few dates where you were so bored or incredibly in love that it compelled you to share a musical experience with someone - with a lone music player and a single pair of headphones, one headphone in each of your ears. That poor person. That lucky person! How cheesy. How romantic! What could be worse? What could be greater?! It either meant nothing or everything. The other person either understood just how important the song was to you, or he/she crushed your hopes by not listening to the whole thing or deeming it "nice," or worse - "good." Perhaps that person didn't get the guitar solo coming out of their allotted headphone?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Now for the synchronization, which is just a really big word for the fact that you'll be listening to this crap at the same time. Though I've deemed all above components to be the most important component, this is seriously the most important component. You've got to hit "play" simultaneously. So, at this point, calmly hand both devices to the person with the steadiest hand. This may or may not be the most sane or sober individual, so screen with caution and choose wisely.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">To reiterate: do all of this - every last bit of it - not in your own home. Do it out there, in public. The underlying premise here is acting a fool. Play your part. Step it up. Be a rock star. It feels great. Earth seems small, life seems manageable and </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >you</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> seem larger than anything that ever lived. I swear! Or at least that's what it does for me...</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">To give you an idea, I have done this seated at (nice-ish) restaurants, at bars, walking on sidewalks, running in streets, in alleys, atop roofs, on fire escapes, in deserted dead-ends - usually between the hours of 11:30 p.m. and 5 a.m., for effect, and 10 times out of 10 at max volume. Turn it up to 11, don't be shy. Pretty soon, you and your compadre will, or </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >should</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">, be screaming along with your favorite crooner and playing air instruments like it's nobody's goddamn business. The high hat and snare. The cymbal crash. Ripping those frets on the six-string as if your hand was a spider. Plucking those big, honking bass strings with bent-over tenacity. Throw in the occasional keys from the piano or sax for good measure and, of course, do not forget the flashy, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_Lee_Roth">"Diamond" Dave Lee Roth</a> jump kicks and relentless head-banging. Also, run everywhere the night takes you. Don't walk. Be urgent about these things, please. Apply liberally, as necessary, and if done correctly, you should awake the next day with a sore neck from all the antics and whatnot.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">You will garner stares. A whole mess of 'em. People will laugh (insecurely). Dogs will turn their heads, cock their ears and whimper. Couples will stop dead in their happy tracks to marvel at your collective, anti-social display of disheveled derelict-ness. At your exquisite exhibition of reckless abandonment, at your disregard for almost all set social norms. At all the excess going on in front of them. You are amazing. You are a novelty. You are practically anything you care to be...</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">And every last one of them will die a little inside (minus the dogs), wondering if they ever experienced such a feeling in their youth. 99 percent of the time that answer will be "no," and they will smile and look at each other to pacify the ounce of pain that's stirring inside them. </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >Now, why in the name of Bowie didn't I do those things when I was young, agile and able to? For the love of freaking Freddie Mercury, at what point did my life become such a stinking pile of crap?</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> You know, because you certainly can't be acting this way forever. 45-year-old wedded men shouldn't be trying this. They'd just look silly. Not that </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >we</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> don't or anything. I'm just saying. It usually comes to a crashing halt when you have those little things called children.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">*Individual results may vary. Please do not consult your physician to determine if iPoding Together is right for you. It is (ridiculous) (for everyone). If carried out properly, with maximum humility, with minimum composure, iPoding Together will help you begin to view life, and the world in general, in vivid, bursting colors. In vast crescendos and arpeggios. In distortion and feedback. In the very stuff dreams are made of, where stuff = double kick drums. Due to the very nature of the iPoding Together ensemble, common side effects include, but are not limited to, heightened senses of: coolness, stardom, actual musicianship, self fanfare and other fleeting feelings, as well as non-fleeting feelings, such as broken shoes.</span></span></span><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span>mundane affairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10170233296730328966noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7831726172181979682.post-11847358363994687462008-08-06T14:16:00.021-05:002008-08-08T10:52:04.687-05:00The Escalator, or the World's Hardest-to-Repair Thing<span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">As the late comedian </span><a style="font-family: verdana;" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mitch_Hedberg">Mitch Hedberg</a><span style="font-family:verdana;"> once theorized: "An escalator can never break. It can only become stairs. You should never see an 'Escalator Temporarily Out of Order' sign, just 'Escalator Temporarily Stairs. Sorry for the Convenience.'..."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">This small statement - one that used to make me laugh but now only mocks my every step - has more or less summed up the past four months of my existence. By observing repair persons not repair this cursed, perplexing device, it has become all too evident to me that the escalator is the motorized equivalent of a Rubik's Cube, be it an equivalent that's a whole lot less colorful and amusing. So a lesser equivalent, I guess. Or a non-equivalent. Whatever.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Repairing a conveyor-transport apparatus is apparently the ultimate task slash science experiment for mechanics in 2008. For one thing, it's impressive that there is actually a career track for escalator-repair persons. But what's even </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" >more</span><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> impressive is that these </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" >trained persons</span><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> do not seem to have the slightest clue as to what they're doing when faced with a lifeless escalator. These individuals break down themselves. "Experts" flock to 233 N Michigan Ave. in herds when ours is out of service, which, unfortunately, is rather often. I finally stopped counting the number of times the stupid thing has crapped out, as I usually count with my fingers and lost track when I ran out of fingers and hands to count on in just the third month. I tried carrying the count over to my toes and feet, but I can't see them while wearing shoes, which sort of defeats the whole purpose of physically tallying something and turns it all back into a mental game, which, again, I'm no good at. So that was that.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Anyway, yesterday I was greeted by eight professionals examining the miniature escalator in the lobby that carries us diligent workers no higher than 15 vertical feet. That's like the shortest escalator </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >ever</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">, people. It's also one of those narrow ones, with the tiny steps that can accommodate only one depressed, corporate-American soul. So if there were eight workers for roughly 15 vertical feet of moving stairs, at about two steps per vertical foot, that means there were enough of these brainiacs to focus on just three-and-some-change steps, each. Each! A cake walk. But for the lowly lives of these dolts, they can never figure the bloody thing out. Too much responsibility, perhaps. Instead, they stare at it like it's something they've not seen before, but have only heard second-hand accounts or seen amateur sketches of, like a mass murderer on the loose, or a cold, dead body - but unlike a cold, dead body in that these burly men look like they've certainly seen their fair share of cold, dead bodies in former, less-noble lines of work, such as mass murdering.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">So wherein lies the problem? Shouldn't the one and only test for escalator-repair persons be just that: </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" >repairing a frigging escalator</span><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">? "No," you say, Mr. Escalator Repair Person?! Let me see your syllabus and hall pass, I don't believe it.</span><br /></span>mundane affairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10170233296730328966noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7831726172181979682.post-52994683952766452222008-08-04T16:40:00.021-05:002008-08-06T12:03:39.173-05:00We Drove Each Other Nuts<span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">In our formative years, our family came dangerously close to perfecting the art of hostility, becoming exceptionally proficient at the trade as we spent more and more time together cooped up in cars. Minivans, to be exact. We went through minivans like they were dental floss, or chewing gum, practically mutilating beyond all recognition a fleet of six of the stupid things before my brother and I were even out of high school. We tended to lose our composure in the wood-paneled walls of those Pretty Hate Machines, regularly testing both the outermost limits of our psyches and the human brain's capacity for loathing planet earth and its inhabitants in their entirety. It was our special little regimen, and our hijinks were often more reliable than the moving mechanical parts of the minivans themselves.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">The (semi-) funny thing was that trip duration did not seem to affect our lack of cohesiveness in any noticeable way, which should definitely be considered abnormal. We were usually in shambles, and could set each other off just about anywhere - on a seemingly harmless jaunt to the gas station for a gallon of 2 percent milk, or on a non-stop trek from Michigan to Florida that was treated like an Olympic race yet called a "vacation." The odds were the same. The odds were pretty damn good.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Dad instigated a lot of it, he who never let anyone else drive anywhere. In his world, a man's place was on the road, behind the wheel, and a woman's place was, while not </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; font-family: verdana;font-size:78%;" >necessarily</span><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> in front of a stove or a sink, it just... wasn't on the road. It was somewhere else. And he would drive them there, the women. On paper, it actually didn't seem like a half-bad idea when he first drew it up for my brother and me late one night at the dimly lit kitchen table. Bringing the chauvinistic plan that sat scrawled in lead in flow-chart form on a yellow legal pad to fruition, however, proved to be a bit more difficult and, obviously, downright shitty for mom.</span></span><div style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size:78%;">The only reasons mom still traveled with us were, one, because she needed to go places, and, two, for the off chance that dad would perform his series of habitual, verbal critiques of female drivers who obeyed posted speed limits; of female drivers who used their turn signals at any time other than the "best" time, or who neglected to use turn signals altogether; of female drivers who veered into other lanes while talking on cell phones or putting on makeup; of female drivers who cut us off or made the slightest movement that could be construed as a deliberate assault on our family; of female drivers who did not lend us a "courtesy wave"; of female drivers who drove ugly or unkempt vehicles... only to pass the car or approach a stoplight and discover that the driver was in fact a man. To say mom relished these moments would be a </span><span style="font-size:78%;">gross understatement. "A disgrace to our kind, boys," dad would say, shaking his head and clenching his jaw as he locked eyes with my brother and I through the rear-view mirror. The King's humiliation was not lost on us - we could sense our ilk decreasing in value in real-time. Mom would look out the passenger window, completely smitten with the revelation that dad was, for the umpteenth time, wrong. These were tiny moments of victory, or defeat, depending on the parental party.<br /><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size:78%;">But dad wasn't the only one to blame. Nay, we each contributed in some way to our own un-put-together-ness. The situation would then be escalated by mom in one of two forms: a retort based on the premise that dad should try listening to her on the road because she usually, despite popular family mind-share, actually knows what the hell she's talking about, or the exact statement, "You're setting a horrible example for the boys!" One of the two, and the inside of the minivan would grow so torrid that the air escaping between the windows would whistle loud enough to drown out the incessant screams and white noises that polluted our heads. There, in our very own corner of hell, aboard a piping locomotive, is where we learned each other's buttons far too well, and we did our best to push them at a frequency that would have made any of our ADD-riddled friends look like a poster child for the Kids Pausing Patiently For Patience Foundation (KPPFPF).<br /><br />If dad didn't volley the hot potato mom fired into his court, my brother and I would reach out our hands. I guess you could compare our behavior to that of malevolent little catalysts, or good-for-nothing provokers. If foul language was used, we repeated it loudly and proudly to support mom's point that we were creatures learning by example, wanting nothing more than unfettered access to the dirty dossiers of known naughty words. If the driver-in-question turned out to be a woman, we found much pleasure joining in on the name-calling and applauding various theories that reached far beyond our mental grasp - ones that heralded men as superb road warriors and ostracized women, the other half of our species known as "dingbats."<br /><br />This was a seminal time for our kindred unit.<br /><br />If neither of these techniques garnered a satisfying response or escalated the seriousness of the argument at hand, my brother and I resorted to punching each other in the arm. Whatever it took to keep the momentum going, to introduce behavior that could be labeled as deviant, the blame of which falling upon that of our caregivers. We sought cheap entertainment, and our two favorite actors just happened to be seated directly in front of us at all times, rehearsing heated scenes in a moving contraption with their backs to their two biggest fans. What could be greater? Methinks nothing. So break a leg! We're taking this show on the road!<br /></span></div>mundane affairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10170233296730328966noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7831726172181979682.post-83045734527032993542008-07-24T14:20:00.043-05:002008-07-29T09:48:12.011-05:00Summer Time and the Senior Living's Easy<span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">There's never a dull moment at </span><a style="font-family: verdana;" href="http://www.sunriseseniorliving.com/Home.do">Sunrise Senior Living</a><span style="font-family:verdana;">. After you've either gotten over or come to terms with the fact that your loved one has entered this elder center as the eminent "final stop" in life, whether on or against his/her own accord, there are bountiful opportunities for the rest of us free people who visit the facility regularly to hunker down and laugh death square in the face. Once you've gotten all the weeping and pouring over family photos and nostalgia and reminiscing and boo-hoo-hooing out of your system, you really begin to appreciate how fleeting, and downright hilarious, life and its final moments can be. To be frank, if any of these people had the capacity to string together a coherent sentence, their advice to you and me would go a little something like this:</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">"My children, please, come close. Closer. Closer still. Ah, yes. There you are, your pretty faces. Children, it is in my final moment that I beg of you: do not take life too seriously, for you never know which day will be your last. Too many are the things we take for granted, such as the very clothes on our backs and modern orthodontics. Speaking of which, would you be a dear and fetch my dentures and personal effects from my cell? I want you to break me the hell out of here, </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" >right now</span><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">. I would rather die by the side of the road than rot in this prison."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">The fact is that anyone who has ever frequented a nursing home of this caliber, let's say more than once a month, has witnessed and made mental note of enough absurd material to take a crack at penning a decent anthology about people who forget their own names, are spoon fed and sleep away the better part of an afternoon drooling on themselves. People who use a variety of wheeled contraptions to traverse carpeted hallways, and who poop their pants and hide the soiled trousers where they please. People who might smile one moment, and haul off and kick a resident or pet the next, for reasons that have long since escaped them.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Before she died, our </span><a style="font-family: verdana;" href="http://mundaneaffair.blogspot.com/2008/01/words-from-funeral.html">grandma</a><span style="font-family:verdana;"> had a good stint at Sunrise, sleeping somewhere in the neighborhood of 20 hours a day in her "golden years." In addition to the unopened Christmas gifts and get-well cards and dusty picture frames and baggy, old clothes that no longer fit her scaled-down, 85-pound frame, she left behind grandpa, her husband, who still bides his time, albeit unknowingly, in the lower ward of Sunrise where they quarantine residents who have mentally checked out of life altogether. It's easier that way. For them. For the staff. For all of us. To sort of corral them into one area like that so they don't wander the halls and alarm virgin visitors who are not privy to the sedated, senile underbelly of Sunrise.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Out of sight, out of mind.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">When grandpa was lucid, typically in the small window between a pill wearing off and before another had been administered in one of those small paper condiment cups, he became increasingly occupied with knowing the whereabouts of his "bride." We realized we had come to a crossroads. Should we tell the man the truth, which would surely devastate him? Or should we fabricate, "with good intentions," a soft story and quickly change the subject as we wait for the next pill to kick in? We pondered this for a while before realizing that no matter what we told him, no matter how accurate or far-fetched the tale, he would not be able to remember <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">any</span> of it.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">For all he knew, grandma was on holiday in the Alps, taking to the black-diamond slopes in the morning and, later in the afternoon, carving up the moguls and half pipes. She was giving a series of award-winning seminars to prestigious universities across the country on the implications of global warming, and how we can all do our part to better the environment by reducing our carbon footprint. She was on tour with Coldplay. She was here just a second ago, and now must be in the adjacent room, or the garden, tending to that ol' rose bush that was in desperate need of pruning...</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">She was running for president.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Each of these seemed viable. More viable, in fact, than the harsh truth that grandma had passed away. So we ended up alternating our approaches, as if we were holding a recurring, redundant press conference where a lone, forgetful reporter asks the same question over and over and over again, with us family members huddled behind the microphone, covering it with our hands as we consult each other before giving a smattering of responses, sometimes building and playing off the assorted stories and plots and individual bursts of creativity we enacted.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">As awful as this all might seem, it's a real quandary, and can only be fully understood when you've been in the situation yourself. And grandpa's case is just one man's example of the greater struggles being featured daily at Sunrise.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Take, for instance, the </span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >man confined to a dilapidated bed on wheels</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">, who always screams for Henry. Nobody even knows who Henry is. There <span style="font-style: italic;">is</span> no Henry. When he is not parked in the corner of the room by himself, screaming for Henry, he is stationed by the fireplace with his visiting family members, screaming out for Henry some more. Interrupted, his family jumps back at first because of the sheer loudness of his random outbursts, giving way to a slow shaking of their heads, as they've been duped like this millions of times before, yet, somehow, after all these years, still do not have a single clue or lead as to who the hell Henry is. Given the urgency of his cries ("HENRY!") and the mumblings surrounding them, it's become obvious to me that this is some sort of military flashback. The only other words I've heard him mutter are the seldom "DUCK!" and "INCOMING!" Granted, he has also been known to rip a huge fart and laugh hysterically after these signals.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Or how about the </span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >stalker woman who cameos as a kleptomaniac</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">? She's rather speedy for a gal her age, as none of us can ever seem to shake her. She's also ubiquitous, and has that entire lower ward down like the back of her veiny, little, thieving hand. She particularly enjoys spending time with our family, too, which is another harrowing concept I've yet to elaborate on: the simple fact that these lonely people crave attention and interaction with young, warm blood so much that they'll satisfy their urges with just about anyone, regardless of who that person may or may </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" >not</span><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" > be. So we see a quite a bit of her, usually when she's rifling through mom's purse directly in front of her. And this also awkward. How do you politely tell this woman not to steal from you? She's smiling the entire time she's doing it, by the way. Ear to ear. What does a person do here? Slap her wrist? No. Grab her arm and push it back toward her torso? Probably not. Quickly retract your purse? Sure. But then she looks so damn disappointed. You almost </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" >have</span><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> to let this woman steal from you, and then track down the lifted items at a later time. They're not going very far anyway, and there certainly isn't a black market in the lower ward where hot objects can be pawned for dime bags. Colostomy bags, maybe.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">But the </span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >piano savant</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> is quite possibly our family's favorite. A real diamond in the rough. For knowing not what she does, she does it pretty well. We discovered this person, or rather </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >she</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> discovered </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >us</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">, last Christmas when she found us on the couches helping grandma and grandpa unwrap their gifts. The savant helped, too, which was weird, waxing on in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mad_Libs">Mad Lib</a> form where blanks are populated with randomly selected words from the dictionary and sentences turn into one big chunk of undecipherable code. Once she was through with us, she took to the piano bench. Before we had a chance to brace ourselves for the careless clunking of keys, she launched into a chilling holiday ballad that took us all by surprise. By the time she reached the chorus, we sat with our jaws dropped, in agreement that this woman was on </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >fire</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">. All of this coming from someone who blinked a lot, whose hands trembled and shook with a force that would make for an excellent drummer rather than a pianist. But somehow, someway, this woman was a sage on the baby grand. Her fingers fluttered past black and white keys, her feet in </span><a style="font-family: verdana;" href="http://markellshoe.com/images/00f/lgimages/25drs.jpg">Darco medical shoes</a><span style="font-family:verdana;"> steadily working the pedals. Surely the biggest surprise of 2007.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">That same day, we were warmly introduced to the </span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >overly affectionate woman</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">, who gave my dad gifts in the rare forms of hugs, kisses, shoulder massages, physical gestures and sweet-nothings whispered directly into his ear. Such unique presents. Aw, poor dad. We could tell it tickled, mostly because she is a heavy breather, and having someone breathe a hot, heavy breath into your ear is, um, tickly-ish. And straight-up creepy. From what we gathered, he somewhat resembled her deceased husband in his prime, which made bidding her adieu practically impossible. She wasn't going anywhere, and we didn't want that kind of guilt hanging over our heads on baby Jesus' birthday. So she just kind of hung out and we had ourselves a little senior mixer of sorts, trying our best to mitigate her passionate advances on my father.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Somewhere amid all the calamity, you will find at Sunrise the youngest life-form by 80 some-odd years: </span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >a lone feline named Smokey</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">. Smokey is an overfed, overstuffed cat - gray, chunky, mean and lazy. I'm not kidding when I say she could very well be the infa</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">mous </span></span></span><a href="http://i.dipity.com/uploads/events/bbad90007161739054f7c72a2edfec8b.jpg"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">I Can Has Cheeseburger cat</span></span></a><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">. Or a mini</span></span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">ature bear with cat-ear transplants. Smokey bulked up to her plump size not by hitting the weights or raiding the medication room late at night for steroids, but by eating all the food that these poor people are unable to get into their mouths that ends up on the floor at three different points during the day. You'd think there were regular food fights considering some of the unruly residents, and vivid scenes of seniors up-ending tables and hiding behind trays and wheelchairs as they chuck handfuls of mashed potatoes and sandwiches fill every guest's head. Sadly, it's not that exciting. It's simply a case of coordination, or the lack thereof. It's also a dirty job, and some organism's got to do it. Sunrise doesn't even need a vacuum cleaner this way. They have the Smokey 5,000, and Smokey 5,000 has Sunrise. Meow.</span><br /></span>mundane affairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10170233296730328966noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7831726172181979682.post-62373337532858762822008-07-23T13:55:00.039-05:002008-07-24T11:40:22.016-05:00That Big Harry Potter Scar, and How it Got on My Forehead in the First Place<span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">If my hair is short enough (or parted by the wind in some unfavorable way); or if my face is red enough (which it usually is, regardless of season or embarrassment level); or if the lighting is right; or if you get close enough to the maritime vessel that is my gigantic, empty head; you will notice a big, vertical scar running down the middle of my forehead - an authentic marking with unauthentic intentions, as it all too closely imitates </span><a style="font-family: verdana;" href="http://www.weeklyreader.com/readandwriting/content/binary/harry18scar.jpg">the one Harry Potter sports and treats like some accessory or piece of personal branding or business card</a><span style="font-family:verdana;">. Trust me, it's not that glamorous. But how did it get there in the first place? </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >My</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> scar, dummy, not the boy wizard's. I have no idea or interest in knowing how his got there, though I'm sure many of you do, including the riveting ins and outs of which spell or sorcerer he contended with to come out so scathed. No, this is a selfish post, dammit, and I intend to stick to the agenda here: explaining the unsightly brain-scar that is giving me an eternal hug between the eyes. Geeze.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Fifth grade. Winter time. Recess.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Gearing up in the coat room, us boys struggled by our cubbies with our snow suits for the second time that day, the difference being that this time our mothers were not present to help us hoist and shimmy and pour our pudgy little figures into the insulated torture device. Or maybe that was just me. My grapefruit-sized calves never seemed to fit into my snow boots properly, and by the end of March they always ended up looking like salt-stained wind socks or tarps.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">We were already choosing teams for football before we even reached the field. One of my closest friends, Tom, also one of the smartest people I knew at the time, selected me. I always thought Tom was particularly bright - a </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >prodigy</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> even - not because he could multiply double-digit numbers, do long division, give exact change when working the school cafeteria (contrasted with the many times I erred in assuming there were 60 cents in a dollar and gave change thusly, for in my head there were 60 minutes in an hour, which, after all, were the two elements the world valued most - time and money - so they must operate on the same metric system for good measure), pass physical fitness tests with flying colors, return library books on time, or talk to girls without stuttering or tripping over his own two feet and hating every inch of himself for it... but because he always seemed to pick me first or second for football games, and this ranked him pretty high in my book. Tom saw through my doughy, girthy exterior to note my true athletic prowess on the miniature field.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Truth be told, it was because of Tom that my social and athletic standings (often directly correlated, often the exact same thing) went up at an alarming, exponential rate. </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >Dave was picked first?! That means something right there. I don't know what it means, exactly. But there's something there.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> But it is also because of Tom that I now walk the streets at 25 looking like I'm in between classes at </span><a style="font-family: verdana;" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hogwarts">Hogwarts</a><span style="font-family:verdana;"> (I don't read the books, really, this is just what people tell me).</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">At the peak of the game we were up big. So big, in fact, that we tried showboating a bit to impress the couple of girls who had strayed from the larger pack of girls who were busy doing girly things during recess, like being cold or not playing in the snow, much too occupied to watch us champions in snow suits on the grid iron.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Tom called a huddle. We were going long. </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >I</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> was going long. A Hail Mary. The sweet, saccharine stuff dreams are made of in fifth grade (though now I know some guys grow up and never relinquish this fantasy). I had barely heard him yell "hike" before I was running haphazardly down the snow-covered field, flailing my arms as if I had no control over them. Then the pig skin was in the air, and I was sprinting straight ahead, past my ADD-riddled opponent, toward the end zone, with my head turned back over my shoulder to look for the ball.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I caught it. I freaking </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >caught it</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">! Mom would've been proud. But in the short seconds between making that catch and turning forward in my stride, I ran face-first into the goal post. My forehead met the corner of the wooden beam, and I stuck there for a moment with it wedged in me. It cracked me open the way a fresh cantaloupe would look if someone took an ax to it. I fell backward, onto the snow, blacked out and came to only to find faces looking down on me as it started to rain. For as far gone as I was, I could tell something wasn't quite right about the rain: it was thick and clouded my eyes and tasted weird and the only place it seemed to be raining was on my face. Then I rolled over to feel what felt like a garden hose protruding from my forehead, squirting my livelihood all over the snow like some cruel holiday arts-and-crafts session gone horribly wrong, where you're only provided cotton balls and red glue and told to "make something beautiful for your mother." Next came a lot of high-pitched screaming. I guess the girls had decided to brave the snow after all.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">When I managed to bring myself to my knees, the crowd's reaction can only be compared to that of people witnessing mauled bodies come to life again as they take to the streets as zombies of the living dead. None of them were willing to help me, and they all stared and shrieked as if I were about to hunt them down and snack on them and turn them into zombies, too. To this day, I have not seen a pack of people disperse quite like that. Pandemic pandemonium. Though I wasn't a zombie (yet), I sure sauntered and staggered around the playground like one. My only goal was to find one of the lunch ladies who supervised recess. Upon finding two of them, they gasped and shouted even louder than the little girls had. </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >Ha-... Halp?! My head. It's. My head is. Ahh!</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> Somehow they got the picture.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">What happened next was, and still is, confusing and irritating. I started to lose control of my legs, I'm guessing because I had lost the liter equivalent of a couple 7-11 Big Gulps of blood, or maybe because zombies need to rest a lot because they have such stiff legs and never seem to bend their knees. You know, people can faint that way. Anyhow, with my limp body semi walking, semi being dragged by their arms, I started to<span style="font-family:verdana;"> give way and turn gray (even </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >more</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> zombie-like!). This was simply unacceptable to one of the women, who insisted I "stand up straight and stop getting blood all over the clean halls." Oh, right, 'cause I can do that. Thanks a lot, lady. Die in a fire.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I had never heard our principal swear before, but I got to that day. With the three of us barreling into the front office and me fading in and out of consciousness, I stuck around long enough to hear her say, "Oh, holy </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >SHIT</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">! What in the... Just what in the </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >hell</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> is going on here?!" It must have been a sight. Then the ambulances came and they strapped me to a wooden board, which I thought was used for unruly patients, which confused me because I surely wouldn't be putting up much of a fight, but I soon found out it served the purpose of keeping my body on the board and off of the parking lot floor. They shined bright lights in my eyes and asked me questions like, "Who is the president of the United States?" and "What is our state's capitol?" and "What is 10 times 10?" and posed challenges like, "Recite every other letter of the alphabet" and "Count by odd numbers," which annoyed me because I never got any of those things right on tests anyway. I needed Tom. But I gave it my best shot, with whatever part of my brain that was still in tact and not stuck like gum to the wooden goal post. Apparently these were ridiculously easy questions, and served as some sort of barometer to escalate the severity of patients' cases if they got X number of questions wrong. I think I passed, or failed, depending on the way you look at it, with flying colors. I went to the front of the line and got right into the emergency room.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">The next thing I remember, I was being told that the 45 stitches in my face would come out in due time, and that the crimson, lightning-bolt scar of raw flesh would mend and turn out to "not look that bad." Well there's a vague diagnosis. My mom was pretty strict back then, so you know what she did? After scolding me in the car for playing in the snow so carelessly, we passed the very road we lived on. </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >Where could we possibly be going? I needed to go home. I needed to rest and curl up in blankets and eat Popsicles and chicken noodle soup like all the other kids who smashed their faces in. I needed to learn our state's capitol and what odd numbers meant other than the fact that certain ones were funny or confusing to me. Maybe we were going out for ice cream and Novocaine? Yes, of course! Why didn't I think of this earlier?! We were going for ice cream and Novocaine.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> To my dismay, we pulled back into the crime scene. Beneath the flag pole, my mom dropped me off at school where I had busted myself open no more than four hours earlier. "Now. You go in and get the homework you missed," she said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">My dad was a little more lax. After being assured that his first son was not dead, the next words out of his mouth were: "Well, did he catch the ball at least?"</span><br /></span>mundane affairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10170233296730328966noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7831726172181979682.post-3105192848070908592008-07-21T11:53:00.012-05:002008-07-23T10:13:26.604-05:00P4K, Briefly<span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" >Well, this year's <a href="http://www.pitchforkmusicfestival.com/">Pitchfork Music Festival</a> owned. Was there ever any doubt? Probably not. So, rather than crafting inane amateur accounts of musical highlights and lowlights, I thought I'd offer up some of the stranger sights from the last three days:<br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" >Running into</span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" > <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bon_Iver">Bon Iver</a> a</span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" >nd <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/King_khan">King Khan</a>.</span><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" > What did these two dudes have in common? They put on two of my favorite performances, and I saw them both at the festival's record fair. But, more importantly, what did they </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" >not</span><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" > have in common? Quite simple: Bon Iver was fully clothed when I saw him, whereas King Khan was wearing only a Speedo, a cape, and a helmet. <a href="http://www.hazelwood.de/kingkhan/images/kkh_picture_index.jpg">Obviously</a>.<br /><br /><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sebadoh">Sebadoh</a></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" > saying something along the lines of "</span><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" ><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rush_%28band%29">Rush</a></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" > sucks."</span><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" > And then seeing a pissed off guy in a Rush shirt head for the beer line. Boy, do I ever hate when that happens.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" >Supremely intoxicated bikini girl.</span><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" > With throngs of thousands abound, what were the odds I would run into this same person multiple times a day, two days in a row? Apparently pretty high. She was loaded on <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sparks_%28drink%29">Sparks</a>, which is where you probably encountered her, too - waiting not-so-patiently in the drink line to fade one shade closer to complete blackness. (Have you ever had Sparks? Just one of 'em? My lord. They make you crazy. She must have had a dozen cups of the alcohol-infused, orange energy elixir each day, and behaved accordingly.) The only things she seemed to savor more than Sparks were, not the artists, but rather her own body, her flesh-toned bikinis, bumblebee antennas and lots of... body glitter? And her blue JanSport backpack, which seemed to contain nothing. She deliberately rubbed up against anyone, male or female, who looked her way, her lone motive to acquire more drink tickets. Or cigarettes. And then a lighter. In that order. (I know this to be true from first-hand experience.)<br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" >Guy with "</span><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" ><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Straight_edge">Straight Edge</a></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" >" tattooed across his back.</span><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" > Question: what made this noteworthy? Answer: he was smoking a cigarette. (Please see Wikipedia entry if punch line is not inferred.)<br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" >Thousands upon thousands of nerdy white hipsters (falsely) feeling funky-fresh, getting down to the bombastic beats and revolutionary rhymes of </span><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" ><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Public_Enemy_%28band%29">Public Enemy</a></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" >.</span><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" > (Needs no further explanation.)<br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" >Mud fights.</span><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" > I mean, honestly, what's cooler than hoards of strangers rolling around in a mud pit together? This always makes me feel warm on the inside, and little less dirty than I actually am on the outside.<br /></span>mundane affairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10170233296730328966noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7831726172181979682.post-74970106821451336062008-07-15T09:47:00.009-05:002008-07-15T10:58:46.566-05:00Look, Ma! No Cards!<span style="font-family: verdana;font-size:78%;" >I recently read "<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bringing_Down_the_House_%28book%29">Bringing Down The House</a>" (which is rather amazing, not because of the way it is written, but because of the utter amazingness of the real events that transpire), and it dawned on me that this particular tale - one of cards, gambling and basic strategy - could not be more foreign to me (and there is a possibility that this is why I found the book to be so good).<br /><br />Growing up, the only types of cards guaranteed to be found in our household were (maxed-out) credit cards. And perhaps the seasonal greeting card or occasional - <span style="font-style: italic;">occasional</span> - <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/UNO_%28game%29">Uno</a> deck. But even that was a stretch. So where am I going with this? Ah yes: I never learned how to play a single card game. Not one. (Some might argue Uno to be a real card game, but when you are approaching 25 and the only quasi card game you are able to play somewhat proficiently with small and large groups of people involves brightly colored cards with enormous letters and numbers and a recommended age of "5 and up" printed on a Mattel box... you have officially proven your loserdom to both yourself and society.)<br /><br />From the wholly inane (Go Fish) to the common-man's game (Euchre) to lucrative, strategic puzzles (Blackjack), I hadn't a clue. Ignorance is bliss, and I was pretty damn blissful all throughout my youth. While this provided me with ample time to engage myself in other activities (like painting plaster statues of dragons, for example), the number of social interactions and camaraderie I missed out on is a number with even more digits than pi itself.<br /><br />Yes, for a long while I rode the social bench, so to speak, watching from the sidelines as friends and significant others engaged in the games. It was a lonely time. In the early stages I struggled with math problems in grade nine that involved probability and what-if scenarios where we had to calculate the odds of drawing a certain card from a shortening deck. It was nuclear physics to me. I recall labeling one of these scenarios as "impossible" on a test, in frustrated capital letters and pencil-lead smudges, and I had to stay after class because the teacher thought I was mocking him. Afraid not, sir. On the other end of the spectrum, I even contended in college with drinking games that involved the very presence of a deck of cards, which is torment no one should have to endure.<br /><br />So as my friends continue to settle down and get married and have kids and further disappear from my life, it is with great conviction that I recommend the following to you bastards: keep decks of cards in your homes. Lots of them. Keep them everywhere. Hide them, even. Help your kids. Help them understand. Full-blown 10-deck Las Vegas style blackjack shoes, books and literature on card counting, clay poker chips, automatic shuffling machines. Cover your kitchen table in green felt, I don't care. Just please: do whatever it takes to set your child up for success with the values, mores, personality and general knowledge of card games that he or she deserves. They will love you for it down the road.<br /><br />As for me, I guess the skill just wasn't in my cards.<br /></span>mundane affairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10170233296730328966noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7831726172181979682.post-73352032456404596742008-07-02T16:27:00.011-05:002008-07-03T15:14:05.174-05:00So I Had a Bad Temper<span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">The whole </span><a style="font-family: verdana;" href="http://mundaneaffair.blogspot.com/2008/06/back-when-i-wore-eye-patch.html">basketball thing</a><span style="font-family:verdana;"> got me thinking: I had a </span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" >really</span><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> bad temper when I was a kid. Like, really, really bad. Before we launch into this, allow me to offer my deepest apologies to those I offended, wronged and injured along the way.</span><br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" >Basketball</span><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Let's start with that same sport. There was this one specific game that, close to halftime, showcased me in all my b-ball glory. A career argued by some to be headed straight for the pros. There was even talk - murmurs in the bleachers, rather - of me forgoing college to enter straight into the NBA draft. And all of this at 16! It was a lot for a 5-foot-8-inch nerdy white kid to handle, what with my ability to dribble skillfully with my right hand, and poorly with my left. (It was fine, I just stuck to right side of the court and, voila: problem solved!) Who </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" >wouldn't</span><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> have wanted to scoop up such hot, budding talent?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Before the half, I guess I fouled another player "egregiously." I think I elbowed him. But then a weird thing happened. In the way Bruce Banner busts through his clothes to become the one, the only Incredible Hulk, a rage wave overcame me. The ref called for the basketball, and instead of obeying him I turned in the opposite direction, lifted up the smooth, orange ball, dropped it and punted it down the court. It hit the gymnasium's ceiling, all eyes following its ascent, closely watching it ricochet like a pinball among the rafters until it finally landed in the upper rows of the opposing team's stands.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">That poor ref. Those poor </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" >people</span><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">. Everyone! Aww. What in the </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" >hell</span><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> was I thinking?! The gall! The ref didn't even know what to do. Guy probably had a steady day job, refereed on the side because he loved the game that much and had now spent several years supervising uncoordinated suburbanites as they launched three pointers and drew nothing but backboard. And now </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" >this</span><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> little punk has done drop kicked the ball the entire length of the gym? You've got to be kidding...</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Amid incessant boos from the entire gym - opponents, opponents' parents, teammates, teammates' parents and, obviously, my own parents - both refs decided, rightfully, to eject me from the game. This was a town/city/district first (hence the confusion regarding the punishment). I couldn't play in the next handful of games, and they were a bit reticent to let me play again at all, the first reinstatement game of which we had the exact same ref.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I was humiliated.</span><br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" >Golf</span><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Many years before the famous b-ball-punting crisis, my parents tried to get me to take up golf. People who know the current version of me are probably already laughing at this. I know I am! Well, early one summer morning I attended my first golf match. The grass was still freshly dewed as us pre-teens lugged our heavy bags around the links. Before hole nine I decided I greatly disliked a certain player in our group. He was a big bragger, and made it a point to verbally coach each shot he took, squeezing in even more boasting in between our own shots. He was actually pretty good, which only further pissed us off since the rest of us were pretty pitiful players.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Again, I reached that point, that crux where people gasp at what you're about to do or do do. Said kid hit an ego streak, and as he stood there jabbering no more than 20 feet away I instinctively grabbed my driver from my bag and hurled it boomerang style toward his head. He ducked, but the implications of what I had just done were not lost on anyone. I even scared a Canadian goose away, and those things are pretty nasty! By this point we were in view of parents, who all came running over to scold me. This was supposed to be a gentleman's game, for crying out loud! Awwwwww. No gentleman here.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Needless to say, I walked over and picked up my weapon, putting it back into my bag for the last time ever.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Fail.</span><br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" >Soccer</span><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Soccer! Well this was bound to happen, if not based off of statistics alone. I've played more soccer games than any other sport, and I wasn't half terrible at it either, which sorta made it more enjoyable! This anecdote might be the most embarrassing of the three since I was the oldest at this point in time. I think I can introduce these quicker now: heated game, opposing player I didn't like (either very talented or a big talker) and me being really ignorant. That's the recipe.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">There we were, but </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" >this</span><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> time it was worse because I physically did something to someone. Ugh. The guy was very small - he could have been a walking stuffed animal. Very compact in every which way. After a verbal assault on my playing, I approached the boy and picked him up. I picked him up! He didn't stop me from doing this, which surprised me. I had no real plan in mind after this, as I hadn't expected to get close enough to him to cause harm!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I had him in the air, his stomach sort of by my face and him yelling at me to put him down, put him down, etc., so I threw him to the side, sort of like forest adventurers throw brush over their shoulders while safariing. I tossed him up and he fell down, down, down to the ground and hit it kinda hard. He said, "Ow!" and by that point the whole game had stopped and I was labeled an ass (yes, rightfully so) and removed from the field at once. Awwwwwwwww.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Don't you learn, boy?! Geeze. What was wrong with me? I remember listening to a lot of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wu_Tang_Clan">Wu-Tang Clan</a> back then, reciting popular hooks like, "Cash Rules Everything Around Me/CREAM, get the money/Dollar dollar bill, y'all," so maybe that contributed? But I am better now, so no worries.</span><br /></span>mundane affairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10170233296730328966noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7831726172181979682.post-51140177058816454922008-06-30T10:52:00.007-05:002008-06-30T13:31:22.411-05:00Back When I Wore an Eye Patch<span style="font-family: verdana;font-size:78%;" >It hurts to think, let alone write, about this one. The pain I endured, both physical pain and emotional pain, in a few seemingly endless days was more than enough for an entire childhood.<br /><br />I used to play basketball (though not very well), and as a second-string member of our high school's junior-varsity basket ball team I relished the rare occasion I was put into a game. This usually only happened when we were winning big (rare), losing by a whole hell of a lot (more common) or had several injured players and simply needed more bodies on the floor (the most common). This particular game found me on the court in the latter scenario.<br /><br />Energetic and uncoordinated and wearing my pristine, never-been-sweat-in uniform, I took to the hardwood doubting my every ability to successfully contribute to our team's well being, what with the intense level of the tied competition. A real nail-biter, in the sense that any match can possibly be when it's just a big collection of below-average to downright-awful players. We were a sporting crime scene of short, white teens who haphazardly threw an orange ball toward a towering basket (we're talking season-high scorers with a whopping 15 points, games where two teams collectively could not break the 30-point mark and MVP candidates pretty much wrapped up by the end of the first practice). So it should come as no surprise that what happened during my 30-second stint in the game rendered me the next injured teen - my primed body, my blossoming spirit - on the (end of our) bench.<br /><br />After a missed free-throw by the opposing team, I threw myself into the key for the rebound, along with seven other pimply kids. I had clear sight of the ball, and behind it, my own teammate coming toward it with outstretched arms. We both missed it (shocking!), but where I retracted my arms he did not, and I now had clear sight of the tip of his dirty index finger coming right into my eye as if he were ringing a doorbell. Blinking is a reflex that's done pretty quickly, and I didn't even have time to do it before he was fingering my cornea, then my iris, then my pupil, as an optometrist would later theorize.<br /><br />So off the court and onto the bench for medical attention, where I loathed for my scraggly self and pondered some of life's greatest questions: like if I would be kicked off the team for doing so poorly or if the dozens of girls I had crushes on who were in attendance would ever talk to me in class again (further analysis concluded they were actually not in attendance after all, and were likely out doing something much cooler).<br /><br />My right eye. It was broken. It/I/eye couldn't see anything, and I had trouble walking and making out faces. Here's the kicker: our family was going on a skiing trip the very next day, and we were to fly out of Detroit into Salt Lake City. For those unfamiliar with the snow sport, it's one that requires functioning eyes to have any shot at being preformed safely and successfully. A visit to the emergency room saw me into the night donning a humongous, makeshift eye patch. They were fresh out of the cool pirate ones, I guess.<br /><br />I had white gauze running diagonally around my head, and a thick foam pad over my eye (some cotton balls in there, too). Fastening the patch to my face were two pieces of tape, laid across each other in a giant X. My head resembled that of a mummy. And I was expected to get on a plane the next morning? Come on...<br /><br />I pretended I wasn't keeping track of (19) or wasn't noticing or didn't care all that much about the stares and finger-pointing and giggles and mockery (hand covering right eye, walking like a mummy) I garnered at the airport. Try it sometime. Or don't. Pure humiliation. I couldn't even look at (not able to/didn't want to even if I could) napkins, tissues or toilet paper. We landed in Utah, where a second optometrist rid me of my cursed mummy wrap, trading me it for a pair of those <a href="http://www.noir-medical.com/glasses/cataract_couple.gif">cool ultraviolet (UV) sunglasses that are popular among senior citizens and persons with cataracts</a>. I looked great on the slopes with those boxy beauties.<br /><br />High school was the best.<br /></span>mundane affairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10170233296730328966noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7831726172181979682.post-1498921097742533352008-06-18T01:07:00.007-05:002008-06-18T02:20:38.686-05:00An Ode to Margot (May You Soon Rest in Pieces)<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">This is going to sound harsh, and I intend for it to.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">Margot, my love, you are the only thing, living or inanimate, that I absolutely despise about my new apartment. You and your owners (my neighbors). For anonymity's sake - and because I don't want your owners finding this post by Googling your stupid name (which I'm sure they do on a regular basis), which is actually even more unique, ill-thought and dumb-sounding than "Margot" - I will be calling your mutt face "Margot" in the words that follow.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">I should have known upon move-in. I should have known that leaving my back door open for 30 seconds would result in you wandering into my place like you were interested in subletting for the summer. Margot, I believe you were the first living thing I met in this building, howling and growling at me like I had no business being in my own newly rented unit. You were in my kitchen, what with your pudgy, girthy figure; short, brown coat; flat-iron face; black, recessed snout; stubby, bowed legs; and wiry, curly tail. You resemble that of a pig, Margot. A pig that is a dog.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">Now, I love dogs. I grew up with dogs my entire life, and I still plan on owning and taking care of a dog one day (a dog unlike Margot). I even moved here from a city where there are statistically </span></span><a href="http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2007/06/17/MNGG0QG5N71.DTL"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">more dogs than children</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">. But when your coddling owners treat you better than 99 percent of parents treat a living, breathing child - when I can hear all three of you swooning outside my apartment at 1, 2, </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">3</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"> in the morning because Margot just took a dump - I simply have to draw the line: I hate you all.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">I don't know how you do it, man. I'm calling you "man" because I forgot both you and and your girlfriend's names. It's like you're a stay-at-home father. But again: for a dog. You don't work, you don't go to school, and are somehow up both earlier and later than I am - usually playing with Margot in the dog park, championing her to fetch a poorly thrown tennis ball as if she were some primed Olympic athlete in training; or carrying her up and down the stairs like she just had four prosthetic knee replacements, or polio; or trying to verbally convince her for 10 minutes to stop barking at my back door (a cross-section view of which must be rather amusing - me on one side in my kitchen, shaking my head in disbelief, you two on the other side, one barking relentlessly at a big slab of wood and the other, apparently smarter life-form standing behind you, asking you if you really think continuing to bark at my door is the best idea when he should in theory be kicking you in the butt and saying, "Get your ugly ass back inside this apartment this instant!" It's </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">not</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"> the best idea, Margot, and it's really goddamn annoying, so stop); or seeing the girlfriend, the bread-winner in your household, off to work each day (this is equally special [read: nauseating] and involves more baby talk, the boyfriend standing at the gate, Margot in his bosom, both of them waving goodbye to her, a human hand clenching a mangled paw in one pathetic, cross-species au revoir. "Say goodbye, Margot! Wish mama a good day!" This. Every freaking day).</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">In fact, as I write this, I am listening to you two playing on the back porch, which is also my back porch, which is also adjacent to my bedroom. It is exactly 1:20 a.m. on a Wednesday. "Go on, Margot. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">Go on!</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"> Get it, Margot! That's a good girl. Who's my favorite? </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">Who's</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"> my favorite girl?! Yes, Margot! Yesh, yesh, yesh! That's a good Margot! Good girrrlll! Yesh, yesh, yesh!"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">Gag me with a spoon, this is sickening. I hope I don't sound like this when talking to my cat. I try talking to and treating pets like they are accountable human beings, or friends of mine. It's better for both this way - the animal doesn't feel belittled and I don't feel and look like a complete jackass. Truth be told, I really wanted to name my cat Karen so I could fully live out this experiment. Alas, things happen...</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">At this point in the evening I will digress by taking twice the recommended dosage of NyQuil, so as to savor any shot I have at getting some shut-eye tonight (or ever). Thanks.</span></span></div></div>mundane affairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10170233296730328966noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7831726172181979682.post-71460147110950488702008-06-12T16:31:00.008-05:002008-07-24T09:06:28.172-05:00This Post is About How My Dad Got Poison Ivy (Down There)<span class="Apple-style-span" style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" ><span class="Apple-style-span">Not sure how you pulled it off, dad, but I really gotta hand it to you on this one. It's not every day that a man encounters poison ivy, touches it and somehow manages to spread the stuff all over his crotch. It would seem some of the modern miracles mankind has managed to actualize over the course of time - clothes, for example - should have prevented at least two of the three from occurring. Or maybe that's just my opinion.</span></span><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" ><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" ><span class="Apple-style-span">I knew something was amiss when mom called me laughing. She told me how after weeding the yard you noticed a patch you'd missed and, instead of putting your gloves back on, pulled those suckers out of the ground with your bare hands. You made your way into the house, wiped the sweat from your face and neck, and proceeded to use the restroom. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;font-size:78%;" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Then</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" ><span class="Apple-style-span"> you washed your hands? Oy ve. Had this been one of us kids growing up you would've salivated over the poignant life lessons and back-in-my-days that were practically begging to be wrought on our halfwitted brains.<br /><br />I know exactly how this one played out, too. Let's see. Ah yes. You awoke with an incredible, painful itching sensation on your jowls, and soon later an illustrious, crimson rash on the most fallible member of man's southern hemisphere. After consulting mom, a trained nurse, her advice to you was likely "oh go on," "you're such a baby" or the more valuable "see, i told you so! should've worn gloves!" (afraid she was right). Now, normally you would've craned your neck, tried to simmer, bit your nail and thought of a quick comeback or retort, but not this time. No, at this point the swelling was all you could think of, more than you could bear and certainly the center of the vortex in a mass brain-wash of irritated, itchy thoughts and impulses. With no other option, you chose to show mom exactly what turmoil you were in. The proof was right there. This is when she really lost it on the phone...</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" ><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" ><span class="Apple-style-span">Described to me by my own mother, in hysterics, as "swollen to two times its normal size, and ruby-red," I had to excuse myself from the office because of my disruptive laughter and tears. Sorry, dad, but this is pure gold. It's amazing it took this much convincing to get mom to offer up a ride to the hospital, which, once there, I understand more comedy ensued (at your expense). When the doctor asked you to drop trou I guess you made the nurse exit the room? I think I would have done the same. And upon seeing the swollen soul the doctor himself joined in on the fun, recommending you be at the pool in a Speedo instead of the hospital, laughing with mom about how other doctors actually charge male patients money to make them leave the operation room looking like dad had on his way in. Aw, poor dad!</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" ><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;" ><span class="Apple-style-span">A couple tubes of topical steroid cream later, you were back at home rendered useless on the couch, me on the other end of the line, listening to you explain how a bag of frozen baby carrots has never felt so good on one man's loins.<br /><br />Get well soon.</span></span></div></div>mundane affairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10170233296730328966noreply@blogger.com2