The Modern Man is feeling guilty

I noticed today that I put on socks with a matching pattern so I thought I was stylish and in vogue. Yet when I saw them in the light of day, one was black and the other was blue. Although Black and Blue is an excellent song by Van Halen, it's not necessarily what I need during my busy work day. I mean, I know that no one else will figure it out, but every time I've seen my feet today, it's thrown off my ju-ju. On top of that, I got in my car in the afternoon and was cursing it under the impression that the air conditioner had broken since heat was pouring into the vehicle and making me sweat like a Bush press secretary. However, I suddenly realized I was still had the heater on and it was running at the same time as the air conditioner. (Colorado is great for 35 degree morning and 75 degree afternoons.) I never said I wasn't an idiot. Now, if you throw in a two hour missing backpack search for a student, some seriously dubious student parenting leading to poor grades, poor work habits, and possible future incarceration, I'm having a bad day. Now throw in the fact the last song I heard today was the Pina Colada Song and it's been in my head for 7 hours now it's pretty obvious it's time to write a new blog.

Guilt.


I was raised well. That means that I have a lot of guilt about a lot of things. Without guilt, what's going to keep you from doing the wrong thing? If there is no guilt floating about you have no reason to ever think about your actions. People without guilt can do amaziningly horrific things, and not even bat an eyelash. This, I'm completely positive, is why our current administration (and much of big business) can get away with what they do. They have no internal parent telling them they could possibly be hurting someone or actually wrong about something.

However, being without guilt did seem to work for OJ, at least for a while.

However, I'm not big business and I'm definately not OJ, so let's delve into some current guilty feelings:

First, I saw Superbad the other day and feel slightly guilty about it. I mean, I really enjoyed it even if it was totally inappropriate. (Hence the guilt. Should I enjoy inappropriate things?) If you're a male and were not the richest, coolest, or most attractive member of your high school class, this movie is for you. Most women won't like the male-centric plot, but let's just say that it is about friendship, the quest to "get with" a girl, the crusade to purchase alcohol as a minor, and a lot of inappropriate jokes about the male and female groin area. In other words, it's pretty hilarious. Plus, it helped change my perspective on how to handle stressful situations. For instance, I've decided that in any stressful situation I'm going to replace my usual mantra: SERENITY NOW! with a loud shout out, "I am Mclovin!"

Speaking of that, I am Mclovin the idea that my son will soon enjoy video games. However, this fills me with guilt as well. One of these days, one of the grand parents will break down and purchase an expensive system for him and I'll get to play it. I really have not been able to play video games since my son was born. Should I feel guilty about this future windfall? Should I ignore the Madden 2014 sitting in front of the TV? Should I try not to look at Halo 8? Should I pre-file for divorce, since that is probably going to happen if I start playing video games again ten years from now? I guess the answer to all these questions is YES, but I'm thinking NO. OHHH, the horrible guilt.

Also, should I feel guilty if I go fishing on Sunday instead of going to church? I mean, most of Jesus's crew were fisherman, so fishing is technically a religious experience. However, PETA says that fishing is evil because it hurts the fish. Does that mean PETA is evil since the disciples were fishermen and they were good Christians? So, if PETA is evil and GW Bush is Christian and a leader of the USA (which I keep hearing is a Christian nation with a Christian Constitution), than logically speaking that means that if I don't fish and I listen to PETA, I'm being evil and un-American at the same time. That might make me an enemy combatant of some kind. I don't want to go to Abu Ghraib for not fishing. Do I want to anger the church by not going or anger our wonderful country by not fishing? It's all so confusing. Hence, the guilt. Hence the reason I will be fishing this weekend. It's really the most religious thing I can do.

I'm also feeling guilty about supporting Boston fans for all their underdog years. However, that will be a blog of its own. Sorry Rockies, I wore my team hat by accident and cursed the team.

Talk about guilt.

The Modern Man and Fantasy Football

The Modern Man has been on a long hiatus, but he is back. For those of you who don't know what 'hiatus' means , I've provided three examples of its use in every day language using a common teaching practice:

1) I drafted John Kitna for my fantasy team, and realized that the Lions have been on a hiatus from football since 1954.

2) I was running down the first baseline when I suddenly pulled my hiatus. (I was quickly arrested and charged with lewd conduct right afterwards.)

3) The nuclear (*pronounced "nuke you ler") leak created a huge, genetic freak out of our dog Hi, and unfortunately, Hiatus.

This type of teaching come from the ancient Romans and is highly effective in working with middle school students. The technique is called, vocabularus desperatus, meaning, "We ain't gonna learn it if the word has more than one syllable, and you're pulling our haituses is you think we care."

So I've been talked into playing fantasy football. When you put fantasy and football together, I envisioned me being tackled by eleven scantily clad Victoria's Secret models. However, much to my disappointment, this is not the case.

To start off, if gambling were legal, I would have had to plunk down $30 to join a fantasy league with a group of nice church going people who seem to feel that gambling is okay, but swearing and drinking is not. This is too bad, because quite honestly, I'd rather swear and drink. I mean, for @#$# sakes, I can brew 5 gallons of beer for $30 and I can @#@ing swear for free.

But, I digress.

Fantasy football. It's hugely popular. It brings millions of dollars to websites across the country. Manly men with enormous HD televisions, large cable bills, officially licensed NFL paraphernalia (not to be confused with the single and lonely phernalia), and WAAAAAAAAY to much time on their hands play this game weekly, spending hours setting up their teams and worrying about their player's production.

For this game, we were to be given $100 dollars in pretend money (which is a pretty good return on investment, if gambling were legal) and we were to bid on our players in auction format and these players would be imported into a team which will score points against other pretend teams. Now, I thought the trafficking in humans for profit was made illegal in this country after the Civil War, but I guess I'm wrong. I bid on many players and I am now an official fantasy owner, or as I would rather be called, an official fantasy pimp.

Why pimp? Well, I can play my best people and "cut" the ones I'm unhappy with. Hey, it isn't fair, but that's life on the fantasy street.

The unfortunate thing was that I actually had to do research on my players to find out who I should draft. I probably spent over an hour finding information on who I should take. I was glued to the computer screen, leaky pen in hand, going over data no one really understands. I crunched the numbers, came up with a plan, then did more research. Do you know what that makes me? I'll get to that in a moment.

When I entered the basement of a neighbors house to make my draft picks, I was surrounded by affable gentlemen (and one lady) who all joked, had fun, and bid on illegal human traffic. I looked at those around me. They all gripped their fantasy magazines (not a naked picture in any of them), checked their fantasy lists, and eyed their newly acquired players with a fondness only a fantasy pimp can have. But as I joined in, a quote from a bygone era came quickly into my head. The quote, from the Alpha-Betas still resonates today as it did years ago as it was shouted to the Lambda Lambda Lambdas by the various members of the fraternity.

"NERDS!" they shouted. Yep, it seemed to me that every one of these people was a nerd, but didn't know it.

You can be the toughest man in the world, but if you're taking more than 5 minutes a week thinking about fantasy football, the fact is, you're a nerd.

You're not even a fantasy nerd, just a nerd.

For years I've been trying to rehabilitate my nerdy nature, but it's come back to haunt me.

You know what they say, when you point, three fingers are pointing back at you. At least that is what teachers say, so that's what I'm sticking to at this point. As I pointed at the 'big board' with my current fantasy picks, and pointed towards the nerds around me, those three fingers were pointing right back at me and the cold hard truth sunk in.

My God, I'm a nerd, too.

But, I'll be a successful FANTASY nerd if I win my league. However, my quarterback is John Kitna.

Looks like I'll be taking it up the hiatus this year.

The Modern Man: Crazy 'ol coot

As I staggered into the local pool the other day I had three days beard and unwashed hair. I handed my punch pass to the 17 year old girl behind the counter and she said the following without fun or frivolity:

"No offense, but are you a senior rate?"

Needless to say, the next 40 minutes were spent trying to come up with some sort of jazzy reply (you mean the señor rate, Senior in high school?) until I realized that I just used Jazzy in a sentence, which is dating me already. Plus, you really can't THINK and SWIM at the same time or you end up sinking to the bottom of the pool.

After I swam back to the surface, much to the relief of the life guards, I finished my swim, melancholy splishing and splashing with my friend the black line. Before I finished, as I poked my head up for air, I thought I heard one life guard say, "Keep an eye on the old man," but it could have been, "Boy it's hot, I need a fan." At this point, my brain was so devastated, my heart so broken, my self-esteem quaking like green jello, I realized a snappy (old man term) reply didn't matter. I finished my joyless swim and I shuffled home with my tail between my legs, looking around corners for Death and checking to see if there were any stores that sold canes. Each phone call that came that afternoon was a nerve wracking experience, as I held my breath figuring that AARP (Motto: We help you because you've probably lost your mind) had come to find me.

But then I thought, being a senior isn't that bad, even if I'm only 40. I can get the early bird special, discounts at most stores, and one of those little scooters to get me around the house. Plus, most of my relatives have gone relatively crazy with old age, which gives one a lot of leeway in what one can get away with. I mean, seniors can get away with saying anything and have any opinion without doing any research or fact finding, kind of like Dick Cheney, Ann Coulter, or Fox News. So I'm turning a negative into a positive and have developed some Crazy 'ol Cootisms (TM)that I will begin using immediately with impunity. I shall shout them with pride, because there is really no consequences when you're an 'ol coot. I would apologize for my sexist comments, but as an old coot, I don't have to.

1) If I were president, I'd pass a law that would allow any citizen to give an atomic wedgie to ANYONE showing their underwear on purpose, unless they are wearing appropriateVictoria Secret of course.
2) Spandex shall not be worn by anyone whose pants waistline is more than 6 inches greater than their pants length.
3) Peaking at cleavage shall no longer be considered as dangerous as looking at the sun.
4) If you can't go to a high quality eating establishment and remove your pants, then what fun is life?
5) The next time someone asks me what university or college I went to with the sole purpose of trumping my school with something like Duke or MIT, I shall say I graduated from Viagra University. When they realize I didn't say Niagara university and tell me that doesn't exist, I shall do a variation of #4 on the list to show them my diploma.

See, being a senior isn't so bad. Now if I could only remember what I just said.

The Mullet and the Modern Man

The mullet. The mere word brings out painful feelings in everyone. It is a hairstyle that makes you pick one of two camps on your feelings about it. You either:
1) Find it repugnant
2) Find it repulsive

There is no gray area with a mullet. After all it's all business in front and all party in back. I'm not one to hide from my past. Yes, I once sported a well coiffed mini-mullet as a rebellious 20 something back in the late 80's and 90's. Yes, the front looked like Opie's, but the back, the glorious back was long like a mane. In fact, I once challenged myself to grow it long enough to so that I could chew on it.

Yes, one must have goals in this lifetime and I set mine pretty high.

I made my goal and instantly found out that chewing on hair was pretty gross. But hey, I looked cool and if that was the price I had to pay, so be it.

When looking at old pictures of myself I do realize that fashions disappear for a reason. Mullets just don't look good unless you are:
1) Playing hockey or soccer.(Click here or here for some excellent examples)
2) Playing rock and roll in a kick *ss band.

Ah, and it looked cool during my running career as it (sort of) flowed behind me in the wind.

For those of you too young to remember, imagine a time of neon shirts, scruffy facial hair, and large, flip up sunglasses.

Gosh darn it, I do miss it so.

Now, those of you in New Jersey probably don't understand the gradual loss of the mullet in American fashion. This is due to the fact that it is still in style there. For that, the world mourns.

However, I did see something the other day that could honestly have serious repercussions on the world that we know. It could be a sign of the apocalypse, or, in a worse case scenario, the start of a new fashion.

I was in an ACE hardware (motto: half the stuff, twice the price) (Motto 2: we're no LOWES) minding my own business, when a man walked out of the aisle wearing fading red camouflage pants. Now, under no circumstances are you allowed to wear camouflage ANYTHING once you turn 18 (unless you're in the army). However, my eyes quickly went up, past the red 'wife beater' (which in itself was hard to ignore) and to his head.

Ahh, his glorious head. There, on top of his noggin, was a mullet that quite honestly, could have been placed in the mullet hall of fame. I wish I had a camera because it is impossible to describe, but yet, I'll try:

Twas brown in color, with a bushy, round, bowl-like look on top. It was sort of like a hedgehog's spikes on top in form, yet not actually spiked with any sort of gel at all. Then, dangling down to near the mid-point of the back were a morass of not quite washed today and possibly not yesterday hair. It was flowing exactly not quite like that of a model or rock star who is standing next to the modeling fan at a photo shoot. No, its movement twas more of a gentle rocking back and forth motion due to the oily build up. I watched as he passed, unable to keep my eyes from its majesty. For one moment I did glance away to check my watch. Yes, it was still 2007. No, I had not been transported back in time. I sighed, slightly depressed in the knowledge when something so mind-bogglingly amazing happened, I thought that I might have passed out and woken up in Hoboken.

Trailing behind this gentleman was a child of not more than seven or eight earth years. He too was dressed in camouflage pants and more importantly, had the exact same mullet. I believe the two of these gentlemen could have exchanged hair, and no one would have been the wiser. And like Dr. Evil had Mini-me, Mr. Camo-mullet man had his mini-mullet man.

As they passed and left the store, I was perplexed. Was this child abuse? Should I call social services? Hasn't anyone pointed out the modern mullet was like GW Bush; something that was a bad idea in the first place and probably never should have happened?

But the more I thought, the more I realized something about a man who is stared at in stores across this county.

Nay, this man is not a pariah. This man is a trend-setter. The mullet is gone. Lost in the dustbin of history it ponders a time when MTV actually played music, but he alone in our town is taking the mullet back. His independent spirit is made of exactly what made America great. He should not not be ridiculed, nay, he should be embraced by our community. And once our souls are cleansed of our prejudices and his body is cleansed of the last weeks grime, we should tell our barbers we want it cut short on the front, but boldly shout, "Leave the back alone!" Like hands across America, we will unite this country, mullet to mullet bringing peace and love to those around us.

Now if I can only find my hair.

Technololgy and the Modern Man

As one gets older, it gets harder and harder to keep up with the new technology, or as you're forced to say once you turn 40, "These newfangled electified gagets." However, I'm not too worried about keeping up with everything. They pretty much idiot proof everything now-a-days, unlike in the time when I grew up, where toys and gadgets were only really fun if they could actually hurt you. Dan Akroyd's "Bag of Glass" really isn't far off many of the toys of my youth. Today's whipper snappers are a generation of "plug and play" people, who will never know the joy and excitement of taking three hours to make a mixed tape, or the wonder of using a public phone (Wonder, as in, "I wonder what this sticky stuff is on the phone receiver?")

However, the technology that worries me is much more mundane. Unfortunately, a lot of it happens to be in the bathroom, which my loyal reader knows I already have personal problems with. When I was a kid (Did I just say that? Just shoot me now.) you didn't have your self flushing toilets, automatic paper towel dispensers, automatic hot air hand dryers, and of course, automatic sinks.

But now you do.

Or you don't.

And that's the problem.

I'm leaving bathrooms with the water running, since their faucet wasn't automatic. I'm placing my hands under the the sink and waiting, only to notice that this one has actually little spinny hand things (technical plumbing term) for turning on the water. It's difficult to look cool when one is talking to the faucet in the bathroom. The youngsters just shake their heads and walk away. Plus, half the automatic faucets need your hands in a sight zone about 3 millimeters wide, so you end up moving your hands around the sink like a disco dancer.

I'm mostly having issues with paper towel dispensers. I feel as I'm begging for towels, as I place both my hands together and slowly move them below the towel dispenser and wait in anticipation. Will it work? Will the guy behind me start screaming I'm an idiot? For crying out loud, I can actually program a VCR, yet I can't get the towels to come out.

In one restroom, there was no little black indicator or a little silver winder at all. I proceeded to move my hands around the dispenser as if it were a crystal ball, my son looking on in anticipation.

"Where are the towels, Daddy," asks the kid who expects that I know everything, who also has a huge thing about wet hands.

Channeling my best James T. Kirk, "I...just...don't...know."

(Crying)"Daddy, you weren't supposed to disappoint me until my teen years!"

(unable to swear, must calm down) "Dear God, why hast this towel dispenser forsaken me?"

Turns out if you rubbed this towel dispensers belly, it actually dispensed its product. How the @#$# am I supposed to figure this stuff out?

And how about those automatic toilets? My kid won't even get near one, for fear of it flushing when he's on it or even near it. And as you know, if the toilet flushes when you're on it, the monkeys living in the sewer can get you.

Finally, I've even been in a rec center shower that had no levers or handles of any sort. Now if you want embarrassment, trying to figure out how a shower at the rec center works as you squat naked and look at the one little piece jutting out of the wall. Do I do the wave? Nope. Maybe if I stand in front of it? No way. Should I be moving? Nope. What if I do a little shimmy? Nope. Why is that guy across the way showering? More importantly, did he notice the shimmying?

Wait! What if I push the little round thing? Water! Water! Holy @#$! Really @#$@#ing hot water!

Now I'm jumping up and down trying to figure out how to turn it off!

First squatting naked (which of course, is a major no-no). Now jumping up and down.

At this point, I'm hoping the guy in the next shower hasn't done any prison time, as I notice that the entire locker room is empty.

Of course, I can't actually change the water temperature. It's either on or off, plug and play, hot or scalding.

In my case, squatting or jumping...

That's my problem. Since EVERYTHING isn't automated, it seems that there is a heck of a lot thinking that has to go on in a bathroom now days. I don't want to think in a bathroom, I'm too busy trying not to make eye contact.

Don't even get me going on automatic doors. Since they got rid of those black foot sensors, you're left to guess if it's going to open or not without actually incurring a concussion from the door either opening up and smashing you in the head or just plain smacking into it when it turns out it isn't automatic at all.

Plug and play.

Or not.

Think about it, we used to control the bathroom fixtures. Now, they sort of control us. Maybe they'll work, maybe they won't...

Maybe these devices will rebel and we're left in a post-apocalyptic world, fighting urinals and faucets for control of humanity.

Ohhh. That might be my big Hollywood movie script right there. The Terminautoflushinator.

The Modern Man Gets Flushed!

One of the great things about being a modern man AND getting older is the wide variety of medicines that doctors want you to take. Some have been life savers, like prilosec, which has saved my esophagus from rupturing out acid and destroying everything in site, like a wounded Alien in those, er, Alien movies. There have been no side effects except for now being able to eat raw vegetables, which even children know can't be good for you.

But others have side effects. You know, that list of things the world's fastest talking man rushes by during those medicine commercials for things they won't tell us the medication actually cures? I can take most of these side effects, in fact, most of my relatives believe my current condition and personality is basically one giant side effect to begin with.

But flushing? I'm not talking about toilet humor here, or Flushing, where tennis players go to be heckled for a couple of weeks. No, I'm flushing like a menopausal woman right now, and gosh darn it, I'm really not that okay with that.

When your HDL's are low enough that the doctor feels you pulse to make sure you ARE alive, you know you may have to do something about it. You realize life isn't fair, as the 350 pound man next to you at the restaurant is eating piece of cow that could clog the arteries of a wookie, yet his levels are fine. He waves nicely at you as you smile at your piece of "today's white cooked fish" and you curse his family quietly under your breath. Ah, the mental flip off, it's not at good as the real thing, but it's better than nothing.

So my doctor prescribed a medicine that not only can damage your liver, but also an amount of niacin my doctor may have described in professional medical terms as "ridiculously large."

Niacin side effects, as described on bottle: Turning redder than Brezhnev.

So here I sit, after my students have screamed "Why is your face so red? Do we need to call an ambulance? What's wrong?"

ME: "I'm taking a drug that's making my face do that, so don't worry."

THEM: "My daddy got taken away by the police and sent to jail when his face was that red from the drugs he was takin'"

ME: "I meant medication?"

THEM: "Like them things baseball and football players take?"

ME: "NO! It's NIACIN!"

THEM: "Yeah, probably crystal 'niacin'."

Hence the reason that I'm hiding right now in my office. My face is the color of a tomato, if you first embarrassed that tomato and then beat it in some sort of UFC fight. No, that's not right. It's more red. It's post-caning red, for those of you who live in Singapore.

Am I just embarrassed? Am I turning into a communist? Do I need a hysterectomy? Are my child bearing years coming to an end? Can I claim myself as an alternative heat source on my taxes? What if I'm flushing while I'm flushing? These are the sorts of questions a person should never have to answer at any age, unless you are named Ann Coulter.

But excuse me, I'm feeling another flushing coming on. I need to go, the police need a temporary stop sign down at the corner.

Getting Hit by 40, part II

So my 40th birthday is long gone. I've gone mano y mano with Death, wrestled with the meaning of life (which appears to have something to do with a food product call 'bran'), and drank too much beer for a person of my age (3), and against my better judgement, had a good time.

During this partying like it was 1999, I decided to to a little introspection. You know, see where I've come from so I can figure out where I'm going to. Therefore, I've compiled things that have changed since I was 20. Maybe you've noticed some of the same things in yourself. I certainly hope not.

The 20’s	The 40’s
Can run over 100 miles per week.	Can run to the bathroom 12 times a night due to inadvertently seeing a glass of water after 7 PM.
Can party and stay up to 4:00 AM, sleep until noon, and then repeat the same behavior on Saturday night. Barely hung over. Generally high on life.	Go to 4 year olds’ birthday parties. Repeat the next weekend. Hung over on too much sugar, caffeine, and jumping in that bouncy castle everyone gets for their kids' party. Generally high on frosting and Starbucks.
Women think I'm a wild and crazy guy. They're all over me like a duck on a junebug.	Wife thinks I'm crazy. Reminds me women never were all over me, except for help with their homework.
Official "Wine tasting" during waiting job becomes a wine tasting contest. This leads to a major life lesson: never mix wine and margaritas, unless of course you want to have a fabulous time.	Wine tasting leads to being in bed and out cold by 8:00 PM. Dream of margaritas. Run to the bathroom 12 times after touching a glass of water accidentally at 7 PM.
When playing basketball, can dunk at will.	Realize last statement was after a wine drinking contest. Still can’t dunk.
Groggy when waking up before 8 AM. Hit snooze, sleep until 10.	Woken by 4 year old at 6:30 AM. No snooze. Dear Lord, where is the snooze!?
Eat pizza unburdened by any consequences.	Look at pizza, gain 3 pounds.
Enjoy arguing about the beauty of the music of YES, the genius of Seinfeld and the Simpson's, the greatness of Terry Gilliam, tell lengthy self-depreciating stories, and brew my own beer.	Err. Exactly the same thing!
Cheer for the Lions, the worst team in the NFL.	Exactly the same thing again! Only they're worse now!
Didn't know how to blog.	Still don't know how to blog.

Hey! As you see, things haven't changed all that much! So I'm going to hit this 40's thing positively. My back may have issues, my knees may be shot, I may have high cholesterol, and have to swim to keep fit. Wait, I forgot where I was going with that.

Oh, yeah. I'm still breathing! (except when swimming)

So, I will leave you with a self-depreciating top ten list to start of the year in good standing!

Top Ten Signs you may be turning 40

10. You can’t believe you just said, “That’s a good looking minivan,” in a conversation with a neighbor.

9. You can’t pull the grey hairs without leaving bald patches the size of small islands.

8. Hemorrhoids so large, they being tracked by NASA.

7. Your biggest Saturday fashion question: Pants or no pants?

6. Romantic dinners now confined to Chucky Cheese.

5. There is no way to say, “Fo’ shizzle, that IPOD is hella tight,” without sounding like the whitest, oldest man on the planet.

4. Hobbies include resting AND sleeping.

3. Spend all your free time looking for your car keys!

2. You’re swallowing more medication than beer weekly.

1. Your back goes out more times than you do every month

Getting Hit by 40 (Part I)

The problem with whining about one's age is that there is always someone older than you who tells you to shut up and someone younger than you who can't believe your still breathing since you've never actually watched American Idol.

I mean, how uncool am I?

They say for most of your life you 'turn' a certain birthday. You turn 5 for example, and at that age, you tell people you turned 5 and a quarter, 5 and a half, and even 5 and 9/10ths. I even "turned" 30, however, I believe I turned 30 with my friend Margarita, and don't have much of a recollection of that. However, they say you don't turn 40, you hit 40. I have firm evidence that this is incorrect.

You don't hit 40, 40 hits you. I've been told I can't have a birthday cake due to the fire hazard from all those candles.

As of this writing, I'm not 40 yet, but I feel it lurking, waiting to attack, like Jack Nicolson did in The Shining, only it wants to kill me a lot more slowly. 40's already jabbed my back, hit my knees with a baseball bat, and has suddenly removed me from any popular demographic advertising considerations.

40 has also called up his friend Death, just so he can keep an eye on me. I met this death fellow once as I pondered the following word sitting behind an 18 wheeler, waiting for the world's slowest train to cross the road. That word would be:

SEMIPERMANENT

The word was on the bottom of the Maine license plate of the 18 wheeler in front of me.

Now, I call my wife and tell her what I've seen. I ponder its meaning. How the @#$ can something be permanent in a semi sort of way? I could tell my wife was just humoring me as I ranted about semipermanence and eventually told me she had to go do something more important, like feed the goat.

I didn't even know we had a goat.

As I waited for the slowest moving in train in history to pass, I had a vision, or it could have been a diesel fume related aberration. I figure if Jerry Falwell can predict the future in his talks with God, why can't I have the occasional non-drug related hallucination, especially if it helps the literary worth of this mediocre piece of writing.

Hallucination starts here:

Death opened the door and sat next to me. Surprisingly, he looked a lot like Dick Cheney, only healthier and less dangerous. Our conversation may have been something like this:

ME (looking dismissingly at Death sitting in my front seat) : What do you think of this word, SEMIPERMANENT?
Death: Aren't you worried I'm doing to take you away?
ME: That would be so cliché, with me turning 40 and all.
DEATH: You're probably right. Plus this blog really needed something more interesting. Did you lose your sense of humor knowing you're turning 40 soon?
ME: Maybe...
DEATH: Are you feeling stressed, out of control, worried, and depressed?
ME: A little...
DEATH (smiling insincerely and marking something on his PDA): Keep it up. I'll guess I'll be visiting sooner than scheduled.
ME: Eerp!
DEATH: However, on the word semi-permanent. Didn't you think that semipermanent might mean our lives here on earth? The fact that you feel like a permanent fixture on this planet with all your life problems? Not giving yourself enough time to enjoy the good things? Then suddenly one day you’re lying in an ambulance wondering what happened to all that life you used to have? You know, life if kind of semi-permanent. As Styx once said, "Even Pharaohs turn to sand, like a drop in the ocean."
ME: Styx? The River you travel on?
DEATH: No, the awesome 70's rock group.
ME: That is truly inspiring, oh Death. I'm going to live for the moment more often! I'm going to change my ways!
DEATH (with another sly smile, opening car door and stepping out): Habits are stronger than desires, my friend. Now, I'm going to leave you with this one, incredibly important piece of information.
ME: Yes, Mr. Reaper?
DEATH: (slightly sarcastically): SEMI PERMANENT probably just means the SEMI TRAILER in front of you has a permanent license. It probably doesn't need to be renewed.
ME (sadly): That kind of ruins the whole metaphor.
DEATH: I'm not here to spread happiness, bozo, unless you count the body counters down at the Pentagon or those crazy radical Islamists. Man, they love to see me. I love those guys! But maybe there is something to that semipermant thing after all. It's you that makes sense of this world, grasshopper.
ME (more happily): Yeah! Imagine that!
Death (leaving car and pointing at me): Happy birthday! Now I've got my eye on you, not-so-young man. So do something foolish! Drive fast, take chances! Start drinking hard liquor! Hope to see you soon!
ME: Not if I can do anything about it!
Death (winking): You can't.

Ah yes, turning 40.
(To be continued)