The Modern Man: Redemption

Sometimes something happens that is so life altering, so mind bending, so amazingly earth shattering you're never the same again.

That, of course, didn't happen to me. After a summer tornado and a near drowning, quite honestly, anything else is mundane.

However, I was at a teacher conference in Denver and I re-discovered a few things. But first, I need to bring up something that is happening more and more that I can't seem to come up with a word for.

Now, if you are an adult with children, you know that talking to fellow adults in an adult situation (not a Cinemax or pay per view adult situation, but one lacking kids) come along rarely. So there I am, walking down the sidewalk, heading to a conference presentation with two women I work with. The day is warm, the sun is out, and we're chatting away, and as I am a 40 something gentleman, I'm feeling pretty good about life.

However, then something happened: Both the young ladies I was chatting with cell phones rang.

Now I'm sure that there are strong forces in the universe. Forces that can level buildings, destroy planets, carve gorges, and allow people to watch Fox News. However, I believe that the power of the cell phone call must be stronger than any of that.

For of course, they immediately stopped talking without stopping walking, flipped their phones open, and then proceeded to talk for 5 minutes. So now I'm walking between two women who are talking to two other people while I'm walking between them, now silent and uncomfortable, waiting for one of them to get off the phone. Do I stop walking? Do I start skipping? Do I pull out my phone and pretend to talk to someone really important?

Seriously, I'm at a loss here.

And of course, now the conversation changes completely when the fiasco is over. The two women now talk about their talking on the phone, as if this is an actual conversation piece.

There has to be a term for stopping a conversation with the person you're talking to and then ignoring them to talk to someone far, far away. I see it too much in restaurants, cars (I've seen entire families on their phones, talking to other people while IN THE CAR). What should the term be? Phone phleesed? Cell slapped? Fone Fragged?  The other idea is Phone with another word starting with F and ending in "ed", but that sounds like you're dialing a 900 number.

I'm going with phone fragged right now when in public or at work, as I don't want to lose my job.  Please.  Post something else if you have a better idea.

But what about this redemption?

Ah, yes.  I learned I'm still human.

As a father and teacher you are considered closer to a cyborg than a human being.  This feeling has been going on for years, occasionally broken up by a date movie night or 2 a years.

I stayed out until 3 AM TWO NIGHTS IN  A ROW.  

I took a cab.

I danced, danced, danced!

I did attend classes. (for those at work reading this)

There may have been drinking.

A 23 year old woman may have drank out of the hotel's decorative fountain, which was redeeming in itself.

I discovered the 16th Street Mall on Halloween is a freak show I'd put up against any other city in the country.

I learned that two piano players singing "Old McDonald Had a Farm, Special Education Edition" is funny no matter what time of the evening it is.  Especially if you're a special education teacher.  If I could only sing the "Tourettes Chicken" part, you'd be laughing, too. (Bwaaack, bwaaack, @#$##ing, @#$@#, @#$#$!!! here)

So there you go.  I am still a normal human being.  OK.  A human being.

I've been redeemed.  

You didn't hear a word of this did you?  You've been talking on the @#$#ing cell phone again.

The Modern Man: American Scourge

(Today’s blog is written as if lecturing a teenager or doing a political announcement.)

Today I want to talk to you about a scourge that hasn’t been addressed by either the Republicans or the Democrats since the election began. If you want to talk about threats to our country, this is right up there with fast food, gas prices, and Tila Tequila.

I’m so upset about this problem that I can no longer keep silent.  

I’m talking about grown men walking small dogs.

Hey, don’t make excuses about having to clean the garage. You need to listen to this, mister!

I’m not talking about walking puppies, who will eventually grow to be large Labs or Retrievers. I’m talking about men walking mini-poodles, tiny Chihuahuas, or any another breed that can rip your socks off.

Men, look at me. Stop pretending you’re gazing at your cell phone looking for messages.

This is serious.

Walking a tiny dog, or even owning one is emasculating this country.
I understand that certain lines have been blurred since the 50’s, and that is okay. With the modern household, a lot of sharing of responsibilities goes on to make it run smoothly.

However, a dog is not on the same lines as doing laundry or the dishes. A dog tells a lot about who you are as a friend and human being.

Plus, there are many activities we, as males, can participate in that some might consider unmanly but really aren’t.  They are miles away from owning a tiny dog.

For one, we can cook, which some find womanly, but then, many of the great chefs are men. Plus, if you cook, you don’t have to worry about your wife or girlfriend poisoning you.

We can garden, which some men would consider ladylike. However, gardening is a step away from farming, you get dirty, and can even get wounded cutting a rose bush. I mean, that’s pretty manly stuff.

But tiny dogs?

If you can carry your dog without pulling a groin (a very manly thing, indeed) you have finally crossed the line into skirtdom, and not the cool Scottish ones in Braveheart.

The next thing you know you’ll be getting manicures, drinking chardonnay, and watching the Oxygen Network.

Maybe you’re doing this already. Are you? Why are you looking away?
How can we fight the war on terror, the war on drugs, and the war against family values with a dog the sized of a meatloaf?

I mean, how do you feel when you knock on someone’s door and you hear the high pitched yap! yap! yap! of a little fur ball? Does it instill you with a feeling of manliness? No! You need to hear the deep baying of a large dog. The baying that says, “Stay away!” or “I”ll bite you!” or in our dog’s case, “I will possibly lick you to death!”

Those are manly sounds.

If you can buy your dog food in cat food sizes, you’ve got serious issues. I mean, think about who is famous for little bitty dogs: Women celebrities and the French.

If your dog can fit in a purse, you’ve got issues, my friend. Should I buy you a purse? Should I????! (And I'm not talking about a man purse.)

Oh, I hear you whining. “My wife made me do it!” “They don’t shed as much!” “They don’t have poop the size of Clydesdales, only stinkier!” We’ll, when the war against our families’ values start, or Tila Tequila shows up on your doorstep, is your schnauzer going to defend you? In the winter, will that dog keep the whole bed warm? Can that dog even catch a Frisbee, since the Frisbee is bigger? Can they fight off a mountain lion, or pull a dog sled in the Yukon?

Hey, don’t walk away. I’m not finished yet. Think about all the great television, book, and movie dogs: Lassie, Old Yeller, Fang.

They were all fairly butch dogs, even if some of them were girls. And on top of that, at the end of Where the Red Fern Grows, or Call of the Wild, "Ol Yeller" or even Baldo been as gut wrenching of the dogs were bloody mini-poodles or laso opsos, I mean lasu upsos, I mean those little white fluffy dogs who don't shed????

I think not.

(Imagine:  Travis taking Ol' Yeller away with his shotgun, but it's a lhasa apso.  Not quite the same, is it?)

So, America, let’s get this under control.

Let’s take America back from this god-awful display of wimpiness.

Let’s all get big dogs.

Now, wish me luck. I have to clean up the backyard.

The Modern Man: Walking the Dog

Before I begin this post, I need to tell you I saw something so amazingly mind boggling that I had to share it. After a long day at school, a student was scampering down the hall at a relatively fast pace.

Okay, he was running.

As I wondered whether I should try to catch up to him, or pretend there was something in my eye that would allow me to head back into my office, I saw something relatively disturbing.

His pants were beginning to slide down his butt, or as we in teacher world are forced to say, "His gluteous maximus." (Remember, 95% of all students have seen every uncut American Pie or Saw DVD, yet parents freak out if we swear, or try to show a movie like Saving Private Ryan or Glory).

Now this pants thing isn't so surprising. The new school uniform is pants with belts fastened at what might call, the "junk" area, or as we are forced to call due to current abstinence education rules, the "you'll go to hell" stick or the shame cave. This is covered by a long tee-shirt if you're a boy, or tee shirt or camisole that is 3 sizes too small if you're a girl.

Now as he is running, and I'm rubbing my eye and shoving as much lint into it as possible, I noticed his shirt, which is a large Under Armor form fitting piece, is creeping up as his pants are creeping down.

I'm now waiting for the natural consequence. I'm waiting for the pants to hit the knee area and watch as he falls, hopefully screeching to a halt as the skin on his thighs brings him to a sudden halt.

Then I would stand there, washing out my eye and thinking smugly to myself, "That will teach him!" (Forgetting temporarily, that middle schoolers really don't learn anything the first time, or tenth time, or, wait, I'm getting depressed.)

Then I see him reaching down and I'm thinking, "He's going to pull his pants up! For the first time in a year, his underwear won't be showing! This is a remarkable day at our school!"

I was also thinking that if my shoe was untied, I'd tie it. If my hair (I mean that in the singular) was messy, I'd brush it. If my pants were falling down, I'd pull them up. It's just a natural reaction when disorder occurs to re-order it. Millions of years of evolution have made these reactions almost automatic.

But then he did something unexpected. What he did made me wonder about which direction this evolution thing is heading.

As his pants continued to head south, he PULLED HIS SHIRT DOWN.

Yep, he continued to run uncomfortably with his pants now at mid-thigh height and PULLED HIS SHIRT DOWN to cover his pant line (and not get in trouble for dress code violations).

As he disappeared down the hallway, I realized life had passed me by. I'd no longer be demographic that Hollywood movies or TV shows are aimed at. I'd preface conversations at school meetings with "When I was a kid..."

I'd maybe even start to use the term "Whipper Snapper."

But is it too late for me? Should I purchase baggy pants and pull my underwear out, or maybe get those shorts that really come down to just above the socks (I call them Manpris, a male version of the capri)? Should I wear my hat sideways?

Quite honestly, there is only one thing I can really do now. That's go to the nurse to get my eye washed out. Now if I can only avoid the whipper snappers on the way down.


(Looks like I'll have to address the largest crisis in America in my next blog: Grown Men Walking Small dogs)

More Quick Hits: Nicknames, At, and Uranus

Quick Hit 1:

I've always been a fan of nicknames. They can often be a window to your very soul. You don't get to pick them, so the names are a total reflection of how others see you. You've got your serious nicknames: The Hammer (Hank Arron), The Gipper, and The Decider mostly bring about positive reflections of that person (Hey, Meatloaf once said, "Two out of three ain't bad").

Another use of the nickname are ones that are meant to be insults. When I was a young lad, before cell phones and reality TV, the top three students on the honor roll (me being one) would call each other nicknames like Brain when we were upset with one or the other, which quickly devolved into Half-a-brain, quarter of a brain, brain cell, and my personal favorite, which was often directed at me by the smartest girl in the class in a manner such as this: "Hey, "Quarter of a brain cell on a stick", stop answering all the teacher's questions." It's perfect, because it fit my nerdy nature and my body type. On a side note, my favorite nickname was a combination of insult and pride: Toto the Baton Wacker. It combined a negative nickname (Toto) with an incident in which I got into a fight with a track coach from SUNY Buffalo during the race. Ah, racing, tripping, punching and relay batons. What great memories....

My favorite nicknames use Big in the title like Big Kahuna, Big Cheese, Big Bob, or Big Tuna. Having "Big" in your name is usually very positive, unless the "Big" attached to parts of your body or the F word.

Where is this banter leading? Well, I went to the Colorado Caucuses and I was elected to be the leader of the caucus. Although I never requested people call me this, I had the overwhelming urge to have people call me by a cool nickname that you can only get as the leader of a Caucus. Since I didn't use it there, I think I could still slip the nickname into my regular life. Yep, you've got it. From now on, I should be called:

The Big Cauc.


(By the way, if there is just 1 good thing GWB has done in 8 years, it is making people realize that if you don't vote or participate in the process, you could easily find yourself more screwed than the characters on late night Cinemax. Thanks GWB for getting people to vote!)

Quick Hit 2:

On another note, I've noticed that there are universal things people will laugh at. Things such as bodily noises, groin punches, and Dane Cook get laughed at regularly. Now, I can't figure out the Dane Cook thing, but who hasn't laughed at the other stuff.




In a school setting, this is especially true. A quick burp, toot, or human development lesson can cause snickering, laughing, and general classroom chaos.

But there is another things that can happen. That would be a lesson on Uranus. Both boys, girls, and uncomfortable parents will giggle at the mere mention of the planet. This has become worse now that we've found out that Uranus is a gaseous planet. So as a teacher, you need to either clamp down on the class and let them snicker inside, or get it over with early, so that they aren't uncontrolably laughing under their breaths for the entire class. So I suggest the following ice breakers to get the laughing out of the way early, when teaching about Uranus. Or, if you're trying to break your class and want to write someone up for acting inappropriately, these would work as well. You'll have a kid out of control pretty quickly.

Uranus is gassy.
Uranus is blue.
Uranus is a gas giant.
Uranus is huge.
Due to the gasses on Uranus, if we were there we would find that Uranus stinks.
Because Uranus is a gas giant, we can never land on it. That means that we'll never be able to touch Uranus.

Don't tell me your aren't kind of laughing, at least inside. Now imagine that with middle school kids. You can forget about teaching for at least 10 minutes.

Quick hit 3:

Finally, what's the deal with the sudden ending of sentences with AT? I hear from loud cell phone talkers and even my wife when asking the location of the person they are talking to, "Where you at?" I mean, it's may be worse than "Where you be?" or anyone that uses "Seen" after the pronouns I and We.

Now, I'm no language snob. Well, maybe I am, but that's beside the point. I don't care that it's improper English. I care that it takes away from Blazing Saddles, one of the funniest movies of all time. When Cleavon Little (the sherrif) shouts 'Where the white women at?' out in front of the racist gang, it's funny for many reasons, including the "at" at the end. Now when young people watch the movie, they don't know why that lines funny since everyone uses "at" at the end of sentences now.

Hold on: My wife is informing me right now that the whole movie isn't funny and no one will understand the previous paragraph. I think I might have to sick Mongo on her. For like Mongo, I am "Only a pawn in game of life."

Now because of all this "Where you at?" and "Where they at?" "at" is no longer funny. It's just bad English that no one knows is bad English. Alas, time has passed me by. It's so depressing. Maybe some caffine will help my mood. Now, where's my Mountain Dew at?

The Modern Man is Getting Waisted

There are watershed moments in one's life. One's first kiss, a run in with a bully, meeting with someone who changes the direction of your life, your first date with your future ex-husband/wife and other moments that take one's life and throw it in a different direction. We can then look back at these moments, either celebrating the way our life went or cursing the day everything went to Hades in a handbasket.

Either way, it's a watershed, or in many cases, a Waterloo.

An event recently happened to me that has definately changed my outlook on life. It has headed me down a different path, nay a different aisle. A change so monumentous, it had to happen slowly and slither up on me like a giant blood thirsty snarling sneaking up thingy. Sorry, I was never good with similes.

So here is the huge watershed moment:

My waist size has increased.

I've literally gotten waisted.

I got a few Christmas gifts in the pantelones catagory that I couldn't fit into unless I sucked my stomach in like middle aged guys at the beach. I tried everything, even crying, hoping the loss of body fluid would lead to a slimmer waist line.

But no, nothing happened. I'm now a solid 34. After being a 32 in my 20's, a 33 in my 30's, I'm now a 34 in my second go at the age of 20. If you plug these numbers into the quadradic formula, carry the 3, then find the derivative, and graph the results, my waist size will be a 94 before my 60 birthday.

I may need my own zip code.

Hopefully by then we can all float around with futuristic anti-gravity devices, and I won't be forced to drive one of those mini-scooter things though the aisles of Walmart, as long as I'm under the weight limit. (Which, noting the expanding American belly, will be about 1500 pounds)

What has made is worse is that I actually work out. The lower graph doesn't fit what is occuring to me.

I remember laughing when Seindfeld changed his pants' labels to a 31 when he became a 32. I mean, how vain can one man get?

That's not a judgement, that's my current New Years resolution.

I'm now a full 2 inches wider than Seinfeld. I'm not laughing now, because if I do, I'm afraid my belly will have that movement like a bowl full of jelly. (Now that's a good simile)

A whole new world of questions has been opened to me. Will I be able to fit through turnstiles? How soon will it be before I'm asked to purchase an extra seat on an airplane? Will I now be a more dangerous dancer? Will I soon hear catcalls of "Shake it, don't break it?" When am I going to have to pull my pants up to my chest and start wearing stretchy pastel fabrics while I drink coffee with my AARP friends at McDonalds? Am I going to need a Manzier? And dear Lord, am I going to be literally putting the "middle" in middle age?

I know, it's not that bad now, but I hear everything from this age out goes down hill like a graph at a GW Bush polling convention. (Now that's a nice Simile!)

I guess I just have to stop whining and suck it up, while I suck it in.

So, goodbye 33's! We hardly knew ye. What's that? My nose is going to start drooping?

(Insert curse word here)