Tales of a Modern Man

The Cell Phone Temptress and the Modern Man

2009-10-12T10:32:00.007-06:00

"Can you hear me now? Buy a new phone." Easy to ignore. Now imagine that being said, by, let's say, this woman.

Can you hear me now? Oh baby, I can.

Oh, the cell phone temptress vixen, you're so hard to ignore.

My 3 year old cell phone started falling apart like a 40 something year old ex-runner the other day and I knew I was in trouble. I tried to put it back together, tried to reconcile. But after a while, I could see I was the only one trying in this relationship, and, well, it was time to move on.

Believe me, honey, it's not me, it's you.

But breaking up is hard to do. Because the next in line might be even worse.

Getting a new cell phone is like getting married, only more stressful. You'll be co-habitating with this phone for a forced 2 year commitment, so you better pick well and hope the technology gods grant you a trouble free relationship. Because if you ain't happy, you ain't gonna be happy for another 2 years and believe me, your phone ain't putting out any time soon. And God forbid, you let her slip through your fingers every now and then, if you break her you'll be heart broken as well.

And just like women tend to forget the problems encountered with their pregnancy and subsequent birthing when they wake you up at 2 AM and tell you they want another baby, we have the same forgetfulness with our technological babies. It's like dating the girl you were warned about being crazy, or dating the bad boy because you, of all people, can change him. It's just a a disaster waiting to happen. So heed my warning and avoid the inevitable. If you can't at least be aware of your cell phone relationship stages:

1) The siren call: Cell phones, like all technology, tend to enter our lives like a whirlwind romance. The excitement of a new relationship, everything shiny and new, and the enjoyment of learning everything new about your new partner. Of course, this new partner will do tons of things your old partner wouldn't do and she's a good looking piece of technology. You're knees get shaky when you see her and you can't wait to get your hands on her. You love that she has a blue tooth and like the feel of her in your hands. However, you're trophy relationship comes with a higher cost plan, and wants to make you pay for activating her, and has spotty coverage on top of that. But you look beyond that. It's love, after all.

Heady days they are.

You're all set to drop your old phone like a prom dress, but wait, heed my call. Let's look at stage 2.

2) Familiarity. You're still excited, but that's waning. She really doesn't do all those things she said she'd do until you support her Ma and sign a pre-nup that you know deep down inside will cost you more than the phone is worth. However, she's pretty to look and and you're friends think she's cool. You're old relationship only makes calls and is a pain to text without the seductive qwerty keyboard, plus she's starting to look a little old.

Must be time to move on. But wait! Check out 3.

3) Contempt: All those things you thought you'd do with this new vixen don't come to fruition, as you're just making calls and sending the occational text but paying through the nose to keep he by your side. Everyone in the commercials looks so happy, but all you do is talk to people at work which does the opposite, and none of them are in your inner circle, so you're using minutes faster than Usain Bolt. You friends keep sending her messages, but she makes you pay for them, plus you're paying for messages you want to send them. Her Ma keeps sending you messages trying to get you to pay for more stuff, which you feel you should to keep your relationship going. But it's all a fools game as you're money is gone and the results are less than impressive.

4) The break up. You're relationship is old. You've been through a lot together, but it's not enough. Those things that seemed so cool before, just don't work anymore. Plus she's completely let herself go, and you're faced with a roll of duct tape and a functioning phone or trying to hide her from your friends and family and slink off to use her. Buttons are missing and it's not because of some hot get together.

You longingly look at what else is out there, but wait, you haven't reached your two years. So you're forced to live by your pre-nup and stick it out, if only for the kids. You don't want to pay through the nose for a new phone and not have any cash left for the college fund. And even if you have reached you're 2 years, do you want to go through this amount of pain again? Maybe, God forbid, a landline might be all you really need.

As with all good prognosticators, I haven't heeded my own advice. I've broken like a political promise and had to let my old phone go. She'd fall apart every time we'd try to converse. It was too much and I had to move on.

She works great, is good looking, and does everything I need. But my old phone still sits on the counter, waiting to be let go for good.

It's hard not to feel guilty as I look down upon my old flame, but I need to make another call and I don't like to keep her waiting.

I wonder who really controls the buttons around here?

The Modern Man VS. Walletzilla

2009-01-07T21:48:00.001-07:00

Sometimes a man is faced with obstacles so huge, so large, so ominous, and so life threatening, that he must rise above the mediocre and face the challenge head on, regardless of fear and heedless of the very threat to his own life. As Rocky faced Apollo Creed, as King Kong faced Godzilla, Indiana Jones faced the Nazis, and as the Sisters faced the evil Traveling Pants, I must face my own demon. As I bravely stare it down, I wonder what horrible plans it has for me. Will it cause back pain? Will it rip out more pockets? Will it pull me under the cold, black, swirling water to a certain death if I fall in the next time I go fly fishing?

Oh wallet, why, why, why??? Why hast thou forsaken me?

Now I have a Solomon like task at hand. I must met out a tough and possibly contentious decision upon an object that I need to get through life with. But how does one met out justice upon a wallet that is growing more and more dangerous every day? It started off with a few pictures, some money, and a banking card. Now it is about the size of Rhode Island, only less comfortable to sit on.

Now let's not get fooled into thinking that this wallet is full of money. Quite honestly there isn't enough room in it for a few dollar bills, let alone a stack of fifties. My wallet used to be fairly thin, but not it's growing like the national deficit. The issue is my wallet is being taken over by an assortment of plastic cards foisted upon me from every angle that I feel I can't get rid of because if you don't carry them at all times, you never have them when you need them. First, my wallet just had my credit and banking card, then it was infiltrated by a King Soopers card, then a Safeway card. Let's look and see what else is in here. There is a Qdoba card (burritos the size of a brick), Ace Hardware Card (motto "We only charge twice as much as Home Depot!"), Rocky Mountain National Park Card, two insurance cards, a drivers licence (Motto: We make Sears Photography look good!), Big City Burrito punch card, Local Nursery Discount Card, three business cards that I can't remember ever taking, two library cards, Sam's Club card, my electronic card to get into work (Motto: Schools are always open, so why bother?), a fairly new flex plan credit card, and punch cards for coffee, burritos, and cheap pseudo-Mexican food.

Plus, of course, I have some pictures of family I can foist upon unsuspecting people, as well as the bonus picture of all time: My prom picture. Sure, that would save me 1 millimeter of space if I got rid of the evidence of the most ridiculous high school extravaganza since homecoming, but you'd be surprised how you can liven up boring conversations by plopping your prom picture from 1989 down in front of a group of people. It's entertainment in itself, plus, you'd love my mullet and black and white tuxedo with the beautiful purple cumber-bun.

I'm surprised nobody has a band named The Cumberbun yet.

My wallet has been responsible for destroying every pair of dockers I have ever owned. They get a lovely worn patch in the back pocket, and then get a hole right through the two layers of fabric. Seriously, my wallet wears my pants down faster than the Snake River is wearing down the Grand Canyon.

Since I've learned wallets are bad for the back, I've moved it into my front pocket, which quite honestly, isn't much better. When I'm sitting, my wallet looks like the largest, squarest hive in the world trying to find freedom by burrowing itself through my pants. I don't even know if I can fit my cell phone in the same pocket without being arrested for indecency here at work.

My wallet, is literally, a foot thick and probably weights as much as a small dog. It should probably be registered with as a deadly weapon as I think with the proper throw, I could hurt someone pretty badly. So, what do I get rid of? If I leave any of the cards out, I won't have them when I need them. If I get rid of the pictures, what kind of husband am I? And leaving the cards our for when I would need them is kind of like my cloth bags for the supermarket. I always leave in the back seat of my car and finally realize that when the cashier asks if I want paper or plastic.

But, why don't you just chuck it all? Why put up with being tied down by discount cards from "the man".

Seriously? I'm cheap! Do you know how upset do I get when I don't get the 15 cents off on the candy bar when I don't have the proper card?

So I'm pleading for someone to invent the ONE CARD. A card you can transfer the magical powers of all my other discount cards into one, easily handled, and more easily lost card. Think of the health benefits, the safety factors, and the generally handiness of such card. In fact, I'm looking for investors right now for this venture.

Only you'll have to come to me, I don't think I can get up with this wallet in my pocket.

The Modern Man: Redemption

2008-11-12T15:42:00.005-07:00

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

2008-09-08T13:58:00.005-06:00

(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

2008-05-02T08:56:00.004-06:00

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

2008-02-08T11:40:00.000-07:00

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

2008-01-09T15:25:00.001-07:00

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)

The Modern Man is feeling guilty

2007-09-28T10:32:00.000-06:00

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

2007-09-03T20:49:00.000-06:00

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

2007-06-25T13:27:00.001-06:00

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

2007-04-23T11:25:00.000-06:00

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

2007-03-30T13:14:00.000-06:00

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!

2007-02-26T17:46:00.000-07:00

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

2007-01-25T15:12:00.000-07:00

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)

2007-01-04T15:22:00.000-07:00

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)

The Modern Man VS. Walletzilla

2006-12-17T13:20:00.002-07:00

I'm surprised nobody has a band named The Cumberbun yet.

But, why don't you just chuck it all? Why put up with being tied down by discount cards from "the man".

Seriously? I'm cheap! Do you know how upset do I get when I don't get the 15 cents off on the candy bar when I don't have the proper card?

Only you'll have to come to me, I don't think I can get up with this wallet in my pocket.

The Modern Man: Quick Hits

2006-11-08T12:37:00.000-07:00

Cell phones and Star Trek:

We finally broke down and purchased a Bluetooth ear thingy (actual technical term) for our cell using a $15 class action lawsuit settlement against Verizon to save a little cash on it. I have to say, it is a handy little device, but I’m finding it excruciatingly difficult to not answer the phone, “Yes, Captain!” every time it rings. It’s really bringing out the hot black inner sci-fi chick in me. Err. I think I’ve said too much.

Class action lawsuits:

Seriously, a $15 coupon when the lawyers made millions EACH? If I wasn’t able to say things like “I’ll turn on the universal translator,” when the phone rings, I might have had to complain.

Swimming (again):

Why are fog-free goggles so important for the lap swimmer, such as I? I mean, what is there to see, really? Does it really matter if the black line is foggy?

Amazingly, it seems to be that it really does matter. I’m as thrilled as a middle school student at a dance with a power outage with my new $15 fog-free swimming goggles. Not only do I get to see the black line in HD (as well as the floating Band-Aids, phlegm strings, and lifeguards), but I can also finally see the comedy of 40-70 year olds doing flip turns while they swim at 2 miles per hour.

There is nothing in this world like a hairy pair of legs which appear detached from body as they flail and rotate in slow motion. Like the flight of the Monarch butterflies, the flight of the hairy white man-legs is a sight everyone should see once in their lifetime. Unfortunately, I have to see it three times a week.

Tivo:

I may be a modern man, but I might not be a real man and quite honestly, I'm not all that disappointed if I'm not lumped in the same group as GW Bush. I'm not a real man because I do not need to see ANY sporting event on television in real time. At this point, I can barely even watch sports without speeding through the commercials and time outs anymore. I can’t fathom why anyone would want to sit through 2 hours of commercials for a one hour game. I can watch a whole game in under an hour. I can watch regular hour long television shows in 43 minutes. As perfect as this seems to me, I know it has to end. The advertisers won’t allow it and I’m waiting for the fallout which I envision will be something like this. We'll call it the New Television:

New television for Drama:

Jack Bauer (on fancy cell phone): I can diffuse this bomb, but I need something to eat.

Chloe (looking surprising dour, yet amazingly perky, also on phone): How about I send you some pizza from Dominos? If we order three mediums, they’re only $5 each! Plus we get free bread dipped in fat and coated in sugar!

Jack Bauer (pausing dramatically, then whisper talking for some reason.): Great plan, but let me finish my Coke first.

Chloe: That must be refreshing.

Jack Bauer (staring into camera): Oh, yea, it’s the real thing.

New television for sports:

Announcer 1: It’s a touchdown to Chad Johnson!

Announcer 2: And now it’s time for the Chad Johnson Viagra football dance, brought to you by Miller Lite.

Announcer 1(shaking head disgustedly): You may want to tell the children to leave the room for a moment.

Announcer 2 (oblivious to announcer 1 as he starts dancing as well): Man, I love that dance.

Announcer 1: Is there something you’re not telling me?

------------------------

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Grandma

2006-10-24T08:42:00.000-06:00

My grandmother died recently and I spoke at her funeral as the grandchild representative. I'm sharing this because I think we often take people for granted and don't think about what their lives really mean to us and that maybe it would help our relationships if we would just inventory what people really mean to us when they're still living. I'm sure it would help a lot of good relationships as well as those that are strained. I've altered my name to protect me from my previous posts. Thanks for reading:

As some of you know, I teach middle school, which many people would say you have to be a little crazy to do. Being a C-----, I’m highly qualified for the job.

As a teacher, you learn that people learn from every situation that they are in. But some of the best lessons learned are not those that prepare you for a standardized test, but those that teach you about life.

Grandma taught us all many lessons and I cherish the things that I learned.
I learned from her that nature is amazing, birds are beautiful, and you can still be in tune to the world around you by just taking some time in your backyard to see the beauty.

I learned that you’re never too old to learn something new.
I learned that there is no shame in standing up for what you believe in when you’re in the minority and you know in your heart it’s the right thing.

I learned that you can do the impossible, like raise 3 wild boys who all grew up to do good in this world and help make it a better place.

I learned that if you love to do something like paint, but you’re not a Van Gogh, you need to keep doing it if it makes you happy.

Show your art proudly. It shouldn’t be hidden away.

I learned that family is the most important thing. Each yearly visit I walked into her house feeling like a stranger and left feeling like I was losing a friend for another year.

Yesterday I was standing outside in the rain struggling through thoughts of some of the ugliness that life brings us.

As the rain poured down, I began to sadly think of Grandma. All I could see was gray, dreary things and all I could feel was the biting cold around me.

Suddenly a bright red cardinal, which was one of Grandma’s favorite birds, flew and landed in the tree right in front of me. We never see these birds in Colorado so I watched it closely. I noticed its beautiful scarlet color, and then I noticed the magnificently colored leaves of the tree it was in. The bird suddenly flew away and I saw the red and yellow trees shining, even in the rain, the beautiful green grass in the yards and I could hear the birds singing to each other from the trees.

I could almost feel Grandma with me and noticed that I didn’t feel as sad. She showed me that the word can be a beautiful place. You just need to take time and find the beauty.

Thanks for the lesson, Grandma.

The Modern Man errr... Give me a second, I'll Remember

2006-09-20T11:35:00.000-06:00

Are you a modern man? Have you ever...

... had your significant other asked you to bring something down from a room, but as you enter it, you pick up a wayward sock, find a quarter on the floor, then noticed your Sodoku book. With super-human effort, you manage to avoid the Sodoku book, grab your wife's hat, then head downstairs with a proud smile on your face at overcoming that Sododu obstacle and a job well done.

"Did you get what I asked?" your significant other asks testily as you enter the room.

You stand, panic in your eyes, but decide you are sooooo prepared for this one. "Yes, oh beautiful one, I have the hat you requested. I have traveled long and through dangerous places to garner this truly wonderful and unique head apparal..."

No laughing. Then you have a long moment of dead air, as they say in radio. You suddenly realize that your ears may actually be sweating.

"You realized I asked for that yesterday?" she smiles, yet doesn't look happy.

"No." Sweat now dripping off your nose.

"Do you remember what I asked for?"

"My undying love?" you smile and try a waiter laugh as you wrack your brain for some clue as to what you were supposed to get. You end up slinking to the basement to watch football, and for some reason, know the name of every single player, play, penalty, and general history of both teams.

Have you ever...

...rushed headfirst into a room to grab something, then stood for over 3 minutes with your lips pursed, eyes stairing intently at the ceiling, trying to remember what the @#$@ you were there for? Well, as long as your there, you might as well listen to a tune or two on the 'ol IPOD while you finish that Sodoku.

You can't fight your brain.

As my great, great, great grandfather used to say, "You never forget anything, you just remember it too late."

That would be funny, but I can't remember his name.

Modern men have a lot on their plates. I'm not talking about eating and the obesity that is running amok in America. I'm talking about our poor minds trying to keep up with the modern world and the millions of things we need to remember to get through a day. This is having a detrimental effect on our memories. At least I think it is, I honestly can't even remember what the topic was.

Oh, yea. The power of remembering. To get to the bottom of this forgetting thing, I think it is important to study the etomology of the word "remembering." Broken into it's component language roots, remembering shouldn't be that hard.

RE means again, such as in refried beans will haunt you again and again.

Ing is some sort of bank whose commercials I never quite understand.

Member is a vague inappropriate euphamism that shouldn't be talked about in a blog such as this, but is often used in horror movies in such great lines as, "I can't believe that beast killed him by attaching that tentacle to his member."

Now, if you put all three parts together, it really makes no sense at all. I aplogize. I wonder where I was going with that, but I really can't remember.

But there is something in men's brains. They say that men think of sex every few seconds. However, I don't believe it. How the heck could we even remember to do that?

Men can remember stats like you wouldn't believe, they can remember to get their fantasy football team ready every week, and a joke they heard when they were 12 that still kills them at parties. Women of course use their brain power to remember every stupid thing we men have done our entire lives and save them up for arguments.

Woman: "Honey, do you remember when we were first dating and had that big fight after "When Harry Met Sally?" You're acting like that now."

Man: "That was funny, the scene in the restaurant. But I can't believe that one guy gave up his wagon wheel table. Good movie, though. Princess Leah was in it."

Woman: "You don't remember that big fight! How could you not? You're just pretending so I will stop yelling!!!"

Man: (Rambling on, despite the yelling.) "Did you know that Tom Hanks was once in a really bad movie about a guy addicted to Dungeons and Dragons? It could be possibly the worst movie ever. Even worse than Cabin Boy. I remember staying up to watch it since I played a little D and D myself. (now smiling reminiscently)"

Woman: (sobbing) "How can you not remember? HOW?"

Man: Looking generally confused and wondering if the couch is already made up for him this evening, then ticks off 10 Tom Hanks' films in his head, just for good measure.

No, ladies, we are not making this stuff up.

At least, I don't think we are. Quite honestly, I can't remember.
----

Have any stories you remember about forgetting? Send me an email and maybe I'll post-em.

The Modern Man: Putting the Dumb in Wisdumb

2006-08-31T06:33:00.000-06:00

As one ages, it is assumed that you will gain wisdom at the expense of your youthful persona.

For instance, I've learned to CHECK the breaker box to make sure the electricity is off when wiring my basement. It was quite a shocker, but I did learn.

I've learned that middle school is a perfect place for puns like "shocker", but adults weary of them quickly. However, I'm not a quitter, which might be a jolt to some of you.

I've learned good music is ageless, but our stars of the 70's and 80's weren't ageless at all, even with highly paid for plastic surgery, as shown by the following pictures, here, here, and here.

However even with all these neat bits of wisdom, with age comes confusion as well. The world moves forward at a technological pace equivalent of a (choose one... b ike racer, sprinter, football player, or baseball star) on steroids.

So, as I should be getting more and more wisdom, there are more and more things I don't understand. So I've possibly coined the phrase wisdumb, which seems to show the state I'm almost constantly in. I should be getting smarter and wiser, but I keep seeing more and more things that confuse me. For instance:

I don't get stickers on fruit. Dear Lord, I just spent three minutes poking and prodding my lunchtime plum to pull that sucker off. Now it's stuck to my finger and I'm trying to flick it in the trash. Of course, it's now on the floor and I'm wondering if I should just leave it there, or take more time from my lunch break to unstick it from the floor. Do I really need a sticker to tell me it's a plum? It was in the plum pile for @$#@ sake. Am I going to pick it up and ask, "Hmm, I can't remember what kind of fruit this is? Thank God! There's a sticker! It's a plum!"

I don't get how a group of three people in a car all be talking on cell phones at one time (I actually saw this the other day)? Are they talking to each other? Do they hate each other? Is this the new ménage a trios, and if it was, why wasn't I invited?

I don't understand when a video game copies reality, and within the game I control a player who finds someone playing a video game in that video game, is that person whose playing the video game controling me?

On that note, do we control the video game players, or do they truly control us as we play at 3:00 AM hoping to make the next level and go to bed to get that 3 hours of sleep before work/school starts.

If reality shows mimic the human condition, then I'm beginning to wonder what condition my condition is in.

I don't understand how my wife can talk for 2 hours on the phone with a friend she's going to see that day.

If myspace.com is really your space, but technically it doesn't take up any real space at all, shouldn't it be called mypretendvirtualspacethatno-onereallycaresabout.com?

I don't get how NASCAR vehicles turn to the left all the time, yet their constituents tend to vote to the right.

I don't understand why radio stations are giving away "free money". If they are just giving away money, do I have to pay them back?

I also don't understand why I haven't made a million dollars with the inclusion of my new google ads.

I do understand that the google searches the blog for topics that they can sell and then places relevant advertisements, but last time I checked, my two ads were "Teaching Aids" and surpisingly, "Toilet Parts".

Toilet parts?

Now that's something I understand.

The Modern Man Sells Out!

2006-08-19T21:40:00.000-06:00

It's hard to see your famous people sell out. I mean, The Who sold out to Humvee and others, Bush sold out to big oil, Steppenwolf sold out to another car company, and Jerry Fallwell sold out a long time ago, possibly to Satan himself.

I'm not quite willing to go as far as Jerry, but a little extra cash couldn't hurt. Which means I have to make this blog incredibly popular, get syndicated, and then rehash my old material over and over again, like Dave Barry or Bill Simmons, only with much less talent.

The problem is, my average weekly visits were occasionally in the negative numbers, which means more people are trying to avoid my blog then read it.

Oh, the horror.

However, something miraculous happened after my post, Law and Order: Modern Victims Unit. My site visits went through the roof. I mean, I was getting more hits than Jennifer Aniston at a singles' bar. Usually, my site meter sleeps most of the time, only to be interrupted by an occasional visit from a relative, a friend, or someone I made look at my site in the computer lab at school as I gazed over their shoulder saying, "Isn't that funny? Isn't that funny? Where are you going?"

But now I'm averaging almost 81 visits a day. So I had to find out why. So like Dr. Quincy or CSI, I went searching for the truth, without all that murder getting in the way.

So I examined the reason that people would visit my blog. Was it my scintilating prose touching the hearts of modern men everywhere? I'm pretty sure that can't be the case, since I'm not quite sure what that sentence even means. Was it my funny, whistful, and insightful slice of life reports from an Everyman type connecting emotionally with the masses? Seeing that I spelled wistful incorrectly, I'm pretty sure that can't be it either. Maybe it's the free homebrew I give to people I know who have at least pretended to read it. That might explain some of the hits, but I don't know 81 people.

The answer, it turns out, actually has something to do with a word that rhymes with hex. It's all due to one link to Pamela Anderson that I whimsically placed in one of my blogs. I'm now getting hits from people searching for that picture from all over the world. I've had hits from Chile, Singapore, New Zealand, and for some reason, The White House. The last one, however, may be due to my current bumper sticker, and not the cleavage of a woman who, God bless her, is single handedly trying to resurrect the lives of B level rock and roll men everywhere.

So now I've learned what M.B.A.'s, MTV video directors, and advertising executives all over the world know. Sex sells. Add a few links to good looking semi-stars, and you've got yourself an audience.

So today, I'm selling out, but like all semi-cool sell outs, I want to appear to do it without selling out at all. How to sell out is the biggest question? WWFCSD? (What would former child stars do?) The obvious is getting on television, yet my IQ prevents me from qualifying for a reality show. I'll have to find another, more sneaky way, so I'll try my best to not not sell out.

So, you won't not find any links to Angela Jolie , Elisha Cuthbert, or Number 6 (Tricia Helfer) here. You won't probably not find Salma Hayak or Lindsey Lohan either. You ladies definately won't not see Mathew Mccohohy, Mcconohy, I mean McConaughey, Johnny Depp, or George Clooney if I can possibly not help it.

Let's face it, I'm way to not cool and to moralistic to ever become one with "the man." I'll never truly sell out. You have to have talent to do that. But after looking in the old wallet, it can't hurt to try.

Back to School and the Modern Man

2006-08-07T19:32:00.000-06:00

Did you hear that? It's a sound that started out as a whimper but it building up to the roaring of a freight train screaming through your back yard. A sound is beginning to roar through the atmosphere like rolling thunder, only with a slightly despondent 'waaahh' at the tail end of it.

"What is this sound?" you ask. Many an untrained ear has murmured this as they locked their doors and looked to the heavens for the coming apocalypse.

Is it a jet? A thousand low riders with playing a long mournful bass note a pumpin'? Is it a million Buddhist men chanting?

No, it's much worse.

You need to visualize thousands upon thousands of people yelling, "NOOOOOOOOOOO!" like Darth Vader at the end of Episode III to really get the magnitude of the issue. Teachers in the thousands are screaming out in one long loud wail. Yep, only a couple days left of summer break.

Teachers are mourning their loss of freedom, exactly unlike this country after the passing of the Patriot Act.

Speaking of freedom, thousands more parents are shouting, "Freedom!" like William Wallace did before attacking the Jews in the movie Braveheart and freeing all of Scotland from whatever people are blaming them for now.

These screaming teachers and parents are creating conflicting sounds are creating quite the cacophony, kind of like a Motley Crue concert, only much more melodic.

What about the students, you ask? They're too groggy from sleeping 14 hours and using the rest of their day for bad daytime television and violent video games to really care. Just give them a Red Bull on the first day and send them to school before they realize their summer is gone.

Yes, the S.S. Summer is about to sail. I've got to shave EVERY DAY! I've got to wear a TIE. I've got to WAKE UP before the sun comes up. My God! I actually have to SHOWER!

It's like summer is a wet bar of soap. I feel like I'm trying to grip the bar and am staggering around and around, just barely keeping it from hitting the ground and sliding away for ever. Only I'm realizing I'm no longer outside and having fun, but in a prison, and dropping the soap, well, that's really just a bad, bad, bad idea.

Yes, life moves on. We can kick and scream and complain or we can figure we've got 184 days to make an actual difference in our jobs, unlike about 95% of the other people out their working for a living. I'm looking forward to helping the world be a little better place. So, I'm just glad I got to enjoy myself this summer, spend some quality time with the family, and I know that summer will come again. I'm happy helping the cute (raving), intelligent (hormonal), middle school students move towards successful adult lives.

But excuse me for a moment. Cover your ears. I've got to scream really, really loudly....

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH.

Sinking Like a Stone

2006-07-20T12:13:00.000-06:00

"And cool water
Washes me all over
Washes me away
And still I'm drowning" Joe Jackson

"(I'm) a brick and I'm drowning slowly." Ben Folds Five

"I’m sweating,
And breathing
And staring and thinking
And sinking
Deeper.
It’s almost like I’m swimming." Tool

Swimmers. Can you hear the contempt in my voice? Of course not. I'd worry if you did. For as long as I remember I've avoided swimming. But now, kicking and screaming, I have had to become one. I'm being literal of course. Most of my swimming consists of kicking and screaming when I'm not actually inhaling chlorine filled water.

I've avoided the big plunge forever, but my 39 year old knees decided that the day would be more fun with IT band swelling and general knee pain. I swear that my knees are giggling every time I squat down to play with my kid as the knees snap, crackle, pop and I groan like a 1500 year old Sequoia in the wind, only louder.

"Daddy, your knees sound like breakfast!"
"But son, they feel like ___." I'm never allowed to finish that sentence, as the glance from my wife tells me it's time to change the subject. Ah, if only I could stand back up.

I know swimming is good for you, but I've never really identified with these broad shouldered, muscle encrusted, rubber headed, eye goggled, body shaving, kick flippin', "we're the best exercise" gloating, chlorine breathing, please shower before entering the pool area bas**ds.

Ah, that helped. I feel better already.

Being a runner, biker, rollerblader, and doing any other sport that allows oxygen freely into your lungs, I've always considered swimming only one step away from the treadmill. You start at a wall, go to the next, and come back 'home'. Then you do it all over again. It's like commuting, only less fun and with dirty water left over from the previous hours pre-school swimming program. You know what I'm getting at and I'm sorry.

So there's no scenery, no favorite loops, no dodging cars, and no talking to a friend. Just the goggle distorted site of a black line, lost Band-Aids, water suspended phlegm, the sound of gasping, splashing, and the funky green colored bottom where the lifeguard will probably find me dead since he is too busy talking to the girl sunning herself in a bikini the size of the Sacajawea dollar.

But I'm not bitter. I just can't breath. Plus, I smack my head on the concrete every time I do the backstroke. Dear Michael Phelps, please save me or at least show me where I can find some air.

But I'm attacking the pool like we attacked Iraq, with my WMD being the green water. I liberate a little water from the pool every time I leave. A little in the lungs, a little in the belly, and a lot in the ears. However, unlike Iraq things might be getting a little better.

My last swimming experience was as follows:

So back and forth I go. I'm moving like a large, flailing rock, only less boyant. I've noticed that they've positioned extra female lifeguards for some reason. Maybe they just think I'm cute? It's tough to say with goggles that see the world as clearly as Donald Rumsfeld. Nope, that's a look of worry on their faces. I just took my pulse, and it was 358.. That has to be good. Did my right arm just fall off? Nope, it's just numb. I've just had the head of the local triathlon club offer her coaching expertise as I gasped for breath gripping the side of the pool like a vice. Her introduction was, "I can help you with your form." That can't be a good sign. At the end, I seem to have breathed more air and less water this time around. As I stagger out of the pool, I notice something.

I feel like I've exercised.

As Tool said, "It's almost like I'm swimming." I may have to do this again sometime. Now if I could only get this water out of my ear.

Taking the Dive

2006-07-06T13:16:00.000-06:00

Make no mistake: I'm a soccer fan. This is especially true during World Cup time. Quite honestly, half the fun of being a soccer fan is seeing the glazed over expression your male friends get as you discuss the beauty of a particular set play or bemoan the ref in the USA vs. italy match. However, you press on because these are the same looks your received your whole life as you discussed AD&D in high school (if you don't know, don't ask), Monty Python, Terry Gilliam films, the Bush administration, home brewing, and the Tour de France (before this year's controversy).

Hey, I say press on. If you have to listen to discussions about golf or this years NBA draft, they should have to reciprocate the favor. Preferably while being forced to drink your home brew while watching BRAZIL or The FISHER KING.

But things are getting a little out of hand in the futbol world. There are too many penalties and way, way, too much diving. I mean, I haven't seen this much diving since before Greg Louganis retired. I haven't seen this much flopping since my cross country team did the amazingly illegal Great Naked Winter Night Run of 1988. (Although there would have been more flopping if the weather had been a wee bit warmer.)

To make matters worse, the flopping seems to come from countries that drive many in the US crazy for their silly parlimentary procedure, their attractive and slim women, and their distain for fried food; such as Italy, Spain, France, and Portugal. Ironically, three of these teams made the final four, which shows how @#$#ed up this flopping is becoming.

So to fix this, I've got an idea. First, if a team has more than 10 penalties in a half, someone has to sit out for 2 minutes, like in hockey. Next, if you're dragged off on a stretcher, you're also out for 5 minutes, unless the coach wants to sub for you. Third, if you dive, you're also out for 5 minutes. No more red or yellow cards. Have the guts to make it hurt the offending team on the field. Plus, it would help the "beautiful game" get back to beauty instead of free kicks every thirty seconds. Now add in instant replay on penalty kick calls and you've got an exciting 90 minutes of sport. However, this makes way too much sense, so let's add a little drama to spice it up a little.

If you flop or are taken off the field in a stretcher, you're place in a penalty cage with an enforcer that is picked by the other team. Let's say a retired Mike Tyson, a desperate for cash OJ Simpson, or that crazy ex-soccer player that was in Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels. If you can get past him before your five minutes, you can rejoin the pitch. Think of the ratings as Figo, C. Ronaldo, or Henry are getting pummeled for real behind the goal instead of prancing about the field seconds after appearing to need a trip the ER. Think of the goals scored as they serve their penalties. Think of the TV ratings in the USA.

Think of the royalty checks I'll receive. Now, hopefully these will be the only flops we'll see next time at the World Cup.

Survival of the Modern Man: Three Days Until Summer Break

2006-05-19T13:07:00.000-06:00

Have you noticed your local teachers recently? You can hear them humming a tune, singing along to the Musak at the store, or even, God forbid, smiling for no reason at all?

Have you also seen the fear and panic on parents faces in the same stores?

One man's joy is another man's scream for boredom saving ideas for their pre-teen.

Ahhh. It there must be only three days until summer break. Smell the teen-spirit. Yuck!

Summer is a 'wonderfunly' time. Yes, I know that is 'unproper' English. But after another year of working with middle school kids who feel it is their duty to destroy the English language, run around punching each other, and who feel scientific discovery is finding what foods splat the most colorfully on the concrete when thrown out a second story window, it takes a few weeks to recover and become an articulate, semi-normal functioning member of society.

Me need still time to more recover now.

I don't get paid for summer breaks. Let's make that clear first and foremost. Teachers are only paid for the days they work, but have their checks pro-rated so that they aren't living under bridges in the summer and eating ramen noodles every day.

As a teacher, you feel you've earned summer break, while the rest of society feels you don't:

Let's see...

It's said teachers make 5-10 decisions every five minutes. Now, I know most of them have to do with the bathroom and making Solomon-like decisions over homework excuses, but they are still decisions, none-the-less. That means that I've made 87,840 decisions this year, minimum. That of course, is on top of teaching, dealing with good parents, bad parents, kid horrible and triumphant back stories, kid failures, and kid successes that make you both question and celebrate the very humanity that we are all a part of. Plus, google 'teachers suck' and find 3.8 million hits. Type "teachers are awesome!"and you’ll get 2 hits, both written by lonely teachers. No stress here.

All of this decision-making may be why I often stare blankly into the fridge late in the evening. My wife will ask me what I'm getting and I suddenly break down crying, "I just can't decide anymore!"

I know, a little too much information.

That's when she closes the refrigerator, opens the cabinet, and pours me a glass of the hard stuff. Yep, herbal tea is helps sooth, calm, delicious, and prevents one from becoming a raging alcoholic.

Smart woman, my wife.

So, let's just say I don't have any summer vacation guilt, or an herbal tea problem, as far as I know.

So if you're going to survive this craziness that is the last few days, remember the following:

Your control of the classroom is now hanging by a string. Live with it:

First, you know, the students know, and the parents know that there is nothing left to do. It's just killing time from here on out. This may be the only time of year when you ask a student to do something and when they chirp back like they always do with a, "Why?" you really have no legitimate reason. From what I've seen lately, the answer is usually, "Because this video is interesting," or "Because kickball is fun and exercise is good for you." It's time to throw away the lesson plans and just enjoy the circus or your head will explode.

There are more hormones flowing than at a NFL weight-lifting session (but these are legal):

Be careful. You may actually need to wipe yourself down with a towel after walking through the hallways because you're swimming in a sea of teen and pre-teen hormones that rage like a hurricane on the coast, only it's slightly more damp. See the grabbing over there? See the hugging over here? Carry a pry bar to pull the kids apart, love is in the air. Remember, teenage and pre-teenage love is natural. It's just not legal.

It's graduation time!

The kids in the high schools are getting their graduation gifts, which tend to be automobiles that you, as a teacher, could never afford. Remember, don't be bitter. However, it helps by making a slow leak in the student's tires for emotional fulfillment in these situations. You can't be too smug with a flat tire on your new Cobra.

Sing:

Hey, in three days, I'm gonna be singing "No more teachers, no more books!" with the kids as we run giddily out of the building. Just admit it, it's a catchy tune.

I didn't expect to see you here:

An added bonus is that we all get to look forward to the uncomfortable feeling as student and teacher meet accidentally in various stores and amusement areas over the summer. Discomfort you can actually cut with a knife!

Yep, as a teacher life is good if you can just survive the next few days.

I just have to make sure I clean my school towel before I hit the beach.

The Modern Man and Boring Sports Sorts Part II

2006-05-03T21:36:00.000-06:00

I know that you my loyal reader, hang on every word. I mean this literally, as someone hung (hanged just never seems correct to me) themselves after reading this this blog just the other week. So here is the link to PART I, just in case you missed it. You also might want to click here for a stunning example of free speech at our nation's capitol.

2) The Pitching Change

One of the reason's we were raised on AL baseball (which allowed us to hate the Yankees) is that there are fewer pitching changes. However, just last night, the Yankees changed their pitcher 3 times in 4 batter. Donald Trump doesn't change wives that often.

Now, the pitchers get warm-up time in the pen and then more pitches on the mound. There are about 10 minutes of commercials and I swear that they hire people to wake the crowd up from their warm-up induced beer stupor at the games.

The following is a completely true falsification of a conversation with my wife who came down to say high during a baseball game, but there was another pitching change:

Wife: What are you watching?
Me: I can't remember.
Wife: Can you clean the garage.
Me: Sure. I can't think of a reason why not.

How wrong is that? This is dangerous stuff I'm talking about man.

Solution: Let's go with softball on this. Three pitches for warm up and PLAY BALL! If you can do that, your team can drink on the field. We'll call this the David Well's rule.

3) The free throw

I know, you get excited when your team gets fouled, but it completely halts to flow of the game. It also gives them an excuse to do a TV time-out. Plus, they always do a close-up face shot of the guy shooting, and quite honestly, I don't need to see the sweat, zits, and phlegm on Chris Kaman in HD. Really, I don't.

Solution:

How about playing an ancient guessing game of skill and luck, using the cheerleaders and the dancers? We could call it:

"Thong, briefs, or nothing!"

The fouled guesses the correct underwear type of a random cheerleader/dancer pulled from the group, your team gets 2 points and the ball out. If you get it wrong, you just get the ball out. You could throw in guessing the color in the second half. Not only would it be more entertaining, but it would be a huge boost to the ratings.

4) Golf

John: "Bob, we're waiting for Sergio Garcia to hit the ball. We'll be back in five minutes."
Bob: "Thanks John! Tiger is lining up his put, we'll be back in ten minutes."
Jim: "Tigers last shot reminded me of a similar shot made by Johnny Miller in the 1972 Hooter's Invitational. However, that shot was interesting because the ball got lodged in the bellybutton of an overweight ex- gymnast and Johnny made his next shot standing on a lawn chair, while smoking a Camel, drinking a Crown Royal and dog-gone it, put it two feet from the hole. He popped that sucker right out of that enormously fat navel with a seven wood, I believe."
Bob: "Really Jim? That's amazing!"
Jim: "No Bob. I'm just so bored. So bored."

Solution: The Flake and on the Lake Invitational
Each golfer is given a set of clubs randomly put together from garage sales and Goodwill sets. There could be real wood-woods. There could be left handed clubs. There could be clubs so old that they are endorsed by golfers who are actually dead. Plus, they will be forced to use only balls that have been sold by a kid who found them in the lake.
Plus: Two hour time limit. Sorry, John Daly. running will be required.

Solution 2: NASCAR GOLF: Players must drink one beer at everyone other hole. Betting is mandatory. Smoking prefered. Swearing is required. Hey, John Daly needs a chance, too.

So there you go. Let's take the BORING out of sports! Or else, people will only Tivo sports from now on. With Tivo, I can watch an entire football game in one hour. However, that does mean I'm free to clean the garage. Hmm. I wonder if this Paint Ball World Championship is boring?

Oh my gosh, yes. I may have some ideas to help...

The Modern Man and Boring Sports Sorts

2006-05-03T20:51:00.000-06:00

As a modern man, you believe sports were invented a few thousand years ago when the caveman walked with the dinosaurs. Sports were a great invention because they allowed men to interact and talk to each other in socially acceptable ways and stop whacking each other over the head with clubs. Can you imagine a conversation with a man now days without sports?

“How are you doing John?”
“Great! How about you?"
"Fine!"

Now three hours of uncomfortable silence as they watch the bugs fly by.

In fact, some believe sports was invented by women as an experiment to stop men from all the whacking that was going on (insert your joke here), but it was an experiment that went horribly wrong. It did prevent men from much of the violence they were doing to each other, but caused untold and unexpected emotional damage. After all, sports has caused huge amounts of damage to once loving relationships, torn apart family life, and emotionally scarred thousands of Detroit Lions fans.

Aren't sports great?

Sports are supposed to be entertaining, but I'm finding that in my old age, sports is getting more and more boring. So I've created my top 4 most boring experiences in sports as a warning to all. I'm not sure what the warning is, but I want to make sure that you're warned. I just don't know why.

1) The television time-out, injury time-outs, and time-outs in general.

If there is one aspect of sports that can kill an emotional high quicker than a meeting with your boss, it's the TV time-out. This has to be a reason I'm getting less interested in football and basketball and more interested in interacting with my family. Here's the actual play by play from an actual, fictional, game:

Football:
"Welcome back from the commercial break! Here's the kick off. (Five seconds of action). He's taken down at the 22. We'll be right back after these 30 commercials!"

Problem: Football has become:

kickoff-commercial-three and out, punt-commercial-injury-commercial.

Solution: Since football players need the money, we can still have commercials, but during the action by using a simple microphone.

Mike the QB: "Five! Thirty-two! Drink! Budweiser! Budweiser! King! Of! Beers! Hike!"

Mike the LB: "I'm going to rip out your AFLACing lungs, Jake Plummer!"

Basketball and time-outs:

"Whoa! You just missed it during the commercial break. What a great play! He jumped in the air and called time out! We'll be back in 20 minutes with the next five seconds of the game, when another exciting time-out will be called."

Solution: Seriously. How many time-outs do they get on top of scheduled time-outs? The last two minutes of any game takes at least 45 minutes!

New rule. Twenty second time-outs only, last five minutes. You get one.

Or at least make the breaks interesting:

"After this commercial break, we will have the results of Kobe Bryant's paternity test!"

Otherwise, I don't have time for this.

Hockey: one time out.
Soccer: None.

Part II: The Pitching change, coming soon....

Tears and the Modern Man

2006-04-12T15:38:00.000-06:00

"My eyes are leaking!" my young boy once said as he lay in bed crying.

My wife and I emotionally witnessed this tragic but comical expression one day, but suddenly I found myself turning away from my wife to hide the little welling of something that was suddenly coming from my eyes.

As I attempted to stare out the window and regain my composure, I thought of the emotions involved with a young child like that, reminding me of my own childhood and its bittersweet memories . . . bittersweet memories?

This of course, begs the question:

What the @#$# is happening to me?

Of course, you expect a budding young toddler to cry and cry often, but something has been happening to me lately that has been more insidious than a Bush press release, more worrying than gas prices, and more embarrassing than noticing your fly has been open for God knows how long and to make matters worse, you're not wearing underwear.

I'm of course, talking about a grown man tearing up at the most interesting moments. Before having a kid and getting married I was a tough manly individual. But now I'm Dick Vermeil with an onion neckless. Where is this coming from? As a good history major, I know that before looking at the present, we must look at the past.

The end of ET? No problem.

The Shuttle Disaster I: Solid as a rock.

Lions losing the NFC championship? No big deal!

U.S. Hockey Victory over the USSR: Just good, solid, excitement.

Being turned down for the senior prom. I'll get over it. Really, I will.

But now, any little thing starts to set me off and I have no way to stop it.

Olympic hockey repeat of beating the Russians:

"Do you believe in tearing up? Yes!"

The endings of Field of Dreams, Forest Gump, Saving Private Ryan (beginning and end), Billy Elliot, Glory, any movie with a boy and a dog who dies, etc.:

My eyes? Literally, a river runs though it.

Certain Mark Knopfler guitar solos under certain conditions.

H-eye humidity.

9/11 Homages:

Just give me the @$#ing box of tissue now.

I don't get it. Was it 9/11, the birth of my kid, a decrease in eye muscle control brought on my old age (that's the one I'm sticking to), or just wussiness brought on by watching too many modern men like Alan Alda and Johnny Depp?

Was it Clint Eastwood sobbing during Million Dollar Baby? Was it a permanently lodged piece of fiberglass insulation in my eye? Or how about a plucked nose hair?

Yeah, that's the ticket.

There's no crying in male middle age!

Now, the next time my wife is out of town, I'm going to retrain myself. I'm going to watch Brian's Song, Fried Green Tomatoes, Rudy, Whale Rider, and any other tear jerker that I can find until I can retrain my male senses back to a normal Neanderthal, like their supposed to be. Maybe I should also go out and shoot a small animal and eat it.

But first, I see that Old Yeller is on television.

Oh, boy. I can do this.

Now where did I put the tissues?

Hot Talk and the Modern Man

2006-04-07T08:33:00.000-06:00

The biggest fashion in teaching now is for curriculum makers and textbook writers (these people must be a fun lot, but that's for another post) to write a script that you, the teacher, are supposed to read from and not deviate in any way if you want to 'maximize teachability.' (Or some other made-up word your principal fell for after his three margarita lunch at a conference.) This prevents the teacher from actually getting involved in any discussions that may lead to controversy, such discussions on science, reading, or history.

However, these scripts assume your students will answer the questions like the writer of the script intended and also assume that they'll actually care about what you're supposed to be teaching them.

So for instance, if the script says to ask, "How does this make you feel?" and one kid blurts out "horny" when the book provided answer was supposed to be "Sad and lonely", it can really throw the class for a loop. A less talented teacher might decide it was time to do an easier, less stressful job, like say, being an air traffic controller.

This is from an actual script in an anti-bullying class I have to teach. (Remember, you're not allowed to bully in school, but you are expected and praised if you do as an an adult, as in here, here, or here.) The bold is what the teacher is supposed to say. Remember, not to deviate, or you could lose your job.

-What was Janelle's "hot talk". (Book Answer: I can't believe it! She stole my jacket!)

KID'S ANSWER: Isn't that something on those 900 number advertisements on television?

Of course yelling at the student could get you arrested, giving them detention will bring the wrath of the parents, and notifiying the principal means you don't have good classroom management, so being a good teacher, you press on. . .

TITLE: The Fire Within (Now as a teacher, you're not supposed to laugh at these things, even if it sounds like a made for Cinemax movie.)
Think of seeing the jacket as a match that lights a fire. The fire is fueled and burns hotter when Janelle "hot talks" to herself (KID: I thought you were supposed to talk hot to your girlfriend). You ignore and continue . . .As the fire burns, Janelle has bodily sensations . . . (class is now laughing uncontrollably and you, being the professional you are and against all odds, skip the rest of the lesson and head to the nearest bar. You can't even get to the part about her anger being misguided, since her friend had bought the same exact jacket.))

No, actually you finish the rest of the lesson bravely and professionally, only to find the term HOT TALK is being used comically in the hallway for the rest of the week.

Fires burning? Hot talk? Bodily Sensations? Just what our hyper-hormonal students need! Luckily, I'm a mature adult, and can't be affected by such talk. Now excuse me, I have to see if my phone allows 900 calls.

(DISCLAIMER: The script was real, the answers expected, real, the kids' answers were hypothetical and so was the principal (who is a mix of the many I've had), just in case mine is reading this as we speak.)

Ask Mr. Teacher Man!

2006-03-10T08:42:00.000-07:00

Today is an exciting day, as Tales of a Modern Man presents, "Ask Mr. Teacher Man!" Seeing that today's teacher is technically supposed to be the repository of human knowledge since the beginning of history, it seems unfair that once you graduate, you no longer have access to this incredible well of wisdom. So I've taken real questions from actual, breathing, fictitious people, and will share my wealth of information with you, my one and only reader. Why Mr. Teacher Man? Mostly, because that is what many of my Spanish only speaking students would call me (or Mr. Profesor Man).

Dear Mr. Teacher Man: What is a Huguenot?

The Huguenot is an important knot for sailing. In fact, Christopher Columbus, who led the Pilgrims to the new world, states that the improved technology for the knots in sailing (way back in 1776) led to his discovery of Hudson Bay. Rumor has it his favorites were the sailor's knot, the double bowline knot, and the Hugoknot, which allowed him to keep a mutiny starting Hugo Franchelli tied to the mast and prevented the sailors from turning the boat around and heading back to Columbus's district, which has now been renamed, The District of Columbia.

Dear Mr. Teacher Man: I'm a high school student and wondered if I can find a college where I can improve my video game skills?

I would say your best bet is the presigious Com Mu Nity College. They have a great dorm area called "Mom's Basement." From what I hear, HALO skills, which sound vaguely angelic, transfer well to religious schools everywhere.

Dear Mr. Teacher Man: One day at happy hour, my wife and I made a celebrity list of people who we'd be allowed to sleep with if we met them. Well, I've met one of the people on my list and Jennifer is all over me like a duck on a junebug. What is the proper course of action here?

America's Declaration stated that as American's we wanted to have "Life, Liberty, and the Persuit of Happiness." Your wife gave you the liberty to pursue this happiness. However, I would probably bet if you follow through on this situation, it might force her to end your life.

However, if it's one of the three Jennifers I'm thinking of right now, there would be only one real question to answer:

Would it be worth it?

Hope this helps. Mr Teacher Man, signing off.

Law and Order: Modern Victim's Unit

2006-03-09T10:53:00.000-07:00

My wife is addicted to Law and Order. I'm not sure whether this is because it is a good show, or because it has taken its place above WINGS as the show that is on television any time you turn the television on. Does being popular make it good? Budweiser is drunk by close to 50% of our nation, but it doesn't make it a good beer? Bush was elected by over 50% of the population, no, wait, yes, he was the second time. Does that make him a good president? Pamela Anderson has been "seen" by a majority of Americans. Does that make her a good girl?

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. I hope not.

Oops. Did I type that out loud?

I have to admit, I occasionally watch the show, so here it is. Me being the LAW and finding something that should be illegal in our society, but then me being the ORDER as well, wreaking havoc with my fair, but probably pretty outlandish sentences for the guilty's transgressions.

Of course, this is only my opinion.

Please take a second to post what you think the appropriate punishment should be.

So I'll occasionally post these things as they happen to see what type of judge you are.

LAW: Loud Motorcycles, Usually Harley Davidson

The other day my wife and I were getting passed by a group, or possibly violent gang, of leather clad, boomer aged, men and women riding Harley Davidson’s. As I shouted unsuccessfully to my wife over the space shuttle-like roar of their engines, I noticed something that may have actually caused a small part of my brain to crawl out of my head and jump out of the car as it realized there really wasn't any reason to go on anymore.

Why was this?

Every person riding was wearing earplugs.

ORDER:

SOOOOO. IF something you own is too loud for you to handle the old fashion way, I sentence you to...

Sentence 1: Thou shall be forced to ride your Harley naked for 24 straight hours, in 100 degree weather, wearing nothing but a steel World War II style helmet.

Sentence 2: Thou shall be forced to listen to the extended version of Steppenwolf's "BORN TO BE WILD" turned up to ELEVEN on repeat, with headphones, until my hearing recovers from the last time a group of Harley riders passed my vehicle, or until your ears bleed, whichever comes first.

The doctor says my recovery could take years.

The Modern Boy and the Public School Restroom Part II

2006-02-15T13:30:00.000-07:00

I have to say that the comments I got about the last post were very good, although I had one relative tell me the ladies room was just as bad. Hey, I just always thought they looked something like this, but with perfume dispensers and lockable stalls.

The public school restroom, though, is a totally different situation. I can totally understand Finch's phobia and total avoidance of using the high school's bathroom in American Pie. He was just rightfully concerned about the cleanliness of a room which is on the final "get to if necessary" checklist of the school janitor.

For myself, and many other modern men, cleanliness wasn't the major problem with the school bathroom Although I don't remember soap every being provided in any of my school bathrooms. That may be because some idiot ripped the dispensers off the wall, or it was considered an expendible budget item after years of educational cutbacks.

The real issue of the public school bathroom wasnt' that your friend Mark always tried to hit the urinal from ten paces (and I don't mean "Hit" as in striking with a blow). It wasn't that the high school bathroom was actually full of long haired kids who were really smoking in the boys room. It wasn't even that you began to wonder where the bathroom pass you were carrying might have been placed by the hundreds of students before you who had carried before you. After all, it always seemed to be a little moist. It wasn't the off chance one of the school bullies would show up at the same time you did and attempt to see if you could be flushed down the toilet. No, it wasn't even the urinal 'cake' that someone creative had placed in the only working sink.

It was the stalls, or let's say, lack there of. At my high school, most of the bathrooms had no doors on the stalls. The urinals were of course, on the far side of the stalls, so you usually ended up getting the uncomfortable "How you doin' " as the next ten people walked through the door and tried not to make eye contact as they passed by. How do you answer that question with your pants around your ankles? Is there any dignified way? On the positive side, at least there was good reading material on the walls.

The locker room was worse. It was the most pristine bathroom I had ever seen. Clean floors, sparkling white toilets, and not a stall or wall to be found. Plus, there was no door entering the room, so if you had to "do the 2" you knew that the entire football team would be walking by on the way to or from their lockers. When they wave, was I supposed to wave back? Is this supposed to help in bonding? Who planned this? I'm begging somebody to tell me. Do I need serious counseling? Good Lord, am I sweating as I even recall this?

Thank God the modern man can drink beer.

My wife seemed to think that I was adding a little truthiness to my stories to gain sympathy for my childhood. Then one day, we were in a middle school for a conference when it happened. I walked into the boys bathroom, fully confident that bathroom technology has changed so much in the past 20 years there would be no worries. I walked to the only stall in the room and may have screamed like a girl.

There was no door on the stall.

Needless to say, after pulling my wife into the bathroom to show her proof of my previous rantings she finally acquiesced and agrees I'm not crazy.

Although I may have heard her mumble the word "truthiness" after she told me that.

The Modern Man and the Public Restroom Part 1

2006-02-07T15:58:00.000-07:00

Every now and then something so important needs to be discussed, that uncomfortable and embarassing subject matter must be talked about frankly, scientifically, and professionally (Like your middle school sex-ed classes!).

This is not one of those times.

Recently, as I walked about a local shopping establishment, my body began to cry out that the diet Mountain Dew I had imbibed earlier wanted to return to the mountains immediately. I won't discuss the Power Bar.

I had a tough decision to make.

Do I ignore the call of nature, which at this point was starting to become more of a scream than a gentle cry, and hope I make it home before serious internal damage is done?

Or do I simply use the public restroom with the ubiquitous MEN'S sign and save myself possible future surgery in an area not meant for surgery at all? (Although I thought this sign was more appropriate) I mean, how bad can it be?

It sounds like an easy choice, especially if you happen to be one of the two ladies that actually read this column.

But it really isn't. It can be a choice that can redefine your mood, health, and belief in the overall goodness of the human race.

I of course, am talking about the life-altering experience of entering a public men's' room.

If a woman ever wants to be elected president, all she has to do is show a picture of a typically knarly men's public restroom and she'd be a lock. How can men run a country when they can't even keep a bathroom clean?

The amazing thing is how little women know about the men's' room. It's kind of like Elaine's surprise during Seinfield's "Shrinkage" show, but with slipperly floors. It's like the "I don't have a square to spare," show except with see-through toilet paper, a possible ax-murderer in the stall next to you, and graffiti that would make Eminem blush.

There seem to be three different types of men's public bathrooms to fear. These would be the basic store restroom (including gas stations and rest areas), the sporting event restroom, the public school restroom, and the port-o-potty. Four, four types of restrooms. (That's for Monty Python fans.)

Now I'm just talking about the public "store" restroom. As soon as you enter, you can feel the despair. That is, if the forbidding smell doesn't kill you outright. Dozens of normal modern men have entered before you only to find 1 of the 4 stalls empty, and I'm not talking about empty being "free of another human being." The one "clean" stall has a toilet seat with dubious backsplash marks on it since men can only leave the toilet seat up in their own homes.

As an aside, if you're a man and don't know about backsplash, use a typical urinal while wearing shorts.

If you're lucky, the stall door will actually function and maybe even lock, but more than likely you'll probably have to deal with that hole where the lock used to be which a ten year old always looks through to see if anyone is in the stall. Of course, the stall has no toilet seat protectors available, which is okay since you wonder how something manufactured out of paper that could be thinner than a row of molecules could actually protect you from anything. Seriously, if the manufacturers of public rest room toilet paper and seat protectors got together with scientists, we'd finally be able to miniaturize all those things like in the science fiction movies.

"Hey look John! A microscopic submarine! How did they do it?"
"Well, Biff, it's all due to our friends in the toilet paper industry!"

Now you notice that there is a liquid on the floor that could be from the janitor, it could be from condensation on the toilets, or, it could be something else. Whatever it is, it is now coating the bottom of your shoe. You try to hang your coat, but there's no hook. The urinals haven't been flushed in what appears to be days and you seem to be getting dizzy from that strange breathing shallowly out of the mouth thing you do whenever you enter a public restroom. Plus, you're doing that strange "hold the door closed with one foot thing" because the lock was broken and a man muttering Bible quotes has entered the facility.

"Pop quiz hot shot!" "What do you do? What do you do?" (Click here for the movie quote that came from)
a) Do the levitating toilet bit. (If you're a guy, you know what I'm talking about, although it's tough if your doing the hold the door closed thing.)
b) Try to expose your skin to as little of the seat as possible.
c) Just do what you do. If it doesn't kill you, it will make you stronger.
d) Run outside screaming and hope for the best.
e) Use the women's room. They're always clean.

Seriously, who are these guys? Who does this to a place that at home you probably spend most of your quality time in? Does this same phenomenon happen on the space station? Is this a reason to lose faith in mankind?

Whatever it is, I think maybe we just need one of these to make the world a better place.

Current Events and the Modern Man

2006-01-17T17:55:00.000-07:00

As a modern man, you keep well informed of the world around us. With the internet, we have an unlimited amount of news at our fingertips that we can read if we can only find time between our online Texas Hold 'em games and our unfettered access to the Victoria's Secret website.

With that in mind, and literally minutes of hard, cold research, here's some interesting and timely news with insightful commentary that will help educate you, the modern man. (I know you haven't read a word now that you've clicked on the Victoria's Secret link, but hey maybe this lovely lady will help snap you out of it!)

It has been found that a television in the bedroom cuts sex in half for most adults. Logically speaking, that means that by removing the television, your sex life should double. In a stirring development, millions of modern men around the world have moved their televisions out of the bedroom only to learn after wild scribbling and the application of third grade math the following heart crushing fact: Doubling ZERO still leaves you with ZERO.

That sound you hear is the scraping of furniture as millions of televisions are moved back into the bedroom.

On the bright side, since this study was done in Italy, it was found that thousands of fires were prevented by the television's effect of lowering sexual encounters since it cut down on the friction caused by hairy Italian legs scraping against each other in heated passion.

In related news, the The Refuge, a site for converting homosexuals from their supposed sexual addiction, is now fundraising for plasma televisions to be placed in the rooms of all their clients. Of course, Cinemax will be provided free of charge.

In other news, a new invention has perfected a way to remove the odor from hog manure. Within hours, the invention was placed within the White House and in the halls of Congress. It was found the political stench in Washington is just too strong for an apparatus meant only to function on millions of pounds of hog@#it every day. The invention is now petitioning OSHA for cruel and unusual working conditions.

And finally, news so true that you'd think God would be ready to press the big red button after seeing:
William Shatner has agreed to donate his kidney stone to goldenpalace.com and let the proceeds go to charity. I really have nothing funny to write. The headlines speak for themselves. I guess this is just another Hollywood 'passing' fancy.

Sorry, I couldn’t help it. But as Bob Dylan once said to modern men everywhere, "Everybody must get stoned."

Birthdays and the Modern Man

2006-01-09T14:52:00.000-07:00

"Rudy's on a train to nowhere, halfway down the line." Supertramp

I woke up to this lovely metaphor at about 3 AM the other day struggling with my own mortality creeping up behind me, slavering and slobbering over my shoulder while I picked up the ringing phone:

"Hello?"
"Hello! This is Death; we'd like your body back."

This can only mean one thing: It's almost my birthday.

Birthdays.

The very idea brings up memories. You remember as a child the taste of chocolate cake and vanilla ice cream, the wonderful presents, and giggling friends running about the house with a measurable 90:10 sugar to blood ratio running through their veins. Whether it was your birthday, or you were a guest, you’d have a great time. Your stomach may have felt sick from your 100 percent glucose diet, but it was worth it.

You can even look back at the fun you had in high school with your friends messing around, talking about hot girls, Miami Vice, and you’d be running about the house with a measurable 90:10 sugar to blood ratio running through your veins. Whether it was your birthday or you were a guest, you’d have a great time. Your stomach may have felt sick from your 100 percent glucose diet, but it was worth it.

Ah, but let’s not forget about the early 20’s. You and your buddies hitting the bars, drinking shots, arguing about politics, laughing about Seinfeld, complaining about Astroturf, and being part of an unstoppable ratchet effect as the women got more attractive as the night went on. You might even be involved in the frightening ritual of uncoordinated white dancing followed by the eye goggling gyrations of something called an “exotic dancer.” Of course, you had a measurable 90:10 tequila to beer ratio running through your veins and it all sounded like a good idea at the time, although you're pretty sure a few friends ended up tied up in crate on a boat heading to South America. Whether you were a guest or it was your birthday, you’d think you may have a good time if you could only get your head to stop hurting. Your stomach might have returned everything you put into it at around 3:00 A.M., but with all the fun you had, it was well worth it. Plus, how often do you get to snuggle with the toilet at night?

However, as a modern man of a certain age, birthday fun is definitely not as quantifiable as it used to be. I mean, how much fun can a person have without the stylish and ridiculous Miami Vice and Seinfeld plots to keep you entertained? Plus, all your friends are now doing wheat grass shots, drinking caffeine free, fat free, flavor free double lattes and arguing about the merits of such wonderful products as Soy and Quinoa, which I have been told are healthy food products, but could be the names of new, hip, bands. This sort of talk really puts a damper on the fun. Plus, your friends won’t touch the beer because they’re on the South Beach Diet and someone actually brought a wheat free low calorie chocolate cake with natural soy frosting. To make matters worse the only exotic dancing you see is when your friend chipped his tooth on a piece of uncooked quinoa and his constant screaming in pain and running willy nilly about the house is making it difficult to find where to put the dollar bill. In addition, no matter how much you try to keep up with the new music as you listen to alternative radio, you wonder why you get strange urges to crank up Van Halen, Yes or Styx on your IPOD whenever you get a chance, especially at work.

Your students ask who you're listening to then wonder if Van Halen, Yes and Styx are some type of health food, and have no idea that they are really rocking bands.

If you're a modern man and it's your birthday, you have to endure the relentless procession of ‘old man’ birthday cards with the usual running jokes about missing teeth, adult diapers, and Viagra. Let’s not forget the various gag gifts and the fact that you have a huge project due the day after your birthday, so you can forget about even going home early to celebrate with your family.

Plus, a young child at work just walked by, looked sweetly at you, and then asked his mother, "Who is that old man?"

I'm beginning to wonder if they should just change the whole birthday thing to, "Death is just around the corner Reminder Day." I guess that would put a crimp on the whole nature of the day and kill our greeting card industry, so it's probably not a good idea. (Although killing the greeting card industry has a certain primordial fascination you'd probably agree with).

However, as a modern man I'm not going to let this day become anything but a good one, @#$# it. I'm going to enjoy the early morning call from my mother reminding me that I put her through something like 325 hours of labor. I'm going to laugh at the goofy birthday cards, be jovial at the repeated digs I get about my age from friends and family, and I'm going to eat fully sugared chocolate cake and drink a carbonated alcoholic beverage. I will also continue my tradition of running a short distance outside in what I was born in, if you know what I'm saying. If you do, you now probably have an image you really didn't need in your head and I apologize in advance. Hopefully I won't get arrested and it won't be below zero like it was last year.

Ring, ring (pick up phone):
"Yeah, death, I'm not quite done with this body yet. Yeah, I blame that on the cold weather. You've never heard of shrinkage????"

Your Top Five New Year's Resolutions

2006-01-03T14:08:00.000-07:00

Seeing that my attempt at finding fame and fortune through a quaint, cuddly, self-help approach failed, I figured I'd have to try another tact (Click here for that fiasco.) In this case I'm focusing on how you, my loyal reader (and I mean that as a singular noun) can help make my life better through resolutions that will not only help you, but more importantly, help me enjoy life more. Taking my cue from President Bush, I am going to refuse to admit I've ever made a mistake and keep the course for this year. I have written these wonderful resolutions in the first person, using I, but of course I mean you.

Resolution 1: This year I resolve not to pay for anything in any store with a check.

Checks are sooooo 1980's and I don't want to wait behind you in line as you search for your checkbook after everything is bagged and set into your shopping cart.
This is an example of my last check writing experience at a store.

Woman: How much was that again?
Cashier: 120$
Woman: Let me get my check book. (fiddles around purse and and finds it stuck to used tissues.)
Me: (vein in head is starting to throb as the line behind is getting longer and longer)
Woman: Do you have a pen I can use?
Cashier: Sure.
Woman: (Writes the amount in her check register before starting to write the check.)
Me: (Screaming noises similar to those on Pink Floyd's Wall album are starting in my brain.)
Woman: Can I write for over the amount? (Line is now somewhere out to Nebraska, only less friendly. My head may be looking like when Agent Smith in the Matrix exploded, or maybe when those guys heads melted in Raiders of the Lost Ark.)
Cashier: Did you hear some strange screaming noise?
Me: (Brain explodes)

Plus, a man can only take so much "Musack", so get yourself a @#$# check card and help us all!

Resolution 2: I will resolve not to complain about my weight if I don't exercise.

Resolution 3: I will resolve to not allow my dog to bark in the backyard all day, all morning, or all night. In fact, if he is barking, I will let him in and allow the neighbors to avoid being forced to buy stock in Advil.

If I fail, I will allow my neighbors to wake me up whenever I decide to sleep and allow them to wake up any sleeping infants or toddlers I have to remind my of my evil ways.

Resolution 4: I resolve that after pulling out of the garage, the first thing I will do is drive, and not immediately dial someone on my cell phone.

Seriously, everyone in our neighborhood does this. Nobody waves to anyone in the neighborhood as they drive because they have one hand on the cell phone and the other hand on their drink. I'm more scared walking through my neighborhood because I'm afraid someone is going to drive right over me and not even notice. I enjoyed this highly visual example of this phenomenon.

Resolution 5a: I resolve never to use a hands free cell phone set in public and talk loudly on it.

This is starting to get frightening. I'm beginning to wonder if people are talking to me, at me, or to someone else. Maybe the person is actually crazy and really talking to their invisible friend, but just puts an earplug in to make it look like they're on the phone. The last time this happened a slightly disheveled woman was behind me in line and I hear very loudly:

"He's an idiot! I'm telling you an idiot!"

I look back to see if this is directed at me. I see the headphone thing stuck in her ear and nod while she continues to talk about her ex-husband in front of everyone at the local Safeway. Then the person looks pissed at me like I'm interrupting a private conversation. I look back like with my best "What's the problem look" and then she turns around and continues the conversation twice as loud as if turning her back to me is going to prevent me from hearing about how she's screwing him for child support.

Now I'm visualizing how the celery in my hands would look crammed down her throat. I'm not a violent person, but I think the fine for this should be this high tech device.

Resolution 5b: I will not use my cell phone in a theater, restaurant, or other public place without getting up and leaving the premises.

We went to a movie with friends once who got a call from their baby sitter and then proceeded to talk for 5 minutes without getting up and leaving for the lobby. Have you ever eaten with a bunch of friends and were having a perfectly good conversation, when someone up and answers their cell phone in the middle of it and instead of saying they'll call back, keeps talking for 10 minutes? It kind of kills the buzz, you know? How about the uncomfortable situation at work when in the middle of a meeting someone's cell phone rings and then everyone has to wait until they're done talking to continue whatever mind-killing thing that was going on at the meeting?

I'm not saying these people are evil, but that they should be prepared to eat their cell phone the next time they do this.

So, these are good New Year's resolutions that will help my life be a less stressful endeavor. Please follow them. You never know if I'm carrying a bunch of celery.

My Endless Puberty: A Modern Man's Horror Story

2005-12-06T13:37:00.000-07:00

Lionel Richie had "My Endless Love." Surfers had there "Endless Summer" Billy Idol had his "Endless Sleep."

Why have I been cursed with My Endless Puberty?

I'm sure we all remember those awkward days of growing up. The funny voices, the zits that appeared before major social engagements, your voice cracking in front of the girl you had a crush on, and falling down the stairs because your legs literally grew overnight.

Of course, let's not forget about those awkward moments in the locker room where certain young gentlemen who were popular with the ladies looked a little more manly in some areas than the rest of us. If I'd only known that most of these guys would be bald and divorced before 30, it would have helped with my awkward puberty years.

Ahh. The memories. The horrible, horrible, middle school memories.

Unfortunately, you're given hope. Your parents and teachers tell you it's only temporary. You'll soon grow out of it and those awkward days of puberty will be replaced by a virtual nirvana of life experiences.

Dirty, rotten, stinkin' liars!

I have now learned that this is a lie of epic proportions on the level of such deceptions as the Tooth Fairy, Santa, and an actual plan for the war in Iraq.

I still get the occasional zit, but that's not the half of it.

I looked in the mirror a morning about a year ago and was more aghast at what I saw then normal. There were hairs coming out of my earlobes. There were hair sightings in my ears as well. My eyebrow hairs were all pointing in the wrong direction and a few were trying to unite one eyebrow with the other. Plus, there seemed to be way too many for my forehead to handle. On top of that, there was a maverick eyebrow hair growing a quarter inch above my actual eyebrow. And good Lord, my nose hair. Where the @#$@#!% is it trying to go?

This hair seems to be falling off my head and then reappearing in other areas of my body. Matter cannot be created or destroyed, as is learned in the conservation of matter theory. Maybe we need a conservation of hair theory as well. I think this may have been started already if you click here.

But moving on...

After a good period of shouting, swearing, cursing, and crying these were all painfully plucked.

And then there was the epiphany while shaving . . . For the love of what used to be on top of my head, I have hairs coming out of my cheeks. Yea, I think there is some sort of upward-northern migration of beard hair that is being called by some silent plea for unification from my usurping eyebrows. I'm actually shaving my cheeks, and am worried that the migration will go straight through my eyes instead of over my nose.

I'm beginning to remember those old guys I'd see occasionally during my travels. You know, the ones who had a bush growing out of their nose or ears, or had eyebrows the size of small rodents. "Hey, old guy," you'd snigger, "you let those eyebrows run the wheel at night?"

Now it's obvious to me that those three years where my body didn't really change much at all in my mid-twenties were a cruel break that brought unrealistic happiness and bliss. And now there is a big fear that I'll be over run like the buffet at a fat farm and I won't be able to hold it back.

And as I watch the white flakes fall outside my window on this cold and blustery day I wonder
when will I too give up and just let it grow, let it grow, let it grow.

The Modern Man's Holiday Gift Giving Guide

2005-11-21T12:14:00.000-07:00

It must have been easy in the old days for men buying gifts. This was especially true of the married man. In the old days, the gifts that were given were often indirectly gifts for the man himself. They were often items that were needed by the family. Buy a vacuum cleaner, get a clean house. Buy a sewing maching, get your clothes fixed. Buy a television, get good entertainment without the constraints, trappings, and effort of conversation. Buy lingerie . . . well maybe the good 'ol days weren't all that great after all.

However, in more modern times, women have surprising asked for things that they want, not necessarily things they need. This is a fine distinction that can be lost by the modern man. And when I say lost, I mean, "If you don't bring this gift back immediately, you will have lost the bed and found the couch for the next few weeks."

We have to keep our modern mind keen and sharp to listen for the sirens our wives or significant others have placed in our brains while we sleep. These sirens have also been placed by eons of evolution. They used to keep us from being eaten by saber toothed tigers, or if you're part of Focus on the Family, being eaten by carniverous dinosaurs. You've heard these sirens before, I only hope you reacted on time. Like when your wife asks if she looks fat in that outfit and you're about ready to answer one way or the other instead of creating some sort of diversion, like a household fire. Suddenly in the far back of your brain you hear the siren and instead of answering, you're grabbing the fire extinguisher and calling 911.

Another marriage saved by the modern brain.

This same sort of thing applies towards gift given to your feminine loved ones.

For example, I was walking through a very large wage-suppressing mega-store today and it was amazing what the 'old school' part of my brain kept saying as we wandered through the acres of merchandise until the distant warning sirens were heard by my 'modern mind.'

Old school mind: "Boy, that vacuum cleaner would sure help with the dog hair."
Modern mind: "Yes it would. (Checking it more closely and then hearing the sirens.) I mean, no. We can't buy that!"
Old school mind: "She really needs a new ice scraper for her car."
Modern mind: "That would be nice. (loud sirens) Wait! No it wouldn't!"
Old school mind: "It says here you can buy a years worth of oil changes up front! What a gift!"
Modern Mind: "That would be very practical. (huge sirens) But no."

As you see, by listening to these warning sirens, we can save ourselves a lot of trouble. This is gift season. You are not allowed to think in practical terms. Buy a diamond tennis bracelet (For the fashionable tennis player.) or some other piece of jewelery. Buy a car or some other fancy item. Quite honestly, the less practical it is, the happier you'll be in the new year. Heck, who cares how much it costs? Who needs a college fund anyway?

I may have some trouble, though. This was my last conversation with myself as I shopped:

Old school mind: "Here's a catalog. Victoria's secret is right down the road."
Modern mind: "Wait, I can't listen for the sirens while looking at this!"
Old School mind: "Come to the dark side, young Anakin."
Modern mind: "Well, it would be the gift that keeps on giving."

Are you a Modern Man?

2005-11-10T15:18:00.000-07:00

Are you a modern man? Part I

Let's face it. Modern men are idiots, and that's okay. We're comfortable with this fact, although most of us try to hide it. We don't consider what we do idiotic anyway. We're just adopting, adapting, and improving. The real idiots are those whose names will be forever associated with the Darwin Awards. However, as a true modern man, we feel sympathy for some of these groundbreaking individuals and can honestly say that the lawnchair and the weather balloons was a pretty cool idea.

But for the rest of us here's a little "Modern Man Quiz." If you can answer yes to more than half of these questions, you are a true modern man. I must admit, I've done some of these things myself. I know that you're surprised. How could a person with my affable personality and razor sharp wit be involved in the idiotic things below?

I have to be honest, to my readers, I've done most of these things, but not all of them. When I say most, I mean I haven't done one or two of these things, but that doesn't mean that I'm giving up. Chances are, I'll knock all these things off my list before I'm dead. Possibly, one of these things could be the actual cause of my death.

Hey, you've got to go sometime.

QUIZ:

Have you ever told you significant other that you were almost killed by an idiot on a cell phone as you were driving? Have you told this while it was happening as you talked on your cell phone?

Have you ever glued something together, and while holding it until the glue sets, realized you glued your fingers to the object?

Have you ever gotten completely changed in the car while driving? In the car while driving and talking on a cell phone?

Have you ever not changed clothes before painting because you figure you'll be careful this time?
Have you ever leaned forward to paint a hard to reach place and suddenly noticed your hair is now stuck to the wall and is a lovely shade of yellow?

Have you ever driven home from work, pulled into the driveway, and seriously wondered if you ran every light on the way home because you don't remember any of your trip?

Have you ever parked your car in the middle of a parking lot, far from everyone else to safely change your clothes? Then have you had both your legs stuck in the same hole in your underwear as a car full of senior citizens decides that parking next to you would be a really good idea?

Have you ever tried to drive a car with your legs stuck in your underwear? Is your car a stick? Mine is.

Have you ever multi-tasked at work, and enjoyed the rewards of a job well done?
Have you ever tried to combine food, beer, hot tubs, and hot lovin' into one enjoyable experience? Have you ever been more disappointed in your life? (Have you ever had to get food out of a hot tub filter in the dark?)

Have you ever ordered more than one beer served in a container larger than your head? Have you ever complained to your significant other that you don't understand why you have a hangover since you only drank three beers?

Have you ever started a grill with something flammable, other than lighter fluid? Have you ever suddenly realized that gasoline doesn't really add to the flavor of grilled meat products?

Have you ever tested a Tazer, just to see if it works?

Have you ever used a steak knife to:
1) Cut rope?
2) Cut drywall?
3) Unscrew an electrical outlet?
4) Free an ingrown facial hair?
5) Splice electrical wire?
6) Pull stuck toast out of a plugged in toaster?
Have you ever just put that knife back in the dishwasher and hope for the best?
(This could be its own post: Uses for Steak Knives other than cutting steak)

Have you ever worked on your electric wiring and find out the hard way you didn't turn off the right breaker?
Have you ever done that twice in one day?

Have you ever been the lingerie holder at a Victoria's Secret fashion show?
Of course not, but that wouldn't be a bad way to go, would it?

These are just a few examples of the things we do as modern men. If you have more examples of the brilliance of a modern man, please post something.

Everything I know I learned from my pets?, Part II

2005-10-24T13:35:00.000-06:00

Everything I know I learned from my pets?

I have spent, literally, minutes observing my dog and cat so I can teach you all about how to live life in a more positive way, and hopefully get a show like Dr. Phil in the process. I watched them eat, drink, sleep, play, "use the facilities", and abuse these same facilities, as I will show you later.

My plan was to boil down life's lessons into trite, humorous sections that you would hopefully learn something from and would possibly make me rich beyond my wildest dreams.

I should have realized there was a basic flaw in my plans. That flaw would be the genetic aberrations we have for a dog and cat that quite honestly, throw the whole idea of natural selections right down the toilet. My cat and dog show that the survival of the fittest isn't necessarily always true. For instance, if Zeke, our wonderfully friendly dog were put up against a tremendously powerful creature in the wild, such as a hamster, I'm sure the hamster would end up being the only survivor. If Darwin himself were here today and observed our pets, he would throw the Origin Of Species into our trash can and become a Republican, or better yet, a professor at Patrick Henry College. (Motto: If you can't see it, it ain't science.)

Now Zeke is the dog I observed for multiple minutes. He's a large, hairy, friendly black lab mix. However, if I lived the lessons that I learned from observing him I would probably get put in jail. Other than eating, sleeping, and playing, he enjoys:

1) Licking people to show affection
2) Licking himself even more.

In fact, he licks himself in the "facilities" so vigorously, he shakes and rocks about the house. I hesitate to even mention the sound generated by this exercise.

Of course, he usually saves the most vigorous sessions for when when we have visitors. These visitors generally stare for a while, wondering if they are really seeing what they are seeing, then turn away with an embarrassed look on their face. My wife and I generally just smile and change the subject to something more pleasant, like the war in Iraq.

But what are you going to do? He's family.

It's so bad, that we have turned to calling his dubious performance "Dancing" to avoid calling it something I probably can't even print here. If Zeke had a theme song it would be Billy Idol's: "Dancing With Myself." For those of you Seinfeld fans out there, he is the Kramer of dogs. Oh yea, he lost the bet and he's proud of it.

But remember, I'm supposed to be teaching you life lessons through the actions of my pets.

So, the two life lessons I've learned from my dog are:
1) If you lick someone in the face, it's a sign of affection for all to see.
2) If you need a quick pick-me-up, or a little happiness in life, 'dance' with yourself.

And dear God in high heaven, Zeke, please don't do #2 before doing #1 on this list.

So really, what are the deep lessons about life that I have learned from my dog?

Maybe it is to enjoy life, no matter what others think? No, that's too basic.

Maybe it is to lick those you love? Nope, a little too visual.

Or maybe Zeke's life's lesson is that no matter what the obstacle, no matter how high the peak, (insert your overused metaphor here) you can reach just about any goal if you as a species don't have to wear pants. Well, that's really not a universally accepted message, but it's at least that's a lesson I can live with.

So as you can see, my after observing my dog, I realized that the chances of making a ton of money with a clever, tried and true concepts were 'dancing' away on the carpet, right in front of me.

So I gave up on observing my dog and went on to the cat.

This wasn't much of an improvement.

To be continued . . .

Everything I know I Learned from my Pets?, Part I

2005-10-20T10:41:00.000-06:00

I don't know everything.

Let's face it, being a modern man leaves little time to learn all of life's lessons. We need help from experts to tell us that the way we live is totally wrong. We need live life better, we need guidance, and by golly if we purchase a best selling self-help guide by someone famous, we can be better people and better modern men. Who wouldn't buy a copy of Crouching Lineman, Shrinking Package by Bill Romanowski to help us keep off steroids? How about Rush Limbaugh's OxyContin, How to Remove Life's Pain in Three Easy Steps (Forge, Eat, Repeat).

However, these are fairly specific books for specific problems. We need more general help that will the rescue the rest of us from the aimlessness of our lives. I found some actual books that will help you become better people on Amazon.com. First, there was All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten. This is impressive because it could completely revolutionize our education system. Think of how much in taxes we could save if we could just kick kids out of school when they're 6! I'd have to find a real job! Think of the excitement. Think of the legions of future Wal-mart employees!

I can appreciate Everything I Know I Learned in My Garden: Life's Lessons in My Own Backyard. I'm a little worried about the message of this book, though. What if you don't have green thumb? Is the lesson learned, "Everything I touch DIES?" Or maybe it's "Everyone Should Spread Their Seed Around." I'm not sure how the Catholic Church would like this, but it would make life pretty exciting. Maybe some NBA stars and Minnesota Vikings have read this book and when they scream "Who's Your Daddy Now?!" after a big play, they're being literal.

My favorite in this category is Everything I Know I Learned on Acid . I've got no comment on this book, except, will acid help me get published? Is that how you did it? I thought you weren't supposed to get high on your own supply?

Now I've decided to enlighten the masses with my own posting on this topic. I'm going to research my dog and my cat, and teach you everything you need to know in life via their example.

Why you ask? You, whether you're a modern man or not, need someone to tell you how to live life and I'm just the person for that. I want to help YOU be a better person through my dog and cat's views on life. More importantly, if someone picks up this feed somewhere, I may get a book deal and a huge advance. However, I think someone may have beaten me to the punch. (Everything I Know About Men I Learned From My Dog) and (http://www.geocities.com/Heartland/Farm/7478/learndog.htm

That's okay. I'm willing to do it for science, and hopefully, a huge payday!

Music and the Modern Man: Cover Songs

2005-10-12T14:56:00.000-06:00

Have you ever been in the car after a long, hard day at work and are trying to unwind as your favorite radio station plays some good tunes? But then, as you approach home, something plays on the radio that is so aweful, so unexpected, you are too stunned to even turn the station. It's worse than the time "Muscrat Love" and "I got you Babe" were played back to back. It's worse than hearing Meatloaf's "I'd do anything for love (but I won't do that)". It's worse than being forced to listen to the entire hit catalog of the Backstreet Boys and Justin TImberlake while getting root canal.

My God, it's worse than 'pop' country music.

I'm talking about the playing of a classic song by another, newer, more hip rock group. You know, you hear the first few notes and think, "I love this song!" Then it quickly comes apparent, it's not really THAT song at all. It's the same song, only different.

It plays through the car like the gentle sounds of a fully throttled Harley.

"Why?" I screamed. "Why?" I may have started sobbing, but I'm comfortable with that, being a modern man and all.

The song that was playing in my car at the time was the classic "Under Pressure", by Queen and David Bowie, which is probably considered one of the best collaborative songs of all time, if not in the top hundred best songs of all time anyway.

That of course is my opinion. If you disagree, you can go back and listen to your Clay Atkins CD.

The wailing I did in the car wasn't because the song "Under Pressure" was being played. The problem was it wasn't Queen/Bowie who were playing it. It was being played by a band called, "My Chemical Romance." I've never had anything against the band. In fact, I think I even liked one of their other songs, but now they've gone too far. There are certain things you can and cannot do in the music business.

Actually, from the things I've read about Led Zeppelin, groupies, and fish, it appears you can do just about anything you'd really like in the music business, but that doesn't excuse what M.C.R. did to me that day.

They ruined a classic and caused me to stain a perfectly good tie as I wiped my eyes of the tears.

So let's keep this simple. When it comes to ripping off another person's song by playing a 'cover' of it, you have to live by these rules.

1) You may play any song live in concert. I don't care if it's one of your own, a classic rock tune, or the famous, "The Pope Sings Liberace." Live you do what you want, when you want how you want.

2) If you really need to make a cover song because your producer thinks it will help your careers, pick an obscure, but cool song by a famous artist. How about "One of these Days" by Pink Floyd or "Murder by Numbers" by the Police? Come on! You're musicians. You're supposed to be creative!

3) If you plan on making a remake of a classic, you must:
a) Change it to the point of being almost completely different from the original.
Hendrix did this with "All Along the Watchtower" (original Dylan). It rocks!
Led Zeppelin did it with "In my Time of Dying" (original Dylan). It rocks!
Guns and Roses did it with "Live and Let Die." (Paul McCarthy) It wasn't horribly different, but they took it to a completely new level. Plus, It rocks!
Manfred Mann's Earth Band, , Blinded by the Light (original Springsteen) It rocks!
Vanilla Ice did it with "Under Pressure" (original Queen/Bowie). It sucks! But at least it didn't completly ruin the song for me (although it came close).

4) If you are planning on doing a cover of a classic, put it on an album, and then not change it enough to not ruin it for the rest of us the penalty should be one of these two things:

I. ALL GROUPIES SHALL BE TAKEN FROM YOUR PLACE, AND BROUGHT ROUND TO MY PLACE.
II. YOU MUST TOUR WITH YOUR WIFE/GIRLFRIEND CHAINED TO YOU AT ALL TIMES.

I'm not sure how my wife will react to the first one, but it is a punishment befitting of the crime, although I'm sure she would ask me what the groupies did to deserve it.

5) If you really, really like the music of another band, become a cover band of that band. Then you will only be tempted to play these songs live. Some of these bands have even been fairly successful. "Sticky Fingers" (Rolling Stones) and "The Machine" (Pink Floyd) are a fun night out.

6) This is the most important one. Michael Bolton is not allowed to remake ANYTHING, ever.

So, Limp Bizkit, no more "Behind Blue Eyes." Sheryl Crow, I love your music, but not "Sweet Child o Mine." And good Lord, why the @#$#@ would Madonna even try to cover "American Pie."

So be careful. We'll be watching and listening for more of these bands making more horrible covers.

How else are we going to get groupies around here?

(Post a post if you've been horrified by a recent cover on the radio.)

Men, Women, Cars and Cardiac Arrest Part Deux: There is no 'I' in team, but there is an 'I' in Idiot

2005-10-11T21:03:00.000-06:00

Here are the facts:

1) My wife has killed two vehicles in her day. Well, they weren't killed, they were just put into intensive care (really expensive intensive care) for a while. Both of these occurrences could have been prevented, but that is in the past.

However, sometimes the past comes back to haunt you.

2) I have walked my wife through the basics of car maintenance, from reading the gauges to opening the hood, just in case she had an emergency again. But mostly, to save us the kind of expenses that exceed the annual domestic product of a less well off country like, lets say, Germany.

3) We were dead broke when this happened.

4) As well educated as I am, I am always surprised at the fact I can be a complete idiot.

Because of this, the following transcripts of my feelings during a car emergency my wife had may seem a little harsh and a little mean, but you needed to be in my position to really get that crushing, heart attack waiting to happen feeling.

This is the email I sent to some folks to help me with my problem, although, it didn't cure me of my idiocy. The parentheses are my actual thoughts during our conversation on the phone. It's poorly written, but enlightening, none-the-less.

(Okay, I'm taking a deep breath.)
My wife calls from work today and says that smoke is coming out of the vents in the car. She reassures me she checks all the car's gauges, which has me worried already (she has killed a bronco engine and cracked a light truck's head, for background info)
I ask the vents on the inside?
She says, no, the vents on the outside. (we have a vent on the outside? No we don't!)
I ask her to pop the hood and see what the deal is.
She can't find the release latch in the car.
(another deep breath)
She finally finds it and now informs me that the smoke is still coming out, but she can't unlatch the hood in front.
(breathing has stopped now)
She tells me she knows where it is, but she still can't find it. ("THAT doesn't even make sense," Ron Burgundy)
(pain, sharp pain in brain, good Lord, is is really only 7:30 AM?)
She's found it!
But she can't get it to unlatch.
(why does everything look red?)
Dear Lord in high heaven, she's really trying to open it, but she says she can't seem to get the 'thingy' undone.
Or course I'm trying to be calm and cool on the other end of the line.
At this moment I remember that Yoda said there is no try, only do or not do.
I'm not doing well.

She says she'll get back to me if she can get someone to help her.
We hang up.
(Blood pressure, 250/180)
I now have 90 minutes of math class to think this over. Thinking bad. Thinking very bad.
(Blood pressure, 350/250)
I have a message on my phone! It says that the PE teacher got the hood open (magic, I ask?) and there is green stuff spattered across the engine.
I call back. No answer. (How can you not answer a cell phone?)
I have time to go to Walmart. Will buy pre-mixed anti-freeze, duct tape, and tequila. Scratch that. Make it a mocha frap. Must keep job.

Finally get hold of my wife.
Is there a leak in the radiator?
I don't know she replies.
Does the leak appear to be coming from on of the hoses?
I don't know.
Dear God, it isn't the head again?
I'm not sure.
(caffeine has brought blood pressure down, however brain still hurts. Beginning to wonder if an alcohol free week is actually possible at this point. Begin to visualize beers that are in the back of the fridge. Also beginning to visualize bank account getting smaller and smaller. Why can't I visualize Pamela Anderson? Dear God, why not?)

This story may be continued if I survive. However, I'm looking for theories as to what is wrong with the car.
1) Broken hose (good!)
2) Broken radiator (bad!)
3) Broken head (call AA for me now)
4) A combination of these (I hear meth is kindof cool)

SECOND EMAIL

There is no "I" in team.
However, there is an "I" in idiot.
In fact, as I write this I notice there are two "I's, but that is neither here nor there.
Now after I finally got to my wife's school, I opened the hood without any major problems, checked the engine, and sure enough, there were smatterings of green anti-freeze around the engine and on the underside of the hood.
The hood was stained right over and around the cap that says "do not open when hot."
I know what you're thinking, but the engine was cool. No people were scalded in the making of this fiasco.
However, no hoses were leaking. I checked every bleeping one.
I looked under the radiator for leaks. Nothing.
So I began to remove the cap and noticed something relatively important.
The cap was a little loose. The green environmental poison must have squirted out of the cap as she drove down the road.
I then began to pour close to a gallon of premixed anti-freeze and thanked the heavens for my fortune.
No engine overheated during this fiasco, which is a major good thing for the amount of anti-freeze which was lost.
However, I began to think, which we all agree, is never a good idea.
Who was the last person to open the cap to the radiator?
Has my wife ever opened the hood? Has Bush ever told the truth unless he was forced to? The answer to both these questions is the same.
Then I remembered a fun father-son bonding time as we gazed at the engine of the Subaru together, and I pointed out what things were as he asked. Then he asked me to open that cap so he could see what was in there.
It was the radiator cap.

I had taken it off and then put it back on.

I almost killed the car.

And there is an "I" in idiot.

As Pandora had her box, as the Mariner had his albatross, as Clinton had his Lewinski, as Bush has more things that can be listed here, I have my radiator cap dragging me down for all eternity.

The question is: If my wife doesn't know, does it matter?

Men, Women, Cars, and cardiac arrest, Part I

2005-10-11T21:00:00.000-06:00

One of the problems of being a male in the modern age is that you are not only responsible for new things our fathers and grand fathers rarely had, such as changing diapers, cooking, cleaning, and separating whites and colors, but are also still responsible for all the old school stuff as well.

For instance, men are often forced to be the caretaker of the family car even if their only "hands-on" experience with one was in the back seat with a one time girlfriend during the big homecoming game.

Technically I'm not one of these men, and not only because I never was given the chance to show my mechanical ability in the back of a 1963 Ford Falcon. However, I was given the chance to show my mechanical ability under the hood (of the car! I know what you're thinking.) My father taught me how to change the oil, rotated the tires, change the alternator, work on the breaks, and save cars that should be in the dump by applying a coating of something called "bondo" to rusty cracks and gaps in the vehicle, some of which were large enough for Jerome Bettis to actually run through untouched.

Honestly, I think bondo is really only used because the fumes get you so high, you actually think you're doing the car some good as you apply it to a car which should really be given a proper funeral. I had a friend whose entire car appeared to be made of bondo, with nothing metal left on the outside other than the door handles. It looked pretty horrible, but if you felt bad about it, you only had to take a long sniff of the car and it instantly looked better. Who needs beer goggles when you have bondo?

But to get back on topic. At one time a man could fix a car with a hammer, duct tape, and a cold beer. Women would call you up to come over and check out their cars. You'd get a little greasy, but it would be worth it when they gave you a cocoa butter rubdown. Well, you'd at least get a hearty handshake and maybe a beer, but that was worth it because as a high school or college student, it made you feel like a man: A man who REALLY needed a cocoa butter rubdown, but a man none-the-less.

It was easy to keep track of the mechanical health of your car, but now that you're hooked up with a filly, it can almost be impossible to keep track of two. This is made more difficult by the typical woman's reluctance to even pop the hood. I swear this is karmic revenge for the thousands of years men pretended they didn't understand how to do laundry or how to iron a shirt. Thanks grandpa! Now I have to do laundry and fix the car! Would ironing your shirt once and a while have been so bad?

So even if you walk your significant other through the simple process of checking the oil, checking the air pressure, and checking the gauges in the car, they more than likely will smile and nod and say they get it. Then they'll ask you to do a load of laundry. Then a month later you'll notice that the tire has as has less air in it than a Joey Harrington pass.

Women know something you haven't accepted. They have will unabashedly threaten to take the vehicle to a mechanic and spend $150 to replace a $30 battery knowing that you'll do it for free.

You could try to explain she could do it on her own really easily, but you're too busy cooking dinner to do that.

It makes you angry, but in your mind, you're thinking, $120 savings would buy something really important. Like 15-18 six packs of good Colorado beer. Or five kegs of the cheap stuff. Or ten kegs of Genesee.

Women know you're thinking this. In fact, they're counting on it.

So it is time to face something.

It's your job whether you like it or not.

Don't get angry. Don't get flustered. Just smile and do what you have to do between diaper changings. It isn't going to change and there's nothing you can do or say about it that won't make your significant other introduce you to Mr. Couch (and I'm not talking about the quarterback) for a few nights.

However, this discrepancy between a man and woman’s willingness to maintain vehicles can have catastrophic economic, social, and emotional effects.

To a point, it can ruin a good month or two of quality "cuddle" time.

And more importantly, it may take away from your beer fund.

How do I know this? You'll see a real life example in the next post.