"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?
Monday, October 12, 2009
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
The Modern Man VS. Walletzilla
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
The Modern Man: Redemption
Sometimes something happens that is so life altering, so mind bending, so amazingly earth shattering you're never the same again.
That, of course, didn't happen to me. After a summer tornado and a near drowning, quite honestly, anything else is mundane.
However, I was at a teacher conference in Denver and I re-discovered a few things. But first, I need to bring up something that is happening more and more that I can't seem to come up with a word for.
Now, if you are an adult with children, you know that talking to fellow adults in an adult situation (not a Cinemax or pay per view adult situation, but one lacking kids) come along rarely. So there I am, walking down the sidewalk, heading to a conference presentation with two women I work with. The day is warm, the sun is out, and we're chatting away, and as I am a 40 something gentleman, I'm feeling pretty good about life.
However, then something happened: Both the young ladies I was chatting with cell phones rang.
Now I'm sure that there are strong forces in the universe. Forces that can level buildings, destroy planets, carve gorges, and allow people to watch Fox News. However, I believe that the power of the cell phone call must be stronger than any of that.
For of course, they immediately stopped talking without stopping walking, flipped their phones open, and then proceeded to talk for 5 minutes. So now I'm walking between two women who are talking to two other people while I'm walking between them, now silent and uncomfortable, waiting for one of them to get off the phone. Do I stop walking? Do I start skipping? Do I pull out my phone and pretend to talk to someone really important?
Seriously, I'm at a loss here.
And of course, now the conversation changes completely when the fiasco is over. The two women now talk about their talking on the phone, as if this is an actual conversation piece.
There has to be a term for stopping a conversation with the person you're talking to and then ignoring them to talk to someone far, far away. I see it too much in restaurants, cars (I've seen entire families on their phones, talking to other people while IN THE CAR). What should the term be? Phone phleesed? Cell slapped? Fone Fragged? The other idea is Phone with another word starting with F and ending in "ed", but that sounds like you're dialing a 900 number.
But what about this redemption?
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.
Monday, September 08, 2008
The Modern Man: American Scourge
(Today’s blog is written as if lecturing a teenager or doing a political announcement.)
Today I want to talk to you about a scourge that hasn’t been addressed by either the Republicans or the Democrats since the election began. If you want to talk about threats to our country, this is right up there with fast food, gas prices, and Tila Tequila.
I’m so upset about this problem that I can no longer keep silent.
I’m talking about grown men walking small dogs.
Hey, don’t make excuses about having to clean the garage. You need to listen to this, mister!
I’m not talking about walking puppies, who will eventually grow to be large Labs or Retrievers. I’m talking about men walking mini-poodles, tiny Chihuahuas, or any another breed that can rip your socks off.
Men, look at me. Stop pretending you’re gazing at your cell phone looking for messages.
This is serious.
Walking a tiny dog, or even owning one is emasculating this country.
I understand that certain lines have been blurred since the 50’s, and that is okay. With the modern household, a lot of sharing of responsibilities goes on to make it run smoothly.
However, a dog is not on the same lines as doing laundry or the dishes. A dog tells a lot about who you are as a friend and human being.
Plus, there are many activities we, as males, can participate in that some might consider unmanly but really aren’t. They are miles away from owning a tiny dog.
For one, we can cook, which some find womanly, but then, many of the great chefs are men. Plus, if you cook, you don’t have to worry about your wife or girlfriend poisoning you.
We can garden, which some men would consider ladylike. However, gardening is a step away from farming, you get dirty, and can even get wounded cutting a rose bush. I mean, that’s pretty manly stuff.
But tiny dogs?
If you can carry your dog without pulling a groin (a very manly thing, indeed) you have finally crossed the line into skirtdom, and not the cool Scottish ones in Braveheart.
The next thing you know you’ll be getting manicures, drinking chardonnay, and watching the Oxygen Network.
Maybe you’re doing this already. Are you? Why are you looking away?
How can we fight the war on terror, the war on drugs, and the war against family values with a dog the sized of a meatloaf?
I mean, how do you feel when you knock on someone’s door and you hear the high pitched yap! yap! yap! of a little fur ball? Does it instill you with a feeling of manliness? No! You need to hear the deep baying of a large dog. The baying that says, “Stay away!” or “I”ll bite you!” or in our dog’s case, “I will possibly lick you to death!”
Those are manly sounds.
If you can buy your dog food in cat food sizes, you’ve got serious issues. I mean, think about who is famous for little bitty dogs: Women celebrities and the French.
If your dog can fit in a purse, you’ve got issues, my friend. Should I buy you a purse? Should I????! (And I'm not talking about a man purse.)
Oh, I hear you whining. “My wife made me do it!” “They don’t shed as much!” “They don’t have poop the size of Clydesdales, only stinkier!” We’ll, when the war against our families’ values start, or Tila Tequila shows up on your doorstep, is your schnauzer going to defend you? In the winter, will that dog keep the whole bed warm? Can that dog even catch a Frisbee, since the Frisbee is bigger? Can they fight off a mountain lion, or pull a dog sled in the Yukon?
Hey, don’t walk away. I’m not finished yet. Think about all the great television, book, and movie dogs: Lassie, Old Yeller, Fang.
They were all fairly butch dogs, even if some of them were girls. And on top of that, at the end of Where the Red Fern Grows, or Call of the Wild, "Ol Yeller" or even Baldo been as gut wrenching of the dogs were bloody mini-poodles or laso opsos, I mean lasu upsos, I mean those little white fluffy dogs who don't shed????
I think not.
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.
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.
Friday, May 02, 2008
The Modern Man: Walking the Dog
Before I begin this post, I need to tell you I saw something so amazingly mind boggling that I had to share it. After a long day at school, a student was scampering down the hall at a relatively fast pace.
Okay, he was running.
As I wondered whether I should try to catch up to him, or pretend there was something in my eye that would allow me to head back into my office, I saw something relatively disturbing.
His pants were beginning to slide down his butt, or as we in teacher world are forced to say, "His gluteous maximus." (Remember, 95% of all students have seen every uncut American Pie or Saw DVD, yet parents freak out if we swear, or try to show a movie like Saving Private Ryan or Glory).
Now this pants thing isn't so surprising. The new school uniform is pants with belts fastened at what might call, the "junk" area, or as we are forced to call due to current abstinence education rules, the "you'll go to hell" stick or the shame cave. This is covered by a long tee-shirt if you're a boy, or tee shirt or camisole that is 3 sizes too small if you're a girl.
Now as he is running, and I'm rubbing my eye and shoving as much lint into it as possible, I noticed his shirt, which is a large Under Armor form fitting piece, is creeping up as his pants are creeping down.
I'm now waiting for the natural consequence. I'm waiting for the pants to hit the knee area and watch as he falls, hopefully screeching to a halt as the skin on his thighs brings him to a sudden halt.
Then I would stand there, washing out my eye and thinking smugly to myself, "That will teach him!" (Forgetting temporarily, that middle schoolers really don't learn anything the first time, or tenth time, or, wait, I'm getting depressed.)
Then I see him reaching down and I'm thinking, "He's going to pull his pants up! For the first time in a year, his underwear won't be showing! This is a remarkable day at our school!"
I was also thinking that if my shoe was untied, I'd tie it. If my hair (I mean that in the singular) was messy, I'd brush it. If my pants were falling down, I'd pull them up. It's just a natural reaction when disorder occurs to re-order it. Millions of years of evolution have made these reactions almost automatic.
But then he did something unexpected. What he did made me wonder about which direction this evolution thing is heading.
As his pants continued to head south, he PULLED HIS SHIRT DOWN.
Yep, he continued to run uncomfortably with his pants now at mid-thigh height and PULLED HIS SHIRT DOWN to cover his pant line (and not get in trouble for dress code violations).
As he disappeared down the hallway, I realized life had passed me by. I'd no longer be demographic that Hollywood movies or TV shows are aimed at. I'd preface conversations at school meetings with "When I was a kid..."
I'd maybe even start to use the term "Whipper Snapper."
But is it too late for me? Should I purchase baggy pants and pull my underwear out, or maybe get those shorts that really come down to just above the socks (I call them Manpris, a male version of the capri)? Should I wear my hat sideways?
Quite honestly, there is only one thing I can really do now. That's go to the nurse to get my eye washed out. Now if I can only avoid the whipper snappers on the way down.
(Looks like I'll have to address the largest crisis in America in my next blog: Grown Men Walking Small dogs)
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)
Friday, February 08, 2008
More Quick Hits: Nicknames, At, and Uranus
Quick Hit 1:
I've always been a fan of nicknames. They can often be a window to your very soul. You don't get to pick them, so the names are a total reflection of how others see you. You've got your serious nicknames: The Hammer (Hank Arron), The Gipper, and The Decider mostly bring about positive reflections of that person (Hey, Meatloaf once said, "Two out of three ain't bad").
Another use of the nickname are ones that are meant to be insults. When I was a young lad, before cell phones and reality TV, the top three students on the honor roll (me being one) would call each other nicknames like Brain when we were upset with one or the other, which quickly devolved into Half-a-brain, quarter of a brain, brain cell, and my personal favorite, which was often directed at me by the smartest girl in the class in a manner such as this: "Hey, "Quarter of a brain cell on a stick", stop answering all the teacher's questions." It's perfect, because it fit my nerdy nature and my body type. On a side note, my favorite nickname was a combination of insult and pride: Toto the Baton Wacker. It combined a negative nickname (Toto) with an incident in which I got into a fight with a track coach from SUNY Buffalo during the race. Ah, racing, tripping, punching and relay batons. What great memories....
My favorite nicknames use Big in the title like Big Kahuna, Big Cheese, Big Bob, or Big Tuna. Having "Big" in your name is usually very positive, unless the "Big" attached to parts of your body or the F word.
Where is this banter leading? Well, I went to the Colorado Caucuses and I was elected to be the leader of the caucus. Although I never requested people call me this, I had the overwhelming urge to have people call me by a cool nickname that you can only get as the leader of a Caucus. Since I didn't use it there, I think I could still slip the nickname into my regular life. Yep, you've got it. From now on, I should be called:
The Big Cauc.
(By the way, if there is just 1 good thing GWB has done in 8 years, it is making people realize that if you don't vote or participate in the process, you could easily find yourself more screwed than the characters on late night Cinemax. Thanks GWB for getting people to vote!)
Quick Hit 2:
On another note, I've noticed that there are universal things people will laugh at. Things such as bodily noises, groin punches, and Dane Cook get laughed at regularly. Now, I can't figure out the Dane Cook thing, but who hasn't laughed at the other stuff.
In a school setting, this is especially true. A quick burp, toot, or human development lesson can cause snickering, laughing, and general classroom chaos.
But there is another things that can happen. That would be a lesson on Uranus. Both boys, girls, and uncomfortable parents will giggle at the mere mention of the planet. This has become worse now that we've found out that Uranus is a gaseous planet. So as a teacher, you need to either clamp down on the class and let them snicker inside, or get it over with early, so that they aren't uncontrolably laughing under their breaths for the entire class. So I suggest the following ice breakers to get the laughing out of the way early, when teaching about Uranus. Or, if you're trying to break your class and want to write someone up for acting inappropriately, these would work as well. You'll have a kid out of control pretty quickly.
Uranus is gassy.
Uranus is blue.
Uranus is a gas giant.
Uranus is huge.
Due to the gasses on Uranus, if we were there we would find that Uranus stinks.
Because Uranus is a gas giant, we can never land on it. That means that we'll never be able to touch Uranus.
Don't tell me your aren't kind of laughing, at least inside. Now imagine that with middle school kids. You can forget about teaching for at least 10 minutes.
Quick hit 3:
Finally, what's the deal with the sudden ending of sentences with AT? I hear from loud cell phone talkers and even my wife when asking the location of the person they are talking to, "Where you at?" I mean, it's may be worse than "Where you be?" or anyone that uses "Seen" after the pronouns I and We.
Now, I'm no language snob. Well, maybe I am, but that's beside the point. I don't care that it's improper English. I care that it takes away from Blazing Saddles, one of the funniest movies of all time. When Cleavon Little (the sherrif) shouts 'Where the white women at?' out in front of the racist gang, it's funny for many reasons, including the "at" at the end. Now when young people watch the movie, they don't know why that lines funny since everyone uses "at" at the end of sentences now.
Hold on: My wife is informing me right now that the whole movie isn't funny and no one will understand the previous paragraph. I think I might have to sick Mongo on her. For like Mongo, I am "Only a pawn in game of life."
Now because of all this "Where you at?" and "Where they at?" "at" is no longer funny. It's just bad English that no one knows is bad English. Alas, time has passed me by. It's so depressing. Maybe some caffine will help my mood. Now, where's my Mountain Dew at?
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?
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
The Modern Man is Getting Waisted
There are watershed moments in one's life. One's first kiss, a run in with a bully, meeting with someone who changes the direction of your life, your first date with your future ex-husband/wife and other moments that take one's life and throw it in a different direction. We can then look back at these moments, either celebrating the way our life went or cursing the day everything went to Hades in a handbasket.
Either way, it's a watershed, or in many cases, a Waterloo.
An event recently happened to me that has definately changed my outlook on life. It has headed me down a different path, nay a different aisle. A change so monumentous, it had to happen slowly and slither up on me like a giant blood thirsty snarling sneaking up thingy. Sorry, I was never good with similes.
So here is the huge watershed moment:
My waist size has increased.
I've literally gotten waisted.
I got a few Christmas gifts in the pantelones catagory that I couldn't fit into unless I sucked my stomach in like middle aged guys at the beach. I tried everything, even crying, hoping the loss of body fluid would lead to a slimmer waist line.
But no, nothing happened. I'm now a solid 34. After being a 32 in my 20's, a 33 in my 30's, I'm now a 34 in my second go at the age of 20. If you plug these numbers into the quadradic formula, carry the 3, then find the derivative, and graph the results, my waist size will be a 94 before my 60 birthday.
I may need my own zip code.
Hopefully by then we can all float around with futuristic anti-gravity devices, and I won't be forced to drive one of those mini-scooter things though the aisles of Walmart, as long as I'm under the weight limit. (Which, noting the expanding American belly, will be about 1500 pounds)
What has made is worse is that I actually work out. The lower graph doesn't fit what is occuring to me.
I remember laughing when Seindfeld changed his pants' labels to a 31 when he became a 32. I mean, how vain can one man get?
That's not a judgement, that's my current New Years resolution.
I'm now a full 2 inches wider than Seinfeld. I'm not laughing now, because if I do, I'm afraid my belly will have that movement like a bowl full of jelly. (Now that's a good simile)
A whole new world of questions has been opened to me. Will I be able to fit through turnstiles? How soon will it be before I'm asked to purchase an extra seat on an airplane? Will I now be a more dangerous dancer? Will I soon hear catcalls of "Shake it, don't break it?" When am I going to have to pull my pants up to my chest and start wearing stretchy pastel fabrics while I drink coffee with my AARP friends at McDonalds? Am I going to need a Manzier? And dear Lord, am I going to be literally putting the "middle" in middle age?
I know, it's not that bad now, but I hear everything from this age out goes down hill like a graph at a GW Bush polling convention. (Now that's a nice Simile!)
I guess I just have to stop whining and suck it up, while I suck it in.
So, goodbye 33's! We hardly knew ye. What's that? My nose is going to start drooping?
(Insert curse word here)
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)
Friday, September 28, 2007
The Modern Man is feeling guilty
I noticed today that I put on socks with a matching pattern so I thought I was stylish and in vogue. Yet when I saw them in the light of day, one was black and the other was blue. Although Black and Blue is an excellent song by Van Halen, it's not necessarily what I need during my busy work day. I mean, I know that no one else will figure it out, but every time I've seen my feet today, it's thrown off my ju-ju. On top of that, I got in my car in the afternoon and was cursing it under the impression that the air conditioner had broken since heat was pouring into the vehicle and making me sweat like a Bush press secretary. However, I suddenly realized I was still had the heater on and it was running at the same time as the air conditioner. (Colorado is great for 35 degree morning and 75 degree afternoons.) I never said I wasn't an idiot. Now, if you throw in a two hour missing backpack search for a student, some seriously dubious student parenting leading to poor grades, poor work habits, and possible future incarceration, I'm having a bad day. Now throw in the fact the last song I heard today was the Pina Colada Song and it's been in my head for 7 hours now it's pretty obvious it's time to write a new blog.
Guilt.
I was raised well. That means that I have a lot of guilt about a lot of things. Without guilt, what's going to keep you from doing the wrong thing? If there is no guilt floating about you have no reason to ever think about your actions. People without guilt can do amaziningly horrific things, and not even bat an eyelash. This, I'm completely positive, is why our current administration (and much of big business) can get away with what they do. They have no internal parent telling them they could possibly be hurting someone or actually wrong about something.
However, being without guilt did seem to work for OJ, at least for a while.
However, I'm not big business and I'm definately not OJ, so let's delve into some current guilty feelings:
First, I saw Superbad the other day and feel slightly guilty about it. I mean, I really enjoyed it even if it was totally inappropriate. (Hence the guilt. Should I enjoy inappropriate things?) If you're a male and were not the richest, coolest, or most attractive member of your high school class, this movie is for you. Most women won't like the male-centric plot, but let's just say that it is about friendship, the quest to "get with" a girl, the crusade to purchase alcohol as a minor, and a lot of inappropriate jokes about the male and female groin area. In other words, it's pretty hilarious. Plus, it helped change my perspective on how to handle stressful situations. For instance, I've decided that in any stressful situation I'm going to replace my usual mantra: SERENITY NOW! with a loud shout out, "I am Mclovin!"
Speaking of that, I am Mclovin the idea that my son will soon enjoy video games. However, this fills me with guilt as well. One of these days, one of the grand parents will break down and purchase an expensive system for him and I'll get to play it. I really have not been able to play video games since my son was born. Should I feel guilty about this future windfall? Should I ignore the Madden 2014 sitting in front of the TV? Should I try not to look at Halo 8? Should I pre-file for divorce, since that is probably going to happen if I start playing video games again ten years from now? I guess the answer to all these questions is YES, but I'm thinking NO. OHHH, the horrible guilt.
Also, should I feel guilty if I go fishing on Sunday instead of going to church? I mean, most of Jesus's crew were fisherman, so fishing is technically a religious experience. However, PETA says that fishing is evil because it hurts the fish. Does that mean PETA is evil since the disciples were fishermen and they were good Christians? So, if PETA is evil and GW Bush is Christian and a leader of the USA (which I keep hearing is a Christian nation with a Christian Constitution), than logically speaking that means that if I don't fish and I listen to PETA, I'm being evil and un-American at the same time. That might make me an enemy combatant of some kind. I don't want to go to Abu Ghraib for not fishing. Do I want to anger the church by not going or anger our wonderful country by not fishing? It's all so confusing. Hence, the guilt. Hence the reason I will be fishing this weekend. It's really the most religious thing I can do.
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.
Monday, September 03, 2007
The Modern Man and Fantasy Football
The Modern Man has been on a long hiatus, but he is back. For those of you who don't know what 'hiatus' means , I've provided three examples of its use in every day language using a common teaching practice:
1) I drafted John Kitna for my fantasy team, and realized that the Lions have been on a hiatus from football since 1954.
2) I was running down the first baseline when I suddenly pulled my hiatus. (I was quickly arrested and charged with lewd conduct right afterwards.)
3) The nuclear (*pronounced "nuke you ler") leak created a huge, genetic freak out of our dog Hi, and unfortunately, Hiatus.
This type of teaching come from the ancient Romans and is highly effective in working with middle school students. The technique is called, vocabularus desperatus, meaning, "We ain't gonna learn it if the word has more than one syllable, and you're pulling our haituses is you think we care."
So I've been talked into playing fantasy football. When you put fantasy and football together, I envisioned me being tackled by eleven scantily clad Victoria's Secret models. However, much to my disappointment, this is not the case.
To start off, if gambling were legal, I would have had to plunk down $30 to join a fantasy league with a group of nice church going people who seem to feel that gambling is okay, but swearing and drinking is not. This is too bad, because quite honestly, I'd rather swear and drink. I mean, for @#$# sakes, I can brew 5 gallons of beer for $30 and I can @#@ing swear for free.
But, I digress.
Fantasy football. It's hugely popular. It brings millions of dollars to websites across the country. Manly men with enormous HD televisions, large cable bills, officially licensed NFL paraphernalia (not to be confused with the single and lonely phernalia), and WAAAAAAAAY to much time on their hands play this game weekly, spending hours setting up their teams and worrying about their player's production.
For this game, we were to be given $100 dollars in pretend money (which is a pretty good return on investment, if gambling were legal) and we were to bid on our players in auction format and these players would be imported into a team which will score points against other pretend teams. Now, I thought the trafficking in humans for profit was made illegal in this country after the Civil War, but I guess I'm wrong. I bid on many players and I am now an official fantasy owner, or as I would rather be called, an official fantasy pimp.
Why pimp? Well, I can play my best people and "cut" the ones I'm unhappy with. Hey, it isn't fair, but that's life on the fantasy street.
The unfortunate thing was that I actually had to do research on my players to find out who I should draft. I probably spent over an hour finding information on who I should take. I was glued to the computer screen, leaky pen in hand, going over data no one really understands. I crunched the numbers, came up with a plan, then did more research. Do you know what that makes me? I'll get to that in a moment.
When I entered the basement of a neighbors house to make my draft picks, I was surrounded by affable gentlemen (and one lady) who all joked, had fun, and bid on illegal human traffic. I looked at those around me. They all gripped their fantasy magazines (not a naked picture in any of them), checked their fantasy lists, and eyed their newly acquired players with a fondness only a fantasy pimp can have. But as I joined in, a quote from a bygone era came quickly into my head. The quote, from the Alpha-Betas still resonates today as it did years ago as it was shouted to the Lambda Lambda Lambdas by the various members of the fraternity.
"NERDS!" they shouted. Yep, it seemed to me that every one of these people was a nerd, but didn't know it.
You can be the toughest man in the world, but if you're taking more than 5 minutes a week thinking about fantasy football, the fact is, you're a nerd.
You're not even a fantasy nerd, just a nerd.
For years I've been trying to rehabilitate my nerdy nature, but it's come back to haunt me.
You know what they say, when you point, three fingers are pointing back at you. At least that is what teachers say, so that's what I'm sticking to at this point. As I pointed at the 'big board' with my current fantasy picks, and pointed towards the nerds around me, those three fingers were pointing right back at me and the cold hard truth sunk in.
My God, I'm a nerd, too.
But, I'll be a successful FANTASY nerd if I win my league. However, my quarterback is John Kitna.
Looks like I'll be taking it up the hiatus this year.
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.
Monday, June 25, 2007
The Modern Man: Crazy 'ol coot
As I staggered into the local pool the other day I had three days beard and unwashed hair. I handed my punch pass to the 17 year old girl behind the counter and she said the following without fun or frivolity:
"No offense, but are you a senior rate?"
Needless to say, the next 40 minutes were spent trying to come up with some sort of jazzy reply (you mean the señor rate, Senior in high school?) until I realized that I just used Jazzy in a sentence, which is dating me already. Plus, you really can't THINK and SWIM at the same time or you end up sinking to the bottom of the pool.
After I swam back to the surface, much to the relief of the life guards, I finished my swim, melancholy splishing and splashing with my friend the black line. Before I finished, as I poked my head up for air, I thought I heard one life guard say, "Keep an eye on the old man," but it could have been, "Boy it's hot, I need a fan." At this point, my brain was so devastated, my heart so broken, my self-esteem quaking like green jello, I realized a snappy (old man term) reply didn't matter. I finished my joyless swim and I shuffled home with my tail between my legs, looking around corners for Death and checking to see if there were any stores that sold canes. Each phone call that came that afternoon was a nerve wracking experience, as I held my breath figuring that AARP (Motto: We help you because you've probably lost your mind) had come to find me.
But then I thought, being a senior isn't that bad, even if I'm only 40. I can get the early bird special, discounts at most stores, and one of those little scooters to get me around the house. Plus, most of my relatives have gone relatively crazy with old age, which gives one a lot of leeway in what one can get away with. I mean, seniors can get away with saying anything and have any opinion without doing any research or fact finding, kind of like Dick Cheney, Ann Coulter, or Fox News. So I'm turning a negative into a positive and have developed some Crazy 'ol Cootisms (TM)that I will begin using immediately with impunity. I shall shout them with pride, because there is really no consequences when you're an 'ol coot. I would apologize for my sexist comments, but as an old coot, I don't have to.
1) If I were president, I'd pass a law that would allow any citizen to give an atomic wedgie to ANYONE showing their underwear on purpose, unless they are wearing appropriateVictoria Secret of course.
2) Spandex shall not be worn by anyone whose pants waistline is more than 6 inches greater than their pants length.
3) Peaking at cleavage shall no longer be considered as dangerous as looking at the sun.
4) If you can't go to a high quality eating establishment and remove your pants, then what fun is life?
5) The next time someone asks me what university or college I went to with the sole purpose of trumping my school with something like Duke or MIT, I shall say I graduated from Viagra University. When they realize I didn't say Niagara university and tell me that doesn't exist, I shall do a variation of #4 on the list to show them my diploma.
See, being a senior isn't so bad. Now if I could only remember what I just said.
"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.
Monday, April 23, 2007
The Mullet and the Modern Man
The mullet. The mere word brings out painful feelings in everyone. It is a hairstyle that makes you pick one of two camps on your feelings about it. You either:
1) Find it repugnant
2) Find it repulsive
There is no gray area with a mullet. After all it's all business in front and all party in back. I'm not one to hide from my past. Yes, I once sported a well coiffed mini-mullet as a rebellious 20 something back in the late 80's and 90's. Yes, the front looked like Opie's, but the back, the glorious back was long like a mane. In fact, I once challenged myself to grow it long enough to so that I could chew on it.
Yes, one must have goals in this lifetime and I set mine pretty high.
I made my goal and instantly found out that chewing on hair was pretty gross. But hey, I looked cool and if that was the price I had to pay, so be it.
When looking at old pictures of myself I do realize that fashions disappear for a reason. Mullets just don't look good unless you are:
1) Playing hockey or soccer.(Click here or here for some excellent examples)
2) Playing rock and roll in a kick *ss band.
Ah, and it looked cool during my running career as it (sort of) flowed behind me in the wind.
For those of you too young to remember, imagine a time of neon shirts, scruffy facial hair, and large, flip up sunglasses.
Gosh darn it, I do miss it so.
Now, those of you in New Jersey probably don't understand the gradual loss of the mullet in American fashion. This is due to the fact that it is still in style there. For that, the world mourns.
However, I did see something the other day that could honestly have serious repercussions on the world that we know. It could be a sign of the apocalypse, or, in a worse case scenario, the start of a new fashion.
I was in an ACE hardware (motto: half the stuff, twice the price) (Motto 2: we're no LOWES) minding my own business, when a man walked out of the aisle wearing fading red camouflage pants. Now, under no circumstances are you allowed to wear camouflage ANYTHING once you turn 18 (unless you're in the army). However, my eyes quickly went up, past the red 'wife beater' (which in itself was hard to ignore) and to his head.
Ahh, his glorious head. There, on top of his noggin, was a mullet that quite honestly, could have been placed in the mullet hall of fame. I wish I had a camera because it is impossible to describe, but yet, I'll try:
Twas brown in color, with a bushy, round, bowl-like look on top. It was sort of like a hedgehog's spikes on top in form, yet not actually spiked with any sort of gel at all. Then, dangling down to near the mid-point of the back were a morass of not quite washed today and possibly not yesterday hair. It was flowing exactly not quite like that of a model or rock star who is standing next to the modeling fan at a photo shoot. No, its movement twas more of a gentle rocking back and forth motion due to the oily build up. I watched as he passed, unable to keep my eyes from its majesty. For one moment I did glance away to check my watch. Yes, it was still 2007. No, I had not been transported back in time. I sighed, slightly depressed in the knowledge when something so mind-bogglingly amazing happened, I thought that I might have passed out and woken up in Hoboken.
Trailing behind this gentleman was a child of not more than seven or eight earth years. He too was dressed in camouflage pants and more importantly, had the exact same mullet. I believe the two of these gentlemen could have exchanged hair, and no one would have been the wiser. And like Dr. Evil had Mini-me, Mr. Camo-mullet man had his mini-mullet man.
As they passed and left the store, I was perplexed. Was this child abuse? Should I call social services? Hasn't anyone pointed out the modern mullet was like GW Bush; something that was a bad idea in the first place and probably never should have happened?
But the more I thought, the more I realized something about a man who is stared at in stores across this county.
Nay, this man is not a pariah. This man is a trend-setter. The mullet is gone. Lost in the dustbin of history it ponders a time when MTV actually played music, but he alone in our town is taking the mullet back. His independent spirit is made of exactly what made America great. He should not not be ridiculed, nay, he should be embraced by our community. And once our souls are cleansed of our prejudices and his body is cleansed of the last weeks grime, we should tell our barbers we want it cut short on the front, but boldly shout, "Leave the back alone!" Like hands across America, we will unite this country, mullet to mullet bringing peace and love to those around us.
Now if I can only find my hair.
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.
Friday, March 30, 2007
Technololgy and the Modern Man
As one gets older, it gets harder and harder to keep up with the new technology, or as you're forced to say once you turn 40, "These newfangled electified gagets." However, I'm not too worried about keeping up with everything. They pretty much idiot proof everything now-a-days, unlike in the time when I grew up, where toys and gadgets were only really fun if they could actually hurt you. Dan Akroyd's "Bag of Glass" really isn't far off many of the toys of my youth. Today's whipper snappers are a generation of "plug and play" people, who will never know the joy and excitement of taking three hours to make a mixed tape, or the wonder of using a public phone (Wonder, as in, "I wonder what this sticky stuff is on the phone receiver?")
However, the technology that worries me is much more mundane. Unfortunately, a lot of it happens to be in the bathroom, which my loyal reader knows I already have personal problems with. When I was a kid (Did I just say that? Just shoot me now.) you didn't have your self flushing toilets, automatic paper towel dispensers, automatic hot air hand dryers, and of course, automatic sinks.
But now you do.
Or you don't.
And that's the problem.
I'm leaving bathrooms with the water running, since their faucet wasn't automatic. I'm placing my hands under the the sink and waiting, only to notice that this one has actually little spinny hand things (technical plumbing term) for turning on the water. It's difficult to look cool when one is talking to the faucet in the bathroom. The youngsters just shake their heads and walk away. Plus, half the automatic faucets need your hands in a sight zone about 3 millimeters wide, so you end up moving your hands around the sink like a disco dancer.
I'm mostly having issues with paper towel dispensers. I feel as I'm begging for towels, as I place both my hands together and slowly move them below the towel dispenser and wait in anticipation. Will it work? Will the guy behind me start screaming I'm an idiot? For crying out loud, I can actually program a VCR, yet I can't get the towels to come out.
In one restroom, there was no little black indicator or a little silver winder at all. I proceeded to move my hands around the dispenser as if it were a crystal ball, my son looking on in anticipation.
"Where are the towels, Daddy," asks the kid who expects that I know everything, who also has a huge thing about wet hands.
Channeling my best James T. Kirk, "I...just...don't...know."
(Crying)"Daddy, you weren't supposed to disappoint me until my teen years!"
(unable to swear, must calm down) "Dear God, why hast this towel dispenser forsaken me?"
Turns out if you rubbed this towel dispensers belly, it actually dispensed its product. How the @#$# am I supposed to figure this stuff out?
And how about those automatic toilets? My kid won't even get near one, for fear of it flushing when he's on it or even near it. And as you know, if the toilet flushes when you're on it, the monkeys living in the sewer can get you.
Finally, I've even been in a rec center shower that had no levers or handles of any sort. Now if you want embarrassment, trying to figure out how a shower at the rec center works as you squat naked and look at the one little piece jutting out of the wall. Do I do the wave? Nope. Maybe if I stand in front of it? No way. Should I be moving? Nope. What if I do a little shimmy? Nope. Why is that guy across the way showering? More importantly, did he notice the shimmying?
Wait! What if I push the little round thing? Water! Water! Holy @#$! Really @#$@#ing hot water!
Now I'm jumping up and down trying to figure out how to turn it off!
First squatting naked (which of course, is a major no-no). Now jumping up and down.
At this point, I'm hoping the guy in the next shower hasn't done any prison time, as I notice that the entire locker room is empty.
Of course, I can't actually change the water temperature. It's either on or off, plug and play, hot or scalding.
In my case, squatting or jumping...
That's my problem. Since EVERYTHING isn't automated, it seems that there is a heck of a lot thinking that has to go on in a bathroom now days. I don't want to think in a bathroom, I'm too busy trying not to make eye contact.
Don't even get me going on automatic doors. Since they got rid of those black foot sensors, you're left to guess if it's going to open or not without actually incurring a concussion from the door either opening up and smashing you in the head or just plain smacking into it when it turns out it isn't automatic at all.
Plug and play.
Or not.
Think about it, we used to control the bathroom fixtures. Now, they sort of control us. Maybe they'll work, maybe they won't...
Maybe these devices will rebel and we're left in a post-apocalyptic world, fighting urinals and faucets for control of humanity.
Ohhh. That might be my big Hollywood movie script right there. The Terminautoflushinator.
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.
Monday, February 26, 2007
The Modern Man Gets Flushed!
One of the great things about being a modern man AND getting older is the wide variety of medicines that doctors want you to take. Some have been life savers, like prilosec, which has saved my esophagus from rupturing out acid and destroying everything in site, like a wounded Alien in those, er, Alien movies. There have been no side effects except for now being able to eat raw vegetables, which even children know can't be good for you.
But others have side effects. You know, that list of things the world's fastest talking man rushes by during those medicine commercials for things they won't tell us the medication actually cures? I can take most of these side effects, in fact, most of my relatives believe my current condition and personality is basically one giant side effect to begin with.
But flushing? I'm not talking about toilet humor here, or Flushing, where tennis players go to be heckled for a couple of weeks. No, I'm flushing like a menopausal woman right now, and gosh darn it, I'm really not that okay with that.
When your HDL's are low enough that the doctor feels you pulse to make sure you ARE alive, you know you may have to do something about it. You realize life isn't fair, as the 350 pound man next to you at the restaurant is eating piece of cow that could clog the arteries of a wookie, yet his levels are fine. He waves nicely at you as you smile at your piece of "today's white cooked fish" and you curse his family quietly under your breath. Ah, the mental flip off, it's not at good as the real thing, but it's better than nothing.
So my doctor prescribed a medicine that not only can damage your liver, but also an amount of niacin my doctor may have described in professional medical terms as "ridiculously large."
Niacin side effects, as described on bottle: Turning redder than Brezhnev.
So here I sit, after my students have screamed "Why is your face so red? Do we need to call an ambulance? What's wrong?"
ME: "I'm taking a drug that's making my face do that, so don't worry."
THEM: "My daddy got taken away by the police and sent to jail when his face was that red from the drugs he was takin'"
ME: "I meant medication?"
THEM: "Like them things baseball and football players take?"
ME: "NO! It's NIACIN!"
THEM: "Yeah, probably crystal 'niacin'."
Hence the reason that I'm hiding right now in my office. My face is the color of a tomato, if you first embarrassed that tomato and then beat it in some sort of UFC fight. No, that's not right. It's more red. It's post-caning red, for those of you who live in Singapore.
Am I just embarrassed? Am I turning into a communist? Do I need a hysterectomy? Are my child bearing years coming to an end? Can I claim myself as an alternative heat source on my taxes? What if I'm flushing while I'm flushing? These are the sorts of questions a person should never have to answer at any age, unless you are named Ann Coulter.
But excuse me, I'm feeling another flushing coming on. I need to go, the police need a temporary stop sign down at the corner.
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.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Getting Hit by 40, part II
So my 40th birthday is long gone. I've gone mano y mano with Death, wrestled with the meaning of life (which appears to have something to do with a food product call 'bran'), and drank too much beer for a person of my age (3), and against my better judgement, had a good time.
During this partying like it was 1999, I decided to to a little introspection. You know, see where I've come from so I can figure out where I'm going to. Therefore, I've compiled things that have changed since I was 20. Maybe you've noticed some of the same things in yourself. I certainly hope not.
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!
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. |
|
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.
Thursday, January 04, 2007
Getting Hit by 40 (Part I)
The problem with whining about one's age is that there is always someone older than you who tells you to shut up and someone younger than you who can't believe your still breathing since you've never actually watched American Idol.
I mean, how uncool am I?
They say for most of your life you 'turn' a certain birthday. You turn 5 for example, and at that age, you tell people you turned 5 and a quarter, 5 and a half, and even 5 and 9/10ths. I even "turned" 30, however, I believe I turned 30 with my friend Margarita, and don't have much of a recollection of that. However, they say you don't turn 40, you hit 40. I have firm evidence that this is incorrect.
You don't hit 40, 40 hits you. I've been told I can't have a birthday cake due to the fire hazard from all those candles.
As of this writing, I'm not 40 yet, but I feel it lurking, waiting to attack, like Jack Nicolson did in The Shining, only it wants to kill me a lot more slowly. 40's already jabbed my back, hit my knees with a baseball bat, and has suddenly removed me from any popular demographic advertising considerations.
40 has also called up his friend Death, just so he can keep an eye on me. I met this death fellow once as I pondered the following word sitting behind an 18 wheeler, waiting for the world's slowest train to cross the road. That word would be:
SEMIPERMANENT
The word was on the bottom of the Maine license plate of the 18 wheeler in front of me.
Now, I call my wife and tell her what I've seen. I ponder its meaning. How the @#$ can something be permanent in a semi sort of way? I could tell my wife was just humoring me as I ranted about semipermanence and eventually told me she had to go do something more important, like feed the goat.
I didn't even know we had a goat.
As I waited for the slowest moving in train in history to pass, I had a vision, or it could have been a diesel fume related aberration. I figure if Jerry Falwell can predict the future in his talks with God, why can't I have the occasional non-drug related hallucination, especially if it helps the literary worth of this mediocre piece of writing.
Hallucination starts here:
Death opened the door and sat next to me. Surprisingly, he looked a lot like Dick Cheney, only healthier and less dangerous. Our conversation may have been something like this:
ME (looking dismissingly at Death sitting in my front seat) : What do you think of this word, SEMIPERMANENT?
Death: Aren't you worried I'm doing to take you away?
ME: That would be so cliché, with me turning 40 and all.
DEATH: You're probably right. Plus this blog really needed something more interesting. Did you lose your sense of humor knowing you're turning 40 soon?
ME: Maybe...
DEATH: Are you feeling stressed, out of control, worried, and depressed?
ME: A little...
DEATH (smiling insincerely and marking something on his PDA): Keep it up. I'll guess I'll be visiting sooner than scheduled.
ME: Eerp!
DEATH: However, on the word semi-permanent. Didn't you think that semipermanent might mean our lives here on earth? The fact that you feel like a permanent fixture on this planet with all your life problems? Not giving yourself enough time to enjoy the good things? Then suddenly one day you’re lying in an ambulance wondering what happened to all that life you used to have? You know, life if kind of semi-permanent. As
ME:
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)
Sunday, December 17, 2006
The Modern Man VS. Walletzilla
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
The Modern Man: Quick Hits
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.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Grandma
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.
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.
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