This, That, and The Other Thing

This

If you're not going to wash your hands after using the rest room, do me a favor and just rub your balls on the door handle on your way out. Stop screwing around and just do it up right.

That

Several weeks ago I was listening to the best radio show ever created (This American Life) and there was a piece by Dan Savage. Dan is a sex columnist, author, and he puts out a weekly podcast that I just recently started listening to. I downloaded one episode of the podcast, then after listening to it, went back and downloaded all 90(ish) available shows, and have been listening to very little other than that. As a result, my brain is a wee bit oversexed but I'm laughing and learning, so there's that.

The show is basically a series of voice mail messages left for Dan that he responds to "on the air". Sometimes he'll call the caller back, and other times he'll just rant by way of response. The show is funny, sad, disgusting, and ultimately enlightening. While it obviously focuses on sex, the most interesting thing the show reveals are the secret lives we're all working so hard to hide from each other. Callers are anonymous, and with that freedom comes an honesty that we almost never see in the "real world". From the young Mormon man who is struggling with coming out to his family who will most likely disown him, to minions of people calling to try to learn the origins of their particular kink or fetish, the level of honesty is shocking. And when the callers fall short of total candor or are unable to be honest with themselves, Dan is there to drag them kicking and screaming into the light.

Yesterday, I listened to Episode 53 where a 61 year old retired man called in because he felt guilty for using escort services to satisfy certain needs. It wasn't because he was ashamed of paying for sex, or because of the lack of a partner in his life. The man felt guilty for putting what he described as "extremely gorgeous looking guys" into a situation where they had to have intimate contact with him because he is extremely unattractive. He felt bad for putting people in a situation where they would have to touch him.

I'm just left thinking that so many of us are working so hard to keep our secrets, that we're missing out on a greater truth: None of us are that different from one another. When we hide what we are, our secret lives build pressure that eventually has to escape. Our judgments, our inability to laugh at ourselves, and our fears of being weird keep us from being who we are. I wish "real life" was more like The Savage Love Podcast. I think we'd all be better off.

The Other Thing

This past winter, we put up a bird feeder. Sure, it was a bad time of year to put it up, but we figured finding good eats would be tough for a bird, and we'd try to help a brotha out. We had three birds show up (that we actually saw) in a three month period. We talked to birds we saw nearby, and told them that they could take as much food as they want at Merryman Manor, but they never did.

Spring came, and while they did show up more often, it was still sporadic at best. Then, about two weeks ago, the tide turned. Our postage stamp sized front yard has become a buffet of the highest order, and Jen and I are addicted. We sit out on the porch, watch the birds in-between paragraphs of our books and sips of coffee, and we joke to each other about being the type of old married couple that sits around and watch birds.

Spring

The trees are filling in with green, giving the woods back their mystery. Gone are the winter days where you could look a hundred yards through the trees before the brown of barren tree trunks merged into an impenetrable wall blocking your sight. Now, saplings and branches, heavy with thick wet leaves steal the view just feet from the trail, making us feel like we're hiking through soft tunnels that sway with our passing. Last year's most stubborn and brittle leaves still cling to the highest branches, but are now starting to be pushed aside by new buds. One by one, they give up and release their grasp on their branches, falling into Spring.

We went for a walk last night, chatting here and there, but often just listening to the birds that have returned. A Red-headed Woodpecker flew up out of a bush near the trail, startling us both with his size. Jen paused to pick up a snail, and after looking him over, moved him to the side of the path where he wouldn't get crushed. We walked on, knowing that the storms would roll in the following day, forcing us inside.

My Wife and the Roach

Last Halloween, Jen and I did some shopping in one of those Halloween USA stores that pop up in strip malls each September. We picked up a couple of things for her to wear to school, and spent twenty-five hard earned cents on a fake rubber cockroach. Jen quickly admitted that it creeped her out, even though she knew it was fake. In fact, she had a hard time reaching into the bag to pull it out. This, of course, gave me an idea.

When she found roach waiting on her phone when she reached to grab it the next morning, she screamed. I found it on the soap in the shower soon after, and laughed. She found it in the fridge on her favorite salad dressing, and screamed. I found it the next day when I was pouring cereal into a bowl (she swears she washed it), and laughed. This continued, off and on, for months.

A few days ago, I came across the roach, neglected and waiting for some fun. I found a small container of grapes Jen had packed for her lunch, and nestled him into place amongst them so she would come across him later that day at work. She called me that afternoon laughing.

Then, the roach disappeared. I didn't see him for days. Until, that is, the day the following picture was taken. She said she opened it, placed him in with his head poking out, and then sealed him in with a bit of super glue. She's a good wife.

Excuse the blurry pic, but you get the idea.

Funeral By Numbers

2 Days.
1150 miles.
6 dirty public bathrooms
1 awesome iPod Playlist.
2 breaks to walk dogs, feed dogs, pet dogs, and pee.
1 small cooler filled with
-6 cans Coke Zero (fuelled by diet colas)
-1 ham sandwich
-2 pieces Light String Cheese
-2 Light Yogurt cups

2 boxes Jelly Belly assorted jelly beans.
2 funeral viewings.
7 pairs of wax lips from Farm & Fleet.
8-10 beers.
1 Butt Sex "shooter".
1 crying, laughing, happy, and sad wife.
1 hangover.
17 hours in the driver's seat.
1 numb ass.
1 funeral.
1 graveside service.
1 family luncheon.
1 mother crying as she says good-bye.
1 return home.
4 hours sleep.

Five Men

I could feel the hair on his head reverberate like a guitar string, sizzling as though electrified, not limp and dying like the graying strands of my own. I ran my fingers through it while he slept. It was an intimate gesture I was uncomfortable with, but something I couldn't stop myself from doing. He opened his eyes, startled. My hands, buried in mounds of clean black hair, moved in their shame to his throat. I stopped them, turned, and ran from the room.

---

White rabbits shoot out from under his fingernails when no one is looking, but the moment an audience gathers he goes numb and can't lift his arms from his sides.

---

He took a small crumble of brick from Ground Zero and now it sits in his office, staring at him from the corner. Nearly 3000 souls were absorbed by the dusty composition of the stone that day. He wasn't sure why he took it from the site, but now that he has he knows he can't get rid of it. He can't put all those souls out in the alley with the eggshells and coffee grounds of his daily waste.

---

He bought a gun to shoot at the geese that shit all over his back yard, clumping the grass and fouling the wet Spring air, but the weight of the weapon scared him. Instead, he sits out on the porch with the rifle in his lap pretending he is the kind of man that could raise it to his shoulder and fire.

---

He once saved a child's life. The girl started to step out into traffic without looking and he had gotten a handful of her coat, pulling her back onto the littered curb. The girl didn't realize the magnitude of the moment, and crossed without a word when the flashing "Walk" sign threw its green neon into the air. He could only stand there and watch her disappear, wishing there was someone he could share this moment with.

Randomness Abounds

When I was a little kid, I didn't have much in the way of a tough male role model. As a result, I was convinced that my uncle Curt was the baddest man alive. He had a habit of chewing on the corner of his lower lip, a habit I immediately equated with toughness. One morning, I was on the bus on my way to school and there was an older kid who was staring at me. I didn't like it, so I started chewing on the corner of my bottom lip, showing him I was a bad man and not to be messed with. The kid started laughing at me, and then sucked in half of his lower lip and gnawed on it with yellowed fence post teeth. I remember being shocked that someone would use my own "I'm tough" signals back at me in a mocking manner. I immediately decided that posturing wasn't my thing.

- - - - - - - -

The last couple of days I've started going for a walk on my lunch. Yesterday, I froze without a hat and gloves, so today I came better prepared. I go across the street to a park and walk around a gravel nature trail towards the back of the property. It's a great way to spend an hour. The deer, undersized from the crowded conditions, are used to people and run more out of habit than from actual fear. The squirrels are fat and sleek, looking freshly oiled and seem to be everywhere. They say there's a good fox population, but I've never seen proof of that, and I guess I don't expect to. There's still some snow around, though there seems to be less of it today than there was yesterday. It's limited now to the fallen limbs and trees and along the piles of leaves, but has melted in the places where it had fallen on the actual ground.

- - - - - - - - -

Jen got an automated call from her doctor telling her she had a message in her secure voice mail. She called up and listened to a voice mail that told her she was cancer free. The margins of the mass they removed were nice and clean, and she now has less than a week before the stitches come out.

- - - - - - - - -

We've been doing some things around the house getting ready for Jen's mother's Thanksgiving visit, and our decorating is finally starting to get weird enough to make me happy. First, I got Kim Jong iLL hung up along the stairway half wall on the second floor landing. They're lower than I had planned on, and not immediately visible when you go upstairs, but they looked so great there that they had to stay. We also got some other prints up including a great shot of Madonna (Jen is a huge fan of early Madonna) completely nude (Stephen is a huge fan of early or late nudity) while hitchhiking. I know what you're thinking because I've already heard it before: "I wouldn't hang that crap in my house". That, dear friend, is why you don't live here. It makes me smile every time I see it. We also got some family photos framed and hung, so our house, after 6 years, is finallly starting to look a little homey. Well, our version of homey anyway.

Good to See You

Hi there. How you been?

I've been away for awhile, I know. I've been a busy man, and it seems like Ye Olde Blog always suffers as a result. Not that I'm as busy as I'd like to think. I'm sure that will become painfully obvious the more I write this "catching up" posting. To be fair, I'm quite sure that I'm not doing much of anything but have inflated my own importance by feigning busyness when in fact there are plenty of hours in each day to do all the things I want to do. Ah, inflating my own importance. That doesn't sound out of line with someone narcissistic enough to have a blog in the first place, I suppose.

Ah well, at any rate, I feel busy sometimes. I'm writing a bit here and there, Jen and I have developed a rather unhealthy addiction to Dr. Mario (now available for download on Wii), I'm trying to find a home for a short story of mine called "Bridge", I'm saving pennies for a fun little creative side project (super secret), and a lot of other stuff that just has to be done but is zero fun to write about. You know, it's just life. By and large, it's good right now.

So, I'll try to post a bit more often, but for now I'll leave you with the following:
Back several months ago, the cubicle farm I worked in was right beside some desks occupied by Subprime Loan Officers. That's right, a handful of the people responsible (sort of) for our current economic woes were in my midst. To call them loud and annoying would have been an understatement. To call their management team interesting would be kind. To call their decorating sense tasteful would be a joke. For months I had to go into an office decorated with the following signs. These are the real deal...grainy cell phone pictures taken on the day they moved to another building. I walked around their workspace taking pictures and telling them how much I was going to miss them. Hmmmm.

The last one is still my favorite. In addition to being obnoxious, it makes no sense whatsoever. Seriously. Try reading it aloud for kicks.

"You suck"

"You know what would be great? If we could find a sign that would let everyone know we're douche bags with just one glance..."

"Synergize!"

"HABIT!!!"

My New Lunch Spot

We moved to a new office recently. On the grounds there's this strange place. I don't know what it used to be, but it appears to be some sort of foundation. Regardless, perched at the top with my ham sandwhich and bananna is where you'll find me on nice days. Feel free to stop by, just don't talk. It's better quiet.

Time Card Blues

Everywhere you turn it's golf shirts and stainless steel wrapped coffee mugs with rubber studs that assure a strong easy grip in the office place. It's like we need a performance coffee mug that won't fly out of our hands as we round corners heading to the conference room or try to load paper into the printer with one hand while sipping our favorite hot beverage.

The carpet is so thin it looks like it was applied as a liquid and allowed to dry in the air-conditioning. You can sometimes hear footsteps through it. I was here early, so I can hear the rolling laptop bags go by behind me as management members find their cubicles. They're on their phones talking about calls they need to make. If I close my eyes, I feel like I'm at the airport. All that's missing is the smell of Cinnabon and a voice from above telling me not to leave my baggage unattended.

The fluorescent bulbs over my desk are significantly brighter than the ones humming away in the other fixtures. I'm looking forward to more people showing up to work so their background noise will mask the sound of that humming. It makes me think of how I always said that people who live under electrical wires were crazy, and I pretend I can hear the electricity sizzle and crack above me.

People arrive and say the most interesting things:

"You see, if we had a screen door, we could leave the other door open and then maybe get a breeze."

"We leave the porch light off, because if we don't you can see the bugs congregating. They seem to like the light."

"I'm getting ready to punch my kids like a man."

"They'll never be able to sell that place. It stinks so bad of fish and curry."

"Nasanex always works for me. I always feel better afterwards."

And just like that, I'm missing the hum of the lights above me again. I want to kneel in the corner and pick at the edge of the carpet there until I can peel it from the floor and wrap it around me like a blanket. Huddled like a flood-victim in carpet flecked with staples and shoe dirt, I'll crawl under my desk and ride out the storm of another Thursday. At five, I'll crawl out blinking in the unnaturally bright fluorescence and get in the line that leads outside.

Cast of Characters

Bob was from Buffalo. He and his brother Jeff had just moved to the area and I don't remember how I met either of them. One day they were just there, sitting around the porch with us, drinking bottle after bottle of Miller Genuine Draft and chain smoking. Bob was through with high school, and helped get me a job at Pizza Hutt. Jeff was still in school, and used to come to the porch at night with limply rolled joints he bought in the hallways.

Liz was a friend of Angie. High strung and fidgety, she always made a room hum with nervous energy. We clashed immediately. She had known Ang for a long time, but to call them close would have been an overstatement. After a few weeks, she started sleeping with Bob and I think they eventually wound up having a kid. She was always on the fringe of the crowd, and once she started dating Bob, he moved to the outer circle too.

Angie was a mess. She didn't just burn through brain cells like the rest of us, she tortured them like a budding serial killer tortures a kitten. You could hear them scream with every lungfull of smoke or shot of tequila. She had both nipples pierced, and it was the first time I had seen that particular piercing in person. Each night, she would make herself a frozen pizza (her only meal of the day) and would cover every square inch of the top of it with sliced green olives. From a distance, all you could see was the pickled green of the olives with the mechanically cut squares of pimento stuffing. She would eat the entire thing while smoking Camel after Camel. One day, I remember her complaining that she was out of weed. In frustration, she ran her fingers through her hair, and from it she pulled a rather large bud. She had passed out the night before and had rolled in her stash in her sleep. Excited, she ran to get her one-hitter.

Renee was a child. Pretty and innocent and wanting to be neither, she spent as much time around us as we'd allow. At fifteen, we felt guilty in her presence, so we'd try to send her away when we could. I got to know her again when we were both older and a bit wiser and it wasn't until then that I gained a bit of affection for her. Emotionally crippled in ways I was only vaguely familiar with, she was always falling apart or putting herself back together. It was something I found fascinating at the time. She had a brother, but I don't remember his name now even though he was around quite a bit at the time as well. I can see his face though.

Rick was a kid that lived upstairs with his very worried mother. She was a sweet woman who saw goodness in our crew, but knew we were generally not going to be a positive influence on her kid. Rick was kept to the outer circle by her involvement and concern. Good for her. Good for him.

Chris was my best friend and made the move to Texas with me. In life, there are very few real creative geniuses. A lot of people have moments of brilliance, but it is rare to burn bright all the time. Chris was always burning. His personality was so big it wore you down, and he was always testing you, pushing your buttons and limits to see where your boundaries were. People who didn't know him well just thought he was an asshole, and he was that, but for the few that really knew him we knew that was just part of the package and that there was more to it than that. Over a long enough time-line though, most of us came around to the same realization as everyone else. He was just too much to be around for any real length of time.

Sweetpea did things in her life that she could never forget or get past. She would bury these memories as deep as she could, but chemicals have a way of bringing everything to the surface, and there were lots of chemicals around. Desperate and sad, funny and endearing, you wanted to take care of her.

There were others. It was a revolving cast of people that would filter through the porch each night. It was rare to walk outside day or night, and not find someone stubbing out a cigarette butt, looking for something to do and waiting for other bored people to wander by. I haven't seen or heard from any of them in years. Even Chris. I know he's in the state and still playing music, but that's all.

I find myself still thinking about these people on occasion, and I wonder how it's possible that someone who has no close friends now could have had so many back then. Am I so much a different person now? Better? Worse? Obviously a lot has changed for me over time, but I automatically assume that nothing has changed for any of these people. When I wonder what they're doing, I can only picture them doing the same stupid shit as back then, but now heavier or with less hair or with kids hanging on them. In my mind, I'm the only one that is allowed to grow. They have to stay as I remember them.

That's the way I like it.

Sprung

I woke up this morning ready for the weekend. I don't know why it is, but I work a short week like I did this week, it feels twice as long. We've got big plans for the weekend, and I imagine we'll get to most of it. As long as it includes time for Assassin's Creed and Rachet and Clank (purchased during lunch today) I'll be a happy man.

I stepped out on the front porch this morning to get a look at our Lilac bush. We've been clipping small bunches of the blooms and putting them in a vase on our kitchen table. The smell fills our entire first floor. It's always been Jen's favorite part of Spring, and it's quickly becoming mine. This morning though, I could see that the tiny purple blooms are starting to drift to the mulch below, decorating the dirt as if for a party. I was sorry to see them start to go, but I'm looking forward to summer. The trees in our neighborhood have given up the tentative leafing, and are rolling full steam in the longer days. The spring flowers are starting to fade to make room for June's new blooms, and I think we're all just waiting for it to finally get into the 80's and stay there.

My lunch hour reminded me of my morning. After running to Gamestop to trade in some old PS2 stuff for the two new games noted above, I headed over to a strip mall near the office for a cigar. Calorie free and delicious, I love smoking a cigar when it's cool out in the evening around a fire, which is exactly what I'm planning to do Saturday night. When I got out of the car, I noticed that the sidewalk and curb was covered with flower petals. The local flower shop had evidently taken leftovers and decorated the sidewalk in front of their storefront. I felt like a bride on her special day. Well, at least like a bride headed to a Cigar Shop that luckily had a new box of Cohibas stocked. A dirty, stinking, cigar-smoking bride.

Unnatural Fear Number One

Sometimes, I'm awake and I'm waiting for it. I'm expecting it.

It will be a thousand thunderclaps at once or a shotgun blast in your head bouncing back and forth between your ears. It will be the sound of my bedroom door being kicked down in the middle of the night, splintering, the frame fractured and seeping its pine scent. Gabriel's horn will roll through the hills, beating the lush green mountains to dust and leveling humanity.

I flinch with each dropped box or gunshot that rings out in the dark, honestly worried it will be the thing that finally tips the scales out of our favor, setting flame to the short fuse rooted in the powder keg of night. The explosion will push across the universe, no atmosphere to slow its path. Its light will bloom so intensely from behind the sun that the warm rays of sunlight will be replaced with a thin caustic shadow withering plants and scattering the animals.

I've been waiting since I was a kid. I would lay there in the night, door cracked allowing light from the hallway to spill into the room, waiting for the crash..the explosion. Logically I don't really believe it will ever come, and I get the feeling that I keep imagining it so that if it ever does happen, I won't be surprised. I'll be the one person who knew.

And I'm still that kid. Sometimes, there in the night I still wonder when it will happen. When will the sky be torn apart leaving us to float in its blood? When will the monumental sound of everything stopping all at once rip us screaming from sleep?

Big Times in the Small City

If all goes according to plan, we've got a pretty big weekend ahead of us. I'm already looking forward to work on Monday. It'll give me a chance to relax.

Tonight, the fine students of the school Jen works at are putting on a production of "The Laramie Project". I'm actually really looking forward to it since the school is pretty well respected for their Drama Department. Plus, it's just good to support the students, so even if it sucks we'll still get to feel like better people for investing in the future of Central Ohio Community Theater. Ten years from now, we'll stumble drunkenly into the Medieval Times and I'll get to yell "I knew that jouster when he was in high school!"

After the play, it'll be time for laundry. This will be awesome.

Tomorrow morning we're up early to go for our favorite hike. We're hoping to get to Hocking Hills around 8:30 or 9:00 so we have the park pretty much to ourselves. It's always worth the trip, and with all the rain this week it should be a challenge too. We'll take extra clothes, but if I go face first into a mud puddle I promise to post a pic. Otherwise, if you want to see what Hocking Hills looks like, you can check out this post .

We should be able to get back around noon, we'll clean up and head to my brother's place out in the country. Once there, we're going for yet another walk while looking for mushrooms. It's really just an excuse to have something to do, and if we find some mushrooms, all the better.

(Note: We will be searching for edible varieties that do not contain psilocybin. We're thinking of something good to go with grilled chicken, not tripping balls. I think most of you know me, but just in case I wanted to get that clear. Previous postings (that may or may not be fiction) may cloud the issue, so...there you go. No tripping for Pat Robertson's Lust Puppet.)

Once we have loaded up with what I am sure will be no mushrooms, we'll head back and hang out at my brother's place for the night. I plan on sitting around the fire pit and puffing down a delicious Cohiba.

Sunday morning/ afternoon will be a run to The North Market for locally grown grocery goodness (and other alliterations) followed with some shopping. Jen and I are both in dire need of clothing that doesn't have to be kept in place with straps and buckles. After that, we're off to see The Reverend Horton Heat at The Newport Music Hall.

I haven't been to the Newport in years, but back in the day I saw the majority of my shows there. It is a dump. The bathrooms usually have three inches of standing water in them, it's a bit smelly and stuffy, and will probably one day burn to the ground because of electrical problems, but it has a warm place in my heart. It's historic because it's the oldest continually operating rock club in the US. The place holds less than 3000 people legally, but has been visited by Pink Floyd, The Stones, and pretty much everyone else you can think of.

It's not that I'm super into seeing The Reverend (although it'll be fun), but I won the tickets from the good folks at WCBE and will make good use of them.

So, I'll check in next week and list all of the stuff that we didn't do that we thought we would. I might have to swap something out for some Mario Kart time.

Buying Groceries With Faster Pussycat

I'm a guy that generally take a good hour and a half to feel really awake after getting up in the morning. I muddle through mornings on autopilot, managing to survive a morning, but never really feeling engaged. This morning though, something cut through that haze.

On the television was your standard car commercial, but in the background the good folks from Chevy had selected a stripped down remix version of "Lazy Eye" by the Silversun Pickups. I died a little inside.

OK, I realize that SSPU are not exactly on par with "Instant Karma" being used by Nike, but I really like this band. They're a bit of a throwback to the wall of sound Smashing Pumpkins and noisy growl of My Bloody Valentine (comparisons that everyone makes, I know. That doesn't make them incorrect though). I saw them last summer and they were amazing live. So it hurt to see a Chevy Malibu being built in a factory to the lyrics "I've been waiting / I've been waiting for this moment all my life..." Sob.

It's like that though. They're a small band, and the drugs can't always be free. There's a new album to record, and they're on a small label (http://www.dangerbirdrecords.com) It's just that I like to keep my art and advertising separate. ESPECIALLY when it comes to car commercials.
Everyday I get surprised by how the music that is/was important has become used in ways I never would have guessed.

I'm a big Lou Reed / Velvet Underground fan. There's just something about the guy. Funny thing is, that awhile back I was driving around listening to the radio when I heard the string section from a song called "Street Hassle" (Lou Reed solo stuff) playing prominently in an advertisement for one of our local "Heart" hospitals. It was so funny to hear the voice-over guy talking about how said hospital beats the national average for heart attack response time by over twenty minutes backed by music Lou wrote. It was a wise choice not to include any of the parts of the song that contained lyrics:

"You know, I’m glad that we met man
It really was nice talking
And I really wish that there was a little more time to speak
But you know it could be a hassle
Trying to explain myself to a police officer
About how it was that your old lady got herself stiffed
And it’s not like we could help
But there was nothing no one could do
And if there was, man, you know I would have been the first
But when someone turns that blue
Well, it’s a universal truth
And then you just know that bitch will never fuck again
By the way, that’s really some bad shit
That you came to our place with
But you ought to be more careful around the little girls
It’s either the best or it’s the worst
And since I don’t have to choose
I guess I won’t and I know this ain’t no way to treat a guest
But why don’t you grab your old lady by the feet
And just lay her out on the darkened street
And by morning, she’s just another hit and run
You know, some people got no choice
And they can’t never find a voice
To talk with that they can even call their own
So the first thing that they see
That allows them the right to be
Why they follow it, you know, it’s called bad luck"

Nothing says responsive heart care like a song about ODing. Not to mention the fact that the first part details a sex scene in a kitchen. Oh well, I guess the music sounds nice enough and I'm sure that was far as they thought about it. Somewhere though, there is an ad exec patting himself on the back and saying "Fuck yeah, Lou Reed".

It's like this everywhere I go. I heard Modest Mouse at the grocery store a while back. There I am, pissed that I forgot to pick up English Muffins when I was in the bread isle, and they're playing "Dashboard". All of the 80's hairband music that I used to think was so hardcore (yes, I thought Motley Crue was hardcore when I was 12, what of it?) is the new muzak. You can hear The Scorpions or Great White being played in offices across Mid America right now. Seriously, just pop in to a local temp agency or insurance office. They're listening to Van Halen and yawning.

How long will it be before I see a Nine Inch Nails Volkswagen commercial or hear Sonic Youth in an elevator? How long before Ozzy Osbourne plays the telethon for Jerry's Kids and licks Ed McMahon's wilting cheek? ("Ha! That tickles, sir!") When are the fine young men of Wolfmother going to introduce a new line of flatware to be sold exclusively at Target?

Actually, if I'm honest, we could use new silverware...

That Time

Do you remember that time we danced in the living room to Otis Redding?

Do you remember that time I shot my brother's nine millimeter into the air, and only wondered where the bullet would come down after I pulled the trigger?

Do you remember that time I stole the bottle of Adidas cologne out of that kid's pocket in middle school, even though I knew he would know it was me?

Do you remember that time we used to smoke the crushed butts of Viceroys out of your old man's ashtray?

Do you remember that time you brought vodka to the Youth Group trip to Chicago?

Do you remember that time that guy we knew got his hands of six pint bottles of raw ether and the way we screamed when you tried to light a cigarette?

Do you remember that time when we couldn't stop laughing?

Do you remember that time we walked up on that group of six deer and they just stood there and looked at us?

Do you remember that time I was looking down into the Valley of Armageddon, and didn't even realize it?

Do you remember that time we held hands while walking on the beach and then cracked up at what a cliche we were?

Do you remember that time I told the kids at school I had lots of GI Joe vehicles and figures because I wanted them to like me even though they probably already did?

Do you remember that time I saw the neighbor kid's dad punch him for not helping with the groceries fast enough?

Do you remember that time you told me that you hate people that do the things you do?

Do you remember that time we sat in your car in the parking lot at Kroger trying to pick up the Indianapolis station long enough to hear Radiohead's "Creep"?

(Regina Spektor's "That Time" came up on my iPod and got me rolling.)

A Veritable Potpourri of Whatnots

Every morning when I drive to work, and then each evening when I drive home, I look for deer along the edges of yards and in the fields along the highway. While I often see them, I don't know why I spend so much time looking for them in the first place.

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Most days I will chew an entire pack of Orbit gum at work. It first started because the diet I'm on gives you funny smelling breath. They say it has something to do with being in ketosis. Well, it started with that, but now it's an obsession. Unless I am having the one cup of coffee I allow myself in the morning, I am chewing gum while at work. Rarely do I chew gum at home though.

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The other day I got home from work and was talking to Jen. I turned to go to upstairs and she called me back. She had noticed that the back of the jeans I was wearing had ripped from the top of the pocket down to the top of my thigh. I had worn the jeans all day at work, but have no idea when or how they ripped. It's possible I spent the entire day at work with my butt hanging out, although everyone denies having noticed. Fortunately, I was rockin' some super swanky boxers.

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I like being outside on Wednesday's at noon when the city does the Tornado Siren testing each week. I didn't realize that until today, but every time I'm out and about at that time and I hear the whine in the air I like it. Although,I liked the sirens considerably less last year when they went off for real and Jen and I had to hang out in our downstairs bathroom waiting for the funnel clouds to pass.

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I preordered Wii Fit today. I'm going to get the new Mario Kart soon too. Bask in my geekiness! I SAID BASK!

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I love tattoos. Well, some tattoos. I've always wanted some ink done, but never had anything in mind that I loved enough to get on my own skin. I see other people's tatts and think that they look cool, but they're never anything I would want on my own skin. A long time ago I read East of Eden and fell in love with the book. It's still my favorite book of all time. In the book, they discuss the word "timshel" which in Hebrew translates to "Thou Mayest". Biblically it refers to free will. The reference is to the passage that says "Thou mayest rule over sin". I love affirmation of free will. You may rule over sin. You may choose not to. You may choose to romp and roll in it. For me, not being a born again (the first time was enough, thanks) gentleman, I just like the idea it conveys about personal choice, and the responsibility that comes with it.

I decided years ago that if I got work done, it would be the original Hebrew characters on one inner arm, and then "timshel" inside the other arm. I always said that I would wait until I dropped some pounds first though. 100 of them to be exact. Well, here I am, realistically within three weeks of hitting that goal and still not sure if I want to do it. I really love tattoos, but again, I really love other people's tattoos. We'll see.

Parked Cars

The parking garage was dark inside, even during the day. Although it was an open air garage only two stories tall, light and fresh air seemed incapable of entering further than ten feet inside its parameter. Leaves and litter scratch their way across the pavement like a well manicured nail pressed and drawn against slate. Chewing gum, smashed into flat ovals, blackened with dirt, doesn't even try sticking to the soles of my tennis shoes anymore.

Once you passed the place where the sun no longer reaches, the garage smells like an ashtray. Carbon monoxide stings your eyes, and seems to coat your hair.

Sparrows peck at the cupcake wrappers that have blown against support posts and taste the cigarette butts collected in the pavement's seams. They hop over the faded yellow paint that breaks the floor into hundreds of parking spaces, and scatter at the arrival of the maintenance crew that has arrived to knock their newly constructed nests from the I-beams above to the ground. The sparrows cry and scold from their piles of debris, unsure what to do.

Suddenly it seems a decision is made. The birds swarm out of the garage as a group and settle amongst the trees at the edge of the property finding warmth in the sun. Walking past my parked car and out the side of the building I decide to try to follow them as far as I can.

Untitled (First Draft Doodling -Now with extra edits!)

(NOTE: The following post has been cleaned up a bit since it was first posted. My lovely wife is the best editor I could ask for when it comes to grammar and punctuation. It's nice to have someone you care about point out how bad you are at something. Thanks, honey.)

"Why don't we hear birds singing more often here?" she asked as they walked through the forest, following the ragged, rock-studded trail. Phillip had stopped walking and closed his eyes listening, noticing for the first time the oddly quiet trees. It did seem strange to be in the middle of the forest and to hear so few birds.

"Maybe it's too early for most of them?" he said, guessing. He heard his wife sigh as she started walking again. She had little use for guesses as a rule, and even less patience for guesses that came from him. She had once complained that he had to have an answer for everything, and even if he didn't know, he would make up an answer just to have something to say.

It was the lack of bird song in the air that Phillip found himself thinking about as he regained consciousness. He was on his back, and his blurry gaze smeared the electric-green pines across a clouding sky. He lay still, letting his over-tasked mind take stock of the dozens of messages his body was sending him all at once. The left leg screamed the loudest, its voice cracking and breaking with the force, pushing the slightly softer voices coming from the rest of his body to the background. Phillip started to reach instinctively with his right arm to run down the outside edge of his leg, but it wouldn't move. Best to think about the arm in a minute, he thought, and decided to try his left.

Phillip's index and middle fingers walked slowly down the outside of his hip and down his leg, pulling its arm behind it until he felt his left shoulder lower just slightly, causing a jagged flash of pain to rip across his chest. His fingertips rested on jagged splinters of what he reasoned must be bone. "Shit" he muttered.

Slowly he tried to account for his injuries as best as he could without moving. His left leg was broken into kindling, right arm still immobile, left wrist throbbing with each beat of his heart. Phillip's chest felt like a barbed-wire tumbleweed was blowing around, scraping at the inside of his skin and lungs with each breath. He closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing, not wanting the panic that was tapping him on the shoulder to crawl on top of him and start screaming the truth of his situation in his face.

In movies, when someone wakes up after being knocked unconscious they awaken confused, never sure what happened to them. It takes a doctor or sensative-eyed police officer gently breaking the news before realization and memory comes flooding back. For Phillip though, he remembered everything. He remembered standing on the overlook, watching the swaying treetops at eye level. He remembered the sudden absence of ground under his feet. He remembered the blur of rock and sky. He remembered the warmth of Janelle's palms in the middle of his back and being surprised at the force and strength behind them as she pushed.

Slowly, Phillip opened his eyes and looked to the cliff face above where she still stood, looking down on him. Small in the distance, he imagined a look of disappointment on her face as she looked down at his small movements. They stayed that way, Janelle with arms crossed glaring down the cliff, Phillip reclining amongst the rocks his limbs improbably folded in 45 degree angles, looking at each other through the distance. Slowly, Janelle turned and disappeared from sight.

A soft red movement caught Phillip's eye, and he turned his head to examine the source. High above, perched near the top of a still-budding Maple, a Robin had lighted and swayed in the breeze watching him. Feeling insecure with its perch, the Robin flitted and adjusted, finding purchase on a thicker branch. The bird seemed unafraid, accustomed to the heavy weekend traffic of the state park. Still, it kept its distance while appearing to maintain eye contact and Phillip found himself seeing the same disappointed look that had clouded his wife's face in the sharp intelligence of the Robin's eyes.

Without telegraphing intention, the Robin swooped down and found rest on a lower branch, this one a mere ten feet from Phillip. Still it seemed to keep its focus on him, never looking side to side.

Phillip smiled up at the bird. He saw it breathe in and open its mouth.

"Are you going to sing for me?" he whispered up, his chest pinching around the words.

The bird closed its mouth, turned to the side and flew away.

Sketching During Lunch Yet Again

I play off my unwillingness to be completely honest as a sickness. It's some overused sympathy extractor, and you'll work to convince yourself that I'm trying, always trying. You think you know more about me than anyone else and that some day the words will start to roll out of my mouth and you'll be there to help me collect them from the floor and we'll put them together into sentences that will reveal hiddent truths to us both. You will believe the words when they come, and maybe I will too.

But I'll be watching to see what my words grow into. I'll mother them through childhood and I'll worry about them as teenagers as they break the promises I made. In the end, I will have to let go and hope they become at least an inkling of what I had in head when I let them leave my tongue.

They never are.

Doodling At Lunch II

She's the kind of girl that just starts talking and then looks around to find someone to listen to her. If you make eye contact you're done for. She'll focus on you and direct the rest of her thoughts at you, simply because you were unlucky enough to raise your eyes.

Head down, son. Focus on your screen and keep the music pumping through your headphones.

I hate this place right now