albatross necktie

Memories, like the pages of my mind...

2011-10-14T11:51:00.003-05:00

So, the missus and I are doing a quick power cleaning in preparation for a visit from her dad. I find housework irritating (Duh!) and one of the ways I can make it more palatable is with music. Whether it's my iPod or Pandora or Slacker, I find a genre and crank it up. I'll clean the counter-tops popping my booty to hip-hop or turn the toilet brush upside-down for some improvisational air guitar rock. I'll sing at the top of my lungs, making sure to control my oft overused vibrato. It's the Clorox music festival and I'm the main act. That is, until a particular song got me thinking.

We all have music on our iPods that has no business being there. Maybe you're a fifteen-year old boy who secretly keeps a copy of "Oops! I Did it Again" or a thirty-something woman whose dinner party is interrupted by an unexpected appearance of "Slob on My Nob." Today, as I cleaned and rocked, "Only You" by the Flying Pickets disturbed my groove with a fiercely a-Capella shock. It's bad enough that the song is on my iPod, but making matters psychologically worse is the fact that I don't even like the song. At all. What's it doing there? How did it end up in my iTunes library? Let's take it a step further. I KNEW ALL THE WORDS!

How is it possible that I know every lyric to a song I didn't know existed in my library and that I don't particularly like? I gave it some thought, and I know the words to TONS of songs that I don't like. "Harden my Heart" by Quarterflash? Yep. "The Way We Were" by Barbara Streisand? Check. "Ice, Ice, Baby" by Vanilla Ice? Every last worthless rhyme. Is this ability to retain unpleasantness a clue to my essence? It goes beyond music, actually.

I can tell you everything you ever wanted to know about the Brat Pack movies from the 1980s. I clearly remember nearly every unpleasant person I've ever met. I am a card-carrying atheist who can recite the call and response of Catholic services better than the Pope. (The Lord is with you/ And also with you/ Lift up your hearts/ We lift them up to the Lord/ Let us give thanks to the Lord, our God/ It is right to give him thanks and praise/ dingalingaling.) In the meanwhile, I can't remember when my oldest son first walked. I have no idea what my favorite color is, nor my favorite restaurant, book or song. I couldn't answer the question, "What's your best memory?" but I know precisely (to the minute) the moment of my life which was my worst.

I hadn't ever considered myself a pessimist as much as a recreational cynic, but this musical catharsis has offered me some alarming introspection. I may not be just a funny guy with a slightly dark side. I may just be more than a little grumpy. I'm not the recreational cynic I'd always hoped to be. I am clearly incapable of happiness, or if not, I get my happiness from pain and irritation. Who am I? Am I a sadist? A masochist? A depressive? Who or what am I? I think I know and I have the Flying Pickets to thank.

I'm an asshole.

I've got the blues...

2011-07-25T10:17:00.006-05:00

I've got me a guitar. I've visited Youtube and viewed grainy video lessons presented by oily faced teenagers sitting in front of their iMacs offering to teach the Pentatonic blues scales, 12 bar riffs and BB King signature licks. I've downloaded several Midi files featuring mechanical, digitally reproduced backing tracks complete with synthesized horn sections, bass lines and perfectly syncopated drum kits. I am, essentially, a one-man garage band. I'm ready to take it up a notch. I'm going to form a band.

I played in a band in high school that never really amounted to anything. Of course, our first line of business was to name the band. We settled on "Caution" because of the endless possible album titles (I.e. "Caution: Deaf Child" or "Caution: Wet Panties") We practiced sporadically in our drummer's basement and, to my recollection, never played in front of people. Our set-list consisted of the first forty seconds of several popular tunes of the day (late 1980s), "Getting Better" by Tesla in its entirety, and a twenty-three minute version of "Wipeout" where every band member played a solo.

The Caution line-up was a mix of clearly talented musicians and those of us who really liked the idea of being musicians. I played bass guitar (poorly) and had made a suggestion that, for the sake of establishing a Rock-n-Roll persona, I should be referred to as Blotto. The idea never really took off, which in hind sight was probably for the best. You can't give yourself a nickname. Nicknames must be earned so as to avoid any sign of pretense. As we all know, Rock-n-Roll mixed with pretense is a recipe for disaster.

The rest of the band included Scotty on rhythm guitar, Dan on lead guitar and Shad on drums. For about six minutes in 1988, we had a singer named Terry. Between Scotty, Terry and me, there was great desire to be in a band but not much by way of talent or courage. To rock, one must have either talent or courage. The truly remarkable rockers, the professional rockers, have both. When it came to actual rocking, Dan and Shad had the most potential.

Dan showed talent in his guitar playing, but more than that he was fearless. Dan took musical risks that, at times, were tortuous and amateur, leaving the rest of the band looking as if we'd sucked every last bit of juice from a lemon. Rather than acknowledging the sour tones coming from his 50 Watt Marshall, Dan would press on as if nothing had happened. Don't get me wrong, Dan played quite well, especially for a guy who never had taken one lesson nor had the luxury of the internet. I have no idea if he ever capitalized on his talent or played in front of an audience.

Shad was probably the most talented member of Caution. He was impressive, not just in his playing ability which was remarkable, but also in his style. He would destroy his "Wipeout" solos and move straight back into the verse without missing a beat. Then, during the more repetitive and (for lack of a better term) boring drumming parts, Shad would twirl a stick or swing his arm behind his head just like Tommy Lee. Shad was more polished than the rest of us. So, it's no surprise that he was the one that actually went on to become a bona fide rocker, playing in a few bands that played at real venues in front of real people. I envy him for that.

I'm forty-years old now and inspired to play real music at real venues in front of real people. I don't necessarily have any more talent than I had in 1988, but the years I've gained have brought courage with them. Courage might be enough. I'm going to form a blues band. I want to practice in someone's basement for a while and play more than the first forty seconds of several songs. I can envision myself and two or three other musicians in a smoky (well, not anymore, I suppose) bar, collaborating to create deep and soulful music. I'm ready to stand up in front of strangers, and have hot six-stringed sex with them.

Of course, there's every reason to believe that this is a matter of mid-life crisis and that I'm merely rekindling a lost dream of my youth, but a blues band is cheaper and less dangerous than a sports car.

Kids are jerks....

2011-07-22T11:33:00.004-05:00

Louis CK (http://www.louisck.net/) is one of our greatest philosophers. I'm beginning this post with a citation because it is Louis CK's philosophy that informs much of what I'm about to write and I don't want to be accused of intellectual dishonesty. I encourage the reader to become acquainted with his work, especially on the topic of parenthood.

At least half of the time, my children are jerks. Seriously. Take a look at how your children act and see if you can objectively disagree. They are self-centered and destructive. They're need-machines and offer nothing in return. When's the last time your child offered to help out with the electric bill? Have they even ONE TIME said, "Hey Mom? Why don't you let me get the tip?" They're free loaders and no one is calling them on it! Would it kill them to offer a compliment here or there? "Hey, Dad. Have you been cutting carbs? You look great!"

My two-year old is a good example of how kids are complete A-holes. This morning, round about 3:00 AM, he wakes up. That's all fine and nice, but instead of just getting himself a nice cup of milk and quietly reading, he started with the crying. Of course, after about twenty minutes, all that racket woke me up. So, there I stood in his doorway and know what? He had the audacity to smile at me. Worse still, he had crapped. I'm not kidding. He actually crapped in his own pants. Well, it was a diaper but you get the point. I changed his diaper and got him a cup of water before encouraging him to sleep a bit more (which he did not choose to do.). After all of that, the little cretin didn't even offer so much as a "Thanks, Dad." Ingrate.

A few weeks ago, the four-year old actually stooped to psychological/emotional abuse. No kidding! I had just ordered pizza for the whole family (Yes. I had to pay for it all out of my own pocket.). The four-year old asks:
"Daddy? Can I have a snack?"
"No, baby. Daddy just ordered pizza." Frankly, I resent that I have to even explain myself.
"But Daddy, I'm hungry." She stamped her foot to demonstrate how serious she was.
"Well, we're going to have food here shortly," I said. "You'll just have to be patient."
"Daddy! That makes me sad."
"I'm sorry you are feeling sad, but that doesn't change my position," I stood firm. "You'll just have to wait until the pizza gets here."

Let me take a break here, for a second. Prepare yourselves. Clear your mind for a moment. Some of you will not believe how she responded. Unfortunately, I was not surprised because I live with these rude little boors 24/7.

"Daddy, that makes me sad and if you make me sad, I won't love you anymore. I'll get a new daddy....who's a man."

I don't know which part of that should offend me the most; that she uses her love to levy snacks or the implicit notion that she doesn't recognize my manhood. I should probably reevaluate my parenting since my four-year old daughter considers it OK to emasculate me over a granola bar or a package of fruit snacks. Screw that! I shouldn't have to take this kind of treatment from anyone, let alone someone who's getting pizza on my dime!

I know what you're thinking. "They're only kids." I understand that they're only kids, but why should that mitigate their behavior? It's unfair. What if I treated the four-year old like she treated me? "If you don't clean your room, I won't love you anymore and I'll get a new daughter who's not a jerk." Yeah, that wouldn't float with most people. What if I showed up at your door at 3:00 AM crying with shit in my pants? I don't think it's likely that you would give me a glass of water and change my diaper, that's for sure. It's one of the great inequities that exist in our culture. If you're under eighteen, you just get to be a discourteous manipulator and suffer no consequences.

Starting now, I'm calling the little miscreants out. From now on, if my kids offend me, I'm gonna let them know. Gone are the days where I allow myself to be treated so discourteously; disrespected right to my face. To quote from Broadcast News, "I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore!" No sir!

Today is the day that I reclaim my dignity! Today is the day that we ALL must defeat the forces of our totalitarian children!

Vive les Parents!

It takes a village...

2011-07-20T00:01:00.003-05:00

So, the missus and I took the two little ones (two and four years old) to Bastille Days in Milwaukee on Friday afternoon. The four-year old was a pretty good girl for the most part; cute and a little precocious; status quo. The two-year old, however, could not be pleased. He was likely upset about the recent homophobic rhetoric spewing from Michelle Bachmann's gaping hole of a mouth. While the two-year old is really more of a libertarian than liberal, he really gets up in arms about the Christian Conservatives.

Anyway, we figured he could be calmed perhaps by a cold and creamy scoop of chocolate custard. So, we made our purchase and went on a search mission for seating that would allow for the four of us. The only place we could find was an octagonal picnic table upon which sat a gentleman and, presumably, his wife. The table would comfortably accommodate twelve to fourteen people, so with the current occupants plus we four, we could still fit in a basketball team and its coach. Before we sat, I asked courteously if the couple would mind if we did. The wife smiled, "Of course," and she waved her hand benevolently over the expanse of the table.

The two-year old was having none of the ice cream bribery. Worse, he began getting a little tantrumy. Grunting turned to whining. Whining turned to moaning. Moaning turned to screaming. All this in the matter of three minutes, perhaps. The missus and I were beginning to reach our wits end. She quickly snatched up the boy and carried him away from the table. She must not have acted quickly enough.

The gentleman whom had been sitting at the picnic table slammed his drink to the ground, shook his head and stormed away from his wife. She stared for a moment at him, then followed. He peered over his shoulder at me and shook his head again.

"What?!" I asked. "Is there a problem?"

He kept walking away.

I offered politely, "Because if there is a problem you should make me aware. I'm sure you're not shaking your head at me or my son, because if you were, we would certainly have a disagreement; you and I."

The wife was saying something to him.

"It's a FUCKING festival, dipshit! You thought you'd never hear a kid throw a fit? That Bastille Days was for grown-ups only?" I offered constructively. "It's in your best interest to keep walking, clown shoes. Just keep walking."

Oddly, the gentleman never did engage me in meaningful discourse regarding the behavior of my son.

OK. I get it. Parents who take their toddlers to public events or restaurants should be prepared for some pushback. I don't particularly care to hear tantrums and fits when I'm out for some social activity. In fact, when I leave my kids at home, it's because I don't want to deal with them. I don't even like my kids. Why should I expect complete strangers to tolerate them?

Here's the deal. You don't have to tolerate my kids, let alone like 'em. That said, if, on a Friday afternoon, when you should be at work, and there is a public festival, or if you go out to dinner at a family restaurant, or if you fly on an airplane, or go to the mall....be prepared to hear the occasional toddler making a fuss. It's a natural and normal occurrence. Also, be prepared, if you find it necessary to put on a display of disapproval, or to stomp your feet, or to put the stink-eye on...be prepared to be called on it by a parent who doesn't like it anymore than you do.

I'mmmm baaaack.....

2011-07-17T19:36:00.002-05:00

Dear Readers of the Necktie,

How are you? I am fine. It's been quite some time since I've contributed. Here're some updates:

I am two semesters shy of earning my English degree. What, you may ask, will Paul do with his degree? The answer is that I will do everything exactly the same, except I won't be attending university classes.

The kids are now 15, 10, 4 and 2 years old. They are alive. I'm doing my job.

Between February and June of this year, my ex-wife attempted to sue me for sole legal custody and 100% placement of my oldest sons. She was unsuccessful. Long story. It may appear here. Yay me!

My step-father is knockin' on heaven's door with renal failure. Still not sure how to feel.

On a purely fun note, my Green Bay Packers won the Super Bowl. Of course, you probably knew that, but it's fun to point it out.

This post, my first real post in over a year, is just to get you caught up. Now that we've done that, subsequent posts will return to our regularly scheduled content.

Nice to see you again.
Paul

moonlighting

2010-10-15T09:09:00.003-05:00

So, while I haven't been posting here on the necktie for quite some time, I have been moonlighting over on this blog (http://50rules.wordpress.com/). As opposed to the infinite lifespan of the necktie, the rules of contentment is designed/intended to last only fifty posts (unless, of course, I change my mind).

Stop in and see what's up.

stretching the 'ol legs...

2010-03-16T05:11:00.005-05:00

Maude & Me
We stood just left of center in the cereal aisle arguing about the events of the previous evening. I told Maude that the red haired girl was merely asking where the restrooms were located. Maude insisted that the conversation was too lengthy and that I stood too close to the red haired girl. I said she was being paranoid and overbearing. She said I was being obtuse. We lowered our voices as a man with a basket passed. I touched Maude’s arm and whispered into her ear, “I don’t love you.” Maude’s sobbing sounded like stifled laughter.

Distinguo
We stood (as the floor was too dirty to sit) just left of center (to avoid impeding the passage of other shoppers) in the cereal aisle arguing (bickering perhaps, but not fighting) about the events of the previous evening (approximately 9:00pm, so ‘night’ may be more applicable). I told Maude (an uncharacteristic name considering her youth) that the red haired girl (Caitlyn, much more appropriate) was merely asking where the restrooms (the Ladies room, more specifically) were located. Maude insisted (quite vehemently) that the conversation was too lengthy (though really not more than five minutes) and that I stood (more dirty floors) too close (we weren’t touching, but her perfume was too subtle and too delicious for me to keep a distance) to the red haired girl (Caitlyn. Did I mention her name was Caitlyn?). I said she was being paranoid (it didn’t suit her) and overbearing (it didn’t suit me). She said I was being obtuse (whatever). We lowered our voices (not that they were raised, per se.) as a man with a basket passed (walked by, as opposed to ‘died’). I touched Maude’s arm (over her linen blouse) and whispered (it’s not the kind of thing you shout) into her ear (where else does one whisper?), “I don’t (though I wonder if I ever did) love you.” Maude’s sobbing (because ‘crying’ is generic, but ‘weeping’ is cliché) sounded like stifled (she covered her face) laughter (not that it could be mistaken for laughter given the circumstances).

Negation
We didn’t stand to the left of the cereal aisle nor were we arguing. I told Maude that the red haired girl wasn’t asking me where the restrooms were located. Maude insisted that the conversation wasn’t too lengthy or that I didn’t stand too close to the red haired girl. I said that she wasn’t being paranoid or overbearing. She said I wasn’t being obtuse. We did not lower our voices as a man without a basket passed. I by no means touched Maude’s arm and in no way whispered into her ear, “I love you.” Maude’s sobbing sounded like stifled laughter.

Danglers
[Lazy Macao]
We stood but left of center in the cereal aisle and bickered about the events of an earlier date. I told Maude that the red haired woman was after the location of the restrooms. Maude insisted that the conversation was too extensive and that I stood too close to the red haired woman. I said her behavior was unreasonable. She said the manner in which I acted was obtuse. We lowered our voices as a man with a basket moved onward. I touched Maude’s arm and murmured into her ear, “I am without love.” Maude sobbed and it sounded like stifled amusement.

Dictionary
The subjective case of the first person plural pronoun assumed an erect attitude on our feet toward the distinctive epithet of the hand which is normally the weaker of the two of the passage-way in a building that housed the containers of morning meal of or pertaining to corn or edible grain, bringing forward reasons concerning a matter in debate over the actual or contemplated facts of anything happening during the closing or declining period of the preceding day. The subjective case of the first person singular pronoun mentioned or named (a series of things) one after another in order to enumerate for Maude that the young or relatively young woman whose aggregate of hairs growing naturally on her head which appeared in various shades at the longer-wavelength end of the visible spectrum, next to orange and opposite to violet, was, without admixture or qualification, calling upon me for information as to the location of the lavatory in the public building or workplace. Maude dwelled at length or with emphasis on or upon that the interchange of thoughts and words was in excess of what ought to be, and that I remained erect on my feet in a specified place intolerably, in a position in which the intervening space is closed up between myself and the young or relatively young woman whose aggregate of hairs growing naturally on the head which appeared in various shades at the longer-wavelength end of the visible spectrum, next to orange and opposite to violet. The subjective case of the first person singular pronoun named or mentioned before that the female being in question, or last mentioned, was in a certain state or condition of delirium, dementia, or other disorder affecting the function of the mind characterized by a persistent delusional system on the theme of persecution, exaggerated personal importance, or sexual fantasy or jealousy, often as a manifestation of schizophrenia, as well as behaving in a manner that was imperious, domineering and bullying. The female being in question or last mentioned, named or mentioned before that the subjective case of the first person singular pronoun was in a certain state or condition of exhibiting dullness, stupidity or insensitivity. The subjective case of the first person plural pronoun caused or allowed to descend the sound produced by the vocal organs belonging to or associated with the speaker and one or more other people previously mentioned or easily identified, as an adult male human being in the possession, keeping, care, or charge of a vessel of wickerwork, made of plaited osiers, cane, rushes, bast, or other materials had gone past a specified point. The subjective case of the first person singular pronoun put the hand or finger, or some other part of the body, upon, or into contact with Maude’s upper limb, from the shoulder to the hand, so as to feel it and said or reported quietly or secretly to a point within the limits of the organ of hearing of the female being in question, “The subjective case of the first person singular pronoun no longer executes, administers, practices a great affection, fondness, or regard for the objective case of the second person singular pronoun.” Maude’s catching of the breath in a convulsive manner as the result of violent emotion, especially grief proclaimed or expressed by sound had the same characteristics or qualities of suppressed, or a choke in the utterance of a combination of bodily phenomena (spasmodic utterance of inarticulate sounds, facial distortion, shaking of the sides, etc.) which forms the instinctive expression of mirth or of sense of something ludicrous, and which can also be occasioned by certain physical sensations, especially that produced by tickling.

Self Referential
This is the first sentence of the story, in which the setting is established and the tone is set for the subsequent action. This is the second sentence where a more detailed description of action is first presented. In the third sentence, the reader is presented with an alternate perspective of the action referred to in the second sentence. The fourth sentence is short. Fifth is shorter. Inexplicably, a seemingly unrelated character, a red herring perhaps, enters and exits the narrative in the sixth sentence. The seventh sentence brings the story to its climax, presenting a ‘gotcha’ moment that is intended to give the reader pause; to inspire self-reflection. Finally, the last of eight sentences brings the story to completion with simile intended to sound artsy and profound, though it is just as likely that the reader will find it awkward and pretentious.

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Punchline
A man, a woman and a red haired girl, having been arrested, are standing before the judge. The judge puts down his basket and addresses the woman first.
Judge: And your name is?
Woman: Maude.
Judge: Why were you arrested?
Woman: I was blowing bubbles in the park.
Judge: What? That’s no crime. You are free to go.
The woman, seemingly surprised, leaves the courtroom in a hurry. The judge turns his attention to the red haired girl.
Judge: What’s your name, young lady?
Red haired girl: Caitlyn.
Judge: Why were you arrested?
Red haired girl: I was blowing bubbles in the park.
Judge: What are these officers thinking? You are free to go.
The red haired girl exits the courtroom and heads straight for the restrooms, leaving only the man.
Judge: Alright then, sir. What’s your name?
Man: Bubbles.

Algebra
1+{[((M+x)-1)/RhG]+x(M?L) }= (M-x)

Hyperbole
Among an endless spectrum of colorful characters, Maude and I engaged in an epic battle of wits.
“I had but performed my duty, as a man of honor and chivalry; in guiding a lost soul to her much needed respite,” I cried.
“You are a cad and a speaker of falsehoods,” was Maude’s rejoinder. “It was enough of an attack on my dignity that your discourse with the fiery coifed harlot carried on and on. But, you tore out my still beating heart and held it in front of my eyes with the vanishing space between you, whom I thought to be my one true love, and that interposing whore!”
“You must be mad with fever to believe such outlandish fantasy and, frankly, I find your accusations baseless, oppressive and tyrannical.”
“Oh, woe of woes. You are a heartless and callous rascal.”
Just then, a mysterious stranger shambled upon the two of us, guarding closely a bevy of treasures he’d collected along his way. His appearance was unremarkable, but in a most remarkable fashion. As he passed, I took hold of Maude and hissed to her, “You are nothing to me.”
Maude wailed and yowled. She wept the tears of a thousand broken hearts of a thousand women scorned.

Au Francais
We stood zhust left awv centair een zee seeahreel ahl airgeweeng about zee events awv zee prahveeiss ehv-ah-neeng. I toll Maude zat zee red hailed gehrl was merely asking wear zee rest rhooms wear located. Maude eenseested zat zee conversashee-own was too lengthee and zat I stood too cloze to zee red hailed gehrl. I zed she was being pehranoyd and ovairbehring. She zed I was being ahbtooz. We lowaird ow-air voycez as a man wiss a bazquet pahssed. I tosched Maude’s arem and whispaired into her ear, “I don love yoo.” Maude’s sahbbing sounded like stiffelled lafftair.

The Other
Phillip checked his reflection in the glass doors of the dairy case. His fly was up, not a hair on his head was out of place. He took a closer look at his nostrils. No dangling boogers. He turned to peak over his shoulder. No toilet paper remnants. “What the fuck was she laughing at?” he muttered.

Parataxis
Me and Maude.
Me and Maude and the cereal aisle.
Me and Maude and the red haired girl.
Me and the red haired girl and the conversation.
Me and Maude and the man with the basket.
Me and Maude.
Maude.
Me.

Brevity
I broke up with Maude in the grocery store today.

100 more things...

2010-03-01T07:34:00.002-06:00

Prompted by the thousands of regular readers of the Necktie, and in the words of the King of Pop...I'm looking at the man in the mirror.

I smoke cigarettes.
My eating habits are unhealthy.
I drive fast. (If I don't have my kids with me.)
By and large, I don't like people.
I drink way too much coffee.
I make fun of EVERYBODY.
I don't care about the environment.
I don't care about Haiti.
I don't care about Chile.
I don't care about much of anything outside of my own little bubble.
I am a hypocrite.
I am a PC.
I think I'm smarter than most people.
I am often wrong, but will argue my point until the other side just gives up.
I am not very smart.
I am pro-choice.
I am pro-life.
I am liberal.
I am conservative.
I am a waffler.
I am not financially successful.
I am not good looking.
I am overweight.
I would not (if I were single) date a big woman.
I think surgically enhanced breasts are OK.
I am not mechanically inclined.
I cannot build things out of wood.
I do not change my own oil.
I am not humble.
I am not unpretentious.
I make grammar errors and I don't care.
I don't wash my hands every time I use the bathroom.
I am shallow.
I am unemotional.
I am unsympathetic.
I don't take good care of my teeth.
I am jealous.
I have not read Catcher in the Rye.
I didn't care when Princess Diana died.
I am rude.
I am forward.
I am unfiltered.
I feed my children breakfast cereal that contains sugar.
I procrastinate.
I don't fully understand Obama's healthcare plan.
I am not in favor of Obama's healthcare plan.
I don't fully understand Scientology.
I am not in favor of Scientology.
I don't always vote.
If I am undercharged at a restaurant or store, I don't necessarily say anything.
I am aware that it's akin to stealing.
In that sense, sometimes I steal.
I am a thief.
I am intolerant.
I rip other people for their intolerance.
I am not good at math.
I am not athletic.
I am not strong.
I am not fast.
I am not tall.
I am not fashionable.
I don't return phone calls promptly.
Or sometimes at all.
My third toe from the Captain is longer than the second.
I am bald.
I have a hairy back.
Hairy ears.
Hairy nose.
I don't like hairy women.
I whine.
I complain.
I go about feeling sorry for myself.
I mock others who whine and complain and go about feeling sorry for themselves.
I rarely feel guilt.
Even when I know I'm wrong.
I am self-righteous.
I am too busy for people who would drop everything to help me.
I watch TV more than I read.
I watch American Idol.
I like Simon.
I have, in my lifetime, consumed Mrs. Butterworth's pancake syrup right from the bottle.
In fact, I drink from the bottle often.
Milk.
Soda pop.
Kool Aid.
Jack Daniels.
I demand respect.
I don't always give respect.
I demand courtesy.
I am not always courteous.
I don't feel sorry for waitresses.
I am not impressed by nature.
I don't recycle.
I need to be the center of attention.
I condescend.
I shout out answers during Jeopardy.
I tell people what I think.
I don't care what other people think.
I have a superiority complex.
I am unapologetic.

have you noticed...?

2010-02-28T09:39:00.003-06:00

...that the only time people notice 'partisan-ship' is when someone disagrees with them?
During the Bush years, Democrats consistently opposed Republican initiatives. Republicans shouted, "When can we eliminate this partisanship? Why won't they reach across the aisle?" Now, in the age of the Audacity of Hope, Republicans are stymying Healthcare Reform and Democrats are shouting, "When can we eliminate this partisanship? Why won't they reach across the aisle?"

You really don't get it? You're all wrong. Even though you believe that your argument is for the greater good. You're all wrong. All of your posturing, all of your 'research', all of your moralism, and theism, and whatever-the-fuckism. You're all wrong.

...that in Christianity, the only likable figure is the Jebus.
God is vengeful, hateful, racist, sexist and a homophobe. There. I said it. Noah was an alcoholic. Moses was a pretty terrible leader. Mary wouldn't give up the goods to Joseph. And so on. Then there's the Jebus. Liberal, tolerant, peaceful, loving and an equal opportunity employer. And generous?! The dude just gave until it hurt. Literally.

So what's the deal with Christians? They are not liberal, not tolerant, not peaceful, not loving, not lovers of equality. They give, but only to other Christians. Oh, maybe they'll give to non-Christians, but only if they pretend to be Christians.

They shouldn't be called Christians, actually. They should be called Godites, because they're surely not Christ-like. Try as they may, they are very Old Testament. The problem is that they don't like to be perceived as hateful, as hateful as they are. But we know better. Don't we?

...that the Canadians are taking it on the chin for liking their team?
There's been some hub-bub about the way Canadians are conducting themselves at the Games of the Winter Olympiad. Most notably, their conduct at the curling competition. Apparently (according to the announcers ['commentator' is not a word]), the rule of thumb is that curling spectators should behave reservedly much like a golf audience. Really?

I really enjoyed watching the curling competition, but I noted no similarity to golf other than that it could be performed while drinking. In fact, judging by the competitors, raucous cheering should be encouraged, beer bongs should be drained at the 5th and 9th end, and topless or bikini clad 'End Girls' should parade around the ice with the end number displayed on a giant card.

Frankly, the cheering of the crowd made the competition that much more palatable. Curling isn't exactly engrossing on its own merit. I say, "Cheer on, you crazy Cannucks!" If the International Consortium of Curlers can't take a joke...Fuck 'em.

the wood accordian dog

2010-02-11T13:19:00.001-06:00

roleplay processing, fantasy dispensation, daydream indulgence, excess reverie,
his hours under heaven,
every Time a disturbance, every Time a Time to remember,
every Time a Time to die,
a Time to uproot the fractured, weaving tulip.
a Time of laughter, high Time, war Time, peace Time,
dinner Time, quality Time,
the Time is right, the Time is now,
Time will tell.
take Time to smell the roses, take Time to
lick the crispy thick brisket,
Time is of the essence,
Time is fleeting,
the Times they are a changing.
Time heals all wounds; Time heals,
Time heels,
Time collects on the heels of the long jump,
Time out!

Time in!
it’s Time to consider,
at the Time of the Time,
and from Time to Time,
to throw away the tears of Time,
to fix the Time,
before Time runs out.

end Time.

boo hoo...

2010-01-19T14:47:00.001-06:00

I wanted to take a few minutes to offend every possible group. I apologize if I leave any of you out. There are just so many different kinds of people. It's not as easy you'd think.

Enjoy!

**********

Asian people are good at math and have small penises. Italian people are good cooks and hairy. Jewish people are good with money and killed Christ. Christians are for protecting life and responsible for killing millions of people. Fat people are jolly and lazy. Women are nurturers and need men for heavy lifting. Men are physically strong and less intelligent than women. Black people are good at sports and bad drivers. Latinos are hard working and don't respect borders. Native Americans are respectful of nature and prone to alcoholism. Indians are good with computers and hard to understand. Arabs are spiritually intense and terrorists. Homosexuals are trendy and trendy. Liberals are politically active and condescending. Conservatives are politically active and condescending. Children are cute and irrepressibly irritating. Adults are polite and often smelly. Old people are wise and make weird noises when they eat.

**********

I am an equal opportunity asshole. If you belong to a group that I've omitted, it's entirely unintentional. Be assured, I think there's something right/wrong with you too.

Fuck off.

high resolutions...

2009-12-31T10:01:00.009-06:00

Tomorrow is a new day; a new year; a new decade. I am looking forward to 2010 for many reasons. I'm confident that we'll see those flying cars we were promised back in the 80s, five course meals in pill form, and Star Trek phasers in every home. The economy will bounce back stronger than ever and -isms (I.e. racism, sexism, Cubism, Geo Prism, etc.) will be eliminated. The Cubs will win the World Series. A bright future, indeed.

I'll need to make some changes...well...I'll try to make some changes...OK...I can't promise I'll try...but I'll try to try...

...to quit smoking. This will be the twenty-sixth anniversary of my voyage to Marlboro country. Nearly every one of those 9,490 days has been filled with specially blended, mild tobacco wrapped in delicate paper and a generous helping of flavor in a smoke of surprising mildness.

...to be kind to my fellow man. Gonna be tough without the cigarettes.

...to write more. I've had a bit of an obsession with religion. Perhaps I should put it to use with a bit of satire. Someone's got to put that Jebus in his place.

...to get in better shape. Don't get me wrong, I'm in shape now. It's just that the shape is an ellipse. [Rim shot!]

...to be a better husband, friend, son and father. Not that I've been a bad one, but the people I love deserve an improvement.

...to audition for Jeopardy. I'm telling you, I think I'd do pretty well. I've got this cornucopia of useless knowledge in my head and it's got to pay dividends somehow. Even if I don't win, at least I'd get close to that Canadian sex machine, Alex Trebek.

...to learn Stevie Ray Vaughn's 'Mary Had a Little Lamb.' I've played guitar for almost as long as I've been smoking. In all that time, I've learned to play the first thirty seconds of 200 songs. It's time I expanded my musical horizons.

...to get a promotion. I learned recently that a couple religious zealots have characterized me as an "evil power." When I heard this, I was flattered. The truth is that I still have six years before I become an Evil Power. Right now, I'm just an Apprentice Minion. Then it's Incubus (1st and 2nd class), Archfiend and, finally, Malignant Spirit. I won't even be eligible for Evil Power until I've logged 75 hours of veniality. The good news is that I have only one more Christian to persecute and I'll be eligible for full benefits.

...to participate in more orgasms. I think it speaks for itself.

Wish me luck.

Happy New Year!

keeping the 'st' in christmas...

2009-12-25T09:27:00.004-06:00

Each year, my family celebrates Christmas on December 24th. We drive out to the home of my brother and his wife, eat, play games, etc. The annual get-together is an event to which I look forward with great anticipation. I enjoy the family holiday parties because it gives me a chance to hang out with the people who are most important to me. With few exceptions, there is much joy and merryment. With few exceptions...

Last night, as we sat around the Christmas tree, my thirty-something niece attempted to capture the attention of my three year old daughter. Apparently, she was going to educate my daughter on the 'reason for the season.'

Niece: Do you know whose birthday we are celebrating?

Paul: Uh uh. We don't do that at our house.

Niece: What do you mean you don't do "that"?

Paul: We don't talk about the Jebus. It's not our thing.

Niece: Since when?

Paul: Umm, most of my adult life.

Niece: Well, what are doing here then?

Paul: Keeping the 'st' in Christmas.

Fortunately, she was distracted by something shiny so the discussion didn't become a yuletide theological debate which would likely have ended very badly. Later, on the drive home, I pondered her question. If I don't worship the Jebus, why do I celebrate Christmas?

As I mentioned, I enjoy the times when I can be with my whole family. We see each other only sparingly throughout the year. So, it's a treat when we are able. There's more to it, though. I enjoy many aspects of Christmas.

Unlike some, I get a kick out of wading through the throngs at the shopping centers. I like that nearly everyone salutes and responds with holiday greetings. The holiday brings with it many delicious goodies (My personal favorite is the peanut-butter cookie with a Hershey's Kiss in the center). It's the time of year where each of my children can be entirely content. Yep, there are myriad reasons for me to enjoy Christmas without the Christ.

Interestingly, my niece appeared marginally offended that I was celebrating Christmas but don't support or believe in the Jebus. It's not as if I objected to the tree or Nativity. I was merely informing her that asking my daughter such a question wouldn't receive a satisfactory response. My daughter doesn't know about the Jebus yet. When my daughter is older, I'll teach her about the Jebus, Ahab, Mohamed, King Lear, and other important fictional literary characters.

I suppose that I celebrate Christmas out of tradition and as long as there is no harm in it, I'll continue each year. I'd like to elaborate on the topic, but I have to get going. It's time to prepare the fruit for my family altar. Tet is right around the corner.

yarp! yarp! baow!...

2009-12-11T08:36:00.003-06:00

There is no feeling in the emotional spectrum more wholly frustrating than powerlessness. When your circumstances don't allow for you to take action, when you must "take it on the chin," when you are left with no recourse; you can only sit and wait for an actionable moment. While there are folks out there that are perfectly happy to let life happen to them, my philosophy is that it is my duty to impact life. I believe we are each here to fire up an iron and leave a scar on life; make our mark; impress our brand so that all others see that we've been here.

Martin Heidegger is my home boy. Heidegger would argue that a being must make a choice (take action) in order to be an authentic being. It's not necessary that the choice be the right one, just that a choice is made. I aspire to authenticity, to include making good faith choices. Not just on a whim, I attempt to make carefully considered choices. What my home boy hasn't really discussed is situations where there is no choice available.

See? There's the catch. Rare as they are, some situations provide no choice for the authentic being to make. I find these situations frustrating beyond comprehension. Asking me to sit on my hands, as it were, would be tantamount to asking the Devil Beagle to wait patiently for the squirrel to cross the yard. I am pulling at my collar. There is no slack on my leash. I am howling and yarping and baying. But I am not breaking free and chasing the squirrel. I am being a good dog.

Which, I suppose, is a choice.

You never know...

2009-12-04T23:42:00.004-06:00

How many new people do we come into contact with on a weekly basis? Five? Three? Hmm... How many people have we met in a lifetime? Hundreds? Thousands? Hmm...

One in five of them have cancer.

One in seven is black.

One in three is Republican.

One in three is a Democrat.

One in five hundred is a registered sex offender.

One in twenty has diabetes.

One in three is obese.

One in three hundred have AIDS.

One in four has an STD.

One in five is circumcized.

One in ten doesn't know the words to the Star Spangled Banner.

One in five didn't make their bed.

One in two drinks straight from the milk carton.

One in ten didn't have breakfast.

Nine in ten lie regularly.

One in thirty is gay.

One in three have pee'd in a swimming pool.

I sway back and forth with feelings of reverence and disdain for my fellow man. My faith is challenged when I consider many of the above. The other day, as I walked from class, I thought about the likelihood that I've been in contact, at some level of intimacy, with a murderer. If you think about stuff like that, you go a little crazy. Or is it crazier?

what do you think...

2009-12-01T16:02:00.005-06:00

To whom it may concern,

I wonder what you think of me. For that matter, I wonder if you think of me at all. I think of you often enough, though I cannot imagine why. It's not as if we've met. Perhaps we have, in another life. I like to think of you sitting lonely in a dimly lit room on a comfortable chair or sofa, listening to melancholy music and contemplating the relationships you've never had with people you haven't met. You might discuss this with friends and family. They don't understand like I do. You feel the need to get to know someone whose very existence is in question. They ask, "But why do you even think about the existence or non-existence of this mystery person?" It's difficult to answer that question. Isn't it?

And for how many years have you felt this? This desire to discover. Twenty...thirty...nearly forty years? My, but that's a long time to ponder such a subject as existentialism. Only, it's not existentialism that you ponder. It's existence. Specifically, my existence. Well, fear not! I do exist. At least that mystery is solved. I am here. Not far away. In fact, I am well within reaching distance. The new question is: If I am here, but you have no empirical proof...Do I actually exist to you? Hmm...that's a tough one.

Frankly, your difficulty in this matter is your own doing. Had you made any real effort in discovering my existence, a relationship would have been much easier to form. Alas, you have made no effort. You are to blame. So, you are bound to sit in your chair or sofa, wondering, as I do, about what a person you don't know thinks of you. Or if he thinks of you at all.

Alone.

tic tac tic tactile...

2009-11-18T23:28:00.003-06:00

I miss the whirring hum and clackity report of the electric typewriter. There are few tactile experiences as satisfying as rattling off a run-on Selectric sentence. RAP-ATTA-RAP-ATTA-ATTA-PHLAP! Oh, man! That's the stuff!

The problem is that I also appreciate the convenience of the various word processing programs available on personal computers. Revision is a piece of cake with a computer. Right click, double click, find, replace. Can't do that stuff with a typewriter. What's a boy to do?

One day I will resolve to hit EBay and snatch up a serviceable and traditional machine, much to the dismay of my wife, and the next day I'll realize how my writing would suffer without a laptop to assist with spelling and grammar. I can't come to terms with this.

I have tried software that makes a typewriter-like clack upon a keystroke, but it's all crap. What I want....Nay!...what I need is for someone to create a hybrid keyboard that operates like an electric typewriter, but perhaps connects to my laptop through a USB port. Certainly, I can't be expected to do this myself. That would require hard work, dedication and attention to detail. But there must be someone out there in the interwebs that has taken some steps toward this end. I can't be the only one....or can I?

there are no atheists in the NICU: pt 2

2009-11-11T06:58:00.004-06:00

In a previous post, I commented on my experience with the premature birth of my son. I explained that though I regarded myself as an atheist, the pressure of that day inspired me to pray. I posited that since I felt the need to pray, I must believe in God, at least in some manifestation. I've given it more thought...

What I experienced is not belief. Instead, I reached out to whomever could offer relief in a time where I felt utterly helpless. I could not control whether my son lived or died. Praying to a higher power absolved me of any responsibility and provided me great relief. I hadn't needed that kind of freedom before. So what does that say about me? What does it say about religion?

Obviously, it's nothing new. The idiom "There are no atheists in foxholes," goes back to at least World War II. I'd posit that in situations like mine, many atheists and agnostics have sought the comfort of God. Apologists would insist that this waffling is a sign of the hypocrisy of self-proclaimed nonbelievers. They would suggest that I was tested; shown just how much I need God. Christians would use this crisis as an example of how "God is in control." Even, perhaps, that the whole episode is proof of God's existence.

I think Colin McGinn really does a tidy job of explaining this phenomenon; that people seek God in these situations. He says:

"I think it's a sort of cosmic loneliness. I think that's what's behind it. It's hard for people to accept that we are alone, and that nobody cares."

It's really the whole basis for religion. Isn't it? People have the need for a cosmic big brother. We want to believe that in our most helpless situations, there is someone or something that will protect us; get us through these crises. In my case, I needed God to protect my son when I couldn't. But, if I'm to expect that God is powerful enough to protect my son, I have to ask a question. Who's responsible for endangering my son in the first place?

You see, therein lies the rub. Why was my son born four months early? That level of prematurity carries with it some fairly low odds of survival and equally high odds of short or long term suffering. If God is omnipotent, as we are told, then God is the author of everything. If it was a test of my faith, it seems awfully cruel to use an innocent newborn. If, on the other hand, God is kind of an absentee landlord who doesn't concern himself with the survival of one baby, we can assume that a prayer wouldn't affect the outcome one way or the other. There seems no solid logic to God's plan, at least if we propose that there is a plan.

I propose there is no plan. There is only we feeble humans. We who seek logic. When we can see no logic, we assign responsibility to God. When we see no logic in God, we attribute it to the idea that "It's all God's plan," and we couldn't possibly understand it. It's all very convenient. Too convenient to be true.

comfortably numb...

2009-11-08T05:48:00.001-06:00

Newspaper readership has dropped steadily since the early 1990's. To some degree, it's a fiscal matter. With the current economy, the increasing costs of publishing and distribution have certainly hurt the industry. However, newspapers survived (even flourished) through the tough economy of the mid-1970's. Rather than money issues, the death knell for newspapers was the advent of the internet age.

Newspaper circulation has incrementally diminished each year as internet access has increased. The Newspaper Association of America has compiled circulation data dating back to 1940. The data shows that circulation peaked in the early 90s and has dropped each year since 1993. Why? The internet provides information in ways that appeal to the average citizen. With newspapers, readers must choose one source and wait until it lands on their doorsteps to be informed. Whereas the internet offers a variety of sources and news is made available within hours or even as it happens. Easy access to news as it happens surely accounts for the trend. It seems inevitable that the newspaper industry as we know it will cease to exist altogether.

The Washington Post reported last month that it's the nation's largest newspapers that are suffering the most significant losses of readership. The smaller daily publications still control the market for local news and offer the best venue for local advertisers. The sword of Damocles.com is dangling over their heads, too. As hometown businesses begin to realize the benefits of online advertising, local newspapers will become less attractive. In response, newspapers have no choice but to offer their services online.

Most major news outlets, including newspapers, now offer services online. Many include "premium" service for a fee, but the majority provide news for free. They have to rely entirely on advertising instead of subscription dollars. For the consumer, there is a simple question: Why would I pay for a newspaper when it's available online at no cost? Newspapers have yet to answer that question and circulation will only continue to decline until they do. What does it all mean to the American public? Why should we care?

This is an era when people stare into an LED screen to access news. Bookshelves are empty as people load their libraries onto a Kindle. Instead of the hassle of a playground, kids turn to the Wii in the comfort of their family rooms. The clackity impact of the typewriter? Forget about it. We have abandoned the tactile experiences. There is something to be said for ink blackened fingers; for the 6:00 AM thump of the Sunday Times on your porch. Can one really enjoy a cup of coffee in front of a laptop? The imminent death of printed news is not progress. Newspapers, like books and baseball bats, should be held in your hands. It's another symptom of our increasingly numb culture. We don't "feel" anymore.

it stands to reason...

2009-11-01T08:13:00.001-06:00

It is clear to me, after nearly forty years, that sometimes you just don't like somebody. There may be no tangible reasons, sometimes you just don't like somebody.

Ipso facto, sometimes people just won't like me.

I'm cool with that.

here's a starter for you...

2009-10-26T13:20:00.001-05:00

Chapter 2

From the moment I saw her sitting at the table in the break room greedily slurping the last bits of a Cup-o-Noodles, I was in love with Alexandra Gunderson. Eight months later, I watched her across the newsroom from my desk as she stood flustered in front of the office network printer. She’d tried everything listed in the ‘clearing procedure’ from the user’s manual to no avail and stood there with her toner blackened hands up as if prepared for cardiac surgery. A wisp of strawberry blond hair that broke free from her tightly pulled rat’s nest fell in front of her left eye and she curled her mouth to blow it away from her face, only to have it fall right back into view. She was dressed appropriately for early June in the Midwest with a silky off-white blouse, a mid-length skirt that ended just below her perfect knees and a pair of orange and white New Balance running shoes with ankle socks. I’d seen her in her ‘interview’ shoes, too. A pair of closed toe, conservative mid-height heels did wonders for her legs, but I preferred the casual aura of sneakers. Unlike many of the women at the Times who showed up for work looking like a cross between Courtney Love and Bozo the Clown, she rarely applied more than some subtle lip color.
Benjamin Punzel, my best friend and the Times’ news editor, would tell me that I should get up and go help her. It would have been a perfect opportunity for me to save the day, maybe make some small talk, impress her with my wit and in-depth knowledge of all sorts of Hewlett Packard hardware. She glanced my way with a double take and waved with a warm smile. My stomach clenched. “What the hell just happened?” I thought. I just stared at her for a second then looked around me. There was no one on my left. I couldn’t imagine that she would ever wave to me on purpose.
And she hadn’t. I peeked over my right shoulder and walking confidently down the aisle of desks like Moses through the Red Sea was Ben, waving back at Alex. He stopped next to my desk and grabbed a chair from the opposite cubicle.
“Dave, why don’t you just go talk to her?” Ben offered, still smiling toward Alex. “She obviously needs help with the printer. That’s a pretty good ‘in’.”
“Hmm…how ‘bout I don’t.”
“So, you’re just going to stare at her, all creepy like?”
“Something like that. Yes.”
“Are you at all worried about the inevitable harassment complaint that follows creepy staring?” Ben leaned back in the chair and massaged its foam rubber arms.
“Not as long as I have my sympathy magnet.” I pointed to the aluminum forearm crutch that was leaning against the navy, fabric covered pseudo-wall of my work space.
“You know, that thing doesn’t give you carte blanche to just go around ogling young women.”
“It does, actually,” I pointed out, “It’s in the Union of American Cripple’s constitution. Under paragraph 2a. Better parking spots, bigger public toilets and unlimited ogling.”
Ben chuckled, “Damnit. If I’d only stepped in front of that bus earlier this week, I could be undressing Alex with my eyes, right now.”
“Hey now!” I scolded, “Find your own girl.”
“My friend, you don’t get to call her ‘your’ girl,” and he made bunny ear quotes with his fingers, “until you grow a pair and go talk to her.”
“I have hope as long as I don’t talk to her,” I sighed. “Once I limp over there and she gives me the puppy dog pity eyes, hope dies.”
“You’re making a pretty harsh judgment on Alex. Has it occurred to you that she might not condescend? She might just see you as an intelligent, witty guy with a limp.”
“A limp? It’s rather more than that. Don’t you think? It’s not a cute little limp, Ben. Tiny Tim had a limp. That Dr. House guy has a limp. I hobble along like Quasi-fucking-Moto.” It wasn’t a new subject for Ben and me. We’d gone around like this a hundred times.
“You’re going to have to get over the self-pity, ‘I’m not good enough’ bit, man. Not all people think like that.”
“Well, a lifetime of experience tells me otherwise.”
Ben capitulated, “Alright, alright. But if you don’t get laid soon, I think I’ll probably have to shoot you. I can’t take much more of this.” He got up from the chair, slid his hands into the pockets of his jeans and ambled back up the aisle to his office.
I was born with pseudarthrosis of the tibia. In layman’s terms, my lower right leg was broken while still in my mother’s womb, at about six month’s gestation. It did not heal completely and the healing that did occur resulted in my tibia bowing from just below my knee down to my ankle. The bowing subsequently created a growth disparity between my healthy left leg and my gimpy right leg. Between the fact that my condition went unnoticed for a time and that my mother had very limited means, it went untreated until I was four years old.
Even after the “successful” corrective surgery, my right leg remains three quarters of an inch shorter and I will always be at a high risk for future fractures. In fact, I’ve broken my leg eleven times since the operation from such adventurous activities as crossing the street to perilous maneuvers like getting out of bed. I have to be sure not to put my entire body weight on my right side not only because my leg may break, but it’s also incredibly painful. I don’t need pain medicine every day but if I’ve had a particularly busy day, say a trip to the mall or grocery store; I get pretty grumpy and take a Percocet with dinner.
My experience was that women preferred dating men that could take walks on the beach or twirl them around the dance floor all night long or scale a flight of stairs in less than fifteen minutes. The only attention I ever managed to garner from women was pity, condescending courtesy or friendly encouragement.
“Oh David! You’re so funny,” they would giggle. “I don’t know where you get that stuff. You’re gonna make some girl really happy to have such a funny boyfriend.” Some girl. I supposed they meant some girl with an eye patch or cleft palate or another abnormal equivalent. Keep the gimps together, that’s what I say!
I imagined that Alex was the kind of girl that sought adventure. She ran 5K’s for any variety of charitable causes nearly every weekend in summer. She ski’d the Birkebeiner and Finlandia every winter. She was a bit of an action reporter, always flipping her cell closed and racing to the stairwell to fly down the six flights of stairs two at a time to get a scoop. Even when she was stuck in the newsroom working her stories she couldn’t seem to sit for very long.
She must have had an important print job. Most people would have given up but Alex, ever hopeful, opened more panels and turned more knobs trying to clear the printer.
Just as I was calculating the opportunity cost of grabbing my stick and hobbling over to the printer, Justin appeared from the elevator with an ironic ding. He wore his usual three-button, athletic cut suit. The suit was charcoal wool and he sported a black polo, black leather belt and black Edward Green split-toed Dovers. The hair was short, blond, perfect. When asked the time, he would somehow manage to bend his arm without tearing the suit with his sculpted biceps and read from his Tag Heuer Calibre.
I would never have been able to identify his shoes or watch, but Justin was always happy to point them out. “Yeah,” he’d offer unsolicited, “I couldn’t decide on the Joe Abboud herringbone or the Hickey Freeman, so I got them both.”
Justin Teff wasn’t a journalist. He managed the marketing department. He was a glad hander and concerned only with making money, regardless of the implications on the reporters’ craft. The board of directors of The St. Cloud Times was very fond of Justin, mostly because he was good at his job. He managed to keep the paper profitable when many others were buckling under the pressure of internet news access. Justin wasn’t going to bring any Pulitzer prizes to the Times, but he was savvy for a guy just two years separated from graduate school.
Ben was highly regarded by the board, too, but because he was a seasoned newspaper professional, not a businessman. Together, it was thought, Ben and Justin were the perfect pair to take the Times into a very bright future.
Unlike the board, Ben and I hated Justin. The problem, aside from the fact that he was a pinhead, was that he thought his responsibilities included editing stories and columns in an effort to increase circulation. Once, Justin intercepted some political copy before it got to Ben. He red penned several revision ideas and dropped the article on Ben’s desk with a Post-It attached that read:
Thought I’d help you guys out. –J
When Ben returned to his office and saw Justin’s gift, he picked up the phone and hit the intercom button, “Attention. May I have your attention, please? Effective immediately, all article revisions submitted by our crack marketing staff should be routed first through the fiery gates of Hell, then up your ass, and finally onto my desk. Thank you. That is all.” Click.
Justin was at first upset that Ben had embarrassed him in front of the entire staff, but after some discussion with the board, it was determined that Justin had no editorial jurisdiction and it was best if Justin stayed away from the news. However, just because he avoided Ben didn’t mean that he kept his ideas to himself. He instead would stop by our desks and ask us what we were writing about, and then offer changes he thought were appropriate and may be more popular with advertisers. A lot of the other reporters and columnists would smile and maybe even make the changes. I could not tolerate taking orders from a slick MBA, so if he even walked by my desk I would shout, “Ben! Justin would like to talk with you!” and Justin would shake his head as he picked up his pace past me.
He stopped at the printer and smiled as he talked with Alex. She smiled back, but I couldn’t tell if she was happy to see him or just being cordial. She didn’t perform any of the other rituals I’d seen other girls use with Justin. No hair flip. No goofy giggles. No leaning in with a gentle touch of the bicep. He said something that had both of them looking my way. He strutted his way over to my desk.
“Hey guy. That chick is having problems with the printer and I hear you’re like a guru with them,” he was trying to sell to me. “What do you say you give us a hand?”
“Ben!” I shouted. Justin’s eyes opened wide and he watched for Ben to stick his head out of his office door. I snickered, “Just kidding, guy.”
**********

shhh....

2009-10-24T07:23:00.004-05:00

I haven't told anyone that I'm back. I thought it might be fun to just show up and post.

Autumn is in full swing here. The last of the strong cling to the branches, yellowed with age but unwilling to cede their position even after having watched their comrades fall two by two and three by three to Earth. Still, their effort goes unnoticed. Above, a dense and swollen sky is too busy to notice the plight of the leaf. Its only purpose to deprive all of warmth and light, somehow impervious to the wind and Coreolis. It hovers and we suffer for it. There is something to the coldness of autumn that supersedes winter's more bitter but more tolerable temperatures. It's damp and soaks to your core. One doesn't "feel" that kind of cold, one becomes that kind of cold. This purgatory is too long lasting for me to maintain sanity. It seems never to end and each day it worsens.

Where is happiness?

good night and good luck...

2009-08-16T20:54:00.002-05:00

I'm done. It was a good run. We all had some laughs. Didn't we? Remember that time I talked about Grocery Day? Ahhhh...good times, good times. I've decided to kill the blog, Facebook, MySpace (though I never really used it) and other social networks. I'll probably still drop in on your blogs (you know who you are) from time to time, but I'm just done. It's time.

Thanks for the readership.

Earl out.

i came, i saw, i wrote about it...

2009-08-04T08:22:00.007-05:00

Some observations...

Think of the most handsome, beautiful, sexy, intelligent, intimidating person you know. That person poops.

My children don't care if I'm bald, fat, ugly or a dork. As long as I have ice cream, they love me.

Making fun of a fat, bald guy on a scooter is funny. Seeing a fat, bald guy on a scooter beat the crap out of a smart ass is funnier.

Sarah Palin should be left alone until she's actually running for office.

Every American should root for the president to be the best president ever, whether they voted for him/her or not.

Starting smoking is infinitely easier than stopping.

The people that work at Starbucks are happier than the people waiting in line for their venti, half-caff, non-fat caramel machiatto.

The only advantage to being a man is peeing standing up, but it's a pretty big advantage.

In a home with 2 adults, 4 children and 2 dogs the most frightening three words in the English language are, "What's that smell?"

There should be a provision in federal law that allows once per month for one citizen to punch another citizen in the neck, consequence free.

I am reasonably sure that if police questioned me about being in my own house after reports that my house was being broken into that I would cooperate and thank them for responding so quickly to the report.

People who become frustrated and stressed-out while playing golf are missing the point.

I still refuse to accept "commentator" as a real word and when I finally lose my mind, you will find me naked in a Barnes & Noble with a black Sharpie crossing it out of all the dictionaries.

The idea of a mandatory gratuity for parties over 8 defeats the purpose.

The readership of this post will skyrocket when I enter the words "free" and "porn" in the keyword section.

As much as Americans love Mexican food, Mexican music and Mexican beer, you'd think they'd like Mexican people more than they do.

Books don't write themselves.

Peeing in the shower is OK, except after eating asparagus.

The Jonas brothers are musicians the same way Jon Bon Jovi is an actor.

Hot dogs taste better when referred to as "wieners."

Stewed tomatoes are the best way to screw up a perfectly good dinner.

It is impossible to listen to "Down Under" by Men at Work without smiling.

From "Stepbrothers": Oprah Winfrey, Hillary Clinton, Rosie O'Donnell - You have to marry one, screw one and kill one. GO!

Everything an 8 year old boy can hold in his hand can be imagined into a fire arm.

As it turns out, running around naked and eating fruit snacks while watching "Yo Gabba Gabba" is cute when you're 2 and creepy when you're 38.

Amanda Bynes is exponentially cuter than Miley Cyrus.

38% of readers will probably not make it to this observation.

malapropriate...

2009-07-28T19:19:00.002-05:00

I am on the precipice of a great crossroads. While I am beginning to realize my educationalist exponential, I am yet unsure of my goal. Professionally, I am completely satisfactory. My familiar life has plummeted to the top, with a beautiful wife and four glorified children. I am 'living the dream', as they say, where before my life went up and down like a metronome. What will I do with my remaining days, though?

Is it important to me that I become a man of great statue? Frankly, I could care less about fame, but I wouldn't kick fortune out of bed for eating crackers, if you know what I mean. I'm not asking for an extortionate amount of money. Just enough to be comforting, to make a nice future for my hairs.

Perhaps my goal should be to depart my knowlege upon tomorrow's writers and humanitarianists. It would only amount to an extra sinister of college to abstain my teaching degree. Then I could teach literature at a high school or maybe just help middle schoolers with their grammarical errors and English cosmopolitan. Someone once said, "The real heroes of this world are those that decimate their lives to the enrichment of our youths." I could be that hero.

I'm still young. I still have severed more years to finger out my path in life. There's no rush. I'm really just a string chicken.

roundabout...

2009-07-21T10:14:00.004-05:00

In maintaining brevity, there is little more that one can do, when attempting to speak or write, than to strive to keep your ideas, and by "ideas" I mean original ideas, solely your intellectual property et. al., as brief (a relative term) as is possible for the sake of your audience, whether live or after the fact, perhaps on audio or video tape or other electronic storage devices (I.e. digital file format) in a world of otherwise long winded and over-indulgent speakers and authors, rather than suffer your audience with themes which appear to continue long beyond their window of prescience into banal, self-serving, pretentious ramblings from which an ear or eye can hardly recover, leading to the audience's regret that he or she has merely lost his or her investment of time, which he or she will never recover, lamenting upon his or her death bed that the possibility exists that his or her life would have been far more rewarding had he or she never taken in your incoherent drivel, printed or spoken only as an effort to hear yourself speak or see your ideas, and again by "ideas" I mean original ideas, solely your intellectual property et. al., in print.

I want a scooter.

ps. Check out the new short story, "A Message from...", if you are so inclined.

have you heard the good news...

2009-07-16T13:05:00.005-05:00

OK. So several of the people of my past and present, some years ago, had converted to Pentecostal Apostolic christian types. I don't really care what invisible man a person worships, but in one case I had to sever a relationship altogether. In that I don't follow a specific dogma per se, my two older boys are attendees still. They have questions for me occasionally in regard to my faith, because they have been taught that any soul that hasn't been saved is doomed to an eternity in sulfur and lava. I don't wish to undermine their mother, so I often explain that I just choose to worship outside of church and that my views are not the same as Parkway Apostolic Church. I can see in Earl Jr.'s eyes that he is mustering up the courage for a lively debate. He's 13 after all. I will always try to be diplomatic, but I refuse to lie to them about my beliefs. What beliefs, you ask? Well...

I am not an Atheist. I was an Atheist but then there was the whole "preemie" thing. I wouldn't say I'm Agnostic either. I'm pretty sure there is something greater than we feeble humans. I just don't know exactly what/who is out there and to what extent they guide the universe. What I am absolutely sure of is that there is no Christian God and the bible is hogwash. You can see where this might not sit well with those Christians that are close to me.

The problem for me is that the bible is compiled of hate, prejudice and fables all meant to persuade people to act in a way that is palatable for Christians. The bible was written by men, after all. Christians believe that the bible is God inspiring these men to write, but it's the authors that introduce this idea. It would be no different if I wrote a book, claimed that the book was actually written by a giant pink monkey named Stan, but since monkeys have no opposable thumbs Stan had to inspire me to write it. Praise be to Stan. How many disciples do you suppose I'd employ with that kind of system of faith?

The bible is anti-gay, anti-Jew, anti-woman. There are duplicities galore and way too much fire and brimstone for "sinners." Depending on your sect of the cult, the bible is translated literally by some and as loose fitting parables by others. In either case, there is a definite drop-off in credibility. Let's not forget the whole idea from the bible that the universe is only six thousand years old and there is no real mention of dinosaurs in it. For me, though, believability and credibility are lost in the first chapter. It's the tree.

God makes Eden. Deposits Adam and Eve. Tells them they have full run of the garden, but stay away from this one tree. They don't stay away from the tree. Human kind is fucked forever.

What's that you say? Free will? You're saying that God didn't want robots so he gave A&E free will. That way they'd have a choice. A choice to fuck mankind forever. Seems like poor parenting to me. God created the tree. He put it in the garden. They didn't really know any better than that God said don't touch it. God says, "You shouldn't touch that, but I won't tell you what to do. Just know that there are consequences." Well, go figure, they fucking touched it!

How about this for a parable? I'll take a chainsaw and place it on the coffee table. I'll tell Pearl, "You shouldn't touch this chainsaw." Then I start the chainsaw and maybe hang some balloons from it. I leave two year old Pearl alone in the room with the brightly colored, balloon adorned, running chainsaw. Subsequently, Pearl reaches for the chainsaw and her right hand is mangled up to the elbow. When Child Protective Services shows up at the door, I'll just say, "I told her not to touch it, but she didn't listen. She got what was coming to her." Oh yeah, when she has children of her own, I'll mangle their hands too. Sins of the mother and all that.

What do you think? Good parent or bad parent?

The point is that such a parable, fable or whatever is designed to make people obey, even when they don't understand. More likely, the tree story was designed to keep children in line. There is a line between faith and fear. The bible crosses that line, tap dances on it and moonwalks over to cult status.

I usually don't participate in the comments section, but I like a good debate. So if any of you would like to begin a hearty discussion about this topic, I will be glad to answer any questions you may have.

bad movie, good line...

2009-07-13T15:24:00.005-05:00

In what seemed like a completely wasted hour and a half, I watched "Hamlet 2." The premise was that a high school drama teacher rewrote Shakespeare to reflect the more edgy style of the present, complete with songs like "Sexy Jesus." I do not recommend this film, but it does close with one of the best lines ever.

After the play becomes a hit and makes its way to Broadway, one of the high school students comments that "...New York is way cooler than Tucson." The drama teacher/playwright responds:

"Chuy, you're going to have a magical life. Because no matter where you go, it's always going to be better than Tucson."

Feel free to replace Tucson with your own city of choice.

transcript...

2009-07-10T09:23:00.003-05:00

I am sitting in my living room with Cartoon Network on the TV. It is 9:28 am and with me are Sweeney (6 months), Pearl (2 yrs & a smidge), and Seymour (8). Here is the transcript:

Pearl: Gackyargans?
Seymour: No, you're gonna watch Kai Lan, then Backyardigans.
Pearl: You wewee fixed it.
Earl: Fixed what?
Sweeney: Screech, blabble, frp
Seymour: Dad, you know what I don't get? Why are girls more flexible than boys?
Earl: Well, umm....I think it's because they have to have babies so they need to be more flexible.
Pearl: Daddy! I wan cupcake!
Earl: We don't have any cupcakes.
Pearl: Awww, paweeeeese?
Seymour [with knees stuffed into his Tshirt]: Look Dad! I'm Yoda.
Pearl: I wan cupcake.
Earl: We don't have any cupcakes.
Seymour: Ooh Dad! Can I show you something on YouTube?
Earl: Not right this minute. I'm using the computer.
Seymour: I know. I meant later.
Earl: Sure...PEARL! Take your finger out of Sweeney's eye!
Pearl: Togeder mend the gakyargan!
Sweeney: Squink, grurdle, uyagh!
Seymour: Dad, look. I taped two pencils together to make Yoda's walking stick.
Pearl: Daddy? You wanna dance wif me?
Earl: Well, of course I want to dance with you, Baby.
Pearl: I not baby, Daddy. I Pearl.
Earl: OK. But you'll always be my baby.
Pearl: Can I hab stick?
Seymour: No. You'll stick it in your eye and scramble your brain.
Pearl: OK.
Sweeney: Druwell, fraergh, fwange
Pearl: Daddy! I got go potty.
Earl: OK. Let's go.
Pearl: Can I hab stick?
Earl: No. You can't have the stick. Besides, you don't need a stick to go potty.
Pearl: I don't hafta go potty.
Earl: I thought you said you had to go potty.
Pearl: OK. [Runs to bathroom.]
Seymour: These aren't the droids you're looking for.
Earl: What?
Seymour: I'm using the Jedi mind trick on you.
Earl: Oh, right. These aren't the droids I'm looking for.
Sweeney: Grnt, mmweh, weeighit
Seymour: Even though that was actually Ben Kenobi that said that line in Episode IV, not Yoda.
Earl: I think it's OK if you take a little poetic liberty for the sake of creativity.
Seymour: What?
Pearl: OK, Daddy. I all done going potty. [Standing in kitchen, naked from waist down.]
Earl: Good girl! You went potty on the toilet! You're a big girl.
Pearl: I a big girl!
Seymour: The floor's all wet!
Sweeney: [Growing agitated] Raghgh, einghth, WAHHHH!!!
Earl: Did you go potty on the floor?
Pearl: I sorry Daddy.
Seymour: Mmmmm! Premonitions, premonitions. The visions you have, tell me of them.
Earl: PEARL! Where does the potty go?
Pearl: I sorry Daddy. Poop on the potty!
Earl: Do you have to poop?
Pearl: No, I no hafta poop.
Seymour: General, surround the clones and a perimeter create!
Earl: Are you sure you don't have to poop? No pooping in your pants! Poop goes in the potty!
Pearl: Mm hmm. Poop go in da potty.
Sweeney: GRNNNNNNNT
Seymour: Hmm, a poop is Sweeney creating!
Earl: Pearl? Do you have to go potty?
Pearl: I wan cupcake!
Seymour: DAD!! Sweeney pooped and it stinks!
Earl: OK. Thanks for the report.
Seymour: No problem.
Pearl: Uh oh! I pooped.
Earl: You pooped? On the potty? Please tell me you pooped on the potty...
Pearl: I sorry Daddy.
Earl: Hey Yoda?! Just strike me down with your light saber, would you?
Seymour: I sense great anger in you, young Skywalker.
Pearl: I wan cupcake!
Sweeney: Giggle, fluurp, thnorkie.

What more can you say?

Giggle.

Fluurp.

Thnorkie.

holy crap...

2009-07-08T20:51:00.002-05:00

Sorry, dear readers, for the prolonged absence. I have been weighing and measuring my life in coffee spoons. Between this post and last...

...I have recovered from my vasectomy...(7 down, 13 to go)
...I have gotten nowhere on my writing...(call it a sebatical)
...I have been evacuated and released to return to my home...
...I have made the declaration, but have taken no steps toward losing weight...
...I have decided that daily posts aren't necessary, but I should post more than once every 10 days...

The posts from here on will likely be shorter than in the past, but I am vowing to produce more often...for what it's worth.

Love,
Earl

fatherly advice...

2009-06-30T08:41:00.002-05:00

copyright this...

2009-06-27T07:12:00.004-05:00

Apparently the good folks over at YouTube didn't like my music video from yesterday. Originally, I had selected a very fitting tune to play over the ever-bouncing Sweeney Tesch, but the magic elves that live in my computer notified the authorities of possible music fraud. Frankly, I'm very disappointed but I have an idea for a quick fix. Here are the instructions:

1. Begin playing the video.
2. At 11 seconds, begin humming, singing or playing your own copy of Israel Kamakawiwo'ole's "Over the Rainbow."

See? It's fucking simple. Problem solved.

that's better...

2009-06-26T11:09:00.003-05:00

...

2009-06-25T18:27:00.002-05:00

I require pity today. I've had a more stressful than normal Thursday due to several factors, not the least of which is that I failed to get enough sleep last night. Sleep deprivation depresses the entire system and, in my case, affects the emotional stability in a profound manner.

On top of (or because of) the sour mood, I ran into bunches of stumbling blocks to scrunch me deeper and deeper into the chasm. The worst of it all is that I started contemplating all of the things I want to accomplish and the fact that I will likely fail to accomplish most of them.

I am currently attempting to write a novel and with that comes the dreams of literary success. If I was guaranteed never to be a successful writer, I believe I would write anyway, so I don't have issues of motivation. It's those dreams, though, that have fueled some of my despondance. I have materialistic desires, just like anyone else. I started feeling today that I would never realize them because of choices I've made and the limited time I have left on Earth. Let's say I forget all about the success and just focus on the writing.

As I am not a full-time writer, I have to make the time to work much like every other aspiring . Sounds simple, right? Not so much. We Tesch's are a big bunch and therefore pretty high maintenance. Mrs. Tesch works full time (Dog bless her!) and while she works, I chase the itty bitty ones. Plus, I work one job from home and teach four days/week. I like to post here as often as possible, but there are times I think I sacrifice my other writing for it. What's a boy to do?!

The bottom line is that I'm having a mid-life crisis, bad day, pity party and you're all invited. I just need a hug, dammit!

what's in a name...

2009-06-23T09:00:00.003-05:00

You may notice that the title of the blog has changed. In performing some market research, I've found that the words "rants" and "musings" have been used in approximately nine hundred gazillion blog titles and descriptions.

Overwhelmed with a feeling of non-conformity, I decided to try to regain some self-respect. Not to worry, the url remains the same; as does the content.

Thank you for your understanding and continued support.

~Management

the day of days, pt. 2...

2009-06-22T10:47:00.005-05:00

Part two...It makes no deferens to me...

I happily greeted Debbie, the nurse who called my name. She smiled and guided me through the automatic doors to the pre-op area. Debbie pulled the curtain back exposing the room where I would wait to be taken to surgery. Furnished with a fluid resistant plastic recliner and a 12" television monitor, it wasn't much but it was comfortable enough. On the chair, folded neatly, was one standard hospital gown, a terry-clothish robe and a pair of dark blue sticky bottomed socks.

"Alright then, Mr. Tesch. You're here for a vasectomy?"
"Yes."
"And, have you elected to go with a sedative for the procedure?"
"I was thinking something along the lines of a couple bong hits?"
"The doctor has written an order for 10mg of Valium."
"Really? Ten whole milligrams? Why not just a warm glass of milk?"
"I'm going to need you to strip off everything below the waist and put on the gown. The robe can go on over it."

Debbie yanked the curtain behind her as she went looking for the Children's Chewable Valium. I clicked on the TV, stripped as instructed and slid into my health care lingerie. I had been wearing perfectly clean and comfortable socks, but I figured there must be something special about the non-slip footies they provided.

There's something about hospital gowns that make you feel more sick than you are. I sat back in the plastic lounger and waited for Debbie to return with my sedative. I began feeling as if I was preparing for heart surgery. Should I have asked for an advanced directive? What if there are complications? I haven't filled out a will. What if, somehow, I became the next Terry Shiavo? I once saw an episode of "House" where...

"Mr. Tesch," the curtain slipped back open. "Here's your Valium. Please place your personal belongings in this bag. We'll return it after the procedure."
"Nah. You guys can keep everything but the iPhone. I think I'll sport the gown for a while. I like the idea that with the right amount of wind gust, people can get a peek at my ass."
"The sedative should take effect in about five minutes or so. The doctor will be with you shortly."

Fifteen minutes later I thought about asking for seconds. I yawned once, so I suppose I can't say it had NO effect, but the thought of someone slicing open my dice bag still made me anxious. I channel surfed for a while. Sadly, daytime TV offered nothing for distraction either. Thirty minutes after I entered the pre-op area, my urologist entered the room with a big smile and a hearty greeting. He notified me that the surgical suite was all prepped and another nurse would be along shortly. She appeared over his shoulder and escorted me to THE room.

"Mr. Tesch, are you able to walk or would you like a wheel chair?"
"I am perfectly able to walk AND I'd like a wheel chair."
"Here, take my arm and we'll just take it slow."
"No. Really. I'm fine. I just like wheel chairs."
"Watch your step. Sometimes medications take effect and you don't notice until you've fallen."

We entered the OR and I was instructed to lay on the table that sat in the center of the room. There were all kinds of machines and instruments, but none were lit up. Probably just there in case there are complications. For a room with no acoustic deadening surfaces, it was remarkably quiet. I laid back and pulled up my gown, exposing the most personal parts of Earl Tesch to three masked strangers, all women. Don't get me wrong. It's not that I haven't done that before, but this time it wasn't in the Philippines and it was going to cost more than $18. One of the bandits appeared in my line of sight as I stared at the sterile ceiling.

"OK, Earl. The doctor will be in shortly. We're going to start prepping you for the procedure."
"Are you sure there's enough of you? I was hoping for maybe five or six strangers to handle my balls."
"First, we're going to shave the area."
"That won't be necessary."
"Oh, Earl. I know it seems uncomfortable, but we need to do it for each patient. Don't be embarrassed."
"I'm not embarrassed. Take a look. Smooth as eggs."
"Well, then we're going to wash the site and apply some Betadine scrub to sterilize."

And they did. With warm water and soap. And gentle gloved hands. Two of them. I don't know their names, but I couldn't help but wonder if this was a test. I wasn't aroused, necessarily, but most of my fantasies that involved two strange women washing my balls with warm, soapy water included soft music and a goat. Don't ask.

"Do you guys think you could light some candles or something?"
"Now we'll apply the Betadine. It could feel a little cold, so we're sorry."
"Are you sure you got the area clean enough? Maybe just a little faster this time?"
"Betadine can be a bit messy. Don't be alarmed when you see it around your legs and groin. Sometimes people mistake it for blood."
"Hey, there's three of you, right? Maybe one of you pinches my nipple a little while the others do the Betadine?"
"All set, Earl. The doctor will be in shortly. He's very efficient. The whole procedure should only take approximately seven minutes."
"Seven isn't really an 'approximate' number. Is it? Five is approximate. Ten is approximate."
"He really is quite efficient."
"If I'd known it was a race, I'd have brought a stopwatch."

The three of them stood around me and my exposed naughty bits, waiting for the doctor to come in. They made small talk, which is no reflection on the environment. There's no such thing as "giant serpent" talk. The doctor arrived just as Ball Handler #2 was finishing her story about the super secret ingredient of a great knackwurst recipe. The three nurses greeted him and all four of them began scurrying about, working quickly. The doctor asked me how I was feeling.

"Is the sedative working?"
"Oh, sure. I'm high as a kite."
"It's just there to steady the nerves a bit."
"Well it must be working, Doc. I am care free. Do your thing."
"Here we go. Just relax."

I felt one hand on my left testicle and a different hand on my right. The left began applying even and exponential pressure until I was certain that they were engaged in a contest to see which would burst first. The left side must have won, because the pressure subsided entirely on the right. I began twitching my feet in response to the "discomfort."

"How we doing Earl?"
"My left ball feels like it's in a garlic press. How about you?"
"It's all part of the procedure."
"That would be a good thing to put in the brochure. Ball mashing."
"Earl, you're going to feel a tiny pinch and then a burning sensation as we inject the anesthetic."
"OK. You'll probably feel my legs and feet kick wildly."

Surprisingly, the initial pinch wasn't very uncomfortable. However, the "burning sensation" was more akin to the feeling of someone pouring molten lead on my scrotum. I may have let out a short, high pitched squeal because one of the nurses gently rubbed my shin to comfort me. It didn't help, though eventually I lost all feeling in the affected area. The team was ready to finally do the deed.

I felt nothing as the doctor made a single, half-inch incision into the seam of my coin purse. I know they were working on stuff, but I couldn't tell exactly. It was quite a helpless feeling. I couldn't prepare myself for what was to come next and I had no idea how close they were to completing the sterilization. The doctor spoke up.

"Alright then Earl. You'll feel some tugging."
"Tugging?"
"Yes. While we search for the Vas Deferens. Then once we find it, we need to expose it."
"You're the doctor."

Immediately, I felt as though he reached in through my scrotum and started pulling on my soul. I could feel the 'tugging' in my shoulders. I explained this to the team and they said it was perfectly normal. He continued tugging and I was afraid that if I looked down, I would see my lungs hanging out of the incision.

"There we go. That's one."
"You mean you're going back in?"
"Almost there, Earl. Just relax."
"Um, Doc? You may want to revisit your dosage recommendations regarding Valium if you really want me to relax."

The right side took less time but with no less tugging, pulling, snagging or wrenching. The tubes snipped and separated, it was time to singe them shut forever. There was an audible sizzle and poofs of beef flavored smoke wafted up into the air. Mission accomplished, the doctor reinstalled the disabled hardware and closed the incision with three self-dissolving sutures.

"All done Earl. Eight minutes."
"Why the delay?"
"Be sure you avoid heavy activities and sex for ten days to two weeks."
"Do me a favor? Give those same orders to Mrs. Tesch."
"You can expect some inflammation, but if your scrotum swells to the size of a grapefruit you should call us."
"A grapefruit?! If it gets any bigger than a tangelo, you'll be hearing from my lawyer."
"Apply ice or an equivalent regularly. That should help with pain and keep swelling down."
"Mrs. Tesch already bought two bags of frozen peas on Grocery Day. Plus, I molded an ice cube tray in the shape of my cock-n-balls. I allowed for the swelling."
"After two weeks you can resume sexual activity. Then after fifteen to twenty ejaculations, come back in for a semen analysis."
"Right. Should be about two weeks and two hours. What about this analysis, anyway? What do you check for? Nice, smooth finish? Low tannens?"

The doctor left with one of the nurses, leaving the other two to assist me to post-op. I couldn't look them in the eyes, but I assured them there would be a little something extra for them in the payment envelope.

Mrs. Tesch and the two youngest kids picked me up after and recovery has been fairly uneventful. No grapefruit sized testes, no bleeding, hardly any discomfort. In fact, the ear piercing was more painful than the sterilization. Today, I have barely any pain or soreness in my balls, but if I touch the industrial piercing just the right way, I wince and pee my pants a bit. Go figure.

Two quick ironies before I close this chapter of my life:

I had a vasectomy on Father's Day weekend.
More interestingly, my urologist's name is Dr. Johnson.

the day of days pt. 1...

2009-06-20T07:26:00.005-05:00

This is the first of a two part expose about one man's quest for sterility...

Mrs. Tesch left work early on June 18th in order to drive me to the surgery center. We made casual conversation and discussed the agenda for the day.

"I'll call you when they're ready to release me," I said.
"OK," she seemed distracted. "I'll take the kids to lunch and wait for you. Are you nervous?"
"Surprisingly not, actually."
"It's OK, honey. You can tell me if you're nervous."
"I know I can. I really haven't given it much thought."
"Did you remember to write that note to the doctor?"

I unbuttoned my jeans, pulled them down a bit and exposed my upper thigh. In black Sharpie was written: "Disconnect only. Do NOT remove."

We arrived at 11:50. Ten minutes early. Mrs. Tesch wished me luck and I watched her drive away. I looked to the sky. It was a beautiful day. Not a cloud, nor any expectation. Closing my eyes, I leaned my head back and drank in the summer air. 11:55 and I entered the clinic.

I was met at the registration desk by Brandy, the 6' 4" receptionist. Actually, she was probably 6' 8" with the towering braided weave that sat upon her head. She must have weighed somewhere in the neighborhood of 300 pounds, but she moved like she was 280. I approached her and at the same time the telephone rang. She held up a long and, oddly, slender forefinger to indicate that I should wait while she tended to the caller.

Her fingernails were painted black and gold, and upon each tip was a solitary rhinestone. There were gold rings of all shapes and sizes adorning every finger and each thumb, as well as countless bracelets struggling to remain intact under the pressure of the overstuffed sausages that were her wrists. She got up from her chair to check the fax machine. I suppose she was expecting a very important message, undoubtedly from the person on the other end of the phone. Brandy was impeccably dressed in matching raspberry pedal pushers and vest worn over a white blouse. The vest and blouse were both sleeveless, leaving her very busy arms exposed. They rippled with every change of direction and I was pretty sure that somewhere in the dimple in the middle of her arm was an elbow, but I couldn't be certain. Her chair tried to scream, but was silenced as Brandy sat back down in her seat and ended her call.

"Alright, then. How can I help you, hon'?"
"I'm here for a procedure."
"Oh, could you please step around the corner to the admitting desk?"

Silly me, I had thought the big "Admitting" sign was a dead give-away that I was in the right line. I peaked around the corner of Brandy's desk and, sure enough, there was another smaller desk with an identical "Admitting" sign posted above. I tapped my knuckles on Brandy's desk in the affirmative and walked around the corner. Brandy slid her chair to this second area and instructed me to sit.

"Here's some paperwork. Please read and sign each form. I'll also need a picture ID and your insurance card, baby."
"I'll need a pen," I pointed out. Brandy stared at me for a moment, searched the area behind her computer monitor and produced a capless, gnawed upon, Bic. I began filling out the paperwork while Brandy made copies of my cards. She returned and started chatting me up about my procedure. Bear in mind that the waiting area was well populated and there was no shortage of passers-by well within earshot.

"So, Mr. Tesch. As you'll notice on your paperwork, you are here for a PERMANENT STERILIZATION procedure."
"Yes."
"You already have kids? Because you shouldn't go into a decision like this unless you already sowed your seeds a little, you know?"
"Oh yeah. You don't have to worry about me, Brandy. I've sowed my seeds and reaped a fruitful crop of ankle biters."
"My cousin got himself neutered when he got divorced, then he goes and hooks up with a young girl. She wants babies. So now, my cousin's got to go and get it undid."
"Neutered, you say?"
"Mm hmm. That boy'd do anything that little young thing ask him to."
"Because I've seen a neutered dog and if that's what I signed up for, I think I want to reconsider."
"OK, baby. You're all set here. Have a seat in the waiting area and I'll let the nurse know you're here."

I sat in the first available chair which was conveniently located between a frail, sweet smelling senior citizen with a heavily bandaged foot, and a younger man with uncontrollable flatulence and no shame. I was happy to have remembered Me Talk Pretty One Day so I had a genuine excuse not to make any conversation with the people around me. Sadly, while many people would see my nose buried in a book as a sign that I wasn't very social, my waiting room neighbors were not among them. Stinky Fartypants peered over my shoulder.

"Whatcha' reading?"
"Hm?"
"The book," he pointed.
"Oh. It's a collection of memoir short stories by David Sedaris."
"Never heard of it."
"Mm hm," and I turned back to my reading.
"I don't have time to read much. Busy with my website."
"Ah." I didn't look up, hopeful that Stinky would respect my non-verbal signals.
"It's a site for more mature audiences, if you catch my drift." He winked.
"Porn?" He got my attention.
"Oh good Lord, no! I offer assistance and advice to retired individuals. Best cheap restaurants, best rheumatologists, best bingo nights. That kind of thing."
I went back to my book. Stinky dug into his pocket and retrieved a business card upon which was printed only theoldandtherestless.com. I took the card when he handed it to me and nodded my head in a silent "Thanks. This will look really good in Brandy's trash can."

The nurse appeared from the automatic double doors leading to the surgical suites and saved me the trouble of faking explosive diarrhea and running off to the men's room. She held a medical chart in her arms and called out, "Earl?"

Tune in next time for the rest of the story. In part two, be prepared to read such juicy nuggets as, "...you're going to feel some TUGGING..." and "...call us if it swells to the size of a grapefruit..."

today is the day...

2009-06-18T10:03:00.003-05:00

At 12:00pm CST/1:00pm EST Earl's boys will be without potency. Alas, it's been a good run, fellows. So many fond memories of our escapades. I can still remember the first. Can you? Of course you can. A darkened living room, free Playboy channel, a balled up Kleenex...Those were the days.

Never fear, dear readers. Details to follow...

i am woman, eat my fist...

2009-06-15T13:41:00.003-05:00

In my opinion, all women should, at a minimum, participate in a self-defense and awareness seminar. It's the awareness that is of utmost importance. I'm not saying that it is fair that women need to follow special rules to avoid physical and sexual assault, but it's a cold reality. There are myriad resources available on the web, through community centers and at your local martial arts studios that can provide you with useful knowledge regarding personal safety.

That said, often people confuse safety and awareness with crazy, unrealistic (and often comical) 'empowerment' systems of women's self-defense. This video is a prime example, depicting dramatic situations where a woman is attacked by a much larger, presumably stronger male opponent. The woman in the video defends herself from each of the various assaults with great tenacity and seemingly lethal technique. In fact, not only does she defend herself, she annihilates the perpetrators with groin strikes and ear slaps and knees to the head. I imagine there are women who see this video and say, "Yes. That's what I need to learn. I will become the 'huntress.' Any man that thinks he can take advantage of me will find his head up his ass. I AM WOMAN, EAT MY FIST!"

Anyone, man or woman, that thinks they will be empowered to neutralize any attacker through training in these exaggerated self-defense programs is watching too many Chuck Norris movies. I have trained in martial arts for nearly twenty years. I know men who have trained for as long and have had their asses handed to them by loaded tavern patrons. It is said that what counts isn't "the size of the guy in the fight", it's "the size of the fight in the guy." That may be true in some cases, but the size of the guy in the fight is still pretty important. Dr. Ruthless has some martial arts training, stands around 5' and weighs probably 125 lbs or so. I don't like her chances going toe to toe with most men, least of all a professional predator.

Programs should strive to instruct students to take every necessary step to avoid confrontation altogether, then focus on three or four simple escape techniques. Escape is the only real option. It is unreasonable and irresponsible to give the (false) impression that a physically weaker defender can overpower and destroy a stronger, seasoned attacker. I am not saying it's impossible for a woman to kick the crap out of a man, but like it or not, it's unlikely.

a picture is worth a thousand words...

2009-06-14T21:35:00.010-05:00

No pseudo-pics here. It's me. In most of the pictures. And some other people too. Enjoy.

succhiare il presente ...

2009-06-12T08:01:00.004-05:00

Unë isha duke menduar se do të ishte më zbavitëse për të postuar në një gjuhë të huaj që përdorin këtë të vërtetë cool translator nga Google. Unë jam mjaft kurioz të dijë se sa prej jush do të përpiqet të shikojë këtyre paragrafeve dhe përkthejnë tyre, e veten tuaj.

الفقرة السابقة في الألبانية. النوع الأول من مثل لغات أوروبا الشرقية ، بما لديها من الصعب الساكنة وعلامات تغير في الصوت. تبدو صعبة على التعلم. أتساءل عما إذا كانت قواعد اللغة بقدر صعوبة اللغة الانكليزية. هل لديهم قواعد خاصة؟ مثل : "كنت قبل هاء ، إلا بعد C.". وهلم جرا.

Arabisk, og på den anden side er et smukt sprog for at se på siden. For mig er den amerikanske læser, bare synet af det bringer visioner af religiøse zealots og terrorisme, men anden måde i en meget visuelt spændende format. Maybe it's just me.

C'est intéressant. La dernière phrase n'a pas été traduit. Il est danois, par la route. Je me demande vraiment si ces mots sont les mêmes, en danois et en anglais. Si oui, alors je pense que je parle un peu de danois. Neato!

לא הייתי מסוגל להיות אכפת לדבר צרפתית, כמו בסעיף שלעיל. אני מניח שאנשים היו מוצאים אותי יותר מעניין אם למדתי. הבעיה היא שאני שונא את צרפת. הם כל כך יהיר. מתהדר שלי היא הדבר. אין מספיק על זה חדר קטן רוק עבור שנינו.

Esse um é, obviamente, hebraico. Eu gosto da idéia de que o árabe eo hebraico podem coexistir dentro do mesmo cargo. Ouçam, Centro-Leste. Esta mensagem é para você!

Klicken Sie hier, um die Verbindung zu den Google-Übersetzer-Funktion auf. Ich denke, es ist schrecklich cool! Ich werde neugierig zu sehen, wie diese Absätze zurück ins Englische übersetzen. Ich habe das Gefühl, dass die Übersetzung nicht genau. Sie sind nie.

Det är verkligen en fråga om hur hårt du vill arbeta för hemligheter R, M & A. Jag är ganska säker på de flesta av er inte kommer att ta tid att översätta alla dessa ord. Det kommer att bero på hur mycket tid du har och är villiga att investera. Om du gör det bra, tar av hatten för dig. Om nej, jag kan gräva.

So there's the secret. It's really quite simple.

m.m.m...r.i.p...

2009-06-10T21:17:00.000-05:00

I received this letter via USPS yesterday. The postmark was June 1, 2009. I am at a loss for words...

RE: MELVIN MAYNARD MELMON 267533987

We are sorry to inform you of the death of Mr.Melmon. He was found in his bunk this morning. It appears he died in his sleep. No foul play is suspected. Mr. Melmon had been recently diagnosed with heart disease.
Found clutched in his hand were several papers with your name. Mr. Melmon had recently updated his personal file to reflect you as his next of kin. We will be sending his belongings to you once you send us your address.

You may find missing among his belongings a map leading to the $48,000, which Mr. Melmon buried immediately prior to his capture. The map was discovered during the autopsy. Apparently Mr. Melmon has kept the map hidden in his rectum for the last 18 years. The F.B.I. has taken possession of that map.

We are enclosing a list of his belongings:
1 ½ containers of dental floss
2 pr. Jockey and 2 pr. Boxers (3 are clean)
1 pair of size 40 inch waist and 25 inch in length jeans
1 pair sneakers with Velcro that still sticks well.
3 ½ packs generic cigarettes
1 tee shirt with the name Gerald on it
A photo of his mother and brother, Marvin from their younger days.
143 pencils and 1 click pen (red ink) (he had been ordering pencils in large quantities recently)
1 coffee mug which has a picture of a pickup truck and the name “Sally”
5 ½ pairs of yellow socks
2 packs Juicy Fruit Gum
1 wallet which contained pictures of Perry Mason and $3.27

Also among his belongings were numerous books, which were returned to the library, where he worked as a janitor and was teaching himself to use a computer.

We extend our sympathy to you and your family for your loss. Please be aware that the package will arrive C.O.D.

Sincerely,
James Z. Froderick
Deputy Warden
Joliet Illinois State Penitentiary

originality has already been done...

2009-06-09T08:03:00.003-05:00

There are no new ideas. It's true. Everything's been done. Sure, there will be future gadgets and modes of transportation that we haven't yet conceived, but in the realm of the humanities we are all doomed to repeating and mimicking the truly creative artists that came before us. What's more is that there will be no shortage of people to tell us that our ideas are not original, but rather very over-done and cliched. Yeah. Those people.

Really, that attitude spans a much wider range of genres. You may be excited to have 'discovered' a band or a book or a movie or anything you find interesting. You approach a friend or family member with your new item and that person slaps you in the face with an entirely disinterested, "Oh that? Yeah I heard/knew about that a long time ago." Oh really? Well thanks for kicking me in the creativity crotch. I'm glad you were here to make me feel much less important. If you hadn't been here, I might never have realized that I'm unoriginal and far inferior to you. By the way, I have a new puppy. Maybe you'd like to bag it up and throw it in a river.

We may not be driven by it, but I believe each of us would like to be regarded as special, if only for a brief moment. We'd like to offer something to the world and be perceived as an expert or innovator. We'd like to present an idea or discovery and hear the response, "Hey, I never heard of that. Thank you for broadening my horizons." Sadly, there are few opportunities left where we can present new material because everyone has seen or heard everything.

I fear that I am just as guilty of poo-pooing ideas, but I am going to change that starting right now. In the future, when approached by an enthusiastic friend or colleague with an idea they believe to be their own; original and ground breaking, I will act as if he/she has discovered fire. Why shouldn't I? How powerful the impact on his/her self-image if I allow him/her to feel important and special. I'd be like an inspiration pixie.

Guy ~ "Hey Earl. Have you seen that movie, The Godfather? I just saw it on AMC the other night. It was really cool. It's about..."

Earl ~ "Wait, don't tell me what it's about. I'll check it out. Sounds neat."

...two days later...

Earl ~ "Holy crap! That movie you turned me on to? It was incredible. Thanks for the tip."

Guy now feels that he has been instrumental in exposing me to a thirty-seven year old Oscar winning film. Even though I've seen the movie several thousand times, Guy can walk around for the rest of the day confident that he has done his part to make the world a better place.

Another rule to put on the refrigerator....Enthusiasm should always be met with enthusiasm.

bananafish revisited...

2009-06-08T08:52:00.003-05:00

If you haven't read JD Salinger's A Perfect Day for Bananafish, I urge you to do so as soon as you are physically able. (That's right. I'm giving you homework. Deal with it.) There is a fair amount of controversy surrounding this short story, but I've always had questions about the more ambiguous background and untold part of the story with which Salinger teases the reader.

Much like the hacky stand-up comic that begins a bit with "What if Jack Nicholson worked at McDonald's? I think it'd go something like this...", I tried to answer some of my own questions about Bananafish. This is what I came up with...

Bananafish Revisited

“Something smells good,” Seymour smiled. Mrs. Fedder backed into the dining room through the swinging door from the kitchen. She turned carefully to avoid disturbing the platter displaying the roast with carrots and potatoes. He continued, “We didn’t get many home cooked meals in the Army.”

“I suppose not,” Mr. Fedder joked, “Probably aren’t any stoves left in Germany that are big enough for a roast.” Seymour’s smile fell from his pale, gaunt face and was replaced with a distant, pained expression.

Quickly changing the subject, Muriel noted, “Well it sure is nice to have everyone together, finally. Father, why don’t you carve that roast? Would you like some peas, Seymour?”

“I didn’t mean anything by – “

“Make sure you don’t slice it too thick for Granny. Otherwise it’ll be too much for her teeth.”

“What I was saying is that –“

“Isn’t it nice that Seymour’s home, Granny?” Granny nodded, although she didn’t actually hear the question.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Mr. Fedder carved the roast and placed a single slice on each plate that Mrs. Fedder set before him. She used a serving spoon to add potatoes and carrots, and asked each person at the table, “Au jus?”

They ate in awkward silence until, snapping out of his trance, Seymour cleared his throat and broke it with, “So Granny, you’re looking fine. It’s good to see you. What’s new?”

“Eh?” She held a cupped hand to her ear.

“What’s new? What’s on the program?”

“Mother’s been making funeral plans. Haven’t you, Granny?” Mrs. Fedder almost had a song in her voice.

“You don’t have to sound so eager.” Granny picked up the linen napkin from her lap and dabbed the corners of her mouth. “You’ll be rid of me soon enough.”

“Oh, Mother. We are not eager to be rid of you. I’m just enjoying our family – “

“I tell you this much, though. I’m not spending all that money on a coffin, despite what that undertaker thinks. Why should I spend a thousand dollars to be buried in luxury? I won’t know any differently if I’m buried in a mattress box.”

Mrs. Fedder nearly choked on a potato, “Mother! What would people think if you weren’t in a proper casket at your viewing? Why, I wouldn’t be able to show my face at the funeral.”

“I think I’ll just have them incinerate me. Don’t worry, Dear, you can buy a splendid urn for my cremains and keep it on the mantle. I understand that they have them with lovely floral designs. A compliment to any household.” Granny smiled, pleased with her jibe.

Seymour stopped eating. He froze, mid-bite looking as though he were in the background of a photograph taken at a wedding dinner. He came to life slowly and gently set his fork on the rim of the plate. His eyes glared at Granny from beneath a furrowed brow.

“Is that supposed to be funny? A joke?”

“Oh, she knows I’m only – “

“Do you know what it’s like, Granny? Do you have any idea what it’s like? Cremation? It doesn’t really smell that different from burning a roast beef.”

“Seymour!” Muriel was shocked.

“But you don’t eat people with au jus. Do you? “

Mrs. Fedder spit a bite of roast into her napkin and reached for her water glass.

“Well, Granny, you’re not that far off from death, are you? Why wait? Why don’t we just see if roasting people is a joke?” Seymour shot out of his chair, sending it crashing into the buffet behind his place at the table. He trod heavily around the table to where Granny glared at him frightened, her hands trembling. He grabbed the back of her chair and tilted it onto its back legs.

“We’ll listen to you scream and sizzle, Granny. It’ll be a grand old time. What a joke it will be when we hear your eyes burst and leak out of their sockets. What a hoot to see your tongue bake in your mouth and your gums recede and your teeth turn black while you gasp for every scorching breath of fiery air.”

Seymour started to drag Granny’s chair along the length of the dinner table toward the kitchen. She gripped the arms with white knuckles. “Stop! Let me down! Let me down! Muriel!”

“Seymour! Daddy, stop him! Seymour, you let Granny down, this instant!” Muriel screamed. Her face was pure terror. Mr. Fedder remained seated, staring, astounded at the drama unfolding at his dinner table.

Stunned, Seymour released Granny and the front legs of the chair came down with a thump. His eyes darted wildly left and right, seemingly unable to focus. He was breathing heavily. He ran out of the dining room, panicked. They heard the front door open, then slam shut, the car engine start, and the tires screeched out of the driveway.

Granny was pale, her eyes open wide. Tears ran down from her eyes and trailed off into the deep wrinkles of her face. “I…I don’t…What did I say?”

“What did they do to him at that hospital?” Mr Fedder asked, still chewing.

Mrs. Fedder looked from Granny to Muriel to the floor’s scratched cherry finish that ran from the dinner table at the edge of the rug behind Granny’s place to just before the door to the kitchen. “Just look at my floor.”

i am no poet...

2009-06-07T16:07:00.006-05:00

Ask Earl might return next week.

I realized that I had never posted any poetry. So, in lieu of the advice column, I though I might post a couple. While searching for a file on my increasingly jam packed hard drive, I rediscovered these elegies.

The first is a Petrarchan sonnet inspired by a professor that had way too much to say about my writing. She didn't care for my voice, topics, propensity for violence, etc. As a protest, I wrote the poem.

The second is pretty self-explanatory in free-verse.

Here Lies Creativity
September 9th, 2007 to September 16th, 2007

Born unto me, my Dear, in autumn o’seven,
Fluky was I to receive Arianrhod’s gift,
And so it was Thee I would endeavor to lift,
Alas too high, down You came crashing from heaven.
No heartening or kind compassion could leaven,
The pain of parent from nurtured Child’s death so swift,
Nor could cold pragmatic revision spare the rift,
Between proud father and literary maven.
Death at the stroke of a pen, but at whose warrant?
Thyne beauty is of privileged grasp, not for all,
From me ‘lone You depart, as from me were You born,
And while to she Your rhyth’m and style were abhorrent,
‘Twas Your images, Your theme, I loved most of all,
Tis for these, Your heart, Your soul most deeply I mourn.

The Journey

My sister’s father lay supine,
In his deathbed, surrounded by family.
Once sharp and witty, and full,
Of seemingly endless life.
Today, his breathing is shallow.
He is unanimated, gray.
His eyes are closed and tears run,
From the corners to the pillow.
He is experiencing electrolytic shock,
And it startles us.
His pulse is dropping, and respirations,
Becoming less frequent.
My mother is removing the oxygen mask,
From his nose and mouth.
She is singing “Amazing Grace” to help him,
Make the journey.

d-day, h-hour...

2009-06-06T21:07:00.005-05:00

The Sea Air

I’m really enjoying this. The sea air is good for you, I hear. Spending summer after summer of my youth at the Navy Pier, attempting pikes and Gaynors to impress the girls, horsing around with the neighborhood gang. I’ve definitely developed a love of water. But Lake Michigan water and Atlantic Ocean water are very different. The salt of the ocean permeates the olfactory. You can smell it in the air and on your clothing, in your hair and under your finger nails. The ocean spray sends misty bursts of flavor into your mouth, should you be lucky enough to forget to breathe through your nose. Even in the cold of the Atlantic coast in early June, I relish in the cool, salty vapor coming up over the side of the boat. Each time the boat rises up and claps down on the surf, I can’t help but laugh. It’s the same laugh that leapt out of my mouth at the pier; uncontrolled and genuine. I wonder why the rest of the guys aren’t smiling as much as I am. I wonder how much more pleasurable is the ocean experience without the rumbling engine and the diesel fumes of the Gray Marine.

While I’d prefer sunshine and seventy degrees if I was back at the pier, this weather is fitting, considering the circumstances. In fact, I think I’d be disappointed by anything else. There is a certain relationship between the Atlantic Ocean and overcast skies. I cannot imagine the Atlantic without grey skies and unsettled waters; without temperatures below fifty degrees. This day is certainly living up to my expectations. The air is cool and damp with the salty mist. The sky is memorably grey with a dark, burnt around the edges quality. Some would see this as a foreboding but for me it’s a satisfying fulfillment of my own imagination. Stevens and Lambert complained as we set out that we were all going to be soaked in the ocean spray, catch pneumonia, and die. Kopshinski laughed at them, “Pneumonia’s the last thing I’m worried about.”

I feel now a closer relationship with the ocean than I did upon our first trip. Our initial journey across the Atlantic was in an imposing and impersonal ship. The feeling at that time was more that we were in a ship on the ocean. This moment I am alive with the notion that I am on a boat in the ocean. Here I am close to the sea; an inhabitant. If I pull myself up, I can look over the side of the boat and watch as we motor through the water and I know that the water moves around us much more aggressively than we move through it. The sea allows us on this day to move through it and I am thankful for the passage.

If I have one complaint about our voyage, it is the floor of our craft. As we’ve made our way, frigid sea water has collected and soaked our feet. And although our feet are freezing, crinkled, and aching, what’s worse is the sea water and vomit slurry that washes over our boots. There is no odor known to man as recognizable as vomit; and none so contagious. I knew as soon as I saw the look on O’Keefe’s face when we set out today that he was a puker and sure enough, the first set of whitecaps set him off. Powdered eggs are disgusting enough without being partially digested and muddled up with coffee, apple juice and bile. Moments after O’Keefe’s launch, Jackson lost his breakfast. And so it went. Thirteen of thirty six men threw up this morning.

Soon the Higgins driver will clear the door and we’ll run out of the boat onto foreign shores. I bet O’Keefe and Jackson and Lambert and Stevens will be happy to be off of the boat and out of the water. Not me. I could go another couple of hours motoring about, but I don’t have a couple more hours, so I’ll take in the rest of the ride until then and I hope my time in France will be as relaxing.

and now, a musical interlude...

2009-06-05T10:35:00.003-05:00

In the morning, before school, when Earl Jr. and Seymour eat their bowls of Apple Jacks and I quiet the voices in my head with a caffeine fix, we will watch music videos on the MTV. The early AM being the only time music videos are actually played. As I am a child of the 80s, I was there when the network first appeared. I can still remember when, due to a shortage of actual videos, they would play film of landscapes and space walks with Rush's 2112 playing over it. The music video has evolved since its infancy, with 3 1/2 minute major motion pictures and high brow, art house shorts. Some are clever satires of classic films, while others are merely concert footage. Many have succumbed to the music video cliches. Lone guitarists shredding in the middle of a desert. Wind machines. Buckets of water thrown on scantily clad young men and women. With art, whether it is literature, film making, painting, etc., any genre that is around for long enough becomes increasingly difficult to demonstrate with any originality. A case in point is this venture from Lady Gaga. Let's take a close look at the video for Poker Face.

0:03 - Uh oh. She's coming out of the gate with a tired device. Latex clad, slow motion, dripping wet. Not a good start Lady.
0:08 - What the hell are the dogs doing there? I'm not entirely sure what the metaphor is. Maybe she's Danish?
0:27 - A touched-up tight shot of Gaga with a space-age white, sharp angled wig. What's that thing on her face?
0:38 - So, apparently the producer or some friend is the proud owner of a palatial estate that features expertly manicured landscaping and crash-test dummies in various poses. Seems to fit the contemporary flavor of the young lady in latex with the thing on her face.
0:58 - The first costume change. She looks a bit like a hooker from The Jetsons. Also, well placed gang of homosexual backup dancers.
1:04 - A clearer shot of the thing on her face. Is that a piercing? Or is it glued on? I have to know what that is!
1:05 - What happened to the dancers behind her?
1:09 - They're back!
1:15 - New costume again.
1:23 - Pseudo-orgy. Propriety requires clothing, but we know.
1:30 - An ace on the Turn and again on the River?! I'm all in.
1:41 - I like how she's reaching out to the common man. It happens so often, I can't even count the number of times I've played strip poker with super models.
1:50 - The guy in his underwear seems to have the thinnest legs ever recorded. If there were records of thin legs, that is. And if there isn't, there oughta be.
2:04 - Uh oh! Black boots with a blue space-hooker suit? Awfully uncouth if you asked me. Maybe something in a white or teal sling-back pump?
2:22 - Cool glasses. Like a modern day Max Headroom.
2:30 - You heard it right. She's bluffin' with her muffin'.
2:43 - Another wardrobe change. Another underwear model. He seems quite disinterested.
3:09 - I thought for SURE that she was going to make out with the Great Dane.
3:34 - With classic flair, Lady Gaga gives us a closing pout that says, "I am sexy. Don't ask me what I was thinking. Just know that I am sexy."

I cannot help but watch this vid each morning when it is played twice every sixteen minutes. I am disappointed, though, in how videos like Poker Face pale in comparison to the cutting edge pieces that were prevalent in the hey-day of music television. Videos with deep meaning and a focus on the musician seem like they may be a thing of the past. Videos like this:

OK. Maybe not...

blinders...

2009-06-04T22:26:00.003-05:00

I was chided today for writing about issues from my own perspective. The complaint stemmed from the reader feeling that the content of a post was too personal to be shared with the viewing public. I disagreed. It wasn't pretty.

After attempting to explain the reasons behind my desire to post the occasional memoir as a form of therapy and the idea that I choose to write about MY life however it may affect the reader, I was unable to influence this particular reader. It's a shame, really. Some truth can be subjective, though often empirical. It is the fear of truth that leads to the conversation I had today. I have chosen to respect the wishes of this reader for the time being. I cannot say that I will never write about certain periods of my life, even if there are some readers that will take umbrage.

The worst part of the whole argument today is that it threw me right off what had been an inspiring day. I have been catching up on reading and my head is full of ideas. I was excited to sit at the new desk and start writing for pleasure. The argument ensued and all I wanted to do was hit something. That kind of frustration kills the creative spirit.

there are no atheists in the NICU...

2009-06-03T10:47:00.006-05:00

8:30pm February 1, 2001 and I am standing in an operating room on the second floor of Aurora Sinai Medical Center observing as a team of neonatologists and obstetricians frantically work to extract my son from the womb four months earlier than his projected arrival. The acrid potpourri of iodine, disinfectant and body fluid combined with the drama of the event nauseates me, but I manage to maintain composure and retain the contents of my stomach. My son's mother is anesthetized; eyes taped shut and intubated. I haven't the courage to watch the surgeon open and enter her abdomen. Instead, I look at the floor for a few moments, then shift my gaze to machines and instruments with red and green lights that keep time like life giving metronomes. One of the masked physicians utters, "Out," and my son is wrapped in towels by a nurse who jostles him about like a bowler cleaning lane wax off of her marbled Brunswick. She sets him on a heating table which is subsequently surrounded by a completely different team of masked health care professionals. I sneak a look at my son while various leads, needles, tubes, tape, etc. are applied. He is the size of a chicken sandwich. His eyes are fused shut. His fingers curl and toes spread. I can see the blood vessels through his paper skin. He is taken away from me when the heating table is rolled out of the O.R. into the hallway, then to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. The surgical team is finishing, closing incisions, courteously leaving everything as they found it minus a fetus and placenta. I am instructed to leave, discard my sterile attire and wait in the hall.

An unusually short and remarkably hairy man approaches me, identifying himself as Dr. Bob. He addresses me as "Dad" which I find odd, but haven't the energy to give him my real name.

Dr. Bob ~ "Hi Dad. I'm Dr. Bob, your son's neonatologist."
Earl ~ "Hi Dr. Bob."
Dr. Bob ~ "I imagine you have quite a few questions, many of which will be answered over time."
Earl ~ "OK. Can I ask some now?"
Dr. Bob ~ "Your son has arrived sixteen weeks early, which is obviously not optimum."
Earl ~ "Obviously."
Dr. Bob ~ "Five or ten years ago, we would not have even attempted to apply life support."
Earl ~ "Well, I'm glad he wasn't five years early, then."
Dr. Bob ~ "I'm going to be very frank."
Earl ~ "I'm still going to be Earl, if that's OK."
Dr. Bob ~ "If I had 100 twenty-four weekers, 50 would probably not live."
Earl ~ "Cuts your workload in half. Glass half full."
Dr. Bob ~ "Of those 50 surviving, we expect that 25 would be significantly handicapped."
Earl ~ "Significantly? Like wheelchairs? Or Paris Hilton?"
Dr. Bob ~ "Of the 25 remaining, most will have marginal problems such as reduced motor skills, etc."
Earl ~ "Hey man, I don't even put air in the mini-van tires. That's what '30 Minute Lube' is for."
Dr. Bob ~ "For now, we will focus on the next day or two. We will have much more information in twenty-four to forty-eight hours."
Earl ~ "So you don't have any empirical truths for me, just odds. You're like Jimmy the Greek for infant viability."
Dr. Bob ~ "Not Greek. I'm Armenian."
Earl ~ "Well that explains the hair."

And Dr. Bob is gone. I stand alone in a the corridor that separates the surgical suites from the NICU. I walk up to and through the double doors that lead to the nursing unit. I am instructed by the receptionist that I will need to fill out some paperwork in order to gain access to the area where my son is kept. I realize that my family is still awaiting word from me as to the health of mother and child. I ask the receptionist if I might take the paperwork out to the waiting area so that I can get some assistance from my family. She replies in the negative. I stare at her for a moment, complete the appropriate forms and she gives me a light blue name tag that I affix to my sweatshirt. I exit the unit and head to the waiting area.

I answer myriad questions, but I am on auto-pilot. I choose not to explain the odds as Armenian Bob had done for me. Mother Tesch would not cope very well. I am beginning to show signs of breaking. Mother Tesch, my sister and sister-in-law accompany me to an area approved for smoking on the first floor, outside. I smoke, they make conversation. I am involved in the conversation but have no real idea what's being said. I am hollow. Their words enter and ricochet around my head, down my throat and into my stomach. Mother Tesch guides me into the hospital and encourages me to sleep. I agree.

I sleep, fitfully in a chair next to his mother's bed. It is 5:30AM and I need to smoke again. My head is heavy with the confusion of sleeping in a strange place, but I regain my bearings quickly. I ask someone in pink surgical scrubs where I might get a 'cup of Joe' and she looks at me like I am speaking Portuguese. "Coffee?" I mime a cup and drink from it. She apologizes that she cannot help. After locating the encrypted directions on a well hidden sign, I stop for a coffee in the cafeteria on my way to a different smoking area in the back of the hospital.

I enter the aluminum and Plexiglas shack designated for sinners such as myself, with my evil cigarettes. I spark up and savor the burning tobacco as it enters my lungs. My eyes light up with the rush of nicotine and my head clears more with each sip of bitter hospital cafeteria java. Along with regaining my wits comes the gravity of my son's situation. He has arrived four full months before his frail machinery is ready to sustain life. The last twenty-four hours have scooted past, leaving me disoriented and overwhelmed. His life will be determined to be long-lasting or short-lived in the next twenty-four hours. My hands are shaking and I am beginning to panic. I do not know if my son is fighting to live or waiting to die. My eyes are darting about the smoking shack. I am sure that the other occupants are aware of my quirking. My cigarette is burning into the filter. Can I handle this? I want my son to live, but Armenian Bob may have already saved 50. What if my son is #51? I drop my coffee. I am on the verge...

I exit and the spring loaded door slams into the aluminum jamb behind me. Entering through the automatic sliding doors, I am looking for a restroom. No. That won't provide the privacy I need. I am jogging, snapping my neck left and right in search of sanctuary. My breathing has become choppy and I try to hold it. I am not ready to release. I am on the second floor racing to the NICU.

There is no receptionist at the desk, under which is the lock release button that allows entry into the patient care area. To my left is a door marked, "Quiet Room." It is there for parents of the unfortunate 50. It is unlocked and I succumb to myself before the door is latched. I am crying harder than I have ever cried. I cannot breathe. Tears, snot, saliva mesh at my chin and form a line that runs from my chest to my silently screaming mouth. I kneel before a soft, but horribly uncomfortable sofa and bury my face in it. I am tearing at the cushions. I am frightened. I am angry. I am lost.

When the attack has subsided, my body is too dense to pull itself up on to the couch. I roll over to sit on the floor, legs stretched before me, head leaning back. I am praying, but I don't know to whom I am praying. I am offering deals to him/her/it. I'll be a better person. I am sorry that I haven't prayed until now. I'll pray more. No, probably not. I am a poor bargainer. I do not know what to offer. I only know what I want. Please. Please, let him live.

**************

He did live. Seymour David Chocolate Man Tesch (Further explanation of the name is forthcoming). He not only cracked the Top 25 but is nearly free of flaws altogether. The only notable effects of his early arrival are that he wears glasses as a result of Retinopathy of Prematurity and he has a propensity to enjoy the occasional slice of pizza on the potty. (Mystery solved!) I am eternally grateful to Armenian Bob and the staff at the NICU for the life of my son. I cannot say that I have prayed since that day, nor can I say that I unquestioningly believe in a higher power. Before that day, if asked about my faith, I would have answered without hesitation, "I am an atheist." I couldn't say that now. What do any of us know? One day, maybe, I'll be standing in front of some being seated on a throne of Kraft macaroni and cheese or some such nonsense, and she'll say, "Thanks for the call. I'm sorry I was busy. Good thing you had Armenian Bob there to handle things."

Maybe...

one hundred things about me...

2009-06-02T13:41:00.006-05:00

I have seen this done on several other blogs and thought it might be fun to try. Here goes...

1. I am a man.
2. I am 5'10".
3. I am heavier than I'd like to be.
4. I am bald.
5. I have four children.
6. I have one brother and one sister (that I know of. heh heh).
7. I am 38.
8. When I had hair, it was brown, then gray later.
9. I have studied martial arts for nearly twenty years.
10. I hold rank in Taekwon-Do and Inayan Eskrima.
11. I feel weird writing this list.
12. I love my wife.
13. She is twelve years my junior.
14. I am once divorced.
15. I never loved my first wife.
16. I have one good friend and several people I might choose to hang out with, but only if they call me first.
17. I refuse to recognize "commentator" as an actual word.
18. I love music.
19. Not the same way I love my wife.
20. I am a bit of an asshole.
21. I know it.
22. That makes it OK, somehow.
23. I am a 1989 graduate of South Milwaukee Senior High School.
24. I was a poor student.
25. I expect to graduate from UW-Milwaukee in 2012.
26. I have been a better student this time.
27. I have just typed the number twenty-seven.
28. I over-use "..." and hyphens...
29. My son is crying.
30. I'll be back in a tic.
31. I'm back.
32. My favorite movie is "12 Angry Men."
33. My favorite song is Todd Rundgren's "Emperor of the Highway."
34. My favorite food is meat.
35. My favorite book is David Sedaris' "Naked."
36. I love football.
37. Not in the same way I love my wife.
38. I am afraid of heights and drowning.
39. I was in the Air Force.
40. I have been a life guard.
41. I worked at Burger King for three years during high school.
42. I made one helluva Whopper.
43. I have played guitar since I was 14.
44. I am not good at it.
45. I have owned more than twenty guitars since I began playing.
46. I have lived in 3 states, 6 cities and 21 homes.
47. I feel like moving.
48. I respect my brother more than any person in the world.
49. I have never seen a Terminator, Alien or Harry Potter movie.
50. I am nearly half-finished with this list.
51. I am more than half-finished with this list.
52 Sometimes I intentionally omit punctuation
53. There, as with many writers, are times, ad-nauseum, when, in the face of grammar, I include unnecessary, though still useful, punctuation; like this.
54. I Nair my back.
55. I think you all know the hair situation down South.
56. I didn't get my driver's license until I was nineteen.
57. I just pinched my daughter's buns.
58. I used to supervise a laboratory department at a major medical center.
59. I interviewed and hired my wife.
60. She was not my wife at the time.
61. I don't think that's entirely inappropriate.
62. I am the least handy man on the face of the Earth.
63. I never have B.O.
64. I have never been in a fist fight.
65. I make pierogi from scratch.
66. I appreciate symmetry.
67. I use the term "myriad" correctly.
68. I really like this new chair.
69. I was in an automobile accident when I was 17.
70. I lost several of my front teeth.
71. I have a permanent bridge in their place.
72. I know where you all live.
73. I was a counselor at a summer camp for children with diabetes.
74. I was almost a counselor at a summer camp for adults with Down's Syndrome.
75. I can't dance well, but I think I can.
76. I love mob movies/TV.
77. Not in the same way I love my wife.
78. I am relatively shallow and apathetic.
79. I am a PC.
80. I owe an apology to my wife and her family.
81. I'm not ready to apologize, though.
82. I'm bringing sexy back.
83. I need a shower.
84. I am a twenty-five year smoker.
85. I should quit.
86. It's really hard.
87. I look pretty good in a suit.
88. I am afraid that my children will resent me when they grow up.
89. Vitamin B makes my pee bright yellow.
90. I wear size eleven shoes.
91. I have eighteen pairs.
92. What's the plural of 'pair'?
93. I believe in 'family first.'
94. I miss my friend Bill.
95. I have loose rules in matters of money.
96. I ain't good lookin'.
97. I ain't smart.
98. I ain't rich, but...
99. I smell good.
100. I'm punctual.

a place of our own...

2009-06-01T22:08:00.002-05:00

Mrs. Tesch and I purchased some new office ware today and I couldn't be more excited. We have not had a quiet and comfortable place to work for quite some time. I'm very pleased with our decor. Once the workspace is completed, I will post a pic so's you all can see where the magic happens.

I've also picked up some books recently. The fourth of the Odd Thomas books by Dean Koontz, Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris and a collection of short creative non-fiction. Should be inspiration galore! At least I hope so.

The combination of the new desk and reading material should do the trick for this writer's block. I'm trying my damndest to finish a short story and, as pretentious as this sounds, I have a novel in me somewhere. My intentions this summer are to continue with the blog, finish the short story and shop it around along with The Arab. The big Kahuna, though, is the novel. I've outlined the plot and laid out the character biographies. All that's left is to actually write it.

Rest assured that if the block doesn't ease up soon, you'll all be getting really great stories about what "neat" things my kids are doing and pictures of the dogs in various outfits from the great B movies of the early 60s. Actually, that sounds pretty good. Hmm...

temporarily out of order...

2009-06-01T08:35:00.005-05:00

At the moment, I am suffering from an intensely powerful writer's block. While I search for a topic, I suggest that you busy yourselves with this very powerful piece from Erin O'Brien.

ask earl...may 31...

2009-05-31T09:50:00.006-05:00

Hey Earl,

My in-laws and I are not close. I am polite to them, and, for my dear husband's sake, try to be cordial. My husband's stepmother died three months ago. At the visitation and funeral, his father behaved quite boorishly. Within a month, he was dating again. Since then, he has dated at least two women (serially, not simultaneously) and is corresponding with another whom he found via a popular Internet matchmaking site. Incidentally, he and his late wife had a 13-year-old daughter. Despite the modern view that everyone grieves in his own way and time, I am appalled by this rapid moving on, especially since he has given little time (or apparent thought) to his daughter's grief and loss. Naturally, I do not voice my disapproval. During a recent visit to our home, he made several comments about getting a neighbor to check his mail for a letter he was expecting. I knew from the context he was referring to his lady correspondent. Unsure how to respond to his comments about the anticipated letter, I simply acted as if I heard nothing and changed the subject. How should I have handled this? It is likely to recur.

Becky - Boise, Idaho

Becky,

If I understand you (and I think I do), you feel that your father-in-law is demonstrating poor judgment in carrying on a romantic relationship so soon after the death of his wife. You feel that his adolescent daughter will suffer emotional confusion. You feel that it is your responsibility to manage his personal life, guiding him along the correct path so that he might measure up to your standards of decorum and morals.
Well, kudos to you madam. You're absolutely right. I mean, who does that man think he is? I'll bet he even wears white shoes before Memorial Day. How gauche! Everyone knows that the appropriate window of time to wait before entering the dating scene after the death of a spouse is 18 months. Until then, your father-in-law should mope about stopping only now and then to sigh heavily, pointing his face to the sky asking, "Why God? Why did you take her?" He should have the goddamn common courtesy to wait until you give him permission to date. He's acting like he doesn't even know what you think is right!
You should probably tell him right to his face that he is a terrible and insensitive person. Enlighten him to your way of thinking. If you're not quite comfortable with candor, you could try the alternative. Just complain and moan to your husband about it until he prays for your death, you uptight, nosy, self-righteous bitch.

Hey Earl,

I am from Oregon and when I would go to visit family on the East Coast, some people did not know where my state is located. When I told them it was right above California, more than a few would then exclaim, "Oh, you're from Canada!"

DIANE - PORTLAND, OR

Diane,

Wow! It's hard to believe that someone from the Great Northworst would be so condescending toward friends and family members. We all know how incredibly important it is to be able to find on a map the geographic location with the greatest concentration of assholes in the world. By the way, are you sure you weren't visiting Wisconsin? Oh yeah, that's right. Wisconsin doesn't have a coast.

Hey Earl,

My husband loves to read and look at porn magazines. He also likes to stare at other women when we are together, but he always says he loves me. I told him that it hurts me when he acts that way and I felt that I didn't measure up. Why does he need to have all these magazines and be interested in gawking at other women when he has me?

April - Tampa, FL

April,

Right. You feel hurt and inadequate when your husband admires porn stars and the occasional gal that happens to wander into his line of sight. You feel like he is setting standards that you will never be able to meet. You feel like he is being emotionally unfaithful. Here's a quick 3 question quiz for you to take. I think you'll find it useful and it should help put your concerns into perspective:

Do you read romance novels?

Have you ever referred to Brad Pitt or that guy from Grey's Anatomy as "hot"?

Do you just adore movies like Notting Hill, The Notebook or Dirty Dancing?

If you answered "No" to all of the questions, you are a liar. If you answered "Yes" to any of the questions, you are a hypocrite. You have your porn, let him have his.

all in the name of cool...

2009-05-30T07:07:00.004-05:00

At 38, I decided yesterday that it was high time that I get my ear pierced. I don't think it was a mid-life crisis kind of decision, but if so, it's cheaper than a sports car. Plus, Mrs. Tesch has encouraged me for more than a year to do it and she's the one that matters when it comes to my appearance. So, on my way home from receiving my MMR immunization I stopped off to voluntarily have steel rods inserted into my flesh and cartilage.

I entered Zoe's Tattoo and Piercing Emporium, an intimate shoppe for all sorts of body art and alterations. I stood at the piercing counter and looked over the various hardware from which the discerning consumer could choose. Behind a half-wall, toward the back of the shoppe, there was one rather tough looking fellow seated in a barber chair, an alternative girl with a do-rag (Mother Tesch would call it a bubushka) and one tattoo artist working on the arm of a woman with a hair lip. After a few moments, the tough guy asked me if I was in need of assistance. I mentioned that I was contemplating a piercing and he handed me off to the alternative girl.

Alt Girl ~ "What kind of piercing are we looking at?"
Earl ~ "Ear. The missus likes the idea of a thingie across the top of my ear."
Alt Girl ~ "OK, an industrial. Anything else? A Prince Albert?"
Earl ~ "Maybe. Does that go in the lobe?"
Alt Girl ~ "Not exactly."
Earl ~ "I'm a little worried about the pain."
Alt Girl ~ "Oh, it's nothing. You probably won't feel the lobe at all and the industrial is just a pinching sensation."
Earl ~ "M'kay. I'm in."

I showed Alt Girl my ID and signed the waiver. She walked me back to the barber chair that had formerly been occupied by Tough Guy, sat me down and started drawing on my ear to see where she would make the insertions. I mentioned that I don't handle pain very well. Hairlip looked over her shoulder at me, then back to her tattoo artist and gave a giggle. Alt Girl decided that it would be a good ice-breaker to do the lobe first.

"OK...deep, slow breath in...and let it out," and with the gentle touch of a prison rapist, she skewered my left ear lobe. Surrounded by biker types and tattoo'd, hair lipped gigglers, I kept the screaming on the inside. I blacked out for a second and when I came to:

Alt Girl ~ "There. That was easy. How do you feel?"
Earl ~ "Oh, did you do it? Why, I didn't feel a thing."
Alt Girl ~ "That's because I am experienced and have a knack for piercing."
Earl ~ "That much is obvious. Piece of cake."
Alt Girl ~ "Well, the industrial piercing is far more intense than the lobe. Since I have to make two holes, many people prefer to take a break in between the first and second."
Earl ~ "Intense? What happened to 'a little pinch'?"
Alt Girl ~ "Did I say intense? I'm sorry. I don't mean to alarm you, sir."

Meanwhile, I could see Hairlip's shoulders shaking as she laughed harder listening to me whine. Alt Girl prepped me for the industrial piercing by marking the entry point on both sides of the top of my ear. She pulled a protractor and a slide rule out of her toolbox, explaining that if the angle wasn't quite right my ear may curl up and fall off. Very comforting. Just as I was getting second thoughts about this whole idea, Alt Girl told me to repeat the breathing exercise from before.

"OK...deep, slow breath in...and let it out." She ramrodded the steel spike through the cartilage and I let out a squeal like a Pomeranian whose tail got caught in a car door. Alt Girl then threaded the barbell through the fresh hole in the top of my ear and tears streamed down my face, my mouth contorted into an Edvard Munch silent scream and the left side of my body seized.

Alt Girl ~ "Not so bad. How're you doing?"
Earl ~ "Never better."
Alt Girl ~ "Like I said, just a pinch."
Earl ~ "Yep. Just a fucking pinch."
Alt Girl ~ "Let's go ahead and get that second part done."
Earl ~ "Wait. What about the brea..."
Alt Girl ~ "...deep, slow breath in...and let ..."

Hairlip told me when I regained consciousness that I had been talking in my sleep. Mostly calling for my mother. Tough Guy had burned some incense, but it didn't do a very good job of masking the smell of the poop in my pants. Alt Girl informed me that I was all set and that she thought I would look twenty years younger when the color returned to my face. After instructing me on the various nightmare after effects and handing me a pamphlet on caring for my new holes, Alt Girl took my money and wished me well.

The good news is that when Mrs. Tesch saw me, she was very happy with the result and finds the piercings very sexy. The bad news is that I'm pretty sure the friendly folks at Zoe's recorded video of the whole affair and it's currently the second most popular on YouTube.

all juice, no seeds...

2009-05-29T06:57:00.005-05:00

Well folks, on June 18th the Vas Deferens exit on the Tesch highway will be permanently closed. Please seek an alternate route. Earl Jr., Seymour, Pearl and Sweeney can look forward to no more siblings. My days as a baby factory are over. I just have to be sure to requisition my balls from Mrs. Tesch for the day and I'm shooting blanks.

Yesterday, I had a consultation with my urologist. I was instructed to arrive with a photo ID (apparently there's a lot of fraudulent vasectomies), my insurance card and the medical questionnaires they'd mailed to me two weeks ago, which were to be completed prior to arrival. I forgot the questionnaires at home, but that was OK because I hadn't filled them out anyway. The very affable receptionist provided me with fresh copies and directed me to the waiting area where I could provide all of the pertinent details of my life.

The questions were pretty standard: Allergies, previous medical conditions, family history, mother's dress size, etc. A fairly unremarkable set of questions and answers until I got to the part of the history form with the heading "Psychological" under which were these three questions:

1. Do you feel happy in general?
2. Are you now or have you ever been depressed?
3. Have you considered suicide?

Is it me or does that sound like a sales pitch?

By page twenty-three, my right hand started to resemble James Coburn's. Fortunately the office next door housed an orthopaedic surgeon, so I conveniently scheduled Carpel Tunnel surgery for the same day. I returned the paperwork to the receptionist and asked her to fax a copy to my publisher with a "Title Pending" cover sheet. She didn't smile, but her scowl seemed more friendly when she asked me to return to the waiting area until my name was called.

"Mr. Tesch," the medical assistant called only hours later and she led me to an examination room. She instructed me to sit down and she perched herself on the wheeled, spinny doctor's stool and rolled over to me. Holding a clipboard that held my biography, she revisited each question. I considered changing my answers, in case I got them wrong the first time. We finished the review and she took my temperature. Of the usual vital signs measurements, temperature was the only one taken. No blood pressure. No weight. No eyes, ears, nose. No throat. "98.3, Mr. Tesch. The doctor will be right in to see you," and she was gone.

The urologist woke me from my nap and plopped down on the stool. I told him how the medical assistant was sitting in his seat. He made a note in my chart and commenced with repeating the questions I'd answered twice already. He complimented me on my consistency, and then continued with some new questions.

Doc ~ "Why are you considering a vasectomy?"
Earl ~ "My wife wants me to be ster...wait...did you say 'consider'?"
Doc ~ "Any issues with urination?"
Earl ~ "No."
Doc ~ "Good stream?"
Earl ~ "Better than average."
Doc ~ "Do you have a problem with erections?"
Earl ~ "Nah, I like 'em."
Doc ~ "Pain in your testicles."
Earl ~ "Well, sometimes Mrs. Tesch gets a little carried away."
Doc ~ "Around two months after the procedure, you will need to provide a sample for analysis. You should be completely sterile after fifteen ejaculations or so."
Earl ~ "Two months? I'll be sterile before I leave the surgery center."
Doc ~ "Do you have any questions?"
Earl ~ "Yes, actually. I found this pizza crust in my bathroom trash can..."
He figured it was Seymour.

The doctor explained some vagaries about the procedure itself and presented me with literature mapping out my responsibilities pre-op. Here's some notable passages from the pamphlet entitled Vasectomy: Permanent Birth Control for Men:

Before the surgery...

FACT: A vasectomy will not solve relationship problems.
Are there men out there that believe that? How many guys are entering the urologist's office saying, "My wife and I are always fighting. Please slice open my sack. It's easier than helping with the laundry."?

* Arrange for an adult family member or friend to give you a ride home after surgery.
* Shower and clean your scrotum the day of surgery.
* Your doctor may ask you to shave your scrotum.
Check, check and CHECK!

After the surgery...

Wear an athletic supporter or snug cotton briefs.
I can think of a few Cubs fans that I'd like to rest my balls on.

Avoid heavy lifting or exercise for a week.
Why would I change now? Does this mean that I have to exercise after a week?

Ask your doctor how long you must wait before having sex again.
I'm not very attracted to my doctor, so this seems like a better question for Mrs. Tesch.

The pamphlet also itemized the various risks involved with the procedure. Suffice it to say, they aren't pretty. The list is peppered with phrases like "scrotal aching" and "long-term testicular discomfort." Mrs. Tesch says that these circumstances are rare and NOTHING compared to childbirth, so I have to go through with this.

I'll cross my legs and hope for the best.

just desserts...

2009-05-28T07:20:00.003-05:00

This story out of Madison, WI has me conflicted. In most cases, I wouldn't condone a group of people beating the crap out of an individual. There does seem to be something fundamentally unfair about sixteen girls stomping one girl into unconsciousness. On the other hand, maybe she had it coming. Some people are just in desperate need of an ass-beating. Here's a short list of candidates...

Hackers...
Making the internet a paranoid state just because they can.

Teenagers...
"You can't touch me. I'm a minor." ~ Try me, fucker. Just once, try me.

Skippers...
Hey! I was here... The end of the line is back there... What am I going to do about it?...

Bosses...
Who among us hasn't fantasized about that scene from "The Incredibles" where Mr. Incredible grabs his overbearing little prick of a boss by the neck and throws him through a couple walls?

Discourteous drivers...
Oh, what I wouldn't give for a chance to knock the shit out of the guy that stays in the left lane until the last minute, knowing full well that he needs to be in the right lane for his exit then slows down and stops traffic when he crosses three lanes to make it. Selfish prick!

Internet/Blog/Facebook trolls...
Cowards. The lot of them. Leaving anonymous, poorly crafted insults and critiques, these bastards don't have the guts to form a creative or insightful thought of their own, so they cruise around the internet looking to trash the work of others.

The problem is that we either can't find these people or we fear the consequences of taking action against them. These assholes count on the idea that they'll never have to pay for their transgressions. Well, I say we should throw them for a loop. The next time you think someone needs a punch in the neck, give it to 'em. If you manage to identify a previously anonymous pinhead, pinch the back of their arm and slap them right across the face, then point at them and say, "You shall escape justice NO MORE!"

If we make examples of them, like our sixteen friends in Madison did, then perhaps the assholes of the world will take notice and change their behavior. I think I'll start an official movement. We need a slogan...hmm...

t.s. eliot and other 20th century psychics...

2009-05-27T09:35:00.011-05:00

1. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
by T.S. Eliot

	S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
	A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
	Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
	Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
	Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
	Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.


LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats		5
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …		10
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,		15
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,		20
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;		25
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;		30
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go		35
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—		40
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare		45
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,		50
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—		55
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?		60
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress		65
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin? . . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets		70
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas. . . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!		75
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?		80
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,		85
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,		90
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—		95
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,		100
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:		105
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.” . . . . .		110
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,		115
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old … I grow old …		120
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.		125

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown		130
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

Last evening, I retired to the parlour for some quiet conversation with the Ol' Possum and a short cognac. I once again poured over the verses above and, for the first time, noted certain passages that bore a more than coincidental likeness to my own life. Of course, much literary analysis has been applied to this seminal work of Mr. Eliot and many believe they have captured the essence of Prufrock. Popular opinion posits that the poem chronicles the aging of J. Alfred Prufrock and his 'coming to terms' with his mortality. A majority of men can easily identify with the theme of the poem, but only in general terms. What I found through close and critical reading was far more disturbing, in that there are specific and uncanny allusions in the piece about me; Earl Tesch.

What follows are snippets of a larger essay and analysis I have submitted for publication in the August edition of Dissent. These are but a few of the more obvious passages where Eliot waxes beautifully upon my life and growth. The similarities are too eerily accurate to be coincidence, as the discerning reader will note readily.

LINES 3-4: In 1993, I suffered an inguinal hernia and required surgery to repair the tear in my peritoneal lining. At the time, I was stationed in the USAF in Alamogordo, a small town in the middle of the New Mexico desert. One could say that Alamogordo, with its sprawled city design, was half city, half desert. These lines are an obvious reference to that time in my life, laying under general anesthetic in the hospital of the half-desert town in New Mexico.

LINES 15-22: The entire stanza cites Devil Beagle with the noxious gas emanating from her beagle intestines, the pools of beagle urine soaking into the carpet, and her tendency to curl into a beagle ball after a long session of licking her beagle parts.

LINES 35-36: In the early 1900's, as evidenced by this passage and its citation of my own life, it was common for even the most gifted and educated of literary masters to confuse Michelangelo and DaVinci.

LINE 82: On its own, this line does not only reflect upon me; Earl Tesch. Combined with the other obvious Teschian references, though, it is absolutely pointed at me.

LINES 115-119: If one fails to see the connection between this passage and me; Earl Tesch, then one must fail to see the blue sky above and the golden sun in heaven.

As mentioned, I have compiled these passages along with several others in a critical analysis and interpretation that is far too large to publish in this limited forum. I merely chose the passages published here to demonstrate the very obvious doff of T.S. Eliot's cap in my direction. Indeed, no historian has ever made mention of Eliot's powers of extra sensory perception, but The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock certainly begs further investigation into his psychic abilities. I can only say that I am flattered to have been immortalized in verse by one of the 20th Century's greatest literary (and clairvoyant) minds.

Truly flattered.

it's a matter of taste...

2009-05-26T07:59:00.004-05:00

De gustibus non est disputandum. There is no disputing about tastes. Of my many pet peeves, very few set me off as intensely as the ego driven people in every day life that feel it is their experiences, sensibilities and preferences that should be considered above all others. All too often people live in their little world and fail to separate taste from conviction. Their over inflated sense of self-importance leads them to spew forth with altruistic statements that not only express their opinion, but marginalize alternative ideas.

This attitude is at times quite harmless, though speaks volumes to a less than stellar intellect. You see it often with sports fans. I once attended a game at Mile High Stadium between the Broncos and Kansas City. I was stationed in Denver while in the Air Force and I attended the game with a buddy who happened to be a Chief's fan. Even though my team wasn't playing, I displayed my loyalty by sporting a Packer jersey and my friend wore his Chiefs attire. As the game entered the fourth quarter, Denver scored a touchdown on an interception making the score 28-7 in favor of Kansas City. As the extra point sailed through the uprights, an over-served Bronco fan darted across the aisle, got right into my companion's face and screamed, "Chiefs suck! Chiefs suck!" My green and gold must have caught his attention. He paused for a moment, eyeballed me and continued, "Packers suck! Packers suck!"

In that situation, the poor drunkard had little choice I suppose. He was in no state of mind to be able to articulate his personal feelings about the Broncos. In fact, the use of the word "suck" packed a bigger punch and was probably the most appropriate for the venue. His heightened emotional state didn't really allow for him to approach us and say:
"Pardon me, gentlemen. I noticed your attire and I felt the need to share my feelings with you. I feel that the team I favor is superior to your teams. Although the score does not currently reflect the aforementioned superiority, I am still confident in the abilities of our squad. Thank you and good day."
While severely lacking in prescience and being highly uninformed, the circumstances allow for some leniency toward the Bronco fan. It is in situations where participants in a discussion have the time to form a cohesive statement with forethought and a free mind, however, that I must hold people to a much higher standard.

Statements related to music, movies, literature, etcetera in which the speaker confuses their opinion with fact really get my goat. We've all been driving in a car with someone, listening to the radio when a song that we like begins to play and the other passenger quickly changes the station and says, "That song/group/genre sucks." "Sucks"? Define "suck", please. In terms of music, "suck" would have to refer to arrangement, instrumentation, vocal ability and so on. What they really should have said was, "I don't care for that song/group/genre," but they lack the cognitive ability to separate their own personal taste from rating the quality of the song. After I punch that person in the throat and tune the radio back to the original station, I refuse to waste my time engaging in any further discussion with this narrow minded ego-centrist because he/she has obviously not evolved into a logical thinker. "Moog think song suck. Moog want meat. Moog like shiny things."

An issue very close to my heart is the blurring of taste and fact in matters of humor. This occurs most often when making a joke about situations/topics and within earshot exists a person who has personal experience with said situation/topic. You make your joke, however subtle or intense, and the observer fires off with a quick and thoughtless, "That's not funny." Bullshit. Everything is funny to someone. If you fail to see the humor, perhaps it is YOU that are not funny. It is incredibly selfish to determine that certain subjects are taboo just because you had a negative experience. Do you think you are the only person in the world that ever experienced pain, emotional or otherwise? Where is the connection between my joke and your life? Unless I cite you specifically, the joke is not intended to offend you, your family, your dog or whatever else happened in your life. I am sorry to disappoint you but you are NOT the center of the universe. We do not revolve around you or your sensitive nature. Guess what? That thing that is the most important to you, that thing that was a terrible ordeal for you to endure, that thing that your family had to endure, that thing that your ancestors had to endure...yes, that thing...that thing is FUCKING HILARIOUS. Maybe not to you, but to some of us. You don't have to like the joke, but don't say it's not funny.

Look. All I'm saying is that you can effectively express your opinion without making broad stroke statements about quality. If you don't agree with this post, that's totally cool. In fact, I hope some readers don't agree with me. Just remember that there are some people that will appreciate my ideas or my writing style or word choice, so you might be better off saying "I don't like this post," or "I don't like Earl" or "I don't like sunshine," rather than "Sunshine sucks."

smoooooth...

2009-05-25T19:59:00.005-05:00

Whew! Almost didn't make it today. Busy, busy, busy!

I spent the weekend steam cleaning the carpeting throughout the house. Thanks to the incontinence of bladder of a certain purebred Hell hound and a potty training terrorist, Casa del Tesch smelled like the Port-o-Let's at Summerfest. But no more, I tell you. I added bleach to the Resolve detergent. Now it smells like bleach AND a Port-o-Let at Summerfest.

We Tesch's also celebrated the Memorial holiday with a good ol' fashioned barbecue. Ribs, pasta salad, etc. The meat fell right off the bone. Which I was unhappy with, actually. People often use that as an indication of how good ribs are, but I like gnawing the meat off the bone. So fuck that.

Oh and I shaved my balls.

HAPPY MEMORIAL DAY!

ask earl ... May 24 ...

2009-05-24T07:41:00.009-05:00

Hey Earl,
I have a problem with my neighbor. She's retired, constantly in her back yard and seems to think it's OK to delve into my personal business. "Flo" has no reservations about telling me how to mow my lawn or arrange my lawn furniture or when to shovel the walk. Every other day, "Flo" waves me over to the fence to tell me some piece of gossip about the other neighbors. I'm getting pretty tired of "Flo", but I was raised to respect my elders. How can I get her to leave me alone without being disrespectful?
Sarah - Morehead, MN

Sarah,
It sounds like you're faced with a classic busy body. I think it's admirable that you'd like to resolve this problem while saving "Flo"s feelings, but that is much easier said than done. You see, "Flo" will likely never understand any vague attempt on your part to create space. I suggest you handle this like the ripping off of a band aid. It has to be quick and decisive. The way I see it, you have two options.

First, you could put up a privacy fence. The standard height is 6'. "Flo" may be a bit confused initially, or even offended, by your new barrier but the clear message is "I'd like to be left alone." She may still try to talk to you through the fence, but at least she won't know if you're there or not and you could choose to ignore her.

The other option, which I have found to be more effective, is to turn the hose on her every time she tries to get your attention. Get yourself a good spray nozzle for your garden hose, something with settings that range from wide angle mist to 250psi pressure wash. Something like this should work fine. The next time you're picking up the dog poop in your back yard and "Flo" looks like she's going to talk to you, just grab the hose, set it to mist and open it up right into her face. Each time she talks to you after that, increase the intensity of the stream until she stops talking to you altogether. Should work like a charm after only four or five tries.

Hey Earl,
Spaghetti-O's or pizza rolls? Between Devil Beagle and the Evil Mazda, which do you hate more? What's with men and their fascination with the Mafia?
Zola - Cudahy, WI

Zola,
Pizza rolls; everyday and twice on Sunday.

While Evil Mazda is a pain in my asshole, it does look pretty cool. Devil Beagle is the bane of my existence.

Men are fascinated with the Mafia for several reasons; power, money and never having to wait in line. Movie mobsters get to do whatever they want. They eat until they're fat, but still have hot girlfriends. They carry giant wads of cash and throw it around freely, tipping waitstaff and bribing cops. Regular guys fear mobsters and we'd like to be feared, if only for a day. Plus, mobsters get to say cool stuff like, "Fugget-about-it" and "You betta watch yo' fuggin mout or I'll push a button" and "OH!". If it wasn't for the possibility that I might end up dismembered in the trunk of a Cadillac, I'd be a Mafioso in a heartbeat. But I'm really a chicken-shit, so I'll just keep watching The Sopranos and blogging.

Hey Earl,
I discovered the pleasures of digital prostate stimulation after reading about it in Esquire. I had only ever done it when I was "by myself", if you know what I mean. I started to fantasize about my girlfriend doing it for me, so I figured I would talk to her about it. Well, she thought it was the grossest idea ever and refuses to do it for me. She even accused me of being a closet homosexual. How can I get her to understand and respect my sexual desire? Does it make me gay if I like it? I don't know what to do. Help!
I Got My Finger on the Trigger - Iberia, MO

Fingers,
First of all, it doesn't make you gay if you like certain kinds of sex; only if you like certain kinds of sex with men. You can reinforce to your girlfriend that you are only interested in having sex with her (or women, in general), but that you'd like to introduce new and different methods in the bedroom. There's nothing wrong with you or your "special" desires.

The good news, by the way, is that you are way ahead of the curve. Beginning June 6, 2009 all prostate stimulation will be digital. That's right, analog prostate stimulation will be a thing of the past. For our other readers that have been using analog, you can go down to your local Radio Shack to get the digital prostate stimulation converter box for around $30, plus the government subsidy. If you don't get your converter box, you won't be able to pick up the prostate stimulation signal, so don't wait too long.

i kissed a midget and i liked it...

2009-05-23T17:48:00.008-05:00

Mrs. Tesch likes to stay on top of popular music by watching VH1's "Jumpstart" in the morning. Along with videos, the program also provides music news stories, interviews, etc. One morning, the uber-hip veejay reported on the album release party thrown for Katy Perry, the artist that brought us "I Kissed a Girl." As the voice over told us of Ms. Perry's latest musical endeavor, footage displayed scenes from the party. Apparently, party organizers thought it would be an interesting idea to include midgets in the theme of the party. Attending the gala event were several little people including a mini-Katy and a few Oompa Loompas.

I got to thinking that in this highly sensitive society (especially on the left coast), it seemed odd that such a blatant display of exploitation of the differently abled was still considered acceptable. I haven't read any entertainment news about angry and insulted midget gangs, or representatives thereof, picketing the record company or organizing boycotts of Katy Perry concerts. Don't get me wrong. I think midgets are as funny as monkeys in people clothes. I just figured that someone would be offended by the Oompa Loompas at least. Oompa Loompas are to midgets what black face minstrels are to African Americans or Mickey Rooney is to the Japanese. I really didn't understand how it was possible that this went unnoticed.

Then I had an epiphany. Maybe the politically correct era has ended and no one told us. Maybe we can get back to what we do best as Americans. We can observe and point out the differences between us. We can stereotype people with these observances and apply them to all members of certain groups. No. Not certain groups. All groups. Like the good old days. It's been so long, maybe we could all use some reminders. I'll get you started:

Little People are midgets.

Americans of African descent are black people.

Americans of Asian descent are Orientals.

Differently Abled Americans are cripples.

Rural Southern Americans are hillbillies.

Members of the GOP are Nazis.

Members of the DNC are commies.

Americans of Middle Eastern descent are terrorists.

The Vertically Challenged are shrimps.

The Gravitationally Challenged are fat people.

Whew! I couldn't be more relieved. Gone are the days when we had to carefully construct each sentence so that we wouldn't offend anyone within listening distance. Gone are the days when we had to tiptoe around topics of race, religion and politics. Gone are the days when we had to respect every persons feelings and avoid insulting their heritage or personal identity.

Let your inner Archie Bunker out, people! Gather up all of your narrow minded, short-sighted, insensitive ideas and comments. Closets are for clothes! Unfurl your Bigot Banner and let it fly free!

It's totally cool.

Just ask Katy Perry.

this post sucks...

2009-05-22T08:40:00.004-05:00

The CIA is going to need some new and creative information gathering techniques in light of all the recent publicity on waterboarding. As Dick Cheney has shown us, torture is in the eye of the beholder. If we could only find some techniques that will elicit the appropriate response from detainees without offending the sensibilities of the Democrats, the ACLU and the global community at large. After all, public opinion is far more important than obtaining information. Waterboarding, so we're told, as well as other torture has been highly ineffective anyway.

I have some ideas that I'll be sending to CIA director Leon Panetta. I'm confident that folks on both sides of the issue will be satisfied with my suggestions. Here we go...

#1 - Force detainees to register a used car at the DMV everyday until they crack.

#2 - Leave the questioning to inquisitive and precocious first graders.

#3 - Extreme Makeover: Home Edition...all day, every day.

#4 - 30 minutes with the Devil Beagle.

#5 - Cardinal Biggles? Fetch the comfy chair!

#6 - Each morning, as the detainee exits the holding cell, the guard will ask the same question. It goes like this:
Guard - "Is that what you're wearing?"
Detainee - "Yes. Why?"
Guard - "Oh. No reason. It's fine."
Detainee - "No, really. Why do you ask? Does it look weird?"
Guard - "No, it's fine. As long as you're comfortable."
Detainee - "Comfortable? What does that mean?"
Guard - "It doesn't mean anything. You look...just...comfortable. It's fine."
Detainee - "But...um...wait...I like this shirt...I thought you liked this shirt...the explosives are hidden in a warehouse in Gaza!"

#7 - Read to detainees from rants, musings & albatross, highlighting the posts that reach for, but fall pitifully short of creative insight.

las vegas, 1984...

2009-05-21T07:23:00.007-05:00

1984 was an eventful year. I turned 13 and, due to the loudmouth parent of a teammate (Thanks Mr. Roth), I gave up my career in amateur athletics. My sister celebrated her 17th birthday, got pregnant and married the father, which eventually revealed itself to be a terrible idea (Surprise, surprise). It was also the year that my stepfather lost his welding job at the local factory in a round of penny-pinching layoffs.

Mother Tesch had attained her nursing degree a few years earlier. I helped her study and can still spell and describe the term 'hysterosalpingooopherectomy.' As a health care professional, Mother Tesch was highly employable no matter the locale. My stepfather's skill set required him to find work in either a construction or factory setting, so there were very adult decisions to be made. It was decided, without my input, that the family was going to move to Las Vegas because of the constant state of construction and because, surely, there would be a need for welders. My sister and her new husband decided that Vegas was the place for them, too. So that my sister could graduate from high school, we waited until June. June came, we packed up all of our earthly belongings and drove the 2000 miles to our new home, and the darkest days of my childhood.

Our new home was an apartment complex just around the corner from Sam's Town and half a block from the Nevada Palace. The complex consisted of several (maybe 12ish?) buildings that held 10 units each. Surrounding the enclave was a desert brick wall, perhaps designed to keep people out but left me feeling trapped in. Our building faced the road that ran adjacent to the complex and across that road was unpopulated desert, vast and empty. I once witnessed a young girl get hit by a car on Adjacent Road. A twenty-something man was screeching out of the parking lot and didn't see the girl until he had struck her. The girl couldn't have been any older than 7 or 8 and when the vehicle clipped her, it sent her into the air spinning around like a helicopter blade. The accident left her in a half-body cast with a fractured pelvis. Mother Tesch was first on the scene and stayed with the girl until the EMTs arrived. I remember visiting the girl's apartment with my mother for a follow up visit. The girl was sprawled out in the living room and due to the cast, she wasn't wearing any underwear. That was the very first vagina I'd ever seen in person.

That summer, I met some of our neighbors but made no real friends. I did hang out with one kid fairly regularly, but for the life of me I don't remember his name. His parents managed the complex and their apartment always smelled of stale coffee. In fact, because of the incredibly hot climate, everyone's apartment always smelled like something. Everywhere I went, windows and doors were sealed up and the A/C was constantly running, so there was very little opportunity to get some fresh air indoors. To this day, much to Mrs. Tesch's chagrin, I refuse to run the A/C in the car or at home. There were two adults in our building that I talked with from time to time. James was a big black guy that loved his Cadillac. He washed and waxed it nearly every day. He applied Armor All to the tires and kept a cloth with him to keep the irrepressible desert dust at bay. There was also a young couple that lived on the second floor of our building. She was very thin and very pregnant, but that didn't stop her from wearing a bikini everywhere she went. He taught me how to do some tricks with my nunchuks. That was about the extent of my social life in Las Vegas. The apartment manager's son and I got into a fist fight while waiting for the school bus later that autumn. It was the first (and only) fist fight I'd ever been in.

Mother Tesch found work in home hospice, taking care of patients in their homes at all hours of the day and night. My stepfather was never able to find work as a welder, but that didn't keep him from working. He ended up working night shifts at 7-11 as an assistant manager. I don't remember exactly what my sister's husband did for work in Vegas, but I'm pretty sure it was just as glamorous. My sister worked as an assistant manager for the apartment complex, cleaning recently vacated units in preparation for the arrival of future tenants.

I don't know if my parents knew it, but the cable company included the Playboy Channel in our programming package. I discovered sexual self gratification that summer and was never more startled by a bodily function than when I learned the tell-tale sign that you've finished masturbating. I also started experimenting with cigarettes around that time. I had seen Ozzy Osbourne on an MTV commercial with smoke emanating from his snarled mouth. With Mother Tesch and my stepfather working often and at odd hours, I was alone at the apartment quite a bit. I sneaked a few of my mother's Merit Light Menthol 100s to practice my own smoky scowls and smoke rings. With no school and no friends, and with my parents working their tails off to make ends meet, I became withdrawn, lonely and unhappy.

By August, I entered 8th grade at the middle school in Henderson. It was the first time I'd ever had to take a bus to school, an experience that is romanticized in movies but is actually a terribly isolating experience for a new student. I was never really a 'good' student, but my academic performance was terrible. I began to hate school. The experience was so bad that I developed digestive problems, occasionally crapping my pants. Now, middle school can be a miserable enough for kids with friends and clean underwear, but it became so unbearable for me that I started acting out. I found different reasons for missing the bus in the hopes that I could stay home from school. One day in particular sticks in my mind. I managed to miss the bus, but rather than letting me stay home, Mother Tesch arranged for my sister to drive me to school. My sister chose not to wear shoes, so she was literally barefoot and 8 months pregnant driving her disturbed little brother to middle school in her husband's late 70's Buick. When we arrived at the school parking lot, I refused to get out of the car. My sister got out on the driver's side in order to drag me out, but when she exited I locked the doors with the keys still in the ignition. She employed the assistance of the principal and I still refused. They eventually had to contact Mother Tesch, who had to leave work to come and coax me out of the car.

Not long after that incident, Mother Tesch sat me down and asked if I'd like to move back to Wisconsin, which we did. We left Las Vegas in October, so I was able to finish 8th grade at South Milwaukee Middle School. Upon return, all of my old friends welcomed me home. Instead of the outcast I was in Vegas, I was treated as a returning hero with tales of adventure and experience with the world outside of our small city. My digestive problems went away, my school performance improved (albeit only to levels of supreme adequacy) and I never locked myself in a car again. Mother Tesch continued to work in health care and my stepfather worked several jobs until his retirement, never returning to welding.

Obviously, I have recovered from it and I do not harbor any resentment toward Mother Tesch for those 7 months in 1984. She and my stepfather were merely trying to find a way to make a good life for our family. It didn't' work out. The move didn't go very well for any of us. The admirable thing is that as soon as she recognized the effect of the move on her family, Mother Tesch took the appropriate action. The only good thing that came out of Las Vegas, Nevada for our family was my nephew, who is an inspired artist and incredible person.

I have become who I am today in spite (not because) of that experience when I was 13 years old. I don't visit the memories of that time very often. Not because I hate them. Hate is too closely associated with love and there was nothing to love about that time in my life.

this is a blog entry...

2009-05-20T06:47:00.004-05:00

This is the first sentence of today's blog entry. This is the second. By the third sentence, many of you would expect to find the topic, but will be frustrated to find that you will not. This, the fourth sentence of the first paragraph. In many stories and articles the fifth sentence really nails down the core topic. This sentence directly precedes the first paragraph summation. This sentence sums up the first paragraph and neatly transitions into the second paragraph.

This is the second paragraph. As the second sentence of the second paragraph, this could be described as the "golden" sentence. The second paragraph can contain some of the every day life experiences of the author to demonstrate the inspiration for the entry. Some of you will stop reading by the end of this sentence. Others will make it farther into the entry and wish they had stopped after reading the previous sentence. This sentence directly precedes the second paragraph summation. This sentence sums up the second paragraph and, following a format similar to the end of the first paragraph, transitions neatly into the third paragraph.

This is the first sentence of the third and final paragraph. Although this is the second sentence of the third paragraph, I will not mention it because sometimes in writing it is better to "show" than "tell." The author will often use the final paragraph to reflect upon and reference previous paragraphs to connect the core theme of the entry (as noted in the first paragraph) to the author's own experiences (noted in the second). The next sentences will demonstrate that idea. This sentence expounds on the first paragraph. This sentence does the same for the second. This sentence directly precedes the third paragraph summation. This sentence sums up the third paragraph. This sentence is very close to the end of the entry. This sentence is closer. This sentence directly precedes the poignant and profound final sentence. This sentence poignantly connects all of the ideas of the entire entry, and ends neatly with a single, profound final thought.

the devil has many faces...

2009-05-19T07:20:00.007-05:00

Pretty sweet looking ride, eh? Yeah. That's what a lot of people think. I would probably feel the same way, but I know the truth. The 2004 Mazda RX8 is not a car at all. It's a fiery hot demon chariot from the depths of HELL!

The Tesch household consists of two adults, four children and two dogs. When Mrs. Tesch was pregnant with Pearl we purchased the Tesch Family Fun Bus and retired her Celica coupe. It had served her well, but it was time to move on to automobiles that are more family friendly. Our second vehicle for a time was the '97 Chevy Lumina which I had purchased from Mother Tesch after my divorce. Last January the Lumina lost a long battle with radiator cancer, so we had to buy another car.

Mrs. Tesch works hard to bring home the bacon and is known in these parts as the bestest wife and mother in the whole world. So, when she requested that the new car be "...small, cute and sporty...": Who was I to argue? Initially, she was quite keen on the Smart Car, however there was an eighteen month waiting list on those and the Lumina's impending death did not afford us the luxury of patience. We also had to be fiscally responsible. We decided to shop for a late model, previously owned vehicle.

After some internet research, we found a few cars that fit Mrs. Tesch's needs at a local dealership and headed out to do some test driving. After trying out several models, Mrs. Tesch decided that she was in love with the Mazda RX8. The car came with several eye catching accessories and features. It's a pseudo-coupe, with hidden 'suicide' doors for access to the back seat. Brown and black leather interior, and a cool instrument panel make you feel like you're in a race car. Heated seats and a Bose sound system. Some of the more notable features (and this is called foreshadowing) are the low profile racing type tires, the powerful rotary engine and tire pressure sensor system with aftermarket nitrogen valve stem caps.

There were some drawbacks to the vehicle that raised my eyebrows a bit. It had an awfully nice interior for a car that would transport children, it had a six-speed manual transmission and I had never learned to drive stick, and it was rear-wheel drive with a very low clearance. We were able to very quickly arrive at the decision that children belong in the van, so their presence in the RX8 should be rare. I would just have to learn how to drive with a stick shift, something I really should have done a long time ago anyway. We decided to purchase the Mazda (and when I say "we", it is understood that I mean Mrs. Tesch). With the internet discount and a bit of haggling, I am proud to say that we paid approximately $8K under sticker.

"But Earl," you're asking, "where is the evil you spoke of earlier?" Well, hold your horses! I'm getting to it. Sheesh! You guys sure are impatient.

After much wailing and gnashing of teeth, I was able to teach myself to use a manual transmission. There was the usual juggering and stalling that accompanies the early attempts, but I am now happy to say that I've reached the heights of stick shift driving where I am able to use my cell phone, drink coffee and drive all at the same time. Therefore, when I have someplace to go without the children I take the Mazda. It is these moments where I am alone with the beast that it has unleashed the hounds of Hell on me.

The first incident occurred when I had a martial arts event to attend. When I arrived at the event, the parking lot had filled to overflowing so we late-comers were relegated to an adjacent grassy area. Had I logged on to weather.com, I would have seen that the forecast called for rain ALL FUCKING DAY, which it did. By the end of the day, somewhere between 8 and 10 feet of rain had fallen, thus transforming the ad-hoc grassy parking area into a swamp. The very convenient (note the sarcasm) rear wheel drive of Mrs. Tesch's evil death wagon did not allow for egress. As it happens, the more gas you give a car that's stuck in the mud, the more stuck you get. Mrs. Tesch and her mother (she has a truck) had to come out to New Everglades and help me un-stuck the car. It was rather chilly and obviously damp, so as I waited for their arrival, I sat in the cockpit with the engine and heat on. Blood began to run from the vents and, written in the fog on the windshield was the word "Suffer."

A month later, the incubus unleashed more punishment on me, for what sins I do not know. The RX8, as I mentioned, is powered by a rotary engine. Apparently, rotary engines require a very specific shutdown procedure, which includes something about fire and goat blood, and the idea that you must warm the engine completely before turning it off. On a Sunday, I had to park the car on the street as its usual parking space was otherwise inhabited. Later, Mrs. Tesch's mother moved the car, a 45 second trip. The following day, it wouldn't start as there is a flooding issue with the Mazda RX8 when the shutdown procedure is not followed. After performing the clearing procedure several thousand times, Mrs. Tesch and I had to do the old cold start trick, where I pushed the car to get it rolling and she popped the clutch. I recovered in record time according to my cardiologist. I employed the services of an Ecuadorian priest and, aside from some body damage from the holy water, I was confident that the malignant spirit had been exercised.

Yesterday, I had several errands to run. I wanted to buy a USB number pad for my laptop and ant killer. Mrs. Tesch also asked me to pick up some two cent stamps. On my way to Radio Shack, I decided that I would surprise the wife by getting the car washed. I stopped at the Scrub-a-Dub, vacuumed the interior and got in line where the very experienced teenager could guide me into the drive rail. As he waved me in, I heard a 'POP' followed immediately by a 'shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh'. The very experienced teenager looked back and forth from me to the driver's side front tire. I exited the vehicle to see the tire quickly go from a state of full inflatedness to fucking flat. It seemed that while guiding me in to the rail, the very experienced teenager failed to recognize that the valve stem cap was dangerously close to it. It snapped off completely at the valve itself. Under the roar of the automated wash system, I heard a low rumbling evil laugh and, after looking around, realized it was coming from underneath the hood. I'm going back to Father Adelmo for a refund.

With the help of the very experienced teenager and the manager, I managed to back the demon out of the car wash. We very easily located the jack, but not the spare tire. Finally, when on the phone with the Mazda dealership, I was informed that the RX8 does not have a spare tire. So I rolled the tire to the Midas shop next door, where I was further informed that the pressure sensor stem required for the tire was only available through Mazda. The manager volunteered to drop the tire and me off at Casa del Tesch so I could get the van. I had to drive 30 minutes to the dealership where I paid $94.04 for a replacement. Fortunately, my brother Ed works for a local tire center and he arranged for the guys at his shop to repair the tire for free. After the repair was completed, I drove the 40 minutes back to the car wash and replaced the tire. All totaled, I spent 4 1/2 hours of my life on repairing the spawn of Satan. You'd think with access to all that dark power, it could just regenerate or something, but no such luck.

Though the staff was very helpful, I felt that Scrub-a-Dub should bear at least some of the financial burden for the damage. When I approached the manager, Jason, he explained that he understood why I might feel they were responsible, but there was a prominently displayed sign at the entrance to the car wash. It reads, "Scrub-a-Dub is not responsible for the damage to any aftermarket or non-factory parts." Instead, he offered me five free car wash vouchers, and I offered him an ass to kiss and my middle finger.

Honestly, I'm afraid of what is to come. The above events took place in the span of only five months. How can I be sure that I won't end up on a random plane of Hell, teleported through the CD player? Should I start carrying a King James bible in the glove compartment? While gripping the steering wheel, will I suffer an episode of stigmata? Mrs. Tesch thinks I'm overreacting. In fact, she claims that each time I've had problems with the green fiend, it was as a result of my own actions. She refuses to even entertain the idea that her car is evil and must be destroyed before it causes some real damage.

She is so unreasonable.

sum of the parts...

2009-05-18T09:16:00.006-05:00

You know what burns me? How one action can label you for life. Your entire persona, your entire legacy can be perceived by others...not based on the sum of your deeds, but by one teensy little event or decision. It's bullshit, if you asked me.

You can study and research and soak in culture...
You can donate your time to the handi-capable tirelessly and selflessly...
You can strive to be an exceptional parent...
You can devote your Saturday afternoons to playing Scrabble with nursing home residents...
You can pledge thousands of dollars to hungry African children and Jerry's Kids...
You can serve meals at your local homeless shelter...
You can volunteer for clean-up projects in the inner-city...
You can run in all sorts of 5K's for all sorts of causes...
You can serve valiantly in our country's armed forces...
You can paint or sculpt beautiful works of art...
You can write poignant and profound poetry and prose...
You can build homes for the underprivileged with Habitat for Humanity...
You can save the whales, dolphins or condors...
You can fill the collection plate at your chosen parish...
You can drive a Prius and plant trees every Arbor Day...

You can do all these wonderful things. You can perform these generous and conscientious deeds without ONCE expecting a "Thank you" or compensation. You can do great and wonderful things with only the best intentions. Hell, you could win the Nobel-fucking-Peace Prize, but you kill one transvestite hooker...

ask earl...May 17...

2009-05-17T06:28:00.009-05:00

Dear Mr. Tesch, What is it with that Mona Lisa broad? I just don't think she's that hot. I mean she's not really smiling, is she? It's sort of a smirk. Do you, like, think she got some right before they took the picture? She's not even looking in the camera for chrissake! That broad has no eyebrows. You want to pluck, so pluck. But you gotta leave an arch line. Okay, fine. Maybe she got a little carried away. Who hasn't? But the rest of us get making with the eyebrow pencil when that happens (I only use Maybelline myself). I mean, this Mona broad gets a lot of press. That old song and everything. If I want a lunch that's a grade above your Kentucky Fried (say your TGIFridays, which ain't no ChiChi's, but hey, times change), you should see the shit I have to shell out in the bedroom (although now I pin my hair back, I've learned). Speaking of hair, don't even get me started on this Mona broad's do (ugh) or (double ugh) outfit. And what, she can't even put on a coat of nail polish? So what gives?
- Erin O'Brien

Erin,
The painting is a half-length portrait and depicts a woman whose expression is often described as enigmatic. The ambiguity of the sitter's expression, the monumentality of the half-figure composition, and the subtle modeling of forms and atmospheric illusionism were novel qualities that have contributed to the painting's continuing fascination. Few other works of art have been subject to as much scrutiny, study, mythologizing, and parody.

What few people know is that DaVinci ran out of paint just as he was ready to put the final touches on this commissioned portrait of Francesco de Giocondo's wife. He was gone only a few minutes to the art supply store, but Lisa refused to wait and DaVinci was never able to convince her to sit for him again. In his memoir, Lisa: What a Bitch, DaVinci laments the unfinished work:
"If-a only dat-a fuggin-a-beech could-a joost sit for 30 more-a minutes, I would-a have-a the chance to paint-a the eyebrows and moostache-a." - LD, 1512AD

Hey Earl,
I'm 13 and in 8th grade. There is a girl in my class that I really like. "Dana" hangs out with the popular crowd and I tend to stay more in the background. She is a JV cheerleader and I'm more of a band buddy. I think she would like me back if she got to know me better, but I don't know how to approach her. How can I break the ice?
Mark - Las Cruces, NM

Mark,
First, let me say this...I imagine you're feeling quite alone right now in this awkward stage of your life. Not to worry though, everyone goes through tough times in adolescence. You are experiencing very real and natural feelings as you try to find yourself. Matters of the heart bring about a combination of emotions and sensations; hope, sexuality, fear of rejection. You've come to the right place for guidance.

Maybe you've seen movies where teens from different social groups manage to find romance, where the moral is that the only thing that matters is what's in your heart. Well, that's a nice theory, but highly improbable. Mark, you should accept, sooner than later, that "Dana" is way out of your league. There's no way you'll ever measure up to her class standing and making the attempt to date 'up' is unreasonable. You would be setting yourself up for great humiliation if you ever tried to do anything more than help "Dana" with her math homework. Why don't you find yourself a nice fat girl to date? I'm sure there's plenty of lonely ladies in woodwinds that would be perfectly happy to spend time with you. You should set your sights MUCH lower. There's a social order that doesn't go away after you leave school. It's better to prepare for the years and years of second class social citizenship that are ahead of you, rather than continuing to fool yourself by thinking you have a chance with the beautiful people.

Hey Earl,
I'm a leg man. What is your favorite part of the body?
Jeffrey - West Allis, WI

Jeff,
Legs are nice, but anyone who knows me, knows that I'm an ass man. While some may disagree with me, I say with the right marinade they can be quite tender.

Well, that closes another installment of Ask Earl Tesch. I really appreciate the countless submissions we receive and I can't tell you how much fun it is to read your thought provoking questions. Keep 'em coming.

dad, what are we...?

2009-05-16T07:42:00.002-05:00

Last night, Earl Jr. and I were watching Real Time with Bill Maher. If you're not familiar, it's a talking head show that is decidedly leftward leaning. I tune in regularly because I like a good debate (which the program provides a'plenty) and Maher presents the issues of the day with a humorous flavor. Earl Jr. doesn't usually join me, but we were going to watch You Don't Mess with the Zohan afterward. As the panel was discussing yet another polarizing topic, my son and I had the following discussion:

Earl Jr. - "So, I take it these guys are Democrats?"
Earl Sr. - "Well, actually (from left to right) Dan Savage is a Democrat, the black girl is a Republican and the other guy must be a moderate. That means he's somewhere in the middle. Why do you ask?"
Earl Jr. - "Because they don't seem to like Republicans very much."
Earl Sr. - "Yeah, that's true."
Earl Jr. - "What are we?"

I believe there are some parents that would answer that question emphatically without hesitation and follow it up with myriad reasons for their political ideology. I don't want to raise little robots. I want to teach my children how to think, not what to think. Is that possible though?

The reality is that we influence the thought processes of our children completely at various stages of their development and, in the end, we do teach them what to think. Through our actions and attitudes we demonstrate for our children what the family ideology is. If our children see us losing our tempers in traffic, they will likely emulate that reaction. If, at the dinner table, we describe groups of people as stupid, lazy, evil, etc., our children will likely believe that those groups are stupid, lazy, evil, etc.

The realization that I have such a powerful influence over the core beliefs of my children scares me. Am I positively impacting my children? What if they read this blog? Then, once I see myself in my children, what will I think? If my children grow up believing or not believing the same things as their father, will the world be a better place? Will I have the discipline to weigh every action against this realization that my children will be irreversibly shaped by them?

Hmm...it only took 13 years for me to realize that parenthood is a tremendous responsibility. Better late then never.

new template...

2009-05-16T00:26:00.004-05:00

Mrs. Tesch will tell you all about my propensity to rearrange often. She can also tell you how that propensity says something about my ability to commit. Ah well...

I am willing to reconsider the appearance of the ol' blog, if there is a rousing disapproval. I kinda like the new digs, but I can appreciate that you, the audience, should be satisfied.

BTW, there will be a regular post later on today.

Peace.
Earl

mystery abounds...

2009-05-15T07:31:00.008-05:00

This morning I came across the most curious thing. Here at Casa del Tesch, we have a full bathroom upstairs and a half-bath on the first floor, just off the kitchen. I was going to empty the trash can which is kept under the sink in the smaller water closet. I opened the small cabinet door to see that on top of the soiled tissue and empty TP rolls was the remnants of a piece of pizza.

The tall garbage can that we keep in the broom closet in the kitchen is where one would usually find uneaten food stuffs and it's merely feet away from the bathroom, so this discovery is really quite a mystery. There doesn't seem to be a reasonable explanation for finding this pizza crust in the bathroom trash. SOP in the Tesch house is that food refuse gets deposited in the kitchen, so the big question I have is...Who is eating pizza while they poop?

Process of elimination has not been that helpful. I can only say for certain that I wasn't eating pizza on the toilet. It's not that I wouldn't, but I know it wasn't me this time. I can say with some degree of certainty that it wasn't Sweeney, because he's only three months old. He has no teeth, so he can't eat pizza. Also, he hasn't been walking and, aside from one messy mishap, poops in a diaper. His older sister, Pearl, is in a battle of wills with Mrs. Tesch regarding potty training. Her visits are closely supervised so that when she does make a deposit, we can celebrate her tenacity and aim. It isn't likely that Mrs. Tesch would allow Pearl to eat on the crapper, but I cannot be sure.

The older boys, Earl Jr. and Seymour, are the most likely suspects. Both have had their bouts with crusts, neither being very fond of that section of pizza or bread. I think we would have noticed, though, if one of them had entered the lavatory with food in hand. And, of course, Mrs. Tesch is far too refined for such chicanery. Plus, with the OCD, there isn't enough Purel in the world that would allow her to mix food and fecal remnants.

There is the possibility, I suppose, that it wasn't a poop picnic (poopnic?) at all. Think about it, though. The average pee break doesn't allow enough time to enjoy a meal. Plus, where would you put the pizza while you urinated? For the boys, at least one hand is occupied with the task of stream guidance and usually both hands are required for unzipping/zipping. You'd have to sit down, so I don't think this was a PEEzza party.

There are other pieces of this perplexing, potential pepperoni and poop puzzle. For instance, I can't remember the last time we ordered pizza, but this crust was on top of the trash, indicating this was a recent event. Also, as the first floor bathroom is considered my main evacuation chamber, the rest of the family usually avoids it, for fear of exposure to all sorts of nastiness. Frankly, the possibilities are too numerous and complex, so The Mystery of The Powder Room Picnic may never be solved. Someone call John Walsh!

The whole process of discovery and subsequent mind numbing list of endless possibilities was so frustrating that I almost didn't eat the pizza crust.

Almost.

you are not that important...

2009-05-14T08:04:00.004-05:00

I am sick and friggin' tired of the mentality that the sensibilities, beliefs and morals of large or influential groups are more valuable than that of the individual or smaller groups. Especially in the areas where simply ignoring the behavior is the most reasonable alternative. Whatever happened to 'Live and let live'? Oh sure, I still hear people say it, but only when it comes to their own choices and lifestyles. Generally it goes like this:

"I see <insert group here> doing <insert activity here>. I don't appreciate that because I'm <insert ideology here>. I think I'll make a big stinky out of it until the government or society enforces rules that fit my <insert ideology here, again> beliefs."

Public Smoking Bans
Wisconsin joined the fray yesterday with legislation on banning smoking in public places such as bars, restaurants, etc. I understand that secondhand smoke is a danger to non-smokers. I can appreciate that non-smokers would prefer not to die from exposure. There are places that cannot be avoided like schools and government buildings. OK, no smoking there. The problem is that broad stroke legislation imposes non-smoking laws on privately owned businesses. Bars, restaurants and other privately owned establishments should be able to decide for themselves if they wish to provide smoker friendly atmospheres. And if non-smokers don't like it, THEY SHOULDN'T GO THERE!! No one is forcing you to go down to the corner tavern. There are plenty of places that will go non-smoking because they see the potential to draw non-smoking patrons. Let the market decide. If I opened a bar that played only Bryan Adams songs and advertised it as such, you would be out of line to come in and demand that I play some Bay City Rollers.

Gay Marriage
Don't talk to me about the sanctity of marriage between a man and a woman. Don't talk to me about the potential abuse of health insurance and tax benefits. Don't talk to me about the bible. Let's be honest. You don't want to legalize same-sex marriage because you don't like the idea of gay sex. You are grossed out at the idea of two men making out. You can't understand the concept that two women could be good parents, because you read a book written two thousand years ago by some Jewish guys that said they can't. I talked with God just the other day and she said she's fine with same sex marriage. What difference does it make in your life if two people that love each other get married? You don't want them to get married because in your narrow little mind you are unable to separate homosexuals from the way they have sex. I bet you'd change your tune if suddenly there were laws that denied marriage rights to people that masturbate with extra virgin olive oil while wearing an Emeril mask and yell "BAM!" when they throw a load at their wives.

Public Displays of Faith
Why can't you just walk by the Ten Commandments posted at City Hall without being offended? If there is a moment of silence at school, maybe it's OK that some students pray while others wait quietly. Respecting the rights of other people to publicly practice faith doesn't mean you are endorsing their ideology anymore than it means that they are disrespecting yours. Atheists, Agnostics, Buddhists, Muslims, Jews and Christians should all be able to do whatever they do without being chastised by the other groups. The other day when I was talking to God, she also told me that you're all wrong. Just so you know.

Breastfeeding in Public
If you walk by a woman with a blanket covering the upper half of her body, just keep walking. You can count on the fact that under the blanket is a naked boob either with our without an attached infant. If that offends you, don't look. It's pretty simple.

The bottom line here, people, is that we have choices. In many cases, the only reason you have been offended is because you have willfully involved yourself with the situation. You willfully enter an establishment known to provide a smoking atmosphere. You willfully stare at the crucifix hanging on the wall of the cubicle next to yours at the office. You are unable to just walk by a naked boob, for obvious reasons. I mean, come on! It's a boob! The reasonable choice is to not stick your nose in the affairs of others, but you can't make that choice because you are pretentious and gossipy and self-righteous.

Mind your own goddamn business!

if a blog falls in the forest...

2009-05-13T08:00:00.002-05:00

In a previous post, I wrote about the memories I hold of my grandparents. This pushed me to consider just how accurate my memory is in the long run. More over, I asked myself: Is it important that my memory is accurate?

Time is usually lumped into three categories; past, present, future. The future is not really time, though, if you think about it. The future is merely possibilities. You can't really talk about what is going to happen with certainty. The present isn't actually time, either. In fact, I would say that the present doesn't even exist. Think about it this way, each word you read in this post is in the past as soon as you finish reading it and you are actually remembering it from the past, not reading it in the present. Therefore, there is no present only varying scales of the past. The past is the only real time.

For every moment that isn't recorded in writing or captured on film, memory is the only way to mark it. Memory, unlike history, is informed by all of our experiences subsequent to the event. In the case of the memoir of my grandparents, my memory is influenced by twenty five years of life experience, approximations based on hearing stories from my siblings and parents about my grandparents, and my emotional state at the time of the recollection. If every moment of your life was meant to be recorded chronologically in a history book, memory wouldn't be very useful. However, our most significant moments often aren't recorded and it is memory that truly determines if the moment is significant at all.

So, if no record is kept of these particular moments in our lives, memory cannot be inaccurate because there is nothing to refute it. Further, if there is no record of a moment in time and the moment goes unremembered, it may as well have never happened. We cannot be 'in the moment' and we cannot predict moments with any real accuracy. The significance of a moment can only be measured through memory, and if the moment goes unremembered, it doesn't exist.

I know that's a lot of deep stuff from a guy that has proudly written of pooping in public and 'Rusty Trombones', but I think it speaks to the importance of keeping journals, diaries, blogging, etc. If we don't keep a record of our lives, we have to rely on memory to keep the important moments alive and the strength of our memory weakens with time. Writers keep moments alive. I would encourage all of you to take the time to write a memoir or just jot down a few details of the moments you think are important. If those moments go unwritten; once you die, the moment dies with you.

a mountain of pretense...

2009-05-12T06:03:00.009-05:00

This is a view of Mt. Rainier. Beautiful isn't it? Mrs. Tesch (nee Begurney) is from the Great Northwest originally. She now resides with me here in the Midwest and I thank Odin every day for deceiving her into marrying me. Like any married couple, we have our differences ranging from topics as mundane as fabric softener (I had never used it before I met her) to more serious stuff like cereal (I want whole milk for my Grape Nuts, dammit). Some of our biggest arguments have stemmed, however, from regional differences. I think it should be mentioned that at no time have I ever besmirched the character of the peoples of the Northwest, their culture or their vast natural resources.

There are two phenomena in the Midwest that can literally set Mrs. Tesch off so intensely that doors slam, strings of obscenities are unleashed that would make Eazy E blush, and divorce lawyers are contacted. There doesn't appear to be any rationality to this breakdown in her psyche and the sheer banality of it all will have you asking, "Really? She killed him over that?"

To begin with, we here in the Midwest use the word "bubbler." You may call it a water fountain or a drinking fountain. Hell, you might call it a drinkie thingie for all I know, but we call it a bubbler. For reasons unknown, Mrs. Tesch is driven to homicidal levels of frustration and anger when she hears the word. If one of the kids says bubbler instead of water fountain, she will explain through gritted teeth that if they ever use the word in her presence they will be lucky to ever SEE water again. The kids are in counselling now, and the doctor says they should eventually be able to lead normal lives again after the electotherapy.

The first year we were together, on the evening of December 5th I mentioned that I needed to run out to the store after the children (I know what you're thinking and I'll explain the timeline in a future post) went to bed, as St. Nick would be coming that night. Mrs. Tesch looked at me as if I'd just said, "Tomorrow's the 6th, I'm going to stick crochet needles up my butt." Seeing the confusion on her face, I felt sorry for her. I explained.
"Honey, we celebrate St. Nick's day on December 6th every year. It's a tradition."
"Well, I've never heard of it," she replied.
"Oh, how about that? It must be a regional tradition. The way it works is that the kids wake up the morning of Decmber 6th and their stockings or shoes are filled with various treats, maybe a small toy. It's a fun tradition and the kids really love it."
"Well I think it's bullshit," Mrs. Tesch objected, "I'm not going to celebrate some made up, bullshit holiday. We don't have anything like that where I come from."
Naturally, I took some umbrage to her disconcerting comments, but we have since developed an understanding regarding St. Nick's day. On the evening of December 5th every year, St. Nick's is my responsibility alone, so I make sure to buy small toys and treats for the children. Then to ensure that we avoid any relapses of arguments past, I make sure to find generous amounts of Oxycontin and slip them gently into Mrs. Tesch's sleepy time tea. It works for us.

I had always assumed that her intolerance for the minutiae of Midwest culture was merely the way in which Mrs. Tesch expressed her homesickness. It makes sense, actually. She missed home and the way that feeling manifested itself was through the deprecation of her current setting. I'm sure there's some psychological term for this but I'll just call it Imisshomealotsoyourhomesucksitis. Which would be a sufficient term if it weren't for the occasions where her family visited from the Northwest and took the legs out from under my generous and understanding theory. It turns out that homesickness is not the cause of her intolerance, Mrs. Tesch is just a natural and cultural elitist, which apparently was bred into her.

When the Begurneys first came to town for a visit, this disorder became apparent almost immediately. Each natural landmark that I pointed out using terms such as "hill" or "forest" was met with comparisons to those in their home state. Comparisons that left me with tremendous feelings of inadequacy.
"Earl? I would like to stop at the grocery store for some ointment. Is there one close by?"
"Oh sure. There's a Pick-n-Save just up over that hill."
Looking from the corner of their eyes, they would snicker at some secret joke.
"That's not a hill. That's a speed bump."
"OK. The grocery is just over that speed bump, then."
"Earl? I was thinking it might be fun to go fishing on Lake Michigan. What do you think?"
"Well, due to industrial waste, I wouldn't suggest fishing there. The inland lakes would probably be better for that."
More snickering.
"Um, Earl. By definition, all lakes are inland."
"Well, I suppose you're right, but we make the differentiation due to it's size. You see Lake Michigan is one of the Great Lakes. It's coast runs all the way up ..."
Not snickering anymore now, but uproarious laughter. Mrs. Tesch is beside herself, happy to be with her fellow snobs.
"Coast?! That's not a coast. Lakes don't have coasts. Only oceans have coasts. Like the Pacific Ocean. We have a coast. You have a beach."

And it goes on like that. Mother Begurney has since moved here to the Midwest, so I am lucky to have a team of pretentious, uppity "my state is better than your state" people in my everyday life, who can constantly remind me that the Midwest has no culture, history, hills, coast, trees, or bodies of water worth mentioning. I have done some research into this psychological response, where comparisons are constantly being made and culture criticized. The Freudian school of thought has a very clear, concise term for this kind of behavior. Freud calls it 'Asshole.'

ps - My wife and in-laws do actually read this blog fairly regularly, so I might need a place to stay. If you have room. Thanks.

grape nuts...

2009-05-11T07:00:00.001-05:00

Well?

What do you mean, "Well what?" You know goddamn well what I'm talking about.

Oh, really? You have no idea. Are you really that stupi...um...ignorant? You can't possibly be...

It was a slip of the tongue. You know I don't think you're stupid. What I was trying to say was...

Look. Don't try and change the subject. This is about YOU, not me. I was only making the point that I DON'T think you're stu...

Wait just a fucking minute, here. Now I'm stupid? You're going to try and tell me I'm stupid? Really? I really don't like the way this conver...

OK, OK...if you want to go there, I'll go there too. I think it's pretty nervy for you to call me stupid since it takes you ALL day Sunday to do the Jumble...

No, it's not difficult to do the Jumble. It's there for kids. You're 22 years old, for Chrissake! You treat it like it's quantum physi...

Well guess what...the word is especially NOT eXspecially. And you know what else, genius? T-H-E-R-E denotes a place and T-H-E-I-R denotes people. The very idea that you are allowed to use emai...

It's 'couldn't', not 'could.'

You couldn't care less that I think your grammar skills are poor.

Look, this all started because yo...

Me? You're the one that keeps interrup...

Stop right there! Don't you dare bring my mother into this. My mother is a SAINT! You have no idea! My mothe...

Alright, I get it. The gloves are off, huh? OK. How 'bout this? That mole on your neck? It is NOT a beauty mark and it grosses me out. In fact, you remember that time I "accidentally" scratched it and that nasty ass chocolate chip wouldn't stop bleeding?

Hell yes, I did it on purpose! That thing is ugly. It stares at me. At first I thought it was cancer, but cancer is prettier. It looks like you have a chunk of poop on your neck. That's why I gave you turtlenecks and scarves for Christm...

Oh really? Jake doesn't mind your turd-mark? Well maybe you should go...

You screwed Jake?!? You screwed my brother? You gotta be fucking kiddi...

Why Jake? Jesus Chris...

More of a man? He's only got one arm! More of a man, my ass. That statement isn't even biologically correct. I have both of my arms...

Well, no shit you should leave. Get the fuck out of my apartment. You can come back when I'm at work to get your stuff the fuck out of my fucking apartment you fucking bit...

Why are YOU crying? I didn't fuck your one-armed brother.

I know your brother has both of his arms. I was just sayin...

Yeah. I can't believe it either. You know the irony of all this?

Irony. It's the expression of meaning through the use of language which normally signifies the opposite, typic...

I was just going to say that this all started because when I came home from work, all I wanted was a bowl of Grape Nuts with ice cold Vitamin D whole milk, but you bought skim again.

ask earl...May 10, 2009...

2009-05-10T08:07:00.010-05:00

Wow! Another Sunday has arrived and we received even more feedback from readers than last week. I'll have to hire a staff soon, just to try and get through all the thought provoking questions. I really appreciate your responses. Keep it up!

Hey Earl,
What's your opinion on giving the needle to guys even in cases of only one or two murders?
Mel - Joliet, IL

Mel,
That's a pretty controversial topic, but I'll weigh in. It's my experience that our penal system has failed in it's duty to rehabilitate habitual offenders. Prison has become a place where small time crooks go to learn how to become big time sociopaths. Not only am I in favor of the death penalty for particularly heinous murders, but I say fry the bastards that abuse children and women, too. In fact, I'll bet there are plenty of crimes that are execution worthy. We need to become a country where exceptions can be made. Not every murder should be considered a capital case and crimes where no life is taken should still be considered based on intent, criminal record and psychological evaluation. I say round up all m'er f'ers, line 'em up in front of the chair and...umm...but I'm pretty sure you're innocent.

Hey Earl,
My husband "Jim" and I will be celebrating our golden wedding anniversary in July. He has always been very kind and loving to me and our three children. Retired now, of course, he worked hard for 42 years to provide for his family. For all intents and purposes, our marriage was perfect. Or so I thought. Out of nowhere, on the way home from casino night at St. Josephat's, he told me that he was unsatisfied with our sex life and he'd wanted to try something new. I always thought our love making was great, but apparently "Jim" was left wanting more. He told me that although he had never been unfaithful, he was reaching the breaking point. Obviously, I wouldn't want our marriage to end, so when he told me what he wanted to try, I agreed to try to fulfill his fantasy. The problem is that I don't know what a "Rusty Trombone" is. Can you help me?
Ethel - West Allis, WI

Ethel,
While I am totally in favor of people of all ages maintaining a physical relationship with the person they love, and I encourage partners to experiment to keep their love life interesting, and I believe that you and your husband should strive to satisfy each other's desires...I would appreciate it if you never wrote to me again. There are some things I just don't need to know. Excuse me while I go try to scrub that visual out of my brain.

嘿厄爾，我無法與我的老闆。他總是試圖角落我在他的辦公室和我自己的力量性。我不知道該怎麼辦。如果我拒絕他，他可能已經箱發射。如果我的報告，他將有一個調查，我可以承受巨大的尷尬。什麼是男孩該怎麼辦呢？
- 弗雷德在北京

弗雷德在北京,
The solution to your problem is not a simple one. For the same reasons you listed, there are several possible outcomes and only one positive one. If you're truly fed up and prepared to accept the consequences, pursue a direct and severe line of action. Otherwise, I would suggest that you seek employment elsewhere. Good luck and 您的內褲可能仍然以外的對接裂紋!

Special to Mother Tesch:

Happy Mother's Day. You gave me the gift of life and this is what I've done with it. Now please stop crying.

Love - Earl

a special day for a special person...

2009-05-09T11:18:00.007-05:00

Most people are aware that the second Sunday in May is Mother's Day.
What people are less aware of is that the second Saturday in May is One Bad Mother's Day.

Who's the black private dick
That's a sex machine to all the chicks?
EARL!...You damn right!

Who is the man
that would risk his neck for his brother man?
EARL!...Can you dig it?

Who's the cat that won't cop out
When there's danger all about?
EARL!...Right On!

They say this cat Earl is a bad motherf...
SHUT YOUR MOUTH!
But I'm talkin' 'bout Earl...THEN WE CAN DIG IT!

He's a complicated man
And no one understands him but his woman

EARL TESCH!

ps - It's not too late to submit questions for tomorrow's Ask Earl... Sunday.

sesame street smarts...

2009-05-08T09:33:00.008-05:00

In the post-civil rights era, racism continues to plague the American landscape in urban communities as much, if not more, than in suburban and rural areas, where it has traditionally been more prevalent. One can now see racial diversity in neighborhoods where segregation was once the status quo. The Backyardigans serve as a prime example of the breakdown of prejudice and discrimination with Pablo, Tyrone, Uniqua, Austin and Sherman coexisting, each equally fulfilling integral roles and positions within the social constructs of their association. Conversely, the urban setting of Sesame Street is persistently the setting of racial self-loathing, increasingly diminished opportunities for quality education and the marginalization of urban working class minorities. In his book, Please Do Not Open this Book, Jon Stone reinforces the attitudes and behaviors of the anti-Monster movement in a way that teeters on the edge of propaganda not seen since Triumph of the Will.

Stone does little to mask this inflammatory piece, as the cover is graced with the illustration of a stereotypical Grover, complete with the exaggerated 'Monster' features often touted by the anti-Monsterists; ill kept blue fur, an emotionless mouth spanning the symmetrically round head, pronounced googly eyes, and a bulbous red nose. Is it any wonder that self-esteem in the Monster community has progressively decreased with incitive literature like this prominently displayed in shopping centers and bookstores? Promoting Monster self loathing, Stone depicts an undereducated Grover saying:
"Do you not know that there is a Monster at the end of this book???
Oh, I am so scared of Monsters!!!" (Stone, p. 2)
Stone aims through dialogue to breed an attitude that Monsters are not safe from themselves, perhaps as an attempt to usurp any solidarity within the Monster community. As a Monster, Grover fears himself and, in turn, fears all Monsterkind.

"Knowledge will forever govern ignorance; and a people who mean to be their own governors must arm themselves with the power which knowledge gives." - James Madison

It is Stone's intent to deprive Monsters of the very power that Madison cites in the quote above. Throughout the text, the audience (Monsters) are discouraged from improving their standing in the class structure through education, negating and ignoring their true potential. Grover chastises his fellow Monsters for reading:
"You turned another page! You do not know what you are doing to me!
Now...STOP TURNING PAGES!" (Stone, p. 6)
A plea from a member of their own community instructs Monsters to accept their role in the lower tiers of society. Stone shrewdly imparts that Grover is satisfied with his lot in life, demonstrating for the Monster community at large that they should quietly do the same. You see, depriving Monsters from quality education is the method Stone employs for keeping them of improving their status, relegating them to working class laborers.

Rather than giving him critical thinking and problem solving skills, Stone creates a character in Grover that is able only to perform menial jobs. In his attempts to prevent the reader from continuing to the conclusion, Grover fills several manual labor positions. A pseudo-merchant marine tying off pages with rope, a carpenter boarding pages up or a bricklayer covered in a slop of cement, Grover displays great ineptitude, perhaps as an indication that Monsters cannot even perform these low-tier occupations without the guidance of, say, Maria or Gordon. There is no overt commentary that Monsters need close, non-monster supervision, but the subtext is crystal clear.

Isn't it time to speak up against anti-Monster rhetoric like that of Jon Stone? In the 21st century, antiquated ideologies of Monster inequality should go the way of 8-track and Betamax video tapes. In his politically charged protest song, Kermit the Frog sings, "It's not easy being green..." Until we can come together and silence the anti-Monster movement that has thrust propagandists like Jon Stone (with illustrations by Mike Smollin) into the literary limelight, it won't be easy being blue, purple or yellow either.

STOP THE HATE! MONSTER-BATE!

Complaints and Grievances...

2009-05-07T09:07:00.011-05:00

If you are offended easily, you may want to skip today's post and return tomorrow for regularly scheduled programming.

Read at your own risk.
-Management

I hate the sound of spoons clinking at the bottom of a bowl. Is it really that important to get every last grain of cereal or drop of melted ice cream? It drives me freaking nuts! Unless you’re an Armenian refugee being tracked by angry Turks and you don't know when you'll eat again, go ahead and let that last Spaghetti-O go. Either get your fat ass off the La-z-Boy and get some more pudding or rinse your bowl. If you must clink, do it the same way you masturbate, alone and quickly before your mom gets home.

I hate people that must trump your feelings with theirs. You know who I’m talking about. You get to work, feeling like crap because you were on the XBOX until two o’clock in the morning and you only got four hours of sleep. You run into the office dick and the conversation goes something like this:
Dick: You look like crap.
You: I only got four hours of sleep. I’m exhausted.
Dick: You shouldn’t be tired. I only got 15 seconds of sleep on the elevator up here.
You: Oh, well. NOW I feel like a million bucks. Thanks, Dick.
You know what? I never feel any better or worse based on the experiences of OTHERS. I don’t feel any better about being cut off in traffic just because of the Holocaust. I’ll still limp around for a few minutes after stubbing my toe, even though my neighbor lost his leg in Korea. I am self-absorbed and I don’t care if you’ve been sick, injured, tired or heartbroken. You’ve had your pain, let me have mine.

I hate the way you eat. First of all, you hold your utensils incorrectly. The stem of your fork should be held in the crook of your hand, between your thumb and forefinger while being supported by your middle finger. It’s not that difficult, you Neanderthal. And that thing you do with mashed potatoes and ice cream, where you place the whole spoon in your mouth but only skim the spoonful? Disgusting! Chew with your mouth closed, pig. Stop smacking your lips. Do you have a disorder that causes over production of saliva? If I hear you sucking your teeth one more time, I’ll stick a fork in your eye. You’re a fat, rude, gross little piggy and no one likes you. Finish your peas.

I hate your kids. I’m tired of you letting them stand on my stoop, asking if my kids can come outside to play. I don’t want to see their faces, gooped up with Tootsie Pop residue, pressed up against my screen door. I purposely don’t clean up the dog crap in my yard because I don’t want the bastards playing there. That’s the risk you run. Keep your snots out of my living space or I send ‘em back to you with shit on their Power Ranger sandals. They’re not special or cute. Oh, I see by the bumper sticker on your Honda Odyssey that they’re on the Honor Roll at James Woods Elementary? Well, why didn’t you say so? I’m sure that the rigorous academic standards at that fine public school really tested little Caleb or Ryan or Justin or whatever the hell you named this future disappointment. Keep your “Kids Say the Darndest Things” anecdotes, baby pictures and holiday newsletters to yourself. I know you love your kids. And now you know that no-one else does.

I hate bachelorette parties. As soon as I see 12 women enter a bar, with one of them wearing a veil and a t-shirt covered in Lifesavers, I’m out. They belly up to the bar and order, “Ummmm, gimme a pitcher of Miller Lite and 12 cups. Oh and 12 Blowjobs!” This order is quickly followed by 12 girls, screaming in unison. “WoooooHooooo!! Partayyyyyy!!!” The fat one is always in charge. She hands out penis balloons and penis hats and other penis paraphernalia. They all drink their beer or fuzzy nipple, slippery naval--whatever, with the penis straws. It’s ironic, really. They drink with penis straws to celebrate never having to put a real penis in their mouth again. They try to get flirty with the bar patrons. They point to the Lifesaver covered t-shirt, which has spelled out in black magic marker “Suck for a Buck.” You want me to pay you a dollar and I get to pull one of the candies off of the shirt with my mouth? No thanks, but I’ll give you fifty cents and a coupon for dryer sheets in exchange for a tug-job in the men’s room. Short of that, why don’t you stick with what you do best? Get together in the maid of honor’s sewing room, swap Campbell’s Soup recipes and dream of your future while your fiancé gives a dirty sanchez to a meth addict stripper in front of all his friends and your father at his bachelor party.

I hate Abercrombie & Fitch. If I must go to the mall, I’ll make every effort to avoid even passing too closely to this trendy doorway to Hell. With club music playing at 85dBa, these teenagers are selling other teenagers ripped shirts, cargo shorts and flip flops at prices usually reserved for sports cars and surgical procedures. They might as well be selling this shit out of a Best Western mini bar. What’s the purpose of the ten foot tall posters of half naked pre-teens? Are they trying to reach out to that pedophile demographic that so many retail chains desire? How about thongs for 10 year old girls? “If you buy 3 thongs, Becky, you get a free sample of KY warming gel and a bottle of Benzythine.” If you’re reading this wearing your Premium Remsen Low Rise Slim Straight jeans($398) and Pine Creek Athletic logo-T($39.50), you’re part of the problem and should be beaten with the buckle end of your own A&F Burgundy Leather and Fabric belt($49.50).

I hate your cats. I don't want to see pictures of Muffin, Cowboy or Oscar. I don't want to hear stories about the cute things little Leo does when you're vacuuming. I don't care that Fluffy "thinks he's a dog", or has dog tendencies or cuddles with your dog. Your cats are not interesting, adorable or smart. Your cat doesn't "talk." Your cat doesn't have a personality. Your cat is not a child and should not be compared with one. Your cat is a brainless, worthless, irritating animal that shits in a box, walks in it and tracks shitty litter all over your 1 bedroom apartment. So, please, stop telling me stories about how Snowball likes to sleep in a broiling pan. Go home, eat your Weight Watchers, reduced carbs Salisbury Steak microwave dinner, put on your favorite bunny slippers, crawl under the blanket that your grandmother crocheted for you and watch 'Will & Grace' with your chocolate chip Calico, Pumpkin; the only boyfriend you'll ever have.

I hate unsolicited advice. Why do people feel it's necessary to impart their vast wisdom upon me when I've expressed no interest? I didn't ask for your help. I don't need your advice about how to potty train my kid. "Oh, you should put a couple Cheerios in the toilet bowl. It really helped our Tommy!" Yeah? Really? Well, I just saw your Tommy eating dog shit in your back yard. Where do you put the Cheerios to fix that? I don't need your advice about marriage. "Cindy and I leave PostIt notes around the house with cute messages, so we keep our love fresh." Is that so? I'm pretty sure Cindy's been blowing the UPS guy on Tuesdays and Fridays. Put that on a PostIt. I'm am opposed to any sentence that begins, "You know what? You should...." Don't you tell me what I should do. Mind your own fucking life. The only thing I should do, is slap that condescending look off of your face before you waste several minutes of my life giving me instructions on how you'd run my life if I let you. You know what? You should shut the fuck up!

You know what? Maybe I should shut the fuck up...

E = MC Hammer

2009-05-06T07:02:00.006-05:00

“In memory everything seems to happen to music.”

-Tennessee Williams

Music has always played a major role in my life. I bought my first real stereo when I was 13. A Kenwood rack system with a few hundreds watts per channel, tower speakers and a CD player, a relatively new technology at the time. I bought records and CDs and I would sit in my bedroom listening to Aerosmith, Kiss, Mannheim Steamroller, David Lee Roth (right after the breakup) and myriad other classic or not-so-classic artists.

25 years later, music has become a sort of time machine, transporting me to scenes of my past. My boys get a big kick out of Weird Al Yankovic, so they request him on the iPod. Eat It plays and I am 1o years old, in my bedroom after 10 o'clock secretly listening to Dr. Demento on 100.7 WRKR. Foreigner's Waiting for a Girl Like You sends me to basketball camp in 1983, in a stuffy, sweaty dorm room at UW-Stevens Point. When Eric Johnson shreds The Cliffs of Dover, I am standing, strapped to a fretless Fender bass, back against the 4x10's fumbling clumsily on our makeshift concert stage (a second floor bedroom) watching my friend Dan abuse his white Harmony flying V with the shiny, chrome, aftermarket Floyd Rose.

I seldom hear it, but Snow's Informer sends me straight into a nameless club in Waikiki where I spent 3 days drinking two-for-one rum & Cokes, and dancing with hookers (as it turns out) in 1993 on my way to Korea. The guttural vocals in Afternoons & Coffee Spoons drop me onto the patio at Vista del Sol, watching my best friend in the wide world Bill from New York attempt to squish a giant spider with his shoe only to have a badrillion baby spiders scatter from the birth sac, sending him screaming like a 7 year old girl. The Sultans of Swing used to be one of my favorites, but now when it plays I am at Jeff's wake after he hung himself in his basement. N'Trance remixes Stayin' Alive and there's Pete, the second coming of Stiffler, with a beer in each hand, terrorizing the dance floor at Have a Nice Day Cafe. Damian Rice belts out Blower's Daughter taking me back to my apartment on Layton Avenue, where Mrs. Tesch came one night to watch Lord of the Rings and never left.

Music is powerful. It has the profound ability to change us, mold us, send us through time. Where does music take you?