Half Past Awesome

Wrong Hooker, but you get the idea.

Let’s face it: it’s a tough economy out there. We’re all struggling to make ends meet, even while those who control gasoline production insist on bending us over their barrels of sweet, delicious crude oil. Cities everywhere are determining that public safety should be valued on a risk/reward system, whereby it’s perfectly okay to close fire companies that are, you know, just a real drag. I’m perfectly aware of this, and while I’m grateful as can be that I still have a firehouse to call home, there may come a time where our fair citizens demand even lower taxes on their cigarettes (despite our state having THE lowest tax rate on coffin nails….read here) and I’ll be shit out of luck. If that becomes the case, I’ve decided that prostitution will become my next career advancement. I have many reasons why, but here are the top ten:

TOP 10 REASONS I’D BE A GREAT PROFESSIONAL HE-HO

1. I’m really quite unremarkable. Ladies, the last thing you need when you hire an escort is for it to be obvious that you’ve paid to have some massively strong and good-looking dude-hooker accompany you to fancy functions. Lucky for you, no one will suspect you’ve spent a dime when you show up with me on your arm, and you can claim we just “met on the internet”.
2. No middleman. Pimps have a bad reputation, and they’ve earned it. As such, my self respect demands that I do not employ said dealers in pleasure, and I can pass the savings right on to the customer. Plus, no weird canes or obnoxious hats and tricked out Monte Carlos with gold-spoke rims to contend with.
3. I can do the dishes. This is a quality that plagues many an otherwise harmonious relationship. So, for a very reasonable fee, I can come over to your house and suds up those pieces of dining ware that you’ve been leaving in the sink. There is a three day maximum waiting period on that one though, cause then we’re dealing with some gross stuff, and I just don’t get weird like that.
4. I’m a fireman. Now, before you go dreaming up someone who might be in a calendar, I mean this in a totally different way. Firemen gossip worse than hens on a fence, so maybe you need to talk some trash about that skank at work who’s clearly slutting her way to the top. I’ll not only completely understand, I’ll probably be able to contribute some completely salacious, and utterly fabricated, commentary about her clear lack of morals.
5. I have a horrible short term memory. This will come in handy when we run into each other at a local coffee shop and you’re in the company of your family. I can barely remember my kids’ names, so there’s no fear of awkward social encounters or the need to explain how we know each other….chances are I won’t recall a thing.
6. No need to be self-conscious. As The Wife informs me on a regular basis, I’m no prize; therefore, there is no need for you to feel bad about any aspect of your being, either. Worried that you may have a bit too much of a mustache for it to be considered socially acceptable? Pfffftttt….I can grow one of those things in three hours. There’s beauty everywhere and in everyone, and I’m guaranteed to see it.
7. I know how to change a tire. Do you have a long road trip that will take you along poorly paved highways, or are you worried about being car-jacked in the city? Then you should consider hiring me. I’ll bring the Funyuns, and we’ll listen to the music of the REM, and claim how we got Michael Stipe before anyone else did, thereby making us “better” than everyone. I’ll even bring a set of tools for changing a flat tire or intimidating the hell out of roadside thugs. It’ll be great.
8. I don’t hunt or fish. This is mainly a regional issue, but here in Midwest, there are many, many sportsman’s widows. Their hubbies get their goatees trimmed up, break out their finest camo and disappear into the woods or onto the lakes for days on end, all vying for machismo rights when they kill something with brains no bigger than a housecat. I could care less. So, when the fall and spring are here and you’re abandoned for the company of some other guys who smell like deer piss, give me a call. We’ll go eat some overpriced sushi and grab some Starbucks, head back to your place and burn all of his shit on the front lawn.
9. I’m tax-deductible! Apparently, for many years, The Wife has been claiming me on our tax statements under the category “financial sink-hole”. I’m not sure what this technological jargon means, but I’m 72% sure you, too, can claim our rendezvouseseses as a deduction of sorts. It’s like you’d be throwing away money NOT to engage my services; be diligent about your fiduciary duties, already.
10. I’m NOT a Craigslist Killer. I just thought I oughta put that out there.

Here For Your Soul. And Brains, Too.

On our way home from a hockey tournament lately, a friend of mine mentioned an irrational notion that he had: he said that for some strange reason whenever he travels and is at a large, international airport, that somehow, he’ll run into his ex-wife. He said he has no idea if she travels internationally, but it concerns him, nonetheless.

Several weeks later, I thought about my many irrational thoughts and I, too, have an eccentric fear, borne of ignorance: I’m scared shitless of the Amish undead.

To make sense of this, we need to travel back in time. In late 1999, when I was applying for the Springfield Fire Department, it was necessary for me to fly out here for the interview process. Up until that point, I’d only lived in California and Alaska, so I knew nothing about life in the Midwest, much less that there was a large contingent of Amish living in Missouri. So I flew out, staying up in Northeast Missouri at the ex-in-laws place which happened to be a Christmas tree farm surrounded by Amish neighbors. I found their stares and glares unnerving, not taking into account that I was the outsider, I was the curious one.

My lodgings for the trip consisted of sleeping in the enclosed porch area of a log cabin, with a good and full view of the perfectly abandoned house on the property. This abandoned red dwelling had a fruit cellar, another regional oddity that, while described as “quaint” by many, really came across as a creepy portal to all things terrifying. After enjoying a local delicacy billed as a “Pig-Hip Sammich” (technically, a fried pork tenderloin on white bread) at the local bar/pool hall/gatherin’ place, my then-mother in-law informed me that there was a storm rolling in, and we’d best be heading back to the farm.

I’m from California. We did not have real lightning and thunderstorms on the Central Coast. Forked lightning was a phenomena best reserved for horror flicks with disemboweled zombies, or, apparently, Missouri in the month of May. We headed down the gravel roads and I took in all the homes of the Amish that were merely outlined by flashes of lightning; this made me really second-guess the wisdom of spending the night out here. Let’s face it: I was coming dangerously close to realizing what a damn pansy I really am.

And that’s when it got somewhat hairy. After being left to my own devices on the enclosed porch, my mind began to cast near and far for reasons why with each thunderous clap that shook the cabin, I came close to pissing myself. This was nothing other than science in motion. I lay on the makeshift bed, family dog locked in a head clamp, chastising myself for being scared of weather. It was not lost on me in the least that I’d flown here to apply for a job where I was supposed demonstrate how NOT to be such a candy-ass. But fear and imagination are funny bedfellows, and if you’re unhinged like I am to start with, no good can come of what I later learned is referred to as “a real toad-strangler” of a storm.

Nerves on edge, dog growling from being held in a death-lock, it hit me: I was positively sure that with the very next flash of lightning, I’d see in the porch window, pitchfork in hand, an Amish Zombie. I could’ve sworn that, as the abandoned house was lit up, I saw movements near the damn fruit cellar. It was upon me. I was the only one who could see that the fruit cellar was the portal through which the Amish Undead travel, looking to feast on the brains of chicken-shit Californians who dare trod in their sphere. Only a couple of ghouls at first, but as soon as they realized I was in that porch area, they’d moan out to one another, and next thing you know, every window pane would be filled with a ghoulish, bearded harvester of souls. I had no idea that storms could last as long as they do out here.

Come morning, with no sleep to claim and one very pissed-off dog, I gazed in puffy-eyed disbelief at the house across the way, amazed that I’d made it though the night. I vowed to do my best to come up with a plan to annihilate this plague of the Amish Undead. Little did I know that within a year, that abandoned red house would become my first residence in the state of Missouri.

I lasted there less than a month.

The Voices In My Head Stopped Talking To Me

I’ve noticed when writer’s block hits, and I ask those around me for subjects, there’s a universal response: “You should write about ___(me)”.

Crosffitters want to hear about the slow deaths endured at the Box, firefighters want to hear about the camaraderie and shenanigans. People like the lists, as long as they stay focused on their interests. And The Wife is always quick to point out that I’ve not adored her enough in e-print, lately.

Now, as opposed to being a rant about the raving self-absorption we all engage in, this diatribe is one in which I praise you for it. Here’s why:

It means we’re connecting.

When I write it and you read it and you mutter to yourself  “hell yes, I hate how society rewards the Lindsay Lohans of this world, too!” or something like that, it is the very definition of success to me. Being the class clown is more than a pathetic cry for attention; we really want to amuse you, make you laugh at us and at yourselves and all the ridiculousness that comes with taking life too seriously. I imagine you somewhere, taking a moment away from looking up the ads soliciting parking lot encounters on Craigslist, and stumbling across this blog, this one right here, and chuckling for 10 seconds. Then you probably head to back to The Onion or porn or whatever, but in that moment? We connected, and that’s the name of this game.

Today a friend of mine turned 30, and when I visited her at the radio station, lottery tickets and coffee in hand, I told her of my dilemma about coming up with a good subject to write about. I was bouncing the idea around about how the doctor would likely confirm that I was pregnant at my appointment today, that it wasn’t the Guinness after all, when she says “you should write about turning 30. Like how much it sucked, or whatever.” I was thinking to myself, “hells bells, I’d love to turn 30 again.”

But, in retrospect, the pregnancy post really came across worse than it does right now, and I was back to considering her idea about birthdays, aging, bad hips, et al. And it struck me: she finds it funny enough when I throw my bullshit online that she’d like me to write about her turning 30. And I’m grateful for that.

So, in an effort to connect with her, too, here goes:

Turning 30 makes one feel really, really old, until it is viewed from the perspective of someone who is 36.

Now, back to my regularly scheduled writer’s block. We’ll talk some more about you, all of you, later.

Oshie Shoots (image courtesy Mark Buckner/NHLI via Getty Images)

In just a few minutes, the puck will be dropped as the St. Louis Blues take on the Detroit Red Wings at the Scottrade center; we’re gathered near the roof of the rink, center ice to be sure, but so high up that there’s a noticeable delay when a player makes a shot and the sound of it reaches us. I’m desperately trying to reconcile in my mind why it is that I love hockey so much that even though I can’t name the current roster of my beloved Blues, I feel like I’ve been a fan all my life. I’m not a sports nut, actually not even much of a fan. I enjoy playing sports, but I’m not very good at it, especially as it comes to hockey; that’s the price of learning how to skate when your 29 years old as opposed to 2.9 years old (per Canadian law).

So why is it that hockey turns me into a screaming, bellowing fan, outraged at missed calls, pulled out of my seat when a goal is scored, cheering as though we’ve just landed a man on the moon for the first time?

I think it’s because I find hockey analogous to life in so many ways.

The puck drops and St. Louis can’t seem to battle it back to their defensemen, so they must now play in a defensive mode, preparing for Detroit attack. This pisses me and 19,000 other people off (Red Wings fans, notwithstanding).

Hockey is a jittery, fast, inconsistent sport, with a constantly changing face of play that demands the ability to act and react on a moments notice. I realize that my life is lived inconsistently and my caffeinated addictions result in jittery behavior. Back and forth, up the ice and down, these fit and furious men are constantly engaging in give and take, elbowing their way into advantageous positions, looking to exploit the tiniest loopholes in their opponents strategy and skills; it’s politics and Wall Street on ice, minus the lawyers.

Detroit goes up by three goals in the second period, and I take it personally. I angrily shout at the boys from 10,000′ up, as though they’re looking to me for coaching advice. All at once I hate myself and am totally immersed in this moment. When I hear fans of other sports talking about “their” team in the first person plural, I’m overcome with urge to slap them right in the mouth:

“Yes, if we don’t get our defense anchored before next week, Green Bay is gonna tear us apart.”

What is this “we” business? Does the coaching staff call you up and solicit you for advice with regards to their team strategies? YOU are not the team, you are not ON the team, you are an overweight, lazy spectator, and don’t give me that “ownership in the game” bull either. You’re living vicariously through the athletic endeavors of people who don’t know you from shit, and frankly, it’s a little embarrassing to see you carry on like that.

Except for me, and except for tonight. Except for every night I go to a Blues game. I’ve become that guy. And the rush it brings.

Oh, the rush.

The surge of emotions when Oshie FINALLY sends a saucer into the net (check it out here, it’s the clip from 11:44 in the 2nd period), and it’s as though I’ve just found out it’s not cancer, after all. Out of my seat, $9 worth of Guinness splashing all over my overpriced jersey, and I’m lost in the moment. All is hope is not dashed, not yet. This will NOT be a shutout, and as the horn blows, thousands of fans gain optimism at high decibels.

Life is compromise and constant adaptation to circumstances beyond your control. Hockey players do the same thing in 1 minute shifts. And who comes out on top? The player willing to find just a little more juice at the bottom of his tank, willing to chase that puck into the corner, scrum it out with a vicious passion and make something big happen. It’s the same in life. We root for the single parent who has to dig deep into her own passion to provide for her family, willing to fight to make a better life for her kids. We’re touched by people who seem hopelessly overwhelmed and somehow find the grit to fight back, to triumph against the obstacles in their path. Hell, we hungrily absorb movies like Forrest Gump and the Pursuit of Happyness, one fiction, one based on fact because we want to cheer them on, we want to we savor their triumphs.

The same holds true for me when I watch Blues hockey.

I’m rooting for the boys to find that strength, to draw deep from that well of iron will, to beat the unholy piss out of the Detroit Red Wings.

And somehow, I’m convinced that my own iron will has played a role in the Blues tying up the game in the closing minutes of the third period. I’ve now switched over to Red Bull and churros as a means of keeping my laser-beam focus of positive energy aimed soberly towards a win. We just might do this. We just might defeat our hated rivals in the Central Division. The coaching staff has yet to place a call to my cell phone so as to inquire how I’d handle the special teams lineups. But that’s okay. Right now they need me. I’m convinced of this.

The clocks ticks down in the third period, and this can mean only one thing : it’s going to overtime.

5 minutes of chaos, with “sudden death” rules set into play, meaning that the first team to score wins it all. It’s not as though it matters in the big scheme of the NHL; Detroit is in first place in the division, as usual, and my beloved Blues are trolling in third (out of four).  Since their inception as an expansion team in 1967, they’ve never won a Stanley Cup, despite multiple playoff appearances. They’re perennial underdogs, which is a huge part of their appeal to me, their uninvited coach high up in the stands, in a Guinness and Red Bull frenzy of panic and expectation. C’mon boys; make a play happen. Make the three and half hour trip back home worth the drive. Don’t let me down, don’t give the entire fair-weather Red Wing nation one more reason to gloat.

One minute and fifty one seconds later it’s over. Darren Helm, one of the fastest skaters in the NHL and, unfortunately, a Red Wing, scores off of a pass from Jiri Hudler. Just like that, it’s over. Another non-win.

Dejected, muted fans begin the long descent from our perches at high altitude. As the teeming masses cram onto the escalators, the mood picks up considerably, as fans begin to buoy one another up with loud claims of unfair referees, bullshit calls, and the mercenary tactics of the Detroit hiring staff.

The boys in blue will come and go, changing jerseys as their contracts allow, in pursuit of victories and paydays and a chance to play in the big leagues. And toiling away, with a bizarre sense of undeserved ownership, the myriad fans of hockey in this most Midwestern of towns will continue to support their boys. They’ll wear jerseys and spend ungodly amounts of money on beer and pretzels and they, and I, will pull together every time we enter the rink, bellowing like fools for the Blue Notes.

"Do these shades make me look taller?"

Hello.

By now, as I’m sure you’ve heard, I’ve been selected by the voices in my head to assume the mantle of Supreme Exalted Leader Of All Mankind.

Yes, I know, it’s an awesome responsibility, and with it comes the burden of shepherding the flock of humanity towards a path more befitting my title and righteous glory. No big deal.

This whole thing came to me in a garlic-Parmesan chicken wing-induced haze at around 3am the other morning, in between infomercials about dating exotic women on the telephone.

So, that being said, we gotta make some changes around here; to get started, I thought I’d lay down the first ten rules of life under my magnanimous leadership. These are non-negotiable items, so don’t you go and get fresh with me, or I’ll send you to the same prison cell as Lindsay Lohan, and believe me it’ll be no treat for either of you. So, in three words, COMPLY OR DIE.

Have a glorious day.

1. The inauguration of my ascent to power will be highlighted as such: there will be a to-the-death cage-match between Snooki (the trollish Cookie Monster from Jersey Shore) and Sarah Palin (the snow monster of the Great North). Tina Turner will be the ringside announcer, and she will be in her Thunderdome outfit. Chainsaws and tanning oils to be provided.
2. If you have a handicapped license plates and do NOT have any noticeable ailments (or children with them), you are not allowed to be a smoker. If we are going to give you the best parking places (a sacrifice on our part), then you will sacrifice, too, and give up the cancer sticks, thereby relieving us of the duty of paying for the associated health-care costs you’ll no doubt incur. Again, blue plates = no smokey smokey.
3. Speaking of the Great North, preparations will be made to invade Canada. Currently, there is a shortage of quality hockey players coming out of our country, and in a bid to capture good skaters and natural resources, we’ll be imposing some freedom on our neighbors to the North. As a sweeping gesture of benevolence, I will, in exchange, give the entire Southern United States to Mexico. Let them have the humidity, tornadoes and monster truck rallies, says I.
4. Traffic will be improved. Here’s how: all roads will have four lanes in each direction, each lane being separated by a concrete barrier. The inner lane is reserved for drivers 16-24, there are no speed limits, texting, talking and makeup application will not only be encouraged, it’ll be mandated. The outer lane is reserved for people over 52.5, and there will be no speeds allowed above 37 mph. Left turn signals will be on at all times and signs in that lane will be in 25,000,000 font. The middle two lanes are for the rest of us, and any behavior that deviates from what I find satisfactory is punishable by lectures of up to seven hours, delivered by Fran Drescher and Gilbert Gottfried.
5. All you can eat restaurants will go the way of the dodo bird. You want a plate of food, you pay for it. You want a second plate of food? You pay for that too. With obesity reaching the levels they are, there is no real reason for AYCE‘s to exist, and they won’t be tolerated.
6. NASCAR, as well, shall heretofore be banned. Cars go fast, then they turn left. I don’t understand why this is the flame that draws the redneck moth, but it’s high time we turn the bug zapper on. Again, with the donation of the Southern U.S. to Mexico, that will probably become a problem our neighbors to the south will have to contend with. Good luck, amigos.
7. Churches will no longer be tax-exempt. If you have an issue with that, I urge you to take a visit to your local mega-church, gaze upon the copper spires and neon billboards and contemplate just why it is that these businesses ought to be able to skip out on the taxes the rest of us shell out. Well, really, the rest of you saps once I am anointed.
8. Prison over-crowding will no longer be an issue. All inmates who want to claim gang affiliation will meet out in the yard at noon each day, whereby knives, shivs, shanks and other pointy weapons will be handed out. Two hours later, the survivors will report back to their cells.
9. I will be keeping an enemies list, and it will be a very dynamic and secretive conglomeration of those who are in the wrong. I’d advise you to stay off of it, unless you’ve already been declared dead to me, a position from which there is no return. You know who you are.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I do believe there are a plate of wings and some phone-dating infomercials calling my name.

You’re welcome, gentle subjects.

-Fearless Leader Of All That Is Good And Right

No Hurries

It was only a matter of time before the painful pangs of budding relationships would begin to enter into the lives of my boys, The Heathens. #1 is now seven years old, and within what seems like the blink of an eye, has immersed himself into drama-laden girl troubles that would make soap opera writers salivate. Slowly, unobtrusively as I can, I’ve been trying to make inroads into his mindset, trying to make funny stories out of my own mishaps, hoping against hope that he might take something from my errors. I know he needs to make his very own, and I know they’re gonna hurt like hell, but maybe I can ease just a little of the confusion by letting him know that above all else, he’s not alone.

His problems are currently revolving around a girl we’ll call “Allison”, since that’s the name of my first grade heart breaker.

Turns out that Allison is a bit of a handful herself, sassy, independent and with a jealous bone that just won’t quit. Compounding the issue, The Heathens have known her since birth, so there is  history there too.  The first time I was informed that Allison was his girlfriend, I tried my damnedest to convince him that seven is far too young to limit yourself to one girlfriend, much less even HAVE one. I was casually brushed aside like the ignorant fool I am, and their love continued unabated.

I thought not too much about it, until I was informed that the word “SEX” had entered his lexicon, a fact that roused me out of a deep sleep at 5am one morning. I wrote about it in this post here.

And today, around our tiny and syrup laden lunch table, I broached the subject again, ever so lightly. Turns out that Allison was at the hockey rink on the same day one of his friends (happens to be a girl) was there too. The Wife immediately sensed that the threat level was about to be ratcheted up. Me, being a guy and a fool to boot, I told her not to worry, what was the big deal? It was a very big deal, indeed.

The girl buddy of Heathen #1 has no interest “like that” and was content to wax poetic on the genius of Star Wars while we watched some hockey. Allison was having none of this. None. Not one bit.

Out came the claws; she ferociously kept her arm around him, kissing his cheek at every chance and loudly declaring that my son was her boyfriend. It was awkward, even for me. My son looked like he was about to have a heart attack. Torn between his friend and his girlfriend, he kept his head hung low, confused as to this other gender. He’s gotta fight his own battles, to be sure, but he seemed MOST relieved when I announced that we were going home, mid-third period. His girl buddy was coming with us (she was in our care) and this fact did not sit well with Allison. She continued to glare at me as I backed out of the stands, attempting, and losing, a stare down contest. No six year old girl is going to intimidate me. Not till she’s at least eight.

So it was that we discussed #1′s “situation” around lunch. I made him laugh with tales of how my love for his mother was most unrequited until I started to show less interest. Suddenly I was worth giving a second glance. This is the foundation for all relationships, a mystery that’s plagued mankind since we first brought our knuckles off the ground.

“Why’s that, Dad?”

“Son, if I had the answer to that, we wouldn’t be living in Missouri in January.”

And I got a glimmer of a smile from him. He may not listen too terribly much, he may have all the focus of a fly when we talk about some things, and that’s okay. We’re talking, and we’re talking about something that is only gonna get more awkward as he gets older, a fact that is not lost on me. I never got much advice when it came to the opposite sex from my folks except for two things:

1. “Keep it in yo’ pahnt’s goddammit, son. You keep playing wit’ it, it’s gonna fall off” (The Lyin’ Dutchman)
2. “Quit acting like a horned up dog, chasing around anything that’s in heat” (My stepfather)

I don’t blame my folks for limiting their sex talks with me; I was busy running from them at every chance, afraid of death by awkward shame. My own boys don’t need to tell me their details, and they sure won’t want to reveal them; that’s okay, too. I just want them to keep up the conversation with me, even at my own morbidly embarrassing expense.

I have a feeling we’ve only just begun.

Projected Image Of Me After 1 Week In Florida

Friday was the last day of work for me for 9 days. I’ll be joining my brothers on the fire department hockey team and we’ll take a trip to Orlando, Fla., competing in a public safety tournament, where I expect we’ll have our asses handed to us once again. The prospect of getting out of single digit temperatures in Missouri, away from the usual parental responsibilities, and enjoying some good times on ice pales when compared with the real reward of a week away from the firehouse:

THE FREEDOM TO GROW A BEARD

Although the Constitution doesn’t specifically lay out protections with regards to beard growth, I have it on good authority that the Founding Fathers were mightily concerned with regards to facial hair freedoms. Most modern-day fire departments choose to ignore this basic, fundamental (mostly implied) Constitutional right, all under the guise of “professional appearance” and safety issues with regards to breathing apparatus face pieces. “Scoff”, says I. While you out there are sleeping the night away with manly beards keeping your necks warm and snug, those of us in the fire service suffer the indignities of a nude chin (or, chins, as the case may be).

And for one glorious week, I shall join you people, and celebrate this most American of privileges. Many years ago, I enjoyed a rather full and disgusting beard which, when combined with my shaved head, led to muted suggestions that I was a felon. Shockingly, I was single for the duration of this period. Then came a career in government service and with it the disappearance of follicles of greatness upon my mug. I’ve missed it ever since.

Still think a beard is anything less than a hallmark of superior character? Let’s examine these 3 distinguished characters in bearded history, then I’ll let you decide.

• Abe “The Babe” Lincoln.  You may have heard of him. His striking beard, also known as the “Illinois Tickler”, served to not only distinguish him as the first president to have the clankers to sport a beard, but also was the inspiration for the modern day Amish-chic so popular in the upper Ohio Valley. This beard oozes power and charm; Abe was said to have trimmed it with an axe, so as to intimidate would-be secessionists. Voted “Most Likely To Unite A Nation During A Tumultuous Period In American History” by Springfield High School class of 1819, Lincoln later credited his beard with being the sounding board for all of his wartime strategies; “I could not have done it without the ‘Tickler’”, he’s rumored to have said at a cocktail party with fellow former prairie-lawyers.

• Tired of all the pressure that came with the title of “People Magazines Most Beautiful Man Since The Dawn Of Time”, a one Mr. Brad Pitt decided to draw attention away from his chiseled good looks by joining the Bearded Underground. This strategy was brilliant; instead of ooh-ing and ahhh-ing and offering their collective bodies at the Altar Of Brad, the public would be forced to contend with his acting skills, formidable as they are. While every gossip rag, website and coherent female was busy lamenting his choice to cover his mug with glorious, unkempt hair, Pitt went on to make such badass films as Snatch and the Oceans Series, all while secretly building up a private army of children from various nations. My well placed sources tell me the first targets that his military complex intends to invade are E! Television and, coincidentally, People Magazine.

• Jesus Christ. Lamb of God. Light of the World. God Manifest In The Flesh. You know who I’m talking about. If the Savior of all mankind thought it was hip to sport the beard, how can it be wrong? And I challenge you, faithful and fallen alike, to find an image of the original Holy Roller without the facial hair. From likenesses that appear on waffles & toast to the most sacred houses of worship, The Seed Of Abraham is always sporting the chin hairs (not counting his time in the manger). I don’t think I could get a stronger advocate for beardification. Now, you may want to step aside, since I’m sure this unauthorized endorsement comes with a lightning bolt with my name on it.

So there you have it. Abe Lincoln, Brad Pitt & Jesus Christ Of Nazareth. These three men all enjoyed the freedoms of facial hair, and I am beside myself in anticipation of joining the ranks of the Bearded Macho Faithful.

One defined a country, one defined cinematic success and one defined the salvation of the faithful; to NOT grow a beard at this time seems like I’d be spitting on all that it means to be a genuine man.

My beard and I look forward to the trip.

More Leg Than I'm Comfortable Showing

As I casually surveyed a collection of friends  around our age, I found out that most of them had no plans to leave their homes for New Year’s Eve. We all apparently have kids and no burning desire to get a DWI, so it makes sense, I suppose. But after several years of turning in around 10pm after enjoying a SpongeBob Marathon, The Wife & I took up the offer to celebrate the occasion with some friends and a bunch of strangers at a costume party.

Normally, and up until our 30′s, this would not be an attractive option. When gathering in large groups, people like to enjoy the company of others that they already know; hanging out with strangers leads to many a party you attended in younger days being categorized as “lame”. We sullenly stand around, the girls all looking as though they’d rather be anywhere else in the world but here, the boys glowering at those they don’t know, silently sizing up the others’ capacity for violence, should a fight spontaneously break out. The tension is not broken by the cheap beer, at least until there’s a common rallying point: the cops get called, someone breaks a bone, there’s a loud and emotional breakup taking place in the kitchen. Then we left before anyone took the time to get to know one another, always in search of that elusive party featured in most raunchy teen comedies, the party that never happened.

So what do we do?

We stick with our own, then we grow up and have kids and focus on the merits of letting The Wiggles into our daily lives. Pretty soon, it’s just easier to remain home and reminisce about parties which were, quite frankly, lame. As people barreling towards our forties, we now consider two pints of beer on a Wednesday night at home really cutting loose, which is a tragic waste of potential, not to mention the ability to purchase quality alcohol, finally.

When the people started to gather at this party, as expected, segregation of the various attendees ensued. This time, though, something was different, and I think it comes with age. Instead of  than being deterred by this, we chose to look at it through a different lens. Rather than rolling eyes and looking for an exit, we let the vodka swirl in our tumblers a little longer, we took tentative steps into the kitchen full of strangers, and the casual prediction was made that after another round or two, we’d all end up friends for life, if not the night.

And it pretty much went down, just like that. I’ve sworn to keep the details secret to protect the not-so-innocent, but it was fun behaving even more immaturely than usual.

THIS is one of the few joys of aging: wisdom borne of experience, of heartbreak and failure and, most importantly, patience. Wikipedia (the most trusted source of the lazy) defines panache as “a word of French origin that carries the connotation of a flamboyant manner and reckless courage”. By simply combining patience with some reckless attempts at courage and ridiculous costumes, we’re finally able to bridge that awkward stranger-gap that has characterized just about every party I’ve attended since my first bonfire on the beach in 1988. That’s all it took to take a casual party up to the next level of memorable.

That, and a decent vodka.