Half Past Awesome

Aunt Viper's doppelgänger in Thailand

It’s been a while, I know.

I’ve missed you too, but frankly with The Heathens out of school and my commitment to celebrating the humidity of the season by complaining loudly to no one in particular, my schedule’s been rather booked. It turns out that when I try to issue my complaints at the top of my lungs no one really wants to be around me, so I’ve been spending quite a bit of time by myself in the back corner of our property yelling at fence posts and fireflies and not getting much traction with my issues. So I thought I’d return to you and family as I turn to thoughts of someone who loves this kind of weather: Aunt Viper.

As described in previous posts, Aunt Viper is the only blood sibling my father has in this country and earned her name by way of description from The Lyin’ Dutchman (who would never say it to her face): “Thahht wooman ees a goddahm viper, son”. She’s vicious and loyal, determined to survive in a world where her existence is in a constant state of threat, perceived or otherwise. She’s 4ft. something, jet black hair and is still pissed at another brother of hers who, she claims, tried to sell her into a prostitution ring when they were younger in order to get cigarettes. My uncle vehemently denies this accusation as the ramblings of a “teepical woman”. Personally, I believe Aunt Viper.

I’m currently on our family’s version of what we call The Great Indonesian Wheel of Fault & Fate, or more conveniently, The Wheel. My brothers and I came up with The Wheel as a way to describe that period of time when we are considered “dead to me” by either our father or aunt. We are a large enough family, and dysfunctional enough, that The Lyin’ Dutchman & Aunt Viper feel the need to always have Favorites and Enemies. One of us is always on The Wheel, for that makes it easier to talk trash about them at family gatherings (the Starbucks in La Cumbre Plaza, if you happen to be free), where The Dead One isn’t present and is usually considered the current source of all ills in our family dynamic. I’m presently Dead To Them for a wide variety of crimes against The Family, and the only way off The Wheel is to approach the elders and beg for forgiveness, even if you have no idea why they’re currently ignoring you. Typical family dynamics, really.

Living 2000 miles from them allows me the privilege of enjoying their shenanigans from afar, never having to have direct contact with her anger, risking lung cancer that much less, since no encounter is complete without some second-hand ingesting of a pack of Virginia Slims per hour. Last I talked to Aunt Viper she was openly running smack talk against her co-workers in their presence, regaling me with tales of their incompetence and bigotry against the elderly (her) and their nerve, their very nerve, to try and get rid of her. She’ll leave when she’s good and ready, dammit, probably on a gurney with her fist gripped around the neck of the paramedic, demanding someone tell her “just what de hell you tink you’re doing to me? Trying to kiiill me?” She finds the coastal temperatures of Santa Barbara “too freegin’ cold”, thinks that people on the East Coast are much kinder than “dese assssholes and idiots in California”, and is mildly irked that she hasn’t really dated since 1978, when a man we knew as  Uncle Jake got fresh with her in a bowling alley and put his hand on her leg.

Probably the best example of her outlook on this life is the time she arrived at The Lyin’ Dutchman’s house in her car, took one look at his then-wife and pronounced that her car was about out of gas, and would she be so kind as to go the Shell station and fill it up? Because, in her own words, “a reeeal lady don’t pump her own gas.” On a related note, she doesn’t have too many female friends, either.

But what she does have, and what she cherishes in her own mind, is family. She hates my guts right now, but I, and the rest of us, belong to her. My father is a colossal mess and has virtually, single-handedly alienated every person he’s ever been close to, but he just can’t shake Aunt Viper. She won’t have it. We have a running bet that when her casket is being lowered into the grave, her final act from beyond will be to have The Lyin’ Dutchman trip and fall into the coffin, thereby assuring an eternity in each others company. Being on The Wheel, I don’t get much more than a card from her on random holidays, but she never forgets to send The Heathens a nice note and some money on their birthdays. Through it all, and through the fog of the various hurts we’ve heaped on one another, she has a deep, if not twisted, love for her family. More than willing to start a race riot on our behalf if she feels slighted (which she has done), she also makes a mean Indonesian meal with her special wok, seasoned with piss & vinegar, no doubt. There are brief moments when I truly miss the weekends at my fathers house, the smell of her cooking permeating the neighborhood, her bigoted racial epithets being screamed at the television as she took in that “sissy sport, football, my assss…..RUN YOU FREAKIN N—-!”, the neighbors wondering just how much their property values lowered when we moved onto the cul-de-sac.

These are the things that rambled through my mind as I yelled at the fireflies about the heat & humidity. Next thing you know, I’m seeing a little Aunt Viper in myself, arguing with no one in particular, only two feet taller and not bigoted. Despite my position on The Wheel, I’m pretty sure I’ll have to pump my own gas.

And if she ever reads this? I’m reasonably certain she’ll clobber me with a chair, grind a smoke out on my cheek and screech at me to “knock eet off, smaht-ass!”

It’ll feel just like home.

Heathen #2 On Turning 6

Six years ago today, he came barreling into our lives, a chaotic storm of character, panache and humor. Six years and a day ago, I had no idea I could ever love someone as much as my firstborn child, he who craftily stole my heart twenty three months previously. This one, he was scheduled to come into this world on a certain date, and as I’d later learn, he sets the agenda in his world, whether it was arrival out of his mothers womb or the almost European-like pace of his eating; never in a hurry, always over an animated conversation.

But my life was altered yet again that day, in ways I couldn’t imagine previously. For all of the characteristics we see in our children that reflect our own, I still find the original ones the most intriguing and impressive. Heathen #2 has a disarming smile and a charm that allows him to sell ketchup popsicles to women in white gloves when the mood strikes him. I’ve watched as stern and hardened teachers gush like teens when describing their love of him; his refusal to show an interest in having a girlfriend has resulted in all his female classmates blushing when his name is brought up. When he gets off the school bus, or arrives at a local sporting event, you’d think the President had stepped on the scene: he’s all waves and hellos and glad-handing his fellow citizens. Once, I caught him kissing a baby, I’m pretty sure of it. He’s always described as “funny”, “charming”, “loving”, “peacemaker”, “such a ham”, and all these are accurate, I suppose. I’ll have to credit his mother for those traits. I’ve tried to instill sarcasm, pessimism, and a healthy skepticism towards mankind and organized religion, but nothing seems to curb his sense of adventure and optimism towards life in general.

He is my son, and he, along with his brother, are the very best things to have ever happened to me. I’ve never known an unconditional love like this. When his world hurts, I hurt alongside him. When he hits the ball off the tee and shoots me a thumbs up before he heads to first base, I shoot him one back, his smile and sense of accomplishment a testament to the enduring hope of youth. When he asks about a dog I had long before he was born, he always cries at the end of the story, and tells me how much he misses the dog for me, his empathy an instinct, his compassion pure and without motive. His laughter is infectious, his ability to spin tales from the reaches of his imagination something my creative soul envies and admires. Every night, we have a ritual in which I ask him if he knows I love him.

He tells me “yes, Daddy, I do.”

“How much do I love you, son?”

“More than anything in the world.”

“Don’t you ever forget it, son. Ever.”

“I won’t, Daddy.”

He better not. I can’t offer him many reassurances in this world, that it won’t take heartbreaking turns, exceptional highs and unanticipated detours. He’ll go through it all, hopefully, and all that I can offer him is my love, without reservation, always. His safe passage into young adulthood is my responsibility, and it is the one of the few things in this life that I take seriously. I know what it’s like to have conditional love from a parent and quite frankly, it’s a thunderstorm that always lingers on your own horizon, no matter how old you get, how much you can get others to laugh at you. My goal is for my boys to never experience that from their parents. What can’t they accomplish knowing there are always going to be two people in their corners, always got their backs? Go on boys, tackle the world. We’ll be here, for you, for ever.

Maybe when he gets older, he’ll read this and wonder what possessed him to want a mohawk. I hope he does, so that he knows that today we not only celebrate his entrance into this world with carrot cake and swords and musical instruments, but that I’m celebrating an anniversary as well. The anniversary of another day that changed my life forever. I’m so grateful you’re in my life, son. You’ve taught me how to be a dad, how to laugh at the silliest of things. You’ve showed me love, compassion and what it means to be a caring soul. Every single day I’m glad you’re in my life, and today, I nod my head and give thanks for the opportunity to be the kind of father you deserve. I love you son, always.

Don’t you ever forget it.

Happy Birthday, Max.

He Who Ages Right

It happened the other morning; while taking in my craggy visage in the morning mirror, I was shocked more than usual at what was looking back at me. There, beyond the fog and crow’s feet and self doubt lay one of two possibilities; either there was a tremendous prom-night special zit growing there or my first gin blossom had bloomed. Panic, either way. Panic.

See, the timing was somewhat fortuitous. I turned 37 the other day, and graceful it was not. Unlike George Clooney, who quipped “I’m kind of comfortable with getting older because it’s better than the other option, which is being dead”, I’m really not all that great with the descent to 50 and mortality itself. In fact, I really have nothing at all in common with Clooney, so this isn’t that surprising at all.

Panic itself blossomed into hyperactive screeching at myself, as an enraged chimp might at the sight of a perceived enemy in a mirror, and after a minor fit of smacking the sink and howling at the sky “whyyyyy? whyyyyy???”, I came to my senses and calmed down. Okay, the pain indicated that despite the fact that I’ve only taken to drinking gin for, like, a week or two, this was most likely a zit, a throwback to days of yore, when most of your worries centered around getting carded. I was joyous and in pain all at once. My body, in all of it’s creaky lumbering towards the pine box, was still capable of creating oily messes known and reviled by teenagers worldwide. Enraged screeching was replaced by victorious thumping upon my chest, which led to shooting chest pains and a coughing fit. Victory, nonetheless.

The morning’s episode led my to contemplate other, more ominous signs of my impending doom. I’m not talking about the obvious choices, like having someone pre-chew my meals or watching “Murder, She Wrote”, but rather, more insidious and subtle hints that I’m growing long in the tooth. Over a heart-healthy breakfast of bananas and a piece of whole grain cardboard, I realized I was wearing gray socks to the gym. No, I didn’t just stutter that last line. Gray socks. Not the gray socks your pappy wore with sock garters and polyester and hair tonic. No, no, these are athletic socks, designed to wick buffalo-style sweat from your ankles and propel you to run even faster. Or something like that.

I realize that the athletic advances one might gain from a pair of socks is the equivalent of sporting a goatee to distract from your multiple chins: sure you may not see the layers of turkey waddle at first when sporting chin pubes, but believe me, everyone knows what you’re up to. Same with these socks. If I’m a fantastic lard-ass in knee high tube socks, I’m no less the hairy hog in these awesomely airy and sleek gray numbers, and I’ll run no faster. But I’ll feel it, my friends. And isn’t that really the key to better living through denial? The perception, in your own mind, that you’re not really getting older, that clearly it’s a MISTAKE that they’re playing Nirvana on the “classic rock” station, that some people might be referencing you as “that kid” as in “that kid sure has his stuff together! He even has his own house at age 37!” Reality is best left to accountants and youth should actually not be wasted on the young.

As breakfast wound down, and I commenced to stretching out in order to be able to slip on my shoes, I couldn’t help but smile. I smiled at the thought that despite my best efforts, I’ll continue to trip and fall into the sunset years of living. I smiled at stupid sayings made up by middle agers, like “40 is the new 30″. That’s a bunch of bull. Sure, not too many generations ago, people barely made it to age 40 if they were lucky, but let’s face it, when you’re 40, you’re still 40 and halfway to the graveyard on a GOOD day. And smiling because I feel kinda lucky to have made it this many years so far. No more proms for me, even if prom-like harbingers such as acne and crippling insecurity plague my existence now and then. I smile about that, too.

And, as I hobbled out the door in my overpriced running shoes to spend another hour at the gym giving the Reaper the single finger salute, I smiled as well. Good times they await all of us. Even those of us old enough to wear gray socks in public.

Good Times Had By All

I’m on the road currently. The ostensible reasons are to get out of Springfield, catch a great concert with my brother, recharge my batteries for another couple rounds in the firehouse and lastly, general tomfoolery. All still going to plan, too. I spent an evening at the local watering hole of my hometown, The Old Cayucos Tavern, catching up with people I’ve not seen in a dozen years or more. It’s always good to know that over time nothing too much changes, except that everyone seems to have kids and jail time under their belts to show for it. Someone is now a commercial fisherman in Alaska, some are working, some are fighting, many broken promises being argued about over the sound of a great band,  a band much better than the raucous trash that used to play there when I was a kid sneaking into the joint. All the small town drama is still in full swing, bikers and surfers and ranchers and truckers all living life in a jilted awkward dance set to the rhythm of life in a sleepy beach town.

And while it’s always good to check the ties that bind you to your youth, I’ve also spent time engaged in an act that I’ve neglected for far too long. This trip has been marked with miles on the road checking in with family, blood and otherwise. My mom’s sister, who I’ve not seen in twelve years, recently moved to California to be close to family, so I popped in unannounced, seeing if I could give her a heart attack by ambush visiting her. She’s a delightful and kind soul who spent her younger years getting arrested for protesting acts of animal cruelty, then proudly mailing me the newspaper clippings of her being led off after chaining herself to a mule diving platform. Now she’s toddling around an assisted care facility, walker at the ready, eyes still alive and vibrant with an independent spirit that I recognize.

I also pounded some Central Valley miles out to check in with my grandparents, something that is a bit of a ritual to me now. The parents of my stepfather are old-school farmers, no-nonsense people who raised a large family in Bakersfield and don’t suffer fools lightly. There’s no time for that when you’re carving a life out of the fertile desert floor, and yet despite their stern demeanor that I remember so well, there is an abundance of love in their hearts for family. Grandpa served in the military in WWII, and those years are the subject of our conversations, limited as they are. I’m just grateful, I suppose, not only for his service, but for their accepting me into the family when I was a confused kid, desperate for a place to fit in with my new family. In their nineties now, it’s with a melancholy heart that I realize our short visits won’t be going on too much longer;  in those moments, I’m trying to memorize all the details, never forgetting to let them know that I love them before I leave. I’m sure this verbal acknowledgment, while foreign to a generation of tough men and strong women, falls upon their ears and makes them smile, even if a little.

I also drove up to Cambria to visit my mom while she was at her quilting retreat, overlooking the Pacific Ocean, a half dozen ladies chirping about and creating beautiful pieces of art for loved ones. They were wearing their pink Springfield Fire Department tee shirts, purchased last year as a collective effort to contribute to raise money for breast cancer awareness. Mom no doubt coordinated the wardrobe for the day I’d visit, a sweet effort from a sweet woman, embarrassed as she is to have brought me into this world. She still refuses to believe I have a tattoo, a point she made to me and anyone else in earshot, and that’s okay, too. As she was explaining to me just how disgusting I would look as an old man with saggy ink, and I was telling her I had no plans on getting old, I had to smile. My mom & I, my earliest ally in this world, the one who has tolerated me from the get go, lecturing a 36 year old me on my behavior. I missed that. She was more than happy to point out my flaws, and I loved it.

Finally, I visited Steve and Joanie, old friends from way back in the day, surrogate parents to a younger, cockier me. I wrote about Steve quite a while back (read here) and, as ever, it was good to be in their embrace, to feel the genuine love that comes from people who you love you despite yourself. I miss them greatly, and as I walked through their house, marveling at Steve’s impeccable style and skill with woodwork, I felt at peace, at home. I got in some meals with my stepdad and uncle, mentally taking me back to a time when they were aggressive framers and builders, catching their coffee at Skippers in the morning fog before strapping on their toolbelts and creating homes of immaculate precision. RoJo and family came up for an afternoon, and to see his son growing up in his image is shocking, indeed. I couldn’t be a more proud psuedo-uncle.

So, that was the first two days. Two days of a mad rush, hoping to cram in time with those I need to recognize more often. Family. That’s the thing.

Commence With The Invasion Of Hoth! / photo copyright © 2008 sean dreilinger

February is just a few days from being dead now; the epic and annual battle against the winter blues is in its final throes for the season, and there is no shortage of casualties on the battlefield. Speaking of which, when measured against the sentence our military folks are serving in that hell-hole of a desert theatre, it seems more than a little trite to bitch about the weather. I can’t help but notice, though, that right now, it’s not just me. It seems like most people I know are one more cold and cloudy day closer to dragging scissors across their wrists as a method of mundane entertainment.

Complaining about the weather, or, for that matter, fundamentalist religious folks, in the buckle of the Bible Belt is akin to moving to Utah and decrying the abundance of Mormons. Chances are the weather and the spiritually engaged were in their respective locations when we decided to inhabit their locales. They were here first, and if you don’t like it, then why don’t you move back to communist Russia, you son of a…..wait, I got sidetracked there for a moment. Where were we? Oh yeah…

February. Brown and cold, like this stale cup of coffee in front of me. I tell anyone who’ll listen how much I prefer the cold of winter to the Vietnam-like summers we get in Missouri; you can always put on more clothes when it’s cold, but in August, when you’re chewing the air and making body-sweat soup, society will only let you get so naked before they call the cops. It’s a real bummer, I tell you.

Missouri is the Show-Me-State, which sounds deliciously perverse until you realize what that means is that they’re a skeptical lot, prone to demanding evidence before they’ll accept anything, aforementioned spiritual endeavors notwithstanding. But really, the name should be changed to the “I Want Something Else State” or the “Short Attention Span State”. Whatever weather is coming up we get all giddy about, be it the tornadoes of Spring or the 3 inches of snow that may, or may not, hit us whenever. Then, when it gets here, the local news goes predictably apeshit over a serious fog pattern and immediately we’re irritated by it. Facebook and other outlets for us get clogged up with declarations of righteous fury over the climate and our eager anticipation for the NEXT season. We’re worse than spoiled kids on Christmas morning.

I’ve decided to join this particular Complain Train this time, though. This time of year always reminds me of the freezer-burnt section of the fridge. The meat is of indeterminate origin, but it’s brown and cold and icy, and even the dog turns his nose up at the prospect. Like the natives around here, I’m anxious to see the lawn green up, enjoy the mating rituals of the firefly and spend our evenings cowering in the hallway while another tornado rumbles through. We’ll enjoy lazy floats on swollen rivers, cheap beer and impulsive flashing being our entertainment, all while complaining about the heat and anticipating the fall colors and football.

But no one is looking forward to February; of this I am sure.

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.

Let's Start The New Year's Off Right!

It’s that special time of year again, when we delude ourselves into promises that have a shelf life of, at max, three months. Tis the season of The Resolution, in which this time, we vow, -the weight loss/self esteem/taking less shit from people/eating better- is gonna happen. THIS is the year! THIS time we mean it!

And we’re completely ridiculous to place any faith in ourselves.

Sure, sure, we all love stories of the triumph of the human spirit over adversity; for example, I get all weepy every time I watch “Miracle”, because

1. I love hockey, especially old time hockey with Jason-style goalie masks and very few teeth.
2. We beat the Soviets. This was, and is, HUGE to children of the 80′s. Our boys beat The Reds, we showed them commies that there were more superior aspects to capitalism than Journey songs and the Atari 2600. Plus, I’m pretty sure the Ruskies were all flown home and shot in the head as soon as they cleared customs. Poor bastards.

But I’m not on a hockey team representing my country, so there will be no resolutions involving the triumph of hockey over rogue Eastern European upstarts.

I need to drop weight, I could use a dose of some positive self-esteem, and my cholesterol seems to think I could stand to eat less bacon.

But vague and drunken promises on a night of debauchery rarely hold up in the court of conscience, right? I mean, this would explain the marriages that take place in Vegas and end within the span of hours, or the entire career Britney Spears, for that matter.

Maybe the answer lies in little promises, which, like little lies, are so much easier to execute. Little promises, like using my turn signal in a more timely fashion. Driving a little less angry. Maybe a little more liberal with the deodorant, a little more conservative with the labeling of my enemies as “dead to me”. Quit arguing with my cats so much. More focus on my goal to be a professional dissenter.

If the little promises don’t work as planned, I’d be well served to set some lofty ambitions as well. This might come in handy, should I get nailed by a bus and must plead my case before the Reaper; “look, oh Grim One, I’m on the verge of a real breakthrough in the field of  “——” here, so how about letting this one slide?”

With that in mind, here are the false hopes I have for 2011:

1. To grow a pair of clankers, get off the duff and make the leap from unpaid to paid writing.
2. Mount an expedition and discover what my office looks like beneath the acre of chaos that peppers my existence.
3. Continue to pass unfair judgment on people, as always, but don’t run my mouth about it quite so often.
4. Take some martial arts lessons just so that I make that reference when I get into a tight spot.
5. Change the strings on the guitar, buy the boys a drum kit and get ‘em into some, any, sort of music lessons.
6. Cure a major illness, preferably by accident.
7. See if I can identify the work of Lucifer in the Harry Potter series. On a related note, attend a book burning of sorts.
8. At some point this year, run a half marathon without flirting with death.
9. Finally commit to that tattoo, but only something really, really classy, like a dolphin or a peace sign, or maybe a butterfly.
10. Obtain some chickens, if for no other reason than the fact I am thoroughly entertained by chickens.

Seems reasonable.

What are YOUR New Year’s Resolutions?

NOT a Buzzkill.

I’m not a joiner. When groups congregate, I get uneasy when their numbers start to get into double digits. Mega-churches, crowded theme parks and fads in general tend to make me dig my heels in as a measure of obstinate resistance. This explains my disdain for group-think concoctions such as strip malls with Chinese restaurants, tribal-style tattoos and the goatee on men in Missouri. Why is this?

Because, ultimately, I’m a buzzkill.

According to The Wife, I am the piss on the parade when it comes to mass hysteria and the trends that accompany it. I see it as a form of pragmatism, really. I likely won’t give my money to televangelists, I won’t join a cult, I won’t wear skinny jeans and I doubt I’ll ever take part in Black Friday (or any other collective rioting behavior).

Partially, it’s a function of insecurity. When I was a volunteer firefighter, I noticed a plethora of my compadres wearing shirts loudly proclaiming such idiotic mantras as “I FIGHT WHAT YOU FEAR!”; this was an attempt to impress upon people the nobility of the volunteer firefighter with just a dash of bravado and superior skills. It made me sick. Some of the best times I’ve had were during the volunteer years, but I realized what I craved was the rush of being a fireman, not the ability to flex my non-existent muscles. I made every move to distance myself from the ludicrous facade of machismo prevalent in the jolly-volly world; one thing I can say for career firefighters is that they waste no time in smashing any sort of attempts at heroic posturing in their co-workers. You never, ever, ever, claim what you did was ANYthing outside of your job description, that (almost) anyone else on your crew would do the identical thing, given the chance.

This allows for skeptics like me to thrive, maybe even (if we’re lucky) become full-on cynics. Positive descriptions range from “witty” and “snarky” to the other end of the spectrum with “jerk” and “downer” and “please don’t talk, you’re just so negative”. This is precisely why I could never work at a Sam’s Club or a Wal Mart; before each shift, the “team” assembles for a rousing cheer, and unless we’re on a competitive sports team, I don’t really subscribe to that phony morale-building crap. Look, we all know we’re here for another shift of mindless minimum-wage earning…please don’t make me feel worse about it by chanting like monks about sell! sell! selling! It’s humiliating and degrading for everyone involved. And THIS? makes me the buzzkill in the eyes of The Wife.

She loves to cry with The Biggest Loser each week, while I’m saying they should be celebrating their incredible opportunity to shed all those unwanted pounds for cash. Buzzkill.

When I tell her that I have no desire to roam the parking lot of the mall during the holiday season, which we both know will end up in me having a fit of rage, I am, once again The Buzzkill.

I am in very small company when I say that I am not in slack-jawed awe of Bono, despite all his work towards bringing third world debt relief into modern day lexicon. The St. Louis Cardinals are not a sacred institution to me. I do not hunt. I do not fish. I do not watch reality television (with the exception of “Hoarders”, which I figure is a crystal ball glimpse into my future….DON’T TOUCH MY TREASURES, YOU!). While I might stand in line for two hours in a blizzard to catch a concert from a favorite band, I don’t believe in sitting in line for three hours for a doughnut when the Krispy Kreme finally opens in a town. I’m not looking for the most cashew chicken they can stuff onto a plate for $3 and doing yoga in rooms with the heat cranked to 115 degrees seems like an invitation to die of heat stroke.

When people want to wear toe-socks and call them workout shoes, that’s just fine, but chances are I probably won’t.

Killing the buzz is just part of the game at this stage.

Especially if the buzz involves the music of Justin Beiber or wearing tee shirts that proclaim how much stronger/braver/tougher I am than you.

Someday, the legions of Beiber fanatics will thank me, even though I’ve yet to hear from my cousin with whom I argued rather violently back in 1995, when she told me that the Spice Girls were bigger and more musically relevant than the Beetles.

You’re welcome.

Go Ahead. Eat It.

I grew up wishing that, on the side of the family I was being raised in (mostly), there were more of us somewhere near my age. It was mom & me, followed by my stepdad, a long-term visiting friend of mom, a cat and a three legged dog. Conversations were not really geared towards anyone under 30. As such, my mind was filled with opinions on Jimmy Buffet and the still ever-present threat of communism in our country circa 1982. About as wild as we got was one holiday weekend in 1984, when I was allowed exactly one sip of my stepdad’s Dos Equis beer and promptly fell off the edge of a dumpster, hit my head and was thus lectured on the dangers of alcohol. Good times.

My mother, bless her Episcopalian suburban white-lady heart, had me decked out in the  ultimate Young Republican attire each Sunday and every single holiday on the Anglo-Saxon calendar. It varied a little, but the basic gist was this: tan pants, blue blazer, white shirt, red tie, Penny-Loafers (too young for tassels, but just right with actual pennies) and hair parted in in such a way so as to suggest I might engage in a conversation on emerging markets in Japan at any moment. Rebellion came in the form of skinning an entire turkey and eating it, moments before dinner was announced to several pedigreed guests who were busy discussing the Edmund Fitzgerald and furiously smoking like freight trains in our living room. The grease smears across my crooked mug and starched shirt were enough to make some people question my credentials as a Mayflower Descendant Society Member. It was my proudest moment and one I’ve never been able to duplicate.

When you’re a kid with more imagination than brains and people around you are relatively one step away from the bone yard, you begin to create scenarios that amuse no one but you. Thus began The Crane. The Crane was a method I devised for scooping mashed potatoes and peas into my scatter-toothed mouth that would take me away from the stifling world of adults. I began to imagine I was dredging our local harbor with each scoop, and would hold multiple-sided conversations between The Crane operator and the disgruntled Longshoremen who were not on board with such unorthodox techniques. As The Crane Operator and dictator of the scenarios, I would callously fling yams to one side, crushing the occupants of Mint Jelly Town, thereby igniting riots. My mind scattered over the chaos, and mostly there was yelling. Unfortunately for anyone at the table, this scenario did not simply take place within the confines of my mind; the dialogue was made for all to hear, much to the horror of the guests at the table, as they were apt to be casualties in the upcoming dinner plate revolution I was plotting. I might’ve been wearing Penny Loafers, but my heart was cloaked in anarchy and blood. The Crane excited our three-legged dog greatly, since there was a good chance that, as collateral damage from my dredging techniques, she’d score some asparagus that had been flung off the plate in the name of efficiency and crappy taste.

We didn’t fight. We didn’t watch football. We didn’t scream obscenities at family members we only saw once a year, and we most certainly did not put our elbows on the table. In fact “we” didn’t do a whole lot, except consume a meticulously prepared meal while silently hedging bets as to who would first spill something on the tablecloth and thereby incur the silent wrath of my mother, who would immediately light up a Virginia Slim in protest.

And although she no longer smokes, and 3o years have passed, whenever I go home and there is a lull in the conversation at dinner, I audibly fire up The Crane, scoop up a load of mashed potatoes and immediately begin an argument between an invisible laborer and me, The Operator, King Of The Dining Room Table. Mom snorts some wine out her nose, not noticing that dollop of jelly my step-dad has let slip on to the fine linen. And a newer,  four legged dog patiently waits for the aftermath, knowing she’ll soon be rewarded.

I’m thankful for every moment of it.

"You! In The Back Row! Remember Me?!"

Today we tackle an insidious situation, one that’s only been made worse by the proliferation of the intarwebs: The Bully.

There are articles galore out there testifying how the centuries old trend of picking on the weak is alive and well, with tons of heinous examples of people being driven to the very brink by the assholes of society. I hate those filthy swine with every fiber of my being, hate to the volcanic core what they do to others in the name of popularity, insecurity, small genitalia compensation, whatever.

Clearly, I was bullied as a child.

And I remember them all, as vividly as I remember the beatdowns they inflicted upon a once-upon-a-time skinny kid like me. Shea Morenz, Bodine French and Austin Prince doled out regular charley-horses, public shunnings and playground mock-o-ramas on a semi-daily basis to me and a handful of other weirdo types. It didn’t help our cause any that we had no cohesion, weren’t part of some lovable gang of losers like you might find on an after-school special. We weren’t nerds who then went on to become ultra-billionaires, either, so there’ll be no Bill Gates moments in the future. No, I was in the company of characters like the kid who insisted on being called “Punker Joe”, even though his name wasn’t Joe and his distinguishing characteristic was that he always had two slug trails of snot hanging from his nostrils to his upper lip. It was hard to form an allegiance with someone who mostly spent time talking to the monkey bars and had an aversion to Kleenex.

So we suffered in an isolated fashion, taking refuge in our own minds, quietly, secretly hoping that the recess yard monitor lady would turn the corner at some point and catch them in the act, whip a pistol out of her purse and shoot them dead. That never happened, oddly enough. And, as the unpopular objects of the attention of the kings of the school yard, we were only too happy to be left alone when they doled out harassment to others, thereby becoming silent enablers of the taunting.

Except for Charles Spaulding. The only thing I really remember about Charles was that he wanted to be called “Charles”, not “Charlie” nor “Chuck” or anything else. That, and he seemed to have an affinity for wearing a yellow rain jacket, even on sunny days. He really, really loved that jacket. Nonetheless, he was the only one who would intervene on behalf of the bullied, when he himself wasn’t being punched or ridiculed. He was a scrawny punk, little Charles, but he had a sense of justice that wouldn’t allow for him to stand by when the gang of the popular were dispensing wedgies. He took more than one hit to the face trying to stop some other kid from getting a smacking. I hope Charles is the most successful guy in the world, because he? Was one brave little third grader who had the clankers to stand up for what’s right.

I responded in a more traditional fashion: I retreated into my own head and became a sarcastic little son-0f-a-bitch with a substantial chip on my shoulder. It seems to have served me okay, at least to this point. It doesn’t hurt that I’ve become a giant hairy sarcastic son-of-a-bitch who, according to my wife, looks like a homicidal maniac by default, thereby thwarting modern-day bullies through the art of the unintentional bluff.

Unfortunately, fantasizing about just desserts doesn’t leave you as satisfied as you’d like. So what, the bullies became meth-addicted male prostitutes who live under the pier and get their meals from the dumpster? Or, more likely, they’re the bosses we’ve come to hate, wildly successful with thinning hair and wives half their age and bank accounts to match. Either way, it makes it no easier to go through the rituals of their bullying ways during the school years.

So, as a solution for my own boys, I’ve tried my very best to instill the value of sticking up for those who can’t, with the not-so-veiled undertones of my intolerance for bullying by them. Already, Heathen #1 has had his share of dealing with the yard bully, the football bully and the schoolbus bully. I wonder if their parents know their own children are behaving like little cretins; maybe school-age bullies are the children of adult assholes, which would seem to make sense.

Myself, I say we arm the yard monitors.