Half Past Awesome

There you go, again

MEN OUT THERE – Do YOU want to know how to read your spouse? Would you like to earn effusive praise, respect and undying love from the woman you’ve chosen as your partner in this crazy life? Want this tip free of charge, no strings attached? Then lean in close for a minute, I’ll whisper the answer I’ve stumbled upon after years of prodigious effort……

*you can’t win*

There. I’ve said it.

Look, I love my wife, I really do, and what I’d like more than anything is to be able to pave the path of our marriage as smoothly as I’m capable of doing. But, to continue this horrible analogy, the job-site plans keep changing on a moment by moment basis. Quite frankly I, and the rest of my gender, are quite incapable of comprehending the fluid dynamics that constitute the parry/thrust of communication  with our wives.

The tradition most guys bring to the table is to meet the threat of violence with escalation. It’s just the human male version of fight-or-flight. You do some tough guy posturing internationally? We will bomb your people back into the Stone Age. You make a freeway lane merge without proper signaling? Then there’s a good chance we’ll fly a finger, cut you off and behave like enraged silverback gorillas, and we don’t even know why. The same methodology applies to the way we approach trying to communicate with you, the spouse.

We want to get along. We want to keep your fury in check. We’d love to be able to read your minds and predict your moods, really. And you just won’t let us, so we react as we can, with confusion and senseless gesturing leading the way. Not coincidentally, we tend to appreciate the value of a good whiskey as we get older. We need you. According to you, we could not function without your intervention; we’d all be hopeless slobs who can’t ever find their keys, who rarely do laundry or eat anything that isn’t pre-processed and has various pig parts as the primary ingredient.

So, to further the species, to better society and because we tend to get lonely and tired of eating pig parts, we enter into binding contracts of various forms with you, the better gender. Easily talked into the most ridiculous behavior with the potential reward of seeing you naked, we begin to eat vegetables again and take jobs with good dental insurance. Mini-vans become “a good idea”. We develop a fine tune filter that you call “selective hearing” that allows us to go to our happy place while you inform us of all of our shortcomings. We seek out other housebroken males in similar situations and lament wasted youth and our collective shock at the migration of hair from our heads to our shoulders. For fucks’ sake, we wear KHAKI PANTS……WITHOUT IRONY.

We do all of this because…….well, I’m not really sure why, but I know it’s what I want to do. It’s called love and it’s covered in marriage, and I guess I should thank you. I am now in a place where, according to you, I would die if left to my own devices. Just tonight, I went to my boys football practice without him because he and I could not locate his jock nor his pants, and he didn’t want to go in his underwear and I was supposed to be coaching. Yes, you brought him a short time later when you used your magical Uterine Tracking Device to find his clothes, and for that I am grateful, eternally. But that look you gave me, the one where one eyebrow shoots skyward as if to say “shouldn’t there be a Lemon-Law in place for husbands like you?” I just love that one. All husbands do, and some of us take that look as a threat and we respond in kind. I’ve learned that’s not the best time to act on that emotion. So I roll my eyes, which, apparently only serves to anger you further. The best thing to do is to accept the fact that I’m never going to win, I’m never going to predict your emotions with any degree of accuracy and you’re always going to feel cheated in The Great Husband Lottery.

To concede at this point would be the smart thing to do. To learn the lesson I’d brought up earlier, about never winning, that might be wise.

But no one has ever accused me of being smart, much less wise.

If I was I probably wouldn’t have written this, either.

ThunderChicken & The BabyClucker

To witness unconditional love is to witness grace itself. As fathers, when we hold our children for the first time, there’s a moment of immersion wherein our complete being becomes compromised and torn down and rebuilt. Our souls, our hearts and minds, everything we’ve ever known gets forever altered and intricately intertwined to 7lbs. 11ozs. of chaos. And we’re never the same for it.

To love like that, in that moment, so selflessly and overwhelmingly is a thing of relentless beauty. Few moments in life can rival this experience. It is a fleeting taste of unbound joy and desperate terror as we realize our every action from here on out will, in some odd way, impact the life of something so innocent and so pure. The birth of both of my boys rewired my heart forever.

Of course, being as how they are now 7 and 5, that innocence is melting like a glacier; we immerse ourselves not in swaddling and gentle stolen moments of holding the babies, but rather, in Transformers and fart references and the joy of cleaning up 7 million Lego pieces at a time. And that’s ok, too.

Thunderchicken became a father to a little boy yesterday. His daughter calls him her “Five Dollar Daddy”, a story that she’s concocted about how she “bought”  Thunderclucker for a half sawbuck way back when. Theirs is a wonderful relationship, but I don’t have female offspring, and girls and women scare me, so I don’t pretend to understand the dynamics of fathers and their daughters, not even a little. But a son, a son is a being I can comprehend.

I was at the firehouse when Thunder and his wife welcomed their boy into the world, and it wasn’t until this afternoon that I got to see the little dude. We’d exchanged texts, like the teenage girls we are, yesterday, when he announced the arrival. Unconditional love. Two words, a bond shared between man and son, and that life altering moment. When I walked into the room, his baby wasn’t in his arms, but the look on Thundercluckers face spoke the volumes he was feeling. All of them, mashed up into one overwhelming onslaught of unabashed joy. His lovely wife was recovering from the whole affair, tired and gracious as ever. That sort of energy is infectious, and when love fills the room, if that doesn’t bring a smile to your face and peace to your heart, then you’re one cold bastard. Their little man is safe and healthy and sleepy and for that briefest of moments, you believe in the triumph of the human spirit, despite all that is wrong and crazy and destructive in this world. This boy is hope, theirs and the rest of ours.

As people gleefully passed this baby around like the cheese plate at a cocktail party, I was overwhelmed with emotion towards this person I’d known for all of seven minutes. More than that, I saw the look on his old man’s face. This is a boy who will be loved, as a child deserves, unconditionally and forever. He’ll grow up and break his parents’ hearts, his siblings toys, several rules which will cause the Thunderchicken to lose what hair he’s hoarding on his skull. I’m so excited for him, for his family. The bond between father and son is unlike anything I’ve ever felt and commandeers the better part of your heart. Watching my friend establishing these bonds is a privilege, indeed.

Congratulations, Brian.

"Oh, it's not just the coffee that's hot, baby!"

Tonight I saw a picture of an old high school classmate and his friend at the foot of some Himalayan waters, beautiful mountains shrouded in cascading fog, the look of adventure fresh on their faces, as though they only stopped long enough to get the picture taken, and then it was off to start a revolution in some remote village.

That is not my life. Not in the least.

Let me tell you how my life is evolving.

This morning I was desperately trying to catch that last 13 minutes of sleep we all crave. You know the kind I mean: it comes right after one of your kids wakes you up to inform you of his latest revelation/breakfast demand and the next round of “snooze” on the alarm clock. It is a sacred time, indeed. It is the grown up version of the time in your 20′s when you clung to the base of the toilet, begging God to release you from this hangover with the vow to never, ever drink again, I promise, I swear, just make it go away, oooooh that toilet feels so nice and cool and next thing you know you wake up at 3pm in a puddle of your own vomit. That feeling.

So The Wife was attempting to shoo away the children in the hopes of robbing some heat from me at o’dark thirty, since she drops her thermostat from 118 degrees the night before to 17 degrees sometime in the midnight hour. She uses her icicle toes to ferret out any sort of heat that might still be available, an exercise I thoroughly don’t appreciate.

She tells Heathen #1: “Go away, Daddy & I need some snuggle time”. This is not nearly as racy as it sounds. I simply want those elusive 13 minutes of sleep and my wife wants to play Arctic Explorer with her toes. I hate her for this.

Heathen #1 responds with: “I know why you want us to leave. SO YOU CAN HAVE SEX.“

Good morning.

He is 7 years old. I curse like a lovesick sailor on shore leave around the firehouse, in the shop, at old ladies in traffic, but never around the boys. I’m a sick and twisted bastard, admittedly, but the boys have never even seen that side. I still use the word “potty” for the love of Jeebus; I don’t need my boys going to school loudly proclaiming they’re “slingin’ a deuce, gonna get rowdy”, which is exactly how one verbally addresses restroom needs while at the fire station.

So sex? I’ve never uttered the word around them, but the boy has my full attention now.

“What? I mean, let me repeat that WHAT? And WHERE did you hear that?”

“I dunno. “Allison” told me that word.”

“What do you think it means? And WHAT?”

“It means when two people take their clothes off and kiss. “Allison” says she’s had sex before.”

I find myself, at this point, looking around wildly for that gallon jug of bleach that I can throw at my boys’ mouth. This just won’t stand. I am not ready for this.

It was all fun and games when I caught him at age 2 wildly humping the protective rubber ducky that covered the bathtub spout: that’s just funny, and half the reason we became parents. I laughed, which only made him air hump faster, which made me laugh all the more, and thereby assured he knows deep down, somehow, that sex can be really funny.

But not like this. Not now. Shit.

“Son, that’s not exactly what sex is, but you know what? That’s an adult topic and we’ll talk about it when your older. And, no, “Allison” did NOT have sex, no matter what she tells you.”

“Ok. But that’s what you want to do.”

Trust me son. What I really wanted was that last (now) 9 minutes of sleep, which is a damn precious commodity. You’ve assured that I won’t be sleeping in the near future, since you’ve decided to engage in the practice of talking about the unholy arts. Because, trust me, once you start talking about it, you’ll never stop. Like body hair and trying to gain approval from your father, that shit stays with you for life. You’ll think about it, you’ll do stupid things in the name of it, you’ll love it, you’ll regret it, you’ll feel dirty and liberated and ashamed and glorious all in one fell swoop. You’ll brag, you’ll cower, you’ll chase it to the end of the earth, and you’ll sacrifice your dignity and self-respect, all in the name of taking your clothes off and kissing. It is at once the reason for our existence and the source of our downfall. You’ve begun to cast aside innocence in exchange for pimples and confusion and that endless instinctive drive that will, some day, if you’re fortunate enough, torment you right up to the point of a lifelong commitment to the one you love.

I’d give just about anything for those 9 minutes of sleep now.

But I’d give a whole lot more if I could postpone his growing up for a little while longer.

It's All Going SOOO Smoothly

Scorecard After A Week Without The Wife

• Money spent on stuff like beef jerky and Crown Royal at Sam’s: like $200
• Loads of laundry (mixed carelessly and with hot water): 13
• Time spent searching for damn library book that will no doubt cost us $6000 and a lung if we don’t return it within the next couple of days: 3 very pissed off hours
• Scrambled eggs left on plate because “I don’t liiiiike cheese in them Daddyyyyyy”: 6
• Showers they’ve taken: 5
• Showers I’ve taken: 2
• Stack of mail on the counter: 39″ tall
• Number of bills probably overdue: probably all of them
• Number of episodes of SpongeBob I’ve watched: 361
• Number of episodes of SpongeBob they’ve watched: 67
• Dreams about Transformers they’ve had in which they’ve been stabbed by a sword and that scares them and they feel the need to inform me about it at 2:38am and they also want to talk about it in detail: 3
• Times I’ve been woken up by the dog’s putrid breath and the fact that he’s spooning me: 12
• Number of instances where I’ve trimmed their fingernails at the school bus stop: 1
• Hours I’ve spent shaking my fist at the computer screen while she posts pictures of her fabulous time in Florida with all of her girlfriends as I’m slowly dying of neglect here in Misery: 16
• Number of times I’ve left the house since she’s been gone: twice
• How many hours spent waiting in line to sign one of the boys up for football. With them pulling on my pant legs, since I was too dumb to bring any distractions for them: 2
• Number of meals created by opening a cardboard box and setting the oven to 425: most of them
• Amount of sympathy I’ve drummed up from anyone, especially other mothers: none at all

It would be most appreciated if you could possibly tear yourself away from your little excursion into a life of heinous debauchery and perhaps return home at your earliest convenience.

Sincerely,

Your war-torn and beat-nine-ways-to-hell husband.

ps- I lost the checkbook.

Because The Dog Wouldn't Take The Picture

Chronicles Of Abandonment

• 7:15am – arrive home from a firehouse shift to an empty house. Remember that Wife has left for Florida recently, thereby leaving me in charge for a short while. Begin to wonder where the children are.
• 7:17am – check calendar. Yup. It’s a school day. They must be in school. Longingly look over at liquor cabinet.
• 7:19am – loud noises! No repercussions! Scream at walls and argue with dishes, while dog takes on a nervous shake.
• 7:20am – now hoarse. That screaming shit is not as fun when you’re closer to 40 than 20. Headache begins to set in and I reach for a bottle of Ibuprofen. THIS? is how we roll.
• 7:30am – realize that all pertinent housework can be put off for at least 5 more days. Small fist pump of victory.
• 7:31am – look in freezer and decide there are enough fish sticks and frozen pizzas to last us at least four days. I now contemplate a life without bathing for a week, without leaving the house and wearing nothing but a robe. This idea has a striking appeal.
• 7:36am – first pot of coffee and second wind kick in. This is going to be so awesome. You have no idea how much I’m going to get done in terms of writing and creating and making all kinds of magic happen.
• 7:38am – motivation totally lost as I marvel at stupid internet sites. Why do I keep chuckling at animals doing stupid things? That’s it, I’m officially old. Resist urge to forward any of this hilarity to ANYone.
• 7:39am – Scheduled self-loathing in full swing.
• 7:48am – head down on desk as I realize that I’m a completely worthless piece of crap, sobbing uncontrollably. Dog begins to look at me with disgust, promptly farts and then leaves the room. This does not help.
• 7:53am – ok, feeling better. Then I read the updates on Facebook of friends who are, apparently, out there in nothing but awesome climates, changing the world and partying like Mick Jagger all at once. Self-hatred returns.
• 7:56am – begin loud karaoke/air guitar session as a means of overcoming sense of worthlessness. Totally works.
• 7:58am- decide against the early morning cocktail, on the off-chance that The Heathens will light their school on fire and I’ll be called to answer for their actions in the principal’s office.
• 8:00am – realize that sometime within the last 45 minutes, the mother-in-law has been here at the house to drop off the Heathens toys, probably heard the scream-fest and is now reporting me to authorities. So much for privacy.
• 8:01 am – begin preparing defense of aforementioned actions as I anticipate call from The Wife, demanding to know “just what in the hell I’m doing in the house scaring my mother like that.”

They Who Would Abandon Their Husbands

Soon the Wife will be leaving me. For a week.

One whole week with her girlfriends in Florida, dressing up like unleashed cougars, lounging around the pool and casually eyeballing young men with no shirts on. One whole week of eating like royalty and consuming fruity martinis. No kids, no cares, no husbands. She and her merry band of women will be cavorting in the sun and surf, with half a dozen husbands left in the dirt wondering how in the hell any of this seems fair.

This has become an annual affair, and far from being an impossible situation, it’s a great week back here at our own Ground Zero. This is when the men rule the roost, when we leave the toilet seats up and declare fish sticks a culinary delicacy, one worthy of replicating six nights in a row. The Heathens and I will do our damnedest to consume as many episodes of SpongeBob Squarepants as possible. How about some raw toast for breakfast?

While she and her friends are loudly and publicly referring to themselves as The Girlie Whirlies and demanding punk-ass 20 year olds with their hats backwards dance with them, I’ll be teaching the boys the virtues of motorcycle ownership. We’ll crank some Dropkick Murphy’s music (she really hates that stuff), we’ll go down to the tattoo parlor as a family and talk to the guy I want to do my first ink, and if they’re really well behaved I might introduce them to my favorite barkeeps down at Patton Alley Pub.

And my wife wonders if it’s a good idea for her to go out of town.

She always worries about it, but that never stops her from her reckless abandon(ment). This trip is sacred to her, for reasons unknown to the male gender as a whole. Men sometimes congregate in groups for out of town trips, but mostly this is for the express purpose of shooting something in the woods and drinking whiskey while telling tales of their prowess with a firearm. I’ve never thought about trying to get a bunch of my guy friends together for a week on the beach, where we could sit around the condo and tell each other how beautiful we all are as we lurch towards middle age. If I proposed this, it would be met with a bunch of “what the hell are you thinking, man? I’ve got kids. The missus would never go for it.” Plus, it might be a hard sell, offering them the chance to pay money to fly to another state with the stated goal of laying around with sand in our shorts, catching some skin cancer and complaining about our love handles.

This is, apparently, the perfect way to spend a week in her eyes. She needs it, or so she claims. I claim to need to live back on the Pacific coast, but that is met with little more than a rolling of her eyes. This, my friends, is the beautiful chemistry of the well oiled machine that is a healthy marriage.

So off she goes. Fine. And good riddance. Who needs her anyways?

After a week, we will.

Shamelessly Lifted From Ineedcoffee.com

Today is A-shift on the fire department. That means nothing to you, and everything to me. Let me explain.

I work on an “A-B-C” shift schedule, meaning, as a B-shifter, I work 24 hours on duty, then have 48 hours of relative freedom. When I leave the station on the C shift morning, I’ve begun a two day sabbatical from civil service, one of the sweetest benefits of being a career fireman. But C shift is a day for catching up. You run home, throw down some Tylenol and coffee so that your kids’ voices don’t sound quite like angry wolverines mating, you kiss the spouse and take the honey-do list in hand, halfheartedly, with vague promises of productivity. You plug into your life and glare at the lawn to be mowed. If you’ve been up through the night on calls, you cat-nap in weird locations, like the shower.

And then comes A-shift. That’s the morning when you set a sort of mental concertina wire around your bed, informing your rowdy children that their very lives are at risk, should they wake you with revelations such as the genius of SpongeBob or their desire to eat. A-shift mornings are a sacred time for me. I spend time in worship of the coffee maker, I commune with the internet and I offer sacrifice to the gods of chaos. Apparently, and according to Exodus 31:15, desecration of the Sabbath was originally punishable by death, a stance I can enthusiastically embrace.

As we rattle on down the path towards 40, and eventual death, this time away from our commitments to being responsible becomes more precious with each day. I could care less about Carpe-ing any sort of Diem and am more concerned with capturing the false sense of achievement that comes in a steaming cup of coffee. I embrace artificial stimulation, much like the hippies embraced Jerry Garcia as their prophet, as the ideal way to symbolize my Sabbath. Once in a while I try and get all high on working out with the lunatics at CrossFit, but this usually leads to a false sense of fitness and embarrassing moments of thinking I can wear clothes I really shouldn’t (why, helloooo, shoulder hair!). No, it’s best to just accept that my church is that elusive and sacred time, from about 3:00am to 8:13am, in my own bed, when I don’t worry about the bells ringing for another call to another alleged emergency.

So today begins the true day of rest. I woke up in my own home with the hymns that are my children screeching at high decibels, the Nicene Creed in the form of cursing under my breath at the ungodly hour, the body and the blood taking the form of a Thomas English Muffin and a cup of hot mud. And, like church services for the faithful, it will seem over all too quickly for a heathen like me. Life in this adult world does not tolerate too much rest. There is much to be done before I resume life in the firehouse, and if I don’t give heed to this glorious, glorious A-shift Sabbath, I’ll be left spiritually, literally, un-caffeinated.

I'm So Over Waldo

Chaos is absent right now. My kids are healthy and full of piss and vinegar. The Wife has a birthday of indeterminate origin tomorrow. Good and decent people came to our house tonight to celebrate the simple joys of a home cooked meal. It’s as hot as Satan’s trigger finger right now, pretty typical for July in the Ozarks.

I’m still horribly out of shape, and starting to get a little nervous about competing in a foot race in Portland, Oregon in September, as well I should be. My stepfather arrives from the beaches of  the Central Coast of California on Tuesday and I’ve no doubt he’ll find the state of my shop to be horrific and may well shake his head in disgust at his slack-ass son. The neighbor procured a new tractor, and I swear that he’s driving back and forth in front of our house as a means of showing off.

The fire service is what is was last week, last year and last career. It’s a mess of people in dire need of something, anything, and a call to 911 helps put their mind at ease. And we’ll be there to hold their hand and administer oxygen or put our their garage fire or pry them out of some sort of horrific car wreck. All very predictable, really.

We need a new roof on our house, but really, that’s nothing new. More urgently, I need to get on the road, see a new town, preferably somewhere where you don’t have to chew the air. The motorcycle repair job is about done, perhaps when El Jefe gets back from California we can hit the trails out of town.

I hope to get some work capitalizing on my inability to pay attention for more than a few minutes. My status as an international sex symbol seems to be secure, especially in light of Mel Gibson’s latest fall from grace. I’m thankful that we haven’t had a medical patient refer to me lately as a “fat Vince Gill”. We miss hanging out with my Brother Bones out in Santa Barbara, especially when conversations focus on Area 51 conspiracies. I hear the Lyrical Jackass got engaged, much to no one’s surprise.

Above all, I’m thankful for the relative quiet of the last month. Because I’m sure that my ever-present sidekick, inconsistent chaos, will make an appearance before long, and I’ll have to go into spin doctor mode, trying to explain my latest deviation from the accepted norms. And then I’ll be grateful for the return of my normalcy.

Hope all is well with you, amigos.

Pretty Sure This Is A Huge Copyright Infringement

*We took the family to see Despicable Me the other night, courtesy of the lovely and talented Chris Louzader. This is my take on the film and in no way counts for anything beyond what you are paying to read this.*

Despicable Me is absolutely loaded with potential. Kinda like me. And, kinda like me, it never reaches it’s full capabilities. All the elements are there for a ripe harvest of hilarity, a touching story of heartbreaking warmth, all that business that’s made a few animated films true priceless gems. And, as an uninformed and non-credentialed critic, I liked it. It was “cute”. It was “adorable”. But so is my grandmother. And if she ever hears me call her that, there will be a beating in my future.

But was the movie a full-bore love affair for me? No.

There was so much that was reasonably likable about it, though. Steve Carell belts out an impressive accent, and the illustrators managed to capture what I think his face might be contorting like in the studio. But, somewhat like his character on The Office, he absolutely needs foils to make his humor work. Awkward, party of one, wouldn’t be near as funny, and his title character in Despicable Me, Gru, is sorely missing mo’better banter with either his mother, his scientist sidekick or his adopted kids. All of these characters are underutilized. And his nemesis Vector? That dude falls as flat as a pancake in Kansas. He was annoying enough that you found yourself really, really hoping that Gru would actually kill him. Of course, that might make kids cry, but they would probably agree with me.

In fact, the best dynamic in the whole movie exists between Gru and the very best part of the movie – his legion of Minions. Minions don’t really speak, they mumble and chatter and they perform semi-human acts that are funny in the same way it’s funny when your kids carry on debates about ideas they don’t even understand, like health insurance legislation. (I’m not pretending to understand it, I just like to get angry about it). I loved these guys. Gru clearly loved them too. Who wouldn’t want an army of loyal little yellow guys carrying out all your heavy lifting and getting themselves in to rascally conundrums? I think they carried the movie, and they made a s0-so story funny enough for me to choke up on over-buttered popcorn a time or two.

Would I see it again? In a theater? Well if The Heathens wanted to, sure. But then, I’ve also been talked into situations far shadier by virtue of being their dad. I endured years and years of The Wiggles and Thomas The Tank Engine and now some sort of obsession with battle-bot/transforming/Lego/Ben10AlienForce/weird Japanese anime mash-ups, so I’m easily impressed by very little. This movie has much more than very little; I’m just not gonna beat some kindergartner silly for the best seat at the next showing.

I hate to undersell this show, but when you’re up against the Toy Story and Cars-esque powerhouses, the bar has been set really high. As a conspicuous consumer, I DEMAND oxygen-depriving fits of laughter, mind blowing animation and gut-wrenching storylines with each new release. This attitude, like my wasted potential in life, is pretty shameful. In fact, it’s downright despicable.

Enjoy the movie. I did.

Overall Score: Solid B

I'd Totally Whip This Dude

Like most people I know, I lack discipline. And patience. And skills.

None of these attributes help when you find yourself in that situation where you really, really wish you could drop a bomb of utter bad-assedness in a completely surprising way. Here’s an example: you’re leaving a restaurant with a bunch of friends, having just enjoyed a fine meal, great conversation, what have you. As you cross the parking lot, some filthy sleazebag walks up with a knife/gun/machete in his hands, a wild look in his eyes and immediately demands that you hand over all your wallets. Unbeknownst to your friends, you’ve been quietly practicing various forms of martial-arts in your limited free time, and with little more than a sigh and rolling of your eyes, you completely incapacitate the bastard in three moves; you then act like it was no more than pushing a crosswalk signal button. Your friends stare in complete disbelief as the would-be mugger moans with multiple fractures and a crushed spleen, and there you are, nonchalant as a cup of black coffee, and you calmly state “….and you were saying?”

Who DOESN’T want that capability?

But, as stated earlier, I’m too fundamentally lazy to master a martial art in my spare time. I would be utterly incapable of keeping my mouth shut if I had reached master-level status of any sort of kick-ass skills. I’d threaten anyone who looked at me wrong, be they little old ladies walking with a stoop or my own children. These threats would be my undoing because, really, who goes around threatening their children with throat chops and shin kicks? People who get reported to the authorities, that’s who.

Nonetheless, I’d like to be able to quote the Bible in Hebrew, Aramaic & Greek, so that when arguing with someone about the sin of Harry Potter or those crazy people who find love with someone of the same sex, I could trounce their ass with informed debate. I wish I knew enough about Middle Eastern cultures that it made sense to me when shiites and sunnis go at it like maniacs. I’d like to be able to open a conversation with “so I was machining the new flywheel on my lathe when…..”. When hostage negotiations begin, I’d like to receive a call from The Mayor as the last, best hope. When the St. Louis Blues Hockey Club makes a pitch for me to play starting defense next season, I’d like to be able to politely decline, citing the rigors of life on the road and my responsibilities as a parent. I’d like my opinions to be the source of debate on talk radio, with hosts crying and screaming at the thought of logical, rational thought taking over partisan bullshit. I’d like to go to some random holiday party, find an unused piano lolling about in the living room and strike up a rendition of Piano Man that gets the party-goers into some sort of karaoke-frenzy.

All of the aforementioned attributes would have to be the result of years of study and an exercise in mastery of skill sets. I have no such capabilities nor time to devote to mastery beyond the characters in Transformers, if only so that I can keep up with the conversations of The Heathens. One must know his Transformers, and so I do. That, and random pop culture trivia minutiae that allows me to compete from the firehouse on such shows as “Celebrity Jeopardy” (“this day comes after Thursday and before Saturday”) and Cash Cab (“in what city is The Statue of Liberty?”).

I’m just waiting for the day I get called to compete on Non-Celebrity Jeopardy and get the opportunity to showcase my ability to recall worthless facts about bands from the 80′s. How I’m gonna showcase my hidden martial-arts skills while on the set is still up for debate.