Geriatric Jackass

Dear old man who did not make one attempt to discipline the wild boys you brought to the children's museum today thus making me have to address them over and over again,

Fuck you.

Sincerely,

A Sonic Boom!

The other night I was in line at the Sonic drive-thru to quench my addiction for cherry limeades. I was listening to my Zamfir, Master of the Pan Flute CD and feeling like all is well with the world. When I got to the almost head of the line, I noticed the guy in front of me (whose arm was out the window while ordering) had a lot of tattoos. 

Now, I have always associated tattoos with bad-asses. I realize now that everyone and their grandmother has them, from tramp stamps to, well, actually that's the only tattoo term I know. At any rate I think they look particularly stupid on people and I don't see the point. But to each his or her own and it's none of my business what others do with their bodies. 

So back to Sonicman. I took a closer look and noticed that he had a goatee and shaved head- well that increased my level of awe for this clearly deadly dude. Then I noticed a few things that altered my reality. First of all, he was driving a Chevy Traverse with all sorts of fancy pink monogram stickers on the back and stickers representing him, his wife and kid and their little doggie with a bow. How sweet! Then I saw that he was talking on the phone (to his wife?) seemingly asking what lovie-dovie wanted for din-din. Taking orders? But you have an arm full of tats and no hair and a scary goatee... Could it be, could it be, could it be that you be not as tough as thouest projectest???

The kicker was when I realized that their was a Dora video playing on the DVD thingie and the kid in the back was watching it. I came to the conclusion that this guy is a serious poseur and felt it necessary to tell him so in a loud and forceful voice....

To make a long story short, the doctor has told me that once the casts come off, I'll have 80% use of both arms. I will, however, be in traction for a few more weeks.

(Radio)active vacation

I have decided that anyone can take a safe amusement park vacation. Disneyland- big deal! Disneyworld- very safe! Watercountry- wet, not wild! Busch Gardens- go hang in the watered-down beer garden! No, I have decided to put together a little jaunt that has a little more "glow" to it.

If you don't recognize where this picture was taken, I've got some 'splanin' to do:

This is a ferris wheel and a couple other amusement park gizmos that were erected in the town of Pripyat, which is a few kilometers from the Chernobyl site in Ukraine. It seems that now the "exclusion zone" which is named for the area that was highly contaminated with radioactive stuff back in '86, is now open to tourists. Sounds like some crazy nightmare, right? Here's a website that caters to this niche tourist trade: http://tour2chernobyl.com/ just to prove I'm not making this zaniness up... (read the particulars of the trip- pretty hilarious!)

The story goes that the ferris wheel, et al. were put up right before good ol' number 4 blew it's top and never used. I think Carter and Reid would enjoy a whirl on that wheel, don't ya think? It would fit in nicely (and literally) with my circle of stupidity theory.

I'll let you know how the trip goes. Hopefully we'll have a blast! Does anyone know a good wigmaker?

Histingorance

When I was young and ignorant, my parents entrusted my early skoolin' to nuns who wore silly outfits teachers. I am grateful to this because it gave me a lifelong love of learning. I have always found history fascinating and have read a lot about American history. I do not pretend to know everything, however, and here an example to showcase my ignorance:

 

With a contentious election season upon us, I feel the need to re-visit one of the more acid-tongued debate seasons of all time: The Linoln-Douglas debates. Nasty, nasty stuff. Who could forget that time Douglas accused Lincoln of telling a lie? Or when apparently not-so-honest Abe told Douglas that his initals (S.D.) really stood for "Stupendous Doofus?" The gloves were off and mud was being flung from Central Park to the Dakota territories.

Let's fast forward a bit. Lincoln won, the Civil War erupted and he was re-elected. His love for the theatre, however, proved his undoing and, well, the rest is history as they say.

So let's recap some of Mr. Lincoln's accomplishments:

1. Somewhat honest

2. Great emancipator

3. Leader during the Civil War

4. Lawyer

5. Proud native of Kentucky

6. Tall

Pretty impressive, right? I have uncovered evidence that shows this list is incomplete- here are two new vocations to add to the pantheon of greatness that is Abe Lincoln:

 

 

 

 

He was indeed a talented man.

The Stupid Circle

I have a theory: not everyone is smart all of the time and not everyone is dumb all the time. We are like hands on a clock that travel around the stupid circle. Sometimes we are in the smart zone and sometimes we are in the cretin corner. It's a theory with its flaws, but I don't want to hear about that.

For those of you who feel you may be in the idiot range today, this may help you visualize what I'm explaining:

https://www.google.com/search?num=10&hl=en&site=imghp&tbm=isch&source=hp&biw=1152&bih=539&q=clock&oq=clock&gs_l=img.3..0l10.1672.2572.0.3460.5.4.0.1.1.0.62.240.4.4.0...0.0...1ac.aiKcZkk4G6Q

12 to 6 is smartland and 6 to 12 is dumbville, fyi.

The other day, I encountered a driver who was living in morontown in a big way. I was driving with Reidster in the fast toll lane. I happened to look up from the sandwich I was eating, the text message I was sending and the newspaper I was reading to notice...

A car driving backwards about 5 mph in the middle lane as I approached at 60 or so!!!! Luckily due to my advanced ninja training from the Bruce Lee school of ass-kicking, I have the reflexes of a puma. I was able to avoid this person (who clearly was in the 6-12 range at the moment) and proceed on my merry way. 

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm feeling kinda 9:30 right now, so I'm gonna go do something less-than-intelligent. Wish me luck!

A not so easy death

"Oh God" She thought as she awoke, unable to draw a breath. "Oh God, I can't breathe. I can't breathe." This had happened before, but never this bad. She knew from her nursing background that this was a distinct possibility, the cure becoming the killer. Cytoxin was the latest drug she'd tried. Lucky enough (if you can call it that) to be chosen for an experimental treatment at Johns Hopkins. Of course, it could damage the lungs severely. So many treatments, so many years: too many drugs to remember; biopsies; a bone marrow transplant; and Interfeuron. A lot of Interfeuron. Gallons of it over the last decade.

As she tried to get up from the bed she fell, prone on the floor. Her husband awoke to her gasping and saw her on the floor. Panic and adrenaline took over as he rushed to her side, she weakly pointed to the bed, unable to speak. "Put me back, please. Put me back in the bed. Oh God, I can't breathe..."

"O.K.  he thought, call 911 and they'll get here quickly."  He made sure to ask for the volunteer fire department from the neighboring county. The city ambulances have been known to get lost from time to time. When they arrived a few minutes later, the crew got to work immediately. They put her on the stretcher to get to the nearest hospital. She knew it well, just having spent the Christmas holidays there after a tumor broke her femur, a pretty sturdy bone.

(Hospitals- she had been in so many for so many prolonged stays over the years. The first one was ten years earlier, when visiting her elderly mother, she had a sharp pain near her neck. At first, she dismissed this as a muscle pull, but later tried to put her jacket on and felt a pain "like a spaceship was trying to land into my back" as she later recalled to her sons. She went to the hospital. The news was gruesome: a tumor had eaten a vertebrae and the cancer was systemic. There really was no hope, just time to buy.)

On this, her last day on earth, she had wanted to die in the bed she had known for the previous 39 years. But there had been so many miraculous recoveries, why would this morning be any different? That's how everyone, especially her husband, felt. Except her, she knew it was time to go. She had already told everyone in her own way, they just didn't all understand.

Now it fell upon the grieving husband to call his two sons that their mother was no longer. They were inconsolable, but again, in circumstances like this, a sense of duty overrides emotion and what must be done gets done, somehow. 

The hardest part for the youngest son was driving to the hospital later that afternoon to pick up his mom's personal effects: a nightgown and a plastic bag marked "biohazard" that contained a watch and rings. He's never opened it and it sits unmolested in his house to this day. Or was the hardest part of the whole episode seeing his 96 year old grandmother cry at her daughter's wake? No one should ever have to bury a child.

The woman's husband died of a broken heart two and a half years later. That's a story for another day.

www.marrow.org

My new job

Ho hum. Not much happened today. Dog days of summer. Yawn. Oh yeah, except I have a new career as a professional hockey player. The pay is good but the dental insurance premium is strastopheric!

Willpower!!!

So I have been one of those lucky people (don't hate me) who has always been able to eat as much food as I have wanted as often as possible. There has never been any question of moderation for me. Right now at 5'10" or so and 165 pounds, I am the biggest that I've ever been. Compare that to my college graduation weight of 130 and you'll see I've never been el gordo.

I had several interesting nicknames growing up- some of them highly insensitive, alluding to my lack of corporeal abundance, but hilarious nonetheless. I will not print them, however. I resigned myself to this fate of omnivorous indulgence and figured I'll never gain any weight. I, you see, was destined to wear ill-fitting size 32 pants my whole life... I used to wish that 34s would fit. How silly of me!

Now, as a mature (ahem) 40 year-old I realize there is this thing called a metabolism that humans have and apparently it slows down. I had not counted on this at all. Now it seems, I have to actively plan exercising and (gasp!) think about what I shove into my gullet. I have an acronym for this new state of affairs: WTF! Silly me, now I realize that I have been living in the penthouse and the elevator is going down vite vite as they say on the left bank...

This all leads me to my current conundrum- feeding the kids snacks all day long (or suffer the endless whining of wanting a snack every 2.4 seconds) and training myself not to dip into the bag for "just one" of whatever is being doled out. There never has been "just one" for me. I have decided to forgo snacks for the kiddos as much as possible. Good idea, bad idea? I don't know and I don't care. I did not sign up to be the "big daddy" on the block.

Mothra!

Ever since I have been a wee little child, I have been terrified of (most) insects. I trace this back to the crickets that lived in our garage. Whatever the genesis of my phobia, it persists to the day. 

This morning I had a flashback that would make an avid acid dropper jealous:

In 2003 when Kim moved into my apartment because she fell in love with me because she had no money, job or any other viable housing options, hurricane Isabelle hit our area. After this tempest in a teapot left our neighborhood, we opened the door to the balcony and there was a gargantuan ginormous hugely terrible green moth. It scared the hell out of me to say the least. 

Now, fast-forward to this morning. Kim and Carter left the house and there was a big moth asleep on the door. I was scared to leave the house, which I know is lame, but it's a phobia! I got it off the door with the business end of a broom and swooshed it off the porch. Mr. moth did not go quietly and I was in danger of soiling my drawers as I fought the foul creature. 

All's well that ends well, unless you are the moth. He won't be napping on my door again.

Kids for sale

I have been thinking for the past few days about what I'd like to post here. There were a few ideas that I felt were even too outlandish for me. One of them was an intimate look at how the Elephant Man, John Merrick, would fare in modern day society. Doing mundane activities such as riding a bike, putting on a motorcycle helmet, golfing, etc. I think we all see why I ditched that idea (at least for now!). There have been other ideas as well, but I've already forgotten them. While I was driving home the other day, I saw one of those guys sitting on the corner holding a sign for a store. Like a human billboard. That got me thinking....

What if I strapped Reid to the front and Carter to the back of me and got temporary tattoos for local businesses emblazoned all over their bodies? I have seen boxers do this before. I could rent out my kids' derma to the highest bidders. Some may think this is completely unethical, but I think it is a great way to make some money. Of course I would only strut with them attached to me on the hottest of days. The real benefit would be the size of my calves after a few days of doing this. Maybe the IOC would give me funding so I could race in the 2014 Rio games. I hear it's too late to qualify for London.

getting brittle, ain't ya?

There is a lot of talk in sports these days about concussions. It seems that now when an athlete gets what might be a concussion, s/he has to pass a series of tests to see if s/he is allowed to play. When I was a child, I am pretty certain that I had quite a few concussions. Bike riding, skateboarding and quotidian beatings by my friends were pretty much to blame. We never wore helmets, we never took any precautions to safeguard ourselves from heads smashing concrete or whatever other solid surface may have met our craniums.

The concussion protocol that we followed as children went something like this: A child, such as myself, smashes the ever-living stuffing out his head. Wooziness begins. Stars are seen. Limbs may or may not have gotten numb. Can I move my toes? Yes, that's good. Can I see once the stars disappear? Yes, that's good too. Is my bike damaged? No, that is nice. Did I have a concussion? Probably.

Now what????  Stand up, dust yourself off and do it again, hopefully not hitting the concrete as hard the next time. This sort of behavior may explain a lot, but I'll leave that to others to decide. Basically, when we were young, if it was not a compound fracture situation, just get up and get back at it. 

O.K., that's great when one is a teenager or younger (or even in his or her twenties). I learned today that resilience to injury is something that dissipates with age. How did I find this out? I have injured my knee sitting in a chair. Not getting out of a chair, not getting in a chair, but actually just sitting in the chair. It hurts to walk and is no fun. Maybe I can wrap it artistically in some of that kinisio tape that is de rigeur at the London Olympics. Anything to save a costly doctor's visit...

Frivolous wastefulness, but I don't care!

My parents raised me to be careful with money. Buy something if needed; get the best price; buy the smallest, ugliest car on the lot. Ho-hum. Such bastions of Puritanical lack of excess. Not to say that occasionally they didn't throw caution to the wind and splurge! 

For instance, in 1984, my dad finally caved in to familial pressure and bought us an electric lawnmower. My brother and I basically ruined it, ran over the cord many, many times, and terrorized the cat with it, but boys will be boys. 

I have tried to live up to this example in my own life. Mostly because my chosen profession pays next to nothing and right now, I am literally making nothing!

But......

Every once in a while a man must bust loose and shimmy down the pole of self-indulgence. (What the hell does that mean? I don't know, it just sounded good!). My purchase is not entirely frivolous, you'll see. It is something I wish had existed when I was single. It would wow a woman like nothing else can, not even a bouquet of red roses. I would have loved to sidle up to a single mamasita and not only impress her with my me-ness, but prove to her that I am wealthy beyond measure. Come on, what 20 something would turn this opportunity down??? Now, alas, this is not an option, but I can still pretend I am rich....

I have just this last few minutes paid $9.99 (!) for the following item that I cannot CANNOT wait to carry around each and every day:

Stupid purchase? Quite likely! 

A lot of money that will not noticeably bulge my back pocket? Sort of.

An awesome pile of rocks? Oh, yeah!

Fear

There are two announcements that strike fear into the hearts of the male species:

1. "I'm sorry, but the catheter seems to have left permanent damage."

2. "Looks like my number came up in the draft lottery."

I would like to add a third to this list...

"Today at Monkey Joe's, there will be two groups here from 12:30-3:00."

In case you don't know or never cared, Monkey Joe's is one of those places where you pay five bucks per kid to bounce around in gigantic inflated bouncy things. This environment is incredibly loud due to the music playing and the hypnotic murmur of the inflation pumps that act like reverse vacuum cleaners. 

Today The Watson triad went to Monkey Joe's and we got there, you guessed it, right after 12:30! Having been lucky enough to monitor tons and tons of lunch duties at school over the years, I was overjoyed to see this sign on the front door. 

Why would one disdain the summer camp group attending such an awesome, bouncerific place? Allow me to educate you on the DNA of the summer camp group:

• Tons of kids who are hyped up on sugar from the snacks they have been chomping for the whole morning. 
• A "supervisor" to child ratio of 10,000,000,000,000,000 to one (on a good day).
• The "supervisors" are really teenagers or tweeners who need supervising themselves.
• There are always two to 30 kids in the group that are on steroids and therefore 16 times the size of their peers. This can get dicey when one's miniscule children are bouncing. Neck brace anyone?
• An ambient decibel level that would make the takeoff of an F-16 seem like a whisper. 

Now, what's the silver lining to this cyclonic cloud? Having your sister-in-law be there too with your nephew. Thanks, Carrie, for keeping me sane this afternoon.

Poetic injustice!

My muse is taking a snooze.

Maybe from too much booze?

From me there is no news,

but I write so my thoughts 

I won't lose.

I can think of nothing to say.

It's not good to be this way!

But tomorrow's another day,

for words I think I'll pray.

I've usually got so much to share,

but right now I'm just not there.

All day I've been pulling my hair.

But there's nothing- I've got no flair!

That guy

Oh yeah, you know who "that guy" is. The one that looks painfully perplexed and somewhat out of place. I have always thought of myself as cool. In fact, I only see cool in the mirror. Others have told me that they see nerd when looking at me, but I forgive them as they clearly need glasses or a stronger prescription.

Well, alas, I have to admit that this afternoon, I for a very brief fleeting miniscule moment for 15 looooooong minutes, I stepped into the skin of "that guy" and let me tell you it is not a good feeling. Not at all. Allow me to set the scene:

It's tax-free weekend on clothes and other school goodies here in our fair Commonwealth. I made the somewhat courageous decision to trek to the local Kohl's store. If you don't know what Kohl's is, it's a semi-department store, semi-home goods, semi-junk type of emporium. The thing about this store is there is ALWAYS a sale. Always. So much so that the word sale is redundant. The thesaurus should have a picture of this place for the phrase price reduction. 

The parking lot was crammed with all sorts of vehicles great and small. Target (another store) is next door and the grocery store is not far either. It was automotive insanity! I always park at the Pluto end of the lot. No different today, except I didn't really have a choice. 

After perusing the sale aisles (the whole place- remember), I, with a skip in my step and a song in my heart, proceeded to go to my car. Except..... my car is very small as is my capacity to remember where I park, so, you guessed it- I couldn't find it! 

Let me tell you, these were the most grueling 15 minutes of my life. Surely not Whorhol material. It was a mixture of hiding from the withering glances of strangers ("Look ma, it's THAT GUY!") and the bubbling hot asphalt that made a sauna seem arctic and blistered my tootsies to no end.

I did not hide my shame nor did I crumble in the face of such adversity! No, I trundled on from lane to lane sweating more profusely each time. "WHERE IN THE HELL IS THAT LITTLE BLACK CAR OF MINE!!!!!" I swore gently to myself.....

Then I remembered that I had driven Kim's car today and it was in the next lane over.  I had walked past it at least five times.

The CMoR 500!

Today, Carter chose to go to the children's museum. I had proposed the zoo, but was shot down immediately, as usual. It used to be that to go to the children's museum, I had to drive 30 minutes or so to get to either one of the two locations. If this were still the case, I would have pulled "parental imminent domain" as I like to say, and insisted on the zoo. This menagerie is much closer and therefore, daddy is happy. 

Hark! A new little children's museum has opened not five minutes from our humble abode. Well this makes Mr. Imminent Domain very happy. It is nice too, because it is a fairly small space and the children are somewhat containable. Somewhat.

Carter goes off and does her own thing, which is fine with me because she needs to develop independence, makes friends and all of that other stuff kids have to do to avoid costly therapy later in life. The Reidster, on the other hand, is unstoppable. He goes wherever his little 18 month-old heart desires and he cares not that daddy has to follow his every whim hither and yon. 

Now, being a DOE licensed "child supervisor", I feel that I have to actually, you know, supervise. I mean, I spent six years in college and am currently using none of it professionally, so I might as well pretend I am supervising the kids keep the little ones in check. 

 After I have found and lassoed the Reidster (for 2.8 seconds at a time), I feel that it is in my best interest to strategically place myself in some sort of position to keep an eye out for Carter. This does not work at all. Luckily, she is a good kid and will eventually come and extricate me from under a table as I reach for the little man of the house. 

This truly exhausts me. This could be because of a few reasons:

1. My horrible state of physical conditioning.

2. Having been up early early this morning to a crying Reidster.

3. His incredible speed that makes Mr. Bolt of olympic fame look like a snail.

4. My laziness.

I think they I am going to start bringing a walkie-talkie for me and Carter so I can update her on my coordinates from time to time. Or imbed a GPS chip in my forehead.

At least the rent was cheap

After a long day of watching children, taking a walk in the scorching heat, and generally being an unemployed cad, I have realized that it's time for a post over here in blog central!

As promised, I have decided to give you sweet people horror stories of bad neighbors. Of course, I want to hear about your un-neighborly neighbors as well. We can't all live in Mr. Roger's hood, can we? Disclaimer: I PROMISE I have made none of this up- oh yeah, it's for real!

Columbia Heights, Washington D.C.1997-1998 (Thanks Skylor!)

If you don't know about CH and how it is, that is good. It's a lot better than it was, but it still is not great. I lived in an apartment that used to be an illegal speakeasy (you youngsters reading this- go look that word up on wikipedia). It was a sketchy neighborhood. The house across the street was a home for wayward girls. All sorts of foolishness at all hours of the day and night. One morning, I was woken up to the piercing cry of FBI followed by the sweet repetitive cadence of a battering ram smashing down the neighbor's door. Awesome. 

We had a crack dealer up the street. As I walked home from work he would invariably shuffle in my direction whispering "crack, crack." My daily response was "no thanks." One time my roommate and I called 911 on the guy because he was about to beat the stuffing out of a girl. 

Speaking of 911- we typed those digits quite often. One time, we saw smoke spewing out of the apt. building across the way. Turns out someone stole a convertible and torched it. That was something else! It's never a good feeling when you get a busy signal for 911!!!!

The best one, however, was when I was looking at the newspaper the weekend we moved in. There was a gruesome story about a headless torso  found in a garbage can. I did some mental geography and realized that said garbage can was one block from our new pad!!!! Fantastic. Turns out it was a serial killer going after prostitutes...

Somerville, Massachusetts 1999-2000

The guy who lived below me and my roommate was scary. He was about seven feet tall and worked out like a maniac. I never once saw him go to work. I made sure to say "yes, sir" the two times I spoke to him.

Danvers, Massachusetts August 2000 to January 2001

  

This was my first year teaching. I lived on the top floor of an "apartmentalized" house. The guy below me was a sick, sick drunk who beat the crap out of his wife every day. Listening to this while trying to craft lesson plans was tough. One night, his buddy (who lived on the 1st floor) tried to knock my door down and beat the you-know-what out of me.  Luckily for him, he couldn't get in or he would have met his maker since I almost earned my white belt in karate! Also, I had to create an excel spreadsheet for the times and dates I called the cops on liquorboy downstairs. He was older than dirt too.I got the hell out of there fast. Good times. I used to fantasize about pouring sugar in the gas tank of his Ted Bundy van.

Chester, Virginia circa 2002

This is nothing compared to the above idiocy. The guy living upstairs from me had a really big girlfriend who shook my apartment every time she walked around.  Then, thankfully, he moved away! 

Midlothian, Virginia 2004-present

Kim and I were taking a walk the other evening and the dude who lives three houses up from us asked us if we live in the neighborhood. Ah, we've been here for about nine years. Oh yeah, and I say hi to you on a regular basis.

I'm so thankful for everything I have and where I live!