Vox Nihilim

The Grinch was on last night and as we're sitting around watching them sing "Yahoo Door-ehs" or whatever the hell it is they've been singing at me for the last 30 fucking years, so that  you would think I'd know it by now,  when it occurs to me that even when I read the book by Dr. Seuss, the voice in my head sounds like Boris Karloff. 

I can tell it's Christmas time. Not because I can read a calendar, although that does play a small role in it, and not because the gentle, hushed fall of millions of snowflakes can be seen see-sawing haphazardly outside my window. I know it's almost Christmas because all of the sudden work is kicking into overdrive. You see, I've come to believe that my entire job is not to run and test subsystems on million dollar printing presses in hopes of finding fundamental design flaws that would make the sale of said presses unprofitable. I think instead, that I am part of some larger psychological experiment to see what it is that makes people go insane.

That's really the only explanation I can think of. Let's look at the facts:

1) During the Christmas shopping season, the one part of the year when I absolutely NEED my free time to shop for the various penis-joke based gifts I will undoubtedly decide on giving, they ask for me to start working overtime. Thereby giving me more money to spend and insuring that I don't have time to spend it.

2) They make me repeat tests I have already completed, without reason. They do seem to raise their eyebrows at me a lot though. This, of course, I take as an absolute slight against my work performance. That carefully arched brow seems to insinuate all manner of nasty things starting with "Your processes on the previous test were substandard the same way Jack The Ripper's opinion of women was less than adequate" and ending with "You are a filthy donkey-man and we hate you." I may be reading in to things a bit here.

3) Knowing full well that I am extremely stressed about the impending end of my contract, they decide that now is the best time to change the operating environment inside my lab to the meteorological equivalent of a colonoscopy. It's going to be 80 degrees with 70 percent humidity in my chamber for the next week. Putting a person with little to lose in a hot, sweaty chamber for long days during the Christmas retail season is like hiring someone to have road rage. They might as well give me a note with a name on it that will self-destruct after reading and tell me where I can find the necessary sniper rifle.


And then I think "I should just be thankful I have any job at all and should quit with the bitching. It could be worse. There are thousands of people out there who are desperate for work and watching the probability of gainful employment erode from under them daily as the economy continues its slow descent into alcoholism. This job of mine is actually pretty awesome and despite all appearances, I seriously doubt they are trying to make me mentally unbalanced."

That's when they brought me a handgun and told me I should kill my lab partner before he kills *me*.

The dog is looking at me expectantly. I don't know why. I think maybe he thinks I'm onto some grand scheme where I do something really clever and take over the world. Or maybe I'm just projecting what I hope the dog is expecting of me, it's really too early to tell.

Or maybe, the dog, trapped in some weird Machiavellian metaphysical conundrum, is burning neurons trying to justify his own existence on this mortal coil. Perhaps the rise and fall of the tides within the space-time continuum are his to measure and mark. Tiny fluctuations in reality that are only perceptible to his keenly-honed canine brain. That would explain the pee spot in the kitchen. He was just busy with other things.

He does a quick circle and then sits back down. We make eye contact and instantly his tail begins wagging. So happy. So eager to please. Is that what all this is about? I look deeply into his dark eyes and try to fathom what it is I have done to inspire such loyalty. Such complete and utter willingness to turn himself over to joy.

As I sat there debating whether or not it was a good idea to write a blog about doing Google searches for semi-pornographic words and tracking how many pages in I had to go before I found actual porn*, the phone rang. It was The Girl and she was in a tizzy (and I don't use that word lightly. Very few creatures are capable of reaching the epic state of anxiety required to be deemed "in a tizzy". Luckily, teenage girls TOTALLY can. I win.)

"DAD!!INEEDTOPRINTOUTSOMEPAPERSFORSCHOOL ORELSEI'MGOINGTOFAILLLL!!!"
"Who is this?"
"DAD!!!"
"Heh. Just settle down. What?"
"I need to print out this paper I wrote for school and mom's printer isn't working and the library is closed and now I'm not going to get it turned in on time and I'm going to get a bad grade because he takes off 20% for each day late and I'm never going to go to college and it's all your fault.**"

I'm always amazed by how little she needs to breathe when she's vomiting these sentences out at me. It's like the panic slows her metabolism or something. I guess you could say she is hibernating from sanity. That would also explain the growling.

"Okay. I'll bring my printer over. I'll be there in a few."
"Please Hurry!"
"Well...What if I am in the middle of something?"
"You're not. Come On, Dad."

Her disbelief that I might have a life is unnerving. And creepy in it's accuracy. I think she might be a witch.

So I get over to my ex-house, and there she is, still a-tizzy. I set up the printer, but right away I can tell it's going to be a problem. Not because of any technical issue that is making itself readily apparent, but because The Boy is running around me in circles asking questions in the machine gun staccato he has when he's had entirely too much sugar. I can feel my blood pressure starting to rise.

"Dad! Is it set up yet? Can we print? Are we going to print animal pictures? Have you seen the flying penguin ad? Are we going to keep this printer here? Is Mom's printer broken? Can I go to Webkinz.com? Are you done setting up yet? Is it easy to set it up? Mom says you don't like working on her computer? Why don't you like working on her computer. Ugh. I'm dizzy."

It's not working. It wants Windows. It wants a current Mac OS. It wants to be snuggled. I don't know what the hell it wants. I want to set it on fire by the time I have successfully managed to not set it up an hour later. I wish I had just gone out to the garage and hit my thumb with a hammer one too many times. It would be less painful.

The Girl is pacing behind me and humming nervously. There are many ways to motivate me to do something. Cake. Pie. Cookies. You'll notice the utter lack of "walking behind me and making annoying noises" on that list. That's on purpose.

It took me an hour, but I finally ended up taking the printer back to my house (I managed to drag my USB cable all the way down the street without noticing it hanging out the car door), hooking it up to my desktop, installing the drivers, and printing out the necessary sheets which I then delivered to my grateful spawn. When she was done hugging me and telling me I'm the best dad in the whole world even better than that cool guy on Gilmore Girls, The Boy comes leaping out at me from somewhere. Once again over-stimulated and pantless.

"DAD! Did you print my Christmas List too?"
"Huh? No."
"BUTIHAVETOGETITINTHEMAILTOMORROWOR SANTAWONTBRINGMEANYTOYS!!!"

It was a long night is my point.



*For example: if you Google "explode" with Moderate SafeSearch turned off, it isn't until page 4 of the images that you see anyone naked, and then it is just a naked woman, and there is no "exploding" going on, just her kneeling provocatively. I wasn't aware that kneeling was necessarily a provocative activity. But it turns out it is. Bonus points for you, Catholics. In the blog I would have had a graph. Because graphs make everything official.

** She didn't say "It's all your fault.' This is just implied in all teenage communications.

Dear Thoughtful Coworker,

I just wanted to take this opportunity to thank you for holding the door for me. I'm sure any thoughts I might have about you being a passive-aggressive asshat lie rooted firmly in my own psychological shortcomings and are in no way a reflection on your actual intentions. I bet those were pure as the driven snow.

I really did need that 100 meter jog across the vast atrium. I appreciate you recognizing my particularly high carb intake this morning and my latent (and probably destined to stay that way) desire for a little exercise. Especially carrying my laptop case and a box of paper. That made it extra challenging! I really can't thank you enough.

I know I was spouting "thank yous" at you like a Right Whale with a nasty chest cold, but that sneer and bob of the head was really a nice touch. You have more than effectively relayed to me how indebted I should feel, knowing full well that the 15 seconds you spent holding the door for me was a major, nay...an epic waste of your time. How on earth is all your internet gambling going to get done if you have to spend your days lazing about holding doors for people? Believe me...I know.

In conclusion, I just wanted to reiterate my thanks. Your breathy sigh down my neck as I passed really got across the audacity you were feeling and I'm sure when your Citizen of the Year award comes up, the committee will hardly fault you with a little understandable annoyance at those of us who seem bent on making you support the weight of a three pound door for a quarter minute. I also appreciate your understanding that opening a door involves the complicated process of pushing a button AND THEN pulling. This would have been way beyond my abilities.

Love,
Kurt

ps: Feel free to enjoy the free lunch I purchased for you! Just be sure to order the "shit". Because that's what you can eat.

Like all good stories, this one ends with a cherry pie. I'm just getting it out front... that there'll be a pie at the end, so that during the scarier bits, when maybe you think someone will be poisoned, you can feel reassured because you know what's coming.

I'm looking in the mirror trying to remember what it was exactly that article in Cosmo said about men and their facial hair. Was it that goatees are a sign of weakness perhaps? That men with moustaches are trying to hide something? I never understood if that was implying that the things they were hiding were actually IN the moustache or if they were just sinister.

I personally hope for and believe "sinister".

The idea of men walking around with all manner of things hidden on their faces makes me wincey.  I don't have anything hidden on my face. So maybe I'm just jealous. I suppose my eyebrows might be able to conceal something briefly. Like a cyanide capsule or something. But you'd have to paint it with eyebrow camoflage. I mean...upon close inspection someone is bound to see it. And what good is a cyanide pill painted to look like an eyebrow if it isn't actually...you know...IN the eyebrow itself.

This leads me to wonder about what eyebrow camoflage might look like.

I suspect if you saw anything just lying about beyond the confines of the actual eyebrow, painted to look like an eyebrow,  you would throw a cup over the top of it and slip a sheet of paper beneath it and take it outside and set it free.  Prisoners should do that. I bet the guards would fall for that at least once.

Stupid guards.

They'd be all "Holy shit! Look at that giant caterpillar!" and the prisoner would be all "(*snicker*)" and then the guards would wonder why the giant caterpillar just snickered and why was it in the cell block D and where was the prisoner to begin with and how the hell are they supposed to find a cup big enough to put over the top of the massive snickering bug, anyways? And maybe they would try to step on it.

This may not be as good a plan as I had originally surmised.

I'm still looking in the mirror and thinking about facial hair when I hear the knock at the door. I mean...it's not a big bathroom... it's not like it would be hard to hear it or anything, and I don't live near an airport or inside a church bell tower, although that WOULD be totally cool because of the whole hunchback thing and the rafters would be awesome in the early morning sunlight and you'd be up all high and could see the whole of Paris while you peed and no one would be popping in on you unexpectedly because GODDAMN! it's a pain in the ass to get to your bathroom up there in the bell tower, unless you have a bunch of friends who are snipers and generally keep an eye out for that sort of thing.  I don't mean to imply only snipers and hunchbacks enjoy peeing in the belltower. Far from it. Bats and pigeons do it all the time...


"DADDD!!! I'm going to pee my payyy-annnttts! What are you doing in there?"

I bet Einstein never had these problems.

It's cold and the rain is falling in a misted sneeze. The leaves gather in whispering enclaves at the foothills of the gutters, and each step rakes them angrily along the pavement. Their dried bones hiss and sputter in flumes. The boot sounds bark at the sidewalk with a quick uniform cadence, carrying me with haste between the islands of sickly yellow streetlight. I remember every night that was ever like this, as though some infinitely long string is tied around my guts and is pulling me through my life, making sure that I always find myself on a dark sidewalk on a cold, rainy night in late October.

I've walked this street so many times.

The leaves are falling in butterfly cascades. They swing through the air like sticky-faced children at recess. They move backwards and forwards in lazy arcs, in and out of the cones of streetlight. Those left on the trees giggle far above me as they clap with amusement at each raindrop that beats them like a tight-skinned drum.

I close my eyes and remember.

It's cold and we laugh together as we walk. Saying nothing and everything at the breakneck pace of young would-be-lovers who only want to know more and more and more about the one they have chosen but not yet claimed. We don't look at each other while we walk. We don't hold hands. We aren't there yet. But our laughter vaults the hills and pinballs raucously down the nearly empty avenues and alleys. Far below, on Carson Street, the traffic is bright and loud and filled with reverie. We stop for a moment, and watch it. Our eyes meet. That electric spark...the one you spend the rest of your life trying to recreate... arcs like lightning and my heart begins hammering like a thousand brash timpani.

We resist.
We are friends.
We are fools.

And then we walk again. Carefully spaced so as to never accidentally touch.  We walk in the cold rainy night until we find a warm bar, with beer and darts and more laughter.

We close it. We say goodnight. She leaves for Chicago and I never see her again.

She owns the dark, cold and rainy, late October nights.

She always will.

This old-as-fuck repost is brought to you by request of the fantastic Mr. Richard Cox, a brilliant writer and irrepressible Photoshop deviant. It comes from a place long ago (2006) when I still lived with the dog in question and he refused to stop fucking my cat. I love him deeply and miss him greatly now that we live apart. It IS what we professionals call "a joke".

That being said... Enjoy.

***
Dear Dog,

Look. I know our relationship is strained at best. My hostility with you, though often unfounded, is well-documented.Were it not for the kids, who inexplicably find you charming, you would have found a new home long ago. Probably in a snow bank on the side of the interstate. But that is beside the point. It looks like despite my unwillingness to vaccinate you, you are intent on surviving ...out of spite,no doubt. So let's lay down some ground rules to insure that the kids never come home to find that you have "run away":

1) Stop barking. Really, enough already. You're as a tough as Paul Lynde playing hopscotch with Liberace. The only person who would be startled by that staccato yap of yours, is a chipmunk who just snorted a kilo of coke.It's fucking annoying. Quit it. The Mailman knows you're a pussy. Stop making him laugh. He might drop the porn in the snow.

2) Stop pissing on my boots. I know you're doing it on purpose. The fact that you have singled MY boots out for these clandestine urinary christenings, is proof further, that you have all the brain functions of a bag of Cheetos. I WILL step on you if you don't knock it off, you worthless bag of fuck.

3) Stop fucking my cats. You have no reason to do this other than to address your inferiority complex. I love the cats. I hate you. Start dealing with it. Putting your emasculated love gun inside the Lower GI tract of a cat that outweighs you by 5 or more pounds is the intellectual equivalent of checking the home of a rabid badger for occupancy by covering your hand in gravy and swirling it around inside the hole. They're going to scratch you dumbass. I'm trying to teach them to go for the eyes...just a fair warning.

4) Stop Begging for food.While the kids might find your explosive diarrhea funny, I do not. If you eat another chili pepper/mayonnaise/eggshell gumbo, I am going to hit you in the head with a shovel to see if I can get that elusive, cartoon "Wong!" sound I'm so desperate to hear.

If you follow these simple guidelines you will find that I can be a warm, compassionate, and kind pet owner. To the cats.

You can get fucked, you ass-raping shitbomb.

Love,
Kurt

My life has been an absolute mess since she left. You get used to the little nuances of a relationship, and then when it's gone...POW! A big hole. She knew. I trusted her. She always gave me a smile and an extra pickle.

I miss you, Sandwich Girl.

Yesterday was the last straw. I'm waiting in line watching the miscreant behind the sneeze-guard roll up some other unlucky shlub's Vegetable Medley wrap and wondering why on earth I keep coming back.

She's gone, Man!
Moved on to greener food service pastures!

I feel the tears starting to well up as I see him forget the frilly toothpicks and watch in horror as the Veggie Wrap vomits grilled peppers everywhere like a drunken Las Vegas showgirl on a Chili-tini bender. Why Sandwich Girl?!? Why?

Now it's my turn. He has to ask me what I want on my garlic wrap. Sigh. SHE never asked. SHE remembered. I go through the list. Light Mayo, Brown mustard, shredded lettuce, Pepper Jack, and Roast Beef. He looks at me dully. Like I'm his eighth grade English teacher who just got done reprimanding him for using "ain't". He starts to compile the ingredients and immediately I have to reprimand him for trying to add tomatoes.

She would have known better.
She never tried to use tomatoes.

He slathers the edge of the wrap with enough condiments for ten foot-long subs served to hungry, burly men wearing hard hats. And then he begins the clumsy rolling process. It's a nightmare. I have to avert my eyes for fear I will turn to stone at the sight of such horrid sandwich-making. But it's like a train wreck where the train is filled with clowns, and pythons, and fireworks. I can't look away. Thick rivers of mustard and mayonnaise squeeze out of the sides like a toothpaste tube opened by a wolverine and applied by an elephant. It's everywhere. Under the wrap. In his hair. Spattered like a bloodstain on the wall. It's awful.

He has the audacity to ask if I want pickles.

"NO! I want a fucking sandwich that doesn't look like the aftermath of a zombie apocolypse!" I want to scream at him.

Oh darling Sandwich Girl!
Why hath thou forsaken me!!

"Yes, Please. Dill." I say instead.

He looks at the mess he's handing me, and in a gesture of apology throws FOUR pickles on my plate. That's crazy generous. We make eye contact and then IPublish Post let my gaze drift down to the sandwich and his four sad offerings of dill. Then back to him. He looks away...ashamed.

YOU CANNOT BUY MY SILENCE WITH PICKLES!!!

I just overheard the most awesome conversation. It went something like this:

Lady: So... you hold down the fort while I'm gone.
Latino Co-Worker: Eh?
Lady: Hold down the fort while I'm gone.
LCW: The fort?
Lady: Yeah. The fort. Hold down the fort.
LCW: What is the fort?
Lady: This is. This is the fort.
LCW: I should hold it down?
Lady: Yes. Watch the fort while I'm gone.
LCW: Watch the fort?
Lady: Yes! Watch the fort!
LCW: The fort?
Lady: Ugh! Yes. You... watch the fort ...while I'm gone. Hold it down. You're in charge.
LCW: Hold it down?
Lady: Yes! Hold it down! You are in charge until I get back. Make sure nothing happens.
LCW: To the fort.
Lady: THIS IS the fort!
LCW: (*shaking head*) Okay.
Lady: Okay?
LCW: Okay.

It's awesome to see a conversation go from baffling, to condescending, to  frustrating in a matter of seconds. Look Lady, she's not familiar with that colloquialism. Try something different. Making her sort through the double set of allegories is like watching someone try to climb a ladder to the moon. It's painful and stupid. Just stop and tell her she's in charge until you get back. Sheesh.

In other news, it is a spectacularly miserable October morning. I mean that. I love how downright grumpy it is outside. I believe the switch from Autumn to Winter ought to involve at least a few temper tantrum days. It's all windy and rainy and cold and the leaves are blowing off the trees in giant flumes like the mist left by the surf pounding the coastline. The sun is all weak and sad and thin and buried behind a thick, downy comforter of dark gray stormclouds.  Awesome. Awesome. Awesome. I didn't even bring an umbrella today  in deference to whatever god is up there pouting. Bring it on you grouchy bastard! I love this shit!


The Boy is turning into a Hobbit, I'm afraid. He made me order him two breakfasts at the drive-thru this morning. One for now and one for later in case he needed "a little smackerel of something". He knows using Winnie-the-Pooh speak on me works every time. I feel so manipulated. He also told me he was getting ready for bed last night at the Speed of Lint. Because when you do your laundry,  the first thing you find in your pockets afterwards is lint. Lint is THAT fast! (He got this from The Tick and is therefore awesome.)

That tears it. I've decided. From now on when the supermarket clerk or the checkout person at the Quik-E Mart says "Thank You." in that unmistakably dismissive "I don't really mean it." way that signals the end of their time tolerating me, I will NOT say "You're welcome."

I know. I know. It's dickish and probably signals the end of the human race as civilities continue their inevitable slump back to the Cro-Mag days. But Kip-damnit! They don't even mean it! Here...lemme 'splain.

I'm in the Quik-E Mart this morning making my usual purchases of a porno mag and a spray paint can for huffing milk and cookies. The line is long. Like...ass-long. Like...I considered stealing my $1.25 worth of stuff because my time is WAY more valuable than the price of any commodity long. (Except for diamonds. I would wait in line if I was buying diamonds.) So I  make some general grumpy noises and take my place at the end of the line, all the while looking to make eye contact with one of the other patrons so that I can do the "Dissatisfied Customer Head-Shake (DiCHS)". I found no takers because it was early and everyone was buying coffee and still looking at their shoes. (I still shook my head, but it was for my own benefit.) When my turn finally came I dumped my diamonds on the counter and she rang me up. She didn't even ask if I wanted a bag! She handed me back my change without looking at me (and thereby totally managing to not notice how handsome I looked.) and said "Thank You."

And that's when I pulled my coup. I said "Mmmm." and walked out the door.

In my mind, she totally stopped what she was doing. She looked up expectantly as I walked defiantly away. She realized she had just objectified me and minimized my importance as her customer. She also super-regretted not giving me a bag and she spent the rest of the day wondering what a man with such an attractive back-of-the-head might look like.

What really happened is the guy behind me asked for some "American Spirits" and she asked to see his ID.

I recognize in these trying times as Wall Street burns, and Sara Palin rides around on her dinosaur trying to out-cute Tina Fey, and people look at their retirement accounts with the exact same anticipation as one looks at the closed door in the Dentist's office behind which an alarming number of drilling sounds can be heard, that the necessity for civility only increases. I also recognize that I am sitting here fretting about not saying "Thank You" three hours after the run-in, so really instead of being all anarchy and piss, I just feel guilty. But still, we have to draw the line somewhere, don't we?

Now can I get a plastic bag from someone...this paint isn't going to huff itself.*




* Thanks to the Grey Street Girl for teaching me the ins and outs of huffing paint. It is a rare woman who goes to such lengths for her man.

 I remember sitting on a stool next to my father under the hooded fluorescent light in the basement. The greenish swatch of sickly luminescence swayed almost imperceptibly as the two thin chains that were artificially thickened by years of spiderwebs and dust rocked gently on some moldering air current. The dark wooden beams overhead with their dismal pink beards of brown paper-backed insulation. The soft lullaby of water dripping into the cistern. The bright, hot smell of the melting solder wafting up to my nostrils, as my father sat hunched over the tiny circuit board, his jeweler's loupe screwed into his bloodshot eye. My dirty elbows stamping into the dust of the bench holding up my weary head. I'd watch as he moved with the grace of a neurosurgeon over the transistors. The tip of the iron would touch the solder causing it to trickle onto the correct connection. Hours and hours and hours. And then he was done, and we had our first computer, and he programmed it to print over and over and over again on the cheap Black and White TV he had procured from a garage sale the week before. It was an ugly jumble of wires and anarchy and LEDs and capacitors with a push-pad keyboard that was really just a series of tiny flashlight switches. I remember sitting there and watching those words scroll endlessly, the pixels glowing like white coals in the dark basement. I remember reading the scrolling words in the reflection of my father's eyes as I looked back at him for confirmation that this hobby of his was talking to us.  The smile on his stubbly face as he looked on at his creation is one I will never forget.

"Hello World. Hello World. Hello World.Hello World. Hello World. Hello World.Hello World. Hello World. Hello World.Hello World. Hello World. Hello World.Hello World. Hello World. Hello World.Hello World. Hello World. Hello World.Hello World. Hello World. Hello World.Hello World. Hello World. Hello World.Hello World. Hello World. Hello World.Hello World. Hello World. Hello World.Hello World. Hello World. Hello World."

Two things were born at the same time in that moment. The computer and my love for them.

We join our hero in the middle of an important lesson on sexual relationships at the tender age of nine. Imagine if you will the endless rows of cub scout tents stretched across the horse field. Thousands of pre-pubescent boys with no one to make them stay hygienic. I bet the smell was dazzling. The full moon rises as we all head off to bed. Outside the scout masters talk to one another quietly, before crackling flames that twinkle across the field like an ancient and mysterious archipelago of light. They probably are not discussing molestation convictions for the sake of this story.  Let's see what's going on in MY tent...

Me: It's cold.
Rob (my cousin): Zip up your sleeping bag.
Me: I did. I'm still cold.
Rob: Too bad there's not a girl in there with you.
Me: Heh. Yeah. That would be awesome.
Rob: You wouldn't even know what to do.
Me: Yes, I do. I would totally make fuck* with her.
Rob: "Make fuck?" HAhahahaha! You just say "fuck".
Me. Oh. Well...then I would totally fuck her.
Rob: You would?
Me: Totally.
Rob: She would have a baby.
Me: No way! I'd put it in her butt.**
Rob: THAT'S how they get pregnant, dummy!
Me: No it's not! You have to have pussysex*** to get a girl pregnant.
Rob: Go ahead. Put it in her butt. You'll be a proud papa at 10.
Me: Really?
Rob: Yep.
Me: So...all girls are like that?
Rob: Yep.
Me: And they like it like that?
Rob: No. They like it in their pussies better. But that's the only way to make a baby.
Me: Oh.
Rob: Why? You haven't had sex before?
Me: Well... just once before. I guess I'm lucky she didn't get pregnant since I put it in her butt****
Rob: You're such a liar.
Me: Oh. Right. And you've had sex with a girl before?!
Rob: Yep.
Me: No way.
Rob: Yep. Only I didn't put it in her butt because I don't want a baby! You're so stupid.


I spent the rest of the night imagining my 3rd grade teacher, who was pregnant, being fucked in the ass by her husband, my soccer coach. I barely slept.

I spent the next 2 to 4 years terrified of women and their ceaseless cravings of baby-making anal sex.

To be fair, Rob was a credible expert... Uncle Chuck had TONS of Playboys that Rob stole and snuck up into the barn. It was like having access to all the secrets of women, all the time, when he was around.I felt lucky that he was willing to impart his wisdom on me so openly. Until the next morning, when he told the rest of the scouts about my anal sexcapades. Then he was just a big jerk.



* I specifically remember making this mistake in my verbage because of how hard he laughed at me. I'm not being cute here.

** It's amazing how quickly this solution came to me. I need to discuss this event with my therapist, maybe.

*** This might be creative license. But "pussysex" should definitely be a word in the middle school vernacular if it isn't already, I think. I stand by my re-enactment.

**** I like how this lie perpetuated my ignorance while validating my theoretical 9 year old sexual goddliness.

Still having "The Block", so if you were hoping for a major glut of fresh, invigorating and rejuvenating content from me, you might just want to close this down and go have a nap or beat off or something. Sorry. I can't deal with that kind of pressure right now. There are only 26 days left until the election, and the whole of America seems on the verge of imploding. Now, I'm not strictly opposed to that...but I do watch with growing apprehension as the gap between Obama and Ol' Man McCain refuses to grow at any kind of rate that makes sense. I remember the surety I felt 4 years ago that the people of this country were smart, and would never vote in THAT idiot again.

So now I can't sleep at night.

Here...let me tell you a story.                                                                                                

A tourist in New York right now is getting off the train in Grand Central Station, tilting her head a little at the beautifully gilded, vaulted ceilings and asking her overweight husband with the giant fucking camera bag that she BEGGED him to leave at the hotel because it's NEW YORK and there are MUGGERS,  "What IS that smell?"

"It's okay, Baby. That's just Wall Street burning."

"Oh. Okay. Can we go try and stand in front of the windows at 30 Rock? I wanna see Matt Lauer. He's so HANDSOME now that he's graying."

"Calling it '30 Rock' doesn't make you sound like a New Yorker, you know. It just tells people you own a TV. Go stand by that clock. I wanna get a picture."

"I wish we hadn't stayed up so late. That debate ruined my night. I had really wanted to see the new 'Fringe.' "

"I know, right? I'm dragging myself this morning. Let's find a Starbucks!"

"Ooo. How metropolitan of you! People are going to think we're from Queens. Wait...Queens is the clean, white one right?"

"No. I think that's Brooklyn."

"Whatever. Let's get that coffee. Don't forget the sign!"

"Okay."
(*He's holding a sign that says "Cumberland, Ohio LUVS you Matt! xoxoxo!!"*)

The End.

Pray for us.

Blah,blah,blah...I still got nothing. I should probably leave a disclaimer on this that says "WARNING: This blog is going nowhere and by reading it, you are allowing the author to steal a piece of your day and use it for his own nefarious devices." (I have decided I will use the word "nefarious" in every blog I write until I get my game back. Feel free to keep track at home! Fun for the whole family!)

Seriously.

I'm going to take these few minutes you give to me, and I'm going to save them up and use them to help me get to work on time. I'll tell my boss..."I'm not late...I've got dozens of unused blogging minutes. I'm going back in time, motherfucker!" And then I'll make a dramatic hand gesture like magicians do, and wait for everything to go in reverse, or for Doc Brown and the Delorean to come roaring out of the wall, or for those wavy lines that happen when they flashback in a movie and I will just stand there in my full-on time wizard pose smiling smugly. He will then point out that I'm an idiot. And then I will punch him in the neck with my glazed donut still in my hand and it will leave a big, sticky, grease-gray welt on his Adam's Apple. And then security will escort me from the building whilst I try to flail loose from them, kicking and spitting and swearing...because I REALLY can't think of anything better to do.

Whew.

The only thing worse than writer's block is being bored and having writer's block.

I think I'll just make a series of statements and you can choose to react to whichever ones you see fit. I'll make sure they're all true because I believe in journalistic integrity. Not my own, mind you...I just believe that it exists...like El Chupacabra and Ninjas.

1) I drove past a house this morning whose front lawn was completely over-run with wild turkeys. I mean...there were lots. I can't help but thinking the home owners might call an exterminator, there were so many. It would go something like this in my world: "Ace Pest Removal. What kind of ...Uh huh. uh-huh. 10 of them, you say? Uh-huh. Thanksgiving. Right. No,Ma'am. No chemicals. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Gobbling until all hours,huh? Uh-huh. Yes. We'll... Uh-huh...No Ma'am. We don't have any stuffing-based extermination methods. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Okay. We'll be right over. (*click*) FRANK! Grab The Baster!"

2) There was a frost last night, so I guess winter has officially decided to make a go of it again this year. I feel very pouty about it. Like maybe if I had a temper tantrum, God would change his/her mind and just throw a kegger this year instead. It could be a really long kegger, if he/she was worried about filling up the time. I'd be okay with that.

3) I still haven't got around to filling out my change of address cards from the Post Office. I get so little mail that it has had absolutely NO impact on my life. But somewhere out there....there is a bureacrat who thinks I'm living somewhere I don't. That's right...I know how to stick it to the Man.

4) Speaking of which...Johnny Rotten of the Sex Pistols is now selling butter in a commercial over in England. The overwhelming disallusionment I am feeling is offset only by the fact that the product in question looks all golden, melty, and delicious.

Then:






Now:




I hate irony.

I'm run down. That's all I can think of. I find the prospect of writing anything to be ominous and overwhelming. I don't even feel like writing out my grocery list, which means I'll come back from the store with straight razors and cookies and a box of some crazy cheese product I got roped into sampling and thought tasted decent.

Sending me into a grocery store without an itinerary is the moral equivalent of genocide from a time killing perspective. I wander around like my sherpa has been carried of by a particularly foul-tempered yeti. Seriously. It's ridiculous. I can't even count the number of times I've found myself staring at  the lobsters in the fish department and wondering whose job it is to put rubber bands on their claws. That, my friends, is a shit job. But I'll just be staring at the tank and thinking about that poor sonuvabitch in Maine who has to get out of bed knowing he's going to be spending his whole day handcuffing shellfish, and the minutes will spin out into quarter hours. If I'm lucky my phone will ring. If I'm super-lucky it'll be someone I can ask why I came to the store in the first place.

Such is my life without writing.

The problem is, I don't feel particularly witty. I would love to pretend that I write to further a cause or advance some agenda. (hopefully a secret one involving international intrigue and bikini models packing Uzis), but really I just write to amuse myself. You really have no idea how endlessly entertaining I find me. This is not a flattering personality trait. (at least this is what I am told by the ex-...and I suppose she would know). I start to write when I'm in this state, and what comes out looks suspiciously like poetry. I ask myself, "Why are all those sentences so short?" or "Why did I end that thought with an ellipsis?" or "Why did I use the phrase 'cloistered dark and nefarious things' when I'm trying to write a story about being a day camp counselor?" The punctuation is all wrong! God Damnit!! I've written poetry! And poetry is the first step to wild pretention, and frankly I'm just not fond enough of turtlenecks to be saddling THAT horse.

So I'll just go on not writing, and then ....wait...what?

Boy: Did you vote for George Bush the second time?
Me: I NEVER voted for George Bush!
Boy: That's good.
Me: Why?
Boy: Because George Bush and John McCain are dickheads.
ME: WHAT!!!
Girl: Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha!
Me: You can't say that word!
Boy: Oops! I'm sorry! I forgot!
Me: You forgot that you can't say the word "dickhead"?
Boy: No. I forgot I couldn't say it in front of you.

I am both proud and horrified at the same time.

Dear Jackass,

There is no point in ranting about Autumn. It, like your wife leaving you for someone thinner, less bald, and entirely less crotchety, is inevitable. Bitching at length about it doesn't do anyone any good. Summer has ended. Get over it. The thought of you in a Speedo alone is enough to bring a Nor'easter howling in,off the lake. Even God can't handle THAT shit.

I understand that you have to drain your pool. Life sucks. I know that without the constant ability to complain about its maintenance you are going to run out of conversational topics early. Maybe you could go down to the trampy part of town and pay a transvestite to stomp on your nuts for a five-spot. THEN at least your misery would be interesting to me. The pros and cons of a +1 pH in your inground means as much to me as nude pictures of Dabney Coleman. (Wow. Did I really just pull that image out of my head?)

I also get that now you will have to pay someone to rake your vast yard to get all the leaves up before they kill your prize-winning fescue. Wow. And here I was donating all my money to under-privileged, blind orphans needing liver transplants. (ie: hookers). I should have been shoveling cash at the Rich Assholes in Danger of Having to Work A Little Foundation. Whatever will you do? I mean besides pay that burn-out from the Landscaping company copious amounts of cash to do it for you? Maybe you need another martini?


Some of us LIKE the cool air in our nostrils in the morning, and the way the steam roils off the canal like thick, billowing curtains. Some of us like the way the sunlight takes on a thin and defeated quality, kissing the newly turning leaves with soft hints of amber and scarlet. Some of us like feeling the cold air on our faces when we wake up, subconsciously causing us to draw the heavy comforters to our chins as we hit the snooze one more time.

So shut the fuck up already. It's not like you are any happier any other time of year.

Love,
K-

ps: I still have all my hair and an active sex life.

* Started the day off right. I woke the kids shouting "Get outta yer berths ye stinkin' bilge rats, there be decks that need a-swabbin', an' scurvy lands ta plunderrrrr. Arrr!" Apparently THEY didn't know it was International Talk-Like-A-Pirate Day. Landlubbers.

* Played a rousing match of "Pinecone Hockey" or "Pockey!" as He likes to call it, with the Boy as we waited for the bus. He claims I cheated but I could have sworn hip-checking was in the rules somewhere. I think he might have killed that little pine tree. He landed in it pretty hard. ps: I totally won!

* I had another case of the Drive-thru stupids this morning. Usually, my M.O. is ,I pay and then drive off without my coffee. THIS time I was trying to order in a pirate voice and I said "I'll have two chocolate chip muffins, two milks and a Cafe mocha, me hearty! To Go!" It made the chick wearing the headset laugh. She shot back. "Are you sure you want that 'to go'? You could just sit out there in the car for a while and enjoy your breakfast." I was so focused on my Piratese that I wasn't concentrating on the content of my message. Stupid trying to talk like a pirate.

* Looks to be a long quiet weekend for me. I'm looking forward to that. More time watching porn collecting my thoughts and working on the new novel. Yeah. That sounds believable. Assuming you also believe in unicorns and that newly nominated Shiny Thing, Sara Palin, is a qualified vice presidential candidate. Wait...what?

*I was wishing they had International Talk-Like-A-Ninja day, but then I realized that a ninja who talked would be a very shitty ninja. It's hard to silently deal death onto your foes when you are chattering on and on about cupcakes or Scrabble or how awesome bacon is or whatever*.

*We just had our bi-annual fire drill at work. It's funny watching the waddling herd of 50-something, plaid polyester shirt-wearing, velcro shoe-having, Viagra dependent,flaccid bellied old men, grouse their way out of the building and stand in circles talking about how awesome John McCain is and what a shame it is that we live in a state that is permanently blue thanks to all the "Jews and Faggots" in New York City. I've often contemplated running into their midst and making loud, startling noises...just to see if I can make some of them drop dead.


*I have now mentioned Pirates, Ninjas, coffee, cupcakes, bacon and masturbating in one session, officially making this the most awesome blog ever. Some people might say I was a legend. I would have to reluctantly agree.

I've reached the point of diminishing returns when it comes to threatening to embarrass my daughter. This morning, The Boy and I were out on the front porch with her as she waited for the bus. Normally, we are sequestered safely inside the house so no fellow bus-riders will know that she actually has a family. Like most teenagers she is acutely aware of how uncool we are. The nice thing about her, is that she rarely seems to care. But the bus is different. If we embarrass her as she gets on the bus, she has to sit there, trapped in a metal tube while being harangued. There's nowhere to hide. This is where I come in.

Me: Hey! I know! Let's do the "Waiting for the Bus" dance! (*does horrific shuffling hillbilly dance*)
Boy: Hahahahaha! Yeah! (*does equally horrific chicken-like spasm thing*)
Girl: (*sigh*)
Me: I'm waiting for the schooool buss! I like the schooool busss!
Boy: I like to riiiiide it! I like to riiiiide it!
Girl: (*unaffected*) Are you done?
Me: Yeah. I guess so.
Boy: I like to riiiiide it. I like the schooool Busss!
Girl: Will you take him inside now?
Me: (*sigh) Yeah.I guess so.
Boy: I am in 8th grade! and I am stooopid!
Me: Okay. That's enough. Be nice.
Boy: I'm going to stay out here and dance.
Me: No you're not. Come on. Let's go eat some waffles.
Boy: Okay. (*runs inside*)
Me: You weren't even a little scared I'd embarrass you?
Girl: Nope.
Me: I'm losing my touch.
Girl: That's what she said!

I am stunned because a) She knows now I would never embarrass her on purpose, b) She totally used my best joke on me, and c) I'm her father, damnit! I'm supposed to be embarrassing, annoying and inappropriate!

Just as I'm walking inside, head hanging low from obvious failure at being a jackass, I hear the bus pull up. I watch my tall Girl stand up from her seat on the porch steps, and I realize that she really is growing up despite everything I've tried to prevent that. Just then I hear the back screen door slam shut. A blur in the driveway. I look back to see the Boy standing at the end of the driveway doing a particularly stirring rendition of the "Waiting for the Bus" dance. He keeps it up until the bus pulls away and he's laughing hysterically as I try and reprimand him without laughing.

He doesn't buy it.

So as I sit parked at a red light this morning, I casually look over to see if the person next to me is driving a bigger piece of shit then I am. It's a fun game I like to play called "Try and feel superior over someone else's car, when you're driving around in a complete catbox on four wheels." I rarely win, but when I do it's like a tall drink of cold water. So I check it out. Nope. Not this time. It's a late model Lexus. My vehicle doesn't actually even qualify as a "car" by comparison. I might as well be riding around on a saddled goat or a Segway. Displeased with my loss... but hardly surprised... I am about to turn back to watch the light when I see it.

There are things you witness in your life that could qualify as "glorious". I'm talking about that which makes you a better human being for having been graced with its visage. I'm not saying this elderly, refined business man, with two, entire, hairy knuckles jammed up his right nostril counts as such... I'll leave that to the historians, when they write about the event that changed my life forever... I'm just saying "Wow". I mean this guy was rooting around in there like the antidote for some poison a gang of ruthless kidnappers had given his only daughter was in there somewhere. He was doing the whole mouth contorting thing, like maybe he was poking his brain stem and momentarily losing muscle control in his face.

Of course, I started laughing and narrating as his mouth made dramatic "oooh" and "ahhh" shapes.

"I think... I can... just reach... the tip. Hand me.... that... poleaxe! Quick! I can...almost...ahh..ahhh..ahhh...".

I'm laughing hysterically at myself at this point. The guy scowls for a second, pulls back the finger to a more reasonable depth, reseats his grip, and then plunges again. I almost peed my pants. Really.

That's when he looked over.

We locked eyes for a moment. His index finger was still distorting the wall of his nostril into the tall shape of a shotgun shell. I could see the finger wriggling around under the skin. I stopped laughing almost instantly. For whatever reason, I felt like I was the one who had been caught. It played out like a high-noon showdown. Him with his trigger finger buried up his nose, me trying to wipe the tears from my eyes. We stayed like that for a second. I could picture Ma and Pa Jones, hustling their half-wit son off the boardwalk in front of the 5 and 10 as the shadow of a buzzard turned circles in the dust around us. A tumbleweed blows past. The clock ticks to 12pm.

And then he scowled at me.

That's right. HE scowled at ME. Because I had the audacity to catch him picking his nose. I think he was pissed off because I had deprived him of a hard-won meal. No way could he eat whatever species of flora and/or fauna he had just extricated from his nasal cavity knowing he was in plain sight. I found myself getting angry at his lack of embarrassment. I felt like shouting "Dude! You were totally just picking your nose! I saw you! You drive a $50,000 luxury car and you're still mining the green gold!"

I didn't say that though. Instead I just sort of blinked a bunch because then the lights changed, and he tore off...desperate to get started on his phlegmy breakfast.

Booger-Eating Morons: 1
Kurt: 0

I was pretty sure from the moment I woke up that today was going to be six kinds of fucked. I have never before attempted to isolate these six degrees of morning fuckitude, but I shall do so now in pursuit of scientific breakthrough. Are there more than six? What is the glass ceiling in terms of fuckery? Let us investigate.

Level 1: Basic "I don't want to be awake" Fuckery - This is the kind most people have most mornings. When the alarm clock is blaring and it's cold outside and the covers are going out of their way to be warm. I mean, seriously...when you lie down at night they don't feel like that. What the hell happens to them in the night to make them all inviting and womb-y? Magic. That's what.

Level 2: Advanced Basic Fuckery or "Where the fuck are my glasses?" -  This happens to me at least once a week. I've finally pushed through the unwillingness to be vertical only to find that I've been turned into Velma from Scooby-doo during the night. I can almost see myself in her tight orange sweater and red miniskirt as I crawl along the edge of the bed, pawing at the rug and wondering if I should be yelling at the kids for this. Oh shut up, I have fantastic gams.

Level 3: Lower Middle Level Fuckery or "Bad things in the shower." - This happens every few weeks. The Girl has used 6 towels in order toassure maximum dryness, leaving exactly none in the bathroom. Now I'm not a female, but I THINK I've seen all the parts that they have. Is there some unknown area that requires six goddamn towels to dry it? What is there... a spigot somewhere that I don't know about?  Nothing feels better than a cold morning breeze shriveling the testicles whilst you try patting yourself off with a handtowel that only resembles "dry" in that it isn't made completely out of a liquid and which upon further inspection, appears to have been used as a kleenex by some filthy, soon-to-be-orphaned child.

Level 4: Middle Level "I swear to Kip....if there weren't laws about beating children." Fuckery - This one is among my personal favorites. They SEE that they are running late. They KNOW how tense you are getting. They UNDERSTAND that if you are late it makes you bitchy. Hey! Wouldn't this be a great time to start bickering over who was ready first? Or how about just calling the small, overtired sibling "Smelly Fruitfoot" for no good reason other than to see if you can make him cry? Wouldn't this be the best time for that? Why is Dad turning purple?

Level 5: Upper Mid-level Fuckery or "I hate my fucking car." - You're already late. You've almost come to terms with it and you are finally showing progress towards getting this piece of shit day off the ground. That's when you turn the car over and remember sitting in it the night before and thinking to yourself "Fuck it. I'll just get gas in the morning." or better yet, someone left the domelight on because broad daylight isn't goddamn bright enough for...you know... riding around in and now the battery is dead. It is at this point when you have to warn anyone near you to never, ever,ever speak to you again or else you are going to freak out and kill them. And no you aren't being metaphoric.

Level 6: "The coupe de grace." - We get the car moving because I know how to pop a clutch and live on a hill and then we head to the gas station to fill the tank. Everything is going fine. Everything is back on track. I breathe a sigh of relief as I get to the house. I turn the car off and try restarting it. It purrs to life. And by "purrs" I mean "makes ungodly loud and flatulent noises because I haven't gotten my exhaust fixed yet". I turn the car back off. The Girl's bus crests the hill and that's when she turns to me and says "Oh my GAWD! I forgot my backpack!" and bursts into tears. Level 6 baby....Level 6.

I'm sitting in the cramped waiting area to which the bitchy secretary has banished me. I look up at all the plaques on the wall and snort to myself about the fact that they are all for making charitable contributions...not for any type of excellence. If they had a plaque up saying "Presented to [COMPANY NAME] for killing 1000 Grizzly Bears with their bare hands." then I would be impressed. These plaques were the equivalent of the "participant" ribbon I got every year in the grade school Olympics for coming in 1000th place in the slow kid relay.  These were the kind of prize you get when you donate the monetary equivalent of a spray-painted, styrofoam ball diorama of the solar system in a shoe box to the science fair. Cheap fucks. No wonder they couldn't afford a pleasant receptionist. I sit there in the hard plastic chair and imagine-slash-wish  hideous physical conditions on her that might justify her being ugly both on the inside and the outside. "I bet she has hemmerhoids the size of Manhattan." was my first thought. Then I gave her Mad Cow Disease. (In my head I used the words "Bovine Spongeform Encephalitis" because I am very proud that I know the real name and will trot out that nugget any chance I get...even in my own head.)