And The Eager Beaver Award Goes To...

I've watched a lot of golf, and from what I've seen, professional golfers project some of the most uniformly stoic personalities in sports.  Their blandness seems rivaled only by CPAs for the least interesting people to talk to at a party.  Rarely do you see personalities like John Daly experience much success in such a profession.  He's the only player sponsored by Hooter's for crying out loud.  In terms of personal life scandals, I never thought Daly's would be surpassed.  Certainly not by the biggest name in the sport, a name I will not be using in my post in order to avoid the Google's furtive peeping.  Hereafter I will refer to him by codename:  Lord Bangkok.

I have experienced a range of reactions with the still-unfolding story of Lord Bangkok's exploits, starting with denial.  When I first heard of the Thanksgiving accident, I didn't want to believe that he had been carrying on an affair.  Did I ever think he was infallible or "above that"?  Not really.  It just didn't seem to fit with my perception of him.  I watched him play at The Congressional tournament this summer, stood within five feet of him as he teed off at 14, watched his laser-like focus.  He had a smokin' hot wife with two little kids.  He seemed so grounded in that relationship, it never occurred to me that he would cheat.  For full disclosure, I'll  add that if I had a wife like that, I'd be eating out of her hand for as long as she'd let me.  Could be the celibacy talking, though.  I digress.

It was disappointing to say the least.  But my mind quickly found a box of cynicism to pack away the old image and roll out the coping arguments.  "He's on the road nearly every week of the year working.  He's a rich, young, attractive professional athlete.  Women probably swarm him everywhere he goes.  He's only human."  But day after day, new women kept coming forward.  I moved on to a whole different kind of disbelief, more of the shaking-my-head-while-muttering-"unbelievable" variety.  From the photos of the women, they all looked like they came off an assembly line, The Hasbro All-Stars.  And while I've never found that sort of plasticity attractive, Lord Bangkok certainly seemed to be as consistent with his women as he is with his 7-iron.  Or so I thought.

Then came some pictures of women that were total outliers.  At this point, I couldn't find anything within myself but amusement.  This story had just gone gonzo and I mentally couldn't get my arms around it anymore.  I could only laugh when I saw this long cool woman in a red dress:

My first reaction was, "When did Lord Bangkok start picking up women at the Waffle House?"  Followed by a chuckle.  Followed by the bristling of the alpha-hairs on the back of my neck when I realized he was poaching on my turf.  I felt defensive suddenly, and thought, "So the Hasbro All-Stars were too boring?  Sinking your putts at the exclusive Augusta National course isn't enough for you, now you gotta come down to my muni course to show off??"  Turns out, I wasn't too far off with the Waffle House thought.  It was Perkin's.  A Perkin's waitress bringing Lord Bangkok a little extra gravy with his grits.

Then there were the porn star(s).  One fit the Hasbro mold.  The other...not so much.  This wicked little trollop had a tramp stamp of a lion above her cellar door and a tattoo of a baby in diapers right next to it.  Classy.  I'm betting from looks alone that she has about a half-dozen piercings not in her ears, and made Lord Bangkok feel like a very, very naughty boy.  Not to mention she was 40.  There are plenty of foxy 40-year olds out there; that is not the point. The point is, she's a porn star; more directly, she's a 40-year old still doing porn!!  That's gotta be like taking your car to Jiffy Lube for an oil change on your truck:  quick and professional, but no matter how proud you are of your rig, staring at those 20-foot bay doors is just a reminder that they service much bigger rigs than yours all day long.

All in all, the fallout from this situation really saddens me.  He'll lose his family.  I don't see his wife recovering from the humiliation he's put her through.  He's already losing a significant amount of current income, and will probably suffer some loss of long-term earning potential.  His charities and causes will undoubtedly suffer as well.  And he has nobody to blame but himself.  I don't defend his actions.  He betrayed his wife and children in grand fashion.  And for who?  A bunch of party girls and gold-diggers?  His actions are indefensible.  But the level of sanctimony and holier-than-thou-ness coming from many in the press makes me want to puke.  Many of these fat, ugly sports writers have, shockingly enough, had affairs of their own.  The only thing that's kept them from stepping out on the scale that Lord Bangkok did is their lack of money, talent, charm, and looks.  Spare me the "but Lord Bangkok is on a pedestal.  He was supposed to be better, and he owes his wife, his kids, the PGA, and America an apology" bit, you hacks.  Your tartuffery is shameful.

So here I am.  I've finally completed my journey, and have overcome my disillusionment.  Lord Bangkok is more human now, not such a cyborg.  I believe he's still a solid guy who has made a long list of bad decisions.  I hope he can get his priorities in life re-booted and concentrate on being a good dad.  I hope he can get his spirit recentered in something solid that works for him and that gives him strength.  I hope he eventually returns to golf, and when he does, I hope he proceeds to thrash the record books.  He's got at least one fan still pulling for him to come through as a person and as a golfer.  Godspeed, Lord Bangkok, til I see you again at Torrey Pines.

I Can't Believe I'm Writing a Post About Survivor

My roommate and I had a little scrap this morning regarding the outcome of Survivor last night.  Russle, who in my view played one of the most strategically bold and aggressive games I've seen, lost the jury vote to Natalie by a vote of 5-4, taking home the $1 million prize.  My roommate was happy with the outcome, while I felt it was an absolute case of Survivor jury nullification. 

In the final tribal council when the jury members were given the opportunity to question the final three contestants, (a step in the process intended to help jury members make up their minds), none of them seemed interested in anything the contestants had to say.  Instead, they took the opportunity to whine about how they had been blindsided by their own ouster from the game, many of them by Russle's maneuvering.  And yet, I couldn't help thinking about how each of them had watched Russle dispatch other players with whom he'd made alliances and still made no counter-moves to get him out of the game.  Fool me once, shame on you.  But these folks, especially Jaison, sat around for weeks riding Russle's strategy and making no moves of their own (Jaison's gonna be a pretty aweful lawyer if he doesn't thicken up his skin and learn to strategize on his own).  Mick and Natalie argued that Russle couldn't have gotten to the end without their help.  I guess, but does sitting around like pawns while Russle pushes you around the board really deserve a million dollars? 

My roommate thinks so.  Five members of the jury were so aggrieved by their betrayal that they obviously thought so.   Back when I first got drawn into one of these strategy games, I would have agreed.  I wanted the person who played the most ethically sound, honest game to win.  And if a person who plays that way makes it to the end, sure I would like to see them win.  But having watched a few of these shows, I think these games are warfare, and I am more inclined to reward players that play, even if I was a victim of their tactics.  What happened last night is not even close to that.  It was the strategist and two of his pawns in the final, and the jury rewarded the pawn. 

It makes me think back to the Big Brother last season with Jeff and Jordan.  She was the cutesy little blond with the southern accent and nobody really gave her much credit.  Sound familiar?  She employed the "fly under the radar" strategy, which is a legitimate strategy.  And when Jeff fell for the dumbest ruse ever employed in television strategy games and got himself eliminated, I thought she'd be gone too.  But when called on to keep herself in the game, she came through and outperformed the other alliance that was still in the game.  Natalie didn't do that.  She was a complete non-entity the whole game. She got a good bit of camera time because she's kinda cute.  But neither she nor Mick made a single move besides aligning with Russle at the start.  She didn't win a single challenge, didn't contribute to the strategy.  When she defended herself to the jury by saying that her and Russle "bounced strategy ideas off each other," I almost laughed out loud.  From what I saw, she sat there while Russle told her how to vote, and she voted.  I guess that's what makes me so unsatisfied with last night's result.  She did nothing to win.  She won by not playing.  The jury rewarded her incompetence with $1 million.  I am with the minority vote here:  I believe that, love them or hate them, the person who plays the best game strategically should take home the prize.  Not that any of it matters.  I just wasn't happy with the outcome.

One thing my roommate and I do agree on, Shambo's brand of crazy was the gift of the season.     

Blog Rule #136: Know Your Audience

If you're going to offer a taste of what's in your jockstrap to the quarterback of your mother's alma mater, make sure your mother doesn't read your blog. 

"Deserves" Has Nothing To Do With It

This weekend was the annual rivalry game between the University of Utah Utes and the Cougars of Brigham Young Academy University.  It's a familiar story, replayed in nearly every rivalry in sports:  Team X hates Team Y and vice versa, and fans of both hope their team stomps the other into dust so they can gain some feeling of superiority-by-proxy through their team's victory.  Of course, parties to the Utah-BYU version of the story feel that there is something extra special about their rivalry.  In the local Utah press, it is called The Holy War, as if the very tenets of Provo's Candyland Mormonism are under assault by the mixed-faith gentile forces from Salt Lake. 

Both of my parents and two siblings attended BYU, so I was a Cougar fan from afar growing up.  When I enrolled at Utah after my return from Russia, I became a Ute, but didn't really get into the rivalry in my first year.  I liked them both.

Nothing like a year's worth of up-close exposure to their program to cure that.

It wasn't so much their fans in Utah that pushed me over.  Most of the trash talk you hear is the same crap you'll hear in any rivalry.  I'm not one of those who believes their fans should be held to a higher level of decorum because they root for God's school.  They're just as prone to human passion as I am.  Besides, good-natured trash talk is half the fun of it.  No, it was their players that killed any affection for their program.  The more I had to listen to jagoffs like Reno Mahe run their mouths to the press about how they get no respect for their 12-0 season, the more joy I experienced when a middling Louisville team mopped the floor with them in their bowl game that year.  It was the crybaby, entitlement arrogance from those teams earlier in this decade that transformed me from a Holy War agnostic to a war-painted Ute.

This year's game was an overtime nail-biter.  It didn't turn out the way I would have liked, and to be stuck watching in a venue where we Utes were outnumbered made it all the more difficult to swallow.  I about ground my teeth to dust watching them all stand up and sing their stupid fight song (who writes fake growling into their fight song?!). But it was amicable afterward.  I laughed and continued my trash talk, congratulating the Cougar fans and telling them all to get bent.  They called me a bitter poor-sport; I told them I've got their sportsmanship right here in my jock.  Haha.  Fun and games.

Then Sunday morning I read what BYU quarterback Max Hall had to say.  No haha from Maxie.  He decided to go scorched-earth at the post-game press conference, sparing nobody.  Here's a more-or-less complete collage of his mouthing off, so you can get an idea of the breathtaking arrogance of this kid:

"I don't like Utah. In fact, I hate them — I hate everything about them.  I hate their program. I hate their fans. I hate everything. So, it felt good to send those guys home. They didn't deserve it. It was our time, and it was our time to win. We deserved it. We played as hard as we could tonight, and it felt really good to send them home and to get them out of here, so it is a game I'll always remember."

When pressed about why, he continued:

"I think the whole university and their fans and organization is classless. They threw beer on my family and stuff last year and did a whole bunch of nasty things. I don't respect them, and they deserve to lose."

Not one to limit his goodwill remarks to his vanquished foe, he was next questioned about his poor performance in last year's game, which gave him the opportunity to micturate all over his own fans:

"People can say whatever they want to say, but until you're on the field and in that position, you have no room to talk or say whatever.  So, I really am thankful for our loyal fans and the people who stuck with us and with me and who continue to be positive with us and with me and say good things. And for the fans who sit behind screen names on the internet and say bad things about you aren't true fans, and it felt really good tonight to get a win in front of the good fans."

Hear that, BYU fans?  Until you've thrown 5 interceptions and fumbled twice (in one game!!), you don't deserve to criticize me!  I am above your thoughts on good quarterbacking.  So if you criticize me, you are not TRUE Cougars.  I only play for GOOD fans.  If you want be be a LOYAL fan, you'll only say positive things about me so I can continue to feel good about myself.  I'm talking to you, CougarBlu4Life.

If there's a way to win the battle while losing the war, Max just found it.

I really don't care about him saying he hates Utah's program and fans and the university in general.  Whatever.  It's a rivalry.  And despite the press release apology that the P.R. department wrote on his behalf, I accept that Max Hall still hates me.  I think his comments were as raw and unfiltered as they could be, and that he really does feel that way.  And I don't care.  Fuel for the tank keeps my motor running.  What really gets me is the "deserves" part of his comments.  BYU played their hardest, therefore, they deserve to win.  By extension, Utah must not have played their hardest, and therefore did not deserve to win. 

Really Max?  Because I always thought that the quarterback who goes 12-of-32 for 134 yards was the one who deserves to lose.  You turned in a dogs*#t performance and then walked into the press conference and threw up all over your opponent and your own fans.  I'd say that you deserved to lose, and you won DESPITE your on-field performance.  But deserves has nothing to do with it.  The sad part is, BYU fans have loved you because of all the monster numbers you've put up against the bottom feeders of the MWC.  It is you who has betrayed them by regularly wetting the bed in every big game you've played in.  You are a choke artist.  That is your M.O.  That, and now poor sportsmanship.  Lucky for you I've still got plenty of that left in my jock for you.  But since you seem to be better at performing with your mouth than with your arm, you'll have to come get it on your knees.

Humungus Denounces Pretentious Navel Gazing

Dear Seeing,

You are free to point and mock all you want.  And it DOES make you a total jerk.  But to what end?  Thanks to folks like you, these people of whom you speak are almost certainly already aware of whatever glaring defect you are so itchy to point out.  Except maybe the bad breath guy.  He never seems to have a clue.  The reason doctors get to speak frankly about these issues is that the people have come to them seeking counsel for complications associated with these issues.  It is part of what they do.  They spend years in school learning to make their insults sound like constructive criticism, as opposed to your unschooled, overt disgust.

But that is all beside the point.  What I don't understand here is, where is your head?  If you intend to survive the apocalypse, you need to start practicing apocalypse thinking right now.  You should be grateful that these people have been stamped with such glaring signs of inferiority.  Open your eyes, jackal.  They are bright, shining beacons of your first meal of Armageddon.  They may as well carry banners that say, "Not fit to survive the collapse of civilisation.  Help yourself to my coat when Nuclear Winter arrives."  I'm not saying you need to inspect the contents of their garages to see what kind of goods they have, but it might not be a bad idea to tail them home, just to get an idea of where to find the low-hanging fruit on your first foraging expeditions.

You may also want to look around and assess who you have surrounded yourself with for friends.  You will need to form alliances for protection and procurement of necessities.  Also remember to avoid friends who display signs of extreme vanity.  Highlights in the hair isn't an immediate cause for concern, but coupled with waxed eyebrows, pedicured toenails, and a pierced bellybutton, the alarm bells should be ringing.  Every hour spent gazing in the mirror is an hour not spent honing survival skills.  Their inability to cope without running water or shopping malls is generally equal to the inability of the physically deformed to cope without prescription medication and mayonnaise.  If you see that a high proportion of your friends are stamped with one or more of these inferiorities, it may be time for you to branch out.  Try the gym.  Or the firing range.  Anywhere where you will find people practicing skills useful when chaos reigns over law. 

Come to think of it, you may want to do a self-assessment while you're at it.  If you feel you may be among the stamped, who knows?  Maybe with some work, there may still be time for you to get the target off your back.  Just don't come around me.  I don't want your stench of weakness rubbing off on me.  Sit tight and I'll be by to pick up all of your canned food and/or camping gear soon enough.

Don't you wish your mom was bomb like mine?

My mom is quite possibly the bombest in all the land.  In the wake of my GMAT meltdown, the first person I texted was my mom.  And my distressed/enraged texts must have left a powerful impression.  Today as I approached my building after work, I saw a package on the stoop out front.  I bent to see who it was addressed to, never thinking it could be me.  Right there on the mailing label was a note for all the world to read, "Thinking of you in this hard time.  This too will pass.  I love you.  Mom."  I'm positive that every UPS man that handled that package and every person that walked past my building today saw that note and wished they had my mom.  Even as I write this, I am snacking on chocolate covered pretzels and carmel corn.  Someone's getting a Guns N' Roses box set for Christmas.  I love you back, mom.  You're the best.

I Hear Her Voice, In The Morning Hour She Calls Me

I've stated my affection for the city of DC before.  City life has a constant hustle to it.  There is always so much going on and something to do.  But I wasn't raised as a city boy, and often I get to itching for an escape to nature.  What this means is that around late April of every year, I spend the better part of my workday wishing I were anywhere but the city.  I daydream of floating down a lazy river or hiking a "mountain," as they like to call their hills here.  The last two years, I've taken a nice, long Saturday floating on an inner tube down the Shenandoah river in order to sate this need for escape.

But we had a particularly brutal legislative season at work, and we got runned over in a major way by the states.  My annual trip down the Shenandoah fell short of the needed release.  This year I made a more concerted effort to get away from the city to places where I could clear my head.  I went to Puerto Rico for Memorial Day, where I hiked the rain forest, climbed (and fell off of) many waterfalls, and swam in the bioluminescent bay.  That trip will warrant its own entry soon.  Below are some pictures of a weekend camping trip I took in July.  I went with some friends to hike the Blue Ridge "mountains" and take a ride on some natural water slides.

On the way up the trail, we passed a slide that looked way too steep and possibly dangerous, and decided that a person would have to be crazy to give it a try.  For anyone that's new to literary techniques, that last bit is what we call "foreshadowing."  Anyway, we continued up the trail until we came upon a group of people enjoying this much safer, more docile slide:

It was pretty fun, in a playground kind of way.  The water was about two degrees above freezing, so I got a good nipple workout while swimming.  So there's that.  But the whole time, I couldn't shake the thought of how much more fun it would be to ride Big Slick further down the trail.  I knew that if I left the hike without giving it a try, I'd regret it all the way home.  That's the way I am.

As could be expected, when I climbed out into the stream, it looked much steeper than it had from the rocks overlooking the landing pool.  I sat perched atop the slide for a few minutes, hovering over the water, contemplating the beneficiaries on my life insurance policies.  This is a little ritual I developed in the wake of my near-death Puerto Rican waterfall experience earlier this summer.  Having determined that everything was in order in case the ride ended poorly, I yelled "I'M RICK JAMES!" and dropped into the rushing current for an exhilarating 1.8 second plunge.  Yahoo! What a ride!  This will be an annual trip, I think.  The only thing that could make it better is warmer water.  I'm not asking for much; three or four degrees would do wonders.  But all in all, a great escape.  Thanks to V-Slice and Jeanette for the pics of the weekend.

In The Business of Getting PWNED!!

Stooped at a table, in silence I've toiled

Adding 'like factors' and practicing FOIL.

Robbed of my slumber, questions still burning,

I tossed and I turned, the cogs always turning.

"With TIME and HARD WORK you can master this test."

Such positive thinking helped summon my best.

For months I prepared and finally felt strong.

My answers hard-earned very rarely were wrong.

I zigged when you zigged, zagged when you zagged.

Of success I was sure, my win 'in the bag.'

If X equals Y, and seven is three,

How many monkeys can live in a tree?

If apples are oranges, and both fruits are pears,

Then why is it round if the pi are squared?

What is the ratio of knickknacks to widgets,

And what's the percentage of three-headed midgets?

I know it! I know it!  The answer is three,

If X equals pears and the knickknacks are free!

But if you add seven to a factor of Y,

Then midgets hate apples and eat all the pi.

YES! I felt good.  I could conquer the world.

Of course I'd do well when the test was unfurled.

And you played the puppy, your submissiveness fake,

Sitting and rolling and learning to shake.

I thought I had tamed you, trained you to lay,

So I sat down to pet you at the end of the way.

I reached out my hand and heard a deep growl.

Your teeth were well-honed, your breath was most foul.

Now staring, shell-shocked, into your maw,

I was three-quarters there, no time to withdraw.

Or was it four-fifths?  Is that a factor of red?

And what's the probability of me wetting the bed?

Probability's good, for no jugular was seized.

You tore through my gray matter with relative ease

Deceptive, bloodthirsty, villainous savage!

My meticulous plans you fiendishly ravaged.

With claws and incisors you ripped at my dreams,

Devouring my hope whilst the carcass still steamed.

Empty, disheartened, brainless, or more,

My plan fades to black.  The horror.  The horror.

I Just Blue Myself

So this post is jumping the line a little bit. I have other stories to tell, but no time to tell them right now. Sorry. This little dispatch doesn't require much explanation, so I thought I'd put it up now. Plus, I've actually had a number of requests for these pics, despite the fact that they may come back to haunt me at some future point. Never let it be said that The Humungus doesn't listen.

So without further ado, I give you Tobias Funke, analrapist.

And in case you had your doubts about my committment to the character, nevernude shorts were in play. It's a good thing I'm such a fan of nakedness. Otherwise this would have been awkward. And for those who are unfamiliar with Arrested Development, the unpainted ring around the waist was intentional.

This costume was actually, by my standards, a late breaking idea. Normally, I'm planning my costumes around March so I have time to track down and assemble all of the items, and also so I can string out the costs over the course of months. I had been planning a full-on luchadore getup this year, but costs started getting prohibitive when I started adding in the boots and tassled wrist greaves. I had bought these shorts for a race I ran in September, but didn't end up wearing them to race. I did try them on at home, though, and when my roommate saw them, he asked if I was being Tobias for Halloween. In a matter of 0.7 seconds, my answer went from "Gee, I'd never thought of that," to "Yes. Yes I am."

Despite the warm reception it received at the party, I'm afraid this will not be a repeat costume. In terms of effort-to-payoff ratio, it was too low. Painting the entire body is messy, time consuming, and uncomfortable. I spent the whole night trying not to touch walls and people. I couldn't get no hugs from all the pretty ladies. Riding in the car was a mess, and cleaning the body paint off at the end of the night took forever. What can I say? Lesson learned, I guess.

From the Redwood Forests to the New York Island

Washington, DC is a fascinating place. It occupies a special niche in terms of tourism. There aren't A LOT of other American cities that can be thought of as tourist destinations simply for being a city. Just ask Baltimore. New York can. Boston. Chicago. Maybe San Francisco if you're gay. Some will read that list and think, "Really? Because I wouldn't spend my tourism dollars there. I'd rather lay on a beach/go skiing/go on a cruise/explore ancient ruins, rather than ride the subway and stare at buildings." My point exactly. Those cities don't hold any interest for large swaths of the population. But DC? DC is the embodiment of our great American tale, a monument to the greatness of our heritage. It is our secular Mecca. At some time in their lives, most Americans will make at least one trip to DC.

But living here the last few years in the shadow of so much history, both past and present, for me it's just life. I forget how exciting it is for some people to visit DC when I'm shopping for groceries or jogging past Arlington Cemetery or sitting in traffic on Route 1 on the way home from work. I drive through the National Mall where all the monuments and museums are housed regularly. But I'm on my way to some other destination, not gawking at monuments. So it's kinda nice when I have guests visit from out of town and get to be a tour guide for all the sites. This April, my mother and sister came for a visit, and I got to be a tourist for one fine weekend at the tail end of cherry blossom season.

DC tourist attractions are different for me than you might think. I already have pictures of all the monuments and have visited most of the museums, so I'm on the lookout for moving exhibits of awesome wonder: tourists. I'm fascinated by other tourists visiting from all over the country, all over the world for that matter. Because DC is such a universal attraction, I get a pretty good cultural sampling from around the U.S., and often I'm mesmerized by what I see. The thought that we come from the same country sometimes confounds me. I marvel at how different we are in our sameness. Take this young pilgrim, for example (I highly recommend clicking to enlarge all of these pictures to get a more detailed look):

Now, my mom wanted in on this pose because she, too, is a huge Guns N' Roses fan, same as Sasquatch there. But the contrast in how they express their devotion couldn't be painted with brighter imagery. He's more "Welcome to the Jungle," while mom is more "Sweet Child of Mine." Yet they share a national heritage. Same as this next darling:

I understand being a tourist. You are away from your hotel all day and it's important to find an option for carrying all the things you may need during the day, like your camera and smokes. And it is imperative that you are comfortable. However, my answer would probably be a backpack. Or a messenger bag. Or a purse, if I'm a woman. Or put them in my pockets. Many options here. I'm always amazed at how common fanny packs are on tourists. No matter how good you think you look sucking down a Camel, no amount of sex appeal gained can overcome wearing a fanny pack. Speaking of outfits that should have been spouse-checked before leaving the house, Tiff just had to get a picture with this Man's Man at the Gettysburg battlefield:

True, this was taken in Pennsylvania, but it fits the theme of cultural tourism. This guy was a mountain of a man with a shock of red hair on his head AND on his shoulders, a red-headed Shrek in the flesh. He's wearing a CSI shirt, but if he has any detective skills at all, his Crime Scene Investigation will lead him straight to a mirror. And finally, get a load of these yokels tromping around the White House lawn:

The doofus on the left is probably thinking to himself, "How do they load that house on a truck when they gots'ta move? Probably got a real nice crapper, though." This was taken right before I discovered the Secret Service's distinct lack of sense of humor. I mean, come on, streaking the portico outside the Oval Office is empirically funny. No question. Maybe if I'd worn my breakaway pants, I could have escaped. Next time.

Anyway, mom and Tiff, I luvz you ladies. Thanks for coming to see me.

So, You Come to this Trough Often?

I like to read about news of the bizarre. Most newspapers have a special section devoted to these types of stories (Reuters calls their section "Oddly Enough".) The journalists do their best to report these stories with a straight face, and most are amusing but forgettable. They require no special commentary. What I'm interested in are those stories that totally blow your mind as you read them (Meth-Stoked Threesome comes to mind, as do the romantic adventures of ShamWow!) It's almost as though you have to rub your eyes and re-read the passage to make sure you read it correctly. The earnest Joe Friday delivery by the reporters does these stories a tremendous disservice. These stories demand editorial comment.

And so I offer for your amusement the subject of today's edition of Sadly Hilarious, under the headline "Iloilo Farmer Molests, Kills Neighbor's Goat."

Yes, it seems that some undoubtedly handsome and charming 18-year old Filipino farmer stopped at a bar on his way home from the rice fields one night and proceeded to get completely blotto. Having previously caught the neighbor's goat giving him The Eye, he decided that tonight he would give the toothsome beast the night of its life. So he drained the last sweet drops of liquid courage into the tank of his swerving libido and made his way to the goat's holding pen. Apparently the goat knew how to push all the right buttons. As stoically reported in the article:

"The report quoted [the farmer] as saying he was going to gather the harvested rice when he saw the goat in a 'prone' position, and took 'interest.'

He said he strangled the goat when it tried to resist his advances.

[He] is now facing charges of malicious mischief from the police.

Clearly PETA wouldn't be amused by this story. But man, this is so full of failure, I hardly know where to start. Let's take it from the top.

First of all, there have always been men/women who have viewed the world through beer-tinted glasses on occasion. Nothing new. But if you are so hammered that seeing a GOAT in a prone position makes you stop and "take interest," you really need to lay off that bad hooch. Really.

Second, of course the goat resisted his advances. It's a goat. He/she will always be interested in other goats. No combination of eloquently slurred come-ons and Sex Panther cologne is going to overcome that elemental obstacle, big boy. Choking the goat to death for being a goat is just spiteful. Or, in Filipino legal jargon, malicious mischief.

Third, malicious mischief? That's what he gets?? Sawing the heads off parking meters is malicious mischief. Molesting and choking your neighbor's goat is something completely different. Perhaps due to the unique (I hope) nature of this case, the system doesn't have a law that would deal with such a shameful villain. Perhaps malicious mischief is a catch-all law for when cops scratch their heads and say, "Heck if I know what to call it, but something happened here that is totally effed up and deserving of punishment." Ultimately, what you call it is less important than the punishment. Some sort of restitution to the neighbor is in order. But I think being known to every girl in the village as the drunken idiot that humps and strangles goats is its own kind of prison. And he built the walls of that prison himself. Sadly, I see a lot more drinking in his future.

Boys of Summer Fade Like the Season

Rocky Mountain High
Bludgeoned by Howard's swift bat.
Farewell, Rocktober.

Paging Theo Kojak

Hair. It's a regular frustration to me. More precisely, getting it cut. Why is it so difficult to find a barber that knows how to cut men's hair? I walk into the shop and there they are, all lined up in their crepe-apron finery, hair school certificates tacked to the mirror behind them, as if that's supposed to instill some sort of confidence in their ability to sculpt a handsome coiffure. But I know better.

No, when I sit down and she asks "How you want cut," I know whatever I say next has no bearing on what I will actually get. I may as well tell her I want to look like this dapper fella up top here. Although I'm pretty sure he got exactly what he asked for, a fact that only magnifies my frustration. That kid, who probably nourishes his supple cheeks with a steady diet of Little Debbies, paint chips and gasoline fumes, walked into a barber shop somewhere in Knoxville and described that NASCAR Dreamcut to his barber, and the barber made it happen. Why can't I walk in and say, "I'd just like a trim. See how it is now? Cut it like that, but shorter." I even show her exactly how much I want cut off. Doesn't matter. She'll keep cutting until it is entirely uneven and uncombable. Is it a language barrier? Am I slurring my words? Lack of training? Lack of concern? Need for speed?

Whatever the reason, it doesn't matter. The result is always the same. I leave looking like I cut it myself with a Swiss Army knife, sans mirror. I want to shave it bald every time I get home.

Some would suggest going to a real Aveda-style salon to get it done. To that I say, I am admittedly a man of certain vanities, but paying salon prices every month for a haircut is a bit left of equilibrium on my demand curve. If I were a woman getting my hair cut every 3-4 months, sure. No problem. But every 3-4 weeks gets to be a bit much. If I had the patience, I'd grow it out long so I wouldn't have to go through the trama so regularly. But I don't have that patience, so it's T-minus 3 weeks until the next trip to the butcher's. Maybe I'll just take a picture of NASCAR Toby up there with me. Couldn't get any worse.

A Cold Wind's A Blowing

"Wanna know why the straw broke the camel's back? Here's the secret: There were a million other straws underneath it."

-Mos Def

War never materializes out of thin air. There is always a string of provocations leading up to the Fort Sumters of history. Raised as much on Nintendo history as I was real history, as a kid I thought World War II started in 1942. I guess that's typical of Americans to assume that a world war isn't really a world war until we arrive. That could have something to do with the fact that we live in a good neighborhood of the world. We have pretty good neighbors that we get along well with, and for the most part, we don't have to deal with their kids being hooligans and corrupting our kids. Sure, they jump the fence once in awhile and raid our barbeques, but they're mostly respectful, hardworking folks. We don't need to be suspicious of their motives, right?

Wrong.

The border wars have begun to gather steam, America. The campaign against our continental dominance is under way. But not from the source you might think. We've all read the news reports of heads in duffle bags and Federal agents being kidnapped and assassinated on our southern border. But the drug war with the Mexican cartels is not what I'm talking about. In that war, we are united with the Mexican government. The new aggression I speak of, detailed in a New York Times article, comes from our northern neighbors, Canada, host of the 2010 Winter Olympic Games. In an act of incitement, the Canadian Olympic Committee has severely restricted access to Olympic facilities for foreigners:

Count the American speedskater Catherine Raney among the athletes, coaches and officials of several sports surprised by Canada's approach to hosting the Winter Games in February.

Raney, who spent more than seven years living in Canada and training with the Canadian national team, was told after the 2006 Olympics that the Canadians did not want foreign athletes training with them leading to the 2010 Games in Vancouver. She and many other foreign athletes had expected to spend quite a bit of time practicing at the Olympic sites, but have been granted only minimal access.

And get a load of this double speak, eh:

Canadian officials said they were following rules of access to competition sites, as set by each sport's governing body. But they also intend to protect the Olympic host's home-field -- or home-ice, home-snow, home-track -- advantage.

At the Whistler downhill course, unfamiliar to most of the world's best skiers, several medal contenders were left watching over a fence as the Canadian team trained. "Everybody was pushing to get on that downhill," said Max Gartner, Alpine Canada's chief athletic officer. "That's an advantage we cannot give away."

[Officials] acknowledge that they are also driven to succeed at these Olympics, perhaps more than any previous host country.

"We're the only country to host two Olympic Games and never have won a gold medal at our Games," Priestner Allinger said. "It's not a record we're proud of."

To put that into shorthand for you, they're essentially saying, "We've gotten our butts kicked on our home court too many times and we're ashamed of ourselves. To remedy this we're going to handicap every other team and give ourselves as much advantage as possible to prove that ours are the best athletes in the world." You've got to be kidding me. What that means to me is they're admitting in advance that their athletes are inferior, but they just care about the gold medals, not about competing.

When the first shots in a war are fired, those who've been paying attention are never surprised. Unfortunately for us Americans, we pay sparse enough attention that when war does break out, we as a public are caught off guard. Especially shocking in this case is that it involves one of our neighbors, whom we generally think we can trust. Well let this be a warning to you, America: Canada is not the jolly, flannel-clad lumberjack nation they pretend to be. They keep their ax honed for more than chopping lumber. Be on guard.

And to Canada: thank you for hockey. And Rachel McAdams. And back bacon. I still like you. We're still friends. But you're playing a dangerous game. And I'm watching you.

Does the ShamWow! Absorb Blood?

Back in March of this year, I caught a news snippet about the arrest of chameleon-eyed TV pitchman Vince Shlomi, face of the ShamWow! super-absorbent chamois and the Slap Chop kitchen aid.

In case you don't remember the story, ShamWow! had taken a hooker back to his room in a swanky Miami hotel for what the police report refers to as "straight sex." (I find that portion of the police report odd. Straight sex. You don't say? Wouldn't you assume that if you're taking a female prostitute to your room, straight sex is somewhere in the evening's plans? Was that just a contractual prerequisite to make sure he didn't have to pay her if he got back to his room and discovered she was packing extra gear? It's like the old Gaffer used to say, "No use packing a fishing pole on a spelunking trip." Be that as it may, a quick deployment of the Crocodile Dundee technique could have clarified any questions before the subject of price was even broached.) So back to the story at hand: ShamWow! goes in for a kiss and this gal bites his tongue. He has to punch the girl repeatedly until she releases his tongue. Cops show up, arrest both for felony aggravated assault. The Smoking Gun picks up the mugshots, both of them with that "longing for the meth lab" glaze over their eyes. It splashes across a slow news day, and I tuck it away in my Hilariously Sad file next to Gary Busy and Ashley Simpson without a second thought.

Then one day in September, I happen across the pictures taken of the two lovebirds at the hospital. Graphic. Back in March, I remember thinking, "Wait, he had to punch this little pixie multiple times to get her off his tongue? What kind of limp wrist was he swinging?" Well the hospital pics, (her passed out drunk and him trying to sell the photographer that Snuggie he's wearing), tell me he did more than Slap Chop her. He bloodied her nose and blacked her eyes. And I'll admit, I thought less of ShamWow! for hitting on a girl. But from the looks of it, he's lucky to have his tongue at all. She didn't just bite down, she bit in. Deep. A fair amount of that blood on her face must be his.

Now ShamWow! may or may not be the type who would, under normal circumstances, hit a woman. I can't say for sure. However, I can say for sure that I am not that type, and I'm not positive that if, (take a big hypothetical leap with me here, people), if I were in the same situation, I wouldn't employ the ShamPow! defense. How was he supposed to know kissing wasn't on the menu? I mean, he's paying $1000 for access to her VIP area, but he can't even get a kiss to start the show? As aggravating as that may be, it's not punch-worthy by itself. But why couldn't she have said, "No, sorry Romeo. Pretty Woman rules are in effect. No kissing." Instead, she launches straight into chomping down on his tongue, which, by the way, you don't get into someone else's mouth without an initial level of acceptance on the part of the other party. She waited until his tongue was in her mouth until she remembered that the Whoring For Dummies manual forbids it. That's malicious intent to bite. I'm not saying she deserved the two black eyes and a bloody nose. I'm just saying.

Ride Boldly Ride, The Shade Replied

In my short time here in DC, I've discovered that among the Mormon community, there are a few events that generate enough buzz to reach the ears of even the most socially inept hermits like myself. I know (or at least am on close enough terms with) so few people that I don't get invited to the regular parties where the cool kids hang out. So when I hear of these bigger events, I will generally try to go and make fond memories. Or at least send the cool kids home with someone to make fun of. Just like summer camp, right? Well when I managed to get on the email list for Dutch Bike Dutch this year, I trembled in anticipation of the mirth and merriment that lay in store.

Dutch Bike Dutch has become an annual event, started by a couple of aggressively charitable and considerate young ladies to raise some walking-around money for orphans somewhere. I'm glad I got to contribute for some pinatas and Jarritos for the childrenz, but if I'm being honest, I didn't really pay attention to exactly what the funds were for. Call me passively charitable. It was a good cause, I'm sure. Anyway, DC is only about a two hour drive from Lancaster County, PA, home to Dutch Amish country. It's beautiful farm land with rolling hills, so it makes for some good cycling. As a result, in the spring, carloads of DC Mormon singles haul their bikes up to Pennsylvania to do rides varying in distance from 15 miles to 50 miles.

I chose to go for the 30-mile ride. Never mind that I hadn't been on a bike since I was 14. I was fit as a fiddle and ready to rock. Or to fiddle if needs be. So I rented a high-priced carbon fiber road bike to really allow me to fly. But to simply ride a bike would be too mundane. The occasion demanded more spice, more verve. So I decided to make my thrilling return to cycling in heroic fashion. As a luchadore.



I thought there was a chance that others would be making the ride in costumes of some sort as well. I mean, who wouldn't want to raise some Amish pulses with a bit of bravado? I was wrong. So very wrong. The closest anyone came was Colton in his $2 Incredible Hulk riding jersey. Ugliest shirt ever, but I applaud the showmanship. And he one-upped me by doing the 50-miler. Two claps for you and the chef lady, Colton.



Anyway, the video will fill in the visual blanks for you. How was it riding 30 miles after a 16-year absence from the sport? Pros and cons both, I'd say. The biggest con was those padded biking shorts. Mercy me, I felt like I was walking around with a maxi pad attached to my gooch with rubber cement. Extremely uncomfortable for a man. Not in a wedgie way, but in a turn-and-cough way. Another con, when I attempted to dismount my bike after 30 miles, I had the spaghetti legs real bad. I almost had to fall over sideways so I could roll away from it, because I didn't have the strength to lift my leg over the bar. Pros, you really do feel like you're flying sometimes. When you crest a hill and hit the downslope and drop the gear, the road slips away beneath you as your cape flaps in the wind. It's quite a rush. It builds hella leg strength in your quads. Boy howdy. And it's a peaceful way to take in the countryside and get some exercise while doing it. I will have to be sure to beg onto the invite list for next year.

And now, a short film (footage compliments of V Slice. Edited by yours truly.)

How To Make Sexxy Time Less Sexy

I always get a bit of a chuckle when I read edicts issued by religious authorities about how to have healthy sex. I can appreciate the desire of those authorities to provide advice based within the structure of an individual's moral foundation on how to control the more primal animal instincts. They are generally good-natured attempts to get the faith's adherents to give proper weight to the issues surrounding the act. But these puritanical directives always come off awkward and oblivious to the humor they hide in plain sight. You can imagine my delight when I read this article in the Daily Mail talking about the special prayer issued for Catholics to read before unleashing their inner beast. An excerpt from the article:

Roman Catholic couples are being encouraged to pray together before they have sex. A book published by a prominent Church group invites those setting out on married life to recite the specially-composed Prayer Before Making Love.

It is aimed at 'purifying their intentions' so that the act is not about selfishness or hedonism.

The prayer, which appears in the Prayer Book for Spouses, implores God 'to place within us love that truly gives, tenderness that truly unites, self-offering that tells the truth and does not deceive, forgiveness that truly receives, loving physical union that welcomes.'

It adds: 'Open our hearts to you, to each other and to the goodness of your will. Cover our poverty in the richness of your mercy and forgiveness. Clothe us in true dignity and take to yourself our shared aspirations, for your glory, for ever and ever.' 

Man. It's funny and sad at the same time. I'm by no means trying to single out the Catholic church here, because heaven knows my own faith makes its share of ham-handed proclomations on makin' good whoopy. But when it comes down to getting down, the last thing I want to do is stop the train to ask forgiveness that my wife and I are about to totally ravish one another. Philosophizing about sex is fine, but come on, to every thing there is a season. Making God an integral part of your relationship is good, but praying for dignity, mercy and forgiveness kinda loses its meaning when you're wearing nothing but a cape and firefighter boots, doesn't it? Do we have to get off the kitchen table first or can we just read this on the fly? Are we supposed to memorize it or am I gonna have to add an extra pouch to my tool belt?
No, my pre-coital petition would take a little different form. It would be something more like, "Lord, I'm here knocking on the very door of creation, and if you'll just let me focus for a few minutes and do this thing right, I promise we'll work you in here before all the shootin's done and the smoke clears."
Of Course, I'm probably not the best person to consult on this. My perspective is obviously skewed, and perhaps more than a bit fantasized. As a practicing Mormon, I follow the commandment to keep my naughty bits under lock-and-key until some mythical keymaster called a "spouse" appears to unlock my special purpose. At this point I'm like a dog who's been cooped up inside all day waiting for my master to come home and take me to the park to play frisbee. I sit at the window watching the other dogs frolic in the grass, thinking every car that goes by could be my master arriving to play. In reality, when the keymaster does arrive, she'll probably take me for a quick duty walk around the block before Survivor comes on. Whatever. So long as she doesn't read me a prayer before she puts my leash on, who cares. I'm walkin', man.

First, Let Us Pray

And the Lion Shall Lie Down With the Lamb

Last year's election was a first for our nation. We elected Abdir Ben Salaam al-Obama to be our first Muslim president. Wait, no, that's not right. He is our first domesticated terrorist president, right? No? He's the first president to openly hate white people? No? First black president?

That's right. Now I remember. This was to be a moment of transcendence, a turning point in the history of the world, when all whites and blacks and browns would beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks. Nations would no longer lift up swords against one another, nor would they learn war anymore. At exactly 11 AM on January 20th, 2009, our new socialist overlord would begin a 1,000-year reign of peace and prosperity never before experienced on Earth or any of its tributary solar systems.

Well, boys and girls, that’s one party I wasn’t about to miss. And my brother, The Nuge, had the decency to come to DC to share in the inauguration festivities in January.  On Monday the 19^th, we worked in a road trip to NYC, Tyson’s first. It was a one day trip, so we didn't have time to see much. But that was just a diversion, a palate cleanser for the real event on the 20th. To hear the jokers on the TV tell it, the trains going into town would be jammed to capacity starting around 3 AM with people trying to get down to the National Mall. Naturally, we felt pressured to leave the house by 5 AM in order to get down and stake out our spot for history.

Stupid TV! Not only were the trains not filled to capacity, we even got seats on the train. Good thing, too, because it was the last time we would sit down until about three o'clock that afternoon.

Mirthful Pre-dawn Smile

We managed to get spots on the Mall right at the red brick Smithsonian castle, and we got there before dawn. Which was good because if we'd waited until the sun actually came up, we would never have experienced the 20-degree pre-dawn temperatures. Once the sun came out, it was almost too warm at 28 degrees. So there was that added bonus for the early birds that listened to the TV.

Other than that, it was pretty uneventful from six until about ten.   We stood around freezing and making occasional attempts at awkward conversation with those around us.  It was such a diverse crowd, all races and ethnicities waiting for the stroke of noon when we would magically scale all cultural barriers and be able to talk to each other. Some made early attempts to figure it out on their own.  I wanted to say, “Look, man, just sit back and relax.  In a few more hours, we’ll have a black/white president.  This conversation will go so much smoother and you’ll look far less ridiculous. ” But I didn’t. Watching the bespectacled white guy in his twenties with the Dave Matthews patch on his backpack trying to make conversation with the black lady in the purple floor-length leather overcoat with gold teeth was just too entertaining.  And it was the only way to keep my mind off the ache of my frozen feet.

Great View of the Speech

Finally, at 11 AM, Lord Zenu descended the Capitol steps on Aslan and knighted Sir Barry the new King of Job Creation and Economic Gravy. I cheered, because I like gravy, economic or otherwise. And from the sound of the crowd, I wasn't alone. I was excited to dab up some gravy with a loaf of unity bread with my new brothers and sisters. The One gave a speech, we cheered again, yada-yada-yada. You saw all that on TV.

What you didn’t see was the Bataan Death March out of there.  The exit strategy for this event had to have been planned by Paul Bremer.  The two nearest subway stations out of there were closed. You couldn’t just walk north into Chinatown, because the north side of the Mall was barricaded for the parade later that afternoon, and the nearest functioning subway station had a two hour line around the block.  So we walked all the way up behind the Capitol, past the Supreme Court building, and into Chinatown, arriving around two o’clock and waiting an hour for a table at the first restaurant we could get in.  The upside to all the walking was that I regained circulation in my feet.  The bad news was that they were not happy with me, and throbbed for days afterward.  Was it worth it?  Absolutely.  The people were all remarkably well behaved considering the crappy weather/transportation/food situations we all dealt with together.  How could I live in DC for such a moment and not go? Having my brother there to share the experience made it that much better. You're the ballz, Nuge.

Season of My Discontent

The end of August always is a little depressing to me. I get so geared up for summer every year and have so many plans for adventures. Inevitably, some of those plans fall by the wayside, as there are a limited number of weekends and Company Policy dictates I be in the office if I intend to get paid for the portion of my life I've agreed to sell them. Damn The Man. Write that down. Put it on a t-shirt. Damn. The. Man.

I so love kicking back, sweating away a hot summer evening sipping a drink and disengaging my mind. The orange glow of evening coaxes the fluids from your pores almost as soon as you raise the glass to your lips. Add in some good friends and you've got your world right where you want it for a few hours. But the thing that puzzles me about those slow-burning summer nights is that the more of them you have, the faster the summer goes. How can a summer of slow nights pass so quickly? I didn't keep a journal last year, nor this year. But as I'm taking inventory of how this year has passed me by, I realize I've kicked a not-insignificant amount of butt. I need to put pen to paper and capture the details of these adventures before they get caught up in a brain dump.

Now that September is here, maybe I'll find the time to catch you all up.

Humungus Feels Nostalgic, Crushes Feeling

Dear Milliwalk-a,

You speak, of course, of the vaunted Жемчужина России. The memory takes me back to sweltering, humid summers, the 19-year old Lone Ranger and his Mexican sidekick Tonto, pausing on the corner in our suits and ties, drops of frustration beading on our foreheads, Russian Pearls in hand. All around us strode the finest Jezebels the city had to offer, hustling bralessly to-and-fro in sheer shirts and shrink-wrapped miniskirts. We stood like the Cliffs of Dover in our white missionary shirts, the waves of temptation crashing, breaking, receding. I fondly remember the Russian Pearl.

But comparing the two confections is impossible. It's like trying to quantify the joy you got from your high school car. You loved your ’85 Prelude by itself because it was jet-black and hawt. There's a second layer to why you loved it: for the role it played, namely, giving you independence. But you were different and the situation was diffent back then. Similarly, I loved the Pearl both intrinsically and extrinsically. Intrinsically for the way it cooled me off and gave me a brief glimpse into heaven. Extrinsically for its uncanny ability to distract me from the gently bobbing bosoms nodding "good day" to me at every turn. "Well hello, yes, good day to you too, ladies. No. No thank you. I can't stop to chat. I have to finish this Pearl before it melts." I became a paragon of self-discipline thru scripture study and ice cream.

Zebra Cakes possess the same intrinsic ability to rouse the tastebuds. And in this wasteland of thirtysomething dating, I’m nearly as monkish now as I was then. Nevertheless, I have strong doubts that a Zebra Cake could provide the same safe harbor in the face of such temptations today. Even the shelter provided by the mighty Жемчужина России might be swept away in such a storm. These days I'm down to a threadbare tarp for protection from the elements. On the right day, a faint breeze bearing the right perfume could topple my lean-to.

Equine Love Poem

Zebra Cake, you wizardly beast.
Half sugar, half crème, all magical feast.
Are you white with black stripes, or white stripes on black?
My eyes see all rainbows when I make you my snack.

My fat cells all squeal with porcine delight.
You’re just what they’d wish for, were Christmas tonight.
I’d blend you, inject you, right into my vein.
But my taste buds and stomach all beg me refrain.

Your waxy, white frosting, no mere flavor dam.
Twirling black ribbons, more seductive than ham.
You beckon me near, my heart starts to race.
There’s rarely such joy, as in your embrace.

The pleasure you bring me is fleeting, yet fun.
But now I must leave you to go for a run.
Now lacing my sneakers, the penance is near.
Alas, you can't stay there, parked in my rear.

Tell Me If This Hurts

5 years. 5 glorious years.

That’s how long it had been since I’d seen a dentist. Having been without dental insurance, the thought of having to pay a few hundred bucks out of pocket for some brute with a hydraulic toothbrush to clean my teeth seemed preposterous. My last visit was out of necessity caused by a clingy caramel that ripped an old filling from my molar about a year after graduation. I shelled out for the repair and a cleaning, but it was a good friend who did the work, so I felt better paying him than a stranger.

Circumstances have changed since I left college. I’ve had dental insurance for the last 3 years. I’ve been told by co-workers that it’s pretty good dental insurance. I nonetheless have avoided using it, because my teeth feel pretty good and I have been judicious in my stewardship over them. This spring I made the mistake of sharing that tidbit with a dental student, who predictably expressed his horror at my negligence. He did his best nagging mother routine, and by the time the conversation was over, I had resolved to get my tusks looked at just to be safe. I only have one set of teeth, right?

After my initial exam, it turns out I’m right about my teeth and gums being healthy, but many of my old silver cavities need replacement, including one that will require a crown. And since my dental insurance only covers half the cost of non-silver fillings, I am going to have to foot a large portion of this Mouth Renovation Project, which got underway this past Monday morning at 7:30 AM.

So it’s my first day back from vacation and I’m paying my dentist $400 to drill on my teeth/gums for 3 hours straight. I’m pretty sure the gums part was an accident, but seeing as how I had enough Novocain in my face to numb a rhino, I had no idea it was happening. This was not the average drilling expedition I was accustomed to as a teenager. I should have known it was about to get messy when the technician handed me a pair of goggles at the start and told me to put them on for my protection. I thought he was joking. By the end of the session, the goggles were covered with silver and porcelain and tooth and spittle and who knows what else. I was informed that the crown they had placed on my back molar was only a temporary while the permanent tooth was molded, and that I should avoid eating solid foods until I came back to get the permanent attached next week. The early morning drilling was just the beginning of my bad mouth day.

Because of the 3-hour drill-a-thon, I was an hour late to work. For lunch, I found a place that serves soup and got a large bowl of chicken gumbo. I luvz the gumbo, so I was happy. Until I took the first spoonful and realized I couldn’t taste it because at 1:30 in the afternoon, my mouth was still completely numb. I quickly wolfed it down anyway, something I regretted around 3 PM when feeling was restored to my mouth. Apparently the soup had been way too hot and I had burned all of my taste buds to ash. Now everything I ate tasted like I was tossing the Tin Man’s salad. When I got home that evening and looked at my mouth in the mirror, it was like a horror movie. Around the tooth with the crown, the gums were all red and bloodied. In addition, I guess I had also bitten into my cheek at lunch, and had a pinky-nail sized blood blister to prove it. And the canker sore I'd developed on my bottom lip from rubbing on my incisor tooth for three hours was inflamed and whiney. I may as well have gargled with gasoline and sat down for a smoke. At least then I could be on America’s Got Talent or something. Why did I think I needed to go to the dentist again?

Bitter/Sweet Massage

A neck, boldly rubbed
to the bone by deft elf hands.
Deep-tissue bruising.

Commencing Countdown, Engines On

It had to happen sooner or later, right? It seems like everybody is blogging these days. For a long time, I figured it to be an exhibitionist hobby of people with obsessive video gamer tendencies without the attendant motor skills. I wondered at the silly things people write about and call news. Do people really care about your trip to the petting zoo with your kids? Does anybody really want to read about the guy who cut you off on your commute home last night? As I amused myself debating possible answers to these questions, I had two realizations.

First, it was me that cared. I have been interested enough in the lives of my friends to read posts on these very subjects. I comment on such posts from time to time. I even have a folder in my Favorites menu titled “Friends Blogs.” Personal blogs aren’t necessarily intended for a wide audience, but for close friends. Being so far from old friends makes it difficult to stay in touch with any regularity. It is nice to be able to maintain at least a voyeuristic connection with the day-to-day triumphs and, yes, monotony of my friends’ lives. Watching them grapple with the challenges and indignities of raising children and navigating careers in a quick-and-easy format is convenient. It struck me that others, especially family, may have the same passing interest in keeping tabs on me. Maybe.

The second realization I had was that I miss having a creative outlet to keep a record of my activities and jot my thoughts on certain events. Once upon a time I faithfully kept a journal. Now I read through it on occasion and remember experiences I had forgotten. I see where I was then and where I am now. I recognize how I’ve changed and yet managed to stay the same. But I haven’t written anything more than semi-annually in years. I enjoy writing. I miss writing. And I need an outlet for writing that status updates on Facebook just can’t provide.

And so it is with this post that I join the blogging masses and declare Dear Humungus open for business. What is Dear Humungus supposed to be? Well, the title is a blatant rip-off of Dear Abbey, the long-time advice column. However, in order to fully understand The Lord Humungus, you’ll have to watch The Road Warrior. His will be a very different kind of advice.

So it is an advice column? Not really, though I am happy to get into character to offer my thoughts on any questions readers may have, be it career advice, love and dating, car maintenance, or even something as mundane as choosing ice cream flavors. My creativity often feeds off of input from others, whether comments or questions. So I hope readers will feel comfortable contributing. I will also use this space to provide occasional travel logs for those interested in how I’m passing my time. I will flog the occasional political horse. I will rant about the DMV or DC Parking Enforcement. I will talk about movies and popular culture. Despite my sweet and agreeable façade, I will sometimes be blunt and/or ‘colorful’ in my expression, and I will sacrifice some sacred cows. In short, I will do whatever I darn well please, according to my energy and mood. Mostly, I hope to provide entertainment for myself and for those who take the time to read. And I hope I don’t make your eyes bleed from boredom. But if I do, look on the bright side: at least your eyes aren’t on Uranus.

The Apocalypse is Imminent

Test message to Smegma Crazies and Berzerkers all around the world: The Humungus prepares to speak. But first, he must find a good font.