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.