THEY SAY IT’S MY BIRTHDAY

It’s happened. As of today I am officially 48 years old. And as the old joke goes; if I’d known I was going to live this long I would have taken better care of myself.

So, what have I learned in 48 years on this planet? Probably much less than other people my age, but I’ll share a few things I’ve learned along the way:

• Sitting on the tailgate of a pickup truck when it’s going 70 mph is a lot of fun, but it ceases to be fun if you fall off. Trust me on this one.

• You should never feed a cat bubble gum.

• You should always try to do the right thing, because I’ve discovered that doing the wrong thing is actually a whole hell of a lot more work, and it’s never as much fun as you thought it was going to be.

• Following a quart sized container of Buttery Nipples with shots of Jägermeister is a really, really, BAD idea.

• You can’t bullshit your children. You can try, but they see right through it. So just give up and be yourself.

• Never wear red underwear with white linen slacks.

• No matter what it is, if you sacrifice a relationship for it, it’s not worth it.

That’s pretty much it…the sum total of all that I’ve learned. So now it’s time to take stock of my life:

Well…I’m married to this hottie who also happens to be the world’s coolest person:

My brilliant son is happily married to the perfect woman and is teaching at Baylor:

My beautiful step-daughter is happily married and is teaching elementary school music in Indiana:

And having Jamie, the wonderful new addition in our home, is keeping me young:

So what can I tell you after taking stock of my life?

…I don’t think it gets any better than this.

EDIT: My son is much, much too kind

I’M A DANGEROUS MAN

I’ve been trying to catch as many of the season premiers on TV as possible; primarily because my brain isn’t full of enough mindless drivel as it is.

I was eagerly awaiting the premier of “Smith” staring Ray Liotta. The show is about a suburban-dwelling traveling salesman who is married to a beautiful woman in the dental profession. The twist is that he is secretly a master thief who organizes high profile heists.

Since I happen to be a suburban-dwelling traveling salesman who is married to a beautiful woman in the dental profession, I thought the premise looked promising.

In the season opener, Ray and his band of nefarious, yet scruffily sexy, comrades stage a high-tech art robbery in a Philadelphia museum. They escape on a speed boat amid remotely triggered explosions just in time to hop a red eye flight home and enjoy a quick visit to the mile-high club with Amy Smart in the spacious cabin bathroom.

While Ray is accomplishing all of this, his wife thinks he is in St. Louis selling plastic drinking cups.  When the show was over I turned to my wife and said “you just THINK I’m going to Washington D. C. next week to sell a bunch of amplifiers.   In reality, I’m a devastatingly handsome thief who is actually flying to Rio de Janeiro to hack into a highly secure banking computer network so that I can steal millions of dollars and wire it to my secret Swiss bank account. 

My wife yawned and said, “first of all honey, even though I’m no longer startled when I look over and see you first thing the morning, you’re not exactly what most people would refer to as devastatingly handsome. In fact, sweetie, you look a lot more like Abe Vigoda than Ray Liotta.  Secondly, since I saw you trying to put a floppy disk in the CD drive on the computer last week, you’ll have to forgive me if I find the idea of you hacking into a secure banking network rather humorous. And finally darling, you can barely squeeze your own ass into the bathroom on an airplane, let alone tap anyone else’s while you’re in there.” Then she said, “by the way, if you’re secretly a millionaire, would you mind paying the cable bill on time next month?

Well…I’m on that “business trip” to Washington D. C. right now and in an effort to be more “dangerous” than my wife seems to think I am, I’m living totally on the edge. First of all, she thinks I flew into Reagan National…I actually flew into Dulles. How’s THAT for blatant deception! Not only that, just moments ago, I got a refill on my diet coke in the food court at the airport WITHOUT PAYING FOR IT! To top it all off, the 350 lb bearded woman sitting across the aisle from me just looked my way and winked, so all I’m saying is; “if the lavatory is rockin, don’t bother knockin.”

Yes, I’m a dangerous, dangerous man. I just hope someone doesn’t come up with a show about a suburbanite dental hygienist who is secretly a high paid assassin.

Disclaimer: My wife didn’t actually say those things to me; she’s much too sweet for that. She actually said I look more like Rodney Dangerfield.

Disclaimer #2: I have not now, nor have I ever, had carnal knowledge of a 350 lb bearded woman. I always ask them to shave first.

COLD SKIVVIES

I watched the season premier of “Criminal Minds” Wednesday night, and as a result I’ve been thinking a lot about my mother. My mother was a very interesting woman; homemaker, wife, mother, friend, confidant, and…paranoid schizophrenic.

In the television show, the mother of FBI agent Spence Reid is a schizophrenic who is able to help her son solve an especially heinous crime. Her character was a charming woman who was certain the government was spying on her while she cheerfully lectured a non-existent class on the medieval romance of Tristan and Isolde. My mother was a charming woman who was certain a nationwide ring of evil real estate agents was tracking her every move while she cheerfully carried on a very close, but completely imaginary, relationship with the Oak Ridge Boys.

I’m telling you…you can’t make up stuff that good.

Being the only child of a schizophrenic parent can make for a colorful childhood. My mother often became confused and had an interesting habit of putting my socks and underwear in the refrigerator after she did laundry rather than putting them in my dresser. There is nothing quite like digging your tighty-whiteys out of the vegetable crisper to put a real spring in your step.

I never really realized that things were “different” at my house until I became much older. I assumed everyone’s mom was terrified of people in Century 21 jackets.  Despite the fact that she was certifiably cuckoo, I always thought she was a great mom. I never doubted I was loved, and I always knew that she was doing the best that she could.

As I watched the show I wondered what the world that existed in the mind of the schizophrenic character was like, and I’ve been wondering what the world my mother lived in was actually like. Unfortunately, I’ll never really know. She died at the age of 51 in the mental ward of a local hospital. That age is only three years away for me and for some reason that gives me a sense of connection with my mother that I haven’t experienced before.

It’s time for bed, but before I crawl under the covers I think I’m going to go throw a pair of boxers in the freezer.

It might give me a cold ass but I’m pretty sure it’ll warm up my heart.

TODAY’S YOUNG-UNS AND THEIR DEVIL MUSIC

Holy crap…I have become my father.

Before I explain my decent into geezer-hood, I would like to begin this post by responding to those of you of the female persuasion who suggested below that the answer to the “male accuracy” issue is for men to pee sitting down. My God women…is it not enough that we feign sensitivity? Is it not enough that we willingly go to chick flicks? Is it not enough that you send us to the grocery store to buy feminine hygiene products? Must you completely emasculate us by taking away our God given right to whip it out and demonstrate our urinary prowess by peeing from a standing position?  I say shame on you…shame on you and your daughters!!!

Ok, I feel better now. Back to why I’m an old fart.

I’ve mentioned before that when I was a teenager, my father would scream at me to “turn that crap down” when he heard me in my room playing the drum solo from “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” for the 813^th time on my eight-track tape player.  I’ve also mentioned that I swore that I would never judge my children’s music that way my father judged mine.

But then Jamie came to live with us.

It’s not that I’m judging her music; it’s just that, like my father, I’m simply too old to understand it. As a teenager I had the capacity to fully appreciate the brilliance of lyrics as profound as:

In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida, honey,

Don’t you know that love you?

In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida, baby,

Don’t you know that I’ll always be true?

The subtle sub-text and adroit metaphor were lost on my father, however, in much the same way the appeal of her music is lost on me.

She is a big fan of a group called “Autumn Offering.”  When she first told me about the band I thought it was a lovely name. I immediately thought of Stravinsky’s “The Rite of Spring” and assumed it must be something similar.

Not so much…

…it’s really more like “Rite of Ritual Sacrifice.” As a musician, I can appreciate the speed and accuracy of the drummer. I can appreciate the intricate guitar riffs. I can even appreciate the numbing bass line, but I haven’t been able to bring myself to appreciate the vocals. Jamie calls it “great singing,” I call it “apparent castration.”

I think great music speaks to the heart and to the psyche. Music has the profound ability to alter moods, to inspire greatness, to incite rebellion, and to sell beer and shock absorbers. The music of Autumn Offering just makes me want to take a Valium and lie down.

But that’s ok; I love Jamie and I don’t have to like her music. I obediently drive her to school every morning with the top down and Autumn Offering blaring to within an inch of my speaker’s lives so that she can make a “proper” entrance…but the moment I pull away, I stab the eject button hard enough to make my finger bleed.

Today’s post is interactive. Take a listen to few seconds of the title track:

AUTUMN OFFERING

Now, tell me; are you a young whipper-snapper, or have you become my father too?

 MISCONCEPTIONS WOMEN HAVE ABOUT MEN

In her current blog, Primeval Wench makes mention of the fact that men at her office often have a difficult time “hitting the mark” in their unisex bathroom. She elucidates: “Wouldn’t you think that people who like to boast that they have the skill and dexterity to write their names in the snow with their beloved appendages, would be able to hit the inside of that big white bowl ?”

That seems like a reasonable assumption, but those of us with a “beloved appendage” know full well, that it is a blatant misconception. This got me to thinking about other misconceptions women have about men.  So, in the interest of gender communication, please allow me to address this, and other “male urban myths.”

·        The topic at hand (or “in hand” as the case may be) – Men should be able to pee where they aim:

One would assume that having a point and shoot device attached to your body would give the owner some level of accuracy. This couldn’t be further from the truth. I commented on Sheila’s blog that the penis could be thought of as a rifle with a twisted barrel; just because it is aimed in a certain direction is no guarantee that the “stream is going to head toward the ocean” if you get my drift. The penis is often a highly unreliable device (in more ways than one) and this can be exacerbated by other conditions. Suppose the gentleman has taken one of those little blue pills (in order to solve one of the afore mentioned reliability issues) and finds himself with one of those erections lasting more than four hours that the drug company is always warning us about. Have any of you women ever attempted to stand over a toilet and pee into it with an erection? AH HA! I didn’t think so!!! This requires a level of gymnastics that are truly Olympic worthy. In fact, I think it should be an Olympic event. I can hear Bob Costas now: “Ladies and gentlemen, Guillermo Alvarez will now attempt to hit the bowl while doing a triple back flip with a full layout from the uneven bars.” I dare any woman reading this to try THAT!

·        Men think about sex once every 7 seconds:

This urban myth has been around forever. Men are constantly portrayed as lecherous horn dogs who can become aroused simply by seeing the picture of Aunt Jemima on a bottle of pancake syrup. It is true that most men are aroused by the picture on the syrup bottle but it has less to do with Aunt Jemima than the stack of pancakes. I personally find the Land O Lake’s babe to be much hotter. Younger men do tend to obsess a bit about sex but as we get older and more mature we finally realize that there is more to our earthy existence than a roll in the hay, like NASCAR for example, as long as the trophy girl has bodacious ta-ta’s and a string bikini.

·        Men should be able to fix stuff:

Allow me to quote from an article in the Journal Current Opinon in Neurobiology, Volume 6, page 259, by Doreen Kimura: “Scientific evidence for consistent differences in cognitive function between men and women has accumulated for well over 50 years. A solid body of research has established that men, on average, excel on spatial tasks (particularly those tapping ability to imaginally rotate a figure), perception of the vertical and horizontal, and spatial-motor targeting ability.”  My professional/academic assessment of this statement is that it is “caca” because it has perpetuated the myth that men should be able to fix stuff. It is true that there are men who are good at fixing things. Those men are called plumbers, electricians, construction workers, etc. The rest of us can’t fix shit. We will never admit this, however, because to do so would be a huge violation of the guy code.  So be warned…If you need to get something fixed, fix it yourself, or hire someone who does it for a living. The rest of us will just screw it up worse than it was to begin with.

I’m glad I was able to clear up these misconceptions and further facilitate meaningful dialogue between the sexes. Now if you’ll excuse me, I had several glasses of iced tea while I was writing this and I need “drain the main vein.” I don’t want to miss the bowl, though, so I think I’ll just use the sink.

TIM THE TOOL MAN HAS GOT NOTHING ON ME

I’ve mentioned before that the guys in my office like to call my masculinity into question for the following reasons:

• I have no interest in college or professional sports. I will watch golf on occasion, but only when I can’t find my sleeping pills.

• I have never developed a taste for beer. I listen to all the hype about barley and hops and brewing temperature and light and dark and domestic and imported and to me it all tastes like weasel urine.

• I not only like show tunes, but as a person who spent many years as pianist/musical director for area theater groups, I often play show tunes.

• After a year of taking ballroom dancing lessons with my wife I can dance a pretty mean rumba, cha-cha, triple-step swing, and fox trot, but my waltz and quick step still needs lots of work.

None of their ribbing bothers me because I’m completely secure in my “guy-ness.”  I think farts are funny, I refuse to ask directions, I own underwear older than my children, and I can give a woman 45 seconds of pure ecstasy.

Pretty impressive “Guy” credentials if I say so myself.

After this weekend, however, I will be able to take photographic proof of my rugged manliness back to my office. I needed to do some major leveling work in my back yard so I rented a backhoe.  Contrary to what I originally thought, a backhoe is not a working girl with a big booty, but is a piece of diesel and hydraulic machinery guaranteed to make the testosterone levels surge in any male.

I felt like a three year old playing with a dump truck. It was lot of fun, but most importantly, I was able to get the backyard leveled without knocking the house down. My male neighbors from houses all around ours came to marvel at my backhoe and bow before my superior manhood.

Yep…I plan to take the pictures into the office on Tuesday and prove once and for all that I have the biggest backhoe in the office.