Morning Dignity

Setting: A campsite in central Wisconsin the morning after a dear friend's bachelor party. It's late July or early August... or possibly sometime in June.

9:13 am: I wake up alone in my three-person tent. I feel good. This is a small miracle. The amount of time I spent sleeping could have been hours or minutes... or days.

9:17 am: I am greeted as I cross the campsite. "Hey Curtis." I don't know who Curtis is.

9:23 am: I am Curtis. And apparently Curtis spoke very passionately the night before about the theory of evolution and agnosticism. Curtis is also worried that he has low testosterone.

9:31 am: I pull out of the campsite so that I can drive across the state and into Minnesota to attend my ten-year reunion. As I leave, I am told that I should stop listening to NPR because it might be screwing with my head.

9:33 am: I tune my radio to the local NPR station.

9:52 am: I stand in an A & W in Minong, Wisconsin. As I watch a greasy-haired teen fry a piece of breaded white meat for my crispy chicken BLT (CCBLT, I guess), I have time to think about the direction in which my life is headed. It's headed west after the CCBLT: west to Bertha and my ten-year reunion.

9:57 am: I burn my mouth on the CCBLT. The greasy meal does not make me feel better. In fact, I am steadily feeling worse and worse as the minutes go by.

10:13 am: I squint at my iphone screen. A blinking blue dot appears over Minong and at the far end of a purple line that leads home. "You can't go home again," I say to no one.

Well, I can't stay in Minong.

Goodbye, Curtis.

Luck of the Polish, Part 2

So... have you ever created a "Part 1" to one of your self-indulgent blog posts and then completely lost the desire to follow through with a "Part 2"? I know I have. What was I thinking? I rarely have enough to say for a single post. Now I've pretty much committed myself to two posts that are at least semi-coherent when read back-to-back. It's like a C&G mini-series. Who the hell needs that?
But, like I said, I'm committed. So, where was I? I have poison ivy on my legs. The pharmacist thought I was an idiot (or I projected my own deeply-rooted self loathing on to her completely impartial body language) and I bought a bottle of calamine lotion. That about catches us up.

Do any of you realize how wonderful calamine lotion is? I don't know that you do. I sat in my reading chair and dabbed my legs with the pink stuff. There was a slight burning- a comfortable sort of burning- like the calamine was there to kick the itch's ass. I put my feet up and let it burn.

On Monday, I felt good enough to take a trip to the beach. The water was unusually warm and I enjoyed a swim and an hour or so on a towel where I let the sun dry the ivy rash and beat on my shirtless back. On Monday night, my poison ivy (I had taken full ownership) seemed to be under control and I was pleased to join my slow-pitch softball team in our weekly game.

During one of my at-bats I hit the ball through the infield for a single. Upon rounding the base, I found that I had pulled a muscle (or had sustained some other injury that made standing or sitting or just plain existing excruciating). I managed to round the bases and then sat out the rest of the game.

When I got home, the soothing effects of the calamine had worn off completely and my legs were itching in a way that made me want to weep while running in circles. I needed more calamine. Unfortunately, when I tried to reach my legs to apply the stuff, my back protested loudly. In fact, my back decided it wasn't even going to allow me to lean over far enough to wet my toothbrush in the sink. Before calamine, I needed Icy Hot.

I squeezed the small white tube and a dollop of white cream came out. I started to rub it on my back. "Mmmmm," I thought, "icy to dull the pain and hot to... SWEET MOTHER OF GOD, I NEED TO TAKE A SHOWER RIGHT NOW!"

It turns out that I had sunburned my back at the beach and putting Icy Hot on the burn felt about like rubbing on lighter fluid and touching it with a match. So with back and legs on fire for two unrelated reasons, I hobbled up the stairs (at various points on all fours) to the shower on the second floor. Once in the shower, I used what little space there was to run in circles and weep.

After the shower, I covered the lower half of my body in calamine, took two Tylenol PM and started to compose a blog post. About half way through, I thought, "Maybe this should be two blog posts."

A week and one day later, I got around to finishing that thought.

Luck of the Polish, Part 1

I came home last weekend after being out of town and was looking forward to a couple days of nearly epic laziness. That's when I found a small red spot on my skin just above the sock line on my right leg. The spot was itching, so I did what any idiot would do: I scratched the hell out of it.

Soon the little red spot had a few friends on my right leg and then he had a few friends on my left leg. They must really have been enjoying themselves, too, because they were all puffed up and burning and itching like nothing I have ever experienced. It was the kind of itch that makes you want to scratch until your fingernails come off.

I discussed the situation with my mother on the telephone. She said, "It sounds like you have poison ivy. Please don't scratch it until your fingernails come off."
"What about double-amputation?" I said with a quavering voice.
"Go to the pharmacy."

I told the pharmacist of my situation. She gave me a look that sent a subtle message. "The rest of the people in your life may not think you're an idiot," said the look, "but I know." She guided me to a shelf of pink plastic bottles.

I was skeptical. I had seen that pink plastic bottle before. I had seen it in every medicine cabinet I'd ever snooped around in while going to the bathroom at a party. It was always three-quarters full and wearing a label that placed its manufacture date somewhere in the mid- 70's. This pink plastic bottle didn't seem to be helping the general public. I looked at the pharmacist. Her body language said, "This is your only option... idiot."

I bought the pink plastic bottle and some cotton swabs and started home. I should say that I sprinted home. The little burning, itching red spots on my leg had given me this wonderful new urgency with which to conduct my life: I longed to run everywhere.

I had little to no faith in the pink plastic bottle, but... well... desperation is a funny thing...

(to be continued)

Effortless Winking and Other Talents Possessed By My Alter-ego

I only allow myself to drink on Sundays. It’s a part of my diet plan. Actually, I don’t allow myself to call it a “diet plan”. I prefer to call it a “lifestyle change”. Of course, calling it a “lifestyle change” makes me seem like one of those self-help junkies that never really seem to change during the “lifestyle change”. I think I’ll call it Project Kickass.

So, as I was saying, I only drink on Sundays because of Project Kickass. It follows that Sundays are now the only day that Neil makes an appearance. Neil is my drinking alter-ego. After I drink a certain amount, he enters the room. Neil often dances into the room. Neil is a dancer.

Neil is a talker. I don’t like to have Neil talking to people for too long. It’s not that I’m embarrassed by Neil- I’m afraid that if Neil were given enough time, he might run for public office. If Neil ran for public office, he would win. Neil knows how to build a constituency.
Neil knows how to talk to the ladies. Neil is not intimidated. He always remembers names and he knows how to flatter. Neil can wink. He can wink without closing both eyes or twisting up half his face like he’s having a stroke. Neil knows when to ask for a dance.

Neil knows politics, religion and economics. He will let you know who you should have voted for, give you some tips on meditation and has a very interesting investment opportunity to tell you about.

I can’t let Neil out more than once a week. Last Monday, I woke up with a personal check from a person with a very Russian sounding name, three voicemail messages from someone claiming to be my campaign manager, and the distinct feeling that I had been slapped only hours before.

I erased the voicemails, ate a healthy breakfast and went to the gym. It was time for Dave to take over the choice-making. Dave is most likely never going to run for office, but he’s going to work on the winking.


P.S. Don’t worry, Vlad, the bank won’t let me cash anything made out to Neil.

My Little Velociraptor-Octopus-Hobo

I have an eight month old nephew. He is the cutest baby in the whole world. I know that everyone says that about the babies from their own families, but I’m not lying. The rest of the people that say that to you are lying. They may know a baby that is like second or third, but the cutest baby in the whole world is my nephew.
Did I mention that he kind of looks like me? I mean, he looks like my sister, and she kind of looks like me… so that makes sense. If you gave him little black frame glasses, a receding hairline and a three-day beard, he would be like a tiny version of me. He would look like a tiny hobo. He would be the cutest tiny hobo in the whole world (CTHITWW).
My mother is now known to everyone in my family (except me) as “Grandma”. I have to remind myself that my sister is talking about Mom and not my deceased grandmother when she says things like, “Look, there’s Grandma!”
“WHAT THE F…?! Oh, you mean Mom. ” Sorry, Grandma: if you reappear, I’m probably going to drop the F bomb. I’ll say a few Hail Mary’s later, I promise.
I went shopping with my sister, “Grandma” and the CTHITWW last Saturday. The CTHITWW sat in the shopping cart sucking on a bag of frozen peas. Occasionally, he would throw them on the floor and my sister would dutifully pick them up and trade them with a fresh bag of frozen vegetables from the front of the cart. This would make the CTHITWW very happy and he would cheerfully make a sound like a velociraptor. The sound would echo off the ceiling of the Super Walmart and be answered by another scream from across the store. Either there was another happy baby somewhere or we were being hunted.
While my sister and “Grandma” picked up some photos, I got to hold the CTHITWW. He looked at me and smiled brightly. I smiled back and then he grabbed my glasses and threw them on the floor. I picked them up and examined them. They were unharmed except for a thick layer of tiny fingerprints on the lenses, so I put them in my pocket. The CTHITWW screamed a delighted velociraptor victory scream. The softer answering scream came shortly after.
It is very difficult to hold the CTHITWW. He likes to stand sometimes, and if he is standing, he also likes to bounce. He likes to tip on one side and roll his body over and kick his legs out. He likes to lay himself out straight and to flail his arms wildly. If he is facing away from you, he feels that the best use of his legs is for launching his tiny body off of your lap. This makes holding the CTHITWW a bit like holding an octopus. It is a whole upper body work out to keep the child from throwing himself on the floor.
Somehow, I managed to keep the CTHITWW from leaping away. On the way out of the store our cart passed a cart with a baby girl that looked to be his age. Their eyes met and the two smiled at one another. The CTHITWW let out his great velociraptor scream. This time it was in stereo.

Two Things I Enjoy in My Car: Self-righteousness and Public Radio

The highways are crowded with people who drive as if their sole purpose in getting behind the wheel is to avenge every wrong done them by man, beast or fate.
-Hunter S. Thompson

Sometimes, when I'm driving, I turn into an angry and bitter little troll. It's as if I said, "Screw it... let the d@#$ Billy Goats do whatever they want," crawled out from under the bridge and financed a Buick.

Someone will roll through a stop sign and someone else will turn without using their blinker and I'll shout, "Where are all of you coming from? Is there a moron convention in town?" Then I'll turn up the NPR program about cooking that I'm listening to. "You'd never do that, would you Lynne Rossetto Kasper? Of course you wouldn't."

The blinker thing really bothers me. I think that it gets to me because I am automatic with the blinker. I blink in parking lots. I blink in my parents driveway. I'm very consistent when it comes to blinking. The people around me are rarely confused about where I'm going. That's why, when I see someone turn off the highway without blinking, the bitter little troll in me is compelled to call them a "friggin' stupid idiot face."

I turn up the science program. Give me strength, Ira Flatow.

I was driving to my folks place last Saturday for a Memorial Day weekend fishing trip. A young lady in a sporty little silver Saturn passed two cars behind me and then tailgated me for a short time. As she passed me, I shook my hairy troll fist at her and pointed out that she was crazy. I yelled, "You're going to get a friggin' ticket, idiot face!" But no one heard it. I turned up the radio. These kinds never get tickets, I thought to myself.

I continued driving, and just as I was coming into McGregor, I could see the lights of a state trooper's squad car ahead of me on the shoulder. In front of the trooper's car, there was parked a sporty little silver Saturn. The young woman sat looking down at the steering wheel as the officer walked toward her open window. I shook my head. "I tried to tell you," I said aloud to no one. Then a very satisfied troll laugh bubbled out of me.

I pride myself on my ability to empathize... but I can't speak for the troll.

I turn up the radio. Michele Norris knows I was right.

Double Click If You Love Me

I wrote this rock ballad for Internet.

Dear Internet… ooooohh…
Gosh I think you’re awesome…
You helped me find a used copy of
the second season of “Blossom.”

You are my window to the world,
And 649 friends on Facebook.
Haven’t said more than one word to most of them;
But at their profiles I’m allowed to look.

And If I buy anymore useless crap,
With my profile on Ebay,
I won’t be able to afford groceries,
And they’ll probably take my car away…

Spoken: But you’ll help me find another one… won’t you? Internet?
(Instrumental break with sweeping strings and an imposing snare on the off beats)
Dear Internet… oooooohh…. I love youuuuuuuu….

Dear Internet…oooooohhh….

Dear Internet… ooooohhh…
Gosh I think you’re really sweet.
You know about my short attention span.
Screw paragraphs… I only need a “tweet”.

But in case I want to give the people
More of my inner monologue,
And other crap that they don’t care about
You’ve given me this totally free blog.

Dear Internet…. I love youuuuuuu….

Dear Internet, I have one last request,
Don’t let me leave my love upon a shelf.
Help me connect with my true love…
Or at the very least, help me to love myself.

Dear Internet…. I love youuuuu….
Whispered: Click, Click…

Disaster with Flirting

I had softball practice tonight. I am in an awful lot of pain.
Actually, I was in an awful lot of pain. About an hour ago I took two Tylenol PM.
Actually, I took two things from Equaline for pain relief in the PM. They are so generic that their name isn’t even capitalized on the bottle. They are literally called pain relief PM. And despite a name that does nothing more than describe what they do, they are effective. What you see is what you get with pain relief PM.
So… I decided that I would try to hammer out a blog entry before this medicine forces me to go to sleep.
In this entry I want to talk about women. Actually, I think that the pain relief PM may want me to talk about women…

That’s as far as I got on Monday night. The pain relief PM got me and I ended up staring at an out-of focus computer screen for fifteen minutes. When it’s that much of a struggle to get through a five- hundred word blog entry, it’s time to call it quits.
So now it’s Wednesday and I’m giving this another try- this time without pain relief PM (or AM, for that matter). Where was I? Oh yes… women. I wanted to talk about women. I wanted to talk about them because I can’t talk to them as of late.
I was playing ska trumpet at a local pizza place/live music venue a couple of weeks ago and I kept running into an attractive young lady at the large communal sink outside the restrooms. The second or third time we met there washing our hands at the same time, she said something like, “I think maybe our meeting like this is more than a coincidence.”
I saw an opportunity and seized it. I said, “Yeah, we must be on the same schedule.” The conversation ended there. Same schedule? Even I wondered what I meant by that. We go to the bathroom at the same time? Creepy. I saw a little opportunity to flirt and I beat it to death with my flip-flop. I should have just said, “Yeah… I’ve been watching you from the stage and this is the third time I’ve followed you over here. I like your sweater.”
Then there’s the girl at the gym that smiles and waves at me from the treadmill. She seemed very sweet and friendly, but I didn’t know her name. So, one day about two weeks ago, I decided to make it a point to introduce myself. When she smiled at me that day, I asked if we had actually met. She said no. I told her my name and she told me hers and then shortly afterward, she said, “have a nice workout,” and we parted. She didn’t seem all that interested in moving our interactions beyond a smile and a wave, so I let it drop. Two days later, she approached me at the water fountain with a hearty, “Hey Dave!”
“Hey there… you.”
She told me about the relaxing massage she had just received and I stood there and nodded stupidly. I had initiated our introductions because it was very important to me that I know her name. Two days later, I had no idea what her name was.
After a very one-sided conversation in which she used my name at least two more times, she said, “well, see you later, Dave. Have a nice workout.”
“Alright… you too.”
She continues to wave and smile at me from the treadmill, and she occasionally says, “Hey Dave!” on her way in or out of the gym. I, however, am unable to get to know her any better because… well… I’m an idiot.
You know… I think maybe I will give those pain relief PM another go. Sleep tight, everybody.

A Night at Applebee's; Part 2: UPC

When my fellow intellectuals and I reached Applebee’s we found a table with a clear view of the television so that we could watch the Ultimate Fighting Championship. I took the one chair at the table with its back to the fights. I have a hard time watching UFC fights. I don’t mind the blood and the punching. What I’m afraid of is the (very real) possibility that I might witness a limb being broken or dislocated. The thought of it makes me queasy.

So I sat looking at the various bits of Americana on the walls: a very beat up saxophone, a bicycle with square wheels, a picture of Flip Wilson, etcetera, and I started to think of ways that I would improve UFC. I decided that I would add poetry.

Now, I don’t want to suggest some sort of beatnik poetry slam where the audience snaps their fingers after the poem is read. This would still have two fighters facing off- mano a mano- in the ring. They could still be shirtless and sweaty. I might even keep the toned young women in bikinis that carry the cards denoting the round numbers. Actually, I would definitely keep the toned young women in bikinis that carry the cards denoting the round numbers. The only difference is that the fighters would have to subdue their opponents using only poetry.

There would be no rules. Fighters could use limericks, haiku, epigrams- whatever they choose. The poems wouldn’t even have to rhyme (honestly, I don’t think you’re bringin’ anybody down without a rhyming poem… but, I digress). The poetry would only have to be profound… violently profound.

In honor of my new idea, I thought I would kick things off with this English (Shakspearean) Sonnet:

I’m going to slam your face into the floor.
Then thrust elbow and hit you with the point.
I’ll punch you ‘til even your friends are sore.
And prob’bly pull your arm right out of joint.
I’ll kick your leg; maybe invert your knee
I’ll “accidently” sock you in the groin.
With left eye swollen ‘til you cannot see
You’ll be tenderized like a fine sirloin
And when you’re down, I’ll still each flailing limb
I’ll wrench them backward while you cringe and wince
Just when you think things could not be more grim
I’ll tighten up; I’m bad, I do not mince.
You get in the ring with this rhyming chap
You’ll only get out of it with a tap.


That’s right… I just iambic pentametered your heinie.

A Night at Applebee's; Part 1: Carpe Doodie

On a Saturday night this spring, I found myself driving down Belknap Avenue in Superior, Wisconsin with a couple of fellow intellectuals. We were on our way to Applebee's where we were told that we would find beer and a seat with a clear view of a television on which we would be able to watch two adults beat the living crap out of each other.
After discussing politics, religion and our feelings, we turned to a discussion revolving around a phrase that surfaces from time to time during our extremely interesting dialogue: "Get your/my sh** together."
Perhaps you're not familiar with this colorful chunk of our language. Allow me to give a number of examples in context:

"You're wearing two different colored socks. Geez, man... get your sh** together."
"Yeah, he's got a car and a job. That dude's really got his sh** together."
"Holy sh**! That crazy sh** makes me the sh**ing president of this sh** now. I guess I'd better get my sh** together... sh**."

Having fully discussed that specific topic, I pointed out that my job at an elementary school limits my ability to use "get your/my sh** together" on a daily basis. I told my fellow intellectuals that I like to use the less common but equally effective "get your/my poop in a group." They felt that this phrase was effective but were afraid that I may be hindered by having only one alternative to the more ubiquitous "get your/my sh** together."
So we began brainstorming other alternatives. I feel that these new phrases may help you in your daily lives:

Categorize your/my crap.
Neatly stow your/my stool.
Dewey decimal your/my dookie
Straighten your/my scat
File your/my feces
Herd the turds.
Database your/my droppings.

These were great, but there was definitely a standout winner at the end of the conversation. Take a moment to prepare the way you speak to be changed forever.
Are you ready?
Here it is:

Organize a movement.

Here it is in context:
"Well I'll be darned... those are two different socks. I guess I had better organize a movement."

Viva la revolucion.

Portly McHeavyset

So, I was sitting in my car alone and crying with a tube of Peanut Butter Patties (how do you eat your Girl Scout cookies?), when I started to think about a word that has come up quite frequently in my life.
The copy of The New American Webster Handy College Dictionary- New Third Edition that I have sitting next to my keyboard defines the word "fat" thus:
adj. [fat'ter, -test] 1, bulging with much, or too much, flesh; corpulent; plump. 2, consisting of fat; greasy. 3, rich in some desirable element. 4. fertile' fruitful; profitable. -n. 1, the oily solid substance in animal tissue, yellowish white in color; suet. 2, the best part of anything.

Now, I'm not publishing this lengthy excerpt out of self-pity. I just think that it's good to take a look at our language from time to time to see if we really know what we are talking about on a daily basis. Plus, I take any excuse I can find to use the italics button on the compose screen provided by Blogger. It makes the things I type seem more important without me having to really say anything very profound. See? And don't even get me started on how much I enjoy emboldening single digits. 2 much, 4 sure!

The TNAWHCD-NTE includes a couple of slang sub-definitions as well. For instance, they go on to define "chew the fat" as a fun and hip way of describing chatter. They define "fat cat" as "a wealthy person," "fat chance" as "little or no chance," and a "fat farm" as a "health spa" for (especially, but not exclusively) weight loss. Then it throws in a definition for "fat city." I had never heard of it, but thanks to this handy reference book I now know that "fat city" is "a state of material well-being." Learning is fun. Let's give it a try:
Joe Mauer just signed an eight year, $184 million contract with the Minnesota Twins, providing him permanent residence in fat city.

In kindergarten, children are taught to write five with this handy rhyme:
Mr. Five wears a hat, has a straight neck and a belly fat.
Six's rotund appearance is also pointed out:
Down, around and around more still. Mr. Six is a big, fat hill.

I've thought about it, and maybe it would help these number's self-esteem if we changed it up:
In the event that you need to write a five, you begin by tracing a straight, horizontal line from right to left. You then draw a straight vertical line down from the left endpoint of your initial line. Finish by creating a half-circle opening to the left and with it's top endpoint connected to the bottom endpoint of the vertical line previously created.

For six:
A six looks like this: 6. Draw it like this for the rest of your life.

What these new instructions lack in catchiness, they more than make up for in practicality and sensitivity.

So let's think about what we really mean when we call something "fat." Let's save this fascinating word for those things that it accurately describes- like the oily solid substance in animal tissue or suet. And let's all agree to never call anything or anyone phat again. That way we can get rid of that unique combination of confused flattery and self-loathing that it provides.

As for me, I'll know that the next time someone calls me "fat," they really mean that I am "the best part of anything."

The Sweetener

You fret over your size
so it's Diet you select.
Knowing your choice to be wise,
the flavor you neglect.

You've got only Coke Zero,
and nothing but Pepsi Free.
Now you're in need of a hero-
to keep your soiree from catastrophe.

So when I step into your party place,
you needn't have any fear
that your soda's watery taste
will ruin your festive cheer.

You see, I've got the Midas touch
with carbonated drink.
No more guests not saying much
because their softies stink.

In goes my finger, before you can try it,
I simply give it some swishes.
And now, though it's still technically Diet-
Your pop smells like regular and is just as delicious.

What Happened to the Dinosaurs?

I work in a Kindergarten classroom. I sit in tiny chairs. I lower myself as slowly as possible into the kid-sized chairs, but there is a certain point after which I am committed. When I reach this point, I must trust that the chair is there because gravity and momentum take over.


The other day in music, the Kindergarteners were learning a song. Sung to the tune of "Frère Jacques", the words are thus:

Brontosaurus, Stegosaurus,
T Rex too,
T Rex too,
These dinosaurs were once here,
they roamed the earth without fear.
Now they're gone...
Too da loo.
Too da loo.

The kids sang through the song with all of the motions that they had learned. It was adorable.
When they came to the last line, they were singing with confidence.

"Now they're gone...
Too da loo... th.
Too da loo... th."

We sang it three more times before we could convince the kids that the dinosaurs had gone extinct, and not to Duluth.

Gastronome Station

I'm going to be honest with you here. I love gas station food.

I walk into a convenience store and I'm drawn to the glow of the heat-lamp. I'm hypnotized by the hot dogs, polish sausage and egg rolls spinning endlessly on their heated rollers. The neat rows of sandwiches and burgers wrapped in their wax paper share the promise of delicious low-grade meat and processed cheese that's constantly changing state. The last corn dog calls out to me.

Then there's the aisle of colorful plastic bags filled with snacks. I marvel at the sour creams and onion, the BBQ s, the salt and vinegars. Why would anyone buy plain chips? I can't count the number of Doritos varieties, so I won't even try. I long to leap head-long into this aisle and to immerse myself in powdered cheese and spices.

So I make sure that I don't "pay at the pump". I grab a bag of nacho cheese/mesquite/super spicy ranch corn chips and then on to the comforting glow of the warmer where I grab a precious, wrapped bundle of bun and beef. There's a jack-o-lantern orange cheese flow solidified and protruding from a fold. I'm feeling groggy for some reason, so next I visit the cooler where I grab a twenty-four ounce can of something with a picture of a cobra on the outside that promises to make me function better than I ever thought possible. I'm on my way to the register when I pass the bakery shelves. There's still room in my arms for some deep-fried dough covered in a thick sugar glaze. It was twice the price yesterday.

Score.

I almost get to the register when I see that corn dog all by itself. It's just not right.

"Come along with us, little buddy. Your wait is over," I say.

No, I don't need my receipt.

But I will need a bag.

Perspective

My Saturday Afternoon was consumed by an Online Course. The Course crawled from the murky waters of the internet and swung its moss-covered head this way and that, looking for nourishment. That’s when it saw My Saturday Afternoon sitting peacefully and without defense. The Online Course showed no mercy. It pounced on my Saturday Afternoon and feasted until all was dark. My Saturday Afternoon never even saw it coming.

The Online Course was terrifying, but a necessary evil. It required PayPal and downloading additional programs and two hours of reading, broken only by five-question quizzes that tested mostly my ability to tolerate stupid questions. But I had been worrying about this course for some time and I wanted it to be finished.

So I paid the fifty dollars for The Online Course and diligently read every word provided. I took the quizzes and thought about every stupid question. I made it all the way to the thirteenth and final quiz. I finished the last question and waited for the computer to erupt in flows of congratulations and provide me with some sort of proof that I had sacrificed my dear Saturday Afternoon. Instead, there was nothing.

I stomped and frothed and then I moped and whined and then I searched and scraped. I finally clicked on “contact us” and contacted them; or, rather, I attempted to make contact. Like the messages scientists think up when trying to make contact with aliens, I had not much hope of the letter yielding any real results.
So I was surly when my mother asked if I wanted to go for a ski in the full moon light of My Saturday Night. I said I would, but grumbled and complained that my back ached. I had a hard time getting the skis on and I yelled at the dog that didn’t really deserve to be treated so harshly.

When we finally started to ski, I was skiing with anger.

We had made a right off of the main trail when I really started in. I was making long quick strides. I wasn’t enjoying myself and I wanted the whole world to know how angry I was and how valid that anger was. I had been mistreated. I had followed all the rules and paid my money and still had nothing to show. The more I thought about it, the harder I skied.

Swing, stick, slide… swing, stick, slide… SWING, stick, sllllllliiiiiiiiiiiiiiddddddeeeeeee…

Finally it was all too much.

Then I remember the silhouettes of my skis in front of my face and a moment where I was suspended in air. I hit the ground very hard on my back and I could see my breath rush out and up as if set free after a long incarceration.
I sat there for a moment and looked at the stars through the black and veiny limbs of trees. Then I heard my mom’s voice.
“Maybe we should go back.”
“Just give me a second,” I said.

I hoisted myself off the ground and looked around. The moonlight reflected off the snow and the ground seemed to glow all around us. Even the dark forms of trees were highlighted where the snow clung to their limbs. The dappled floor of the forest gave the impression that we were standing in the middle of a violent sea that had been frozen for a moment. Everything was quiet and still in a way that is impossible to imagine in the light and warmth of day.

“I think I’m ready to go on now,” I said.

Purple Blood Pressure Medication

I didn't cry for the Vikings last night.

I cried in 1998 when Gary Anderson missed the field goal. I even watched the Pro Bowl that year just to hold on briefly to the feeling of that magical season. Needless to say, it failed to satisfy. It was a very sad season.

When the ball sailed through the uprights last night and the confetti exploded into the Superdome, I spent a little time staring at my shoes and then I stoically began to pick up the empty beer bottles around me.

You see, the Vikings losing in that situation didn't surprise me at that point. What seemed unbelievable was their proximity to victory on the last drive of regulation time. I almost let myself believe it was going to happen.

So I recycled my beer bottles and went on with my life. I will always be a Vikings fan. I just wish they would make it a little easier.

Someday the Minnesota Vikings will win the Superbowl. On that day I will gather my grandchildren around and tell them about last night and that dark Sunday back in '98.

Go Vikes.

My Most Brilliatelligent Blog Post Ever

Today I heard someone say the word "ginormous."
I wonder where this word came from. I mean, I assume it's a combination of gigantic and enormous, but I'm not sure. Even if this is correct, however, it only raises more questions. The paramount among them being: what's wrong with the two original words?

I like describing things as gigantic or enormous. I think that the word humongous should have made a comeback. But instead, people chose to mangle two perfectly descriptive words to make a third word that sounds like a mistake.
It sounds like a mistake because it is a mistake.

There is only one situation in which I would allow myself to use the word "ginormous." I would need to be confronted with a giant chicken. It would have to be a really big chicken. I'm not talking house-height here either. This chicken would have to be way taller than a house. If, and only if I saw a chicken that was way taller than a house, you might here me say, "holy crap, that chicken is ginormous."

However, I have noted the popularity of the word and I would like to stake the ground on a few future additions to the lexicon.

You heard them here first:

Terribulous
Supicial
Hunormtic
Idiupid
Funnilarious
Delumptious
Paingonizing
Annoyitating
Repitundant
Beautifitacularizinglioustasticalular.

You're welcome, my legacy.

New Year's Delusion

In 2010, I resolve to:

1. Watch less television.

2. Floss four times a day.

3. Lose 100 lbs... a month... for the entire year. I believe that -900 lbs. is my ideal weight. If I was -900 lbs., I could finally be comfortable with myself.

4. Figure out health care in the U.S. and a way to peace in the Middle East (in no particular order).

5. Take a multivitamin.

6. Dig more holes.

7. Become Batman.

8. Sleep outside at least once.

9. Get in an argument with an employee at Taco John's.

10. Add to this blog more frequently.