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…