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.