Wanted:

• Female kickball player. Must be available this Sunday afternoon. Preferably someone who's not afraid to catch a large red rubber ball.
  
• Someone to remind me why I put up with this crap every freakin' spring.
  
• Something for my headache.
• Copious amounts of alcohol.
• Ten hours of sleep.
• More booze.
  

A Roof Spun from Gold

I believed this was going to be a total waste of time, but I figured what the hell -- give the guy a chance.

My fears were confirmed when he pulled up in a new Escalade, not a ladder in sight. After glancing briefly at my roof from the ground, he said, "You're missing a lot of shingles up there. You could start leaking any day now."

Uh-huh. And so it began.

I'm going to need some roof work on statley Brian Manor soon. As I've mentioned before, she's shedding shingles like crazy. According to the roofing contractor who actually climbed up on the roof and looked at it, Fortunately, all the old roofing material the previous owners left on the roof basically guarantee that it won't leak anytime soon, but it looks like crap. If I want to sell the house any time in the near future, I'm going to have to do something about it.

Meaning I got to visit with my new best friend. Jay strutted in, perfectly coiffed wearing a shiny leather jacket. Forgive me for stereotyping, but I want a roofing estimator to look like he actually stood sometime in the last 20 years with a hammer and roofing nails. I find that reassuring.

Jay started getting on my good side by commenting on my Indiana Jones DVDs that were out on the table - I'd been doing a little watching. He started talking about the good old days, watching Raiders and that one movie, with those guys, Monty . . . Python was it? The grail? Right! The Holy Grail.

Please. No self-respecting geek with an ounce of geek cred forgets about the Holy Grail. Nice try though.

But that's okay; I then heard about how his company is the most benevolent, kind, noble organization on earth. They rescue old ladies from the evil contractors. They remove kittens from trees. They save orphans. By the time he finished, I was crying. I wasn't worthy to be sitting in the presence of such magnamity.

Soon, it was time to talk turkey. He wasn't a salesman, and he hated it when sales people named a price, then cut it down in order to get the business. So a new roof would cost me . . . $22,000. But wait! They're offering $1,000 off as a special -- and another 15% since they buy so many shingles (apparently they're magic shingles, each one coated in gold and kissed by a fairy), and if I sign the paperwork tonight - right this very minute, he'll cut the price to a mere $13,000.

I didn't have the heart to tell him that the other bid I had, the one from the guy who actually walked up on the roof, was for around $3800. Needless to say, I know which bid I preferred.

My new best friend left, without a signed contract. For some reason, I had trouble pulling the trigger on a roof that would cost more than my car. At least the car has moving parts.

There are all sorts of predators in this world. Some say they'll do something and run away with your money. Others are nearly as bad -- they dazzle you with a long presentation and flummox you into signing your life away for a service that you can have at a fraction of the cost. Sadly, there are people who fall for the dog and pony show every day; that's why Jay was driving his shiny new Escalade around town.

What can I say? It sucks always being right. I closed the door and climbed up the stairs, chuckling all the while.

Milk Bones for Algernon

Some choose to celebrate holidays by quietly spending time with friends and family. Some choose to observe any religious obligations associated with said holiday. Some, on the other hand, have their own special way of observing these holidays. Take Trudy, my trusted canine companion, for instance.

She celebrates holidays by pooping in the house.

Trudy has always been a little shaky on the whole house training thing, but most of the time she gets it. Inside = bad; outside = okay. Sure we’ve had incidents over the last couple of years, but what relationship doesn’t have its ups and downs.

So this year, my dog celebrated Valentines’ Day, St. Patrick’s Day and Ash Wednesday by relieving herself in various rooms of my home. She also chose to do so for several days afterwards. She’s also been behaving more erratically, staring into corners, sleeping more frequently and generally acting more confused than normal.

I hit my limits after one particular post-Ash Wednesday session, where I spent an hour with some industrial strength cleaner on the rug in my sunroom upstairs. After a phone call to the vet, we determined that either Trudy is suffering from CCD (canine cognitive dysfunction – basically senility for dogs, or dumb dog syndrome as someone I know refers to it) or she’s losing control of herself.

So at the vet’s prompting, I started giving her some pills (smart dog pills!) that might alleviate the CCD. So far, no real changes, except that last night she pointed out that I forgot to carry the two in some calculus problems I was working out. It was a nice catch - that could have caused some trouble down the road.

If the pills don’t actually work, then it may be Trudy’s time. I can’t keep cleaning up after her, especially if I want to sell the house this year.

Trudy is a sweet dog, but she’s a difficult dog as well. She’s not particularly affectionate; she never plays and only acts happy to see me when I come home in the afternoons. She's also flatulent like you wouldn't believe. She can clear a room in six seconds. I’ve spent more money on inconclusive vet visits and kennel trips than I like to think about.

However, I also hate giving up on someone – even if she is a dog. I agreed to take care of her, and so it’s my responsibility to do so, even if she becomes an inconvenience. And, most importantly, she's still my friend.

Inconvenience or not, though, she may drive me to ulcers, especially if we have another argument like we did last night. I mean, come on, who really believes that given a little more time, McClellan could have revitalized the Army of the Potomac and beaten Lee? Smart dog pills, indeed.

The Blue and the Green

“Brian, there’s green and blue stuff all over your dryer!” Darcy’s disembodied voice floated up from the basement.

Coffee. That’s where my mind was. Needed to finish making coffee. Before bed, I set up the coffee pot, and at that moment, my head was buried in the pantry, trying to find more coffee.

“It’s all over my clothes. It looks like there was a crayon in there . . . oh. I might have had a crayon or two in one of my pockets,” her voice floated up at me again.

Found it. Mixed the grounds and sugar. Poured in the water. Set the timer. There. Now the counter needed wiping up. Clean kitchens are good.

“There’s a big glob of green crayon stuck to the side!”

Apparently, my plan to bury myself in kitchen cleaning and coffee making wasn’t going to pay off. I was going to have to face cold, hard reality – something that I haven’t wanted to do much lately. I’d like to sell my house this year, but I’m not sure it’s going to happen.

There’s a big hole in my kitchen ceiling, which I can’t fix until I get the corroded water line for the toilet replaced. I have a broken ceiling fan in the kitchen. The grass in the backyard is dead, but at least the weeds give some appearance of life. Once the weather turns warm, I’m going to replace most of the deck. But to keep things interesting, my house has decided that it could use a new roof as well.

As the roofer said, it probably won’t leak due to the inch of rotted crud under the shingles, but anytime there’s a good windstorm, my house sheds shingles like a Labrador sheds in the spring. I’m thinking this won’t encourage a potential buyer.

Needless to say, for me, the joy of homeownership was long ago replaced by a sort of bunker mentality: what’s going to blow up next? When I purchased the house, a friend said to me, “Congratulations on the best purchase you’ll ever make. And in getting the biggest pain in the ass you’ll ever have.” I laughed at him, charmingly naïve. Now I’m laughing at myself, cynicism fully restored.

But you learn from these tempests in teacups. Six months after I moved in, my roof started shedding shingles. I was convinced the whole house was broken; the next rainstorm would sweep the roof off the house and ruin everything. I found someone to fix it; he patched them up and no problem. (Until now, but I still needed to learn about finding competent contractors).

When I discovered my gutters had developed a new trick: they were pouring water into the house, as opposed to away from the house (there’s nothing more fun than seeing water trickling from an exterior wall), instead of losing my mind and pacing around like I’d forgotten my meds and the voices were getting a little too loud, I had them replaced along with the fascia.

Had it happened a few months ago, discovering that my dryer is now producing aqua-hued clothing would have caused me to pull out clumps of hair as I paced around fretting about it. Now, after deciding that ignoring/avoidance isn’t going to pay off, I needed to take a look. Hell, I might even be able to fix it. Right.

You learn; you adapt. Heck, I might even be growing up a little. But I’d still prefer to be playing a video game. Or sleeping. Or reading. Or just about anything else.

So I steeled my nerve and made my way to the basement, and sure enough – my dryer drum was looking rather cyanotic. Annoying? Yes. Insurmountable? Not really. Many bottles of cleaner, WD40 (it works! God bless the Internet – source of all knowledge), several rags and a roll of paper towels later, the drum only has a light blue tint. I’ll test-run it on an old towel tonight. The slightly blue-tinted drum adds character to an otherwise bland appliance.

Before I owned a house, I believed that outside of mowing the lawn once a week, I’d be living on easy street. Building equity, watching the house appreciate in value, collecting fat income tax returns. Easy living!

It’s not easy. Sometimes, it is a complete pain in the ass, but name one thing that’s important, fun and worthwhile that isn’t a pain in the ass occasionally. What’s that? You can’t? I know, because everything worth having is going to make you work for it.

So even though I sometimes consider dousing the first floor in gasoline, grabbing the dog and lighting a match, I fix the old place up, forgive it its faults and look forward to the day I can step into a new home . . . and deal with all of its daily catastrophes.

I Bought Into the Hype . . .

. . . and now I want my $40 back

Sometimes it sucks being right; there are times I take very little pleasure in it.

Last Saturday, I met Darcy at the mall; she was dress shopping, something I know we'd both be happier if I wasn't with her. So I met up with her by the Cheescake Factory, where she said she'd put us on the waiting list for a table.

Now, I've never been to the Cheescake Factory, and to be honest, I've never been too keen on going. I simply wasn't interested in the place; all I knew was that if I never set foot inside, my life wouldn't be any worse off than it was before.

But we were there, Darcy suggested it, and I said sure. So I arrived at the mall, freshly scrubbed and all worked out from my trip to the gym, only to discover that we had a 25-minute wait ahead of us.

Darcy had put our names on the list 30 minutes earlier.

So we joined the masses waiting to get into the place. So we wandered for a few minutes, and returned with ten minutes to spare. And we waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

About 20 minutes later, we learned we got to wait another 10 minutes - at least.

I understand a restaurant gets busy at lunchtime. I understand that people act with all the predictability of the Midwest weather. But I also know that you should take that into account, so people aren't waiting much longer than you say.

So we head off to our seats after our pager signals us. Our table? One small table along a long bench, where roughly 12 other tables had been placed. It looked like a cafeteria, and funny, with the overly-loud muzak and cheap plastic cups for water, it sure seemed like one.

Thumbing through our menu, I was overjoyed to see that I had to get through the bar and appetizer section before hitting the entres. Oh yeah --- there was also all the advertisements on every other page. Every. Other. Page.

Judging by the crowds I've generally seen at these restaurants, I can't imagine their hurting for cash. If they were a small mom-and-pop restaurant in Anytown, USA, I'd buy the need for ads in the menu, but not full-page color ads on glossy paper. And not for places that were NO LONGER IN BUSINESS!!! WTF? Honestly!

Our food arrived. A lunch salad was large enough to feed a family of sixteen. It was an okay salad; nothing to make me want to shake the chef's hand, but certainly not worth the $10 it cost.

However, the carrot cake I had for desert was quite tasty. I'll give them that.

We left, having two salads and two deserts - $40 poorer. I wanted to ask the hostess or manager for a kiss, since I generally enjoy kisses while being screwed.

In short, I have never, never seen a restaurant with less respect for the people shelling out the money to eat there. You wait for an insane length of time, only to sit and wait some more in an uncomfortable seat with all the privacy of a barracks while drinking in the painted on decor and thumbing through the ads in the menu.

As near as I can tell, their basic message is "Screw you; we're going to make you wait and you're going to like it." They bribe you with insane portions of food, but for me, that's not enough.

I'm dying to know how many people regularly go there -- and not under some form of obligation or duress (they have friends or family in from out of town who want to go; they need to use a gift card, etc.). I'm willing to bet the number isn't all that high.

Perhaps I'm out of touch, but I'd prefer going to a small, more quiet restaurant, with reasonable waits and less-than-indifferent service. I don't mind dropping money on a meal; I do mind if I feel as if I'm not getting my money's worth for the experience, and to me, a mountain of salad and an admittedly good desert for a nearly one-hour wait to sit in a crappy atmosphere isn't worth it one little bit.

Fitness Tips

After a nearly two-year hiatus, I decided it was time to take my tubby ass back to the gym. Something about running out of breath while climbing the stairs, feeling slow and the vision of me being buried in a piano box with two cranes as pallbearers didn’t seem like a good life choice. Besides, kickball’s around the corner, and I need to be ready.

And it’s good to see things haven’t changed much. I like consistency; it makes me feel safe and secure, so when I walk into the gym only to see the Beautiful people congregating, it feels like a sort of homecoming. Sadly, the only thing missing is the two guys standing in the corner, straddling each other while screaming “CMON!!! IT’S ALL YOU!!! YOU GOT IT!!!! GO GO GO!!!!” I’m pretty sure one of them was holding weights, but I was afraid to look too closely.

However, things have changed; maybe it’s the time of year – there’s a few new years’ resolution holdovers, younger people and new folks there. And these young’ns? They don’t know crap. So as the old salt, I figured I would take the liberty to give a little gym etiquette guide:

1. Stripping the weights is for pussies. The next guy’s there to work out, right? So why the fuck would you want to take your old weights off? He needs the exercise, so let him take his tubby ass up and remove all the plates you just slapped on the machine. He’ll thank you for it eventually.
2. Accessorize. Ladies, be sure to cake on an extra layer of makeup to go with the jewelry. That way, when you stand around in the humid room, it might not run as badly. Keep your purse with you too; you never know when it might come in handy, or you need to write down a phone number.
3. Attire. It’s all about the look. That’s why it’s important to wear a t-shirt saying something to the effect of “Macho”, “Pride”, or “Big Gunz”. Or, if you’re a real man and want to show it, go simple and find the Superman logo t-shirt. Your admirers will appreciate you that much more.
4. Socialize. The gym is fun. You should have fun, so feel free to sit on one of those handy seats and benches randomly set around the room and have yourself a good talk. Maybe while you’re discussing real estate, 401Ks, getting ripped the night before. The guy wanting to use your seat? Fuck him. You were there first.
5. Say it loud, say it proud. 100 lbs is a really good bench; especially if you’re doing reps. So be sure to let fly the soul-clearing scream while putting it up. You want people looking at you; the ladies will be coming over for a chat or maybe to pat your pecs. The guys, well, they’ll be hiding their heads in shame, sorry they ever set foot on YOUR gym floor.
6. Do I look like the maid? You’re in the zone. Sweat’s flying, you’re moving. If you were sweating any more, you’d have ducks swimming around you and people would be tossing coins at your feet. But you can’t stop. Even if you just used that dumbbell. Even though it just slid out of your hand due to the layer of sweat. Sweat dries eventually, especially if the next person comes along to pick up the weight. Gotta keep moving, get back into the zone . . .
7. I did it MY way, Byeeotch. America was founded by individualists; men and women who were bound and determined to make their own ways in life without some crusty old monarch in London telling them what to do. So you’re simply honoring America when you ignore the arrow telling you to walk clockwise. If it’s Tuesday it’s counter-clockwise day dammit!
8. Now that's what I call high quality H2O. A good workout means a big sweat. You want to replace that lost water, so you keep a gallon jug with you at all times. Good thing there’s all those drinking fountains around to refill the jug when you empty it. Those people in line behind you? Morons. They should’ve brought their own jugs.
9. I look good – real good. When you’re pumped up, you look like a god amongst men. That’s why you should stand in front of the mirror, blocking off all the free weights staring longingly at yourself. Because really, what can look better than you?
10. Patience is a virtue. You learned how to wait your turn when you were two (ideally), so when someone’s on the machine you want, stand right over him and stare until he gives it up. It’s your turn, dammit! Screw his slow old ass on the equipment. Asking to work in is for pussies, and that’s something you’re not.

So there you have it; a little help for you gym beginners. Working together, we can make the gym experience one that everyone can enjoy.

Progress?

While I'm annoyed that she chose to take care of business in the smallest and, perhaps, least ventilated room in the house, I can't help but be impressed that Trudy crapped in front of the toilet. At least she's has the right idea.

Ungrateful

I checked my pockets to make sure everything was in its place: cell phone, check; wallet, check; keys, in the ignition. I hadn't dropped anything, so I was awfully curious as to why the guy was jogging up to my car while waving frantically.

Somehow, I doubted he wanted to chat; when I held the door open for him as I walked out and he walked in, he didn't look at me or say anything ("Thank you" would have been nice, but what the hell). What would cause a grown man to hurry out of a bank gesturing urgently to a total stranger?

I was pretty sure he hadn't just finished robbing the place, since he'd only been in there for about 30 seconds, but just to be safe, I cracked the window as he walked up to see what he needed.

"You got a lighter?" he asked.

WTF? I mean, I hear nicotine cravings are a bitch, but he ran out to see if I could give him a light?

"No. Sorry," I said.

"How about in the car?"

To the best of my knowledge, most cars built in the past 5-6 years don't come with a built-in lighter. I have a very new-looking car.

Now, I'm willing to guess that he doesn't have a newer car, and I'm willing to guess that he's probably not the most observant soul on earth.

"No. I'm afraid not."

"I bet there's one in the car," he came back with.

"No -- there's not!"

"Oh." And he walked back towards the curb.

So let's see; he was a rude asshole when I held the door for him. Then when I didn't have a light for him, he was an even bigger prick. I was kind of pissed at this point, but I just rolled up the window while muttering a few choice words. People suck.

As I drove off, he stood on the curb, hunched over, intently studying one of the sidewalk lights on the curb. Maybe he was trying to figure out if he could light up off of that; maybe he was new to the whole electricity thing. Who knows?

All I know is it's bad form to act like a tool then expect people to bend over to assist you. I toyed with the idea of running his ass over and adding a little badly-needed depth to the gene pool, but deciding that might be considered murder, I headed back to work instead.

To the best of my knowledge, he's still looking for that light.

Woohoo!!

My nerd heart is all aflutter.

Sure it's cheesy and silly at times, but what's more fun than watching a crazy brit travel through time in a phone booth with a really hot chick? It's fantastic!

More posts this weekend. I just had to get my nerd on for a moment.

Naked

We dashed out of the cold wind and into the warm building. We'd been driving all day and some leg stretching was in order, so a walk through Wal Mart it was. However, as we left the car, we realized that the warm Dallas winter we'd left behind had slowly transformed into the cold Missouri one. Joy.

I reached into my pocket and realized that my phone wasn't there. No worries, I was sure it was in the car.

But it wasn't. Nor was it in the trunk. Nor under the seat, or in the glove box. I was without phone.

All things considered, it was a great weekend. I'd just met the rest of Darcy's family. We had a plesant Christmas. We were headed home. No disasters, problems or spats. All was peaceful under the heavens.

So in order to add a little spice to my life, I decided to drop my phone somewhere in Oklahoma.

I handled it well -- for six seconds. What if mom was calling? What if work needed me? What if someone had it and was calling 1-900-SPANKME? What the hell was I going to do?

"It's okay," Darcy said. "I'm sure someone turned it in. If not, just call Sprint tomorrow and have them shut off the phone."

"But I need a phone." I said.

"Why?" Darcy said.

"Because. I need one."

"Who's going to call you? Why do you need one now?"

"Because that's the number I give out. People know to reach me there. I need a phone, dang it!"

"I don't think the world will end if you don't have a phone," Darcy said while smiling.

"I'll be cut off from society; I'll cease to exist! I'll be a giant hole in the space-time continuum!"

"You're so cute." Darcy said.

So maybe I didn't wink out of existence, but I'm feeling lost and somewhat naked without a cell phone. I don't have the reassuring weight in my pocket; no one can reach me RIGHT NOW. Dear God, I'll have to listen to the radio while driving! Lord, give me strength. And now I learn that if I wait until Sunday, I can get an extra $75 off a new phone.

Of course, this could be a positive experience. Perhaps between now and Sunday I'll learn to cherish the silence; I'll have to be a little more careful in planning my time out, but I can manage, and if I need to call someone, I go home or I use a pay phone. Sure, I could embrace the simplicity forced upon me and enjoy the freedom, but I'll probably end up like the guy in the Shawshank Redemption who hung himself because he couldn't handle it.

However, I'm pretty certain I'm going to lose my damned mind between now and then. If you see someone hustling down the street, glancing furtively to the left and right, while talking to himself, take pity on him. It could be me, so kindly take my shoelaces, belt and any matches or sharp objects. I'll thank you later.

Random Stuff, Take 99

Happy Holidays!

A few pre-Christmas random notes before I head out of town again:

• What’s with all the anti-Christmas hysteria? You hear all the conservative gasbags going on about how Christmas is under attack because people say “Happy Holidays”. Note to assorted windbags: Christmas, Hanukah, Kwanzaa, New Year’s Eve. Last time I checked, that’s four – count ‘em – four separate holidays. Therefore, if you say “Happy Holiday,” you’d look like a fool – there being four holidays and all. I looked it up: the plural of “holiday” is “holidays”. So here’s a suggestion – TONE DOWN THE FUCKING RHETORIC FOR ONCE! That way, we might take you seriously when you babble on about all the other made-up crap, like the liberal media, the war on terror and judicial activism.
• Better yet -- how about not worrying about what Target, Wal Mart, K-Mart, S-Mart, Joe's Lamp Shack and Billy Bob's House of Knives does to acknowledge Christmas and just try making the season as pleasant as possible for you and those around you.
  
• Lesson learned from writing the book – have an actual idea before starting. Paper-thin plots pretty much die by word 15,000. I’ll be at it again next year, though.
• Charlie Brown Christmas? It still rocks – 40 years after it first aired.
• Four days of little to no sleep = messed up sleep schedule. Messed-up sleep schedule + post-Vegas exhaustion = pre-Christmas cold.
• I hate Kohl’s.
• I also hate Christmas shopping. Next year, it’s all online, baby!
• I still believe in Walt Jocketty, but I’m starting to get kind of nervous.
• Don’t give suckers the benefit of the doubt. Odds are, they’re just as stupid as they look and act. (More on this later)
• Have a safe and wonderful holiday, everyone. Enjoy the time with your friends and families.

Tree Memories - Pt. III

It’s three weeks before Christmas; carols have taken over the radio, a winter chill has settled in, keeping people cloistered in their homes, huddled against the cold. Everyone, that is, except for me – my fingers were numb.

Why were they numb? Because I was reaching up through the moon roof of Darcy’s car, holding her 8-1/2-foot tall tree on the roof. Despite thick gloves and heat blazing from the vents, airflow at 35 MPH treated my gloves like tissue paper, but I wasn’t deterred – my death grip kept the damned tree solidly against the car’s body as we inched closer to home.

How did I get into this predicament? Well, let’s set the clock back a week. Darcy wanted a tree for her apartment – a live tree; a tall tree; a fresh tree. Meaning we were going to a cut-your-own-tree lot. When she suggested this, I pointed out the obvious flaw in her plan:

“Let’s be honest, sweetie,” I said. “When they say cut-your-own tree, they probably should say Brian-cuts-down your tree.”

“Well, yeah,” she said. “But can we go?”

Again, rather than waste time with just saying no, pointing out how it’s a waste of gas, a waste of time and damned cold outside, I folded like a piece of paper. Sure, pride is nice, but grumbling aside, since I decided to not hate Christmas this year, and it would make Darcy happy, then tree shopping it is.

And there but for the grace of God I went – to a tree lot over in Illinois.

The car ride was uneventful, except that since we were in her car, we listened to Christmas music the entire time. Now, I don’t mind “classic” Christmas music; however the new stuff – mostly stuff written in the past ten years or so – really stinks. Mariah Carey warbling about something; Faith Hill – ugh. And of course, the most hated version of all – Stevie Nicks croaking Silent Night. It sounds like frogs fucking.

So we arrived at the tree lot – trucks as far as the eye can see. We go to the cashier, pick up a saw, hop on the trailer being dragged by the tractor and off we went into the wilds of Eckert's tree lot.

The cold wind blew into the 30-40 of us huddled on the trailer. I pet the large dog lounging beside me -- there were two dogs on the trailer; I'd bring my dog, except that she'd run off, trying to urinate on every tree on the lot. Between that and the "presents" she'd leave for everyone, and we might not be welcomed back, so Trudy remained behind.

We walked around, seeing various trees. Finally we found It -- green, tall, fluffy. It stood out amongst the other trees - taller, fuller. It was the One.

Next thing I knew, I was on my knees before it, sawing through the trunk, and soon, the tree was down (fortunately, not on top of me -- kind of was afraid of that). Soon, we were in line, paying for the tree.

As we left, I grabbed several strands of twine -- we had no other means of tying the tree to the car, so twine it was, and after several minutes of knotting, weaving, wrapping, we climbed into the car and drove. For about a half mile, when we stopped to re-tie the tree. Two miles later, we stopped again.

The tree kept swaying to and fro on top of the car. This wasn't good, considering we still had several miles of highway to cover before getting the tree safely to Darcy's apartment. After stop number three, I was reaching up through the moon roof, holding the tree on the car. We needed help - and soon.

Salvation came in the form of a nursery that sold trees. We pulled into the lot, and Darcy appealed to their kind natures, while I slinked off, not wanting to be pointed out as the guy who couldn't tie a tree on a car. After he finished tying the tree back on, I belly crawled back to the passenger side door and we made a clean getaway.

The tree fastened to the roof, it was off to Darcy's apartment, where we put it up and added the lights. The next night we decorated it. Then we redecorated it the next night after it fell over in the middle of the night.

I'm still not a big tree fan. As we worked on it, I could feel my sinuses filling up and my head starting to swim. Allergies rock. And in a few weeks, we'll need to take it down. However, the experience wasn't as traumatic as it might have been, and any chance I get to spend time with Darcy is well worth it.

However, I still don't want to carry the damn thing out of her apartment. I'm nothing if not lazy.

Tree Memories - Pt. II

Sometime in September, it became increasingly obvious that Darcy wasn’t going to dump my ass by the holidays. This, by the way, is a very good thing; however, my past relationship history generally keeps me peeking over my shoulder.

In any case, we began discussing the holidays, and I soon learned that Darcy loves Christmas. She. Loves. Christmas.

This is kind of a funny contrast to me, who, as I said before, likes the family time, the food (Lord, do I love the food – rub the belly! Look at it jiggle! Roll, fat roll! Err . . . I digress), and the giving and receiving of presents, but I couldn’t care less about the stores, commercials, bad Christmas music and the tree.

Yes, the tree. My fingers and toes turned numb just thinking of the tree, and now my girlfriend is suggesting that I go out and buy one. I needed a distraction; I needed time to think, to clear my head, I needed to say something so brilliant that it would put it out of her mind completely for the rest of time.

“Um – I’ll think about it,” is what came out.

“If you have a tree, I’ll want to spend more time at your house. Otherwise, I won’t come over as much,” was her response.

“Err – I’ll think about it?” kept rearing its ugly head. And so we tabled the discussion until Thanksgiving.

I had some extra time that morning; my services weren’t required for the parade, so Darcy and I lounged around watching television and reading the paper.

“Lowe’s has an artificial pre-lit tree on sale for $25,” she said.

“So?” I came back with. Probably not the best response, but I had turkey on the brain. Sweet, sweet turkey, with stuffing and cranberries and . . . .

“I think you should buy it. While it’s so cheap.”

“But I don’t want a tree”

“Yes, you do! We’re going to enjoy this Christmas, and I want you to have a tree here!” is basically what she said. So I looked her right in the eye, gathered my resolve and folded like a piece of paper.

But hey – since I was going to lose the fight anyway, why not save a few bucks in the process? I’m nothing if not practical.

Up bright and early Friday morning. Had to beat the shoppers. Had to beat the shoppers. What’s my damn problem? Lowe’s isn’t going to be infested with crazed shoppers drunk from turkey and lack of sleep; maybe a few surly contractors who need to get some work done, but crazed post-Thanksgiving shoppers? Not so much.

And I was right – sort of. It took awhile to get past Crestwood Mall, where the cars lined up and down Watson, patiently waiting to get in before all the stuff was gone. Because, you know, stores sell out of everything for the rest of time unless you make it there at 3:00 AM.

So I bought my tree (and I went to the casino to kill a few hours and not deal with traffic --- and I won $50 – thereby paying for the tree). And last weekend, we finally set it up, and decorated it.

All I had for this tree was lights – no ornaments or anything, so my beautiful girlfriend bought me the coolest ornaments ever – Star Wars and Batman ornaments! This rules. Then we went out and bought some generic ornaments along with a tree topper – a model of a robot with huge guns! Robots rule! I was going to have the coolest tree ever.

We returned home; I walked the dog and popped The Two Towers in the DVD player – I needed a little Christmas decoration movie for inspiration. We assembled the tree and plugged it in. And a strand of lights didn’t work.

Unfazed, Darcy tugged at the strand, and they came on for a second – but only for a second. Remaining calm, I checked the instructions. It was either the bulbs or the fuse. I hoped for the fuse and tried replacing it. And failed – because I have REAL FREAKING FINGERS!!! Apparently, they designed these lights for the wee people, because you can’t change the fuse, unless you have needles for fingers. What the hell were they thinking?

I started tugging at bulbs, feeling frustration and anger mounting. But before I blew, I realized I was becoming my father, which brought be back from the ledge. I put the burned-out strand on my to-do list, and we sat in the glow of the tree lights, contemplating warfare and politics in Middle-Earth. Well, I did; Darcy fell asleep.

So I have a tree. Sure it’s artificial, sparsely decorated and kind of small, but I have a tree, and I didn’t traumatize myself while putting it up! Progress! Bring on the next challenge!

Little did I know that the next tree challenge was only a few short hours away . . .

Tree Memories - Pt. I

Almost immediately after Thanksgiving, you could feel it starting: Dad would whistle Christmas carols. A few days later, he’d start clearing a space in the living room. Then he’d dig all the boxes of ornaments out a few days after that. Then the moment came when we could no longer ignore it; the moment we all dreaded – it was time to go tree shopping.

When Mike and I were very young, Mom would start bundling us up early: sweaters, gloves, socks, mittens, socks, coats, hoods, hats, scarves, boots and socks covered every inch of flesh – except for a tiny hole around our faces. As we moved outside, steam would fountain out of the hole. We looked like dolphins with feet, lumbering around the tree lots.

At the first of several tree lots, Dad would inspect each tree, eyeing it critically, making sure it lived up to standards agreed upon – by his committee of one – years ago. He’d stand the tree up and look at it standing out against the sky, and then he would comment on how small it looked – failing to realize that to the sky, everything looks kind of small. To me, it looked huge – towering over us, occasionally obscured by a jet of exhaling steam, but it was big. It was green, and it was a tree. And I could no longer feel my fingers.

But the trees wouldn’t stand up to their inspection. A small bald spot here, brown needles there, and by lot three, I’d lost sensation in my feet. And the search continued, until we found the Tree. Up until now, I couldn’t have cared much less about the damn tree. However, watching them bundle it was the most fascinating thing ever. Cutting the bottom off and then shoving the tree through the chute so it came out wrapped was (and still is) the coolest thing ever. I know – I’m a geek.

The tree would come home and stand up in the corner of the living room. We’d remove the lights from their assorted boxes and begin untangling the Gordian knots. And the fun began.

My father was a wonderful man who loved us dearly. He was extremely intelligent and loved greatly by his students and fellow teachers. He knew more about history than I can ever hope to know. But the man couldn’t use a hammer to save his life. Any project involving carpentry, electrical work or plumbing involved much cursing, stomping and several attempts. So when the lights didn’t work, Dad would be chipper no more. Cussing, and stomping and complaining lead to a trip to Target, where we’d buy new lights, and inevitably, a strand wouldn’t work, continuing the process.

But afterwards, the tree would be up, gently glowing in the corner of the room. Dad would sit in there with it; heck, we all did – it was relaxing to sit in the dim twinkling lights. By Christmas, the tree had worked its magic and I was suffering from pneumonia while Mom and Mike were nursing colds. The allergen factory had to go.

This process continued yearly, but as we grew older, it grew less smooth. Add a little teenage sullenness to Dad’s frustration with all things electric and you can imagine how the scene played out. But even grudgingly, we’d help put the tree up.

Because Dad loved Christmas; he loved the idea of the family being together and celebrating the holidays together. He loved Christmas carols, trees, lights and just the time of the year. And while we may laugh it off now and complained about it growing up, we knew where he was coming from. He did these things because he loved us and wanted us to look back on Christmastime as something special and magical. But by then, my heart had been poisoned off the holidays.

Spend several years working retail around Christmas, and if anything will beat holiday love out of you, it’s some crazed semi-drunk shopper blaming you that he waited until the 23^rd to buy his kids the must-have toy of the year. If that doesn’t do it, working the return desk will. So sometime during high school and college, I developed something of a –meh- attitude about the holidays. I liked giving and receiving presents, and I liked spending time with my family, but that was as far as I could take it.

I think it frustrated Dad to no end that we all felt the same about it. Eventually, we switched to an artificial tree, and every year, two weeks before Christmas, Dad would put it up. We’d return from college or come to visit after we’d moved out and the tree would be up. A few weeks later, it would come down.

After Dad died, we never set the tree up again. We still celebrated the holidays, but there were no trappings – it was purely a utilitarian celebration: gifts exchanged, dinner eaten, and then we’d go to the boats – you know, a traditional Christmas celebration.

I never saw a reason to put a tree up in my assorted apartments or house after I moved out, so I never did. And so things continued. Until this year.

Plugging a Hole

How are you? It's been awhile? What? Really? I'm not surprised, and that shirt? It looks great on you.

So yes, I've been somewhat delinquent in writing out here. I could bore you with the usual excuses, but you've heard them all before. I want to write again, but I've been having trouble finding my voice lately. Everything I write sucks. I read it, hate it and leave it sitting in the ether, waiting for a revision that will likely never come.

Part of the problem is focus -- I lack it. I return home from work and don't feel like doing anything, so nothing gets finished.

I pondered this last week as I surfed the 'net, trying to figure out where I left my voice (not that it was so fresh and unusual that the world can live without it), but I missed it. Then it hit me:

I need a goal.

So I'm writing a novel this month. It might suck, it might rock. Right now, it doesn't exist. I don't even really have a great idea. I did, but those bastards Vince Vaughn and Owen Wilson stole it. Wedding Crashers, indeed. Fuckers.

In any case, I'm writing a book this month. I don't know if it's something I'll ever share with the world, but it's something I need to do - just to prove I can.

Wish me luck, and please, feel free to kick me in the ass if it looks like I'm lagging. Or, heck, just kick me in the ass -- I probably deserve it.

Jeeee-sus!

That's what I said when Pujols destroyed Minute Maid Park with that bomb he unloaded on Lidge. Anyone who doubts him as a hitter just shut up. I know the Astros did.

I'll admit; I lost faith. I was starting to plan out what I'd like to see them do in the offseason (mostly a .300-hitting young outfielder who can finally protect Pujols in the lineup). But, like many people, I suspect, one swing of the bat restored my faith. This was no wussy Berkman-esque pop-fly home run; this was a statement. I'm curious to see how the Astros respond.

In any case, I'm excited about tomorrow night, and hopefully, we'll be seeing one more World Series played here.

Probably Shouldn't Surprise Anyone, Really . . .

I found this here.

You are a Social Liberal (81% permissive) and an... Economic Liberal (25% permissive) You are best described as a: Strong Democrat Link: The Politics Test on OkCupid Free Online Dating Also: The OkCupid Dating Persona Test

Lessons Learned - Summer Edition

As the year enters the final stretch, I thought I would share with you some nuggets of acquired wisdom:

1. Five guys buying one-way plane tickets at the last minute is deemed suspicious; who knew?
   
2. However, those TSA folks down in South Carolina? Very nice and professional -- he didn't even look like he wanted to die when he opened my bag and the toxic cloud from three days worth of clothing over a three-day drinking binge wafted over the area.
   
3. Southern Comfort brings no comfort. None whatsoever.
   
4. 80-lb. Boxer + my crotch = much pain
   
5. My girlfriend may be better than me at Scrabble; my ego is protesting this call, but numbers are numbers.
   
6. Yesterday, I figured out that Jaws 3 may be the worst film ever made -- then Jaws: The Revenge stared.
   
7. Volcano came on next, totally killing theory.
   
8. I've seen more bad movies than any human being should, and God help me -- I like some of them.
   
9. At the ballpark, everything is better in the field-level seats.
   

Passive Aggression

I don't mind having my picture taken, but usually I ask that the photographer introduces himself before snapping away.

So I was kind of curious why this short balding man with a prune face and thinning hair stood in front of his house taking pictures of Trudy and I walking down the street. Normally, I ask that you give me a chance to hide the bag of dog crap before stealing my soul, so I took a more peaceful route.

"New camera?" I asked.

"Something like that," he replied, and walked back in the house.

Now I knew what he was doing. Several times when walking the dog, he just happened to appear on his front porch when we make it by his house. I'm always friendly; he always growls. It's fun.

Yep -- George Freakin' Smiley was scoping me, afraid that Trudy was using his lawn as a toilet. And she does from time to time, but that's why I carry bags around - so I can clean it up. However, my neighborhood is full of the zealous guardians who delight in nothing more than catching a wayward cur crapping in their front yards. I guess the benefit of the doubt is something that we're no longer entitled to these days.

So last Saturday, I return home and take the dog out around 11:30. I'm tired and ready for some sleep. And I nearly jumped out of my skin when I saw him standing less than two feet behind me, glaring at Trudy like she's Satan herself.

"How you doing?" I asked.

"Uhhnnn," he said.

"Can I help you?"

"Nope."

I'd like to point out here that Trudy was sniffing and doing nothing more.

"You know, if you're worried about her going in your yard, that's why I always carry these," and I pulled a bag out of my pocket.

"People don't clean up after their dogs," he said.

"I know, but I do."

"Whatever." And he retreated to his house.

His foul mood bothered me for awhile. I'm tired of the glares, the stares and the general suspicion I seem to arouse -- especially considering the stray dogs, stray teenagers and rampant nightclubbers on weekends.

So I left the poop bag on his front porch. That'll show him. Next time, I'll bring a match to light it.

Home Front

Growing up, I think we were each others' worst enemies. Playing Batman when I was four (he was two) - he cracked my skull open with a wooden block. Six stitches later, we were friends again.

Wiffle ball bats made great torpedos while in the pool. Those air/water-powered rockets sure could fly fast, and a few of those "accidental" hits with the wiffle ball bats to the head weren't as accidental as the injurer made it seem.

But like all brothers, we stood by each other. I wouldn't let older kids pick on him (we both wound up getting our asses kicked), and I felt genuine pity for him the day he slid down the gravel-covered street on his back after falling off his skateboard (he was wearing a muscle shirt at the time) - so I didn't smack him in the back . . .even though we'd been beating the crap out of each other the day before.

Age brings maturity --- err, maybe a willingness to put stupid squabbles behind you. We nearly torched the house with fireworks one steamy July night - dousing the smoldering bushes with the garden hose and hoping mom wouldn't inspect them too closely, and we both tried getting kicked out of the go-cart course in what turned into a combination go-cart race/roller derby. Stupid? Slightly psychotic? Sure, but what's life without a little life-and-death struggle at 20 mph?

We drifted apart a little in college -- 800 miles will do that, but we still kept in touch. We even worked together tending bar one summer - screwing over the boss while drinking free booze was a pleasant way to spend an evening.

And despite wanting nothing more than to smack him upside the head when we were kids, I always look forward to seeing him - the good-natured jabs, the quick sense of humor and the shit-eating grin are all infectious, and you can't help but laugh when he's around. It's easy to see why small children and dogs flock to him.

Now he's packed; his body armor sits in a corner - kevlar helmet resting on top of it. It all hides a backpack stuffed with belongings. More stuff is riding on a ship or in a plane, where it will meet him in the desert.

In two months, my brother Michael will be in Iraq. While visiting with him this weekend, it hit me -- Monday could be the last time I ever see my little brother again, and that's a hard thought to swallow.

He's a doctor; he won't be kicking in doors or patrolling the streets -- he'll be treating pilots and wounded soldiers back at the base, so odds are he'll be safe and not vulnerable to wayward explosive devices.

At least I hope so.

Ultimately, there's nothing I can do to affect what happens to him. I could be hit by a bus tomorrow; David could be knifed in a poker room brawl (that's the most likely of the three scenarios I just outlined). All I can do is hope and pray that he'll return to us in a year, safe and unhurt, and in the meantime, I'll be sending care packages and e-mails whenever possible.

I've made no secret of my disdain for this war. I thought it was bullshit when it started, and I think it's bullshit now. But I've never said anything disparaging about the troops over there - they're just fighting to stay alive and sane in a place where death and insanity seems to hold sway.

Keep your head down, Mike, and come home safe.