I've never been in debt. Okay, that's not entirely true. Yes, I've been in the kind of debt where I had to make car payments, and I'm currently in the kind of debt that says I have to make house payments.
I've never been in credit card debt, however. Truth be told, I've never even owned a credit card. I don't trust them. I've been conditioned not to trust them thanks to many years of living with college roommates.
Most of my college roommates had this weird outlook on credit cards. Basically, they thought credit cards were magical pieces of plastic that just magically paid for things and that they were somehow immune from the the ensuing debt that came about due to excessive credit card spending.
I'll admit it: I was sort of jealous of my roommates and their magical credit cards. After all, they always seemed to have money and, if they didn't, they just whipped out their credit cards. Books? Put them on the credit card. Food? Put it on the credit card. Night out at a strip club? credit card.
And yet there I was writing checks and budgeting like a fool. I remember thinking that I was doing everything all wrong. I mean, there I would sit, meticulously lording over my finances, while my roommates went waltzing all over town swiping their credit cards with the careless glee of a six-year-old with a loaded pistol.
Then, one year, I was a roommate with a guy named Chad. Chad was actually a former high school classmate of mine. He was, and is, a tech-head. He's one of those guys who was born to know technology. Way back in elementary school, he taught me how to write simple programs for the Apple IIc, and he always just seemed to know everything about computers.
But he didn't know shit about personal finances. He whipped out any one of his many credit cards with the swiftness and ease of a Old West gunslinger. By the time we became roommates, he had already accrued over $10,000 in credit card debt.
I remember thinking what an incredibly large amount of money that seemed to be, especially when I factored in the understanding that he also received financial aid, and that he also worked. Granted, he worked at the local Brach's candy factory on the Gummi Bear line, which paid about as well as you might imagine, but it was still money, so I came to the conclusion that old Chad was a pretty carefree spender.
Well, one day, I popped into Chad's outrageously messy room where I noticed, tucked between two huge bags of pilfered defective Gummi Bears, a credit card notice that was slugged "Urgent!" and another that was slugged "Immediate Payment Required" and still another that read "We Break Fingers And Toes."
Then the calls started coming in, usually two or three a day. "Is Mr. Haugen available? We really need to speak with him." No, he's not here. "Are you sure you're not really Mr. Haugen?" Yes, I'm sure. "Well, when he comes in, have him call Mike at Discover immediately." *sound of shotgun cocking* Will do.
Chad was masterful when it came to avoiding creditors. He always seemed to leave the apartment just two or three minutes before a creditor called. It was like he had some sort of sixth sense. Which was all fine and dandy, except that I ended up being the intermediary between Chad and the creditors, so I got to absorb all the impatient anger and suspicion of basically every credit card company on the planet.
It was the day a creditor appeared, in person, at our doorstep that I realized Chad's debt situation was probably more dire than Chad cared to admit. There was a knock at the door, I answered, and a gentleman in a suit that looked both impressive and threatening stood before me. He asked to see a Mr. Chad Haugen, at which point I heard a little scuffling emanating from Chad's room as Chad scurried out the back entrance which, conveniently, was located at the far end of his bedroom.
We chatted together, the ominous creditor and me, for about an hour, waiting for Chad to get home, even though, of course, there was no way in holy hell Chad was going to make an appearance while that guy was in our apartment. I even had to produce my ID, so the creditor was satisfied that I wasn't, in fact, Chad Haugen.
After that, I believe, Chad ended up getting a loan from his parents, or somebody, so he could pay off his credit card debt at least enough to keep the creditors at bay. He eventually got a job working at IBM, which was a long-assed commute from Winona to Rochester, but paid a whole lot more than the Gummi Bear line.
As for me, Chad's experience with credit cards pretty much scared me away from plastic for good.
Doga?
I really can't see myself ever living in New York City except for maybe as a perpetual stream of comedy gold. New Yorkers consistently come up with bizarre ideas, and then they actually dedicate money, honest-to-goodness cold hard cash, in an effort to make their dreams come true. I try to imagine myself as a New York citizen, awaking at 6:32 a.m. on a broken beer bottle in some alley somewhere, recovering from a severe meth binge and nursing a strange ass pain that I don't want to know the source of. As I stumble home, I notice that people own dogs, and those dogs appear excited. In my meth-twisted mind, I come to the conclusion that dogs need to chill out, perhaps through yoga, and I was going to set out to start the first-ever canine yoga class. That, I'm convinced, is what happens with frightening regularity on the streets of New York City. Case in point:
NEW YORK (Reuters) - New York City dog owners who worry that their furry friends need some stress management have a new option: yoga for dogs.
See? And you all thought I was just being silly, didn't you? You were all laughing, sitting there thinking how utterly ridiculous the concept of dog yoga was, but then it turns out that it actually exists. I don't know about you, but I feel dumber knowing I'm part of the collective human experience right now.
"Ruff Yoga" -- a so-called doga class aimed at relaxing the canine denizens of this often un-Zen city -- is being offered once a month in a downtown city park.
Did I read that right? Did I read "Ruff Yoga" and "doga" in the same sentence. *checking* Oh. My. Yes, there it is. Only once a month? Is that enough? What if your dog is super-stressed out. I mean, what if the dog's owner is so clinically insane they actually conjure up things like "Ruff Yoga?" That poor dog would be high strung enough to require "doga" at least four times a week.
Half an hour on the yoga mat makes Isaac, her cocker spaniel, a calmer dog, said doga devotee Sarah Klein.
There is no explaining here just how far into my skull I just rolled my eyes. Suffice it to say, I briefly saw my brain pulsating.
"Usually when he's in the park, he can't focus," said Klein, who was among nine New Yorkers and their dogs who attended a class on Thursday night.
Focus on what, exactly? On a fire hydrant? What the heck is a dog supposed to focus on, besides the nearest butt to sniff?
First there was a short inspirational reading about dogs and a moment of "OM-ing." Then the women, following a yoga instructor, took their dogs through traditional poses, starting, without a trace of irony, by forming the furry bodies into the inverted V of the "downward dog" pose.
ISAAC: Psssst. Hey, Spike. What the shit is going on here? I think the old woman's been sniffing too much Alpo. She's twisting my body in all sorts of uncomfortable poses here, and what's up with all the OM-ing?
SPIKE: Beats me. All I know is, one minute I'm chasing a squirrel, the next minute I'm stuck around all these wackos. I guess I should count my blessings. At least I wasn't named something stupid, like Isaac.
ISAAC: Oh, I'm so going to bite you when this is all over.
Then they bent over the dogs and curled their best friends into "child's pose," renamed "puppy's pose."
Lots of lonely people in New York. Lots. Of. Lonely. People.
As a crowd of onlookers grew, the women stretched their dogs -- all of them on the small side -- to the left and the right and lifted them in their arms like furry weights. From time to time, they paused to pull the wandering dogs back to their mats and shush their barks.
SPIKE: Bark, bark, bark, bark, barkity, woof, bark (translation: let me go! Let me go! Let me go! Let me go!)
ISAAC: Ha! Ha! Spike can't do the puppy's pose! Spike can't do the puppy's pose!
"Give him a little love," yoga instructor Suzi Teitelman, 31, told her students. "Come forward, give him a kiss," Teitelman instructed as she leaned over her own spaniel, 2-year-old Coaly.
SPIKE and ISAAC (in unison, with heads cocked to one side): Coaly!? Dude! Your name is Coaly?! Hey, everybody, get a load of the spaniel with the super-stupid name of "Coaly!"
COALY: *wimpers softly*
The class, sponsored by national fitness chain Crunch, grew out of Coaly climbing on her owner's yoga mat at home, Teitelman said. "Yoga came from the animals. It's natural instinct," she said.
Well, there you have it, folks. Yoga came from the animals. A more profound statement of truth has never been spoken before and. . . wait just a fucking minute here! That's so monumentally stupid, I think the left side of my brain just popped. Let's see. . . a dog climbs onto a yoga mat, so that must mean that animals instinctively know yoga! No, wait, in my world, if a dog climbs onto a yoga mat, chances are pretty high the pooch was trying to sniff the mat because it smells so entirely much like ass.
Three women left the lesson with their dogs after several minutes, but those who stayed said it was worth it.
"I feel more relaxed and I think she does too," 24-year-old Tracy Alfajora said of Tallula, an 8-month-old, 3-pound Yorkshire terrier who had just finished her first class.
SPIKE, ISAAC and COALY (in unison, with heads cocked quizzically): Tallula?!! Your name is Tallula?!
TALLULA: Don't start guys. Please, just don't start.
Yoga for dogs, sometimes called doga, has taken hold with pet lovers beyond New York.
Oh no. You mean the insanity is elsewhere?
Due on bookshelves in September is "Doga: Yoga for Dogs" from Chronicle Books. The book, based on the fact that some of yoga's best known positions are based on the movements of dogs, has tips on practicing yoga with your dog.
That's it! I'm going to go out today and buy a dog and train it specifically to bite dogs that do "doga."
And yoga guru Bruce Van Horn is studying the physiological effect of yoga on dogs at a New Jersey animal shelter. Using stress reduction techniques like breathing exercises, he aims to calm the dogs and help them be adopted.
Breathing exercises? You mean like panting?
Van Horn, whose book "Yoga for Pets and the People who Love Them" also is due in the fall, says he has noticed results with his own dog. "It's a healing thing," he said.
It's a healing thing. Healing from what? Forget it. Just forget I asked. I don't think I ever want to know.
1. What is your most proud moment?
That one time, in band camp, when I stuck a flute in my pussy. Er, wait. That was American Pie. My most proud moment? Wow. Jeesh. Heavy. I would have to say the time when I was out driving along the Mississippi River and I saw an overturned car slowly sinking in the water and I could tell people were in it, so I jumped in and scrambled to save them, and I did, even though I was only able to rescue one of the three people inside. Okay, none of that actually happened at all, but I think I saw it on television once. My proudest moment was that one time when I had everyone who reads this blog believing that I rescued someone from a sinking car. That was my proudest moment EVER.
2. What are you most proud of in your life?
Hands down, I'm the most proud of graduating from St. Mary's International School in Tokyo. That year entailed the most personal victories for me academically, physically and psychologically, and I still smile when I look at my diploma.
3. What is your most guilty pleasure?
That one time, in band camp, when I stuck a flute in my pussy. Oh, wait. Once again, that was American Pie. Guilty pleasure? Hmmm. Masturbation is too easy of an answer. Let's see. I would have to say chewing on Jolly Ranchers. I know that chewing on those things is murder on the teeth, but you can't beat the flavor rush inherent in chewing rather than sucking on them.
How much shit would you take from your employer before you quit on the spot without another job lined up?
That one time, in band camp. . . okay, okay, that joke has run its course. I think the funny thing about taking shit from an employer is that you often don't realize how much shit you take until you're in a different job. During my last job, I put up with the most dastardly bitch manager ever to haunt the American workforce, but I didn't realize it at the time. Sure, I hated her and I wished disease and plague on her and her family, and I kind of still do, but at the time I just kind of figured that was the way of things: I was destined to rot in that job and die prematurely of bitch-related stress. Then, I got laid off by IBM because they couldn't afford me, and was then hired by IBM a couple weeks later at $3 more an hour than I was making before. Now that I'm in a job with awesome bosses, in a work environment that allows for unprecedented autonomy and freedom, I can honestly say that I've been spoiled to the point of not putting up with any amount of shit from anyone at any other job. It's just a job, after all. It's not worth sacrificing yourself for.
Did I mention that one time, in band camp. . .
Michele, over at A Small Victory, related an interesting fact about blue whales and the fact they are capable of expelling 400 gallons of sperm upon ejaculation. As one commenter noted: That's a hell of a money shot. Well, anyway, Michele asked for good whale sperm jokes but, as is so often the case, the jokes transmogrified into limericks, and here are my offerings:
A blue whale's penis is sturdy and firm
And can deliver 400 gallons of sperm
To absorb that much dick
Is no easy trick
But it's great practice for carrying a calf to full term.
Or. . .
A blue whale hooker was asked in great jest
Which approach to sucking whale cock was best
She said to bring a quick halt
To the flow of hot salt
Was to let it gush down on her chest
Got a good whale limerick in you? Have at it.
Okay, I really didn't get booted in the head, but that song by the Frantics, and particularly their catch phrase, has been running through my skull ever since this final week of black belt test preparation got underway.
The training this week is pretty intense, because we're being taught by two of the biggest bigwigs in the martial arts realm who are visiting our school from South Korea. Their presence here in little old Rochester has enticed martial arts practitioners from California, Florida and other states from around the nation. So, it's a pretty big deal or something, I guess. All I know is that I'm sore as all hell and it's only Thursday.
It's. . . interesting. . .training under the watchful eyes of the two Korean masters. They stand in front of the class, chittering away in Korean, because that's the language they speak over there in South Korea. Of course, no one has a flipping clue what they're saying, but we nod when they nod, and we smile when they smile, and we pass gas when they do. It's all very orderly like that.
The one master, I think, is in his 60s, but you would never guess it the way he spins and kicks and punches and could probably break every bone in my body in five different ways should he so please. During the first day of class, he used me to demonstrate a technique, and his technique was so flawless I couldn't have fought him off if I had tried. With a quick twist of my arm, he had my neck exposed for a knife hand strike, and there wasn't anything I could do but offer him my jugular.
Then, just as my awe for the grand master was at its peak, and I was thinking how cool it would be if I was in that great of shape in my 60s, I walk out to my car and find him puffing madly on a Winston. I guess I shouldn't have been surprised, seeing as how most of Asia smokes cigarettes the way Americans eat fast food. But, still, his mystique took a hit all the same.
I'm getting more and more nervous as the Sunday test looms ever closer. Granted, the only way to really fail the black belt test at this point is if one of my many checks bounces, but I still want to make a good impression on the masters and come away from the test feeling as if I really, truly, without a shadow of a doubt, earned my black belt.
At this point, I'm more interested in proving myself to myself than anything else, and some people can't understand that. Melissa and my parents wanted to come in on Sunday to watch me test, and I told them, quite frankly, that I don't want them there. This is my accomplishment, and it's something I started, and want to complete, completely and totally on my own. I suppose that seems selfish, and it probably is. But, this is something that is uniquely mine, and it will hopefully be a source of intense pride that I can call on when I need it most. I think everybody needs something like that.
Hamas and Islamic Jihad Groups Hail Joke As A "Heckuva Kneeslapper"
TEL AVIV (Rhodes Media Services) -- After a whirlwind media storm that touted a three month ceasefire between Israelis and Palestinian militant groups, various leaders of the terrorist groups Hamas and Islamic Jihad came forward and said it was all a big hoax that was part of their Jihad Fool's Day celebrations.
Amidst much giggling and backslapping, leaders of the terrorist organizations said they weren't sure who started the joke, but they all agreed that it was a hysterical distraction from their usual serious business of killing innocent people.
"Wow! I woke up today and looked in the paper and I see "Truce" and "Peace" splashed all over the place," said Abdel Aziz Rantisi, one of the Hamas top leaders. "I broke up laughing so hard I could barely keep my blind hatred of the Jews fully focused. This little prank will go down in history as one of the all time greats. I think that little mischief maker, Fareed Mozul Aziz, was behind this one. He's always doing madcap things like this. Peace in the Middle East!? That's just too funny! Doesn't the world realize yet that violence in the Middle East is officially part of our culture? Don't they know that we would have nothing else to base our existence if we didn't have our little goal of driving the Jews into the sea? Heh, good one, Fareed."
Don't Have A Cow, Man
Cow. Cows.
Say either of those words enough times, and I swear they'll lose all meaning to you. Cow. Cow. Cow. Cows. Cow. Cows. Cow. Cow. Cows.
I grew up around cows. Cows were everywhere. I just learned to take them for granted, kind of like tap water. They were just there, behind fences, munching grass (the cows, I mean, not the tap water).
If you think about it, should mankind disappear entirely from the planet, cows would be the next to go. They simply have no survival instincts, unless staring blankly somehow constitutes a survival instinct. Seriously, the next time you drive past a herd of cows, be sure to blow your horn and assess their reaction. I'll bet good money that the entire herd will simply stop in their tracks and swivel their heads toward you, as if they're expecting a great Shakespearian play or something. How could that possibly be considered a survival instinct? Cows would be no match for a pack of wolves, or even a pack of turtles for that matter.
Growing up in Harmony, Minn., a small town located dangerously close to the evil state of Iowa, I just became accustomed to the omnipresence of cows. A cow could have walked right down the middle of main street and I'd think, "Huh, a cow. I wonder who it belongs to." I wouldn't wonder why it was walking or standing in the middle of main street, or even how it got there. I would just accept it as normal. Such is the wonder of growing up in rural Minnesota.
During a recent drive back to my hometown, however, I started thinking back on just how much cows have played a role in my life. As much as I hate to admit it, I think perhaps 30 percent of who I am today was shaped in some fashion by cows. Some of the memories that are the most seared into my mind are cow-related.
Take, for example, a field trip I took in elementary school to the local veterinary clinic. Although we were warned ahead of time that we may see some distasteful things, I was in no way prepared for the procedure I witnessed involving the cesarean delivery of a calf. For the record, I firmly believe no child is truly prepared to witness the cesarean delivery of a calf.
Right before my young astonished eyes, a thick yellow topical antiseptic was slathered on the side of a disinterested cow, diligently chewing her cud. The yellow goop was allowed to sink in for awhile before a veterinarian ran a blade along her side, unzipping her flesh in such a way that even Freddy Krueger would flinch. Then, the veterinarian reached deeply into the cow's side, fished out a live baby calf, and deposited the surprised youngster onto the hard tile floor, while all the while the mother seemed lost in thought about something else entirely. It was a surreal introduction to the miraculous wonder of birth, and I would just as soon not have to witness it ever again.
Of course, the male counterpart to the cow community is the bull. I'm terrified of bulls, and that's no bull. I spent the better part of my childhood firmly believing that every member of the bovine community was a bull, except for those undergoing cesarean calf deliveries. Every field or pen keeping in cows, I believed, also harbored roughly 1,000 bulls.
Well, one of my friends, John, a farm kid with a warped sense of humor, knew full well that I was scared to death of bulls. One day, I hopped into a pen full of cows because John and I had to traverse the pen to get to John's tree house. John, sensing my fear, announced that a bull (of which there were none) was charging down on me, and he told me to run. Actually, I was in a dead sprint at the mere mention of the word "bull." I ran, and I ran hard, perhaps harder than at any point in my life.
I ran smack into an electrified fence. I ran into that electrified fence so hard, I snapped it in half. I also endured an electrical shock strong enough to jumpstart a whale's heart. I had never before come in contact with an electrified fence, but I quickly learned that I didn't like them all that much. What sick twisted mind came up with such an idea? An electrified fence? Wasn't barbed wire enough? I mean, it's not as if cows are going to figure out a way through barbed wire anyway. So, why make an electrified fence? I guess I'm just still mad, because that shock really hurt.
I have a plethora of other cow-related tales, but those are the two that really scarred my young mind. Do you have a cow tale you'd like to relate? If so, please share.
I don't envy the headline writers of the world. I've written for newspapers, and I've had to write many, many, many headlines. It's a frustrating exercise in trying to get things to fit just so, with the right font, at the designated size, while at the same time trying to, more or less, tell the crux of an article in maddeningly few words. Oh, and you have to make it compelling enough to invite readers to learn more. Given all those variables, I understand when a sub-standard headline graces a newspaper. After all, the writer just did the best with what they had. Still, the Minneapolis Star-Tribune, I'm convinced, could have done better than: Tornado leaves a path of ruin in Buffalo Lake
Really? Imagine that. And here I thought tornados left a wake of money and roses in their path. Now THAT would be a cool, and entirely unexpected, story (italicized sentences actually appear in the Star-Tribune story):
Tornado A Blessing To Buffalo Lake Community
Residents Overjoyed By Storm Aftermath
BUFFALO LAKE, MINN (Rhodes Media Services) -- The community of Buffalo Lake today was still basking in the pleasant post-storm wonders left behind by the tornado that blew through late last night. Despite scattered damage around the area, most residents were quite pleased with the storm's performance.
"That was pretty fucking cool," said Steve McCallister, 47, a Buffalo Lake resident and owner of McCallister Auto. "I mean, just look around. I've lived around here all my life and this is just the coolest damn thing to ever happen here. Sure, the damage kinda sucks and all, but MAN, what a fucking rush!"
Most residents seemed to share McCallister's post-tornado excitement, and practically everyone agreed that the last time Buffalo Lake saw so many reporters and news cameras was when a convicted child molester considered moving to town.
Four people were taken to the hospital, but there were no fatalities, according to Police Chief Greg Gowan.
''I think that's why you see me so chipper today, the day after my town got destroyed,'' he said.
Indeed, in addition to "giving the folks something to talk about for a long, long time," the storm gave residents a respite from the 95+ degree heat that hit the area the previous afternoon.
"Yep, when it comes to a nice breeze, there ain't no beating a tornado," said Clive Burns, 67, a retired area farmer. "I was sitting on my porch most all of yesterday, just sweating myself to death, but that tornado just came along and cooled everything down real nice. I saw the funnel cloud touch down and I couldn't wait to hang my head out the kitchen window just like old Hank (Clive's dog) does when he's riding along in the truck. Yep, as tornados go, that one was pretty nice."
Yesterday was one of those decadent days that I've been meaning to enjoy for 28 years now. It started out innocently enough: the alarm clock blared to life at 8 a.m., my arm shot forth, and a lazy hand went to smack the snooze button (just. nine. more. minutes.).
But another hand beat me to it. I had almost forgotten, in my sleepy haze, that Melissa had spent the night with me. We had both been so exhausted--me from two and a half hours of hapkido, and her from work and dealing with her dad--that we had just conked out almost as soon as our heads hit our respective pillows.
Nine minutes passed. The alarm came back to life. Again Melissa's hand beat me to the snooze button. This routine played out again and again until 9:30 a.m. I was late for work. And I didn't give a shit. After over a year and a half of scrambling to work, I simply let sleep win me over. And it felt divine.
By 11 a.m., I was pretty much resigned to the fact that I wasn't going into work. I was also resigned to the fact that I couldn't fall back asleep thanks to the raging morning wood forcing my blanket into hover mode. I was about to turn over to Mel to see if she could rectify the situation when, once again, she beat me to it, er, so to speak.
Normally, I'm the one who does all the between-the-thigh work. I dive into cunnilingus the way Navy Seals dive into a sabotage operation. I'm in my happy place when my tongue is visiting Bushville. It's become so commonplace for me to be there first thing in the morning when I'm with Mel, she refers to it as me "having breakfast."
Not so yesterday. Yesterday, Mel was on the job, er, again, so to speak. She was busily working her fellatio muscles, much to my delight. Hooky from work, AND a BJ. Can life get any better? All I needed was a frosty beer and the television tuned to a Discovery Channel special about the pyramids, and you could have ended my life then and there because it simply couldn't have gotten any better. Then Mel popped her head up and asked something that made me laugh out loud. Literally. Laugh. Out. fucking. Loud.
"Baby, what do you look for in a blow job?"
As I laughed, I envisioned thumbing through the Sears Catalog to the blow job section (located between the camping supply section and housewares). Let's see, I could choose the 2003 Knob-Job Deluxe edition (with patented saliva guard), or the Slurp-O-Matic 5000 produced by Head Bobbers, Inc. I shared all of this with Mel, and she started laughing right along with me.
"No, what I mean is what makes a good blow job for you?" she explained, even though I knew what she meant.
"Well, preferably, my penis would play an important role."
Laughter for 10 minutes. Followed by sex. Followed by an hour nap. Followed by an afternoon of swimming in her father's pool.
Hey, look, a random list of adult stars: Stephanie Swift. Kyla Cole. Teagan Presley. Autumn Austin. Courtney Simpson. Christina Model. Ginger Jolie.
Work? What's that? Oh, right, that place I'm at now.
Fine, I'll leave you with a long list of famous people so maybe I can boost Web traffic: Hilary Duff. Kiera Knightly. Amanda Bynes. Lindsay Lohan. Jessica Alba. Britney Spears. Kelly Clarkson. Christina Aguilera. Emma Watson. Ashley Tisdale. Amber Tamblyn. Kirsten Dunst. Sanjaya. Jessica Sierra. Eva Mendes. Hilary Duff. Kiera Knightly. Amanda Bynes. Lindsay Lohan. Jessica Alba. Britney Spears. Kelly Clarkson. Christina Aguilera. Emma Watson. Ashley Tisdale. Amber Tamblyn. Kirsten Dunst. Sanjaya. Jessica Sierra. Eva Mendes. Hilary Duff. Kiera Knightly. Amanda Bynes. Lindsay Lohan. Jessica Alba. Britney Spears. Kelly Clarkson. Christina Aguilera. Emma Watson. Ashley Tisdale.
I really like Melissa's new apartment. It's cleaner. It's newer. It's in a nicer neighborhood. It's just a few steps from Ol' Mexico, which has NTN trivia and two for one drink specials from 10 p.m. to midnight.
But, damn it. It's so loud!
Mel's apartment complex is located on Lexington Ave., which doesn't mean anything to people who don't know the Twin Cities, but let me just assure you that it's a very popular road. All day and all night long, all you can hear are vehicles puttering down the street, from muffled compact cars to bone rattling Harley Davidsons. During the spring and summer weeks thus far, with the windows open, Mel's apartment sounds like the hub of a Nascar race.
Melissa can sleep through it all like it's nothing more than toads singing in a pond. I, on the other hand, can't take it. I repeat. . . I CAN'T TAKE IT! I mean, I can fall asleep okay, when traffic is relatively light, but come dawn the commuters on the street below simply refuse to let me sleep soundly. *vrrrooooom* *errrrrrrrrr* *rrrrrummmmmble*
ARGH!
When sleeping at Melissa's, my morning dreams flash by in disjointed half-novellas, with each mental story line being rudely truncated by a passing vehicle. It's the dreaming equivalent of flipping through television channels. And it's not at all a restful way to spend a morning. Sure, it's still sleep, but it's not good sleep. But, enough bitching about this, especially when there are so many other things I can bitch about.
There's this shirt I wear when I go running, and I wear it because I love watching the reaction of people passing by. It's a tee shirt I bought in Colorado nearly six years ago that has a buff and ripped male torso on the front and a buff and ripped male back on the, er, back. It's a hysterical shirt because, from a distance, it looks damn convincing and real. People are always doing double-takes when I go running by, and as you all know by now, I'm an attention hogging freak. Well, anyway. . .
I went for a run Friday evening before Melissa got off work. I was running through a busy intersection on my way to Como Park when a car full of giggly girls started tootling the horn and leaning out catcalling me, oohing and ahhing and laughing about my shirt. Distracted, I glanced ever so briefly at the car, and in that instant I ran smack into a post sticking out of the sidewalk.
This particular post, which is used by pedestrians to activate the "walk" sign, was at just the right height to wreak havoc with my groin, by which I mean I hit the post in full stride, and I'm fairly certain I felt my testicles flair out, swing around the post, and clack together on the other side. This was a direct hit of magnificent proportions, and it wasn't two seconds later that every vehicle waiting at the intersection was enthusiastically blowing their horns in gleeful delight. I remained stoic, and despite searing pain, I managed to continue my run for about a block and a half before I went slinking off on a sidestreet, where I sat down on the curb and nursed my nads.
Let me just assure you folks, the pain was exquisite, and it took a full ten minutes or more of soft sobbing and cursing before I was able to stand up and resume my jog, albeit with a slight hobble. This was not the first time a gaggle of girls distracted me and caused me bodily harm. Some day, I'll relate the tale, if I haven't already, of when I rode a bicycle into a lake whilst ogling some scantily clad females.
Saturday, Melissa and I went to Valleyfair, which is more or less Minnesota's answer to Six Flags. I like to go to Valleyfair at least once a year, if for no other reason but to remind myself what it's like to suffer motion sickness after riding every rollercoaster three times each. Mission accomplished. At the end of the day, whenever I closed my eyes, all I could envision was zooming along on metal tracks. Don't take this to mean I didn't have a good time, because Melissa and I had a wonderful time, and it was perhaps as near to perfect of a day as I've had yet this year. Between all the rides, and the junk food, and the two rounds of miniature golf, and the people watching, and the fact I didn't even once hit my nuts on a post the entire day, it was a great afternoon.
Sunday, Melissa had to work at 10 a.m., and I was so exhausted I barely remember her leaving. I stayed in bed until 1:30, trying to catch fleeting sleep between the passing of muffler-less vehicles. I finally woke up, made the bed, fixed the bathtub drain, and washed the dishes. I do these little things for Melissa because she lets me have sex with her, so it seems like a fair trade, although it's my understanding that she'd let me have sex with her even if I didn't do all the little things, so I may be over-exerting myself for no real reason.
This week, I start my final training for my hapkido black belt. I test on Sunday. I'm both nervous and excited about this. I really hope I don't crush my nuts again before Sunday.
I'm an avid golfer, which is to say I thrive on huge doses of disappointment, irritation and frustration.
I can hit a long drive, sometimes as far as 280-300 yards, I can put approach shots on or very near the green and I can sink tremendously long putts. But, I don't do any of the above very often and never all on the same hole.
It's ridiculous, really, that a game so simple in theory (you just hit a ball in a hole, right?) can result in a string of profanity unheard of in the civilized world. All this from one of the most civilized of modern sports.
And yet, almost every summer weekend, I find myself with my father or a few friends trying to overcome all my golf shortcomings in the offbeat chance of parring the course. It hasn't happened yet.
I think I first took back the blade at the age of seven when my parents, in what I now perceive to be a cruel joke, bought me my first set of starter clubs.
At that early age I was entranced by the shimmering metal shafts and peculiarly shaped club heads. I wanted to try them out right away.
But, as I recall, at the age of seven I also entertained friends by swallowing dimes, which points to a definite flaw in my judgement.
I should also have seen the warning signs when I first heard my father muttering under his breath after his every shot.
But, no, he didn't want to discourage my tender enthusiasm for this new sport so he conveniently forgot to tell me about subtle golf rules like "out of bounds," "lost balls" and "keeping score."
As I skittered around the course, jabbering away and swiping at the little white ball, he no doubt smiled to himself, knowing I was sowing the seeds for what would become a lifelong love/hate relationship for a sport that hates everyone.
But what about Tiger Woods and, um, all those other big name golfers? Surely the game loves them. No, it doesn't; they've just managed to get the sport in a tough submission hold from which it can't wiggle free.
I showed an early glimmering of talent for the irritating game, and my first varsity letter came in golf my eighth grade year. But, although I would eventually letter in football and wrestling, I would quickly lose the puny hold I had on golf and never hit the varsity ranks again.
The game still holds some mystique for me, however. There's a definite beauty to walking along the finely manicured fairways and greens of a well-maintained golf course. And, despite my lamentations, I do occasionally have a pretty decent round.
But, perhaps the most enjoyable aspect of golf is the chance to share some time with my father and friends. A round of golf provides a much-needed time-out from everyday life and lets me give others a little bit of ribbing when a shot dribbles two feet ahead after a powerful swing.
And, if I can jockey between vast amounts of cursing, groans and muttering, I might even find time to engage in a conversation.
Golf also provides an outlet for immense creativity. After all, it takes a great deal of skill and stealth to cheat without anyone noticing.
I had to give a friend of mine an "A" for creativity after he tried explaining how the yellow ball he hit off the tee into tall grass had actually gone 400 yards into the middle of the fairway and also turned white.
In addition, I've heard my father come up with some inventive curses rather than deal directly with expletives. I remember when he missed a five foot putt by the slimmest of margins and yelled, "Well, you big chicken crap-head!"
I'm not sure what a "chicken crap-head" is, but it sure sounds like a distasteful off-shoot of the Chicken McNuggett.
That's not to say I've never taken part in golf-induced profanity. Anyone who has ever shared the same course with me no doubt heard my mournful wailing bouncing off the trees like so many golf balls.
Such is the game of golf. When you're not admiring a powerful tee off sailing through the air, you're knee deep in water searching for the ball.
So it was when my father said to me this year, "Golf is a game you can enjoy throughout your life," I could only nod in agreement.
Despite my stoic outward appearance, somewhere deep down inside, where a small fortune in dimes is forever lodged, a tiny voice yelled, "Noooooooooooooo!"
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