Vegas, Baby!! Vegas Baby?!

Your parents probably told you the story while you cringed, asking to be spared of the gory details, the nightmarish thoughts of your parental units getting all “brown chicken, brown cow”! Thinking that telling you would be some proof of how special your creation truly was, not realizing how it created uncomfortable thoughts of how your celibate Puritanical Mom and Dad could get busy and thus void your illusion of being the second Immaculate Conception. You survived it and maybe it, unbeknownst to you, was actually a rite of passage into adulthood: yes, Virginia, Mommy and Daddy perform the horizontal Mambo, they may even talk dirty to each other, and the bottle of “vitamins” on the Daddy’s nightstand, and the “massager” in Mommy’s dresser drawer are for having adult fun.
When I came to realize these things, I in some way promised myself and my future children that I would try to create them in the most mundane fashion that produced the least amount of possible back story. As fate should have it, the first addition to our loving family will one day be tortured with the terribly fabulous way in which they were conceived. I’ll spare you the details (mostly because I certainly remind you more of Tom Arnold than Tom Cruise) but it really all started because we just needed a vacation. Our most favorite place to go has always been Las Vegas, and this time we tried to keep our trip on the DL, a couple’s getaway if you will. We would actually get adult activities in; if you catch my meaning (previous trips prohibited such activity based on poor timing).
Las Vegas is a fabulous city with an exceptional marketing campaign that completely captures the frivolity and carefree attitude you are lead to believe exists. They promote an amnesia based vacation getaway that completely absolves one of any repercussions for the wild and crazy time they may have. They tell you it never happened. They are lying to us! I am here to tell you that on May 17th (or near that date anyway) there will be flesh and bone proof that What Happens in Vegas Doesn’t Stay There! And in about sixteen years that poor proof will hear all about it!

Strange Things Are a Foot

I am convinced that my foot must taste delicious; better than the most luscious strawberries, juicy than prime rib, more divine than the finest chocolate. Why else would I be so compelled to place it in my mouth with such great regularity? I refuse to give specific examples, mostly because you, in all likelihood, know my wife and she probably has divulged some of my most dandy moments. I could claim a complete misunderstanding in many cases, but that would be pointless because “stoopid” really isn’t a language and therefore, by definition, can’t be understood. Most of you know me to be a relatively intelligent and literate individual, but for some reason unbeknownst to me, I am on rare occasions (mostly between the hours of 11pm and 1am), suddenly transformed into Captain Dumbass, the insensitive jerk, foot-cuisine connoisseur.
In desperation, I consulted the Dr. Oz Show (shut up!) for answers. Amazingly Dr. Oz explained that during fetal development, a certain chemical is released into the baby’s blood stream that actually slows the activity of the right brain, which houses much of the emotional sensitivity and communication skills. This chemical is predominantly found in highest quantities in roughly half of developing babies, and continues to dominate that population through their adult life. The chemical? Why TESTOSTERONE of course!! At this point, I would ask that the males in the room quickly run for cover…or assume your traditional position when you receive the “I told you so” moment from your estrogen rich partner. If you are gay men, you may simultaneously point the finger at each other. For our lesbian friends, clearly you have perfect communication skills; you may now leave the room.
So, it is clear that my affinity for my foot is not through any fault of my own. It is clearly my mother and father’s fault and God (non-denominational deity may be substituted here) had a part in it to. Testosterone was given to me, I never knowingly took it, nor was I aware of the effects it was having on me. Aside from the penis, the beard and the amazing amount of muscle, there were no indications that I was benefiting from these. I blame this all on my wi…mmm…warfle…wurble… wow, this foot tastes like strawberry cheesecake!

As Holes go…this one is a Metaphor!!

Like every other unreasonable hormonally challenged guy on this planet, I knew I could fix it. It would of course save us money and what could those over priced technicians do that Mr. Handyman couldn’t. First it was the plumbing auger that was five feet to short. Then it was the drain pipe that was 5 inches too short, followed by the root kill that barely reached the root. I realize now after ten projects in between that I have a common condition that plagues nearly seventy five percent of men (the other twenty five percent of males are “fabulously” gay or filthy rich which means they lack the gene that causes…): Handyman’s ADD. Wives, at this time I invite you to leave the room. Trust me, the last thing your dear husband wants you to read is this admission of a condition that has the following symptoms: hard charging, assertive statements full of excessive testosterone that sound something like “I refuse to pay a bleeping repairman $50 an hour to stand around and tell me that a bleeping screw is loose!!”; multiple trips to the local home improvement store for “the part I know will fix this damn thing,” utilizing terminology such as “thing a ma jig” or “special fitting”; belligerent responses to simple questions such as “when did you plan on finishing that hole?” using quips such as “do you know how to fix it? Didn’t think so!” and “you got a better idea” ; sudden postponement of project to begin another project that suddenly becomes more important “I got to fix that screen door before I can get the drain to work”; and finally the realization that a qualified technician is needed “I could do this but I don’t have the right tools for the job and that tool is just too darn expensive.”
Ladies, if you ignored my warning and still happen to be reading this blog and it sounds amazingly familiar, take two deep breaths and step away from the knife set. He’s only doing what he is genetically compelled to do because in less civilized times, the man was the hunter and therefore was constantly needed in the society. There wasn’t a local grocery and a group wouldn’t outsource their hunting needs. In modern times, however, the only needs a man fulfills involve sex and upkeep. If he’s married, sex is a ritual performed once or twice a month simply to ward off any evil spirits lurking under the covers, which can also be accomplished by using a sanitizing detergent bath. Fortunately for our modern male homo-sapiens, upkeep seems a decent way for a man to remain dutifully needed and not totally replaced by a battery powered substitute. The difficulty lies in keeping enough things in disrepair that the female feels compelled to continue utilizing her husband, but he must be on guard not to let everything go awry for she may elect to replace him or phone a suitable substitute. While this vicious circle of repair is not consciously put into action by males, it does however preserve our place in the society. So when the toilet is on the fritz for several weeks, just remember it’s all societies fault and we husbands need to be needed, too!

Every Day’s My Birthday

It happens to all of us once a year (unless of course you were born on February 29th, then you get one every four, which means you look really old for your age). It’s supposed to be a celebration of one more year of living, but it has always struck as a little odd that we only celebrate in increments of years. Imagine if we could celebrate every day, another day of living. Why is it people who are closest to death are the only ones that finally get that feeling of joy over one more day. If all of us could actually start each morning in celebration, imagine just how much better life would be. Then it dawned on me why we don’t and I fear this may sound a bit cynical, but its big business’ fault. Yes, the conspirators that brought you Enron, the Recession, and a host of other scandals now want you to be grumpy in the morning, irritated during the day and angry at night. Why you ask? Simple, it’s the revenue streams. Let’s start with grumpy mornings. If you leaped out of bed, thrilled to greet the world, rested and excited to meet the challenges of a new day, what wouldn’t you need? Exactly, Caffeine! Think of the billions of dollars we spend on products to get alert and awake, because we have to drag our rear ends out of bed, because we are not genuinely happy about having to get out of bed. Starbucks alone would collapse from early morning happiness. Imagine the horror of “dinks” strolling out their front door, cheerily climbing into their Beemers, cruising past the local Starbucks and cruising into the parking lot at work without the double espresso in the cup holder. Talk about economic collapse, the government would create a stimulant stimulus package for coffee mega-companies.
If caffeine production must be preserved, think of what we would have to do for the pharmaceutical companies. Think about how many of the people you know are on some kind of mood altering substance, whether they are anti-depressants or anti-psychotics. Now I’m not saying that some people don’t need medication but I think the vast majority of us are just bored and frustrated and feel like rats trapped in a maze. It’s amazing how much our beloved technology has not increased our free time but rather trapped us in an inescapable never-ending circle of availability. When do any of us actually hang up, or tune out? When do we disconnect with the rest of the world and connect with the people under our roofs? When do we actually take time to listen to the silence? Take a minute to turn off every piece of communication device you have for one hour. If you don’t actually go crazy from withdrawal, you may actually get to a place called serenity and you might feel the inner peace and tranquility of…hang on, got a call from the pharmacy on the other line…Xanax must be ready…oooh, just got a fantasy football update…I could use a latte espresso bumbalala…

Friends, Romans, Countrymen…Send me your ideas?

A few weeks ago I placed a note on Facebook soliciting blog ideas, and a few of my concerned friends sent in rather creative ideas listed below (the names of been changed to protect the goofy):

Trachel: If snails could run...

Cho: I was also thinking about young kids with cellphones. I saw a 10 yr old kid at 9 this morning talking on a cell. WTF could he possibly have to talk about?

Blainie: ok.. we need your take on one of the biggest debates in history... Jeanie vs. Bewitched

I thank them for their bravery, as I’m sure they were aware they would end up in a blog. As an homage, I shall address their issues (no, just the ones listed above…Jerry Springer can handle the rest!)

CHO:

Young kids with cell phones will prove to be an evolutionary necessity. Millennia from now the human race will no longer have opposable thumbs and their fingers will shrivel to nubs, due to the over usage of video game controllers. By having our children constantly place cell phones to their ears, eventually the equipment, much in the same fashion as the Borg, will become biomechanically integrated into their skull. Thus eliminating the need for key pads as messaging and dialing will be brain activated.

Blainie:

I Dream of Jeannie. Barbara Eden was hotter and wore less clothes. Really? There was a debate?

Trachel:

If snails could run, Nike would slap endorsement stickers on their shells and start an ad campaign: Nike….How fast could you run carrying your house?...Just Do It!!

You too, could make it to my blog!!

Why is 007 singing Abba? And other reasons men hate chick flicks.

My wife loves me. To prove this, she spares me the torture of watching the root of all evil in a masculine world: the chick flick. Typically these films star Reese Witherspoon or Julia Stiles, and involve a sappy adaptation of a rip off of a Shakespearean play. The goal of said movie is to move the audience (predominantly estrogen dominated homo-sapiens or “FABULOUS!” individuals) to tears or uncontrollable giggling. Clearly this is not a safe environment for the typical male, for at some point in time the females in the audience will see the romantic short-comings of any male in the room. Expressed in the following generalities: “Why can’t he be more like Freddie Prinze, Jr?” or “Do you think I could be doing Matt Damon?”

Occasionally I risk certain death, and tolerate one of these time honored bits of cinema in order to spend some quality time with my better half. And so was the case a few days ago when I allotted space in the omniscient DVR (see Give Me TiVo or Give Me Death) to record a movie my wife had shown interest in months ago as it made its theatrical debut. The movie in question was particularly dangerous because it involved two words that are synonymous with death in the male dictionary and when combined are on the level of Armageddon: Broadway and Musical!!

This movie also involved another scary proposition: the seventies disco band ABBA. In one fell swoop, I ventured into the straight man’s Bermuda Triangle of movies, all for the sake of love. I vowed to enjoy this time spent with her and therefore looked to enjoy the film, but it all took a tragic turn for the worse when James Bond, right before my disbelieving eyes, began to sing and dance! He of the cool cars, hot women, dangerous weapons and Judo CHOP (I know, wrong dude)! That’s right, Pierce Brosnan, our beloved James, of the long line of Mr. Bonds, 007 turning in his MI6 rating (and Man-Card) to yodel some Scandinavian disco band tunes for a few bucks. This is an outrage, a disservice to all the hardcore tough guy movies that earned their metal by being manly men. If Pierce now, what’s next? Antonio Banderas singing Andrew Lloyd Weber show tunes? Clint Eastwood starring in a Western Comedy Musical? Or perhaps you’ll steal our favorite X-Men hero and turn him into a singing dancing sweetheart? If this is how the feminine side of the world is going to play, we demand compensation. Give us one of your Broadway Stars for us to turn into a manly man. Send out Nathan Lane this very second!!!

Resurrected Movie Trailer Guy: “They took his family!! They took his fame!! They even took his…Gucci Man Purse!! Now he’s very unhappy!! This Summer Nathan Lane is the Perminator!!

Nathan Lane: I’ll be….FABULOUS!!!

Rock of Old Ages

In two weeks I turn thirty six years old and that doesn’t really bother me, mostly because I keep hearing that thirty is the new twenty. I have no idea what that means exactly, but I think it has something to do with plastic surgery or global warming. Either way, according to “experts” I should be feeling younger even though my cartilage is outgrowing my muscle mass. I am beginning to hope that VH1 and these so called experts would sit down and hash out this “youth movement.”
While experiencing one of those bouts of “growing pains” that hovered somewhere between my knees and ankles, I decided to ease into my recliner…er…relaxation chair and watch some TV when what to my dismay, old people in makeup appeared on the screen. No, I wasn’t watching re-runs of the Golden Girls, or Six Feet Under. I was watching….KISS!!! You remember, Knights In Satan’s Service, the dudes in the Kabuki Faces. Paul Stanley, in his Kiss outfit was bare-chested and, believe it or not, doing some strange air humping maneuver. Kudos to his ability to be incredibly flexible in his eighties, or at least it seems he’s that old since Kiss’ music was big on 8-Track. I believe carbon dating has tracked that back to A.G. Bell’s first recording.
It’s clear that rockers no longer have the decency to die at an early age, or at least fake their own deaths and head to an undisclosed location getting fat and living off of the royalties. Maybe they should take their cues from legendary blues players at the end of their careers. These guys didn’t try to headline tours with names like “Backward in Time Tour” “We’re Still Alive Tour” and “We Spent All Our Money On Drugs, Enormous Mansions, and Cars, and This Has To Pay The Retirement Home Tour.” No, John Lee Hooker made guest appearances at benefit and festival concerts and people were in awe that he could still do what he did. Maybe they should take their cue from the Rolling Stones, who unbeknownst to many rock fans, actually died in a tragic group nicotine/tar overdose in their London, England studios in May of 1968 (Concert Promoter Bill Graham in fear of losing money, had the band resurrected by the Hells Angels in a secret voodoo ritual just in time for the Altamont Speedway Free Festival in 1969). They technically are on a limited 50 year engagement loan from Dark Angel Entertainment (Mick Jagger wrote Sympathy for the Devil as a tribute to the CEO).
Good news from Depends Undergarments: They’ve developed their latest line specifically for aging rockers, with streamlined edges guaranteed not to show through improperly fitting leather pants (sock pocket available for that “enhanced” rocker look).

Facebook is the Devil, Bobby!!!

My dear friend who shared many of my most hilarious moments in college hit a momentous milestone in Facebook world. That’s right, he reached 500 friends, which doesn’t surprise me because he is genuinely a good dude, but I cannot resist the urge to jump up and down and call him “Friend Whore, Friend Whore.” I don’t think he goes around randomly “friending” minor acquaintances, but seriously, how many of us actually call five hundred people friends. Has the word friend lost its very value like every other emotionally invested word? It has as much meaning as another popular “f-word” that is so common place, that I’m surprised it even gets bleeped out on network television, which I would not be opposed to that idea because I am tired of flipping on to TNT and listening to a crappy voice over of Joe Pesci in Goodfellas. Play back to back Harry Potter and leave the f*#%ing R-rated movies to premium cable subscribers who can afford it. Okay back to the friend thing… Thanks to FB and MySpace, the concept of “friend” has completely changed (I know they didn’t start this trend but follow me on this one). A friend was someone who would listen to you gripe about your significant other, someone who’d pick you up when your ride ditched you. A good friend brought you bail money, lied to your parents for you or backed you up in a bar brawl. And your best friend helped you bury the body (thanks Al). But now, a good friend is someone who “Likes your posts” or comments on your new vacation photos. Christ, we used to call that Aunt Jean (fictional character).I propose that Facebook change its lexicon into something more appropriate, Friends should now be broken into four categories; Friends (the actual people that we still talk to at least once every six months), Family (no, we didn’t choose them, but sometimes we like them), Acquaintances (people who we actually had conversations with, and probably would do so again if we had the chance) and Others (generally speaking, the people we passed on the way to homeroom who didn’t try to trip us or call us obscene names related to our personal hygiene, stature, or other genetic defect).This would avoid confusing truly popular people from the socially inept, because in case none of you realized this, Facebook is a cyber version of high school, except we all act like we were all part of the same click. It’s nice to be a part of the same click, but does anyone write something provocative or earth shattering? Not really. Some of us are committed to finding the most absurd applications and answering the most ridiculous surveys such as What Serial Killer Are You? Does it really matter if I emulate Richard Ramirez? Are you more compelled to find out What Zodiac Sign Are You? Facebook is the Devil!! And why is my Rottweiler talking to me? No wait she’s an Aussie… AAARGH!!!So to my 5 Friends, 6 Family, 25 Acquaintances, and 763 Others please accept my F@#% OFF!! (2009 translation: “I hope you have a blessed day, may peace be upon you”) Application Request. Ooh look, my third grade crush…I wonder if Marci Phelps will accept my friendship…

The British Open- Brought to you by Viagra

I was watching golf from the comfort of my easy chair this Sunday as a man who is only five years younger than my father made a bid for history. He was trying to beat out a field of guys who are mostly my age. I mean, he is old enough to be a couple of their grandfathers, but does the magnitude of this feat lay prevalent in my thoughts. Heck no…for some strange reason, this made me think of Viagra. The beauty and irony of life is that the virility and audacity of youth is gradually replaced by the wisdom and patience that comes with experience. Let’s face it, as a man gets older he has to use his big head more effectively because his little head gets less effective. Generally speaking, this is a good thing as it leaves certain things to be had for the young, while older men are allowed to slowly fade to the sunset of their lives. Sure there have been instances of octogenarians having strong libidos and taking on youthful women, some even fathering children at that late age. But mostly, young hunky cabana boys supplant Mr. Wrinkles and take away his “cougar”, as he eventually is left by the pool tied to his oxygen tank.That is, until the arrival of Viagra! Now old dudes can do all night, what it used to take them all night to do, and screw calling a doctor after 4 hours of Mr. Wrinkle standing at attention, call his damn nurse (Heeellllooooo Nurse!!!). So now we have a man with decades of intimate knowledge walking around with the boner of an eighteen year old. Does no one else see the dangers of this to our society? Where does this leave the eighteen year old with PermaStiffy and no Mrs. Robinson to seductively lift her stocking adorned gams to lure him into “Brown Chicken, Brown Cow”? She’s off with Mr. Robinson getting her groove on because he’s been taking his once daily Cialis and he’s ready anytime. Every woman wants a man who can not only keep it up, but knows how to lick it up. In which case, gramps is cramming in on the 30-45 year old range, the age most guys finally pick up on the stuff that goes on between a woman’s ears and he can still effectively use what’s between his legs. Does this mean seventy is the new thirty and does that mean that anyone under thirty is an infant? Good heavens, what will we ever do?Wait! He came up short on his match winning putt…and… he was short and left a lot in the playoff holes. The thirty six year old out lasted him and was longer and straighter in the end. Looks like us young guys still have a chance!

Take This Job and hold it for me in case I can’t find another.

A funny thing has been happening in this tough economy… People are sticking around in their crappy jobs simply because there are a lack of jobs out there. At some point though, the economy will turn and better jobs will present themselves. In the meantime, now is a great time to plot your triumphant exit from the place you hate to go to just to pay the bills. Be creative, be edgy, just don’t be postal. This will be a day for celebration, but it is also a day for a little deviant behavior. Having worked for years in the sales and service industry, I have several juicy ideas that can be simply wonderful . If you are in a call center, find the direct line of the CEO, CIO or someone else up the chain of command who never talks to the little people. On D-Day, whip up a couple of really unhappy customers, telling them how this company doesn’t really care about their customers and if they don’t believe you they can talk to the CEO then transfer the call. If you work in sales, set up a fictional account and order the most embarassing, highest bulk item that you can, make the delivery address that of your manager or CEO or other unsavory member of the organization.Of course there are the classics; put the boss’ email on every free porn list, shrink wrap his car shut, sugar in the gas tank, and assorted others. Remember to publish all of your great ideas on Facebook with the name of your job, your boss’ name and of course your name and address. Then tell us about your last day, because it may have been today.

Give me TiVo or give me death!

There are certain pieces of technology that, once we have experienced, we seem to ask ourselves how we ever managed to survive without. Things like microwave ovens, air conditioning and multi-function remote controls top the list. I have recently become thoroughly hooked on an invention called TiVo. Our cable company offers this little gizmo within our cable box, and named it the DVR (ominous voice over), and it is the cable equivalent of digital crack. Marketed as a way to never miss your favorite TV shows, I thought it would be a cool way to not have to carve hours out of my day so I could watch a show when it was more convenient. It has now become the bane of my existence. I used to watch maybe 6-8 hours of TV per week, but now I find myself recording the most ridiculous shows because they sound remotely interesting and this is above and beyond the twenty plus series we record. I purposely record outdoor living shows so I can at least get the simulation of sunlight. To make matters worse, I have this highly addictive slave box craftily connected to an image producer that makes me feel almost a part of the image that has been produced. They call this (ominous voice over)…HDTV. I liken to this to adding black tar heroin to the crack that I just smoked. Might as well take some methadone, no wait…that’s coming through the surround sound!What this really boils down to is that, to paraphrase Karl Marx, entertainment is the pharmacological opiate of the masses (I think I saw that on Discovery HD). I’m pretty sure we will all be huddled in a tiny room in a back alley of our local Best Buy, watching repetitive images of flowers and wildlife, or Elton John concerts (the beads of sweat are so clear!) flicker by. Next thing you know they’ll make video games with the same jaw dropping clarity and where will our society be headed then? Who knows…but I bet the History Channel HD will have a special show on it that I can record!

Blood Test- Type-O Correction Fluid

This rant is not directed to any specific person. In fact, it’s directed to everyone in cyberspace, and text message space, and any other high tech communication media…LEARN HOW TO SPELL (for that matter, use proper grammar and punctuation). The degradation of civilization is directly correlated to the ability to assemble characters into an order that is consistent with authoritative published works known as dictionaries (of note, Hannah Montana is actually a sign of the apocalypse, and not truly an affectation of a degrading society). Acronyms, while once a valuable tool in communicating large pieces of information within narrow time frames has become increasingly used to communicate mundanely miniscule abbreviations for already short phrases. Taking 42 letters and trimming them down to four makes perfect, logical sense (National Aeronautics and Space Administration= NASA) while taking eleven letters down to three is absurd (be right back=brb). My friends, the time has come for us to show that geeky little thirteen year olds are not the only ones who can spell “laodicean.” Let’s show them that armed with our “qwerty” keyboards we can take back the full spelling of every word and phrase. WE ARE THE FUTURE OF THIS WOR… Oops phone…brb!!