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Manly Men in the Great Outdoors

4/4/2014

I’ll start by stating the obvious: there are advantages to being a man.

Now I’m not going to get into a philosophical discussion about how the U.S. is still primarily a patriarchal society, that women still encounter a “glass ceiling” in many work places, or that our government is still overloaded with male representatives (although I suppose those things are advantageous for men –damn, we’ve got it pretty good).

No, I mean our bodies.

Even if a man doesn’t have a very good looking body, he still has advantages. Here are just a few:

1. Men never have to deal with “that time of the month” (however, there are some who would argue that we have to deal with it in an oblique way because we’re often around women during “that time of the month” and that can be a little stressful sometimes. I know, I know, poor men…whaaa).

2. Men don’t have to worry about becoming unintentionally pregnant. (Although a few years ago the news touted a story of the first “man” who had a baby. I gotta call bullshit on that one. The plumbing simply isn’t there. If the plumbing is there at the time of birth, it’s a woman giving birth. I don’t care how man-ish she might look.)

3. Most men don’t have to deal with the changing bodies and moods that go with being pregnant. I will say though that my wife was a bit Jekyll and Hyde-ish when she was pregnant with our first daughter. I’m not throwing stones here, but boy, the stories I could tell.

4. Most men have a fairly easy time being happy with sex. It usually doesn’t take much for a man to toe the line, get ready, get set, and go. And he invariably reaches the finish line much faster. Easy-peasy.

5. For the most part, men don’t have to deal with the whole menopause thing. Sure, for a while the temperature flip-flopped back and forth in our house. It was either hotter than a furnace or colder than a witch’s tit in a brass bra and I learned very quickly to stay the hell away from the thermostat unless I wanted to have a hand chopped off. Still not going to throw stones though.

The advantages of having a man-body go on and on…

But one of the best things about being a man?

Pissing outside (notice I said ‘pissing’ and not ‘peeing.’ This is a manly thing, after all).

Particularly if your pissing outside after drinking beer with other men.

And there’s a campfire nearby.

Manly Men Back in the Day

It’s not a gay thing. Well, maybe for some it is, but hetero men will usually stand a good distance away from each other and try not to let their eyes wander too much. Wandering eyes while pissing outside with other men could have three possible outcomes, none of which are good:

1.) We could be psychologically damaged if we find ourselves falling “short” of other men.

2.) There’s the potential of getting beaten up if the other guy is insecure in his sexuality.

3.) It could throw off our aim and we end up pissing on our shoes.

But the risks are worth the reward.

Ask around. I think you’d be hard pressed to find many men who haven’t or who don’t enjoy a good outdoor piss. Even men with tiny back yards will find some place in that yard where they can piss –hopefully without being seen by a neighbor. I’ve known men who live in apartments who find a place within a short distance so they can piss outside. Sometimes those men get arrested because they take the pissing outside thing and turn it into something ugly and creepy instead of simply celebrating our natural ability.

I don’t know why it is…Maybe it’s just the fact that we can do it is why we do it. Maybe it harkens back to animal instincts and marking territory. Maybe it’s a unique way to bond with nature.

Then again, maybe…just maybe…it’s because women kick ass in so many other ways –not the least of which is being able to deal with all the other stuff I mentioned earlier and deal with men— and pissing outside is the one thing we know, without a doubt, we can do better than them.

Well, most of them anyway…

It’s a small victory (that’s what she said), but sometimes you take what you can get.

Be Well,

William

6 Comments

Media Mayhem

3/25/2014

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I don’t have the best track record of dealing with broadcast media. I can be fairly confident, hell, even sometimes cocky, but it seems that when I know more than a few people are listening and/or watching, I sometimes choke.

The first time I ran into this was way back in the day when I was listening to the local radio station while at work. They had some kind of trivia contest going on and if you were the fourth caller and could answer the trivia question you won a baked ham or some other equally great prize.

The trivia question was, “What actor played the original Godfather’s son who then went on to play the Godfather in ‘Godfather Part 2’?”

Obvious: Al Pacino.

I grabbed the phone and called the station. They played a song while waiting for callers. As luck would have it, I was the fourth caller. The D.J. asked me if I knew the answer and I went into cocky mode. Um, duh. No shit Sherlock. I gave him my name and he said he’d introduce me right after the song and then ask me the question and I could give my answer.

I waited patiently for the song to end. The ham was practically in the bag.

The song ended and that’s when things went to hell.

D.J.: “On the phone we have William Martin, who has an answer to our trivia question. How are you doing today William?”

I could hear the D.J. on the phone and through the radio simultaneously. For some reason, that just really threw me off. What threw me off even more was when I heard my own voice coming through the radio (maybe because I was cocky, the D.J. didn’t warn me that it could be an issue).

Me: “Doing good, thanks.”

Radio: “DOING GOOD, THANKS.”

My eyes darted back and forth between the radio and the phone.

D.J. (ass): “So William, what’s the answer to our trivia question for today?”

Me (beginning to sweat): “Uhhhh. Ummmm. Uhhhh.”

Radio: “UHHHH. UMMMM. UHHHH.”

D.J. (after a few seconds): “William, are you there?”

Radio: “WILLIAM, ARE YOU THERE?”

Me: “Uhhhh. Ummmm. Uhhhh.”

Radio: “UHHHH. UMMMM. UHHHH.”

D.J.: “Do you have an answer for us William?”

Me: “Uhhhh. Ummmm. Uhhhh.”

Radio: “UHHHH. UMMMM. UHHHH.”

D.J.: “Well, it seems William doesn’t have an answer for us after all. Be sure to check with us in the next hour for another chance to win a baked ham.”

And then he hung up.

I consoled myself by thinking, “Hey, it’s just a small local radio show. Who’s going to be listening to that?”

It seems everybody listened to it. And I heard about my performance for a full two weeks afterward.

The next time I ran into a media problem was when I was leaving work. There was a television crew outside work and the reporter asked me if he could ask me a question.

Me: “Like what?”

Reporter: “Who do you think will win the World Series.”

I’ll be honest right now, even at the risk of losing man-points. I am not a sports guy. I told the reporter that and that I didn’t even know who was playing.

I started to leave. He grabbed my arm.

Reporter: “Look, it doesn’t really matter. We just need a sound bite to round out our sporting report. Just say one team or the other.”

Me: “Well…who’s playing?” (I don’t even remember now, but for sake of story, let’s say it was New York and…Texas.)

Me: “Okay, I guess I can do that.”

He asked, and I told him my name.

Reporter: “Great. Thanks. Okay, roll the camera.”

The cameraman pointed the camera at me and the reporter set up his sound bite.

Reporter: “We’re here with William Martin on the evening of the start of the World Series. So, William, who do you think will take the series this year?” He pushed his microphone towards my face.

Me: “Oh, New York, definitely.”

Reporter: “Okay, so why do you say that?”

Me: “Uhhhh. Ummmm. Uhhhh. Because that’s what you told me to say?”

Reporter: “Cut! Thanks again William.”

By the time I wrapped my head around what had happened they were gone.

And later that night, in all my glory, stood I, looking like someone had just shoved a broom handle up my ass saying…

“Uhhhh. Ummmm. Uhhhh.” They had conveniently cut out the part where I said because he had told me to.

I thought, “Hell, it’s just an 11 o’clock newscast. Who the hell stays up and watches that?”

Again, apparently, everyone. And I heard about my performance from every one I encountered for weeks.

I’ve had an opportunity to be on media since then, but even I can learn after a time or two, so I flatly refused.

But if someone from the American Idol or Survivor reality shows calls, I may have to reconsider.

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Ah, What the Hell

3/15/2014

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I was able to sleep in for a bit this morning, which everyone knows is why God, evolution, or whatever deity you follow, made Saturdays to begin with.

When I got up and looked outside I saw that it was one helluva glorious day today. Sunshine, temperatures in the mid ‘70s, hardly any wind. Definitely not a day to stay indoors.

I should point out that I’m not a morning person at all. I found out a long time ago that, left to my own devices, I would stay up until 1:00 a.m. or 1:30 and sleep in until 9:00 or 10:00. In a way this makes it difficult to get up on weekdays at 6:00 a.m., but on the plus side, I’m not really awake until about mid-morning. So, half my workday is practically done –although I may not have a real clear recollection of just what it was I did.

You take the good with the bad.

But I had to have my coffee first. Yep. I’m one of those.

I have to have two or three cups of coffee just to get my heart beating and my lungs functioning properly.

So I sat and drank my coffee and looked out on this really gorgeous day, deciding what I would do.

I noticed the lawn had grown about five feet since my last fall mowing. I should probably take care of that. It had dried enough. I could do that. My 30-year-old Sears lawnmower would be up for it. I’m pretty positive that I will die long before that thing does.

The weeds around the edge of the yard were higher than the grass, so I thought about breaking out the old weed-whacker and taking care of those.

Some of the lawn edging (okay, quite a bit of the edging) had started rotting away, so I needed to replace those. I used those red, timber things because they were cheap, but I did get a lot of mileage out of them.

My German Shepherd, Maggie, was alternately looking at me and the glass door to outside, not so subtly letting me know that she’d be more than happy to run after a stick for a few hours, if I’d be willing to throw it.

My truck hasn’t had a bath in months and it could really use a good wax as well. The interior also needs to be vacuumed and cleaned.

There was a lot of stuff that needed done inside the house too: laundry, the floors, dusting…

So I sipped my coffee and planned my day.

Then I sipped my coffee and checked my email, social stuff, news, and worked on a poem a bit –while I was waking up, of course.

When next I looked, it was 11:00 a.m. I shut down the computer and gazed again at the lawn, the weeds, the borders, my dog (who still continued to stare at me with the intensity that only dogs can do), and my dirty pickup. I also looked again at the floors, the laundry, and the dusting that needed to be done.

So I made myself some breakfast.

You can’t take on those kinds of chores on an empty stomach.

After making and eating my eggs, bacon (the fairy dust of foods), and toast (and drinking a couple of more cups of coffee), I was ready to hit it.

But by then it was almost 12:30.

Suddenly, the lawn, weeds, edging, dog, the dirty pickup, the floors, the laundry, the dusting…it all seemed so overwhelming. And in the back of my mind I knew the grass would grow again, the weeds would spring forth again, other parts of the edging would rot, the clothes would get dirty again, as would the floors and the furniture…

I wasn’t sure where to start first.

So I debated on it and tried to plan a strategy of attack.

Next thing I knew it was past 1:00 p.m.

So I had a beer and checked my email again and my social media stuff again.

Then I took a nap, because I was still a little tired.

Now it’s late afternoon and time for another beer.

Why did I get a house with a yard anyway?

Why did I insist on getting a dog?

Why couldn’t I just hire someone to clean my truck?

Why couldn’t I just wear my clothes another day or two? I mean really, who would notice?

That’s when I reached the point of “Ah, what the hell.”

And started writing my blog and having another beer.

There will be plenty of time to get to all that other stuff tomorrow.

Right?

The only thing is…I never did make it outside, but it looked great through the window.

Be well. --William

10 Comments

Writing Drunk

3/10/2014

4 Comments

This blog posting is an attempt to follow Hemingway’s advice (even though he probably put it out there when he was drunk) –although, to be honest, I don’t know if I’ll have time to get around to the second part of his aphorism (added points, props, and/or gropes for me for using the term aphorism!).

Drinks…I’ve had a few.

Whooo Hooo!

See how easily I fired a rhyme right off the bat without even half-trying? Sometimes I think I could be this generation’s limerick king. God knows I’ve tried to incorporate rhyme, rhythm and structure in a number of my poems. Editors seem to think it’s out of date to write poems with a definite structure or rhyme scheme (I hear Robert Frost rolling over in his grave about now). Of course, there’s always the possibility they simply think my poetry sucks. If that’s the case, then…go figure.

Apparently, it’s better to simply throw out lines of writing which may (but probably not) fuse itself into a coherent message. Or, at least, if the message isn’t incoherent, it engages your mind to the point where you’re having brain cramps --if not total seizures. That’s when, as a literary type, you have to pretend there is a VERY deep meaning in the poem that you can discern even though no one else can.

For example:

New Poem

I look out on the meadow,
And see,
Nothing.
Laughing because you’ve missed,
The pot-o-gold.
While unicorns laugh,
And the midget jots down notes,
So the tyrannosaurus can’t see.

You soon will be,
A blur on route 66.
It’s a mixture of reality,
And fantasy.
Yet only you can,
Know,
Where fun, death, hatred,
And love,
Intersect.

--William Martin

Who knows? That could easily be my most praised poem yet. All it takes is for the right people to stare down their noses, read it at just the right time, and discover its meaning. (Shhhh. Just between you and me it’s a crap-load of nonsense. I just spewed it out there. It took me all of two minutes.)

Drinks…I’ve had a couple of more.

Why write? Well, in all honesty, fucked if I know. Sometimes I think if I didn’t write another word in my life, no one would be the wiser. Other times I think I don't want to be on my death bed thinking, “Hey, asshole! There was a lot you could have put out there that you never did.”

Anyway, I’ll keep putting my drivel out there…in poems, short stories, essays, blogs, and novels. I’ll feel better just for exposing myself a bit more (okay, if that doesn’t sound Freudian and/or pervy, nothing will) and hope there are a few who will understand.

Let me know if you’re one of those. Sometimes I think there are fewer and fewer of us in this world.

By the way: all crap I’ve thrown out here on this blog is copyright to whoever would feel comfortable repeating it.

It’s just the way I roll.

Regrets? Well, I’m going to have another few.

And a couple more drinks.

It could be that Hemingway guy was onto something.

Gonna move from the beer to the Irish whiskey now.

And I hope, as always, you all will be well.

--William Martin

4 Comments

Camouflaged Confusion

3/1/2014

8 Comments

Okay, in the interest of full disclosure, I should admit that I’m a shoe whore. Advertisements for OnlineShoes.com show up on my Facebook page. Facebook ratted me out to the internet’s all time bigmouth, Google. They’ve found me out. Now I have ads showing up on Yahoo, GuitarCenter.com and even Internet Movie Database.

I’m not too smart when it comes to technology, so in the onslaught of these ads I’ve simply taken on a higher level of paranoia. Big brother is watching. Big brother knows the styles of shoes I like. Big brother knows I’m a shoe whore.

But one thing has given me pause to think (hey, anything that gives me pause to think can’t be all bad). When I recently clicked on the OnlineShoe advertisement I was kicked to a description of camouflaged shoes.

Okay.

Camouflaged shoes in and of themselves aren’t a bad thing; they go well with other camo clothing when you’re attempting to sneak around the woods undetected by animals that will detect you five miles off by scent alone. But these were camo tennis shoes. As I browsed further, I also found camo boots (okay, I get that), camo slippers (I guess if you want to be comfy as you sneak up on that grizzly), camo…etc.

But it didn’t end there. And the more I looked, the more I realized just how strange the world has become. I had always assumed that the purpose of camouflage was to remain undetected. Sort of like this guy:

To say I was wrong would be an understatement of monumental proportions. Here are just a few of the camouflaged items you can buy:

Okay, these are just wrong. What the hell are you going to be sneaking up on in your (I have to say it) tighty-camo-ies? And you can thank me for not showing you the other side of these. Ew. If they have these for women (yes they do) would some women be in danger of showing a "camo-toe?"

Another odd item:

I'm actually okay with these. Yes, I know it's a double standard, but it's my blog...so there. I can imagine my wife becoming invisible in these and me having to find her by groping around. But the camo-craze doesn't end there:

Game animals would never see you coming in this. Of course, they'd be able to hear your hugely obnoxious diesel engine from ten miles away, but maybe you could sneak up on them in your tighty-camoies first and slip some earmuffs on them, then sneak back to your truck to sneak up on 'em again and get 'em. But my camo research didn't end there:

Nothing says "class" like inviting your guests to enjoy their wine in these lovely camo wineglasses. You might be careful though and not drink outdoors, just in case someone sets their glass down and it becomes invisible in its surroundings. Much better to keep the wine tasting to the room where you have the dartboard and the poster of dogs playing poker. Hey! Unscrew the cap on that Thunderbird! 2013 was a good year!

Next on our camo journey:

Again, I'm okay with these. For some reason I think they're kinda hot. I know, I know. It's the double standards thing again. Guys, if your date is wearing these, you'd better be ready to put on your best suit and wear these:

Who knows? Maybe between the camo shoes and camo wine your date will go really well, and you'll find yourselves snuggling up (or trying to find each other) on this:

(By the way, there is a small child and two Chihuahuas on the sofa...see if you can spot them).

Okay. I lied. There are no Chihuahuas. But you'd better be careful on the sofa or in nine months you could find yourself in need of one of these:

Put a baby dressed in a camo onsie (yes, they make those too) and you may never find the little critter again.

As anyone knows, you can play it safe and avoid having to purchase the above by purchasing this:

You know as immature as I am I immediately got the joke of their catchphrase. At least I think it was a catchphrase joke. Anyhoo...

This is a guitar used by the rock group "Where the Hell are We?" I'm told they sound great, buy you'll have a hard time seeing them onstage.

And finally, the camouflaged product I know you've all been waiting for:

I don't know about you, but I pretty much have all of my next Christmas gift list covered now. And I've barely wiped (sorry) the surface of what's available in camouflage. I'm trying to think of other things to camo so I can get in on this trend and make some quick cash. If you have any ideas, please contact me and we'll see if we can't make a ton of money together...wait...that's it...camouflaged money! Sweet!

8 Comments

For Mom

2/18/2014

5 Comments

A Eulogy

I hope at least some of this is coherent. Some of what I say I may be saying strictly for myself. Some of it may reflect the feelings of others --feelings for a mother and for other loved ones you’ve lost and still miss. I’ll leave it for each of you to pick and choose…

No place for a better start than with the obvious: Alzheimer’s sucks.

And it was a final, cruel, life-test for a woman who had been tested time and time again throughout her life. A woman who demonstrated a quiet strength and dignity with each and every test she faced. As much as the disease would allow her, she continued to demonstrate that strength…that dignity…clear up until the day she passed away.

I’d like to think of mom now…I will think of mom now…as sitting beside dad and smiling, with my oldest brother, Byard Lee, close beside them; all their differences, all their conflicts, all of life’s emotional baggage gone, replaced with an overwhelming sense of love and understanding. Real or not, that’s the image I will keep forever in my mind.

I once gave mom a note, shortly after I finished going back to school and moving to Roseburg, Oregon for a teaching job. In that note I tried to express what I could not say face to face: that whatever good I have in me, whatever level of decency that might be there, I believe I received directly from her. I gave the note to her at a time in her life that, in looking back, I don’t know whether or not she was able to read and understand it. But I’d like to think she could and that, even if she couldn’t, she still knew the depth of love and gratitude I tried so lamely to express. The love and gratitude that each of us feels for a mother who worked so hard, who tried so hard, who loved so deeply, despite every external and internal obstacle that might have been stacked against her.

If she were here with us today I would say thank you.

I would thank her for her gifts:

* The subscription to Dr. Seuss books when I was very young, that started a life-long
    love for reading and books.

* The candy bars brought home from the grocery store –just for me and no one else
    knew.

* The electric typewriter she gave me for graduation, the biggest symbol of her
    confidence in knowing that her youngest loved to write.

* The beaters from the mixer, dripping gooey and good with chocolate cake mix.

I would thank her for her protection:

* The automatic seat-belts she employed, her arm slamming against your chest if she felt
    the need to brake a bit hard –which was fairly often.

* Her covering my back when it came to dad and I knew I was really in for trouble and
    probably well deserved it.

I would thank her for her discipline (or her attempts at discipline):

* The times she wore herself to a frazzle with a belt while we wondered what it was that
was patting at our butts and legs.

* The time she bought “Mom’s Helping Hand,” a plywood paddle she used to try and
keep Gary, Glen and I in line on our vacation through Oregon. (She quickly found out the flat side
had little effect, but using the edge was much, much more effective).

Her’s was a tender heart:

* A heart that often may not have known how to deal with the conflicts it faced, but never wished
for harm to any she knew and loved.

* A heart that showed itself –along with about four pounds of butter— in the bread she made.

* A heart that worked hard to raise five kids and the emotional turmoil that kids bring without even
being aware they bring it.

* A heart that stood solid in a marriage that, like most marriages, had more than its share of
challenges.

* A heart that found joy in children: a joy that I hoped my own children would feel, recognize and make their own.

* A heart that instinctively knew how to take a boy –who often felt lost, confused and alone— and
make him feel special and unique.

* A heart that each of us holds so very closely. A heart uniquely human.

I will always remember and miss that tender heart, that decency, that underlying strength. I only hope that I’ve been able to reflect a small part of the goodness that was in her to my own kids, so it will continue to radiate out and touch the lives of others.

I will be forever grateful to you mom.

Through you I know…I am certain…there is goodness in the world.

I will always miss you.

I will never, ever stop loving you.

And I will always be proud to say you were my mom.

Thank you.

5 Comments

The Addict

2/16/2014

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I was reluctant, but knew I had a problem. I needed help, so I finally took the plunge.

Me: “Hi everyone. My name is William and I’m a social media addict.”

The Group: “Hi William.”

Me: “I never thought I’d be standing here in front of a group like this, but hey, they say the first part is recognizing you have a problem, right?”

The Group (nodding):

Me: “I probably started out as many of you did, I set up a Facebook account thinking it might help me promote my writing, maybe help me keep connected to my kids and friends. But I think I knew it was a lie when I started.

I was actually frustrated when I started. See, I not only set up a personal Facebook account, but a professional one as well. At the same time I set up a website --again to promote my writing. I spent hours trying to get a decent photo to use as an avatar, figuring out how to post to one page and share it with another without it duplicating and sometimes triplicating the post.

Some people kept poking me and I didn’t know why or how to stop it. I looked for a ‘slap’ or ‘hit’ button, but there was nothing but the ‘poke’ thing. So I poked back. Hard. Multiple times. I didn’t realize at the time that some people enjoy getting poked. Sick, I know, but I played into it and even today I have people randomly poking me.

To my shame, I’ll admit that I sometimes like it.

It escalated fairly quickly. I saw people post funny quotations, pictures, even short films. They got a lot of “likes.” I wanted to share witty things. I wanted to think people were laughing at what I shared. I hoped –sometimes prayed—that people would comment on my posts.

I started off wanting “likes,” but then my obsession grew to where I needed “likes.” I wanted people to like my website, my professional Facebook page, my regular Facebook page. I tried to overlap postings so more people would see them and, hopefully, like me.

When I received a “like” I felt like Sally Field accepting an Oscar. Depending on the post I sometimes even cried a little when I was “liked.”

My obsession spread. I opened a LinkedIn account. I somehow had it in mind that if people connected with me there it meant they liked me, maybe found me interesting, maybe even liked my work. I soon found out that wasn’t always the case.

Sometimes they connected with me on LinkedIn just to build their own connection base and to make themselves look better. I was just a number to many of them.

I felt so used.

I went back to focusing on Facebook and my website. I kept telling myself it was to promote my writing, but by then I knew it was a lie. I became an expert at lying to myself. I quit working on my novel, telling myself I simply didn’t have time. Yet, I found plenty of time to check Facebook.

My sickness grew and I began looking on the web specifically for humorous things to post on FB. FB…huh…I’ve grown so used to it now I often refer to it simply by its initials. And others with my same addiction know what I’m referring to.

The other night I fell asleep in my chair. I woke up, my head on my laptop, drooling on my keyboard. I had posted ‘aldskvn[oeingzkfhgalnveoiang’. People posted back asking if I was okay.

I wasn’t. But I wasn’t yet willing to admit I had a problem.

Someone “unfriended” me on Facebook. I felt as though the wind had been knocked from me. Soon after, someone unsubscribed to my blog and “un-liked” my website. I cried for three hours, curled into a fetal ball on the floor.

But I was sure I could get more friends and more “likes.” I began to hunt harder for things to post that would engage people and compel them to “like” me, my professional Facebook page or maybe even my website.

I began re-posting other people’s funny posts because I could not find things funny enough to post on my own.

I grew frantic. I even went so far as to make a Bitstrip of myself so I’d have more material to post.

I knew I’d hit rock bottom when I posted two cats licking each other. There was some veiled sexual humor to the post, but in looking back at it I have to admit, it was pretty pathetic.

That’s when I knew I needed help and why I’ve come here to this meeting to open up, put it out there and let loose of it all.

So there it is. And why I need your help and support. ”

The Group:

Me: “Um…sorry, the lights hitting the podium are kind of bright. I can’t see you all very clearly. Hey, what the hell? What have you guys got in your hands? Are those smart phones?”

The Group: “Um…well…just needed to check…it’s um…”

Me: “You mean I’ve been up here spilling out all of my shit and you guys have been checking your Facebook pages on your phones?”

The Group: “Well….umm…just for a sec…we were listening, just…”

Me: “Damn, you guys are sick. But thank you. I now realize that I have a long way to go before I hit the bottom you guys are feeding at. I’m outta here.”

The Group: “But wait…”

Me: “Hell, no. I’m going straight home and write a blog about this shit, post it, then post it on both of my Facebook pages.”

The Group: “But…”

Me: “Nah. I can see now I actually have a handle on this. There’s no problem. I’ll just focus on using FB to promote my writing. I’ll just work on my book if I don’t have something of substance to post.”

The Group: “But…”

Me: “Later taters. I’m outta here.”

0 Comments

Laughter: The Best Medicine?

2/5/2014

4 Comments

I figured out some time ago that my sense of humor doesn’t always go over with some people. Those people are usually way too normal, so their under-appreciation doesn’t prompt me to construct a noose or stuff my head in an oven. If they’re bold enough to comment on my immaturity I usually respond with “I know you are, but what am I?”

It’s always hard to refute solid persuasive techniques.

But then there are doctors.

After my recent few go ‘rounds with the doctor I’ve become convinced that few –if any—have a sense of humor.

I first noticed this lack of humor over twenty years ago when my oldest daughter was born. My wife was on the bed, knees up, screaming through contractions. I alternated between watching a basketball game on the television mounted on the wall of the hospital room and attempting to sooth her, which only brought on greater screams. Looking back, I’m not sure if it was my watching the game or my soothing bedside manner that caused the screaming to amp up.

The doctor was down where she was supposed to be, doing her thing. Finally, the baby came out. The doctor held up the baby for me to see.

“Well, dad, what do you think?” she asked.

I pointed to the umbilical cord. “Now that’s my boy! Look at how well hung that kid is!”

The doctor glared at me. “That’s the umbilical cord, not a penis. It’s a little girl.”

Me: “I knew that. It was just a joke. You know? A joke?”

Doc (Glaring):

Me: “Heh, heh…?”

That didn’t work out too well, so I tried a joke when our second daughter was born. Just after my wife gave birth the doctor looked at my wife and said, “Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Me: “Not too bad. I’m feeling pretty good actually. Could go for a sandwich though.”

Doc (Glaring):

My latest failed attempt at humor with a doctor was during my recent medical exam.

Doc: “That mole on your side by your waist looks kind of odd.”

Me: “You mean the one on my love handle? ‘Love handle.’ That’s a technical medical term.”

Doc: “Yeah, whatever. I think we should have it removed.”

Me: “Oh. Okay.”

Doc: “Now drop your pants and bend over the table.”

Me (dropping my pants): “Boy, if I only had a nickel for every time I’ve heard that.”

Doc:

Me (bending over the table): “Be gentle with me doc and just leave the $20 over by my coat.”

Doc:

Doc (After her brief anal invasion): “Everything feels alright there.”

Me: “I certainly thought so. Was it good for you too?”

Doc (glaring): “We’ll send you home with a kit so you can take some stool samples for us.”

Me: “I hope it’s a big kit, ‘cause I had one helluva breakfast.”

Doc (glaring):

Me: “Okay, how do I go about working this kit?”

Doc: “The directions are on the box. Just follow those.”

Me: “Okey-dokey.” Usually a chirpy okey-dokey brings a smile to any one, but this doc’s facial expression appeared to be carved out of granite and only had one mode: glaring.

Doc: “Come back next week and we’ll remove the mole.”

Me: “Okey-dokey.” I figured since she was still glaring I’d give her a double dose of the okey-dokey thing.

I went back the following week. In some ways it was a repeat of the previous visit.

Me: “Hey doc, is there any way we could remove the mole with liposuction and then maybe catch the other love handle too?”

Doc: “No. We’ll be cutting it out.”

Me: “Aww. Cut that out.”

Doc:

Me: “Okay, so where do you want me?”

Doc: “Up on the table, pants down, laying face down.”

I jumped up on the table and decided I’d lay off the jokes for a bit. I watched as she prepared the needle and then walked toward me.

Doc: “Okay, first you’re going to feel a little prick.”

Me: “Really? Are you just gonna softball ‘em in like that?”

Doc: “What do you mean?”

Me: “Nothing. Never mind. I’m okay.”

Doc: “Okay. First the little prick.”

Me: “That’s what she said.”

The little prick ended up being a huge sting. I’m not entirely certain it needed to hurt quite that much. Maybe she was tired of my humor.

Doc: “And now you’ll feel a little burn.”

Me: “Penicillin will take care of that though, right?”

Doc:

When she was done cutting, she sewed it up and slapped a Band-Aid on it.

Doc: “That should take care of it. If you’re comfortable removing the stitches you can do it yourself in a week to ten days or you can make an appointment to come in and have them removed. Just keep them clean and don’t scratch at them.”

Me: “You mean the stitch could itch like a bitch? Heh, heh. Just thought I’d throw some alliteration in there for ya.”

Doc: “Okay, whatever. We’ll have the test results from the mole and the sample you brought in within a couple of days and give you a call.”

Me (feigning hurt): “That’s what they all say. ‘I’ll call you,’ but then they never do.”

Doc:

That’s when I was certain that doctors either had no sense of humor or they simply hated my sense of humor.

That is, until I got the call a couple of days later.

Me: “Hello?”

Doc: “We got the tests back. There are traces of blood in your stool, your blood counts are off a bit and the mole could be pre-cancerous: a melano (-something-or-other-I can never remember words with more than eighteen syllables) so we’ll need to take out a bigger piece.”

Me (still trying to remember what ‘stool’ was): “Uh. Um. Blood in the stool? The mole is a mela –whatsits and you need to cut out a bigger chunk?”

Doc: “Yep. So we’ll schedule that and see if we can set up a colonoscopy, but we’re booked out for the next four months.”

Me:

Doc: “Okey-dokey?”

Truth be told, she’s probably still laughing.

4 Comments

F/X

1/25/2014

3 Comments

Just last Saturday I was working hard, watching movies as I lay on the sofa (purely research for writing…honest) and shoving healthy snacks like potato chips, Peanut Butter M&M’s, and beer in my face (you have to keep the calories up if you’re working hard –and don’t even get me started on hydration).

As per usual, my thoughts were everywhere: on the movie, on the food, on the beer, on what we were going to have for dinner, and why the dogs can’t clean up their own dog run.

That’s when I realized something (I do have occasional single thought bursts): I’d just watched a good guy –Judge Dredd—shoot a bad guy –generic bad guy name—in the head. This in itself isn’t unusual in films today, but as I stuffed my mouth with M&M’s and washed them down with beer I realized that I was watching everything in slow motion. The bullet moved at a rate of about two feet per hour. It pushed on the bad guy’s forehead a bit before punching through. It came out the back of his head in a slow-motion explosion of red and grey gore.

I think some of the spray even ended up on the camera lens, but by this time the action had sped up again.

And then I wondered how I could eat M&M’s and drink beer while watching a guy’s head explode and not even think too much about it. I figured it out right away.

Desensitization.

Of course, I had to pat myself on the back for a bit because I’d used a word with more than three syllables, but once I got my mind back on track I thought some more on the concept itself.

It didn’t bother me to watch this gore-fest, because I’ve seen it in films so many times before; I’ve become desensitized.

I’ve never been in combat, but through films I’ve seen people shot, exploded, stabbed, parts cut off, hit, beaten, crushed, dismembered, tortured, water-boarded, and even put on the receiving end of some pretty severe noogies.

It’s a wonder we all don’t have PTSD.

I read an interview with a filmmaker recently, who was quoted as saying that given the special effects and CGI capabilities they have now, they can literally show you anything you can imagine on the big screen. The only limitation is money.

Think about that: Anything. You. Can. Imagine.

That’s both exciting and a bit scary –I guess depending on your imagination.

Ah, but therein lies the rub. (Okay, now I’m giving myself mega-kudos for using ‘desensitization’ and quoting Shakespeare in one blog post…but back to what I was saying.)

By providing us with ultra-slow-motion, ultra-detailed effects, aren’t filmmakers actually killing our imaginations? They’re showing us everything and our imaginations don’t have any room to get its groove on.

For example, when I was a kid we watched “The Adventures of Superman” on television. Of course, there were only three channels, but we’d have watched it anyway.

George Reeves played Superman. Google a picture. The Superman of yesteryear looked nothing like the Superman of today.

The Superman of yesteryear had a potbelly. He had no muscle definition whatsoever. He even had a bit of a waddle under his chin. When he flew he would run a couple of steps and jump. You could literally see him starting to come back down before the camera cut away to his flying.

Poor George looked like he was straining to keep his head up and his arms level with his body. His belly sagged a bit. He looked unsteady –as though Superman hadn’t read the rules on drinking and flying.

You could see the wires! Small wires at his shoulders, waist and knees lifted him off the ground. The only other effect was a long “Whoooooooooosh,”—supposedly the air he carved through like a red and blue marshmallow.

You knew that after filming that twenty second shot George probably had to go for a smoke break and a drink. They used the same shot over and over and over and…well, you get the idea.

But here’s the thing…

WE DIDN’T CARE!

We loved it anyway. Our little imaginations kicked into overdrive. We could overlook the potbelly, the wires, the awkward takeoff, the cheap suit and cape. We could ignore all that because for those twenty seconds we were Superman.

Our imaginations filled in all the plot and productions holes and delicately painted over all the cheap effects.

It was the same with Batman.

As a kid, I wanted to be those heroes. I wanted to be those guys. I knew I could be those guys.

Hell, now at 53, I could still probably be those guys.

Today, Superman’s body is perfect. Ripped muscles (or is it cut? I forget), six-pack abs, hair perfect. Batman is the same. And when the newer Superman flies, it looks, sounds and feels like he’s actually flying.

My imagination doesn’t have a single thing to work with here. Everything is provided.

And I sure as hell can’t imagine myself being one of these new superheroes. They look like they spend eight hours a day at the gym. The closest I get to a gym is when I drive past one on my way to get a donut and coffee before work.

I miss the old heroes. The ones that allowed me to use my imagination –which was much better than any special effects they had.

Just for nostalgia’s sake, I think this afternoon I might do what I did years ago when I was a wee-shaver. Mom would safety pin a towel around my neck and for an hour or so I was Superman. Or she’d let me run around the house in my undies, rubber knife in hand (yes, they actually sold those as toys) and be Tarzan for a while. I usually passed on playing Batman, because he had so much crap in his utility belt that even a five-year-old me did some major eye-rolling.

But if I do that now the neighbors might start talking again and there’s the chance my wife could walk in on me. The neighbor thing would be bad. The wife can be a wild-card. She might actually enjoy a bit of pretending too. Maybe I should reconsider that utility belt...

Nah. I think I’ll get back to watching movies and stuffing my face with M&M’s and beer while someone else provides the imagination for me.

It’s a whole lot safer and easier that way.

Dammit.

3 Comments

Social Media Monsters

1/18/2014

0 Comments

I'm beginning to lose interest in social media. I know there are those who would argue that social media allows us to stay in touch with those whom we wouldn't otherwise. If that's the primary argument, then maybe it's time to reconsider our relationships, what we're willing to invest in them, and what we mean to each other.

Others might argue that it puts us in touch with those who we might not otherwise encounter. But that seems to me to be a very tenuous connective thread.

Phone calls would be nice.

God knows I've come to realize that social media doesn't work as far as promoting your individual art or craft. Those who are truly interested will stay in contact and will remain interested in your work, because they will know they've influenced it and are part of it. Others...well, if their primary intent is only to make you feel all warm and fuzzy inside, then I say it's a mild opiate that works to lure you into a desire for the stronger stuff.

Sharing your work --no matter how diligently you've worked on it or crafted it-- is the same as giving it away for free. And as we all know, anything given to us for free has little or no intrinsic value (which explains the few 'likes' or comments I receive --including from my own family).

Those who appreciate your creations, your art, will find it. Social media or no.

I think I've come to realize that FB, LinkedIn, and others are, at best, simply not worth it. In a larger degree they give us all a false sense of belonging. Those you want in your life --in whatever degree-- will find that place in your life. If your only connection is through social media, then perhaps a reevaluation is necessary of each of us and our relationships.

Of course, these are merely random musings from a middle-aged curmudgeon.

And however you might feel about it, please know I wish you all well.

0 Comments

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