Finally!

Today, I realized a lifelong ambition to drive a true muscle-car. Here, I am defining "muscle-car" as a vehicle produced somewhere between 1965 and 1975.

The car I drove was a 1969 Chevy Malibu Chevelle (yes, that's all one car). Although it had an SS tag on it, it only had a 327ci engine in it, which was the smallest engine available in the Chevelle SS package (I could be wrong, so don't quote me on that).

All that being said, it was a fun ride, except the guy who was selling the car wanted to join me for the test drive, so I felt kinda weird while I was smoking the tires at the stoplight. But, since I had to pick up my daughter from school, I thought it'd be a cool treat to pick her up in some genuine vintage American muscle.

I arrived at the school and parked in the front. As I walked to the front doors, I was secretly hoping (and I think this hope, shared among all men, is the underlying reason that musclecars were invented in the first place) that the cute college girls who run the after-school program would happen to glance out and see what I was driving, become so overwhelmed with lust for me and my "boss ride" that they would tear off their clothes and insist in strident tones that I take them in a manly fashion, right there on the floor of the cafeteria, consequences be damned.

Of course this didn't happen. The closest I got to this scenario was when a heavyset woman pushed past me on her way out the door and said, "Excuse me." Harumph.

Anyway, I got to drive a real musclecar and feel like a real man for about 20 minutes, so I guess that's a start. The next step in my quest for manly manliness is to take up hunting, which is a popular pasttime here in Michigan.

Frankly, and this is probably because I'm a lowlife piece-of-shit pinko commie fag, but I'm really not sure what the attraction is to hunting. From what I've seen, you hide in a "deer blind" (which is a fancy hunter term for "treehouse") in freezing, miserable, pre-dawn weather with a high-powered rifle, drinking beer and waiting for some random animal to walk by so you can shoot it.

Most animals will stupidly continue to forage for berries or flowers or contact lenses or whatever the hell they spend all their time looking for, regardless of the sinister presence of the hunter as he acts in deadly earnest, springing to life in one swift, well-rehearsed movement to pee over the side of the blind.

I can hardly wait to try this. I can feel the hairs growing out on my chest already!

Drinkers have better stories

It struck me the other day that all of the best stories I've heard have come from people who were under the influence of drugs or alcohol.

Since I am a non-drinker, my repertoire of stories is woefully inadequate, and my sole "beer" story consists of me trying to pour salt in my beer, only to have that beer foam up out of the bottle and onto my friend's parents' glass-topped coffee table. I think his sister got a picture of me wiping the beer up with a paper towel.

Man ... I'm surprised I lived to tell THAT one. WHOOOOOOOOO.

I've often thought I should become a drinker, just so I'd have some cool stories to tell at a party. I know that's an immature attitude to have and that drinking to excess can cause serious problems, including sickness, death, waking up with an ugly chick and more drinking.

However, you know EVERYONE perks up and listens when a story opens with "So I'm in the emergency room at 2 a.m., wearing only my girlfriend's bra and a golf club stuck up my ass ..."

And, even though smoking and drinking go together like frat boys and date rape, I do NOT envy smokers because, well, smoking doesn't make you do the silly and/or life-threatening shit that makes for great stories. The best we can hope for from a smoker, story-wise, is: "So I woke up this morning and hocked up a black loogie the size of a minivan. I put it in a jar on the windowsill next to my pickled pig fetus."

And I most definitely do NOT condone the use of any type of illegal drugs, but I have to admit that one of the funniest stories I've ever heard came from a friend who, while tripping on acid, became convinced he was being stalked by creatures from a bad 80s horror flick (C.H.U.D., for those of you who remember). In his haste to escape these creatures, he performed several daring and spectacular feats that defy the laws of physics.

See what I mean? That's good story material right there! I'm just not getting those effects from cookies and milk, so I need to switch to something stronger like, say, vodka and Red Bull.

So, if you don't see a post within the next few days describing my hilarious escapades that result from getting drunk on a co-ed fad drink, then I'm either dead or in jail.

Or I chickened out and spent the night licking the white filling out of Oreos. Sigh.

Eulogy for the Gidge

Tonight my 12-year-old black lab, Gidget, died. She looked to have died peacefully, which is all I can ask.

We knew she was going downhill. Her left rear leg was practically unusable and bunched up with severe arthritis. She was nearly blind, the years of nearly constant eye infections taking their toll. We had managed to keep her Addison's disease (inability to produce glucose) at bay with monthly shots. She had played host to many ear infections, anal gland infections (and subsequent removal thereof) and kennel cough.

Yet, through it all, she always had a kiss and a wag for anyone who gave her pets. I've never known a dog with a sweeter disposition toward everyone. A guard dog she was not.

She loved a good tussle, a rope bone, a dog biscuit, a soft place to sleep. She also loved attention and devoted a good portion of her waking hours to getting it. As a puppy, she'd do things like jump the fence, scramble madly through the house, bark, jump on us, and chew up the rug pads.

As an old dog, she'd simply walk up and nudge our elbow or hand with her nose, and sit down. She would even get frisky every once in a while, and go hunt up her rope bone or start barking for a tussle. She couldn't jump or bite or tug like she used to, but she still loved to roll around with me on the floor for a bit.

Tonight, I was looking through some old blankets for something I could use to wrap her body in, and I came across a rug pad that she had chewed up as a puppy. At the time, we'd been furious with her. Now we're using it as a shroud.

I know, I know. I sound pretty maudlin. But, if you've ever loved and lost a pet, then you'll permit me this moment of weakness.

That's a good girl, Gidge. We love you and will miss you.

Panties ARE a food group

To be honest, I'm not really sure what prompted me to title my post this way, other than the fact that I thought it sounded pretty damn funny. I'm considering this name for ALL of my posts from now on.

And, while we're on the subject of edible undergarments, I'd like to take a moment here to ask a rhetorical question: If Jesus Christ had actually been named Methusalamam Mubalevanasabam, would we still take his name in vain?

"Methusalamam Mubalevanasabam, that's a big cheese log!" or "Methusalamam Mubalevanasabam in a jumped-up chariot-driven sidecar!" or "The power of Mubalevanasabam compels you, demon! Begone!" just don't seem to roll off the tongue quite as smoothly. Really makes you wonder.

I should admit that, upon reading what I've just written, I was seized by the unshakable certainty that 1) I really, really like chocolate cake and 2) I think strong medication might be in my immediate future.

Honestly, where do I come up with this shit?

Hijinks of the straight and narrow

This is my first week at my new job. All the people, with the exception of one or two, have been generous and kind with their words and time, showing me all the important stuff, such as where the bathroom and vending machines are.

We just had an "open-house" thingie last night, with a caterer, 3-piece jazz band, wine and Texas Hold 'Em tables. Frankly, and this might just be a Michigan thing that I'm not quite getting, I'm not seeing much of a correlation between Texas Hold 'Em and wine. Or jazz.

Not much of a jazz fan and, since I was committed to providing massages, wine wasn't an option. Of course, I don't drink, so wine was never really an option, anyway. But I digress.

It's always interesting to see people who look so serious, reserved and professional during the day at one of these after-hours affairs. They get a few glasses of wine in themselves, and they're ready to start jousting each other with the wooden fondue sticks. Or they become convinced that THIS is the night their world-class musical talent will finally be revealed for all of their co-workers to marvel at.

THIS is the night they will take the first step toward realizing their long-repressed dream of becoming a renowned jazz musician by shoving the current musician out of the way, grabbing his instrument (and by "instrument", I mean his saxophone, you dirty-minded bastards) and enthusiastically launching into a rousing rendition of AC/DC's "Back in Black" or Pachelbel's "Canon in D Minor", depending on the listener and amount of alcohol in aforementioned listener's bloodstream and they, the heretofore repressed musical genius, will blush at the resulting tumultous applause and, in a poignant and heartrending speech, claim that they, the genius, will remove their shirt for five dollars.

Honestly, you can't buy this kind of entertainment. Unless, of course, you've got five dollars.

High school and mental games

I got to thinking today about my high school days and, while I'm happy to say that I'm not one of those poor guys who constantly relives their "glory days", I do enjoy an occasional reflection on high school life.

I wonder a lot about what people did after high school. Some people that I know about, such as the captain of the football team (who was also the prom king, homecoming king, and general BMOC) went into coaching. One of the guys on the team, a talented athlete, got busted for dealing crack.

I always wanted to be the guy who went off and made a smashing success of himself ... winning the Pulitzer Prize for fiction, winning an Oscar, etc., etc. Of course, I realize I'm not alone ... everyone wants to show up their classmates, be the one who "makes it".

It makes me shudder to think it's been 16 years since I graduated high school. That's so surreal. I look at high school students now and don't remember them looking that young when I was in school.

And I look at the girls in high school today ... what great bodies!! I mean, WOW. Sure, you've got the requisite outcasts and physically unattractive people, but the hot girls today seem to be SO much hotter than when I was in school. What's up with that? I been cheated.

A mental game I like to play is one where I think about places in my life where I made a decision that affected the course of my life, and wonder how my life would have turned out if I'd made a different decision.

It's a lot more difficult than it sounds, you know. It makes you examine your current life and realize that, if you'd made different choices, your life would be different.

For example, I was given the opportunity to go to California with a friend right after I graduated high school. If I had gone to California, I wouldn't have attended Texas A&M, never would've met my wife, never would have had my daughter. If a genie magically appeared and offered to let me start my life over from that decision, would it be worth the price? Would I give up my amazing daughter for a different life? No.

See? It's a challenging mental game to play. Kind of like reciting complicated math formulas while you're having sex in order to prolong the inevitable orgasm. Um ... or so I've read. Ahem.

-B-

New in town

New state. New town. New house. New job.

My brother told me about this blogging thing, so I thought I'd give it a shot. Sounds like a diary where you let everyone else read what you're thinking.

That could be a bad thing, but here goes:

Moved to Michigan from Virginia since my wife took a job at Central Michigan University. Wandering around this tiny little town, I've realized that I'm gonna have to reorganize my priorities and recreational activities.

Basically, in this town, you eat, go to a movie, work out at the university rec center or, if you live near a lake and own a boat, you go do lake things, like drive boats or tow people with boats.

I am working on my third career, this time as a massage therapist, so I found a job with a local pain clinic. We'll see how THAT goes.

Frankly, and I'm probably being a little negative here, but I'm not impressed with the whole situation, but realize that my circumstances in VA weren't much better. After about 7 years of living there, we never made friends with anyone. We didn't even have someone we could list as an Emergency Contact. That's pretty sad.

But Michigan folks seem a bit more friendly, so maybe that'll change.

That's all for now. I have to go pretend to be a spy with my daughter, where we'll rid the world of those capitalist pigs and make it safe for glorious communism.

Wait, no. Today we're Americans, ridding the world of those communist scum. My bad.

-B