To those still reading this: You are a Saint

Do you hear that? Yes, that is the sound of crickets. I know it has been awhile. I have been shuffling through my Rolodex of excuses and I have found a good one. I am writing a book. No, I am not lying. It might turn out to be a large pamphlet or perhaps a typed, double-spaced page with generous margins but I am going to call it a book. As long as my acknowledgment page doesn't contain more text that book itself I should be okay.

Anyway, to prove that I am not lying I have attached a little section. This may or may not be all that I have written in the last two months. I am not going to say. Disclaimer: It is quite obvious that I need an editor. My working title is: '101 Misuses of the semicolon'. Just a warning. Here ya go:




Cattle were an inherent evil on the farm. To an eight-year-old they were a source of fear and trembling. After reading the book of Revelation I concluded that the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse should come riding in on a quartet of Texas longhorns. I was willing to forfeit my entire Lego collection for a complete set of knight’s armor whenever my cow herding skills were called upon. The neighbors would have wondered why Sir Lancelot was attempting to club ol’ Bossy with a medieval mace but I would have felt better about my chances of making it out alive. My dad always told me they were not violent animals but I knew they were gunning for me. I could see it in their eyes. I would have boycotted the entire farming operation had my parents chosen to get milk cows. If they expected me to sit next to a thousand pounds of beef and start yanking on its milk handles it was obvious that I had not made my position on livestock as clear as it needed to be.

I was constantly annoyed with filmmakers for portraying cattle as genial and submissive animals. Just as every action flick pictured fast cars careening around corners at breakneck speed so every western had a handful of rugged cowboys guiding a herd of black angus down a steep ravine using some form of animal telepathy. The ease at which the cowboys were able to control the herd was just disgusting. I wanted to send a pointed letter to every filmmaker who had ever made a western.

Dear makers of western films:

I know you are probably a very busy person. Making movies must take a lot of your time. I have never made a movie but I once put on a magic show for my family. I was eventually demoted to assistant magician because of artistic reasons. (I am still bitter about that but it has nothing to do with you.) I am writing this letter since you seem completely uniformed when it comes to livestock. Here are a few tips. First of all, farmers do not use horses and if we did they would most likely be fourteen-year-old Shetland Ponies. Secondly, your cowboys have no weapons. Of course they have that rinky-dink rifle that looks a lot like my bee-bee gun but let’s be honest; you might as well have a squirt gun filled with ketchup when a raging bull is on your tail. Here is what needs to happen: the actors must spend the first half hour of the movie searching for the biggest stick or tree trunk that is still maneuverable. This is my strategy so if one of those sacks of beef comes anywhere near me I can 1) rain down blow upon blow until I pound the beast into submission or 2) run like the devil is chasing me. Thirdly, we never wear boots and spurs and chaps. My galoshes are a few sizes too big and my coat is a few sizes too small since it was my winter coat from three years ago. If I am lucky I might find a piece of Halloween candy in the pocket. You would do better to name your movies: ‘The Day the Cows Got Out and Ruled the World’ or ‘Cows and Hand Grenades: The Final Showdown’. Thank you. I hope this helps.

Sadly enough I never sent this letter.

Occasionally I would see one of those nature shows on TV about wild animals in Africa. It was always the same scenario: a leopard or lion or cheetah chasing some helpless animal. It was usually a baby gazelle or something I had never heard of. Being someone who lived in fear of a larger animal I felt a connection with the gazelle. I wanted those nature shows to do a feature on wild animals of the Midwest. The scene would open with a herd of rabid cows chasing a class of second graders through a cornfield. Depending on the speed and agility of the children the scene would end with either a class pizza party or a vacant cornfield festooned with backpacks and empty lunch boxes. The audience would wonder what a knight’s helmet was doing among the backpacks but then the camera would fade.

The first time I saw a cow give birth will be forever emblazoned upon my retinas. What came out looked nothing like the pretty calves you might see on a postcard saying ‘Greetings from Wisconsin’. It looked more like a bag full of cow parts. I could make out a couple of legs but I was certain that somewhere in the cow making process the step entitled ‘put cow together’ was skipped completely. I was going to suggest that we stuff it back inside for a few more days since it obviously was not done. But then it stood up and gave me a look that said, “give me a few days to get my bearings then I’ll be gunnin’ for you too”.




And that's it for now.

Congratulations. Life is normal again.

The Holidays have always had a certain grounding aspect to them. It's the time when family gets together and you think, "maybe this will be the year they tell me I was adopted." But each season comes and goes and no one starts a conversation with the words, "I think you're old enough to know" and so you have to accept the fact that dear Aunt Agnes is swimming laps in your gene pool. I always find it a little amusing and a bit comforting as well. It's nice to come in for a landing when you live in a world in which your customer service representative lives three continents away.

It seems every family has that aunt or uncle that doesn't seem to be riding the same wavelength as everyone else. Of course they are very dear people but finding a thread of commonality can be an insurmountable task. It usually just comes back to food. "The cheesy broccoli sure is cheesy this year. I like cheese. Do you like cheese? Yeah, me too." I don't think we have to worry about food being taken out of the Christmas picture. Someone is out there making armies of Christmas cookies with reckless abandon. For three weeks out of the year the chocolate chip cookie takes a back seat to the gingerbread man (or woman) and any other cookie cutter shape that you had sitting in your junk drawer. And you can't forget the ham. Someone decided that five pounds of ham per person was a nice round number. There must be a quota of ham consumption that we fall miserably short of each year. I assume if we didn't have Christmas the ham police would show up at your door on December 31st and tell you it's time to pay the piper.

And the bars. Yes, the bars. Pans upon pans of sugary treats baked in a rectangle. I'm convinced that Christmas could go on for weeks and the pans of bars would magically appear in an endless supply. I keep looking in the back yard expecting to see a storage unit parked in front of the door with lines of people carrying pans of bars stacked five high. In the midst of all these bars there is always that one pan that no one seems to touch. It is usually a combination of two things that shouldn't go together. If you dig deep enough you'll probably find a vegetable lurking somewhere under the surface. No one wants to hurt Aunt so-and-so's feelings so we all make an excuse as to why we pass over that pan of wonder that even the dog seems to avoid. "I'd love to try some but zucchini and pineapple make my legs go numb", or something like that. And it just sits there like an orphan who never found a home for Christmas. But strangely enough if Christmas rolled around and the alien bars never made an appearance I would probably miss them more than all my favorite Christmas foods put together. Although I've never tasted them they bring me in for a landing and that's what is so great about going home to family. So now I'll spend the next twelve months hoping that Aunt so-and-so remembers to put her lack of culinary skills to use. Maybe next year I'll tell her how much I appreciate those horrible bars that even the dog seems to be afraid of.

Happy... what holiday is it?

I hope everyone had a happy thanksgiving. I'm thankful to be eating normal food again. Not that I didn't enjoy the thanksgiving feasts but each meal is like a grand production. I keep expecting someone to roll the credits at the end of dinner. Instead they bring out the pie.

Thanksgiving is really an overlooked holiday. It's just one of those things we have to do in order to get to Christmas. If the holidays were a family, Thanksgiving would definitely be the middle child. No one really wants it that bad. I'm sure that someone has tried to combine Halloween and Thanksgiving just to get it out of the way. I feel sorry for the kid that got a piece of pecan pie in his bag of candy. "Happy Thanksween, kids. Who wants the Hershey bar dipped in cranberry sauce."

Thanksgiving seems to be a fitting holiday for the midwest. I doubt that people on the west coast are pouring heavy gravy over their entire plate of food. Neither are they eating three pieces of pumpkin pie and a handful of caramel bars for good measure. For some reason it just works well in the midwest. Maybe it's a subconscious thing where everyone is trying to insulate themselves for the long winter. Whatever it is, it's impossible to escape. Regardless of whether you like the green bean casserole you will eat it. (Whether or not you can taste the green beans is another story.)

That's all for now. I'm gearing up for the birthday bash. This blog is a year old on December 15.

Will you be checking any bags today?

We all have baggage that comes from life experiences. I like to think that I carry mine in a Versace handbag. If I run out of space I can put it in my Dolce and Gabbana backpack. I should probably get a large one in case some extra baggage shows up that I previously didn't know about. Baggage has a way of doing that. It just appears at your doorstep one morning like a forgotten college roommate looking for some breakfast. In the time it takes you to make bacon and eggs they've already moved into the basement. Then your Versace handbags are bursting at the seams and you think, "I wonder if Ralph Lauren makes large wagons?"

We all try to dress up our baggage so that it looks the most presentable. In fact we try to present it in such a way that it doesn't look like baggage at all. "I'm just watching this for a friend. They said I could try it on if I wanted to. I'll give it back in a few weeks. I swear it's not mine." You would think the longer we have our baggage the easier it would be to hide but it still feels like walking your pet elephant around the lake. No matter how many times people watch the nature channel they will still be staring when it's hosing off in the water. Then everyone will want an elephant ride and before you know it you've got a full blown circus with clowns and trapeze artists and some bald guy eating fire.

I think we need to come up with a better name. The word baggage conjures up images of fifteen suitcases filled with phone books and pipe wrenches. Who needs that? I would like to propose the word 'accessories'. History of rejection? No. That's a Rolex. It matches my suede jacket of disappointment. Do I see a shawl of bad relationships? Well then, you're going to love my alligator skin boots full of broken dreams. You see, that sounds much better. Go ahead friends. Accessorize all you want. And don't be afraid to use some color. Just remember not to wear white after labor day. And if you're taking the pet elephant out for a jog, remember to bring tickets.

The Dentist: A narrative

I went to the dentist last week. Slamming my hand in the car door would of had the same effect and it wouldn't have involved a vacuum cleaner and a miniature ice pick roaming through my mouth. I’m not a fan of the dentist which is why it has been six years since my last visit. I just don't like my teeth. The thought of someone staring at them for an hour just makes me a little self-conscious. I’m sure they’ve seen worse teeth than mine, but what if mine are the second worst? That’s just as bad. I wanted to mumble something about eating rocks as a kid but I didn’t want to give the dentist any more ammunition than he already had.

I sat in the waiting room (which was really just a waiting hallway) and filled out my medical history. Who really remembers their medical history? I’m sure some people remember every sliver and black eye they received from the time they were in diapers but the rest of us just remember the major points and make up the rest. “I broke my collarbone a couple of times and I got some stitches and I think I had lupus for a weekend. I was abducted by aliens at which time they probed me and implanted homing devices in various places. I don’t floss very much, I had a hamburger for lunch and I ate a lot of rocks as a kid.” Okay, so I didn't actually put in the alien thing but I wanted to so I could see if they were paying attention.

So I finished my medical history and had a seat in the waiting hallway. I wondered if dentists knew how much they were feared by the general public. How did they develop such a reputation? Was there ever a time in history when people wanted to go to the dentist? Whenever the world’s first dentist opened his clinic someone probably walked by and said, “Dentist? That sounds kinda fun.” Of course this was the last time anyone ever said fun and dentist in the same sentence.

The dentist finally called my name and flashed me a smile that said, “Hi, my name is Miles. I want you to completely relax and trust me. I’m going to lull you into a tranquil state and then stick sharp metal objects into your mouth when you least expect it.” So I follow the friendly dentist deep into the bowels of the office and he tells me to have a seat in the chair and make myself comfortable. Comfortable? As I surveyed his array of weapons I wondered if skinny dipping in a pool of electric eels would have been more comfortable. Don’t these people believe in drawers? This must be the first lesson in dental school. “Okay class, I want everyone to get out your tools and line them up in order of how scary they look. Make sure the mirror on a stick goes at the beginning. No one is afraid of that. Put the drills on the opposite end.” At any moment I expected Miles to saunter into the room with a grin and a thick german accent. “Ve have vays ov making you talk, Dr. Jones.” But he didn’t. He merely scraped on my teeth for a half hour and told me I needed to floss more. Then he looked at the x-rays and told me how many cavities I had. I stared at the x-rays for a long time and I couldn’t see anything that remotely looked like a cavity but I wasn’t going to argue with a man who had access to so many power tools.

When I was ready to leave I received my free tooth paste and floss. I thought about asking if I could exchange them for a box of milk duds but I was afraid Miles would strap me back down to the chair and start drilling some more. And that feels like slamming your hand in the car door.

Jobs are for the birds

I think many more people would be employed if it wasn't for the job interview. The job interview seems a bit backwards to me. How am I supposed to demonstrate my ability to do a job that I haven't been hired for yet? "Why would I be the right fit for this job? Well, I need a job and you have a job." That seems to be as good of reason as any. Of course you can't say this at an interview. A typical response goes something like this:

"There are a numerous reasons why this exciting position would fit me like a glove. First of all, I just want to say that this coffee is excellent. Secondly, I really like your tie. Thirdly, I'm an over-achiever. If I were to have this job I would do more than just achieve. I would achieve and then I would achieve some more. How much more? That's for you to find out once you hire me. All you have to know is that I will do a lot of achieving."

A job interview is really just an opportunity to say as many good things about yourself as possible in twenty minutes or less. The first five minutes are pretty easy. "I'm a hard worker. I get along well with others. I'm a good team player. I have extensive experience in the field." The last five minutes are usually the hardest. "Well... I floss five times a week. My rash seems to be going away. I can order the seafood special in five languages. Did I mention that I'm a hard worker?" Maybe this is why interviews can be so intimidating. You have to sit in front of a complete stranger and give an account for your entire life. The interviewer then sits in his or her office chair like a Roman Emperor weighing the importance of your existence.

I would like to apply to be a garbage man. How hard could that interview be. "Can you pick up trash? Yes I can. Can you hang off the back of truck looking incredibly bored and frustrated with life? Yes I can. Can you change your name to Rick since we're too cheap to buy new uniforms?

Butlers and Anarchists

I always feel a little guilty whenever someone bags my groceries for me. It feels like a nonverbal way of telling the world I’m too good to do the menial tasks of life. That is why I could never have a butler. If I did have a butler I think he would be extremely bored. “Well Geeves, why don’t you pour the Raisin Bran this time. I suppose you could iron my t-shirts next. Heck, just take the day off.” Most days would consist of my butler and I sitting at the coffee shop. He could get me a refill when I needed one but then I wouldn’t have anything to do so I bet we would take turns getting each other refills. I would probably have to hire another butler just so the original butler would have more things to do. Between the three of us we could either make enough of a mess or have enough issues to keep everybody busy most of the time.

I think you would lose touch with the rest of civilization after a few months of having a butler. There is something about doing laundry that grounds you to reality. If I meet a well dressed business man in an elevator I think, “This guy runs in some powerful circles but he also washes his own underwear. And so do I.” The same grounding rule is true in the supermarket. There is something very humanizing about trying to pick out produce. A few days ago I was standing next to a guy dressed head to toe in black with an anarchist symbol on his t-shirt. Normally I wouldn’t have much in common with an anarchist but I felt a connection with him as we stared at the zucchini. I had no idea which one to pick and it was obvious that he was equally lost. I don’t even like zuchinni and I’ll bet he didn’t either but by some strange force we were drawn to them, wondering what it would taste like on a salad. So I just stood there for a while in perfect harmony with an anarchist, relishing the moment I would have lost had I sent my butler.

I'm betting the anarchist didn't bag his own groceries. He probably didn't even use a bag. He most likely stuck them in his shoe or something crazy like that just to make a statement. Better yet, if he was a true anarchist he should have taken someone else's groceries. I don't think he has a butler either. He probably has an anti-butler. I'm not sure what an anti-butler would do but the next time I see my friend in front of the zucchinis I'll make sure to ask him.