Someday Never Comes

On a recent recommendation from my buddy Chad, I came across Bloodlines on Netflix. Chad knew the show about a severely dysfunctional Florida family would speak to me in a way The Waltons never could. Far too many of the similarities between television and my minds eye straddle the thin line between abnormal and completely fucked up. Frankly, it  should give me PTSD rather than entertain me but it does; less as a dark and tense drama but somehow oddly comforting. On a very rare occasion I see something and think 

OK, even we wouldn’t do that 

That notion comes with what Bart Simpson once noted isn’t pride but better described as “less shame.”  Obviously, that is a fickle and fleeting satisfaction.  The real comfort comes when the awkward tension rests right in my familial wheelhouse. 

The show starts with a dark and forboding voice over. 

"Sometimes you know something’s coming. You can feel it. In the air. In your gut. And you don’t sleep at night. The voice in your head is telling you that something is going to go terribly wrong and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.”  

I was hooked in a way that my buddy, having been raised in a nice family never could be, what with their morals, sound decision making, and decency. As I watched, I rubbed my hands together and took comfort in the knowledge that I was at home with my people. 

Had my eight year old self known the benefit of a team of writers providing me with thoughts and inner monologue, these would have been the exact words in my head when, on a seemingly average Sunday afternoon, I peered into the back seat of my parents idling Ford Mustang and saw a six pack of beer. Even at eight, I don't don't need an inner monologue. I knew that six pack stood as a clear harbinger of doom to me. I didn’t know how but I knew it was going to lead to trouble. I grew that much more certain as my parents blew by me, stopping long enough to inform me they were leaving me in the care of my brother David, nine years older and my sworn enemy. 

No team of writers necessary, the wheels were in motion for our own ominous tale. It was sans the benefit of voice over but chock full of honor insulted and defended set against a backdrop of drunken bad decisions and apparently, Valium.  Had I known, I would have asked to go and when refused, I simply would have stood in front of the car in a protest that would match the resolve of The Tiananmen Square Tank Man. Of course I didn't have that foresight. My parents were gone, leaving in a cloud of rock and gravel, any notion that this Sunday was going to be average. 

 Despite only being on the planet for 8 years, I had already amassed a few life experiences beyond the norm. Suffice to say, I had learned early on that nothing was off the table where our family dynamic was concerned. It's prepared me well for adulthood but at eight tender years, that dynamic produced profound,  terror on a near daily basis that was unsubstantiated at best four percent of the time. 

Thus, as afternoon turned to evening ominous foreboding became sheer panic run amok. Initially, I tried the exercise in futility that was telling myself there was no reason for concern. My dad won’t stay gone long because he knows I’ll worry.  I actually did hold out a shred of hope for that one. Despite his many sins, my dad didn’t drink much when I was younger. He grew up around drinkers and he was scared by it. Others in my family drank and he knew it scared me. He was honestly sensitive to that and it curtailed his drinking. That, and he preferred opiates. 

The feint hopes evaporated one after the other. As I waited deep into the night, my hysterical bargaining devolved into catatonia and my capacity for worry was outpaced by the exhaustion it took to maintain such frantic levels and I fell asleep. Considering the sheer lack of hours left in the day, it must have been shortly after that I awoke to my dad. His gargantuan head mere inches from my own, he reeked of booze and had a look of equal parts fury and determination. My hysteria immediately returned in full force as he insisted I come outside to the garage, stopping only to treat my brother to a similar gentle and paternal lull from the safety of sleep. Being that my dad's intent was obviously void of any decent parental decision whatsoever, I have to think David’s own fear and confusion might not have matched mine but surely had to be present as we followed the angry drunken giant out our kitchen door. 

Upon timidly entering the garage, I immediately knew whatever happened was beyond my own potent imagination. A man I had never seen stood before us. Despite the confusion produced by the hysteria and the eleven minutes of sleep from which I had just been drunkenly roused, several things were instantly clear. The anger I had sensed in my dad was very real. It was clear this man was the unfortunate object of that anger. That bit of clarity came in the form of this stranger's ashen face, mottled with tell-tale purple and red blotches. In some cosmically fucked measure, this person, my brother, and I were in this little adventure together. If nothing else, we certainly had some things in common. 

 Based on the rumpled pajamas, our first connection to this man: He had also been rousted from his bed by my father. Another commonality between the three of us rested in the fact that none of us knew how or when it was going to end but were confident that the end was going to go badly. Finally, all three of us were equally confident that it was going to end much worse for one of us and here is where the similarities ended. 

For starters, I am as certain as anything in my life before or since, that this man’s waking moments were drastically more unpleasant than ours. Also, as a result of a likely detailed explanation from my dad, this man was certainly not confused. Knowing my father as I did, I am certain he made very clear how dire and precarious things were shaping up for said man who, for all  intents and purposes, was his hostage. In direct correlation to this lie another diversion between us and it stood as glaringly obvious on that doughy face as the mottling and bruises. The degree of terror felt by this man was greater than anything we had ever known. Our combined twenty-five years could not produce a fraction of the fear of the situation in which he found himself currently mired. Despite having seen our fair share, we simply were physiologically incapable of producing the terror this man felt.  His eyes were wide and darting. He was utterly silent. For all I knew, my dad had kidnapped and beaten a mute and brought him to hang in our garage like a prized 8-point. 

Deciding he had provided enough dramatics in the entrance, my dad got right to the second act. He called the man Bob and an inkling of understanding crept in. The fact that any eight year old on the planet could have any understanding in a situation like this shouldn’t be glossed over but as I said, I'd seen some shit. I had heard talk of Bob and knew that he was more an acquaintance of my mom, having grown up with her. Tragically for Bob, I also knew how much my dad hated him; though, I guess Bob was probably hip to that by this point. 

I didn’t learn it that night but in the weeks that followed, I got some background which again, should be framed against the fact that I witnessed the entire event while wearing size 6 Underoos. Apparently at some point recently, Bob crossed paths with my eldest brother Tim at a bar and brazenly called our mother a name. I likely was told, again at the age of eight, what the name was but I have since forgotten, lost in many more important details to the story. However, in that exact moment, there was nothing in the world more important to my brother than that word except my mother herself. We are all protective of our mom and love her dearly so I can say with no shame that Tim’s love of our mom stood on another level. There was no chance this particular aggression would stand. I’m a little surprised because he could have probably ended the thing then and there. Seemingly every teenager in the seventies knew some Karate. Tim was no different. More importantly, I don’t imagine the shaking, sobbing Bert Lahr version of Bob before me was much more formidable in his normal life. However, my brother must have considered that one of the meaner and tougher people he knew happened to be married to his mother so why not make sure the message is well sent and well received. Being the closest thing to a hero this story has, I’d like to think my brother left that bar and immediately found my dad and put the wheels of this story towards its furious and what should have been felonious, conclusion. Upon hearing the news, I am positive my dad made an instant decision as to what had to be done. My dad believed in old west justice and justice took off her blindfold in a garage turned mock courtroom on Whitewood Drive at 3 am.

After bringing David and I up to speed as to the evidentiary rulings and pretrial procedures, he diverted from form as he was want to do and decided to combine the cross examination and the punishment phase in one. This appeared to be done much to the chagrin of the cowardly defendant and the youthful witnesses. I’m sure David wasn’t enjoying himself, and as badly as  I wanted this to stop, I had nothing on old Bob.

From up on high, the judge began issuing his commands.

Apologize to these boys Bob! 

Before Bob could get the word “I” from his quivering lips my dad changed from judge to executioner and back again, landing a fleshy backhand before repeating his command with greater insistence.

I SAID APOLOGIZE!

Whack!

(Jesus, how about you let him apologize instead of slapping the shit out of him and maybe he will.)

 Thinking the exact same thing, Bob rapidly and hysterically screamed in one frantic word. 

IAPOLOGIZE!

For his part, Bob was trying to comply as quickly as possible. I’m sure part of this was adrenaline and part of it was a desire to get the words out in the split second he had before my dad slapped him again. Or, maybe he thought if he got the apology out, this would be over. Again, it was unfortunate for all of us, none more than Bob. My dad was just getting started.

The pattern was the same. My dad would give a command, slap Bob before he could  comply, command again in a tone louder and more insistent and then slap him a final time. 

They developed an interesting Fred and Ginger chemistry. Playing off my dad's lead, like a doughy, emasculated rodent, Bob would try in vain to comply, wince and sob as the back of his captor's giant paw found its mark, scurry away to avoid that second backhand, fail miserably and then scream an urgent and pleading compliance. Considering the obvious pattern, Bob was stunningly consistent in failure as my dad’s giant hand found its mark time after time. 

Tell these boys you’re a coward!

Whack!

TELL ‘EM YOU’RE A COWARD!

Whack! 

IMMACOWARDBOYS!

 (Got it Bob. Maybe if you shut up and take it, this will end because heads up...the screaming, scurrying, and sobbing seem to be highly satisfying to your nemesis here.)

Tell my boys you're a piece of shit!

Whack! 

I SAID TELL THEM YOU’RE A PIECE OF SHIT!

Whack!

IMMAPIECEOFSHITBOYS!

(Alright for fucks sake, we get it. Can we please go and start the futile attempt at repressing this now?)

I don’t know how long it went on. It seemed to go on forever which is a fraction of the time it must have seemed to Bob. But, all of us stayed through to the pathetic, horrifying end. For mine and my brother’s part, I knew my dad would never have harmed us but after seeing Bob get worked over, my dad had the room. Jesus Christ himself could not have moved me from that garage. As unlikely The Savior appearing in our garage was, there was even less odds that Bob would be soon leaving it.

Finally my brother and I were mercifully excused. As predicted, it was abundantly clear that applied only to my brother and I. We immediately made an about face and left Bob to whatever else my dad had in store for him. A trip to the homes of extended family members so Bob could be meted out with further justice wasn’t completely out of the question. No longer asleep or confused, I had a singular goal. I was not going to be by myself for the rest of that night or any other night for the foreseeable future. Two inches from his six and without a word, I followed my brother up the stairs and, before he could even consider shutting his door, continued directly and forcefully into his room. David, despite acting as my chief antagonist and torturer for every single day I could ever remember, was my only ally and to his credit, he didn’t let me down. He said nothing but pointed to the floor beside his bed. Without a word, not wanting to risk a change of heart, I lie down with neither pillow nor blanket but covered by a gratitude beyond words.

 Years later my brother and I were driving somewhere and completely out of nowhere he launched into this memory. My brother spends his life hitting things with a hammer and using his strength and will to pound things into place so I was surprised by this odd psychoanalytic bonding. Feelings are not often top of mind for my brother. 

Hey, you remember when dad woke us up and slapped the shit out of that guy for talking about mom? 

Trying to sound ironically disaffected, I replied. 

“Uhhhhh yep….yeah. I REMEMBER that.” 

I emphasized “remember” for effect be it tragic or comic. Maybe both. 

My brother paused for a second.

You suppose that fucked us up? It had to, right?

Now the pause belonged to me. I stared at him and when I decided he was serious, I could no longer continue my disaffected ruse.

Fuck yeah I think it fucked us up!

Speaking to no one at all, I matched my declaration in intensity and exasperation by asking a question with no desire for an answer.  I'm not sure if it was a response to my brother, my own reflection of the night, or both. Again, I emphasized what I deemed the more important words. 

WHAT the FUCK, man?

My question hung there unanswered in the cab of my brother’s truck. There was no possible answer or explanation then or now. Including the night in question, the days and weeks to follow, and the subsequent thirty years until that day, this was the only time my brother and I spoke of it and we never spoke of it again.

 I did try and gain some understanding once. In the weeks after, I sought out my dad, an obvious move when you consider the sensitive, compassionate, nature and superior parental skills he had exhibited a few weeks prior.

 Self-monitoring clearly not my father’s strong suit, he happily obliged and launched into the entire tale. He told me of the exchange between my brother and Bob. He explained his need for retribution in the name of defending my mom from whatever she had been called. This seemed in contrast to the other fact he shared, that being, he left my mother at a bar with no way home to seek said retribution. But still terrified, I decided against pointing out that disconnect or that he introduced me to several curse words by first hurling them at my mother while in my presence.  He told me the story from the beginning, stunningly deciding against skipping any detail. Most notably and inexplicably (which is a fairly bold statement considering the myriad of inappropriate details) he mentioned that Bob tried to offer my dad Valium to calm him down. Despite having no idea what it was or what it did, he proudly told me his response to the offer

“Keep ‘em Motherfucker! You’re gonna need ‘em”

In his life, my dad may have never been more honest than in his direct response to Bob; furthermore, considering his penchant for pharmaceuticals, never as magnanimous. 

Still confused and terrified, I asked no follow ups. Ultimately he could see I wasn’t getting the message and tried to explain it away as best he could.

“Someday, you’ll understand.”

 Well...I certainly tried. I considered all varieties of angles and excuses. My dad saw a wrong and felt the need to right it.

 He was physically imposing.

He operated by his own fucked up code. Being that it changed on a whim based on his thinking at any given instant, the code was derelict of reason or understanding likely even to him and certainly to the rest of us but it was there.  He named his son after his favorite gun slinging cowboy so retribution in the style of The Old West might have been the only unsurprising and unwavering facet of the code and the entire story as a whole. Had he not gone about it all as piss poor a manner as he could conceive, he might have been right about my understanding but he wasn’t. I’ve never understood his thinking on this one and I’ve come to know him better than anyone.

 Ultimately, I got something better. 

 In the months leading up to the birth of my son, I diverted from the pride and comfort of our family's dysfunction and set course for righteous indignation. I proudly told anyone who would listen that I vowed my children wouldn't see those kind of things when in reality, my superiority made me look like a pompous ass. First, everyone makes a similar vow and it wasn't like the bar was set particularly high. All I had to do was avoid the pitfall of kidnapping a doughy coward with a charitable attitude towards Valium and not slap him around my garage as my terrified children cowered in the corner.

 Second, I desperately needed perspective and thankfully that arrogance crumbled in the face of simple experience. I had my kids and fucked up in my own monumental and less interesting ways and that righteous indignation fell away quickly. I still don’t understand what led him to even conceive that night was a good idea. However, and more importantly, I became a dad, fucked up in my daily course of being one and grew to understand him.  I actually grew to feel most sorry for my dad in the entire ordeal. It's a stunning development when you consider the kids in the story, to say nothing of Bob. I know my dad adored me and I'm sure he had inconceivable and immediate remorse the next day and I hope it passed quickly. There was no need for him to punish himself. He fucked up and knew it. He tried to explain it away in the midst of his own shame on that one instance I asked him about it. He first tried to emphasize his nobility and physical prowess. I’m guessing the inclusion of a controlled substance into the story was an attempt at humor. He did hit the mark on that, it just took 15 years. Finally he gave up and offered that platitude.

Someday, you’ll understand.

This is where I feel most sad for him, not as his son but as one father to another. Both possess a near-consuming love for their children in endless capacity and both armed with an ability to fuck up despite wanting nothing more than to never again do so. I see him walking away in shame and hoping he was right, for his sake as much as mine that I would understand someday. As he does, his own inner monologue kicks in and somewhere in his head he hears John Fogerty sing what he already knows and knows I will learn much too soon for his liking. 

"I’m here to tell you now, each and every mother’s son. You better learn it fast, you better learn it young because Someday Never Comes."

Sick Sons A Bitches

From my earliest thoughts, I knew without fail that my dad loved me more than anything else in the world. In all likelihood it's the first thing I knew.  While time flew by faster than any summer vacation and the rolling stone went from handsome and strong to what Johnny Cash once called "big and bent and gray and old," I never doubted. His once lightning-quick mind turned confused and addled but that love never wavered and I always knew it.

It's important to acknowledge that. The gentle sweetness I knew from my first memories are what I leaned on when I first became a father and every time I'd try  and every time I'd win over my own son.  Much of the  success I've had in fatherhood is in no small measure a result of my dad's love and devotion. My hope is how clear it is and  how deeply I mean that, if nothing more than to honor my dad for providing me with the first examples of unconditional love that I gave my own kids upon first laying eyes on them.

Of course,  valuable lessons are also born from watching someone's mistakes and I say that because Jesus Christ could he get up to no good when he wanted to. 

Like his capacity for love, my dad came by his proclivity for sin naturally and he honed both over his life.

If you prefer your sinning to be Old Testament, my dad is your guy. His favorite sin was easily the sin of vanity. Often, his vanity would manifest its self in standard fashion. He was handsome but maybe not quite to the degree he thought he was. Like many in his family, he was blessed with a surprisingly good singing voice. He was quick on his feet and knew he was hilarious. He loved to show these talents for the joy they brought others  but most important to him was the inevitable praise said talents would rightfully garner. By his own account a "terrific athlete," he would remind you of his ability on the football field or baseball diamond but seldom would you see a demonstration of that prowess as he knew that glory days will pass you by as promised.

As I grew older and more his son, the requisite amount and degree of hero worship  had been shown and gave way to the satisfaction in fucking with him. I was especially fascinated with his more bizarre idiosyncrasies as they stood, without the slightest hint of irony, diametrically opposed to who he was. 

At one time in his life he would disavow the existence of God and the next day cheer openly for Notre Dame because they were "A Good Catholic School."

Despite being  an unapologetic homophobic he loved to watch cooking shows and the movie "Breakfast At Tiffany's." He proudly knew the words to many Rogers and Hammerstein musicals.  He loved singing them loudly in commendable pitch and tune.  Any chance I could, I would match only the volume to point out the just barely latent homosexuality of these interests.

As I said, he clearly felt he was handsome and was willing to go above and beyond his normal disdain for even the slightest extra work to further that belief. He would dye his hair. He would work in his garden and mow the lawn shirtless for  no other reason than to comment how beautiful he found his tan to be. Once while doing this, a friend of my sister pulled into the driveway and with all the grace and delicacy of a goddamn jackhammer told my dad to "go put a shirt on. You look fucking pregnant." He was wounded and I was overjoyed. I didn't have to do a thing because for the next month he mentioned it at least twice daily. That's exactly what made the next piece of this mystifying. With the considerable primping complete he would put on one of a hundred pair of baby blue faded Levi's and then would  inexplicably and constantly conduct raids on my closet for a t shirt or sweat shirt. This might not seem notable except  that he was easily half a foot taller and a foot and a half more broad than I was. Yet, on went those Levi's just before he would stuff his 6 ft 3 and apparently pregnant body into what was more times than not a recently cast aside or worse yet slightly outgrown t shirt meant for a a 5ft 9 inch 150 pound scrawny teenager. It made no goddamn sense and I know it made an impression on people other than me who would inquire just what in the fuck my dad was doing in my old clothes.

One night he and my mother had plans to go to dinner at the home of one of my mom's coworkers. The woman, Karen, was an emergency room nurse. Her boyfriend was named Randy. I took some note of this because my dad kept saying the name derisively, accentuating the syllables in a high nasal tone. Admittedly his name sucked but I couldn't be bothered with that and frankly a guy named Duane Faye had little room to talk. But talk he did and as he did so, I began to pick up on a crack in the facade. There was something more to this. There was a threat to my dad that his vanity would not abide. As it turns out, Randy had a bit of glamour that my dad couldn't match. Despite that horrible goddamn name, Randy was something of a star around the hospital where my mom and Karen worked. Randy was front and center of a new philosophy in critical care. The philosophy was to get emergency personnel to patients and in turn get patients to the hospital as quick as possible to ensure the best chance for survival. What is an SOP now was brand new in the mid 80's This concept materialized in the form of a sleek new helicopter and sitting in the pilot seat and manning the yoke for these lifesaving voyages was none other than Randy. Butch would never admit it but I knew something was up. Perhaps, it was that lost athletic step. Maybe the increasing frequency of his dye jobs bothered him. Certainly the need for maternity clothes was upsetting news. The competition was at a new level. The competition was literally a flying lifesaving fucking superhero.  Where  my dad was terrified of getting in the cabin of a 747, the cockpit of a helicopter was not even available let alone goddamn feasible. This called for calculated, drastic, and flat out odd measures.  He might lose but  he would make sure Randy was going to need every bit of that fucking helicopter to get to the victory parade. 

.

What I might want was cast alongside his fashion sense as my dad told me to bring him my as yet unworn Michigan Wolverines 3/4 sleeve tee. That it was at best an 1/8 of a sleeve when stretched over his giant  torso  made zero difference. He was determined if he was going to walk into Race Bannon's home court he was going to do so in a beautiful brand new shirt that he didn't even buy for his teenage son and was no less than three sizes too small. I considered a valiant attempt of telling him him no. After all I had yet to wear the shirt and now I have to watch it be torn asunder as he squeezed it over his Frankenberry head and onto his Magilla Gorilla body. He gave me a look I didn't see much but knew when I did that  there was no goddamn point in arguing.  Lines were being drawn and choosing the line benefiting Randy and his helicopter would produce a goddamn fit that made no fifteen dollar shirt remotely worth it. I relented and watched the shirt I had coveted for months stretch over the torso of Grape Ape as he and his fragile psyche left to wage a battle that I was certain existed only in his mind against  Randy the helicopter pilot. You gotta hand it to him. The odds were stacked against my dad what with Randy's helicopter, Randy's home court advantage and what I could only assume were Randy's normal sized clothes meant for Randy or a comparable adult man of a similar size. In contrast the old man sauntered into Randy's lair with a skin tight shirt that only a few days prior hung somewhere between the sections catering to high school freshman or inordinately husky middle school nerds.

 The next memory I have of the night in question is waking up on the couch listening to my dad drunkenly heap praise on the ever present, ever loyal Duke. Sweet, stinky and huge in his own right, Duke The Dog was the closest competition I had for my dad's affection. The fact that my dad couldn't borrow his fur pelt probably put old Duke just off my pace through no fault of his own.

Less than half awake, I fumbled for my glasses. Once I found them, information started coming fast. First and foremost, I noted my mom was nowhere to be found. I started to ask where she was when I stopped in mid-sentence. My mouth hung agape and became incapable of forming another word despite the questions that started coming furiously into my brain.  I quickly surmised that either my dad had instead spent the evening butchering livestock or the battle with Randy and possibly several others, was way way more literal than I ever could have conceived. As feared, the once new blue and white 3/4 sleeve Michigan Wolverines T was compromised around the neck but this wasn't stretched beyond the capacity of the fabric. It had been torn asunder which, despite those exact concerns, still came as a complete shock and would have sent me well off the deep end had I not in the next moment gathered that the shirt was covered in blood. White and blue had turned red and purple over most of the front of the shirt.

Everyone knows the confusion inherent to waking up from a dead sleep. Add in the following variables: despite the fact I'd seen him drink nothing stronger than a Coke in ten years, here sat my drunken father covered in blood and what was left of my prized t-shirt, which could barely contain him when it was in one continuous piece,  now hung haphazardly in tatters about his shoulders which somehow now looked even more broad than they did just four short hours ago. Finally, let's not forget that I still had no earthly clue who's blood this was and finally, to put things as mildly as I ever had in my 15 years, my mom's seemingly conspicuous absence was stark and concerning. Any one piece of this terrifying new stimuli was bad enough. Thrown violently together when I had been sound asleep 45 seconds prior and it's a miracle I had anything other than PTSD. Somehow I retained a legitimate and clear memory. My memory stuck because I marked the occasion by swearing in front of/to/at my dad for the first time ever. Despite the increasing likelihood that my dad had murdered someone and I could not rule out my mother as that someone, I made the most of my opportunity stringing together a flurry of words as loud as I could muster, I  needed immediate answers to several pressing question in a clear order of least to most important

DADWHATTHEFUCKHAPPENEDWHOSBLOODISTHATWHEREISMOM?!?!?!

He laughed.

 From my perspective this is as bad as a response as could be given. I didn't know it then but he was not trying to be cruel or even evasive. He was caught off guard which is fair given he knew all the information I was demanding and from his perspective only had to focus on the fact that he just drunkenly witnessed me turn from a normal yet groggy teenager into a hysterical cursing banshee in the blink of a sleep filled eye.

I'm assuming I slowed my pace somewhat or maybe I dropped the secondary information for the clearly most pressing issue or maybe I did nothing different. Who the hell knows. I do remember two things as if they just happened. I remember the sense of relief that came when I realized I had not been simultaneously made an orphan and a ward of the State of Michigan:

Dad, where's mom?

She went upstairs to bed

Ok, that's fantastic news but considering he is drenched in the blood of a still unidentified entity I held at him in at least a modicum of suspicion.

Is that blood?

Uh yeah. That is Randy's blood

 And that was the other thing. I clearly remember his cadence. He paused dramatically between the words is...Randy's...blood

I looked down and saw my dad's mangled pulpy paw and despite all contrary evidence was now confident that my dad had not in fact joined the  goddamn Manson Family.  I don't remember doing so but at some point I repeated the last piece of information I was seeking. Exactly what the fuck happened between that time I last saw him- not unlike a ridiculous turtle native only to Easter Island-forcing  that gargantuan block head through the doomed neckline of a t shirt I was never meant to wear and when I awoke to a drunken wrap session with Duke The Dog  as the shirt he never should have worn in the first place and saturated with pilot blood, hung more over than on him.

I can't tell the actual events of what happened at Randy and Karen's as I wasn't there but was able  to patchwork the pertinent details together as new information presented its self  along with two chance encounters and details no father should share with his son, regardless of the near pathological lack of filter demonstrated by the former.

Apparently Randy turned out to be a legitimate asshole. My mom eventually confirmed this in spite of the fact that she could have cast all the blame and perversions at my dad's feet. From the night in question to a chance meeting a year later my dad had several opportunities to clean up his act and failed spectacularly throughout. Like any superior competitor he came by his debauchery and underhandedness naturally and with one last stage he sank to a new and totally unanticipated low that, in considering the totality of his actions, could have my mom justifiably murder my dad and never see the inside of a jail cell. Always the consummate responsible parent, my dad managed to shield me from information I need not know and shepherd me through the information I had regrettably learned and to his credit, he managed to do so for almost a day before he collapsed completely. My mom had told him that Randy was unable to fly as both eyes had swollen almost fully shut. My dad was giddy and even years later when Randy was brought up my dad said proudly, "I grounded that son of a bitch." It was that exuberance that led him to cave and I pounced for details. Again, vanity overtook him and I got the details I wanted at the incredibly high price of mental images of a parent that no child should ever have to process

So Randy and Karen had a hot tub and the initial intent from one of my parents was to use said hot tub for its intended purpose and only that purpose while it sounds like my other parent, unbeknownst to his wife, called an audible below the foamy surface. Their hosts (referred, henceforth save once and only once, derisively and accusingly by my dad as "your mother's friends.")  had designs to use that tub for something else-something that hearkened back to the 1970's. You could almost hear the telltale bass riff rising above all that steam. For reasons I couldn't comprehend as a son, let alone now as a father, my dad confided to his 15 year old child that Randy made a move by way of a hand slipped clandestinely under the bubbles and directly to dear old dad's unsuspecting nether regions. He said that once he got wise, old Randall and his flying machine went out of commission. My dad's penchant for Holly Golightly and surrey's with the fringe on top notwithstanding, I do believe this version in part for reasons above and beyond my bio hazardous t shirt. First, in what would not be their last chance meeting,  the couples met up a few days later at the hospital were three of them worked. . I had been treated there for spine and neurological surgeries and did not put two and two together initially. Despite training by way of a lifetime of awkward scenarios I simply looked at the mangled face beneath the sunglasses and thought "man somebody fucked that guy up" without even considering that somebody was my dad until he asked me if I got a look at my  mother's friends as the door shut and Randolph and his lady scurried away-likely to the nearest key party. I let myself down. I had an opportunity to bare witness to intently study the aftermath and while I didn't fully evaluate everything the mottled purple bruises clued me in enough to know something happened and over the course of that something  things went decidedly awry for Randy and his face. The final evidence that told me things went down largely as my dad had outlined fell into place a few days later. It had occurred to me that my dad said something in the details that I didn't clarify and it was bugging me.  My dad indicated just a small amount of time took place between when he felt the offending hand and commenced with Randy's asswhipping. The topic had begun to die down at our house despite  my dad still referring to the offending and clearly morally bankrupt couple as "mom's friends." Everyone in the house knew if anyone was going to run in a swinging crowd that my dad was far and away the most viable option and this probably included Karen and maybe even Randy. Young and foolish, I sought out this final bit of clarification.

"Hey Dad, you said it took a few seconds between when Randy grabbed you and when you hit him. Why did you stay in for even a second," I asked with honest revulsion.

In as casual and matter of fact a response as could be given my dad replied

"Thought it was Karen."

Jesus on the Christ.

 There wasn't  even a shed of jocularity there. The answer was a lot of things and none of them were good but one thing it wasn't was a lie.

My parents had one final run in with Randy and Karen before they moved to Florida (where consequently Karen took a drunken mid afternoon swim  in an alligator infested canal and was never seen again) Del Shannon was playing the Allegan County Fair. My mom and dad went with my mom's sister. After the concert, my likely disgusted and horribly uncomfortable mom and my certainly oblivious aunt found themselves in a conversation with none other than The Swingin' Pilot and Lady DownForWhatever. My dad had fallen a few yards back but saw what was happening and made a beeline for his wife and his sister in law.

 He stood once again at the precipice of redemption and once again my dad fucked up. He walked with purpose to the group and in one motion grabbed my aunt by the arm and ushered her away with nary a thought about leaving his wife to fend for herself with two complete reprobates.

" Come on Gin, you don't wanna be near those sick sons a bitches"

My aunt neither asked for nor was given further clarification. I have to imagine  that since easily the sickest son of a bitch she knew wanted no part of these people my aunt chose the devil she knew rather than The Devil (and Miss Jones) she didn't.

The Size of The Fight in The Dog

I'll confess that some of the details are foggy, clouded with Guinness Draught and the rapid passage of time, but I know this for sure:

My last fight took place in the late 1990's.
It was at a BW3 in Mt. Pleasant, Michigan.
I certainly didn't win but I'm not entirely sure I lost.
And most importantly, it may have started with a combination of one flaming hot wing and a drunk sorority girl and while the night ended with two snowballs and a cold walk home, the story took fifteen years to really reach it's conclusion. 

Initially, I was certain I was a bad ass.  I fancied myself being able to fight anyone I wanted and figured in most cases I was going to win.  Of course no true bad-ass uses the word "fancy" in any form so there's that. But back then, the evidence was seemingly more weighted in my favor.  My dad was tough. His brothers were tough. My brother is tough. My cousin Sam is the toughest guy that most people know. My sister once laid out a girl that called her a slut and I've witnessed my mother cause her fully-grown nephew to actually scurry from her in fear for his life. Tough runs in my blood. As Max Cady said, "I guess you could say I had a leg up, genetically speaking."

 I was itching to test this hypothesis and I found it in the form of a kid named Jason Drobney. He was fat and I figured not too bright. I ran my mouth and he proceeded to hand me my ass so thoroughly and completely that any notion of my being tough left me completely, never to return. I was seven years old.

Getting that out of the way in a fashion that was so absolute actually served me pretty well. I didn't feel the need to prove anything in that regard. I knew what I needed to know at an early age. There's a degree of liberation in an ass-whipping of that magnitude and it comes on a few fronts. First, getting your ass kicked certainly isn't pleasant but it's not that big of a deal. I've had a catheter and I can promise that I'd rather have Jason Drobney show up right now and whip my ass again than have a needle shoved into my bladder. Second, it completely erased any of the drama in the alpha-male moments with which all boys and young men are faced. I remember once being asked "You wanna go?'' and saying in response something like "Well, we can but, I know how this is going to turn out." I think the guy called me a queer which is still better than being punched in the face. That scenario actually makes my most important point. Like a blind guy who can hear a pin drop, my lack of ability in terms of fisticuffs has given way to an excellent command of sarcasm. Outside of a professional cage fighter, how many times does a person find themselves in a physical altercation after the age of 30? Even smaller is the number of people who really want a physical altercation. For most people the desire and opportunity to tell someone to fuck off with the perfect combination of words, timing, and tone is at minimum a weekly occurrence. It's a terrible feeling. You sit bolt upright, struck first by epihpany, and then the inevitable and profound disappointment that the moment will never come again. I am proud to say that I experience these moments few and far between. From the asshole at the gym who thinks he's the traffic cop of the Eliptical Machines or a douchebag regional manager who fidgets with his balls too much and wields his title because it's just about all he can wield-I've come out on the winning side of a verbal sparring more than I've lost and I'm just fine with the trade off. For that, I owe more than a small debt of gratitude to Jason Drobney.



  I headed once more into the breech on a freezing cold St Patrick's Day.  My friends and I had been drinking for about nine hours. I remember thinking at one point that I had drank myself sober and it was this faulty logic that found me alone at the bar at midnight watching hockey and drinking by myself. Continuing this line of stellar thinking,  I thought the fact I was in the bar alone might make me seem more appealing, brooding and mysterious, to the co-ed set. Owing completely to my obtuse nature and counter to my goal of sleeping with someone, I then assured a "no sex for me" proclamation by ordering the messiest and most unattractive food I could: one dozen Garlic Chicken Wings.  Possibly on purpose, the counter guy made me one dozen Blazing Wings. From a comparative stand point, this is the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning bolt. The Spicy Garlic Wings are at the absolute end of the spicy range that I can withstand; twelve of them turns me into a quivering, watery-eyed,mucous-filled mess.  Looking down and seeing the red sticker with the word "Blazing" would have, on any normal day, sent me immediately back to the counter. Without hesitation I thought "fuck it," and put the wing to my lips. I can tell you that as unlikely as I was to see someone naked that night, I removed all doubt within a nanosecond when I got that Blazing sauce on my lips.
"oooowwwWWWWWWWW MOTHERFUCKER,"
 the syllables went from a normal range to a bellow as I frantically searched the table for water or ice or a hand gun. I  ran to the bar to see if I would be allowed to shove my entire face in the ice maker or at least procure my own bucket of ice to consume.
 I was suddenly and cruelly stone sober. I was frantic and pacing and fidgeting and twitching but I was not drunk. This was ultimately what made my decision to eat that wing, or rather place it to my lips and spit it out like it was venom, a good one. Had I not eaten that wing, I would certainly have experienced Jason Drobney 2.0

Ironically, or coincidentally, (I can never remember which,)  my Blazing Wing Onset Tourette's Syndrome had attracted the attention of a girl. Be it long island ice tea, pity, or a carnival sideshow-like curiosity, she noticed and began talking to me. I could barely focus on her questions and provided one word answers and she begun to volunteer information without provocation, never once asking why there were tears flowing down my beat-red face.
 "Cheers me, It's my last St Patrick's day in Mt Pleasant."
"I don't have a drink"
"Oh...well this is my last St Patrick's day here so we've been here since like noon. I'll be teaching next year so who knows if I can go out next year or whatever."
(She probably didn't say "whatever" but I'm certain she was in a sorority so she likely would have and in my memory, she did.)
"Yeah," I shrugged as if to acknowledge the fragile nature of a newly graduated twenty-something's dilemma to binge drink and still hold a steady job. I did know that if I didn't get an ice cube, I was going to die. This was my thought as I was suddenly confronted by Fratboyfriend. But for the clear aggression being demonstrated towards me, I was almost grateful for the distraction from the third degree burns seering my lips and tongue.
"Whatthefuckyoudoing?"
Fratboyfriend spoke kind of low but his eyes bore into me.  I thought back on the many ways that not insisting on my garlic wings was proving to be a bad decision. I motioned to the girl and started to say something in explanation. I looked at her and never saw his fist. Instead, I felt it explode against my cheek and clearly felt my knees wobble.  A common cliche in adverse situations is the notion that a person will surprise himself. I don't know if it's true every time but it rang true here. My own poor combat skills notwithstanding, it was easy to see from the start how this was going to end and that was before he clocked me out of nowhere. He was taller, younger, bigger and in better shape. Using my smaller stature to my advantage, I crouched lower and keeping my right arm hidden, I steadied my center of gravity and pushed up with my legs and uncorking my hand, brought it up as hard as I could.  It was his turn for surprise as I grabbed and squeezed his testicles with every ounce of energy I had. I had a vice grip and wasn't letting go. Like a dog who gets both hurt and surprised, Fratboyfriend actually yelped. I took pleasure in this for just one second as I watched him cock his arm and drill me in the face again.
"ugggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhh," I groaned as I sank to one knee, my hand still firmly in place and applying all the pressure I possibly could onto this guy's nuts. He yelled louder this time, purely from the pain I knew he was enduring. As he drew back a third time I clearly remember thinking, You might knock me out but if I go, these are coming with me.  I yanked down and twisted with what I figured would be my last conscious act of the evening but suddenly was whisked away and shoved out the front door.  It was over as quickly as it started and I found myself dazed, sitting on my ass in the snow outside the front door. Not exactly sure what or how this all happened, I uttered aloud a confused "what the fuck" pausing between each word and to no one in particular. I could feel sticky, warm, blood above my eye and the pain from being punched twice in the face began to be trumped again from the agony of the blazing wing that started all this bullshit. I slowly began fumbling in a daze and that's how a guy I knew from my Ed. classes found me; sitting on my ass in the snow,  and bleeding while eating one snowball and holding the other against my pummeled face.
He asked what seemed a very obvious question.
You OK man?,
I mumbled "yeah," took another bite of the snowball  and walked off into the Central Michigan night.

I have no recollection of coming home to my roommates that night. I know people were fairly interested and I do recall a variety of reactions to my story . Later in the week a guy I knew from my dorm saw me at a different bar and offered to drive to BW3 "and kick that fucker's ass right now." I assured him being three days later that he was likely not still there.  Another group of friends were less interested in revenge and  altered the timeline, telling people that the punch was a result of me first grabbing Fratboyfriend's testicles. It took some work to undo this version but I applauded their efforts.

  It probably shouldn't have, but my dad's reaction caught me off guard. . To say he had spent our 25 years together surrounding me with an unwavering and at times smothering protection would be a massive understatement. I knew this but was shocked when, upon seeing my bruised face, he became visibly upset and at first could barely look at me. Once he stopped shaking he looked at my face and in a low growl kept calling Fratboyfriend a "dirty bastard" and say "huhhhh God Damn I wish I had been there.  Dirty Bastard. Sucker punch you like that. Dirty Bastard." At first, I tried to convey how terrible it would have been to have my dad step in and decimate some college kid that punched me but he wasn't having it. I'd hear him mutter "dirty bastard sucker punch my kid..." and I just stopped trying. For 15 years, I always thought my dad was overreacting. It was a pretty minor dust up and provided a good story and happened ten times a night on college campuses. I now know that it wasn't  that I didn't understand what my dad felt.It was that I couldn't. 
As I said, the ramifications of that night stretched long past my time at CMU and stood out clear to me some 15 years later. I fully understand my dad's reaction now and look on it tenderly as oppossed to completely bewildered.

Even at three, my son has just begun to understand that sarcasm I spoke of that has come naturally to his father and grandfather and will someday become instinct for him. He has shown the ability to use it in context to his mother and me and will even attempt it out of context, smirking at me as he tries and fails to be a smart ass.  Additionally, if current trends hold, the fact that he's in the mid nineties for height and weight could add up to the tough gene skipping only one generation and returning in force to Michael. However, like the sarcasm, it isn't there quite yet. Last week at a community rec center, an older boy kept shoving Michael down. "Guys, come on..." my calmer and better half would say while I had to look away to keep from throttling this older four year old kid that was tormenting my son. I took advantage of one particularly rough tumble that sent Michael sprawling. I walked quickly and not at all calmly over to my son and picked him up and was met by the sweet and soulful, wide eyed questioning look and sensed that touch of embarrassment inherent to these first tests. Though it was just a glimpse of what my dad saw, I understood his reaction completely. I don't know if it was my father or my son but I became aware that I couldn't quite talk. It was only for a fleeting second and then, as men sometimes must do, I set aside the sentimental reflections of being a son and threw myself headlong into being a father. I pulled Michael close to me, hugged him tighter then he could possibly understand and kissing his cheek whispered so that his mother could not hear.  "That boy is not bigger than you Michael and you don't have to take that."  Wide eyed, he shook his head yes and walked away as I patted his butt for reassurance. I think now to my dad and the reaction to the fight. It didn't matter that it was minor and it didn't matter that it happened ten times a night to someone else and it was decidedly not a good story to my dad. The second nature to protect and defend me did not lessen because I was 25.  He was powerless to change it and that infuriated him. No amount of reasoning or joking or bravado was going to lessen his rage.  Someone hurt his kid and that was completely unacceptable. I have no doubt that the reaction in my now frail and addled 72 year old father would be exactly the same. "Dirty Bastard, hit my kid..."

I smiled at this thought and watched as the older boy made yet another move. This time my son lowered a shoulder and sent the older boy sprawling on his ass. It wasn't a father of the year reaction and probably not my best moment but thinking of my dad, I hid a small but emphatic fist pump from both my wife and son.

"Push my kid around? Take that you little bastard..."

White Man's Burden

So, I was accidentally racist today.

  I hate my career. The company I work for is fine.  It's not their fault  Regardless of the name on the door, claims adjusting is a thankless job that is at once boring, yet difficult. Very often, it's people at their worst: Unscrupulous vendors who would screw their mother out of a nickel, customers who have been robbed of perspective and logic while in the throes of a stressful and often traumatic event, and the flock of cat herders that are claims adjusters; beaten down and sapped of energy from working too many hours in a job that is completely opposite anything they remotely dreamed they'd be doing with their lives. No one leaves college with the goal of adjusting claims and invariably the claims adjuster will at some point ask themselves just how the fuck they ended up here. Many mornings upon my arrival, as I walk towards the endless sprawl of grey and beige cubicles,  I find myself hating the guys who clear the snow and cut the grass on our campus. The source of my hatred is pure envy. “Lucky Motherfucker,” I’ll hiss as I walk by these guys. Simply put, from a career standpoint, claims’ adjusting is akin to The Island of Misfit Toys from "Rudolph The Red-Nose Reindeer."  I've even taken to whispering "No one wants to play with a Charlie-in-the-box" when the weight of my career pushes down upon me.

The winter of 2014 has provided unprecedented weight. Flooded homes from frozen pipes all over the Midwest have put an unbearable load upon adjusters everywhere. I’ve correlated this winter to the suffocating snow that drove Jack Nicholson insane in "The Shining."  I've begun telling people I'm one snowfall from typing "All Work and No Play Makes Jack a Dull Boy" while sharing drinks with Lloyd the imaginary bartender

The combination of corporate life and this particularly brutal winner has festered a special kind of hell for those of us in the insurance industry. Surly and short tempered, we snap at our loved ones and are constantly on edge. Honestly, anyone in the Corporate Cotton Dockers Circle of Hell can understand this to a point. At it's core, there is an isolation that is difficult to convey to someone outside life in a cubicle.  This is what makes the movie "Office Space" so fantastic . Anyone who spends time in this setting will tell you how spot-on this movie is. From the corporate speak to the omnipresent cubicles and overwhelming dread. It hits the mark with almost no hyperbole. To say I’ve been relating to this movie lately would be an understatement. I live this movie from 7:00 AM to 7:00 PM.  For comfort, solidarity, and a touch of masochism, I have been watching the movie incessantly and even decided to download some of the music from the movie. Specifically, I downloaded most of the hardcore rap that appears on the soundtrack.

The morning of my unintentional act of bigotry was exactly the same as every other morning because, sad as it might seem, all my mornings are exactly the same. One slight difference today was the sound of “Still” from The Geto Boys pumping through my nondescript four-door sedan. “Still” is the song playing as the characters destroy the copier that has become the symbol of their professional scorn. I pulled into a Speedway, with a smile on my face and the radio as loud as it can go while the Geto Boys scream “Die  Motherfucka  Die Motherfucka, still fools!”  Completely clueless to my surroundings as I am most of the time, I left my car on and volume at max and went inside. A minute later, Diet Pepsi in hand,  I exited the store and walked to my car.  I could hear the muffled bass straining to escape.  It’s worth noting at this point that I am a forty year old white man with not an iota of gangster in me. As I approach the car, Gangster Rap blaring, this occurs to me and I feel instantly sheepish.  As if  my life was playing out in some improbable movie, it is then I notice three black men in their early twenties walking through the parking lot towards me and headed into the store. The sheepish feelings turn to complete  embarrassment. The bass makes it very clear what type of music this lame-ass honkey is listening to and I am focused only on my utter whiteness. I quickly open the car door and the constrained  lyrics explode from the passenger compartment. 

But it isn’t lyrics per se.

It’s a single word at the end of a line. One single terrible word.  It’s a word very often used in this genre. It's a word no white person should say and probably even listen to. As I open the car door that word blasts out at a bone-jarring, spinal-tap 11 and hangs in a cloud of white guilt over the Speedway parking lot. Without a thought, I plunge headlong and do the absolute worst thing I can do in this scenario. Like a panicked and wild animal with a look of complete mortification on my face, I look instantly into the faces of the three black dudes. 

My friend Tiffany accurately observed that all my problems really seem to go from awkward to terrible when I try and "fix" the situation. I related a story to her once and my habit of doing this was more than she could take. Eyes burning into me and mouth half open with hand on her forehead and completely exasperated with me, she literally yelled at me:

“DON’T TRY AND FIX IT! JUST LEAVE IT ALONE!”

It’s great advice.

I have never once listened to it.

 

My solution to fix it was a weak barely audible "sorry."

I have no idea what I'm apologizing for. I didn't say this word. I didn't write it. I didn't even sing it.  I am within my Constitutional First Ammendment Rights to play and enjoy this song. I wasn't sorry I like the song, so to these guys who did nothing but cross paths with me, I'm saying "Good Morning Gentlemen,  Terribly sorry you're black and I'm white." Of course it wasn't what I meant. If anything I'm sorry I'm such an idiot. I'm sorry that I heard that word and looked immediately at these guys. I'm sorry, at that particular moment, that I was anywhere but a casket.

 

I slid meekly into my car and made the only good decision I made that morning. I wanted nothing more than to rapidly leave that parking lot and then die. I grabbed the shifter of the caucasian-mobile and was just about to throw it in reverse and speed away in a cloud of exhaust, rubber and shame but I stopped. Considering these guys never really batted an eye and that all of this sprang from one terrible reaction to another, all within the trappings of my stupid mind, appearing to fear for my life would be the only way I could look like more of an asshole and I had well exceeded expectations of that particular goal.

 Just like we do with my three year old child when he acts like a little butthole, I took ten deep breaths and drove slowly and gratefully to the isolation of my cubicle..

 

Go West Young Men

We all have them. Those things that are essentially us and make up the fabric of who we are. They are those self-indulgent exercises that everyone says they hate and then drops what they are doing to fill them out. Self-centered and self-indulgent as I am, I labor under no such falsehood. I love them.

The fact that I hate to fly would be among the first things people mention in those crass Facebook exercises so when I got an invitation from my wife to be part of The Michigan Delegation at the 2008 Democratic National Convention, I'd say that people who knew me were initially stunned to hear I would drive to Denver from Detroit.  After some thought the stunned reaction turned to a bewildered "What the Fuck is wrong with you?"

They had never flown with me. My wife never doubted I would drive, never tried to talk me out of it,  and certainly didn't offer to fly with me. She served her time on an airplane with me and would gladly never fly with me again. I cant blame her. I'm a mess on an airplane. I get loaded on red wine and Xanax which is just enough to get me on the plane but does nothing for the groans, the swearing, the sweating, the gasps, and the panicked inquisitions (WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT NOISE?)

Above that, I love to drive and the romantic in me relished the opportunity to drive 3/4 across the country. I downloaded several episodes of "This American Life" as an homage to my trip, loaded the car, and started out on a Saturday night to drop the dog at my in-laws.

This is where we see the first act of my buddy Nate's one man show intersect with my trip.

Our plan was to take some time and golf in the mountains. The fact I was driving would allow this easily, I just had to meet up with Nate on my way out of town to get his clubs. I knew Nate was golfing in an outing that day and quickly decided that since he would be drinking heavily from sun up in the sweltering heat, I would need a back up plan. I called Nate as I drove past our agreed upon meeting spot and never thought for a second he would answer. He didn't and I drove on, having already secured my father-in-laws spare clubs. I was prepared when a dejected Nate called with only a slight slur to his words

"Duude"(slightly elongated by the booze )
"No problem man. I figured we wouldn't meet up so I asked my father-in-law and you can use his spares"
"Yeaaah....shit. What are we going to do?"
"Nate? Listen. I can bring Jim's clubs and its no big deal."
"You sure? Fuck are you sure?"
"It's no problem Nate. Seriously"
"All right. If you're sure. Fuck."

It took a little doing but Nate was both lucid and in full comprehension when we hung up. Something happened over the course of 30 minutes to change both of those things and to this day, I still don't know what that was.

What's up Nate?
SHAAAAAANNNNNE! DUUUUUUUDE! FUCKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!
THE GOLF CLUBS!!!!!!!!!!!!
FUCKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO!!!!!!!!
FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
WE WERE GOING TO GOLF. WE MISSED EACH OTHER!
FUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCCCCCCK!

This went on for two minutes without interruption with a basic sentence construction consisting of my name,  "golf", "clubs" and  "fuck" used in various parts of speech.  I guess it made no difference that Nate wasn't letting me speak because I was speechless. We had talked about this twenty minutes before and Nate was calm, understood the plan, and seemed to have only a nice buzz going.

The person who called back was obliterated and in the throes of an alcohol-fueled multi-directional rage. Needless to say it took quite a bit longer to both calm him and yet again explain the solution as it was interrupted several times as Nate bellowed SHANE...DUDE....FUCK...GOLF...FUCK. Even when it was settled, I took nothing for granted. I waited several hours and called back. As I knew it would, the call went straight to voicemail

"OK Nate, you are getting this information for the third time in the last 6 hours but..."

I drove to Iowa City the first night. As I walked around the campus, I tried to ignore the heavy dull pain that was creeping into my chest.

I woke up the next morning and instantly knew I was sick and had a feeling this was something different. As I drove through the heartland, the weight increased in my lungs and within 24 hours I was battling a fever and a crackle emanating from somewhere deep in my chest.

The knock against Republicans is simple. They don't care. They take uncaring to unprecedented new levels on a monthly basis. While I believe in this fully, I must admit that surrounded by thousands of Democrats one of whom I married, I could not find one that gave a shit about me and my ever worsening upper respiratory infection



 As I stood in a bar in Denver wheezing and delirious from fever because my wife insisted I stay so I could drive her drunken friends home from the bar.

"You came here for free. It's the least you could do. Its not like you can drink,You're sick."

 She said this with equal parts derision and accusation. As if I had launched some elaborate ruse to come to Denver and get as sick as I had been in my life so I could go to some st rangers house and go to sleep so as to avoid having any fun. She added the "You'rrrrrre Sick" in such a tone as to suggest that despite it sounding like my lungs were made of bubble wrap and that I was shaking like I had malaria, I could in fact be faking.

Nate, having recovered from his Bonham-esque bender promptly arrived in Denver and began drinking. For his part he believed I was sick which was a small consolation. He did however take a Typhoid Mary approach to my illness and began to try and humiliate me into feeling better. It was at this time that Nate began a tactic he repeated several times throughout this hellish vacation.

"HEY MAN, WHAT THE FUCK YOU GET INTO?!"

I began to try and explain that I wasn't a dog that had gotten into the neighbors garbage and traipsed it through the living room but Nate wasn't buying.

YOU SOUND TERRIBLE. WHAT DID YOU GET INTO.!?

Dr. Nate did his quick diagnosis and  surmised that I had in fact contracted  "Guatemalan Dick-Worm." (There is some dispute to the origin of the dick-worm. I maintain said dick-worm hailed from Peru while Nate maintains it's native to Guatemala and since its a figment of his imagination, I'll defer to him.)
At any rate, it turns out the cure for Guatemalan Dick Worm is not standing in a smoky bar watching your wife and her friends get plastered while being berated by a drunken madman. Maybe that's  the cure for Peruvian Dick Worm.

Needless to say my conditioned worsened but I dare say I didn't let it dampen my mood. I was into the electricity of Candidate Obama and was making the most of my time. I visited The Columbine Memorial. I drove to Boulder and walked around the beautiful CU campus. I became friends with a morbidly obese septuagenarian bus driver named Skip who didn't like anyone else in The Michigan Delegation but me and liked to loudly accuse people of "taking a dump" in the bathroom of his bus. His most notable victim being my friend Jordy-who would would sooner die than defecate on a bus. Jordy would leave the floor of the office where he worked if he felt the need to move his bowels.  It was a great time.

However, by the time the convention had ended, my condition further downgraded. At one point in the at-capacity football stadium where Obama accepted the nomination, I seriously wondered if I would perish. Work had ended and we were slated to spend the last two days of the week in a rented cabin in Breckenridge. I had officially lost my battle and wanted nothing more than to sleep but  considering the collective compassion of my friends had been left back in Michigan, they weren't having it. Nate continued to inquire as to what the fuck I had gotten into. Not to be outdone, my wife insisted we go for a walk . This wasn't a stroll through a park but through the mountains at high altitude while I had pneumonia so why the fuck wouldn't I go. I had no choice but to go and my wife made it clear. At one point we had descended to the bottom of a very large hill and stood at the foot of another one. I was bent over and laboring with every breath, my lungs literally crackling with each exhale but I clearly could pick up the tone in my wife's voice.

"Do you need me to get the car?"
"No," I croaked, "but I think we should cut this short."
"Fine." My wife had no problem exhaling at this point and did so to convey her irritation. Show off

The rest of that night went by in a blur.  Nate loudly talked of the porn viewing habits at his home and was immediately placed into figurative and had there been one, literal  dog house. Aside from that, the night was tame.

I awoke the next morning and felt somehow worse. Nate and I engaged in a stand off of sorts.  Considering our respective hangover and pneumonia, it was abundantly clear that neither of us wanted to golf at 830 in the morning. We reached a stalemate of  "do you want to go?" "I'll go. but it doesnt sound like you want to" and hauled our sorry asses to the golf course,

The one saving grace was the start of the Michigan football season and a brand new era under spread-offense guru Rich Rodriguez. We had no idea the extent that my illness was a harbinger for said era but suffice to say Nate hated it immediately.

"This sucks. Three yards and a cloud of dust asshole!"
"Nate, you have to give it more than a quarter."
"Bullshit. Bo is rolling over in his grave."

Rich Rod and his anemic offense did at least limit the "What did you get into?!" accusations to one per quarter. Then it happened. Maybe it was karmic. Maybe it was dumb luck. Maybe it was the fact that I had a culture in my lungs equivalent to a micro-biological Jonestown but Nate turned to bitch about the offense or ask me what the fuck I got into or to wax philosophically about the Guatamalan Dick-Worm and I sneezed violently, wetly, and directly into the side of his face and neck.

Nate's face froze in horror for a half a second. "BLEGGGGGCKKKKKFUUUUUUCK WHAT THE FUCK? JESUS CHRIST. ."

I tried to apologize sincerely but the fact I was gasping for breath from the combination of hilarity and lung-disease probably made the words ring hollow.

"Fuck Next time I'd rather you jizz on my back."

"Really?"  I became suddenly serious at this question of what's worse horrific scenarios

Nate paused, still irritated but now considering his own question at lleast half serious while the spots of sputum dried on his cheek.

"All right no, but fuck man, come on.," he begrudgingly admitted what happened was better, albeit so slightly.

The game ended in a frustrating and very telling Michigan loss and we went back to the cottage. Despite my violent shaking Nate insisted I get into the hot tub as a chlorinated human frapuccino was the cure for what ailed me. I was in the tub for 3 minutes when Nate inquired again what the fuck I had gotten into and I decided I had been a good enough sport.

"Fuck this. I'm going to bed."

It was 5 o'clock at night and apparently this conveyed the gravity of how I felt. Nate relented. My wife came in to check on me several times and brought me cool wash cloths. This happened just in time for me to leave and start my 18 hour drive back to Michigan.

The next morning I woke and stared at the ceiling for an hour trying to figure out how I could tele-port back to my home. I packed my bags and stood at the car and said goodbye to my wife.

"How bad do you feel."

Dead serious I looked at her
.
 "If I could take the car back to the airport and leave it, I would fly home."
She was shocked.
"Oh my God. You are dreading the drive that much?"
"No but I think I'd rather die in a plane crash then feel like this anymore."

I got in the car and drove slowly and painfully East