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

The Wedding Guest

On our first date, my wife said to me
"I have to warn you, my family can be pretty crazy."
My face lost all expression and in a flat voice I answered her challenge in less than a heartbeat:
"Do your worst."
I like to remind my wife of that story every now and again. Her eyes sort of glaze over and she silently shakes her head, realizing she has never before or since been quite so wrong.

The day that she officially joined said family was beautiful.  The late Michigan fall produced, as it sometimes does, a gem. The sun shone brightly and occassionally hid behind huge white clouds which kept the temperature perfect. The energy of friends and family was palpable and the revelers were giddy. It was great.

I was a nervous fucking wreck.

The idea of the nervous groom is so common it's cliche' but it really was out of character for me.  I get nervous about weird shit. Usually when it's a scenario that would make most jittery, I'm fairly calm. I've spent a lot of time in nerve-wracking situations and am well equipped for high-stress scenarios provided they didn't involve U of M football or Tigers' playoff games. That's what made this particular bout of nerves so crushing. I simply never saw it coming and it hit me hard.

Typical groomsmen activities had commenced and we were in the middle of our round of golf when I realized I was nervous. I tried my usual array of tactis and tricks. I tried to find the source of what was making me nervous and rationalize through it and I couldnt put my finger on it. This made it that much worse. In large part it was this feeling that I had to orchestrate everything so my wife would have the wedding day she dreamed of but really everything was taken care of. I should have been able to just relax and enjoy the time but I couldn't. I pulled my co-best man, Z , aside and told him I was ducking out of post-golf lunch and beers.  As he always did, Z stepped up and covered so I could leave without questions or my relentless teasing.

From the moment I realized I would marry someone, which would have been approximately seven years of age, I had been sattled by another source of worry. The possibility that some wayward member of my family, of which there were many, could fuck this day up was a very real one. It was one that I could not escape or rationalize. It was a foregone conclusion. There were far too many candidates to adequately police and prevent. I was outmanned.

It was this thought that was rattlng in my head as I pulled into the parking lot and saw the unmistakable 1994 grey Chevy that belonged to my father and his live-in girlfriend, Mama Larue. As I drove to the hotel I thought if I could have an hour to lie quietly in a dark room, I'd be just fine. My father and his beastly paramour would see fit that this wouldn't happen

The two of them made quite a pair. My dad was a handsome man in his day but sixty years of hard and not often good living had taken it's toll. He was gaunt  and grey and bent and slow moving and he looked  like someone who walked into the hotel  directly from a forced labor camp...or a morgue.
Mama Larue was something else altogether. So named because she worked at a local breakfast place we frequented called "LaRue's," my asshole friends knew I didn't approve of this woman and  as friends do,they exploited this to no end. Mama LaRue was huge. She stood a shade under six feet and had hands the size of Andre The Giant. She had a raspy voice that added a harder edge to the string of profanities and dropped g's that spewed from her mouth. I always thought she looked like the ugly sister of Katherine Tremmell,  the Senator's daughter from The Silence of the Lambs. This thought prevailed right up until I saw a picture of my dad dressed as a woman for Halloween and realized he was a dead ringer for Mama Larue.

Upon seeing the two my cousin and co-best man Doug relayed to my mom, the best description of the two ripped right from 1970's pop culture and the groom's love of breakfast cereal:

"Oh look, Shane invited Count Chocula and Frankenberry,"

Climbing from my car, I gave myself one last shred of hope. If I could just get up to the room and turn off my cell phone, I could give myself that moment's peace. I had zero conscience about making the monster cereal duo meander around the parking lot while they waited for me. Iwas actually hopeful-for maybe four seconds.

My dad rounded the corner with a look of shear panic on his face.

"They aren't going to let Frank into the hotel!"

There really was some question as to whether my dad and Mama Larue would come. He had presented all sorts of alleged slights -Shane hasn't called me in months, he doesn't want me there- and excuses both legitimate -This car is a piece of shit. I'm real low on money.- and bullshit-Mama Larue has made it to the finals of Nashville Stars and it's important that I'm there.  I knew he wouldn't miss my wedding. I solidified that by promising to pay for a nice hotel room and his tuxedo and his gas. He had no expense.  The last hurdle was Frank.

My dad and I had a conversation about this very fact and I was blunt and borderline rude. Under no circumstances was Frank to make an appearance at these proceedings. Under normal circumstances, this should have been a given but as the evidence shows, these were not normal circumstances. Not normal people

As if his huge, gaunt, Vincent Price like affect wasn't bizzarre enough, my dad added a small lap dog to his motiff. Dirty dishwater brown and adorned in a sweater, Frank was the six pound half terrier, half rodent that was a constant compaion to my drug addled father. Stoned on Percocet and reading about General Custer or The Battle of Gettysburg, my father would sit with Frank on his lap all day, every day. I knew that the issue would have to be addressed early on in the planning because in a life altering, multi-faceted, high stress event like a wedding, of course I would need to clarify that the fucking dog wasn't on the guest list.

"Dad, I'm fucking serious, leave Frank at home"
"Oh I couldn't do that. Mama Larue's fucking  mouthbreathing kids will let him out or something. I won't enjoy myself. I'll worry about him the whole time."
"Dad, they wont let him in the hotel. This isn't the fucking Red Roof Inn. Find a fucking place for him but he can't come"

Even writing it now, I can't believe I had to have that conversation and for all the good it did, I might as well imagined it as my father stood there with Frank and a look of sheer panic on his face. He looked at me, pleading with his eyes for a solution to what, in my father's mind, was THE issue facing all of us on this, the day I was to marry.

As any good and dutiful son might, I provided an answer.

"Well, I guess you're going to have to drive your dumb asses home then. I could give a god damn about fucking Frank. I fucking told you not to bring that god damn dog. What the fuck are you doing? Who in their right mind brings a fucking dog to their son's wedding?"

Answer: no one

My dad tried again, louder albeit unsuccessfully

"MAMA LARUE'S IDIOT KIDS WOULDN'T...."

"I COULD GIVE A FUCK ABOUT THAT FUCKING DOG OR MAMA LARUE'S KIDS DAD!"

We stood there, one terrified and one furious, when Mama Larue lumbered in and brought her usual grace and calm to the situation with a raspy shriek from a distance of approximately 75 yards across the 3/4 full parking lot

"BUUUUUUUUUTCH, YOU FUCKEN FAG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I FUCKEN TOLD YOU TO WAIT AND WE'D SNEAK THE GOD DAMN DOG IN-YOU FUCKEN RE-TARD!"

"Or," I said quietly to no one in particular, "you could have left the fucking dog back home."

Mama Larue continued to berate my father at a Spinal Tap 11 volume while hotel guests began to take notice. None of this mattered to my dad in the least. He was not bothered by my stress or frustration. He was not worried about a flawless wedding for his beloved son. He couldn't care less about the other guests being privy to his business as it was bellowed across the parking lot by Mama Larue and he didn't even register the slurs and profanities hurled at him by a pre-menopausal wookie. He only cared about Frank and where Frank was going to be housed during the forthcoming nuptuals.

It was more than I could take and my anger boiled over.
I double timed it to my room . They skulked behind me and at least had the good sense to make Frank the Dog wait in the tattered Chevy.  The arguing and cursing continued through the halls and into the room. I could still hear them as I showered and could take no more. Sopping wet and clad in boxer shorts and rage, I stormed into the room

I felt like the hitman driven insane by Jeff Daniels and Jim Carey in Dumb and Dumber.

"HEY! GOD DAMN! WILL YOU TWO SHUT UP LONG ENOUGH FOR ME TO GET MY TUX AND GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE?!

"What am I going to do about Frank?"

"DA-AD! DAD,DAD" I raised my hand to him now, in a gesture of pleading mercy, begging that he might shed light on his thinking , if nothing else. I lowered my voice to an over-dramatic whisper

"Why the FUCK do you think I'd care about that? What in the name of Christ would make you think that Frank's hotel accomodations are anywhere near my list of concerns? Tell me that. Just tell me that one thing."

Oblivious he looked at Mama Larue.
"You think we can get him in that side door?"

"Oh for fucks sake..." I grabbed my tux and walked barefoot through the hotel to the sanctuary of my groomsmen.

The rest of the day went off without a hitch.  Frank was not mentioned. My bride was beautiful. The wedding was perfect. All was forgotten for the time being. Years passed and my wife and I began our life, had a son, and experienced all those things that couples do. It was several years later when we were talking with friends and my wedding came up in conversation with our friends Drew and Jamie. As it often does, the conversation turned to my dad and his bizzarre countenance. 

"He looked rough," was the only understatement I could muster.

Dropping all pretense that her family could ever hang with mine, my wife made a face and added;
"ROUGH?! He looked like The Cryptkeeper-bleeeck!"

Looking creeped out and unsettled, Drew added "I'll never forget him sitting in the back corner of the reception mindlessly petting that dog."

"Yeah...wait....what?"

"Your dad sitting in the corner petting that fucking dog of his while there's a huge party going on around him."

Its not often that I'm surprised. Its a fraction of that time that I am genuinely shocked.

My mouth hung agape. This was one of those times.

"Wait a fucking second. He brought the fucking dog into the reception.?"

Drew's tone took on one of confusion and then amusement as he realized he was breaking this news.

"Yeah dude....he had that little fucking dog of his in his lap and sat there, you know..."

Drew mimed the action that I could see all too clearly. My dad, in his rented tuxedo, stoned on some phaaraceutical and stroking the dirty fur of his beloved companion while Mama Larue hunkered down next to him, probably calling someone a cocksucker loud enough for the tables around her to hear.

I looked at my equally shocked wife.

"Did you know he did this?"

"NO-OO!"

To her credit she joined in the rest of us and laughed hysterically at her father-in-law. She laughed at the notion that her family could ever in a million years produce anything close to the train wreck that mine could. She laughed to keep from crying.


The thing is, while he often does and says the wrong, most offensive thing possible, I am  strangely lucky to have the father that I do. Tragic and flawed, he is still my father and his love for me is unwavering and I have known that my whole life. I know a few people who simply can't say the same or buried their fathers at too young an age. I look at the moments of humor and frustration and heartbreak that he provides as face value events from which I learn how to and how not to be a husband and father and man. The endless supply of material he provides is a wonderful ancillary benefit
Knowing all this, it was no suprise when halfway through the reception, my dad cornered me. Considering that I didn't think he was going to come, I took the fact he stayed through half the reception as his best effort and smiled as he approached. He motioned me away from the crowd. I wasn't sure what to expect. He had the capacity within him to convey his most tender emotions where I was involved and I thought a father/son moment might be forthcoming.
 He shifted somewhat awkwardly then and I thought perhaps he was reflecting on lifetime of being a model of how to and how not to be a man and trying to form those perfect words with which to send his beloved son into the world. My dad placed his hand on my shoulder and looked at me:

"Buddy, Do you have twenty bucks I could borrow?"
Completely unsurprised, I shot back
"Uh, no dad, I didn't figure I'd need cash at my wedding..."

An Education

Like any good liberal woman my wife wanted one thing more than anything else: a stable of gay men she could call  her friends.

She would speak about other friends who had close gay friends almost wistfully
"See those guys? They love Carrie and Cheryl.  They'd be perfect!. "

She would scheme and plan in an attempt to invite gay couples over for dinner and would  pout dejectedly when the offer wasn't met with what she felt should be the appropriate amount of enthusiasm. Oddly, I felt like I was asking my own wife about her dating prospects with other men. I even recognized  subconsciously that I was treading carefully, ridiculous as it was, so as not to pour salt on a wound.

"How'd it go," I might ask tentatively
"They said they'd call me"
"Oh! So that's good!"
  She'd flash me a look letting me know that patronizing her wasn't appreciated.
"They aren't going to call me."
 I then continued the ridiculous charade of reminding her all she had going for her.
She was stylish.
She was sweet and funny.
She was a woman working in Democratic politics for Christ sake. She was going to meet, as I told her with just a slight bit of intended pun, "more gay men than she could shake a stick at."

As usual when it came to reassuring my self-conscious better half, I was right.  Karen finally met several un-eligible bachelors and developed quick bonds with them.

She couldn't have been happier.

These were good guys. Funny and smart with like minded attitudes and morals, I quickly grew to calling these men my friends and my wife was always quick to set boundaries.

"I really like Jordy," I'd tell her. "He's fucking hilarious."

A cool but deadly countenance would come over her.
"He's my friend"
"OK, well he's my friend too."
"No," she flatly rejected
Sadly I knew it wasn't her husband she was jealous of but her new gay friend.

I thought Karen had possibly gone 'round the bend with Larry.

Larry was an older man who took her under his wing after a lifetime in Michigan politics. As most who meet her do, he quickly grew to love my wife. Its difficult not to. Karen has a sweetness made up of equal parts  genuine goodness, a great sense of humor, a fantastic work ethic, and a willingness to help.

The affection was mutual for my wife.

"Honey, I want Larry to adopt me."

Having no desire to see  my father-in-law thanked for 28 years of good service and ushered out the door without so much as a gold watch, , I reminded Karen she had a dad and he was still very much alive.

"I just love him."

Clearly, she meant Larry.

Karen also maintains a small amount of that 1950's Catholic instilled by her mother that is in conflict with the educated liberal woman that she is. While very curious about the dating and bedroom lives of her new friends, she was not the type to ask them about it. She was shy. She might hint or dance around the subject but getting her to come out with questions regarding this subject was equivalent to pulling teeth. Ironically, she got a fair amount of her information from me.

Not unlike minor carpentry and small auto maintenance, I'd learned basic facts about the homosexual man through other sources and not unlike changing a tire and the importance of crowning your lumber while framing a wall, it was something that stuck inside my cavernous head.

I explained to her about certain subsets in the gay community. I taught her about "bears"and informed her that by a relative definition, she preferred "bears" her self. I advised her about "tops" and "bottoms" and other things I'd learned along the way and she was always a captive audience.

"How do you know this," she asked.
"Friends."
"You don't have any gay friends!"
 She was always pissed at the insinuation that I had gay friends and she didn't
"Well yes, I do. and Doug had a lot of gay friends."
Adding my cousin, often  a source of antagonism with my wife, was even worse.
"Oh what the hell does Doug know"
The obvious answer being more than she did; I wasn't interested in fighting that fight.

As her relationship with Larry grew, she began to wade into the deeper waters ever so slowly.
One day she came home with two books that Larry had given her.  Years later he explained the additions to our library in a manner that would come to no surprise whatsoever to anyone who knows my wife

"I got so god-damn tired of her questions. Not the fact that she was asking them but she's so god-damn bashful that it would take her a fucking hour to ask them."


In all my life, I never thought mine would be a coffee table that housed "The Guide to Strap-on Sex" and "The Joy of Gay Sex" but there they were there for all to see. Karen would peruse them at night muttering an intrigued "ohhhhhh" and when her suspicions confirmed, the occasional "mmmmm-hmmm" and every now and then a startled "Oh My!"

I steered clear.
I pride myself on being an open minded socially liberal man. I think that a person's right to happiness is his or her own and I am fiercely protective of that right provided it doesn't infringe on anyone else.
As much as I am not proud, I confess a bit of an uneasiness when it comes to physical affections between two men. It isn't that they are infringing on my rights. It isn't a moral objection and it has nothing to do with my half-hearted Catholicism.  In fact , that thinking and the fact that homosexuals are persecuted with an often tacit if not blatant approval is a hot point of anger for me. No, my issues were much more simple and primal:

Dudes are gross.

I am one. I have lived with several. . Hairy and disgusting, even the most sculpted amongst us are horrific,piggish mammals who should by all right be made to live in large pens with the rest of the hogs.

 I loved Brokeback Mountain. I thought it a terrific movie and a heartbreaking story. Heath Ledger gave a haunting and wonderful performance. I mean that. However, the scenes were the two actors would express themselves physically brought me back to being seven years old and seeing "The Exorcist" for the first time. I'd wince  and while I stopped short of covering my eyes, I'd avert them and  was glad when the scene had passed.

(Conversely, I love watching two women have sex and have rationalized it thusly as balance.)

Ultimately  Karen's questions began to, shall we say, probe more deeply.

"I wonder if Larry's a top or a bottom?"
"He's a bottom."
"Why do you say that?"
 He's a bottom. I guarentee it.
"Why do you think that?"
"I just do."

Karen's suspicions could not be quelled and she came home to announce her findings.

"I told Larry you wanted to know if he was a top or a bottom," she stated matter of factly.
 "WHAAAA.WHAT THE FUCK? WHY? I DIDNT WANT TO KNOW THAT.  WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU SAY THAT?"
She ignored my protests and continued on.
"He's a bottom"
She then began to laugh
 "He said, 'You tell Sean that I'm a bottom. I just like to sit back and relax."
  I simultaneously hissed and winced.
"Ahhh Jesus Karen...Well you tell Larry that I can't think of anything less relaxing."


Weeks passed with a smattering of less graphic updates that in retrospect, was a calm before the storm.

I was on my lunch hour when the phone rang

"Hi Honey,"
"Hi. Uh, I have gotten us into some trouble." My wife's tone was a slight and not-too serious panic
"What's up?"
"Well you know how I've been  asking Larry about things?
My mined flashed with images from "Joy of Gay Sex" that I wish I could un-see
"Yup. I sure do."
Well, I don't know what to do because I don't want to hurt his feelings but he wants to come over and talk to both of us about it."
"Hurt his feelings Karen."
 "I can't" she half wailed.
"Karen, I'm serious. I don't want any part of that." 
"Well what am I supposed to do?"
"Fuck if I know, but get us out of it."
"No. I'm afraid he's lonely and I think he's touched that we have taken an interest."
"God Damnit Karen! We havent. You have!"
I silently stewed as my wife timidly went forward
"There's more"
"What. The. Fuck? What else could there possibly be?"
"He wants to bring videos."
"NO FUCKING WAY KAREN! NO. NO FUCKING WAY WHATSOEVER. NO!"
"Just calm down"
"FUCK THAT. NO. I'M TELLING YOU RIGHT NOW I WILL NOT BE THERE FOR THAT. NO WAY."
"Don't be like that."
Be like what?! I want no fucking part of this and did not get us into this. You deal with it but you get us out of it. I mean it Karen!"
She dug in her heels and prepared for the fight to come.
"No, I'm not. We have to. I'm not hurting his feelings. I'm sorry and I know its my fault but we have to do it."
"KAREN, IM NOT SITTING AROUND WITH YOU AND LARRY AND WATCHING INSTRUCTIONAL VIDEOS ON BUTT-FUCKING!"

The raw fury only added to the confusion as I heard a raucous laughter on the other end of the line. Several people had burst out in hysterics and it was clear that multiple people in my wife's office had been listening to our conversation by way of speaker phone.
With a sweetness betrayed only by a deep and complete satisfaction my wife let me off the hook.

"April Fools"

She had me. The date had never occurred to me. It was the practical joke equivalent of a no-hitter and only could be delivered ; when one person knows their victim  so well.

"Wow," I said, "You ..really.. fucking.. got me."
"I know. Love You." (Click)

Her smug tone seeped through the line. And like that, she was gone.

I have no idea how long this had been planned. I don't know if  her feigning my interest was part of an elaborate scheme or her own shyness legitimately led to my being a scapegoat. Both are possible. I have no idea if others were involved  or if she , on a whim, decided that April 1st morning to simply throw a line and try and get a bite. She knew that I would want to support her in any way I could in new friendships and she knew further that I wouldn't want to hurt Larry's feelings and more than anything else, she knew if it was something important to her that I would acquiesce, albeit extremely begrudgingly. To her credit,she took full advantage. I am proud of her for that and I tell the story often

This I do know. At no time in my life have I been so efficiently and thoroughly duped. It was a remarkable virtuoso performance. It began innocently enough with my wife's education and culminated with my being completely schooled.

The Boxer

My friend Abby asked me a question.

"Where do you get your sense of humor?"

As I always do, I gave proper credit to my parents. Lucky to have parents with different but exceptionally keen senses of humor, I took elements of both and made it my own

The quick sarcasm is straight from my father. Like a precious timepiece passed down from father to son, I can only hope that my son will wield that same razor wit that his grandfather still shows on occasion to this day.

While my mother and I share commonalities in what we find funny, (We both love practical jokes. We hold seeing people we care about make an ass of themselves in highest regard) it is the context more than the content that my mom passed on to me.

Like so many in my life, I knew my mom would make for an entertaining subject. I knew the myriad of material she has provided could be told in a story. Truth be told she could be her own blog. She could be her own internet. I struggled with ideas. I'd write and delete, write and delete, write and delete.

Stuck and with father's day approaching I thought maybe my dad would be an easier story to tell.

My son loves to hear music. In his monosyllabic squeaks and squeals, he has learned to request songs that I am happy to oblige. "You Don't Mess Around With Jim" is translated to "Dee-dee-dee." "Bad Bad Leroy Brown" is "BadBad." He requested these two songs ad-nauseum and I was thrilled when I caught him bobbing his over-sized head to "The Boxer" by Simon and Garfunkel. The request for "Lie-la-Lie" quickly became part of his repertoire. As I sang along with my son, I became conscious that maybe this song would serve as a nice backdrop for a post about my dad. After countless requests by my son, I realized that despite the obvious gender differences, the song summed up My mother perfectly.

All lies in jest,
still a man hears what he wants to hear
and disregards the rest

My mom operates among her own rules. She is fully aware of the expectations society has for a 72 year old grandmother and she plays along when those norms fit into her way of doing things and to hell with it if they don't.

She considers herself Protestant and I truly believe it's because The Catholics make you shake hands and show a sign of Peace.

Prior to going to Mass with me she will sigh and say "I hate the hand shaking. I don't wanna shake some stranger's hand."
"Don't then."
"Yeah well..."

Her voice will trail off as she imagines a world where she can snub a well-meaning stranger.

oh no thank you, she will say, I don't know you and don't want to shake your hand.


She is genetically incapable of getting names of movies and celebrities and pop culture icons. Compounding this, she speaks freely without the slightest bit of hesitation, doubt, or self-awareness. Most people would make an effort to get these things right so the listener might have some form of comprehension and an ability to play an active role in the conversation. Not her. She sees it as your job to keep up and if not, she is fine leaving you behind.

She refers to the revolutionary social media site as "spacepage."

She once held a fifteen minute discussion on the "raw deal" that infamous cult leader Ted Manson, got from his sentence of life in prison. Ted Manson, who as near as we can figure, is a mesh of Ted Bundy, Charles Manson, and possibly Ted Danson.

"Oh you know what I meant" is her constant and immediate response. Whether you did or not is of no consequence to her.

Once, my niece Christina brought her friend camping. I was telling a story about a euchre tournament in which I was the only participant with all my teeth. Remembering only after I finished the story that the friend Christina brought did not, in fact, have all her teeth. A fact I wished I had remembered as I sat awkwardly staring at the sizeable hole in the now half agape mouth of the teenage girl I had just mortified. Luckily my mom was there to bail me out:
"YOU'RE SO STUPID!"
She's right.
I was.
I am.


Laying Low
seeking out the poorer quarters
where the ragged people go
looking for the places only they would know.

She has known ragged people. She has married a couple of them. Others she has called friends and family. Her heart goes out to the ragged people and she will often open her arms and her home to them long after everyone else has understandably stopped doing so.

A perfect example of this is a cousin she routinely visits in prison. This is a man who has spent most of his adult life incarcerated and long ago established his role as a skeleton in the furthest recesses of our family closet. Knowing how I would feel, she kept secret the fact that she was going to a maximum security prison on a regular basis to see her felonious cousin who was serving a life sentence.

She mentioned him in a purposefully nonchalant manner and as I always do when she tries this shit, I jumped all over it.

"Wait...what cousin?"
"Oh my cousin that has been in prison since before you were born."
"Uh, the guy who kidnapped and raped that woman?"
"Yeah him."
"He kidnapped and raped someone."
"Yeah, he did. That was wrong."
"Jesus Christ mom. What are you doing?"
"Well he's an old man now."
"Yeah. he's old. He's an old kidnapper and an old rapist!"

The conversation ended. She knew I'd never be OK with her going and I knew she'd still go.

Doubtless it was this kindness to the ragged people that served as the background for what I often refer to as a "lost classic" in our family history.

My mom worked for a time at The Veterans Hospital in Battle Creek. She had a soft spot for Veterans and those who ended up here were often lost souls who had no one or no where to shelter them.

I was probably ten when I came home and noticed an old, green, Ford in our drive way. An older man sat in the car and it was clear to me even then that something was not right with this man. I double timed it to my neighbor's house and alerted his father. My friend's dad called my dad at work and the two talked. My neighbor's dad walked over and confronted the man and he left. The man, as it turns out, was a mental patient from the VA that had somehow gotten our address and had come to our house in search of my mom. My dad left work and informed me that the man, John, had been caught and was back in custody. Being the sensitive cat that he was, my dad saw fit to cue me in to everything that was going on, terrifying me in the process.

"This guy has a thing for your mother. He told the cops he had murdered her. They don't know how he got out or how the hell he knows where we live but he did."

This would be a lot for anyone to take in. For a ten year old prone to worry, it was earth shattering. I began to shake and my dad noticed. The notion of reassuring me that "this was a terrible mistake but that it was OK and would absolutely NEVER happen again as this man was an obvious danger and they would lock him up and throw away the key" might have been one route my dad could have taken in calming his son who sat trembling in fear beside him. My father decided on a different course of action

"Don't worry. If he comes back, I'll kill the motherfucker."

Oh.
Good.
Nothing to worry about then.

What the fuck?
If?
I wanted no part of if.
If is no good.
If is bad.
I was pretty sure that If he comes back and If he killed said motherfucker, this presents a whole new array of problems. Chief among them being the fact that my father will then go to prison for killing this man. The math of saving one parent and losing another was not something my dad considered.

Needless to say, my father exacerbated the situation immensely and by the time my mom made it home from work, she had a quivering ten year old on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I don't remember what my mom said to make it better but whatever it was, it was obviously effective.

Last year, some two and a half decades later, I was reminded of this story in some vague and foggy way and called my mom for clarity

"Hey ma, remember that time that guy who was a patient and he came to our house..." I trailed off as I tried to piece together the faded memory.

"Huh? No, i don't know what you're talking about"

"Yeah, you know, that guy....John something or other, I think he said he killed you or something."

The lightbulb flickered for a brief second and illuminated my mom's memory as if she was trying to recall the details of some long passed vacation instead of a story in which a psychotic man stalked our family

"Oh yeah...John, yeah John. That's right, geez I forgot about that. Yeah...what about him."

"Oh Nothing, I just couldn't remember what happened with that."

"Yeah, he was crazy and I guess he liked me. I was nice to him or something, I don't really remember.

I immediately cracked up at the absurdity.

"What?"

I spoke through halting laughter, my voice cracking

"Jesus Christ what is wrong with us?"

I reasoned to her that any other family might never recover from this and at the very least would still be in therapy over it and here we were fumbling and foggy and trying like hell to rememeber the details.

She then laughed too and added "Yeah...well...whatever. It turned out fine."


In The clearing stands a boxer and a fighter by his trade
And he carries the reminders of every glove
that laid him down or cut him til he cried out,
in his anger and his shame
I am leaving. I am leaving.
But the fighter still remains.


I admit our reaction to the story of John is abnormal. More importantly, it gets to the crux of something else. More than any other trait of her character it is my mom's resilience that stands out above everything else. It is easily the most important lesson she has ever taught me. I pride myself on my ability to bounce back and this comes straight from my mother. People often measure "tough" in the punches you throw when in reality, it's the ability to take those punches that serve as the true measure of toughness. I don't know a tougher soul than my mother. It is that toughness that helps me see the humor in the most bizzare and sometimes frightening situations. She has more to do with the common theme running through these stories then she realizes. She, like anyone who has spent seventy plus years on this planet, has seen any number of life's pitfalls and tragedies. She has stood at the hospital bedside of four children and the graveside of one. She has experienced great joy but also pain in immeasurable quantities. Through all of it she remains resilient as hell and often does so by laughing with and laughing at those things that would crush others under its weight. She has taught my brothers and sister and I that to get through life, sometimes it's better to laugh at it.
And we are all better for it.

Desperately Random; Holding Out For A Hero

My father, much to the chagrin of my wife (some of the time) and my mother (most of the time), has passed more than a few traits my way. The enormous Easter Island head and butt chin notwithstanding, perhaps the most marked characteristic is my love of driving. Some of the warmest memories I have of my dad center around hopping in the car and driving across southwest Michigan. In particular, my dad had a habit of getting up early and still half asleep, heading out the door and into the car, often doing so with me at his side. I too understand the pleasure of waking first thing in the morning and conducting an ambling leisurely drive. The soundtrack sometimes calls for music, sometimes sports, somteimes NPR. While differing from my father in that my escapes are not done with the goal of procurring some sort of opiate, i do confess my morning drives are a subtle form of high for me. Like an alcoholic waiting in earnest for that liquor store to open it's doors, I begin to get an itch. I think of tasks at best menial and at worst ridiculous and brave the annoyed mutterings of my wife just for the chance to get out and drive just a little each morning. It's weird. I know it. I don't have a good explanation so I won't try and force a bad one.

The morning of my son's 6 month photos fell on a Sunday. I was especially antsy considering the benefit of skipping church was completely erased by the prospect of a morning spent at Potrait Innovations, a child and family photography studio that is unquestionably the most annoying place on the planet Earth. Potrait Innovations manages to be at once, an unlikley combination of creepy yet boring. Large photos of horrible looking families all attired in the same plaid sweater or white oxfords and dockers adorn the walls next to children of all ages,shapes, and sizes sporting poses and outfits that would give pause to the parents of Jon Benet. The photographers and assistants take one of two paths: First are the angry and bitter "artists," who wear the effects of spending 40 hours of their week with screaming children and frustrated parents while their artistic dreams are slowly and painfully dashed against rocks made from high pitched squeeky toys and Purell Hand Sanitizer. These broken artists are ten times better than their hyper-energized cohorts. These photogs are the true bane of my existence. I understand the job is to elicit smiles and guffaws from the drooling heaps of children paraded in and out of their doors. Pumped full of coffee and based on their mania, a significant does of methamphetamine, I recognize expelling all of that energy must be exhausting. I know because the energy expelled by not grabbing one of these people and choking the life from them is similarly impressive.

Knowing where I was going only added to my itch. Further multiplying this was the knowledge that trying to get out of my house without pissing off my wife would be herculean to say the least, and more accurately, completely futile.

As it turned out, the heavens smiled down on me intially. Perhaps it was my silent promise to God that I would go to mass every day for the rest of my life if I was allowed to skip Potrait Innovations but something divine stepped in and my wife granted me what would be a temporary reprieve from my problems

"Will you go to Quality Dairy and get me a coffee? You have to hurry though. We need to be there at 915."

I had my key in the ignition as the echo of her words still hung in our house. The thrill was shortlived. The joy of the getaway was buzzkilled by the spectre of the Portrait Innovations hellscape.

"What the hell are we doing at a picture studio at 915 on a Sunday?" I asked irritabily to no one; my annoyance compounded by being robbed of the joyous and fully sanctioned adventure.

I pulled into the QD and headed inside for the obligatory Diet Coke and Sour Cream Donut and was at the coffee dispenser when I first heard them

Loud and profane, my initial summation was that these were two friends talking loudly and probably processing the remnants of whatever cheap booze they had swilled together the night before. Curse words and hangovers were nothing new for this part of town and voices cranked to a volume of 11 were not uncommon. In short, they initially did not even register a blip in my Potrait Innovations fueled anger. Still not clued in to what was going on, I stood in line at the cash register.

Maybe it was the uncomfortable shifting of the patrons in front of me or the look of pure horror on the face of the cashier but slowly I realized that this was not a conversation between friends but open hositility between two strangers. Each progressive declaration grew louder and always seemed to start with the word "bitch." Being particularly adept to the subtle clues and nuances that come with passive dialouge, I picked up on the hostility of the conversation when one said to the other

'BITCH, I SHOULDA RUN YO FAT ASS OV-UH"
and the reply
'BITCH YOU'DA STARTED YO DAY GETTIN FUCKED UP THEN"

I stifled a laugh as I approached the counter and tried to complete my sale. The slight, effeminate clerk was not enjoying this in the manner that I was. He was clearly terrified.

"That will be two sixty-four" said the clerk, his voice only a whisper and drowned out by the ever escalating conversation. One of the women now stood behind me shouting at her counterpart at the back of the store some 30 feet away. The woman behind me was large and pale. Her dirty dishwater hair pulled tightly back gave an added sense of anger to her puffy enraged face. She sported the word thug tatooed on her doughy white neck. Despite my knowledge that it was wrong to do so, I quickly made my mind up on her. She was the pedestrian and was dressed in sweat pants and a t shirt one size too small, Her attire was more appropriate for a street fight and therein she held an advantage on her fellow combatant who , despite a filthy harsh mouth, was dressed in her Sunday best and was either headed to or from church. The driver somehow held a considerable size advantage to her enemy and the smart money was on the holy roller if things went south, which they quickly did.

"FAT ASS BITCH HOW YOU NOT EVEN SEE ME IN MY CAR? IT'S A CAR MUTHAFUCKA. YOU SAW ME PULL IN AND YOU KEEP WALKIN."

"THASSS RIGHT BITCH I AM WALKIN AND I GOT THE MUTHAFUCKIN RIGHT-O-WAY."

BITCH RIGHT AWAY MEAN SHIT. NEXT TIME I JUST HIT YO FAT ASS."

next time? how often are these two planning to do this?

I wheeled around and started to head out the door when my mind's eye saw the blanched face of the terrified teen age clerk who had no earthly idea what to do. I executed a 180 and stopped,waited, and watched as this war of words began raging towards something else. It was a split decision and clealry the correct one.

BITCH GONNA GIT HER ASS BEAT FO SHO

These, apparently, were fighting words as the Holy Terror rushed towards The Thug screaming like a banshee

WELL COME ON THEN MUTHAFUCKA-COME ON RIGHT FUCKEN NOW MUTHAFUCKA

The amped up aggression even gave The Thug pause as her resolved melted just for a second. Behind the counter, the whisper thin clerk's eyes grew wide as saucers.

Without thinking, I interjected myself between the two with a stiff arm motion to each woman. I instantly decided if this was going to work, I needed to be the loudest "muthafucka" in the room. I needed to sell crazy and sell it hard.

"ALL RIGHT ALL RIGHT ALL RIGHT GODDAMNIT. KNOCK THIS SHIT OFF RIGHT FUCKING NOW."

The Holy slowed her roll just a bit and The Thug, bravery anew, steeled her resolve and began running her mouth.

BITCH COME ON THEN IF YOU GONNA

I wasn't about to cede any of the small control I gained and doubled down, quickly

HEY YOU. SHUT THE FUCK UP. GET YOUR SHIT. GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE. NOW!
I pointed at whisper thin behind the counter , and planted the thought in his head since he was not moving an inch
THIS KID'S GOING TO CALL THE COPS IN ABOUT TWO FUCKING SECONDS. NOW GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE.
There was a pause as The Thug considered her options. A sunday spent in Ingham County, the least appealing among them, The Thug uttered a few curse words and picked up her items
"Fucking Ridiculous," I added for good measure as she moved past me towards the door and staring The Holy down with her dimwitted gaze.

As I watched her amble across the parking lot, I felt The Holy brush quickly by me and headed her off at the past

Incredulous, I raised my voice

WAIT A FUCKING SECOND. WHERE ARE YOU GOING?

"Imma go hit that bitch." It was a statement of resolute fact. I really think she would have done exactly that.

I made myself as wide as I could and blocked the door

"GET YOUR ASS BACK A FUCKING SECOND. DON'T BE FUCKING STUPID. YOU START OUT TO GET COFFEE AND A BEAR CLAW AND SPEND THE REST OF YOUR LIFE IN PRISON BECAUSE SOME BITCH WALKS IN FRONT OF YOUR CAR? STAND THE FUCK BACK AND COOL DOWN A GODDAMN SECOND"

She too gave pause and also decided that a life sentence was not her best alternative and took a deep breath. I turned and saw that The Thug had rounded a corner and was far enough out of sight that if The Holy did indeed kill her, I would not witness it. The Holy moved silently past me, not so much thanking me for my common sense.

After all was clear, I strolled out the door. I wished like hell that I could fly, or at least had ridden a horse to the Quality Dairy. I got in my non-descript old man sedan and pointed it out of the parking lot towards a day that was somehow only going to get worse.