Just Off Center

In the past few weeks my commute to work has gone from the usual hour to damn near ninety minutes. Fucking snowbirds are out in force. Why have they come here? What do they want? Why don’t they just live in Arizona? And most importantly, why the fuck do overpampered, overindulged, retired, old fucks feel the need to clog up the arteries of my beautiful metropolis during goddamned rush hour? Every time I see a license plate from Wisconsin, Utah, Montana, or Nebraska I just want to run them right off the road. I don’t want to kill them; just scare them enough to leave and tell everyone back in the cold lands that Arizona has the most dangerous drivers on Earth.

So to compensate for the time I’m losing dodging seventy-year-olds in Lincoln Towncars I’ve avoided the highways. Whenever I see a sea of brake lights a quarter mile ahead I pull into the far right lane and take the side roads. Even with stoplights I’ve gotten back to my original hour-long commute.

This morning on one of the side roads I passed a mid-sized Methodist church. What caught my eye as I was approaching was the Marquis out front. The illuminated sign read:

QUITTING COCKS
CURES HOURLY BINGES

Now, I’ve seen many church marquis with funny little captions like “staying in bed screaming ‘Oh God’ does not constitute going to church”. But this slogan had me flummoxed at first sight. What the hell could they possible mean? Of course I can assume that the “quitting cocks” portion probably doesn’t have anything to do with the abstinence from consuming male poultry. What else could it mean besides abstaining from sex, or at least the handling of penises? But even if it does mean that, what binges could that prevent, much less cure? And what binges do we sinners engage in on an hourly basis anyway. Some of us like to smoke a cigarette every hour, but that’s not exactly binging is it? This whole thing has me confused. So as with everything else I don’t understand, I’ll break it down piece by piece.

QUITTING – To abandon or put aside; to cease or discontinue. People quit all sorts of things. They quit drinking, smoking, and sleeping until noon.

COCKS – Those wonderful and wildly varied slabs of manly flesh called penises, dicks, knobs, and schlongs. The vociferous obsession of all men and the usually quieter obsession of all women. As the song says, “Every boy has one. It’s my favorite part.” Either that or it means a fucking rooster. But there aren’t too many roosters’ cock-a-doodle-doos ringing out in Mesa. Hehehe…cock. And since it seems logical that a person (of either sex) can get all too addicted to dicks, or at least the vices which it represents, I have to assume that COCKS is intended as a metaphor for all carnal addictions.

CURES – It seems odd that they chose to use this particular word. It doesn’t help prevent hourly binges. It doesn’t reduce hourly binges. It doesn’t even altogether stop all hourly binges. No, these binges are such a curse, that they require the healing power to be put down. One cannot stop, but they can be cured. The weird thing is that one is never truly cured from an addiction. They can be clean or free from its grip. But any addict will tell you that a cure is never available.

HOURLY – Aside from the literal meaning, perhaps this is meant to suggest that the binges that are cured are a continuous problem. I’ve enjoyed my drinking to excess several times. But I sure as fuck never felt the urge to get drop down smashed every single waking hour. I doubt many of us have had any binges that we have indulged hourly. Surely whoever this poor bastard is, they must be very weak. And if the marquis is focusing it attention on only the weakest, well that’s just not very good marketing.

BINGES – A binge is a period of excessive or uncontrolled indulgence in food or drink. I expect that most people believe that a binge can apply to anything one is addicted to. I am rather fond of my marathon-like sex binges, personally. But when one thinks of binging I bet it conjures up images and memories of strapping on a bottle until one can no longer form words. It makes you think of sucking back an entire chocolate cake and sitting around both ashamed and at peace. Binging is as much emotional as it is physical. And we all know that the church does not exactly condone physical indulgences in the extreme.

Well after applying some logic and decryption techniques I learned as a boy I think I may have cracked the code of the Methodist marquis. Of course, this is a bit too long to be put on a marquis. I think what it was trying to say was:

IF YOU GODLESS, CUMDRUNK WHORES AND FAGS DON’T STOP SUCKING EVERY HARD DICK IN YOUR PATH, TAKING UP YOUR EVERY WAKING HOUR THAT YOU COULD BE SPENDING SERVING THE LAST PERFECT PATRIARCHY, THEN YOU WILL BE UTTERLY UNABLE TO EXPERIENCE THE BLISS AND SANCTITY THAT COMES WITH THE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT OF YOUR FILTHY, WRETCHED, SEX-CRAZED LIVES AND A LIFETIME SPENT IN SUBMISSIVE SHAME AND BEGGING FOR FORGIVENESS FROM A GOD WHO NEVER ACTUALLY SAID ‘DON’T DO THAT’.

Of course it could have just been an anagram pieced together by some terribly clever teenagers. I’m inclined to believe that’s true since, after driving by later, I noticed the words were altogether removed from the sign. Originally, it could have read:

TRUSTY COUCH NECKING SOIL
IS SO QUEER

That would fucking RULE! And it makes perfect sense too.

Here's a situation that I'd like some input on. You take three groups of intelligent, solid, model members of the female sex and tell them that they had to carry on a conversation with each other. They will be timed and whoever manages to carry on the longest conversation about their assigned topic gets some nice prize like a Prada bag or a year's supply of Moosetracks ice cream. Which group will win? Who will come in second? Why?

1. The group that is only allowed to talk about men.
2. The group that is only allowed to talk about food.
3. The group that is only allowed to talk about clothes.

Once again, I have made the mistake of trying to assist coworker Mike (previously known as Lertz) with his girl issues. At the moment he’s dating “supermodel”. “Supermodel” is the moniker we’ve given to this chick he was seeing before, screwed over, and then won back. Apparently she’s just a fucking knockout. And I can believe it, because Mike only dates hotties. He asked me out to lunch at Sonic Drive-in today. So after we ate, we went across the parking lot to the $0.99 Only store. You see, her birthday’s coming up.

He asked me to help him find some good gift ideas for her. Since I was there, I thought I might as well grab a basket and see what I could find for Nina and myself as well. I picked up some applesauce snack packs, bubble bath, disposable razors, and a plastic hand mirror (so I can stay fresh at my desk). While I was looking I saw several little things that a pretty, Scottsdale girl in her mid-thirties, with a little boy and cat would like. Mike was nowhere to be found. By the time I located him, he was thumbing through the Valentine’s Day cards. Luckily, none of them made the cut. I called him over to me and showed him my ideas for her. He gave each gift idea a cursory glance and then threw them each, one by one, on the bottom of the racks.

This is what made the reject pile:

1. Lavender and chamomile bubble bath
2. Pedicure kit including Emory board, pumice stone, toe separators, and clippers
3. A soft, purple, disk-shaped pillow with a smiley face for a cat pillow
4. A pair of thin, girly socks with hearts on the ankles
5. A tube-shaped loofah

This is what Mike was considering buying before I made him put them back:

1. A beer bottle opener that said “YEAAAAAHHH, time for a BEER!”
2. Multicolored scrunchies with Minnie Mouse on them
3. One box of Lifestyles condoms

This is what he actually bought:

1. Three “balls with bells” cat toys (my idea)
2. A rope toy for his Great Dane, Kane
3. An eight-pack of Wrigley’s Spearmint gum, for himself
4. One bottle of Popeye multivitamins, for himself

As the thin, long hairs leave his head like so many grains of sand through an hourglass Mike is running low on ways to hide the fact that he’s getting older. And it seems that with each and every new girl he takes on, he’s getting worse and worse at dating. I mean, it’s bad enough that we’re birthday shopping for a potential wife at the fucking ninety-nine cent store. But what self-respecting woman is going to swoon when she gets a box of birthday condoms? Never mind, I don’t want to know.

For the first time in months, Mike has reasserted his desire to have me hook him up with some of my single blogger buddies. You may remember when he asked me to hook him up with Mel. Well he has renewed his interest in stickin’ it to our incestuous friend, Mel Mega. When I told him about Mel’s response being her uncertainty that she was desperate enough to drive to Arizona for some dick, Mike ingeniously countered with “tell her there’s dinner in it for her, too.” So now he has tripled his offer; a twelve-ounce steak with his six-ounce cock.

When he wanted to know who I was in Instant Messenger with when he came by my office earlier I told him it was Grace, my friend from Orange County. When he asked if she was hot I had to reply honestly. “Yeah, Mike. She’s really hot. But she’s not white, so you’re probably not interested.” Well, Mike has surprised us yet again with his openness to cultural experimentation. This is how that conversation went down.

Me: Yeah, Mike. She’s really hot. But she’s not white, so you’re probably not interested.
Mike: Oh…right…but she is hot, right?
Me: I don’t know. She’s somewhat hot, but you’d probably classify her as more cute, pretty, and adorable. Oh, but I think she does have big boobs.
Mike: Shut up! Really? Are they fake?
Me: Uh, I don’t know. I doubt it.
Mike: Well Asian girls don’t just naturally grow big boobs.
Me: Yes, of course. You’re right. They must be implants.
Mike: Well, I’d be willing to try it out. Hook me up.
Me: Mike, she lives in California. And she’s fucking married. And her husband is a great guy and a friend of mine.
Mike: Oh. Damn. Well what other chicks do you do this blog thing with?
Me: Well let’s see. There’s Little Eyes. But she has a boyfriend.
Mike: Little Eyes? What is she, Indian?
Me: No, dumbass. That’s her blogger handle.
Mike: Nah, I like chicks with big eyes. Who else?
Me: Oh, you know who’s single? There’s a really cute girl named Veronica who reads my shit. And she’s all into fitness too.
Mike: Really! Now you’re talking. Is she Korean too?
Me: No, I’m pretty sure she’s Hispanic, maybe Mexican.
Mike: Oh, forget it then. I don’t like dating latinos.
Me: Latinas.
Mike: Huh?
Me: Latinos means boys. Latinas means girls.
Mike: Whatever. You go out with a Hispanic chick, and you’ve got to deal with all their fucking brothers and parents and aunts and uncles and shit. It’s too much fucking work. Who’s next?
Me: Okay. Well Cece’s already married too. There’s Quyen, she’s really body conscious too. And her picture looks pretty cute. Do you mind Vietnamese girls?
Mike: Like, from Vietnam?
Me: No, just Vietnamese in ethnicity.
Mike: Uhhhh…I don’t know! Does she have nice tits?
Me: I think she mentioned having a boob job at some point in the past.
Mike: Sweet! Where does she live?
Me: I think she’s in California too.
Mike: Jesus! Don’t any of your little blog friends live in Arizona?
Me: Cindy-Lou does I think.
Mike: What’s she look like?
Me: I don’t really know. I think I saw a picture of her head once. She looked cute, if I remember.
Mike: Well, probably best not to take chances.
Me: You’re right. You should just stick to your plastic Scottsdale girls.

And these are the people I live around. They are my better friends by default. So I’m sorry I wasn’t able to sell him on any of my lovely ladies of blogger. But if it’s any consolation, just moments before this conversation took off he was telling me how he wanted to cover his bedroom walls with the plastic version of that bumpy, zigzagged, chrome tread that auto showrooms use to line their floors. That will be, “soooo cool”.

I’ve mentioned on several occasions how if one were to read a person’s blog they would have a great deal of insight into that person’s personality. In fact, a trained Psychologist could probably make a very accurate assessment of the author’s personality type and possible mental irregularities. After all, if we are all publishing our innermost thoughts and if we are truthful with the blogger community, and ourselves this can be a very therapeutic medium.

But there’s more to blogging than the posts. Sure, the content is why we come to visit. We love Nina’s quirky and seemingly random thought processes on even the most mundane of topics. We love to read about Grace’s struggles with her wants versus her shoulds. We keep checking back to see how all our favorite bloggers are doing and enjoy being a part of their lives with none of the responsibilities. But what about the other pieces that make up a blog? How do they speak about the personalities of our closest blogger buddies?

The template of the blog itself is a revealing aspect of the blog, I think. Most of us have chosen one of the prefab templates given by Blogger or any of the other blog hosts out there. Some of us, myself included, have taken the pains of learning a little about HTML; enough so that we can alter the colors or fonts that make up our blogs. Most of us have installed some of the more popular add-ons, like links, counters, guest books, and others. What does this say about us? Probably not a whole hell of a lot. But if nothing else, it can be used to identify those of us who have a great deal of love and passion for their blogs. American Blogger is one of those people. Sure, we all want our site to be aesthetically pleasing. But perhaps some of us are a bit more serious about the presentation of their weblog than others.

However revealing the template is, it is not what I consider the most unintentional window to the soul in a person’s blog. You see, before we publish a post, most of us read it over, or at least perform a spell check to make sure we don’t come across as unintelligent or too weird. I personally spend hours writing and editing each post I publish. But there are those things that we publish without nearly so much contemplation is not even published on our own sites. In my opinion it is the comments that we leave on the blogs of others that inadvertently show our true colors.

Most of us use some measure of discretion when we talk about certain topics. I might want to consider trying that. But when it comes to commenting, we usually just put down our brief, succinct, blunt opinions on the post’s topic. Perhaps there are some things that we can learn from our fellow bloggers that we didn’t get in their posts. Let’s try a few topics and see what my readers had to say.

On the topic of:

Libido

Little Eyes said, “I think I've lost the desire for oral (either giving or receiving).”
Grace said, “we had sex last night and i think i hurt myself”

Your favorite porno

Grace said, “my husband on the other hand will watch anything. luckily, it's only via netflix”
The Good Wife said, “So...what’s wrong with Haunted Mansion and Sorority Boys?”
Little Eyes said, “watching 2 guys together would be pretty hot”
Grace said, “mmm... hot man on man action....”
Grace also said, “so, i'm reading the description of the movie and i could only picture it with little muppets”

Ex-boyfriends/ex-girlfriends

Julia said, “If it wasn't for my horse, I wouldn't have spent that year in college”
Grace said, “i was a slut”
Little Eyes said, “I had an ex who always wanted me to call him big daddy during sex.”

What was best loved about an ex-boyfriend or ex-girlfriend

Little Eyes said, “He's very anti-authority so i'm sure he hated following orders”
Quyen said, “cuddling with a vibrator”
Grace said, “coming home to your wife blowing your dog as her uncle's banging her”
Yankeebob said, “I got off pretty easy.”
Grace also said, “preteen woodies!"”
Quyen also said, “little preteen woodies”
Grace also said, “the promises of sex with children”

What trait will be sought after in a new boyfriend or girlfriend

Grace said, “i like the flavored ones”
Little Eyes said, “I'll take a warm, live penis”
Little Eyes also said, “I'd probably pick the fattest one.”
CAT said, “If you want me to get fucked up the ass, you have to take it first. Bitch.”
Quyen said, “I don't mind the balls so much as the sack they are kept in”
Mel Mega said, “sometimes it's fun to have "dirty" sex!”
Mel Mega also said, “I am desperate enough to drive to Arizona for some dick!”

Penile implants

Grace said, “at least you did something about the unhappiness in your life.”

My wife

Little Eyes said, “Hey, Nina is pretty cute”
Little Eyes also said, “Nina *rocks*!!”
Little Eyes also said, “Nina fucking rocks”
Grace said, “nina fucking rocks”
Agent LAH said, “Nina rocks out!”
Mel Mega said, “Nina is the bomb!”

Herbal self-medication

Grace said, “can you mail me some brownies?”
Little Eyes said, “oh, can you FedEx some brownies my way, too?”

Seeing me naked

Little Eyes said, “OH GOD, NO!! EWWW!”
Quyen said, “OMG! That was so completely wrong! Make the pictures in my head stop!”
Em said, “OMG!!!! No it did not ever cross my mind!”
Beyond Elsewhere said, “I think I might be scarred for life.”
Trish said, “Gahhhhhhh!”

Dream jobs

Cindy-Lou said, “God damn, I'm a bus driver!”
Grace said, “stripper me comes out when i've had a couple of drinks”

Important childhood lessons

Little Eyes said, “I love Astroglide”
Grace said, “i don't want to get too personal in my sex life here”
Little Eyes said, “i used to draw cartoons of decapitated mice and rabid dogs”

Whether or not Grace would consider switching back to heterosexuality

Grace said, “yes, if they're disease free and have really, really small peckers.”

My “to-do” list for this weekend

Cindy-Lou said, “Do you realize that almost every one of these had to do with degrading the woman?”

As you can see, there are some aspects of some of my readers’ personalities that don’t pop up on their own blogs. I’m sorry if I’ve left some people’s comments off. These are all older comments from my first months on blogger, when I had only a few readers. I’ll be sure to publish a follow-up post including the rest of my beloved readers.

Most people can remember exactly where they were if you ask them about their first kiss. Some people probably can tell you about, not just the place, but also the time, the feelings, and the smells and sounds. It’s a powerful thing. One of the most powerful relationship stimuli, in my experience, is the hearing of a particular song that was “our song” or one that I made out to. Over the course of my life I have associated several memorable intimate moments with music that was playing. I imagine most people do. Most of us have that one song that we listened to in the car with our boyfriend or girlfriend in high school. That song is difficult to listen to today. And we probably have that song that was playing in the background during our first heavy make out session, that brings us back to those innocent, happy times. These are some of mine:

Don’t Go Breaking My Heart – Elton John & Kiki Dee – When I was a young boy, oh about age nine, I was watching a Valentine’s Day Disney special on TV. It was playing this song and showing clips of romantic moments with some of Disney’s beloveds like Mickey, Donald, Chip & Dale, and others. For the first time in my life I felt this sudden pang of emptiness inside me. It was instantly obvious that this chasm could only be filled with the love and companionship of a female. My heart had just opened up to romantic love for the first time in my life. And it fucking hurt. I went into the basement and wept at my loneliness, though I couldn’t figure out why I was so lonely or why I wanted so badly to be with a yucky old girl. After a while I pulled myself together and went back upstairs. I couldn’t watch the remainder of the show, but I was able to hide the physical evidence of this strange occurrence. I would never be the same again. The desire for a girl’s heart had settled in, and was there to stay.

More Than Words – Extreme – I am positive that I share this “monster ballad” with thousands. Unfortunately, mine is a memory of hurt and rejection. I was at a seventh grade party being held in an apartment complex’s clubhouse. I was…well let’s just say I was less than popular. However, social status doesn’t hinder a boy’s ability to crush. And that crush belonged to a girl named December. And all I wanted, to keep the peace of my life intact was one dance with her. I asked her if I could have the next slow dance with her, just as friends of course (she was waaaay out of my league). She agreed and I pranced off happy, waiting for the next ballad. This song was it. And when it came on I knew it was the perfect song for our dance. I turned my head to the other side of the crowded room where she was. Our eyes met. And in a flash, hers became a face of horror and she ducked down out of sight. I went to her, but she was nowhere to be found. I found a dark, empty room to wail in silence as the song’s strumming subsided. Every heart must learn to break. And most break a dozen times or more. But you never forget the excruciating pain of your first. And while this song is still beautiful and remains a staple in my ballad inventory, it will always bear the mar of my first, heart-wrenching rejection.

When I’m With You – Sheriff – At age fourteen I was a freshman in high school. I had spent the past several years being shot down by all the girls in my class, and was looking for love. As a potential star of the stage, I was pursued by the high school drama and music teachers, which gave me some measure of popularity among other performers. I was invited over to a small basement party around Christmas time. It was held at the residence of a sophomore named Donna. At that party we drank screwdrivers and sat around talking. I was in a recliner. In time, Donna was in the recliner with me. We nuzzled and cuddled, but never kissed or even looked at one another. This was my first time feeling a girl’s body. When my dad came to pick me up Donna walked me to the door, said Merry Christmas, and gave me my first kiss. It was a short one, but on the lips. This slow song was playing on the stereo downstairs when it happened. Once again, I was a different person. I strutted out to the car and drifted off into a bliss I’d never known. She dumped me a month later, but that’s alright. She was kind of cat-faced anyway. And my first real love was right around the corner.

Love of a Lifetime – Firehouse – My first official “our song”. My first love, Shannon, and I had fallen too deep, too quick. But in high school, do they fall any other way? This song had become the most popular ballad in America right around this time. It was almost always on when she’d drive me back home from her house. It became our song, a melodic embodiment of all the passion our little selves could hardly contain or understand. We danced to it at the Christmas Dance and Homecoming. We each bought the tape. We played it to each other when we moved away from each other. To this day, this song reminds me of her. And while things didn’t go so well with us, this song only played during moments of affection. This song is still pure.

Anna Begins – Counting Crows – This is one of the worst songs a couple can choose as their song. It starts out with the overstepping of the bounds of platonic friendship, under the unwise tutelage of the man’s best friend. It quickly explodes beyond either’s comprehension and quickly fades away and hurts them both beyond measure, before finally dissolving into oblivion. But it had strong lyrics and a unique accompaniment. This girl I had been seeing my sophomore year in college, a freshman named Nina, was as much into the Counting Crows as I was, and a friend of mine got me hooked on this song. It somehow became our song. And one day when I was in trouble, she locked herself in her dorm room and listened to this song over and over again for over six hours. By rights, it shouldn’t be a couple’s song. But then it is the meaning shared between the couple that far exceeds those intended by the singer. To this day, it stops us in our tracks and opens the most wonderful wounds like nothing else can.

Can’t Fight This Feeling Anymore – REO Speedwagon – In Evansville Indiana, my second love, Nina, and I were living together in our first apartment, a cheap ass one-bedroom on the east side. One day, when Nina was beginning to get antsy about the fact that I wasn’t proposing marriage, we were driving down the west side’s main drag, Green River Road. This song came on the radio. Nina and I were accustomed to going silent when one or both of us were listening to a song that moved us. I’d heard this song a thousand times, and so had she. But the lyrics took on a new meaning this day. It was a call to me to get serious about my commitment to my woman. I was being called out right in front of her and I couldn’t deny its logic. I proposed within two weeks.

Yellow – Coldplay – Simply put, it’s our song. To this day I have no idea what the “yellow” is actually supposed to be. At first, Nina didn’t like this track. It was all sentimental and mushy. I loved the melody and the lyrics. At first, I thought it was the Dave Matthews Band. And just like our relationship blossomed while we weren’t looking, so did this song just become our song without our knowing about it. Eventually we both just realized that this song was meant for us and somehow it encapsulated our love and absolute commitment. “For you I bleed myself dry”.

There was also “Get Down, Make Love” by Nine Inch Nails. But that’s a story for another time.

Throughout all of high school I was quite the prolific thespian. I’ve performed as Tevya in Fiddler on the Roof. I’ve learned sign language in preparation for playing a deaf mute. I was awarded “Thespian of the Year” for the state of Indiana in 1993. I held nearly every lead role on stage for my last two years in school. Not only did I sing, dance and act, I was also a choreographer, singing coach, and blocking director as well. It was my teenage glory time to be sure.

Those people who have never been involved in a theater performance probably don’t realize that not every role a person receives is one that is wanted. In fact most actors are forced to do things on stage that are embarrassing or at least completely out of balance with their real life. Doing the hand jive with a big cheesy grin is one of those things. But what would Grease be without the hand jive? I’ve had to sing a retarded song about fruitcake with equally retarded dance steps. I’ve pranced in my underwear, and made out with a woman whom I despised. But it’s all done in the name of the arts.

One of the most humiliating things I’ve ever done, however, was never intended to be a part of the performance. In the spring of 1992 I was cast as one of the baseball players in the musical Damn Yankees. This show was one of our most successful, but the role I had was smallish and carried very few opportunities to show any character development. Generally, all of my lines were intended as cheap laughs. But then again, I was a sophomore, and probably wasn’t ready for the Actor’s Guild.

As a side note I should mention that around this time I was dating the first love of my life, a fellow actor named Shannon. She and I shared our virginities and disappointing home lives. With every day I was learning more and more about the minds and bodies of women (assuming you can call a 16 year old a woman). One of these discoveries was that women don’t necessarily like their men to walk around wearing tidy whities. No, it seems that Shannon preferred that if I was going to wear briefs, that they should at least be colored. Upon learning this, I took a trip to the local JC Penny’s and bought myself four three-packs of colored BVDs. Now I felt like a real stud. I could stand there in the room, and with supreme confidence, start sliding my jeans down inch by inch, alternating sides while popping my hips as though there was a thick pulsing bass in the background.

I only mention this because it bears on the show I was performing. When I was in Grease, I had several fast costume changes to perform on the sides during scene changes. I was an absolute quick-change artist. I was able to switch from my T-birds outfit to a tuxedo in sixty seconds flat. After the first dress rehearsals I stopped caring who was around to see me in my skivvies. There was a show to do, and their minds should have been focused on the job at hand anyway. In time, I became skilled at jumping out of one costume and into another in seconds. However, the change I had to perform in Damn Yankees was a bit more challenging and left me open to all kinds of embarrassing moments. One of those moments occurred.

It was near the end of the first act. The scene was set in the baseball team’s shower room, after the game. All the players are sitting around in various states of undress, some donning shower apparel. My character was to walk onstage wearing nothing but a towel, as though I had just come from the showers. I say one line and walk offstage. Now I have only the time it takes for the actor playing the coach to walk onstage say two lines and walk off before I have to be back onstage wearing socks, slacks, belt, a t-shirt, and a button down shirt, unbuttoned. Once I arrive back onstage I say some only mildly funny line that yields the most courteous of crowd chuckles and then the scene continues.

Normally the guy playing the coach took his time saying these lines, giving me upwards of thirty seconds to get dressed. This made me hurry along, but I always got dressed just fine. However, on the second to last performance (one which my girlfriend’s parents had chosen to attend and were taping from the audience), the coach ran onstage, blurted out his two lines and left. Being a serious thespian at the time, I couldn’t allow the dead time to spoil the audience’s experience. I was willing to forego the t-shirt, belt and one sock and walk out as I was. When I walked onstage and faced front stage I was met with a slight gasp, followed by an outpouring of laughter. I hadn’t even said my line yet. Why were they laughing?

In my rush to get back onstage, it seems I had forgotten to zip up my fly. And on this particular day I had chosen to impress my girlfriend with my new colored BVD briefs…hot pink. As I’m standing there, pink bulge front facing, it dawns on me that there might be something amiss with my quick dress results. The director had blocked the scene so that I was standing next to a bench where two other actors were seated. When the actor closest to me turned he was met with a hot pink cotton crotch five inches from his nose. As he started to stifle his laughter I realized what was wrong. I brazenly turned around and zipped up, but the damage to my reputation was done.

At intermission I was confronted by the director and music teacher who had thought that I had done this on purpose. It took them all of two seconds to realize that, by the look on my face, this cheap laugh was not planned. And now my girlfriend’s parents had this memory to treasure over and over again on the miracle of video. I have to attribute this to one of the main reasons we didn’t work out.

I no longer wear the hot pink line of BVD briefs, and my seven-year anniversary is a few months away. It seems I have solved the problem and all is right with the world. But every once in a while, I wonder if I still have the gumption and the nerve to don, once more, the hot pink briefs of yesteryear. Alas, I may never know.

Boy there’s nothing quite like a religious conversation with your Roman Catholic CEO to get you thinking about death. Paul, Dennis and I were at this shitty Chinese restaurant with shitty food and shitty service tonight after work. During a particularly uncomfortable lull in the conversation I mentioned how I had just finished reading The DaVinci Code. That was enough to get Paul going on all of the research and self-discovery he has undergone which led him away and finally right back to his chosen faith. Good for him. I still say that if you’re going to be a Christian you might as well be Catholic. Lutherans, Methodists, Baptists, etc? It’s all just Catholicism Lite.

For some reason this got me thinking about how the Catholics consider suicide to be a sin that cannot be forgiven. Actually it can be forgiven if you ask for forgiveness in your lifetime…except that you’re dead. Oops. And therefore you’re fucked…er…damned. I see this as both a good and bad thing for the Catholics. First of all, being unable to kill yourself means that you are forced to deal with the life that you’re dealt as best you can. Or you can just wallow in misery until you die of cancer. Either way, you’ve got that whole “didn’t commit suicide” thing going for you. So it at least puts the direct threat of hell in front of anyone thinking about the most selfish decision one can make.

As a side note, I should mention that I personally don’t see the most selfish decision one can make as a bad one to make. I support the suicidal, as long as they aren’t mentally ill in some way that predisposes them to suicidal tendencies. For instance, if you’re seventeen and your boyfriend or girlfriend dumps you because you’re sexually inadequate, I don’t support a ride on the bullet train. In that situation, I recommend fucking a prostitute with the clap, asking for one last sympathy fuck from your ex, and then going to get your penicillin shot. But if you’re 35 and you just can’t see any further reason to go on, be it because you’ve ruined your life or you’re just bored out of your skull, then I say drop the garage door and let’s get our CO on. Just admit that you’re being as selfish as any human can ever be before you go.

Back to the point. If Catholics aren’t allowed to kill themselves, then that means they are, by virtue of their religion, protected against the conscious performance of any task with the understanding that it will be the direct cause of their death. That’s good for keeping the pews filled to capacity. But what about the naturally suicidal? Can’t we use them for any constructive Catholic purpose? I mean if the Muslims are going to have their suicide bombers, how can we retaliate? Certainly we can spare a few of our “lesser” parishioners to combat these infidels. HA! Infidels, that’s their word. LALALALALALALALA!!!!! Perhaps the pope can be talked into giving some kind of dispensation for this mortal sin and send our “blessed combatants” into the field. After all, Muslims are easily the biggest religion next to Catholicism. Except for Judaism. But Jews don’t count, so it doesn’t matter.

So then all this thought about suicide and its spiritual repercussions for some reason got me thinking about my sophomore philosophy class. The entire focus of the class was the challenging of the students to argue either for or against one of seven big, hot button issues. I can’t remember every one of them, but I thought that this would be a great way for anyone to get to know me a little bit. And it’s about as close as I’ll ever get to one of those super cutesy “getting’ to know you” posts, like where you all did that thing where you asked each other three questions. That was just too cute, but not my style.

WELFARE – The way I see it, welfare is a necessary part of civilization until we are able to provide for the basic needs of humanity without monetary cost. I guess I’m an idealist, at least when it comes to the future of humanity. I see the abandonment of monetary dependence as an inevitability…just not in our lifetime. So as long as we are unable to provide our least able citizens with the basics of life, we can take it as a sign of the work we have left to accomplish. I don’t like paying into the system, but I’m happy to know that the lowest echelons of our society are at least minimally cared for. And don’t give me any shit about welfare abusers. If welfare paid me $75,000.00 a year I’d be one of them. For some people $10,000.00 is all they need and, lacking higher aspiration, they feed off of it. I vote in favor of public welfare.

PROSTITUTION – I’m all for it! Let’s make it government subsidized. That’s what you’d expect me to say, right? Well, the truth is that I do see prostitution as a profession that will exist regardless of the law. I see no problem with making it legal at all. And since it’s legal, let’s go ahead and keep a register of all customers who frequent “sex for hire” establishments. What, you don’t want your wife to know you’re banging a whore twice a week, eating up ten percent of your declared income? Tough shit. The way I see it, the legalization of prostitution would require an increase in the quality and trustworthiness of our personal, intimate relationships. Knowing that I can go to a hooker and get my rocks off gives me a certain security in this world. I’d never pay for sex, and I never have, but I understand the need for it. A nice ancillary benefit is that if women are allowed to legally lease out their bodies by the quarter hour, some of that sexual power women hold over men is lost. This forces women to be more worthy humans, not just guilt mongering vaginas with mouths. Sorry ladies, tough love.

DRUG LEGALIZATION – Believe it or not, I believe that high school kids who are interested should be allowed to participate in ”Drug Month” as schools. This is a month when, during seventh period and with parental permission obviously, high school seniors experience drugs one by one in a classroom environment. They start with pot, move on to through the depressants, including alcohol, then through the stimulants, then the hallucinogens, and finally move to the narcotics. That way kids just go ahead and get his shit out of their systems in a safe environment. Plus, with this on the curriculum, the government will have to produce not only the drugs for distribution, but also the means to avoid and combat addiction. This is three generations away at best. Until then, I say we make all drugs legal, as long as the user submits, in writing, to a government agency, that they are going to be using. This won’t be used against the user, but it will force the user to admit their intentions and register them for treatment programs.

CAPITAL PUNISHEMENT – I hate that we kill each other. I hate that we take lives in exchange for a life. I would ban all capital punishment. Unfortunately, I also understand that humans still believe, collectively, in “an eye for an eye” and therefore demand a life for a life. I also understand the arguments that suggest it is far more expensive to incarcerate. Well, gee sorry. Let’s just murder the fucker. He’s a serial rapist. No one will miss him. As long as you can admit to the murder you cause. And don’t give me “well, what if it was your wife or mother”. Look, if some degenerate bastard murdered my wife or mother I’d pray for an acquittal. That way I could hunt them down and take vengeance for myself, instead of letting the government take it for me. That said, I say lock up the murderers and that’s that.

ANIMAL RIGHTS – Animals have no rights. It’s up to us to show compassion in spite of this fact. But it’s not a law of nature.

ABORTION – I don’t want children. Neither does Nina. If she gets pregnant I’ll probably suggest an abortion. But we don’t have to worry about that since I doubt we’re capable anyway. I’ll just say that in the three years we courted and lived together we never once used a condom. Pulling out is not 100% effective, folks. But when it comes to a woman’s choice whether or not to kill a baby I vote in favor of the woman’s choice. To do otherwise belittles a woman’s decision-making abilities. And I cut through the bullshit and call it what it is. You’re killing your baby. If you can’t say it, don’t do it. I support a woman’s right to choose. Besides, babies make you clean up their poop. If I thought I was going to have to do that for Nina for four years or more, I’d probably kill her too.

PRAYER IN SCHOOLS – I went to Catholic school my whole life. The kids who prayed in public were dorks or had mental and emotional issues. If you need to do that shit in front of people, see a shrink to figure out why first. Otherwise, have your little prayer sessions off to the side in private like it’s supposed to be. Remember, the faithful pray to God in private. The rest are posers. I say no prayer in school. There’s this thing called the Constitution and it doesn’t allow for that. Get over it or move somewhere else. This is the one situation where being a religions nut doesn’t work out in your favor in America. Cool.

Those may or may not have been the seven topics in that class. Whatever. Now you know where I stand (in brief). Sure my mind might change over time, but flexibility is one of the best attributes a human can possess. So I've got that going for me. Sure I may be overweight and kind of a dick...but I've got that flexibility thing nailed y'all.

During a visit to Las Vegas to see my sister a couple months ago I met several of her weird, junkie friends. There was chubby, slutty friend who was hitting on me because… well I was a new male in the room. Skinny, hyperactive cokehead friend was bouncing around with her screeching, Judge Judy-like voice making inappropriate commentary on everything she saw. There was the quiet, professional guy who melted into the crowd. Though polite and intelligent, there was something in his eyes that suggested should he ever show up alone in a room with me I should arm myself. There was socially awkward, designated driver guy who didn’t seem to fit in, yet was lauded as essential for the group’s dynamic which I attribute to him being the guy everyone calls when they need a ride or ten dollars. It was a very sordid group to be sure.

Finally there was screechy cokehead girl’s boyfriend, Matt. Matt is a thin, young man with facial hair and soft eyes. He wears glasses and has a constant smile on his face that is half stoner’s permagrin, half fun loving and caring, sensitive guy smile. He smokes too much pot, does too much coke, and involves himself in too little progressive stimulation, like study, conversing with intellectual equals, and attempts at life improvement. He’s a nice man, but he has addicted himself to any and all forms of “mind expansion”. When I was there, I was immediately interested in learning more about him...or at least utterly uninterested in learning anything about the rest of them. He was equally curious about me. After all, my sister and I have very little in common, as far as lifestyles go. And the more I sat there with everyone without saying anything but seeming to be paying attention, the more he considered me to be this complex, deep thinking, wise young man with revelations to share with the worthy.

When we were in one of the hotel rooms in Vegas, he was telling me that he’d been awake for over 36 hours. When Iasked him why the hell he would do that to himself, he told me how he likes to subject himself to long periods of sleep depravation. Rather than just look at him like he’s an idiot and start talking to someone else, I decided to delve deeper into this practice. I asked him, with obvious interest in my voice, what it did for him. I thought maybe after a while all the drugs in his system would rise up for a free hallucination or something. Now having an interested party to speak with, he began to tell me that it gave him just a little different perspective on life. Going days on end without sleep gave him a broader view of life, though more shallow and less focused. I was interested to understand this because I am terrible at going without sleep. And now that I’ve been without sufficient rest for several days, I can say that my thoughts are no broader, but that I’m half dreaming all of the time. Perhaps Matt coming to the conclusion that the meaning of life is mint chocolate chip ice cream can be seen by him as incite emerging from a mind unhindered by physical awareness…not retarded gibberish as the result of being so tired you can’t remember which hand is your right or left, and why there’s one in the middle.

Since Nina has taken on this paper route as a form of supplemental income, I have had to alter my sleep schedule so that I can help her accomplish the route’s larger, more difficult weekends. This means that my normal weekday sleep hours of 10.30 PM to 5:30 AM must be abandoned on the weekends for whenever we finish the route (usually about 7:00 AM) to whenever we wake up (usually about 2:30 PM). While I am technically getting a sufficient amount of sleep, I have this constant feeling of weariness and mental separation from the real world. Now add in the travel schedule I’ve kept to Indiana, which has a three-hour time difference, and you’ve got me in a state of confused readiness I haven’t felt since my initial weeks in Air Force Basic Training.

I flew back to Indiana yesterday morning. My flight out was just before 8 AM. However I had been awake since 2 PM the previous day. 8 AM would have been my bedtime. Driving to the airport, I began to experience the familiar symptoms of road hypnosis: heavy eyes, dreamlike thoughts, and loss of concentration. If I wasn’t so accustomed to this happening to me, I might have been in trouble. But I made it to the airport without incident. Once I sat down on the airplane I passed out. I was in the middle seat and I remember nothing of the flight from takeoff to landing. When I woke up I was groggy and had the distinct feeling that I had spent the last three hours snoring and talking incoherently in my sleep, to the annoyance and amusement of those around me. However, I was still too tired to care. I departed the plane and made the zombie-like saunter toward my new gate in Chicago O’Hare. There I passed out again for the hour before boarding.

When I finally arrived in Ft. Wayne I was pretty well awake for a while. Dennis and I made our way to the hotel, and I went to the site we were working at to make initial preparations for the next day’s work. I did a bit of work in my room and then went out to dinner with Denis. If my mind and body wasn’t confused enough, a supper of eggs and bacon at IHOP was enough to have me thoroughly scrambled. When I got back to the room Dennis had asked me to help him with some work. It became apparent to him within minutes that I was sleep deprived and he sent me away after about twenty minutes. When I got back to my room I looked in the mirror. I was pale, and my skin seemed to lack some of its luster. My pupils were constricted and I seemed to be staring at everything I looked at. It was time for some real rest.

I crashed out at 8 PM Indiana time. Since I had been so used to reactivating myself after only two or three hours rest, I woke up several times. Still exhausted, but jumpy I had to pace around the room for about twenty minutes before attempting to go back to sleep. When the alarm finally went off at 6 AM I was ready for the day. I got dressed and went down to the lobby for coffee and eggs. We were supposed to all meet downstairs at 7:00. But that time came and went, and neither of my coworkers had shown up. In addition, the breakfast bar, normally set up by 6:30 was still in the initial prep stages. I asked what time it was and was met with the realization that it was only a few minutes past six, not seven as I had thought or as my room’s alarm clock indicated. So I had a few more cups of coffee and thought I take a minute to write this incoherent ramble about sleep depravation.

I feel slightly high and hung over at the same time. My muscles ache, but are poised for whatever service is required of them. My eyes are heavy, and my focus short. My vision is narrowing on top so that my laptop screen looks like a trapezoid. But it’s probably a good exercise for my body and mind. If I intend to do as much traveling for my company as I’m proclaiming readiness for, I’ll need to be able to work and work well under these conditions. I’m 28. If I can’t handle it now, when will I?

I know that several of my readers count on a certain degree of angst, humor, and arrogant resolve from my writing. But at this point I am only trying to write cogent thoughts in coherent sentences. So to satisfy the masses, let me leave you with this one last point of wisdo…

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Coworker Carl is lying to me and I have decided to finally call him on it. For those who are unfamiliar, Carl is the guy in my office who is responsible for all non-technical logistics at my site. Basically that means he does the scans and goes around transporting equipment from one room to another. He’s basically a goon. He comes from south Phoenix, which is hailed as the most ghetto of the black ghettos in the Phoenix area. But he now lives in a ghetto-minor in the West Valley. He reckons himself an intelligent man. And while he may have more deductive reasoning skills and general knowledge than most of the residents of his current and former neighborhood, he is still far less intelligent than I am, and also most of my coworkers. But he doesn’t know this. In his mind, he is able to fool and deceive all of us with ease.

Carl has been featured on this blog before as the mulatto family man who routinely cheats on his wife with white girls who only date black men. These women are mostly skanks, but that shouldn’t come as a surprise. He spends several hours of his day, some during company time, managing a small youth football league in his ‘hood. And while I try not to judge people for their lifestyles, I have to admit that he is selling himself far short of his potential. For that I say cut him loose. At any rate, I haven’t had any problems with Carl personally until these past few days.

With the new year came a major organizational restructuring in my company. Our supervisor has been moved to another site and given a new job title. The other site’s manager has had his scope expanded to now include our site. So now all operations have been consolidated under a single manager. And now, aside from coworker Richard, our engineering specialist whose position doesn’t usually involve us, Carl and I are alone in this office. In other words, we are without physical supervision. This has been my first week back at my home site since Ft. Wayne. And I can already see that Carl is acting like a twelve year old whose parents have left town for the weekend.

Carl shows up late for work nearly every day. And by late I mean an average of 25 to 30 minutes. His most common excuse is that he has such a long drive in that he gets caught in traffic on the highways, especially if there’s a wreck. This pisses me off because I live just as far away as he does in the opposite direction and I am an average of ten to fifteen minutes early every day. I give myself about ninety minutes to get to work because I see lateness as one of the biggest signs of disrespect one can show. Another one of his moves is to show up late, go to a lab, grab an action of some kind or have a conversation, and run into the office spouting off how he was on time, but he’s been in the labs working. Today Richard and I decided to keep our eye on the window facing the parking lot to watch him come in. He’s supposed to be in the office at 8:00. He pulled in to the parking lot at 8:25. When he came in, I asked him if he got stuck in traffic. He got all defensive and said that he’s been here for a while.

MIKE: No, Carl, you weren’t. You just got here.
CARL: Uh, YEAH! I was here. What, you don’t believe me?
MIKE: Actually, I tend to believe my own eyes. I just saw you pull into the parking lot two minutes ago.
CARL: Well yeah, I went out to get some coffee at the gas station.
MIKE: Are you suggesting that you got here at 8:00, left to go get some coffee at a gas station, and then came back?
CARL: No, I’m saying that I don’t like the cafeteria coffee, so I stopped for some.
MIKE: OK, so you admit you weren’t here.
CARL: Maybe not here, but I was nearby. You could’ve called me if you needed me
MIKE: Right…but 8:00 came and went and you weren’t here.
CARL: What!? I might as well have been here. I was just down the street.
MIKE: But…you…weren’t…oh fuck it. Nevermind.

It goes on and on like this. Carl will never back down. He will never admit he was wrong. He will lie and lie, and if he’s caught lying he’ll just keep the lies coming. And if you corner him in a lie or question him about anything that he did wrong, he’ll go on the attack to get his accuser to back down. He’s a real reactionary like that. I bet that most businesses have a shitbag like this.

Anyway, one of Carl’s jobs is to scan all of the equipment in the building with a portable barcode scanner every month. It’s about 4,000 pieces of equipment, so that’s a goal 1,000 per week that we have to report to our boss. I try to help him whenever I have some time…and I feel like helping. On Wednesday I was preparing to go scan a lab of about 200 pieces and Carl stopped me saying that he had already scanned this whole section of the building the previous afternoon. I already knew this was a lie because he had disappeared between the hours of one and four, his scan gun was sitting unused on his desk and all three equipment carts were in our office. No scan gun = no scans. But I humored him.

Yesterday when the time came to upload all of the scans into our database Carl was nowhere to be found. Once again he was gone with all of his tools still in the office. Oh, I forgot to mention that he never answers his phone when he disappears like this. Somehow his phone is the only one in the company that just doesn’t ring. When he came back I was uploading just the scans that I had done. He started searching frantically for the scan card that should have stored all of those scans he said he did. Weird. Somehow the card couldn’t be located. It was quite an act. The Academy would have been pleased. Turns out I had all three scan cards with me. And oddly enough, there were no scans of any kind on his. He was busted, basically.

Did Carl just admit that he didn’t actually do any scans? Fuck no; he’s too smart for that. He’s going to tell more lies to us stupid little coworkers. We’re too dumb to know the difference. He told me there was a fourth card somewhere. Then there wasn’t a fourth card because I busted him out on his gun being at his desk. Then there was also a fourth gun. The there wasn’t a fourth gun because I pointed out that we only have two working batteries for the guns and both were here. Then he said that Richard must have erased the scan file of his card. Now this is just desperate, because Richard simply will NOT tolerate an accusation like this. But that’s not true either, because I had already downloaded all of the files from that card and showed him that there were indeed scans on it, just none from him.

Now he’s all out of bullshit excuses. So he starts attacking me. All the while I’m trying to appear like I’m on his side, but that I just can’t make sense of the evidence. Data has never simply disappeared. But then there are a lot of things that happen to Carl that somehow have never happened to anyone before. So he just starts throwing a fit saying, “Fine, I guess all day Tuesday was just a figment of my fucking imagination!” and “I guess I dreamt the whole thing!” No you didn’t, Carl. You made it all up. Save that self-pity and self-deprecation for the bitches. It doesn’t have any impact on me. Now he starts saying, “Guess I’ll just go scan everything AGAIN! Great! I can’t wait to go to Frank and tell him that I need to be escorted around his lab for a second time this month.”

Excellent! Carl has just pointed out, by name, that there is another person who can corroborate his story. So this morning, on a routine equipment deliver, I just happen by Frank’s desk.

MIKE: Hey Frank. Happy New Year…blah blah blah. So remember when Carl came by on Tuesday afternoon to inventory your lab?
FRANK: He did?
MIKE: Yeah, he said that he came by and asked you for an escort. Didn’t he?
FRANK: News to me.
MIKE: Huh. I must have heard him wrong. Anyway, there was a problem with the upload…blah blah blah.

So now, we’ve got him caught in yet another lie. And this is where I am right now. We didn’t meet our goal of 1,000 scans this week and Carl is lying through his teeth (and badly I might add) about everything he had been doing between the hours of one and four both Tuesday and Wednesday. I don’t understand why he would lie to me at all. I’m not his boss. I’m not a rat either. If he has some shit he has to leave the site to go do, all he needs to do is tell me so that I can cover for him and vice versa. Whatever the reason, I can’t abide being lied to. Given the whole Internet debacle, I’m inclined to offer a second chance, since I was given one. But if I have to put up with any more lies, I might just have to suggest to our manager that he pull up the turnstile records for his entry card. I’m not the only one who finds tardiness to be an intolerable practice.

UPDATE: He just got back from Frank’s office and is now retracting his statement about not wanting to tell him that we have to be escorted again. I guess I was hearing things. He also wanted to know who else I had talked to about this. Gee, I wonder why? But did he just give his bullshit lie and walk away? Of course not. He also dropped the names of two other people who supposedly escorted him around. I guess I have a couple more casual conversations to have in the next couple hours. I wonder if they’ll develop amnesia too.

When I was preparing to travel back home from Indiana on December 23rd I realized that I had a nearly five hour layover in Chicago Midway and nothing to occupy my time. I had no Gameboy Advantage, no laptop computer, not even a deck of cards. In fact I prefer to travel without a carry on at all if possible. And I did just that. I knew that I was going to throw back a few pints and some sleeping pills for the long flight back from Chicago, but what was I supposed to do with my time between flights. If I started drinking too early, I’d be way to stinking drunk to be let on the plane. Airport alcohol is expensive anyway. I couldn’t just sit around staring at the damn airplanes. Even people watching would get unbearably old after an hour. I could buy a magazine or a newspaper, but I’d be done with that in 45 minutes. I was stuck.

So before I flew out of Ft. Wayne I broke down and decided to buy a book. I hated dropping the MRP of $26.99 on a book of any kind, but I was desperate. I also figured I might be able to slip it into my expense report. Since I’d been hearing so much about this book that was pissing off all the Christians and Catholics (something I can always respect) I decided to be the last man in America to read The DaVinci Code by Dan Brown. After begrudgingly handing the old woman behind the counter my debit card (who gave me the evil eye for buying it) I stepped into the terminal to get to the lounge. You see, in Ft. Wayne, you have to actually go through security before you can access the lounge where they sell alcohol. So I got there, found a table, placed my watch on it, ordered a beer and opened the book. Actually I took the cover off of the book first, because I didn’t want anyone seeing me reading it and trying to talk to me.

Before I make myself sound like an imbecile, I should point out that I rarely ever read books. When I was a little kid you couldn’t tear me away from the written word. Now I tend to read for information only, and most of that information can be found online. I consider myself to be a reasonably intelligent man, and I can appreciate a good book. I just don’t take the time out of my day to read them. Most of the books I’ve read in recent years have been informative, not entertaining.

Since this was my first venture into a piece of literal fiction in about a decade I started with trepidation. But within the first paragraph I was already interested. And I was very pleasantly surprised to see that most of the chapters were only two to five pages long. Granted this made the book over one hundred chapters long, but Nina’s always told me to take smaller bites. The book is stuffed with cliffhangers and hooks to keep you reading. It’s got a formulaic pattern about its plot development, but I think that’s part of what made it such a popular book. But the subject matter of the book was something that I was very impressed with. For those of you who are thinking of reading it and don’t want any spoilers of any kind, stop here. I won’t talk about what actually happens, but I will discuss one of the key themes.

In the book, there is a secret society that has existed since the time of Jesus of Nazareth (or Jesus Christ), that has been charged with the protection of a secret so powerful that it could destroy, or at least forever alter, the Church of Rome and all of its derivative sects…like Lutheranism. This society has been headed up by some of the most prominent non-political and intellectually gifted men in history including Sir Isaac Newton, Boticelli, and of course DaVinci. So what was it that they protect? Why nothing less than the truth about the marriage of Jesus Christ to Mary Magdalene and their resulting family line that has survived all these ages.

So now it should be clearer why the zealots were up in arms about this. Throughout the book, Brown depicts, in great detail, many French and English museums, crypts, art galleries, and churches where clues and symbols have been left that point to this truth. And laden in the very masterpieces of DaVinci is the framework for discovering the whereabouts of the tomb of Mary Magdalene, the lost and forsaken Queen of Man. He points out clues in the Mona Lisa, The Last Supper, and Madonna of the Rocks. He even referenced Disney’s Snow White, Sleeping Beauty and The Little Mermaid as retreads of the true story of Christ. It’s actually quite convincing at times.

Of course it is still just a work of fiction. It’s a book like any by Grisham or Clancy. If it was a doctoral thesis or the life’s work of a religious historian published as a statement of theory and fact I could see how this would set off lots of fireworks in the community. But it’s just a book of fiction. No matter how believable it is, it’s still just fiction. When I got on the plane bound for Phoenix I was nearly halfway through. I was also halfway asleep from the beer and sleeping pills. When I woke up, we had been flying for two hours and I had to piss like a racehorse. The fat couple on my left did too, but since I was passed out in the isle seat, they couldn’t get up. We all three got up and went to the potty…separately.

When we got back I considered going back to sleep, but I’d flown enough times to know that it wouldn’t happen. I was awake now and would remain so all the way to touch down. When I sat down I pulled out my book the couple started up a brief conversation:

MAN: That’s some heavy reading you’ve got there.
ME: This? Um, not really. It’s just a suspense mystery. A good book, but nowhere near as heavy as some I own.
WOMAN: You know that’s all lies right!?!
ME: …
WOMAN: That book is nothing but lies.
ME:…Well…it is a book of fiction…so…yes I suppose by definition it’s not an accurate accounting of real events.
WOMAN: Yeah, but it tries to make you believe in non-Christian ideas. That’s a sin.
ME: Well I’m pretty sure most authors try to convince you that the story you’re reading is realistic. That’s probably why it’s so popular. But I don’t think it has any more sins in it than that romance novel you’ve got there.
WOMAN: Oh I doubt that.
ME: Sure. Pardon my forwardness, but I will bet you anything that your book breaks just as many Commandments as mine. You’ve got coveting, infidelity, theft, disrespect for parents or authority, maybe even murder. That’s half of them right there.
MAN: I think my wife means that your book is blasphemy.
ME: Oh, well in that case, of course it is. You’re absolutely right. Excuse me.

At this point I realized the futility of further discourse with these nimrods and went right back to my book. I just finished reading it yesterday, and I’m glad I did. Supposing it’s true, I have no problem with it. I’ve never believed Jesus was this ultra-divine being in life like he’s supposed to be in death. I mean, the Bible says how he freaked out when they opened up a market in that church. Am I supposed to believe that Jesus never got a hard on? So what if he was married? It wouldn’t surprise or bother me in the slightest, except for the fact that it’s been covered up. I bet Jesus had access to all the trim he could stand. What’s the use in being the Son of God if you can’t even use it to score? I mean, how many of us have ever been able to say, “Hey baby, you ever been touched by the right hand of God?” and make it work? That’s what I thought.

Given recent events, I’ve taken a few minutes to examine my life, such as it is, and ponder the possibility that there are certain addictions that, at least in part, rule over my life. I’m not an alcoholic or a drug addict, but I know that there are some physical, emotional, intellectual, and psychological stimuli to which I am partially enslaved. I know that we all have that mild addition to certain foods or drinks. And in our lives, there will always be something that we crave most on a regular basis. Even so, it’s sometimes a good idea to reflect on the cravings and urges we have to see if they serve something in us, or if it is we who are in service to them.

· ALCOHOL – I have alcoholism in my family. I still like to drink. I don’t get stinking drunk every week and I don’t suck back a six-pack before noon just to get rid of the DT’s. But nearly every single day I say to myself, “damn I need a drink”. And by “drink” I mean a good double slug of chilled vodka with a 32-ounce beer back. I love drinking. I don’t really like being drunk and I certainly can’t stand that moment when you wake up and let the hangover surf in on the memories. What I mean by that is sometimes after drinking a bunch I get all super friendly and touchy-cuddly with people. Now, if I was a chick that might be ok. But as a guy it’s perceived as flirting…with both sexes. There have been times that people have said, “Mike, your wife is right over there.” But I’m not flirting. I’m just…well that’s how I get when I’m hammered. Sure, I’m just drunk and trying to have fun, but it gets taken the wrong way and that’s how some nights go sour. Then the next morning I wake up feeling fine for a moment. And slowly the memories flash back from the previous night’s activities. And with each regretful action comes a new and bigger wave of the hangover. It would probably be better if I just didn’t drink at all. And with Sam visiting, I’ve cleaned out my entire liquor cabinet. So of course all I can think about is how badly I want a drink. We’ll see how it goes.


· SEX – I know most people would say, “Of course, you’re a man”. But I think I deserve a little bit more credit for being at least a mildly addicted sex fiend. I want to fuck my wife every day, five times a day. It doesn’t matter where we are or what we’re doing, the needs of Titan McBangsem take priority. The slightest grazing of her arm across mine will trigger the anticipation. I’ll take anything I can get and I’ll get it any way I can. I’ll seduce, flirt, cuddle, trick, bargain, plead, beg, pout, and pressure until I get my satisfaction. I know many people would also say, “Damn it Mike, put that thing away! She’s got a hurt back!” Well, true, but I didn’t cause that, and I still have my own needs. Believe it or not, masturbation gets old. And there are times when the fantasies don’t stay in focus long enough to get the job done. Women may not get this, because they fantasize about entire scenarios including clothes, decorations, smells, etc. But a guy’s hand doesn’t feel especially sexy by itself. And any attempt at imagining the smells in the room or the type of fabric on her dress will only distract from the mentally generated fantasy of the physical sensation. Luckily for me, Nina knows just how much of a freak I am (or at least 80%) and has learned to cope. This is one addiction I’ll probably never conquer. And why on Earth would I?


· BLOGGING – Ever since I’ve had to adjust my Internet habits at work I’ve been going through some serious withdrawal symptoms. I can’t write posts. I’ve had to empower Grace to publish my posts that I email to her from Microsoft Word. I can’t read any blogs except when I get home, which I can’t do because I have company over and at least for the next couple days I’ll be in entertain mode. I wanted to write a post last night, but I just couldn’t get my hands to work with my brain to get it out. It’s like if I’m not at my desk, I can’t get it done. And it’s fucking killing me. I’m like a housewife who’s lost cable and can’t see her “stories”. Except that I’m a professional male, and I don’t sit at home watching television only to bitch nonstop about how difficult it is being a homemaker in the retarded effort to keep people from realizing I’ve got it made. Otherwise, very similar.


· BEING RIGHT – This is part of the whole narcissism thing I got from my father. I try to tone it down whenever I realize I’m doing it, but I have this utter addition to debating my point until it is accepted or utterly defeated. I guess it’s not so much that I want to be right as I would want the people around me to point out the flaws in my logic and deductive reasoning so that I can make more informed, intelligent decisions. So that’s what I do for others, and yes I realize that it can be very annoying. It’s probably a reason I have so few friends. That, plus everyone around me is a fucking retard that lack the mental capacity for double knotting.


· COFFEE – There’s no use denying it, I am a coffee addict. I can’t function without it. And it’s not just the caffeine. I could just suck back a couple of Pepsis in the morning for that. But I need my coffee. I need to smell the grounds brewing, hear the suction of the machine, carefully monitor my pour to just the right level, relish in my ritual of adding cream and sweetener, and, with anxious anticipation, savor that first sip of the hot liquid running down my throat. Damn that last part sounded a little seamy. But sometimes, the coffee is actually better than sex. And when you add brewing time, it usually lasts a lot longer too.


· SEDATION – I was trying to figure out if I was addicted cigarettes or drugs or alcohol, and it occurred to me that, more than anything, I’m addicted to sedation. I don’t care where I get it from, I just love taking chemicals into my body that will cause me to slow down my motor functions and stop thinking so damned much. Miller, Absolute, Marlboro, Cannabis, and Vicoden are just a few of the friends I’ve had in my 28.63 years who have helped me in this pursuit. And when more than one of them shows up at the same time, the world is just a better place. I don’t know if true addicts would agree that I have a solid addiction because I haven’t flipped my car, sold my television, or given head to a businessman in the subway bathroom, but it’s probably still worth adding. I’m sober most days of the week, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t crave that sweet release from the world I live in every day, if only for an hour or so.

Wow, I’m one heavily addicted fella. I’ve got vices out the yin yang. I don’t think any of them are very destructive at this point, and I have been able to exercise control over them. Except for sex. But I don’t really care about that. As far as I’m concerned, when I die I want people to say, “Mike…what a perverted, horny, tail-chasing, tent-poled, pussy monger. I’m really gonna miss him.”

When you come from a smallish midwestern town like Evansville, there is a natural tendency in youth to do anything you can to get out. The world seems so much smaller than you know it actually is. If you have any curiosity about the world outside your hometown, the urge to flee is overwhelming. And it’s a good urge too.

I was 21 years old when I finally set foot on a one-way flight out of Indiana. I was newly married and anxious about getting out of the Godforsaken burg that had trapped me for so long. While most of my friends were trying to establish themselves with homes and jobs in Evansville, I was leaving for an adventure in the U.S. Air Force that, if nothing else, would ensure that if I ever returned to Indiana, it would be of my own volition. At the time, Nina and I had just moved out of a basement apartment under the home of a nice old man named Norman, who had worked as the night custodian at the Steak n’ Shake restaurant where we waited tables. It was a cavernous place with white concrete walls and a bedroom that was pitch black 24 hours a day. Though we tried to keep it clean, it always gave our visitors the sense that they were entering a makeshift dungeon.

On the side wall there were two cement steps leading a couple feet down to a small door that stuck in it’s frame. The first time I saw what was behind it I was sold on the idea of moving in. When you pulled the Wonka-sized door open and flipped the light switch you were greeted with a small, cement tunnel akin to a WWII bunker. The lights that ran the 30 foot length of the curving tunnel were simple bulbs and caged in steel frames. At the end of the tunnel was another step down into the bottom of a well. The area was about ten feet in diameter, dank and lit by a single bulb dangling from the rooftop. Around the wall of the well was a steep, uneven staircase that led to the top of the well. The well had been sealed off years ago and covered with a small shed that resembled the pulley and bucket system used by farmers. Nina and I would love going into that well and smoking pot and talking cheap, early twenties philosophy. We’d read poetry and laugh with our friends.

That apartment, which we rented out at an unheard of monthly fee of $275, was the one part of Indiana that Nina and I regretted leaving. When we moved up to Indianapolis while I was awaiting my initial orders to Basic Military Training, or boot camp, we thought long and hard about who we should have take our place. Norman had never made us sign a contract, but we had no intentions of leaving him without a replacement tenant or with a tenant he wouldn’t want. He’s a kind, hard working man, who gets long winded about his Army days and loves to drink Canadian Club and cheap local beer that tasted like the can it came in. Every day he would take the 200-yard hike out to his mailbox and deliver the mail addressed to us to a separate, unofficial mailbox he had placed outside our door. He built an overhang for the porch outside the main entryway to give us added cover from the elements. He gave us free reign over how to make additions, changes, and decorative alterations to the apartment, and would knock off a portion of the rent with every “improvement” we made. We owed it to him to replace ourselves with someone who was trustworthy and who would recognize and appreciate Norman, and his wife Katherine’s, generosity.

One of our best friends at the time was a man I had know from my high school days named Sam. Sam was one of the only friends I had, and had become a good friend of Nina’s as well. He attended a different high school than I did, but we shared friends in common. He was a gruff looking man, about 5’10” with a body of thick hair and a love for angst and rage of his favorite band, Pantera, which was a mainstay in his stereo. He drank and smoked with us. He smoked two to three packs of Marlboro Reds every day. He’s a hand’s on type, who enjoys looking as unapproachable as possible. But he carried the softest eyes and the most genuine and kindest personality you’re likely to ever encounter. He always seemed to love the apartment, and was growing tired of living with his parents who lived about twenty miles away. In Evansville, that’s a distance that can jeopardize a friendship. He wanted to move out, but was reticent to sign any leases on an apartment. He too wanted to leave southern Indiana, but was taking fewer steps to realize this as a realistic expectation. We left the apartment to him, and he was happy.

Three years ago, Nina and I went back to Indiana for the holiday season. Though we were being tugged by family at all corners of the state for Christmas visits, we took an hour out of our schedule to visit Sam. We were pleased to see that his car was still parked in Norman’s yard, where ours had been so many times before. When we stepped down the walkway to the entryway, we hesitated. Sam had always taken trade jobs, and to our knowledge was working on becoming an electrician. We didn’t want to wake him. But we resolved that if roles were reversed, we would insist that Sam wake us up. We knocked on the screen door for several minutes, knowing that the bedroom in the back of the apartment blocked out not only all daylight, but also most sounds. After a few more knocks a figure emerged in the shadows and Sam approached us. He looked different now. He looked slightly more worn for the wear. He had shaved his head completely and grown out a long, black, menacing goatee to augment his white skull. When he saw it was us, his eyes lightened with shock and he immediately let us in.

This was the first time we had seen the apartment since moving out in 1997. We were shocked and dismayed upon entering to see that Sam had allowed this place to turn into a 1,000 square foot landfill. The image was something out of a police show after they break into the serial killer’s private home. Everywhere were dirty clothes, old fast food bags, empty cans and bottles. The kitchen table was covered in garbage and the sink and kitchen counters were a sea of dishes not washed in ages. Everywhere was ashtrays, filled with old butts. The place had obviously not been dusted in years. Forgetting the horror we felt seeing our old home in this state, I wondered how a human being could reside here at all. The only things missing were a bucket for feces and a severed head on the television.

Sam did apologize several times for the look of the place. He was obviously not accustomed to having visitors. We spend a few minutes catching up and assuring him that it was his place to do with as he pleased. After an hour, we got up and told him that we missed hanging out with him and hoped that we could see him again soon. We exchanged phone numbers and hugs, and left for my mother’s house still reeling from the shambles that our friend’s life had been allowed to become. That was the last time we spoke to Sam…until last week.

Nina and I had kept Sam, Norman and Katherine on our Christmas card list all of these years. We always write something personal in our cards to say hello and make the effort at retaining our friendships, despite the lack of contact. This year, Nina filled out all of the cards while was away on business. She included with the greeting our home phone number and a request to hear from them. Last week, Sam gave us a call. He was very brief and short on words. But he had always been very stoic and difficult to hold a phone conversation with. So I gave him an update on everything we’d been up to in recent years, including the house, my job, Nina’s culinary education and experience, her back injury, and our three cats. He briefly spoke of his electrician job and apprentice status. He told me about his sister’s marriage to a Notre Dame professor. As was typical with Sam, he told us that he didn’t want to use up all of his minutes on the phone and politely let us go. I felt satisfied that he was doing well enough for Sam and resolved that I should make contact more often.

This past Saturday I awoke to Nina talking in the other room. I’m quite used to her conversations with her mother, so I took no interest in waking up completely. A moment later, she burst through the door, obviously wanting to pass the phone off to me very soon. I lay there wondering whom I was about to speak with. When she handed me the phone I heard the voices of Norman and Katherine for the first time in several years. He was emotional and told me several times how proud of me he is. The last time I saw him was during another visit to Indiana. Nina and I had visited the Steak n’ Shake where we had worked for one of their famous steakburgers. Norman walked out of the back carrying a broom and a mop. Upon seeing me he jumped back like he had seen a ghost, dropped the mop and broom, and rushed to me to give me a hug and blubber over me like the prodigal son. I can’t recall what I did that made him attach to me so completely, but I felt very touched and hugged him back.

After speaking with Norman and Katherine on the phone they passed the phone off to Sam, who I had just spoken to a couple days prior. Nina had left the bedroom and shut the door. Sam told his landlord that he was going to step outside. We made small talk for a minute, and then he told me that he didn’t want to bum me out, but that he had some news for me. I poised as I always do before hearing bad news. He said that he wanted to tell me that he had, for several years, been combating a serious drinking problem and that he was planning on detoxing himself again on midnight, New Years Day.

Sam had always loved his Jack Daniels. He and I had shared many shots and beers in our days together. He could always put away the bourbon like I never could. I used to think that he was developing a problem, but at that age, there is very little a friend can do to stop a friend from making mistakes. I was in no position to tell anyone how to live either. But now he was admitting to being an alcoholic and telling me that he was intending to face his fourth attempt at sobering up alone. He had no friends or family left to turn to. I tried to keep it light, but never strayed from the subject at hand. I was genuinely concerned and promised to call him every day. He was obviously shaken up. I hung up and went into the kitchen to tell Nina what had just transpired.

After discussing the matter for a few minutes, we both came to the conclusion that it would only be the right thing to do to invite him out here to Phoenix. We have two spare rooms, one fully equipped as a bedroom, and a spare bathroom. He needs friends to help him through this. He needs to get the fuck out of Evansville Indiana like everyone else did before him. I called him back a few minutes later and asked him to come out. He thanked me and declined. I tried to convince him, but I’m not good at convincing people to do something they don’t want to do. But he then asked to speak with Nina. I handed the phone off and Nina started talking to him about his problem. Every time Sam would give a reason why he couldn’t come out, Nina would counter it with a solution and reiterate another benefit to being in Arizona. He said he would look into it and we hung up.

Sunday morning, Sam called me back and asked me if Tuesday was alright for him to arrive. I couldn’t believe that Nina had actually convinced him to leave. He had never left. For Sam this was uncharted territory and he was scared. I assured him that day was fine and started making preparations like emptying out our liquor cabinet and prepping his bedroom. We’re now ready for a guest and an alcoholic. This is probably the kindest thing I’ve ever attempted and I’m quite scared of failing him. But I know that if we should be successful, we will have helped a friend in his darkest hour. And that will fill me with a swell of peace I’ve not felt in some time. He arrives this evening after I get off of work. Perhaps he’ll join our little online community after a while. Perhaps he’ll kick the habit once and for all. Perhaps he’ll find an electrician’s job out here and finally escape the clutches of the small town of Evansville Indiana. All I can do is bear down for the long haul and trust in hope and our convictions.

Blogging out of Microsoft Word is a hassle to be sure, but what’s a fellow to do when the man is eying his Internet travels? But here I am at work after being off for about ten days. It was not exactly a relaxing time, but I did get plenty of Paper Mario in. I just can’t seem to beat that cheating witch queen. I’d get into the list of the haul of cool shit I got this year, but I wouldn’t want to come across as materialistic and shallow. But the Ipod is probably the coolest present I’ve ever gotten. I remember when I was six, my parents (aka. Santa) got me an Animal puppet. You know, Animal from the Muppets? Well he had this big slit up his back and you could move his mouth and blink his eyes. He became my bestest friend in the whole wide world. I still have him stored with all of Nina’s old stuffed animals and dolls. But the Ipod was probably even better than that.

I’ve suffered my first monetary loss as a result of my obsession with the new Ipod Nina got me for Christmas. I went to the grocery store to pick up some ingredient for Nina’s nachos. When I got finished at the self-service checkout I decided to pull out $20 on debit for the week. When the cash is dispensed, the machine lets out this really loud and annoying beep to remind you not to take your cash. Oh yeah, that’s supplemental to the “Don’t forget to take your cash just below the scanner” that the checkout machine says twice after spitting out your receipt. But I was jamming out to some Portishead with my Ipod and simply didn’t hear it. My head must have been somewhere else too, because beep or no bee, this is not something I usually forget to check for. By the time I got back to the store, the cash was gone. There was a black man in his mid thirties at the same machine I was at who looked completely innocent. I shot him an accusing glare anyway, just to keep tensions rocking. Anyway I came home feeling stupid and angry. Nina did a very good job of not saying a single fucking peep to me about how stupid it was.

One of the other great presents I got from Nina was this kick ass comic book called “Y”. That’s “Y” as in the Y-chromosome, or that which makes me male. This is unlike any comic I have ever read. There are no superheroes. People shoot people in the fucking head. They say “fuck” and “shit”, and even “cunt”. The graphically illustrate decomposing bodies. In short, this book is just fucked up. It’s all about this out of work English grad named Yorick and his travels through America trying to figure out why he’s the only man left. Oh yeah, the book is also about every Y-chromosome carrier in the whole world dying a horrible, blood spitting, gurgling death all at the same time. Even the male animals keel over. But for some reason, Yorick and his monkey, Ampersand, have survived and are walking around incognito.

You’d think that the last guy on Earth would be a pretty sought after gent. But he spends most of the comic avoiding (or failing to avoid) getting his ass kicked or killed. One of the things that I really loved about this book was the way it portrayed the world that was left without any men. It wasn’t all PC and girl-power showing all the women just going about their lives, but with no guns or fear of that extra slice of cheesecake. There was no electricity. Most of the planes were down. There was no more food being grown. Running water had stopped. Basically, all the women were living like civilized animals. And they were sad. There was crying and suicidal tendencies over not only the lost husbands and sons, but a discussion about how all the great rockers are gone like Dylan and the Stones gave it a very real feel. They also took care to note how the men didn’t just disappear, but that there were now about 3.3 billion human corpses slumped over everywhere that had to be dealt with.

So then I got to wondering what the world would really be like if the world’s men really did just die like that. Would the women be able to sustain themselves? Would they learn all of the industries as the men did? Of course there would be some time in uncontrollable mourning and then the power curve of learning all these new jobs that had previously been done by the men. But after a while I think that the lights would come back on and the markets would reestablish their supply chains. Crops would be grown and without question the water would come back. I mean, we’re talking a world without working toilets. Suddenly the whole point of Women’s Lib would become obsolete. There would no longer be a choice between career or homemaker. Like the men, homemaking would become the lazy and irresponsible person’s career. The soft, undereducated, paternally dependant women of the world would have to learn how to do trade labor. The best jobs would go to the women who had been already been working in their respective fields.

But what if all of the women died? What if all at once every woman on Earth just fell over, dead? Would we be able to go on with life? I think that things would be pretty similar in either situation. Perhaps the utilities would remain more intact since men already hold most of those jobs. Government would remain pretty stable. The farmers would be able to keep up with the now halved rate of production. But the suicide rate would probably be much higher. Why continue living in a world without women? I know that most women would think that we’d just all learn to fuck each other and declare football season to be eleven months long. But when I think about it, if I lost Nina, my friends, my mom and sister, my aunts, grandma, and two out of my three cats I’d be so overwhelmed with grief that I’d probably either eat a barrel or just start doing large amounts of drugs and binge drinking until some vital organ failed.

Now, what if all of the men had died…except me? What if I was the only one left? I’m not so sure that I’d be ready to expose myself to the world without some damn fine protection. I’d guess that the remaining female geneticists would want to pour over my DNA with a fine-toothed comb. I would be put out to stud, and lose most, if not all, of the freedoms I now enjoy. But this would be for the good of humanity, so I couldn’t say no, right? I’m not so sure about that.

How much impregnating can a single man accomplish? At my peak I’d be able to pop off about five to eight shots per day. Assuming that every one of those resulted in fertilization, which it wouldn’t, I’d still only be able to sire less than 3,000 kids per year. Given a timeframe of about fifty years to continue this service, I’d be the father of only 150,000 kids. The Law of Averages cuts about half of them out for continued service, due to them being born female. Mark another 10% for being gay and I’ve only added another 67,500 productive males to this world. That’s not enough to populate even a very small city. No, they’d have to find a way to clone my sperm for distribution. And they’d want to find a way to remove those aspects of my psyche that are less than favorable. Do we really need every newborn in this world to be an arrogant narcissist?

But if there was only one woman left? Whoa. Girlfriend might as well down a bottle of pills that day, because her life is utterly fucked. I seriously doubt that she’d get the queen bee’s seat on the throne of humanity, as some would predict. I mean with only two working ovaries in the whole world, the species is definitely over. Time to start blowing shit up, boys! I mean, women are condemned as the evil of humanity too often by the ignorant and guilt-laden. Could that burden be born by a single chick? What if she’s…say…unfortunate looking? I think an assassination attempt would be in the works in the first hours. But then again, knowing that since civilization has failed and that the entire security force in this world would have nothing left to protect, she’d probably be entrusted to good, safe hands. Ah, who knows? I’m just glad it hasn’t happened. Anyway, it’s a good comic. Check it out. And buy an Ipod. They’re like the old friend you never met.