Lost In the Hive

The Vancouver riots? NOT My Doing

2011-06-21T10:22:00.005-05:00

The same evening the Boston Bruins captured their first Stanley Cup in almost 30 years, a crestfallen horde of Canucks fans in Vancouver expressed their disappointment by laying waste to their own city. As I think about it now, this makes as much sense as trying to salvage your marriage by banging your wife’s sister, or declaring war against an overseas despot and then hunting your neighbors with a crossbow. (It makes even less sense if your wife's sister is hot or if any of your neighbors are jerks.)

Still, since the turmoil didn’t occur in or near Chicago—in fact, happened 2, 160 miles from my house—I felt no direct effects of the unrest. Most of my family in Canada is even more distant from Vancouver, so I felt pretty confident my mom wasn't doing the stop-drop-and-roll in a public park.

Here’s the funny thing, though: within hours, my voice mailbox started to fill with questions from some of my American friends.

“Sooooo Brian, how about what happened in Van…cou…ver?”

“Oh my God…did you hear what your fellow Canadians did?”

As near as I can tell, the thinking behind these calls went something like this:

1.       Something newsworthy happened in Canada.
2.       The Canadian event was newsworthy enough to receive coverage in the U.S.
3.       Brian came from Canada.
4.       Brian must therefore have an opinion about what happened in Canada, and
       4b. He probably knows some of the parties involved.

This logic baffles me. I haven’t lived in Canada since 1998. I’ve only been to Vancouver once—and, when I visited, nobody threw a Molotov cocktail at me, so I thought the city was gorgeous. I’m a Toronto Maple Leafs fan; when they’re out, I don’t automatically cheer for another Canadian team (in fact, during the first round of the playoffs, I wanted the Blackhawks to thrash the Canucks). And, in spite of the notion that Canadians are a peaceful sort who (a) always eat their recommended daily allowance in fiber, (b) have daily contact with polar bears, and (c) never utter a harsh word, I’m not surprised when (d) some of my countrymen act like idiots. I’ve known some. Most often, these few act like idiots because (a) they’re idiots, and (b) Canadians love their beer almost as much as hockey. I presume at least some of those idiots live in Vancouver.

I responded to the news with the same strong reaction I would have afforded riots in Boston, New York or Tuscaloosa (all of which are closer in distance than Vancouver):

“Huh.” This followed by, "Was anyone topless?"

Had a neighbor thrown a rock through my window—two days’ driving distance from Vancouver, but a hell of a lot closer to my non-rock-resistant skull—my response would have been more immediate:

“Hey, what’s with the rock? And where are you going with my flat-screen?”

I love both Canada and the U.S., but little that happens there affects me nearly as much as almost everything that happens here. And yet I’m the Canadian ambassador to almost every American I know whenever Canadians do something stupid. Which got me thinking: what if I called these same friends to hold them personally accountable for everything that happens here?

On the same day as the Vancouver riots—June 15—a report revealed that 70 percent of guns in Mexico came from the U.S. I did not phone my friends to see if they could fix me up with an AK-47 to deal with chipmunks under my front porch. If I get desperate enough, I'll buy a cat.

In Wichita, KS, the temperature rose 20 degrees in just 20 minutes, and yet I did not yell at anyone for fucking with my polar ice cap.

In California, Arnold Schwarzenegger’s mistress confessed that she and Maria Shriver cried together when the truth about Arnie’s love child came out. I spoke of this with no one, because I couldn’t give a shit.

Sure, I could have placed these calls. After all, they happened in the U.S. and many of my friends are American. But I didn’t. As a "nice" Canadian—one of the mostly non-idiotic, non-looting-and-pillaging, I've-never-lived-within-a-thousand-miles-of-Vancouver variety—I don’t play that way.

Not a Tough Guy...Brian Watches "One Man, One Jar"

2011-04-27T10:27:00.000-05:00

A few weeks ago, our friends Jack and Kristin visited our home for a few drinks. During a conversation that I had, of course, directed toward the inappropriate, I mentioned that I had once walked into a room as my older boys were watching "Two Girls, One Cup". If you've seen it, you know just how disgusting it is; if you haven't, consider yourself fortunate.

Jack then asked if I'd ever seen "One Man, One Jar". I had not. The attached video (via Facebook) shows my reaction to viewing it for the first time.

WARNING: I swear like a sailor throughout, and Patty's background commentary is equally appalling. At about the mid-point, I convince myself it's completely fake; however, this doesn't keep me from squirming.

Ambigiously Successful Negotiations in the Digital Age (Part II)

2011-04-26T13:20:00.001-05:00

In the following exchange, can you tell who's incredibly busy and distracted and who has just enough time on his hands to be hopelessly annoying?

The rest of the exchange has been omitted, because Patty doesn't find this funny.

Can YOU Find the Hidden Cottage Cheese Container?

2011-04-26T13:01:00.000-05:00

Last night, when my fifteen-year-old son and his unceasing hunger ventured in from outside, I told them they could find leftover chili in the fridge, in a cottage cheese container at the front of the middle shelf. As I would soon learn, I have a tendency to be too vague in my descriptions.

How trained is your eye? Can you spot it? I'll give you a hint: it's in a blue-and-yellow container. Oh, and it's on the MIDDLE shelf, at the FRONT.

"Where is it again, Dad?"

"On the middle shelf, at the front. It's in a cottage cheese container."

"Huh. Hmm. It's not here."

"Really? I just put it there. Did you look?"

"Yes, I looked. It's not here. Are you sure? I see yogurt."

"Yes, there's yogurt. But there's no chili in yogurt containers, to the best of my knowledge. But I can tell you there IS chili in a cottage cheese container. Right there in the front. Middle shelf. Probably by the yogurt."

"No. It's not here."

"It's in a blue container, with a yellow band. It's right there. Really. Did you look AROUND the yogurt?"

"Yes. It must be gone. All that's here is a tub."

"Oh, okay. One question. Is it a cottage cheese tub?"

"Yes."

"Well?"

"I was looking for a clear container with the words 'cottage cheese' on top."

"Yes, son, of course you were"

Priceless. I can't WAIT to show this to future girlfriends.

P.S. In case you couldn't spot the blue-and-yellow cottage cheese container at the front of the middle shelf, check out the reveal below:

See? It's really there!

Ambigiously Successful Negotiations in the Digital Age (Part I)

2011-04-26T10:47:00.000-05:00

From a Google Chat exchange with Patty just moments ago:

It's "Write My Own Obituary" Day

2011-03-29T12:30:00.001-05:00

Here's how I imagine it going down:

LOCAL WRITER FOUND DEAD, HAPPY IN SUBURBAN CHICAGO HOME

CHICAGO (Reuters)—Controversial and as-yet-mostly-unknown author Brian O’Mara-Croft, 44, was found dead in his suburban Chicago home yesterday morning in what some on the scene described as “offputting” conditions and at least one regarded as "unspeakably inappropriate."

Although details are as yet unclear, one EMT confirmed the deceased bore a broad grimace pasted across his countenance and a portion of his lower anatomy trapped in “alarming rigor”. Emergency workers quickly left the scene, some holding their pinkie fingers up for delighted onlookers, others in tears.

Said one: “I’m not crying for him. I’ve never even heard of him. Still, alive or deceased, nobody should have to see that.”

His wife of almost 10 years, Patty, shrugged for reporters.

“He died as he lived.” She batted away a tear. “He’d have wanted it this way.”

O’Mara-Croft, who sought international renown for his not-so-family-friendly descriptions of rabbit penises, bat penises, monkey penises, penises ensnared in vacuums and anything “genitalesque”, but whose stated ambition to be "The next Charlie Sheen, admired by millions," was never realized, appears to have suffered a fatal stroke at a time some would consider inopportune. The local coroner refused to speculate whether the film, “Treat Me Like the Pig that I Am #32”, found in the deceased’s DVD player, played any role in his death.

Tearful, his wife added, “I was tired. He was annoyingly drunk. He acted like a big man about how he’d forge on in spite of my refusals.” Looking thoughtful, she added, “I guess this was one journey Mr. Loved-by-Millions needed to take on his own.”

O’Mara-Croft, author of Lost in the Hive, is survived by five children who, although not reached for comment, have been observed smiling and cheerful in spite of the news. A friend of one observed, “You can’t even begin to imagine the weight off of my friend’s shoulders. No son should ever open his Facebook page to a photo of his father dancing in a snowbank in a purple thong. NO son.”

Another friend, who refused to be named, added, “Based on what I saw, I can understand his obsession with penile enhancement. The thong shot looked like two raisins wrestling a malformed earthworm in a frozen coin purse.” On the coroner’s report, the same lower region was described as “average for a Caucasian male.”

Funeral arrangements have yet to be disclosed, although most family members have confirmed they see no reason to attend on a "laundry day".

Reporters caught up with O’Mara-Croft’s widow as she appeared to be pricing coffins at various warehouse stores.

“I came for the jumbo bag of pretzels,” she said, before adding, "And I found them. It's all good."

O’Mara-Croft, in his writing, sought to get a rise out of all of us; ironically, it would seem the rise he got out of himself was his undoing. He will not be missed.

Lost in the Hive CONTEST!!!

2011-03-21T15:12:00.001-05:00

My artist-wife Patty created the candy jar shown for the book launch of my book, Lost in the Hive. When this page reaches 500 followers, or when my Facebook "author" page (http://tinyurl.com/4fxxto4) hits 1,000 fans, we will draw a name at random and ship the winner a similar (not exact) "Lost in the Hive"-themed candy jar. Pass it on!!!

Cheers,
Brian

P.S. Depending on how long it takes to reach those lofty heights, the jar may contain my ashes.

Sarcastic SWM Seeks Wealthy Nymphomaniac

2011-03-17T13:46:00.000-05:00

As I goofed off on the web this morning, pretending I was doing something that counts for anything, I happened upon this gem from the Fragrant Liar blog. In one of her latest posts, "Fragrant" (a strange first name that hints at qualities sensual and/or unsettling) riffs on her recent frustrations with online dating.

This got me thinking: If Patty finally does run off with a guy who (a) gets dressed for work, (b) isn't a bum and, therefore, (c) isn't me, and I'm cast back into the world of the love-starved (some females) and sex-starved (all males), how might I make myself stand out from the crowd?

Here's what I came up with:

MALE SEEKS FEMALE(S):
Bitter, sarcastic DWM, 44, offers simple tastes, simple thoughts, filthy habits. Has teeth, limbs, too-cute wiry hairs on eyebrows and earlobes. Orson Wellesy physique with seductively rounded torso. Inert. Has worked in past. Heavy smoker; even heavier drinker. Very efficient lovemaker. Coward. Fond of occasional showers. Crybaby. Will lick your face when you're angry to cheer you up. Favorite time of day is sex o'clock (get it? I'm full of such verbal treats). Bit of a foodie--most meals consist of (a) ground beef, (b) pasta or (c) ground beef and pasta. Slob. Will help pick lingerie painful and humiliating to you but fashionable and desirable to me. Will not mark territory with urine (bathroom floor and shower curtain excluded). Amateur photographer and videographer (see "lingerie", above). Words like "dropsy" and "ballcock" make me giggle, sometimes for hours. Charmingly flatulent. You: gainfully employed and/or wealthy, nymphomaniac, 24/7 sports watcher, ten toes, should have pulse.

What do you think? Do you sense a possible love connection?

SUPERZERO--The Adventures of Cap'n Thundersomething

2011-03-13T11:28:00.000-05:00

This morning, while relishing an activity Patty deems inappropriate fodder for stories (I was pooping), I happened upon an article in People Magazine called “Superheroes Among Us.” Across the nation, homegrown do-gooders like the Dark Guardian and Phantom Zero don pajamas and bug goggles and hit the mean streets of NY, SF, DC and other acronyms and/or cities. Some fight crime. Others promote patriotism (more difficult than chasing junkies from dark alleys). Still others help the homeless.

At first, I chuckled and thought, “Dorks”. I even reflected upon how super-awesome I was by comparison. And then I realized these 24/7 Halloween people were actually helping those less fortunate. My position softened. From this point forward, they’re Dorks...with Purpose.

Let’s face it: we’ve all yearned for a special gift. As a man, my first dozen items are, of course, carnal. Most involve the moniker "Cap’n ThunderPenis" (sounds best, I think, when pronounced Cap'n Th-th-thuuuuuuuuuuuuuunderPenis)—which, to this day, my wife Patty refuses to call me, even during yay-you’re-drunk-you-can-talk-dirty sex. Patty, of course, focuses on the practical.

“I wish I could just wave a wand and have all this mess go away.”

I look around at our immaculate kitchen, poke my head around the corner into our shiny family room and say, “But the house is spotless.” Whereupon Patty shakes her head and fixes me with a subzero stare.

“No…ALL this mess.”

When I was a kid, I wanted to be the all-powerful cowboy liberating the world from bloodthirsty Indians. BLAM! POW! BLAMMO! The heathen would try to flee, but I’d gun them all down. This would go on for hours, with no adult pausing the action even long enough to inform us that ethnic cleansing, even for pretendsies, was—oh, how to put this—fucking shameful. Even if I can justify my behavior by saying, “I was just a kid,” or “We were less informed in those days,” how then do I explain my assigning the Italian neighbor boys the recurring role of Indians, because somehow that seemed logical?

Some never lose their sense of childhood magic, the dreams of leading good against evil in epic battles. Our son Devin, at almost 21, still poses philosophical questions like, “If the characters from Pokemon went into battle against the Transformers, who would win?” Patty would reply, “ “* and walk out of the room. I would guess, “Transformers”, which would lead to a 10-minute dissertation about special abilities possessed by the Charizard that Megatron would kill for.

* silence.

When I finished the article (did I mention I'd been pooping?) and returned to the bedroom, I asked Patty, “What special ability could make me a superhero?”

Without a pause: “Well, you drink VERY well.”

“What kind of gift is THAT?”

“Well, you don’t get nasty when you’re drunk.” I was struggling to picture a costume—something bottle-shaped, like me—when Patty added, “But you sometimes get maudlin.”

“Example?”

“Well, you cry during the American national anthem.”

“What’s wrong with that? I’m a patriot!”

“You’re a Canadian!”

Patty then asked what superhero she could be. Drunkman answered without thinking. Mistake.

“How about ‘The Cold Fish’?”

Patty’s mouth fell open. I didn’t dare mention the resemblance to a largemouth bass. She said, “So be it. I’ll be The Cold Fish. No problem*. Nope, no problem at all.”

*Problem.

Patty then renamed me “Offensiveman”, a nod to my gift for saying the most inappropriate thing in every situation. The name will probably stick.

The conversation continued. If we were superheroes, there's a pretty good chance our offspring must also have special powers. So, since Sunday mornings are tailor-made for meaningless whimsies, meet our SuperKids:

THE SMOOCH (aka Devin): Exceptional kissing skills, as evidenced by the 200 or so nauseating Facebook photos of him with his mouth inside his girlfriend’s, like a mother bird barfing up earthworms for her young. Evil.

THE EGOTIST (aka P.J.): Unshakeable belief that no matter how much those around him wish he’d bite his tongue, he feels the world will be a better place when he speaks his mind. We don’t call upon his evil powers often.

THE INDIVIDUALIST (aka Colin): Different from everyone else. If you like something, he won’t. Then, just maybe, you won’t either. And then he’ll like it, because you don’t. Needless to say, he’s quite evil, unless you tell him he is.

TIME STANDS STILL GIRL (aka Kelly): Able to freeze time. No matter what time the family is leaving, or the amount of advance notice provided, and even amid threats of impending child abuse, never walks out the door until everyone else has spent at least 15 minutes grumbling in the car. Unspeakably evil.

THE BEFUDDLER (aka Connor): Promotes insanity. Could convince felons to go straight simply by promising not to ask another pointless question, like, “If you’re such a superhero, why do bears hibernate next to the swallows of San Capistrano?” Evil incarnate.

So we’re all superheroes or supervillains of a sort. Some have more to offer the world than others. Who YOU gonna call?

So You Want to Be an Author...REALLY?

2011-03-05T09:05:00.001-06:00

On June 30, 2009, as I finished my best-ever conversation with my literary agent, I escaped the mammoth throng of faceless aspiring writers and jumped into the more exclusive club of the faceless soon-to-be-published. Lost in the Hive, my collection of off-the-wall true stories, morphed from pie-in-the-sky dream to new reality.

As my kids would say, I was hella stoked.

After the requisite happy dance—and the fleeting thought, “Move over, David Sedaris, there’s a new neurotic humorist in town”—my mind flooded with questions: Would I find summers in Key West too searing? Would Scorsese understand that only George Clooney could capture the requisite “me-ness” to render the film adaptation an Oscar favorite? How on earth could I protect a chapter devoted solely (and self-lovingly) to masturbation? And on my first of a tiresome series of appearances on Oprah, should I go shabby-chic or prom-formal?

In seconds, my brain swapped Fords for Maseratis, modest bungalows for lakefront estates, friends for groupies, anonymity for celebrity, papa for paparazzi.

It took months to extract my bulbous melon from the haven of self-delusion that, these days, passes only for my ass.

Oh, we’ve all heard the stories. Lonely single mom writes fantasy about wizard boy and—poof—becomes more popular than both The Beatles and Christ. Dad says shit, son gets rich. Ex-first-lady scores eight million to dish about the most famous appendage in the free world.

With such boundless fame and fortune swirling about, how much pie could the rest of us—The Newly Published—expect to tuck into?

If you’re already famous, or struggle to find pants that can accommodate both your frame and the cascade of horseshoes raining out your posterior, you’ll get your fill. If you’re a mere mortal, get ready to spend years wondering if you might better have made your name by duping the media about your toddler taking a solo flight in a hot-air balloon.

So, for those of you who aspire to be—or have just learned you’re to become—a published author, allow me to throw a colossal, well-chilled bucket of truth in your face. No charge. And please, no tears.

Truth 1:
You probably won’t be famous

My book hit the shelves in June of 2010. In spite of the best efforts of my publisher, and a near-manic flurry of self-promotion that started months before and that continues to fill my every breathing moment, get this:

I’m still not famous.

Oh, at my local bookstore, the owners may tell a customer, “Here’s one of our local authors,” and I may be rewarded with a tight smile and a, “Oh, how nice for you,” but my presence generates little more enthusiasm than had the owners said, “There’s a few cookies left in the kids’ section. Help yourself.”

My wife is a teacher. We cannot walk our streets without tripping over current and former students. I walk in my spouse’s shadow. If I say hello to most folks, they still avert their gaze.

I’m not bitter. Okay, I’m a little bitter.

Truth 2:
You probably won’t be rich

In 2004, before much of the publishing world swirled down the toilet, 950,000 of the 1.2 million books published in the U.S. sold fewer than 99 copies. Few books ever sell more than 3,000 copies.

If the new math eludes you, allow me to elucidate: This really, really blows.

And it gets worse.

Most authors receive 10 percent of the cover price each time their book sells. If you have an agent, he or she receives 15 percent of this. So, for each copy of my book that moves at its cover price of 15 dollars, I receive $1.27. At 1,000 sales, I’ll come away with $1,270. At 5,000, I’ll pocket $6,350—hardly enough to qualify me as a Beverly Hillbilly, and a bit less than I’d earn as a panhandler.

For six months of full-time toil, this figures out to between a quarter and a dollar per hour. When I was a kid, I wouldn’t even run an errand for my ailing grandfather for these wages. And he paid cash.

Bottom line: if you’re doing this for the money…don’t.

Truth 3:
Book tour? Hahahahaha

Unless you’ve written a book for which a publisher is itching to mortgage its future—or, in other words, you’re a demigod or better—don’t count on your book as the passport to world travel. For most, the “book tour” is an abstraction; in reality, to get your name out there, you’ll fish through your own wallet, time and again, to sell just a handful of books.

Example: I was invited to headline a book signing at a small store in a smaller town an hour west of my home. The costs associated with this visit—gas, meals and such—came to roughly $100. I bought a book from the host store (which an author should always do). New total: $127. To break even, I would need to peddle 100 books. I sold two. To see my books in the hands of two new readers, I invested $124…and that’s for one event.

Moral of the story: if you want to get your name out there—to meet your “fans”—first check the depth of your pockets.

Truth 4:
You may only get one kick at the can

Somebody once told me that your first and second books are “gateway” books, the ditchweed you smoke before the big houses hook you on the heroin of popularity that comes from being a “name” author.

This may be true—as yet, I wouldn’t know—but I do know you have to get to the second book before you get to the third. Have you ever tried to secure a loan when you don’t have credit? Same principle. If your first book struggles for sales—yes, even good books flop—you’ll deteriorate overnight from beautiful swan to ugly duckling. If your book sales soar, you’ll be the belle of the ball; if they don’t, your balls could be bells and nobody would listen.

If you want to be the proud parent of more than one book, do this: sell your house, your soul and, if you’ve got the equipment for it, your body, to get people to read and talk about that first book. You’ll feel dirty, but you’ll have to get dirty if you dream of becoming dirty rich.

Truth 5:
Nobody cares about your story

You may have a fascinating story to tell. See “Oh, how nice for you,” above. Too bad nobody cares. Before you ever contact anyone in the publishing world, ask yourself, “Do I have a fascinating story to SELL?”

In the months since Lost in the Hive reached stores, I’ve thrown myself into two projects: a second collection of humorous essays, and a less rib-tickling memoir of my wife’s near-fatal heart attack and battle with heart disease.

Both are—in my opinion and my agent’s—good, compelling books. I even allow myself the vanity that they’re on par with books you’ll know more than mine.

The few editors who’ve previewed them agree. I’ve been told, “This is hilarious,” and “The story of your wife is heartbreaking.” In each case so far, though, I’ve also been told, “This just isn’t a strong fit for our list right now.” This sounds encouraging, but really it’s publisher-speak for, “Thanks for checking in; now please go away.” Even the best authors in the world know this schtick.

If you want to seduce Random House, Penguin or another of the big boys, you’d better be one amazing, timely and unique writer, or a successful writer who’s already seduced them and left them spent and breathless with your bestseller-list stamina. And that’s just the foreplay.

You’d also better have a selling proposition that blows publishers’ skirts up. You’re too late for zombies, vampires or vampire-hunter presidents. Publishing is a business of dreams, to be sure, but never forget it’s a business, and a fickle one at that.

So know what makes your story stand out, and do your song and dance. Then hope and pray. Failing that, find two or fewer degrees of separation between you and Lady Gaga. I’m no relation; I checked.

Truth 6:
Don’t trade your dream for anything

Since this piece is about truths, I won’t lie—no battle scars will deter me from my dream, and no amount of suckling on the chapped teat of publishing will leave me feeling anything but thirsty. I’ve written a book; ergo, I am an author. Even if I’m never a famous author, and even if the half-life of embarrassment generated by my written candor spans generations, I’ll know I’ve left a legacy.

Oh, and I believe in the ideal marriage of editor and author. I know there’s a special someone out there for me, a literary soulmate who will love me (okay, my work) enough to stand at the altar with me and beyond— ‘til death (or declining sales) do us part.

Sure, if nobody on Earth ever again buys anything I’ve written, I will be crushed. I wrote the stories because I had something real to say, and I’ve always hoped others would listen. If a million people buy Lost in the Hive, I will believe in it just as much—no more, no less—than I did when I first submitted it for consideration.

I’ll persist even when everything tells me I should quit. “Everything” can shut the hell up.

If you want to write, write. You may never find an editor willing to amplify your voice to the world, but you will have done something toward a goal.

At every book signing, I meet someone who says, “Have I got a story for you;” or, “I’m a writer, too;” or, “Can I borrow your pen?” When I ask these aspiring authors where their projects stand, most point to their heads and say, “It’s all in here.” News flash: it’s no good in there. Set it free.

For much of my life I dreamed of being a writer. On June 30, 2009, my dream came true. It’s not precisely the dream I thought I’d get, and it’s not a complete dream, but it’s a dream nonetheless. And I’m living it.

As insane as this may seem, and even if it means I never wash the bitter taste of mediocrity from my mouth, I would give anything, spend anything, do anything, to forever taste this bile, to feel these frustrations, to stay—however tenuously—in this club.

NOTE: If you would like a PDF version of this entry, you can get it HERE.

One of my drones

2011-02-28T06:56:00.000-06:00

Hi everyone:

My son Connor, one of the "drones" from my book Lost in the Hive, once agreed to have his head shaved in support of an aunt and cousin who were battling cancer. Things didn't go as well as we had expected. Please check it out!

Cheers,

Brian

Parenting...the biggest chore of all

2011-01-07T16:16:00.000-06:00

My daughter speaks:

“I will empty the entire dishwasher,” she says to her younger brother—in the same “And just before God napped on Day Seven, He created Me” tone most of us reserve for to-dos like touching up the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel—“But only if you take out all the garbage.”

My son responds, “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…”, as though we’d asked him to clean my office or pop a boil in my armpit without using his hands or tools. For emphasis, his shoulders, arms, back and legs immediately morph into a wet paste, and a reluctant blob slimes its way into the kitchen.

These high-powered negotiations are de rigueur around our home. I suppose, as parents, we should be more understanding; after all, besides being the ones paying for absolutely everything, we have the gall to carve a merciless 15 minutes into their quality draped-over-a-chair time (and, in the process, allow them to fall 150 texts or so behind). I also suppose I should be able to throw a 95-mph fastball, understand why there’s even one iota of appeal in shows like Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, or fix something…anything. But I cannot, so I settle. I act like a raving bitch.

True, it’s not our children’s fault they were born to parents who—horror of fuckity-fuck horrors—expect them to carry their weight (or at least a portion of it, from the kitchen to the garage). But it’s also not entirely our fault they developed an absurd sense of entitlement that allows them to say, in all sincerity, “But I mowed the lawn twice last year.”

I’ll take some of the blame, but most of it I’ll lay squarely at the feet of those parents who present chores as an option rather than an expectation. If you’ve ever said (or nodded at) the expression, “Let them be children—they’ll grow up fast enough,” watch your back.

Where the hell have I been?

2010-12-14T09:23:00.002-06:00

Sorry I haven't been writing much here of late. I've been working on a second book, helping out with a sick family member, and working on a video trailer for my first book, LOST IN THE HIVE. I'll be posting again soon...in the meantime, please check out the book trailer.

Cheers,
Brian

Death By Ladybug

2010-10-24T14:55:00.000-05:00

Call me morbid, but, in recent days, as I’ve tried to drift off at night, I’ve been convinced I’ll die a violent death while I slumber. My thoughts flood with the prospect of a demise almost beyond imagining:

Death … by ladybug.

They’re everywhere. Before I close my eyes, I try to count how many have taken residence on the ceiling. There’s no real logic in this. It’s one of those “enemy you know” scenarios, like when one counts rabid sheep. My subconscious tells me that if I’ve tallied thirteen, my next morning won’t suck if the same baker’s dozen are still there, and in the same place. It seldom works this way; ladybugs don’t keep the same hours.

You’d think I’d be happy to find them gone. All that does, in truth, is make me fret less about where they were, and a great deal more about where they now are. If they’re not above the bed, my brain tells me, they must be in the bed, and that does little to help me ignore the snooze button.

So I count.

There are, of course, those few lone wolves who skitter across the ceiling, left to right, front to back, shells rattling out an erratic symphony best described as ewww. They do this, making me restart my count over and over, before they come to a full stop in a tight formation directly above my head. I can’t help but think this is by design.

“One, two, three…hey, get back there! One, two…”

These rogues fear no magazine and no vacuum. They may know they’re tempting fate, but they take comfort in knowing they would die with dignity—as I hope I will, when the huddled mass of cowards in the corner (out of reach of the Dyson’s wand and too numerous to measure) swoop down and strip my bones clean while I chase butterflies and unicorns.

Then, as I watch the biggest of the spy-bugs stretch and yawn above me, I begin to worry that, before the full wave comes, an advance party will crawl into my open mouth and do a little Chorus Line, one singular sensation across my taste buds. I don’t know much about ladybugs, but I have read they bear an unpleasant taste.

How, I wonder, does anyone know this?

I’ve never seen Bobby Flay gush about Ladybug Tartare as an appetizer before a main course of Beetles à la King (“The key here, folks, is to maintain a high heat, so they don’t skip around so much, and turn them only once.”) I know not a single ladybug cuisine enthusiast, even though you might expect I would, given I live not far from counties where hounds are considered peers.

Perhaps I’m not adventurous enough, but when I see a vulgar insect, I don’t imagine how appetizing it would be on a toast point with a garlic aoli and a sprig of thyme.

“Patty, you have to try this. It's divine. Just remember...the antennae are garnish.”

I don’t want to eat it. I want to kill it before it kills me. I don’t want my last seconds on earth to be plagued with the realization there’s at least one thing I abhor more than brussels sprouts. So, with few other logical options, I wake Patty. After she clears enough fog from her eyes to feel confident in her you-insensitive-bastard glare, she grumbles, “What?”

I stay silent, but let my wide eyes drift from hers and up toward the heavens.

“Brian, what?”

“Shh-shh-shh. “Look. Up there.”

Her eyes ease up at first, and then leap from what-now to what-the-fuck in a nanosecond, just as they do when she comes home from work and finds I’ve left the toaster on the counter, a skin flick in the DVD player and a tuna-salad-soiled knife in the sink. But this moment is much juicier and preternatural. I’m shitting bricks, to be sure, but she’s shitting townhouses.

The bug nods and waves an armor-clad wing, the insect equivalent of, “Good on ya, love!” Patty does not wave back or exchange any such pleasantry. She’s a turtle now, and the paisley comforter is her cotton shell. I feel her racing pulse in my pillow.

From under the blankets, I hear, “Please, Brian … please get rid of him.”

“Him? How do you know it’s a male? It’s not like he’s pointing at us with a penis and doing a cabaret number.”

“Whatever. Get rid of her.”

“How do you know it’s a girl? It’s not like she’s…”

“Stop! Just get rid of it. Please!”

My vision’s not great, but I think the bug—boy or girl—looks wounded by her remarks.

And this is where I could be brave. I could be my wife’s Russell Crowe, her gladiator. I could grab a candle holder and squish the interloper against the ceiling with a macabre, “Hahahaha.” But another would soon take its place, and then another, and I’d spend the better part of the night naked and stretched out from mattress to ceiling—not one of my better looks. It would also mean I’d need to keep wiping the orange guts from the white paint, and I’d forget my count and have to start all over again.

No, I won’t deal with the ladybugs. I’ll hide under the sheets and hope they won’t rain down upon me, or find a way to squeeze into my eardrum. Let them host a convention to help sort out the ladybugs from the fellabugs. Hell, they can have a no-holds-barred orgy up there. I don’t care. And if, as the prayer goes, I should die before I wake, I’ll at least have better-than-average odds to shed this mortal coil from a sound slumber. I can now sleep, and sleep well, because I now know Patty will not.

Receding Heirlines

2010-10-21T12:35:00.000-05:00

"An angry father is most cruel towards himself."– Pubilius Syrus

After several lazy afternoons scanning online sites of famous quotations, searching for that one quip that would so fully encapsulate my experience as man, husband and father I could spare myself the hassle of coining my own, this nugget gave me pause. What stopped me wasn’t the message. No, all I could think was, “Wow, how angry was his father? What monster would curse his kid with the name Pubilius?”

Was it common practice in first-century BC to dole out names that sound queer both as a whole and in any shortened form? Pubilius? Why not Marcellus, which leaves its owner the option of being just “Mark”? Or John, which, because it tangles the tongue, some pronounce “Jack”? Or even “Billy”? No, scratch that—it sounds stupid, like something you’d call a one-hit-wonder country singer.

Life on the arid Syrian schoolyard could not have been a picnic for young Pubie. Still, as I digested this quote, something moved me.

An angry father is most cruel towards himself.

What kind of ridiculous shit is that? Why in god’s name would I target myself for malice when I spend every waking hour with a figurative “kick me” sign on my back? We’ll never know what the Syrus kids slipped into dad’s wine the day he penned this twaddle—perhaps just more wine—but I like to think he meant to write this:

“Only a masochistic dunderhead would be most cruel towards himself. A smart and angry father prefers to be cruel to his kids.” – Brian O’Mara-Croft

As a parent of five, I have been angry—very angry. Oh, the many flavors of rage I’ve savored. The veins in my forehead stay bulged and throbbing in mere anticipation of my next tirade. When I’m in this state, slapping a mosquito on my forehead would launch a fountain of gore. I love my children with all my heart. I just abhor the way their minds work.

Who stashed the milk next to the cookies in the pantry? Sure, I get it that Oreos and two-percent enjoy a perfect marriage, but are memories so short these items need to be kept side-by-side to recall this? Is a deafening argument in which every third word is “idiot” and every sixth word, “fuck”, really so compelling it can’t wait until I wrap up my speakerphone call with an important client? And what on earth possesses the lot of them to burst, five-wide and unannounced, into our bedroom just as I’m making my best love?

“I’m busy here! GET OUT!”

“But why are you and Mommy nakee? And why are you shoving her? Is she stuck?”

“A little. Now close the door.”

My own father was no stranger to moments of fury. He exercised the option, as did others of his generation, to position a “Board of Education” in plain view on the kitchen wall. It may well have been an idle threat, but none of we three boys dared cut in line to snatch top spot in the pecking order. He never used the paddle—although once, when the hockey stick I left on the garage floor launched the car’s side mirror, in dozens of pieces, down the driveway and into the street, I watched his hands tremble toward it.

Today, a parent merely mentions the word “spanking” in the abstract—as in, “If I don’t spank you now, I’ll always wish I had”—and a kid’s finger hovers over the first speed-dial button, a direct line to DCFS.

Just try me, old man.

At times I have been cruel, if only by accident (or, as the more particular might propose, from negligence). I’ve flipped my kids over my shoulder—“Wheeee!”—only to miss the catch on the other side (“Whoops.”) I’ve rushed their delicate noggins headlong into awnings, car doors and picture frames. I’ve led tender bare feet across lava-hot pavement. I’ve tossed baseballs and Frisbees toward their hands—and into their faces.

One night, I loaded my infant son into a “baby backpack” to join me on a winter walk. Although the air was frigid and the wind stiff, I worked up a steady sweat. My son did not. When we returned an hour later, he had to relearn the ability to walk. If you closely examine the face of this same son, now a 20-year-old survivor of my questionable parenting, you may detect a subtle shift in skin tone as you scan from left to right. Who knew sunlight beaming through car windows could permanently flash-fry an infant’s cheek?

Like baby sea turtles, some of my children may not see adulthood. Thankfully, I have spares.

Take my youngest son, Connor. Years ago, in a supermarket, I asked him to help me transfer groceries from the cart to the checkout conveyor belt. This, I thought, would both expedite the process and allow me to bond with the five-year-old. I lobbed him a box of raisin bran, and then a package of extra raisins. I tossed a tub of ice cream.

“Good job, little man. Nice snag.”

Upping the ante, I flipped a loaf of bread around my back, and a sack of Cheetos up from under my leg. He caught all with a flourish, and alley-ooped each onto the belt.

“Wow, you’re good at this. Feel like a challenge?”

He nodded and scrunched his eyes. “Bring it.”

I grabbed the next closest item —a bag of some vegetable—and split-finger-fastballed it in Connor’s direction.

Everything moved in slow motion. When this happens, you know things won’t end well. I see every movement as clearly today as a decade ago. The bag pinwheeling through the air. My son’s eyes opening wide in eager anticipation. Tiny hands snapping forward to make the grab. My wife Patty’s eyes also growing wide, her lips following suit with a dramatic “Brian!!! Noooooo…..” Connor’s fingers closing around the bag. These same digits falling back as the look of glee gives way to a mask of stark terror. The bag dropping to the floor with a dull thud. Two screams—one from him, another from Patty. An utterly dumbfounded look on my face.

“What?!?”

I’d never bought fresh artichokes before. I had no idea they were Mother Nature’s version of throwing stars. When at long last I stemmed the steady flow of tears—and ventured a tepid reply to Patty’s legitimate query about what the hell was wrong with me—I fished out the Cherry Garcia and passed the whole tub of apology to Connor.

He recoiled in terror—presuming, I’m sure, it would pop open and shower him with broken glass and starving rats. Then he pouted.

“You hurt me.”

When I removed the lid and nothing vile beset his now fractured sense of trust, he at last accepted my peace offering.

“Here…this is for you.” I looked at him, pleading. “Please don’t write a tell-all.”

He’s fourteen now, and so far has shown no interest in learning how to sign his name, let alone inscribe bitter tirades about child abuse disguised as harmless fun. He’ll even eat artichokes. I’d dodged a bullet.

On those occasions when I reflect upon my win-loss ratio as a parent—usually when there’s nothing on TV and my relentless petitioning for a midday slap-and-tickle has fallen yet again upon deaf ears—I wonder what the sum-total of my efforts will be.

Will my heirs gaze fondly on my portrait, a giant, tacky, gilt-edged monstrosity dwarfing the fireplace below? Will my descendants be known not by their given names, but as Son of Brian, or Grandson of Brian, or Second Nephew Thrice Removed—also of Brian? Or will I recede in memory until I’m no more than an insignificant skid mark on an otherwise vibrant fabric of life and the living?

Will my children ever quote me to their children or grandchildren from stories I’ve left behind? I like to imagine they’ll boast, proudly, “You know…your grandfather penned great tomes about playing with himself!” Or they’ll ask, “Can you guess how many times Grandpa violated Grandma? No? Why not read his books?” Oh, what a glorious and mysterious legacy my namesakes will inherit.

I, like all fathers, do hope my kids will take away something positive when my mortal coil unravels like every Slinky I’ve ever owned or touched. My father, I’m sure, once said to my mother, “I’ll never do that when I’m a parent.” And I once promised, “Because my parents did this, I’ll never have children. I may even lop off my penis. You just watch.” In turn, my kids will rework the parenting rules to suit their needs and circumstances. None will get it quite right; no one ever has.

Still, with any luck, they’ll remember the choices I’ve made along the way, and will learn from my mistakes. They won’t freeze, cook, bash, maim or threaten their offspring. They’ll lock the door before they go at it like minks. And, with any luck, they may gently pass artichokes into their kids’ hands, rather than hurl the entire brood into a shrieking, bloody nightmare.

Welcome to the Microcosm

2010-09-28T14:36:00.001-05:00

As the long evenings of summer disappear along with an increasingly elusive sun, as the greens transform to reds and oranges, and as the crisp air of autumn hints at the promise of winter just months away, Patty and I often give in to wanderlust (I prefer garden-variety lust, but that's another story). For Patty, our truck becomes our vessel for adventure, for meandering treks along unpaved roads with no set timetable and, often, no set destination. For me, these outings chew up hours that might otherwise be filled with home repair assignments I work so hard to avoid.

Most times, we happen upon tiny but quaint communities untouched by the hustle and bustle of urban sprawl, places that have instead adopted a more laid-back charm as their definition of progress. These villages boast wine shops, antique stores and gift boutiques, nestled among mom-and-pop office supply and shoe shops that have miraculously survived the megamall age. I'm a small-town boy, so visits to such places often inspire moments of nostalgia, and serve as a refreshing change from charmless suburbia.

Some stores offer handmade jewelry and knick-knacks by local artisans. With Patty on board, these villages cost us a small fortune, because Patty is stronger than most at finding something unique we just can’t pass up lest it be lost to us forever.

This past Saturday, we stopped at a small town where being literal was apparently the order of the day. Railroad Street ran directly parallel to the Amtrak tracks. Center Street and Main Street, running in opposite directions, divided the town. I looked on a local map, and felt no surprise to find Church Street as one of the main routes. I did feel some surprise to find no street named “Liquor Lane”, because the number of pubs in town was surpassed only by the selection of places of faith. For just a moment, as I did a tally of the saloons, I thought, "I could live here forever."

After Patty satisfied her shopping urge by picking up a pair of earrings ("We have to buy something, don't you think?"), I suggested that we stop into one of the town’s bars for a drink. She agreed. We selected one and walked through the door. We didn’t immediately realize we’d also walked through a portal into the past.

As we received our drinks, in plastic cups (which immediately made me think this was one of those places where glass is frowned upon, “just in case”), I scanned the patrons. The man beside me, who kept regaling the bartender with stories about his son—to whom he referred not by name but as “M’boy”—sported a bushy mustache that obscured both his upper and lower lips. I whispered in Patty's ear.

“Check it out. Does anyone have just a mustache anymore?”

Before she could reply, a cursory scan down the bar provided an answer. Yes. In this town, mustaches were not only acceptable but, it would seem, required. All of the men had them. I felt out of place. I felt even more conspicuous when I reached into my backpack (which caused everyone in the bar to cast a disapproving look, as though I was fishing through a Louis Vuitton purse for my lost lipstick) and pulled out my cell phone (the appearance of which inspired looks that suggested all present considered me “high-falutin’”).

At the end of the bar, two men—one with hair to his waist (and a mustache) and the other with no hair at all (other than a mustache)—entertained their female companion, who had no mustache but whose hairstyle harkened back to the rock videos of the early 80s. The less hirsute of the two kept the woman giggling with a loud demonstration of how many pot-smoking terms he knew, which he presented as an uncategorized list:

“Blunt. Mary Jane. Reefer. Bong. Spliff. Doobie. Munchies.”

He paused only long enough for her to look up and admire the expanse of arm clearly visible below his wife-beater shirt. Said shirt bore the name of yet another local bar. Another scan of the room revealed that everyone was content being a walking billboard for a vice of choice--a bar, brand of cigarettes or variety of beer.

I turned to the man next to me.

“There’s a lot of bars in town, huh?”

“Well, they come and go." He reeled off an impressive list. "Oh, and there used to be a place over on Center Street, but it wasn’t very busy, and then it burned down.” He said the latter without even a hint of suspicion. “M’boy likes the Silver Saddle.” He then turned back to his beer in a way that suggested that since I insisted on carrying a purse, future conversations were not encouraged.

I suggested to Patty that, if she was amenable, I'd be content to chug my drink immediately and hit the road. She agreed. Before we left, I stopped into the bathroom. It was designed for one person, and provided the choice of a urinal or a toilet. I chose the urinal, but looked over at the toilet just long enough to notice that another patron had opted against the urinal because doing so would mean he’d be unable to pee all over the seat. I decided we really needed to get going.

Moments later, we were back in the truck, on a freeway, with a new set of earrings and my backpack-purse, heading back to what we, in the suburbs, define as civilization.

Room...and bored

2010-09-16T13:00:00.000-05:00

At age 17, I left my hometown of 13,000 people and moved to a modest basement apartment in the northern part of Toronto. An ambitious college student who was relieved to have at last escaped the perceived hell of rural living, I quickly became homesick, and took the train home many weekends.

On one such return visit, my parents informed me they had offered up the use of the sofa in my new pad, free of charge, to the daughter of an acquaintance.

"You did what?"

"We told her she could stay with you. It's only for a month."

"But why?" You should imagine a whine here.

"Because it seems like the right thing to do. Besides, her family has always been good to us."

"Dad, you are a customer in her father's restaurant. A paying customer. No, wait...a regular, paying customer. Getting a good breakfast that you paid for doesn't really qualify as a debt owed."

My arguments fell on deaf ears. My parents paid most of the cost of my apartment, so it was mostly their space to loan out to any near-strangers for whom they felt the slightest affinity. Besides, they pointed out I could get rides home on weekends from my new roomie, who owned a car. I might have offered more of a protest but, well, my mom intimidated me. She still does.

Pat (not her real name; okay, I’m lying, it was her real name) moved in early the next week. At first, I wasn’t completely averse to the idea of having a companion. My apartment was a 90-minute transit ride from my school, so none of my fellow students wanted anything to do with visiting me. I had been spending most evenings (a) sitting in a chair watching television and chewing my nails, (b) playing with myself, (c) pretending I had no laundry and a surplus of friends, and (d) waiting for my landlord to go out for the evening so I could steal some of the weed he stashed under his sofa cushions.

On top of this boundless excitement, having a living, breathing person around didn’t seem horrible, although it would put some constraints on (b).

"Okay, Dad, she can stay...but just for a month."

He looked at me the same way I now look at my kids whenever they refer to our home as "my house".

"You're doing the right thing, son."

Within a week, I discovered that I truly could hate a person more than I hate sauerkraut or laundry. Allow me to explain.

First, the rides home. Pat liked to smoke cigarettes, but didn’t buy smokes.

"I'm not really a smoker."

This meant that any cigarette I lit became a community smoke for smokers and non-smokers alike. I wouldn’t have minded so much were it not for the fact Pat was what we called a “juicer”. This meant that the dry cigarette I passed to her returned seconds later as a hot, spit-saturated sponge caked in lipstick. The shoulders of highways across Southern Ontario became littered with half-finished cigarettes thanks to yours truly. My lung capacity began to improve.

The worst part of living with Pat, though, was her immediate comfort in my space. Case in point: she enjoyed talking on the phone. My phone. Nobody could reach me. For all I knew, every person I had ever known could have died and been buried and I wouldn’t have had a clue. I seethed, but said nothing.

I said nothing because interrupting any of Pat’s conversations—all of which were, apparently, of national importance—caused her to toss me that subtle, “And what the fuck do YOU want?” glare. Besides, interrupting her calls would mean going into my own bedroom, which had largely become off-limits except when she decided I could sleep. I didn’t want any part of that space, because Pat apparently felt all calls were somehow enhanced if she took them while sprawled, face down, on my bed, in an oversized sweatshirt…and undersized panties. Sounds kinda hot, right? Not so much.

I blame my frustration for my judgmental nature. Really, a kinder person would describe my roommate’s posterior as “voluptuous”, “generous” or “Rubenesque”. I was not such a person, so I recalled it to friends (and the strangers I was soon hitting up for conversation) as “Jesus, that is one huge dimpled golf-ball of an ass”. Below said Titleist were ample legs that resembled balloons from which air was slowly escaping. Until I saw my first Vermeer painting years later, the term “milky white” brought no positive images to mind; all I could think about were Pat’s limp, cellulite-clad limbs. (In case you were wondering, I was bitter.)

For the month Pat stayed with me, she proved to be long on promises and short on delivery. Every day I heard about the cases of beer and countless food items that would soon be clogging our fridge. I heard about the good times we’d share visiting parties and bars. Instead, for weeks, I stayed thirsty, hungry...and out of my room.

When Pat finally left, I spent an entire evening stretched out on my bed, taking long, satisfying (and deliciously dry) drags on one cigarette after another, dreaming of beer and food, and relishing my new-found independence.

My brother moved in a week later.

Seems I'm (almost) human after all

2010-08-25T14:39:00.000-05:00

Over recent months, my wife Patty has ~~bitched incessantly~~ pointed out that her quirks and foibles too often inspire me as I craft blog entries, write stories for my books (existing and in-progress) or update the Facebook fan page for my book. She asks, "Why don't you turn the focus back on yourself?" In response, I roll my eyes and cluck, in part because I have very few noteworthy quirks, and in part because I like to cluck when the opportunity presents itself.

Of course, you and I both know she’s being irrational (yet another of her delightful quirks). However, in the interests of ~~self-preservation~~ equity, I list below a handful of my own unique qualities; I hesitate to call them “quirks” because they’re so darned adorable, as you will see.

I absolutely will not enter a bathroom with anything in my mouth, with perhaps the exception of cigarettes (which, because of a medical condition—uncontrolled addiction—I require at all times), and my tongue, teeth and uvula, and only because I haven’t figured out a safe, temporary way to remove them for the duration of bathroom visits.
I have a Chicken Little complex. If it’s especially sunny outside, only dusk convinces me the day won’t end with the world as a giant, glowing fireball, upon which the only things that will survive are me, thousands of cockroaches, a heavy winter coat and a boxed set of the Twilight books. Everything that happens over the course of my daily comings-and-goings bears ominous overtones, most of which seem certain to lead me to (a) poverty, (b) incarceration, (c) erectile dysfunction, (d) a slow, painful death, (e) all of the above, or (f) all of the above…on a giant fireball.
If I’m upset with someone, I will not make eye contact with them. I will address all comments during any dispute to either the television or my cocktail glass. If someone asks me to look at them while we’re talking, I simply blur out my vision and pretend I’m focusing on them, even though I'm basically blind. To seem less rude, I conduct most arguments from adjoining rooms, from which I can yell my side of the argument and pretend not to hear any retorts.
I rarely use the appropriate utensils when preparing and/or serving food. My preferred tool for almost everything is the wooden spoon, which means that any soup I prepare takes 45 minutes to move from pot to bowl and contains no more than 10% liquid (which is, incidentally, how I prefer my soup).
I cannot follow a recipe without adding at least three ingredients not listed. This fierce sense of individualism has, on more than one occasion, been catastrophic in the culinary sense. So, although I believe both onions and garlic are delicious elements in almost everything, they have proven to change the overall flavor of, say, apple crisp.
I am incapable of going to the store and returning only with what I went out for. If I was sent out to replenish our milk supply and went to a store that sold only (a) milk and (b) Brussels sprouts, I would buy both, even though I abhor Brussels sprouts.

I hope my wife is happy. I am human. I have quirks. As mentioned, they’re adorable quirks, but they’re quirks just the same.

Yep...I'm a Facebook Whore

2010-07-02T11:38:00.001-05:00

I never expected this. What happened to me? How did I become such a shameless, addicted, sucking-on-the-teat-of-social-media Facebook slut? Over the past few years, I’ve transformed—from a hidden-identity lurker seething at pictures of my kids in state of partial undress with smoke pouring from their mouths, or gasping at their boundless fondness for the word “fuck” in routine correspondence—to a person who spends most of my waking hours either (a) on Facebook, or (b) wondering what’s happened on Facebook since the last time I logged in.

I have two Facebook pages. One is my personal page; to put it gently, it’s boring as shit. My second page, which I use to promote my book, is an endless obsession. Every time the number of “fans” (or “likes”) drops by even a single number, I freak out. “What did I say/do/not do? Who left? How can I get them back? Do I smell bad/odd/like death? How can they smell me? Why am I such a stupid, stupid, stupid person? If I updated my Facebook in the middle of a forest, would a tree fall on me?”

I look at the ratings of my “post quality”, and wonder what I have to do to make people more engaged in the content (the more they respond and share your stuff, the better your rating.) Oh, and at least once a week, I find a way to use the words “vagina”, “penis” or some derivative, because, at heart, I’m an oversexed thirteen-year-old boy who still giggles at farts. Just this past week, I enjoyed a spike in fans based on my discussion of how killer whales can be masturbated (hint: it involves a water-filled cow vagina and a steady hand).

Still, in spite of my addiction, I do have limits. I have no interest in how many sad llamas, treasured golden mystery eggs or sacks of high-quality cow shit my grammar-school classmate will share, nor do I care how many other pals my pals have dispatched to secure their vaunted ranks in the mob hierarchy. I’m too competitive. If I started playing those games, I would play for keeps. So, in the interests of not losing real-world friends because I stole their imaginary “party duck” or rare collectibles, I refrain.

I will NEVER use “LOL” or “ROFL” or “ROFLMAO” in any discussion. I may find something hilarious, but not enough to make me tip over and writhe on the carpet. Sorry. Besides, how compelling is this sort of chat session?

Them: Hi Brian.

Me: Hi.

Them: What are you doing?

Me: Oh, nothing.

Them: Hahaha. Me too, LOL. Nice day, LOL.

Me: Yes. Nice. Great day to do nothing!

Them: ROFLMAO!

Me: Yeah.

Them: Okay, LOL, talk to you later, LOL.

Me: Bye.

On the plus side, Facebook does help make the world a more intimate, accessible place. In the past few weeks, I’ve reconnected with a handful of childhood friends. Every time I find one, I feel like I've discovered a cure for cancer or a way to boil a perfect hard-boiled egg. Of course, one soon realizes that over the course of say, thirty years, some of us have changed, and the catching up may be more work than fun.

Me: Hi!

Them: Wow, long time.

Me: Yeah. So what’s new?

Them: LOL…you mean over the past three decades, ROTFL?

[Brian is offline.]

A special day

2010-06-17T22:57:00.001-05:00

Hi everyone:

Just wanted to depart from the norm and share some exciting news with you. My first book, LOST IN THE HIVE, will be launched in grand fashion tomorrow night at Old Towne Books & Tea in Oswego, IL. Like all first-time authors, I'm plagued with insecurities about the whole thing. For example, what if it's like one of those birthdays where you invite all your friends and nobody comes? What if people read the book and hate it? What if they read it and hate me?

I put my heart and soul (as much as I have left after all those deals with you-know-who) into this book, so I hope you'll consider picking it up and giving it a go.

Thanks to all for your ongoing support; I couldn't (and can't) do it without you.

Love,
Brian

P.S. If you will in fact consider giving it a go, please order a copy from http://www.publishingworks.com/.

Introducing Nutly McMoron...A Fable with Pee

2010-06-05T15:53:00.004-05:00

When I was a high-school student (and dinosaurs still roamed the earth), I remember studying Robert Frost’s poem The Mending Wall, which taught us that “good fences make good neighbors”.

This past Thursday night, I also learned that when a clown of a neighbor threatens to call the police, said clown becomes even more agitated when you beat him to the punch. Allow me to explain.

Three neighborhood kids (including my youngest son) and a sleepover guest were outside playing Ghost in the Graveyard. At some point during the game, one or more of the participants decided to make a slight adjustment to the rules. Under new game play, instead of hiding or seeking, they upped the ante and urinated on a neighbor’s bushes and lawn. The neighbor, who (a) wasn’t invited to play, and (b) as mentioned previously, is a clown (or, if you prefer, an idiot), decided he didn’t like kids peeing all over his property.

On the surface, I agree with this gentleman-slash-douchebag. I would prefer my lawn to be just that—a lawn—rather than a toilet. Having said this, if a young kid or two peed on my bushes, and I caught them in the act, I might do something drastic like—oh, I don’t know—open my door, and say something pithy like, “Hey kids. Stop peeing on my bushes.” If they persisted, I might even be inclined to pick up the phone and say to the kids’ parents, “Forget to pay your water bill? Need a plumber?” As for my own kid, I would make him water all the plants and flowerbeds for weeks to come, since he'd shown a related interest. In the scheme of things, though, I wouldn't act like the sky was falling.

Not Mr. Douchebag. To him, this was the greatest offense man has ever perpetrated against his fellow man. Before long, I received a knock on the door. Another neighbor’s kid said to me, “Hey, someone wants to speak to you.” Immediately, I started wondering if I owed anyone money or if, in a drunken stupor some other night, I had placed my first-ever order for an eight-ball. Not so. I walked down the driveway to investigate.

“Yeah, hi. My name is Nutly McMoron [not his real name]. I just caught your son and a couple of his LITTLE FRIENDS [condescending fuck] with their dicks out, pissing ALL OVER my bushes. I should call the police for damage to my property.” I wondered what he imagined was in the kids’ urine…sulfuric acid? Weed-B-Gone? I thought of a good answer.

“Oh.”

“And if you don’t deal with them right away, I’m calling the police.”

“Oh. Well, if my son did that, I will certainly deal with him.” (Most likely by saying, "Don't do that, dum-dum.")

“Okay. I appreciate that. Cause they had their dicks out.” Yeah, I caught that. I thought about telling him that most human males who pee, unless they’re freaks, find this to be the preferred approach. I didn't, but was glad he reminded me they had the technique down.

What I didn’t realize was that Mr. McMoron planned to linger in the neighborhood for several hours until he could claim his pound of flesh. My wife Patty and I wandered over to our friends’ house to strategize. En route, the idiot yelled out, “Don’t take their word for it. They’ll lie.” Wow, a kid might lie to stay out of trouble? Unheard of!

After talking to the kids, who denied involvement in the desecration of the precious bush, we started home. The idiot was waiting outside. We ignored him and went inside. Twenty minutes later, I walked outside to hear the neighbor still ranting to another neighbor about the travesty of which he was victim. Again, he was ranting on and on about calling the police.

So, being the good neighbors we are, we saved him some trouble. We called the cops. When they arrived, one officer spoke to the man, who raved and gestured and cast aspersions not only on the local children, but also on the community at large, the police and me.

As a gesture, I suggested to “my” officer that if it would make my idiot neighbor feel better, he could come to my house and urinate on any bushes of his choice; after all, his dog pees on them daily. I even proposed that he could pee on my leg, if it would make him go inside and shut his cakehole. The officer disagreed with my suggestion, but while my neighbor flipped his lid, I quietly talked the officer into attending my book launch in a couple of weeks.

Ultimately, the cops put a little fear of god into the lads, we instructed the kids to never go near this man’s property again, and things settled back into some semblance of normalcy.

I’m thinking about building a fence—nothing major, just something modest and about twelve feet tall, with a crocodile-infested moat around it. Good NEIGHBORS make good neighbors; a good fence keeps the idiots out.

Get My Dinner or I'll Burn this Mother Down

2010-05-25T16:25:00.001-05:00

I read a charming little news piece this afternoon about a husband in West Virginia (a hotbed for stories about crazy people) who was a bit miffed his wife didn’t have his dinner on the table when he got home from whatever crazy people do on Sunday afternoons.

The guy, who looks like Leonardo (daVinci, not DiCaprio), but who clearly was no Renaissance man, opted against the traditional forms of protest—for example, asking nicely—or other alternatives, like cooking his own damned food or ordering in.

Allegedly, his dinner was important enough, and her failure to provide it egregious enough, that he set their home on fire. Nothing sends a message about unsatisfied expectations like a good four-alarm blaze, I always say. I bet next time she’ll have his fucking meat-and-potatoes on the table when he gets home from the bar, dammit!

In Montreal, another man was arrested for setting fire to his house after an argument with his wife. No details were provided about whether or not he’d eaten…but my guess would be no. I’m no expert, but I find it hard to believe any man would burn down his house on a full stomach. I know I wouldn’t.

I know what you’re thinking. Big deal. Who hasn’t threatened to torch their house during a tiff from time to time? Just the other night, Patty was wrong about something, but wouldn't accept that I'm almost always right. So, to make my point, I retrieved the gas can from the garage and set it on the kitchen counter with a note that said, "Care to rethink your position? All my love, Brian. P.S. Make me a sandwich?"

Still, I see your point. If everyone who set their house on fire justified a blog entry, there’d be blogs on that subject alone. Fire, schmire. Okay, I’ll go one better.

An overwrought pilot (and I have to weigh in with the opinion that “overwrought” and “pilot” are not a great combination) recently sent an email to his girlfriend, threatening to crash a passenger jet if she didn’t get back together with him. Again, no information on whether she’d forgotten to bring him his lunch.

Ladies – why must you make our lives so difficult?

Those with Enlarged Genitals Need Not Apply

2010-05-05T10:02:00.004-05:00

At some point during childhood, hasn’t every boy entertained a dream of becoming a police officer? Well, on the island of Papua, a starry-eyed dreamer can only become a defender of justice if he resists the not-uncommon urge to modify his penis into an absurdly oversized, bloated and painful monster.

It’s even in the job interview.

“Good morning, and thanks for coming in. Wow, your scores at the Academy are off the charts. You look like you’d be a fine protector of what’s right and just.”

“Thank you, sir. I did my best to stand out.”

“Very good. And that brings me to my first question—purely routine, but they insist on it upstairs. Been messing with that penis at all?”

“Come again?”

“Have you been working on enhancing your, er, little fella?”

“Sir?”

“It’s a simple question, son. Have you wrapped your pecker in gatal-gatal leaves? Made it all inflamed and puffy to impress the ladies and intimidate the boys in the change room?”

“But sir…”

“ANSWER the question!”

One wrong answer…"Oh, I guess I might have wrapped it in a leaf or two, but just the one time"...and the dream dies.

Much of Papua is governed by various tribes who for many years have sought independence from both the official bureaucracy and the constraints of what the good lord gave them. The more sensible recruits stay away from the leaves of the gatal-gatal (or “itchy”) tree, which apparently makes one’s member look as though it has been stung by a swarm of bees, and instead sport a koteka—or, for the less culturally evolved, the common penis gourd. It’s fancy, more than a little impressive (available in various sizes, shapes and angles) and doesn’t lead to hours of wailing and screaming.

What’s more, if you remember to leave your gourd at home on interview day, you may just become a Papuan boy in blue one day.

NOTE (for the gents, and the gals who love them): I checked. Apparently, gatal-gatal leaves are not readily available in North America. Dammmmmmmmmmmmiiiiittttttt! However, you can order five-packs of koteka gourd seeds from Amazon for $3.99. Only five more packs are in stock (actually, four, now), so don’t delay.

The Life & Times of Jinx Misfortune (a.k.a. Me)

2010-04-20T13:44:00.007-05:00

jinx

1. A person or thing that is believed to bring bad luck.
2. A condition or period of bad luck that appears to have been caused by a specific person or thing.
3. Me.

I am fast coming to the disturbing realization I am a living curse to any sports team I support. Let’s look at the evidence:

Baseball:

I love the White Sox with a passion. I read anything and everything about them, even during the frigid months of winter. I could wear White Sox clothing every day of the week without donning the same item twice. If my wife cried out, “Oh, Mark Buehrle!!!” during a round of slap-and-tickle, I’d beat my chest with pride. I own White Sox furniture, for God’s sake.

On the first day of the season, I paced through my home for hours before the first pitch, and forced Patty to endure about 300 text messages with every play of the game (and most of the opening ceremonies, through which I cried a little bit).

So far this season, the Sox own a 4-9 record, their worst in 13 years. I’m starting to think my beloved team may finish with a 4-158 record. Why? Probably me.

Hockey:

I’m a Toronto Maple Leafs fan. They haven’t made the playoffs in five years. For as long as I’ve been a fan, they’ve either sucked or mostly sucked. Even diehard fans refer to them as the “Laffs” or the “Make-Beliefs”. I sometimes refer to them as, simply, "Those motherf***ing, good-for-nothing, piece of s*** a**holes." Aloud, I leave out the asterisks.

Before I was born, the Leafs won the Cup twelve times. Since then? Once—two months after I was born—when I was too busy refining my diaper-filling technique to care about hockey. With the Leafs out of things (again), I’ve started to root for the Blackhawks in the playoffs. Sorry, Chicago.

Football:

I cheer for the Chicago Bears. I did not cheer for them in 1985. Lucky them.

Basketball:

I didn’t really follow the Bulls this year, so they made the playoffs. I tuned in for a few minutes of the first two playoff games—and the Cavaliers are up two games to zip. Ta-daa!

Conclusion:
I, like the teams I root for, suck. The only comfort I can take in my ongoing sports nightmare is that the Cubs—for whom I hold no special warmth—aren’t doing much better than the Sox. Now that I’ve said that, though, they’ll probably win the World Series, the only good aspect of which will be my ability to find better White Sox gear on sale at T.J. Maxx.

Life’s funny that way. Why am I not laughing?

Ah, Poopy Puppy Love

2010-04-05T15:44:00.000-05:00

Patty and our friend Cindy chatted on the phone the other night. This normally wouldn't be significant enough to report here. After all, the discussion usually falls into the category of what I affectionately call "girl blather" or " random, sports-impeding noise", and seldom ventures into my preferred "sexy talk".

This time was different. I clearly heard Patty end a sentence with “French kissing”. I turned down the TV (I had cranked the volume just seconds before in hopes of drowning out their voices, so Patty was actually yelling “FRENCH KISSING!!!”...which made it even hotter.) I asked Patty to put the call on speakerphone.

Cindy’s voice flooded the room.

"You're saying there's dozens of Facebook photos of your kid and his girlfriend making out? Ewww...”

“Dozens. Maybe hundreds. If the photos of them slobbering all over each other weren’t enough to make a mom cringe, get this: there's a bunch of pictures of them kissing the dog. And each other, while they're kissing the dog.”

Cindy: “You're lying. The dog? Really? They’re kissing the dog?”

Patty: "Yep. Kissing. The Dog."

Me: “On the dog's lips?”

I asked Patty to take the call off speakerphone. She would not.

Patty said, “Well, they say dogs have cleaner mouths than humans do.”

Cindy: “There’s no way a dog’s mouth is cleaner than a human mouth. Look at the shit they eat.”

Me: “You mean like shit?”

The who’s-got-a-filthier-mouth debate between the gals almost became heated. I couldn’t understand why. Unless they were kicking around the idea of taking turns swapping spit with an Irish Setter (which, for reasons that unsettled me, seemed just a little sexy), did it really matter who won the argument?

From where I sit, I don’t care if a dog’s mouth is as sterile as an operating theater; there’s no good reason for me to probe it with my tongue, unless of course there's some way to get a buzz from the spit. Besides, sure as shit, I’d end up kissing the dog that tucked into a decomposing squirrel or well-filled diaper five minutes pre-kiss. It’s just not worth it, no matter how cute the dog—or how strong the temptation.

Still, I Googled. I needed to know.

Turns out, both dogs and humans have disgusting mouths—cesspools, really. We shouldn’t kiss dogs but, it turns out, we really shouldn’t kiss each other, either.

As I researched a conclusive answer to this debate, I also learned:

With a little elbow grease and the right products, one can remove poop from wood floors, carpets, walls, ceilings and mattresses
People everywhere find countless varieties of “unknown” poop in their homes
Insurance companies will sometimes pay a claim if you have a poop explosion in your house
One should not eat poop (of any variety)
Parents aren't fond of pictures of their kids making out with pets, or each other
Poop sticks to parakeets’ feet

In case you were wondering…

So Cute I Could Eat Your Whole Face

2010-03-30T10:54:00.003-05:00

“You know, ferrets like to eat babies’ faces.”

My attention had drifted away from Patty’s conversation with her sister and brother-in-law. For the past half-hour of our visit to their home, all I caught was “nothing, nothing, Brian, nothing, you’re not, nothing, listening.” I missed nothing. This juicy rodent-shaped morsel beckoned me back.

“Go on…?”

Already, the seeds of a kids’ story were taking root in my brain. For a working title, I chose The Ferret Fancies Sally. This rolled off the tongue with greater ease than my initial idea—Mr. Ferret Bores an Angry Hole Through a Tiny Head—which seemed a touch wordy for a children’s title.

Patty added, “It’s true. Ferrets will just gnaw straight through.” Kathleen then added, “I bet a lot of parents don’t like to keep ferrets around because of this.” I was glad she tacked this on, because it’s the sort of anomaly that catches one by surprise—like, “Good moms don’t let toddlers play with food processors,” or “Two of three dentists agree it’s unwise to clean a loaded gun with your mouth.”

We were half-watching Fatal Attractions, a new show about animal lovers who convinced themselves tigers and giant lizards made good stand-ins for lap dogs, and later had "Oops...who knew?" moments. I had little desire to watch TV, but after my sister-in-law tossed out the farm-themed tablecloth in which, on a previous visit, I pointed out numerous dildos disguised as grain silos, I lacked ready conversation starters.

(I’m not a betting man, but my guess is my brother-in-law sprung for a new tablecloth rather than eat his dinner each night on a sea of provincial but prosthetic dongs. Mission accomplished. So we watched TV while I tried to conjure other ways to make my hosts insecure about their home accessories. But I digress...)

These true-life stories are heart-rending and tragic—but in a nice way. To my mind, if you think a black panther is a more trustworthy companion than a golden retriever, you (a) have a gambling problem, and (b) are blog-worthy. In my upcoming book, I started a chapter by fondly recalling the violent death of Timothy Treadwell, who did the world a huge solid when he tried everything short of bathing in beef broth to make sure grizzly bears saw him as lunch. It worked.

I paid attention to a particularly harrowing segment about a woman so ripped up by a chimp that police thought she was a ripped-up man. Through the screams of both chimp and man-woman, the caller shrieked to the 911 dispatcher, “Kill him. It don’t matter. It don’t matter.” On the screen, subtitles mirrored this message.

My sister-in-law gasped. I also gasped. I said, “I know, right? She should have said, ‘It doesn’t matter.’ Silly goose.”

A victim of another chimp attack removed his latex nose from his face (his real nose in the stomach of said chimp). This was cool, but I wondered where he had purchased his new “nose”, which in no way matched his skin tone. If a chimp munched off my schnozz, I’d have fun with my predicament. I’d buy something from Party City, like a clown’s nose or crocodile’s snout. That way, I could entertain young children who, upon pulling the nose away, would scream themselves to sleep every night through adolescence. After this, just TRY to tap the little gaffer on the nose and say "boop". Priceless.

I laughed and laughed at the funny people and their dangerous pets— and then came the part about genitals.

It would seem that chimps, when attacking, peel off the victim’s face, then hands, then feet. This, I believe, is unfortunate. The chimps then rip off and consume the genitals. This, I believe, is most unfortunate, especially since Party City doesn’t sell good stand-ins other than balloons, which would seem like showing off.

A short time later, as we said our goodbyes, I made a mental note. On my next visit, I would present my sister-in-law with my undivided attention—that, and a shiny new, conversation-provoking tablecloth.

My first-ever guest post!

2010-03-19T10:57:00.006-05:00

I wrote my first-ever guest post this morning, for Cajun Book Lady . Please check it out when you have a chance! It's not every day one makes someone spit their energy drink all over their computer.

Cheers,
Brian

Ice Cream, I Scream

2010-03-12T12:24:00.008-06:00

Just before I headed off to bed two nights ago, I called down the stairs to my daughter Kelly, who had cloistered herself in the basement for a marathon John Hughes screening/mourning session.

As you might expect, Kelly responded to my call for her to “wrap things up” by:

1. coming up the stairs;
2. going to the kitchen freezer;
3. grabbing a tub of ice cream;
4. heading up to her room;
5. setting the late-night dessert next to her bed; and
6. falling asleep for seven hours.

Kelly is a somnambulist—which I believe is the formal name for one who, with no knowledge of her actions, steals ice cream I planned to enjoy but now can’t because it’s “room temperature cream”. Kelly is now a bad, bad daughter. She’s also a sleepwalker.

My first opportunity to make fun of my little girl for something out of her control came years before, when we lived in an apartment. Kelly strolled into the room, rocked on her heels a few times, and then blurted words that made no sense. The specifics elude me, but let’s just say the conversation went something like this:

“Daddy, will you always be a responsible parent?”

“Honestly? I doubt it, sweetie.”

“Okay. Can I have ice cream?”

“Maybe in a few years.”

My wife Patty, who at bedtime snores but never strolls, pointed out that, in speaking to Kelly, I was wasting my breath. I cast a knock-it-off glare, made a shield for my lips, pointed at Kelly through my hand and then mouthed, “Honey, I know…but she’s right here.”

“No, moron. She’s fast asleep.”

Unconvinced, I walked over to Kelly, waved my hand in her face and stuck my tongue out—nothing. I then poked her in the forehead with my index finger. Apparently, this gesture approximated pushing a Go-Back-to-Bed button, because she then turned and left. I smiled at Patty.

“Wow. That was really cool.” And then, “Let's make her do it again.”

Of course, this wasn’t my first exposure to sleepwalking—which, according to the National Sleep Foundation, afflicts up to 15 percent of the population. As a child, I dreamed I was a firefighter. No blaze was too big for me, the world’s all-time #1 hero. What snapped me back to reality was my father’s angry question:

“Brian, why are you peeing in my night table drawer?”

I had no good answer. To be fair, had a fire been blazing in the drawer, it would be out.

Poetic justice came calling many years later, when I was a father to a two-year-old. Devin, who to that point only ever went to his mother should he awaken at night, walked right past her, came to me and extended his arms. Of course, this painted the dopey “awwwww” look on my face. I pulled him up to my chest, snuggled my head against his, and adored him like never before. And then he drained his bladder on my T-shirt.

I believe this was the only time I ever referred to a child as a “little fucker”.

For some, sleepwalking is benign. Those afflicted do little but walk around, carry on conversations with floor lamps and steal things that—not to put too fine a point on it—aren’t fucking theirs.

Others kill everyone in their home.

I’ll miss the ice cream but, in the scheme of things, I’m ready to let it go.

A First-Time Author's Rocky Path

2010-03-09T12:06:00.028-06:00

For an entire year as a preschooler, my wife Patty changed her name. Without seeking anyone's blessing, she decided to answer only to "Cecil" (or, more formally, to "Cecil the Seasick Sea Serpent," a beloved TV character of the time). When I heard this story, I gasped—not because Patty wanted to reinvent herself while barely invented, but because her choice seemed a trifle whacko for a child battling sibilance (or, as she would have said, thibilanth).

This morning, as I sat to relate my brazen efforts to promote my upcoming book, I recalled Patty's story, and it made me think.

I call myself an author. But, until Lost in the Hive hits shelves in June, I'm really just "Theethil" reborn—a notion of an author, an author-to-be.

The folks at PublishingWorks encourage me to keep up the ruse. For Lost in the Hive to sell, people need to know about the book, even though it's not yet a book—and know about the author, even though I'm not yet officially an author. If nobody knows ... nobody buys.

As a new author, I lack a solid "platform". This is editor-speak for, "You're no David Sedaris." For most authors (and especially for those insane enough to write humorous personal essays, as I do), a lack of platform translates into a lack of a writing future. To survive, I must pull a P.T. Barnum, a Houdini. I need to create buzz based on a promise, to craft clever smoke and mirrors that will draw potential readers to the edge of their seats, yearning for the eventual reveal.

What have I been doing so far to move myself from unknown to über-author, from Cecil to Sedaris? Well, I'll tell you. Will these things work? Only time will tell.

1. I flirt with "real" authors

With few exceptions, most writers struggled to get their names and their books known. The more compassionate in this group recall this fresh hell and, like parents (at least those without crack addictions), wish a better life for those who follow. So, before the ink dried on my contract for Lost in the Hive, I started reaching out to other authors (mostly on Twitter and Facebook). Most have been happy to share advice and/or horror stories, will introduce me around and talk me up, and will even find ways to include me in activities and events in which they're participating. These favors come with an unspoken understanding: (a) since they've scratched my back, I may one day be called upon to scratch theirs, and (b) if I'm one of the lucky few to make it big, those backs will itch like a sonofabitch.

2. I make fun of myself

For the past several weeks, I've been directing clips for a YouTube trailer to promote Lost in the Hive. My book is self-deprecating and humorous (I hope), so my angle is to take shots at both the book and myself. I'm opting for a faux-testimonial approach, where "readers" share accounts of how my book changed and/or ruined their lives.

The advantages of a tongue-in-cheek video trailer are: (a) online videos are viral—like STDs and nasty rumors, they get passed around; (b) if you employ friends as "actors" in your video, they want their family, friends and friends-of-friends to see their star turn, so they pass the video around; and (c) even people who aren't avid readers enjoy movies, so they may buy your book on a whim before they realize, "Hey, I never read. He tricked me." Think about it: while most books are better than movies based on those books, a great many books were unknown until the movie version came out.

3. I'm a social media whore

Like iPhones and ill-fitting pants, I'm everywhere. I'm active on my personal Facebook page, and comment on the walls of other authors and comics. I maintain a Facebook fan page for Lost in the Hive. My generous friends use the "suggest to friends" feature on the page to tell their friends, who tell their friends, and so on. Some will even post a message on their personal Facebook wall, encouraging others to become fans and to pass the word along. Will all of these visitors and fans buy my book? I don't know. But, at a minimum, they'll know it exists, and that's a start. How did I get friends to do this for me? First, I'm a real friend to them (my backyard is full of bodies). Second, I asked.

I spend a lot of time—too much—on Twitter (omara_croft) and TweetChat. I follow many writers, booksellers, publishers, agents, comics and actors. I retweet their comments (a great way to seem funny or sharp by stealing others' material with their blessing), and reply with comments I hope they too will retweet. Most times, nothing happens; once in a while, something does.

On TweetChat, I participate in various discussion groups, like #bookmarket and #litchat. I make evocative comments, and some participants follow me (not as many as I'd hoped, but I keep plugging away). Most people want to know you if they think you have something to say (especially if it's about Twilight).

4. I steal others' ideas

If you're an author (published or aspiring) who doesn't know me personally, you chose to read this not because you love me or find me especially attractive, unless there's something very wrong with you. You're reading because you hope I'll share something you can use to promote yourself. Please, go ahead; use me. I'd use you. Along the way, I've picked up many good ideas from others.

On Twitter alone, I follow SMforWriters, AuthorTech and bookmarketer, all of whom offer wonderful tips, tricks and links to get your name and work out there. For example, a quick scan of SMforWriters' Twitter page this morning yielded a goldmine:

How blogging can help land a book deal

How writers can use Twitter to maximize efficiency

How to use social networking without losing author mystique (whatever that is)

How writers can build a "brand" on search engines

When I can break myself away from Twitter, I Google "author self-promotion", "how to attract Facebook fans", "book marketing" and "quick ways to get absurdly wealthy", just to see what others have tried and tested. All but the last one bear fruit.

5. I seduce readers of my genre

If you're a writer and you haven't joined Shelfari, take a quick break now and join. I mean it. Don't worry…I'll still be here when you get back. Avid readers love talking about what they've read, and also love hearing about good books they might read next.

On the site, I study members' positive reviews of books by authors who write books similar to mine. I then invite the reviewers to be my friends. I include a note like this: "I enjoyed your review of Magical Thinking by Augusten Burroughs. I, like you, am a fan of his writing. His work inspired me to write my own upcoming collection of humorous essays, LOST IN THE HIVE. I'm hoping to connect with other readers and writers who enjoy this genre. If you're curious about my work, please take a peek at my blog at lostinthehive.blogspot.com. Thanks for being my friend."

This isn't trickery. I believe people who enjoy these authors will also enjoy my book. If they don't, I'll look like an asshole and they'll tell everyone. (Hmm…should I be doing this?)

Within days, I had more than 100 friends. By looking at what they're reading, and studying what they liked and disliked, I learn a lot about what types of stories hold the greatest appeal, and can use this information to improve my own writing. What's more, I can keep my new online friends up-to-date about my upcoming book release.

6. I blog...a lot

I maintain a blog (lostinthehive.blogspot.com) that shares a name, and irreverent style, with my upcoming book. I write as often as I can. On occasion, I post a timely or relevant article on some issue I hope will appeal to a large audience—like, er, this one.

On BlogCatalog.com, I discuss my blog, the issues I explore on my blog, and the process of blogging; if I say the right things, people pop by for a look, and some stay. I re-posted one of my blog stories on Broowaha, an online newspaper made up of blog entries. I let people know, via my Facebook fan page and Twitter, that I've posted a new blog entry. When I send emails to people, I include the information about my blog (and my book) in the signature line. When I visit others' blogs, I leave comments that are outrageous, and drop subtle hints about my blog. Everyone does this; nobody seems to mind.

7. I thrive on symbiosis

I live in a small suburb of Chicago. Oswego is small enough to boast only one independent bookstore, and not big enough to attract a big-box store like Borders. I know Joe and Leah, the owners of Old Towne Books & Tea, quite well. I participate in their Writers' Club. I've been working with Joe on a podcast interview.

I use the skills from my day job—graphic design—to help them out with branding and promotional items. I do this for free—well, almost for free. In exchange for my services, I include a blurb for my book on most materials I create. Joe knows I'm looking out for myself. He's looking out for himself. And if in the process of looking out for ourselves we can look out for each other, even better. If you have a skill outside your writing, think about ways you can apply that skill to help your book promotion efforts.

8. I'm shameless

Yeah, I said it. I'm shameless. This is my dream, and I don't want it to die. I have two other books in the works that yearn for happy futures.

Carol, the VP of marketing at my publisher, told me, "You should be willing to jump through a flaming hoop of dogshit to sell your book." I agree. I would jump through a flaming hoop of gasoline to sell my book. I will blog, tweet, chat, email, perform, debate and proffer sexual favors (okay, maybe not) if it means more people will help my writing journey.

Now that the secret about my shamelessness is out, I would also ask you, as you read this, to "Stumble" this story, follow me on Twitter, become a fan on Facebook, and tell your friends. All of them.

Oh, one more thing: would you please buy my book?

When it exists, that is.

Note: If you would like a formatted, PDF version of this blog post, please leave a comment or email me at brianomaracroft@yahoo.com. And yes, in case you were wondering, I will be saving your email address so I can let you know when the book comes out. That's just smart promotion.

Fornicator Kleptomaniac Consecrated Admissibility

2010-03-08T20:19:00.008-06:00

I look again to the clock—almost three hours now. My agent has yet to answer my e-mail, the one with a hopeful young story that aches for her blessing. These are lost hours. I’ve passed the time pacing, casting idle death threats toward the children, gulping jelly beans (of course pretending they're valium), and hurling random expletives at a dishwasher that hates its job.

“We all hate our jobs, you big dumb dishwasher!” What my barrage lacks in finesse it makes up for in bile. “What makes you so special? Is your agent ignoring you?”

The dishwasher continues its high, insistent whine as it tries to drown my tirade. I hate that fucking dishwasher. I hate it more than I hate sharing the earth with Sean Hannity. I hate it enough I may never heal what ails it. I won't shed a tear if the dishwasher, and Hannity, die painful, grinding deaths.

“You’ve got mail.”

A path opens between manic writer and computer. Everyone here knows, when obstructed, I will shove. I click on the inbox. The title of my new message—“More and More Times a Night Fornicator Kleptomaniac Consecrated Admissibility”—sounds nothing like my agent’s voice. I make a note to read this message later.

I sigh, and start back toward the dishwasher.

“You’ve got mail.”

The path re-opens. I click on the inbox again and, this time, my agent’s name appears. I stare at it for a moment, in case it’s a clever ruse.

I know what it says. She'll gush, “You’ve done it! You’ve made me fall even more passionately in love with the English language, Brian. Or should I call you Mr. New York Times Bestseller Guy?”

I open the message.

The first word, “Brian”, feels encouraging. The second—“No!!!”—feels less so. I presume the humorous punch line hides in the next lines, so I read on.

“You’re not getting it. In your stories, you CANNOT make fun of how your wife’s memory is full of holes because of her various traumatic heart procedures.”

She then mocks my memory. Her words sting—and, trust me, this I won’t forget.

“Perhaps you missed the hint when I sent back your story about babies. I said ‘Writing about punching any infant—even a plastic one—won’t play well with any audience that cares about human beings.’” She adds, “Now you’re punching a whole new baby.”

My first impulse is to go all Salinger on her and the rest of our politically correct world. I vow I’ll never again write anything for public consumption. I like to write about what comes to mind, not what makes people feel safe or happy or comfortable. The world has pimples; I want to squeeze all the gorgeous pus of human frailty out of each and every one.

To bastardize the timeless wisdom of Flower (of Bambi fame), “If I can only write things nice to say, I’d rather not write at all.”

So, to show my indignation, but knowing this a battle bigger than me, I bid a forceful goodbye to my latest work—the first strands of a witty thesis about how Tourette’s can sometimes be fu-fu-fucking hilarious. I close the Word document without saving.

Three paragraphs of pure magic disappear forever. I blame Sean Hannity.

Now, if you'll excuse me...I need to settle a score with a certain dishwasher.

Something in the Water

2010-02-25T08:06:00.005-06:00

NOTE: While Lost in the Hive contains mostly true experiences and observations, from time to time I try my hand at humorous short fiction. This was the second piece that was rejected because the humor was "too dark". Let me know what you think.

“Well, we can’t just leave him on the patio.”

With the tip of her blood-spattered Harley boot, Maureen nudged the fast-cooling meat that had, moments before, been her kid brother Martin.

"He’ll be sure to attract attention. And flies.”

She batted the air around her auburn-gray tresses (a dreadful failed home dye experiment) as though bestowed with strange powers of foreshadowing. Imagined insects in any quantity struck me as the least of our concerns.

“Tell me, then. Where would you have me put him?”

To my mind, my wife’s choice left her not only as author of this most awkward problem, but accountable for part of any solution. I didn’t open his skull with the rusted poker from the fire pit. Nor was it I who silenced him mid-sentence. In truth, I was hanging on his next words, the ones after his last. He exited on an awkward fragment—“But you don’t…”

Even he deserved better than that.

“It had to be done, and that’s that.”

I could debate this. What irked me was her cavalier tone, as though discarding human remains—of a sibling, no less—was a mere line item on our to-do list, between "fix leaking bathroom faucet" (this with three exclamation points) and "pick up cream cheese at Saul’s." What’s more, she was a wisp of a woman—just enough to her, apparently, to execute a steady swing, but not enough to transport the evidence. My to-do list was burgeoning.

“Why, Maur, why?”

“He would have ruined us. We’d be paupers, if we let things go on.”

“I don’t see how. You could have just asked him to leave.”

Her laugh lacked mirth.

“Oh, sure, I could have asked him. Listen to yourself. He wasn’t leaving. He wasn’t going anywhere.” She nudged again, this time hard enough to convey a soft ripple across the crimson halo surrounding Martin’s imploded skull. “He was moving in.”

She was right, of course. None of our subtle entreaties—Don’t you have pressing business in the city? Need a lift to the bus station tomorrow? Thinking about leaving anytime soon?—had borne fruit. His ample bulk was becoming as permanent a home accessory as the deformed fire tool that now rested next to his more-or-less detached right eye.

Now, unless I could devise a sound solution—or one whopper of an alibi—he was sticking around for good. It wasn’t like I could heave him over the fence and feign utter surprise when someone found him there.

“Her brother, you say? In the woods, just there outside our property? Now that is peculiar.”

As was so often the case, something about Maureen’s actions struck me as a tad hasty, a trifle much. For one, she didn’t need to hit him as many times as she did; I lost count at thirteen. Nobody ever accused my Maureen of doing a job half-way.

Sister and brother had nursed an uneasy peace throughout the long summer. He’d lost his job managing Aces High, the upscale gentleman’s club on the north side, when the owner walked in to find Martin auditioning the new talent on a clutch of spreadsheets. The interviewee left without a job offer and with an angry gash across her otherwise pristine right buttock, courtesy of an ill-placed staple remover.

Martin lost the apartment above the club, an approved perk of the job. His last check (reduced by the price of utilities and his new friend’s trip to the walk-in clinic) would make nobody mistake him for one to the manor born. At first, Maureen seemed glad to open our doors to wayward kin. Of course, she made sure everyone in her book circle and lunch club knew she had martyred herself for his well-being. She was his savior, Saint Maureen O’Shea of the Church of Brotherly Love.

The scent dropped away from the rose within a weekend.

The water glasses started the ball rolling. Martin was so thirsty all the time. I suspected type II diabetes. Maureen, who fancied herself an expert on all things, including those medical, said he was fine, and insisted he was merely trying to drive her insane.

“One glass I could live with. Two, even. But he keeps a half-dozen glasses half-full of water on the edge of the sink every day. Who does that? Does anyone?”

To be fair, I found the habit a bit strange. Still, we all have our quirks. I smell the back of my hand whenever I get nervous. My brother Jake has never eaten the last bite of anything. Maureen’s sister Norah, ever the flighty one, vanished without a whisper after the sisters shared a week at the family cottage on Marshall Bay. Maureen offered police two leads: either Norah had run off with the hot new gas attendant at the marina, or she was literally pushing up the Shasta daisies in her newly widowed husband’s backyard. Maureen found sister and husband hard to abide, what with their constant watering of those damned flowers.

“Are you listening to me?”

“Huh? What’d you say?”

“You weren’t listening. I said, why does he need to shower so often? He’s not dirty. You could eat a meal off him, for Christ’s sake.”

“He says it helps with his boredom.”

“And that’s another thing. How could he be bored? I’m here. You must understand I find that insulting. Just as I find it unconscionable that he insists on squirting drops in his eyes every half-hour. Aren’t people made of water? I, for one, don’t see how he could be running low.”

I'd kept silent. I’d seen the bills. Inside two months—the longest of weekend visits—both water and electricity had doubled. At first, Maureen just seethed. “The world will run dry before he’s done. We’ll all be swallowing spit to keep us from drying into mummies.” Soon, though, deeper malice crept forward.

“I could just cut him into tiny morsels.”

I’d laughed. I’d even revealed the growing frustration to Martin one night when Maureen turned in early to check out a show on the Science Channel—some documentary about the global water crisis. I swirled the brandy around the edges of the snifter, watching the play of the liquid in the firelight.

“You’re pushing her buttons, friend. You know how she gets about wasting water.”

“You don’t know the half of it. When we were kids, she’d go apeshit if she was the last to claim the bathroom. Sharon ran past her on purpose sometimes, just to fray her nerves.”

He fell quiet for a moment, as did I. Sharon, the oldest and the hands-down favorite, had drowned in that very bathtub. We all missed Sharon.

“Still, you know how Maur gets. Do me a favor. Keep the showers to once a day?”

He’d agreed, but, as was his wont, he didn’t change. I’m not a masochist, so I never offered Maureen my theory: I think Martin wanted to wash the shame of his life away, like Lady Macbeth.

And now here he was, centered in the biggest damned spot ever.

“I could wrap him in the bag we bought for the Christmas tree. As soon as the sun starts to come up, I’ll move him to Barrie Woods. It’s not foolproof, but it’s a better option than leaving him here.”

She waved at her head again, then threw her arms around me. “Now that’s my big strong man.”

“I quite liked him, you know.”

“Of course you liked him. I adored him. But sometimes, loving someone isn’t enough.”

For the next half-hour, I busied myself with moving the Christmas tree sections into a series of garbage bags, and tucking all of Martin into the much larger sack. I dragged him to the side and reached for the hose to clear away the clotting mess.

Maureen’s hand stayed my arm. “Don’t be hasty. They say it may rain.”

I dragged the bag through the house and into the garage. After I lowered the back seats and wrestled the bulk into the truck, I stopped. I ran back into the house, to the kitchen, and grabbed one of the half-filled glasses. Returning to the garage, I unzipped the bag and worked the glass between Martin’s rigid fingers.

“For the trip,” I said, surprising myself with how choked my words sounded. I pulled the glass away and finished the drink. “On second thought, I’ll bet heaven is just full of water.”

When I ventured back inside, I found Maureen on the phone with Jack, the last of her siblings (unless, against all odds, Norah came back.) She was asking if he knew where Martin was. No, he wasn’t with us anymore. He’d left in a huff one day. We’d heard nothing since. She was as cool as a cucumber in a bag of chipped ice.

I turned toward the family room to fix a brandy—in Martin’s memory—when Maureen called for me to wait. She covered the mouthpiece.

“You’re a mess. Don’t sit on that sofa. Get in the shower and clean yourself up.” A chilly smile crept across her face.

“Just be sure to keep it short.”

"Blurb" for Lost in the Hive (the book)

2010-02-22T15:18:00.004-06:00

Hi everyone:

Something a little different today. I have another fiction piece for this blog coming soon, but before that, I just wanted to share the "blurb" for my upcoming book, LOST IN THE HIVE, from fellow author Adrian Colesberry, who wrote the spew-food-from-your-mouth-funny book, How to Make Love to Adrian Colesberry.

Adrian said:

"If you've been in a relationship for more than five minutes you'll laugh out loud in recognition at Brian O'Mara-Croft's honest, self-effacing examination of his fatherhood and husbandship."

Thank you, Adrian.

For more information about my upcoming book, or to pre-order a copy, visit http://www.publishingworks.com/. Or mark your calendars for the book launch party at Old Towne Books & Tea in Oswego, IL, on June 30 (details to come).

Next blog entry coming soon!

Which came first? Or together?

2010-02-18T23:34:00.005-06:00

As I stood at the kitchen sink this evening, fretting about the line of my nose and peeling a hard-boiled egg, I caught a faint, fleeting whiff of a very familiar and oh-so-pleasant food aroma.

I couldn’t place the source. As you might expect, I started jabbing the air with my nose and snorting a ragged path around the room. I’m sure I looked very inquisitive and thoughtful, which I’m told many consider attractive.

My nose caught nothing. I returned to the sink and continued peeling.

The smell was coming from the egg.

And this surprised me. I’m not one who takes a sniff of something and then suggests that, as great as it now, it would be even better if just a touch more “eggy”. When I smell a hard-boiled egg, I expect a very specific odor. In the egg world, this scent may well pass as intoxicating; in the human world, it reminds one of a fair-to-middling (but hardly room-clearing) fart. Generally, the only farts I’ll happily endure are my own.

This egg was no ordinary egg. This egg smelled heavenly! This egg didn’t make me think of flatulence.

This egg made me think of roast chicken.

So, as is my wont, I started to worry. Questions flooded a mind already lulled by the empty promise of a juicy, egg-shaped chicken breast.

If an egg smells of something one really enjoys and craves—be it chicken, bacon or blueberry pancakes—would eating it be a bad thing? Isn’t this like ignoring gold falling into your lap?

How much does it really matter that eggs aren’t supposed to smell like anything but eggs?

And then I started to think outside the box:

Would it be such a turnoff if a leftover piece of cod offered the bonus of a subtle hint of steak? Surf-then-turf, if you will? Or if radishes smelled like cheese?

As I pondered these questions, which seemed important and something I should share (no need to thank me formally), a new query that seemed even more pressing forced its way in. This one gave me pause:

Just suppose an egg contains a chicken embryo, rather than your standard yolk and white. Is it logical to suppose a cooked chicken embryo might smell like roast chicken?

At first, it failed to occur to me that the mere presence of any egg white under the shell—which I had not only seen but pushed my nose against while chasing that good ol’ chicken smell—would suggest no embryo was present.

When this logic came to me, I felt no better. Instead, I came up with another question (you can understand that my mind was racing at this point, from so much raw science):

If an egg contained half a chicken embryo, would one reasonably expect to also find half an egg? Is it possible that, by some good fortune, the portion of the egg I had already peeled was the lucky other half—the “egg” half of the egg/embryo mix?

For just a moment, I felt ill. That wonderful essence, the one that had teased my senses with thoughts of roast chicken, may have been nothing more than a freakish and redolent hybrid of egg-baby. Would I ever be able to enjoy chicken again? Or eat an egg?

I ate the egg. I arrived at this decision when I bore down and peeled the rest of the shell—all white. Drawing on my earlier insights, I reasoned that if a hard-boiled egg in no way resembled an embryo, it should be fine (or, at worst, not that dangerous). The fact it smells like something else entirely should be of little importance.

Sadly, the egg tasted just as it should.

Author's note: The previous is a true story. A few months ago, I was reading another blog I enjoy, Hyperbole and a Half. One night, Allie wrote a blog entry when she was drunk. At the time, I remember thinking: "What a great idea. I should try that sometime." So, tonight, after five cocktails and one shot (enough for a gentle buzz but not enough for a Canuck to ever admit he's drunk), I wrote tonight's blog entry.

Here's your challenge. You've read tonight's entry; read at least one other. Then tell me: should I write only when sober, or only when impaired? I trust your judgment; right now, I don't entirely trust my own.

Eulogy for a Lost Cowboy

2010-02-12T13:46:00.004-06:00

Please note: The following piece is my first-ever attempt at writing humorous short fiction. I submitted it to my agent for consideration for a collection of humorous short stories, but she felt it was "too dark". I welcome your thoughts...be gentle.

What can I share about our dear Harry, here? Well, it goes without saying he didn’t make it, or we wouldn’t all be here this morning. Heaven knows we’d never risk such close proximity unless Grim Death drew up the guest list. Not after the last family reunion, anyway. Speaking of which, is Uncle Norm with us today? Where? Oh, there you are. Funny thing—just the other day, I bet my Mary you were dead as Harry.

I have to tell you, Norm, those skin grafts stuck like a charm. Reminds me of how one edge of the cling wrap insists on marrying the other. We all learned a valuable lesson about silly string and Zippos that day, though, didn’t we? You more than most. Still, aside from a stray crevice here and there—oh, and that big lump next to your ear—it seems the worst of Black Saturday’s behind you.

Oh, that’s Aunt Lucy? Well, of course it is—there’s Norm right next to her. Welcome. Well, you both look just super. A heck of a lot better than Harry, am I right? Thank goodness for sturdy casket lids.

I suppose the silver lining for Harry, no pun intended, is that he shipped off to eternity with all his teeth and most of his hair. Well, certainly more hair than Norm. And a great deal more than Grandpa. Now that’s silly—Gramps had to be at least forty years older. The Harry I knew… Ma’am, there’s a space right there on the end, next to that energetic young man. Son, could you stop swinging the Good Book for just a moment, or at least flap it in another direction, so our late arrival won’t leave with elbib yloh stamped into her forehead? Good lad. Our friend Harry never liked to be kept waiting, you know. He sure as heck showed up early today.

Harry also arrived early the first summer he spent with us. We didn’t expect him for weeks, but there he was, in my bedroom, two weeks before school let out. Once I got over hating him for slobbering off the bottom bunk while I trudged off to Mrs. Hanrahan’s chamber of horrors—my God, the stench of lavender on that ghoul—I actually grew rather fond of Harry. A good thing, too. Harry stuck around for four straight years, not enough to be a real brother but enough to be the best sort of friend.

As I recall, Mom said Harry’s parents were having “differences”. We were too little then to understand the sticking point was the ten-spots Uncle Mark liked to tuck into g-strings at the Twin Nuggets, especially since it’s no secret among this group that Auntie Marcia was a bit of a cold fish. Groan if you must, but you’ll fool nobody. Hell, I bit my lip until it bled the time I overheard Dad chuckle about how Mark watched angels dance before kneeling before the Almighty Cod. Dad almost never joked about fishing, so that was something. Uncle Mark was humorless, I guess, and that’s why we found ourselves at Marcia’s wake and Mark’s sendoff to Pine Ridge Correctional in the space of a single week.

The Harry I knew loved to live on the edge. I remember when we were no taller than this. We practically lived in that ancient willow in my parent’s yard. Roots so ample you couldn’t get a lawnmower close without sealing the deal on a rush trip to Doctor Bedard’s. We imagined that old tree as a huge beanstalk with a giant and a spry cartoon mouse doing battle above us. Uneasy, we stayed closer to earth. Harry was no coward, but he was no fan of mice.

“Light the alcohol burner, Dan,” he’d said to me, and I did. I flicked the lighter over and over before I realized the flame was invisible. We danced around our signal fire, and around the tree, until the gods demanded a sacrifice of root beer and Slim Jims. And we’d dance again, with cautious steps.

Harry loved Cowboys and Indians. I despised the game. Harry always insisted I play the Indian, because I tanned darker. In those days, the Indians always died in a hail of lead and a “You’ve bested me, kemo sabe.” Today, if you’re one of those bleeding-heart types, you’d insist the cowboy lose at least half the time. Nonsense. Harry would tell you that, too, if he could.

So I was more than a little surprised this particular afternoon. I was ready to don my gull’s feather when Harry whooped and yelled, danced and hopped, just as you’d expect of bloodthirsty savages scouting fresh scalps. More surprise followed as I watched a lick of blue flame sweep up his leg. Still, Harry knew how to put on a show, so I waited for the fire to die down before I stepped in. Skin dripped off his kneecap like syrup from a flapjack. I was sure that was about as bad as it could get for a lucky guy like Harry. That ice cream truck sure made a liar of me.

Until last week, Harry really was a fortunate sort. His first love became my first love unrequited, and that didn’t sit well with me, because Harry knew how to attract the prettiest girls. Even the dogs—I count both homely girls and Miss Collin’s lhasa aspo—cut me a wide berth. I did all the things boys did to win a girl’s affections—I penned love notes on gum wrappers, I carved a whole damned forest, and I didn’t cry when Annie (the Angel) dug her thumbnail deep into the flesh inside my elbow. Love works in mysterious ways, I thought. These ways differed for Harry. He took Annie to see Star Wars in Trenton, smuggled in the bottle of cherry brandy she asked for, and came back smiling. He looked like a man.

I can still hear just what he said, in that mellow voice of his; he said, “Dan, smell my fingers.” And I'll tell you, there are porterhouse steaks that don't smell as nice as...

I’m sorry? Oh, dear, I forgot kids came to these things. Let’s just say envy consumed me, and we’ll leave it at that. I loved Harry too much not to forgive him.

Harry never went to college, and he never left Calder’s Mill. His Daddy died up in Pine Ridge the very day Harry turned eighteen. The papers claimed “suspicious circumstances”. The handcrafted ice pick in his ribcage agreed, I’d say. I’d never seen Harry cry, and he held it in then, a roughshod cowboy through and through.

To honor his father’s legacy, Harry sold his Dad’s double-wide and bought the Twin Nuggets for a few notes less than a song. I’d drop in from time to time—just to catch up on current events, you understand—and I have to say Harry ran a clean operation. You’ve never seen a nicer shower, I promise. Harry always knew how to make a girl feel special.

Harry’s first wife Juggs—I only recall her stage name—didn’t last long, and Harry was okay with that. She ran off with the first guy to peddle a vacuum on her front porch. When Harry asked, “Didn’t I tell you she was a hosebag”, I didn’t know whether to laugh or just nod. He fared little better with Tammy Tots, Jane of the Apes or Molly McGee—let me just say that girl was a contortionist. As Harry warned, “Never fall for a showgirl, no matter how you can bend her. They lack stick-to-it-tiveness.” Since I see no latex in the room, I presume none have come to pay respects. As he was so often, Harry was right.

The last time I saw my dear friend, he was as vibrant as ever, radiant sunshine in size 11 loafers. Nothing in this world—not even losing the Nugget for unpaid liquor taxes, or those rumors about the girls doing more than dance—could rattle him. I was pretty sure he was immortal, and not in a vampire or zombie sort of way. We planned lunch for just next week, at Bosoms’.

As I’ve said, Harry lived on the edge. It’s almost ironic, then, that Tuesday found my best friend standing at the rim of Nelson’s Quarry, the best vantage point to map his next great adventure. I wonder what great dream took shape as Jimmy—you know, from Jimmy’s Treats—took the corner too tight and lost control of his truck. As Jimmy nudged poor Harry into a whole new journey, did that scream of tires sound to our Harry like the screech of a great eagle? I like to think at the last second Harry knew he won yet again. Thanks for being here, Jim—it can’t be easy. Watch your back on the way out. I kid you, of course.

Dear friends, I ask you now to bow your heads in a moment of prayer. Pray not with sadness, because frowns ran headlong from Harry. Somewhere, he’s still that precocious lad he always was. Not unlike you, son, but now’s not the time to fling the sacramental wafers around the chapel. Sit down.

So, Harry, my friend and almost-brother, safe journeys. I, for one, will miss you always.

Not a phone person

2010-02-08T16:47:00.003-06:00

You know you’ve achieved middle-aged insignificance when reviewing the day’s collected voice mail qualifies as cheap entertainment. In this economy, what are our options?

First are the calls from my sister-in-law, who has a real name but to me is just “Kiddo”. I call her this even though she’s ancient compared to me. The nickname stemmed from the fact she’s roughly the height of your average coffee table. It stuck because her husband hates it.

Kiddo calls our home phone between one and four hundred times each day. I don’t answer most personal calls during the day, since to do so would provide me a handy excuse to say I’m exhausted from talking and then do anything but work. As a result, Kiddo’s call often ends up as a voice message.

“Hi, it’s Kiddo. I’m just calling to say hello. It’s nothing important. Call me when you can.”

This “unimportant” attempt to reach us is then followed by a call to my cell phone, a call to my wife’s cell phone, another call to our home phone and, on occasion, a second round of calls to all phones. If none of this works, our cell phones vibrate with a text-based variation on the voice message—“What r u doing pls call me.”

I suppose I shouldn’t be so cavalier about Kiddo’s calls—she is, after all, being ravaged by metastatic cancer and in near-constant pain. But answering the phone is painful to me, even if the calls are placed by the critically ill. By the time I get around to telling Patty that she needs to call back, Kiddo’s usually asleep, and the cycle begins anew the next morning.

My brother-in-law calls a few times each week. I call him a few times each week. He’s also not a phone person, and he’s not riddled with an incurable disease (that we’re aware of), so we wait until we both feel like talking at the same time before we ever connect. Hence, more than a dozen messages (“Call if you want”) translate into roughly three minutes of conversation each month. This is enough.

A friend in Canada loves to reach me when he’s drunk. As a non-phone-person, I don’t like talking even to the non-altered. He enjoys drinking as much as he enjoys having a phone, so he calls at least three times a month; I, in turn, return his calls once every three months. He doesn’t mind, because with few exceptions he doesn’t remember calling.

My Mom calls. If she doesn’t reach us, she says, “Oh, you’re out? I thought you had no money.”

Our favorite, though, is a close friend of ours. We will try to call her, and she rarely answers. She doesn’t answer her home phone; she doesn’t answer her cell phone. If she does answer, she usually says, "Let me call you right back," and then our phone sits silent for the rest of the night (unless Kiddo calls).

Our friend has her cell with her at all times—we’ve seen and heard it when she’s sitting in the room with us and it rings and she doesn’t answer. When we call, we’re not in the room with her, so we don’t hear her phone ring and ring before she doesn’t answer. We just know.

What makes the experience all the more joyous, especially for a non-phone-person, is getting a message that says, “Mailbox full” at the end of all the ringing you know is being ignored. Good times. So, when this close friend finally decides to call us, and doesn’t reach us because we’re out, she gets to leave this message:

“Hehhhh-looooo there, strangers. Are you even alive? Have you forgotten me? I guess you don’t want to talk to me, since you never call me anymore. If you ever feel like talking, and I guess you don’t, give me a cahhh-ulllll.”

When we come home and call back fifteen minutes later, the phone rings and rings.

Mailbox full.

If I knew you were coming I'd have baked a (placenta) cake

2010-01-20T10:23:00.003-06:00

Okay, I’m on board with the romantic notion that childbirth can be a beautiful expression of love—or, at least, a beautiful expression of I-don’t-think-I-can-get-pregnant-because-I’m-on-my-period passion at its very best.

In my more gentle moments, I’ll even acknowledge that babies aren’t wholly repugnant. The constant geyser of shit is no great treat, really, and the incessant wailing in the middle of the night is at best selfish and at worst pretty fucking annoying—but at least infants aren’t old enough yet to demolish the family car or dip into your stash of Captain Morgan. We call this a silver lining, folks.

I can almost understand why people would celebrate the birth with cigars and such. If friends and family are expected to coo and gush over even the ugliest of babies (and there are plenty out there), the parents pretty much owe the cooers and gushers a smoke break to recover. At least this affords the opportunity to vent, “Jesus, that kid looks like it came from a blender,” or, "I can't believe the baby already has his Mom's fat ass," without hurting anyone’s feelings.

What seems to me to be a bit of overkill, though—and I’m guessing I’m not alone in this sentiment—is getting all whoot-whoot excited about the afterbirth.

You’ve got the baby. You’ve got the torn-up, stretched-out vagina. You can cut way back on your milk budget. You have a convenient excuse to avoid future sex. Congratulations. You’ve done well. So why hold on to the leftovers?

It would seem that placentas have moved out of the delivery room and into the mainstream. How could we not all be excited?

Stressing about fine lines and pores on your face? Get a placenta facial. Battling split ends? Pick up a bottle of placenta conditioner. Need something to fill that span of bare wall over the mantelpiece? How about hanging a limited edition placenta print?

Or, if you’re struggling to come up with a quick, no-fuss weekday meal, why not dig into the treasure trove of placenta recipes on the Web?

You need not look far to learn how to whip up everything from a hearty placenta stew to a spicy placenta sausage-garlic-and-fennel pizza. I’m a pepperoni man myself. Call me closed-minded, but I’ll go on record as saying that anyone who brings placenta-anything as an appetizer to my parties won’t be asked back. My apologies in advance.

My favorite new entry in the placenta market, though, is the latest in “sustainable toy designs”—the Placenta Teddy Bear. Designer Alex Green—who I’m guessing is pretty creepy—cut a human placenta in half, cured it with sea salt, treated it with an emulsifying blend of tannin and egg yolk, and then stitched it around some stuffing. Voila! The most disgusting gift you could ever give!

To the end of my days, I will never think of "sex toys" the same way again. A shame, really.

"The Very Best in Robot Sex"

2010-01-12T15:25:00.005-06:00

At the Adult Entertainment Expo in Las Vegas this past weekend, the many guests (most of whom, I would wager, would not be welcome in our home) were introduced to Roxxxy, a full-size, lingerie-clad and anatomically correct robotic “girlfriend” with a connected laptop that enables “her” to respond to simple conversation through an internal speaker.

For a mere seven to nine grand, Roxxxy's creators promise the “best in robot sex”—which, for some men, is exactly what they claim to be experiencing in their marriages today (albeit at a much greater long-term cost).

The key difference, if I understand correctly, is that Roxxxy is "Always Turned On and Ready to Talk or Play," which no men I know have ever claimed (well, maybe the "talk" part, but few brag about that.)

Roxxxy’s greatest promise is that she responds to your conversation according to how you program her. So, if you're an idiot, and you want a robot-with-a-vagina to say things like, "I like to hold hands," Roxxxy's your rubber gal. Or, if you're anti-idiot, and you want to talk about sex or sports, the doll will not only respond to your comments, but will also let you know how horny she gets when you dissect every play in the hockey game.

I have yet to say to Patty, "Wow, did you see how he deked out that goalie?", only to have her respond, "Really? Take me... NOW!" I keep hoping.

Don't get me wrong. I like to hold hands, I like to hear about my wife's day (no, I'm not lying), and I have zero complaints about anything that goes on in the boudoir. So the idea of bumping uglies with a robot seems a little impersonal and more than a little desperate. It could also be potentially embarrassing were the kids and their friends to walk in while Dad's going to town on a moaning rubber slab. And I think it's downright creepy that you can "swap" the personality of your Roxxxy with other guy-friends online. I guess I'm conservative.

And yet there's something quite compelling in the idea of being able to say, “Who cares if the dishes are piling up?” or “Wow, it sounds like you’re PMSing” without receiving a less-than-sexy response (say, a paring knife in the face.) Just once, I'd like to offer, "Hey, there's two minutes 'til my show comes back on...you wanna?"and hear back, “That gets me so hot!” I'm just not sure the thrill's worth four mortgage payments.

Next up for Roxxxy's creators: Rocky, the male robot. I couldn't find details, but I'm guessing one option will be to buy it without a penis—since, for women, it might be a refreshing change to actually speak and be listened to without the expectation the conversation will lead to sex. Just guessing...

A sick, whining little bitch

2010-01-06T15:19:00.004-06:00

Generally, I consider myself a giving, thoughtful person—no more so than, say, Mother Teresa or that Jesus dude. Okay, maybe a smidge more, but I don't like to boast.

Example: were my wife Patty ever willing to talk about sex (other than to say, "Shut the fuck up about sex"), she’d have to admit my approach to foreplay usually involves more than a simple flirtation like, “Here comes the choo-choo” or “Daddy’s got’ya.”

I’ve even offered to let my exhausted sweetie sleep through the act if only she’d comply. Unlike some selfish men, I don’t need conscious applause to know I’ve accomplished great things. Besides, isn’t it the best kind of compliment to know I find her pleasing even when comatose?

My acts of kindness aren’t limited to the bedroom; I’m a Renaissance kind of guy. If I stop for fast food, I’m absurdly generous with what I can’t eat—often, all the pickles and more than one crescent-shaped piece of ketchup-soaked bun. Children may be starving the world over, but nobody can tell me I don’t look after my own. And, if I’m making boom-boom, I never lift the toilet seat after the act, anticipating a guy might need the room next. It’s called chivalry, folks.

Men, I know what you’re thinking: Why must he set the bar so impossibly high? Women, sorry…I’m married. Here’s a hint, though: let hubby know Valentine’s Day chocolates are half-price on February 15. He'll come through for you, especially if you promise to arrange the chocolates in a down-facing arrow formation on your bare stomach.

What I discovered this week, though, was that when I’m sick, my otherwise boundless altruism suddenly has bounds. As some would describe it, I become a simpering little he-bitch. (Picture Jesus before he mastered that loaves-and-fishes trick.)

My wife has suffered a heart attack, and endured countless indignities associated with aftercare. Half of the world’s medical community knows what she looks like naked, and she’s had more pricks and pokes than that girl in my high school who looked like a horse but enjoyed a degree of popularity because she put out for everyone. Through all of these travails, Patty seldom complained.

I don’t get sick often. When I do, everyone knows. As a courtesy, I offer a running monologue on my every symptom:

“Ugh...just puked in my mouth a little.”

“Diarrhea really makes my anus sting.”

"I’m not hungry…unless someone wants to run out and get me a Quarter Pounder. You can have the pickles.”

My daughter is also sick. Her throat is so sore she can’t eat anything but soup. When one of the kids is in agony, we usually offer up our bedroom to the ailing child, and pamper them with soup and sympathy. Last night, Patty suggested similar treatment for Kelly.

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m really, really sick.”

“But she’s sick too.”

“Yeah, but I was sick first.” And then, “Besides, I’m sicker.”

“Can’t you move over and share the space? Two thirds for you, one third for her?”

"Umm...No. And thanks for saying I'm fat.”

“Why won't you share?”

“Because she’ll want to watch things on TV that I won’t want to watch.”

"Can't you compromise?"

I flash the yeah-right look.

“What if you make that a condition?”

“No. She’ll ask, anyway.”

“So you could tell her she can stay only if she watches what you want to watch.”

“No. I don’t have the energy for that kind of fight. Can't you see I’m sick?” I add a phlegmy cough, combined with a hint of chewing, for effect. Now Patty looks ill.

“You’re selfish.”

Do you see how quickly all of my non-sick-day efforts to be the best sort of man are underappreciated? When I’m better, I’m not even bothering with foreplay, and it will be a long cold day in hell before she eats another discarded pickle.

I’m a great guy, but even Jesus and I can only be pushed so far.

One Manic Christmas

2009-12-20T10:03:00.004-06:00

Christmas Eve 2006, for our family of seven, was spent fumbling through the all-hours cafeteria in the most distant corner of the Twilight Zone.

8:00
Our family drives home from a huge feast with my wife Patty’s extended family. Each of us, in turn, complains about how stuffed we are. We're a groaning contest on wheels. When we arrive home, the kids, still holding their stomachs, retire to one of the upstairs bedrooms to watch a movie.

9:00
Connor, our youngest, calls downstairs—he’s famished. It’s Christmas, a time for giving rather than sudden violence, so we relent and let him poke around our fridge. When he arrives on the main floor, he insists he will settle only for food that is “hard” (and adds, “And NOT candy.”) We suggest apples. “Not hard enough.” Celery? “Nope. Too soft.” He throws up his arms and, in a huff, ascends the stairs. Moments later, our daughter Kelly appears to let us know Connor has had an epiphany—the “hard food” he’s been craving...is chicken.

9:30
All the discussion of food reminds our oldest sons—Devin and PJ—that there’s food in the house yet to be eaten. PJ heats up enough pasta to feed Chicago and most of the suburbs. Devin settles for a large tub of hummus and a jumbo bag of pita chips. While noshing, he expounds upon how exciting it would be to “comparison eat” several different types of hummus. We have only one variety, and it's disappointingly generic. He grumbles, but finishes it all.

9:45
Kelly remembers that Connor had been offered an apple, so she reappears to collect apples for herself and the other kids. A year before, she would have balked at an apple, because she had decided she was allergic to them (as had her favorite cousin…go figure). When she discovers that, unlike our hummus, we have more than one variety of apple, she yells, “Well, then just forget it! This is too confusing. I’ll just get one for myself. They can get their own.”

9:46
The remaining apples disappear.

11:30
One of the kids calls down—they're still hungry. Patty considers their request, then yells for the lot of them to shut up, settle down and go to sleep. She’s not frustrated because it’s late, nor because they are relentless eating machines. She’s agitated that the constant interruptions are preventing the grown-ups from concentrating on the program we've settled upon: Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

12:00
Patty and I call it a night. Down the hall, Connor dozes with a smile, with visions not of sugar plums but of rotisserie chickens dancing in his head.

'Twas the week before Christmas

2009-12-17T11:16:00.004-06:00

'Twas the week before Christmas, and in our account
The dollars I found were a paltry amount
One kid wants a camera, another a phone
Come Christmas morning, they’re all sure to moan
A magazine subscription? What fun is that?
Hey Dad, hey Mom, what’s with this hat?
Soon I will tire of their incessant mocking
That started just after they opened their stocking
No DVDs there, no gift cards, no PS3 stuff
I sprang for an orange…is that not enough?
And under the tree, the offerings seem sparse
Because I can’t pull money right out of my arse
The economy’s struggling, times they are lean
So from high hopes our children we wean
At least they’ll get turkey, and taters and stuffing
Ha! They’ll get leftovers—I was just bluffing
Oh the sad looks we’ll see on all of their faces
That are slightly askew—no money for braces
I’d offer a drink, some cider or nog
Won’t that make up for not getting a dog?
The five frowning faces will be a horrible sight
Enough of this Christmas—let's call it a night

Don't try this at home

2009-12-11T14:42:00.005-06:00

A long, long time ago, after the dinosaurs but before the gods of first-person shooters and massively multiplayer online games smiled upon a technology-sparse earth, the young and impressionable of our world trudged through long and tedious summer days with nothing but authentic human beings, sunshine and imagination to see them through.

Mothers would send kids out the door in the morning, with some vague instruction like, “Get out, and don’t come back until lunch. And then get out again until dinner.”

Pedophiles weren’t the media's darlings they are today, so my mother sent us packing with confidence, giving nary a thought to the remote possibility I’d come home with hair in my mouth and a railway spike entrenched in my anus. Oh, those were the days.

In reality, the most dangerous people I encountered on a day-to-day basis were my older brother (who, even then, wanted me out of the will) and those friends who were willing to engage in behavior that is at best risky, and at worst downright stupid. Too often, I was their ringleader. That's why, when most people compare scars and stitches from their childhood, I'm part of the story.

Without further ado, here are the rules to a handful of games we engaged in when our parents weren’t looking—which was, in our day, much of the time.

The Spit Toss
First, pull out bed on standard sleeper sofa; the smaller the mattress, the better, so challenger and opponent are in close proximity. Challenger and opponent lay under a comforter or blanket, faces exposed. Both participants talk about weather, girls, music or any other desired subject. Mid-sentence, challenger fires a loogie directly up in the air. Challenger quickly covers self with his section of blanket while simultaneously yanking down section covering opponent. If challenger scores a direct body hit, one point. If challenger hits opponent in face, game is won, because opponent won’t want to play anymore. Challenger laughs, and then runs away, very quickly. Key to winning: don’t tell opponent you’re playing the game; surprise him.

The Prune Juice Challenge
Plan sleepover with friend. Eat chili dinner, with beans, and follow with bran muffin for dessert. Set up standard two- or three-person tent. Equip with sleeping bags, pillows and flashlight. Walk to local convenience store. Each contestant selects a four-pack of prune juice. Return to tent. After mindless childhood conversation, extinguish flashlight. Wait. Last person to leave tent wins.

Tomato Dodgeball
Select appropriate evening when parents are out of town. Raid garden of most available tomatoes (ripeness and/or color doesn’t matter). Distribute tomatoes equally among opponents. Run around yard, pelting opponents with tomatoes. When bored, choose unsuspecting neighbor girl and fire rock-hard green tomato into forehead. Run into house. Hide in closet. When neighbor girl’s mother storms into house, stay in closet. Stop speaking. Stop breathing. Think of clever excuse for ketchup-stained property.

Smack
Pin opponent to floor, with knees on shoulders and legs restraining all movement of arms. Move ear close to opponent’s mouth, just beyond biting range. Listen. For each sound heard, deliver smack to opponent’s face commensurate with volume of sound. Smack once, fairly hard, when no sound is made. When opponent protests with yell, unleash flurry of brutal smacks. Run.

Syringe Cannons
Go to bi-monthly doctor’s visit for allergy shot. Ask doctor for syringe, without needle, and cap for said syringe. Fill syringe with water. Replace cap. Choose opponent. Aim. Slam hand against bottom of syringe plunger, launching cap at incredible speed. Take friend to doctor. Be sure to ask for extra syringes.

Rubber Band Hide-and-Seek
Hand-select six to eight rubber bands of appropriate thickness and strength. Stretch along surface of wooden ruler until attached at both ends. Encourage opponents to hide in dark basement. Turn on flashlight and begin hunt. As each opponent found, allow three-second escape period and then open fire. When opponent found hiding beside refrigerator in bar area, block all means of escape. Count to three. Launch all remaining rubber bands from three-inch distance into opponent’s bare back. Run for bandages.

Sounder (my brother’s favorite)
One contestant (younger brother) plays neglected puppy in store window. Other contestant (older brother) assumes role of lonely, benevolent bachelor. Bachelor purchases dog (always named Sounder, for some reason) and brings him home (the basement floor). Bachelor nurtures dog’s playful side by dragging long string around floor, which dog is obliged to chase. Hunt continues for 20 minutes or exhaustion, whichever comes first. As reward for “winning”, dog is treated to full bowl of shredded paper, or food. Dog eats “food”, leaves game with stomach ache. Game is repeated throughout childhood; players keep same roles.

If you like these, I'll share the better ones ... after all, what boy doesn't have at least a dozen childhood memories involving incendiary materials?

Something (or Someone) in the Water

2009-12-08T09:12:00.003-06:00

It’s deliciously invigorating to discover a fictionalized representation of yourself in someone else’s novel—that is, until the author tucks your lifeless body on the bottom of an ice-covered pond.

This past weekend, my father called to let me know that Albert Dell’apa, a childhood friend, had been written up in the local newspaper from the area in which we both grew up (and where my parents still reside). Albert, who lived about six houses up the street from me, penned a novel called How to Win a Chestnut Fight, based loosely on his experiences growing up in a village about an hour east of Toronto.

While my father read me the article, questions flooded my brain. First was, “What the FUCK? How is my upcoming book going to stand out in a smaller market if another guy from the same street beat me to the punch? And what was in that water?” Second was, “How could he write a book? He’s only 12!” It took a minute or two to remember twenty-eight years have passed since I saw him last—these years have been mostly a blur. I blame the magic mushrooms.

Once my original pangs of jealousy settled, my next and most pressing question was, “Am I in the book?” Actually, my question was, “Oh no…what if I’m in it?”

And I was … sort of.

In the novel, Albert (Andy) and his brother Rocco (Rick) play their one-and-only pond hockey game against two boys from the neighborhood (me and my friend John). Despite the preparations of the two brothers of Italian descent, the game ends with a 30-goal differential between the two teams. This really happened. When so few things of athletic consequence happen in one's life (my life, for example), these moments stand out.

The author did, however, leave out the main reason his team was trounced. As I faux-announced the game (no small feat when you’re breathless), I referred to the famous goalie Jacques Plante as “Jack-Ass Plant”, which caused Albert/Andy to roll on the ice laughing for the remaining game time. It may not seem so funny now, but to a pre-teen, anything with the word "ass" is pure comic gold. Albert's brother played most of the game alone.

Albert also neglected to share that, during another game (this time on the street), he took exception to my calling him a “wop” (we were less evolved in those days) by winding up and slashing me seven times across the shins with a hockey stick. Funny how the little things can break down foolish prejudices.

So he didn’t mention his bout of hysteria, nor did he mention his attempts to sever my legs just below the knees. He did, however, cause me to break through the ice and drown. Was that poetic justice?

When I write my tell-all about my childhood, I may recall a certain “Andy” who, while playing an especially hard-fought game of street hockey, is tragically felled by a chunk of space debris, or perhaps by a moose falling from a plane. There’s your poetic justice, my friend.

How to Win a Chestnut Fight is great fun, and is available from amazon.com and indigo.ca.

The Adventures of ZebraBoy

2009-11-25T10:56:00.003-06:00

If you perused my previous post, you now understand that my early years were not banner ones, in the fashion sense. Sadly, this trend would continue.

In my first weeks of high school, I learned that wearing white pants over brown-and-white striped underwear was a questionable call. In time, people stopped calling me ZebraBoy, but my confidence was shaken. In a later phase, my sleeveless kamikaze shirt with a mesh tank overlay, accessorized with a studded armband, was cool to me but intimidating to no one. And my phase of wearing a black half-tee (midriff exposed) with three-quarters sleeves was just wrong; it didn’t even take me long to realize that.

Running shoes served as the year-round footwear choice throughout my childhood. I always wanted North Star running shoes, which were easily double the price of most other offerings. According to my father, it was asinine to pay that kind of money for sneakers you would outgrow or wear out in short order. He may have been right, but his resistance just made him seem out of touch, and it only strengthened my resolve.

I would fight my parents for hours, and drive my father into a near-rage, by debating the merits (and yuckiness) of various types of runners.

“Dad, those shoes suck.” As did everything my parents suggested, by default. “Do you really want your kid to be killed? I will be beaten up the second anyone sees those shoes. You won’t even have a middle child anymore. You can then take the shoes off my cold dead feet and give them to Paul, and then he can be killed, too. Do you really want all those deaths on your conscience?”

Shoes may make the man, but a bad shoe choice could ruin a kid. I have since had these same debates with kids begging for expensive skate shoes, with soles so broad and long that today’s youth look like a society of future giants, expanding from the ground up. Their center of gravity is so low you’d have to hit them at a full run to tip them over.

In my early school years, there were few rules about maintaining hair, except it couldn’t look like you gave a crap, and your eyes should be covered except when you chose to expose them. As a consequence, in many school pictures I could be the blond sibling of the Fry Guys from the McDonald’s ads. One of the biggest mistakes, though, was in starting to care.

Throughout high school, I found nothing unusual in waking my mother each morning to curl and "feather" my shoulder-length hair. My brother had started this tradition a couple of years prior. Coiffed in this fashion, I could cruise in confidence, knowing that as I moved my hair would always stay in its stylish place. My wife has burst blood vessels and gagged on her laughter each time I’ve cracked open this window to my past. To my eternal shame and her endless delight, this story has served as icebreaker for countless parties. She reminds me (and our audience) of just how messed-up it was to have Mommy serve as my personal stylist.

As I recall these memories, and flip through photos of my youth and younger adulthood, I realize that never in my life—not once—have I ever looked in the mirror and liked what stared back at me. My glasses were always too large, or too small. My jeans were always too tight. I mixed terrycloth with satin, and rubber boots with dress slacks. I was a mess. I'm not much better today.

Today, when someone snaps a picture of me, I anticipate the negative reaction I’ll have later on. I still cannot believe the number of photos in which I have something that looks either entirely or somewhat like a mullet. The one exception is a picture of a perm that hints at Peter Frampton worship.

How did this happen? Why didn’t anyone tell me? And won’t someone keep me from making the same mistakes?

Years of the Balaclava

2009-11-25T10:05:00.006-06:00

Throughout my younger years, I tried many times to appear fashionable. I never quite got it right. Consider the evidence:

The early- to mid-1970s were, for me, The Years of the Balaclava. For those not up on obscure outerwear, a balaclava is a knit hat, not unlike a ski mask. However, because your full face is exposed (instead of just your eyes and mouth), you look less like a character from Dog Day Afternoon and more like a floating egg or a pasty full moon.

Additional balaclava material extends below the top of your coat, at the front and back, for warmth. On mine, cut-outs on the left and right sides kept the material from bunching under the chin. This worked—for a time. But as my head grew (and did it ever), the flaps drew up out of the coat and dangled like an oversized turkey’s waddle. Naturally, my balaclava—and attached waddle—were bright red.

Mittens knit by my godmother arrived each Christmas as the unappreciated appendage to the much-valued, cash-filled holiday envelope. We dutifully said “thank you,” every time, but outerwear as a gift leaves most kids a little cold (no pun intended.)

For the younger set, said mittens were connected by a long strand of yarn. The prevailing theory was that if mittens were more or less hard-wired to your clothing, you could never lose them. In reality, instead of losing one mitten, you always lost both. Besides, if you picked a pair too small for your age, a sudden movement forward with one arm yanked the other violently behind your back. I approximated many exciting kung fu moves in this manner, and lost street hockey games when I couldn’t raise my stick for a slap shot.

This is not to say I’ve never made attempts to be cool. At fifteen, I purchased my first black leather jacket, which I paired with a crisp white dress shirt with either two or three buttons undone. The choice depended upon just how cool I wanted my hairless chest to look. With my new jacket, dress shirt (collar up, naturally) and excruciatingly tight blue jeans (Jordache, I believe, or Cream), I was ready to do what we called “cruising.”

To cruise, one would walk in purposeful strides through public places, making very slow movements of the head from side to side in sync with an almost imperceptible bounce and hip-swing combination. Smiling was taboo, as this made you look approachable—ergo, not cool. Better to look angry and defiant, to do your clothes justice. When asked one's plans for the day, the standard reply was, “Juuuuuust fuck-in' ker-roo-sin!”

The leather jacket was never zipped, regardless of weather—this would bleed the jacket of all inherent style, and leave one open to harsh mockery. Another steadfast rule: one could never wear a hat (or balaclava), or gloves, or scarf, or anything else that would protect against wind or snow. Responding in any way to a driving Alberta clipper that made the bones of your nose hurt meant you were a “fag”. On the most bitter days, one concession was allowed: the tips of the fingers (not thumbs) could be jammed into the tops of the jean pockets, but only if the elbows were extended outward to make you look more imposing. To wear mittens would be to condemn oneself to style purgatory.

Before leather I went through a denim phase, which has its own rules. A jean jacket was only as cool as the ornamentation with which one adorned it, in the form of patches and buttons. Mine included logos for Van Halen and Molly Hatchet (neither of whom I cared for at the time, but the intertwined V and H looked awesome) and Iron Maiden. Did all rock bands of the 70s and 80s have logos? Why?

My buttons featured pot leaves, brands of liquor and the ever-popular “I refuse to have a battle of wits with an unarmed person.” Also, I enhanced my jacket by coating it with beer caps, affixed by pushing the tab from a loaf of bread through the fabric and into the cap.

Shirts with expressions were acceptable, too, as long as they made some reference to popular vices. We really thought women of all ages would want to know that as long as we had a face, they had a place to sit, or that without any expenditure on their part, they could enjoy a mustache ride. For some reason I still can’t fathom, my father was willing to let me have a T-shirt bearing the slogan Golden Nugget Saloon: Liquor in the Front, Poker in the Rear, but barred Save Energy: Fart in a Jar because it sounded “vulgar.”

With the full complement of images confirming that yes, in fact, I liked sex, drugs and rock and roll, I had to be cool, right?

Coming soon: Part II: The Adventures of ZebraBoy

She said, she said

2009-11-18T10:21:00.005-06:00

This morning I felt a rare creative burst and, wanting to corral it before it sprinted away, I started typing like a man possessed. If my next book sells, you'll be able to ensconce yourself in another of my many delightful takes on human excrement. Just try to contain your excitement.

While I was tapping away, Patty and our daughter Kelly left for school. Kelly returned briefly to let me know that we'd forgotten to take the garbage out the night before, so I'd have to take care of it. I mumbled, "Mmmph", which is Canadian for "Okay," or, "That sucks." And then I forgot all about it for the next three hours.

When the garbage truck roared by and I subsequently raced outdoors in a frenzy, I was already too late. So I returned and nervously initiated a dialogue over Google Talk with Patty. I've included the discussion here. I've added translation to help clarify the difference between what Patty wrote and what I'm pretty sure Patty actually meant.

Me: “Shit! I forgot to take the garbage out until now and, of course, today they came early for the first time ever.”

Her: “Man. I thought Kelly went in to tell you that it wasn’t done.” Translation: You never listen, putz.

Me: “She did, but I screwed up. Sorry.”

Her: “What do we do?” What the fuck is wrong with you?

Me: “Well, I guess we’ll have to hold on to it for another week. I’m really sorry. I was writing that story about poop...haha...you remember...and I got distracted.”

Her: “It’s going to be really smelly. We had crab last night.” Hey asshole, thanks for stinking up the neighborhood!

Me: “I don’t know what I can do. All of the houses on all sides had theirs picked up.”

Her: “Okay. Maybe I can figure something out.” Great, now I'm going to have to smuggle the garbage you forgot into some dumpster somewhere.

Me: “It’s not that big of a deal. Maybe it will get cold and the garbage will freeze.”

Her: “Okay, it’s no big deal.” It’s a big deal. Did you get that? A B-I-G D-E-A-L.

Me: “Now you hate me! Bad, bad husband!”

Her: “No, it’s okay.” I hate you! Bad, bad husband!

Me: “I will go into the kitchen and stab myself in the eye with a crab leg. Okay?”

Her: “Sure thing. Let me know when you’ve done it.” Sure thing. Hurry. Or can I do it?

Me: “Okay…stand by. I couldn’t get it past my eyelid. I kept blinking.”

Her: “Oh. Chicken!” If I was home, you'd have no chance to chicken out.

Me: “I didn’t try chicken. Should I?”

Her: “No, it will get infected. Just leave it.” I don’t want second-hand salmonella.

Me: “Fine. It’s your call. I could punch myself in the testicles, though.”

Her: “No. Never mind.” You'd pull your punch.

Me: “I’ll keep the garbage on my side of the bed all week. That’ll teach me.”

Her: “No thanks. That sounds unpleasant.” …unless you sleep in another room.

Me: “Why don’t you come up with something creative, like, ‘No sex until I get home from work?’”

Her: “How about no sex until the garbage gets picked up?” I want to be a trifle barbaric.

Me: “That seems a trifle barbaric.”

Her: “Of course.” Of course.

Me: “I could eat the moldy tuna salad you found in the fridge. Oh, great, now you’re thinking about the moldy tuna salad spending an extra week in the garbage.”

Her: "Gross.” Yes, that’s all I’ll think about.

Me: “Forgive me?”

Her: “Yes. I have to run to the bathroom. I’ll be back in a bit. Cool?” No...never. I won't forgive and, trust me, I'll never forget.

Me: “Okay…if I haven’t maimed myself.”

Her: “Does that somehow prevent me from returning?” I could easily live with out you. Watch me.

Me: “No, it just means I may be in a puddle of blood and therefore unable to type.”

Her: “Okay, if you don’t respond, I’ll know why.” Make sure you put down drop-sheets, first.

Me: "Love you, baby."

Her: "Love you, too." ♫ Can't find a better man, no, can't find a better man ♫

Escaping the Cult of Celebrity

2009-11-16T13:49:00.004-06:00

How would we ever get through our workaday existences were it not for the sage celebrities who help us understand the more subtle nuances of a life lived well?

This morning, I learned that ousted Miss California USA competitor Carrie Prejean feels there’s nothing wrong with Christians opting to enhance their bust size, because she “doesn’t see anywhere in the Bible where it says you shouldn’t get breast implants.” No, really? In a book that predated plastic surgery by centuries—not a single mention?

I think there may be a passage here and there that Ms. Prejean could take to be an endorsement. What about that “cup runneth over” bit? Or, "I am a wall, and my breasts like towers"?

Of course, that’s silly. If people let me and Carrie bend the meaning of the words in the Bible to suit our own selfish whims, what’s next? Will people feel free to express backward views about gay marriage?

Still, even though I’m no fan of Ms. Prejean’s synthetic bosom, I do like her thinking.

"Sorry, officer. I do realize that I knocked back a whole bottle of Jagrmeister while driving this evening, and that you may think it unwise to be going 120 miles an hour through a residential street. And yes, you’re right: I am completely naked. But let me ask you this: if you check your Bible, am I really in the wrong?”

Without Hailey Glassman’s comments about Jon Gosselin’s supposed “Jekyll and Hyde” personality, I’d never have known that when I was screaming, “You stupid, stubborn cow-bitch” at my clogged kitchen sink during two hours of fruitless plunging yesterday, I may just have been having a “mantrum,” instead of being an insufferable prick with no handyman skills. This makes me feel a little bad about all the names I’ve called women over the years when they were PMSing—which the new, more sensitive me will now refer to as “womanic-depressive episodes” (albeit, from a safe distance).

Leighton Meester, of Gossip Girl fame, recently offered, “Guys who are unavailable are actually a dream come true for me because I’m unavailable all of the time. It’s great they’re not down your throat.” Great for you...not so…oh, skip it…that’s just too easy.

Why do we listen to celebrities? What gives them any sort of special insight into what it’s like to live in a world in which seven-figure paychecks are far from the norm? Are they better people? Better parents? I’m not so sure. Still, they speak and we listen. And maybe, just maybe, they’re sometimes right.

Consider the words of the great American role model Sarah Palin: “Show me where the open door is, even if it’s cracked open a little bit, maybe I’ll plow right on through that and maybe prematurely plow through it.”

I agree, Sarah. In fact, I could not agree more.

Just another feel-good rabbit penis story

2009-11-10T14:44:00.008-06:00

I, for one, was more than thrilled to learn about a groundbreaking scientific discovery in the area of “renewed HARE growth”—specifically, the partial removal and then substantial enlargement of rabbit penises at a North Carolina university (or, as I've now come to know it, the Land Where Animals Take One for the Team.)

I’m also convinced I’ve missed my vocational calling. I’d just love to carry on this end of a conversation:

“So, what do you do? Oh, an accountant; that sounds fun. What do I do? Oh, heh, heh, nothing special. See that rabbit over there? No, no, he’s not floating. Nope, that’s no pedestal. Look closer…”

A moment of patience, a warm smile, and then, “How YOU doin’!”

It seems rabbit-pecker experts have been successful in removing a substantial section of junk from a number of rabbits (none of whom, I would bet, were volunteers) and then, after doing a few rounds of laboratory sleight of hand, reattaching bigger, stronger, supercharged bunny-dicks on the suddenly oh-so-confident test animals. No participants were available for interviews, but most were, I am sure, forgiving of their forced participation.

I wasn’t at all enthusiastic about what this discovery meant for these footloose skank-hos of the animal kingdom—they’ll still be a menace to my vegetable garden, even if they’re dragging fur-wrapped English cucumbers across the lawn—but the human implications are enough to make me sit up and clap my paws.

Scientists hope to transfer this learning to the area of human penile enlargement—of course. Otherwise, why bother even telling us? Just consider the possibilities.

You’re a young man of average appearance, hopelessly lost amid a sea of hotties in a dance club. You finally work up the nerve to approach an attractive gal, who turns away sharply at your approach. Timidly, you tap her on the shoulder and, when she turns, you break the ice.

“Hi there. My name is Jeff.”

“So?”

Another turn. Another tap.

“So, I don’t suppose you’d like me to buy you a drink?"

"No."

"Then I don't suppose you'd like to see my genetically enhanced and freakishly oversized superphallus, would you?”

She flips up her smallest finger, wiggles it and grunts, “It’s probably like this.”

Whereupon, by way of retort, you simply unzip and, with a quick flip of the wrist, smack both the self-righteous look off her face and the drinks off three nearby tables. Zipping back up, you retreat to a quiet corner and wait for your newfound popularity to come to you.

No word as yet when I’ll be the first human volunteer but, when I am, you’ll know. Oh yes, you WILL know.

NOTE: Not all future stories on this blog will involve animal penises; well, not directly, anyway.

Holy Fellatio, Batgal!

2009-11-03T12:59:00.003-06:00

If bonobo monkeys share 98.7% of our DNA, it must be that other 1.3% that males of the human species covet above all others. Tucked away amid those few sparse strands, next to the primal urge to sling feces hither and yon, must be the ever-elusive and much-coveted Random Blow Job Gene.

If you're a monkey, and you're reading this, know this: I despise you.

It’s no secret that it takes little more than a wry wink to lure a bonobo out of one of your better monkey bars and into the alley for a lightning round of drop-and-polish. Females and boy-nobos alike get in on the act; apparently, to them, monkey balls are gummi bears.

“Heeeeeeey sailor. Is that a plantain under your fur? Whoo-whoo-whoo!”

Now, I’m no expert on primate society, but I have to think your average bonobo is a world-class expert at hiding boredom—and why not? One ill-timed yawn and they find themselves stuffed from gums to gullet in monkey junk. It’s crazy, for sure, but nobody can say bonobos don’t know how to throw a party.

Generally, humans aren’t as open to this. I’ve yet to meet a husband who can walk up to his wife while she’s watching a home improvement show and, without even waiting for a commercial break, unceremoniously go to town on her face. If such a man exists, it’s a safe bet his member gives off the distinctive aroma of high-quality Belgian chocolate; either that, or he’s just cleaned the house, put the kids to bed, given his wife a foot massage and slipped something into each of her last three glasses of Chardonnay.

So, needless to say, I was a tad bitter this morning when I read that bonobos aren’t the only ones marching merrily up to the gloryhole. Apparently, one variety of fruit bat is taking oral artistry to a higher plain.

If you're a bat, and you're reading this, know this: I hate you even more.

Male members of the genus Cynopterus Sphinx (I defy you to find a better porn name), a short-nosed fruit bat, routinely receive a very special form of attention from not one, but many, females. This, to most men, would be enough reason to resent evolution. But there’s more.

While performing dorsoventral copulation (where dorsoventral means “extending from the dorsal to the ventral side”…a position that seems ridiculously ambitious), the female performs continuous oral sex on the exposed portion of the male member that isn’t already absurdly content.

And, dammit, there’s still more.

Apparently, the reason the female does this (because altruism, it would seem, isn’t reason enough) is that it's the only way to keep the male interested in sex. Excuse me?

I guess these bat-babes are willing to perform this most amazing sort of service because, if they didn’t, the male bat would just give up and go do whatever bats do when they’re not on the receiving end of sex acts most of us wouldn’t even know how to pay for.

Fucking bats. Fucking bonobos. Fucking Darwin. I hate you all more than ever.

1967 Redux: Cast from Heaven

2009-10-30T12:15:00.004-05:00

As I revealed in my previous post, I remember very little about my birth. I was there, but I guess I wasn’t really “there”, if you catch my meaning. It's not like anyone asked me if I was content with the room I had...they just forced me into what they considered a more spacious upgrade.

I presume I came into the world from my mother's tummy (I say tummy because the words "my mother" and "vagina" should rarely, if ever, share the same sentence, unless you're speaking of someone else's mother, in which case it's totally hot and should be shared in explicit detail in comments about this post.)

I never looked back for evidence of where I'd just been. We may each know from whence we came, but a permanent mental picture of your mother's legs poised stiffly in a V-for-victory sign is tough for even those of the strongest stock to bear.

My parents have disputed the full accuracy of some minor points in my earlier narrative. In fairness, I’ll review our conversation here.

Remember that four-plus decades have passed, enough time for some of the sheen to have faded—even the finest sterling has been known to tarnish. So I’ll concede my parents may not have noticed, or may not remember, the many bluebirds (none of whom wrote memoirs--I checked). Chock it up to the passage of time, and the countless wonderful memories with which I’ve blessed my parents since then.

“But Dad, you must be mistaken. All babies are beautiful. Like puppies.”

“Most are.” His body spasms, and his whole body rides out the quake. “Not you.”

“But…”

“Sorry, Brian…but you were a butt-ugly baby.” He looks like someone force-fed eight lemons into his mouth. “And to think we tried to make you.”

He trembles again, as though a stork has just airmailed a-10-pound baby-shaped turd of memory onto his forehead from a substantial altitude.

As I’m filing away my alleged ugliness in my massive cabinet of collected insecurities, under Self Image: Baby, he mumbles, as if mourning a lost opportunity, “They wouldn’t let me drown you.”

My Mom rubs my father gently on the arm, sympathetic. I make a mental note to move the information to the Baby: Close Calls folder.

My mother adds, “When I first saw you, I thought, ‘Oh my God, all that bother over this?’”

Thanks.

“You must be exaggerating! You’re just not remembering. Maybe I wasn’t finished yet.”

My Mom shakes her head. She can’t (and won't) help me.

“But Mom, no baby can be that…”

My father drops a black-and-white snapshot in front of me. I throw my body back in my chair, hard.

“JESUS! What IS that?”

I think I’m seeing a Salvador Dali impression of a hairless, bloated Shar Pei puppy drowning in a vegetable crisper. I suspect the afterbirth was breathtaking by comparison. Were it not for the provenance of the picture, I would have presumed I was seeing clever Photoshop trickery.

“Do you get it now?”

I do. Oh, I do. I don’t want to, but I do.

“But how? I mean, it's... How could…”

They just shrug, as if to say, We play the hand we’re dealt.

“Well, if I wasn’t a beautiful baby…” The evidence is growling out of the photo before me. “Was I at least a happy baby? A nice baby?”

Please don’t laugh. Please don’t laugh.

My Mom laughs. A little too hard, really, considering I’ve had only seconds to accept I’d started out more oversized mealworm than human.

“You were horrible. The nurses didn’t want us to visit you in the nursery.”

The photo is still looking at me. Why would anyone visit? I would deny ownership, or switch bracelets when nobody was looking.

Nice try, Mrs. Croft—put back the Asian baby.

“If the nurses moved you, even an inch, you would scream and scream for hours. They pleaded with us to look at you from afar.”

Surely, Mom and Dad, you wouldn’t stand for that.

“We were all good with that. You looked better in the distance. The rougher edges almost smoothed out.”

My Self Image: Baby file is now overflowing, and as thick as War and Peace.

Although I imagine my birth as a quick, efficient affair, my parents seem confident the process was somewhat more taxing. From what I’m told, my mother was admitted at midnight and spent the next seven hours trying to expel me while I flailed nobly against the current. I guess I feared change.

When I came home, the story goes, my older brother, then almost three, was indifferent to my arrival. I wasn’t a girl, as he had requested, so he wanted little to do with me. That’s okay; I don’t recall wanting much to do with him, either. If he was such a great sibling to me in infancy, wouldn’t I remember?

So, friends, you have some sorting out to do. You can accept my account, which seems much more palatable and doesn’t play like a rehash of the It’s Alive series. Besides, my take is romantic in a 50s-sitcom kind of way. Or you could take my parents’ word for it. Without bluebirds of happiness, what fun would that be?

Heaven in '67?

2009-10-29T15:37:00.009-05:00

I remember very little of my birth.

To be honest, I’m a little surprised. I must have been paying attention—it’s hardly the sort of thing one sleeps through, or of which I could have been blissfully unaware. After nine months of nothing but lounging and kick-paddling around my personal heated pool (indoors, no less), at least something was breaking the unrelenting tedium.

So I should remember. It did involve a vagina, after all, even if it was (shudder) my mother’s.

When choosing the winning nominee from this very limited engagement, it’s really a toss-up. My mother, the doctor—or me.

Mom had worked this script once before, so she was basically typecast. And if she was playing a repeat role, the doctor most certainly was. Day after day, broken vagina after broken vagina, pretty much the exact same thing—like Jeff Goldblum's characters in every movie he's in.

In those days, nervous fathers weren’t invited to wade knee-deep in the carnage, so the only credit my Dad could claim was a brief supporting role the previous spring. Kudos, pops…that stuff must have been gunpowder.

So that leaves one stand-out performer: me. A stunning turn, and in my first time in the limelight. Thank you, I accept.

But what’s my excuse for drawing a blank about what was arguably the most important day of my life?

My Mom was never a drinker—in fact, my parents’ liquor cabinet sports 10-year-old whisky that recently celebrated its 20th birthday. So my failed memories didn’t marinate for 270-some-odd nights in a tepid bath of second-hand cognac. “Crack Babies” weren’t even available in those days.

And while the experience may not have been a cakewalk for my Mom—I’m sure through no fault of my own—I doubt my experience of being squeezed out, like an imprisoned chimpanzee easing toward the open end of a toothpaste tube, could have been, well, comfortable. At the very least, though, it should have been noteworthy.

And then there’s the circumcision (again, shudder). This I’m shocked I don’t remember. If you surprised me today by strapping me down and doing ambush penis reduction surgery with a scalpel, trust me—I’d remember. Should you hover over my deathbed and lean in to catch my last words, I’m pretty sure they’d be, “Give me back my cock.”

Still—nothing.

So, I must apologize. To unravel this mystery, I’m forced to marry a conservative sprinkling of creative license with the somewhat less glamorous (and therefore questionable) lore recounted by others present. I’m sure I’ll hit pretty close to the truth. Could you do better?

January 7, 1967. Along the sandy northern shore of Lake Ontario, three learned wise men lead exhausted camels laden with gold, frankincense and myrrh in pursuit of a brilliant star. Uncertain of either purpose or destination, they trudge on—stopping only to resuscitate a dying lamb in their path—knowing they will soon bear witness to the miracle of all miracles.

Oh, wait. Wrong birth. Damn you, Little Drummer Boy. And damn you, too, brain…why must you torment me with the stop-motion specials of my misspent youth? Pa-rum-pa-pum-pum. Pa-rum-pa-pum-pum. Out of my head, demons!

January 7, 1967. In a small town nestled against the sandy northern shore of Lake Ontario, a young mother awakens early, and greets the glorious dawn with a gentle yawn and a broad smile. She rolls over and plants a tender kiss on the stubbly cheek of her sleeping husband. He too smiles. The dream he’s relished for months, awash in the unbridled joy with which he’ll soon be blessed, allows him to linger one last moment in its warm embrace.

She whispers in his ear, softly, “Hey, sleepyhead. Rise and shine, my prince. I think it’s time.”

His smile broadens, and his eyes ease open. He doesn’t even look like he’s been sleeping.

“Oh, is it? Well then, fair lady, I suppose we’d best be going.”

As they step out the front door of their house and into an unseasonably warm and vibrant morning, bluebirds swoop happily to and fro, humming and whistling. The young couple tosses an overnight bag into the back seat of their car, starts the engine (on the first try) and begins the short trek to the hospital. The bluebirds dive into a synchronized pursuit, bathing the journey in a song as bright as the sunshine that seems to wash everything in its golden glow.

“Are you okay, honey?” my father asks, tossing her another of his dreamlike smiles.

“Feeling a bit of a pinch, but nothing I’d let spoil this special moment.” In spite of the twinge, she giggles.

“You’re a trooper,” my Dad chuckles, and shucks my mother on the chin.

In mere minutes, the joyous couple arrives at the front of the hospital, where an army of handsome doctors and nurses ease my mother into a lushly padded wheelchair. A bluebird lands on the arm, jiggles its wings jauntily, and tweets sweetly at my mother. She tweets back.

A valet opens the car door for my father and, when he gets out, hops into the seat and whisks the vehicle away to the best space in the parking lot (where, inexplicably, no snow has fallen, ever.) My Dad scowls at himself for forgetting to give a generous tip. My Mom play-scolds him.

“Bob, you can’t be everyone’s hero. Isn’t it enough to be hero to me?”

My Dad’s frown melts away, revealing an even bigger smile.

“Oh, Bev, I just love you so.”

“And I you, my dearest Superman. And I you.”

The nurse now: “Are you ready to go?”

My mother holds up her index finger and whisper-pleads, “Just a second.” She draws in one more deep breath of fresh air, and then beams even more broadly.

“Oh, look. It’s a rainbow. Look, Bob. It must be from the sunlight on my tears.”

My Dad gazes adoringly at my mother, and then glances at his watch. It’s 7:15. He lands a peck on my Mom-to-be’s nose, and wipes a happy tear from his own. He mouths “Showtime!” and stares yearningly as my Mom is wheeled away. She looks back.

My Dad’s grin is ten times more alive than the rainbow.

At 7:30, with one final little pinch, their greatest dreams become reality. My mother cradles me in her arms, hoping to shield me from the ten thousand or so completely stupid things I’m certain to do before I reach adulthood (we’ll get to that.) For a few moments, she forgets completely about my father. She especially forgets the other child, David. He now seems a mere practice round before the main event. I will learn to pity him in time; you should as well.

Soon, my father arrives with three dozen roses and a box of cigars he’s flown in special from Cuba. My mother’s initial pang of irritation at the intrusion (and his incessant joyful whistling) is washed away by a sudden realization. What she has created is too special—too divine, dare I say—to keep to herself. She posits, aloud, “Surely such magic isn’t meant to be hoarded away from others? Like a Van Gogh or a Rembrandt, isn’t he meant to be shared by all?”

My Dad can’t be angry, or feel slighted—his euphoria wouldn’t put up with it. He swoons, and catches himself against the door frame.

“Whoa! That kid is a looker.”

“Yes, oh yes. Isn’t he just precious?” She tickles me under the chin. I coo. I think about saying, “Mama”, but realize one miracle a day is enough.

“Worth more than all the emeralds in the world, pet. And more brilliant and beautiful by far.”

“Oh, I know.” And then great, hitching sobs of joy erupt from her. “I know.”

My Dad falls to his knees, his great sobs quickly drowning out my mother’s. “Oh Lord, why have you chosen to be so utterly generous? Are we even worthy of such a great bounty?” He then hides his mouth with his hand and, out of the Lord’s earshot, whispers to my mother, “Are we?”

From Heaven, God shoves his hands into his robe pockets, nods and grins, sheepishly. The temperature outside the hospital jumps ten degrees. I presume He wants to say something but, from what I’ve heard, His English isn’t great. My parents don’t even notice the cherubim—a nice touch, I thought—floating above.

“Oh, Bob. It’s been so… No, he’s so…” Even through her tears, she’s a thousand candles burning out of control. “He’s so perfect.”

“Yes, my sweet. It has truly been a magical day.” He claps his hands together. “And this is truly a glorious thing we have done.”

Next time: My parents clarify a few of the finer details.

Holy Bloodsucking Babies!

2009-10-27T12:10:00.008-05:00

Oh fine, I'll admit it: I am a filthy, shameless, oh-yes-slide-it-in-my-DVD-player Rotten Tomatoes-loving nickel-whore.

As I lustfully devour the listings of this, the film lover's Shangri-la, I rejoice in the discovery of a great new film with an intensity most achieve online only with underwear at mid-calf and an economy-sized tube of something slippery yet water-soluble close at crotch.

At least eight times a day, and often more, I search ravenously for that next great flick, one that will shove me out of my funk, grab my head with authority and fairly scream, "Bury yourself in me, you dirty celluloid slut!"

In short, I like a good movie.

For the most part, I'm a complete and insufferable film snob. As a consequence, I am, bar none, the most hated person in our home (a distinction I reinforce each time I comment on one of the kids' Facebook pictures, or if I dare say no to anything). More than once, I've heard, "Brian, I can't hear the movie over tssk-huh-what-tssk," or, sometimes, "Mom, will I be grounded if I shoot Dad in the face?"

I rarely rent a movie unless Rotten Tomatoes gives it a rating of 80 percent or better. And that's just the first litmus test. In addition to a high score, reviewers must heap upon the film the most glowing of praise--something along the lines of, "During the opening credits, I jizzed," or, "It was like discovering my clitoris all over again."

The kids often suggest movies. That's so cute. Nope.

So, yes, I'm a selfish dick, and I'm okay with that. Along the way, I've seen some great films. Some of my favorites include The Vanishing (it MUST be the foreign original), Fargo, Pan's Labyrinth, Pulp Fiction, Finding Neverland, Billy Elliot and Requiem for a Dream. The best movie of all time is, without question, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, which makes me jizz figuratively at its mere mention. Just give me a second to grab a figurative towel.

Some well-reviewed films turn out to be, for me, total duds. Perhaps the most noteworthy of late was Gran Torino. I liked nothing about the film, except maybe the car and some of the sunlight. I catch a lot of shit for this opinion--a LOT. Whatever. I think the only person who didn't threaten to harm me was the person to whom I gave the very gently used Blu-ray on the day I unwrapped it. You're quite welcome.

So I'm pretty selective (and more than a tad asshole-ish) about what I'll watch. But I do have one considerable chink in my movie-choosing armor:

Amateur mature foot fetish porn.

I'm kidding. Like that would be a weakness.

No, I really love a good horror/suspense movie. I also like more than my share of bad ones...and that's okay. I'm a huge fan of Eden Lake, The Ring, Descent, The Devil's Backbone, Joy Ride and Paranormal Activity. I've found I can suspend disbelief beyond what most would call reason if the film makes its mission to cause me to poop myself just a little.

So, this past weekend, I was quite excited to screen the movie Grace which, the last I checked, received a 71% rating which, in the realm of horror-film reviews, is basically the same as an Academy Award. After watching the whole movie--which was difficult over Patty's constant commentary, "Are you kidding? Brian, really...are you fucking kidding?"--I had to admit the movie didn't top any of my lists. It just didn't have that certain umph to broaden the chinks in my armor, and left me utterly unsoiled.

A quick synopsis (and spoiler alert, if you want to call it that):

(a) mom loses husband and unborn baby in car accident; (b) mom carries dead baby to term; (c) mom surprises midwife and former gay lover by nursing dead baby back to life; (d) mom buys fly strips to keep clouds of flies off baby; (e) mom discovers baby needs blood, not milk, to thrive; (f) mother-in-law, missing dead son, forces husband to suckle her fatty breasts (eww); (g) mom kills mother-in-law's family doctor after he pumps milk with a strange apparatus and diagnoses baby as sick from baby monitor; (h) mother-in-law kills mother as mother in turn kills mother-in-law; (i) former lover-midwife leaves in RV with baby on Midwest killing-slash-feeding spree.

Don't get me wrong. I like a good ambiguously-gay-vegan-overprotective-to-the-point-of-murder-mom-and-bloodsucking-baby-film as much as the next guy. Just not this one.

Back to Rotten Tomatoes. Hmmm...Messiah of Evil sounds kinda promising.

The funniest thing ever written

2009-10-25T15:41:00.008-05:00

Often, when I send a new story to my agent, and then spend the next hours repeatedly checking my Blackberry for an encouraging reaction--something along the lines of, “Yup…that’s the funniest thing I've ever read,” or, “I peed,” her somewhat less enthusiastic reply includes one or more of the following:

• “Punching babies? Brian, Brian, Brian…”
• “I took out seventeen of the ‘fucks’.”
• “Toenails? Soup? TOENAILS?!?”
• “No. Did you get that? N. O.”
• “Ugh.”

Patty, my greatest defender, gently pats my hand and adds soothingly, “Don't take it too hard, honey; it WAS absolutely disgusting.”

My agent’s reasoning is sound. A huge proportion of acquiring editors at publishing firms are women, and more than one is at least moderately anti-baby-punch. I am not a woman, nor have I figured out enough about this species to claim more than a passing understanding and a deep-seated please-don't-bring-that-knife-to-bed fear. I DO know that some of you like shoes, and that most of you don’t like me.

For some reason, a loud reference to vaginal farts that causes snot to fly from each man’s nostrils (and then causes those same men to laugh harder at the sight of sputum) rarely draws even a grudging chuckle from your average gal. And, if said woman is your wife, she usually just sits there with her mouth hanging open before finally snapping, in a shout-whisper, “BRIAN! It’s not funny. For god’s sake…this is a funeral.”

Still, there are a few women out there who don’t pull punches, except perhaps around babies. One of my favorites is Candice, whose blog Life According to Candice has, more than once, drawn a "WTF?" from me. Recent entries have delved into gynecological exams, KY jelly, the well-hung, spanking and corncob dildos. Check it out.

Another is Allie of Hyperbole and a Half who, while usually a little more restrained than Candice, still never shies away from referring to someone as a “queef-faced man-child.” She's yet to refer to me as such; until then, I recommend giving her a read.

So, is the tide shifting? Are women starting to warm up to the idea that all the nasty shit that happens, especially as we age, is the stuff of pure comic bliss? Can't we all see a giant English cucumber in a light-hearted way? Will Patty come around, and say, "Ohmigod, your joke about shit and sundaes made me piddle?"

I doubt it. More likely, I'll stay as Chief Snot-Giggler in the Land of Ugh.

Of Glue and Penises

2009-10-22T14:12:00.003-05:00

I don't know if you've noticed, or why I have, but there seem to be an inordinate number of news stories of late about what seldom makes most men’s lists of life’s must-dos—marriage.

No, not the marriage of a man to a woman, a man to a man or a woman to a woman—none of which strike me as at all unusual.

No, in this instance I'm speaking of the atypical marriage of glue…and the human penis. From where I sit—with my hand cupped protectively over myself—even one situation that combines genitalia and industrial-strength adhesives counts as “inordinate”. Then again, I'm told I'm sensitive.

In England, where it would seem twigs-and-berries double as stage props, one “Captain Dan the Demon Dwarf” was feeling blue because the vacuum he drags across the stage with his pecker—no doubt to the oohs, aahs and oh-dears of fans who just can't get enough of phallus-as-train metaphors—was broken. (No explanation is offered for how the vacuum became damaged, and for this I'm thankful.)

Anyhow, to fix said vacuum, Cap’n Dan squeezed some extra-strong glue onto the attachment. Instead of waiting for the adhesive to dry, Dan hastily squeezed into this most unusual "costume". Soon, performer, penis and vacuum-on-penis were racing en masse to a packed emergency room where, a very long hour later, Dan’s impromptu and over-the-top-generous penile extension was successfully removed. The star of the show was banged up but spared; no updates were provided about the fate of the vacuum.

I’m no social scientist, but I believe there's a lesson in this. If (a) you’re planning to vacuum (or make love to such an appliance), (b) you’ve slathered glue all over the attachments, and (c) you simply cannot resist the urge to shove the hose down your pants—just wait a spell. Have a smoke or a soda; read a magazine article; dust the blinds; admire your love truncheon in all its free-standing, vacuum-free glory, if you must. But keep it well clear of the glue until you’re sure it’s dry. It’s just common sense, folks.

An aside: I was going to include some pun about how the situation must have really sucked, but I thought better of it—that wouldn’t be funny.

Okay, back to the Glue/Shlong Phenomenon.

In Wisconsin, where male genitalia are not usually stage props but vehicles for rehabilitation, a philanderer who was tomcatting with three women allegedly learned of their collective displeasure when one tied him down to a bed (okay so far), slapped him across the face (you have to give her that much) and then super-glued his member to his stomach (which seems to me, sensitive guy that I am, a tad over-the-top). The latter two steps apparently went down while the other women watched.

As you might expect, after the women left, our victim chewed through his bindings and notified police. A week later, he was arrested for supposedly hitting his daughter and stealing his ex-wife’s deceased father’s ashes. I can see why not only one, but four, women fell for this guy—he sounds like a real peach.

Lest you feel a need to chastise me—“But Brian, most of us honor the penis”—let me say this wasn’t the first time.

In 2005, a Pennsylvania ex-girlfriend (the “ex” part should soon become obvious) not only glued her former boyfriend’s willy to his stomach, but also stuck one of his testicles to his leg, glued his buttocks together and then poured a bottle of nail polish on his head—presumably to make some point. She then kicked him out of the house. My guess is that he’d have left, anyway, albeit with a decidedly awkward waddle and in a manner best described as “gingerly”.

The only positive this time around was that no audience of lovers took in the show, so the man was able to preserve a modicum of dignity—unless, of course, you include viewings by police, several emergency room personnel and more than one dermatologist.

What happened to the good old days, when a woman could express her displeasure with a well-placed punt to the stones? Trust me—a direct hit hurts…it really, really, really hurts. Even a glancing blow—say, the outside of the sole to one-third of the hemisphere of one testicle—is enough to make most of us dump our lunch.

Why, then, does glue have to be a part of it? I'm not saying knives are a good substitute—that seems even more painful and over-the-top, and only leads to divorce and a moderately successful career in the adult film industry. But glue?

Can’t we agree that each of us can, in our own way, “Stick it to the man,” without actually sticking IT to the man?

The Next Reality TV Star?

2009-10-19T09:19:00.005-05:00

This morning, as I sat smoking in bed, watching a giant Jiffy-Pop-balloon launch what, in the next month or so, should be yet another stupid-ass career in reality television, I thought to myself (my powers of mind control are still developing, so I can't yet "think to others"): What can I, a humble, overweight and neurotic suburban dad, do to cut myself in on a little of this action?

What qualities or circumstances of my life are interesting enough (or easy enough to manufacture) to catch the eyes and wallets of the network powers-that-be? Well, you just try these on for size:

Paranormal Inactivity

A family sits around their home, doing nothing, while nothing happens to make them do anything. Lights don't flash on and off, because they're always left on, which makes the father complain incessantly--blah-blah-electric-bill-this, blah-blah-no-money-for-college-that. OOOOooooo...the kids are SO scared!

The deep groans and grumbles through the air vents as the family tries to sleep are not supernatural; no, the family is just tormented by the ghost of the dishwasher the father has promised to fix for several months. He fears a sudden death, a little, but not enough to get up to defend himself.

Late at night, while the husband sputters and spurts through yet another chilling round of sleep apnea, the mother stands at the edge of the bed. She stays there, motionless, for hours, wondering why on earth, in a world sick with pyjama choices, he continues to insist on sleeping naked.

She turns sharply when she hears a whirring sound behind her. She sighs, and then turns off the video camera the Naked One set up in hopes of capturing some homemade porn with himself as the male lead. Like that's ever gonna happen.

The Big-Ass Loser

A father sits around the house, doing nothing, while nothing happens to make him do anything. His wife comes into the room, and announces, "Did you notice that I cleaned the kitchen, vacuumed the family room and did all the laundry while you just sat around doing nothing?"

To which the father replies, "I guess that's why I've been waiting five minutes for a beer." The husband winks at the camera, and the laugh track is triggered.

As the culminating moment in every episode, the wife says, "Go f**k yourself, you..." Wait for it... "You Big-Ass Loser!"

Spouse Swap

Two husbands, who mostly sit around the house doing nothing while nothing makes them do anything, suggest swapping wives to spice up their marriages. They call out to their wives. The answer is no.

I could come up with others; it's not like I'm doing anything. Any takers?

Babies, Rats & Other of Life’s Great Pleasures

2009-10-12T14:38:00.004-05:00

Rats, it would seem, just love the smell of babies.

This is just the type of sound-bite I relish as I take in shows on Animal Planet, NatGeo and the like. This time, it’s Ratzilla, a program about absurdly oversized rats packing up from places they’re typically indigenous and relocating into suburban backyards, basements—and, it would seem—nurseries.

How do you suppose researchers come up with these insights? How can they know a baby smells more appealing than, say, a homeless drifter or a discarded wedge of pizza? Do they lure parents and their young into secret labs with the promise of a box of Pampers, a case of formula and twenty bucks toward the kid’s education? Or do they just stage sit-ins with night-vision goggles and see how things play out?

“Oh dear God, the rats are everywhere! Grab the baby! Get the mother out of here! No…wait…hold on…the big one’s just sniffing him. Awwww….that’s so cute!”

Has anyone ever interviewed a rodent to uncover its likes and dislikes? One scratch means, “Yes, babies are just super!” Two scratches means, “No thanks…I’ll pass.” All this to learn what makes an infant’s bouquet seductive while a toddler’s lacks appeal?

And what good is this information? No parent I know would employ a baby as bait in a rat trap, especially with peanut butter in the kitchen pantry. Fewer still would don a headlamp and go sewer-diving in pursuit of that perfect pet.

“Oooooo…I love the black one! No, not him…yeah, that black one. Toss him in this pillowcase!”

So, instead of having any real value, these scientific tidbits serve simply to make a good night’s sleep, already a rarity, a nearly unattainable ideal. Who, other than me, could catch quality shut-eye while suspecting an animal kingdom is parading through the adjoining room?

The research seems unnecessary. I could have told these curious minds, for free, all I know about babies. I read What to Expect When You’re Expecting. I really read every word, from cover to cover; I didn’t just use it as a coaster. From my own experience, I can share a simple truth: aside from when babies are freshly bathed and powdered, they don’t smell good at all.

I first learned this as a teenager when my aunt asked me to babysit her twin boys while she ran an errand. I accepted, but only after receiving iron-clad assurance diaper-changing would in no way enter the equation. No sooner had the car eased out of the driveway than I was surrounded by a thick haze, the distinctive tang of pure evil. I’d heard twins share a symbiotic relationship, and here was irrefutable evidence: the two had conspired, in unison, to ruin my day.

When I first signed on to become a parent, I acknowledged that, in spite of my profound misgivings, I would share some responsibility for diaper changing. I did this knowing I could drag out my day at the office well into every evening, and that I would never turn down a business trip, especially a weekend excursion to bum-fuck Egypt (or bum-fuck anywhere, for that matter). With any luck, the kids would be toilet-trained and ready to play catch before they even thought of bonding with me.

On those rare occasions where avoidance was impossible, I would first feign surprise.

“Oh…did he? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Brian, the air is thick. Air isn’t supposed to be thick.”

“Oh.”

“Oh, what?”

“Nothing. Just oh.”

Often, if I stuck it out, my first wife would throw up her hands, scoop up the baby and leave the room, a trail of threats lingering in her stead. If she held her ground, I’d go on the hunt for a sweatshirt and a pair of rubber gloves. Only when I was fully garbed with the sweatshirt a thick shield before my nose and mouth would I grudgingly plunge forward into this, my greatest nightmare.

My mother saw me equipped this way once. I don’t know if she felt sorry for me or for my son, who was now wailing in terror at the cotton-wrapped monster before him.

“Oh, for God’s sake. Move. Just get out of the way!”

One time, when my then-wife was out for the afternoon, one of my sons toddled into the room with a broad grin on his face.

“I pooped.”

Clearly, he had. He’d not only pooped, but worked said poop into a rudimentary form of camouflage, up his back almost to his neck. In a sick, gagging sort of way, I was impressed. This was clearly a labor of love.

It took all my strength to restrain our golden retriever, Darby, who looked thrilled that dinner had arrived hours ahead of schedule. At that moment I understood the axiom, “There’s no accounting for taste.” Then, sensing the potential for escape, I released her collar. Two minutes and a cascade of giggles later—“Daddy, it tickles!”—my son was remarkably clean. What’s more, I was becoming a fun dad.

A parenting site, Whatsonforlittleones.com, shared results of a recent study that revealed only one in five fathers change diapers. This affirmed my belief that I wasn’t a jerk for those many years—just someone trying to fit in among my peers. Would she have me be a freak? So, I may have sucked as a husband and father but, odds are, my ex would have been lucky to do better.

In truth, though, I was a jerk.

Mothers are presumed to be better equipped for this sort of thing. If you believe the commercials, a diaper change is a tender moment, full of tummy blows, loving smiles and kissed toes. In reality, I doubt a mom is any more enthusiastic about the process than her hubby. But women, bless their souls, will never put their kids in peril, regardless of the sacrifice they’re expected to make.

Still, as these beleaguered moms scrape the taffy-like residue off their forearms, I’m sure some wonder if, with a little prodding and a swipe of Jiffy, giant rats could shed their instincts and learn to love the smell of men.

Persistence of Memory Loss

2009-10-09T17:48:00.004-05:00

Whenever Patty grows frustrated with me because I’ve once again forgotten some important call I was supposed to place or check she’d asked me to cash, I defend myself by gently reminding her about the flaws in her own memory. Specifically, I call her attention to what has come to be known, in the O’Mara-Croft family lore, as The $60,000 Question. The mere mention buys me at least a short reprieve.

Patty and I, along with three of our five children, moved together into a rental condo in the spring of 2001. Patty had just sold her home, and we eagerly awaited the arrival of a sizable bank draft, her share of the proceeds (her soon-to-be-ex-husband received the rest). When it finally arrived, we were ecstatic, because we’d both brought into this relationship more than a few debts from the ones previous. In short, we were horribly broke.

Patty waved the check in the air. “We’ve got it. Thank God…we’ve got it!” A stranger taking in the scene would have been fairly convinced she'd discovered a black hole under our kitchen sink. She tossed the envelope on the kitchen counter, gave me a big kiss, and poured us both a celebratory drink.

When we returned for the check, it wasn’t there. Patty looked around everywhere; I looked around everywhere again. None of the kids had any idea. Our initial chuckles at her absent-mindedness—Ha, ha, you threw away our future, ha, ha—quickly devolved into a sharp, grating and nearly volcanic variety of panic.

“Think, Patty. Did you put it in your purse?”

“I checked my purse.” I grabbed her purse, opened it, felt a sense of awe about just how much she’d managed to fit in there, realized this task was bigger than me, and set it back down.

“Did you file it away in a drawer somewhere?”

“Why would I do that? It needs to go in the bank.”

“I know it does. But we’ve tried all the sensible places. Now it’s time to think of the dumb ones.”

“Then maybe you took it.” Why, at the mere mention of dumb ideas, do I always immediately become the patsy?

“Don’t put that on me. I don’t have it; I never did. Did you throw it out?”

“Now you’re just being ridiculous. Why on earth would I throw away tens of thousands of dollars?”

Fast-forward one hour: she’d thrown it out.

Patty hates clutter, so when in her short-term memory this check stopped being—oh, I don’t know—our fragile lifeline for the coming months, it instantly transformed into nothing more than junk mail. A year later, she would throw out another huge check from an inheritance. I could forgive the oversight, even after it happened twice; we’re all only human (even those of us who tend toward the dumb and ridiculous.)

I once raced like a man possessed to get our two other children (from my first marriage) to the airport for their return flight to Canada. I weaved in and out of traffic, cut off emergency vehicles and, once or twice, came close to breaking the sound barrier, all the while staring at the clock in the car, whose numbers were fairly spinning. I arrived with a screech of rubber at the curb of the terminal—only to discover, in my haste, we’d left home without their passports…or any of their luggage.

So I could certainly wrap my head around the idea that, in Patty’s frenetic cleaning, she’d swept the check into the trash. What I still don’t understand, though, is why I ended up the dumpster-diver. Or why I was the one nominated to deposit a massive check coated with what I presume was a generous swipe of pizza sauce and a soupçon of mashed banana.

On some fronts, Patty enjoys a near-photographic recall of things past. She can without hesitation draw out minute details of experiences from her early childhood. One of my favorites was a true Hallmark moment when, on a family vacation, her mother tried to skip a rock across a lake. The flat stone didn’t blip-blip-plonk across the mirrored surface, to the delight of her children, as she had intended. Instead, it shouted out a meaty thwock as it slammed full-force into the back of her daughter Kathleen’s head.

My sister-in-law, to whom I’ve bestowed two nicknames, Kiddo and Bitch, makes me crazy, usually in a good way. So I relish the retelling of this story about her near-demise, in exquisite detail, whenever Patty’s willing to share it. And all the details are there, every time.

So maybe, just maybe, long-term memory isn't about remembering everything. Perhaps it's just about remembering our favorite things.

Food for thought

2009-10-05T12:52:00.005-05:00

I read this morning about a certain television celebrity who is taking her husband, another TV celeb, to court because he allegedly drained their bank account of $230,000, leaving her with only $1,200 to raise their eight kids.

My first thought was, "Wow, what would it be like to have that much in my bank account?" My second was, "Oh my God, how will she ever find a way to survive, toiling in obscurity as she is? What's she going to do? Work at a fast food joint?"

Good question. Apparently, this celebrity has said that, if necessary, she'd flip burgers for a certain fast-food chain that has, based on my admittedly suspect research, served as many people as have ever lived on this planet. I wonder--has she filled in an application yet?

I also wonder--why do people continue to watch this ongoing train wreck?

I don't even want to be ridiculously wealthy if that's what fame and fortune do to people. Okay, I'm lying. I want to be stinking rich, just to see what kind of class-A asshole I become. I'm only at class C so far, but I'm pushing hard for a "B" rating and have glorious ambitions.

To be fair, I'd be a bit miffed if Patty were to drain our account of nearly a quarter of a million dollars--not because she'd taken it, because she presumably would have some good use for it, but because the bank fees on an overdraft of this magnitude would be, I would guess, somewhat crippling. I know I wouldn't be the one answering the call from the bank.

"For the love of God, don't answer the phone!"

Still, I'm curious. Would I really be upset? There's only one real way to prove this, and I'm willing to be your guinea pig, no matter how painful I find the experience. You're welcome.

Consider this an open call for 230 of my closest friends (another challenge, since only about a dozen people really like me) to send me $1,000 each. If you would like to send more, please feel free; I'm not going to pillory you for your altruism. This experiment will work just as well, I'd imagine, with half a million dollars. If it doesn't, I'll take out full-page ads in several major newspapers with the headline, "Who knew?"

If you send a huge check, I will cash it...I promise. When all the funds are there, I will pass over a shiny new ATM card to Patty and encourage her to go to town. If she has trouble spending it all, I will even help her, because she's the love of my life and that's what loving spouses do.

I will post the outcomes here.

What do you think?

Highbrow eyebrows

2009-10-02T14:10:00.003-05:00

Every time I look in the mirror, I find some other reason to feel I'm the road upon which the cruel march of time is stomping relentlessly. The size-thirteen crows' feet on either side of my face (a genetic gift from my mother) gather in and point accusingly at the ample, drooping fanny-packs under my eyes. I've thought about jabbing a pin in one, just to see if it would deflate, or if candy would spill out, but a little voice keeps telling me this may be a bad idea.

It's not pretty.

Were this not enough to fill me with angst, a newer, distressing phenomenon is adding insult (upon insult) to injury. As you can see in the photo, my eyebrows are, quite simply, out of control. They look like one of those overcrowded road signs that point to hundreds of faraway towns (Marakesh: 2,800 miles; Loserville: You are Here).

Left to their own devices, I presume these hairs would simply grow, and wind, and grow again, until they would shroud my eyes like a freakish pair of frameless sunglasses.

Every time I visit my personal stylist's (a fancier way of saying "GreatClips"), I'm forced to swallow my pride, point to the horror show and ask, "Is there anything...anything...you can do about THAT?" I then carefully watch to ensure the unfortunate stylist who called my name is not mortified, or nauseous, or preparing to flee. Most are kind enough to comfort me with, "Oh, that's no problem. It happens a lot with our older customers." Thanks.

I felt a ray of hope this afternoon when I read about "guybrow" nights being held in upscale British salons, in response to demand from others, like me, who are hirsute where they shouldn't be. Apparently, for a reasonable fee, some brave soul will do battle with these stray wires and, as if by magic, transform my "Neanderthal unibrow" into a "sexy, James-Bond-style arch."

I have to admit...I'm tempted, especially since similar hairs seem to be sprouting from my earlobes. Still, since I can't afford a monthly foray to Britain to maintain a double-o-seven arch, my mirror time for the immediate future is sure to leave me both shaken and stirred.

Paths to good fortune

2009-10-01T07:17:00.010-05:00

Last night, I warmed up an enormous casserole dish of leftover Chinese food. This was my third meal of said leftovers; such was the penance set by our resident priest-slash-spouse for ordering sixty-seven dollars' worth of take-out as lunch for two. In essence, I had moved an entire buffet three blocks from a restaurant to my kitchen counter. This seemed logical to me, especially in an economy of high gas prices.

By round three, no attempts were made to arrange, in a neat presentation, the garlic chicken next to the chop suey next to the lo mein next to the combination fried rice; the works were thrown into one dish, zapped for three minutes and eaten as an amorphous stew called simply, "Chinese".

Patty's observation, "Oh...my...God! You eat more on one fork than I eat on seven!", touched me. Clearly, she was noticing I was hungry. Had she been even more perceptive, she may also have noticed a residual tinge of bitterness about my being denied other choices for my meal.

When I finished, I reached into the enormous bag of plum sauce, hot mustard and soy sauce (which, for some inexplicable reason, always explodes out of the package upon opening) and fished out a handful of fortune cookies.

The fact there were at least a dozen cookies only reinforced Patty's smug assertion that I'd ordered far too much for two people. Whatever. I didn't hear her complaining as she tucked into the potstickers on Day One and "reserved" the remaining potstickers for lunch on Day Two (with some thinly veiled threat of impending menace.)

My fortune:

I thought, "I don't get it. What is that supposed to mean? I don't have time for this!" I tossed it to Patty, said, "Here...you figure this out," and opened another:

Okay, this was a trifle unsettling. I've long known that my Mom has some pull, but this was just creepy. I imagined a Stephen King/Dan Brown collaboration about a neglected mother commanding a vast network of worldwide resources, all in an attempt to browbeat a child into a state of unbridled terror, all for a lack of attentiveness.

I grabbed a napkin from next to my plate and patted the cold sweat from my brow--in the process adorning my face with a soy-sauce variation on Ash Wednesday. Omnipotent or not, Mom could wait until later.

I made a resolution. I would do this fortune cookie thing, over and over, until I ran out of fortune cookies (I could always order more) or found a prediction I could live with. The next:

"Okay, okay, I get it, Mom! I'll call you in just a minute. Haven't you ever heard about the value of patience?"

Something told me my next message would read, "Bang. You're Dead," but I felt compelled to read just one more, even if my fate hung in a tenuous balance. With some trepidation, I gently eased the white slip out of its almond-flavored batter envelope.

At first, a smile played at the edges of my lips. I liked this. Oh, I really liked this.

Still, ever the realist, I set the cookie down and reached for another.

Pure gold

2009-09-30T11:44:00.005-05:00

The San Francisco Chronicle recently reported the case of a Houston-area woman who, in what I presume was a matter more of revenge than hunger, fried the estranged couple's seven goldfish. She ate three. Police arrived just as the woman was about to tuck into the fourth fillet.

I just love picturing the confrontation: "Police! Freeze! Drop the fork and lemon wedge; now, step away from the goldfish!" All this as a vibrant tail slowly disappears between her lips.

"Mwhatph Goldfith?"

I looked online for goldfish recipes and found nothing involving actual fish, just those crackers my children love and I abhor. I presume a simple Panko breading/egg wash combo, along with a simple tartar sauce (don't forget the capers) would work just fine. Or, just for irony, perhaps a dusting of Goldfish cracker crumbs? Sadly, the article offered nothing about preparation.

Honey, if things don't work out, let's try to talk things through. Please don't eat any of my stuff.

Misery and loved company

2009-09-28T07:06:00.001-05:00

On Saturday night, a group of us watched Misery, the second-most horrifying movie starring Kathy Bates.

Number one is of course About Schmidt, which forever proved that full-frontal nudity isn't always a good thing. I'd be willing to bet the director settled on one take for that hot-tub scene. "And...cut. It's a wrap! Quickly...get Kathy her robe. QUICKLY!!!"

All through Misery, I kept thinking to myself, "I would go through all of this happily--being drugged, hit with a ream of paper, called 'Mr. Man' and hobbled--if everything I ever wrote became a bitchly, cocka-doodie bestseller."

I then noticed a hangnail and whimpered, so perhaps not.

Of guys' guys

2009-09-24T10:12:00.009-05:00

In my upcoming book are two stories in particular that speak volumes about my recent life. One relates an unfortunate incident involving my brother-in-law Neil and our backyard (think Second Great Chicago Fire); another talks about how, try as I might, I've never been one of those "guys' guys." Memories of both of those stories came back last night.

Last night, Neil and I found ourselves again in the backyard. We had started a fire (a sensible one). Cocktails were flowing, as always. Life was good.

Out of nowhere, a giant insect, roughly the size of a small-but-pissed sparrow, flew at the two of us. I did what, at the time, seemed the best solution: I mewled ("Eeeeehhhnnnhhh") and turned to run. I planned to run as far as my legs would take me, to some place where massive flying bugs aren't indigenous.

Unfortunately, I couldn't run. I couldn't run because Neil had grabbed my shoulders and employed me as a human shield. I was the filling of a sandwich where Neil was one slice of bread and ThunderBug was the other. I wasn't happy.

Only when Neil had dragged me back to the patio door and escaped inside did he release me.

It would seem he's no guys' guy, either.

Results may vary

2009-09-23T08:54:00.005-05:00

Recently, I was flipping through a local newspaper when I happened upon a quarter-page ad for a medical group that promised its clients what sounded like a complete sexual tune-up. I normally don't pay much attention to these ads. Sure, I may squirm when I'm watching TV with the kids and a spot airs about four-hour erections, convenient finger vibrators or inconvenient genital itching (yuck)--but, for the most part, I think I've become immune to most of these advertisers' grandiose claims.

So it came as some surprise when this ad caught my eye. I wasn't moved by the photo of a young woman reclining in her barely-there underwear; I suppose I became desensitized years ago by the veritable library of adult magazines of which my brother was the proudest of curators. Besides, I've tried and failed countless times to convince my wife to adopt just such a pose, so this seemed little more than a cruel tease.

The question, "Want stronger and longer lasting erections?" seemed too obvious. Who wouldn't want a length of organic steel pipe at the ready twenty-four-seven, especially with the specter of "erectile dysfunction" looming in the not-too-distant future? As they say on Law & Order, asked and answered.

The statement, "See results during the first visit" made me wonder just what would happen during such a first visit. Would a naughty nurse spilling out of a tiny frock greet me at the door with a huge bottle of lube and a pair of ribbed latex gloves? I doubted it.

What really drew me in was the advertiser's claim, in bold text, "Last 30-60 minutes." Given that my typical performance spans, at best, a long commercial break, I was intrigued. I imagined the joy that would accompany a 28-and-a-half to 58-minute extension of my quality amour time.

I tore the ad out of the newspaper and tucked it into my pocket. I started making plans for some future evening. We'd drink a bottle of wine and eat oysters while watching Titanic, the most potent aphrodisiac known to man. At the right moment, we'd have an unveiling, and then 30-60 minutes of pure, unadulterated marital bliss.

When I dug out the ad at home, and prepared to dial the medical group's number, my hopes, dreams and fantasies went the way of the dodo. At the bottom of the page was a microscopic asterisked footer, a hard slap in the face of the hour-of-power claim:

"*Results may vary."

Sigh...

I speak drunkese

2009-09-22T09:33:00.012-05:00

This past Sunday afternoon, one of my neighbors joined me for the second half of the Bears-Steelers game (the weather was unstable, so his satellite reception was shot.) I was drinking my third Hard Pomegranate Punch, my hair-of-the-dog favorite; he had polished off a bottle of Canadian Whisky at home, and was now slowly working his way through my liquor cabinet. In a good neighborhood, alcoholic beverages are a community resource, like butter, eggs and garden shears.

"Catch-up" drinking has never been a favored pastime of mine, but I did switch to a Black Russian just to avoid being mocked for nursing a "girl drink." My neighbor agreed with my choice, enough so that he asked me to fix him one as well. Presumably, he wanted to keep his whisky-and-Coke from feeling lonely. Clearly, even had I wanted to catch up, it wasn't happening--I had neither the hours nor the stomach for it.

When the game ended, we sat outside on the front porch, and watched the rain alternate between cats-and-dogs and a steady sprinkle. When I next turned to my neighbor, I noticed a pair of spiders working their way down the wall toward his head. I despise spiders.

"Look out. You're about to have a head full of bugs."

He tilted his head back against the edge of the spider web. It puckered; I squirmed. It took everything in my power not to shriek, "Eew...eew..." and go running into the house.

"Where?"

"They're right above you. Move, or they'll be sitting on your forehead." They were no more than three inches away--and closing.

He looked up at the descending arachnids with great warmth, as though they were his first born, both sons.

"Oh, I love you, spiders!"

Oh brother. If spiders had chins, I'm sure he'd have shucked them.

He then mentioned he'd seen a great many spiders the previous weekend when he, his wife and his sister had gone boating on a local river. I pictured myself in this scene. At the first sign of creepy crawlies, I'd have launched myself overboard and flailed vainly toward shore, looking back only long enough to make sure they weren't dog-paddling behind me.

Hoping to free my mind and our conversation of spiders (the pair here had started to climb back up, much to my relief), I asked if he'd done any fishing. Apparently, he'd brought along his Pocket Fisherman, but nothing was biting. He then adopted a serious, thoughtful look, a homegrown Clint Eastwood casting a line off one of those bridges in Madison County.

"Lakes are for fishing, Brian." He exhaled a stream of smoke, and looked me right in the eye. "Rivers are for knowing."

Huh?

"Come on, Brian. You know!"

Huh? I know?

"Ha, ha, ha...I'm just kidding."

I still wasn't sure what he was getting at; I may well have been nursing a hangover during Barstool Philosophy 101 in college. Nor did I really understand what my neighbor meant, later on, when he asked me to pause our game of Trivial Pursuit on our PS3. We waited for him to collect his thoughts. He'd found that Clint look again.

"I shot a squirrel from my bedroom window the other day."

"You did? And?"

"Well, that's the thing. You guys play this game on your TV. I shoot squirrels from my upstairs window. It's practically the same thing."

Patty this time: "Huh?"

Of course, I've been altered (a nicer way of saying trashed) before. I'm sure many stories make the rounds of insights I've offered under the influence that seemed brilliant, but only to me.

Just a few weeks ago, I was standing at a urinal at our local watering hole when my cell phone rang. Thinking I was being deliciously funny, I said, "Well, I can't get that. I need both hands down here, if you know what I mean!" The unfortunate fellow to my left looked at me as though I was riddled with oozing sores. He muttered, "Heh...uh...good for you," before quickly zipping up and getting as far from me as possible.

So, as for being a master at alcohol-speak, my friend is not alone. There's me. And there's another friend who, after a night of drinking, fell asleep for an hour. She woke with a start to ask, with some urgency, "Hey, do you have any more of that fishy red gel?" I didn't recall serving any form of gel that evening; if we did, we were fresh out.

Our neighbor left our home a few moments later. I poured myself another Black Russian, hoping that with inebriation would come greater understanding. Before I settled into the rest of my evening, I stepped outside and, without hesitation, soaked both spiders with a half-can of Raid. I waited patiently for them to finish their death throes and fall, and then I stomped on both at once.

Favorite sons or not, I didn't want them crashing my party anymore.

Drones of the world unite!

2009-09-21T09:43:00.010-05:00

Just a quick rundown of the writing history that brought me to this point:

June 1977
Brian O'Mara-Croft (then just Croft) writes to a number of large publishers to pitch his idea for a book he believes will have great appeal. The hook? Unlike other books for the younger set, this one will stand out because it will be written not by an adult, but by a 10-year-old. Brian's enthusiasm, sadly, is not shared.

June 2008
After a 31-year hiatus, Brian writes a book. Much to the delight of his wife Patty, he writes about her...and about their five kids, houseflies, pets, cleaning, gardening, feet, immigration, masturbation, sports and camping. Patty threatens divorce and/or violence; Brian sells the book.

September 2009
Brian realizes that if he wants everyone to read about his fetishes and foibles (again, to Patty's delight), he needs to "self-promote" (or, in publishing lingo, to build a "platform".) He promises himself to finally learn what the hell Twitter's all about. He starts writing a blog, the first entry in which focuses on how it took so freaking long to finally write the book.

June 2010
Barring unforeseen circumstances, Brian's first book, Lost in the Hive: Confessions of a Reluctant Drone, will hit the shelves. He'll have ridiculously high hopes. He won't quit his day job.

July 2010
Fearing for his life, Brian will go into hiding, never to be heard from again.