Last weekend was awesome. I watched a lot of football. Got to the gym three days in a row. Wife and I got to veg at home without having to go anywhere. I was in such a great mood last weekend that I even turned off the football game for a while in order to go outside and rake some leaves. The neighborhood was beautiful this past week. The ground was covered in burnt orange and red. Gentle breeze, crisp air and golden sun. Absolutely perfect. So I dialed up the Charlie Brown Christmas on the Ipod, put on my gloves and hoody and went after the leaves.
My whole front yard took me maybe 30 minutes. I had not had enough outside time so I went ahead and did the leaves for my right-hand neighbor. The lady who lives there is great. She watches and feeds my dogs. I owe her. She's a widow, so sometimes the household chores stack up in her house. Plus, she's had a leg injury, so it was totally cool for me to rake up her yard too. That took another 30 minutes. After an hour, I still hadn't had enough Robert Frost in Wauwatosa time. What was I to do?
The left-hand neighbors are another young couple. They're really awesome. The girl is a plumber and she always helps me out. Usually I trot over in my "fixing shit" clothes and a say "Hey, I screwed something up. Can you fix it?" And she always does. The neighbors also have a wonderful dog. He's a cross between a yellow lab, a German shepherd and a motivational speaker. He's just about the happiest dog in the world. This dog and I are simpatico TO THE EXTREME!
The sphinx of my neighbors is the dude. Really nice guy. Very helpful. A little bit older than me. But painfully shy. I've been trying to make friends with him for years, and all I get is awkward conversation. When we first moved into the house, this dude was taking out an ugly fern tree in his front yard. I put on my "fixing shit" clothes, grabbed two Rolling Rocks and headed out in front to help. And help I did. But very few words were exchanged. He drank the Rolling Rock, but was very specific to refer to it as "fancy beer". I was so traumatized by this experience that I am very careful never to demonstrate any beer other than Miller Lite.
About a week after the fancy beer incident, we bought a 12 foot Canadian maple tree and set it up for delivery the following week. Given how much I work, I decided to take advantage of the weekend I had off and I dug myself a 3 foot x 3 foot x 3 foot hole in the front yard. Took me two hours. I could see my neighbor looking at me through the window, but he didn't come out to help. And what makes it worse, as soon as I was done and went inside, my neighbor came out and stood next to the hole. He just stared at it for like ten minutes! No, "Hey dude, nice hole!" Nothing. Ne'er a word was spoken between us. Never a beverage partaken together. I was hurt even more.
Over the years, it hasn't gotten much better. We always exchange the "how are ya?" And I'm still very friendly with the dog. And the plumber girlfriend will preemptively ask me what I'm working on if she sees me in my "fixing shit" clothes. I think she wants to plan her evening. But me and the dude are still nowhere. I'll shovel his sidewalks sometimes in the wintertime if I'm the first one out there. And he'll return the favor. But we never speak of it. I even gave him an old metal locker from my garage that I didn't want. He took it. But he never told me how much he appreciated it. Deep down in my heart I know he did like the locker. He just couldn't find the words to tell me.
We are not friends. No matter how much I want to be.
So here I was with the conundrum. I wanted to stay outside. I had no other leaves to rake but his. It would be neighborly and helpful. But how would this dude respond? Would he think I was raking his leaves because I thought he was a slob? Or maybe he'd think I was only raking his leaves to preserve my leaf-free lawn, which is really more selfish than generous. If only we had an avenue for saying, "Hey dude, I raked your leaves because it was a nice day out. Hope you don't mind." But we don't have that.
Ultimately, I didn't rake the leaves. The next day, all his leaves were gone. Was he watching me the whole time? Was he hoping I'd rake them--maybe he was looking for one more chance to be united in brohood with me. I'll never know. And we'll never be friends. We'll be awkward neighbors.
But I am pretty sure you don't rake another man's leaves.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
the marriage test
Watch Revolutionary Road with your spouse. If you come away from the film feeling morally superior to Jack and April Wheeler (the main characters played by Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet), then your relationship is meant to last. If you "understand" Jack and April Wheeler, then it's time to start hoarding the valuables so the lawyers can't find them.
The fun part about watching this movie with your sig other is it provides plenty of opportunities for quoting the main characters in your own life. Immediately following the movie, I jumped up, turned and pointed at my wife and screamed, "We only adopted the schnauzer to prove that adopting the spaniel wasn't a mistake!"
Still, I give the film a rating of 1 Julianne Moore. An interesting, captivating plot, good acting and o because the mental patient/Greek chorus in the film is awesome.
The fun part about watching this movie with your sig other is it provides plenty of opportunities for quoting the main characters in your own life. Immediately following the movie, I jumped up, turned and pointed at my wife and screamed, "We only adopted the schnauzer to prove that adopting the spaniel wasn't a mistake!"
Still, I give the film a rating of 1 Julianne Moore. An interesting, captivating plot, good acting and o because the mental patient/Greek chorus in the film is awesome.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
fleece police
Mel Gibson got it all wrong. The movie really should have been called The Passion of the Fleece. I was with a group of people this weekend whose sum total capacity for human compassion is slightly less than that of George W. Bush's first term cabinet. I didn't kill a baby seal. I didn't kidnap a hobo. I didn't smash a Lithuanian lady's pumpkin. I did something much worse. I made the mistake of wearing my fleece two days in a row. It looks like this:
I love this fleece. I waited years to get this fleece. It makes me happy. It keeps me warm. It keeps me safe. I'm a bald, homely man but I tend to feel as if I'm a little more Tom Brady and a little less Tom Arnold when I wear this fleece.
I'm a rather simple dresser. You could call me dressing retarded and it would be okay. I know my limits. See, aside from the standard shirt and tie at work, I'm pretty repetitive. If I'm not wearing the fleece then I'm probably wearing this:
This:
And this:
Okay, I'm kidding about the Zubaz. But not by much. I'm really slow on the dressing thing. I wore jean shorts probably a year longer than I was supposed to. I never owned a single thing from Abercrombie & Fitch. I was the fat kid who wore sweat pants to other kids' houses until Lisa Navarro made fun of me about it really bad in 6th grade. I've come a long way. Really, I have.
I don't tuck T-shirts. I don't wear bib overalls. And, I don't wear the T-shirt of the band to the concert at which said band is playing. So there's hope for me.
So the barrage of insults I endured for 36 hours about my fleece just killed me. And the truth is that a fleece comes under the category of outerwear, which is socially acceptable to wear on consecutive days. Except with this group of sots with whom I chose to spend my weekend, I guess. I'll just put it out there. I wear jeans many days in a row. I wear fleeces, hoodies and sweatshirts many days in a row. The basic rule is that if it stinks, it sinks. Thus, underwear, socks and T-shirts are changed on a daily basis. I don't wear women's underwear, garter belts, bras, crocs or hemp necklaces under any circumstances.
Since I'm getting all my dressing phobias out of the way, I'm going to go one step further. I don't wear this out of social convention, but I long for the day when men can wear moo-moos in their own homes. There, I said it. I'm a lazy, fat SOB and sometimes I'm too tired to put on pants. So my choice is to walk around in my underwear, which makes the neighbors unhappy. Or, I have to find a less taxing means of covering up my corpulence. Hence, the male moo-moo. Understand that I've thought about this. There would be rules to the male moo-moo.
No moo-moos while fixing cars.
No moo-moos while drinking in bars.
No moo-moo parties with other male friends.
No moo-moo combinations with Depends.
No moo-moos on the street.
No moo-moos in the heat.
No moo-moos for trick or treat.
My inspiration?
I feel better now that I got my moo-moo idea out there. But let me reiterate that I long for the day when a man can wear a moo-moo because he's too lazy to put on pants. In a world where blankets with armholes in them sell like crazy, can a man in a moo-moo be so wrong?
NB: two people who will not be allowed to wear moo-moos when the Revolution happens.
Note to this guy: black soccer shoes are not stylish. They're 9th grade study hall.
'
Has a chance to wear fleece on his 30th birthday. Will he accept?
I love this fleece. I waited years to get this fleece. It makes me happy. It keeps me warm. It keeps me safe. I'm a bald, homely man but I tend to feel as if I'm a little more Tom Brady and a little less Tom Arnold when I wear this fleece.
I'm a rather simple dresser. You could call me dressing retarded and it would be okay. I know my limits. See, aside from the standard shirt and tie at work, I'm pretty repetitive. If I'm not wearing the fleece then I'm probably wearing this:
This:
And this:
Okay, I'm kidding about the Zubaz. But not by much. I'm really slow on the dressing thing. I wore jean shorts probably a year longer than I was supposed to. I never owned a single thing from Abercrombie & Fitch. I was the fat kid who wore sweat pants to other kids' houses until Lisa Navarro made fun of me about it really bad in 6th grade. I've come a long way. Really, I have.
I don't tuck T-shirts. I don't wear bib overalls. And, I don't wear the T-shirt of the band to the concert at which said band is playing. So there's hope for me.
So the barrage of insults I endured for 36 hours about my fleece just killed me. And the truth is that a fleece comes under the category of outerwear, which is socially acceptable to wear on consecutive days. Except with this group of sots with whom I chose to spend my weekend, I guess. I'll just put it out there. I wear jeans many days in a row. I wear fleeces, hoodies and sweatshirts many days in a row. The basic rule is that if it stinks, it sinks. Thus, underwear, socks and T-shirts are changed on a daily basis. I don't wear women's underwear, garter belts, bras, crocs or hemp necklaces under any circumstances.
Since I'm getting all my dressing phobias out of the way, I'm going to go one step further. I don't wear this out of social convention, but I long for the day when men can wear moo-moos in their own homes. There, I said it. I'm a lazy, fat SOB and sometimes I'm too tired to put on pants. So my choice is to walk around in my underwear, which makes the neighbors unhappy. Or, I have to find a less taxing means of covering up my corpulence. Hence, the male moo-moo. Understand that I've thought about this. There would be rules to the male moo-moo.
No moo-moos while fixing cars.
No moo-moos while drinking in bars.
No moo-moo parties with other male friends.
No moo-moo combinations with Depends.
No moo-moos on the street.
No moo-moos in the heat.
No moo-moos for trick or treat.
My inspiration?
I feel better now that I got my moo-moo idea out there. But let me reiterate that I long for the day when a man can wear a moo-moo because he's too lazy to put on pants. In a world where blankets with armholes in them sell like crazy, can a man in a moo-moo be so wrong?
NB: two people who will not be allowed to wear moo-moos when the Revolution happens.
Note to this guy: black soccer shoes are not stylish. They're 9th grade study hall.
'
Has a chance to wear fleece on his 30th birthday. Will he accept?
Thursday, October 22, 2009
attention pumpkin crusher! do you require assistance?
I guess I live in the 'burbs now. My wife put two fresh pumpkins out on the front porch at least 10 days ago. In that time period, not one hint of trouble from neighborhood toughs. No jack o'lantern molestation. No pumpkin perversion. No splat on my front walk. Nope, those pumpkins just sit there and look cryptic.
Where are you, pumpkin punks?
When I was a kid on the South Side, a pumpkin never made it through the night. I often wondered why the Lithuanian ladies with the blue hair even bothered to put them out. But the cycle turned on itself every year. Pumpkins purchased. Pumpkins placed. Pumpkins punished.
My wife grew up in suburban Cleveland. She said her Halloween memories were full of costumes and candy and jolly good cheer. She always thought I was weird when I talked about my Halloweens of eggs and toilet paper and shaving cream and firecrackers in garbage cans. Running loose in this blog's (or as my friend Rose says, "blah-g") namesake. In her mind, my Halloweens were the equivalent of Devil's night in Detroit. I guess I thought her Halloweens are boring.
Am I crazy? I'll clean up the mess. I just want some little twirp to come beat the shit out these pumpkins sitting on my porch. I want to know that Wauwatosa is alive. I want to know that kids these days know how to be free. Maybe I'll sit on my porch and wait for a tough to walk by. I'll say, "Hey kid, come here. See these. These are my pumpkins. I want you to take this bat and beat the shit out of these pumpkins. Go ahead. I'm serious."
If I get arrested, I'm gonna be pissed.
Where are you, pumpkin punks?
When I was a kid on the South Side, a pumpkin never made it through the night. I often wondered why the Lithuanian ladies with the blue hair even bothered to put them out. But the cycle turned on itself every year. Pumpkins purchased. Pumpkins placed. Pumpkins punished.
My wife grew up in suburban Cleveland. She said her Halloween memories were full of costumes and candy and jolly good cheer. She always thought I was weird when I talked about my Halloweens of eggs and toilet paper and shaving cream and firecrackers in garbage cans. Running loose in this blog's (or as my friend Rose says, "blah-g") namesake. In her mind, my Halloweens were the equivalent of Devil's night in Detroit. I guess I thought her Halloweens are boring.
Am I crazy? I'll clean up the mess. I just want some little twirp to come beat the shit out these pumpkins sitting on my porch. I want to know that Wauwatosa is alive. I want to know that kids these days know how to be free. Maybe I'll sit on my porch and wait for a tough to walk by. I'll say, "Hey kid, come here. See these. These are my pumpkins. I want you to take this bat and beat the shit out of these pumpkins. Go ahead. I'm serious."
If I get arrested, I'm gonna be pissed.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
the mix cd
It was the good people at Welcome to Falling Rock National Park who taught me the true power of the mix CD. Sure, I like any other teenager made mixes for my friends at times. But it was Kid Shay who really showed me that a mix CD can stand in for one hundred thousand "heys" or "I love yous" or even "hey, I love you. But fuck yous".*
Last year I made a mix CD for my friend whose husband left her. That guy was a dick. No matter how much I wanted to make all the songs about how much of a dick that guy was, I couldn't do it. What's the point? It doesn't help my friend at all. So she got a musical journey that started with Dream Academy's "Life in a Northern Town" and ended with R.E.M.'s "Don't Go Back to Rockville" with two discs worth of emotion in between. My friend appreciated it. I don't think she'd ever received a mix CD before, to be honest.
One thing I'll share with you all is that the key to this process is to actually produce a physical CD. Not only is it much purer than the lame "I made this Ipod playlist for you", it says something about how you feel about the person. It says, "I love you enough to find these old CDs that I bought in 2001 in a dusty drawer, and then I burned music on them for you." That's pure.
I'm making another mix CD tonight for my friend and former boss. She really pissed me off this week. Really, really pissed me off this week. She basically put a bunch of nickels in a sock and hit me in the face with it. Many times. But I've been through this before. And tomorrow we're going to go out for beer and hash some things out because she's my former boss she'll never be my former friend. This mix consists of 3 discs and 43 songs of "Hey, I love you. But fuck you" beginning with Bob Dylan's "Watching the River Flow" and ending with R.E.M.'s "Living Well is the Best Revenge." Hopefully it works.
But she'll never say I didn't care enough to use up old CDs that I found in a dusty drawer.
*NB: all mix CDs between Shaft and Kid Shay have been "heys" with maybe a little bit of "I love yous" in the background.
Last year I made a mix CD for my friend whose husband left her. That guy was a dick. No matter how much I wanted to make all the songs about how much of a dick that guy was, I couldn't do it. What's the point? It doesn't help my friend at all. So she got a musical journey that started with Dream Academy's "Life in a Northern Town" and ended with R.E.M.'s "Don't Go Back to Rockville" with two discs worth of emotion in between. My friend appreciated it. I don't think she'd ever received a mix CD before, to be honest.
One thing I'll share with you all is that the key to this process is to actually produce a physical CD. Not only is it much purer than the lame "I made this Ipod playlist for you", it says something about how you feel about the person. It says, "I love you enough to find these old CDs that I bought in 2001 in a dusty drawer, and then I burned music on them for you." That's pure.
I'm making another mix CD tonight for my friend and former boss. She really pissed me off this week. Really, really pissed me off this week. She basically put a bunch of nickels in a sock and hit me in the face with it. Many times. But I've been through this before. And tomorrow we're going to go out for beer and hash some things out because she's my former boss she'll never be my former friend. This mix consists of 3 discs and 43 songs of "Hey, I love you. But fuck you" beginning with Bob Dylan's "Watching the River Flow" and ending with R.E.M.'s "Living Well is the Best Revenge." Hopefully it works.
But she'll never say I didn't care enough to use up old CDs that I found in a dusty drawer.
*NB: all mix CDs between Shaft and Kid Shay have been "heys" with maybe a little bit of "I love yous" in the background.
Monday, October 12, 2009
bobby jenks, you are obese
White Sox closer Bobby Jenks had a year of diminished returns in 2009. While by no means bombing, he was just a little more hittable, a little less dominating and blew a few more saves. As with most of the bullpen, it was death by 1,000 cuts.
Currently, Roberto Jenks, as he's known by all candle-holders for the 2005 World Champions, is professing offense at criticism of his weight.
http://chicago.whitesox.mlb.com/news/article.jsp?ymd=20091012&content_id=7440078&vkey=news_cws&fext=.jsp&c_id=cws
Jenks feels that there is no empirical evidence that his gross adiposity has anything to do with his decline: "For four years now, I've been the same guy, and when I slow down a little ..." Jenks said. "Bad things happen to anyone, not because I need to get into shape. This has been me the whole time, so where is the problem?"
I don't think Roberto Jenks took symbolic logic in college. I don't think Roberto Jenks went to college. Let me start our by affirming that I do not smoke crack (despite the Michael Bolton post). But if I did smoke crack, the fact that I didn't kill any of my patients on a given day when I smoked crack does not provide empiric evidence that it is okay for me to smoke crack. I'm guessing that Roberto Jenks lost me somewhere in the middle of that sentence, so let me put it more simply for him.
Ehem...
"Put the crisco down you fat ass. We are paying you millions of dollars. In exchange for this compensation, we expect both of your manboobs combined to weigh less than Alexei Ramierez. Stop eating so much, you fat piece of poop. And start saving more games. Even given the fact that Gordon Beckham is the second coming of Jesus Christ, he still should not be able to pitch better than you. We love you dude, but you are taking us a doughnut too far."
I'll even tolerate it if you grow this horrible mullet back if you'll just pass on seconds over the winter!
Currently, Roberto Jenks, as he's known by all candle-holders for the 2005 World Champions, is professing offense at criticism of his weight.
http://chicago.whitesox.mlb.com/news/article.jsp?ymd=20091012&content_id=7440078&vkey=news_cws&fext=.jsp&c_id=cws
Jenks feels that there is no empirical evidence that his gross adiposity has anything to do with his decline: "For four years now, I've been the same guy, and when I slow down a little ..." Jenks said. "Bad things happen to anyone, not because I need to get into shape. This has been me the whole time, so where is the problem?"
I don't think Roberto Jenks took symbolic logic in college. I don't think Roberto Jenks went to college. Let me start our by affirming that I do not smoke crack (despite the Michael Bolton post). But if I did smoke crack, the fact that I didn't kill any of my patients on a given day when I smoked crack does not provide empiric evidence that it is okay for me to smoke crack. I'm guessing that Roberto Jenks lost me somewhere in the middle of that sentence, so let me put it more simply for him.
Ehem...
"Put the crisco down you fat ass. We are paying you millions of dollars. In exchange for this compensation, we expect both of your manboobs combined to weigh less than Alexei Ramierez. Stop eating so much, you fat piece of poop. And start saving more games. Even given the fact that Gordon Beckham is the second coming of Jesus Christ, he still should not be able to pitch better than you. We love you dude, but you are taking us a doughnut too far."
I'll even tolerate it if you grow this horrible mullet back if you'll just pass on seconds over the winter!
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