Great Scott!

· November 4, 2015 · Musings · , , · No Comments

Lots of Back to the Future posts and references the last couple weeks. So why did I wait until this week? Had to make sure that Marty McFly was back to 1985. Now we can talk about him.

On October 21, a number of my friends were proudly posting pictures of themselves holding the Back to the Future DVD, saying they were just about to watch it.  Umm, good luck finding any 2015 there, guys. Cause it ain’t in the original movie. Even a number of the news reports I watched kept getting the release date of the movie wrong. Yes, the original movie was released in 1985, and that is the year from whence Monsieur McFly traveled.  But the movie in which he traveled to 2015 was Back to the Future Part II, released in 1989.

A sequel coming out FOUR YEARS after the original? How archaic!

In fact, when the original movie was produced, there were no plans for a sequel. The “To Be Continued” at the end of the movie did not appear in the theatrical release. In what kind of crazy alternate timeline is a movie released without the next five sequels already being planned and filmed?  And they didn’t even split the last movie in two? The horrors!

Of course, they DID film the second and third movie back-to-back, so that they could be released six months apart from each other. To my knowledge, they were the first to do this now-standard practice.

These are a few of the reasons the Back to the Future trilogy is still relevant, but there are others. And no, this is not just a reaction to Marty McFly’s “arrival date” just passing. Plenty of movies have predictions of future dates, but society doesn’t go apeshit when those dates arrive.  I don’t remember the news media running vignettes on the state of Artificial Intelligence on August 29, 1997, date Terminator predicted Skynet would become self-aware.

I know, I know. Self-lacing shoes are way more relevant to our future on this planet than self-aware technology. Who cares about the future of all human life if we can’t even get a goddamned hoverboard, right?

The Back to the Future trilogy is unique for a number of ways.  Going back to that whole 2 and 3 being shot back-to-back and released six months apart from each other. Six months! Even by today’s Fast and the Furious/Hunger Games standards, that’s fast. Twenty-five years ago, it was unheard of. The standard wait time between sequels back then was a good three years. I assume the conventional wisdom was that audiences would be disinterested in going back to see the “continuing adventures” so soon.

So at least in that one sense, Back to the Future Part II was as relevant as Godfather II.  Prior to Godfather II, movies were released like theater shows. First they would premiere in New York, and maybe Los Angeles, followed a few weeks later by the other major cities. They would then filter through the less-major cities, and if you lived in Omaha, you’re probably waiting a few months for the movie to hit the one screen in town.  The producers of Godfather II, released two years after the original, said “screw that.” They knew the public was clamoring to see the sequel, so they circumvented the powers that be and just released it everywhere simultaneously. It worked, and has been the standard ever since.

So you can thank Back to the Future for the fact that the Twilight craze wasn’t dragged out for another decade.

The trilogy itself was also unique, in that the three movies are so markedly different entities. The first movie was just your run-of-the-mill teen movie. Just take out Lea Thompson and add in Molly Ringwald, and you’d scarcely notice the difference between it and Sixteen Candles. The standard John Hughes tropes are all there. Geeky boy secretly pines away for beautiful girl, who is oblivious to his existence, because girl is enamored with foxy mysterious boy. Something about underwear, and then the geeky guy is encouraged by foxy mysterious guy to stand up to school bully and get the girl. And the space-time continuum is saved.

Wait, that last part wasn’t in Sixteen Candles? I must be thinking of Pretty in Pink.

The second movie is really the one that defines the trilogy.  I remember a lot of people complaining when it came out that it was too complicated. They had taken a cute little reverse-Oedipal story and added layers and complications. All these people wanted was another simple story about a boy trying to ensure his own birth, and those bastards went and added things like alternate timelines and divergence points. And sports gambling.

“Whatever,” I remember my pubescent voice admonishing people, “I’ve been reading comics for years. Alternate timelines? Big whoop.”

The second movie also did a good job of keeping some of the original themes going, but adding a little bit more gravitas to them. Now it’s not just Marty that will cease to be, but all of society. They also make squeaky-clean, save-the-world Marty the bad guy. Or maybe not the bad guy, but responsible for everything that went wrong. After all, he was the one who bought the sports almanac with the intent to make a quick buck in the past.

Then there’s the special effects. Having Michael J. Fox play multiple roles in the same room at the same time while not looking two-dimensional was new. And the last half-hour of the movie, where they actually are added into the original movie, was spectacular. If there’s a second Deadpool movie, maybe they can have him pull the “I was there during all of the earlier X-Men movies.” He does that in the comics a fair bit.

Oh, and they re-shot the final scene of the first movie with a different actress and barely anybody noticed.

I’m not sure which is more impressive: a scene in which one actor plays three roles or a scene in which two actresses play the same role.

Then came the third movie, a Western. That’s right, we went from teen movie to sci-fi head-scratcher to Clint Eastwood. Literally Clint Eastwood, since that’s the name Marty used in 1885, when the movie takes place. Imagine the balls on Bob Gale, the writer. He just decided he wanted to do a Western and, hey, the fans are clamoring for more Back to the Future, so here you go.

Imagine if the Return of the Jedi was suddenly about elves and dwarves. Or Return of the King showed Frodo and Sam spending a day in Saturday school. Or if the final Indiana Jones movie threw in aliens.

Wait, they did WHAT in Kingdom Skull? Okay, never mind.

The point is you can’t completely change the genre in the finale. But Back to the Future did. No more sports almanacs or alternate timelines or Michael J. Fox fading out of existence. But there was still enough of the standard tropes to connect the three – the Tanners are dimwits, benefiting from knowledge of the future, the time machine has lost power so a vehicle has to get up to 88 MPH. And trains. And horses.

And you know what? It worked!

So now that Back to the Future Day has passed, let’s stop with our obsession of how much it got right. No more hoverboards or shoes or Cubs. And let’s focus on the trilogy itself, and how groundbreaking it was. They influenced how trilogies could be filmed and marketed. They informed writers that, if you have an engaging premise and characters, you can do whatever you want with them and people will follow you.

Even if the hero abandons his girlfriend on the porch of a stranger’s house in a violent, dystopian present that he himself had created.

The Almighty Cocks!

· October 21, 2015 · Musings · , , , , , · 2 Comments

Congratulations to the University of South Carolina Gamecocks, henceforth referred to as “The Cocks.”

Last weekend, the Cocks were playing their first game after coach Steve Spurrier, the Head Cock himself, quit. Yet the Cocks didn’t come out flaccid. Nobody would’ve been surprised, or even blamed them, if they had been a little limp or come up a little short.

Sure, Vanderbilt isn’t exactly the most turgid of opponents, and the Cocks have smacked the Commodores across the face repeatedly in recent years. But if there was any time Vanderbilt was going to be able to manhandle the Cocks, this was it.

I mean, The coach just up and quit in the middle of the season! I know he’s old, and, at 70, maybe it’s not as easy to get his Cocks up and ready week after week. And with only two wins this season, and winless in the tough SEC, there was already speculation that he’d retire at the end of the season. I just didn’t expect the premature ejection.

Okay, okay. I’ll give it a rest. Take a breather, smoke a cigarette. But only for long enough to get ready for Round Two.

Because I don’t care if it’s sophomoric, dammit. Double entendres are funny. Unless you have a stick up your ass (and that’s not a double entendre).

There’s a teacher in my department that was bemoaning the maturity level of high school boys, who kept laughing at her Vietnam War PowerPoint.

“Every time I mention the attacks on the Cu Chi Tunnels.”

I snickered. So did the other men at the table.

“No seriously, guys. That’s where the Viet Cong would hide. The Americans were always trying to find out where the Cu Chi tunnels were and infiltrate them, but they always had trouble getting in.”

“Sounds like my twenties,” I mentioned.

“Stop it!”

“Hey, I have a question,” another teacher asked. “Did the VC trim the vegetation around the Cu Chi Tunnels?”

“Ugh.” She had given up, but we kept going.

“Maybe if they had played around with the mountains a little first, the Cu Chi Tunnels would’ve been more receptive.”

It turns out the age of the male in question has little to do with his reaction to trying to get into the Cu Chi Tunnels.

Have I mentioned that one of my life dreams is to be invited to the wedding between Ms. Poon & Mr. Tang. I’m also sad that we’re no longer going to be two resignations away from President Boner.

Which leads me back to rooting for the South Carolina Gamecocks.

I know, I know. One should never pick the team one is rooting for because of its mascot. Your favorite team should be much more manly and logical than that, such as a team that you live near or a team that was good when you first started following the sport.

But picking by mascot is just bush league. You can’t just pick the Giants because you are tall. Or the Vikings because you’re a fan of softcore porn on the History Channel. It’s not like chronic masturbators unite in their love of the Yankees.

Especially in college. If you start picking teams just because of their mascot, who are you going to root for when the Auburn Tigers play the LSU Tigers? Maybe you can just switch to be a Wildcat fan when Kentucky plays Arizona State.

Yet there’s something about those Cocks.

By the way, when those Wildcats of KY meet up with the Cocks? It can get messy!

My love of the Cocks (um, I mean my fandom of South Carolina) began one hungover New Year’s Morning. I woke up in a cabin with about thirty people I didn’t know. I was one of only a few that were awake at first because I had slept on the uncomfortable floor in front of the TV, which somebody had just turned on to a random bowl game.

“Who’s playing?” I asked as my bleary eyes tried to focus.

“South Carolina,” the unknown guy who had secured the couch the night before said. “The Cocks.”

A linebacker was on the screen. I responded, “Wow, that’s a big Cock.” Then it was on.

South Carolina sacks the quarterback? That cock got some good penetration. Lining up in the I-formation? A lot of cocks in the backfield. The other team gets called for pass interference? Can’t keep his hands off that cock!

As each new person in the cabin woke up, the process would start all over again. Except for one guy, who was convinced South Carolina was in Canada.

If you would think repeating “That Cock split the uprights” every time a field goal or PAT was kicked would get boring, I direct you again to the Cu Chi Tunnel discussion. Over a decade later, when Jadeveon Clowney hit Vincent Smith in another Outback Bowl, my phone blew up with texts: “They just cock-smacked that dude’s hat off!!” And when South Carolina won the second of their back-to-back College World Series titles, I couldn’t get to Twitter fast enough to congratulate them for rising up and finishing twice in a row.

Before 2000, the Cocks were relatively unknown. They were Baby Cocks – small, barely noticeable, not really sure what they were there for. Lou Holtz ushered in the awkward teenage years, when the Cocks occasionally rose up and made everyone know they were there, but most of the time was spent fumbling around in the wrong direction. There were a few quicks flashes and spurts, but not against anyone that mattered, and the best that could be said was that they could “hold their own.”

Then Lou Holtz left coaching to do impressions of Sylvester the Cat on ESPN.

So the Cocks hired Steve Spurrier and entered the prime of their lives. It didn’t matter who they faced, they were ready to hit it hard and hit it fast. Waking up Sunday morning and looking over at the fresh tail of Gator or Bulldog they had plowed through the night before.  Fielding calls from AP Pollsters who wanted the blow-by-blow of how it all went down. They even tapped the Ol’ Top 10 List from time to time.

But after a decade, that relationship started to get old. Even before this year, the Spurrier-Cock duo had lost a step. They weren’t quite getting up for the big games anymore. More often than not, when the pre-game excitement rose, they had trouble showing up at all. Some of those games, they were finished after running through the tunnel at the start.

Did the romance grow stale? Did the Cocks just not do it for Spurrier anymore or did all of his old moves no longer get their juices flowing? Every commercial break during the baseball playoffs tells me that this is common in older men. Maybe they should’ve looked for some little blue pills.

But now that marriage is now over.

Now that the Cocks might not be relevant, maybe it’s time to move them to the Pac-12. Just imagine annual games against USC (“That Trojan defense is preventing the Cocks from depositing their cargo into the endzone!”). And the Washington State Cougars would always be happy when the Cocks come to town. Then, of course, there would be the games against the Oregon State Beavers. I think those games would have to be broadcast on Pay-Per-View to avoid FCC fines.

In fact, maybe they should form a brand new, “All Innuendo” conference. Take those four teams and throw in the Wichita State Shockers. Ball State and Sac State would be an instant rivalry. Maybe throw the Massachusetts Minutemen in. Would the Crimson Tide be taking it too far?

Regardless of where they play, they are at a crossroads. They are really in the same spot as any recently-divorced Cock. Do they realize their best days are behind them and settle for some Saturday afternoon dates with the sweet Tar Heel or Volunteer from the next block over, maybe spiced up with an occasional minor Bowl game in mid-December to think back on those crazy younger days? Or do they find some fresh new piece of ass- istant coach that helps them rediscover that virility that was lost?

I know what I’m rooting for!  Come and sing their new alma mater with me!

Get up ye Mighty Great Cocks
How turgidly ye rise
Thrust! Firm!
Plunge! Deep!
And depositing your seed
Into the eeeeeeeeeend-zooooooooone!

Camptathalon 2015

· August 17, 2015 · Musings · , , , , , · No Comments

Last week, I described what Camptathalon is. This year, instead of trying to summarize (and remember) everything that happened after the fact, I decided to bring along a notebook and write down things as they happened. What follows is a transcript. I shall not provide any context. Although I will say that there was no pulled pork. Not sure what the 8:17 comment was in reference to, but we felt it was important enough to write down.

Friday:

2:00 (via walkie talkie between cars): “I forgot the cigars, let’s get some when we get ice.”

2:22 Hell no, we are NOT getting Swisher Sweets.

3:15 (via walkie talkie) “This 5-Hour Energy tastes like Chapstick on an Asshole.”

4:00ish – First campsite full. On to backup site.

4:30ish – Second campsite full. On to super-secret secluded campsite.

5:15 (via walkie talkie): “A virgin would lose her damned hymen on this road.”

5:30ish – Finally arrive at campsite.

5:58 – First missing beer.

6:01 – Beer found in the cab of the truck.

6:25 – Opening ceremony. Toast of Innis & Gunn, unveiling of Camptathalon trophy.

6:56 – Rick asks to borrow Tony’s finger.

7:05 – Breathalyzer instructions: In 30 seconds, put it into your mouth and blow.

7:07 – “You don’t have to blow so hard.”

7:34 – “Just blew a .29. Either the breathalyzer is wrong or I’m clinically dead.”

8:15 – Poker cards flying through the air.

8:17 – “There can never be enough pulled pork.”

9:04 – Premature Mickey’s action. Rick opened the bottle after all in but before the hand was over, still in the game.

9:16 – Rick must now drink the Mickey’s.

9:43 – Rick has ZERO fucks to give.

9:47 – Rick predicted his Blood Alcohol Content correctly. Is still drinking the Mickey’s.

9:51 – An Ace/King is called an Anna Kournikova – it looks really good, but never wins.

9:53 Fartathalon begins with Chris farting in Tony’s face.

9:54 – Stale Oreos are still pretty good.

9:59 – “Cocknose!”

10:00 – Three Rules of Engagement: 1. If she smokes, she fucks. 2. If she’s not up to your standards, lower your standards. 3. No girl is ugly with your balls on her chin.”

10:04 – Should Rule 1 be changed to “If she has a tattoo, she fucks?”

10:11 – Sparky places third in poker.

10:13 – Tony is winning the Fartathalon by leaps and bounds.

10:20 – “The beginning of the Mickey’s was much better than the end of it.”

10:54 – The chip bag is overinflated because of altitude.

10:55 – “Grab it gently. Can I take some chips out of the back door?”

11:15 – Night One over.

Saturday

7:52 – Rick reveals Official Camptathalon socks: Black with gold “BEER” on side)

8:01 – Chris reveals Official Camptathalon T-Shirt (White with red “SHIT” on front)

8:11 – Rick says he needs Tony’s tool (Bottle opener)

8:15 – Rick is glad he didn’t have leakage.

8:16 – First beer of Day Two is cracked open.

8:20 – Breakfast Burritos served

8:56 – Radio turned on. Only station that can be found is playing “Dukes of Hazzard” theme.

10:00 – 2nd Honorary Toast, opening Day Two. Event #2, Slingshot.

10:02 – “I’m feeling tipsy at ten A.M.”

10:30 – Multiple jokes about hitting the can (with the slingshot).

“You hit the can on the bottom.”

“My finger hurts.” “That’s because you’re gripping it too tight.” “That’s not what you said last night.”

10:42 – “It takes every inch of you.”

10:51 – “Let’s play Liar’s Dice to see who gets bottm.”

10:54 – That last fart was a 3.5 on the Shart Potential Scale.

11:00 – Standings after two events: Tony – 6, Chris – 4, Sparky – 1, Rick – 1

12:23 – “Oh, you have salami? I LOVE salami.”

1:00 – Frisbee Golf will replace Chipping because Rick brought his golf club, but no golf balls. Can we chip wiffle balls instead?

1:28 – “I’ll be Nolan Ryan. You can be Robin Ventura.”

2:00 – After Frisbee Golf, Chris – 7, Tony – 7, Sparky – 2, Rick – 1

2:05 – First round of breathalyzer of Day Two

2:30 – Sparky finally enters the Fartathalon.

2:50 – After Wiffle Ball Home Run Derby, Chris – 10, Tony – 8, Sparky – 4, Rick – 1

3:00 – Risk. A non-sanctioned/exhibition Camptathalon event.

3:07 – Bust open the Reese’s peanut butter cup Chips Ahoy cookies.

3:10 – “These cookies are gonna last as long as a virgin on prom night.”

3:23 – Cookies are gone

3:44 – “Did you go swimming in the mountain lake at 8,500 feet?” “Yeah, it’s brisk.”

4:26 – “Three 1’s when attacking Alaska from Kamchatka? Fuck you, Sarah Palin!”

4:50 – Sparky just blew a .00. “Get this man a beer, stat!”

4:54 – Mom jokes are okay, wife jokes are not.

5:26 – Triple aces again, this time Egypt attacking Southern Europe.

5:27 – Just checked the timestamp, we’ve been playing Risk for two and a half hours.

7:30 – After changing/lowering the point target five times, horseshoes are FINALLY over. Standings: Chris – 11, Tony – 8, Sparky – 4, Rick – 2

7:35 – Tri-tip for dinner.

7:50 – Final event is Farkle – if Chris places anywhere other than last, he wins his first Camptathalon.

7:56 – “Touche, asshole.”

7:58 – Wussification imminent.

8:30 – A Sparky Farkle secures a third place Farkle finish for Chris, securing his first Camptathalon victory.

8:31 – Congratulations Chris. Now we can stop recording and timestamping everything.

10:45 – “Hashtag Black Marshmallows Matter.”

Camptathalon

· August 7, 2015 · Musings · , , , , , · 5 Comments

Back in January, I made reference to something called Camptathalon, and said I would re-visit this phenomenon in April. Of course, April rolled around and there was no Camptathalon post. Part of that omission was due to teaching an AP class fourth quarter, which is a tad bit brutal. But the other reason was that Camptathalon itself was pushed back from its original April date to later in the summer.

You see, Camptathalon moves around the calendar each year, much like other hallowed holidays, such as Thanksgiving, Easter, and Christmas.

(Okay, I’m being told that Christmas falls on the same day every year, so strike that last reference.)

But whereas Easter takes place on the Sunday following the first full moon of Spring, Camptathalon falls on a much more logical weekend – whenever our wives let us out/want us out of the house for the whole weekend.

I imagine the original Easter weekend went the same way.

“Oh gosh, Jesus, you want to do the Last Supper this Thursday? I mean, I’d love to go, but if I don’t get this camel shit shoveled, the old lady’s gonna crucify me… Hey, where are you going, Jesus? Was it something I said?”

Camptathalon officially began three years ago. While there had always been camping trips, some were just the men, some included significant others and/or children. But three years ago, one of my friends had a baby on the way, and the showering of said baby seemed like a perfect time for just the malefolk to get the hell out of Dodge.

Unfortunately, the father-to-be was unable to attend that year, because his wife decided that the father should be attend the baby shower. I’m not sure on which planet someone with a penis should be playing any “guess the poopy” games. But I do know that on this planet, if your third-trimester pregnant wife tells you to come to the baby shower, you come to the fucking baby shower.

And your asshole friends go on the designated camping trip without you. Hey, at least we had the decency to “pour one out for our missing homey.” I’ve also had a friend cancel own his bachelor party in Reno once. Too bad. He missed a great time.

So three years ago, four city slickers met up at a Quick-E-Mart on the way to the foothills. We loaded up on the vital nutritional elements and four basic food groups of any camping trip. You know, chips, jerky, and beer. Wait, that’s only three? Okay, double the beer.

One guy, who swears he’s been camping since the sixties, showed up with only three items: a pillow, a bow and arrow, and a bottle of vodka.

And, lo, Camptathalon was born.

As the name implies, Camptathalon includes some competitive elements. A series of events, running the gamut from moderately athletic all the way to quasi-intellectual.  Each year, there are between 3-7 events, depending on the amount of time or sobriety available. The lineup of events changes slightly from year to year, based on factors like who remembered to bring what sporting good or if the goddamn camp host will let us shoot the goddamn bow and arrow.

Some events take a year or two off, then return. Frisbee golf has made it in twice. The golf club was left at home one year, making chipping difficult. Same story with horseshoes. Totaling our gambling winnings requires the campsite to be within driving distance of Nevada (one Camptathalon was held on Kentucky Derby weekend, another during the Belmont Stakes). Whiffle Ball Home Run Derby almost missed a year, but fortunately, it was one of the years we had to go into Nevada to bet on horses, so we were able to buy a new bat (cheaper than a new golf club).

One event, the pine cone toss for distance, was tried once and will never see the light of Camptathalon day again, after we all tore our hands up. Turns out a pine cone isn’t as smooth and aerodynamic as a football. Did I mention we drink beer?

But a few staple events are always included, year in and year out. On Friday night, after making camp, we unravel the Camptathalon trophy and open and toast the honorary first beer (not the actual first beer, but the honorary one). After this, we engage in a $10 Texas Hold ‘em tournament. This is the Iowa Caucus of Camptathalon weekend. Unlike the Caucus, the loser of the poker tourney doesn’t have to remove himself from the Camptathalon running. However, we have implemented an even harsher punishment than giving up on your dreams of the White House. The loser must consume some horrific alcoholic libation. Last year it was pocket whiskey from a pouch. This year it will be a 40 oz. of Mickey’s left over from my 40th birthday party.

Home run derby has always been included, but as I referenced before, its run has been tenuous, what with the difficult requirement of us remembering both a bat and a ball.

But the one event that always must occur, the one requirement to make an officially sanctioned Camptathalon Trip, is the Butter Toss. What is the Butter Toss, you ask? Well, you see, we take some butter, and… follow me, now… we toss it. For accuracy, not distance, because tossing butter for distance would just be silly. Think of darts, except replace the darts with tablespoon slices of stick butter.

We’re not sure how melty the butter is supposed to be. The originator of the Butter Toss brought only a pillow and vodka to the trip. Much like The Greatest American Hero, he must’ve lost the Butter Toss instruction book. What we do know is that the first time we did it, we purchased the butter on the way to the casino. By the time the gambling was done and we were back at the campsite, the butter had been sitting in a car trunk under the beautiful Nevada summer sky for a few hours. What we removed from the trunk was effectively butter soup. We tried to solidify the slough in the icechest, but the globules we ended up heaving at the front cover of The Economist were still somewhere south of solid.

Ever since Year One, we have intentionally softened the butter. It’s never been as messy as the first time (the type of phrase that might pop up at a Camptathalon), but if a sizeable percentage of the butter isn’t still clinging to your hand and dripping between your fingers after the toss, you ain’t doin’ it right.

Points are awarded for placing in each event (5 points for 1st, 3 points for 2nd, etc.) We keep a running total of the scores as the weekend progresses. Last year, we had a tie at the end, so we played a sudden death cribbage match. Yours truly came from behind with back-to-back 20+-point hands.

The trophy sits in front of the scoreboard for the entire weekend, then goes home with the winner. It is a pine cone that might or might not have been used in Year One’s ill-fated pine cone toss. The wives have bedazzled it a bit over the years, such that it now features ribbons with beer bottle caps that we can write our name on when we win it. Just like the Stanley Cup. When not on display, it now rests in a Wisconsin Lunchbox. Not the drink or the sexual position (look it up if you dare), but an actual lunchbox sporting the Wisconsin Badgers logo. That was my contribution.

My reign as Camptathalon is almost at an end. I bucked one trend by being the first champion to make it through the weekend without puking. Might I make history again by becoming the first repeat champion? And what will be the motto of this year’s Camptathalon?

In a few years, when this event is covered on ESPN and Network TV, this is the point where the sportscaster will say… “We’ll find out. That’s why they play the game.”

Vas Deferens Post-Mortem

· July 7, 2015 · Musings · , , , · No Comments

A couple months ago, I blogged about my impending vasectomy, and the most hilarious, um no, horrifying, let’s just say “entertaining” phone call in preparation thereof. I finally got the deed done. Gentlemen readers, if you’ve already had the operation, none of this should strike you as shocking. The rest of you are welcome to stick around, or you can peruse my random sports columns. Like how the first college football playoff worked.

Okay, everyone that’s still around is comfortable hearing about sharp objects near genitals? Then let’s proceed.

My options for operation times were all in the afternoon, so I opted for 3:30. And this is great, because if I’m going to be icing my nuts for the remainder of the day/week, I wouldn’t want to get the first eight hours of that out of the way while the baby is at day care.  Also, why wouldn’t somebody want a full day to look forward to this particular procedure? To savor the anticipation, like the day before Disneyland, right?

Then again, the shaving’s going to take half the day.

But more on that in a little bit. First, I had to go to Target. Why? Because boxers ain’t going to cut it, after they, um, “cut it.” And I don’t own anything snugger. They recommend something with “scrotal support,” which sounds like a 12-step program but actually refers to things like Tighty Whities or a jock strap. The jock strap didn’t make sense to me, since I’m going to have to ice it. I guess I could do the jock strap minus the cup, but if you start there, the next thing you know, you’re a wearing-socks-with-sandals Euro.

I opted for the briefs. Fortunately they do make those in adult size. I wasn’t sure. Regardless, nothing quite prepares you for losing that which makes you a man like desperately looking for the Tighty Wighties at Target. My wife tells me they aren’t white, so I should call them Tighty Bluies or Grayies, but she misses the point. Color’s got nothing to do with it, they are all Tighty Wighties.

Then it was back home for the shaving. With Doctor Evil’s line about freshly shorn scrotums going through my mind, I was ready to tackle some gardening. I figured I needed to do a little weed whacking before I went in for the final lawn mowing. And that worked fine for a bit. But, um, how do I keep this metaphorical.  Let’s just say the Beard Trimmer worked great on the backboard, but not as well on the basketball hoop and net. And yes, I had the guard on, set way out at #4 length, but a bit of skin got through, so it was on to Plan B.

Have you seen that meme going around that says being an adult is just looking up how to do stuff on google? Well, I’m here to affirmatively state that googling “How to shave your scrotum” brings back a lot of info. One link was a YouTube video featuring a very polished looking guy, which I proceeded to scrutinize like it’s the Zapruder film.

“It’s not that difficult,” the guy says, and he has the most precisely-manicured goatee I’ve ever seen so he must know what he’s talking about.  “Because the scrotum is designed to expand and contract to regulate temperature. Due to its elasticity, it’s not going to nick or cut easily.”

Okay, wrong, dude. I haven’t even got to the razor part and I’m already nicked.

“You’re going to want to trim first,” he produces a beard trimmer, “and use the guard because those blades move fast and this is the step you’re going to hurt yourself on.”

Ah, now you tell me.  Just goes to show that meme is right, I should’ve gone to Google first.

Okay, so the earring-clad metrosexual turned out to be correct. Once standing in the shower with mostly trimmed hair, the deed was relatively simple. Way easier than shaving my chin.  And writing now, a week removed from the episode, I can firmly say that the shaving was much simpler than the regrowth. Holy Christ! New pubes growing is must be worse than a teething infant. Sequels are always more complicated, but I didn’t expect “Shaved Scrotum 2: OH GOD IT ITCHES!”

So off to the doctor’s office I went, my balls and thighs conducting NASA experiments about frictionless environments. My briefs and gym shorts are in a plastic bag, because I’m wearing boxers for as long as I can. Hey, I’m about to lose my balls and be relegated to Tighty Wighties in one fell swoop, so let me swagger like John Wayne for a few more moments.

Everyone coming through the urology department this time of day is there for the same thing. None of us have problems peeing.  They might as well just change the sign at 2:00 to read “Spermicide Division.” But I don’t know if I can make eye contact with people. Does urinal etiquette apply here? Better to stay on the safe side and just bury my head in a book. (Just like at a urinal – ahh, War and Peace…)

The guy before me gets sent back out. Evidently he “forgot” the whole “don’t take blood thinners before an operation” rule that was mentioned in the phone call I had to make AND the video I had to watch AND the paperwork I had to sign. He just HAD to have that Advil Cocktail today, and he’s really bummed, he assures his wife. They’ll just have to reschedule, you know, sometime… really soon, even…

Then before you know it, I’m up. The nurse practitioner walked me to my own very special operating room.  It’s pretty expansive as far as doctor’s rooms go. Hell, it’s bigger that a number of hotel rooms I’ve stayed in over the years.  For the next thirty minutes, this is my own little Shangri-La. Or Room 217 of the Overlook Hotel.

Truthfully, the room might have even been bigger than the one my wife stayed in during her hospital stays, but it’s hard to judge because it didn’t have any of the normal hospital amenities.  All it had was an operating bed directly in the center of the room. Not centered along the wall. I mean the dead center of the room. Nothing around it.  It stuck out like that autopsy table the camera pans across at the end of the movie, right before the corpse’s eyes pop open so you know there’ll be a sequel.

The nurse tells me she’s going to leave me a little privacy to get ready, then pulls the curtain across the doorway and exits. I’m supposed to take off my pants, get up on the oh-so-lonely autopsy table, and cover up my lower half with one of those medical hybrid paper/plastic sheets. I make a last minute decision to bring my book with me, because who knows how long I’m going to be lying there half-naked. If it’s anything like waiting for vaccination shots at the end of a well-baby visit, I’ll be sporting some 1970s Porn Bush by the time they come back in.

But ensuring no more children takes precedence over inoculating said children, and the nurse is back in no time at all. My bare ass has barely settled on the chucks pad when there is a knock at the door. The nurse practitioner asks if I’m ready and then pounces through the curtain. The first thing she does after approaching the bed is to bunch the sheet up around my navel, leaving everything underneath open to the world. So glad she gave me that minute of privacy.

I assume some feel that the act of disrobing is the moment that requires the privacy, but once the pants are off, it’s all fair game. I understand the sentiment, but this nurse is about to do things that would cost me fifty bucks in Reno.  So, in the long run, I don’t really understand the need for the alone time.

“Okay, the first thing I’m going to do is cover you with this surgical drape,” she begins and puts another sheet over where the “privacy one” had been. “It’s got a rectangular opening we can operate through.”

Well, okay, then. My junk now appears to be the star of its very own TV show.

“I’m going to tape your penis up to your stomach to have better access to the testicles,” she begins.

Huh? Can you separate those two? I kinda always thought they were a package deal. (Huh, huh, “Package.”) But okay, do what you gotta do. And is it weird that I now want to say “Just put the lotion in the basket”?

“Okay, now I’m going to rub some iodine on it. It shouldn’t hurt unless you have a nick or a cut there.”

“Yeah, I nicked myself.”

“Oh, then… yeah, it’s going to sting a bit.”

Oh joy. But it wasn’t that bad. Just like putting aftershave on after a “normal” shave. Except that it’s on my nuts, of course.

“Okay, the next salve we’re going to put on will warm the region up before starting to numb it.”

Okay, that Reno bill just went up to triple digits at least.

“Okay, the doctor will be in shortly, and I’m supposed to ask if you’re okay with a medical student observing the procedure. The doctor is being shadowed today.”

Um, sure? I mean, we’re going to hit the law of diminishing returns on people staring at my junk, right?

The nurse leaves and I go back to my book, which I had laid down on my chest since there was nothing around the bed. I don’t know what Emily Post has to say about reading a book while people are slathering and/or slicing up your scrotum. I know it’s verboten during blow jobs, so I’m going to follow the same rules.

Oh, you don’t have that version of Emily Post?

The doctor comes in, followed by the medical student. They are both female, and the medical student is a rather attractive blonde in her late 20s. Three women, one of whom is attractive, all looking at my genitals simultaneously? Sounds like a dream.  For most of my life, I would’ve loved to have just one look at them more often.  Hell, I’d have given my left nu… wait a second…

The doctor is very good at explaining what’s going to happen (to me) and what is happening (to the medical student). She starts with explanations to both of us. We are going to do a “non-invasive” vasectomy. Evidently there are two ways to do it. Unfortunately they don’t have a telekinetic on staff or anything, so non-invasive still means they’re going to make a cut in the middle and reach in.  Not really my definition of non-invasive, but at least I won’t need stitches.

They shoot me with multiple painkillers.  The first one, she explains, is going to feel like someone kicked me in the crotch for a moment while it takes effect. “Or so I’ve been told,” she says, “obviously I’ve never been kicked in the crotch.” Then she’s going to add additional numbing agents to each vas deferens.

For the medical student, she does a play-by-play of how to grab the vas deferens. How to feel for it, how to hold it between your fingers. How to bronze them and put them on a plaque.

“Does it bother you that I’m explaining all of this?” She asks me.

Honestly, I found it interesting. Plus, if she hadn’t been explaining what she was doing to someone else in the room, it might have been more awkward. Would she have been silent? Would she have been humming? Would I have looked lovingly into her eyes and sang “Eyes Without a Face”?

She regularly comments on what great anatomy I have. Unfortunately, it’s not in the “Ron Jeremy” sense, but in how my scrotum hangs. I guess they sometimes shrivel up or, in her words, become too “elephant-like.” Those make it hard to separate the testicles from the vas deferens. But my sack was hanging just so.

Um, thanks? You’re welcome? I don’t know.

“Most men aren’t this easy,” the doctor informs the medical student.

Yeah, yeah, I’ve never heard that one before.

And then the cutting begins. The doctor informs both of us that the painkiller deadens the nerves, so I can’t feel pain, but it can’t remove the sensation of tugging. And boy is she right. Never once did I feel an ounce of pain. But discomfort? Oh yeah, fifteen minutes worth. It ranges from feeling like I’m sitting on my balls to having them hang down while naked for an extended period of time. And both of those sensations make me want to adjust them. Only I can’t. It’s that itch on your nose during the national anthem. Assuming the national anthem went on for fifteen minutes.

Dammit, it’s probably too late to open my book to occupy myself with something other than the pulling sensation. I mean, I’ve already made eye contact with the cute medical student a few times. She keeps responding with an “Isn’t this fascinating?” smile. At one point she sees the discomfort in my eye and asks if I’m in pain. I respond no, but that the doctor was accurate about the tugging.

And they can’t knock me out entirely for this procedure because….?

Finally, after a few more minutes of vice-grip gonads, the procedure is over. All three of them are about to leave me alone like Alex P. Keaton at prom. Probably going to high-five each other as soon as they’re outside. I’m allowed to get up on my own and put my clothes back on.

“Go slow if you feel light-headed,” the doctor warns.

Um, light-headed? Was she operating on the wrong end?

“You can take Tylenol for pain tonight, but I don’t suggest Advil for a couple of days because it’s a blood thinner.”

“Can I have a couple of beers instead?” I ask.

“Absolutely,” the doctor and medical student both smile.

“Sold,” I say and give them a thumbs-up as they leave the room.

Then I get off the gurney and walk over to my clothes, balls in hand. This is a form I will assume many times over the coming week. On go the Blue Tighty Wighties. On go the gym shorts. Out I go to the waiting room.

As I approach my wife, I look down at my gait. Legs far apart, walking slow. Hey, looks like I’ll continue walking like John Wayne for quite some time now.

Now if only I can stop hunching over.

The Drunken Midget Phase

· June 24, 2015 · Musings · , , , , , , · No Comments

My daughter just turned one year old.

Woo-Hoo! She made it!

Not sure if that’s more impressive or less impressive than me turning forty. In either case, we seem to be celebrating nature and astronomy more than perseverance. But this poor girl has me as a father, so we’re not taking anything for granted.

We’re at that milestone-a-minute phase right now, and really have been for a good six months or more. First it was rolling over. Then it was sitting up with assistance. Then without. Then the Lieutenant Dan Body drag, followed by crawling. Then it was- well, you get the idea. But I think the current milestone is the last big one.

Of course, I say “current” milestone, not “last” or “next,” because these things tend to evolve slowly over days or weeks, despite what popular culture would have us believe. Movies and TV shows always show babies purposefully doing an action as a result of some cognitive leap, then immediately honing this new skill until perfection. In reality, there’s never that big “this is her first <fill in the blank> moment.”

What was my daughter’s first word? Well, it depends. Do you mean her first purposeful word or the first part of her random enunciation that sounded close to English? She says “yeah, yeah, yeah” a lot, and occasionally it’s even in response to a yes or no question. I’m pretty sure she’s said “ma” and “da” on purpose a number of times, but I still don’t know if we’ve yet reached the 50% plateau of those sounds being a specific reference to my wife or I.

It’s the same thing with standing and walking, which is our current undertaking. Can she stand on her own? Sure. Even done it a couple of times. But if there is something or someone to pull herself up on within, oh say, a square mile, she’s crawling to that object instead. Has she taken her first step? Absolutely. She’s even made it three or four steps, albeit with heavy coaxing. And even though she can both stand and take steps, she’s much more likely to plop herself down and crawl, evolution be damned!

But, whether with support or not, we’ve definitely entered my favorite stage of childhood. Or at least my favorite to observe from afar. Some call it the toddling years, but let’s be honest. My bubbly baby girl is turning into a drunken midget. Think about the last time you saw a toddler. Now think of an intoxicated dwarf. If you’ve never been around an inebriated midget, think of a full-size boozer and then just shrink them down.

The swaying from side to side. The bumping into random stationary objects. The propensity to fall down for no reason, in a manner that would send a sober adult to injury rehab, and then to giggle uncontrollably at it. Am I describing a one year old or a lush? You decide.

Last week, my daughter was “walking” around. To do this, she holds onto my fingers over her head for stabilization like a chimpanzee. At one point, she lost her grip on one of my fingers, and consequently lost her footing. Instead of sitting or re-establishing her grip, she clamped down harder on the remaining “support” (i.e. my right finger). Her feet flew out from under her and the rest of her body entered a spinning pirouette along multiple axes – a centrifuge with my finger as its fulcrum.

Her final resting position had her upper torso on the ground, legs in the air supported by my calves, right hand still grasping that finger as if it mattered. I asked her if that was fun. She locked eyes with me, paused for a moment, then laughed way more than the situation called for.

Now, let’s just replace my finger with a doorknob or a handrail, my lower torso with a wall, and the floor with, well, the floor. I’m pretty sure that I’ve, uh, let’s just say, “seen some people” in that exact same position after Last Call. Probably laughing just as hysterically, too.

And the similarities aren’t just physical. Who, other than a lush or a baby, is likely to swing between happy and sad, pleased and pissed, on a moment’s notice, without being able to recall the previous emotion? My daughter has a noise that is half-laugh, half-cry. And when it appears, one of the two noises is mere seconds away from an onslaught. A quick move by me might influence which direction it goes. Or it might not. Sound like any alkies you know?

Who else, besides a drunk or a child, can fixate on mundane objects for a half-hour? Remember the video of David Hasselhoff eating a hamburger? I could totally see my daughter doing that, and it would probably be just as messy.

She also has been into stacking and sorting lately. She’ll take all of the  items in front of her and move them, one by one, behind her back. Then she’ll look around, astounded at where all of her missing items went. Tell me you’ve never played “hide an item from drunkie” before. Shoot, I’ve had people so drunk that we hide their drink from them. They look around like my daughter, murmuring “I swear I had a drink here,” before finding something else to fixate on. Like a disassembled hamburger.

I mentioned that I felt the drunken midget stage, a.k.a. toddling, is the last major milestone. I could hear the eye-rolling scoff from you parents out there. “Oh, just wait until talking or potty training or losing teeth or, I don’t know, differential calculus,” I hear you saying.  And yes, I know there are many more changes to come. But it seems to me that this is the last major physical hurdle. The rest seem to be more mental or developmental milestones. Baby talk might be just as cute as toddling, but there’s substantially less chance of them ending up with their ass on the ground. At least until they enter the “Drunken Sailor” phase.

The post-walking milestones, potty training and learning how to speak, also seem to be more of parenting milestones than baby milestones. Parents usually force the former, while parents are there to correct and guide the latter. But up through walking, the parent plays little role. “No, no, baby, that’s not the proper usage of the foot while standing.”

And really, should we even bother celebrating parenting milestones? Instead of milestones, they are more like signposts: “This way to good (or bad) parenting,” or “Blind curve ahead.”

And those parenting signposts are constant. I mean, seriously, how many wipes does it take to remove oatmeal from a forehead? Let’s get the Tootsie Pop Owl on that one.

During my first week of summer break, wherein we cut back on some daycare days in favor of Mr. Mom time, I took my baby to story time at the local library. Of course, she wanted to take a nap right before story time. So I put her down thinking no story time this week, maybe next time. But of course she wakes up without a moment to spare, so voila, there we were at the library.

I could not have been more out of place if you dropped me in the Sahara Desert.

First of all, I was the only male above the age of three. Then there’s the fact that the Stepford Wives that were there were all regulars. They knew all the songs, they knew all the dances, and the lady in charge knew all of their children by name.

To add to the “fish out of water” sensation, I walked in about five minutes late. Oh, and I hadn’t showered, because I still haven’t figured out that whole “when to shower when you’re the only adult in the house” trick.

My daughter was the only toddler not wearing shoes. I didn’t want to go all “The pediatric board doesn’t suggest that” on, but hey, I have science on my side.

Plus, for some reason, before I put my daughter down to take her nap, I had only buttoned one button on her onesie. Perhaps I was going to change it because it was also dirty from breakfast? I can’t remember, but sure enough, while we’re sitting there clapping our hands and hokey pokeying (hey, at least I knew the words to that one!), the one snap comes undone. Had she just been wearing the onesie, it probably wouldn’t have been very difficult to re-fasten. But no, I had thrown some cute little cargo pants over them, which her onesie stayed outside of. Oh, and did I mention it was still stained from breakfast?

So, here’s me and my daughter. Both unbathed, in dirty clothing, her onesie open and flapping about. She’s not wearing shoes. And we’re raining on the parade of the regular stay at home moms. They’re looking at the two of us like we’re the Clampetts busting in on their afternoon tea.

“Man, they just let anybody into the library these days. Shouldn’t they, like, require a membership card to get in?”

The other signpost I’ve recently seen is something I probably shouldn’t be proud of, but I totally am. We don’t watch a lot of TV around the baby. We’re not those “no screen time” parents or condescending “Better than you because the TV isn’t on” people. But hey, if wife and I sometimes aren’t home until 6:00 and the baby goes to bed at 8:00, maybe The Walking Dead can wait until 8:15.

As a bonus, when the TV is on, the baby doesn’t pay it much attention. A sport event, with its bright colors and fast movement, might catch her attention briefly, but then she’s back to sorting cups or engaging in thorough tests of the Law of Gravity.

Last weekend, my wife was flipping through channels while we were doing chores in the bedroom, and said “I’m guessing you want to watch this?” She was correct. And I wasn’t the only one. I was holding my daughter and she looked, too. I expected her to look away after a couple seconds, but she didn’t. She was tracking what was happening on the screen. It was bound to happen at some point.

What were we watching? None other than the 1980 classic, Airplane! Yep, she’s my daughter. And I’m sure it was a learning experience for her, too. Now she’ll know she has to choose wisely on which day to stop sniffing glue.

Or to stop being an Oompa Loompa blowing a .15

For Richer or for, Oh Who are we Kidding?

· June 17, 2015 · Musings · , , · 2 Comments

I recently got a short glimpse at how the other half lives.

Okay, maybe not the other half, since statistically, I don’t know which 50-percentile of wage earners I fall in. So maybe I just saw how the other 1% live.

My cousin got married last weekend. This particular cousin lives on the other side of the train tracks. Or the helipad. Or the Illuminati, or whatever the great barrier between Pledbian and Patrician is.

Even if my income wasn’t the perfect picture of American equity, I’d be about as middle class as they come. From my vantage point atop the bell curve, it’s easy to see both sides. My family contributes a handful of members to both extremes. This coming weekend, I could attend a baby shower for my 19-year old cousin, who is having a baby to keep a boyfriend from leaving, twenty years after her mother had her to hold onto a boyfriend. The next wedding I attend is just as likely to feature a banjo and a Vegas drive-thru as it is a limousine.

But not this wedding. Oh, no. This wedding featured a harpist. This wedding had fresh sushi rolls being made on the spot during cocktail hour. This wedding had either booked a band with five different singers or a different band to handle each music genre. I couldn’t tell, because this wedding also featured a damn near 1-to-1 staff-to-guest ratio, such that a patron could not take more than a couple sips of wine before the glass was refilled.

Honestly, Ozzifer, I didn’t even finish one glass of wine…

I should’ve known where things were going while stuck in the half-hour long line for valet parking. The 1920s-era hotel on the outskirts of Beverly Hills didn’t allow self-parking. Maybe I could’ve figured it out when I paid $10 for a beer before the ceremony started. But the sticker shock-inspired PTSD might’ve curtailed my powers of observation after that particular transaction

I also lost a bit of observational prowess when the start of the wedding was delayed a half-hour, presumably to give any TMZ reporters time to make it through the valet parking barricade. The result was all of us black coat-clad gentlemen sweating in the afternoon sun, losing pounds and a bit of consciousness, while we waited. The sleeveless arms of the pale girl sitting next to me were visibly changing hues by the minute. As she approached medium rare, her boyfriend offered her his coat, to which she just shook her head and laughed, “I’d rather burn than melt.”

Dante would have a field day with that one.

After missing the first couple signs, I started to realize this wasn’t the standard McWedding when the groom and his mother arrived. They drove across the well-manicured hotel lawn in a vintage red 1965 Porsche. I guess the DeLorean was unavailable.

You think I’m joking, but I’m not. The father of the bride owns a DeLorean. He once told me that of all of his vintage cars, the DeLorean gets the most reaction from people. Sure, the various Porsches and Ferraris get looks, but when people verify the guy driving them isn’t Jay Leno, their interest wanes. But the DeLorean, even in Beverly Hills or Manhattan Beach, gets people talking to him. They prattle on about the infamous owner, they inquire about the notorious maintenance issues. But they never ask the question they want to, the one he can always see burning a hole on their tongue – “have you gotten that bad boy up to 88?”

After the groom and his mother left the vehicle, the bridal party began. We were on the back lawn of the hotel, which sat on the top of a hill. So there was really no ability for people, the bride included, to come from behind us.  So they walked down the back stairs of the hotel, right in front of us. We had to kind of pretend we hadn’t seen them as they walked past all of the rows to make a U-turn at the back. Then they were at the back of the aisle to do their “official” walk down the aisle, and we all had to “ooh” and “ahh” as if we hadn’t just seen them.

And in proper wedding etiquette, the next grouping of bridesmaid and groomsman could not appear at the staircase leading from the hotel until the previous couple was most of the way down the aisle.

While the sun beat down, this procedure happened seven times. Seven bridesmaids and seven groomsmen. I know this isn’t out of the ordinary, but honestly, this shit has to stop. Who in the hell has fourteen people that they absolutely HAVE to have IN the wedding?

And it wasn’t over at fourteen, because they still had to add all of the ring bearers and flower girls, bringing the total bridal party count to twenty. Yes, math majors, that means after all the adult humans were accounted for, there were still six more members to be added. Three ring bearers and three flower girls.

Since I gave a nod to the math peeps last round, that was a drop for the English grads. Astute readers will note that I referred to the bridesmaids and groomsmen as both adult and human. Why? Because the first descriptor only distinguished them from four of the six junior members. The last two beings down the aisle were adults, but of the canine variety. The bride owns two little yap dogs – you know, the kind that fit in your purse – and they were included.

Adorable, right? Couldn’t you just totally see Paris Hilton doing that if, y’know, she was still relevant? The girl dog was wearing a little bride’s dress. (I know, it’s so gauche to wear white to a wedding.) I don’t know “who she was wearing.” I honestly wish I could make a play on words here, but the only designer I know is Vera Wang, and I can’t make her name into “bark” or “kibble.”

The boy dog wore a little tuxedo. It should also be noted that he carried the actual rings, because you wouldn’t want to trust that precious cargo to a species that avoids eating its own feces. This also might be the closest California law would allow the bride to get to a How I Met Your Mother-inspired ring bear.

This is important because, as the ceremony and reception continued, it became apparent that she was trying to include everything she had ever heard in any other famous wedding.

The flowers were the same as one of the Kardashian weddings (The thirty-seventh Kardashian wedding, my sources inform me). The bride’s train rivaled the one in the royal wedding. Unfortunately, she had to rely on bridesmaids and hotel staff, instead of Pippa Middleton, to help her around corners. She had to rely on hotel staff and bridesmaids. The choreographed bridal party entrances at the reception were like a YouTube greatest hits compilation. Not sure where the belly dancers escorting the bride and groom into the reception came from – The Amazing Race?

Pretty sure I saw Luca Brasi pacing back and forth practicing what he would say to the Don.

Seriously, though, everything was top notch. The food was absolutely stellar. Even if it was $300 per plate. Over two hundred guests. Where did my math majors go?

My wife estimates the flower cost probably rivaled or exceeded the food in cost. Something about hydrangeas.

The band, as I mentioned before, never missed a beat. How often do you hear a Big Band transition from “Shout” to “All About That Bass?” I cannot count the number of times I thought a DJ was playing the original.

The toasts went on over an hour. The Best Man was the groom’s brother and the Maid of Honor went to school with the bride. I guess if you give a couple of rich kids a microphone, all bets are off. Lots of references to how many kids they should have, because the bridal party must play into wedding clichés, as well.

“Don Corelone, I am honored and grateful that you have invited me to your daughter’s wedding on the day of your daughter’s wedding. And I hope that their first child be a masculine child.”

The Money Dance was renamed the Father-Daughter Dance. I kid, of course. There was no money dance because the bride couldn’t get her Square App to sync up for American Express Black. So her father just came as the band played “Hey, Big Spender.”

I joke, I joke.

Of course, when the count of individual items that cost more than your own entire wedding start hitting double digits, it’s time to skedaddle. And it didn’t matter how much money I saved on the free booze, it wouldn’t be enough to afford Beverly Hills Uber rates.

Plus, we had to beat the long line at the valet.

Business 101

· May 26, 2015 · Blog Entries · , , · No Comments

I’m pulling my head out of the ostrich-hole that is teaching in the fourth quarter to note a couple of business practices that have jumped out at me over the last few weeks. One was brilliant, and underhanded as Hell, while the other seemed like it should be left off the syllabus of Business 101.

My phone died. (Love live my phone!) It stopped charging, which was disappointing because it was only a month old. Fortunately, either the good people at Verizon or the insurance I paid for (the sales guy wasn’t clear which) allowed me to get a replacement.  All I had to do was wait another day for it to be shipped, on top of the day I had already been phoneless. Thirty-Six hours without texting capabilities in 2015 might be a violation of the eighth amendment, but I guess it’s too much to ask the Verizon store to carry a model that’s a whole month old.

So they shipped a new phone to me overnight, with the instructions that somebody would need to sign for it. Cool, sign me up.

Oh, except for that whole “somebody needs to sign for it” thing. I get home and compare schedules with my wife. Neither of us can take the day off.  Hmm, maybe I should call Verizon back and have it delivered to work.

Nope. No such luck, the order’s already in. But there’s a tracking number through FedEx, so maybe I can log in and change the address through them.

Nope. But I can request an evening delivery. Boom! Done! And all it costs is five dollars.

Wait a second! I have to pay them to deliver it later? Doesn’t that fly in the face of, I don’t know, every business practice ever? Most companies give you a discount if they’re late. And here’s FedEx doing the opposite. Next thing you know, Dominoes will start taking ten percent off if they deliver your pizza while it’s still hot.

But here’s the extra kicker. Keep in mind this was already an overnight delivery. I assume Verizon paid a pretty penny to make sure that phone was to me with little delay. In fact, I bet there was a “before 10:00 AM” stipulation. But then here I was paying to have it delivered later. I highly doubt that money was being funneled back to the purchaser. In fact, I doubt Verizon even knows that they wasted their money on getting it to me ASAP. What a brilliant business plan – have both the sender and the receiver pay an extra service fee.

Oh, and I ended up not even needing to sign for it. So maybe Verizon and FedEx were both in on it after all.

The second business decision came up a few weeks ago when I was searching for a Mother’s Day card.

As far as I know, there is only one Hallmark store in my general vicinity. There might be more, but I’m a guy, and the three or four times a year that I need a Hallmark, it’s where I go. One of those annual treks occurs in early May, prior to Mother’s Day. Of course, this Mother’s Day was more pronounced as it is my wife’s first as the mother of a human child.

When I drove up, the Hallmark store was dark, but a note was visible on the door from my vantage point in the parking lot. Sure that it must read something in the realm of “Back in 15 mins,” I absconded from my vehicle and approached said treatise. However, with each step, I felt a growing sense of dread. Something was not right. This did not appear to be a temporary abandonment. Pieces of display furniture were not in their normal place. And by normal, I mean not only where they had been in every previous visit to this establishment, where they are in every Hallmark store ever placed upon God’s green Earth. The tapered rows upon which the cards displayed themselves to the world were not set up in long parallels, but were off to the side, in clear violation of Hallmark Decree #1.

One step closer revealed those haphazard rows were empty. No merchandise whatsoever.

But hope, plus the desire to not have to find a new source of “I’m Sorry” cards and singing stuffed animals, sprang eternal. The sign still said “Hallmark.” There was a note on the door.

Just ignore that it’s not a temporary note, Wombat. And ignore the other man standing in front of it with slumped shoulders. Perhaps it is a map to the closest Hallmark, and he is a man with no sense of direction.

But alas, it was not. It was a note saying the Hallmark store had temporarily closed, but that it would be back “in a couple months under new management.”

I started formulating Plan B, while the slumped-shoulder guy stared through the dark plate-glass window. He shook his head, looked back at the sign, then into the empty store. His level of concentration implied he was wishing the store back into existence. If he just believed enough, and maybe clapped his hands, Tinkerbell might appear inside the store. Or at least a Tinkerbell Christmas ornament.

“Why would they-?” He started before the shaking of his head evidently cut the oxygen from his vocal cords. “Why?”

But the guy had a point. What exactly are they remodeling for? Is there a big Independence Day Fluffy Convention I don’t know about? I don’t think people send a lot of “Happy Labor Day” cards. Maybe the new owner thought all of those “Thanks for going through Labor” cards were for September, not May.

Come to think of it, what goes into a Hallmark remodel anyway? It shouldn’t take two months to move the Beanie Babies from table to shelf. I know cards are getting heavier now that they all play the theme song from Friends, but that shouldn’t necessitate new load-bearing racks.

Of course, the answer is probably that some entrepreneur with more money than sense is going to take the gift-wrap world by storm. The new owner wants to make it over in the manner he described in his MBA class.  I mean, that paper got a B-! That means it’s good! Why would he keep things as they were, even if only for a few weeks? Why would one want to build up capital in April and May before some off-season investment?

I don’t know the official Hallmark business plan, but it would seem to me that “be open before major card holidays” should be somewhere on it. Unless they’re going to be selling nachos after the redesign, they’re still going to need to sell cards. And by my count, it’s another six months before any more card holidays are coming along.

While Valentine’s Day and Mother’s Day rank behind Christmas in card sales, I’m guessing they both beat out Grand-daddy Saturnalia in the number of cards bought by men. And dudes aren’t very creative when it comes to shopping for cute and sentimental. We pretty much find our local Hallmark store, then return semi-annually until the end of time just like the swallows to Capistrano.

What? The swallows don’t return anymore?

Okay, then like salmon swimming back upstream to-

Huh? You’re saying the California drought is stopping…

Okay, twice a year like… um… like paying property taxes.

Boom! Romance! Is it any wonder I need a Hallmark store?

I eventually left my companion staring through the window, and went to the grocery store, thanking fate that this was the first Mother’s Day that I could settle for a standard card. Sure, I would have preferred a special one that said “First Mother’s Day,” the type that can only be found at a Hallmark store, but grocery store beggars can’t be choosers. At least I didn’t have to travel the Earth for days upon end to find the obscure “From the Dog” cards of yesteryear.

Add a bouquet of flowers in place of whatever chocolate or plush addendum I would have purchased at Hallmark, and voila! Turns out I actually saved some money.

I wonder what I can spend it on.

Maybe I can delay a Fed Ex shipment back until Hallmark’s Grand Arbor Day Re-opening.

Open Letter to Rob Manfred

· April 6, 2015 · Musings · , , , , , , , · No Comments

Dear Commish:

Congrats on your first Opening Day. Not only for you, but for the sport. You make the first legitimate commissioner of Major League Baseball in over twenty years. How nice it must feel to have this important post without the necessity of an owners’ coup. You didn’t have to collude with Jerry Reinsdorf to oust the previous commissioner.  You didn’t have to lead Dick Cheney-esque committee to “look for the next commissioner,” only to find that, lo and behold, there was “no other viable candidate” but yourself. You didn’t have to come up with stupid titles like “acting commissioner” for six years to give you time to sell your team to your sister.

In fact, there doesn’t really seem to be any conflict of interest surrounding you at all. Other than being the afore-referenced commissioner’s hand-picked successor. But for years, Supreme Court Justices and Roger Goodell have been pursuing their own ideas contrary to the desires of the people that put them in that office.

So again, congratulations. The good news is that you are now in charge of a sport that managed to thrive despite your predecessor’s ineptitude.

The bad news is that he made some really stupid decisions that you’re going to have to work around. Good luck providing guidance on that whole “which players that he implicitly encouraged to take steroids to rescue the game from his own mismanagement should get into the Hall of Fame” question. And the fact that one Bay Area team is contractually obligated to play in a shithole because he couldn’t stand up to an owner and reverse an agreement that is no longer economically legitimate. Yeah, you should do something about that.

But the thing I want to focus on is realignment. I know, it’s a scary prospect for a commissioner, considering it was the main topic which allowed your predecessor to tyrannically ouster his own predecessor.

At least it’s not as scary as relocating teams. I might bring that up a little bit, too. But I might pair that with expansion, which should make every commissioner’s eyes sparkle.

So here we go.

One of Selig’s worst boners was one of his last. Like a bad wine, age only turned him to vinegar.  Last year he moved Houston to the American League. This was absolutely stupid. The reason was to give Texas a divisional rival that wasn’t two time zones away. I understand this gripe. However, there were other ways to go about giving them some road games that start before 9:00 PM Dallas time.

Move Kansas City to the AL West. See how easy that was? Accomplishes the same thing as Houston without jacking with the geographic parity of the Leagues.

See, that’s the real problem with moving Houston. I mean, aside from being utterly dismissive to the Astros’ fans and franchise, a franchise that had represented the National League in the World Series less than a decade ago. A franchise that had been in the National League since 1962, the same year as the Mets. Last I checked, no one said “eh, move the Mets to the AL, who cares?”

The leagues should be as geographically balanced as possible. If a fan is within driving distance of two teams, one should be in the American League, and one should be in the National League. The four metropolitan areas that share teams all do that. Prior to the move, four of the five states that share two teams did it. Even Minnesota and Milwaukee form “natural rivals” with a socially similar neighbor. Selig moved the Brewers to the NL, one of the few times he made the right move, albeit for the wrong reasons.

But now, if you live in Texas and want to see a specific National League team or player, your options are to wait three to six years until they visit, or else drive twelve hours to St. Louis or Atlanta.

So who should have been moved to even out the leagues? As I said before, prior to Selig’s nimrodery, there was only one state with its only two teams in the same league.

California? I see you scanning your map. Nope, they have five. Arizona? Texas? No wait, he means before. Let’s see… Not there… there… wait a second… He can’t mean…. Pennsyl…

Okay, breathe Mr. Commissioner. It’ll be okay. You see that reaction you just had? That we can’t possibly mess with the “majesty and history” of some teams but who the hell cares about the Astros? That’s what we call an East Coast Bias. It’s all over your sport. It would be nice if it wasn’t. In case you were wondering, the Houston metropolitan area has just under six million people, making them as viable and important of a fanbase as the Phillies. Pittsburgh? Just under two-and-a-half million, right above those baseball powerhouses in Portland and Charlotte

But yes, either the Phillies or the Pirates should move to the American League. If it was the Pirates, it would be easier to put them into the Central while sending the Royals into the West. Bear in mind the AL Central already has other great Steel-Belt cities like Detroit and Chicago. Oh, and did I mention Cleveland? Go ahead and ask any Browns or Steelers fans if it works having those two cities in the same division.

Philly could move to the AL East, with Toronto moving to the Central. Plus Philadelphia does have some American League history with the A’s. And they would have a closer drive to the closest NL cities than Pittsburgh would. It would mess with the nice AL-NL-AL-NL-AL-NL tradeoff as you drive south through the Bos-Wash corridor. Technically, the Mets technically play south of the Yankees, but that’s just splitting hairs.

After the simple Houston-for-Pennsylvania switch, we’ll be down to only four sets of teams that don’t have natural interleague rivals. In the American League, it’s Detroit, Toronto, Boston, and Seattle. San Diego, Arizona, Colorado, and Atlanta are the National League loners. Interesting how one problem is in the northeast, the other in the southwest. How about either Detroit or Toronto moving to the National League? In the southwest, just send Arizona to the American League West.

You’ll notice on that last one, I didn’t say Arizona or San Diego. Why? This was another flub-up by your predecessor. Arizona was never supposed to be in the National League. They came in with Tampa Bay. But Jerry Colangelo whined that Arizona formed a natural rivalry with Los Angeles and San Francisco (but, magically, not Anaheim and Oakland) and he didn’t want to play in the stinky American League. Selig, complete with every conflict of interest known to mankind, kowtowed to another owner. He then volunteered to move his own team into what was the weakest division in baseball at the time.

Hell, Bud, just have them play some Double-A teams and get back to us in October.

So now we’re down to only four outliers. This is where it gets a little tricky and can’t be solved overnight. The easy answer is to pair Boston and Atlanta, which usually happens anyway under the silly notion that the Braves used to play in Boston. It’s true, but I don’t know how many octogenarians are running to these Interleague games. And what exactly does Atlanta get out of the bargain?

The other match-up’s a little more logical. Denver and Seattle, the two most geographically isolated teams. They also come from the two states where pot is legal, so we don’t have to explain the pairing. Just tell the potheads that “Everybody KNOWS why they’re rivals.” Brought to you by Doritos.

But this seems a temporary fix. Before too long, the remaining five Boston Braves fans will die and other states will legalize marijuana. So we’re going to need to get a little more creative. From here on out, I’m just throwing ideas out there. I’ll leave it to you to decide which is most feasible.

If you’re wondering about the implication of that statement, the answer is yes. Yes, I’ve been telling you how to do your job. But only up until now. From here on, these are just suggestions. You’re on your own.

Florida shouldn’t have two teams. They probably shouldn’t even have one, but definitely not two. Sometime in the late 1980s, someone decided that Florida needed more teams. From 1987-1998, Florida gained one NFL franchise and two teams in each of the other three leagues (baseball, hockey, and basketball). That’s seven teams in eleven years! Is it all that surprising that none of them have taken root, with the exception of the years that the Heat make the NBA Finals?

A few years ago, I would have said the Marlins were the logical team to leave the state, making Tampa Bay as Atlanta’s rival. But then Miami got a new stadium, while the Rays still play in one of the worst.  Not that it matters how good the stadium is, or how good the team is, nobody attends either team’s games. So ship one out, leave the other one playing in the American League in Miami.

So where should the displaced Ray-Marlins go? Let’s move them up to become a rival of the Mariners. The northwest has plenty of room.

Portland, you’re thinking? Nope. Huge population, but not overly interested in baseball. They couldn’t even hold onto their Triple-A team, and kicking them out of town to make way for soccer.

No, I’m talking about Vancouver. Some people think that, since baseball failed in Montreal, Canada’s second-largest city, how could baseball survive in its third-largest? Speaking English can’t hurt. The whole border town thing helps, tooI’ve been to a number of minor league games there, and they regularly have some of the fullest Single-A stadiums I’ve ever seen.

Of course, the question about an NL franchise in Vancouver would be whether they are rivals of Seattle or Toronto. We could fix that, though. Remember baseball failing in Montreal? Want to know whose fault that is? Whoever the jackass was that canceled the World Series when the Expos were on the verge of winning their first championship. They were dominating the competition, 74-40, six games ahead of Atlanta in the NL East and four games ahead of the Yankees for best record in baseball. There was a ballot measure to build a new stadium.

Then Bud Selig and Donald Fehr decided to cancel the season. When baseball came back, Selig made sure it was skewed toward the bigger market teams, because if he couldn’t get fans to come out to the games, he would survive off of advertising. Oh, and steroids.

So give Montreal another shot.

Another dearth of Major League Baseball in the country seems to be the Carolinas.  An American League team would fit very nicely there, partway between the two NL franchises in Atlanta and Washington.  Looking down the list of metropolitan areas, I know Las Vegas is probably a no-go, and some of the other mid-majors, Sacramento and Orlando, don’t work due to proximity of other teams. San Antonio/Austin might fall into that trap, as well, or they might be viable for relocation or expansion. Heck, if you put a National League team there, I might even let you keep the Astros in the American.

Another spot that might work despite a smaller population is Salt Lake City. Much like the Rockies, I think a team there would draw from far outside the metropolitan area. Not just in Utah, but also Idaho. You could also add in a lot of Mormon support as the team traveled. Dropping an AL franchise there would finally help those Rockies stop feeling so isolated.

But yeah, the Utah Salties and Austin Smokehouses might be a little far down the road. Try to work on some of that other stuff first.

But in the meantime, Mr. Manfred, sit back on this Opening Day and enjoy the show.

It’s a beautiful little game we’ve got here.

Hopefully we finally have a commissioner that appreciates that.

Sexism in Comics

· March 31, 2015 · Musings · , , , , , · 2 Comments

There’s been a lot of buzz recently about sexism in the comics industry. The comments tend to specifically attack two things: the lack of relatable female superheroes and the oversexualized manner in which the existing female superheroes are drawn.  As a lifelong comic geek, I can one hundred percent acknowledge and agree with both criticisms. That being said, it also feels like much of the criticism comes from people on the outside, and a number of their attacks and assumptions are more about making noise than change.

I’m not going to defend comic books. The overt sexualization of the female characters, which has always been around, has gotten worse. My friends and I used to joke that every female superhero had an additional power of gravity-defying bosoms. If a horny teenager that gets excited seeing a bra strap knows they are drawn over the top and unrealistic, there’s a problem.

Some of the defenders of the comic industry point to that socially-awkward, horny teenage boy as the poster child of the comic fan. They say that, since comic book companies need to make sales to those boys, they need to draw the women that way.  This is bullshit, because I was buying plenty of comics without any women in them. I never once remember buying a comic because of a nice rack on a superheroine. Nor did I ever put a comic back because the women were too plain.

This is borne out by comic sales. The most voluptuous women appear in Zenescope comics. These women aren’t just sexualized, they are straight-up fetish. Fairy tale characters wearing knee-high stockings and garters with panties visible under their Britney Spears-esque school-girl skirts. Little Red Riding Hood, Dorothy, and, hey look, Alice is giving you a glimpse of her very own Wonderland. Go ahead, look at their website.

So if sexy women drove comic sales, Zenescope should be a marketing force to deal with, right? Grimm’s Fairy Tales should regularly wresting the top spot from the various Animal-Related-Men. But nope. In January, their best-selling comic ranked #276, ranking right above Scooby Doo, Where Are You? And not far behind such modern-day powerhouses as Flash Gordon and Powerpuff Girls.

So if it’s not for the fans, why are the women drawn that way? I’m pointing the finger at the artists. Let’s be honest, many of them started as those very same awkward teenage boys. I was never able to draw worth a damn. Still can’t, which gives endless entertainment to my students when I try to draw a cow or a map of Europe on the white board. But most of the guys that I knew in high school who had the ability to draw tended to draw the same thing over and over: the hourglass shape from a woman’s armpit to her mid-thigh. Well, that and penises, but I’m guessing Marvel and DC frown upon overt phalluses in their comics. (I mean, come on, it’s not The Little Mermaid.) So when the guys that spent their teenage years drawing idealized female forms get hired to draw comics, we get controversies like the recent Spider-Woman cover.

So although the sexist drawings draw more ire from social activists, I don’t think they have much of an effect on comic’s fandom. Even if every woman (and man, I suppose)were drawn “normal,” I don’t see a lot of the people who are up in arms about this flocking to their local comic book store to drive up sales. The lack of bona fide female superheroes, though, might be more on topic.

Here again, the general argument is the overwhelming majority of male comic book readers. But we could be looking at a chicken-and-egg argument here. Do the lack of female readers equate to fewer female superheroes or do girls not flock to comics because they have no heroes to identify with?

Most of the female superheroes that exist today are derivative. Batgirl. Supergirl. Spider-woman. She-Hulk. Most of their stories are derivative, as well. And I can’t tell you how many times they need to team up with their male counterpart to truly accomplish anything.  She-Hulk might be the one that breaks the mold, seeing as she is a lawyer and she can keep her rage under control. Very rarely is there a Hulk/She-Hulk crossover.

Wonder Woman is one of the few well-known female superheroes that is not just a carbon copy of an already existing male superhero. And really, Wonder Woman only stands out as cool because she’s on the same team as Aquaman.

A lot of this, however, is endemic of another major problem in comics today – the lack of new creative characters.  Most of the characters I mentioned, both male and female, are over fifty years old now. There were a couple of golden ages of character creation – the DC characters in the late-1930s, the Marvel characters in the early-1960s. Most of the characters the average American has heard of (the possible exception being Wolverine, from 1974) came from one of those two eras.  And the comic book writers from that age were absolutely sexist. As was pretty much everyone in America. And the idea of gaining female readers would be laughable.

Since then, there have been concerted efforts to add more diversity in comics. Some have been successful, but most have not. Part of this is because they seemed to pander. But part of this is indicative of a larger lack of creativity, not just with female or minority heroes. None of the heroes created in the past forty years have gained much resonance with the public.  Exhibit A is Dazzler, a mutant created during the disco era who can turn sound into light. She wore roller skates and a silver disco-ball suit. Since then, she has lost the roller skates, but do we honestly wonder why no female readers today are identifying with her?

And lest you think Dazzler is weak because she’s female, bear in mind the male equivalent of Dazzler, the Hypno-Hustler, thankfully disappeared after disco died. The fact that Dazzler still around as a viable character speaks to both their attempt to diversify, as well as how sparse the landscape of “new” heroes is.

Comics have also gotten darker over the years, so sadly the one female character to stand out over at DC is Harley Quinn. But just because Kevin Smith named his daughter after her, one should not think she’s a hero. She’s borderline psychotic and is obsessed with the Joker. So instead of focusing on the halter tops she wears, we should maybe, I don’t know, be looking at her as the villain she is.

That being said, there are still a large number of very good female characters, especially in Marvel.  The problem is that they don’t have their own books. They are members of teams. I’ll put Kitty Pryde up as one of the most fully-realized characters out there. She has her strengths and weaknesses, she has grown from teenage rookie to effective leader. Storm was also the leader of the X-Men for quite a long time. Invisible Woman, despite being often portrayed as “mother first,” is clearly the glue and moral center of the Fantastic Four. Although the Phoenix force has been overdone and was ruined in X-Men: The Last Stand, in the original telling, Jean Grey proved to be one of the most grounded and tragic characters in the Marvel universe.

Recently, perhaps in response to a lot of that criticism, Marvel has been trying to put more female led comics out there. Carol Danvers is now Captain Marvel (she had been Ms. Marvel for years) and has her own comic and allegedly a movie coming, although the merging of Spider-Man into the Movie Universe has pushed back the release of this movie, as well as Black Panther, the first African-American superhero.  So once again, we see a desire to promote diversity, but only until we can jam another Spider-Man movie in.

The new Ms. Marvel, taking Carol Danvers’ place, is not only female but a teenage Muslim living in New Jersey. And as an added bonus, she’s drawn in an in-no-way-sexualized manner. Thor, as I’m sure you have heard, is now female. And this new female Thor ended up taking it from both sides: some complained that it was pandering and others complained that she was too hot.  Um, those people do know what the male Thor looks like, right? Most of the women I know thought Thor: The Dark World would have been much better if they had just extended the Chris Hemsworth shirtless scene for 120 minutes.

This is where it gets placed on the people purchasing the comics. The female-led comics don’t sell well. Thor has done okay, but I wonder if that will drop after they reveal who the new female Thor is. She-Hulk was canceled, Captain Marvel has trouble breaking the top 100. Storm currently stars in her own series, but in February it came in at #152, right behind Batman 66, a comic based on the old Adam West TV Show. Pow! Zap! Whomp!

There is an all-female X-Men title and it is usually the worst selling X-Men title. Fearless Defenders was another all-female group. One of the best issues of any comic book last year had all of the Fearless Defenders’ boyfriends whining and getting in fights at a bar, waiting for the ladies who were busy kicking asses, to show up for date night. This comic lasted a whopping 12 issues.

So at this point, you can’t overly blame Marvel or DC for looking at the sales and relative popularity of their comics. They might really want to give Kitty Pryde or Lana Lang (who is currently being written as an awesome non-powered character in Action Comics) their own series, but when they look at the numbers, they just decide to add another Batman title.

What the people that complain about sexism in comics ought to be doing is not maligning the entire industry. They ought to be finding the comics that do have strong, reasonably-drawn females, and encouraging people to buy them.  But what fun would that be if they can make more noise by NOT purchasing the comics, then complaining loudly to whatever media are near when they get canceled?

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