Voices

I have a voice. When I wake up in the morning it’s a little rough and much lower than it is the rest of the day, but I have a voice.

I have a voice. After I drink my morning coffee it gets a little louder and I speak a little faster than the people I am speaking with deserve to endure, but I have a voice.

I have a voice. When I eat cheese, which I seem to have an odd allergic reaction to, it gets a little nasally and I will go through a lengthy sneezing fit which could last upwards of 8-10 sneezes, but I have a voice.

I have a voice. If I happen to enjoy a few too many alcoholic beverages it sometimes becomes rambling, slurred, and progressively incoherent, but I have a voice.

I have a voice.

Luckily for me, my voice is able to be heard. It’s loud and often carries much farther than I’d like, but it is able to be heard.

My voice is able to be heard. The very fact that you’re reading this proves that my voice is able to be heard. My voice, MY voice, takes on a life of its own when I put it to paper. The things that I want to say and the way that I wish to articulate them translate much better for me in this format. In conversation my voice can be quiet and stuttering. It can be loud and rambling. It can be confused and unable to find the big word I want so desperately to use.  But still, it is my voice.

And I will use it.

I will use my voice to tell you how I feel. I will use my voice to make you laugh. I will use my voice to tell you what I think. Hopefully, I will also use my voice to make you think as well. But never will I use my voice to tell you that your voice doesn’t matter.

We live in America, idealistically the greatest country in the world. I can use my voice to scream from the rooftops or from atop our highest mountains and tell everyone within hearing distance my feelings on any topic that I choose. I can also get on a computer and write a seemingly random thought in 140 characters or less and instantly have it spread throughout the world.

Instantly throughout the world.

And that’s where it gets scary.

Too often in this age of instant news and its resulting reactionary response we forget to put thought behind our voice.  This lack of thought is often facilitated by the ability to hide behind a screen name or nom de plume. It does our voice no favor when it has to be hidden. It does our voice no favor when it insults or degrades someone else’s.

Right now in this country we are experiencing possibly the second greatest divide between red and blue, conservative and liberal, gun lovers and tree huggers - whatever you want to call it - that we have ever seen. We are no longer one nation under God, but instead two nations struggling to live as one.

Struggling mightily.

Today, I use my voice to make you think. Today, I use my voice to ask you to use yours. But there’s a catch. Today, I ask you to use your voice not as a weapon of righteousness or indignity but instead as an instrument of hope and enlightenment. I ask you to use your voice to address the issues at hand and tell the world how you feel without belittling those who choose to use their voice in opposition. Let your opinions be known, your facts be received, and your strategies for improvement be submitted while being open to the same opinions, facts, and strategies of those you disagree with.

We are still a young nation. We have yet to get it right. Together, though, using the voices that we were given we can start to mend our fences. Respectfully, responsibly, and receptively we must use our voices to encourage those with a larger audience to see that the way things are working are not working at all. We may not have all of the solutions, but by using our voices we can help create a pool of new ideas to work from.

We are at a crucial stage in our brief history where things could go right or could go horribly wrong. Our voices are our best means to ensure that the result is positive. Write a letter to your mayor. Write your senators and congressmen. Write your governors. Write the President of the United States of America. But do not use your voice to tell them what they’re doing wrong.  Use your voice to offer solutions. Use your voice to offer support. But most of all - use your voice. It’s how our country was founded in 1776 when 56 men used their voice to declare independence from a king across the ocean.  They used their voices to enable me to have the freedom to use mine.

I have a voice

My voice is able to heard

So is yours

Use it, and use it wisely

Wake Me Up When Postseason Ends

This is my life. It's a life I've chosen and will not move away from, but this is my life.

Sung to the tune of Green Day's "Wake Me Up When September Ends"

Summer is gone at last

100 years and more have passed

Wake me up when Postseason ends

Like the promise of seasons past

A Championship not in our grasp

Wake me up when Postseason ends

Here comes the cold again

Chilled from head to toe

Other fans can celebrate

While we just sit at home

As our memory rests

Of Go Cubs Go and of the Stretch

Wake me up when Postseason ends

Summer has come and passed

The Cubbie blue had faded fast

Wake me up when Postseason ends

No hope for a W again

Like it was when Spring began

Wake me up when Postseason ends

Here comes the rain again

Falling from our eyes

Drenched in our pain again

Watching these other guys

As we put away our gear

The other teams still shout and cheer

Wake me up when Postseason ends

Summer will come again

Maybe next year’s when we’ll win

Wake me up when Postseason ends

Like my father’s seen before

I hope my son won't see much more

Wake us up when Postseason ends

The Root Beer Diaries

In my last blog entry I mentioned that I was looking for a hobby. After sifting through many of the suggestions I was privately sent, I decided that since most of things recommended were either illegal or physically impossible to do to one-self, that I would just continue sitting on my couch. My father-in-law, however, had something else in mind.

While reading my suggestion of brewing my own beer, he remembered that while his son, my brother-in-law, was in college he had bought my father-in-law a home brewing kit. My father-in-law, while interested at first, opened the kit and read the instructions only to find out that the first 14 steps or so were about cleaning and sanitizing the equipment. He quickly lost interest and put it away somewhere to possibly be revisited at a later date. After reading my blog, he went downstairs, dusted it off, and presented it to me the next time I saw him.

Now, when I suggested that I could brew my own beer I quickly dismissed the idea due to the facts that a) I’m lazy, and b) I was under contract to Stag. When my father-in-law gave me the box with all of the brewing tools inside though, I saw on the outside of the box that I could also brew my own root beer using the exact same kit. Now, that didn’t rule out reason “a” as I am still pretty darn lazy, but it did cancel out any false contracts with Stag that I had made up for the sole purpose of not doing something that may prove to be difficult and lead to failure. I immediately got excited, took the box home, and set it on the basement floor where it would sit for the next few weeks. Did I mention I’m a tad lazy?

Any who, I had every intention of looking in the box to see what was inside and to read the instructions to determine exactly how difficult this process would be. Days passed, however, and despite walking by the box numerous times over the next few days and sometimes multiple times per day, I neglected to even pick the box up to further my knowledge of root beer home brewing.

On Saturday, that all changed.

Ben and I had plans to go swimming on Saturday but upon waking I saw that it was raining. I looked at the forecast and saw that the rain would stop around noon but when I asked the boy if he still wanted to go swimming he was pretty adamant that a day watching Yo Gabba Gabba sounded much more exciting. Determined to keep him (and myself) from being trapped in front of the TV all day I decided that he (I) needed a project. I went downstairs, kicked the cat out of the way, picked up the home brewing kit, and brought it back upstairs.

Upon opening the box to inspect its contents, I discovered that what was inside was pretty cool. Rather than go over each item and the instructions thoroughly, I instead went to the list of supplies needed to determine whether I would need to go out and buy anything first. I saw a few items I needed, ran some other errands, and picked up the required sponge and bleach while I was out. With the exception of the bottles that I determined I would need at a later date, I was set. The rest of this will be an ongoing entry which will document my adventures in the home brewing of root beer. This is going to be a lot of fun!!

Saturday, August 4, 2012

I opened the kit and went shopping for supplies. Got home and asked the boy if he wanted to help. He said no. I followed the instructions which basically stated that I needed to clean everything. Thoroughly. I made the bleach/water concoction to clean the sink, counter top, plates, and everything else that I was going to touch. It recommended that I wear rubber gloves so I looked under the sink to find that the wife had some under there. She has smaller hands than I do but I figured I would be okay. Five minutes later when I had maneuvered my hands into her Cee Lo Green hand-sized gloves, I wiped away the sweat (yes, I broke a sweat putting the damn things on), sterilized the gloves and everything else within reach, and began filling the “fermenter” with another bleach/water concoction. I sterilized the fermenter with this concoction and poured the rest into the sink as it would be used for sterilizing the tools and equipment as I went along. I took off the gloves.

A minute later I realized that the sink had not properly been stopped up so all of the bleach/water concoction had drained out. I also realized that there were many more things that needed to be sterilized. I looked at the gloves, cursed at them, and spent the next five minutes trying to put the now wet and inside out child sized rubber gloves back on my hands. I began cursing my wife at this point for having hands smaller than mine. I got them back on, finished sterilizing the equipment, read the next few steps that I was positive did NOT involve any type of sterilization, and took the gloves off – again.

The next few steps were easy and basically involved a lot of mixing. I opened the provided yeast packet and stirred it in with the water. I got my gallon measuring unit – which was obtained by pouring out our gallon of milk into a Kool-Aid pitcher and then sterilizing the gallon jug – and carefully poured the tepid water into the fermenter as suggested in the instructions. I mixed it all together and was under the impression that I was done until a few days later when the root beer was done fermenting.

I was wrong

The next step, which I had failed to read because I am pretty sure I know everything there is to know about anything, was to begin pouring the root beer into bottles. I didn’t have bottles. I had bottle caps, but no bottles. Shit. I grabbed the boy and drug him out the door so that we could make it to our local home-brewing store with the hopes that a) they were still open, and b) they sold bottles. Lucky for me, both ended up being true and despite the fact that the guy helping me was both a close-talker and kinda creepy, I was out the door and headed back towards the house within a few minutes.

When I got home I read the next step that reminded me that before I put the root beer into them, I had to sterilize the bottles. I now had two dozen bottles, an empty sink because the bleach/water concoction had of course drained through our useless f*cking stopper, and a pair of rubber gloves that wouldn’t fit on the hands of the Keebler mother-f*cking elves. I took a deep breath, struggled for a few minutes to pull on those stupid piece of shit gloves, filled the sink once more with that stupid bleach/water concoction, and began sterilizing the bottles.

I won’t go into how long this took, nor will I go into how when I was halfway through I unknowingly knocked one of the bottles into the drain stopper thereby slowly releasing all of my bleach/water concoction down the drain once again thereby creating the need to make the concoction once more. What I will tell you is that after a long while I was finally able to get the stupid gloves off my hands and was ready to start filling the bottles. This was the easy part. I filled each bottle to the recommended once inch below the top and set them aside. I had made 2 ½ gallons of root beer which was supposed to fill 24 bottles. When I was done, however, I had a lot of root beer left. Rather than waste it, I took each bottle that I had already filled and pretty much topped it off. Remember this point. I then sat down at the kitchen table and used the cool bottle capping tool they provided to place a cap on each bottle so that it could ferment over the next week in my basement.

Later that evening

Upon capping the bottles and seeing how awesome it was that I had made an entire case of root beer, I began to get really excited and began making plans for my next batch. I even went online and ordered my own set of personalized bottle caps. I also came up with the idea that, as a thank you/birthday present, I could present my father-in-law with the first bottle when we saw him the next day. I was super excited.

It was at this point when I started thinking about the timeline involved with all of this. My father-in-law had said that his son had got it for him when he was in college. It occurred to me that my brother-in-law was 40 years old. I quickly looked at the instruction manual to see when the copyright date was and it said 1994. That was 18 years ago. This root beer could very well be toxic.



Sunday August 5, 2012

I presented my father-in-law with the first bottle of my as-of-yet unnamed root beer. To quote Ivan Drago in Rocky IV, “If he dies, he dies.”

Just kidding. I knew that, according to the instructions, it still had 6 days left to ferment before it could be refrigerated and another two weeks after that before it would be ready to drink. I had plenty of time to research the effects of ingesting 18 year old root beer extract and yeast. The idea of giving it to him was more of meaningful gesture and a way of not spending any money on a birthday present than an effort to off him. As far as you know.



Monday August 6, 2012

I did some very meaningful research to determine and ill effects of ingesting the root beer made from 18 year old root beer extract and yeast by going on Facebook and asking if I had any chemist friends. Lucky for me, I didn’t have any chemist friends, but my friend Kathy has a brother-in-law who is not only a chef but a home-brewer as well. She checked with him and we basically determined that while no one is probably going to die from the ingredients, the root beer would probably taste like crap due to the yeast possibly losing its effects over the years and the extract becoming bitter. At this point I decided that I was going to have to try again by dumping out all of the bottles I capped on Saturday and reusing them with supplies that I will be buying this weekend. Bummer. I also went online to look for other recipes and methods for making my own root beer. Along with the multitude or things I want to try, I also came across some information that I wish I’d had prior to leaving for work today. Apparently, the extra inch of air that I had originally left in the bottles as I filled them is to allow for pressure to build as the fermentation is taking place. If you remember, I filled up that space with the remaining root beer so that I wouldn’t waste any. I also read in multiple places that the fermentation process does not take an entire week, but only a few days. Like around two or three days. At that point, you should put the bottles in the refrigerator so that the fermentation stops and so YOUR BOTTLES WILL NOT BURST DUE TO PRESSURE. That’s with the extra inch of air that I did not allow.

So, as I write this I have thoughts of home where, if the yeast is in fact active, I could have glass bottles bursting open all over my basement right now spraying my walls and the cat with bitter tasting root beer that I will never get to drink. Still, I am not deterred. I will go home, clean up the mess, let the cat deal with its own problems, and carry on in my efforts to make a delicious root beer. I will also be buying new rubber gloves and a better stopper for the sink.

*Updated*

Later that evening

I came home and luckily the root beer had not blown up and painted my basement a nice shade of poop brown. I decided to open one up to test the fermentation and was greeted with the sound of nothing. No fizz, no pop. Nothing. I then proceeded to empty each bottle out individually and was greeted with  the same nothingness with every cap I popped. Depression set in as I dumped my entire day's work out into the sink while filling the kitchen with the aroma of flat root beer. I did keep three bottles as an experiment to go through the entire process. I'll open one on Saturday to check the fizzibility (my new root beer brewing word that I just made up). If it's flat, I'll dump the rest. If not, I'l put the remaining two in the fridge for the wife and I to enjoy.

Friday, August 10

My new bottlecaps came in the mail today. They are stupid wicked awesomesauce.

This will be updated as I find out more. Stay tuned.

Hobby Lobbying

I need a new hobby. I should probably take out the word “new” as I haven’t really had an old hobby that I’m sick of which would require a new one. Of course, if you count laying aound like a slug on the couch either watching TV, playing Playstation, or reading a book as a hobby then, yes, I had one and need a new one. But since I get very little reward from those other than the occasional “yay, I just hit 82 home runs in one season and nobody gives a flying crap about it but me” or “I just got through the last 10% of my book (since I got the Kindle I measure books in percentages and not pages) before going to bed tonight,” I have decided that I need something else to do.


The wife, I’m sure, could think of a lot of things I could do. I could help out more around the house, I could cook more, I could finish up projects that have needed to be finished for quite a long time, and I could even *gasp* throw in a load of laundry here or there, but I want something fun. I want something I can look forward to doing. I want something that, when completed, I can show to other people and say “look what I just did” and have them be impressed with the outcome. Even though that statement could apply to my wacky adventures in both cooking and laundry it’s not exactly what I had in mind. I want, no, I NEED a hobby that will give me both satisfaction and ample opportunity to shirk the household and husbandly/fatherly duties that I should be taking care of.

But I can’t think of a damn thing.

Actually, I have thought of quite a few, and they all have merit and could keep my interest for about a week, but in the end they fail to live up to what I want out of it – attention. In case you haven’t figured this out by now, I am an attention whore and will use any opportunity, good or bad, to get the attention, good or bad, I require to keep myself going. Why do you think I (occasionally) write this blog? Why do you think that, once I post it, I check back every few minutes for “likes” or comments? Hell, even a comment that says “you suck – never write again” is great because I’m getting attention. I would apologize for using you all like this but I’m really not sorry. For whatever reason, you choose to read this garbage through no fault of my own. I simply write it and post it. Don’t get me wrong though. If I can make you giggle, laugh, or, dare I say guffaw, then there is no better feeling I could have. God didn’t give me much in the looks or athleticism department, but what God did bless me with is the ability to make people laugh and I use it every chance I get – sometimes to a fault. But the bottom line this blog is all about me getting attention.

So, I’ve decided to create a list of a few hobbies that I’ve come up with and some pros and cons (mostly cons) of each in an effort to weed through them and decide which route I’m going to take. Please, feel free to comment on them or suggest your own (see – looking for attention again. I’m pathetic).

Running/Exercise

Every couple of years or so the wife and I look in the mirror and decide that we need to join a gym. We talk up what a good idea it would be, we talk about when and where we could go and how we’ll wake up early to hit the gym before we go to work, and we talk about all the stuff we’ll need to buy to get ourselves ready for the gym. We then join the gym, buy the new bags, water bottles, clothes, etc, attend with gusto the first few weeks, brag about how well we’re doing, find a reason not to go one night, and then never attend again while still paying the monthly dues because we just know we’re going to go back but don’t. Then, three months later I do the walk of shame into the gym to cancel my membership and, despite my urge to write down something obnoxiously creaitve in the “reason for cancelling” box, mark “lack of use.”

It’s a shameful process but one that we have repeated time and again and, I’m sure, will repeat as the years go on and my once slender frame gets ever softer. Plus, everybody runs. Well, maybe not everybody, but you can’t get on Facebook without seeing picture of people at marathon finish lines or bragging about the 7 miles they just ran that morning. I have all the respect in the world for those people but A) shut up! You’re making me feel lazy(er), and B) if everyone is doing it then I won’t feel as special. Yes, I’m really this much of an attention whore. Exercise is a no-go.


Woodworking

Woodworking you say? Where the hell did that come from? Well, my grandfather was a bit of a woodworker. In fact, there is furniture in both my house and my sister’s house that was constructed by the late great Kenny Hopfinger. My father, while not a furniture maker, is very handy with tools himself and can fix/construct anything that he wants to. Me? I have all the tools in the world including a table saw, a circular saw, a router, and seven hammers. Yes, seven hammers. There are many more tools in my workshop (yes, I even have a workshop)but I couldn’t tell you what half of them are for. And what is the only thing I’ve ever made with any of those tools? I made a stool for Ben to stand on when he brushes his teeth. It’s not a bad stool and I am actually a little proud of it, but I’m just waiting for the day I hear the boy crumble into a bloody, crying heap on the bathroom floor because my shoddy craftsmanship was less than stellar. Plus, hardware is expensive. On top of that, my workshop is attached to my non air-conditioned garage and carries an average temperature of about 107 degrees in the summertime and -4 in the winter. Woodworking is not going to happen.


Baking

I don’t mind baking as long as my friends Betty Crocker or Duncan Hines are involved, but baking would lead to taste testing and taste testing would lead to weight gain and weight gain would lead to me looking in the mirror more often than every couple of years and deciding that I need to join a gym which we’re already covered. Baking is out.


Puzzles

I enjoy making puzzles. I don’t enjoy the cat or the boy running away with a piece of it which is never to be found again. Plus, not even in my desperate clamoring for attention could I call someone and say “Hey, you’ve got to see this puzzle I just finished - with one piece missing. It’s wicked awesome!” On a side note, I’ve decided that I’m going to start saying “wicked awesome” more often. Puzzle making is out.


Sports/Athletics

I played on a softball team about 13 years ago where my season of record-breaking infield pop-ups was miraculously cut short by the breaking of my hand on a close play at home plate. No, I wasn’t running the bases but instead was relegated to playing catcher as that is about the max that my athletic ability allows. While I did get the guy out, I certainly didn’t rush back to the team once I was healed. Last summer I stumbled into playing for another softball team by pure accident. I was there to watch my buddy Jeff, they were short a player and asked if I’d step in, so I did and ended up going 5 for 6 and was asked to join the team permanently. I don’t know how that happened as that feat has certainly not repeated itself. On Thursdays I now show up with full knowledge that I’ll be playing catcher and batting last. It’s not pretty and nobody even comes to watch us play which means I don’t get any attention. This will be my last summer of softball.


Male gigolo

While I could TOTALLY pull this off, the wife might have something to say about it. If anybody is interested, however, give her a holler. Maybe you and she can work something out.

I was going to write that I come cheap in the most innocent of connotations, but it just sounded SUPER dirty so I decided not to include it. You’re welcome.


Writing a book

I would love to write a book, but I have nothing to write about. I’m not a novelist nor do I want to sit in front of a computer goofing around all day (those who follow me on Facebook will laugh heartily at that). My only chance of writing a book is if I printed out all of my blogs and three-hole punched them into a binder. Viola – my book. I doubt highly someone wants to read 300 pages of my by then outdated Randumb Thoughts. If I can’t take the time to spit out drivel like this on more than a bi-monthly basis, why would I think I could take the time to write an entire book? Plus, my writing style is too immature for adults and too adult-like for kids. I could aim for the tweens, but I have no desire to write about wizards, vampires, or zombies. After that, I’m pretty sure that Beverly Cleary has covered the rest.

Also, writing a book involves sending your book to a publisher and getting rejected countless times. Even if your book is published, you have to go through the editing process and I am not going to deal with someone telling me how I should write something. I’m sure that my writing could be enhanced by such feedback, but if I really cared about that I’d proofread my blogs before publishing them. Or, maybe I do proofread them but leave just enough mistakes to make Chris Reed have a brain hemmorage…


Brew my own beer

Now here’s a hobby I could sink my liver into. I think it would be wicked awesome (see?) to brew my own beer but I’m not a patient man. It takes a while for the brewing process to complete and I’m an instant gratification kind of a guy. I don’t want to be sitting outside on the deck thinking “boy, that beer sure is going to be tasty in three weeks.” I’d rather go into the fridge, grab myself an ice-cold Stag, and enjoy the frosty goodness that it provides on the spot. Plus, I have a sponsorship agreement with Stag that prohibits me from making my own beer and/or mentioning any other beer by name.

*the thoughts and opinions in this blog are solely the views of this author and do not necessarily reflect the views of Stag Brewery or any of its subsidiaries*


So, as you can see, there’s not a lot left. Maybe I’ll just go back to my Playstation. Maybe I’ll plant – and not water - a garden. Maybe I’ll join a bunch of adult websites and write critiques of their movies. Maybe I’ll just go back to the housework I should be doing instead of plopping my ass on the couch and staring at the TV every night. No matter what I decide to do, however, please know that whenever I screw up or make an ass of myself (which is often) you will know as I will embellish the hell out of it and write it down on this blog just for my attention-getting pleasure.



Thanks for reading

Randumb Thoughts – The OMFG it’s 105 degrees outside and I need something to read while I’m stuck inside edition

I’ve been taking Metrolink to and from work for the past few months and it definitely has its pros and cons. Sure, I’m saving money on gas and the expense of parking downtown, but at what cost? The money I’m saving there is being spent on laundry detergent, body wash, air freshener, cologne, mothballs, deer urine, and anything else I can use to get the smell of public transportation off of me and my clothes. In fact, I think I may be even more in the hole now than I was before. And it’s a smelly, smelly hole.


I’ve had my 1993 Buick LeLuxury for about 5 years now and this past May I finally decided to have the air conditioning serviced. Normally, I really don’t need to have the air on as I’m more than fine with leaving the windows open and having the wind blow through my hair (singular), but for longer trips with the boy and the wife in the car I like to make sure that they are as comfortable as they can possibly be. The day I had it serviced at a national chain that rhymes with Hiffy Hube it worked great and I could freeze the nuts off a polar bear if need be. About two weeks after that, however, it suddenly stopped working again. I was pissed but because it’s usually just me in the car and the weather had been beautiful I didn’t worry too much about getting it fixed right away. With a trip to the Ozarks and the hot months of a Midwest summer approaching though, I figured that I’d better take it back to Hiffy Hube and have them look at it. After they looked at it for two hours they determined that they couldn’t determine anything without an owner’s manual and asked if I had it. An owner’s manual? Really? I can’t find the thing that just flew out of my mouth when I sneezed two seconds ago much less an owner’s manual from a 19 year old car that I may never have even gotten in the first place. Looks like LeLuxury may be a little less luxurious this summer.


I want to see Ted. My buddy Jeff wants to see Magic Mike. I was going to make a joke here about his lack of masculinity for wanting to see a movie with a bunch of muscular guys in their underwear writhing around for the enjoyment of millions of women, but then I remembered that for the past 27 years I’ve been an avid viewer of muscular guys in their underwear writhing around for the enjoyment of millions of men on a weekly basis in the form of professional wrestling. Still though, Magic Mike is stupid.


Obamacare passed and I feel obligated to say something about it. That was the something I’m going to say about Obamacare passing.


Last weekend the wife, the sister, and I treated my parents to a weekend at the Lake of the Ozarks for their 40th wedding anniversary. I was going to write an entire blog about it but my blogs are usually only funny if I’m miserable, drunk, or puking. Well, I was definitely one of the three after the late nights spent out of the deck looking over the water while downing a few (a lot of) ice cold Stags but, truth be told, I had a fantastic time. My family is amazing and I hope to do it again next year and the year after that. We may have to make different sleeping arrangements though as I don’t think my sister, who the wife and I shared a loft with, will ever recover from me drunkenly jumping on my bed at 2:00 am or the sounds I was making with my mouth that definitely sounded like I was doing something very popular with teenage boys just discovering their bodies. I’m an awesome brother!!!


Friday is “jeans day” at my office. Didn’t know if you knew that or not.


My last Randumb Thoughts was based on my new iPhone which I was overwhelmingly addicted to at the time. Well, I can say the honeymoon is definitely over. The notifications annoy me and come on at the most inopportune times, I constantly have new words to make or old apps to upgrade, and I think that dime-store hooker Siri is cheating on me. The other day I asked her for directions and she replied with “What have you done for me lately, Hawkfinger?” At least she’s still calling me Hawkfinger. Respect.


So, my buddy Chris is up for a position as a columnist at http://www.insidestl.com/. Some of you may already be familiar with Chris and say “doesn’t he already write for them?” Well, yes he does, among other places, but this column is a little different in that it is every writer’s dream job. No, it’s not the topic or the forum that makes it the dream job; it’s the one thing that every hack “writer” such as myself dreams of – it pays money!!! Chris is one of four finalists who have had to submit three articles this week to be posted on the website and judged by the readers and the owner of the site. I have supported Chris through this process to the point where I have even been called out (basically he told me to go gently make love to myself) by, honestly, the only other viable candidate besides Chris. Please, if you want to stop reading my horseshit blog and would like to read a real writer, go to http://www.insidestl.com/ right now, read Chris’s stuff, and comment on it so that the judges know what you think. If you like the other guy’s stuff better, that’s fine, but you will be dead to me.


Seriously, dead.


The boy and I are going to make Ice Pops tonight. I had totally forgotten about this summertime delicacy from years ago but last night at Target the wife came across the little things that you pour the kool-aid into prior to putting them in your freezer so that a few hours later you can eat frozen kool-aid. Yeah, that’s right, technical talk. Anyways, we decided to buy them and, as I was informed earlier this morning while talking to the wife, the boy plans on making them this evening. I guess that means I plan on making them this evening too. This is gonna be awesome.

Speaking of the boy, I was reading him a Berenstein Bears book the other night when he came across a picture of Mama Bear talking to Grizzly Gran on the telephone. At that point the boy looked at me and laughed. I asked what he was laughing about and he pointed to the landline telephone with the cord hanging out of the wall and said “those phones look funny.” Wow. We don’t have an active landline in our house so I spent the next 5 minutes explaining that people weren’t always able to take their phone with them wherever they went. I talked about cell phones and how they’ve changed over the years and am pretty sure I even threw in a reference to the Zack Morris block phone from the old SBTB days. Finally, I had to get him out of bed and take him to the basement to show him the old dusty rotary phone that is still wired up but is totally useless in our basement. Bottom line, he couldn’t have cared less. I think it was just another ploy to be able to stay up a little later. He’s a clever little fart.

Lastly, I tried reading “Fifty Shades of Gray.” I couldn’t do it. I was even challenged by the great Wendy Bradley (there, you got your mention) to finish reading it, no matter how uncomfortable it made me, and write a blog about exactly how uncomfortable it made me. At that point I considered the challenge, read one more chapter about BJs in bathtubs and how hot this guy was and how she had to give herself to him and I just couldn’t take it anymore. It felt too weird seeing all of that from the perspective of a woman. Now, had it been a Penthouse Forum it would have been totally different because that’s written by dudes with dudes in mind. But this was girlish and I felt like a pervert or a stalker seeing it all from a woman’s point of view. I guess that’s why I’d rather watch the half-naked professional wrestlers than the half-naked strippers in Magic Mike. Now, if Magic Mike wants to go ape-shit with a steel chair on some of the other dude’s heads, then we can start talking. Until then…

Thanks for reading.


As always, read if you want, laugh if you can, share if you did.



Randumb Thoughts - The iPhone 4s Edition

Yes, it's another round of randumb thoughts. BTW, I got an iPhone 4s. I was pretty awesome already, but how ya like me now?

For some reason, the chorus of the Gotye song Somebody That I Used to Know reminds me of Michael Jacksons backing vocals in the Rockwell smash hit of the 80s Somebody's Watching Me .




Can you believe that it’s been 10 years since Lisa ‘’Left Eye” Lopez has been dead? Lisa Lopez. TLC. You know, Left Eye? Yeah, I couldn’t give a crap either.



One thing I can give a crap about is my new iPhone 4s. Anybody who’s been around me is already sick of hearing about it and watching me do stupid things with it, but I’m okay with that. This is probably the first piece of technology that I’ve ever bought while the commercials are still airing (ohhhh, Zooey D.) instead of two years and seventy-three upgrades later. The best part about it is that there’s this woman living inside of my phone that I can tell what to do and she does it. Her name is Siri. She calls me Hawkfinger. I’m pretty sure we’re in love.



For all potential iPhone 4s purchasers, Siri will not search for the following topics:

Big Boobs

Large Boobs

Huge Boobs

Ginormous Boobs

Cantastic Melons

Jugs o Fun

Hot n Sweaty Shirtless Black Firemen

Sweater Meat



I’ve also tried others that are not necessarily suitable for print but, rest assured, Siri won’t find those either. She must be the jealous type.



I am currently in week 3 of my St Louis Blues playoff beard. It looks scraggly, has way too much white (not grey, white) hairs and is already way too long for my liking. Being a team player though, I am willing to weather the storm for the next 7 months of playoff hockey and let this thing grow until the Blues bring home Lord Stanley’s Cup. LGB!!!



Yes, I spelled grey with an “e.” Thinking about becoming British.



So, I go into the family room the other night to check on my freshly-turned five year old son because I heard him singing and I wanted to see what he was singing about. What I found was him sitting there with all of his Fischer Price Imaginext superheroes lined up in perfect choir formation performing a concert. I’m not sure of the names of the songs, but the lyrics ranged from “because you throw pumpkins” to “you can’t fly but you can ride in Batman’s car because you can fit.” I’m not sure if he’s ready for Broadway but his Darth Vader and Stormtrooper figurines sure seemed to enjoy it.



Did I mention I got an iPhone 4s?



While, um, “going” the other day at work I decided to play with my new iPhone 4s to see what kind of bells and whistles it came with. Through this investigation I was able to determine with the help of my compass feature that when I make poo at work I am facing due north. DUE FREAKING NORTH!!! Who knew? The benefits of modern technology…



I tweeted that last randumb thought earlier in the week but apparently none of the fifteen porn stars, corporations, and advertising companies that follow me cared to comment on it. Or read it. My existence on Twitter is about as noticeable as that cheeseburger in the Hardees commercial with Kate Upton. Yes, she was holding a cheeseburger.



The Kardashians apparently just signed a $40MM deal to star in three more seasons of Keeping Up With the Kardashians. $40MM. And it all started because Kim’s old boyfriend videotaped them having sex, published it, and now her whole family’s cashing in. I’m not saying my sister should degrade herself by doing something like that, but $40MM is $40MM. Help a brother out!



Why don’t the guys in the celebrity sex tapes ever hit the jackpot? For the most part they’re the ones doing all the work.



My softball season started last night and it almost ended just as quickly. Due to my team trying to make the game fairer for our opponents they often bat me last and have me play catcher so that my mad skills don’t dominate the entire game. While I was catching one of the other team’s batters swung as hard as he could and fouled the ball straight back. Not up in the air, but straight back. Less than a foot above my head. Had I had hair, I would now have less. Luckily though, my instincts took over and I was able to flip my right leg around to kick the ball into the air, run towards the backstop and up the fence, do a double back flip off the fence, land in a perfect splits, and catch the ball prior to it hitting the ground with a pair of chopsticks that I had stored in my socks just in case this very opportunity presented itself. Three outs. Boo-yah!



That really happened. Check the replay.



Okay, more cute kid crap. Since Ben had his birthday last week he had a little bit of birthday money that he wanted to spend on toys. We went on the Fischer Price site and found a bunch of the superhero figures that he didn’t have yet (believe me, he know exactly which ones he has and which ones he needs and will make you very aware of both of those facts at any given time). I explained the whole process with ordering things online and that even though it was Sunday, we might not get the toys for another week or so. He seemed to understand that until about an hour later when he asked if his toy delivery was there yet. After explaining the process to him AGAIN, he finally seemed to get it. Thankfully, when he and Carol got home yesterday the package was at the house and he was able to play with his new toys. He was ecstatic. The best part is that when I got done playing softball last night I had a text from Mrs. Hawkfinger that Ben “couldn’t believe he got his toy delivery today.” His toy delivery. Not his toys, but his toy delivery. That may only be cute to Carol and me, but you’re reading my blog so you’re going to have to put up with crap like that. Deal with it.



I just remembered that I had a conversation with Carol last night where I agreed to rent a cabin next weekend in Grafton, IL so that we wouldn’t have to drive home after her cousin’s wedding reception. I also just remembered that it wouldn’t be just us in the cabin, but Benjamin too. Oh boy, more is coming back to me now. Apparently, it won’t just be Carol, Ben, and I but also Carol’s sister, her husband, and their three children.

Eight of us.

In a cabin.

Together.

And not one of us has what you’d call an “inside voice.”

I REALLY need to stop answering my phone after I’ve had a few Stags. Or maybe it was all a dream…?



Nope, just got an email confirmation from the wife. Damn you Stag!!!!



So Carol and I have been catching up on the series Mad Men and I have to say that I love it. It’s nice to be reminded of a time when a woman knew her place in society. Look pretty, make me a drink, feed me, make me another drink, sleep with me, and shut up. I think I’m about 95% of the way there in training Carol to be just like that. Wait, did I say 95%? I meant .00000000000000000095%. She’s a feisty one.



One last thing. After getting my iPhone 4s (did I mention that I got an iPhone 4s?) I asked my friends on Facebook for a list of must-have apps. I got some good suggestions that I’ve downloaded but one in particular intrigued me. I was informed that there were apps that could be used as *ahem* “personal massagers” for women. My curiosity being what it is I immediately went out and downloaded a few to see what they were like. After trying them though, I began to think about it. Yes, this would be a great toy to have if you’re into that kind of thing, but it’s a phone. People out there are using their phones to pleasure themselves and them talk on them. I know they’re touch screens, but isn’t that pushing the envelope a bit? Makes you think twice about borrowing someone phone now doesn’t it? It also makes my discovery of facing due north while I poo a little less disgusting.



Seriously though, due north? Amazing!!



Thanks for reading and to any ladies kinky enough to download the vibrator apps, you’re welcome.

Romance

In my never-ending quest to educate the world on the finer points of being awesome, I realized that there is one subject that has not been approached - romance. While I know that on the exterior I portray the image of a rough and tumble manly-man, deep in my heart I am a hopeless romantic ever-yearning to shout my love for my wife from the mountaintops so that all can hear and know. It is my fear, however, that I am a dying breed and that within a few generations, or possibly even with the current one, all acts of romanticism and valor will be replace by texts and tweets. Therefore, for the sake of my son, his generation, and all who are interested I have compiled a list of ways for men to be romantic to the woman in their life.



Always open the door for her. Car door, restaurant door, door to the strip club – it doesn’t matter. Every door must be opened.



Tell her everyday how beautiful she looks even if you’re lying



Hold her hand



See that girl with the huge boobs? Don’t look at them until your lady is sufficiently distracted.



Always look your best. Keeping your hair combed nicely, shaving regularly, and having a nice clean outfit on shows that you care. You can show you care even more by buying her an iron to iron that outfit for you, leaving you that much more presentable for her pleasure.



Buy her a puppy



Don’t break wind in front of her. If you do break wind in front of her, blame it on the puppy. Puppies can’t deny it and your woman will always believe you. Always.



If you have to break wind in the car, roll down her window for her. Rolling down yours could mess up your hair which would take away from you looking your best.



Women say that they like flowers, but flowers die quickly and cost too much for their short lifespan. Instead, buy her something that will last forever such as a video game or a komodo dragon. Make sure that the video game is something that you’ll enjoy as well so that she can experience joy seeing how happy you are playing it while she’s making dinner or ironing your outfit mentioned earlier.



Speaking of, let her make dinner. Every night. A woman gets a sense of satisfaction knowing that she has made a delicious meal for her man and that she has filled his belly. To show your gratification, give her a nice romantic burp followed by a gentle tap on her rump. She’ll appreciate your thoughtfulness.



Surprise her with dinner once in a while. I know that my previous entry said to let her make dinner every night because she loves doing it,  but she’ll get a kick out of your feeble attempt to “cook” something as simple as hamburger helper and a side of green beans. Ruining this any-moron-can-make-this dinner will further fulfill her need to feel needed. Knowing that you would starve without her and/or White Castle makes her want to cook for you that much more.



Smack her ass, hard and often. This little show of affection will let her know that you think she’s still got it no matter how much it jiggles.



Text her nude pictures of yourself. I know that in my opening paragraph I denounced the use of texts and tweets for romantic purposes, but Walgreens and CVS will not develop naked pictures and, quite frankly, even if they did by the time you got them developed and picked them up you may have lost the mood you wanted to relay to her in the first place. A nice picture of the reflection of your naked body in the bathroom mirror while you hold the camera phone lets your lady know that “Hey, I was naked in the bathroom and I was thinking about you.” Little acts like this go a long way. On a side note, make sure that if the toilet is in the picture, any matter that may reside in it has been flushed away.



Give her a massage. A real massage. Boobs and everything.



Sing her a song. It doesn’t have to be a great song nor do you have to sing it well. A song I commonly sing to my lady is Sexy MF by Prince. Ladies love Prince.



Make her breakfast in bed. Nothing says “Good morning” like a strawberry frosted pop-tart. Plus, while she’s eating, it will give you time to think about what you would like in the omelet that she’ll make for you once finishes the breakfast you made for her.



Clean the house while she’s out. If your lady hasn’t had time to finish all of her housework prior to going grocery shopping, she’ll appreciate it if you clean up a little. I make sure that while my lady is out I put all of the empty beer cans from me and my buddies by the back door so that she can take them out to the recycling bin on her way to clean up the dog poop in the backyard.



Point out hot girls to her. This will let her know that even though you find the other girl extremely hot and that you could totally bang them if you wanted to, you still choose to be with the her even though she may not be near as hot as those other girls.



Talk about your sex life to your friends. Women like to know that they’re good in bed and telling your friends all of the intimate details about last night’s 45 seconds of heaven will help that happen. Friends talk and eventually the friends that you told will end up telling your lady about how impressed you were that she actually let you do that thing to her that she really didn’t want to do but you talked her into doing it anyway by calling her dedication to the relationship into question. Hearing it from someone else makes them feel great.



Drink often. I find that even though I may feel romantic and want to tell my lady all of the things I feel are wonderful  about her, sometimes I get shy about expressing it. By drinking a lot in terms of both quantity and frequency I find that I am able to more openly express my admiration for her finer qualities such as her eyes, smile, sense of humor, and amazing rack.



Seriously though, the thing that is most important is that you tell them every day how much you love them. Whether it be in the morning when you wake up, at night before you fall asleep, or in some stupid blog that chronicles most of the things you actually do to your poor wife on a daily basis and now feel horrible about it because you realize that you’re really kind of an ass, tell her you love her every day.



And mean it.



Thanks for reading.

Randumb Thoughts 2.3.12

I want to write today but can’t think of any stories, so I’ll just give some Randumb thoughts.

I find it funny that despite her “celebrity” status, I’d probably be more ashamed of banging Snooki than she would be of banging a nobody like me.

You can follow me on Twitter if you’d like @scottyhop76 but I really only tweet at porn stars and professional wrestlers even though they never respond. In all reality, it’s pretty sad. In fact, don’t even bother. Forget I ever mentioned it.

The previous statement is funny because it’s 100% true.

I have been informed that I drink girl coffee. Personally, I see nothing unmanly about drinking a cup of coffee with two French vanilla creamers. It tastes great while I’m getting my mani/pedi.

I really wish my boss would close her door while she’s on her speaker phone so that I can concentrate on writing my blog while at work.

Regarding the Snooki comment; I’d still do it, but I’d be ashamed.

Grease 2 came out 30 years ago this year and I still can’t go bowling without singing this song:

We're Gonna Score Tonight

By the way, doesn’t Zmed sound like a dirty word?

And, yes, that is a young Shooter McGavin.

My son gets X’s at school when he is bad. On a normal day, he usually gets one X. The other day he got five X’s. Five. I’d like to pretend that I’m not impressed by that, but you’ve really got to try hard to get 5 X’s. I wish I possessed that type of dedication.

That gets me thinking about how many X’s I’d accumulate in a day of my normal life. Pretty sure I’d have at least two before even finishing my first cup of girl coffee.

My director, a black woman, just came to my desk and heard that I was listening to Sam Cooke. I felt strangely obligated to explain myself, as if I was not allowed to enjoy “black” music, by mentioning how soulful he was. Yes, I said “soulful.” Pretty sure she is now on the phone in her office laughing with all of her black friends about the dorky white guy who was listening to the “soulful” Sam Cooke. If I was any whiter I’d be clear.

Now, I feel strangely obligated to defend myself for the above statement by making another statement that proves I’m not a racist. I blame this unnecessary guilt on attending an almost all-white private school.

I’m not a racist. I’m really not. I have many black friends.

I don’t think I’m helping myself.

Maybe I’ll deflect by making fun of “the gays”

Nope

Anyways, I just read a story about a Belleville Diocesan priest who is being relieved of his duties because he ad-libs part of the mass. Really? A priest can do unspeakable things to a child and the church will pay out millions in damages to the victims ALL WHILE ONLY MAKING THE PRIEST TAKE A TEMPORARY LEAVE OF ABSENCE, but a guy goes off script a bit and they ask for his resignation? With priorities like those, I am now feeling that much better about my chances of getting into heaven.

Let’s see: race, religion…

Ah! Politics! In this space I would like to make fun of politicians, most notably the ones that have opinions that differ from mine. Fortunately, I have the common sense to not get into a political debate on issues when I am ill-equipped with both proper information and/or concern. I don’t care about politics and, as a result, I will refrain from commenting directly on them. Don’t you wish your politicians acted the same way on issues?

I got a Kindle Fire for Christmas which allows me to download books, music, and apps, browse the web, subscribe to newspapers and other informational publication and basically have the entire world wide web at my fingertips in any Wi-Fi enabled environment. I have the power to be the most well-informed person in the world. My most used application? The Fart Sounds app.

My director just came back to my desk asking if I was a fan of Barry Manilow. I’m pretty sure she’s just mocking me now.


Thanks for reading.

The Grinch Who Saved Christmas

Growing older and adding the title of “adult” to my ever growing list of monikers, my outlook on Christmas had taken a severe turn. No longer did Christmas mean impatiently counting the days til Christmas Eve when the magic of the holiday would somehow produce a warm fire, presents under a real hand cut tree, and a general feeling that regardless of how many times I had either gotten in trouble or went to bed snickering that, once again, I had done something bad and not gotten caught, everything was going to be okay and Santa would do his best to bring me everything that I wanted. Instead, Christmas now meant intensive shopping, working out the schedules so that we get to spend quality time with all of our loved ones, wrapping gifts, interior holiday decorations, and the god-damned dreaded outdoor Christmas lights. Add to that list the stress of recently adopting a stupid cat and you’ve got yourself one of the jolliest assholes this side of the nuthouse (thank you Clark).

Not to say that I’d poo-pooed Christmas, but once the childhood allure of St Nick wears off and you’re left with the reality that Christmas is time-consuming, stressful, and expensive, the luster of the balls hanging from our plastic tree seemed to tarnish just a bit. Let’s face it – being an adult at Christmas kinda sucks. So, in an effort to get back in the Christmas spirit and shine up those balls a little bit, I decided to go on a journey. I had to find the one person who truly understood the meaning of Christmas and my predicament. This person who not only once hated Christmas, but was also hell bent on destroying that hallowed day for an entire town. Who is this you ask? Well it is not just a who, but THE “Who” himself. The person whom I sought was the great Grinch.

My journey began by Googling “Whoville” on my computer. The only thing I was able to find out about Whoville was that it was a fictional town and, seeing that my subsequent search for a town named “fiction” were unsuccessful, I was about to quickly abort my mission and carry on with my holiday gloom. Then, as it often does in the jumbled mess of useless information that is my brain, genius struck and I decided to look at Google maps and see if they could direct me to Whoville. When what to my wondering eyes should appear but a listing in Wisconsin for Whoville Christmas Lighting. Upon further review I noticed that their slogan was “Holiday trimmings without the Grinch,” but I had my suspicions that this store was my version of the Christmas Star and that, if followed, all of my questions would be answered and all of my Christmas spirit restored.

Plus, they brew a lot of good beer in Wisconsin.

So, after loading up my 1993 Buick LeSleighbre with the proper rations of Mt Dew, Slim Jims, cigarettes, and mescaline, I kissed the wife and child goodbye, petted the dog, kicked the cat, and headed out on my 371 mile trek up I-55 to the welcoming arms of Stoughton, WI where I would receive a heaping helping of Christmas insight.

About 300 miles and 4.5 hours into my journey I realized two things: 1) I hate driving long distances, and 2) highway tolls are bullshit. Add those two items to the fact that my iPod was on the fritz and I had to endure the last 2 hours with nothing but central Illinois farm reports and then the Spanish stations emanating from Chicago, my attempts at holiday cheer were so far coming up pretty close to empty. It was too cold to open the window so I couldn’t have a cigarette and the mescaline I had bought from some guy outside the gas station by my work turned out to be deer urine and, while I gave every attempt for it to work, the only hallucinations I saw were caused by the extremely cold temperatures I experienced while kneeling beside my car vomiting out the deer urine from my body. I was pretty deer ticked (see what I did there? Awesome. I know.)

Thanks in part to a late afternoon start, I finally reached my destination about 9:30 that evening. Now, all throughout my drive I kept picturing images of this Whoville Christmas Lighting and the great displays of light and Christmas and joy and Christmas and good cheer and Christmas and the little old lady dressed as Mrs Claus handing out hot chocolate and Christmas and her hot younger daughter dressed as a slutty Mrs. Claus who had had a thing for mid-30s balding married men and… where was I? Oh yeah! And Christmas. This place was going to ooze Christmas spirit. But, much to my dismay, when I pulled up to the address listed all I saw was a house. No business, no industrial building, but a house. It was a house unlike any other on the street, but not in a good way. While all of the other houses on the street were decorated with inflatables, and yard signs, and colored lights, and white lights, and icicle lights, and manger scenes (what those were doing there, I have no idea), this house had nothing. In fact, not only did it not have Christmas lights up, but one of its front porch lights had even burned out.

I quickly exited my car and walked up the sidewalk to the front door hoping that the occupant of the home was, in fact, the Grinch and that he had seen the error of his ways when he saw the error of his ways the first time and that he was hating Christmas as much as I was once again. But if that were the case, I thought to myself, how would I get that Christmas spirit back? I needed the good Grinch to show me the way. I rang the doorbell, waited a few minutes, and then rang the doorbell again.

Nothing

There was no sign whatsoever of movement inside. I peeked in the windows for any sign of life, but all I saw was an old TV on top of a makeshift television stand, a beat up couch, and a partially assembled plastic Christmas tree. Dejected, I went back to my car and slumped down into the driver’s seat. I had driven almost six hours and not only was I not going to meet the Grinch, I wouldn’t even be able to enjoy the pleasantries that I had imagined would come with a place by the name of Whoville. My angst for the season started rising once more to a level I once thought unattainable. Clutching my steering wheel with the might of 1000 monkeys and unclenching my jaw just long enough to scream, I shouted at the top of my still-raspy-from-the-deer-urine-vomiting voice “I fudging hate mother fudging Christmas!”

Only I didn’t say fudge.

After my windows stopped rattling and my ears ceased ringing, a silence permeated the car. It was a strange silence – almost eerie. It was almost as if my screaming declaration was a statement to someone but that someone was not responding. I looked around at the houses up and down the street and everything seemed to be standing still. The lights of the homes were still flashing and the inflatable yard decorations were still afloat, but there seemed to be a sense of nothingness in the air. I stepped out of my car to stretch and have a cigarette before heading back home from my fruitless endeavor and was greeted by a stillness in the air that seemed to yearn for something. Snow? A cool gust of winter wind? I’m not sure what it was but the emptiness of the night in an unfamiliar neighborhood started to tear at my nerves and I quickly got back in my car to get out of that place.

As I was turning the key in my ignition, however, I heard the rumble of an old pickup truck coming up behind me. I looked in my rearview mirror and saw that that rumbling truck had pulled up in the driveway of the alleged Whoville Christmas Lighting and was now blocking my exit. I waited for the driver to realize that he had blocked me in, but oddly enough the headlights soon turned off and the driver exited his vehicle.

I rolled down my window and shouted “Hey! Could you move? I’m trying to get out.”

The man, who by this time had moved around to the back of his truck, came back around to the front where he noticed me for the first time.

“Sorry buddy. I didn’t even notice you there, I’m so tired.”

“No worries” was my reply.

“Can I ask what you’re doing in my driveway?” he asked.

“Well, I was looking for Whoville Christmas Lighting but I guess it either is a joke from Google maps or I have the wrong address or something.” I said. “This was the address they gave so I’m here. Sorry to invade your privacy like this.”

“Why didn’t you call first?” asked the man.

Stunned silence on my part. Small details never really have been my thing.

“Do you need some Christmas lights? I can sell some to you, but I can’t put ‘em up. Booked through Christmas Day.”

I was shocked. “You mean this is Whoville Christmas Lighting?”

“Yeah!” was his response. “What, were you expecting an old lady dressed as Mrs Claus handing out hot chocolate or something?”

“Something like that” I replied.

I had no idea what to say next. I was at the right place yet found nothing that I was looking for. Certainly I wasn’t going to find the Grinch here. This wasn’t Whoville. It was barely Who-anything. Again, my perception of what something was supposed to be was crushed by the actuality of what it really was. Whoville my ass.

Apparently my thoughts had taken a bit longer than I wanted to form in my head because the man soon spoke to me again.

“You okay mister? You seem like you’ve got something to say. If you really need me to put up your lights I’d be happy to do it, but I gotta tell you that I may be on your roof at 3:00 in the morning to fit you into my schedule. That’s the best I can do.”

“Three in the morning, are you kidding me?” I asked.

“Well if you want them done right that’s the best I can do. I have half the town lit up already but the other half still needs to be done and I only have 10 days left until Christmas to do it. Let me get my scheduler and see what night works best for
you. How many square feet are we talking here?“

I was taken aback at this. As I watched him fumble through what appeared to be a stack of sticky notes of appointments I had to collect my thought before speaking.

“No. Don’t. I mean, I don’t want you to put up my lights.”

“Well I can just sell them to you, but it will be the same price as you’d find them at the store. I don’t get discounts.” He said.

“No,” I said. “I mean, I don’t want lights. I don’t know what I want. I just…” and I stopped.

The man looked at me for what seemed like a long time. He finally put the stack of sticky notes back in his truck, turned to me and said “Listen. It looks like you’ve got something on your mind and I don’t have all night to wait until you spit it out. I need to get to bed soon because I’ve got an early day tomorrow. If you want to help me unload the back of this truck, we can sit down inside with a couple of beers and you can talk about it. It’s only Stag, but it’ll loosen your lips a bit.”

I thought of the dangers of going into this man’s house, but something about him seemed perfectly innocent. It was too late to drive straight home but I wasn’t exactly tired yet either. The few motels I’d passed along the way might require a certain amount of drunkenness to agree to sleep in, plus, I’ve never said no to a Stag in my life. I agreed and walked over to help him unload.

***

As we sat in his living room, beers in hand, I began to tell the man my story. I told him my name and about my family. I told him about how Christmas was becoming more of a burden then anything. I told him about how I came up to Wisconsin on this silly mission looking for the Grinch or anything that I could use as a story for a blog or something on down the line. I told him about Googling Whoville and how exactly I ended up in his driveway. I also told him about the mescaline/deer urine fiasco to which he replied “If I only had a nickel for every time...”

But as I finished my story, he gazed at me with a sad look in his eyes – almost as if he was pitying me.

“Scott” he said, mostly because that’s my name. “Do me a favor and look around you.”

I did as he asked and didn’t see much more than I saw earlier from the window.

“Not much, is there?” he continued.

“I guess not,” I replied. “I kinda thought that if you work as much as you say that you’d have a regular palace here. Saving it all?”

“Saving what?” He asked.

“The money. If you’re up on people’s roofs at 3:00 in the morning I’d assume that they’d be paying a pretty penny for your services. Didn’t you say that you’ve already hung lights on half the town?”

“You just don’t get it, do you” asked the man.

“Get what?” I replied.

He drew a deep breath and sighed slowly.

“I listened to your story and what you have to say about Christmas and, frankly, it’s bullshit.”

“Excuse me…” I started.

“Excuse me!” he said. “You sit here and whine about stores, and presents, and money, and schedules, and trees…”

“And outdoor lights” I interjected

“yes, and especially the lights,” he said. “You do all of this whining because you expect that once you do all of the shopping and the decorating that Christmas will magically be special for you again – like when you were a little kid. But it won’t be, you know why? Because you’re an adult. Things are different now. After the holidays you’ll still be whining about the credit card bills, and taking down the decorations, and your job, and whatever else it is that you’re going to whine about that day. You’re looking at Christmas as a job – but it’s not. You expect the most out of it because it’s hard work and you feel like you should be rewarded with something.”

“I should be rewarded.” I said

“Of course you should.”

“Of course I should! I work hard all year to earn money to pay for all of the presents and the travel and everything else. Why shouldn’t I expect some sort of reward at the end of all of that? Shouldn’t I get what I want for Christmas? Shouldn’t I get something in return?” I shouted.

“Well what do you want then?” he asked.

“Something,” I yelled, becoming annoyed.

“What type of something, Scott?” He asked angrily. “What are you expecting? What exactly do you want? What are you looking for? What can happen for you that is going to make your Christmas?”

“I have no idea!” I shouted.

***

I sat there.

Dumbfounded.

What was it really that I was looking for? What did I want? Had I lost my Christmas spirit or had I just been expecting too much?

“Scott,” he started again “do you know why you don’t see much here?”

I said nothing.

“It’s because there’s nothing I want and I have everything I need. I have no family, no money. I have a small landscaping business that I work ten months out of the year at so that I can pay my bills, feed me and my dog, and have enough left over so that I can take two months out of the year off to hang up Christmas lights on every house in this town.”

“But I bet that pays pretty well,” I stated. “You’ve got to have a lot invested or something.”

“It pays more than you realize right now,” he said. “I’m not up on those roofs and in people’s yards looking for a monetary payday. That’s the difference between people who get it and people who don’t. It’s not always about how much can I get or how much is owed to me. How much did I tell you that it would cost to put lights on your house?”

“You didn’t. You said you’d sell me the lights but you couldn’t put them up.”

“Right,” he said. “I didn’t”

Confused, I asked “So you’re saying you put them up for free? But why? Why work so hard if you’re not getting anything out of it?”

“What I get out of it means so much more than any paystub can reflect or any present you may find under the tree,” he said. “Let me ask you one more question and then I’ve got to get to bed. I’ve got another long day tomorrow.”

“Sure,” I replied.

“How does Christmas feel to you?”

“What?” I asked.

“How does it feel?” he continued. “The birth of Christ? The coming of Santa Claus? The sound on the rooftops of reindeer hooves? How does that feel to you?”

“I guess I’ve never really thought much about HOW it felt,” I said.

“Well then how can you get your Christmas spirit unless you know what it is that you’re looking for? You think because you went to the store and spent money – BOOM! Christmas Spirit. You’re looking for your reward under a tree but that’s not where you’re going to find it. Christmas spirit can’t be bought or sold in a jar. It’s not inside of a nicely wrapped box or in the cleavage of some young hottie dressed up in a slutty Mrs. Claus outfit.”

“Wait,” I said. “What?”

“Scott, I learned a long time ago that Christmas isn’t about presents. In fact, it would still be Christmas without ribbons, tags, boxes, or bags. Christmas spirit isn’t something that’s given to you as a reward – it’s something you get because it feels good spreading that cheer to someone else. It’s something that you give to other people to make their holiday better. It’s their reward. Yes, it’s in the presents, but it’s not the actual gift you give. It’s in the love in which you give it. It’s not in the hassle of shopping at stores but in the love you show by braving that insanity to purchase something for the ones you care about. And it’s not in the holiday decorations that you put up, but it’s in the light and warmth that they add to a cold winters night. It’s in the smiles on the faces that you spread that cheer to. You ask what I get out of it? Go home, Scott, and think about it. Go home and spread some cheer not because you have to but because you want to. Go home and notice the smile on someone’s face when you wish them a Merry Christmas. Go home and on Christmas morning, take a look at the smile on the face of your boy as he sees the tree and the lights and the presents. He doesn’t understand how hard you work. He doesn’t understand all that you went through to put those gifts there. Scott, you don’t even get the credit for giving him those gifts, and neither did your parents. Until he’s older, that credit is saved for Santa. But what he does know is that he is loved and that someone loved him enough to put those things there for him. There’s love in that smile. That, my friend, is what the Christmas spirit is all about. Not the tree or lights or presents themselves, but that smile. Any smile.”

I began to think of my family back home and what a jerk I’d been. I’d been going through the motions for years not because it was what I wanted to do, but because it was what I thought I had to do. I was so busy focusing on all of the things that had to be done that I had forgotten to enjoy them along the way. Somewhere along the line the adult in me figured out that I couldn’t have fun with Christmas because I wasn’t a kid anymore, but that was wrong. Being an adult brought a whole new opportunity to enjoy Christmas in an entirely different way. It wasn’t about the things I did, but the love in which I did them. It wasn’t about me but about those around me who love and care for me and whom I love and care for in return. Almost 34 years old and I finally got it. Typical Scott.

As the man got up, I felt myself getting very sleepy. I tried to stand up to leave, but was unable to move.

“Go ahead and sleep here tonight,” he said. You’ve got a long drive home tomorrow and you’ll need your rest. I’ll be leaving in a couple of hours to go back to work, so just make sure to lock up when you leave here tomorrow morning.”

“Sounds good,” I found myself saying. “Thanks for listening.”

“No problem,” said the man. “Hopefully our little conversation helped your heart grow a few sizes tonight.”

“What did you say?” I asked.

The man did not reply but as I drifted off to sleep I swear I heard him say “C’mon, Max! Let’s get to bed.”

***

I awoke the next morning behind the wheel of my car. I’m not sure how I got out there, but it was warm as if I had been in there all night with the engine running. Oddly enough though, the car was not on. I looked behind me, but the man’s truck was gone presumably out for another long day and night of putting up other’s holiday lights. I began to put together the pieces of our conversation last night and it suddenly hit me. I quickly turned the key, felt the Buick kick into gear, and backed out of the driveway. Six hours was going to be way too long as I had so much to do when I got back.

There was still more shopping to do and presents to buy, decorations to hang and the baking of pies. There were more gifts to wrap and ornaments to hang, there were roofs to climb up on and fall off with a bang. But I’d so with a smile or a smirk at the very least, because at Christmas dinner, me, me myself, the adult, will carve the roast beast.

Now, about that cat…

Happy Holidays and thanks for reading.

Merry Christmas to you all!!!

Fall Is Here (Sort Of)

I have never been one to laugh at the misfortunes of others (to their face), but I saw something this morning that I just had to share.

On my morning commute to work, my trek usually takes me through beautiful downtown East St Louis, IL. Now, I’m aware that by saying that, people who aren’t from the area and have only heard about it in horror stories are cringing to themselves and thinking “why would you ever drive through there?” Well, part of the reason that I drive through East St is to avoid the highway traffic. The other part of the reason is that I can see everything that is going on. Yes, I see the dilapidated houses. Yes, I see the children who should be in school but instead are sitting on porches doing nothing. And, yes, I see the very large, very crazy woman on her ten speed bicycle riding down the road wearing a winter coat along with her spandex shorts either singing along to the music that is only playing in her head or screaming at the voices that only she can hear. The reason I feel safe to travel this route is plain and simple: It’s daylight. I’m not saying that all parts on East St are bad but I’m also not going to paint a pretty picture of a once proud town that has devolved into a pit of decay and unfortunate stereotypes. It is what it is and I drive through it. Every day. Twice.

After years of traveling along this same route, my path has slowly morphed into one that avoids the homeless beggar. He’s usually posted at one of either two spots and, depending on the weather, can be counted on to be seen at either one spot or the other every day. I have learned these spots and figured out a path that takes me around him. Now, I’m not opposed to helping someone out in need, but I see this guy almost every day and it’s not as if people are ignoring him. In fact, I have a pretty good feeling that some days he probably goes to wherever he goes to sleep at night with more cash in his pocket than I do. Either way, I think I have only given him a total of one dollar over the years and that was only because I just may have stopped off at Shannon’s after work to grab a beer or eight. On the rare occasion that I am forced to pass him, he usually looks the other way as he knows that my car window will not be rolled down and, if it is, I will try at all costs to avoid eye contact so that my Catholic school bred guilt will not be triggered enough to reach into my pocket for any spare change that may be filling it that day.

Today, however, I saw him.

It had been awhile since our paths had crossed, but it has also been a very harsh summer and I’m guessing that he was hopefully indoors somewhere avoiding the 100 plus degree temperatures outside. Plus, every time I see him he’s wearing a coat, pants, and a turban-type wrap on his head that, while extremely chic, is not exactly summer apparel. On a side note, I understand that homeless people don’t have much and that they tend to hang on very closely to what they do own i.e. wearing all of the clothes they own all at once, but he always has a box containing the rest of his belongings nearby. Couldn’t he simply place the coat in the box on the warmer days of the year instead of wearing it, sweating up a storm, and thereby furthering his plight? Just my two cents.

Anyway, when I saw him today, it was not in his normal spot. In fact, not only was he not in his normal spot, but he was also not alone. Now, I can’t say that I’m acutely aware of what’s going on around me on my way to work as anyone I know who has driven either beside, behind, or in front of me and has tried to get my attention can tell you. I am usually in deep thought about the state of the world or about what my fantasy sports team is doing at that time of year, but I do watch what is happening on the road ahead of me and today it did not look good.

Almost as if they were waiting for me, I saw my homeless beggar man and his equally homeless cohort in their homeless person uniform of non-seasonal pants, stocking hats, and hooded coats standing in the middle of the street. Normally I wouldn’t be concerned as my guy is usually in the street, but he’s usually at an intersection to where, yes, he runs the risk of getting hit, but only if people were trying. Plus, for being homeless and more than likely undernourished, my homeless guy has amazing cat-like reflexes and seems to never get hit even by the people that I’m pretty sure are aiming for him. Today, however, they stood directly in the middle of road and they were looking at what I was convinced was me.

Immediately, I began thinking if I had ever wronged the man to where he may be looking for me. Sure, I was a cheap bastard and have ignored him as if he was the ugly girl that had a crush on me in college and I decided to sleep with only once because I told myself that I was doing her a favor when in all actuality I was extremely wasted and horny and thought that maybe because she was so ugly that she’d be forced to try harder and do the things that attractive girls don’t have to do and she actually did and now I was too ashamed to look her in the eye because that whole dog collar and plunger thing got just a little too weird, but I don’t think that I had ever been overtly cruel to him. At least I hoped not because they were in the middle of the street, looking in my direction, and it was my turn to go.

Luckily, by the time I had stepped on the gas and my boat of a 1993 Buick Lesabre departed the dock, the one that I was most familiar with had finished his trek across the street and was safely on the other side. His friend, however, was not so lucky.

Now, I am not a graceful person. Never have been, and unless Christopher Walken dies and wills his legs to me, I more than likely never will be. What I am, however, is usually pretty sober at 8:00 in the morning. The same cannot be said for my guy’s buddy and that brings me to the crux of this little story.

Let me be clear about one thing - I did not rush him, nor was I even really across the intersection to the stretch of road that this guy occupied. In fact, just to put the matter to rest I was not anywhere remotely close to this man that would cause him to do what he did next. Either way, our presumably drunken friend (I am only guessing this based on the fact that his posture was loosey-goosey, his gait was even worse, oh, and he was carrying a bottle of a dark colored liquid that I didn’t even recognize. I’m going to follow stereotypes here and call in booze. I guess it could’ve been urine, but why would he be carrying around a bottle of urine, whether it is his or someone else’s? Actually, let’s not even broach that topic) decided that he was going to follow my normal guy along the same path and over the curb onto the grassy knoll in front of them.

Unfortunately for my homeless compadre, either the alcohol or the weight of all of those clothes he was wearing took hold of him and he was unable to make it up the curb safely. Now, if I were a nice person, I could say he fell, leave it at that, and end my story, but hopefully by now you know better than that. The funny part is not that he fell, but instead how he fell. I’m going to assume that the majority of you are sitting at some sort of desk right now where you have writing utensils available to you. I’d like you to pick up one of those utensils, stand it straight up and down with the heavier end at the top, and let it drop. Did the writing utensil bend? Did it bounce off of the surface? Did it get up afterwards and assume its upright position? No? Neither did the guy.

As soon as his foot hit the curb, this poor guy stiffened up like a teenage boy at his first grade school dance and dropped flat on his face. There were no hands to brace him and no pillows to break his fall. His feet hit the curb and he dropped like a tree in the woods. He had started to fall before I even got there and the fall was completed just as I was passing them. When I saw him hit I immediately became concerned (yes, I have some degree of compassion), slowed down, and was about to pull over when I saw what makes this story even funnier.

Looking in my rearview mirror at the carnage behind me, I saw my guy. The homeless man wearing the pants, winter coat, and stocking cap, the man I avoided like the plague every day of my commuting existence, the man who was visibly as drunk as the man that had just eaten more grass in one sitting than a dog that’s sick to its stomach; my homeless beggar was standing there with one hand on his stomach and the other one pointing at his still motionless friend laughing so hard that he almost fell over himself. Immediately, my concern for our fallen subject was erased and my thoughts turned to ideas of maybe, just maybe, I would make sure to keep a few extra bucks with me from now on just in case I saw my guy again. After all, he’s got my sick of sense of humor and that, my friends, needs to be rewarded.

Thanks for reading.