Dogs

Sometimes I wish I was a dog. Dogs do not harbor ill will. Of course backed in a corner or abused they can turn on you and may bite you. Even then the minute you show them some love you could see in their eyes that's really all they want. Yes there are some dogs that bite regardless of how well you treat them. Some dogs are dicks. If you think about it though the population of dogs that fall into this category are probably like 1 dick dog in 1000 cool dogs.

Dogs are some of the most loyal creatures on the planet. When I come home, no matter what time of day, my dogs are there to greet me, tongue and tail wagging feverishly. They are even more happy to see The Chosen One for some reason.

Lets say there was a workforce of dogs. I mean like dogs in the work place that understood English and could communicate back to us. For a minute let's believe that dogs are our equals. They work along side of us. They are asked to accomplish the same tasks as we do. We need their assistance and they need ours.

Hypothetically speaking of course, a dog may even be your boss. Imagine being in some sort of work environment and having a dog ask you to carry out some job. He, or if the dog is a female, "the bitch" (female dog), is your boss and if you like working there you need to do it. Either way you carry it out to the fullest extent.

We have created a job place where two species are not only coexisting but they are getting shit done.

One question that has to be raised is does a dog's loyalty change any because they are our equals? Do they use this newfound equal footing as a mechanism to propel them above us? Do they try to better themselves and "get ahead in life" or do they exhibit the same loyalty they have since they were domesticated 1000's of years ago?

We as humans will do whatever it takes to get what we want. Some will claw, scratch or fuck their way to whatever goal it is they seek. Colleagues will not think twice to go behind someone else's back to get what they want. "As long as I get mine, as long as I am taking care of, I don't give a fuck who gets hurt, shit on, stepped on in the back in the process." In the workforce a human's loyalty has no chance against a dog's loyalty.

I want to work with dogs.

Working with dogs would be the cat's pajamas. There would be no back stabbing. There would be no worrying about what was being said behind your back. We would not be in the rat race we are today. It would be man working next to "man's best friend."

There are definitely pro's and con's to working with dogs. I'm willing to work through our differences. For instance, in the "real" workplace I don't have to worry about the guy next to me licking his balls for an hour straight. The water fountain is much nicer to drink out of without dog slobber all over it. I know now I don't have to clean someone else's poop up. People know how to use indoor plumbing, dogs don't. But if we could teach a dog to poop in the toilet, or when the red lipstick comes out, we can tell him..."Not cool Rufus! Put it away...it's gross!" and if it went away great, if not I would have to learn to deal with it.

So from now on I am in search for the job that works with dogs and only dogs. I am tired of working with snakes!

Power Outage=The End?

Summer vacation means no structure for me. I normally live my life around a clock. I wake up at a certain time every morning. I eat the same things at the same time everyday. I go to the gym at the same time. I exercise for the same amount of time everyday. So when summer vacation comes, the irresponsible semi adult that I am, really goes hog wild with no rules.

What I am about to describe happened. It solidifies that I may have serious problems. What is even more bizarre is that I am going to divulge them here for your enjoyment. I may need to seek help after this. In my eyes what I am about to describe was a battle to stay alive. I will not have nicknames like The Chosen One. Today, she is simply my wife.

It is 1:00 in the morning. I awake to a sweat like no other. It is deep into the summer and I sleep with the fan on and the A.C. cranked as cold as my wife allow. However this is different, she and the kids are not here. They are spending ten days in New York. I am alone. I hate being alone no matter what time of day. 1:00 am makes it no different. Why am I sweating?

I take the covers off and try to go back to sleep. It's not working. I usually have a hard time falling asleep anyway and now, after being awake for what seems like hours I realize the fan is off. I didn't turn it off. I know I had it on. I always have it on. I pull the string...nothing. I check the clock that basically rules my life, it is blank. I reach for my cell phone, turn it on and it reads 1:27.

We are lucky enough to have an early warning system in two dogs that bark if they hear needles fall. Nala, our yellow lab, begins to go in a frenzy and starts barking. She had to sense my uneasiness about the current situation. I grab my police style Maglight. A Maglight is a baton shaped flashlight that police use. We used to use a much smaller model in the Marines. I have upgraded mine to the bigger, longer and heavier ones that the police forces around the world use. It is like the ones where the cops come to your car door and shine it in your face when they are pulling you over. If the light goes out and the shit really hits the fan you can always use it to hit someone over the head. They are extremely effective.

With flashlight in hand I unlock the case for my trusty side arm, a Sig P229 with two ten round magazines and night sites. Night sites are three dots located on the sights of a gun. For about 30 seconds I shine the flash light on them and now they are bright as can be. I practice shooting all the time and with this weapon I am very confident at 25-50 feet I can bring something down with ease. A .40 caliber handgun has good stopping power, however I want to upgrade to the HK USP .45 models that the some branches of the military use. A .45 caliber handgun has good killing power. Maybe after these events come out my wife will allow this upgrade.

Loaded and chambered, I go downstairs. Light is off. If someone is in the house I will not give away what direction I am coming from. The night sites fully illuminated will assist in aiming at anything or anyone I need to hit. With Nala finally calmed down I make my way downstairs. Nothing. No one is around. I get to the circuit breaker in the garage and use the flashlight to determine if any one of the circuits was blown. All seems to be in working order.

Our garage has no blinds on the two windows that directly face the door to get into the house. Up until this point it made no sense to me to check outside. While I am in the garage I see through the windows that the street lights are off. I get into the house and look out the windows down the other street, same thing, nothing. No power. That explains why I am now getting flashbacks of all the hurricanes and the outages that they brought with them. I remember being in Florida and really seeing what darkness is like when all the lights are out for miles and miles. Man has taken the ability to see all the stars at night with the lights we keep on. It is truly awe inspiring to see a nights sky with all the stars. As inspiring as it may be it can be equally frightening if you are not used to it.

A rational person would have put everything away and rode out the outage in the coolest place in their house. I have never once said I am a rational person. I decide to take Nala outside with me and see if there is anyone or anything roaming the streets. I leave the Chow-Shephard mix of a dog, Bear. She is old but still packs a mean bark. Her job is to guard the house while I am seeing if the end as we know it is upon us.

As I have said earlier, my wife and kids are in another state, away and somewhat sheltered from what I think is the apocalypse. Something in my head is sure that something to facilitate the end of the world is just around the corner. I try to think responsibly. I try to think like an adult and realize it is just a power outage and nothing else. but all the movies I have watched throughout the years tells me that this is "life imitating art." This is something I have seen before in a cinematic masterpiece that has entertained me throughout my life. I am sure something is wrong and since my family is "safe and away from here" I want this to be a fight for survival.

Cargo shorts, t-shirt and sneakers I venture through the neighborhood looking for some resemblance of life, some movement. Nothing. All is quiet, to me, too quiet. I can't understand why no one else is out looking and seeing what the problem is. If there actually was a problem I don't know if any one who would be out looking had a solution. But nonetheless I searched.

My vast search of the neighborhood revealed nothing. Nothing happened except Nala relieved herself and took a big shit on the neighbors lawn. I had no bag so I left it. At this hour I would have left it anyway. I was happy to leave it. This guys grass was greener than the greenest moss in a Seattle forrest, a little fertilizer from one of Mother Nature's beings may do it good, or it not.

I get back to my house. Since the power is out, I realize that the garage will not open unless I unlock it from the top and open it manually. The thought of pulling the garage door open with my hands seems foreign to me. Another realization that technology makes us extremely lazy and takes away our basic instincts as hunters and gatherers. Other preparations are made because I still feel that this is it. This is my armageddon. I pack my jeep with some basic items such as the case of water I purchased from the grocery store earlier in the day. Some power bars, a few "p.b. and j.'s" (on wheat bread of course, just cause this is the end doesn't mean we can start eating unhealthy), some bananas, three apples, a couple of cans of tuna with an opener, my ipod, two lighters and a flask of 18 year old Elijah Craig Kentucky Bourbon make the cut. By no means will this sustain me for an extended period of time but it will do for the time being. I pack all the supplies along with a back pack containing two of my daughters walkie talkies (who I will talk to I have no idea, but I got two), some extra batteries and clothes. I throw it into the front seat of my jeep and go back inside, and I wait.

I look at my phone and realize I am in good shape because if the shit was really going down, the cell phone towers would be out. So I sit by the front window and wait. I wait and wait and wait some more. I look out the window and search for any movement whatsoever. I waited so long that I fell asleep and when I finally woke up by that same window it is now 6:48 am. I must have been there in that position by the window for a good three hours. I'm totally soar from leaning against the wall and I feel like a complete dumb ass for going through all this trouble. The power is now on and all seems to be right in the world. I look in the jeep and see a cooler, a back pack and my own embarrassment of the previous nights actions.

To be honest I was a little disappointed that it did not come down to a battle for survival. I was sure that I would see the undead lurking around the corner. I was certain there would be apes at the park yelling "DEATH TO HUMANS!" and begin to chase me.

I am left with the notion I watch to many movies regarding the end of the world. I don't want it to end. I love life. I want to live forever. The movie industry has done us all a disservice by polluting our minds by glorifying a zombie or robotic apocalypse. But the Hollywood in me wants to shoot zombies. It wants to struggle and ultimately it wants to be in a fight for survival.

My first therapy session with Dr. Tillman is this afternoon at 3:00 pm.

The Man Who Won The Cold War

According to George Clooney and his buddies, people in Hollywood have apparently always been ahead of the rest of the class when it comes to world issues. Whether it is Clooney himself or some other has been action star such as Danny Glover we were never without the ability to hear such wonderful knowledge being spewed by one of these turds. It has kind of slowed down of late, but a few years back on any given day we could turn on the television and see a star poppin off at the mouth.

In the 80's we were very scared of the big bad Russians. We were treated to Red Dawn, a movie about the Russians and their allies invading the United States and a band of young high school students fighting back. Seeing this movie as a kid I almost hoped for the Russians to invade so I could be a "Wolverine." Then the all too famous Invasion U.S.A. was thrusted upon us and we were treated to Chuck Norris fighting off communist guerillas or communistas. Now add in Rambo II in the mix and we have a trifecta of Hollywood movies that inject an idea of fear towards Russia. Clooney was right. Hollywood types are smart because without these movies I would have never been able to sleep at night. As long as we had heroes such as Mr. Norris, Stallone or Patrick Swayze himself, the Russians would have surely attacked us. I am certain they saw these movies and changed their minds and decided to leave us alone.

These movies can all stand by themselves in telling the tale that at the time, we were afraid of the Soviet Union. Nuclear war and the end as we know it was near. Hell, even the small screen got into the game when The Day After came out starring Jason Robards. I remember my mom and dad wouldn't let me watch it. That is how serious of a movie it was. I was banned from the harsh realities of nuclear war at the age of 10. Thankfully the scenario was fictitious and it never played out because I would not have known what to do in case of a nuclear war. Since this movie came out some 26 years ago I have matured into the adult I am today and I definitely know what to do now in case a few bombs are exchanged.

Up to this point I was afraid of all things Russian. However in 1985 a movie came out that changed the landscape. Never in my life had I seen a movie that made me no longer fear Russia. At this time Stallone was already enjoying domestic success from an earlier in the year release of Rambo II. November movie releases are usually reserved for what the big picture companies believe are Oscar worthy. So when United Artists released Rocky IV on November 27th, they thought, and I agree, they had a winner on their hands. When I found out this movie did not receive any awards I was shocked. After all this movie had a direct result on how the U.S. viewed and finally would deal with the rest of the world. Send Rocky.

This movie was a parallel to the struggle our country had against The Soviet Union. They had more land and must have had a bigger army. So the Russian representative in the picture was Ivan Drago. A huge physical specimen at the time. Early in the movie he is pitted against Apollo Creed. He kills Creed viciously in the ring while Rocky watches in disbelief. This is yet another parallel to our fight against Mother Russia, in the beginning we would have to take some casualties in order to prevail. In steps Rocky to fight for no money, no title, just to avenge his friend's death. He didn't do it for the glory. He did it because he knew it was the right thing to do. If your buddy dies in your arms in combat you want some revenge for the fallen. This is exactly what our hero Rocky does.

Rocky, or the True American Hero as I like to call him, fights the bigger Russian, knocks him out, in doing so he avenges his friend's death. The plot does not stop there. It is part of a much bigger picture that has had world implications since the film was released.

This movie obviously wasn't about just boxing. Any fool can see that. It was about two political views going up against one another. Capitalism versus Communism. Russia versus U.S.A. The makers of this film had the foresight to see that eventually we were going to have to address the Russians. Rocky faced off against the Russians so all of us could live in a world free of fear.

Shortly after this film was released The Soviet Union fell. Rocky IV and the once feared Soviets will forever be intertwined. On behalf of all Americans that no longer fear a Russian invasion I take this time to say thank you to our True American Hero, Rocky Balboa, the man who won The Cold War.

I actually hated this movie. The dialogue was horrible, the fight scenes were way to fake and the characters in it were under developed. I just feel that the implications it had on our nation's foreign policy cannot go overlooked any more.

This picture says it all.

Thanks but no thanks!

What has pushed me into this vat of violent negativity? What has shoved me over the edge where I could actually wish for something or someone physical harm and failure to boot?

It started with Corporate Amerika completely, utterly and absolutely not catering to the small pee-on customer that has been supporting this same shit fuck of a company for 20 years. Does a multi-billion dollar corporation care for someone of my stature that may buy a product every year? Of course not! I wonder if I was a company of similar status or say an event where I had some sort of name recognition where I could put the name of this company on a banner, I'm certain they would accommodate me. Since I am small time, "Hey man, sorry can't help you...You're welcome to buy something else!"

OK, this started the downward spiral of a bad mood. It is not the only thing making me want to pull the hair from my chin. After my bout with "big business" and losing, I went where everyone else goes, my Face Book page. I am sick of Face Book. Wait, I shouldn't say I am sick of it. I actually enjoy it, a lot. So in my state of "fuck the world!" I post something off color. Not a sympathy post but something to definitely evoke a response. As I begin to get lost on there as I have done over the summer I see more and more sympathy posts and pity parties. I am sick of this shit. It's driving me nuts to the point of not wanting to be on there anymore. My cousin started yelling about me because I post about drinking...a lot. One half of the time it is all fake, yes it is fake! The other half I write shit to be stupid. Did I really get a prostate exam on Sunday of all days? NO, I didn't get a prostate exam on last Sunday, at least I didn't get one by a doctor.

These pity status updates solely for the use of having other people write bullshit like "Hang in there kid" or "If I was there I'd give you a big hug!" or my personal favorite "It'll get better buddy!" is just flat out ridiculous. Give me a fucking break! Get over yourself. I don't want to know that you are having a colonoscopy or your great aunt on your cousins side's cat just had a kitten with three legs and you're SOOOOO sad! Fuck you and your sympathy seeking. You cannot make the argument to me that writing a status update meant to make people feel bad for you is therapeutic. It is self-serving. I am sick of it, and for now on if I see a sad update I am giving it thumbs up. I promise. The gloves are off. Put a sad sympathy seeking update on Face Book and whoever it is, my response will be "35goingon14 likes this!" Yes, for now on I like your misery.

It doesn't stop there. The people who respond to these dumb messages are just as bad because they reinforce them with their posts. If someone wants a pity party do what most other Americans do, get a quart of Ben and Jerry's and go to town on Cherry Garcia, watch Sleepless in Seattle and go to bed. I am sure you will get the same satisfaction that a sad status update will bring. Or better yet do what I do, find some poor tele-marketer to take it out on! Fucking with some poor schmuck in India is awesome. That always makes me feel better. Or maybe you could get off the computer and go exercise and listen to some really noisy music and get your pent up aggression out that way. In fact I am going to end this right now because I may start using names and burning bridges and I don't know if I am ready for that. Maybe after "big business" screws me again I will be but for now the names will go unspoken to protect the guilty.

Pondering this subject more deeply than I have originally thought I may be guilty of putting silly things on my page. Yes, they may be for a response but not one looking for pity. So if anyone disagrees with me, Fuck Off! It's a free country and I am entitled to my opinion even if it is as juvenile as they come.

So in retrospect Mr. Big Corporation, I will not accept your offer of mailing you my $175.00 pair of sunglasses and receiving a forty dollar credit.

Thanks but no thanks!

How did I get here?

I am outnumbered 5-1. Basically 10 ovaries 2 testicles. The Chosen One, the 2 little ones and the 2 female dogs to my two testis. Thats 10 -2 or 5-1 if you do the math and simplify!

That leaves me sitting here wondering how I got in this position. The Chosen One is away on business and I am left as the major caregiver, the guardian, the full time parent. This week has been quite easy and my current rant will not be that of a bitchy type or one to complain that I am responsible for my children for the time being. After all they are MY kids. I know when Deb gets back tomorrow afternoon the bingeing will resume and life will continue as easy and as peacefully as I know it and love it.

However I am cursed today with giving comfort and shelter and guidance to 4 screaming little girls. Both of my kids have friends over. One made the cut to sleep here tonight. So for this whole day I have had the pleasure of being around little women and all the problems that accompany 4 different female personas to coexist nicely so I can do what? Play the xbox.

I offered to take them to the pool and get outdoors for awhile but when I opened the door to their room you would think that they were looking at an alien or robot for the first time. I was greeted with four simultaneous screams that pierced my ear drums. They were so freaking loud I was surprised the cops didn't come thinking I was murdering someone or something. It's just me why are they freaking out like this? Anyway I left as quick as I could.

Now comes the hard part or babysitter part, I begin to get bombarded with questions like "Can we do make overs?" I said "Sure thats a great activity to pass the time." Once I had given it more thought I ran as fast as I could back to the room because something told me scissors and nail polish on the carpet were going to be involved. As sure as the sun sets both items where placed neatly nearby on like a doctors tray, in an almost eerie way where some 7 year old ritual or a "rite of passage" was about to take place. Thank God I got there in time cause that was a call I didn't want to make to the other parents involved. "Yea, I am the only one here...I know I look like a criminal but...I know I shouldn't let them play with scissors or nail polish or matches for that matter...yes I know I was wrong and I will pay for the haircut that needs to...yes she will need reconstruction on her hair. I am terribly sorry....you're coming now? OK. I understand." That is not the conversation I want to have, ever!

Shortly after this it was all too quiet in that room so I went in and I asked them what they were doing and they replied "...playing house!" I said "Excuse me? What?! You are playing house?" They simply responded with "...no, like we are caaamping." I said to myself, it can't be that bad, there are no boys in the house, at least I don't see them and they are just quietly hanging out. So I figured that quiet house/"caaamping" game was way better then them running around pissing me off. After all I have been very busy this summer doing a whole lot of nothing. I couldn't possibly bear the burden of taking care of four girls for a couple of hours.

Responsibility is a concept so foreign to me from June to the end of August. "As little as possible" is my motto. Although I am thinking of changing that motto after I saw a dude wearing a t-shirt stating a play on Lance Armstrong's popular slogan "Live Strong." We have all seen that but I have seen the the real message and it read "Live Drunk." So as of now I am changing my motto. I like that better. I wonder if I could go to work with that shirt. Would that be a good message for the kiddies I teach? They'd probably love it.

So I sit here with four girls in the house. 3 of them coming to Grandma's with me so I don't have to cook. 3 of them excited at the prospect they get to wear lipstick to this fancy shmancy shindig down the road. I am going to tell them they need to wear dresses. Lets make it legit. I of course enjoy my mother in laws company, especially when she cooks for me and the kids when The Chosen One is out on the town earning the big bucks. Wait, the term "out on the town earning the big bucks" didn't sound right but anyway she is away and I am here.

What a hypocrite! I almost complain that I have the responsibility to take care of these maniacs yet really nothing changes because I still have someone to cook for me and basically make sure certain needs are met. Should I be proud of this ability to have people want to help out or should I be ashamed because people feel I am almost incompetent? It is my own personal nightmare I deal with everyday. It almost keeps me up at night.

So I get the task of making sure these ladies are happy in my care and don't cringe at the sound that Mommy has to go out of town for an extended period of time. "Do what you want." Don't burn the house down." "Go outside and catch toads." "Come on you're in the way of the tv. I cant see!" "OH Allie, check this out, this guy gets knocked the f**k out!" These are words of instruction and guidance they get under my care. Yea babe, don't go out of town or this is what they get!

This is the thanks I get. I am rewarded with having the pleasure of taking care of these little ladies and make sure all is well for them while the boss lady is away. This is the thanks I get for trying to be a good person in maybe a past life or even my youth. Shit, at some point I thought I should be rewarded with some testosterone of some kind. Where is the football in the house on the floor? Where is the dirt bike? Where are the cleats? Where are the screams of agony when dad is kicking someone's ass? Maybe I will get to kick someone's ass when they start dating...Oh shit, that's not something I really want to think of. A .40 caliber Sig P229 with night sights and maybe an AR15 assault rifle will be readily available. That should deter any wrong doers.

The original question was "how did I get here?" What ever path I had taken to get I am thankful. The two young ladies I have here are really cool. The Chosen One is OK too but I will save that for another day!

More than 6

A conversation came up this afternoon between me and you know who about what is the appropriate amount of beer to consume in one evening. She thinks that 3-4 beers are the right amount. Her words were "it keeps you feeling good and right there."

I don't and never will get this concept. She has it nailed down. She can have a great time on two or three drinks in a night. Me, no f**king way! I live by the creed "I don't drink to have a GOOD time I drink to have a BETTER time! In the immortal words of "Frank the Tank" from the great movie "Old School," "It feels so good when it hits my lips!" Does this mean I am an alcoholic? I don't think so.

Beer doesn't really taste that good to me. Let me rephrase that. The first 10 are delicious and then after that the 11th one they start to get kind of gross. I can have 1 cup of coffee or 1 can of diet soda. I am good and satisfied with drinking 1 of those. I will never just have 1 beer. If I am offered a beer I won't drink it if I know I'm not in it for the long haul.

I spoke to a few of my friends about this and most agree. They seem to think like me and say why have one or three if you can't have 8 or 10?

I have rules to my drinking. I will never consume any drinks during the work week. Sunday through Thursday has been a lesson in sobriety throughout my life. Even when I was in the Marines and there would be parties throughout the barracks with no plans of strenuous activity for the next day, I still wouldn't partake in any drinking. I live by the code of "Weekday Soberness" presently.

All bets are off if there is a 3 day weekend. In the case of a Monday with no responsibilities my friends and I would gather for the "Trifecta" on a Sunday evening. This was derived from a fellow binge drinker who lived by me and visited 3 of the worst bars in our neighborhood one night while riding solo. We didn't live in a shitty part of town, it just so happened that 3 of the shittiest bars happened to be in a square mile and about 5 minutes from my house. I always knew when we had a Monday off that Sunday night was gonna be rough. It got to the point that if we had a Monday off The Chosen One would ask, "you doing the 'Trifecta' this Sunday?"

A small description of the "Trifecta" is easy. First bar we would go to was called "Billy Z's." At the door to get in, you were pretty much guaranteed to see two females fist fighting. This was a cool bar not only for the cat fights but also because it spawned the invention of "long range hard as you can throw" darts. Second bar is a karaoke joint with a Nascar theme called "Turn 3." This bar had rules. You weren't allowed to pick the song you sang, but you were definitely singing a song. Another great aspect of this bar was that apparently smoking crack in the bathroom was OK. It would only land a stern warning. Last stop in the "Trifecta" was a liquor store and a bar. This was a dangerous bar. I didn't feel in harms way singing or dodging darts from thirty feet away, but here I always felt like a fight was waiting to happen. Maybe it was because the first time we went there we witnessed a man of no less then 60 years old passed out on the stage. The fact that the toilet had been ripped from the floor and lay on its side kind of worried me too.

I brought up the "Trifecta" because this night and pretty much all other nights that I'm giving beer my undivided attention requires a drink minimum of at least 8. If it aint 8 why bother? In order to get an invite to the "Trifecta" you had to be able to drink at least 10 beers. We did make an exception and our ladies did receive an invite, once. It wasn't the same.

In all honesty if I am with The Chosen One and we are just chillin at a local pub 6 beers will work. In this case I am OK with the number 6. If I am out with the fellas at some horrific establishments where smoking crack gets you a warning and not a police escort out, 6 doesn't work.....EVER!

By the way, I closed last night out on 4. In bed by 11:30. That sucked! So please, for your sake don't come at me with a weak ass 6 pack.

When the love is gone...

"When the love is gone,

there is nothing you can do but feel the pain. 

If only I could feel the freedom that I've gained 

I could be happier and start again."

If you don't know who sang this then shame on you. She is a wonderful performer. Her name is that of like Prince or Rhianna, singular, a one name type. The lyrical wordsmith who put this together was talking about the fact that sometimes love runs out and what to do after this happens. Never in my life have words rang more true than they do today.

Although she did not write this beautiful ensemble, Cher sings these prophetic words in the first verse of a song called "When The Love Is Gone." As I type these words I am feeling that the love is definitely almost gone. I am feeling that if I lay my eyes upon one of the habitants that reside in my house I am liable to throw her out into the darkness that rests in the ruthless streets of Matthews, North Carolina. 

It is the summer. The time to sleep late. The days that I get to wake up and eat when I want to eat, shit when I want to shit and listen to music when I want to listen to music. I am not on a schedule other than I eventually will get up and do something. Whatever the day brings, I will get to it when I want to get to it. 

10 months out of the year I'm as regimented as they come. I must get that from the time I spent killing Somali's or Iraqi's for the United States Government. For 4 years it was wake up, exercise, shoot some one and then we would party on through the night. That's basically how my life is run now. Everyday I wake up, eat an egg white omelet in my car with my bare hands on the way to work, listen to music and surf the net from 8:00-9:30, substitute shooting the enemy for teasing kids til 3:30 then party the night away until I do it all again tomorrow. 

One could expect that a break is needed from that rigorous schedule I keep. Well that break is now, and I am trying to enjoy it. I was enjoying it up until this morning when I woke up to many a different mess scattered throughout the house. 

The culprit has been at it now for quite some time and I am wondering why she keeps doing it? When is she going to stop? Is it because she doesn't receive enough attention or praise or something else? It pisses me off because she is old enough to know what is acceptable and what is not acceptable. I am tired of waking up to her mess. Hey, guess what dick head...I don't like to clean that up! I don't know, call me crazy but cleaning up your shit is not cool!

I'm sick of this f**king dog! Yes, I've said it. Today I wake up to a mess in the bathroom. For some reason this asshole likes, no LOVES, to rip up tissue paper. It's all over the bathroom floor. This is the first thing I see. I clean it up and wash my hands. I go downstairs now for breakfast and I see an entire pack of gum eaten. Yes, a 20 piece pack of Trident gum devoured in one sitting.  I am sure, soon enough, I will have to clean the puke that will definitely follow that meal. Oh, maybe not considering I just found a pile of shit. Well, at least I know she digested it and I can now tell my kids and the idiots at school that the old wives tale of gum staying in your digestive system for extended periods of time is way FALSE! Don't ask how I know it's the gum.

In the past our beautiful Christmas present that Santa left us that one year has eaten basically everything in site. The list grows everyday. It started that she ate deodorant. After a series of convulsions, violent shakes and a $1000 stomach pump later she is fine. Next up, she ate something that made her narrow head swell to the size of a giant football. To this day I don't know what the f**k she ate that made her head swell up like that, but she never ate it again and her head went back to normal after the vet gave her a Benadryl. A bottle containing 45 pills of 600 mg of Ibuprofen was next. She ate 44. That last one she couldn't get down. The second cone of shame, a stay in the hospital with another stomach pump and a bill of about $1200 was what made her healthy as a horse. For desert some Dove Dark Chocolate washed down with a bag of Twizzlers will have to do. A mess of epic proportions ensued shortly after, prompting my oldest daughter to inquire "Nala, why'd you have to go and shit all over the floor?"

Have I mentioned the whining? I never had a dog that lays around all day and whines or sighs like an old man. This dog gets love from us and all the kids in the neighborhood. She does not go without attention. What the hell is her deal? I am typing and she is sitting at my feet looking at me with these huge brown eyes of sorrow as to say "I 'm sorry man, I see these things and...I just want to eat em. I can't help it. I'm too impulsive. Come on I'm a dog for f**k's sake!" 

I know Nala, I love you too! Cher was wrong, the love is not gone

Oprah aint got shit on me!

My ladies and I have started a movie club for the summer. We call it "The M.A.D.A. Movie Club." The initials come from the first letter of our titles. I was hesitant to invite The Chosen One into the club because I know she will try and put the kibosh on some of these movies we, I mean I plan on watching. The little one negotiated hard for The Chosen One to be included. She wasn't budging either even when I tried to explain to her that most of the movies Mom wouldn't like, and she's not going to let us watch them either. I tried to tell her "Mom isn't gonna find this fun, she would rather work than be lazy and veg on the couch to a good movie." She wouldn't join without her. I tried to stand my ground but in order for her to come along I had to let her in. 

I came up with this idea to kill two hours during the long summer days. I know I can't just keep taking them to the pool everyday. These kids would have faces like a catchers mitt by the time they hit H.S. if we went to the pool every day. I don't want them to become known as a leather face. However, I say this in almost a hypocritical fashion because I know if we still lived in Florida we'd be at the beach as we speak. 

Besides, I know that if they are occupied with some ridiculous movie about robots, apes, or whatever else interests me I know they will not be fighting. They had a small disagreement as The Chosen One went to work this morning. It was as if she finally got me back with all the times they fought on the way to school and I would leave her to the fighting children and say something like "Oh man, look at the time...I'm going to be late." or "Have fun, love ya!" 

Today was a little bit of payback. As the first word of aggression came out of the little one's mouth she was out the door and down the road, fast as shit, like an old car chase scene in a movie where the tires burn and smoke. That's how fast she left. I didn't even receive the obligatory phone call to see if all was well and they were still alive.

As I type this, a loud "OWWW" reverberates through the house and I am forced to see what fracas I have to mediate now. I am thinking we may have to watch two or three movies a day. We never allow tattling in our house, no matter what. I allow no explanations to be said, just a simple command of "Separate" is more then enough to solve what bothers them. I start to walk back with the little one and she starts in by whispering "OK, here's what happened..." I stop her and let her know they are still taking camp applications somewhere.

As we get into the specifics of the movie club, I have declared myself the supreme movie chooser. They will have no say in what movie we watch. I and I alone choose. I gave myself this job because I know I would be stuck watching some bullshit like "Hannah Montana: The Movie" and "The Jonas Brothers: The Movie" or maybe even the latest installment of "High School Musical 13: The kids hit the job market after college and find themselves unemployed and addicted to crystal meth." Actually, I wouldn't mind seeing that one.

Today, we watched "The Dark Knight." A great film. I love Batman and the eldest lady kept asking to watch it. I couldn't wait to see their faces when "Harvey Dent" gets his face burnt off. At that point in the movie I was happy to see their reaction was that of utter terror. I was a little disappointed with their reaction to Batman. I thought they would like his ass kicking ways. They didn't seem to impressed.

Now, I let them know the pseudo purpose of our new club was to discuss the movie over lunch after we watched it. They seemed to like the concept and we discussed the movie over grilled cheese and blueberries. The more we dove into to the story, we found out that the moral of "The Dark Knight" is that it is OK to lie for the greater good. I said it is still not OK to lie to me or Mom, but if you're the Gotham Police Department you can lie and say Batman killed those people to help the city. We kept the discussion alive and we found out that (these are the words of my youngest lady), "the lie about Batman  is OK, but a lie about going out with men to a party is not OK?" I said "No sweetie, a lie about going to a party with men is NEVER a good lie!"

Up on the agenda for tomorrow is a film from "The Terminator" series. I will most likely screen T2 because it has no love making or should I say Sarah Conner's little boobs being squeezed by a young Kyle Reese. I don't want that talk to come up yet. 

Burnin' Up?

As I type this entry of the daily happenings in my life I sit here and listen to the sweet sounds of Trent Reznor yelling angry thoughts at me from every emotional angle he can. I'm very proud of the fact that I have introduced his music to the small ladies in my life with huge success. They seem to enjoy it. I have tried and tried to inject Nine Inch Nails to The Chosen One but for some reason she wants no part of them. She would rather jam to Indigo Girls or some other lesbian with a guitar. So I'm left shaping the minds of my 9 and 7 year old. 

I feel that if these ladies are able to enjoy some music with a real message then I'm way ahead of the Miley Montana's or the Hannah Cyrus' of the worlds. My ears bleed when that crap comes on the radio. My heart hurts when they request it. I want to say "Look I'm busting my ass to keep you sheltered from that shit! It's not GOOD! Here is a great CD, listen to this instead."

I thoroughly enjoy listening to music. I know that a good song can evoke some sort of emotion from even the most heartless of beings. Shit, even ole Charlie Manson liked The Beatles. Look where music got him.

I figured out that last year when I was transitioning to life in the Carolinas, no matter how bad my day was, I could come home, throw on some tunes and all the troubles from only the worst day of my life wouldn't matter. Music calmed me down and made me feel like all was well.

I would play anything and everything depending on the mood I was in. Usually the mood was shitty, so some aggressive Nine Inch Nails or Rage Against The Machine would most likely be running through the ipod. As I would lay flat on the floor screaming and cursing privately in my head cause some asshole wouldn't listen to me when I blew the whistle, my ladies would pile on my back and some how their weight erased the heaviness of my problematic world. I loved this time, and the girls seemed to like playing pig pile on me too. What made it more enjoyable to me was that I thought they were getting the same enjoyment from my choice of music as I was. 

This week we celebrate The Chosen One joining the Earth many years ago. More years than either of us would like to admit, meaning my first day of breathing air is not too far behind. I'll be 15 later this year. As we made the trek to and from the in-laws yesterday we had a healthy dose of a live NIN album. A highlight on the CD is a song called "Terrible Lie." I had no idea my ladies knew the song or the words. Hell, The Chosen One didn't even know what song it was. I'm sure she is going to have a great time on Friday. Who cares I'm gonna...AGAIN! Anyway, I see these two kids singing in unison to the chorus, banging their heads and waving their arms. I was and am still amazed. How did they know this song? Next song is even harder and faster. Minus the "F" bombs throughout, they stay right on task, singing away, matching the verbal stylings of Mr. Reznor word for word. Yes, they know they are not aloud to say the bad words in songs that Daddy listens too.

This was one of those moments where the Dad is real proud of his offspring. I felt like I was a good dad. I felt like I was doing my job, raising them to make the right choices in life, musically of course. Boyfriend choices and all the important decisions will come later and hopefully be handled by The Chosen One as to not disrupt the harmonic vibe I got going on now.

I drove home admiring the fact that these two crazies where digging the same music as I do at the ripe old age of 9 and 7. It was an awesome moment. It was awesome until we pulled in the driveway. I opened the door to the house and was asked the one question I did not want to have to answer. These ladies could have asked me anything at this point. I would have preferred a question on how babies are made, if there is a God, is Santa Claus real or who the f**k is The Easter Bunny anyway? Shit, I would have explained why Muslims hate the West if they would have just asked. 

Nope they didn't ask anything of the sort. They asked the one thing I didn't want to hear. They asked the one thing that pierced my guts. They asked if they could download the song "Burnin Up-The Single" from the f**king Jonas Brothers. I said "Seriously? The Jonas Brothers?! What the hell you want that crap for? They suck! They're only the worst band EVER!  We just jammed something fierce to a band I was willing to sacrifice my relationship with your mother because I wanted to buy you guys concert shirts! This is how I am re-payed with a bubble gum shit ass Disney Band?" 

The response was a resounding "Yea, we love that song!" 

These assholes attached the words "The Single" to end of the song as if to make you think that there is somehow more bullshit connected to this like say, "Burnin Up-The CD" or "Burnin Up-The B Sides." Oh how I am disgusted. 

Am I making a difference? I thought I was. Now I am not so sure!

Somebody's got to be the butt...

"Hickledy pickledy pig, let me out and make me big." 

This is a line from a play my youngest is in during the last week of school. She is in the first grade and apparently movies and end of the year parties are a thing of the past. Working in a middle school, I understand the reasoning behind the no party rule. Preteens with hormones raging do not need any help with being an asshole. Let the little ones party on. If an elementary school teacher can't keep some bratty kids hopped up on extended sugar highs, then maybe said person's teaching certificate should be revoked. How bad could 18 screaming shit heads jacked up on "Smarty's" and cupcake frosting be?

Please take into consideration that I am a teacher, however in my humble opinion I think that some teachers may create some dumb ass assignment just to say to the person in charge "Look what I am doing. My class is creating a play." "Good for you! Good for you Mrs. Crabapple. Great Job!" 

It's busy work. I know it. You know it. Somehow the kids don't. Thinking back I wonder when I picked up on the establishments bullshit. At what age did I rebel against the norm and say "F**k it! I ain't buying this crap no more. I'm not going to be a bird in an egg with an elastic beak singing 'Rockin Robin'." Oh, I remember now, it had to be after the 3rd grade because that was the last time I was in a play as a bird in an egg costume with an elastic beak singing "Rockin Robin." 

As I have stated, I have two small daughters whom I refer to as my ladies. One of my ladies who is finishing up the first grade is performing in the upcoming hit "The Day I Followed A Pickle". I guess I should be thankful it is not the stage version of the now famous book for couples "Tickle His Pickle." She plays a "little instant" as she calls it. You and I may refer to the "Little Instant" as our small intestine. 

OK, so the play is called "The Day I Followed A Pickle" and one of the lines is "Hickledy pickledy pig, let me out and make me big", seems to me that the teacher has created a masterpiece on the ins and OUTS of digestion. 

My young lady goes on to describe who is in the play and what their roles are. As we get to the bottom of things...no pun intended, we find out the major players. We have a mouth, an esophagus, a stomach and little and big instants. She goes on to describe that when the pickle goes in the mouth and down the esophagus, each student has to hug the pickle to make sure it goes down. I know this simulates the body parts pushing the article of food through the digestive system but I almost have a problem with this. 

No matter how hard she tries to describe the play I am still left with many questions. The number one question is: What the hell is this teacher thinking? We have a person with a college education making kids hug each other during a play about "shooting torpedoes", "dropping the kids off at the pool", "taking the Browns to the Super Bowl" or my personal favorite "banging out a deuce." This genius of an educator has given the go ahead to make a play on taking a shit. My second question is does the kid have to change costumes on his way through the big instant? I would also ask the teacher at what point does the green pickle become a brown pickle. These things need to be addressed. Seems to me there are some holes to this story. Something doesn't smell right.

If we have all the parts to this play as the 1st graders may think, I am left with one question. Who is the butt or anus? Which student got cast as the "ass"? 

I felt it was a fair question to ask my young lady. Her reply was, with a shake of her head and her little hand up in the air as if the question was somehow not a legitimate inquiry, "Ah, no one is the butt." I then said "Somebody has to be the butt. Where does the food, or in this case the pickle go?" She had nothing to say. 

Rewind to the meaningless assignment comment and we have something that supports my theory. Couldn't this be one of those assignments that fall directly into this category? I would pay money to be able to not only see this performance but(t) to ask the question when the clapping is finished,the bows completed and curtain calls taken to ask the teacher "Now what? The pickle doesn't just hang out in the big instant. And who is the butt? Somebody's got to be the butt!"

Gettin' kicked in the chest...

Probably around the month of March I was told that two of my favorite bands from the 90's were hitting the road for a summer tour. These weren't just two bands. It was Nine Inch Nails and Jane's Addiction. These two bands have basically defined my being for the last 20 years. They have definitely helped mold me into my current self. 

The first date was to be May 8th in my old home town: West Palm Beach. The last date was to be in my new home town: Charlotte, North Carolina. I felt like it was a destiny that I had to fulfill by seeing the first date of the show and the last date. 

I have a friend who was more than a willing combatant. He was enthusiastic to make the trek with me whether we went by land, sea or air. More over he was willing to be a guest at my mom's house in Boynton Beach. There is nothing quite like the hospitality of a mom letting two hooligans stay in her house for a few days while they relived their youth drinking the sunny days away and listening to some kick ass music in South Florida. 

Please keep in  mind that the date of the show fell on the Friday of Mother's Day weekend. In keeping to the idea of me being a selfish teenager, I thought nothing of booking the trip and making the jaunt down to South Florida with my friend. We planned a weekend of drinking, music and hopefully more drinking. After we bought some plane tickets, the thought of the trip and me returning on Mother's Day sank in. "You're not mad are you?" I asked. In being my perfect companion she said "No, go have a good time!" After seeing her status updates like "I'm vacuuming and my husband is at the beach!" or "My husband is living it up in South Florida...Happy Mother's Day to me???" on Facebook I realized the trip may not have been in my best interest (see past blog "The Talk"). 

I bought tickets for the show and remember being psyched that we had SEATS! Seats meant we are closer than the "lawn people"! A seat means we are under the covering in case it rains. You may not think that means a lot to a bald adult, but for some reason it did at the time of purchase and still rings true today. Under no circumstances could I possibly spend $159.00 for a plane ticket and not be as close as possible to my rock gods. There was no way we are seeing the first show and not going to be on top of the action. At least that's what I thought. As any teenager would do, I convinced my bud to spring for the extra $40.00. We paid $40.00 to be an extra 20 feet closer. We were the last row of seats. I was in full view of the "lawn people". When I bought the tickets The Chosen One was in my ear saying "Why don't you just buy the lawn seats?" Ahh, hellllo! We want to be close to the action! Thank God it didn't rain cause we weren't even under the covering. 

I've had a bad experience of being on the lawn during a concert. It brings back memories of what I had to do to make The Chosen One fall in love with me. At the last concert I saw on the lawn, we had a blanket and it was James Taylor. I like  J.T. I think he is a great musician in his own right but a real bore to see live. He sounds great, music is great but the vibe of jumping up and down rhythmically with the crowd to "How Sweet It Is" doesn't seem like a great idea. I saw that blanket and I was pissed. I don't want to sit on f**king blanket. I wanted to sleep on that damn blanket. 

Mind you, seeing this concert or snooze fest, was when I was courting The Chosen One. During this phase I said and did all sorts of dumb shit such as go to a Kenny Loggins concert. Yeah, I did. Not one of the prouder moments in my life. It kind of ranks up there with me wanting to buy a Camaro, but I was there and when I saw him stand on a chair and belt out "Foot Loose," I thought the roof was going to come down. 

That was the last time I was more charming than selfish. I would do other things too like say stuff like "Oh yeah, I like to read books" or "Oh, I love to go dancing." Meanwhile this poor woman had no idea she was getting a binge drinking, video game playing idiot who swears a lot and is completely politically incorrect.  

We have lawn seats for the date in Charlotte. I figure the money I save will go to my liver. 

Me and my bud get to the show and I go right for the merchandise tent. The Chosen One had given me specific instructions that I was not allowed to buy shirts for the ladies. I somehow blocked those words out and asked if they had youth sizes. No luck. Too bad cause I'd have bought them. Man, my kids would have been the coolest kids at their elementary school rocking a NIN or Jane's Addiction concert shirt.  In a world where Hannah Mountcrapa and The Jonas Turds are the norm, two sweet little girls come to class with a NIN or a Jane's shirt on? Come on that's bad ass!

We finally get to our seats right in time for Nine Inch Nails to hit the stage. Words cannot be put in writing to describe the ass kicking display of raw power they gave to us during that first show on Mother's Day weekend. Jane's Addiction, who were equally awesome, hit the stage after a NIN set that consisted of 20 songs. I was left completely satisfied. Both bands delivered beyond expectations.

I get back on Mother's Day and, after pleasantries are exchanged, my youngest asked me how the concert was. I said "It felt like I got kicked in the chest, held down and screamed at for a good three hours!" She looked at me in disbelief. A few days later I was surfing youtube and found some of the songs both Nine Inch Nails and Jane's Addiction played. I showed her "Mr. Self Destruct". She looked up at me and asked "Is that when he kicked you in the chest?"

Riding the roller coaster no more....

I used to think that I liked roller coasters. You get in line and wait and wait and wait some more until it is your turn to board the ride. You get in and begin the transition skyward. The anticipation builds up tremendously while you are on the way up. You reach the apex and begin your journey. In the blink of an eye you are at the top and then BAM your on the way back towards the surface of the Earth. You’re almost left with a feeling of disappointment because you waited so long for something and it didn't last too long. A roller coaster ride will you get higher then high and than crash you down lower then low.

There are things in our lives that can put you on a roller coaster of emotional duress. Illegal and illicit drugs can do it. Alcohol can do it if you drink it to excess. However, alcohol is legal so it can’t possibly be bad for you, can it? Gambling can do it, but that’s also legal so its not bad either. But think of gambling for a second. What do we gamble on? Sports.

Ask anyone what is the most destructive force in nature. Some may say water, a few other may even say fire or wind. I say sports and competition is single-handedly the most destructive force in our world. Pose this same question to any woman on a Saturday or Sunday during football season. I wonder if they’d agree with my assessment.

I remember my first two experiences with sports and competition like it was yesterday. The first horrific experience I had was when I made the last out in a little league championship game. Never had I experienced a feeling of complete failure and inadequacy. I was 8.

My next delve into horrible and terrible sports experiences was when I watched the hated Islanders knock the Rangers out of the NHL playoffs in 1984. The hated Islanders beat my beloved Rangers. The Rangers tied the game up at the end of regulation. I was ecstatic only to have that glorious feeling replaced with despair when I saw them lose the game on a soft goal from the perimeter. I was crushed. I cried for days. I couldn’t get over the fact that they lost to that team. I kept reliving that moment in my head over and over again. I swore from then on I would hate anything orange and blue.

Fast forward to present day. I am living a nightmare watching any team that I have deemed important. I go through silly preparations and routines thinking that what I do has some sort of bearing on the outcome. Why? For what? The sickest part is I know what I go through on game day does nothing for the outcome of any of these games, yet I am as routine as the sun rises in the east when it comes to these silly game day preparations. 

2007, the Giants won the Super Bowl because they came together as a team at the right point and blasted pretty boy Tom Brady with a stud defense. You mean to tell me they didn’t win because I wore the same black shirt and pair of black pants all throughout the playoffs? I did. I even brought my outfit down to Florida because I knew I was going to watch the NFC Championship game there. The Chosen One had a look of disgust on her face that I have seen one other time when I rolled out of a cab in California and proceeded to throw up all the nights offerings. That's why she is The Chosen One, but that story is for another time.

When I came out of the bathroom with my game gear on she looked at me as if she hated me. She knew what I was wearing. My game day gear consisted of nothing that resembled anything close to a sports franchise. It was a way too tight black Oakley t-shirt and a pair of Nike sweatpants. I picked out this ensemble because the night before the G-Men played in the Wild Card game against Tampa, I over indulged in some adult beverages. I was completely hung over and the outfit looked like it was very comfortable. So wait a second, my binge drinking may have helped the Giants win that year? Excellent!

Right now at this moment, I'm inventing something. I'm inventing the "Almost Middle of the Year Resolution". I'm calling it the Cinco de Mayo Resolution. Let's face it, my New Years Resolution didn't go so well. So I'm granting myself and anyone who wants to join this new movement a do-over.

I’m making the change. No more routines on game days. No more eating the same food at the same spot on the couch with my special shirt on in the sports room with my feet on the floor and not up, because when they were up on the ottoman the other team scored. No more bitching at The Chosen One for coming into the room and sitting down and then shortly after this the other team makes a play or scores a goal. It’s not her fault the team sucks is it?

From now on I'm flat lining. No more snapping fingers, clapping or yelling at the TV. No more crying or getting set off on a downward spiral where I go outside and cut the lawn. Of all things to get myself out a funk I cut the lawn?! Are you serious? I am from now on going to be a mindless, emotionless and expressionless fool who no longer cares about shit he has no control over.

So I am making a proclamation now. It starts now, with me! No more ups and downs. I’m stepping off this ride and I’m never getting back on. I used to question why and how dudes didn’t like sports. I used to hate how I would ask someone about football or something and they would reply “I’d rather PLAY sports then WATCH them!” I never got that. I do now. I ‘m that guy from this day forth! Ask me if I care.

From now on I'm not only watching reruns of "Sex and the City" or my all time favorite shitty sitcom "Friends" but I'm gonna be stoked that the audience cheered when Ross and Rachel kiss. That's really going to make my day better.

This of course happens after I put on the way too tight black Oakley t-shirt and black pair of Nike sweatpants for game 7 which happens tomorrow night in our nations capital at 7:00 pm on the Versus Network formerly known as The Outdoor Network, channel 603 on Direct TV. Then after that I'm definitely done.

Please God, let them win, cause if they don't, you are going to have to talk me down from the ledge.

The Talk

Relationships are based on the ability of those involved to be able to communicate their needs and expectations to their partner. It makes things so easy when two people can say what is on their mind without their significant other getting angry. This works for friends, married couples, people dating and even coworkers. It's what makes us better than the Great Apes.

If you can master communicating with the people in your life, no matter what the relationship is, I'm sure you'll be better off. Imagine your boss calls you into the office and starts asking why something wasn't completed to its fullest extent. If you become defensive and start blaming others for your miscues the conversation can go sour pretty fast. You may find yourself being the difficult one in the office. If it's a relationship of the intimate variety then you may find yourself "unemployed" in the job of love. 

The Chosen One and I have mastered this art of communicating. I'm constantly called into the office to have me made aware of my deficiencies. I usually get called in once every 5 to 6 months to discuss what went wrong. I feel it to be an almost semi annual review.  I get some satisfactory performance merits but some unsatisfactory items that need to be addressed immediately for some reason. They never can wait. Me not taking out the trash can three weeks in a row is somehow an urgent matter. This also leads to other things I'm doing wrong. 

Usually these talks last almost an hour and they usually end with me bursting out in laughter because most of the time I know I am wrong. I'll have an epiphany of wrongness and it makes me laugh hysterical for some reason. The first time this happened I thought I was gonna catch a right to the chin. It never came and I was actually met with the same sort of maniacal laughter. 

The first time we had The Talk I learned so much! I learned that I'm usually wrong. I learned that I get defensive in the beginning and as The Talk goes on and on and on I am able to get my point across, a little bit. The Chosen One starts to see my point and pretty much begins having The Talk with herself. Sometimes I probably don't even need to be there because she is basically talking out loud about what I am doing wrong. She'll come up with solutions or suggestions which are completely agreeable. But the most important thing I learned that first night was that I can stop The Talk from going any further with me laughing. 

The first time this happened I couldn't help it. I was trying to go hang out with a friend of mine and she was giving it to me good on how I offer no help around the house. We talked for a good 20 minutes and it ended with me realizing I was wrong and that I DO need to do more. I do need to try vacuuming. I knew I was wrong and it made me laugh. Dude, I thought I was going to get decked. First she got mad and asked why I was laughing but at this point I couldn't stop. Trying to stop only made me laugh even harder. She started to laugh also and all was good. 

Since then I am the same jackass, and I really haven't learned a thing in regards that I keep making the same mistakes. I keep doing the same things but I expect different outcomes. Some may call this the definition of insanity. This is 10 years later. I will still be great for 3 months, OK for 2 months and a shithead for 4 weeks. Hence the break between chit chats. 

Like I said, The Talk comes every 5-6 months. I got one last week. The Talk has morphed from me schlubbing household chores to not giving enough affection and everything in between. I don't pet the dog enough. I don't like American Idol, I don't gain any weight with all the beer I drink. Name it, we talked about it. 

 This past "Talk" got me to thinking. Am I the only male that gets this little chat? If I'm not, do I get it more often than others and if I do why? Questions need to be asked. Statements need to be made. I figured I needed to get to the bottom of this. Am I a pain in the ass or am like every other male on planet Earth? There can't be anyone better than me right?

 There was only one way to get these answers and I wasn't reading any space book to find them. No more "Men are from Mars Women are from Venus" fluffy bullshit. I am getting to the bottom of this. 

I got scientific. I conducted a survey. I asked a series of questions to various women I know about a relationship they may have been in or are in where they have had to issue a form of The Talk. The outcome in my opinion was very enlightening, or chilling, depending on your perspective. It was wonderful to feel that I'm not alone. There are many of us with the same problems. 

Out of all the women I polled (HA!) 100% said they have had to give a form of The Talk. 

The questions consisted of simple stuff like have you ever had to talk to your significant other about household responsibilities? That question in itself garnered a resounding yes. Apparently in many households across America, or Charlotte NC, that is a big problem in relationships. It's not in mine cause I don't do them. 

I also asked if you have ever said you sometimes feel like roommates. Another yes, not as prolific as household chores but a yes nonetheless. The questions I asked where simplistic in nature only because I knew what my motive was. I chose not to do the math on whether or not who answered what to what question. That would take too long. I skewed the survey as much as possible so if a person answered yes to any question then they had The Talk so I could say I'm not the only idiot that is pissing off their spouse. I could then take this data back to The Chosen One and say "See! This is going on everywhere! It's an epidemic."

Seriously though, I'm thinking that one of these days I'm going to initiate The Talk and see what happens. Lets see how she likes it. How will she like to see unsatisfactory performance on her chart? I'm going to make the call to The Chosen One and say "Listen honey, the past couple of days have been real rough. We need to talk."

Time to put up or shut up....

There comes a time in all men’s lives where they have to make some sort of choice. Either we are sheep or we are the shepherds. Either we lead or we get out of the way. It has come time for me to either put up or shut up.

 

I’ve spoken in detail on how I feel that dramatic measures need to be taken to ensure our survival as a species. According to Merriam-Websters definition of survival, it means the continuation of life or existence. Maybe you could make an argument that since I was in the Marines for a few years I have all the training in the area of surviving I need. Not true. I'm a life long learner and there is a lot more knowledge I need to attain in the art of surviving. Preparing for the end of man is an in depth process that involves many facets of modern day society.

 

In case you didn't read the new poll posted on treehugger.com, not making this up, 1 in 3 kids aged 6-11 fear some sort of apocalyptic end of the world as we know it. They may also be starting to prepare for the future and think like me, that our planet will not be here when they or I for that matter grow up. 

There are an abundance of questions that need to be answered before one can embark on creating their own storage of supplies. Such questions that need an answer are how to prepare food for long term storage. What kind of food can we store? Do I need to create an area underground for this particular type of storage? How much? What about a power source? Running water? There’s a lot that goes into this and these are serious questions that need to be answered seriously.

 

This past weekend I went to visit a Survival Camp. Yes, one of those camps where people think the end of the world is eminent. I was pushed into going by a friend from elementary school. The camp was set in the deep woods of the Carolina ’s. I can’t lie and say I had a hood covering my eyes to shield me from its secretive location. That would make this more interesting but I can’t lie about this.

 

We arrive on the camps locale during the early morning and as soon I arrive I am greeted by what I figured where the leaders. They seemed to be expecting me. They were dressed stereotypically in the old style camouflage fatigues and a black shirt that had the “preppers” club name on it. I am completely under dressed in shorts and a cheesy t-shirt with flip flops. They were no larger then I am in stature and I could tell they were sizing me up the moment I got out of my truck. Handshakes were given, pleasantries spoken and I was given a tour of the compound. Cool place. I actually liked being there and hanging out. It was almost like being back in the Marines.

 

People there all had jobs. I don't want one now and I do not want one when it all ends so I was kind of pissed that I may be expected to partake in the responsibilities of keeping this operation afloat. I thought we would just kind of exist and survive but apparently there will be a hierarchy. 

They had a food storage unit, a large box that was refrigerated and had locks all over it. I was immediately told I would have to start contributing to the food storage right off the bat. The coolest part of the compound I thought was the shooting range where many of the men and women, yes chicks, where hanging out shooting rifles and hand guns in various stances and positions. I was asked if I knew how to shoot. Come on, ME? How dare thy ask! Being a trained expert in marksmanship I looked at the guy like he had two heads. First shot 100 yards with a knock off version of an M16 in a standing position, bull’s eye, center mass. Impressive I am, I know.

 

We spend a couple of hours demonstrating some more weaponry skills. We get to talking about tactics, nothing major, just small group movement. More small talk and I’m starting to feel a little pressure to join the club. One thing I hate is pressure. Pressure to buy a car, pressure to perform well in job like setting or pressure to clean my room, whatever it is put on me to do something at a certain time I hate it. Any sort of this bullshit and I am out the door. 

I start looking around and realizing each person is on a strict time table with either a certain task or reading from a manual. I come to find out it’s the clubs by laws. If a person was not doing the assigned task they were given a verbal reprimand from one of the dudes in charge. I thought I could come join this club, hangout, drink beer, shoot guns and talk shit. Eventually if something really horrific happened then I could eat the cans of tuna I properly stocked up on. I would probably extend my existence for a few more weeks than the rest of you and I could relish in the fact I made it for the extra ten days or so. 

 

Over a few beers the pitch is made. Am I going to join or am I not. Well, apparently all my car shopping expertise has nothing to do negotiating with a few idiot marauders in the middle of the woods. They’re not liking my responses of, “Well, I want to talk this over with my wife and see what she thinks. The price seems right but I don’t know about the finance rate.”  Shit like this ain't flying. It's not working and this is going sour fast. The lead asshole stands up and says “This isn’t acceptable! You came to join and contribute. You know our location! What’s to stop you from coming out here in the middle of the night and stealing our weapons cache or food box?!” I said “I’m not gonna do that. I just want to go home. Rangers are on at 1:00 today.”

 

My friend from elementary school says “Joe, you can’t leave yet. He says stay, you have to stay!” I told him if they didn’t knock this shit off I was going to “pull a job like the ATF did on the Branch Davidians.” Still as much more resistance is being heaped upon me, I realize my only course of action. I stood up, kicked the fiery coals at the leader and smashed a bottle of my favorite brew across his forehead . He goes down like a sack of shit, I kick my “friend” as hard as I can, dead square in the chest, knock him down and run my ass off to my car. I can hear all the commotion behind me as if they are thinking of whether or not to chase after me or tend to their fallen comrades. 

 

I didn’t wait long enough to find out. I got in my car and hauled ass. Shortly after I make my get away I started hearing in my ears…”Joe, Joe, JOE!!! Get up the alarm didn’t go off! Get up your gonna be late!”