A ridiculously inconsistent guide to the World Series

In case you're not a sports fan, you are probably not aware that something very important is about to happen: The World Series. This is a seven-game series to determine the world champion of all the baseballs. That means we will know who the best baseball team in the world is and that team will be allowed to have free french fries for a year! Again, if you're not a sports fan, I'm here to give you everything you need to enjoy this grand spectacle.

Our two combatants are the Boston Red Sox and the St. Louis Cardinals.

WHAT TO KNOW ABOUT THE ST. LOUIS CARDINALS: I have been to St. Louis once, to serve as a groomsman in my friend Jenniffer's wedding. During the reception, one of the other groomsmen, a bridesmaid and I snuck out and went to Ted Drewes which is a place that serves frozen custard and is a St. Louis landmark. There, we ran into a bunch of Cardinals fans who were celebrating after attending a playoff win over the Colorado Rockies. They were cool. We had fun.
WHAT TO KNOW ABOUT THE BOSTON RED SOX: Red Sox fans are assholes. The only fans worse are those from Philadelphia. At least Red Sox fans are people. Rude, obnoxious, stupid, marble-mouthed drunks who talk like they've suffered a head injury and only cheer for their teams when they're winning, but people.

WHO WILL WIN? If there is a just and merciful God, not the Red Sox. I mean, I hope the Cardinals do.

FUN FACT: The Tampa Bay Rays, a wildcard participant in the playoffs (in spite of spending a mere fraction of what other teams do on payroll) but not going to the World Series, again, are a team full of charm and personality.

FUN FACT: Some of the Red Sox players grew beards.

FUN FACT: There is actually a secret law that prohibits teams from Boston and Philadelphia competing head-to-head for championships in any sport because that many assholes in one spot at the same time would be really, really bad. The Eagles played the Patriots in Super Bowl XXXIX only because Super Bowls are played in neutral sites attended exclusively by high rollers and actors who just happen to have a new show that will be cancelled within six weeks on the network broadcasting the game. Not enough Boston and Philadelphia fans are able to get time off from their jobs of vomiting on children to travel to New Orleans or Miami to create that much of a noticeably more negative impact on those hellholes.

FUN FACT: I hate Red Sox fans.

FUN FACT THAT ALL SPORTS FANS ALREADY KNOW: Broadcasters are trained to hate your team. Here's what it happens in their secret meeting before every big match-up in every sport:
NETWORK GUY: Don't forget to say only negative things about (your name here)'s team and only positive things about the opponent.
PLAY-BY-PLAY GUY: Got it. Because taking a bias and sticking to it regardless of what actually happens during the game is the best way to drive consumrs to our sponsors.
NETWORK GUY: It's the only way!
COLOR GUY: Excuse me, how often should I say something wacky, archaic and/or borderline offensive?
NETWORK GUY: Why don't you fire one off now?
COLOR GUY: (sighs, puts on deliberately tacky sportscoat and a silly hat) Jumpin' Jackie Robinson, the Negroes in this league just keep gettin' better and better!
PLAY-BY-PLAY GUY: Ha ha! Classic!
NETWORK GUY: Aren't you forgetting something?
COLOR GUY: Oh yeah. (clears throat) Budweiser me!
PLAY-BY-PLAY GUY: Ha ha! Never gets old!
COLOR GUY: (to himself) I was supposed to die some time during the '70s.

FUN FACT: The eventual goal of every sports broadcaster is to stick around long enough to turn into a clown, a beloved catch-phrase spouting buffoon who is a caricature of the professional broadcast journalist he was at some point in his life, hopefully with side gigs playing an even more cartoonish version of himself in video games and movies while also shilling appeteaser specials for a national chain of horrible neighborhood-style tavern/eateries.

 There are, of course, notable exceptions

Well, that oughtta show... us?

I had this long, angry screed about the government shutdown accomplishing absolutely nothing and finally coming to an end before a global calamity could occur all written and ready to go, but I wasn't happy with it so I deleted it. I'm as fed up, embarrassed and dismayed with the utter stupidity of the situation and the people responsible for it as anybody (and "anybody" at this point also includes a lot of people who were originally at least partly responsible for the rationale behind it, if not the actual shutdown itself) but angry political punditry is not what I do. At least it's not what I do well. Folks like Peter Schorsch are much better suited to that than I am, so I'll happily leave it to them.

Still, I felt obligated to say something. And being as I've just admitted that it's not an area where I feel confident in expressing myself, I'll let the numbers speak and we can all just foam at the mouth or shake our heads or whatever feels right. I just hope that beyond whatever our initial, visceral reaction is, we remember all of this when the elections roll around again.

• 16 days.
• A $24 billion hit to the U.S. economy.
• A 6% reduction in the projected GDP growth for the quarter.
• $152 million lost per day in travel spending.
• $76 million lost per day by visitors to national parks.
• $160 million lost per work day due to government employee furloughs.
• 385,000 initial unemployment claims last week.

"Member of Congress who are refusing to raise the debt ceiling (or raise taxes) until their ancillary demands are met are acting immorally, since they are refusing to pay the debts they themselves authorized. " - conservative Christian Joe Carter

Post-dream follow up

Sometimes I have really intense dreams. I don't mean nightmares, although I have those too. What I'm talking about are dreams that are like action movies; harrowing but not hopeless situations. Often these dreams feature people I know in real life. Sometimes, these dreams are so intense that when they're over, even though I know they're just dreams, I feel obligated to check up on the people who were in them. Is that weird? Maybe. Too bad, though. It's something I do to make me feel better. Of course, they're always fine, being as dreams aren't real and they aren't a shared experience, so they don't even have a recollection of the experience that never actually happened. Still, I like knowing they're all right.

The other night, I had one of those dreams and my friend Mary was in it. She and I used to work together before she got out of show biz to go into nursing. That's admirable, I think. She also moved away and I haven't seen her in four or five years. But here's the note I wrote to her:

 Hi Mary,
I had a dream last night and you were in it. It was scary and realistic and I haven't talked to you in a while so I felt like I needed to check and see if you are okay. In the dream, it was you, me and some other unknown person (they kept changing to different people, which is an annoying thing that happens in dreams). We were in the middle of a park and there were a whole bunch of huge tornadoes all around us. We were all running around trying to survive. Also, in this dream, you were a cop. At one point, you broke a whole bunch of windows for seemingly no good reason (you said "I'm a cop!" at the time, which is how I knew you were one). I'd ask you what that was all about but it was my dream, not yours, and I doubt you'd have a good answer. I woke up before it was over but I assume we all survived, so that's good. You aren't a cop now, are you? You're already a nurse. You can do whatever you want, of course, but I don't think it's necessary to be all the emergency jobs. What I'm saying is don't be a cop. Let some other people pick up the slack. Do they even have tornadoes in Denver? I dream about them all the time, I think because I grew up in the midwest. Anyway, I hope you are doing well, not a cop (although if you are, that's your business and it's fine) and not breaking windows just because you think a job gives you some sort of unbridled authority to do so. - Clark

I haven't heard back form her yet. I hope she's okay.

Dearly beloved...

The other day, a life-long dream of mine came true. Well, a dream I've had since April of 2010, the day I became an ordained minister.

A while back, my friend Rachel got in touch:

"Am I remembering correctly that you can marry people?"
"Yep!"
"We may be in need of your service. I believe we (she and her ex-husband Tom) may get re-married so that we can do a VA loan for a house. I will let you know if we do."
"Yes, please!"
"It will be simple. You basically just have to sign the license. We can do it at Jimbo's."
"How romantic. Right in front of the fresh pickles."
"We can do it over lunch and it will be done, clean and simple. That's all we want."
"I understand exactly what you want. No Santa jacket, no ram's horn, no drummers."
"Right. None of that."
"Yes, but I do have to sing a song. My philisophical doctrine requires it."
"I love you but I don't think Tom would go for that..."
"It doesn't have to be a long song but everybody at Jimbo's must listen to it. Now, does Tom have a favorite Broadway show? I could do something from 'Guys and Dolls' or 'Oliver'."
"Um, I would have to say no. He's not a Broadway kind of guy."
"Ugh. Fine. No song then. It will be fine. Non-traditional and unorthodox but fine. Fine-ish, anyway."
"Can you do Friday at noon?"
"Yes, that will do, my child."
"Awesome!"
"Now, who will be wearing the helmet? It can be either of you. Your choice."
"Helmet?"
"Yes, the sacred ceremonial helmet."
"Assuming you're providing it, I guess I could wear it. If it's absolutely necessary."
"Of course it's necessary, especially in lieu of no song and of course I have one. It's very classy."
"All right, If you say so."
"How many bridesmaids will there be and please rank them individually on a scale of 1-10 in terms of loose moral standards. 10 being 'The Best' and 1 being 'unlikely to put out'."
"It's just going to be the three of us so I guess you'll have to pick up a waitress. I have no idea how loose any of them are."
"Ah. No song, no bridesmaids. Not ideal but I can make it work."

I was really excited. Finally, I would get to commit my first real, live wedding! We met at Jimbo's last Friday. I got there early and then Rachel got there. Tom was a few minutes late and after a few runaway bride jokes, he showed up. We ordered lunch and got things underway.
I looked over the paperwork. "Yes, yes, everything here seems to be in order." "It is in order", said Rachel. "It's a one-page document from the county that requires three signatures. All you have to do is add yours." "All in good time", I replied as I arranged my ceremonial paraphernalia. First, I produced a copy of The Good Book. Since it was a non-denominational wedding, I didn't bring a bible and figured I would just use A Good Book. The only book I had with me was A Ridiculously Inconsistent Treasury. Pretty good book, I think. Amazon says so anyway.
And then, with much fanfare, the ceremonial helmet.

"Okay, seriously, what's with the helmet?"
"What? It's ceremonial."
"It's a hard hat."
"Right. In this case, it symbolizes your commitment to hard work, the hard work required to make marriage work. Also your commitment to safety, and that's always important. Plus, it's gold which symbolizes money. That's good, right?"
"It says 'Clark Equipment' on it."
"Yeah, well, it's my helmet."

Then it was time for the legal disclaimer...

"Now, we're all straight here, right?"
"Straight?"
"Yeah, no gay people are participating in this ceremony in any way, correct?"
"Um, yeah, I guess."
"Good. It's very important that it's stated for the record that any mockery, farce, lampoon or spoof directed in the general direction of narrow-minded people who have made it their solemn duty to defend the sanctity of the sacred rite of marriage is being done in the complete absence of any homosexuals whatsoever. Whatever damage is being done to one myopic and archaic definition of the venerable institution here today is entirely the responsibility of straight people. Agreed?"
"Yeah, sure."

Having gotten everything established, I began the ceremony...

"Dearly beloved
We are gathered here today
2 get through this thing called life
Electric word, life
It means forever and that's a mighty long time
But I'm here 2 tell u..."

"Okay, who had the cheeseburger?", the waitress interrupted. "Oh, that's mine!", Tom said. I offered, "I'm not done yet" and Tom said "We know but, hey, food's here and it's gonna get cold, so...". He had a solid point so I pushed on...

"Tom, do you take her to be the woman who will live in your new house?"
"I do."
"Good. Rachel, do you promise to clean that house and cook the meals and stuff?"
"Hey!!"
"It's just a wedding vow. It doesn't mean anything. Come on, food is getting cold."
"Okay, sure. I do."
"Then if no one here objects... Rachel, go ask that guy over there if he objects."
"Who? The guy with the banana pudding?"
"Yeah."
"I'm not asking him that!"
"Then ask if I can have some of that pudding."
"Would you come on, please?"
"All right then. By the power vested in me by the Universal Life Church via the internet, boom, you're married!"
"Boom?"

Suddenly I felt powerful. I felt alive! I had just directly impacted the fates of two human beings. A warm feeling of goodness surged through me. I felt the true meaning of being an ordained minister for the first time, an agent of a higher power, on Earth to go forth and do good works. That, or it might also have been the shredded pork sandwich I'd ordered for lunch, which was excellent and that Rachel and Tom paid for.

When one door opens, someone may lose an eye

This is a door inside the office where I work:

It's a problem.
There's another one on the other end of the office. They're both problems.

Not the doors themselves. They've both been there for a while and have never caused any trouble. But up until about a week ago, the little window you see was clear. You could see through it. Not anymore. Management was concerned about people outside peering in and so they had them frosted with some kind of opaque coating. This has been a source of great concern among some of the people I work with in this office.

"Ohmygod, that isn't safe!""I just know I'm going to open that door and hit somebody on the other side.""Assuming somebody doesn't hit you first!"
"I know! What were they thinking?""I know! Somebody is going to get seriously hurt.""Ohmygod, I know!"

What I take from this is that some of the people I work with have somehow lived their entire lives up until now without ever encountering a door that doesn't have a window in it.
Oh well. I guess they'll be dead soon.

A trivial pursuit

Believe it or not, I used to be a competitive athlete, with a much stronger emphasis on the competitive part than the athlete part. Not that I wasn't a good athlete but something about participating in sports would get me really fired up and I'd get into it to crazy degrees. Even though I was usually among the biggest kids on the field, I rarely played like it. I dove head-first, chattered incessantly and got really pissed off when things didn't go my way. I was a classic "red ass", a term usually applied to 5'6" slap-hitting middle infielders from the Dominican Republic, not 6'3" slugging first basemen from the Midwest.

These traits tended to endear me to teammates and aggravate opponents which is exactly how I wanted it. I was once thrown out of a church league softball game for swearing. While protesting the ejection, I asked the umpire to tell me exactly what I said, not because I doubted him but because I honestly didn't know. He said there was no way he would repeat it and was so angry he wanted to fight me. I'm sure he was right but I still don't know what I said. It must have been really bad. I probably called someone or something either a cocksucker, a motherfucker or, most likely, some colorful combination of those bon mots, enhanced by a shit or bitch or two.
I'm still a passionate sports fan but now that I'm no longer an active participant, I'm not wired as tightly. I'm happy when my team wins and sad when they lose but I recover pretty quickly either way. I'm fortunate in that regard because I'd be a mess. I know some people who are and it's not pretty. Or healthy. People like that are not fun to be around unless you're their teammate actively involved in a sporting event. I assume this part of me died when I hung up my cleats for the last time and I'm glad. As it turns out, it might have just been hibernating all along, lying dormant until awakened.

A while back, I met a friend at a local Irish pub for dinner. As we were sitting there, there was an announcement that the weekly trivia contest would be starting soon. I figured that would be a fun way to pass time during dinner. And it was. But something happened about three questions in...

• There were numbers being written down on sheets of paper.
• Somebody was keeping track of the numbers being written down.
• There were rewards (prizes) at stake for who had the best numbers.

"Wait a minute", I thought. "I know what this is. This is sports! That's what this is!" With that, a switch was flipped and I got serious about it. Suddenly, fellow diners passing leisure time in a contest were opponents, standing between me and triumph. I needed to destroy these cocksuckers. My dinner companion left before the end, leaving me there to intently battle to the death, if necessary. I listened intently and hunched down over my answer sheet, shutting out any and all distractions. I don't remember paying my tab but I guess I did. I pumped my fist when I'd get an answer right and stare down at the floor and blurt out expletives when I'd miss one. My reactions feeding directly off the emotions demonstrated by those at the other tables as the answeres were read off.
I finished tied for fifth. Out of the money but I was competing against whole tables of people who were playing as teams. At least I didn't get thrown out for mouthing off.

Moving right along

Part of moving is getting rid of some of your old stuff, which gives you an excuse or reason to get new stuff. Whether you view that as an opportunity or a chore depends on how you feel about shopping and/or spending money, I guess. Me, I'm not what you'd call cheap (I have a real problem resisting impulses some times; after an ill-advised visit to Craigslist the other day, I haven't completely talked myself out of buying a pinball machine yet) but shelling out big dollars for things makes me anxious and I often experience regret after wasting cash on something silly so I try to limit my big spending to things that are absolute necessities. I got rid of a lot of stuff when I moved, including almost all of my furniture and housewares, so I've had to replace some of it just to be able to live.
The last time I moved, it was my first time living on my own since I was a kid and I went out and bought all kinds of crazy things with the idea that I would be entertaining all sorts of social gatherings. "My many charming party guests are certain to be amused by these napkin holders!" Yeah, that didn't really work out. The one time I had company over, it was an occasion for me to show off the apartment before going out to dinner. One of them looked around real quick but didn't even want to sit down before hustling everyone out and off to the restaurant. She said later it was just because she was hungry but it made me self-conscious about my things and I never invited friends over again.
This time I was smart and went practical. I stocked my whole home with one trip to WalMart, where I bought:

• One set of sheets
• One pillow
• One comforter
• One bath towel
• One bath mat
• One sauce pan
• One skillet
• One plate
• One bowl
• One fork
• One spoon
• One multi-purpose knife

Boom. I'm all set. I already had a coffee cup that I was given as a gift (thanks, Donna) so my beverage needs were covered. Someone offered to custom build me a desk for $1200, but what do I need with a desk? A place to organize all my important paperwork? Ppphht. Nonsense. A card table would suit me fine. Even better, I found what appears to be half of a standard card table at WalMart. Perfect.
I also bought two metal folding chairs. Why two? Did I suddenly think I was Donald Trump and I needed to sate my lust for extravagant creature comforts? Not exactly. It's a matter of practicality. Observe...

Chair

Loveseat

Sleeper sofa

Two chairs, three different pieces of furniture!
Sometimes, I am a genius.

Cool people out there doing cool stuff

As I make preparations to get up and running again, I'd like to dedicate this space today to some people who are already doing things that are pretty neat.

Tom Megalis, father of Nicholas, has an exhibit of original artwork opening today at Translations Art Gallery in Canton, Ohio. "CURIOSITIES: New work by Tom Megalis" will run through October 26th.


In other Megalis family news, we're still on for an interview with Nicholas, the King of all Vines, just as soon as schedules and stars (mostly schedules) align. In the meantime, his new single "Forget It in a Day" is out. Here's a link to the video. Also, his first album "Praise Be, Hype Machine" is now available on iTunes.


Believe it or not, there are people not named Megalis doing cool stuff.

This is Jacqueline Kabat and she is working on her documentary film, "Comedy Improv Can Save The World". She's using comedy improv as a means of therapy and a teaching tool. It's all based on teaching people to connect without judgment, trust and collaborate with one another. Here's a link to the site hosting her fundraising campaign where you can learn more and make a pledge. I've already made my thoughts known on how much I love these kinds of campaigns. Also, Jacqueline is someone who has said nice things to and about me, which means, naturally, she is deeply in love with me. So obviously I've already made my pledge.

Last but certainly not least, our old friend Jeremy Gloff has a new album out. Jeremy has had a hell of a lot of crap come his way this year, something to which more of us than not can relate. The result is "Inside of Blue Buildings", his 18th album and a celebration of 20 years as a professional musician. Jeremy is a good dude and he's an artist that truly puts his heart and soul into his work. Check it out for one or both of those reasons.

Jeez, I'm feeling pretty lame now. Guess this is as good a reason as any to get off my ass and do something, huh?

I'll shut up now

After what seems like two solid months of angst over my housing situation, I finally closed on my new home late Monday. During that two months, I know I was a font of unrelenting despair. "My home, my cats, my worldly possessions. Me, mine, I. Wah, wah, wah and blah, blah, blah."
Ugh. What a drag.
Now that the whole thing is totally resolved and in the rear view, I'll stop being mopey and boring and complaining and depressing and annoying. After all, I have a lovely new home, my cats are safe and happy, the cable guy arrived in plenty of time to allow me to see the series finale of Breaking Bad, it's almost hockey season and my beloved Rays are in the postseason. It's a beautiful time to be alive!
As I promised previously, good and fun stuff is coming. Stay tuned.

This is my new home. I'm seriously considering having it painted purple. What do you think?

A resolution of sorts

An update on my housing situation: I'm moved into the new place, although the loan still...STILL...isn't closed. So my status has been elevated from "homeless" to "squatter".
We were set to close on Friday but the seller said she wasn't available due to having company in town and they had plans. This caused me... discomfort. I snapped and I informed all parties concerned that I would not spend one more night, let alone an entire weekend, in the hotel. And if that meant the deal was dead, so be it. It was a total bluff since between losing all the money I've already spent plus having nowhere to go, I really didn't have the option of killing the deal. Still, I'd been in a hotel for the better part of a month with my pet cats in a shelter during that same time. While all of us were safe and sound, the idea of having to sustain that less-than-favorable status quo because the seller wanted to take her friends and family to Busch Gardens and Outback Steakhouse instead of signing some paperwork wasn't something I could tolerate. A deal was worked out where I was able to move into the house, after agreeing not to burn it down or sue anybody if I fell in the shower and broke my leg of course. I went and got the cats and here we all are now. It's unfortunate that nothing seems to get done when I'm being patient and compliant, that it takes anger and yelling and threats to move things along but that's what we are.

Snack attack

There are lots of ways to get your hands on food with the intent of getting that food into your mouth, especially here in America. None are as cold and dark as getting it from a coin-operated vending machine, though. What we all think of as a convenience is actually a study of how much we hate each other and, on some levels, ourselves. There is a lot of fairly aggressive contempt going back and forth when you buy something from a vending machine. Let's take a look...

• You get what you pay for - When you go to the vending machine it's because you're looking for something to eat and you either only have or don't want to spend more than about a dollar. The chances of getting something actually good for you with even a little nutritional value are not good under this kind of budgetary constraint.
• You're dealing with a machine - In most cases, we as humans feed each other. Whether we're cooking for our family, being waited on by a server in a restaurant, or patronizing a grocer at the supermarket, there's almost always some sort of human element in effect when we eat. Not so with a vending machine. Sure, some person puts the stuff inside but that's not the same thing. The same guy who empties the coins is also cramming snacks into the coils so there will be more coins next time. Guess which element he cares about more? (hint: people throw away food all the time; when does anybody ever intentionally throw away even the smallest amount of money?) I'm sure at the end of the day the vending machine guy doesn't consider what he does as "feeding people".
• Take this - So you show up, decide what you want and start cramming in your coins (because, again, it's cheap) into the slot. "Here, machine. Take my little metal discs that represent fractions of a whole dollar", you say as you force them inside of it. Sometimes, for whatever reason, a coin won't take. Then what do you do? You jam it in there even more forcefully, sometimes over and over, until it takes it. Then you push two buttons and a coil starts to rotate, dispensing your item. Hopefully.
• All sales final - Because the person stocking the machine doesn't really care about you, anonymous vending machine customer, they invest a lot more care in getting the coins out of the machine than they do in putting the food into it. As a result, sometimes things get stuck. Or worse, the revolving dispenser coil rotates to a completely empty slot, yielding nothing.
• Better than nothing - If you pushed the wrong buttons for some reason, too bad. You're getting what you asked for, even if it's not what you wanted to ask for. In this and the above instance,the machine doesn't care. Nor should it; because fuck you, it did its job and also, fuck you. 
• Complain at your own risk - You can register your displeasure by shaking the machine until it gives you what you want. Just keep in mind that the machine reserves the right to kill you.
• Best case scenario - Let's say you pushed the right button and the machine is going to give you what you requested. Your reward arrives when your chunks of orange salt or congealed chocolate goo or whatever it is drops with a thunk into a metal bin at the bottom, only because the machine is not built to sneer at you and throw it on the floor. This is the almost exactly the same thing, though.

It's sad, but what choice do you have when you're broke, hate yourself and didn't bring anything for lunch?

The simple case for good triumphing over evil

I think I'm a pretty simple person and I've never claimed to have a clear understanding of all the factors that go into complex dilemmas, such as the one at the heart of all of mankind's existential angst, the battle between good and evil. That doesn't stop me from thinking about it and coming up with my own conclusions. For me, it breaks down along these lines:

Puppies are the best example I can think of to demonstrate pure goodness. They're motivated by their desires to play, eat and sleep. That's it. There is nothing even slightly malicious about them or what they do. They're also fluffy and adorable. On the opposite end of the spectrum, we have these guys:

Nazis, neo or otherwise, are just the worst. They exist to be stupid and hateful and that's all. They're also ugly and decidedly not fluffy. The ugliest, least fluffy puppy ever born is 10 times more adorable and fluffy than Adolph Hitler ever was, even as a baby. That's besides the point though, and should not be factored into this forensic analysis. Still...

Awww, who couldn't love you??

Awww, why couldn't time travel exist so somebody could go back and choke you out?

Now here's why puppies (Good) will always eventually triumph over Nazis (Evil).
Puppies are organic. They're the natural result of the procreation of their species. They've been around for thousands of years and barring an unforeseeable global catastrophe, they'll be here forever. Unless a comet hits the planet or dogs lose interest in having sex (with each other), we will always have puppies.
However, somebody had to come up with the idea of Nazis. There's nothing natural about them. Some guy had to sit down and organize a bunch of shitty thoughts out of his damaged mind into a relatively coherent philosophy. Then he had to go out and find enough people with similarly flawed mindsets to get behind it and turn it into a movement. Somebody had to come up with a logo and sew uniforms and find a place to have meetings, not to mention the printing and distribution of propaganda. That's a lot of work by a lot of people getting together and forcing things to happen. That's not nature. Think of it this way:
Every time any two dogs get together, it usually yields between four to six new adorable puppies. But I would guess that Nazis have to yell at hundreds of a very specific type of people to yield one potential Nazi recruit.
The ongoing propagation of Nazis is simply unsustainable.
I hope that helps you sleep better tonight. I know it helps me.

This is perfect; perfectly awful

I know sometimes.. okay, maybe a lot of times... it seems like I'm just boiling over with sheer, unbridled hatred, but that's honestly not the case. More often than not, I'm complaining about things that are, at most, a pain in the ass. Relatively minor inconveniences that really don't matter much that I try to exaggerate for (hopefully comic) effect. But if there's one thing I can say that I truly, truly hate, it's a lack of courtesy fueled by an inflated sense of entitlement. I'm talking about those people who equate freedom with being able to do whatever they want, whenever they want, with absolutely no consideration for how it might impact someone else.
A perfect example of this occurred last Wednesday while I was sitting in a Panera Bread. That's when I Tweeted this photo:

"This woman simply does not care if you trip and kill yourself"

In case you can't quite tell, this woman is on her laptop which is plugged into the wall with a cord that she stretched over a chair and across an aisle into an outlet on the wall. Here's a shot of the cord:

After the Tweet, a friend of mine asked, "did you say something to her?". I didn't see the point after stepping carefully over the cord and she smirked at me and said, "sorry!" in that pinched, smarmy, "I'm trying to be cute" way that never, ever is. This wasn't someone who had carelessly created a dangerous situation accidentally and unintentionally by not thinking about it, the kind of mistake to which all of us are prone. This was someone who wanted to sit there and plug her computer into that outlet and while I'm sure I hope she didn't want anyone to hurt themselves, well, that wasn't really her problem, was it? In other words, she's an aggressively inconsiderate asshole, someone who will go out of their way to create a trip hazard in the middle of a crowded restaurant simply because that's something she wants to do. Why should the health and safety of other people infringe upon that? It flat-out pisses me off because it's not even senseless, it's totally thought-out. She had to have considered the possible consequences and simply chose to ignore them. Who does that? More importantly, why do we need them walking around and using up our water and oxygen when life is already hard and so many of us just want to get through it without losing our minds and in as few pieces as possible?

If I may invoke a scenario that people often use when they talk about the abuse of freedom, I'm pretty sure nobody who stormed the beach at Normandy did so with the idea that they were risking their lives and fighting for one citizen's right to make another plunge face-first into a sourdough bread bowl full of hot broccoli and cheese soup because they didn't want to waste their laptop battery while reading their email (whatever most of those things are, since they weren't invented until well after World War II was over).

I wish I had thought of tripping over it on my way out in a way that would bend the shit out of the prongs on the cord, rendering it useless. "Sorry!"

Yet another snag

Are you as sick of reading about this buying-a-house thing as I am of writing/thinking about it? Yeah, I doubt it. Sorry, but that simply isn't possible. But since this is all that's going on in my life, it's all I have to write about.

The latest SNAFU, and boy, is that acronym apt in this case, was Wednesday. My realtor Lori and I thought there was a chance we'd do the deal late Tuesday. When that didn't happen, we figured a slam dunk for Wednesday. Nope. I called the loan officer myself late that afternoon. No answer, so I left a message.

"Hi. This is Clark Brooks. Please call me back, as I would like firm answers to what is happening with my loan as well as what your company policy is in regard to dealing with customers in general."

He didn't return my call, so I tried again a half hour later.

"Hi. It's Clark Brooks again. Just to be clear, that wasn't the only phone call I plan to make. Since sitting back and trusting that somebody was doing something on my behalf has yielded exactly zero positive results, I'm abandoning that approach. So yeah, I'm now one of those customers. Please call me back so I don't have to call you again."

Fifteen minutes later, I called and he answered.

"Oh hey! I was just getting ready to call you!"
"Yeah, okay. Can you just give me a straight answer on what's happening?"
"Well, the underwriter is reviewing the termite inspection. After that, everything should be all set."
"How is that possible? The termite inspection was last Friday."
"The underwriter didn't get it until yesterday. Late yesterday."
"All right. One, that isn't my fault. Two, why does it take an entire day to process one document?"
"These things take time."
"I'm living in a hotel! You know who lives in hotels? Rock stars like Mick Jagger. Do you think I have Mick Jagger money? You've spent the last two months burrowing deep into my financial records' colon. You know I don't have Mick Jagger money."
I heard him chuckle.
"Is that funny to you? That's perfect. That's just perfect."
"I wasn't laughing at your situation. I thought you were making a joke..."
"You know how the banking industry has been taking a beating in terms of public opinion for the last few years? This is why; your blatant disregard for your customers. It borders on contempt. I'm bleeding money while you guys fart around with a termite inspection that's probably going to be out of date by the time this closes, at this rate, and you find humor in that! That brings you joy! How absolutely perfect."

He muttered something about trying to get me some extra money at closing for the inconvenience. I said, "just get it to closing, please" and hung up. At some point, I also told him that going forward, I would be extremely diligent about watching how my account was handled, in terms of posting payments and whatever other dealings I had with them. Because we're not partners, we're adversaries. I don't care what they think about me but they are not to be trusted. Not to paint with too broad of a brush, but bankers, especially loan processors, are baby-raping nazi pricks who should get a painful rectal venereal disease. In the eyeball.

I'm somewhat encouraged that I'm not the only one this happens to. I hate feeding my paranoia with validation. Below is a letter my friend wrote (I've anonymous-ed) when the bankers processing her mortgage became suspicious because she was moving out of a big house in a rural area to a small condo in downtown Tampa:

To Whom it May Concern:
The purpose of this letter is to inform you in detail of the numerous reasons why we feel it is in everyone’s best interest that we sell our 4 bedroom/2 bath home in Ruskin, Florida, in exchange for an 700 square foot, 1 bedroom condo in Downtown Tampa. You may find a move of this nature to be suspicious. You would not be alone, as many of my friends, our neighbors, and even my mother has questioned the sanity of such a move. In order to demonstrate the validity of such a decision, please consider the following:
• Ruskin is 33.2 miles from our studio. Downtown Tampa is 1.5.
• It costs us $1,000 in gas every year to travel, and requires 2 automobiles. Living in Downtown Tampa will cost an estimated $300 a year, and will require 1 automobile.
• The closest coffee shop from our current home is 10.7 miles away. The closest coffee shop from the condo is downstairs and to the left.
• We have a dog that loves to get out and romp around. The dog park across the street from the condo building in Tampa is huge and beautifully landscaped, and patronized by intellectual and engaging urban dwellers. The dog park down the street from our current home has some dirt, a guy named Roger, and a defecating duck that always seems to loiter around suspiciously.
• Our current home has 3 unused bedrooms as we have no children – and will never have children. It requires extensive time and resources to maintain – time and resources that prohibit us from traveling often. A 1 bedroom condo will allow us to travel freely without worrying who will cut the grass, while conveniently also offering a legitimate reason to tell our in-laws to get a hotel room when they visit.
These are just the highlights. I guarantee you that if I were to list out our entire grievances with living in an oversized home in the armpit of Hillsborough County, it would take more than a one page letter. Or you could just take the word of the NY Times that this is, in fact, a great decision and approve our loan: http://www.nytimes.com/2013/03/10/opinion/sunday/living-with-less-a-lot-less.html?smid=fb-share&_r=0 I hope this letter adequately addressed your concerns. Please let me move now.

I hate this picture

I hate this picture.
It's a huge waste of time to hate an object. As dumb and pointless as it is to hate people, it's at least twice as dumb to hate things. Because when you hate people, whether it's a single individual person or a whole group of individula persons, there's a possibility of inflicting some kind of emotional and/or psychological damage. That's not a good thing but at least you're accomplishing aomething. Things are immune to all of that because they lack the ability to care. Still, I hate this picture.
This whole buying-a-house thing is still not resolved and I'm living in a hotel room where this picture is the only decoration in the place. I've been spending virtually all of my time by myself locked up in that room, waiting for a call that doesn't come. The hotel is nice and the room itself is perfectly fine, but it has started to feel like a jail cell. When I'm there, the tv is on but I'm not really able to pay attention to what's on. I brought books but can't summon the level of concentration neccesary to be able to read them. Instead, I find myself listening to the same dozen thoughts, all tied to my current anxieties (How much longer is this going to last? What if it never ends? How am I going to pay for this? I miss my cats! etc.), cycling through my head. It's like having a radio that only gets one station that only plays ten different songs; after a while, you start thinking, "well, this is all the music there is". That's what happens when you're stuck. You lose perspective. Being aware of that isn't the cure for it either; it's very difficult to force yourself to adapt a different viewpoint. Pointing out an inability to see the forest for the trees is not going to help anyone whose face has been stapled to a tree.
What I'm saying is I know my persepctive is skewed and I'm pretty sure I've started going a little nuts. And through it all, I find myself staring at this one picture.
Man, I hate this picture.

Louisville Sluggers and Old Lace

Last Thursday, I went to Inkwood Books (Tampa's best independent bookstore) to talk about my book. A RELEVANT ASIDE: The management at Inkwood is to be commended for their support of local independent authors. It's great to not only walk into a real live bookstore and see something you wrote on the shelves but their SelfPub Club gives writers like me a forum to promote ourselves. I couldn't be more appreciative.
Anywho, I was on the way there and stopped at a nearby Wendy's for a quick bite and to get my talking points organized in my head. I wanted to talk about how I write observations on things that happen around me and how I try to find the inherent absurdity that exists in the ugly, dumb, mean, cruel, arbitrarily disheartening crap we all have to deal with.
Now, we all profile other people. We may not do it with malice and hatred in our hearts but we all have our prejudices. Whether it's subconsciously or otherwise, these prejudices influence our comfort levels around other people. This was how I came to sit near the two sweet little old (white) ladies in the picture. Not that I was necessarily afraid of the two black guys sitting together or the three rowdy teenagers with multiple parts of their heads pierced; I just felt more comfortable sitting near the ladies that looked like my mom. Until I overheard their table conversation, and I swear to God this is true...

"You know you can't kill someone with a single blow from a softball bat."
"Of course you can. If it was an aluminum bat."
"I'm assuming it would be an aluminum bat. But I'm thinking the first blow would only crack his skull, maybe send him into convulsions."
"You're probably right. That's why it always takes 16 or 17 times, to finish them off."

I finished my baked potato and got the hell out of there. I probably should have thanked them for giving me a perfect illustration of what I planned to talk about but I didn't want to interrupt.

Not so fast, would-be homeowner boy

Long story short, I didn't close on Wednesday, or yesterday (Thursday), for that matter. Hopefully, I am doing that as you're reading this. That's the tentative plan, anyway.
It's remarkable how much I am a person who is defined by setbacks like this. I don't mean catastrophic occurrences like disease and death and dismemberment. I know I'm fortunate to have side-stepped anything in that regard so far. I mean in areas where a normal person should be able to follow steps from A to B to C and end up at D. I simply can't seem to do that without detouring into E, J, M and Y. It took me longer than normal to learn to tie my shoes and ride a bike. I almost missed my deployment to Germany while I was in the army because my paperwork got jacked up. The book took almost a year longer to get published than I wanted. Now, apparently, I can't just buy a house and move into it. Sure, sometimes that's funny and gives me stuff to write about. But I don't need to take the scenic route every time, do I? And sure, it was interesting to learn that my employer had me under the wrong social security number for the last two years for some reason, but I could have done without that step and the messes it has caused.
I hate to sound like I'm complaining. Like I said, in light of how things could always be worse, this stuff just boils down to pains in the ass. And I'm really NOT complaining, just more like remarking with amazement. I am the sum total of a seemingly endless series of mistakes, accidents and screw-ups.
Still, if I may whine just a little, I'd really like to go home soon, so I can stop staring at this for hours every night:

"I'm not dead"

My ex-neighbor at the apartment complex I just left was an older German man that I called Horst. We were friendly in the way that neighbors who share a common staircase should be friendly but we weren't really close. Just small talk on the way up or down those stairs, That kind of thing, We got along just fine.

Relevant to this story, I'm embarrassed by my stuff. I own a lot of toys and sports memorabilia and assorted silly things that I like but can't justify owning beyond my own personal preferences. Not that I need to justify that to anyone but  I'm a little self-conscious about things I shouldn't be. In seven years, I had company over very few times. It's just one of my delightful hang-ups. Because of this, I made up a story for the benefit of the movers who came over last weekend, two guys I was paying to do a job who don't know me and I would never see again and who could probably care less. These are the people to whom it was very important to present a cool front. What I told them was it was my brother's apartment. He just died and on behalf of my family, I flew into town with the task to taking care of his stuff. I made up a brother and faked my own death through him for the purpose of proving to guys who see people in terms of cardboard boxes that I wasn't some pathetic nerd.

"Yeah, I have no idea what half this crap even is. Be very careful with that one."

Over the course of the afternoon, they made several trips up and downstairs. I stayed in the apartment, directing. At one point, I heard Horst come out of his apartment and he spoke to one of the movers.

HORST: "Moving some things out, eh?"
MOVER: "Yep. Moving everything out."
HORST: "Where is the owner?"
MOVER: "He died."
ME (to myself): "Uh-oh."

I hid inside and Horst went on his way. About an hour later, the movers finished up and left. I hung back a few minutes to make sure they got everything. When I left, I got to the top of the stairs and saw Horst halfway up.

HORST: "You're alive!"
ME: "Um. Yep."
HORST: "Those men, they said you were dead."
ME: "What? They did? I'm not dead. That's nutty, huh?"

Horst looked concerned. "They took your things. Is everything okay?", he asked. I told him, "Oh yeah. Everything is fine. I'm just moving out, that's all. Those guys are working for me today." "Moving out?", he asked. "But why?" He seemed troubled. He had no idea I wanted out. I put a hand gently on his shoulder and said, "Because, Horst", I said. "Because this place sucks balls." He still looked confused and said, "My name is not Horst."
I'm going to miss him.

Honey, I'm (almost) home!

Hi.
First off, I'm almost entirely 100% back and more than 100% glad to be so. I've missed this. I'm not planning on going away again any time soon. So sit back and relax. New and (hopefully) fun stuff to follow! Today, just to tie up loose ends and get back into the swing of things, I'll answer questions for those who have them. The beauty of this is, if you don't have any questions you don't have to read any more! Hurray! Go on and enjoy your day. Hopefully, it's lovely outside. If you want to stick around, here we go...

WHY WAS I GONE and WHERE WAS I? Okay, for those who care or feel they need to know, the reason I was away is because I'm buying a house and moving into it. Things deteriorated quickly between me and the management company at my apartment complex and a mutual decision was reached for me to get the eff out. I have military benefits that allow me access to VA loans and it's kind of stupid to spend money on rent and it was time to do something so I did. This required a quick turnaround and Lori, my realtor, jumped through some serious hoops on my behalf, for which I am extremely appreciative. She was able to help me find a place, work out a deal and get it closed in just over a month. However, I had to be out of the apartment on August 31 and I'm not scheduled to close until Wednesday, September 11th. This resulted in moving all my crap into the house (a generous and unusual concession by the seller negotiated by Lori, for which I am also grateful), while boarding my cats and sleeping in a cheap hotel for over a week. Between having a ton of stuff to do (I've also worked full-time throughout) and crappy wifi at the hotel, I just couldn't be around like usual. More to come but now at least you have an answer to the question of my absence. Most importantly, for the first time in a very long time, I feel like I will have a home soon. Part of that, believe it or not, is writing this blog. So yeah, pretty good.


WHY DIDN'T I JUST KEEP WRITING AND KEEP UP WITH EVERYTHING? Didn't you read what I just wrote? Or were you outside, enjoying the lovely day and decided to come back? That's fine but don't make a habit of it; going in and out like that plays havoc with the A/C, you know. Like I said,  the wifi at the hotel where I'm staying stinks. It's simply been a matter of not being able to get on line.

WHY DIDN'T I SAY SOMETHING? There are a lot of wonderful, kind people out there. I know some of them. You might be one of them. A lot of those wonderful, kind people are crazy. You might be one of them. Of the very, very, very few people I told (less than five of 'em), every single one of them offered me a place to crash or at least assistance in finding a place. However, I'm not good at accepting help or being cared for/about. Another example why it's a good thing I don't have children is that if they ever put me in a nursing home, I would be an awful patient and ultimately a huge waste of money for the kiddos. Before you say anything, I'm aware that's not good or anything to be proud of. Still, for better or worse (in this case, admittedly worse), it's how I'm wired. It's probably a combination of my upbringing and a million little incidents over the years that make me like this. At any rate, offers of assistance make me uncomfortable. Not because of any misconceptions about weakness really but because I feel like I'm imposing. Even when people insist otherwise, I know that stepping outside of their normal routine to accommodate me is not anybody's favorite thing to do. Also, let me be totally honest about it, I just didn't want any help. But wonderful, kind people are persistent and offers of assistance quickly turn into INSISTENCE. When that happens, it becomes extremely difficult to decline gracefully without it turning into a whole awkward, impolite thing.

WIFE: "You can stay in the baby's room. It's not like we're using it. Hope you don't mind pictures of adorable baby bunnies and ducklings painted on the wall. Ha ha!"
ME: "Baby's room? I didn't know you guys ever had kids."
HUSBAND: "(Softly, eyes cast downward) We didn't."

Eww. Between that and sleeping in the bed somebody's grandmother died in and their weird-smelling food and their in-jokes and unspoken expectations of me pitching in with some of the household chores and their fights. Oh God, the fights...

HUSBAND: "Here we go. You're going to bring this up again? Now??"
WIFE: "I'm going to bring it up until you decide to do something about it!"
ME: "Should I leave? I didn't want to be here in the first place. It would be very easy for me to leave."
HUSBAND: "No, stay. She's just dying to share with someone else about how I'm the worst person in the world who never does anything right!"
ME: "(Very quietly) Oh goody."

I was trying to limit that kind of activity to a manageable level (none) and the best way to do that was not to say anything.
Anyway, I think that brings us up to date. If you have any other questions, ask.

Officially "off the grid". For now.

Okay, here it is. This journey or whatever it is I've been on lately (there is some travel involved, so why not call it a journey?) is nearing an end, a successful one, I'm happy to say. Unfortunately, this is the most difficult part of that journey and as of right now, I'm really, REALLY out of circulation. No phone, no text messages, no Facebook, no Twitter, no television, no radio, no nothin'. I mean gone as in GONE. This, naturally, also means no posts here of any kind (brief pause for you to cheer or boo, whatever feels right for you). But more important than announcing my absence is re-iterating my promise that I will be back, sooner than later. I WILL BE BACK! When? Can't say but trust me, you will know. And when it happens, I'm bringing good stuff. Better stuff. Really good stuff. I'll go so far as to say it will be THE BEST stuff, which is probably a huge error in judgment on my part, but yeah, it'll be pretty good.

This happened yesterday

I'm moving out of my apartment on Sunday. I don't exactly know when I'm moving into my new home. As a result, there's going to be a gap and I will, for all intents and purposes be homeless. This is strictly a descriptive term. I'm not homeless like most people who are homeless in that I have prospects, I have a place to go (eventually), I have hope. In my case, it's not a big deal. It's, at worst, a pain in the ass. Temporary, at that. Seriously. It's going to work out and I will be fine. Still, there's upheaval and a certain measure of uncertainty (I have no idea where I'm sleeping Sunday night; Tampa has some lovely parks) and it's stressing me. That's the background. Now, here's what happened yesterday. I left work at 5:30 to go to my other job less than two miles away. I hadn't had lunch and I needed to be there by 6:30, so I had an hour to get something to eat and get to work. However, downtown Tampa being what it is (a fucking nightmare in terms of access in, out or around), traffic was snarled due to Kennedy Boulevard, the busiest east-west street in downtown, being closed to one lane for construction. The hour I had to get something to eat between my two jobs that are less than two miles apart evaporated quickly. I had wanted to get something good to eat and a bottle of water at the grocery store. Instead, I settled for ordering a stupid hamburger and a Coke at a fast food place. I ordered and as I moved up in line, some guy stuck his big, dumb, fat face in my window. "Excuse me, sir..." I was not in the mood to be panhandled, mainly because I am never in the mood to be panhandled, and I told him, truthfully, by the way, "I have no cash". He said, "I don't want money. I want food. Will you buy me some food?" Timing is everything, you know. And the timing of this request is worthy of note in that I had already ordered my food and the dominant thought in my head right now is that I am on the verge of not having a place to live. I snapped. I paid for my food and shoved the bag at him. "HERE! TAKE IT! WHY NOT? ANYBODY ELSE? IS THERE ANYTHING ELSE I CAN DO FOR ANYBODY WHILE WE'RE AT IT?" He took the food and backed away slowly, staring at me. "You know, I don't know where I'm going to live in a few days", I told him. "Who do you think is going to step up and give ME something, huh? When is it MY turn to cash in?" He said, "Somebody will". "Somebody?", I yelled back incredulously. "Who? You? Where's mine, goddamn it??" He just backed away slowly and I drove off. As a result, I felt terrible for being a big, fat, still relatively well-off, entitled asshole who yelled at somebody who was hungry and whose circumstances were undoubtedly more dire than mine. I felt terrible for just giving away the meal that I'd paid for, having gone without lunch and now dinner. I felt generally terrible for all this crap piling up and causing me to lose my shit. Still, and I know this doesn't make me a good person, when I was going off, that felt GREAT! For a few seconds there, I felt all the pressure and stress releasing and that was fantastic. Sure, almost immediately I felt like the biggest piece of shit on the planet, and I still have all the problems I did before. But for a minute there? Wow! I've never smoked crack but if it's anything like that, I totally get the appeal now. For what it's worth, if anybody's worried that I didn't receive sufficient karmic payback for that outburst, my day ended with a Philadelphia Flyers fan sending me bible verses via Twitter. I think that makes me even.

Take me home

I need a home.
I'm not homeless in the classic sense. There's a place with a roof and walls where I can sleep and store my stuff. I know this puts me ahead of the curve relative to people who have real homeless troubles, so I feel bad complaining. But because I'm no longer comfortable there, I feel... displaced. And that's a pretty significant source of stress right now, manifesting itself in digestive issues lack-of-rest issues.Everybody deserves a true home.
I used to love where I live, an older apartment complex north of Raymond James Stadium. It wasn't the nicest place when I moved in but the people who worked there were cool and committed to doing the best they could. One time, my water heater sprung a leak at five in the morning on a Sunday. As I sat on the floor catching the boiling hot water spraying out with a bucket, I called the emergency number and pictured myself in that situation for hours, possibly all day. To my surprise, the on-call maintenance guy was there within a half hour and I was actually able to go back to bed by 6:30. That really impressed me. So in spite of little inconveniences like being robbed at gunpoint, I was happy there. In a lot of ways, it takes very little to make me happy. In the case of where I live, I really don't want much more than privacy. I had that and that was enough. But something has changed and things have deteriorated. Now the management lacks regard in terms of the privacy of their residents. Now I'm unhappy. Here's a recent example.

Last Thursday, I got a call at work from the property manager's office.

MANAGER: There's a problem and we need to go into your apartment.
ME: Oh crap. What is it?
MANAGER: There's a water leak in the apartment below yours.
ME: Oh. Well, I can probably be there in about a hlf hour...
MANAGER: We're going in now. We're just calling to let you know.
ME: Oh.
(CLICK)

I wasn't thrilled but an emergency is an emergency, I guess. I came home that night and found that everything had been pulled out of my bedroom closet and strewn around the bedroom. There was a hole in the wall at the back of the closet. That's not cool on a number of fronts and I went to bed angry.
The next morning, I woke up with someone simultaneously banging on my front door and ringing the doorbell. DingDongBANGBANGBANGDingDong. It was the maintenance man. Because I don't know his name, we'll call him Rudy. For all I know, that is his name, He wears a work shirt with a big R on the breast. That could be the logo of the property management company but I don't know for sure. I guess what I'm saying is I don't know for sure that it doesn't stand for 'RAPIST'. But he is rude so let's go with Rudy.
Okay.
I answer the door and Rudy is standing there with a plumber.

ME: Yes?
RUDY: There was a leak in the apartment below, coming from the ceiling. We couldn't find where it was coming from. So it must be something you're doing.

This is perfectly reasonable in the same way that I don't know what 17 X 63 is without sitting down and doing the work to figure it out, but I'm not going top do that so I'll just say the answer is 'BUNNY RABBIT'.

ME: I don't know what I could be doing wrong; I've been taking showers in this apartment every day for the last seven years and I generally do it the same way every time.
RUDY: You need to make sure the shower curtain stays inside the tub and the water doesn't run out on to the floor.
ME: Yep, that's how I do it. I'm going to take a shower in about 45 minutes. You're welcome tto come back and check when I'm done.
RUDY: Yeah, well, this was very expensive and if the problem continues, we're going to send the bills to you.
ME: Uh huh. Good luck with that.

I closed the door. I hadn't planned on being in a bad mood that day but sometimes other people make plans for you without your consent.
I was in an even worse mood when I came home that night and saw this note taped to my door:

"We caulk around the tub & install splash guard. Please let dry for 8 hrs"

I hadn't received a call in advance. They just came in and made alterations to my bathroom, including the installation of a new shower head that sends maybe 30% of the water through the shower head while the rest continues to pour from the bathtub spigot The result is less a shower and more like having someone spill a little bit of water on you.
Good work, Rudy. Take the rest of the day off and go celebrate at Applebys. This is in addition to my truck being broken into and my air conditioning not working.

Back to school

No, not me.
In my case, it's probably safe to assume I've learned everything I ever will at this point. I'm not saying I know everything; I'm saying the part of my brain that is supposed to pick up and process new information probably shriveled up, died and fell out of my earhole.

But in terms of other people, it seems like everybody I know has kids going back to school this week, either grade school or college. And the small handful to whom that doesn't apply are teachers, so they're on the receiving end. My friend Marissa wrote this wonderful article on her blog.
She sums up the bittersweet situation with this:

"Emotionally letting go of our kids is painful. The process begins from the moment we hear their first cry."   

Once again, my not having children is endorsed as a solid plan. Because here's me as a father holding his newborn child for the first time...

Wait a minute. What was that? Did you hear that? It made a noise. Sounded like crying. Not cool! Good thing we're still here at the hospital. Let's get that fixed while we're here, okay? Huh? It is? Well, how often is that going to happen? What?? Seriously?! And what in the world is that smell?!?

So here's to all of you dealing with the wee ones tryin' to get their learn on and here's to me not being a participant at any level of that madness.

My friend Rob and the "Oklahoma!" story

I know a lot of very funny people but nobody on earth makes me laugh like my friend Rob Gander. 

He and I are similarly wired in a lot of ways but also different enough to keep the relationship interesting. Rob's a theater guy. I like to think I am, but I'm really not. I can recognize something by Neil Simon or somebody trying to be Neil Simon but that's about it. Rob knows about Sartre and Jacques Brel and all kinds of other stuff that makes my head hurt. I met him when I lived in Sarasota and got involved with a local theater company, Theatreworks. He was directing "Bleacher Bums", the play about Chicago Cubs fans. I auditioned and was cast and Rob and I hit it off immediately, in spite of my increasingly exaggerated re-telling of our first meeting:

WHAT REALLY HAPPENED
ROB: Thanks for coming in. We'll announce the cast after tomorrow's auditions.
ME: Great. Can I come back tomorrow?
ROB: Sure.

HOW I RE-TELL IT
ROB: Thanks for coming in. We'll announce the cast after tomorrow's auditions.
ME: Great. Can I come back tomorrow.
ROB: I guess. If you want. I mean, there's no point but it's open to the public so I can't legally keep you from coming in. So yeah, the short answer is yes. If it were me, I wouldn't bother, but hey. Sure.

He and his wife Melody, whom I have seen in her underwear because we were in a show ("Grease") together, now live in Nevada where Rob is a college professor teaching theater. Sometimes I call him and say something like, "So Dr. Gander. Once again what was briefly yours is now mine. Ha ha ha ha!" or I ask him about all the hot co-eds in his class. This is because my knowledge of what college professors do is informed entirely by movies, specifically the Indiana Jones saga and "National Lampoon's Animal House".And then we complain about our lives and catch up on terrible things that we find funny.

The other day, I remembered one of my favorite Rob memories, which I'd like to share with you now.

As I mentioned, Rob is a theater guy. That doesn't mean he loves everything about it though. Quite the contrary. There are many, many aspects of it that he despises. I was still married at this time and I don't remember how or why but our wives wanted to go see a local production of "Oklahoma!" at the Golden Apple Dinner Theatre. Rob was not a fan of any of the last ten words in that previous sentence. Yet another re-telling of corny old material by performers of varying degrees of proficiency spread out over two plus hours in what might as well have been a rest home cafeteria (on average, the typical Golden Apple Dinner Theatre patron was about 135 years old) is something theater people have to do from time to time because that kind of thing sells tickets. But most of them hate it at least a little bit. In Rob's case, he hates it so much that I believe it physically hurts him. As such, he would never willingly subject himself to a production of "Oklahoma!" unless he had to. He might begrudgingly present the show as a means of keeping the light bill paid but he definitely would not buy a ticket and watch it on what would otherwise be a perfectly good night to do absolutely anything else in the whole world. However, as spouses all have to do from time to time, he eventually resolved to suck it up and be a team player.

MELODY: Come on, it will be fun!
ROB: No. No it won't. It'll be awful and long and terrible.
ME (purely instigating): It's a western! How can it not be awesome?
ROB: If anything, it's a mid-western, which is very true to life because nothing interesting happens in it, ever. (NOTE: Rob grew up in Wisconsin and I'm from Michigan)
DEBBIE (my wife, totally sincere): I really want to see it.
MELODY: Some of our friends are in the cast.
ROB: Those people are not my friends.
MELODY: Since when?
ROB: Since they were cast in "Oklahoma!"
MELODY: ...
ROB: Fine. I'll go. Sure. It will be great.

I knew with just the gentlest of prodding that I could get him to abandon that attitude, though. Our wives knew this too and made sure to keep us separated by sitting between us. We ate dinner, which I don't remember but I'm sure featured an entree of the 'creamed' variety. Rob was managing to stay on his best behavior though, and I remember being kind of proud of him, in spite of how much I wanted to instigate activity that would get us both in trouble for weeks. "Wow", I remember thinking. "He's actually going to get through this." 

Then the house lights went out. The stage lights came up and an actor offstage launched into "Oh What a Beautiful Morning", That's when I heard Rob let out an exasperated and disgusted "auuugh", His resolve had lasted exactly two syllables into the first line of the opening song. He had made it as far as "There's a" and melted down before "bright, golden haze on the meadow" before being utterly defeated by life. Meanwhile, I nearly ruptured myself in trying not to laugh.

Man, I miss that guy.

Here's something

She loves me.

Hi. How are you? Are you guys okay? I'm worried about you in my semi-absence. Are you getting enough sleep at night? How's your situation with what's-his/her-name? Everything all right? These are the things I worry about.
Mostly I worry that you're going to wander off because I'm giving you pretty much nuthin'.
So here's somethin'.
Sure, it's a re-run but it's from a long time ago and it's entirely possible you never saw it or forgot about it.
It's a tribute video to our old pal Lynne Austin. She's so funny that she's not even in this video (aside from a couple of stills) and she's still hilarious.
So please enjoy
A Pilgrimage To Hooters
And get some rest, will you please?

I really believe this is the best acting I've ever done.

Forecast: Continued inconsistency

Sorry the posting has been so sporadic but I did kind of warn you. Unfortunately, that's going to still be the case for a little while longer. I promise* that things will settle down eventually and things will return to normal. Sooner than later, hopefully (prospects are relatively promising!). Until then, whenever "then" is, I'll post when I can but the only promise I can make is no promises. Look at it this way; the blog is simply living up (down?) to its toothsome title.

If you really, really need a Clark fix, I'll continue to appear on the Spike On The Mic Show every Monday night at 7pm. And those are lots of fun.
If you really don't need a Clark fix, and I don't blame you, just keep coming here while I'm not posting on the regular. Or go somewhere else, for that matter. I hear Pennsylvania is nice in the summertime. It doesn't matter to me. Get out. Pack your shit and go already. Who needs you?

Just kidding. Don't leave me, baby. I love you.


* = All promises are null and void in the event that I am run over by some kind of farm machinery or meet any otherwise untimely and unpleasant demise. Please don't sue my estate.

Nobody I know doesn't speak English!

You know, it's really not such a small world after all. I came to this conclusion recently when I realized that every person I know speaks English. Some of them speak other languages too, but every single person I know speaks at least a little bit of English.

I know English is the world's dominant language (air traffic controllers everywhere are required to use it on the job) but there are still lots places out there where people don't speak it. There are literally a couple of other languages and that's what those people speak instead. And I don't know none of 'em. That means that right this minute in some village in the Sudan, nobody is thinking, "Hey, I wonder how Clark is doing?". Nobody in Sri Lanka wants to email me a picture of a kitty. Not one person in Cechnya is concerned about what's on my mind and how they can make my life better. This, in spite of the fact that I rarely turn down Facebook friend requests and I accept any and all challenges in "Words With Friends".

What the hell is wrong with the world?