That's Okay [Why Wouldn't it Be?]

I’ve been debating about this web site for days, partly because it costs money, and partly because I’m disappointed in the performance.  It’s been around for quite some time, and I’ve tried several different methods of presenting material here, but the problem is that my statistics still really don’t warrant putting any effort into it anymore.  I tried blogging using social networking sites, and that worked to some degree, but they’re such a pain in the ass that I had to close them down.  I also tried joining some of these blogging networks, but (for the most part) all I found was a bunch of crappy advertising and blogs that were written in broken English and were full of pictures of naked people.  I like naked people, don’t get me wrong, but I hate it when people leverage them just to get attention because they can’t find any other way to do it.

I had this delusion that just a well-written, entertaining (although admittedly crude at times) blog would be enough.  It’s not.  I don’t think I’m anything special, but I did think that I could do better than this.  I know that I said that I can’t stand to fail, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t.  I think this is a failure.  I think I’m okay with it, though.  I was thinking that maybe I’m okay with eating generic fig bars and watching Buffy DVDs instead of wasting any more effort here.  There are over 10,000 new blogs every day and most of them are full of crap.  I’m full of crap, too, but at least I’m willing to admit it.  I don’t have the stones to try to keep up with the competition these days.

Anyhow, I’ll make another post before I go and let you know what I decide.  I know that I’ve been in this space before, but it’s been for much more emotional reasons.  This is about rational thought and directing my attentions elsewhere.  In the meantime, keep your feet forward and your ass covered.  It’s the American way.

Love,
C-

This blog goes out to these special NAU students: Raul, Brandon, Andy, and Michael.  You guys are eventually going to find out that you need my advice more often than you think.  Of course, my daughter didn’t actually say that, but I figure that almost everyone needs my advice and you are no exception.  Therefore, pay attention and I will dedicate myself to helping you as much as I can.  If that doesn’t work, I will donate myself to science.  Either way, someone will get something.  Experience like mine is difficult to come by, so I have to make use of it while I can.

Just to get things off on an educational note, here’s a passage from Machiavelli:

“I say at once there are fewer difficulties in holding hereditary states, and those long accustomed to the family of their prince, than new ones; for it is sufficient only not to transgress the customs of his ancestors, and to deal prudently with circumstances as they arise, for a prince of average powers to maintain himself in his state, unless he be deprived of it by some extraordinary and excessive force; and if he should be so deprived of it, whenever anything sinister happens to the usurper, he will regain it.”

Now, do you know what that means?  Really?  Seriously, if you do, please tell me, because I have no friggin’ idea what this guy is talking about.  Wait…did I even take philosophy?  Geez, that is one long-ass sentence, and it has all those semicolons in it.  Personally, I try to stay away from semicolons if I can, mostly because they freak me out.  They’re unnatural.  Punctuation shouldn’t be stacked up like that.  Who’s in charge of this shit, anyhow?

That brings me to my next point, but I don’t know exactly how, because I didn’t segue worth a crap.  I never do.  Listen up, though, because this is important.  Stay in school, don’t drink…too much, and for Goddess’ sake don’t take mind-altering chemicals.  They do things to your brain that I can’t even begin to…look!  A dragonfly!  What?  Who ate my chicken?  Hey!  Where’s my other sock?  What the hell was…did you see her boo…is that a rubber on your…golly, where was I?  Oh, yeah…advice.  See how qualified I am for this?  You’re lucky to have me.

Normally, I would save this kind of stuff for people that are probably already fucked up.  Since you gentlemen all come so highly recommended, though, and have been described as possessing an elevated level of intelligence (which is extremely rare these days…have you watched the news?  You did?  Stop it, stupid.  Now.  That’s worse than drugs.), I’m going to give you the crash course in advance.  I want to make sure that you stay on the right path, y’know?

College life is…oh, crap, I don’t know.  I can’t be a hypocrite, or I won’t be able to sleep.  Frankly, I was so drunk that I was still living there four months after they kicked me out because I kept forgetting that I got kicked out.  As a result, you need to do as I say and not as I did (we learn stuff like that in parenting school, which is why we have all of these trite little sayings).  Before making any rash decisions, and delving into something that may catch you unawares, or if there is any question in your mind as to whether you have the potential to be a complete idiot, I have devised the following qualification exam to help you determine whether the possibility exists that you may become completely dysfunctional and end up as a burden to society.  Remember, the first step to understanding any personal shortcomings is admitting that you could be a moron.  I’m not saying you are; I’m just looking for early warning signs.  Oh, hell.  I used a semicolon.  This can only go downhill from here.

The following questions must be answered with brutal honesty.  Only then will you be able to reach out from behind the veil of shadows and find the guide that illuminates your path in life.  Don’t get scared.  This is just designed to ensure that you don’t constrain yourself with things like alcoholism and addiction until you become successful.  After that, you can screw up all you like as long as you can afford the lawyers.  Try to leave that up to the football players if you can, though.  For some reason, those idiots keep getting their old jobs back no matter what they do.  I don’t know why.

Now, these are very serious matters, and should not to be taken lightly, unless you’re like me and you’ve come to a point in life where you can pretty much make fun of anything and not feel guilty, even if it’s just a fat guy with a box of donuts (I knew I shouldn’t have eaten all of those donuts).  It’s great, I tell you!  I figure that, when there’s nothing left to lose, turn out all of the lights and laugh your ass off.  In the meantime, take this quiz, check your answers, and give yourself an honest evaluation at the end.  If you come out smelling like a rose, then I’ll give you the other quiz that is designed for guys that smell like flowers (not that there’s anything wrong with that).

1.  Have you ever woken up naked under a light pole in a parking lot with a stray dog?

1. Yes, but it was a blind date
2. Yes, but it really was the first time I ever tried tequila
3. No, there was no dog
4. Define “stray”
5. I like dogs

2.  Have you ever had difficulty choosing between bourbon and vodka for breakfast?

1. No, I just eat Cocoa Puffs®
2. Yes, I have trouble making any decisions until after my first beer
3. No, I just smoke a fatty and watch Sponge Bob
4. Define “difficulty”
5. Is it still considered breakfast if I don’t get out of bed until 3:00 p.m.?

3.  Do you consider malt liquor an actual beverage?

1. Is that the stuff with the pirate on the label?
2. Hey, it tastes better by the third bottle
3. That depends on how much money I have
4. Define “beverage”
5. Do you remember Billy Dee Williams?

4.  Do you know more than your pharmacist?

1. Are those the guys that make you turn your head and cough, because…ew?
2. Pharmacist?  I thought Skip was a crack-dealer
3. I use the Internet now that Grandma is dead
4. Define “more”
5. Look…a blue pill

5.  Have you ever suffered legal repercussions from drinking or taking drugs?

1. No, but I once got pulled over for waving at people with a plastic penis.  The cop let me off with a warning…but he confiscated the penis.  Weirdo.
2. No, I’m an actor.  However, I have been in rehab 17 times
3. No, my lawyer is also my drug-dealer
4. Define “legal”
5. I’m wearing women’s underpants

6.  Have you ever done something you regret while under the influence of alcohol or drugs?

1. No, but one time I ate too many Twinkies, drank 6 Liters of Mountain Dew, and then played Starcraft for 47 hours straight
2. Well, there was the thing with the gerbil
3. Does having sex with a girls’ field hockey team count?  I swear at least one of them was somewhat feminine.  Or was that me?
4. Define “regret”
5. I took a phone survey once…it was about cats

7.  Do you feel like you need drugs or alcohol to function on a daily basis?

1. Actually, if I don’t have something from Starbucks and a vitamin shaped like a dinosaur, I’m just not myself
2. No, I don’t “need” them.  I just choose to feed these awful cravings.
3. No, unless I leave the house for some reason
4. Define “function”
5. I’m out of orange Kool-Aid®

8.  Have you ever gotten drunk at a strip club and actually thought the dancer was interested in you and not your money?

1. I’m not old enough to get into strip clubs.  I just use the internet and whack-off into a sock.
2. Sniff…I thought she loved me
3. No, but I’ll stab someone famous for the adoration of Scarlet Johansson
4. Define “interested”
5. They towed my car

9.  Have you ever felt compelled to commit unnatural acts of violence while under the influence of drugs or alcohol?

1. I once strapped a missile launcher to the hood of my car, but the recoil blew out the windshield and I almost lost an eye.  However, it was just because I was feeling creative, and no booze/drugs were involved.
2. Only on Mondays…and Tuesdays…and Wednesdays…and…shit…yes
3. I have the right to remain silent…anything I say can be used against me in a court of law…
4. Define “unnatural”
5. I chopped off my toe with a shovel

10.  Are you depressed, suicidal, or suffering from any mental maladies due to your drug and/or alcohol usage?

1. I love school.  School sucks.  I love school.  School sucks.  I’m sensing a pattern here, but I’m still sober.
2. Life sucks
3. Life sucks
4. Define “mental”
5. I’m still wearing women’s underpants

Score Yourself

1. If you chose “A” for most of the questions: Good job!  You may be in trouble later, but you’re currently on the right path.  Don’t change a thing (well, shower once in a while, and put on new skivvies).
2. If you chose “B” for most of the questions: Look up “delusional” in the dictionary, and then call your mom.
3. If you chose “C” for most of the questions: Look up “sociopath” in any psychology book with the words “Modern” and/or “Abnormal” in the title, and then go see the school counselor.  Now.  Hurry.
4. If you chose “D” for most of the questions: Look up “rationalization” and “denial” in the dictionary, and then go back to whatever it was you were doing.  You’re never going to listen to me, but I’ll give you a dollar when I see you on the street corner…maybe.
5. If you chose “E” for most of the questions: Look up “I’m Completely Insane” in the Yellow Pages.  You won’t find it in there, but you won’t care.  Just call somebody…anybody…and then call them again.  Call NASA.  Call the White House.  Call your Congressman.  Call some guy named Bob.  Eventually, strange people dressed in white will show up at your house in a van, and they will take you to a nice place, give you lots of pretty pills, and let you watch cartoons.

Obviously, I hope this has proven to be valuable, as I sincerely want to contribute to your success.  If you do have any trouble with this quiz, contact my complaint department at sarahpalin.gov.  Of course, you can always email me at craig@thatsokay.com, and I will do my level best to ignore you until I feel guilty.  This usually takes less than a day, because I am vain and egotistical and cannot stand to fail.  Besides, I don’t have any friends, so I have nothing better to do.

As usual, with love,
C-

I’ve been away at a funeral for the past six days, and I’m in a strange, colorless mood at the moment, so I’m inclined to pause at this impasse for a bit.  While it may not always be noticeable, there is a certain standard that I like to maintain for my blog, and I usually like to work with an element of humor.  The problem is that I don’t feel funny, at least not in that respect.  If you count the warbling in my head that only I can hear, then that statement is not entirely true.

Don’t get me wrong.  I currently have a diatribe festering in my mind that would peel the paint right off of your walls.  It’s been growing for the last few days like a mutant turnip in a nuclear waste dump, and I would absolutely love to spew it dramatically all over the interwebz.  However, I’m not going to, as I don’t want to put in the kind of effort that is required by that type of brutally honest material, especially since I don’t have the audience for it, and I’m sure I would offend someone.  I certainly do appreciate the people that I do have, but I’m really not making much of a dent in the virtual web-shield.  I guess my metaphorical laser pistol doesn’t have enough punch.

I did want to let everyone know that I didn’t go away, and that I’m not going to go away, and that I’m sure I’ll be able to move forward as soon as the fog dissipates.  I just think life ought to have a little seasoning, as well as some kicks and giggles, and I don’t want to lose sight of that.  In the meantime, do me a favor and smile at someone today for no apparent reason.  You’ll either make their day, or they’ll call 911 and complain about strange people that look happy, but they don’t know why, and it’s freaking them out.

Love,
C-

He certainly is a Playboy…and he’s got the balls to prove it.  You’ll just have to take my word for it.

Okay, so she’s not THAT little, but she’s a pretty pussy.

What?  What did you think I was going to post?  I may stoop sometimes, but not low enough to publish pictures of naked people.  I have ethics…or is it AN ethic?  Yeah, maybe one.  Hee hee.

Love,
C-

P.S. Special thanks to Baylee and Mr. Bun-Bun (a.k.a. Captain Majestic).

What is a person called that twitters, anyhow?  A twitterer?  A tweeter?  A twat?  Oops.  My bad.  Anyhow, this is what I’m saving people from:

12:05am - Still trying to fall asleep.  Having strange fantasies about aprons and picture-framing.  Wondering if I…zzz

3:12am - Woke up to pee.  Peed.  Got out of bed first.  Thank Goddess for that.

6:05am - Woke up with a migraine and an erection.  Migraine is Nature’s way of saying, “Dude, don’t eat brownies before you go to bed.”  Erection is Nature’s way of saying, “Hey!  This shit still works even if you hardly ever use it.”

6:06am - Took generic Excedrin™.  Went to bathroom and peed.  Forgot about erection.  Peed all over windowsill.  Sigh.

6:07am - Windowsill will dry.  Washed hands and got back in bed.

6:20am - Lying in bed thinking about why I don’t twitter.

6:50am - Throbbing in both heads has subsided somewhat.  Decided to get up.  Tried to get out of bed quietly so I wouldn’t wake up my wife.  Dropped a small book.  Sounded like I dropped an encyclopedia.  Woke up my wife.  Wife mumbled something to me.  Told her she was sexy.  Wife fell back asleep.  No wonder I wake up with erections.

7:00am - Made coffee and fetched the paper.  Beautiful Arizona morning.  Bees buzzing, birds tweeting, bushes…uh…bushing.  Bird dropped cell phone on my head.  No more tweeting for him, I guess.  Went back inside before temperature could rise another ten degrees.

7:03am - Let the dogs out.  The old one looked at me funny again, and then stretched right in the doorway…again.  He does that just to piss me off.  Let fly in.  Fly will likely come back to haunt me later.

7:10am - Took medication.  Multivitamin shaped like a hippo…at least, I think it was a hippo.  Tasted orange.  Thinking of switching to dinosaur-shaped ones.  Also took extra vitamin D to maintain my gothic pallor, Protonix for GERD, Cymbalta for crazy, and calcium for strong bones and teeth (of which, I have neither).  Skipped Klonopin for the moment.  Will let you know how that works out.

7:20am - Screwed up coffee…again.  Tastes like motor oil with a burnt pork chop dipped in it…just like Starbucks.  Another reason that I usually wait for my wife to get up first.

7:25am - Ate breakfast.  Honey Nut Cheerios™ and lactose-free milk.  Feeling more geriatric by the minute.

7:30am - Started reading newspaper.  Briefly contemplated suicide.  Switched to comics page.  Feeling much better now.

8:00am - Went to the bathroom.  Made poo.  Very proud.  Considered showing it off.  Realized that I’m 40, and nobody is likely to be impressed.  Flushed.

8:01am - Washed hands.

8:03am - Checked email.  Mostly spam.  Answered SAT Question of the Day.  Got it right.  Whoo hoo!

8:10am - Surfed other blogs.  Too many naked people for this time of day.  I still don’t get it.  What do naked people have to do with Lasik Eye Surgery?  Is it because you can see them better?  Switched to favorite forum, instead.  Nothing new.  Gave up.

8:30am - Showering.  Washing and conditioning hair.  Didn’t realize I had this much hair after shaving my head for the last ten years.  Too lazy to cut it now, though.  Could end up with a mullet.  That might suck.

8:32am - Still in shower.  Hope my imaginary tweeting device is waterproof.  Considering shaving eyebrows.  Realized what a dumb idea that is, and am going back to washing gonads.

8:40am - Dried off.  Looked at myself in the mirror.  Hurried to get dressed in case I accidentally looked at myself again.

8:55am - Brushed tooth…and other tooth.  Ha.  Just kidding.  I’m not from Kentucky.

9:12am - Put on shoes, petted wife, kissed cat, and hugged and kissed youngest daughter.  Went outside.

9:14am - Told my wife as I was leaving that I was going to dye my hair black.   Argument ensued.  I don’t really want black hair.  I just wanted to argue.  Hee hee.

9:15am - Argument ended.  Had discussion about gas…the petrol type.  I probably have enough to get to work.  I can only worry about one thing at a time.

9:16am - Driving away.  Put Tenacious D CD in stereo and cranked up the volume.  It’s amazing how entertaining some people can make the word “fuck” sound.

9:30am - Driving to work.  Yelling at woman in car next to me for talking on cell phone and trying to kill me with her Buick.  Exchanging obscene gestures.  Woman is pulling over.

9:32am - Pulled over, too.  Continuing to yell at woman.  Not bothering to tell her that I was tweetering at the same time.

9:33am - Didn’t notice large, hairy man in passenger seat of woman’s car.  I think I found Bigfoot!   Shit, he’s coming this way.  Fleeing.

9:55am - Still driving.  Lost crazy woman and Bigfoot somewhere near the tunnel.  Changed CD to Styx so I can sing Sail Away and Castle Walls before I get to work.  I don’t know why.

10:03am - Arrived at work.  Parked on top of the garage.  Had to cut off Castle Walls in the middle.  Depressing.

10:05am - Chatted with security guard.  She is very sweet.

10:10am - Logged onto work computer.  Spent 30 minutes writing an email about noun usage in the financial industry.  Contemplating suicide again.  Nope.  I’m over it.  It’s just a noun, dammit.

11:00am - Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz…

12:06pm - Peed.  Why do people insist on putting their boogers on the wall behind the urinals?  Gross.  What are we, cavemen?

12:07pm - Washed hands.  Personal hygiene is very important.  I don’t care if urine is sterile.  It still smells funny.

12:14pm - Mmmm.  Peanut butter sandwich and Sun Chips™.

1:20pm - Putting gas in the car.  Trying to raise body temperature, as well.  Office is 20 degrees inside.  I am not a side of beef.  When did gas prices go back up?  Another reason I let my wife do stuff like this.

1:22pm - Put in soundtrack to Underworld.  Killed small amount of brain cells in the process.

1:24pm - Parked.  Whee.  Went back inside the cold storage container.

1:36pm - Peed again.  I drink a lot of water.

1:39pm - Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz…

1:41pm - Took two more generic headache pills.  Feel better without the Klonopin, but I think people are watching me.

1:43pm - STOP LOOKING AT ME!

2:06pm - Peed again.  It was uneventful.

3:00pm - Peed again.  No, I am NOT a diabetic.  I just drink a lot of water.

3:30pm - Fetched more water.

4:30pm - Peed again.  A LOT of water, okay?

4:49pm - Started work.

4:51pm - Sandwich break.  Processed turkey and cheese on wheat.  Yum.

4:56pm - Nutra-Grain™ bar break.  Ew.  Apple is just not my favorite flavor, y’know?

5:01pm - Started working again.

5:05pm - Work is giving me a headache, again.  Took two more headache pills.

5:06pm - Hearing voices, but I’m not sure if they’re real.  Decided to take Klonopin just in case.

5:07pm - Started working again.

5:11pm - Peed AGAIN.  Geez, I don’t drink THAT much water.  Where was I?  Oh, yeah.  Work.

5:20pm - Picked my teeth with a paper clip.  I wonder what else those things are used for.

5:34pm - Sneezed.  Bless me.

5:59pm - Peed again.  This could be a record for me, I don’t know.

6:01pm - Fetched more water, but not sure why.  Apparently, I’m plenty hydrated…or pregnant.  Wait, I can’t get pregnant!  I had a vasectomy!  (More Kentucky humor)

6:02pm - Something near my desk smells funny and it’s not me, but I’m the only one here.  Agh!  Get thee behind me, Satan!  No, wait!  Get in front of me where I can see what you’re doing.  Golly.  Stupid.

6:05pm - Back to work, again.

6:06pm - Apple break.  I like apples, but I’m not too keen about apple flavoring.  Weird.

6:10pm - Getting back to work.

6:20pm - All this work has made me tired.  I’m going home.  I’m surprised I don’t have to pee, first.

6:22pm - PEED!  Good Goddess!  When am I due?!

6:23pm - Leaving now.  Really.

7:19pm - Arrived home.  Decided not to tweeter on way.  Afraid of Bigfoot.  Drive was uneventful.  Listened to talk radio.  Forgot what they were talking about.  Briefly considered stopping to buy man-diapers, but decided that was unnecessary.  Made it home without having to pee.

7:20pm - Stopped in kitchen to take medication.  Protonix.  GERD.  I AM geriatric.  Made small talk with kids and made fun of Megan Fox.  I don’t know why.  It must be her thumb.

7:23pm - Peed. I really don’t know what to say, anymore.  At least one of my systems seems to work.

7:33pm - Started blogging about why I don’t twitter.

8:25pm - Fly is up here from this morning.  I knew it would find me.  Now that I’ve twittered and tweetered, I’m gonna go twat it.  BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!  First, though, I gotta pee.

P.S.  Not responsible for any injuries caused by groaning, moaning, or becoming hysterical while reading this post.

Love,
C-

Crap.  My mom says if I stop blogging then I need to call her or email her.  We all know how painful THAT is, so I may have to reconsider.  In addition, my beautiful and wonderful 18-year-old daughter, who is the oldest of my three beautiful and wonderful daughters (I have two sons, too, but they don’t fit that description), said she would be mad if I stopped blogging.  She says that my humor is intellectual, and it’s not my fault if other people are stupid.  Hmm.  No offense to those of you that aren’t stupid, of course.  I know who you are.  I do keep track.

So, Mom asked me what the results of my MRI were.  I didn’t realize that it’s been that long since I talked to her.  Actually, it really hasn’t, because she knows what the results of the MRI were.   One thing I’ve learned after 50 or so MRIs is that the results of the last one are always worse than the one before.  That is neither here nor there, though.  In any case, I think now Mom wants to know what happened next, which is where we left off the last time we talked.  I was going to go to pain management (again), and then (hopefully) move forward from there.

I honestly didn’t want to go back to pain management, but I really had no choice.  There is nothing that anyone can do in regard to “fixing” the things that are wrong, so “we,” all 50 of my doctors and I, have to discover workarounds.  The last “workaround” I tried, which was for a completely different problem that I still have, but have learned to manage better, sucked balls.  There is no other way to put it.  Consequently, this time I only took narcotics for a very short period of time until something else could be done, whereas last time I’m pretty sure I was so loaded for so long that I began having regular conversations with Satan.  I tried to talk to God, but She kept saying, “I can’t understand a damn thing you’re babbling about…and quit drooling.”  One thing I did notice about narcotics, and I’m sure I’ve noticed it before but forgotten (probably several times), is that things may be a bit better while I’m taking them, but as soon as I stop I suddenly feel like someone beat me with a mallet.  A big mallet…like Thor’s mallet.  No, not his hammer (Mjöllnir…pronounced “OW!  FUCK!! Stop hitting me with your hammer!”), but his mallet…the one he uses when they play Greek croquet.  Hey, I don’t want to exaggerate, y’know.  I don’t think it has a name, but it should.  Everyone should name their mallet.

Damn it all, where was I?  Oh, yeah…the MRI.  Sorry, Mom.  Last Monday, I had a spinal epidural in an attempt to kill the pain from the lumbar region on down.  This procedure involved injecting me with a substance that I’m actually allergic to in the hopes that I won’t have the same psychotic reactions that I do when I take the oral version.  Well, I still did, but the only thing I managed to kill was a five gallon jug of water.  Thank Goddess for small favors.  Still, I kicked its ass.  Oh, and this is funny (well, it is to ME…I know how YOU people are), too.  I had the docs sedate me so I wouldn’t have muscle spasms, as I’m prone to having…well…muscle spasms (that should have been obvious), so they ran an IV and they stuck me.  Then they talked to me.  Then they were like, “Stick him, again.”  So, they stuck me again, and then they talked to me some more.  Then they said, “Screw it,” and went about their business.  My brain is fried, and the stuff just bounces off, but it really does relax me a bit.  The funny part was where I was sitting up in bed as they were wheeling me out, and another lady, who the guy said had half as much as I did, was lying semi-comatose in a bed drooling on herself.  I shouldn’t be proud of being mechanically unsound, but it does have a certain measure of hilarity when I get to go home fifteen minutes later, and she’s still drooling copiously.  Of course, it’s not funny when they’re taking out a kidney and I have to watch because I’m “anesthesia aware.”  Wait, I still have both my kidneys.  Whew.  So, that hasn’t happened, yet.

Shit, I keep digressing.  Ew, that sounds kind of disgusting when you think about.  “Hey, who digressed on the floor?  Clean this up!”  Damn, I AM funny.   Well, I think I’m getting over the psychosis, which is why I can actually speak and write (almost) English again, and I think that those mad-bastard headaches that I’ve been getting have abated, and I think that the Klonopin that I always take is beginning to irritate me (is that pertinent?) so I may stop, and I think that I actually feel pretty good at the moment (10:48 on a Monday evening…I’ll write that in my diary).  Oh, and the epidural actually worked, aside from all of the side effects, which I’m pleased to SAY did NOT include the big, purple butterflies this time.  Whoo hoo!  My back and legs feel better. and I don’t feel as “scrunched.”  I don’t know how long it will last, but I’m going to try to enjoy these brief moments when I’m somewhat free of pain, I’m only borderline psychotic, I’m awake and alert (as opposed to tired and bitchy), and my cognitive abilities are at or above the 50% mark.  Trust me, that makes for a DAMN GOOD day.

Enough for now.  Let me know if you have any more questions, Mom, and I’ll see what I can do.  I love you.  I also love you, my away-from-home-at-the-moment daughter.  I miss you, too.

Lovins to all,
C-

There are probably better things for people to do.  Do them.  All five or six of you.  Go…now.

Trust me.  You won’t miss a thing.

Still, with love,
C-

I could be on fire.

L.
C-

I should put a disclaimer at the beginning of this, but I have no idea what I am going to be protecting anyone from.  If I do say something offensive at any point during this discourse, feel free to hit yourself in the head with a brick.  You’d be surprised what that will do for you.

I usually have a theme for these, but the inside of my head is like a washing machine in the spin cycle right now, so I can’t narrow things down.  I have a lot of ideas, and a lot of questions, but very few answers and hardly anything useful to provide.  I’ll take full responsibility for the things I say, but I’ll have no ability to clarify or justify them in any way.  It’s going to be blog roulette, with the exception that I’m just going to go to sleep when I’m done, which is fairly harmless.

Does anybody ever wonder why, if Amy Winehouse has such a twiggy little body and that giant mass of hair, that her head doesn’t suddenly succumb to the forces of gravity and snap her neck?  She’s defying physical laws with her physique.  Weird.  Oh, since I was reading about Kanye West on Tami’s blog yesterday, I also began to wonder if it’s possible for someone to become such an arrogant ponce that they actually spontaneously combust.  If so, that dude should catch fire any day now.

I was going to make fun of “famous” people because, while I appreciate talent, I despise celebrity.  If you don’t know the difference, I can’t help you.  Go back to Kentucky.  Anyhow, I was searching for images on Google, and I became so disgusted by the whole thing that I gave up…not to mention that too many people already make fun of them now, anyhow.  Seriously, though, have you seen some of these people?  I don’t watch TV very much, so I don’t know who a lot of the current mainstream celebs really are, but some of the older ones are apparently trying to keep up with them, and they’re freaking me out.  It was like I emailed Satan and asked him to send me family pictures.  There are people out there that we can actually put to use in much better ways than whatever it is they’re famous for.  For instance, someone could invite Donatella Versace over to their house and they wouldn’t need to pay for pest control for at least a year.  All of the roaches would evacuate the premises without any persuasion whatsoever.  In addition, if you own a classic car that was built prior to the addition of air bags, you just need to drive everywhere with Lisa Rinna on your lap.  Those lips could stop a train…and they’re probably much more reliable than breast implants.

Speaking of breast implants, I joined the MyBlogLog community (see all that green crap on the right?) because I wanted to see if I could lure unsuspecting readers into this lair of absurdity.  It’s been slow, but I certainly do appreciate the folks that have chosen to adopt me.  I also wanted to see what other people were doing, and find some entertaining content for myself.  To that effect, I want to say that I have found a few real gems crafted by some very intelligent people.  I appreciate it when I find things that add some value to this existence.  Conversely, I have no clue as to what some of these other people are trying to do.  I know that blogs are used to make money, and I realize that there are a lot of people that really need to do that, but the methodologies that they employ are just mad-whack.  If the blog has an obvious product line, and is used at intervals to describe various products, that makes sense.  Even if I have no interest in the products, I can still respect the effort.  That’s not what confuses me.  What confuses me are the ones that, in a metaphorical sense, can’t differentiate the Yin from the Yang.

I saw (and I mean saw, because I didn’t actually read it) a blog that sold bathroom products.  Yep, bathroom products.  Toilet brushes, shower heads, racks, mirrors, toothpaste dispensers…and naked women.  Huh?  Well, apparently the naked women weren’t for sale.  However, they were randomly dispersed throughout each blog entry in a variety of…um…I guess you could say “erotic” poses, although in some cases they were demonstrating uses for the aforementioned products that I’ve certainly never thought of.  In other cases, they were using the products as intended, but they were doing it naked.  Now, someone tell me if I’ve finally gone over the hill, okay?  I hit 40 this year, but I figured that I was still at the apex and had yet to head down.  In addition, it’s not like I’ve lost my appreciation for sexy women.  However, a naked woman cleaning a toilet is NOT sexy.  In fact, a naked women within four feet of a toilet brush is NOT sexy.  Also, if a woman has implants, and she is now overly “endowed,” there are certain positions in which she should NOT be photographed.  Most of those positions involve anything other than standing up or lying down.  Seriously.  It’s not natural, and it frightens people.  If you’re going to get breast implants, hire a maid, and quit swinging those things around before you knock somebody unconscious.

There’s also something else that I think some of these people should know.  If you have a blog, and you sell things like tractors or farm implements, using a picture of a half-naked woman for your community image is actually a sin.  It may not be plainly written in any familiar scripture, but it’s part of the “code.”  Consequently, you will go to hell, plain and simple.  Nobody wants to click on a hot chick and then land on a page that is written in Redneck and contains nothing but pictures of rakes and hoes (no pun intended).   It’s WRONG, so stop it!  Oh, and FYI, there is hardly anyone left alive who knows what the word “yonder” means.  Furthermore, if your blog is in Chinese or Japanese, why are you my friend?  Goddess knows that I don’t burden myself with petty prejudices, so I have absolutely nothing against your nationality at all.  In fact, I practically revere Asian cultures.  The problem is that I CAN’T READ YOUR BLOG!  I don’t even know your name because it’s three symbols and they all look like tiny, squashed spiders.  What gave you the impression that I was intelligent or versatile enough to understand that?

I guess I went off on a bit of a tangent there, huh?  The strange thing is that most of that was not stuff that I had in mind when I was going to blog in the first place.  On a positive note, I’ve managed to avoid current events and politics for several days now, so I’m feeling pretty good about that.  I just substituted cows, fish, celebrities, and making fun of Kentucky.  Hee hee.  Sorry, making fun of Kentucky just never gets old.

All that said, I think I’ve adequately emptied my brain pan for the night, which is a damn sight better than emptying a bedpan.  I probably haven’t provided much value, but nobody is on their game 24/7.  I do have big plans for the future, though.  I actually WILL explain why geeks like me are fans of Buffy, the Vampire Slayer, I’ll provide an extremely entertaining discourse chock full of historical events described in just the right way, which is my way, and I will eventually delve into the depths of experimental psychology to produce a real-world answer to the age-old question, “To be, or…fuck it, who wants lunch?”  Amen.

Love,
C-

P.S.  Thanks for stopping by.  All of you are my carrot on a string, without which I would not plow.  Heehaw.

I’m trying to avoid discussing volatile political and socioeconomic issues for the time being, as lately I’ve had this tendency to go off on these incredible tangents.  One minute I’m reading a news item and, an hour later, I suddenly find myself on the floor in a puddle of my own bodily fluids clutching 26 pages of indecipherable ranting about the current state of our society.  Apparently, nobody makes a pill for that, yet, but someone should.  They could call it Avoidital®.  I’d take it.  As a substitute to help alleviate my tension, I turn to writing inane stories about my life that too often amuse only me, instead.  C’est la vie, although I do keep trying.

All of the following events are true, at least as best as I can remember them, although the inspiration for documenting these occurrences actually came from an episode of Buffy, the Vampire Slayer that popped into my head when I was meditating one day because I had a killer migraine.  Someone once asked me why geeks like me are so fond of Buffy, and I told him.  Unfortunately, the answer I gave was extremely complex, so I’m not going to write about it now.  I will tell you someday, though, I promise.  Anyhow, I had this huge, pulsating mass of “Ow, shit” in my cranium, I was trapped in bed, and my brain took off without me, which happens more often then I’d like to admit.  It may seem strange, but all the variables here are related.  I was in pain, I was thinking about Buffy, and that led me to fish.  Yep…fish.  The episode is actually Go Fish from Season 2, and the correlation between the two is the little known fact that catfish are actually demons.  Truly.  Now, don’t go away just because I sound crazy.  I know this is a long story, yet I’m sure it will not merely entertain you, but it may even provide you with some valuable insight, as well.  I could be doing a public service.

**********

Sometime during my elementary school years, I was visiting a ranch in Minnesota one summer, as my parents had some friends that lived by a lake up there (imagine…lakes in Minnesota).  If I recall correctly, these folks actually owned half of the aforementioned lake, as well.  I’m not sure how you divide a lake in half, but that’s what I remember them telling me.  Based on my experience there, I’m still thinking that they owned the bottom half, but that’s not important.  In addition, most people who own at least half a lake usually own a boat, too, and as luck would have it, they owned a canoe (I think that was poetry).  Now, young as I was, I already knew how to work a canoe.  After all, it’s not rocket science; it’s boat paddling.  There was a lovely mud beach from which to launch said canoe, and our hosts had conveniently placed a homemade buoy about 150 yards from the shore that was essentially nothing more than a milk jug tied to a rope with a rock on the other end.

Back then, I liked to fish, so the Spartan arrangements meant nothing other than the fact that I was going to have the opportunity to have some fun.  The adults informed me that the most prolific fish in the lake was something called bull-cat (even today, I have no idea what makes them any different than other catfish), and that the bait of choice was worms.  That was good because that pretty much encapsulated the full extent of my fishing knowledge.  Pole…hook…worm.  No problem.

The first time I went out on the lake, I went fishing with my older brother.  We paddled out to the buoy, tied up the canoe, baited our hooks, and dropped our lines in with bobbers.  Then we sat around for the next three hours doing…nothing.  As far as we could tell, there wasn’t a single fish in that lake.  I started thinking it was a ploy to get rid of us for a while so the adults could play cards and pound beers.  Even today, my brother and I can barely spend that much time together before we turn homicidal, so I’m surprised there wasn’t an “accidental” drowning while we waited.

We were about to give up when, completely by accident, my brother started fiddling with his rod (the one for fishing) and absentmindedly let his line drop all the way to the bottom of the lake.  It took about two seconds before something took off with it, and his reward was the first catch of the day.  We learned fast after realizing we were dealing with only the bottom-feeders, and we caught a few more small ones before we went back to shore.  One thing that I’m quite sure of is that I left the lake that day without any trauma.  The reason I’m sure of it is that I don’t remember anything else about that day, and my psyche only aids in recording events that contribute to my lunacy.  I was born that way, and that’s just how it is.

Obviously, the next fishing expedition turned out quite differently, or this story would be even more inane and boring than it already is.  The second day on the lake, I figured out how deep to drop the hook and weight so I still could use the bobber and let the bait dangle just above the bottom.  After no more than five minutes on the water, I got a strike and reeled in a catfish that was about 12 inches long.  I was excited about it, too, until I noticed that the damn thing had completely swallowed the hook…and the weight.  Selfish as I was, I wanted them back.  Stupid as I was, I had left the tackle box on shore with all the other hooks and weights in it, and damned if I was paddling back to get them.

There was an epic struggle until I finally found a place to hold the silly fish without getting whiskered (or barbeled, as the appropriate term for those mustache-like appendages is actually “barbel”), and I pulled…and pulled…and pulled.  Eventually, the hook finally came out, along with most of the fish’s internal organs.  Essentially, I eviscerated it from the inside.  It actually looked at me accusingly, too, as if to say, “What did you do that for?”  I just turned my head away in shame, and tossed the fish in the bucket for the horse trough.  The fact that it clung to life for another day living in the horses’ water trough was a real testament to the hardiness of its species.  That fish had guts.  Wait, no it didn’t…not anymore.

I was a hardheaded child, so I quickly forgot the gut-wrenching experience of the first catch of the day, and resumed fishing.  This time, the line wasn’t in the water for more than a minute or two when the bobber really went under.  I promptly forgot Mr. Guilty-Face Fish and got excited all over again.  I was landing a marlin this time.  The fish fought the line hard, but I reeled that sucker in, and when that beauty popped out of the water, it turned out to be a three-inch catfish dangling pathetically from my shiny, barbed hook.  It never even got to the bait.

After another struggle, I was able to catch hold of the little thing and work the hook out of its mouth.  I tried to avoid eye contact as I tossed it back into the lake.  I thought to myself that at least it wasn’t going into the horse trough.  Consequently, I didn’t even have to bait the line again; I just dropped it back off the side of the boat.  I waited about 30 seconds and…BAM!  Another hit!  I went through my best deep-sea fishing routine, reeled another sucker in, and…it was the SAME fish I had just let go!  The first hole in its mouth was visible, the hook had now made another, and the fish still didn’t have the bait.  Hardy fish, yes, but fast learners, apparently not.

I unhooked it again, and then tossed it off the other side of the canoe.  For some reason, this seemed logical.  The worm wasn’t too soggy, so I chose not to re-bait the hook again and I dropped it back into the water.  Bonk!  Down went the bobber, and up came Mr. Holey-head for the third time…the third friggin’ time!  This time I had a harder time getting the hook out his mouth, and I did a little more damage.  I also began to feel so bad for the poor thing that I tried to shove some of the worm in its mouth.  Any fish that was that stupid must not have eaten for weeks.  I tossed him over the side (again), even further this time, re-baited the hook, and dropped it back into the water.  It took about a minute longer this time, but he didn’t disappoint me.  As soon as the bobber went down, I knew he was there.  He was small, he had holes in his head, but he still had a big fish attitude.

Nevertheless, as I was taking the hook out of his mouth for the fourth and final time, I jerked on it a little too hard and…well…I ripped his lips off.  I didn’t even know fish HAD lips.  That sealed the deal for me, too.  I threw him in the bucket with the gutless wonder and paddled back to shore.  Both of them ended up in the algae-encrusted horse trough, and I gave up fishing for the rest of the trip.  The problem, however, which I didn’t know at the time, was that I had just inadvertently started a war, and I was without a clue.  Apparently, word travels fast in the underwater world, probably because fish have those weird Aquaman rings that come out of their heads to help propagate gossip.

***********

Most kids are not adept at linear thinking, nor should they be.  Having an imagination is one of the real beauties of being young.  A child’s mind is one of the only places that the true green grass of freedom grows.  It can be a bit of a hindrance, however, when it comes to putting pieces together.  I was now in the 7^th grade, and I was fishing again, this time in a pond on a golf course in Texas.  A couple of friends and I were fishing for bass, with which the lake was fully stocked, so naturally I caught a catfish.  This one was about six inches long, and had some serious barbels.  It was waving them around like something from John Carpenter’s The Thing.  I couldn’t even get it off the hook with all its gyrating, so I swung it around toward my best friend and asked him to do it.  We were all laughing and acting silly as he kept trying to grab it, but grab it he finally did.  He just about had the hook out of its mouth when it did the Medusa and he freaked out and flung it wildly away.  Strangely enough, it disappeared, and nobody knew where it went.

There was no splash, so it couldn’t have gone back in the water.  The golf cart track was not very far from the shore of the lake, the grass was rather low, and there was really nowhere to hide.  So, where did it go?  We spent at least five minutes looking for it, and no one had a clue…at least, not until I finally found it…STUCK IN MY THIGH.  I was wearing shorts (gym shorts…it was, like, 1980…they were, uh, short), the fish was actually grafted to my leg by both fin and barbell, and it was just lying there like…well…a dead fish.  I had to pry it out of my leg, which wasn’t easy, and it left a nice, round hole that promptly turned a lovely black color before transitioning through the rest of the bruise hues.  Once freed from my flesh, however, the catfish seemed unaffected by the whole ordeal and, after giving me a look of smug satisfaction, flopped its way back into the depths of the pond.

**********

A couple of months later, with the earlier expedition now just a faded memory, I was on that very same golf course, except this time I was at the creek that ran through it.  Coincidentally, I was also with roughly the same group of friends I had been with at the pond.  As a rule, we weren’t actually supposed to be on the golf course, which is why we spent so much time there.  Any place where there wasn’t a chance that we could get in trouble wasn’t even worth haunting.  Like usual, we had a couple of fishing rods with us, but this time one of my friends had also brought along a large net.  Inevitably, somebody came up with the bright idea to stretch the net across the creek, and then have one of us run downstream in the water toward it.  In retrospect, I think this sort of creativity gave us some assurance that we wouldn’t starve if we were ever actually stuck out there.  Nevertheless, we carried out the plan and, lo and behold, it worked.  We caught a fish on the very first try.  Of course, by the grace of the Universal Goddess of Ichthyoids, it just happened to be a giant, angry-looking three-pound catfish (you didn’t know fish could look angry, did ya?).  I mean, this sucker was huge.

It was worth keeping, at least according to my friends, because they had to show it to somebody or it wouldn’t justify the effort.  Everyone knows about fish stories, even kids.  Unfortunately, nobody had brought a stringer (because we hardly ever caught anything), so instead we ran some fishing line through one of the gills and then tied it to the end of a pole.  Man, it sucks to be a fish, I’ll grant that, too, but you know where this is heading.  Good ol’ Mistress Karma upped the ante practically the minute someone said, “Craig, could you hold this for a second?” which was about the exact same time that we all saw the red golf cart through the gaps in the bushes.  To expound, while hanging out on the “prohibited” golf course, there were just two simple rules:

1. If you see the red golf cart, run
2. If you see the Military Police, run (we lived on a very large military base that I won’t mention by name for security reasons…my security)

Obviously, we ran.  Of course, I ran while trying to hold onto the tip of a fishing rod that had a large, bony fish tied to the end of it, and it quickly became clear that things weren’t going to turn out well…and they didn’t.  First, I dropped the fish, and then, without displaying even a hint of agility to help avoid it, I stepped on it.  I felt pain, but I kept running, at least for a few more steps until someone noticed that it wasn’t even the right red golf cart.  We all stopped, and there was a brief moment of silence as we looked at each other sheepishly, before I plopped to the ground and yanked off my tennis shoe to reveal a sock stained with blood.  I hurriedly peeled my sock off, and I probed my foot for a moment before I noticed that my big toe was the culprit.  The interesting thing was, though, that I couldn’t figure out what was wrong with it.  It was bleeding, but not profusely, and the wound was not large at all.  I finally touched the bottom of the toe where most of the blood was and, like a gory little jack-in-the-box, something pointy burst out of the top.

I said, with just a tad of emotion, “A fishhook!  There’s a fishhook in my toe!”

Then I pushed on the bottom a little harder and the object protruded further out of the top.

My best friend said, “That’s not a fishhook, that’s a fin!”

I said, “You pull it out, then.”

Those cowards…and talk about fair-weather friends.  Nobody would touch it, no matter how much I waved my foot in the air.  I finally just grabbed it and extracted it through the top of my toe.  Sure enough, it was a spiny rib from one of the catfish’s fins, and it had gone completely through my tennis shoe, sock, and big toe.  Well, that was it for me.  I certainly didn’t need any more hints.  I got up, limped home, and let Mommy take care of my toe.  A little later, my friends stopped by with the cooked catfish.  I ate just enough to complete the circle and say, “Screw you” to Mr. Toe-poker, and then I was done.  I grew older, I found other things to do, and in the rare event that someone in my life ever asked me to fish, I either used bait that I knew I’d never catch anything with, like tree bark, or I drank beer and played with rocks until I fell over.

These days, I don’t fish at all, because I finally have it all figured out.  You see, I think of Mistress Karma and her famous equation, which more often than not seems to hold true…Karma x 3.  That’s “Three”.  Up until now, apparently only two fish have been able to exact some type revenge for their lost compadres from up north.  While I wasn’t intelligent enough to understand it at the time, little Mr. Lipless from that lake in Minnesota taught me the most important lesson first, as he embodied the type of lunacy and compulsive behavior that I’m constantly striving to overcome.  He just kept hitting that hook until he ended up permanently maimed and thoughtlessly imprisoned in an iron tank.  Nobody can predict what the Fates have in store, but there’s not much sense in courting temptation.

In the end, I suppose that, if the fish never get to me, I could still be heading for an eternity in my own algae-encrusted horse trough, which seems more desirable then, say, one of those circles in Hell that Dante dreamed up.  I’ll merely end up gutless, lipless, and doomed to swim in endless circles in a large container full of green shit while horse tongues slap me around until the end of time.  The thing is, though, and this is the kicker, is that it could always be worse.  I could end up at the other end of the horse.

Love,
C-