My son is now approaching 16 months of life. (The second sentence of any piece of writing is generally not a good place for an aside, but I can't resist. I can't wait for him to hit two years so I can stop referring to his age in months. People always ask, "So when are you gonna stop giving his age in months?" in a really shitty voice. And the answer is two years. Then you get into half years. He's two. Two and a half. Three. Three and a half. Then at five, it's just years. Those are the rules. Because that's kind of how development works. [Based on my observations.])
My son is now approaching 16 months of life. There are a lot of interesting things about 16 months. My son has a way now of pointing to objects or pictures and grunting. He's asking me to tell him the word for what it is. And I'll tell him.
We sit with a book that has four animals on it: one on the top of the left page, one on the bottom of the left page, one on the top right, and one bottom right.
He points and grunts.
"Goat." I say.
"Yup." He points bottom left.
"Sheep."
"Yup." Back to the goat.
"Goat." He points bottom right.
"Lamb." He points top right.
"Pig."
"Yup." Back to the goat.
"Goat."
I know absolutely nothing about childhood development. But I imagine that what's going on over the course of the five minutes where he points at four pictures 10 times is that he's trying to nail these words down.
Imagine you know absolutely nothing about a language. You just hear noises all day from strange beings. One day you realize that some of those sounds the strange beings are making have meaning. You begin to wonder if every sound they make means something. At 16 months, I believe my son has developed some understanding of a trial-and-error scientific method.
"If I make my da-da identify a picture with a sound 10 times, I can be sure that the sound he is saying is the name of the object in that picture." He thinks without words.
This is fascinating simply in that it's fascinating. But it's also fascinating, because I have the power to totally fuck with this child's development. If every time he points to a picture I say a different word, he will be stupid.
He points to the goat.
"Goat." I say.
He points to the pig.
"Pig." I say.
He points to the goat.
"Horse." He points to the goat again.
"Donkey."
What the fuck?! And like that I have thrown off his theory. His theory is based on the assumption that I love him and want him to learn.
But if I'm a sick twist (and to be sure, in some ways I am), I could tell him untrue things, or perpetually shift truths about what I tell him. And in so doing, scar him for life.
(Editorial note: I don't.)
But that's just a way I could, if I were perverted in some way, intentionally scar him for life. The other really interesting thing about fatherhood is that there are myriad ways in which I am probably unintentionally scarring him for life.
For instance, I believe we all develop some amount of fear of the dark in our lives. Maybe this is instinctive. Primal. A fear of being watched. God knows I have it.
I still to this day can be taking a shower, washing my hair, closing my eyes because there's too much soap in them, and all it takes is me picturing someone outside of the shower. I picture that. I picture that I'm being watched. I picture that someone has crept in and is standing on the other side of the shower door ready to pounce.
"This isn't real," I tell myself. But it doesn't matter. It's enough for me to hurriedly rinse the soap out of my eyes and check. I'm 32 years old. Jesus. But it happens. Not all the time. But sometimes.
Or I can remember a time when I was really sick in college. Throwing up. Shitting my brains out. I had a crazy fever. Sweating through the night and waking up freezing, drenched in my bed. Drinking water just to release it minutes later through mouth or asshole. Gross. I know.
At the worst of it, I woke up freezing, soaking wet from a vivid nightmare wherein an evil presence had entered my bedroom. It was standing over me in this nightmare.
I sprang up in bed, my eyes wide open.
I looked across the room. By the door I saw an outline of a figure. I rubbed my eyes.
"I'm imagining things. This isn't real." But then it moves towards me. Scared the shit out of me.
I know now there was nothing there. But I was so tripped out from dehydration, being sick, nightmares, and the Tylenol PM, that I really thought something was there.
It took reaching out and trying to punch it to convince myself there was no presence. And I fell back asleep telling myself that nothing was in my room but me. Terrified.
My son is 16 months old.
Literally every day up until around when he turned one, either my wife, myself, or both of us, have gone into his bedroom before we've gone to bed to look at him.
He's fucking adorable. We're nerds. What can I say.
This practice has lessened of late. But we still do it more often than not.
And every once in a while, when we go in there, he's in a light sleep. He senses our presence. He lifts up his head. And as he's doing it, we hide in his room so he can't see us or we scurry like rats out of his room as he's turning to look.
Last night, we opened his door at 11 PM and took three steps in. After three steps, his head sprung up, and before he could turn to face it, we bolted out the door and closed it.
My son is being watched. There is a presence in the dark. There are things that go bump in the night. Those things are his parents being morons, tripping over blocks and turning off the hallway lights.
This morning my son got out his book.
He pointed to the goat.
"Horse."
Friday, January 16, 2015
Monday, December 22, 2014
Tom Hanks Movies from the 1980s
Another one of my friends has recently gotten married. This means, of course, that another one of my friends has recently had a bachelor party. Historically, I've viewed bachelor parties as something of an unnecessary oddity. The generic image that comes to mind when I consider a bachelor party is a toned down version of the Tom Hanks film of the same name: Bachelor Party. Must see stuff, if you're into shitty 80s movies.
In that movie, Tom Hanks and his buddies party, nudity happens, someone drugs a mule (and blows it), and there's a crazy guy with a cross bow. This movie is similar to the recent Hangover films, I guess, though I've only ever seen bits and pieces of them because I don't like anyone in them. Digression.
The Bachelor Party (capital 'B', capital 'P') involves a group of men getting shit-faced, surrounding themselves with random naked women, and generally pursuing hi-jinks. For my bachelor party, I was very earnest in that there should be no naked women, because truth be told, I am a prude and feminism and blah, blah, blah.
My bachelor party involved getting up at 6:30 AM on a freezing ass cold day in March and playing paintball with a large group of friends and family. Afterwards, there was supposed to be much drinking and hi-jinks. I wanted to play stupid drinking games one last time. But alas, at 10:30, all of my friends went to bed. Assholes.
And that has more or less been the pattern with all of my friends' bachelor parties except for one. That one, in New Orleans, definitely involved hi-jinks. And there were many naked women. And at least one hilariously unintentional encounter with a prostitute, which could be a story unto itself (and not mine to tell). Moving on.
Other than that, all of my friends' bachelor parties have been the opposite of the Bachelor Party. Tame. Guys drinking. Video games. Dinner. Then me going home and passing out while watching Bachelor Party. Oh man, I wish that were true. But really I've passed out to The Burbs.
This most recent bachelor party, however, finally involved nudity again. But unlike New Orleans, or any typical chauvinistic wet dream Bachelor Party, this one didn't involve anonymous women getting naked for money. This time, the bachelor and all of his friends paid someone money so that we could get naked together.
Yes, I'm talking about the King Spa. My wife has previously tried to get me to go with her to the King Spa, but: (1) the notion of going to a spa seems strange to me, and (2) her description of what the experience involved did not seem like a good time.
"Well, first of all, there's a men's area and a women's area."
"So I'm not going to be with you?"
"Well at first. Yes."
"Then why would I go? I don't want to relax with strangers."
"Well, it's just for a bit. You go, and you get naked. And there are these amazing pools. Hot pools, cold pools. Steam rooms."
"But I'm naked?"
"Yeah, it's a spa. It's great. You'll love it."
"Are there other people?"
"Yes."
"So I'm naked with a bunch of dudes, and we get into a pool together?"
"Yes, and then there are--"
"I'm out."
"But you didn't let me fin--"
"I'm out."
So here I am months and months later. One of my closest friends, who I've known since we were six is getting married, and he wants to go to King Spa. Everyone is backing out. They're all going to meet up later for dinner. I feel like I have to go. I suck up my body image issues and decide to go get naked with my friend and four or five others.
It's an interesting thing being naked in a room full of strange men. I've not often found myself in this scenario, so I don't really know what the rules of engagement are. What is etiquette? I ask this of myself early and often.
First, before I go, I bathe thoroughly. I do not want to be the turd in the punch bowl. Upon arriving, all members of our group assert that they all have done the same. "Yes, yes, I washed first. Don't want to be turd in the punch bowl," says John. "Wouldn't want to carry a stink into the sink," Steve tells us all.
We've all bathed vigorously. And affirmed our cleanliness to the group. We make a couple of tittering jokes about how we're at a bachelor party, how we're not women, and that none of us is too eager for this experience. We're all playing it cautious.
When we get into the locker room, there is dong everywhere. First rule of public nudity, eyes up. This immediately reminds me of conversations I've had with girls in year's past where some female or another has asked me what my friend's penis looks like, because I showered with them in sports.
Ladies, it doesn't work that way. The first thing naked men do when being naked together is not examine each other's cock and balls. It's just not professional. Also, where do you get off asking about my friend's junk, high school girlfriend? That's like me asking my wife, "Hey, so your new friend Margaret, she's kind of cute. Is she seeing anybody? What's her vulva like?" Wrong, wrong, wrong.
All right. So eyes up. What's next? Time to disrobe. There's no backing down now.
Now, when you find yourself within a group of guys who are all getting naked together for the first time in a Korean bathhouse surrounded by 20-30 naked men of all ages, you have to make sure you disrobe properly. Too fast, and you're looking a little too eager. Too slow, and you're looking for a show. Or that's what I'm thinking to myself as I start to undress.
But while I've been thinking, I've unconsciously gotten fully naked while all of my friends are still untying their shoes.
What do you do when you're naked and no one else is? You wait. So there I stand, awkwardly fat and naked, eyes up, waiting for my friends to also be naked. When it's time, we all shower in separate stalls. Each of us has previously bathed, so we're mostly going through the motions. But clearly there are some people here who are making a show of it.
A 50-something bald man in one corner has been soaping and scrubbing his genitals for five minutes. An older Korean gentleman stands by a communal blow-dryer, whisking it back and forth over his pubic region.
This is once in a lifetime behavior. It never would have occurred to me to do that. I am seeing a world I never knew existed, and for which I have no concept of what society deems appropriate. Maybe the genital scrubbing is par for the course. Maybe the weirdos are the ones who don't blow dry their undercarriage. I don't know.
What I do know is that it's strange to me that father-son pairings are coming here. And that I'm extra hard avoiding looking at the 10-, 12-, and 15-year old boys that are in the great big room of naked with me. I definitely notice one man who is not sharing my conceit. Gross.
Regardless, the whole experience is an anthropological wet dream. Not because of the shapes, sizes, etc. of penises and bodies, but because of the human behavior. It's all quite fascinating. And I'll tell you, a hot pool followed by a frigid pool? Quite nice.
After the pools, we each get massages and then head off to a restaurant for BBQ. We eat an entire pig shoulder. And we shun everyone who came just for dinner.
"No food until you show us your weenis!"
We go back to my place, where I have kicked my wife and son out of the house for the evening. Once there, we play board games. Carcassonne. Blokus. Settlers of Catan. We drink beer until 11:30 and the bachelor ducks out.
By midnight, everyone is gone. My wife and child could have stayed home for this one. But hey, I've got a fridge full of beer, had a wicked massage, and found my encounter with public nudity strangely compelling. I will go back, King Spa. I will go back.
But first, Turner and Hooch.
In that movie, Tom Hanks and his buddies party, nudity happens, someone drugs a mule (and blows it), and there's a crazy guy with a cross bow. This movie is similar to the recent Hangover films, I guess, though I've only ever seen bits and pieces of them because I don't like anyone in them. Digression.
The Bachelor Party (capital 'B', capital 'P') involves a group of men getting shit-faced, surrounding themselves with random naked women, and generally pursuing hi-jinks. For my bachelor party, I was very earnest in that there should be no naked women, because truth be told, I am a prude and feminism and blah, blah, blah.
My bachelor party involved getting up at 6:30 AM on a freezing ass cold day in March and playing paintball with a large group of friends and family. Afterwards, there was supposed to be much drinking and hi-jinks. I wanted to play stupid drinking games one last time. But alas, at 10:30, all of my friends went to bed. Assholes.
And that has more or less been the pattern with all of my friends' bachelor parties except for one. That one, in New Orleans, definitely involved hi-jinks. And there were many naked women. And at least one hilariously unintentional encounter with a prostitute, which could be a story unto itself (and not mine to tell). Moving on.
Other than that, all of my friends' bachelor parties have been the opposite of the Bachelor Party. Tame. Guys drinking. Video games. Dinner. Then me going home and passing out while watching Bachelor Party. Oh man, I wish that were true. But really I've passed out to The Burbs.
This most recent bachelor party, however, finally involved nudity again. But unlike New Orleans, or any typical chauvinistic wet dream Bachelor Party, this one didn't involve anonymous women getting naked for money. This time, the bachelor and all of his friends paid someone money so that we could get naked together.
Yes, I'm talking about the King Spa. My wife has previously tried to get me to go with her to the King Spa, but: (1) the notion of going to a spa seems strange to me, and (2) her description of what the experience involved did not seem like a good time.
"Well, first of all, there's a men's area and a women's area."
"So I'm not going to be with you?"
"Well at first. Yes."
"Then why would I go? I don't want to relax with strangers."
"Well, it's just for a bit. You go, and you get naked. And there are these amazing pools. Hot pools, cold pools. Steam rooms."
"But I'm naked?"
"Yeah, it's a spa. It's great. You'll love it."
"Are there other people?"
"Yes."
"So I'm naked with a bunch of dudes, and we get into a pool together?"
"Yes, and then there are--"
"I'm out."
"But you didn't let me fin--"
"I'm out."
So here I am months and months later. One of my closest friends, who I've known since we were six is getting married, and he wants to go to King Spa. Everyone is backing out. They're all going to meet up later for dinner. I feel like I have to go. I suck up my body image issues and decide to go get naked with my friend and four or five others.
It's an interesting thing being naked in a room full of strange men. I've not often found myself in this scenario, so I don't really know what the rules of engagement are. What is etiquette? I ask this of myself early and often.
First, before I go, I bathe thoroughly. I do not want to be the turd in the punch bowl. Upon arriving, all members of our group assert that they all have done the same. "Yes, yes, I washed first. Don't want to be turd in the punch bowl," says John. "Wouldn't want to carry a stink into the sink," Steve tells us all.
We've all bathed vigorously. And affirmed our cleanliness to the group. We make a couple of tittering jokes about how we're at a bachelor party, how we're not women, and that none of us is too eager for this experience. We're all playing it cautious.
When we get into the locker room, there is dong everywhere. First rule of public nudity, eyes up. This immediately reminds me of conversations I've had with girls in year's past where some female or another has asked me what my friend's penis looks like, because I showered with them in sports.
Ladies, it doesn't work that way. The first thing naked men do when being naked together is not examine each other's cock and balls. It's just not professional. Also, where do you get off asking about my friend's junk, high school girlfriend? That's like me asking my wife, "Hey, so your new friend Margaret, she's kind of cute. Is she seeing anybody? What's her vulva like?" Wrong, wrong, wrong.
All right. So eyes up. What's next? Time to disrobe. There's no backing down now.
Now, when you find yourself within a group of guys who are all getting naked together for the first time in a Korean bathhouse surrounded by 20-30 naked men of all ages, you have to make sure you disrobe properly. Too fast, and you're looking a little too eager. Too slow, and you're looking for a show. Or that's what I'm thinking to myself as I start to undress.
But while I've been thinking, I've unconsciously gotten fully naked while all of my friends are still untying their shoes.
What do you do when you're naked and no one else is? You wait. So there I stand, awkwardly fat and naked, eyes up, waiting for my friends to also be naked. When it's time, we all shower in separate stalls. Each of us has previously bathed, so we're mostly going through the motions. But clearly there are some people here who are making a show of it.
A 50-something bald man in one corner has been soaping and scrubbing his genitals for five minutes. An older Korean gentleman stands by a communal blow-dryer, whisking it back and forth over his pubic region.
This is once in a lifetime behavior. It never would have occurred to me to do that. I am seeing a world I never knew existed, and for which I have no concept of what society deems appropriate. Maybe the genital scrubbing is par for the course. Maybe the weirdos are the ones who don't blow dry their undercarriage. I don't know.
What I do know is that it's strange to me that father-son pairings are coming here. And that I'm extra hard avoiding looking at the 10-, 12-, and 15-year old boys that are in the great big room of naked with me. I definitely notice one man who is not sharing my conceit. Gross.
Regardless, the whole experience is an anthropological wet dream. Not because of the shapes, sizes, etc. of penises and bodies, but because of the human behavior. It's all quite fascinating. And I'll tell you, a hot pool followed by a frigid pool? Quite nice.
After the pools, we each get massages and then head off to a restaurant for BBQ. We eat an entire pig shoulder. And we shun everyone who came just for dinner.
"No food until you show us your weenis!"
We go back to my place, where I have kicked my wife and son out of the house for the evening. Once there, we play board games. Carcassonne. Blokus. Settlers of Catan. We drink beer until 11:30 and the bachelor ducks out.
By midnight, everyone is gone. My wife and child could have stayed home for this one. But hey, I've got a fridge full of beer, had a wicked massage, and found my encounter with public nudity strangely compelling. I will go back, King Spa. I will go back.
But first, Turner and Hooch.
Wednesday, October 1, 2014
A Trip to the Doctor
I took my son to the doctor the other day for his one year checkup. As an aside, when you tell people you're taking your son to the doctor, they become very concerned. This is odd to me, because there are mandatory checkups every three months for all humans for the first year (or two?) of their lives.
"I'm taking Little Man to the Doctor, I'll be back in two hours."
"Oh no, I hope nothing's wrong."
"Thanks for the concern, but I'm really just going to be told I'm a bad parent."
And that's the second thing that is odd to me about these mandatory young person checkups. My wife came back from Rudy's nine-month checkup convinced we were failing as parents.
"They gave me a questionnaire to fill out about his development, and he's behind!"
"Oh my God. Really?! What? Where? How?"
"There were just a bunch of things that he's supposed to be able to do, but he can't do them." She hands me a three page document with a series of yes or no questions.
Question 1: If you ask your child how big he is, does he raise his arms to show you "Sooooo big"?
Answer: No.
Here's the thing though, no one told us he would be graded on this ability. I had no idea I was supposed to be teaching him this. For the first nine months of his life, I was trying to get my son to sit up, crawl, and walk. I didn't even know "Soooooo big" was a thing.
The questions go on.
Question 27: Does your child call you 'mama' or 'dada'?
Answer: No.
"That can't be indicative of a problem," I say. We've got three nephews, all older than our son, and none of them said shit when they were nine months old. And they're all smart as whips now.
Since I hadn't been at the six- or nine-month appointments, I couldn't really gauge how much my wife was reading into the doctor's tone. Maybe something was just being lost in translation. "For the one-year checkup, I'm going," I decide. "I'm going to get to the bottom of this."
So I go. And it's really hard not to feel like a terrible parent when your doctor is asking you questions where you would be a terrible parent if the answer was no.
"Do you have electrical outlets covered in your home?"
"Do you have smoke alarms?"
"Do you feed your child breakfast?"
Do you have to ask? Jesus. I think the Doctor's office is mostly about making you feel like a bad parent and telling you that your child has an enormous head. Those seem to be the prevailing themes.
"So your son's weight remains in the 90th percentile, while his height remains in the 10th percentile. That's mildly concerning. Also, his head remains off the charts. It is really huge. There's just no science behind the size of this boy's head."
I blame my father.
As the shaming is wrapping up, the doctor starts running through our vaccination options. She's throwing all kinds of shit out there. Hepatitis this. Influenza that. This one we do because of this reason, even though it's not really likely he'll get it, and it's probably not needed.
Call me neglectful, but I don't care. Give him everything. I'm all for being an informed consumer. And I'm pretty cynical of the relationship between doctor's and drug companies. And I think it's more than ridiculous that healthcare is an industry rather than a right. But I also pretty much think that doctors, like teachers, should do what's best in their professional opinions. If he shouldn't get a vaccine, the doctor wouldn't ask.
"Yup," I tell the doctor. And like that, I've signed my son up for four shots.
This is where the doctor's visit becomes really interesting to me. Because as I'm holding down my son while a strange woman sticks a sharp needle an inch into his three-inch thick legs, the ridiculousness of this situation dawns on me. His face goes from oblivious smiling to red-faced full force screaming in an instant. His calm body becomes one giant muscle, contracting and writhing to get away.
Get away from what? He doesn't even know. He has no idea what's going on. All he knows is that something that hurt just happened, with no ability to comprehend why.
And he trusts me. He loves me. He needs me. He is fully dependent on me and my wife, and has been since that first terrifying day when he came out of total warmth and darkness into a bright cold world. Total shock to the senses. And since then, we've fed him. We've clothed him. We've wiped poo off of his ass and genitalia. We've put ointments on his asshole. Not his ass cheeks. Literally, his asshole. We've plugged electrical outlets, provided smoke alarms, AND we feed him breakfast.
He completely trusts us.
And we did this to him.
Trying to understand what this would be like, all I can imagine is a scenario where my dad tells me we're going to go golfing, but then before we get to the golf course, my dad says we've got to make a side stop.
He pulls the car over next to an office building, and tells me in an excited voice that we're going to stop and see one of his old friends.
"Oh, okay," I think. "That's strange. But it seems harmless. I'm actually intrigued by the whole thing. Who is this friend? What is this office building? Why are we stopping right now? Seems like a mild adventure."
We go into the office and are greeted by a receptionist. She tells us to wait. After a few minutes, they call us into a back room.
My dad and I talk about the Blackhawks, the golf we're going to play, and what it's like raising a child. Eventually, a stranger enters the room.
My dad greets the stranger like a friend. He introduces us. The two of them banter back and forth for five or ten minutes. I can hear and understand the words that they're saying, but a lot of the meaning is lost. They're talking about events and places that I don't know. They use people's names as shorthand for whole paragraphs.
"That's a typical Jack McDonald move." One of them says.
"Yes, very Jack McDonald." The other responds.
They laugh. And I smile and kind of laugh with them. I don't know what they're saying, but I'm laughing along because it's uncomfortable not to. Then I start to think about how people do that: laugh when others are laughing. It occurs to me that this is funny as well. And now I'm genuinely laughing about this odd human behavior.
And that's when I am blind-sided with total searing pain. Searing pain and a loud pop.
I clutch my leg, and scream out. "Ah! Jesus, shit. What the fuck!" My eyes are closed tightly shut.
"It's okay. It's okay." My father is telling me calmly, as he rubs my shoulders. I start to open my eyes.
I look down and realize that my father's friend had pulled out a gun and shot me in the leg. I now know what it's like to be shot. It hurts like hell. Just as I'm starting to process this, I register the old friend looking at the barrel of the gun, held up right in his right hand. He's inspecting it kind of. The tip of the barrel.
"Once more," he says matter of factly. Then he points the barrel back at me and--
BANG!
Now the pain is in my other leg. "AHHHHHHHHH!!! What the fuck! You MOTHERFUCKER!!!"
"It's okay. You're okay, little man." My dad continues.
"You motherfucker! Why did you let him do this to me? What do you mean 'you're okay'? I trusted you!"
"Awwww, poor guy. I know. I know."
"You know? You know my ass."
BANG!
"JESUS! He did it again!"
"It's almost over," says the stranger. "You're being so brave."
"Why did it even begin? Why isn't it over already?!"
"Last one..."
BANG
"AAARRRGH!!!"
"Oh, buddy," my dad tells me.
"I'm taking Little Man to the Doctor, I'll be back in two hours."
"Oh no, I hope nothing's wrong."
"Thanks for the concern, but I'm really just going to be told I'm a bad parent."
And that's the second thing that is odd to me about these mandatory young person checkups. My wife came back from Rudy's nine-month checkup convinced we were failing as parents.
"They gave me a questionnaire to fill out about his development, and he's behind!"
"Oh my God. Really?! What? Where? How?"
"There were just a bunch of things that he's supposed to be able to do, but he can't do them." She hands me a three page document with a series of yes or no questions.
Question 1: If you ask your child how big he is, does he raise his arms to show you "Sooooo big"?
Answer: No.
Here's the thing though, no one told us he would be graded on this ability. I had no idea I was supposed to be teaching him this. For the first nine months of his life, I was trying to get my son to sit up, crawl, and walk. I didn't even know "Soooooo big" was a thing.
The questions go on.
Question 27: Does your child call you 'mama' or 'dada'?
Answer: No.
"That can't be indicative of a problem," I say. We've got three nephews, all older than our son, and none of them said shit when they were nine months old. And they're all smart as whips now.
Since I hadn't been at the six- or nine-month appointments, I couldn't really gauge how much my wife was reading into the doctor's tone. Maybe something was just being lost in translation. "For the one-year checkup, I'm going," I decide. "I'm going to get to the bottom of this."
So I go. And it's really hard not to feel like a terrible parent when your doctor is asking you questions where you would be a terrible parent if the answer was no.
"Do you have electrical outlets covered in your home?"
"Do you have smoke alarms?"
"Do you feed your child breakfast?"
Do you have to ask? Jesus. I think the Doctor's office is mostly about making you feel like a bad parent and telling you that your child has an enormous head. Those seem to be the prevailing themes.
"So your son's weight remains in the 90th percentile, while his height remains in the 10th percentile. That's mildly concerning. Also, his head remains off the charts. It is really huge. There's just no science behind the size of this boy's head."
I blame my father.
As the shaming is wrapping up, the doctor starts running through our vaccination options. She's throwing all kinds of shit out there. Hepatitis this. Influenza that. This one we do because of this reason, even though it's not really likely he'll get it, and it's probably not needed.
Call me neglectful, but I don't care. Give him everything. I'm all for being an informed consumer. And I'm pretty cynical of the relationship between doctor's and drug companies. And I think it's more than ridiculous that healthcare is an industry rather than a right. But I also pretty much think that doctors, like teachers, should do what's best in their professional opinions. If he shouldn't get a vaccine, the doctor wouldn't ask.
"Yup," I tell the doctor. And like that, I've signed my son up for four shots.
This is where the doctor's visit becomes really interesting to me. Because as I'm holding down my son while a strange woman sticks a sharp needle an inch into his three-inch thick legs, the ridiculousness of this situation dawns on me. His face goes from oblivious smiling to red-faced full force screaming in an instant. His calm body becomes one giant muscle, contracting and writhing to get away.
Get away from what? He doesn't even know. He has no idea what's going on. All he knows is that something that hurt just happened, with no ability to comprehend why.
And he trusts me. He loves me. He needs me. He is fully dependent on me and my wife, and has been since that first terrifying day when he came out of total warmth and darkness into a bright cold world. Total shock to the senses. And since then, we've fed him. We've clothed him. We've wiped poo off of his ass and genitalia. We've put ointments on his asshole. Not his ass cheeks. Literally, his asshole. We've plugged electrical outlets, provided smoke alarms, AND we feed him breakfast.
He completely trusts us.
And we did this to him.
Trying to understand what this would be like, all I can imagine is a scenario where my dad tells me we're going to go golfing, but then before we get to the golf course, my dad says we've got to make a side stop.
He pulls the car over next to an office building, and tells me in an excited voice that we're going to stop and see one of his old friends.
"Oh, okay," I think. "That's strange. But it seems harmless. I'm actually intrigued by the whole thing. Who is this friend? What is this office building? Why are we stopping right now? Seems like a mild adventure."
We go into the office and are greeted by a receptionist. She tells us to wait. After a few minutes, they call us into a back room.
My dad and I talk about the Blackhawks, the golf we're going to play, and what it's like raising a child. Eventually, a stranger enters the room.
My dad greets the stranger like a friend. He introduces us. The two of them banter back and forth for five or ten minutes. I can hear and understand the words that they're saying, but a lot of the meaning is lost. They're talking about events and places that I don't know. They use people's names as shorthand for whole paragraphs.
"That's a typical Jack McDonald move." One of them says.
"Yes, very Jack McDonald." The other responds.
They laugh. And I smile and kind of laugh with them. I don't know what they're saying, but I'm laughing along because it's uncomfortable not to. Then I start to think about how people do that: laugh when others are laughing. It occurs to me that this is funny as well. And now I'm genuinely laughing about this odd human behavior.
And that's when I am blind-sided with total searing pain. Searing pain and a loud pop.
I clutch my leg, and scream out. "Ah! Jesus, shit. What the fuck!" My eyes are closed tightly shut.
"It's okay. It's okay." My father is telling me calmly, as he rubs my shoulders. I start to open my eyes.
I look down and realize that my father's friend had pulled out a gun and shot me in the leg. I now know what it's like to be shot. It hurts like hell. Just as I'm starting to process this, I register the old friend looking at the barrel of the gun, held up right in his right hand. He's inspecting it kind of. The tip of the barrel.
"Once more," he says matter of factly. Then he points the barrel back at me and--
BANG!
Now the pain is in my other leg. "AHHHHHHHHH!!! What the fuck! You MOTHERFUCKER!!!"
"It's okay. You're okay, little man." My dad continues.
"You motherfucker! Why did you let him do this to me? What do you mean 'you're okay'? I trusted you!"
"Awwww, poor guy. I know. I know."
"You know? You know my ass."
BANG!
"JESUS! He did it again!"
"It's almost over," says the stranger. "You're being so brave."
"Why did it even begin? Why isn't it over already?!"
"Last one..."
BANG
"AAARRRGH!!!"
"Oh, buddy," my dad tells me.
Monday, February 10, 2014
Who Needs Teeth
My four month old son used to be a friendly, happy baby. In the past two weeks he has become a complete asshole. How? Why? What could have brought on this terrible transformation from Happy Angel to Spawn of Satan, you ask? He's teething. After four consecutive nights of three or less total hours of sleep, sleep that is further subdivided by bouts of wild infant screams, I have come to the conclusion that fuck teeth.
Fuck teeth.
That's right, teeth are bullshit. The kid has been totally fine without teeth for four months. His body weight has nearly doubled, so it's not like you need teeth to eat. The doctor keeps telling us he's healthy. She even discouraged us from starting him on solid food. So clearly, there's nothing super important about solid food. Nutrients? Comes in the milk.
"Everything he needs is right there in your breast milk," our doctor told my wife. Then why does he need teeth?! He doesn't. Teeth accomplish nothing.
"Lou, "you may say, "he can't just drink milk his whole life. Besides, if your wife didn't have teeth, the milk wouldn't have very many nutrients."
Bullshit. Adults don't need teeth either. What do spaghetti, peanut butter and jelly, scallops, and raspberries all have in common? You can gum the shit out of any of those foods!
You basically only need teeth for nuts, meat, and raw vegetables. What do nuts, meat, and raw vegetables all have in common? I would gladly not eat any of them ever again if I could get some goddamn sleep!
A couple hundred years ago everybody lost all their teeth anyway and they managed to stay alive long enough for me to know that George Washington had wooden implants. People lived without teeth just fine. And there were no blenders in pre-colonial times. Nowadays, imagine the possibilities. Who doesn't love a good smoothie?
Besides the fact that we as a species don't need teeth to survive, if we didn't have teeth, we wouldn't have to go to the dentist. I've given up on brushing completely in pursuit of this goal. When I lose all my teeth I will never again have to get a cavity drilled and filled.
Braces? Spare everyone the pubescent embarrassment. Just don't have teeth. No one will care if they're not lined up.
Teeth are just so much maintenance. Floss every day. Brush twice a day. Whiten to strengthen your image. You do these things every day for your teeth for 60, 70 years. What do they do for you? You can bite an apple. Whoopity-fucking-doo.
And guess what you have to do after you bite into that apple. Brush because apples have lots of sugar. Floss because the little piece of the apple's skin got caught between two of your teeth and you can't get it out. Mouthwash because there was a little bit of blood on the apple when you bit into it, and it turns out you've got gingivitis. We are slaves to our teeth.
And just when you think you've got it under control. Just when you've got your routine down. You've gotten the braces off. You've had several years of the perfect smile. Just at that moment, those dirty bastards decide to drop a few more on you way in the back. Only there's no more room at the inn. So now your "wisdom" teeth are driving into your molars, which are driving into your incisors, which are now a jangled mess of disaster, criss-crossing the front teeth you tried so hard to remove the gap between. And you drink coffee because your baby keeps waking up because his teeth are coming in, and you can't stay awake without pouring cup after cup of black coffee down your throat, and it stains your teeth, so now they're darker than they were, and you haven't slept for days, and it's all so you can eat a fucking apple and a handful of peanuts?
Fuck. Teeth.
Fuck teeth.
That's right, teeth are bullshit. The kid has been totally fine without teeth for four months. His body weight has nearly doubled, so it's not like you need teeth to eat. The doctor keeps telling us he's healthy. She even discouraged us from starting him on solid food. So clearly, there's nothing super important about solid food. Nutrients? Comes in the milk.
"Everything he needs is right there in your breast milk," our doctor told my wife. Then why does he need teeth?! He doesn't. Teeth accomplish nothing.
"Lou, "you may say, "he can't just drink milk his whole life. Besides, if your wife didn't have teeth, the milk wouldn't have very many nutrients."
Bullshit. Adults don't need teeth either. What do spaghetti, peanut butter and jelly, scallops, and raspberries all have in common? You can gum the shit out of any of those foods!
You basically only need teeth for nuts, meat, and raw vegetables. What do nuts, meat, and raw vegetables all have in common? I would gladly not eat any of them ever again if I could get some goddamn sleep!
A couple hundred years ago everybody lost all their teeth anyway and they managed to stay alive long enough for me to know that George Washington had wooden implants. People lived without teeth just fine. And there were no blenders in pre-colonial times. Nowadays, imagine the possibilities. Who doesn't love a good smoothie?
Besides the fact that we as a species don't need teeth to survive, if we didn't have teeth, we wouldn't have to go to the dentist. I've given up on brushing completely in pursuit of this goal. When I lose all my teeth I will never again have to get a cavity drilled and filled.
Braces? Spare everyone the pubescent embarrassment. Just don't have teeth. No one will care if they're not lined up.
Teeth are just so much maintenance. Floss every day. Brush twice a day. Whiten to strengthen your image. You do these things every day for your teeth for 60, 70 years. What do they do for you? You can bite an apple. Whoopity-fucking-doo.
And guess what you have to do after you bite into that apple. Brush because apples have lots of sugar. Floss because the little piece of the apple's skin got caught between two of your teeth and you can't get it out. Mouthwash because there was a little bit of blood on the apple when you bit into it, and it turns out you've got gingivitis. We are slaves to our teeth.
And just when you think you've got it under control. Just when you've got your routine down. You've gotten the braces off. You've had several years of the perfect smile. Just at that moment, those dirty bastards decide to drop a few more on you way in the back. Only there's no more room at the inn. So now your "wisdom" teeth are driving into your molars, which are driving into your incisors, which are now a jangled mess of disaster, criss-crossing the front teeth you tried so hard to remove the gap between. And you drink coffee because your baby keeps waking up because his teeth are coming in, and you can't stay awake without pouring cup after cup of black coffee down your throat, and it stains your teeth, so now they're darker than they were, and you haven't slept for days, and it's all so you can eat a fucking apple and a handful of peanuts?
Fuck. Teeth.
Tuesday, December 31, 2013
He's Making A List, He's Lazy As Shit (To the Tune of Santa's Coming to Town)
In this stupid terrible time of the Internet, as attention spans grow shorter and our capacity for exchanging ideas through words becomes nigh obsolete, there is a growing phenomenon that I have come to hate more than any other Internet phenomena: the list article. The list is trite and uninformative. The list is lazy. The list isn't capable of conveying any real ideas. And it isn't interested in supporting or backing up its opinions. The list exists for one purpose: generating page views.
Truly, any asshole can make a list and put it on the internet. You don't even need to qualify your list, "Given x, y, and z, and coming strictly from a point of view of [insert point of view here], the absolute 10 best/worst [thing] of [time period] are: [list].
Along with each item in the list, you insert a giant picture and one trite sentence backing up what you're trying to say. If you're really an asshole, the list is a slideshow, so you the reader are exposed to 10 times as many ads, because you have to make 10 clicks! The writer doesn't even need to know basic html to number or bullet the lists. There are CMS's like WordPress out there doing that lifting for them.
I hate lists. People who put them together for the internet, and organizations that publish them as though they are novel are assholes. They should all die and go to Hell.
Now...
Having said that, here is a list of the 10 most overrated movies I've ever seen:
Truly, any asshole can make a list and put it on the internet. You don't even need to qualify your list, "Given x, y, and z, and coming strictly from a point of view of [insert point of view here], the absolute 10 best/worst [thing] of [time period] are: [list].
Along with each item in the list, you insert a giant picture and one trite sentence backing up what you're trying to say. If you're really an asshole, the list is a slideshow, so you the reader are exposed to 10 times as many ads, because you have to make 10 clicks! The writer doesn't even need to know basic html to number or bullet the lists. There are CMS's like WordPress out there doing that lifting for them.
I hate lists. People who put them together for the internet, and organizations that publish them as though they are novel are assholes. They should all die and go to Hell.
Now...
Having said that, here is a list of the 10 most overrated movies I've ever seen:
1. Forrest Gump
Wow! Retarded people are innocent! Also, nostalgia? Who knew?!
2. American Beauty
Oh my God! Homophobic murderers' anger may stem from their being repressed homosexuals! That's not cliched at all!
3. The English Patient
Hey, describe a plum some more! Also, she isn't that attractive. In fact, she's kind of funny looking.
4. The Descendants
It's George Clooney and he's really a sincere and nice guy in real life, so his boring movie that isn't funny, touching, moving, or thought-provoking in any way is sincere, nice, and good as well!
5. The Sixth Sense
Oh my shit! He was dead all along!? If this movie had been released at any point in M. Night Shymalan's career other than first, everyone would think the first movie was brilliant and this one was a gimmicky piece of shit.
6. Goodfellas
10% of Goodfellas fans say, "No, it doesn't glorify violence! And the characters are interesting and compelling! It's based on a true story too!"
90% of Goodfellas fans say, "It's so awesome and violent! Joe Pesci is a badass!"
7. Pulp Fiction
Super cool movie! For 19 year olds.
8. Full Metal Jacket
Hey asshole, pick a movie. Make it.
9. All Movies with Precocious Young People
Fucking Juno.
10. Raising Arizona
I don't really have strong hatred towards this movie. I just really like the Coen brothers and this one is highly rated, and I own it, and have watched it many times. But it's kind of long and boring, and I don't have the energy to write anything more thoughtful.
Disagree with my top 10? Tell me your top 10 in the comments!
Monday, December 16, 2013
Trojan Horses
A funny thing happens when you have a baby: You stop having sex. I know that's a hacky truism, but that's not where I'm going. The joke? You get married/have babies and you don't have sex anymore. And it's always the wife's fault: the implication being that women only have sex with you to get you to marry them, or give them babies. That is NOT my implication.
To be honest, since marriage, the ratio of sexual encounters to days alive has skyrocketed. It use to be like 3 times every 25 years. We're waaaaay past that now. Wink-wink, nudge-nudge, say no more. (My wife is never going to let me post this.) Post-marriage sex has by and large been great and frequent and I would never complain about any of it. And I'm not complaining now. The reason the sex stopped isn't because we're "too tired" and "the baby" blah blah blah. It's because babies do terrible things to women's organs.
Exactly two hours after our son was born, our midwife tells us, "Now you can't put anything in there for at least a month." I found her subtlety pretty amusing. You can't put "anything" in "there"? We'd just spent 10 hours talking about vaginas and staring at one together. 10 hours of to-the-point bluntness, "Now, you're going to feel something kind of cold. That's going to be my finger." But when it's time to talk about what brought us to the delivery room in the first place, everybody's a prude!
The point was clear though, we literally couldn't have sex. Doctor's orders. Okay, not literally. We could have. But it wouldn't have been a good idea. And it was an interesting six weeks.
Two things happened: My wife and I became teenagers. The hormones would just build and build and build until we couldn't take it anymore! And then inevitable disappointment. Wah wah wah. (Sad trombone, not baby crying.)
The second thing was that I began masturbating much more frequently. A day or two before my son was born, I was out with some friends remarking that I don't really masturbate anymore. Well, that apparently wasn't so much self-control and not being a degenerate as not having to. Once the well dried up (or perhaps more aptly, once the well needed stitches? [oh man, she's never going to let me publish this]), my fountain overfloweth.
And that was okay for a while, but we both (I think) had been looking forward to the day when this would end. Make-out sessions are a lot of fun when you're 15. They end with a wag of the finger, and a, "let's do something else." Later on, I go back to my house and engage in a furious auto-erotic session, imagining that 'something else' involved my penis.
Make-out sessions are ridiculous by the way. It's like two people baking a cake together, taking it out of the oven, and throwing it away. Later both parties go their separate ways and eat a tube of icing.
For six weeks after having a baby, you get to be 15 again. Icing and all. My wife's appointment with the midwife was circled on the calendar. The day of her appointment, I clicked refresh on my gmail account every 10 minutes, anticipating an update.
Finally, it arrived! "Lou. Buy condoms! Bow-chicka-wow-wow!" Elation! And yet... disappointment? (Sidenote: that really was the email she sent. I love my wife.)
Yes, disappointment. Condoms. I forgot about condoms. "Right," I thought. "Because we don't want two of these things right now." Condoms. It's been years since we've used condoms. It's been years since I've bought condoms. And really, more than the using of condoms bothers me, I detest the buying.
I realize that may seem strange given that I'm disclosing all of this information about my sex life to you. But this is somewhat anonymous. At no point during this exchange of me writing this and you reading it will I walk up to you and give you money so I can have sex with my wife. But that's what happens at Walgreens, isn't it?
"Hello. A fine day to you," I tip my hat. "Here's $15, I will be having sex with my wife tonight, thank you very much."
The cashier takes my money and gives me a receipt for the sex I'm going to have. It's weird.
Also, if you've read this, you've probably read other things I've put up here. And if you've read more than one thing and keep reading things, I have at least some understanding of the type of person you are. On some level, I know you. We're the same, you and I. On some level. And you know me.
The person working the register at Walgreens is a stranger. She's 17. Does she have sex? I don't know. I don't want to know. And she doesn't want to know that I have sex. Neither of us wants any part of each others' sex lives. But the cashier is involved in mine. She's the gatekeeper to my wife's vagina!
And I want to have sex and not have a baby. So condoms it is. I go to the Walgreens. I find the condoms. I look at them. And I giggle. It dawns on me that not only the cashier knows I'll be having sex, but anyone and everyone who is in the store does too. Because I'm not in and out of that aisle. It's been years since I've bought these things. I don't know what's out there. It's a major decision.
I feel no brand loyalty. I have to do some reading. You can't just buy a product you haven't bought in a decade without reading the description. What if I just breeze down the aisle, pick up the first pack and later discover that it explodes at the end or something? That might exist, I don't know. Or what if I grab a pack of smalls? Even if I am a small, I'm not going to buy smalls. It would be embarrassing.
(Interestingly, there are no smalls. There's just regular condoms and then big ones with ridiculous names: "MAGNUM"! "KYNG"! It makes me wonder if diaphragms come in regular and "SUPER TIGHT"! But something tells me women aren't as insecure and weird as men.)
So I camp out in the condom section to do my research. While reading about "Fire and Ice", it occurs to me that I am a ridiculous human being. Well, first it occurs to me that humanity is ridiculous for creating the equivalent of Bengay contraception. But then it occurs to me that I've been reading condom boxes for 10 minutes in a crowded store. I feel a little like a pervert, but I remain unphased. I am buying condoms for perfectly respectable reasons, and I will not be bullied by society to make an uniformed decision!
I put back the Fire and Ice, and my eyes catch the pack, "Ribbed, for her pleasure." "That seems like the gentleman's choice. I'll do that." But it's right next to "Sensations for Her." Both Trojan products, by the way. Interestingly, I am a Trojan man. Both condoms are ribbed and contoured specifically for a woman's pleasure. What's the difference? Now I've got to pick up both packs and read the back. Trojan, there's no discernible difference. What the fuck?
At this point, I'd like to point out that I am a great guy. Because there are condoms specifically for HIM! And I passed that shit right up. Didn't even cross my mind. Okay, it crossed my mind. But you can't do that, can you? I don't really understand how these products exist. What man, knowing full well that he's going to have a "good time," is going to enhance his own "good time" before thinking of raising the odds that the woman is going to have a "good time" at all?
I can't in good conscience get something for ME and bring it to a STRANGER, "Yes, I will be having sex tonight. And I'm going to have a GREAT time."
"I see you didn't go with ribbed? For her pleasure? They're the same price you know."
"Oh, I know. I just don't care if she has pleasure!"
What? No. You can't do that. And now I'm giggling again that I'm having all of these thoughts while people are walking past me to get their prescriptions filled, shooting me glances out of the corner of their eyes, "Hmmm... he's gonna have sex... grrr." I don't know why people are thinking that in my head, but they are. They're mad about my sex.
Her pleasure or extra ribbed? I get a pack of each, because "Let's test!" As I'm walking from the condom aisle to the checkout, a question pops into my head. Why "Trojan"? That doesn't seem right, does it? How is the biggest condom brand in the world "Trojan"? I'm not commenting on the product here. I'm sure it's a fine product (Editor's Note: The wife is not pregnant. Fine product.). I'm commenting on the name.
Trojan. What does "Trojan" bring to mind? If you said, "The most famous sneak attack of all times!" you'd be spot on! What the fuck Trojan brand?
"Trojan Brand Condoms! You'll never see it coming!" It's a wooden horse, and hours after it's delivered, while you're sleeping, hundreds of soldiers pop out and sack the city? I don't get it. Weird connotation.
Unless they're going for a parallel with the 300 story. Armies of millions can't get through a narrow passage because it's blocked by 300 Trojans? That's not what comes to mind though. Trojan Horse is what comes to mind. Pillaging and ravaging a vagina near you. Weird.
I just imagine a couple who had a fight about having children. The man really wants them, the woman doesn't. Tempers flare. Ugly things are said. Old scars and wounds are reopened by both sides. After hours of silent treatment, someone farts and breaks the ice. Both people giggle, and there's a little friendly banter.
The wife makes a wisecrack, "God bless you."
The husband, "I told you I liked your meatloaf."
One thing leads to another and they're on the verge of the makeup sex. "But wait... I really don't want kids John."
"Don't worry Deborah, I'll wear a Trojan." And with that, they're back at each other's throats.
"Nice try motherfucker. I read about that horse. Sure it seems like a nice present, but once you let it in, all Hell breaks loose. You can't trust a Trojan."
This thought wraps up as my palms begin sweating and I casually place the condoms on the counter in front of a 17 year old girl working evenings at Walgreens. I place the condoms as far away from her as possible, as though that will somehow make her not need to see what they are. But she does.
She sees them. She hides her own embarrassment by making this the fastest transaction I have ever partaken in. Within three seconds they're scanned and in a bag. No words are exchanged. No eye contact is exchanged either. She swipes the credit card. Gives me my receipt, "You have paid for your sex." And I leave. Phew.
Then I went home and promptly discussed all of my thoughts on condoms with my wife. "It's like a Trojan Horse I tell ya!" We laughed. Then we had sex. With our son in the room. Which is a story for next time, things I would have to drink to now that I have a child if I were playing "I've never."
"I've never had sex with a third person in the room." Lou takes a drink.
To be honest, since marriage, the ratio of sexual encounters to days alive has skyrocketed. It use to be like 3 times every 25 years. We're waaaaay past that now. Wink-wink, nudge-nudge, say no more. (My wife is never going to let me post this.) Post-marriage sex has by and large been great and frequent and I would never complain about any of it. And I'm not complaining now. The reason the sex stopped isn't because we're "too tired" and "the baby" blah blah blah. It's because babies do terrible things to women's organs.
Exactly two hours after our son was born, our midwife tells us, "Now you can't put anything in there for at least a month." I found her subtlety pretty amusing. You can't put "anything" in "there"? We'd just spent 10 hours talking about vaginas and staring at one together. 10 hours of to-the-point bluntness, "Now, you're going to feel something kind of cold. That's going to be my finger." But when it's time to talk about what brought us to the delivery room in the first place, everybody's a prude!
The point was clear though, we literally couldn't have sex. Doctor's orders. Okay, not literally. We could have. But it wouldn't have been a good idea. And it was an interesting six weeks.
Two things happened: My wife and I became teenagers. The hormones would just build and build and build until we couldn't take it anymore! And then inevitable disappointment. Wah wah wah. (Sad trombone, not baby crying.)
The second thing was that I began masturbating much more frequently. A day or two before my son was born, I was out with some friends remarking that I don't really masturbate anymore. Well, that apparently wasn't so much self-control and not being a degenerate as not having to. Once the well dried up (or perhaps more aptly, once the well needed stitches? [oh man, she's never going to let me publish this]), my fountain overfloweth.
And that was okay for a while, but we both (I think) had been looking forward to the day when this would end. Make-out sessions are a lot of fun when you're 15. They end with a wag of the finger, and a, "let's do something else." Later on, I go back to my house and engage in a furious auto-erotic session, imagining that 'something else' involved my penis.
Make-out sessions are ridiculous by the way. It's like two people baking a cake together, taking it out of the oven, and throwing it away. Later both parties go their separate ways and eat a tube of icing.
For six weeks after having a baby, you get to be 15 again. Icing and all. My wife's appointment with the midwife was circled on the calendar. The day of her appointment, I clicked refresh on my gmail account every 10 minutes, anticipating an update.
Finally, it arrived! "Lou. Buy condoms! Bow-chicka-wow-wow!" Elation! And yet... disappointment? (Sidenote: that really was the email she sent. I love my wife.)
Yes, disappointment. Condoms. I forgot about condoms. "Right," I thought. "Because we don't want two of these things right now." Condoms. It's been years since we've used condoms. It's been years since I've bought condoms. And really, more than the using of condoms bothers me, I detest the buying.
I realize that may seem strange given that I'm disclosing all of this information about my sex life to you. But this is somewhat anonymous. At no point during this exchange of me writing this and you reading it will I walk up to you and give you money so I can have sex with my wife. But that's what happens at Walgreens, isn't it?
"Hello. A fine day to you," I tip my hat. "Here's $15, I will be having sex with my wife tonight, thank you very much."
The cashier takes my money and gives me a receipt for the sex I'm going to have. It's weird.
Also, if you've read this, you've probably read other things I've put up here. And if you've read more than one thing and keep reading things, I have at least some understanding of the type of person you are. On some level, I know you. We're the same, you and I. On some level. And you know me.
The person working the register at Walgreens is a stranger. She's 17. Does she have sex? I don't know. I don't want to know. And she doesn't want to know that I have sex. Neither of us wants any part of each others' sex lives. But the cashier is involved in mine. She's the gatekeeper to my wife's vagina!
And I want to have sex and not have a baby. So condoms it is. I go to the Walgreens. I find the condoms. I look at them. And I giggle. It dawns on me that not only the cashier knows I'll be having sex, but anyone and everyone who is in the store does too. Because I'm not in and out of that aisle. It's been years since I've bought these things. I don't know what's out there. It's a major decision.
I feel no brand loyalty. I have to do some reading. You can't just buy a product you haven't bought in a decade without reading the description. What if I just breeze down the aisle, pick up the first pack and later discover that it explodes at the end or something? That might exist, I don't know. Or what if I grab a pack of smalls? Even if I am a small, I'm not going to buy smalls. It would be embarrassing.
(Interestingly, there are no smalls. There's just regular condoms and then big ones with ridiculous names: "MAGNUM"! "KYNG"! It makes me wonder if diaphragms come in regular and "SUPER TIGHT"! But something tells me women aren't as insecure and weird as men.)
So I camp out in the condom section to do my research. While reading about "Fire and Ice", it occurs to me that I am a ridiculous human being. Well, first it occurs to me that humanity is ridiculous for creating the equivalent of Bengay contraception. But then it occurs to me that I've been reading condom boxes for 10 minutes in a crowded store. I feel a little like a pervert, but I remain unphased. I am buying condoms for perfectly respectable reasons, and I will not be bullied by society to make an uniformed decision!
I put back the Fire and Ice, and my eyes catch the pack, "Ribbed, for her pleasure." "That seems like the gentleman's choice. I'll do that." But it's right next to "Sensations for Her." Both Trojan products, by the way. Interestingly, I am a Trojan man. Both condoms are ribbed and contoured specifically for a woman's pleasure. What's the difference? Now I've got to pick up both packs and read the back. Trojan, there's no discernible difference. What the fuck?
At this point, I'd like to point out that I am a great guy. Because there are condoms specifically for HIM! And I passed that shit right up. Didn't even cross my mind. Okay, it crossed my mind. But you can't do that, can you? I don't really understand how these products exist. What man, knowing full well that he's going to have a "good time," is going to enhance his own "good time" before thinking of raising the odds that the woman is going to have a "good time" at all?
I can't in good conscience get something for ME and bring it to a STRANGER, "Yes, I will be having sex tonight. And I'm going to have a GREAT time."
"I see you didn't go with ribbed? For her pleasure? They're the same price you know."
"Oh, I know. I just don't care if she has pleasure!"
What? No. You can't do that. And now I'm giggling again that I'm having all of these thoughts while people are walking past me to get their prescriptions filled, shooting me glances out of the corner of their eyes, "Hmmm... he's gonna have sex... grrr." I don't know why people are thinking that in my head, but they are. They're mad about my sex.
Her pleasure or extra ribbed? I get a pack of each, because "Let's test!" As I'm walking from the condom aisle to the checkout, a question pops into my head. Why "Trojan"? That doesn't seem right, does it? How is the biggest condom brand in the world "Trojan"? I'm not commenting on the product here. I'm sure it's a fine product (Editor's Note: The wife is not pregnant. Fine product.). I'm commenting on the name.
Trojan. What does "Trojan" bring to mind? If you said, "The most famous sneak attack of all times!" you'd be spot on! What the fuck Trojan brand?
"Trojan Brand Condoms! You'll never see it coming!" It's a wooden horse, and hours after it's delivered, while you're sleeping, hundreds of soldiers pop out and sack the city? I don't get it. Weird connotation.
Unless they're going for a parallel with the 300 story. Armies of millions can't get through a narrow passage because it's blocked by 300 Trojans? That's not what comes to mind though. Trojan Horse is what comes to mind. Pillaging and ravaging a vagina near you. Weird.
I just imagine a couple who had a fight about having children. The man really wants them, the woman doesn't. Tempers flare. Ugly things are said. Old scars and wounds are reopened by both sides. After hours of silent treatment, someone farts and breaks the ice. Both people giggle, and there's a little friendly banter.
The wife makes a wisecrack, "God bless you."
The husband, "I told you I liked your meatloaf."
One thing leads to another and they're on the verge of the makeup sex. "But wait... I really don't want kids John."
"Don't worry Deborah, I'll wear a Trojan." And with that, they're back at each other's throats.
"Nice try motherfucker. I read about that horse. Sure it seems like a nice present, but once you let it in, all Hell breaks loose. You can't trust a Trojan."
This thought wraps up as my palms begin sweating and I casually place the condoms on the counter in front of a 17 year old girl working evenings at Walgreens. I place the condoms as far away from her as possible, as though that will somehow make her not need to see what they are. But she does.
She sees them. She hides her own embarrassment by making this the fastest transaction I have ever partaken in. Within three seconds they're scanned and in a bag. No words are exchanged. No eye contact is exchanged either. She swipes the credit card. Gives me my receipt, "You have paid for your sex." And I leave. Phew.
Then I went home and promptly discussed all of my thoughts on condoms with my wife. "It's like a Trojan Horse I tell ya!" We laughed. Then we had sex. With our son in the room. Which is a story for next time, things I would have to drink to now that I have a child if I were playing "I've never."
"I've never had sex with a third person in the room." Lou takes a drink.
Friday, December 6, 2013
Sarah Palin's Not Even A Footnote
Life can be funny sometimes, can't it? I spent four years in college avoiding making any commitment to, or even thinking about the possibility of, a career path. I was a history major. I loved History. I also majored in Political Science. I spent 75% of the hours I was supposed to be reading assigned texts not related to those two subjects (and sometimes related to those subjects) reading Kurt Vonnegut books and Adbusters instead.
As my college friends and roommates could attest, my free time was pretty evenly divided between sleeping, drinking, recreational drugs, video games, music, and movies. Often times, some combination of the above was involved.
My favorite college activity was playing Age of Empires II at 4 AM while listening to The GC5 stoned and drunk. Once a semester, I would execute my end-of-class ritual for classes I didn't care about. That ritual: spend two days reading all assigned readings in preparation for a final, take the final, forget everything I had read in the previous two days, and cross my fingers that my grade wouldn't end up being something my parents would be pissed about.
During one of those rituals, I actually threw up my hands in boredom, smoked a bong, and watched the Scooby Doo movie. I vividly remember the movie ending, me thinking, "That was terrible. And I still need to finish studying." Then going back to my room and studying, still high, and not going to sleep because the final was at 9 AM, and I knew I wouldn't wake up for it if I slept. I left the house as the Sun came up and walked from 142 N. Hancock to State Street, and thought about how ridiculous I was.
I watched the panhandlers on State Street calling it a night/morning, as the city awoke and the streets were getting cleaned. Me, emerging from my dark room, where I'd been huddled over some textbook I didn't care about, feeling resentful that I had to demonstrate knowledge in a subject area like Microeconomics, hungry and desperate for coffee at 6:40 AM.
What am I doing with my life? I'm a mess. I need to take my life more seriously.
I stopped at Memorial Union that morning for the Madison version of a bacon, egg, and cheese biscuit, and finished off my cram session. I went to take a final exam, convinced that none of it mattered. Microeconomics. Logic. Intro to State Government. All I cared about was History (specifically American), Political Science (specifically Political Theory (aka Philosophy)), Kurt Vonnegut, and Adbusters.
For those of you who don't know what Adbusters is, it's a magazine that grossly oversimplifies things and holds marketing and advertising in complete and total contempt. If I knew then that as I write this, some 8 years later, I would be working for a marketing company, I would think I was high as shit.
When I started this job, a well meaning coworker remarked that my background in History and Political Science was esoteric. He meant absolutely nothing by it, but that it was quirky. I responded, "Not just Political Science. Political Theory! Meaning I did nothing but think and write about what 'Justice' meant!" We laughed.
I get it. Believe me, I do. These aren't career-making fields of study! Political Theory?! This is me at a job interview:
Interviewer: Tell me how you would evaluate the profitability of investing in emerging technologies. (That's a ridiculous interview question I realize, but I'm struggling here to make a point.)
Me: I'll do you one better. I'll tell you how I would evaluate the pros and cons of positive conceptions of Justice, as displayed in Shakespeare's The Merchant of Venice! (That's not actually ridiculous. I wrote a paper on that topic and received an A in a 400-level class because of it. (Well, it's kind of ridiculous, it was basically just 5 pages of me bullshitting. (BUT... it was bullshit I meant.)))
Do I regret my choices? No. And here's the point I'm building up to. The thesis of this blogpost.
If for no other reason, my four years of studying History and Political Science (Theory) has convinced me. CONVINCED me. That when I see things like this...
http://gawker.com/msnbc-host-wants-someone-to-shit-in-sarah-palins-mouth-1466847681
...I can confidently say that the Sarah Palins have already been relegated to a punchline. In 5 years, she will be relegated to a bar joke told to a smattering of, "Who?"'s. In 25 years, she'll be an answer in Trivial Pursuit. In 100 years, no one will know who the fuck she is at all.
When I see stories about "selfies" and I feel old for not knowing what they are or that they're a meme, I can confidently say that no one will use the term "selfie" in 10 years except for in the modern/future equivalent of what VH1's "I love the 80s" from the 90s is/will be now/in 10 years.
"Remember selfies?" Some asshole who'll be forgotten three days subsequently, if ever known (is it Daniel Tosh right now? Probably, I think), will say. "[insert obvious joke for the times here]."
Perhaps best of all, though, my course of study has given me the wherewithal to understand that in 50 years, Barack Obama may very well be a trivia answer as well. He may only ever be remembered for having been the first black (or perhaps minority) President.
But for the duration of the United States, George W. Bush will always be known as one of the worst Presidents in our history.
With that foresight and knowledge, the frustrations of these modern times wash over me. I breathe deep. I reflect upon that May morning on State Street. The scent of the previous night's debauchery. My own pot hangover. The cigarettes on my breath. And I'm glad things have gone as they have.
I just wish that Scooby Doo movie didn't suck so much.
As my college friends and roommates could attest, my free time was pretty evenly divided between sleeping, drinking, recreational drugs, video games, music, and movies. Often times, some combination of the above was involved.
My favorite college activity was playing Age of Empires II at 4 AM while listening to The GC5 stoned and drunk. Once a semester, I would execute my end-of-class ritual for classes I didn't care about. That ritual: spend two days reading all assigned readings in preparation for a final, take the final, forget everything I had read in the previous two days, and cross my fingers that my grade wouldn't end up being something my parents would be pissed about.
During one of those rituals, I actually threw up my hands in boredom, smoked a bong, and watched the Scooby Doo movie. I vividly remember the movie ending, me thinking, "That was terrible. And I still need to finish studying." Then going back to my room and studying, still high, and not going to sleep because the final was at 9 AM, and I knew I wouldn't wake up for it if I slept. I left the house as the Sun came up and walked from 142 N. Hancock to State Street, and thought about how ridiculous I was.
I watched the panhandlers on State Street calling it a night/morning, as the city awoke and the streets were getting cleaned. Me, emerging from my dark room, where I'd been huddled over some textbook I didn't care about, feeling resentful that I had to demonstrate knowledge in a subject area like Microeconomics, hungry and desperate for coffee at 6:40 AM.
What am I doing with my life? I'm a mess. I need to take my life more seriously.
I stopped at Memorial Union that morning for the Madison version of a bacon, egg, and cheese biscuit, and finished off my cram session. I went to take a final exam, convinced that none of it mattered. Microeconomics. Logic. Intro to State Government. All I cared about was History (specifically American), Political Science (specifically Political Theory (aka Philosophy)), Kurt Vonnegut, and Adbusters.
For those of you who don't know what Adbusters is, it's a magazine that grossly oversimplifies things and holds marketing and advertising in complete and total contempt. If I knew then that as I write this, some 8 years later, I would be working for a marketing company, I would think I was high as shit.
When I started this job, a well meaning coworker remarked that my background in History and Political Science was esoteric. He meant absolutely nothing by it, but that it was quirky. I responded, "Not just Political Science. Political Theory! Meaning I did nothing but think and write about what 'Justice' meant!" We laughed.
I get it. Believe me, I do. These aren't career-making fields of study! Political Theory?! This is me at a job interview:
Interviewer: Tell me how you would evaluate the profitability of investing in emerging technologies. (That's a ridiculous interview question I realize, but I'm struggling here to make a point.)
Me: I'll do you one better. I'll tell you how I would evaluate the pros and cons of positive conceptions of Justice, as displayed in Shakespeare's The Merchant of Venice! (That's not actually ridiculous. I wrote a paper on that topic and received an A in a 400-level class because of it. (Well, it's kind of ridiculous, it was basically just 5 pages of me bullshitting. (BUT... it was bullshit I meant.)))
Do I regret my choices? No. And here's the point I'm building up to. The thesis of this blogpost.
If for no other reason, my four years of studying History and Political Science (Theory) has convinced me. CONVINCED me. That when I see things like this...
http://gawker.com/msnbc-host-wants-someone-to-shit-in-sarah-palins-mouth-1466847681
...I can confidently say that the Sarah Palins have already been relegated to a punchline. In 5 years, she will be relegated to a bar joke told to a smattering of, "Who?"'s. In 25 years, she'll be an answer in Trivial Pursuit. In 100 years, no one will know who the fuck she is at all.
When I see stories about "selfies" and I feel old for not knowing what they are or that they're a meme, I can confidently say that no one will use the term "selfie" in 10 years except for in the modern/future equivalent of what VH1's "I love the 80s" from the 90s is/will be now/in 10 years.
"Remember selfies?" Some asshole who'll be forgotten three days subsequently, if ever known (is it Daniel Tosh right now? Probably, I think), will say. "[insert obvious joke for the times here]."
Perhaps best of all, though, my course of study has given me the wherewithal to understand that in 50 years, Barack Obama may very well be a trivia answer as well. He may only ever be remembered for having been the first black (or perhaps minority) President.
But for the duration of the United States, George W. Bush will always be known as one of the worst Presidents in our history.
With that foresight and knowledge, the frustrations of these modern times wash over me. I breathe deep. I reflect upon that May morning on State Street. The scent of the previous night's debauchery. My own pot hangover. The cigarettes on my breath. And I'm glad things have gone as they have.
I just wish that Scooby Doo movie didn't suck so much.
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