Real Men Smoke Cigars

The wooden match flared brightly as I fumbled my hands in front of my face.  The flame once again danced dangerously close to the tips of my fingers.  It was supposed to dance dangerously close to the end of the cigar clamped in my teeth.  After five matches you’d think I’d figure it out.  The pile of burnt match sticks at my feet was getting embarrassing.  I just hoped no one was watching.  Before I could get more than two puffs and a quarter rotation I was forced to put out that match, too.  How hard is it to light up a stogie, honestly?

Some weeks back, a dear relation of mine sent me a package for my birthday: assorted candies, teas, sweeteners, etc., that I took to be the end result of her latest kitchen cabinet cleaning.  Why she put it into a box to send to me instead of into the “circular file”, I could never quite figure out.  I was more than a little concerned that apparently this dear relation of mine looks at a pile of refuse and immediately thinks of me.  I would hope that it would be stunning works of art or paragons of physical perfection that would remind her of me.  But I digress.  I should have been grateful really:  usually it’s the contents of her desk that end up in the postmarked box.  Honestly, how many Post-Its, paper clips and ball point pens does one man need? 

Included in the package amongst the assorted odds and ends this time was one of her husband’s highly prized cigars.  It was a fine cigar, plump and lengthy, with just the right amount of crackle: not too wet, not too dry.  The man obviously has a fine person managing his humidor.  I suspect it to be my own dear relation.

I called my dear relation to thank her immediately upon opening the package and she recommended I smoke the cigar at a Super Bowl party.  I thought this to be an inspired idea and I decided then and there to do just that.  More precisely on the way home from the party. You know how these non-smokers are about smoking indoors, especially a cigar.

I stepped outside to the curb and lit my cigar with a wooden matchstick, as I understand that is one of the cleanest ways to light up.  A lighter would pollute the flavor of the tobacco with the tang of lighter fluid, and wood smoke would serve only to enhance it.  Or so I’m told.  So this is what I did.  And in my unpracticed hands, it took at least five minutes and a cascade of matches that, before I gave up, yielded only a lopsided result.  So with a glowing orange semi-circle leading the way, I blinked my way through the smoke-induced tears and headed west for the subway.

So there I was at 11:30pm casually strolling through Harlem, NYC smoking a quality cigar and thinking I look like a real bad ass.  Except when the smoke goes a little too far down my throat.  At which point I double over, grab my knees and attempt to keep my lungs from making a break for the outside world.  And, curiously, it’s at that very same moment that the world decides to tilt violently on its axis while the stars do their best imitation of the Northern Lights.  And all the while trying to remain cool.  Man, those cigars are good.

The occasional bronchial spasm aside, I thought my “puff pacing” wasn’t bad, though I was concerned I might be hitting it a little hard.  Being the natural-born miser that I am, I had to try to smoke as much of the cigar as possible by the time I reached the subway entrance where I’d have to discard it before heading underground.  I was concerned that a draw every three steps or so might be a little much, especially for one unused to tobacco as I was, but I had limited geography to accomplish my goal and it was getting smaller with every step.  I got about half of it smoked before the green, half-domed lights loomed in the distance telling me I was close to my destination.  That was when I started to feel it.

I usually have a pretty decent sense of equilibrium.  I wouldn’t want to walk the high steel or start a tight rope act but there’s been no vertigo or bouts of dizziness that I can remember that weren’t induced by playground shenanigans or raging influenza.  Even on the rare occasions when I’ve managed to over-indulge on fermented spirits, I’ve never felt dizzy.  Tunnel vision, yes.  Nauseous, yes.  Vertigo, no.  This time, I was dizzy.

I stood on the corner of the cobblestone island by the subway stairs taking a last couple of puffs and having them go straight to my head.  It seemed a shame to discard so much of a good cigar still unsmoked.  I tried to tamp out the glowing cherry on the metal rail of the stairway.  No dice.  It was a hard, orange, glowing ember.  It wasn’t going anywhere.  So I took out my pocket knife and started to cut off the glowing end.

I gave a generous length of about an inch from the lit end of the cigar and cut it against the railing. Between my swimming head and a knife not designed for such a purpose, I made a ragged job of it.  I crushed out the lit end on the cobblestones under foot then examined what remained of the stogie.  It looked okay, not really singed on the cut end.  But what concerned me is that it was still warm.  I wrapped it back in the plastic wrap I had taken it out of and twisted both ends.  Then I stood there with my head swimming, staring at the wrapped remains and pondering the possibilities.  In the end, the image of me tucking away a quietly smoldering half cigar wrapped in slowly melting cling wrap only to have it burst into flames at a most inopportune moment, like while slowly nodding off to sleep in the seat of a swaying subway car, won out.  I regretfully tossed it into the trash and held tight to the handrail as I wobbled down the stairs to catch my train.

I made sure to stand well back from the platform edge as I texted my dear relation the results of her suggestion and offered one of my own:  that maybe her dear husband could give me a lesson or two in cigar smoking upon the occasion of my next visit.  I had a feeling I might need one.  After all, real men smoke cigars.  Don’t they?

Adventures in Sleep Deprivation

When one goes visiting one’s relatives, there are certain things one takes for granted:  1) there will be a lot of food, 2) there will be lively conversation, and 3) there won’t be a lot of sleep.  I’m fully aware of these three basic tenants of family get-togethers, but some days it doesn’t pay to get out of bed in the morning.  And some days the bed doesn’t give you a choice.

On my most recent visit to the Upstate for quality time with the extended family, in general, a good time was had by all.  Except when it came time for bed, that is.  Upon my initial arrival, my grandmother took me downstairs to the finished basement room that is my usual abode when visiting and has been since childhood.  I like it down there:  it’s cool, it’s private and, for the most part, it’s quiet.  This time I was to sleep upon a cot that was basically an air mattress with legs.  I thought that would work splendidly.  It did the last time I used it so I had no qualms about it this time.  I was a little disconcerted to find it sagging and half inflated when my grandmother claimed to have already inflated it.  She seemed as puzzled as I was and so applied the motorized pump and inflated it again.  As soon as the motor cut off, I detected with my bat-like hearing a soft hissing sound.  My grandmother hadn’t even noticed.  When we picked up the mattress, we found that the sound was coming from a half-inch tear in the underside of the mattress.  Well, that certainly explained things.  So my grandmother told me to stand there with my finger in the hole like the little Dutch boy at the proverbial dyke while she went and found some duct tape.  Fortunately, it wasn’t a very long wait and, with the application of a generous piece of the silver tape, we were both sure that the problem was solved.

Upon my return to the basement at midnight, a mere four hours later, I found the makeshift patch to still be holding nicely.  I climbed gingerly into bed, whispered a little prayer that the patch might hold through the night and, with the nighttime sounds of the basement pulsing softly around me, I drifted quickly and peacefully off to sleep. 

My first sensation was that of an irksome pain in my lower lumbar.  I decided to ignore it, as I was well and pleasantly ensconced on the outskirts of a REM cycle with no intention of leaving.  But against my will, my consciousness came slipping to the surface of my sleep-addled brain, forcing me to confront this interloper to my comfort and deal with it forthwith.  I soon realized that this unwelcome interruption was nothing less than the folding legs of the air mattress digging into my back and side through what had once been an air-filled plastic cushion.  I shifted and once more attempted to ignore the offending interruption but it was no use.  This problem would have to be addressed.

I struggled out of the depleted bed and fumbled in the dark for the motor that I knew was there somewhere.  If I was going to have to get up and deal with this annoyance I was at least going to do it with lights off and eyes closed.  That didn’t last very long either as the air pump proved rather obstinate about seating properly on the mattress’s intake valve.  So far I was 0 for 2 and could feel my already short fuse fuming steadily shorter.  All I wanted was sleep and everything seemed to be working against me.  I resolved to just hurry up, deal with the problem and get back to bed as quickly as possible.  Honestly, how hard could it be to fix?

Upon re-inflation of the mattress, I found that the makeshift patch had not held and was once again venting its contents to the open air.  I smoothed down the duct tape and added an extra piece for good measure.  Then I climbed back into bed.

Thirty seconds later I heard a soft hissing from the underside of the mattress.  I reached a hand down to the patch and found that yes, indeed, it had blown once again.  For all its wondrous and multifaceted uses, duct tape was apparently no match for the weight of my supinated bulk.  With eyes still closed and without climbing out of bed, I ripped off another piece of tape and applied it to the latest site of leakage.  Thirty seconds later the hissing returned.

This process continued for a good long while, me refusing to get out of bed or give in to the leak, and the leak refusing to be cowed by the likes of industrial strength tape. I applied more tape where the new leaks formed.  No good.  I wedged my wallet between the leak and the support strut of the bed frame with the half-formed notion that the weight of my body on the bed might push the leak closed against the wallet, tape and support strut.  No dice.  I became so desperate that I attempted to fall asleep while holding the leak closed with my bare hand.  This endeavor proved as successful as all the others before it.  Finally, my ingenuity and my patience at an end, a torrent of language burst forth the likes of which I was sure had never seen the light of day in that house before.  It was enough to make a sailor blush.  It was also the first time I was glad that most of the bodies asleep in the house above me that night were hard of hearing.  Still grumbling, I gathered up my bedding and headed upstairs to the living room. 

Earlier my grandmother had mentioned that, if all else failed, I could always sleep in the recliner in the living room as a last resort.  I had agreed readily enough, sure that it would never come to that.  I was rather…”chagrined” to find myself fumbling to the chair in the dark, pulling it away from the wall and ratcheting it back as far as it would go.  As I settled myself in, with sheet and blanket covering me, I saw that the clock read 2:56 am.  I could still get a good couple hours of sleep before people started waking up.  I figured I could make do with that.  I’d done worse before.  It would be fine.  What I had neglected to consider was my grandfather’s clock collection.

My grandfather had been collecting clocks for years.  I think it all started with the mantle piece clock he was given as a retirement present years ago.  It had been in that house for as long as I could remember.  From there he had steadily increased his collection from both presents received on various gift giving holidays as well as sundry clocks and watches he’d bought himself on less auspicious occasions.  His collection ran the gamut from antique wind-up clocks to talking clocks to themed wall clocks whose hourly chimes were anything from tweeting birds to galloping horses to whistling trains.  The latest addition to this collection was a beautiful antique grandfather clock whose doors he liked to keep standing wide open so as to have no impediment to the source of its quarterly hour chimes.  And the living room is where this magnificent collection called home.

I lay for a moment in my new makeshift bed, sighing deeply in anticipation of the sleep to come and listening to the deep quiet of the night around me.  I heard the low hum from the refrigerator down the hall.  I heard someone turn in their bed.  I heard the occasional creek of the house as it settled with the night.  What utter peace and quiet.  I smiled to myself as I thought proudly, and not for the first time, of my particular gift of “hearing acute” and how I was lucky to be so blessed.  Now, at long last, I could finally get a good night’s rest.

I was just drifting back into that gray haze of nightly oblivion when I heard the click of a gear works behind me.  Then the chiming began.  It started with the grandfather clock and I groaned as I realized what was to come.  When the grandfather clock tolled its last stroke of three, an electronic voice piped up out of the darkness to tell me in a clear and strident tone that “It’s 3 A.M.”.  When the mantle piece clock started up its St. Michael’s chimes from the floating shelf directly over my head, I nearly lost it.  Of course, all the clocks had been set to ring in succession!  Why wouldn’t they?!  How else could one thoroughly enjoy the unique tones and personality of each individual clock in its own unimpeded splendor?  Blessedly, the frog, horse, bird and other type novelty clocks had a photoresistor built into their faces and only went off when a light was on.  I think I heard another electronic voice and the digital recreations of a train whistle but I can’t be sure.  I was too busy forging new, vile epithets straight from the fires of perdition and hurling them blindly out into the darkness to pay much attention. 

Then I thought, “Okay, maybe, just maybe, these clocks are like many modern grandfather clocks:  they stop chiming around 10pm and start up again at 7am, so as not to disturb one’s sleep.  Or, if not, maybe it only chimes on the hour at night and maybe I will be deep asleep enough by then that I won’t hear them and I’ll be okay.”  Fifteen minutes later, it started again.

But, finally, fortune smiled and my luck began to turn as I realized that my salvation was at hand.  I stumped back down to the basement, damnation trailing from my lips as I went, to retrieve my deliverance from this nocturnal hell in which I languished so painfully.

When I was packing for this trip, I knew that I would eventually be making my way to Central New York and that my mother’s sisters would be on hand.  My mother has three younger sisters who are rather a riotous bunch when all put in the same room together.  Taken individually or in any combination of pairs, they are fine and respectable ladies.  Well, at least tolerable.  But when all three of them get together it’s like an unholy trinity, a perfect storm of vocal energy that just feeds off itself until the ensuing cacophony reaches unrelenting decibelic levels.  And this can go on all night.  So in order to get any kind of rest at all, and preserve my already tenuous sanity, I have to resort to a trick I happened upon during my time in pitched battle with the ever-present noise of the big City. 

The persistence and intensity of the noise in the City can sometimes get unbearable, especially on the weekend when you’re the only person in a five block radius that has an early morning the next day.  My genius solution consists of just 2 words:  ear plugs.  It doesn’t block out everything but it brings it all down to a decently tolerable level and lets you get some sleep.  I knew all three of my aunts wouldn’t be there this time but I thought I’d pack the ear plugs just in case.  They’d saved my life on more than one occasion and, hey, you never know, right?

Those sweet, little, “safety orange”-colored pieces of foam rubber did the trick once again.  When the chimes went off at the next quarter hour, they were as soft as pastoral church bells on a snowy winter evening and soon I was finally back in the land of Nod.

In the morning, I cut such a pitiable figure lying there in the recliner, covered in a sheet and afghan with ear plugs stuffed in my ears, that the guilt was apparently overwhelming.  So overwhelming in fact that I was granted an unheard of special dispensation:  I was allowed to miss both the 7am and 9am Sunday morning services so that I could try and grab a few more hours of sleep on someone else’s now vacated, but mercifully intact, “bed”.  I could have kissed them when they suggested it, and might have had I not been so bleary-eyed and ornery from my ordeal in the dark.

The next night, as I slipped onto a different air mattress in a different room in the house, I whispered another prayer, asking only that this mattress please remain whole through the night and that the morning find me still hovering peacefully above the cold, hard ground.  As the grey light of dawn crept through the curtained windows, it found me once again on intimate terms with the wall-to-wall carpeting.

Like I said, some days it doesn’t pay to get out of bed in the morning.

Desperate Times — Part 2

“NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!”

My mind reels at the horror that I cannot yet process.  I feel for the top button of my jersey and my sunglasses are gone.  I shine the light down into the silver bowl and I see the darkly glistening surface of the sloshing liquid unbroken.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!”

I tried to deny it.  I tried to pretend that it couldn’t possibly be so.  But there was no other possibility.  I had the glasses when I came in and they were no longer where they were supposed to be.  I heard a splash when I bent over.  There was only one answer:  they were in the drink.

My first thought was one of rage:  “I just bought those!”  They didn’t cost all that much but I really liked them.  And somehow I knew something like this was going to happen.  I was quite familiar with my particular brand of luck.  I briefly considered abandoning them to the bowels of the bus.  I mean, for God’s sake, I had just done my business in there!  Many other people before me had done their business in there!  I had no idea where the flush was or even if there was a flush.  There was no telling if ANYONE had flushed before I got there.  I could be reasonably certain that it was all liquid, as we hadn’t been on the bus that long or stopped for lunch, so I was at least spared that possibility.  But I couldn’t even guess how many other people had come before me.  Face it, it was GROSS!!!

But I was angry.  I hadn’t even had those glasses three weeks, worn them maybe three times, and now they were lost.  No.  I refused to be dealt this fecal-infested hand yet again by some unrelenting, vengeful God who saw fit to torture, tease and persecute me at every turn.  I refused to be screwed yet again by a world that had already given me the shaft and forced me to fight uphill for every little thing I wanted, to eke out a meager existence of squalor and denial because of dumb choices I made when I was a stupid kid fresh out of college.  No!  I refused to be treated this way yet AGAIN.  I would have my glasses back no matter what it took.  I would make this stand, here and now, and declare to the world that I am worthy of existence, that I will not be treated like Fate’s chew toy.  This is my line in the sand and I will not take it any more!  It was this anger that made my decision for me.  So, full of righteous anger and unabashed fury, I pulled my left sleeve up to the elbow and plunged in.

I had to go in all the way up to the wrist before I found them.  But they were there!  They hadn’t disappeared down some dark chasm from whence there was no return.  I had momentary flashes of the opening scene of “Trainspotting” where Ewan MacGregor goes head first down hell’s own crapper to retrieve his lost suppositories.  I was glad it wasn’t that bad, though I was angry enough to consider going that far if need be.

I tried pulling them up but, of course, lost my grip halfway out and had to go back for a second try.  This time I made sure I had them tightly in my grasp and drew them out of the mire.  Then I quickly started to look for a sink.  And, of course, I couldn’t find one.

What kind of bathroom was this?!?!  There was no light switch, no flush and no damn sink!!!  I found a pump bottle of hand sanitizer on a small ledge and damn near emptied the thing trying to sterilize my glasses, hand and anything else I could reach.  I used so much sanitizer that the gel started to spill over onto the floor.  I figured that could only help the situation.  Now I looked for a paper towel.  Guess what?  I finally just grabbed some toilet paper and attempted to use it as a substitute.  Needless to say, it crumbled under the pressure.  I had to get out of there.  Nothing good was coming of a prolonged stay in that claustrophobic, plutonian hell hole.  And the pounding on the door was becoming more insistent.

I made my way back to my seat, sunglasses at arm’s length pinched firmly between forefinger and thumb, mouth clamped shut and doing my best to erase the lingering traces of my grimace.  I was just glad I had two seats to myself.  Despite being drenched in sanitizer, I didn’t want to come any where near those damn things again until they had either been boiled, washed or both.  Preferably both.

I tried not to let the incident bother me, though, as you can imagine, it wasn’t easy.  One of the few things that did go my way was that my hand didn’t come back “lavatory blue”.  I was thankful for that small mercy.  I’ll take the breaks where I can get them as they seem to come so rarely.  But you better believe that, once off that bus, I made a beeline for the nearest fully functional restroom I could find.  I think the 3 or 4 successive “lather, rinse, repeats” weren’t entirely unwarranted.  I mean, I still had a cheese steak I needed to eat and you can’t do that without two hands.  What’s a trip to Philly without a cheese steak?  It’s like a bathroom without a sink. 

Oh, wait…

Desperate Times — Part 1

“Why does this always happen to me?!”

The darkened walls of the passenger bus lavatory swayed as we made our way down the highway.  I’ve seen more spacious accommodations in a phone booth.  I had tried to hold out until we made it all the way to Philly but it was no use.  Nature’s call must be answered.  Beer has that effect on me.

I had received a phone call some days earlier from a family relation of mine who is blessed, or cursed depending on your point of view and what team you root for, to be employed at the new Yankee Stadium in the Bronx.  He had worked as a concessions manager at the old stadium for years and had managed to make the switch when the time came, despite the fact that his old employer no longer had the concessions contract for the building. 

This relation of mine had told me that, since the Yankees had managed to turn things around from the past couple of years, win the American League Pennant and get back into the World Series, all concession managers had been given 2 tickets to the first game of the Series to be played at the home stadium of the new National League champions, reigning 2008 World Series champions, and the Yankees’ 2009 World Series opponent, the Philadelphia Phillies.  And, seeing as how the “City of Brotherly Love” is none too far a trek from our own fair city, arrangements had been made for buses to take all those who were interested down to the game.  My relation wanted to know if I had any interest in his other ticket.  I almost choked trying to get the answer out fast enough.

Now I was told that we needed to bring as big a presence as possible down to Philly, as their fans had been rather obnoxious during the first two games of the Series.  Not as bad as any run-of-the-mill, regular season game versus Boston, for their fans are especially talented when it comes to full-blown irritation, but obnoxious nonetheless.  My first impulse, as it is when it comes to attending any Yankee game, was to haul out every stitch of Yankee emblazoned paraphernalia that I could possibly wear at one time.  And having worked there for an entire season some years ago, that’s a lot.  I was just glad to see that my instincts were right.  I told my relation he had recruited the right man for the job.

So when he swung by to pick me up on the day of the game, I didn’t disappoint.  I wore an official 2003 World Series home game jersey with a navy blue NY logo, long sleeve, mock turtleneck underneath, topped off with a matching 100^th Anniversary fitted hat.  I practically screamed pinstripes.  I was just glad I was getting straight into a car and not trying to make my own way to the stadium via public transit.  I try not to stand out in public as I’d prefer not to attract the attention of the wrong element.  I’ve already been burglarized while sitting at home on my living room sofa.  That was a close enough brush with the lower rungs of the social ladder, thank you very much.  I can still smell the pungent odor of rancid B.O. the intruder left behind in exchange for my cell phone.  Call me crazy, but I don’t think that’s a very fair exchange.

The only problem with my attire was finding a place to keep my sunglasses.  Usually, I hang them from the collar of my shirt.  It’s a perfect spot:  it’s safe, it’s secure and I almost always forget they’re there until I need them.  But with a mock turtle neck that was impractical, unless I was angling for a punctured jugular.  I couldn’t put them in my already bulging pockets because they were in that classic Oakley-brand style:  one big lens curved to fit the contour of your face.  I’d crush them in a hot minute if I put them in a pocket.  Not to mention that I had only just bought them a few weeks before and was rather protective of them.  I finally decided to make the best of a bad situation and just hang them from the first button of my jersey, somewhere about the middle of my sternum.  They weren’t nearly as secure as I would have liked, dangling precariously if I leaned the wrong way, but I resolved to be careful and just remember to keep checking them every so often and make sure that they were still there.

I had been meaning to get to a game at the new stadium all year but had somehow never managed to get around to it.  So when we arrived, my relation took me on a personal guided tour.  Let me just say “wow”.  The new stadium is striking, beautiful, and all-around amazing.  I highly recommend a visit.  There doesn’t look to be a bad seat in the house, though there are more than a few that are out of damn near everyone’s price range.  Several hundred dollars for a few hours entertainment does not sound like a bargain to me.  I mean, I’ve still got issues with the price of movie tickets, let alone sporting events.  It’s no wonder they had trouble filling the seats.  Unless the evening ends with a gold watch and an autographed picture of me shaking hands with the star short stop, I’ll stick to the bleacher seats.

After I managed to re-hinge my jaw, we made our way out to the loading dock and the bus waiting there for us.  When I saw no less than 8 cases of different kinds of beer, 2 cases of Gatorade, 2 cases of bottled water, bags of ice in coolers to chill it all with, and a case each of pretzels, peanuts, kettle corn and Cracker Jack, I knew it was going to be a good day.  The hard part would be remembering to pace myself.  Call me crazy, but I’d actually like to remember some of this moment of history to which I was about to bear witness.

As soon as the bus started moving, the beers were handed out.  I took my time, savoring the experience, and eventually called back for reinforcements.  I spent much of the ride unable to draw myself away from the fall foliage passing by outside my window.  I know the Jersey Turnpike does not have the greatest reputation for beauty, in fact it’s legendary for its lack thereof, but I promise you, the farther you get away from the City, the better it gets.  And you can’t get much better than October in the Northeast.  It’s easily my favorite time of the year.

Well, after downing two beers on the first hour of the ride, I wasn’t really surprised when nature started beckoning to me in that ever so special way it does from the vicinity of my kidneys.  I certainly wasn’t the first one to heed the call.  As a matter of fact, it seemed to be quite the parade traipsing in and out of that tiny little door.  So I made my way to the back and waited my turn. 

The first problem was locating the light switch.  I never found one.  I don’t know if anyone ever did.  I didn’t have the time or patience to fumble around in the dark as my bladder played the conga on my spine.  So, ever the prepared Boy Scout, I got out the little flashlight attached to my key chain and, with it clenched dutifully between my teeth, I took care of business.

Now, I know you know how wonderfully euphoric it can be to, after long suffering, relieve the pressure of a particularly long round of drinking:  the eyes roll back in the head, stars appear before your face and an all over body shutter of relief racks your wearied frame.  It’s amazing, and more than a little distracting.  Well, I was just finishing up, heaving my long breaths of welcome relief when I bent over to re-situate my shifted clothing.  That’s when I heard the splash.

To be continued in “Desperate Times — Part 2″

My Night Before Christmas

What better way to mourn the passing of the holiday season than with really bad, holiday-based poetry?  Enjoy and Happy New Year!

*          *          *

‘Twas the night before Christmas and Sierra the Mouse,

            Was thrashing and flailing all over the house,

Stealing the covers, beating mom half to death,

            The faint scent of candy cane still on her breath.

Her mother rolled over and tried not to chide

            The sweet sleeping child awake by her side.

Her thoughts turned to fancy, her mind running free,

            Though not far, I’m sure, as they’re always of me.

I, for my part, was alone in the house,

            Unable to sleep like my good friend the Mouse.

Tomorrow was Christmas and I couldn’t wait,

            The best part of the year is this cold winter date.

Downstairs I knew that good Jeffrey would dream

            Of Hans Zimmer scores and choc’late chip streams.

Rebecca lay arrogant, smug in her bed

            No visions of sugar plums danced in her head.

She had assured me full numerous times

            That I would reduce to strict pantomimes

My copious joy at her Christmas gift.

            Such arrogance always I do give short shrift.

I held out no hope for anything good

            While secretly hoping like any boy would.

Upstairs lay Mom in her jungle gym bed

            Done in long ago:  booze goes to her head.

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care

            Not knowing quite how that he’d find them there.

But the Big Guy had never failed once, never missed.

            Faithfully finding all those on his list.

So we laid out the cookies close by on a chair,

            The egg nog still chill in the cold winter air.

Then in the distance I heard a long moan

            That started real soft and grew to a drone.

A train was a’comin’, the Polar Express!

            But I was too old.  That made me depressed.

So I thought of the gifts and the tree piled high,

            Just to the ceiling, not quite to the sky.

Fulfilling our dreams, and then every wish

            Would be granted in full.  And dinner!  Delish!

For what could be better on a cold winter’s day

            Than family and table, save those far away?

Our wishes go out to those far and wide

            Who cannot be home by their family’s side.

We wish you the best in holiday cheer

            And pray that you’ll be there real soon for next year.

For holidays are nothing without those we love.

            They go together like hands in a glove.

So keep yourself safe and come home real soon.

            We’ll save you some turkey, just not until June.

For the magic of Christmas, we learn when we grow,

            Is not the presents but all those we know.

So as the man said when he rode out of sight

            “Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”

Dispatches From a Snow Country Christmas

As the time quickly approaches for me to make my annual pilgrimage westward for some familial holiday Q.T., I find myself developing a not entirely unexpected, though mild, case of post-traumatic stress.  Read on and you’ll understand why.  When I was a kid, I used to love winter weather.  Now…well, let’s just say I’m “on the fence” and leave it at that… 

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DATELINE – Day 1.  A frozen somewhere far beyond the bounds of civilization.

This is your intrepid reporter coming to you from the frosty wilds of the Inland Northwest.  “Where is the Inland Northwest?” you may ask.  Well, I’ll tell you:  you’ve heard of Seattle and the Pacific Northwest?  Go inland and you’re there.

It’s an area that encompasses eastern Washington State, northern Idaho and western Montana.  Just call it “the northwest wilderness” and you’d be close enough to the mark.

My first lungful of frigid western air caused a freezing twinge deep in my lungs that brought on a recurring hack I have yet to shake.  The cold, dry air has also promoted a profusion of mucus production last seen only during the previous year’s annual summer cold crisis.  The Kleenex Company plans to report a sharp upsurge in sales in their next quarterly earnings report.  Shareholders plan to applaud.

*          *          *

DATELINE – Day 2.  The frozen wilds.

Attendance at the weekly cottage religious services was called off on account of weather.  Instead the bulk of the day was spent in attendance of a compulsory crash course in the lost art of snow shoveling.  The class was conducted in a real-world setting with a hands-on teaching approach.  The course material covered equipment, precipitation disposal, strategy formulation and problem solving skills.  Most of class time was spent in the constant personal prevention of prolific blaspheming, whether under the breath or for all to hear.  Results in the attempts to keep holy the Lord’s Day were modest at best.

Class recommendations: warm clothing, Icy Hot muscle relaxant, avoidance of class attendance if at all possible. Course critiques: unpaved circular driveways are the devil.

*          *          *

DATELINE – Day 3.  Surrounded by snow banks.

Upon completion of yesterday’s course, I have been commissioned as a newly minted snow-shoveler in good standing.  Course completion resulted in the relief of one of the veteran members of the shoveling team so that she might enjoy the refuge and respite of her sewing room.  Many an evil eye was turned upon the warm glow of the amber light issuing from the window of said refuge during the course of the days work.  Evil eye usage mostly coincided with the bellowing reports of your intrepid reporter’s spinal erector muscles of the abundant presence of lactic acid in their ranks.  Transmission of reports was most clearly heard during laden, upward movements of the torso.  Prolonged stay in a local area hospital foreseen as a real possibility.

*          *          *

DATELINE – Day 4.  Up to the neck in snow drifts.

The record snow fall continues for the fourth straight day here in the inland wilds.  The brain has taken to dissociating completely from the body once the ever-increasingly familiar shape of a snow shovel appears within the field of vision.  It is from a benumbed and semi-somnambulant stupor that the body continues its now all too familiar routine of daily life.  It is wondered what life was like before the day started off with breakfast and shoveling?  How did the world go round and human life continue to exist before the shoveling?  It is a thought much marveled at during the solitary and mind-numbing daily ritual.  Other flights of fancy are not uncommon.

A vague recollection of the anticipated arrival of a sainted portly gentleman in crimson attire persists for reasons unknown.  Further details to follow upon clarity of recollection.  Do not anticipate details before return of intrepid reporter to the land of concrete and chrome.

*          *          *

DATELINE – Day 5.  Amongst the faux evergreen, fearing the outside world.

The birth of the Savior was celebrated in the only way one could imagine: with the shoveling of snow.  Overnight snowfall accumulation of 6+ inches resulted in another cancellation of attendance of small town worship services in favor of the sweat-soaked clearing of circular drive and adjoining strategic mailbox and back door access paths.  Though a postponement of exterior domicile duties was declared for the opportunity of familial bonding and gift exchange, precipitation homage was paid in due course after a hearty midday repast in the hopes of fueling said endeavors.  These hopes were not brought to fruition.  Aggravation at the necessary physical labor on this particular day was even expressed by the fearless leader of the merry band.  The first signs of a developing case of cabin fever have started to show, as well as fervent hopes that a respite in the weather might result on the following day.  All aching muscles have been reported to heartily agree.

*          *          *

DATELINE – Day 6.  Escaped from captivity and back amongst the land of the living.

A brief window in the relentless weather has appeared and we have taken said opportunity to get out while the getting was good.  Trips were made to various and sundry retail outlets for the acquiring of further goods to help bolster the sagging holiday spirits.  Spirit bolstering achieved with great success after a painful financial jab to a reportedly “free and clear” plastic promissory card.  Ensuing ache reported to be located somewhere in the vicinity of constituent’s billfold.  Further details on reported medical condition as they develop.

*          *          *

DATELINE – Day 7.  Lost in the tundra.

The return of loathed weather dumps record numbers in vicinity of domicile.  Mass of precipitation reported to be denser than any thus far experienced seasonal weather.  Reprieve from shoveling offered to intrepid reporter in exchange for the assignment of removal of accumulated precipitation off the roof of ancillary vehicle storage facility.  Questions arising as to classification of assignment as “reprieve”.

Ray of hope shines in darkness: reports of warming trend predicted for rest of the day on into the weekend.  Praise and thanks for the mercy of the Almighty offered immediately upon confirmation of reports.

*          *          *

DATELINE – Day 8.  Aghast at the developing situation.

Warming trend continues as frozen precipitation is replaced by a messy semi-solid both familiar and reviled by your intrepid reporter.  Religious services a go amid piteous attempts by low-hanging storm clouds at liquid deluge.  Fervent hunger pains endured during services due to ill-planned morning activities.  Bad planning blamed on disruption of usual routine:  course of action unknown when frozen precipitation removal device not incorporated or mandatory.  Ensuing confusion resulted in foregoing of morning repast.  Midday repast consumed with redoubled vigor.  Evening repast heavily anticipated:  rumors of homemade Italian flatbread unconfirmed at this time.

*          *          *

DATELINE – Day 9.  Complete and total memory loss.

No recollection of activities.  Day lost to oblivious haze of household chores.  Physical exhaustion and not alcoholic consumption (this time) cited as reason for memory loss.  Doubtful if respite (if any were indeed had) would serve to improve ravaged physical condition.  Reports of pitiful, plaintive cries by your intrepid reporter for comforting maternal figure would not come as a surprise.

*          *          *

DATELINE – Day 10.  The last straw; camel’s back officially broken.

Nine inches of overnight accumulation has prompted incessant questions about the existence of a Supreme Being.  If indeed existent, additional questions arising for Supreme Being as to why the persistent and personal punishment in the form of frozen precipitation.  Idle talk of acquirement of gas-powered winter power tool has turned to solid plan of action.  Plan of action foiled upon reports of lines of people 40 deep every morning at home improvement mega stores as early as one hour before store opening.  Overwhelming despair battled in earnest amid renewed concerns for manual snow removal implements.  Shedding of blade re-enforcement support of one removal implement cause for great trepidation.  Supplementary or replacement implements not anticipated until the Fourth of July summer sale.

*          *          *

DATELINE – Day 11.  Forced march through hostile terrain.

High winds in the overnight hours resulted in 2 inches of drift accumulation on all freshly shoveled surfaces.  Shoveling activities forgone purely for the sake of group mental health and morale.  Instead, a two-mile amble “around the block” in the subfreezing temperatures was suggested and implemented.  Grudging acknowledgement granted of beauty of landscape and mild relief of encroaching case of cabin fever.  Despite consistently adequate weather protection, feelings of weariness toward pervasive cold persist.

*          *          *

DATELINE – Day 12.  One last kick in the pants.

Yet again we have been granted a reprieve from the masochism that is quickly becoming a way of life.  We awoke to find yet another storm upon us and our fearless leader had quickly made the decision to not even bother with precipitation removal procedures until noon tomorrow.  Impulses to idol worship of fearless leader heavily considered.  Yet another snowbound day indoors anticipated.

A true test of sanity forecasted upon the heartbreaking discovery of the loss of satellite television signal.  White jacket and rubber room predicted for very near future.

*          *          *

DATELINE – Day 13.  And one to remember us by.

The reprieves are over and I wish the warden would throw the switch all ready.  On the eve of my departure from this unforgiving land of eternal pallor, nature has seen fit to kick me while I’m down:  9 inches of overnight accumulation to dispose of.  The snow banks are officially over my head and have to be 6 feet if an inch.  It is wondered how one is to efficiently dispose of snow by throwing it over one’s head.  The task is as unpleasant as can be imagined.  Constant wonderings as to who hates me and why come interspersed with ever more frequent trips to my happy place.  Serious thoughts entertained of the world as no more than a nightmare and wonder at why one can’t rouse from such a bad dream.  It is unknown how much more visitors and residents alike can take.  Earnest prayers offered for the safety, endurance and continued well-being of manual winter precipitation removal devices.  If they fail, the battle is lost and search parties should be sent out for survivors.  Then hibernation will no longer be only a long-sought dream but indeed the safest course of action.

*          *          *

DATELINE – Day 14.  Home sweet home.

Two hours of sleep is the entirety of allocation before predawn sojourn to local air transportation hub.  Joy at impending freedom from winter tyranny manifests itself in yet another quality coed chatted up by your intrepid reporter.  Fair warning issued to all matriarchs to consider secreting their female offspring in well-secured edifices.  Your intrepid reporter is not responsible for excessive demonstrations of his jubilation, whatever form they may take.

Excessive jubilation manifested in persistent unconscious state for 2500 of 3000 mile journey.  Cost of additional $15 dollars applied to already exhorbitant fee of hired ground transportation service INTO City as compared to transport OUT of City.  Mystery abounds concerning said discrepancy but creeping suspicion of bona fide “racket” smothered under all-encompassing desire to arrive at private and personal domicile.

Sweet sighs of relief upon the discovery of vacated domicile still whole and contiguous.  Somnambulant stupor achieved for remainder of waking hours and rudimentary plans formulated for continuation of stupor through to following day.  No plans foreseen for near future beyond recliner, quilted blanket, flat screen and the avoidance of anything even close to resembling frozen winter precipitation.  Disposal of precipitation is now officially someone else’s problem.  Chinese food delivery a distinct and inevitable possibility.

There’s no place like home.

A Whole New Breed

There’s a certain breed of woman here in the Big City, a kind that has developed a new style and tactic of seduction that only the finely honed instincts of a metropolitan could pull off.  Foregoing the advances made by their forbears in the suffrage and women’s rights movements of times gone by, these women employ a tactic of strategic helplessness and play on the inbred male sense of chivalry to get any “big, strong man” within earshot to take care of a deed they find repulsive, beneath them or just plain icky.  Such deeds to include the taking out of the trash, the killing of creepy crawlies and any activity involving a Craftsman hand tool.  Such a one is my good friend Dimples.

Dimples was raised in the South and, like any good Southern woman, is completely useless when it comes to manual labor.  Time and time again I have been suckered into household chores that she claimed would make her vomit.  I have yet to see said reaction and believe it only to exist on the same astral plane as pixies, elves and unicorns.  Tonight’s task was unclogging the bathroom sink.

She had mentioned to me earlier in the day that her sink was running really slow and would I mind taking a look at it when I came over.  We had a standing Monday night dinner date so it wouldn’t really be a bother.  She said she had tried to pull out the stopper but couldn’t figure it out.  I told her not to worry about it and I’d look at it when I got there.

Now, I consider myself just your average dude:  I have no more than minimal male exposure to and/or expertise in the areas of construction, automotive repair and computer technology.  Yet every woman on the planet seems to think that with chest hair and male pattern baldness comes expert knowledge of all things mechanical.  Up until now, I’ve been able to fake my way through just about all of it.  I wasn’t about to let something as silly as a clogged drain stop me.

As I approached the drain, I could see what the problem was already.  Wet, matted clumps of long, auburn hair were sprouting thickly from the underside of the silver circle of the stopper.  As I grimaced and pulled at these clumps, a viscous, dark muck came with it.  This was not going to be pretty.  I started collecting the strands on a piece of two-ply toilet tissue.  It wasn’t long until I had a decent mound about the size of a silver dollar.  Unfortunately, this wasn’t helping the flow of H2O.

After struggling vainly for several minutes at pulling, pushing and twisting out the stopper, I went to Google.  This, if anything, is the secret to a 21st century man’s power:  there is nothing that can’t be learned by the right search terms and an internet connection.  Within moments, I had discovered that the stopper was being held in place by a thin metal rod and a nut screwed into the pipe.  With this wiki-wisdom in mind, it was only a minute before the stopper was out and I was in need of a flashlight.

Another quality of this peculiar breed of city woman is that, whether they live alone or not, they have an astounding lack of basic tools.  Not so much as a screwdriver, let alone pliers, hammer or, God forbid, flashlight can easily be found on their premises.  While Dimples stood dumbstruck and pondered open-mouthed my confounding request, I made my way to my bag and pulled out my trusty Maglite.  These women are not to be trusted.

Back at the sink, my eyes now confirmed what my nose had suspected:  it was a mess in there.  It gave off the dank, musty smell of a stagnant pond or earthen basement.  There was something primordial going on in there and it had to be dealt with.

I tentatively reached a finger down through the hole left by the silver stopper.  It wasn’t until I was over an inch into the pipe that the matted gunk started to thin out and I stood a chance of finding a finger hold.  I wrapped my digit over the lip of the impaction and slowly drew it out into the light.  My grimace deepened as a slithering mess trailed out after it.  All told it had to be a good 12 to 14 inches of black, glistening filth that seemed to wriggle and squirm with a life of its own.  I soon realized that the movement was only me not being able to hold still my repulsion as well as everything else now at arm’s length.  That was when I called for Dimples to come here for a minute.

As she approached the bathroom door, I told her to take a breath and steady herself.  With a look of dread, she stopped, breathed and then rounded the door frame.  One look and her hand flew straight for her mouth, her eyes clamped shut and she stumbled back in horror.  It was only with a tremendous force of will that she did not redecorate her closet door with that evening’s repast.  As she muttered “oh my God” repeatedly under her breath, I told her that what I was holding was all her and all her fault.  Then I asked if she might be able to pull herself together enough to bring me a paper towel.  I wasn’t sure how much longer I could stand there holding the thing up and my lunch down at the same time.

Dimples soon informed me in a weak and withered voice that, of course, she was out of paper towels.  Next I asked for a plastic grocery bag.  That she had.  She approached me with bag open and outstretched at arm’s length, eyes clamped shut and head turned as far to one side as humanly possible.  I thought I’d spare her the torment just this once:  I took the bag with my one free hand and placed the befouled creature inside.  I sealed it with a tight double knot and put it in the trash, never to be seen, by the grace of God, again.

After a few more minutes of tinkering, I was able to figure out how to put everything back together again without it leaking all over the inside of the cabinet underneath.  As I watched the water drain at its new, lightening-quick speed, I threw out my chest and walked with a swagger back to the living room.  I resisted the urge to beat my chest and bellow to my jungle friends, but only just barely.

As I sat on the love seat, contemplating how to make good my escape from the latest episode of a reality television love program, I began to wonder how I manage to get suckered into these things.  Is it the playing to my ego?  Is it the flattery and cooed acclamations of what a “big, strong man” I am?  Is it the praising of my superior intellect?  Is it my cunning wit and dashing good looks?  The answer is “yes” and these are the burdens I must bear.  It’s amazing some lucky girl hasn’t snapped me up all ready.

Now if I could just get one of them to return my phone calls…

A Very Good Place to Start…

Welcome, one and all, to my grand world of delusion!  Here I live the simple life of fame and luxury to which I hope to soon grow accustomed.  Here I’m the hero of every story, the guy who gets the girl, the man every guy wants to be.  In short, I’m a legend in my own mind and I like it that way.  Now if I could just figure out how to leak my mind into the real world…without the obvious mess, of course…

To begin with, I’d like to clear something up:  Yes, I am indeed fully aware of the unfortunate acronym of my chosen handle/web address.  And seeing as how fatherhood is so far removed from my realm of possibility as to be absurd, and quite honestly brings on a hearty case of the cold sweats at the mere thought of the condition, I would take it as a personal kindness if, when referring to this scintillating collection of perfect prose, you could choose something a little less karmically baiting.  Something like “DA Dude” or “DAveD”, frankly anything besides that scary three-letter word for “pater familius”.  I thank you, my karma thanks you and those sweet little potential glints in my eye thank you.  Believe me, they’re better off remaining glints.  I haven’t figured out how to take care of myself yet, for Pete’s sake.  Sweet little animals in store front windows cower in fear as I pass by.  Trust the animals; they know things.

So thanks for stopping by and keep coming back!  I hope I can manage to infuse a little light-hearted diversion into your day.  I’ve been told there’s nothing that makes someone feel better about themselves than to shake their head in awe at the ignorance and inanity of others.  That makes sense to me.  How else do you explain the continued success of such broadcast travesties as “Wife Swap” and “Super Nanny”?  I just can’t figure out how “ignorance and inanity” applies to me…