Chemical warfare, warfare, warfare

So, it is now Monday after Thanksgiving and tomorrow I will go back to work. This has been by far the worst Thanksgiving imaginable. On the bright side, when I show up to work tomorrow and people ask me how my holiday was, I will be able to speak to them without sounding like mush mouth from Fat Albert thanks to all the blisters in my mouth finally clearing up.
Perhaps I should back up a little and tell you how this all got started.
I had big plans for the Thanksgiving holidays. The wife and kids and I were headed south to visit with my mom and aunt, both of whom I haven't seen in quite awhile. The trip also held a particular importance to me due to the fact that my aunt hasn't been doing that good lately and I wanted to see her, be with her, for the holidays. So, on the Saturday before we were to leave, we head a few hours north to drop my two dogs off at my neice's house. We planned on staying the night, which actually turned out to be for the best. As soon as we arrived, I began suffering through cold chills. The types of chills that no matter what you do, you can't warm up and your teeth are sporadically clicking together like one of those plastic wind up mouths that chatter and jump around on those little feet. By the next morning I was running a pretty serious fever.
Over the course of the next five days, I sat on the couch suffering through a 103 degree fever. My wife and children stayed away from me, with the exception of the time she came home from work on her lunch break to take me to the emergency room and drop me off. The professionals at the E.R. diagnosed me with Bronchitis and a upper respitory infection. I was prescribed an antibiotic and some pain relievers. I suppose I was hoping for something a little more helpful. I was pretty sure I had H1N1, but the doctor seemed to dispell that notion by simply saying, "We haven't seen that to much lately." I tried again to suggest that perhaps I did have the serious version of the flu and he once again stated that he hadn't seen it around lately. As though that couldn't certainly mean that I had it. I mean, after all, if this guy hasn't "seen it in awhile", it musn't be, right?
Anyway.
My fever finally broke on Thanksgiving afternoon but my mouth was filled with canker sores so I couldn't eat. I didn't eat much at all prior to Thanksgiving. That night was the first time I was able to eat solid food since I hadn't gotten sick. We had what my daughter referred to as Thanksgiving Mac and Cheese. We shared one box of that processed cheese delicacy.
It is now officially 9 days since the start of my sickness and I am almost back to 100% with the exception of some of the larger blisters hanging on to make talking, chewing and breathing a laborious and somewhat painful evolution. Additionally, I have lost 12 lbs. My skin is returning to its normal color vs. the grayish color it has been over the last week. All of this, just in time to go back to work. I never made it to see my mom and aunt, I didn't get to eat Turkey until last night and I had to spend hours in the emergency room, which I can't stand. What a nightmare this holiday has been.
I apologize for the rant and even more for the mispelled words and improper grammar, but I wanted to let you all know that the Piggy Death Cough pulled my card and took me out of the running for a second, but I am back now. Slightly thinner, and a little less cocky about the "war" on the flu, but back just the same.
Until next time, enjoy the pure random.

Batman, disabled dancers and more

I consider my Dad to be an expert, or at the very least, extremely knowledgeable, in numerous subjects. For example, I call him the "Human Calculator". The name speaks for itself, but until you see him mentally calculate compounding interest on a Roth IRA account based on an average success rate of the stock market over the last 70 years in the same amount of time it takes you to remember what a Roth IRA even is, you have no idea. Additionally, he is well versed in old cars, motorcycles and holds a 2nd degree black belt in Taekwondo. He also has a vast knowledge of weapons and weapon history. It really doesn't matter what kind of weapon you may have a question about, as long as it is hand held and makes a loud noise, chances are he owns one, has shot one or knows the history of it. It was because of his library like knowledge of weapons that I called him earlier today with a question.
The question itself was fairly simple and the conversation was quick. Nothing really remarkable about it as Dad and I have had similar conversations in the past, but what I considered later struck me oddly. I use my Dad as a resource for knowledge and advice. I trust him. He has what I would consider a great deal of credibility. That fact got me thinking about what MY children might be able to call me about when they grow up. What "expertise" will I hold in their eyes? How “credible” will I be?
I never really have considered myself overly knowledgeable about any subject, let alone numerous subjects. It never occurred to me before today what information my children would rely on me for. This is, of course, beyond the regular lessons that a father is expected to teach their young ones like the value of hard work, integrity and what it means to give your word. I am not speaking about those lessons, I am talking about the smaller, perhaps more interesting things that make up an individuals particular “specialties” or talents. You know, the good stuff that Dads are supposed to know.
At this point in my life, I am pretty knowledgeable when it comes to music history, Batman comic books, photography, some art history and I used to know how to make explosives out of pool cleaning materials and tin foil. A quick glance at that kind of knowledge and I don’t see anything worth passing on to future generations.
Up until now, I suppose I never really thought about my kids seeing me as a credible source. I did, however, expect that my advice might be worth something to them, but an expert? Hardly.
I suppose I simply figured they would tell stories about me to their children and their children's children. Stories of how Grandpa Edwards once swam where the equator meets the dateline, or how he was a published photographer or perhaps they would prefer to tell more embarrassing stories such as how, after walking in to the den and glancing at the T.V., he mistakenly announced to a room full of people that the dancers currently being featured on the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade “sucked”, only to be told by Grandma Edwards, in a near whisper, that the particular group of performers being shown were actually physically disabled. In hindsight, I suppose that’s why I thought they were uncoordinated.
I didn’t mean to be a jerk about it, it was an honest mistake, but fairly typical of the open mouth insert foot policy that rules a majority of my “social mistakes”.
So what will my kids call me for? I don't widdle wood; I can't fix a car engine, I don't know the best way to grow a vegetable, and apparently I am a pretty insensitive guy. In short, I better get a hobby if I expect to keep up with the standard my father has already set. A hobby that I can do in my spare time and can speak about with some credibility. Something, no matter how superfluous, that my kids will think to say, "Hey! Dad knows about that." Whatever I decide on, I'm sure that my kids will at least let me believe I'm an expert, at least I hope they grant me that.
Until next time, enjoy the pure random.

Fat Spiderman Owned by Pigeons

The title pretty much sums it up, "Fat Spider Man Owned by Pigeons". It's not new, but it is funny. I would submit that if we, as a species, were going to send something out into space with the intention that one day it would be "intercepted" by another race of beings to be reviewed, I would say our humor would be most appropriate. I wouldn't necessarily send out the entire catalog of YouTube, but send a few videos like this, the series "The State", anything from Seth McFarland, Cheech and Chong and Benny Hill.
Until next time, enjoy this piece of pure random.

Oh, grow up.

The signs are everywhere. I see them in the mirror, I see them in my personality, I see them in my actions, my words, and my thoughts. I am getting older, there is no denying that, but why don’t I "feel" older? I figured by now, as a somewhat worldly man in my 30s, that I should at least start feeling more mature. I'm not even sure what being mature means really. My "vision" of what defines maturity is spotty at best. Should I smoke a pipe and talk about politics while attending some theatre play or art exhibit opening? I haven't the foggiest.
This isn’t to say that I am immature and can't take care of my life in a responsible manner, I do. I am a devoted husband and father of (soon to be) three children. I take care of my two dogs. I ensure my house is clean and well maintained. I work hard and have enjoyed success in my career. I pay my bills on time and am friendly with my neighbors. Even though all of these "attributes" seem to qualify me as a responsible adult, I still feel like I did when I was a kid when it comes to things I should care about; or at least the things I’m told to care about.
Some would say that perhaps that means I am young at heart. What I see instead is only a semi-adult, an apprentice of adulthood, a learner of life lessons. I have found myself speaking with men, not much older than myself, and feel as though I am less an adult than they are. That their maturity levels surpass me by such a large margin that what I am thinking must be true, that I have not fully "arrived" at adulthood. I still laugh at farts for crying out loud! How can I be a mature full-fledged adult when I still laugh at a fart?
Now, granted, some of the feelings I had when I was 17 have worked themselves out and I am slightly less moronic than I was then. I was never really the kid who cared much about what you thought. Whether it was about me, the way I dressed or the friends I kept. However, now as an adult, I REALLY don't care what anyone thinks outside of say, my wife, but I am at least respectful of our differences now. Additionally, I am not as unsure about my life or who I am now as I was back then. I have a clearer picture of all that. I didn’t have much of what you would consider a “life plan” back then and now, I can plan and pursue while still maintaining some flexibility to account for change.
See, that is exactly what I am talking about.
My attitude towards planning a life and still maintaining flexibility is very mature, especially since it is coming from a guy who is counting down the days until Modern Warfare 2 is released. Yes, I purchased the Prestige Edition, and yes, I am very excited to try out the night vision goggles that come with it.
Trying to determine whether or not I am a real adult reminds me of what a friend of mine once said about his father. He referred to his dad as having "Peter Pan Syndrome". I asked him what that meant, and he said, "My father never grew up". There are plenty of people out there like that. All of them looking to get by on the minimum, get something for nothing and wonder across the face of the Earth like zombies in search of hand outs instead of "brainsssssss". I don't feel as though I belong in that category, but I am trapped somewhere in between responsible and ridiculous.
I see recent pictures of people that I went to high school with or knew as a child and, for the most part, they all look like adults. They talk about their families or careers and have opinions on health care reform or the current status of global economics. Perhaps I am ridiculous because I don't care to engage in conversations about these types of things. I suppose that is what I mean by feeling like a kid. The opinions on topics which are the drive for so many water cooler conversations don't interest me that much. Its not that I am not concerned with health care reform or global economics, I am, and so is my Roth IRA, but I am just not as concerned as what people are saying about them. For example, I think I would rather turn on my Playstation than sit through a town hall meeting regarding the town landfill. It just doesn’t interest me like I think that maybe it should.
In closing, I may not have taken a big ol’ sip of the maturity laced Kool-Aid, but I am doing alright anyway. I take care of what needs to be taken care of, I consider and reconsider options and act accordingly and more importantly I am trying to raise responsible and sensible future adults. I do all of this while still occasionally getting in some video game time or having burping contests with my three-year-old.
Since I have been writing this article, I think I may have gotten a little more mature. I think I may now hold an opinion on landfills; they smell like a fart.
Until next time, enjoy the pure random.

Let me "stress" this...

Let's talk about mechanisms. Not the type of mechanisms associated with biology, chemistry or philosophy. Not even the mechanisms associated with sociology, technology or engineering. I am referring specifically to coping mechanisms. The little cogs in the machine of life that are designed to directly, or in some cases indirectly, deal with stress.
I have a tendency to write, organize, plan and simply "do" when I am stressed. These are my methods of coping. In an environment, like our everyday lives, that is so random, these methods seem to make sense to me. I can create order where there is none, see organization out of a disorder and piece together a plan out of nothing but variables. It's pointless, it's frustrating; it's my coping mechanism.
When I was younger, I used stress as a motivator to accomplish my goals. The higher the stress level, the "sharper" I was. I covered alot of ground very quickly thanks to stress. One thing I realized as I got older, however, is that the more you depend on stress to get you through, the harder it was to shake that "edgy" feeling you get during and afterwards. It's almost like adrenaline, but dirtier. Now, I can hardly relax at all. Unfortunately, I don't have the energy of an 18-year-old anymore, so the "doing" part of my coping is sometimes shelved until I can get up motivation to "do" something.
Hobbies are good ways to alleviate stress. In fact, that is a good portion of the reason I began to write this blog. It is a hobby that takes time, planning, some time to research, organize and produce. It's a perfect fit for my desire to produce while trying to make sense out of something that is impossible to detail.
Perhaps if I had more money I could have hobbies that made more of an impact on either my life or the world. Certainly more of an impact than simply blasting out my opinion on every subject that happens to lazily wander across my path. Maybe I could skydive, or even better, skydive for charity! I suppose I am not altruistic enough to pursue such lofty sounding acts for the good of the order. Like most, I can only do what my time, energy, circumstance and disposition will allow, although, I'm sure I could do more if I tried.
In the end, I'm sure that at some point in my life I will look back and see a variety of mole hills I crushed, mountains I leaped over and opportunities that I flat out missed, all while applying my tactics for sanity and peace. Luckily, I have the support of family and friends that will make that journey not only manageable, but meaningful.
So, with all of that, I suppose what I am saying is that stress is the result of the journey and being tired is a side effect of the trip. A little fatigue certainly beats the alternative.
Until next time, enjoy the pure random.

Halloween

It's that time of year again, when all the kiddies come out dressed as ghouls, goblins, Hulks and princesses all in search of treats in which you had better make good on lest you be the recipient of a trick! To be perfectly honest, I have never been on the receiving end of Halloween trickery. That's not to say that I haven't doled out my fair share of holiday hi jinks in my younger years. With that said, whoever owned that convertible red VW bug in 1988, I would like to say I'm sorry and I hope that everything cleaned up easily.
Now that I am considered an adult, well, my wife might have a different opinion on that, I am responsible for ensuring that my kids have a safe and spooky experience on that one special night when jumping at a shadow brings out a little nervous laughter.
Being scared is one thing I miss most about being a child. The "fears" I have now are manageable and usually have something to do with something horrible happening to my family or friends. I recall being absolutely frozen in fear while watching The Exorcist with my dad when I was about 6 years-old. I must have had nightmares for at least 15 years afterwards. In fact, even as I write this, a memory of one of those nightmares caused a shiver to course up my spine and the hair on the back of my neck to raise. This is what I like, this is what I miss. When you grow up and realize that there is no Freddy Kruger in your dreams, Michael Myers hiding in your closet or Jason under your bed, everything that was once "scary" just becomes... silly. Also as an adult, I realize that if Jason or Michael Myers were hiding in my house, they would have to deal with the .45 Sig Sauer I keep handy for all the "monsters" of the world. The fear that feeds children's nightmares is a powerful thing. The fear, however, does not deter them from hitting the streets in search of a chocolate high.
On Halloween, most kids are like sugar-fueled animals ripping through flower beds and practically pushing one another down to get from one house to the next in search of the candy. The last thing on their mind are the things that go bump in the night. My kids aren't really that different. I spend most of the time trying to keep them out of the grass, reminding them to say "Trick or treat" and then prompting them to say "Thank you" as they practically leap off the porch to run to the next house; wash, rinse and repeat for the next hour. I typically take a thermos of warm wassail, which I highly recommend as a holiday drink, with as much Sailor Jerry rum as I can fit in there, which I recommend even more, and that keeps the entire annual "candy run" in pretty good perspective.
The last hour my wife and I will usually sit on the front porch to hand out candy to the kids who are still beating the streets for the sweets. Typically, our kids our sitting near us rummaging through their goodies and asking which ones they are allowed to eat. My three year old is constantly reminding me that she isn't going to eat the whole bag because that would make her "belly" hurt.
So, with pumpkins to carve and costumes to prepare, I will leave you to prepare for your own holiday traditions. In the meantime, remember to use this special night as a reason to feel scared again. Pay attention to the shadow that just seemed to move out of the corner of your eye, listen for the sounds of footsteps rushing up behind you and the howls of animals on the hunt. Then, take a sip of rum and remember that it's just the children celebrating the "frighteningly" awesome holiday that is Halloween.
Oh, and one more thing; yes, the picture attached is the pumpkin I carved for this years festivities.
Until next time, enjoy the pure random.

In a van down by the Cumberland River

It's story time on the radar. Enjoy.

I was in my early 20's and had moved to Nashville, Tn., literally because it came up heads on a coin toss decision. My roommate and I loaded up everything we owned into this brown Econoline van that we had recently purchased and motored into Music City, U.S.A., arriving at our destination on fumes.

Wait! Perhaps a little background might help set the stage a little better.

Before we had actually made the move, I had traveled down to Nashville about a month or so before so that I could pick-up some local newspapers and city guides in an attempt to get the lay of the land and maybe do a little house hunting. Additionally I had an interview scheduled for a job at a downtown hotel. I wasn't sure I was going to get hired, but a friend of mine had put in a good word for me with the general manager who happened to be his aunt. He told her that I was moving down there and she had agreed to meet with me and possibly give me a position if one was available. This was all very exciting stuff for me as I was an aspiring musician at the time and moving to Nashville was like going to the mountain. Well, actually, I was a musician who was simply aspiring to get a steady paycheck at the top of that mountain. Like most musicians, I needed a day job until my big break.

I spent a few days in Nashville picking up newspapers, got a tattoo, went to some bars and generally had a hell of a time on money that was supposed to be used for getting us an apartment. Not my finest moment, agreed, but I didn't exactly come home empty handed either.

The interview was quick and successful. I was given a job on the spot and filled out the application along with the tax form right there in her office. Additionally, I was given another application and tax form for my friend as she hired him sight unseen. Things were definitely going our way.

Ok, now that I have the background stuff out of the way, where were we?

Ah yes, coasting in on fumes. The Econoline, which we had named Mother ship, only overheated one time in the four hour drive south into downtown Nashvegas. I was driving my little pick-up truck, which we subsequently named The Pod. Since my search for shelter bore no fruit during my earlier visit, my friend and I decided that we could simply pull into the parking lot of the hotel, throw some blankets and newspapers over the windows of the Mother ship and plant our flag right there until we got enough money to get a real place. We figured it wouldn't take that long. This was mid-October. The evenings were definitely getting cooler, but the days were still warm. This arrangement worked just fine; for awhile.

After a month or so of shivering through the nights because we couldn't leave the van on for heat 1. Because it leaked carbon monoxide through the flooring, and 2. We could hardly afford to keep gas in it. Besides that, guests at the hotel were beginning to complain to me that the parking lot smelled like urine. They always said "Urine" in a half whisper and crinkled their nose up to indicate their embarrassment at broaching the subject and their disgust for human waste. I was always very understanding of their situation and had routinely said that even though this was a great city, we did have a bit of a homeless epidemic and that they could be potentially using the parking lot as a toilet. As my job was to ensure their satisfaction, I usually agreed to move them to another location and give them a discount on their room for their inconvenience. The only thing I didn't tell them was that I knew exactly who those homeless people peeing in the parking lot were.

Not to belabor this point, but when you live in a van in a parking lot, certain conveniences, such as toilets, aren't readily available. What is available, however, is a big water bottle that you can use to go number 1 in. Once the bottle was full, you simply poured it out the window. If the smell got to be to much, you simply moved the van "up wind" and the problem was solved. One aspect of living in a van that was appealing, at the time, was the fact that you didn't even have to get out of bed to go to the liquor store. On numerous occasions we would be out of beer and would simply take down the blanket we had over the front of the van to keep peering eyes out and drive one block up to the liquor store. You jump out, buy some beer, jump in, drive back to the parking lot and you didn't even have to get out of your PJ's. That was definitely a major perk for a twenty something malcontent who lived in a van called the Mother ship.

Even with perks like that, we eventually had to start looking for a real place to stay.

We had saved up a little money and had enough for a security deposit and first months rent on a place, but we had to do this smartly because this was every collective cent we owned. We scoured the newspapers looking for places we could afford. We fixated ourselves on the cost factor, not the geographic location of the rental property. Probably not the best way to go about this process, especially in a city you are unfamiliar with.

The first time we went to check out a place for rent, a bearded lady, that's right, she had a 5 O'clock shadow, sat with us in her office to "go over the rules." "No visitors past 10 p.m.," she said. "Nobody can spend the night." I looked at her a little confused and said, "Why?" "We have a problem with hookers and druggies," was the answer. Mmmm, I feel good about this place already. I went with her to tour one of the units, stepping over a bum passed out in the breezeway with an empty bottle of Listerine in his hands on my way. The room was small and had cinder blocks for walls. No paint, no dry wall, just concrete blocks. "We'll let you know," I said as I backed out of the room.

The next place we went to was a little more promising. The rental office looked nicer than the last one and the neighborhood had a grocery store at the end of the road along with a laundry mat. I recall very vividly that the sun was shining and it was a beautiful day, which looking back on it now, probably added to the illusion that this was a nice place. My roommate and I stuck our heads into the rental office and said that we had an appointment. The lady simply threw us a key and said,"It's unit 4." We ambled down the road looking at the front doors for the unit talking about how nice it's going to be not to live in the van anymore. We carried that conversation all the way up to and through the front door of unit 4.

Upon opening the door, I saw a single room, fake wood paneling on the walls, green shag carpet and a bed sitting in the middle of the room. Ok, this must just be the living room or something right? As we walked in, I noticed a hallway and thought that the rest of the house might be down there. My roommate was in front of me walking down the hall. We stopped to turn on the lights on what is quite possibly the most disgusting bathroom on planet Earth. I believe I made some comment about bleach, scrubbing bubbles and scrubby pads. As we turned to continue down the hall I saw something that just didn't seem right. In the corner of the next room we were about to walk into was about 20 empty quart bottles of beer piled up in a corner. Additionally, there was a sock, hanging off the foot of someone lying on a bed in that room. That's pretty much all I needed to see to realize that we were about to walk into another person's "unit". I turned around, assuming that my friend had seen the same thing I had and that he was right behind me, to walk out the front door. I was about 2 steps outside the door when I heard it.

Ok, here comes some language you may not like, but this is the reality of the situation.

A voice, screaming hysterically, saying "What the fuck!" over and over again. I saw my friend dash out the door with a slight smile on his face. Once I saw the smile, I was confused, but thought everything was ok. I was wrong.

I heard the screaming again, only this time it was right next to me. I turned to look and saw a man with no shirt, one sock and cut off jean shorts screaming over and over again the same thing. That alone was shocking, but what was horrifying was the fact that he had fresh blood dripping, that's right, freaking dripping off of his face, arms and smeared on his chest. I put my hands up like I was under arrest and started saying some thing like, "Whoa dude. Whoa. We were just looking at, trying to see, we got the key from, uhhh. RUN!" My friend and I bolted back to the Mother ship and tore through the grass in front of the office so that I could throw the key back towards the building and we could be gone.

All and all life in the van wasn't horrible. We were able to use down rooms to take showers in and get ourselves ready for work. We had figured out where all the bars that served free finger foods were and we had a fairly steady diet of "good times" for the time we spent in the van. Ultimately we found a real apartment and started living like human beings again. The van was ultimately auctioned off after the apartment complex people had it towed. We couldn't pay the tow bill or their daily charge so off to the auction block it went.

In the end, we spent a little over a month and a half in that van and celebrated both Thanksgiving and an early Christmas as residents of a Ford Econoline. The experience is something I will never forget and think about from time to time. The cold nights where I shivered so hard I couldn't sleep, or the times that I laughed so hard at the jokes being shared by two guys who literally didn't have a pot to piss in.

Perhaps that whole experience would explain why I now live in a house with 4 bathrooms in it?

Until next time, enjoy the pure random.