Argh, I just wasn't made for these times

My workplace had its annual summer potluck.

The theme was pirates.

I brought a sack of limes.

No one had scurvy, so no one needed them.

Times they are a changin’.

Getting to Know Dave's Body: Part 1 of an Ongoing Series

I woke up this morning and stumbled into the bathroom to shower before going to the office. Seeing how I sleep through the night wherever I end up passing out, I'm occasionally welcomed to a new day by temporary but strange imprints on random places on my body. For example, falling asleep using corduroy pants as a makeshift pillow produces interesting results; one time I had an imprint of the Virgin Mary wearing a sombrero.

This particular morning I checked my elbow and found a curious new companion. Not a fair weather friend of an imprint that debuts with much fanfare but disappointingly fades away, but rather a growth of curious proportions. Amongst the vast wasteland of scar tissue that is my right elbow rises this rebellious upstart of a hair:

Verily, this growth has fuzzy neighbors of the same brethren, but its size and location are extraordinary. It's as if at conception, the hair's elders pointed a labor-worn finger into the vast wilderness of Elbow Scabion Majora, and said 'Go forth my child, into the undiscovered country and prosper for generations'.

Taking this edict as its manifest destiny, this young pioneer ventured forth through the desolate plains of deceased hair follicles wiped out long ago by catastrophic skin abrasions, to arrive upon its Zion, a fertile oasis of prosperity the likes of which rival the mythical lands of Rogaine.

With no one to rely upon other than itself, this upstart has skyrocketed from obscurity to ultimately tower supreme over its lesser kinsmen that chose the safer and well-trodden realms of hairdom. As its keeper, how do I reward this hair's bold streak of independence and tenacious toil in such an inhospitable precipice as a weather-worn elbow?

As it is the natural instinct of any man-child, I reached for the bottle of lighter fluid resting next to the Pantene hair gel. Contorting my body so that the lit match in my teeth is within the line of squirt of the lighter fluid bottle in my left hand, I looked at the renegade hair's reflection in bathroom mirror. What did I see?

I saw my child. As a man I will never experience firsthand the hassle, I mean, the miracle of childbirth, therefore I must treasure such abnormal growths as my own grotesque parody of procreation. It pales in comparison to the feat accomplished by real mothers, but cherish the moment I will.

I wanted a monocle

After a 12 year hiatus, I've started wearing eyeglasses again.

In addition to other mundane hassles such as strapping on a bicycle helmet, heeding medication side effect warnings, and wearing pants, I've been known to be stubborn in properly maintaining my eye sight. I was prescribed very minor corrective eyeglasses in 1996 and used them for about two years. They were useful in making out fine details at long distances, but beyond that, I could see just fine. For reasons I fail to recollect, I stopped using them and carried on without incidence.

After 5 years, I noticed my overall vision was getting worse, particularly at night and at long distance. I tried using my sense of smell to balance out my visual deficiencies, but years of cocaine use put that plan to a quick end.

Author's note: If any of my nephews or nieces are read this, Uncle Dave is just kidding with the Big People. If you treasure my ability to build you awesome Lego airplanes, you should immediately go to your parents and tell them that they are an epic failure at monitoring your internet use.

I could still get by, but occasions where I would fail to recognize familiar people until they were within 10 feet were becoming far too numerous for my reclusive personality. Thus, for the sake of my reclusive lifestyle (and to avoid petting possums that vaguely resemble housecats), I ordered some contact lenses. But Dave being Dave, I didn't pick them up from the Optometrist office until 4 months later.

After five years of regular contact lenses use, I've purchased eyeglasses as a backup. Despite my Optometrist's best efforts to fit me a be-jeweled monocle, I settled for a pair of foo-foo Pradas:

Seeing how it's the first day, I'm rather self-conscious wearing glasses. Of the people that have seen them on me, they say I look smart in them. Hearing this only makes me suspicious, as it reminds me of the Simpsons episode where Homer finds Henry Kissinger's glasses in a toilet, puts them on and says 'The sum of the square roots of any two sides of an isosceles triangle is equal to the square root of the remaining side!', to which a man in the next bathroom stall yells 'That's a right triangle, you idiot!'. D'oh!

End of the Affair

Dave,

We need to talk.

I've been thinking about this for quite a while and I think we need to spend some time away from each other. The whole time we've been together I've felt like something wasn't right but just haven't been able to put a finger on it. I recently had a moment of clarity that allowed me to figure out what it was.

The truth is I wasn't meant for just one person. Don't get me wrong; the voracious appetite you've shown for me could fulfill my purpose in life a thousand times over. I love the attention you give; caringly opening me to the world so as to avoid ripping me in half and exploding my contents across the room. Your tender hands rolling me tight and secure, my inner soul feeling alive with crisp and zest.

But it must come to a stop; I'm hurting you and you won't realize it until it's too late. At first I took your gold-tinted fingernails as a sign of affection, but the permanent hazard orange stains have become worrying. To be brutally honest, you are getting fat too. It's something that normally happens in my relationships, but I can't let it happen this time. You are a good person that knows better but just got caught up in the passion of the moment.

Get yourself together. Wipe away my crustiness from your lips. Go out and meet someone special. Get married. Have kids. When it feels like you're a family, let me back in your life and share me with your loved ones.

With love and friendship,

Post Script

Initially this was conceived as a letter issued by a corporate Frito-Lay representative imploring one of its customers to stop buying family-sized packages for individual consumption, but I was inspired to revise it into a pseudo love letter between an over-sized bag of chips and its co-dependent husky lover. This idea came to me late one night as I was pouring myself a helping. Rolling the bag of chips closed, I noticed the big bold 'Family-Size' letters emblazoned on the crackly bag. Then it dawned upon me; it's 2am on a Saturday night, the house is dead quiet, and I am pouring myself a bowl of chips from a bag intended for families- Something is wrong.

Dubious Baby Names

Whenever the merry announcement of pregnancy is announced, I have the habit of offering questionable suggestions concerning namesakes for the forthcoming bundles of joy. The following are for my sister Thuy:

Baby Name Suggestion #1: Sinbad

With the general election still tilting in favor of a Democratic candidate, the future of America is destined for one outcome. In Mitt Romney's concession speech to the National Man Boy Love Association (or, as it is officially known, the Conservative Political Action Conference), that progressive destiny is a surrender to terror. Apart from his equivocating stance on 'Who let the Dogs Out?", teh Mittens is FTW.

As such, we might as well begin assimilating our way of life to "Islamofascism". One way to do that is to name newborns after beloved characters of Arabic literature destined to be hijacked and bastardized into animated Disney characters (Which reminds me- when the hell is Disney going to release their 1922 adaptation of Marquis de Sade's 'School of Licentiousness'?).

Since the conception of this baby name, Thuy and Matt have announced that they are expecting a baby boy. While this makes this name suggestion still in play, would I have suggested it for a girl's name too? Indeed - given the hypothetical context of an Islamo-fascist government that mandates head to toe modesty for women, names don't really matter. Speaking as a bachelor, it all becomes a crap shoot when physical attributes are excluded from the equation and all that you have to rely upon is fluency in proper grammar and the firmness of a handshake.

Baby Name Suggestion #2: Excelsior

Meaning "higher" in Latin, pop culture connoisseurs will recognize this as homage to Marvel Comics legend Stan Lee's trademark sign-off from his editorial column. While the former definition may lend credibility among the college-educated and other pencil-wrist eggheads, it is the later reference that holds promise, albeit of a double-edged nature. To legally bestow such a name to your own kin smacks of hipster-dufusry at its most obscene. Other than the troubling resurgence of Al-Queda to pre-9/11 levels, the diminishing efficacy of antibiotics, and the revival of 'American Gladiator' as prime-time TV, hipster-dufusry and its the long-term ramifications are a looming maelstrom that our nation must inevitably weather in a most hot-tranny-mess fashion.

So why christen your child with such a cross to bear for their lifetime? Easy- It's not your problem. Let's face it sibs, we are losing our cool. While we currently bask in the glow of being the cool aunties and uncles that will explain what 'Don't Taze me, bro!" to your kid's Youth Soccer League teammates and allow them to sample our prescription drugs, the machinery of our cultural apoptosis is spooling up to maximum revolutions to fully render our hip affectations and stylings obsolete. Thus, you parents among us must get while the gettin's good. At most, names such as these will extend your youthful relevance among your peers until your child reaches puberty (or at least until you are arrested for punching the parent of the kid that stretched young Excelsior's underwear to serve double-duty as a headband).

While such a distinct name railroads the fate of the child to either a career in costume management at the local burlesque theatre or as journeyman in the harried trade of chainsaw juggling, it serves a more narcissistic purpose of acting as a tombstone, nay- a monument to a past life that was once full of elan and vigor. When questioned about the origin of his name, your child will deeply sigh, flick the smoldering butt to their spent cigarette, and simply state 'my parents were cool once...and young'.

Baby Name Suggestion #3: Mofo

OK, not really. I think most people (i.e. everyone but me) can all agree that this would be a highly inappropriate baby name. But to investigate its potential, I googled the term 'mofo'. Other than the expected references to the West Virginia Board of Tourism and the Heritage Foundation, the most relevant link is to www.mofo.com, the official website of Morrison & Foerster LLP, a transnational law firm whose transaction and litigation expertise lies in fields of finance, life sciences, and technology.

To confirm its legitimacy, I clicked around the site and it appears to be on the up and up. I found it humorous that on a website titled 'mofo.com', there are the typical navigational tabs such as 'Achievements', 'Offices', and most curious, 'MoFo in the Community'. MoFo's current slogan is particularly captivated fetching, but I think it can be improved upon:

If this cheekiness becomes more widespread in the legal community, I anxiously await for the law offices of New London's Susan Asselin and San Diego's Frank S. Clowney III to form the legal power house of AssClown and Associates.

And so ends my latest foray into children names. According to the Union of Concerned Scientists, procreation on my part is unadvised; therefore I hope Thuy and Matt utilize one of these names so that my dubious legacy lives on.

The Man Comes Around

And I heard, as it were, the noise of thunder
one of the four beasts sang 'Come and See'
and I saw and behold...a half-assed web log.

Revelation 6:1-2

What better way to re-launch my secular web log than to spit some hot biblical verses documenting the End of Days?

Much like our Lord Jesus rising from the dead (or, if you are prefer a less ecumenical analogy, zombies bursting from their resting places to seek out fresh human brains) , the more socially-engaging Mr. Hyde counterpart to my usual Dr. Jekyll persona has awakened and seeks an audience for his curious yarns.

What are these curious yarns that I speak of?

Compelling treatises concerning the human condition?

Bygone tales from fabled lands of yore?

Alas, no. I have nothing of such a grandiose nature, at least not yet. Although I wish to provide a hearty Beef and Cheddar sandwich to satiate your hunger for all things Dave, I humbly offer a forthcoming amuse bouche to pique your interest.

In the midst of the four beasts, I heard a voice
I looked and behold a jackass
and his name that set on him was Dave
and tomfoolery followed with him

Revelation 6:6, 8

The Sauce

Oh Fudge.

Clear the streets.

Secure all livestock and heavy machinery.

Hide the cutlery and left-handed scissors.

Dave is off the sauce.