A Vote of Confidence...I Think

“All men’s wallets should be waterproof and required, by law, to be worn around the neck, like soap on a rope.” This would be my platform for election, if I were running for the office of President on Tuesday, November 4th, which probably explains why my name isn’t on the ballot. I don’t feel my passion for this key element of my platform is the reasoning behind the snub from Democratic and Republican committee leaders. Perhaps the impetus of my wallet reform campaign has precluded me from achieving the Presidency. I can’t say that I blame them. Can you really trust the well-being of our nation to someone who can’t remember to take his wallet out of his pants before NOT putting said pants in the hamper?

Recently, I was rifling through my wallet, which just finished a refreshing spin in the permanent press cycle, searching for items that weren’t destroyed. As I flipped through the contents of my wallet, I came across 2 plastic cards stuck together, which I found to be a strange, yet fitting, pair. Liquidly sealed together were my voter’s registration and Cardinal Fitness membership cards. As I dried them off, I couldn’t help but see the similarities in voting and belonging to a health club.

Extensive study has proven that simply carrying a health club membership card will not guarantee weight loss, unless of course, the card in question is made of stone and well over a hundred pounds. Since we have progressed as a species out of the Flintstone era, I don’t think that’s a possibility. Likewise, possessing a voter’s card and not showing up to vote, gives you no say in government. You must exercise your right to vote for this card to be effective. Those whom don’t physically exercise can’t complain about being doughy and those whom don’t vote can’t complain about our government. It’s that simple.

Some people say they can’t find the time to vote/workout. Both the polling stations and health clubs open early and close late, providing ample time to get there. If you’re one of those who go after work, you’ll suffer the same long lines waiting for a machine to open up. Hopefully the person, who uses the voting machine before you, extends the same courtesy of health club apparatus usage and towels off any disgusting pools of sweat.

Both voting and workout machines can be intimidating and lack of knowledge on how to use them can be very embarrassing. Case in point; I needed to develop some neck muscles, as nothing is sexier than a thick, girthy, veiny neck. For 3 weeks I used a machine at the club for this purpose, although I wasn’t sure if I was correctly doing the exercises. I wedged my face between 2 pads set 3 inches apart, so that my nose and lips stuck out in the middle, similar to when your face gets caught in the closing doors of a bus. The pads had a peculiar stench and the exercise motion was cumbersome but I figured, no pain, no gain, right? The last time I went to the club, I stopped one of the employees during my neck workout and with my lips being smushed together from the pads asked,
“Excuse me, miss. Am I doing this neck machine right?” The young girl smiled and with a puzzled, almost frightened, look responded,
“Well…first off, that’s a glute machine. Your head goes down there and your rear end goes up against the pads where your face is.” That explained the strange odor. Similarly, voting machines can be difficult to operate. That’s why they give you a booth with a curtain. So nobody can see a grown adult struggle with something any 5-year old could figure out. Also, I find the drawn curtain and booth to be exactly like the shower stalls at the health club, except for the canister of liquid soap on the wall, the threat of acquiring a foot fungus and a naked, singing man in the booth next to me.

Once inside the solace of the voting stall, safely removed from the discerning gaze of educated people who’ve actually familiarized themselves with candidates, policies and crap like that, the inner turmoil and true democratic process begins. The efficient voter will choose 1 party and punch that ticket across the board. This takes all of 2 seconds to do but this type of voter is cunning, as well. They’ll purposely stay in the booth for a few minutes to create the illusion of carefully analyzing their choices. Lazy, uninformed and deceitful; with these credentials you should be running for office rather than voting. Another type of voter decides strictly on familiarity and can’t be bothered with silly things like issues and policies. This person carefully scans over all the candidates to see if possibly they know someone with a recognizable name, as it would be rude not to vote for a friend, relative or someone that attended the same kindergarten class as you. Once names have been checked, votes are usually cast after considering candidates other key attributes, such as nationality, gender and most importantly, how you feel when hearing their name. Anyone running for office with a name like Stalin, Hitler, Mussolini, Judas Iscariot, Darth Vader, Beelzebub or Skippy should probably consider another vocation. Similarly, anyone named after a body part doesn’t stand a chance either. I just can’t throw my loyalty behind someone named “Fred Testicles” or “Stella Nipples.” Finally, we come to making selections for judges. After forgiving yourself for having no clue as to the difference between the Supreme Court, Appellate Court and the Circuit Court, you base your voting decision for each judge candidate on one essential criteria…”In the past few years, have I been screwed over in court by some asshole judge!” This could range from being fined for speeding, a large settlement over a dispute with a neighbor or perhaps, an unfair death sentence over an impulsive, yet accidentally, killing spree. Since no one remembers the names of judges, the choice is simple. If you’ve been a good citizen and kept yourself out of a courtroom, all judges stay. If a judge has pissed you off, then they all must go because you can’t take the chance of voting for a judge that screwed you over. Uninformed vindictiveness…this is exactly how voting should be considered.

From everything I’ve read or seen on T.V., our country is in sad shape, both politically and physically. We need to become strong again and the only way to do that is exercise…our bodies and our right to vote. Do yourself and our nation a favor this November 4th. Go out and vote and let your voice be heard. As long as you’re there, if you find none of the candidates to your liking, feel free to write me in for President. The Wallet-On-Rope idea is gaining momentum.

A Halloween Cut-Up

Halloween is but a short week away. This weekend, the family and I will put the final touches on our home’s ghoulish decorations by partaking in one of my favorite holiday activities; pumpkin carving. Just like Michael Jackson’s plastic surgeon, I enjoy taking a knife and carving up a face that will hopefully scare the pants off small children. No Halloween can truly be complete, without first engaging in the ritualistic stabbing, cutting and gutting of an innocent fruit. To accomplish this, a victim must be plucked from a pumpkin patch.

The week prior to Halloween, the family makes a pilgrimage to the nearest farm selling pumpkins. For a good hour or so, we’ll search out the giant, orange mounds for the most perfectly shaped pumpkins, all the while breathing in the inescapable stench of manure and fending off the farmer’s mangy dog from humping my leg. Once we’ve made our selections, I load our pumpkins into the complimentary provided, rusty, wheel-barrow with the half-flat tire and plow my way to the check out line. The pumpkin sales transaction is performed in a small barn, which during the other 11 months of the year, is the primary spot for the farmer’s barnyard animals to eat, mate and poo. While the farmer’s wife/cashier weighs our future jack-o-lanterns, it’s my job to subdue my wife from buying other crap, like dried stalks of corn and giant bails of hay. Why pay for something we can steal from any number of the farm fields we pass on the way home? Then, dizzied by the excitement of the holiday or the fumes from the cow dung, I gladly overpay .75 cents per pound for a fruit, which during the other 11 months of the year, sells for about .03 cents per pound. This is actually quite a deal, considering the extra foodstuffs gained from pumpkin carving.

An ancillary treat from gutting a pumpkin are the bountiful seeds. Unfortunately, modern technology hasn’t devised another method of extricating the seeds, so they must be scooped out by hand. As a man, it’s my job to stick my hand in disgusting places to retrieve objects. This also holds true for toilets, clogged dryer vents and any of the dog’s orifices. Women’s equality ends when the arm must be plunged into something moist or gross. After I remove all the seeds, and my hand is painfully cramped from the violent scraping, my wife preps them for baking. She spreads the seeds out on a baking sheet and lightly dusts them with, oh…about 2 pounds of salt, then cooks the hell out of them. You can tell if they’re done just right by popping a handful in your mouth and chewing. If it feels like your eating the wood chips from your landscaping, they’re perfect. The health benefits from consuming the wad of dry, splintered seed husks are significant. As the coarse mass passes through the digestive tract, especially Mr. Colon, it scrapes and scrubs the walls of your lower intestines clean. Eventually, when Mother Nature calls and it’s time to part ways with your colon-cleansing friend, it may feel like your passing an eagle’s nest but your bowels will thank you.

Pumpkin carving has always been big in our family. In fact, aside from coloring Easter eggs, it’s the only time we covered the kitchen table with newspapers. Times were much simpler back then. Dad issued each of us a pumpkin and a sword. Normally, my parents wouldn’t trust me with a pair of nail clippers for fear I’d lop off a toe but for one day out of the year, they were completely at ease with me jamming a 9 inch blade into pumpkin. The only real decisions I had to make were, “Do I want triangle eyes or do I want really big triangle eyes?” and “Is the beating I’ll get from the old man worth flinging some pumpkin guts in my little sister’s hair?” Such is not the case these days.

Long gone are the basic, triangle eyes, triangle nose and single toothed smile, which was the gold-standard for carved pumpkin faces. Now, kits with books of specialty patterns are all the rage. The selections vary from simple to the extremely ornate. In the past few years, I’ve carved a wolf howling at the moon, a witch whipping up a cauldron of smoky brew and a dancing skeleton. Each year, the carvings get more and more complex. This year, seeing as there’s an upcoming election and I’m feeling quite political, I’ve decided to carve the full likenesses of all 435 members of the House of Representatives, engaged in a conga-line dance around the Jefferson Monument. The carpal tunnel syndrome I’m sure to suffer while poking the necessary 2 million holes will be well worth it. Thankfully, these specialty kits come with their own plastic carving tools.

Over the years, my wife has saved all the different odd-shaped carving instruments and kept them safely in their very own giant Zip-Lock storage bag, marked “Pumpkin Carving Stuff.” They’re made of colorful plastic with dull, rounded metal teeth on the blades, specifically designed not to pierce skin or pumpkin flesh. After using these pieces of crap for an hour or so, your hand will spasm and you’ll scream out, “These things @#*#@* suck!” Then you’ll grab a steak knife or drywall saw from the garage and finish the job. Actually, before we start carving, my wife sets the different tools out neatly on the table. They’re some of the strangest looking hooks, scoops and blades I’ve ever seen. In fact, I’m not sure if the family is about to carve a pumpkin or disembowel Mel Gibson, like they did at the end of “Braveheart.”

As you can tell from my picture at the top of this article, I really do enjoy carving pumpkins. Nothing is more rewarding than creating something to display Halloween night, sure to scare people. I think this year I’ll carve a pumpkin which shows the bottom line of my 401K…now that’s scary!

Snake and His 2-Wheeled Pony

A few weeks back, I found myself with some unforeseen, but welcomed Saturday afternoon free time. I seized the opportunity to grab my golf clubs and head out to the field behind our house, to fine-tune my golf game. After about twenty minutes of launching divots, or in layman’s terms; huge chunks of sod, and inventing some exciting, new curse words, my neighbor John came out to join me. I fully expected him to greet me with a judo-chop to the Adam’s apple but his pleasant demeanor indicated he hadn’t discovered the ball of mud I dropped in his pool, courtesy of an errant 5-iron. We exchanged pleasantries, talked some golf and before he left me to continue strip-mining the meadows of our town with my clubs, he offered a suggestion.

“You should write about the village's new bike path.” I thanked him for the idea, as I always welcome thoughts from readers, and started thinking of an angle for a column. I wasn’t all that familiar with the bike path and it was this lack of knowledge, which resurrected some past wisdom from my father. He told me, “Son, before speaking about a subject, be sure you know what you’re talking about.” He also told me not to wedge my head in the spindles of a staircase railing. The latter has nothing to do with this article but it’s just darn good advice I thought I’d share.

To familiarize myself with the bike path, I went to the town's website. I spent the next half-hour angrily clicking around the site, inventing more curse words, and thanks to my daughter’s skills at web navigation, I was able to pull up a map of the path just before the bulging vein, in the center of my forehead, exploded all over our computer. On the page in front of me was a tangled collection of multi-colored, lines, dashes, dots and stripes. I tried to make sense and follow all the twists and turns but my frustration reached the same level as when I look behind the T.V. and try visually sift through the 13 or so, gnarled cables, to single out a cord to unplug. Eventually, I just grab the mass of cords and violently shake them, until the one I’m seeking disengages from the power strip. However, no matter how hard I shook the computer, I still couldn’t find my way around that map. I just want to ride my bike! Why can’t bike riding be simple, like when we were young?

When I was a kid, my bike was my horse, laying peacefully on the driveway behind one of the back tires of the old man’s car, waiting for me to bust out of the house, saddle up and peddle off like a fool, down the street. It was pure freedom. I’m certain you remember this, as well. We didn’t need a path. We didn’t need a destination. As long as we could ride no-handed for a stretch, jump a brick-supported, plywood ramp or “pop a wheelie,” we were happy. As I’ve matured, my relationship with bike riding has changed.

My first bike was a shiny, red tricycle. I was seven and ridiculed. But that didn’t stop me from using my tricycle in the manner in was meant to be used. I’d turn it over, grab on to the peddles and while rapidly turning them, scream out, “Ice cream, ice cream! Who wants some ice cream!?!” I don’t know why I associated a spinning bike wheel with distributing frozen dairy treats, I just did.

A couple years later, all the cool kids were riding BMX dirt bikes. The medium-cool kids rode imitation BMX bikes called, “Huffy Thunder Road.” I rode a gold, Schwinn 2-wheeler with high, loopy handle bars and a huge black, banana-style seat. One thing I’ve noticed about bike seats, in general. When I was young and had a butt the size of a postage stamp, bike seats were as big as surfboards. Now that my rear is the size of a Fedex envelope, bike seats look more like a suppository. I’m not sure if my angst about riding a bike stems from losing control and plowing into a prickly bush or the embarrassment of soliciting the neighbor’s help in extricating the tiny bike seat from my ass.

It was also imperative to accessorize your bike with cool gizmos. BMX-ers had studded tires called “knobbies.” That’s all they needed. Other kids slipped a small, black box over the end of one of the handlebars. It had a handle which, when turned, made an intimidating roaring noise. I believe it was called “Raw Power” and I didn’t have that either. For my eleventh birthday, I received a shiny, metal horn with a big, black rubber bulb on the end. When I squeezed the bulb, it emitted an embarrassing honking noise, like a bad comedian after telling a joke in a burlesque show. “Guys, wait up!!! Honk! Honk!!” I also had a license plate from a box of Honeycomb cereal. Unfortunately, the sticker sheet which accompanied the license plate, had no duplicate letters, so putting “Matt” on the plate was out. I always wanted a cool nickname, so I became “Snake” Foley, according to my Honeycomb license plate.

Having a bike that looked cool was important but the tricks you could do on your bike really defined who you were in the neighborhood. Many summer days were spent perfecting these bike maneuvers and as far as tricks were concerned, I could manage a respectable wheelie and I could ride the entire neighborhood no –handed. As far as my parents were concerned, they were pretty indifferent to my impressive two-wheeler tricks, except for one. I remember one evening, I met my dad at the street corner and challenged him to a race home. It was his silver 1976 Chevy Nova with red, felt interior and black-wall tires against my gold Schwinn, tricked out with a clown horn and smelling of Honeycomb cereal. As usual, he kept it close until we were half-way home, then he blew my doors off. Way to go dad…big man! Anyway, this particular night, I couldn’t wait to show him the new trick I learned. Dad exited his car and watched me as I approached the house. Then, just before I reached our driveway, I jumped off my bike and watched it ride itself to a crashing heap, right in front of our house. Out of breath from peddling and excitement over my newly developed trick, I wheezed out,

“Did you see that!?! Wasn’t that cool? It’s called “Ghost Riding.” Immediately, I felt a firm hand settle on the back of my skinny neck, followed by a tugging sensation on the back loop of my Toughskin jeans. From the general red/purplish hue radiating from his angry face, I started to sense that he wasn’t impressed with my new trick. He hoisted me up by the neck and pants, like he was toting around a plump, lawn mower bag full of grass clippings. With each pounding stride he took, the coarse Toughskin jeans wedged further and further up my ass. When we came upon the closed front door, I offered to open it, seeing as my dad’s hands were full and I wasn’t doing anything but dangling. Quickly, he rushed through the front hall and stopped at the base of the second floor stairway. With a mighty heave, he “Ghost Rode” me all the way up the stairs and like my bike, I fell in a heap outside my bedroom door. Then he yelled at me to get in my room and stay there until I stopped doing stupid things. Lucky for me, he eventually showed leniency or I’d still be up there, as I just can’t seem to break the habit of doing stupid things.

Boy, I’m sure glad John sent we off digging up such fine memories. Sure makes me want to unhook the old bike from the garage ceiling and take off. Better yet, maybe I’ll just ride the stationary bike in our bedroom, that is, if I can get all the hanging shirts off the handle bars.

The Book On Reading

I apologize for the missed blog last Friday. I was taking some much needed time off from work and I used the vacation to re-energize my thoughts and catch up on the wide variety of “Judge” shows afternoon television has to offer. Also, this blog marks the 2 year anniversary of wowing you with quirky observations and madcap personal mishaps. Anyway, I decided to do something constructive during my vacation, something meaningful, fulfilling and certain to impress other people, whom over the years have been completely unimpressed by my life, thus far. I read a book.

Not just any book, mind you. It was over 100 pages with no pictures, punch-lines or centerfold pull-outs! I can tell right now that you’re looking at me in a whole new light because now you know I’ve recently read a book. It’s an impressive feat, no doubt. That’s why when adults get together, you can elevate yourself in status by announcing to the group, “Hey, I’m reading this fascinating book…” This proclamation has a two-fold effect. Instantly, other adults stop what they’re doing and fixate on whatever you say because you’re a book-reader, an intellect, a scholar. This places you one rung higher on the social ladder than the mindless non-readers. Consequently, the non-reader will think to themselves, “ I have GOT to start reading again. I’m just lazy.” Now your audience starts to question their own abilities and mentally criticize themselves, which knocks them down at least 2 rungs on the social ladder. By my math, a public admission of reading a book gives you respect, makes others feel bad about themselves and widens the gap of your social standing by three whole rungs! And isn’t that what life’s all about; building yourself up in the eyes of others, while they tear themselves down?

If you really want to make them feel bad, offer to give them the book so they can read it. Most people will accept the offer because rejecting it would be a public admission of wanting to remain stupid. Politely, they’ll take the book, knowing full well they have no intention of reading it. They’ll bring the book home, place it on the table in the living room, next to the reading chair…the chair never used for reading. Some will even go so far as to place their reading glasses next to or on top of the book, to create a realistic picture of someone in the middle of reading a book. And there it will sit…unread…while they watch T.V. Only a fool would return the book the next day, so most people adhere to the universal, 2-week possession rule for book borrowing. Any amount of time less than that and you’re tipping your hand that you didn’t really read it. Exceeding the 2 weeks and you run the risk of people thinking you’re a moron for taking so long to read a book. Perpetuating the façade of reading, to cover one’s laziness, is a viable reason why books go unread. There are medical reasons, as well.

I’ve heard people complain that when they read, their eyes itch and start to water. They’ll swear there’s something small in-between the pages, which causes their eyes to burn. The tiny particles that bother people’s eyes are called letters. String them together with other letters and you make words. Combine words and you get sentences. The burning sensation is due to friction caused by ocular overload…or reading. The watering of the eyes comes from a different source.

Books are nothing more than really thick, hard-covered or paperback, sleeping pills ingested through the eyeballs, which causes yawning and thusly, watering of the eyes…drooling is not out of the question, either. This explains why some people read in bed and why the Department of Motor Vehicles frowns upon reading while driving. After a page or two, the reader will, more than likely, be unconscious. Not that it’s a bad thing to be comatose while sleeping, in fact, I highly recommend it. Now driving while asleep, even though I don’t have hard data in hand or haven’t conducted extensive lab studies, exposes one to possible dings, dents and the haphazard, blind slaughter of countless innocents, as you mow down pedestrians while deep in R.E.M. sleep. Again, drooling is not out of the question, either. However, I can’t sit here in good conscience and not admit, I have gone for lengthy stretches of road and suddenly awoken from a trance, wherein I can’t recall for the life of me, where I am and how I got there. I’ll snap to and yell out,

“Holy shit! Where the hell am I!?! Wait…I remember passing a McDonald’s and a Jiffy-Lube. That was like, miles ago! How did I get here!?!”

Then I’ll shake my head violently to awaken myself and put both hands on the steering wheel because we all know, putting both hands on the wheel tells the world, “Dammit, I’m serious about driving!” The same thing happens when reading. Who hasn’t been reading and suddenly snapped out of a trance to realize you have no idea what you’re reading. You’ll turn back a page or two only to find nothing seems familiar. When this happens while driving, we don’t go back and re-drive the areas we can’t remember, so similarly, after reading unconscious for a spell, we’ll justify not re-reading missed chapters by telling ourselves,

“It probably wasn’t too important…a lot of fluff, I bet…otherwise I woulda remembered what I read.” I’ve used this argument myself on entire books and several college classes.

In fact, it was at college that me and my friend, Morty, actually overdosed on reading. Bound and determined to get serious about our college careers, Morty and I found the perfect place to study. Word on the street was, you could really get a lot of uninterrupted study completed in the basement of the Law Library. We descended deep into the earth under the library, with each step the moist air cooled and the itchy smell of ancient, yellowing parchment filled our noses. We found a couple of isolated cubicles, separated from each other by wooden partitions. I opened my book and excitedly started down my new-found path of serious, collegiate study. About an hour later, I awoke, with both arms stretched out from my sides and my neck snapped back behind me like a giant Pez dispenser. Embarrassed but somehow still able to find humor in my failure to remain awake and be a big boy, I peered around the wood partition and laughed to Morty,

“Dude. You’re not gonna believe what I just did.”

When I saw Morty, I knew he would understand my plight. He chose the slumped forward approach for his nap. His arms hung freely down at his side while his full body-weight was supported by just his head. His right cheek filled the void between page 256 and 257 and his agape mouth provided an escape route for spit to soak through the better part of chapter 9 in “A Beginner’s Guide to Modern Engineering.” As we left in obvious shame, we both agreed it was the best sleep we had in years.

So yes, I have accomplished an enviable task. I have read a book this year. I plan on reading another, perhaps in the future. Not the near future because as I’ve told you, I just re-energized from a week long vacation. Right now I feel alive and ready to take on the world. Give me a week or so and I’ll be ready for a good snooze. Can you recommend anything I can pretend to read?