Masculinity

I rarely feel macho. When I was in high school, I played Magic the Gathering. I played the Star Wars roleplaying game , the one with paper, dice, and imagination. After high school I started a band , but even that didn't help the matter much. Despite what Kid Rock would have you believe, playing music isn't exactly the chick magnet that you'd think, which is not to imply "babe catching" as a motive for being in a band. I'm irreparably nerdy and I'm uncertain that any amount of Axe Body Spray can offset the fact that I own approximately four hundred trade paperbacks , which I methodically alphabetize and admire.

None of this is said to imply that my masculinity never bares its head. It does all of the time, but only in the most absurd circumstances. When I lived in Denver, Colorado, I walked past the Platte River on an almost daily basis. Having lived my entire life in close proximity to the Ohio River , I was a bit offended at the notion that the Platte would be referred to as a river. I was absolutely prepared to battle over this. I could piss across the Platte at it's deepest points. I felt like Crocodile Dundee . You call this a river , here's a river . Then I would teleport everyone in my vicinity to Louisville and they would cry at the sight of a proper river, not this bullshit estuary that minnows scoff at. I would then shotgun a PBR , crush the can on my head, and throw it at the nerd who dared pretend like the Platte was anything more than the creek that Louisville threw away. End fantasy.

A more current example would be my aversion to Dungeons and Dragons . In the nerd hierarchy, the one that exists only in my head, D&D is almost the nerdiest, just barely being edged out by the legion of Warhammer virgins that spend their weekends painting figurines. At least, the Warhammer virgins can take solace in not being this guy. Again, I feel the inclination to spike something, and jump a monster truck over weaker cars . It's inexplicable why I would even care, but I still kind of do. I still kind of want to throw food at D&D nerds, I'm looking at you Connor Bell , and then laugh at them while they're cleaning up. I abstain though, because I'm a grown up.

Most recently, I've been obsessed with filling up my iPod . It's one of the big, 160gb deals, and so far, after digitizing all of my musical collection, putting some of my wife's collection on there (but not all, because I have distinguished taste and all), and scouring the internet for good music blogs, I still have 97gb's to go. I will fill you up iPod, you'd better believe it. I realize that how perverse it seems to submit to the challenge of filling something up and I'm certain something Freudian is going on here, but I can't shake it. This is my masculinity people. I have to fill up this goddamned iPod or I may be less of a man. I'm not sure how, but I know with absolute certainty that it's true.

What is wrong with my brain to cause me to give a ratshit why any of this would matter? I imagine that most men are provoked into machismo for their athletic or sexual prowess, over their ability to fix things, or their ability to build things, but I just can't seem to be bothered with any of that. I just want to crush a beer can on my head over my iPod or my choice of nerd entertainment. It defies logic and I know it, but I rarely feel an emotion that I can't identify, and I don't know what to do with it other than to acknowledge it. As I a friend said yesterday, it's not a problem if you celebrate it, right? I'm inclined to think so. Since I haven't suplexed any larpers , I guess I've got enough restraint to just cope with it, without a support group for nerds-who-are-marginally-less-nerdy-than-other-nerds. I've seen a woman naked before, in real life, and without any exchange of money, so I guess I'm doing alright.

John Wayne's Chinese Throwing Star Christmas

I already knew this year who my Secret Santa was going to be. She had already told me that she wished that she would get me, because I would be easy. Her answer for the easy present: beer. People love to get that one thing for everyone that they love, until they hate it. For years, my wife was the recipient of cats, the cuter the better, hanging from things , being kitteny , or playing on things that are adorable , generally on a calender, so you can plan your life in the cutest possible way ever. Another good friend of mine was blessed, if 'blessed' is unequivocal to 'bombarded', by the gift of things elephant related. In every instance, at least every that I've encountered, the person that gets that-one-awesome-thing-that-they-love-and-only-desire burns out and lets everyone know that they have plenty of porcelain elephants , cat calenders , pogs , hamster collars , or what have you . I don't know that this will ever be my problem, if beer is what people think I always want.

How exactly should I feel in knowing that people consider alcohol, specifically beer, to be my favorite thing? At the moment, I feel pretty good about that, even though my future, red nosed, cirrosis of the liver inflicted self may disagree. Hey, if people want to shower me in beer, I'll take it. While my Secret Santa wouldn't be able to buy it for me, at least not able to buy it and actually give it to me at work, her plan was to get a gift certificate that said 'For Beer Only '. And I'll take and honor that gift certificate for anyone willing to send it to me, I promise.

Christmas has been little more than a compilation list of things I want for about fifteen years, which is great, as I'd always wanted all of the creativity distilled from gift giving and condensed into a top ten list that would make Nick Hornby jealous. Since I already knew who my Secret Santa was, I figured I'd play around with the Secret Santa list. My list included chinese throwing stars , for efficiently dispatching my enemies , especially if those enemies are ninjas and if I were Shinobi ; a cold fusion reactor , which will require invention; a PS3 that would probably gather dust like the Xbox 360; dinner with Neil Diamond that would be long a drunken, despite Mr. Diamond's best intentions; extra vacations days for pretending like work will be done, but which are actually for gaining weight by 9am mimosas ; beer , which is a gimme, but a delicious one; and food to maintain my stingy work practice of eating left overs.

What I didn't expect was to get anything off of the list, which I did. This is the second year in a row I've included chinese throwing stars on the list. There is a particular poetry to receiving a deadly weapon as a work place gift that I have to admire. And I really wanted to use it at work, but I don’t think I'm allowed to murder people yet.

So, the chinese throwing star has an image on it of John Wayne . I'm not certain what relationship John Wayne has to chinese throwing stars, but I'm fairly certain that wherever he is, most likely hell I'd hope, that he'd give his good lung to kill a chinese. What an asshole . I bet he's smoking about a thousand cigarettes an hour to lose weight in hell for his next acting job with Hitler. I hope he's forced to be in The Birdcage for the rest of eternity and his asshole tightens up so intensely that he can crush coal into tiny diamonds that work into his bloodstream and tear up the head of his dick when he pisses. Commie hating son of a bitch.

I was told that the alternative to having the face of John Wayne on a choice communist weapon was having a Nascar logo /car emblazoned on the side. I have to marvel at the advertising prowess of both Nascar and the guy that talked the Estate of John Wayne into allowing his grinning republican ass on a glorified set of pocketknifes on a wheel that looks cut straight from Krull . Seriously, Nascar ? Why? Where is the crossover market? I mean, I know theoretically that market is The Peddler's Mall , but how many Nascar fans are out their clamoring for an ancient chinese stealth weapon? How many Shinobi fans are in love with cars driving quickly in a circle? I can just hear some redneck goon watching the race circle, wearing a druid cloak and a ski mask, threatening whoever rivals Dick Trickle for third place. Actually, I hope to whatever supernatural being you'd want to subscribe to that that exact situation has happened at least once on this planet. It will allow me to sleep better at night.

On a down note, I learned that The John Wayne Stealth Krull Star just doesn't cut it when you throw it at a wooden pallet. I have to get something to pop the spring mechanism back out so that I can fold up my stealth death wheel. We have to be safe with our ninja weapons, amirite ?

I Have A Dream

I periodically wish for the ability to teleport my farts. It is possibly my fondest wish in the entire world to watch any live televised event while eating anything with bell peppers and beans. It would always be with the utmost care put into strategic deployment of my gas. When a celebrity thanks God, I'll be there. When that squawking, shitbird from my wife's dancing show opens her mouth, I'll be there. I'll be there during any country music award, especially as it pertains to Toby Keith .

God struck my radio down. It had to be God or god or maybe even gods , but it was definitely supernatural and I presume that whatever did this to me had a beard and/or a toga , sat on a throne or at least lounged in a celestial hot tub , and dictated rotten things to happen in my life. I believe this had to be the case, because only the FM side of my radio was made extinct. It is inexplicable. Why, if not for the supernatural, would only the FM side of my radio be rendered inoperable, while the hated AM side be left to listenable? Goodbye NPR . Goodbye PRI . Goodbye classical music station that tempts my slumber while driving. Goodbye classical rock station that plays too much Bob Segar and has recently started playing music made during my high school career (I'm not ready to be classic, hello). Hello gospel station, sports news broadcast, and Republican radio. Sigh.

Having limited budget to replace my factory radio with my dream radio, which is essentially just an auxiliary input and one giant volume knob , I found myself gravitating towards Republican radio. Not because I like it, but because if I have to pick something in the AM radio garbage bin, I may as well learn something, or get a new perspective. I find it likely that at some point in the past, I've done something to someone that I've not yet atoned for, so being subjected to nasty, divisive, Republican rhetoric seems like an apt punishment. Ultimately though, it helps to know your enemy, so to speak. It keeps me on my toes.

I have my favorites, which is like choosing the smoothest pile of shit you find in an outhouse. I prefer Bill Bennett in the morning. Not because I agree with him, as I seldom do, but because he typically seems to consider the opposition viewpoint without making snarky, unnecessary comments. And he keeps his voice down. Really, I can hear everyone just fine. In fact, I wager that they have things called "power amps" and "mixing boards" in their studio. I propose that they use them to full effect and in the meantime, shut the fuck up. You can express yourself without talking over someone even when you disagree.

Unfortunately, Bill Bennett takes a lot of Friday's off, which typically means that we get to hear a guest host. I hope these people are not his friends, but I am most certain that they are. Even though he keeps it reasonable, if disagreeable, I still find it unlikely that we could hang out, but while I may typify my experience as tolerance, I am completely intolerant of the idiots he gets to guest host. The most common guest host is Rick Santorum . One of my favorite things to say about someone I don't like is that "I wouldn't give them a fart." In Rick Santorum's case I would gladly make an exception. In fact, if I had my druthers, I'd teleport it straight into his mouth on live radio. Fuck it, I'd do it right now if I could.

A few weeks ago he gave Obama grief for not mending the racial divide. Racist much? I didn't know it was up to the black guy to fix the race problem. At that, how would one suppose he accomplish this task? I'm into having a job (at least the earning money part) and in my friends and family having a job, so I'm content with him working on that. Between this stellar suggestion and his exemplary opinion of the homosexuals (and their terrifying agenda - oh my), I'd gladly shit straight into his mouth. Fuck it, full monty.

The Timothy Busfield Curse

School has won the fight between the leisurely and the scholarly. I turned thirty just a few months ago and I have to wonder if age become more profound the higher the number next to your name. By thirty, I consider myself a relatively responsible adult. I am about to complete my third full college term, again with a minimum of three A's and two B's, while working a full time job, while maintaining a band and some modicum of a social life. It's a wonder my liver hasn't deteriorated into a booze sponge, but even that I've managed to reduce.

That said, I've definitely developed some troubling routines, which again profoundly remind me of my age, and disposition. My typical Friday night routine is to pick up some beer on the way home and then to immediately consume that beer while watching television or playing a video game . Friday night is my night, goddammit. On Thanksgiving weekend, my wife and I received a bed frame from her parents. I can't exactly articulate how or why a bed frame improves your sleep, but it does. If it's an illusion entirely conjured from my subconscious, do not tell me otherwise, because I've been sleeping like a fucking champion. Last Friday, I decided to break out from the mold, drink an ample amount of water and have a balanced meal, all in the name of a good night of sleep. I planned on sleeping until the sun came into my room to personally punch me awake. And then I did it, with the good news being that I can take a punch .

Let me recap: My big Friday night adventure was trying to produce the most awesome sleep ever by breaking my tradition of alcohol abuse. Go thirty!

It's not though, that I want to think about this stuff all the time. I don't want to be Timothy Busfield . I don't want to think about or care about my age. It's not that I'm embarrassed though, I'm certainly content with my position in life. I have a beautiful wife and fantastic friends. I'm going to fix this job thing or I'm going to sell the ulcer I have excised to the Guinness Book of World Records and then I'm going on vacation. I'm going to sip mimosas and lounge in a hammock all day long. I'm going to jet ski and listen to Arab on Radar . I can't wait for my new life to begin.

Beauty In Between

Today, like as many days as I can in the Fall, I'm enjoying Pumpkin Beer. I've been curled up on the couch, playing videogames while my wife works on homework, or watches television herself. It's a pajama bottoms and sweatshirt kind of day. A younger Syd didn't appreciate this as much. A younger Syd sought stimulation and did so with a vigorous regularity. "What could be worse than boredom?" says the disenfranchised early twenty-something? "What could be better?" replies the thirty something college student. I've engineered this leisure, by continuing to work ahead in school, and I couldn't be happier to lounge when lounge time comes.

It won't be here tomorrow. I think that could be said of far too many things. Tomorrow I face a day of training at work. No customers, yes, but plenty of boredom. In fact, it's the worst boredom I think I could possibly imagine. The last time I had to experience a training day like this, I thought I would just hang myself in the bathroom before the end of the day, and I like life. As adults, we did 'team building' exercises that included putting together, as a group, a series of puzzles intended for children 2 and up. At the time, I was the youngest at 28, yet I still received questions as to where the corner piece should go. I'm serious. I just handed the pieces to someone else and sat down, hoping that Doc Brown would show up and take me away.

The rest of the day progressed in much the same way. I spent an hour and a half listening to people ask department specific questions about a new program to IT, a group of people who knew the program, not the department. I watched people that make about five dollars more on the hour than myself try and puzzle out a cd player. I received the door prize of an electronic door stop and a brochure to the place that we were at. I thought as hard as I could on teleportation, hoping that by thinking it, it may help me realize it. I'd teleport first into a bank, then into a hot tub with naked ladies, Kalhua dipped cigars , and bottles of Cristal . In the background, I would hear the second Ol' Dirty Bastard record on repeat. Not far from my hot tub would be a hammock . It'd be late May/early June and I could sleep on the porch in the nude. Then I woke up to one of the most mundane experiences of my life .

Tomorrow, I get to repeat this experience, but I write this with some degree of satisfaction. Is it better? I'm certain it won't be. I'll listen to insipid questions, by people who quite possible have undeveloped frontal lobes , and watch my clock waiting for the time to leave. I can promise that I'll start looking at the clock around 9:00am and I fully expect to arrive at 8:30am. But at least I have a job. Part of me dies in writing that, like serving capitalism is some kind of grand reward. Great, I can keep my head down, not rock the boat, and get a paycheck. Why bother living if you're just serving? And I can answer that: I am loved. Putting up with bullshit like this allows me to come home and buy my wife whatever it is that her heart fancies. It allows me leisure days like today, where I drink my merry brains away, fighting for freedom on Mars , and watching whatever bullshit I can find on television all day. As much as I never want to be an agent of the ordinary, I'm finding that beauty lies somewhere in between. I choose to live for those moments and work for more of them.

Signed, Definitely Not Me

You are fifteen minutes away from your fifteen minutes of fame. Your knack at self-promotion is an asset more valuable than any amount of money you've ever made. You are poor. Everyone knows your face. You make valiant stands against important things! Your words have weight that cannot be calculated. You get it.

Today, you will rally around someone you barely know, for a cause you were barely close to. You will make it publicly known that you love (LOVE) someone who barely qualifies as an acquaintance. The world will have to feel truly blessed to be near you, but you know that people will still doubt your motivations, even though you know how sincere you are. You believe every word that you speak or write.

You are the owner of wondrous things. You admire your collection. Your collection is more than a series of material goods, but a shrine to your values. You add to it in a number of ways. Your collection is an extension of your being. It shows the world your value as someone who cares. This is not just the logical extension of consumer culture, but you filling a niche that just needed to be scratched. You are keeping it alive and 'it' is important. Maybe someone will make a documentary about you. If only your fifteen minutes would just get here.

You will keep the flame burning.

Turning 30

I turned thirty yesterday and I'm still waiting for it to hit me. After I lost my virginity the reality of the situation didn't hit home for days. In fact, It took about four days. I walked into a Kroger's to do what it is that people do in such places, paused to consider what I needed, and thought "what the fuck?! I've had sex?" I sincerely thought I'd never get beyond first or second base in my entire life. It wasn't something that I felt sad about, I just thought it was going to happen that way. Maybe, I thought, I'll get to see a girl with no shirt on in real life. And I did. And it was as fun as I thought it would be.

In a few days, I fully anticipate that mid-function, and it will be a mundane function, I'll stop, and have some dramatic meltdown about my age. I may pause to wonder what I've done in life that's amounted to anything, other than to marry one of most beautiful women on the planet, and to have some incredible friends. I'll think about that show on the Discovery channel called Life After People . It'll remind me how temporary all of our accomplishments are anyways, which is both reassuring in that I haven't created a lot of things that the world would miss, but also disappointing since I haven't created a lot of things that the world would miss. I'll consider this stuff, get a drink of water, and buy some beer at the store. I'll consider buying the expensive stuff, but since I'm an adult now, economic frugality will kick in, and I'll opt for some Amber Bock , or Michelob's Dunkel Weisse , the poor man's Unibroue .

As it stands, I haven't had any such calamity of spirit. In fact, my actual birthday was excellent. I read Ysrael a short story in 'Drown' by
Junot Diaz , while I waited for Elizabeth to wake up. She had four presents waiting for me and offered me two before breakfast. Now I'm better dressed, which is as good for her as it is for me. We had breakfast at Toast on Market Street. As long as you can get a table in under fifteen minutes, it's always a good experience. We got our table in under two minutes.

We came home and she gave me my other two presents. One of them was a brewing kit, so now we can stay both frugal, and fancy. Apparently, it's not difficult to brew beer, you just have to be patient. I figure it's a good thing to know how to do anyways. If the apocalypse happens, I really need a skill that's useful, and brewing beer may be that skill, because lord knows that I can neither fly an ultra-lite , or throw a bladed boomerang . Ostensibly the water would be rank, and contaminated, choked on the cinders from the nuclear fallout, so beer may be the only thing that people can safely drink. I'm assuming that the brewing process will filter out any unwanted radiation and I'm fairly sure it will. I mean, duh.

Keeping with the beer theme, we drove out to the world's greatest Liquor Barn. I mean, I can only think of a few things that may make it more awesome , and that would involve an indoor pool, a hot tub, pictures of boobs everywhere, and Karp playing on repeat all day. This place has forty beers on tap! Good ones too. We bought a growler of Gulden Draak beer and a six pack of the best pumpkin beer on Earth. We came home, my lovely wife drove to work, and I played my videogame with one of my best pals , while drinking my favorite beer , and listening to music. All I need now is a hammock and some alone time with my wife, maybe a Margarita with an umbrella in it.

Not a bad day. I spent it surrounded by friends and family. A lot of people called me to remind me that I am loved. I want to remember this day every time I get yelled at by someone at work , every time my boss is offering me something inane as something profound, any time I don't get the promotion, or when we don't get to play whatever show it is that we're wanting to play. And my long and wonderful weekend has only started. I am loved!