I Fear the Mannequin

I want to be frank. Not Frank. Frank can be frank, while still being Frank. Me, I just want to be frank.

Mannequins freak me out.

Some kids were scared of clowns. Others were terrified of mascots.

For me it was mannequins.

First, the spelling of the word mannequin is off-kilter. It’s one of those words that just seems to be walking around with its nose in the air and saying, “Look at me, I have a ‘q’ in my name that you pronounce as a ‘k.’ I’m sooo much better than you.”

I don’t like words that think they are better than me.

I don’t like the way mannequins are posed. Not so recently I was walking through a reputable department store when I noticed how contorted this pale, faceless pseudo-man was. He was wearing nice clothes—yes, but when I put on my Sunday best I don’t drop my left shoulder, lift my head, rabbit-arm my right arm and slightly bend my left knee. Listen, I took anatomy when I was in high school. I know that the anatomical position means that the human is upright and facing forward, allowing for the body to be sliced along the coronal plane.

And hear me—I don’t think that the anatomical position is the best way for us to display clothes in department stores.

I just don’t know why the powers that be have to go and Marilyn Manson our pseudo-humans to display clothes to convince us to buy them.

The way they stand has never convinced me to buy the clothes on them. In fact, more often than not, it discourages me from doing so.

I don’t know the exact solution.

Maybe we should all decide to contort ourselves. Would that be better? I think some sort of meeting in the middle should occur between us and our plastic counterparts. I believe Diamond Rio would be all for that.

And I support anything that the Poison of country music supports.

Or, perhaps mannequins should conform to our world. I think the GREAT Andrew McCarthy might have something to say about that (http://imdb.com/title/tt0093493/ ), seeing as how the girl of his dreams, Kim Cattrall, was a mannequin, which he created, that came to life.

My plan—let’s get rid of mannequins AS WE KNOW THEM. Why not just hire people to model clothes in-store?

Think about it—no more weird, contorted or posed fake-people (who really ever sits like the Thinking Man besides mannequins?). Instead, it’s a way to boost our economy. We’re creating jobs. why not just pay some poor, but well-kept schlep to stand on the same platform and smile?

Couldn’t we all use a little less mannequin and a little more schlep in our lives?

Racial Harmony

Allow me to bring some equality to your life this morning.

This video below is:

1) Me and LeDan Edwards, circa 1987.

2) Me and Jay Lockett, circa yesterday.

My 10-Years-Late Nightmare

Sometimes—well, the grass isn’t greener on the other side.

When I was 15, I would have killed—literally murdered, pillaged and plundered—for the opportunity to be involved in one weekend activity.

Oh to be a fly on the wall. Please, please please let me be a rivet on a jean.

I just wanted to know what was going on—when high school girls got together.

You see, as a 15 year old boy, you wonder. You wonder what in the world they (they being those weird things that smelt okay called girls) talked about—what they did—and maybe, just maybe, if they did the same things you and your dudes did.

Well, thanks to 7 high school sophomores, my dreams are shattered.

Before you call me a “CreepBall” or play me off as some sort of Mark Chmura, let me explain.

My wife leads a group of high school girls at church. She teaches them… directs them spiritually… and acts as an accountability partner for them if needed. So that's my connection to these misled youths.

And me—well, I get the pure joy of going to dinner with my wife and seven 15 year-old girls. Joy is relative no? Because this was as joyful as using non-needle-nose pliars to remove my right ear-drum.

When guys get-together (whether it be to hang out, eat dinner or what-have-you), certain things happen. They eat a massive combination of Chee-tos, beef jerky, lil’debbie snack cakes, sodas (ginger ale was my favorite) and maybe, just maybe a slice of pizza or two.

When guys get-together, they fart.

When guys get-together, they play video games. They stay up late. They try to watch Showtime through the scrambled-ants-fighting thing on the TV. They prank call old ladies. They watch three hours of six episodes of the same SportsCenter. And, inevitably, they try to assemble the perfect girl by combining parts of girls in their school (much like Weird Science, but without the nuclear reactors and bras on heads).

That’s how they choose who they like—by picking and choosing pieces (both of anatomy and personality) from the buffet of high school girls that surrounds them.

Girls—well, it’s not that easy. Then again, it never has been easy with them, has it?

They are a different breed—a different species—they are wired like emotionally-fragile marsupials (I don’t really understand my reference; I just wanted to work in the word marsupial, so just go with it).

I went to the other side this past weekend. And the grass isn’t greener. In fact, it needs to be tilled and planted, then watered, then seriously prayed over to see if grass will even grow there.

I sat at dinner, at the furthest most corner of the table, in hopes that I might simply escape the entire activity and zone out. Remember, although my wife was there—one fact still remained, I was one bathroom trip from my wife from me being a 25 year-old married man stuck at a hole-in-the-wall Italian pizzeria with seven 15 year-old girls.

It began with smattering of cackles. Clothes. Coach purses. Camisoles. Shoes. Belts. Cell phones.

I kept trying to ignore them—but their magnet was drawing me back—because I was perplexed at what they talked about.

Then it was on to celebrity gossip and speaking about people on a first-name basis that they will never meet. They offered advice and opinions—which I’m sure Reese Witherspoon would find very applicable to getting through her divorce.

Soon enough—jackpot—they talked about dudes.

But, wait. They weren’t talking about dudes like we dudes talked about them. They weren’t trying to assemble the perfect (relative term) dude.

No—they were throwing out the word ‘romance.’

Seriously? 15? Romance?

I’m 25, married, and often confuse said term for someone who inhabits Rome. Their a romance, right?

Then, I heard something and felt sick.

“Oh, Todd (generic high school guy name) is soooo cute. And he’s so romantic and in to you.”

Cackles of agreement fill the background.

“Like that time that you dropped your chemistry folder and he picked it up—then you locked eyes.”

Insert spit-take theater. (note—spit-take theater can be awfully messy with a mouth full of calzone & marinara, and, for that matter, not a good coupling for the brand new Coach purse sitting across from you. Who knew?)

I may have blacked out. I may have zoned out. I can’t say for sure.
What I can tell you is that I felt like I was stuck in a Molly Ringwald movie.

The rest of the evening was a blur of Todd-talk, frappacino’s, and crotch-kicking.

Now I rest even more disturbed than I previously was.

If only present Justin could have warned 15 year-old Justin—“hey man, don’t worry. Don’t wander. You don’t want to know. Just continue to THINK that it always ends in a pillow fight and a game of MASH.”

Again, I’m not a CreepBall, or a retired pro-football player who hooked up with his daughter’s friends. No, I’m a messenger.

It doesn’t matter the age. It doesn’t matter the location. One truth remains—girls are weird.

New Year's Revolution

Welcome Mr. 2007. You've arrived, and we're all so glad to see you.

As with other years, plenty of people will be making resolutions. You know the type: I resolve to do this, do that, do the other.

So cool the resolution.

Not me. As with other things (board games, out of office bonding with co-workers, dog clothes, overpriced pizza, and ranch dressing to name a few), I am far too good for the resolution.

So, what you'll find here is not, I repeat, not a resolution.

By defintion, a resolution is: "a formal expression of of opinion or intention made."

Nope, not here. Get thee behind me, resolution.

What you'll find here is my 2007 New Year's Revolution (defined as: "a radical and pervasive change in society and the social structure."). Here here! Ol' Anxine! Hoo-rah! Revolute!

I revolute to make a ruling on physical contact based on depth of relationship.

Huh? Stay with me. Problem--often times we might find ourselves in social situations that call for physical contact. However, many times, we are unsure what the appropriate level of contact is. Hand shake? Hug? Hi-five? Perhaps a simple shoulder shrug with two thumbs up?

Here's scenario #1--I am standing in line with my wife, awaiting entrance to a particular venue, when lo & behold if we are greeted by an aquaintance whom we have not seen in some time (6 months?). We exchange pleasantries and then he extends his hand directly into the space between the wife and I. Handshake... right? I look at the hand, look at the wife, back to the hand, the wife, the aquaintance, the hand and then the wife. Am I suuposed to shake it? Is he trying to shake my wife's hand? Look at the hand. Look at the aquaintance. In a moment of sheer social awkwardom, I thrust my hand into his, shake, nod, and release. There's a pause, and then he extends again. Again? What's this guy's deal? Why he is so adamant about shaking my wife's hand? We don't know him well enough for there to be physical contact between he and her... afterall, I refer to him as an aquaintance! Wifey looks at me, the hand, the aquaintance, the hand, me, the hand, and then hesitantly extends. Now what are we to do with this? Let's look at another scenario.

Scenario #2--A co-hort of mine (we'll call him Jack) had invested a good 10-15 minutes in a conversation with others: a dude, another dude and his spouse. Jack doesn't particularly know the other dude and his spouse, hence the conversation. Jack talked with them about their 20, plans, hands, and what-have-you's. Again, it was probably no-more than 12 minutes of getting-to-know-you. As the conversation broke, and adieu's were being presented, Jack shook hands with the other dude. Solid good-bye. End it and move on right? Well, Jack made the telltale mistake of making eye contact with the spouse. Their eyes locked, so he felt obligated. The spouse began to move in for the side-hug. Jack froze, processed, and decided to go full frontal hug instead. Hugging someone else's spouse in full frontal mode is a big, big step. That's not a 15 minute relationship closer. Party foul on Jack, right? Wrong. He lifted the rug of social appropriateness and swept this blunder under with the use of skirting humor. "Guess we'll hug-it-out... we go waaaaaay back." Bold move. Let's look at one more before we make a ruling.

Scenario #3--My buddy, Buddy, had recently completed a project at his new place of employment. Buddy found himself in a situation to receive praise from his boss. His boss delighted, and complimented him on a job well done. Pause. Then Buddy made eye contact with the boss. Extended eye-contact. The boss then made the decision to extend a hand for a shoulder pat. Buddy looked at the boss' misty-eyes and tilted his head... kidding. Buddy looked at the boss, looked at the hand moving in his direction, the boss, the hand, the boss--then the boss froze his hand. More eye-contact. They both held their breathing... in a terror they made a mutual decision to turn and run from the situation. Ignore it and walk away.

Based on these scenarios, I propose the following rules:
-Socially speaking, men should never shake women's hands.
-Inter-spousal contact should only take place after 1)two exclusive couple-couple dinners 2)all-parties involved email exchange using the reply-all button 3)all-parties involved have spoken on the phone to all-parties involved (answering your spouse's phone is acceptable)
-Inter-spousal contact should take place on the following scale: hi-five, side-hug, side-hug with squeeze, then full-frontal. Note: Full-frontal should only be used with your closest inter-spousal friends. A good measure on this use would be: 1) Have you been on a trip with this person? 2)Has this person seen your undergarments, whether, clean, dirty or on your person? 3) Have you exchanged communication with this person just between the two of you (could be text, email, or phone) in planning an event for one of your spouses?

Revolute. The world is yours--if you're going to live here, make sure you're comfortable with it. And while you're living here, let's not shake my wife's hand. That's just socially ignorant.

Blame it on Mexico?

Today I returned from a trip to Mexico.

While there I was able to check off of few things I've been meaning to get done:

Check #1 - Read a good book on the beach while smoking a cigar. Okay, so it's not as funny, quirky, or as you'll see soon enough - shocking - as story #2 or #3, but I did have a "life moment" while reading Mario Puzo's The Godfather and reeling on a Cohiba. Not bad.

Check #2 - While at the fantastic all-inclusive resort and hotel, I found a fantastic all-inclusive place to take a dump. Stalls were a tad small, but, hey, it's another country afterall. Day 1 I made my regular stop down. Bravo. No qualls. Day 2 I went back to the same drop zone. I had just pulled my pants up when I heard a very she-like "sigh." Not a grunt. Not a squeal. A sigh. So I went about my business of washing all the while pondering what that sigh meant. I walked out - turned back to the door - and there it was - the triangle lady. Yes, I did my doodie duty in a woman's restroom. Twice. Scoreboard.

Check # 3 - This one's a little more complicated. As it turns out, some compadres of mine ended up in a Mexican jail the night before our return. Four went into the city - two were arrested and thrown into the paddywagon. So, being the Consigliere in this whole trip, I was summoned by the two not arrested (females) to accompany them, along with Antonio, a security guard from our resort to the jail. I wanted another pa-noose in the cab, so I asked that the famous Running One join me along with one of the two not arrested.

The job sounded simple enough - the manager from our resort was sending Antonio to be our negotiator. The price had already risen from its original $20 per compadre to $100 per compadre. The manager would act as an informant to a warden - and through the chain of command three degrees further - calling in a favor to the commander.

We arrived at the compound of a station. It was like a scene from wartorn Israel or Dusk Till Dawn or maybe even what you'd imagine if, well, just think about a shady compound surrounded by a field (150 yard radius), filled with dingos, and covered with guards who are carrying semi-automatic weapons.

For the next two hours I watched Antonio try to milk the proverbial cow of extorsion. But it wasn't working. And in that two hours we had been told no many a time. Running One was our button man - keeping our two cabs warm and on the premises. One of the two not arrested was with me in the lobby, working up tears and trying to score a sympathy vote.

I witnessed a purple panty wearing Mexi-Charles Manson restrained by four cops. I heard screams. I heard the clanging of a cell door and knew that my two compadres were somewhere in there.

When we felt our efforts were exhausted we started to leave. They weren't getting out tonight, meaning they'd miss our flight. Then Anotonio struck up a convo with an oozi-carrying Mexi-cop. He and our cabby convinced the gaurd to release our compadres. I don't know whether or not the Commander even knew. My thought is that since our price went up, he had no idea. That's right, we paid off the oozi-carrying Mexi-cop to spring our friends from the compound. What followed was a short series of driving back and forth to and from the front to the back door, as well as a moment of terror in which I suffered a panic attack, fearful that the cabby, Antonio and the gaurd had sold us out for our pesos.

Finally, (and much more detail not included), they were sprung.

And yes, we drove (the cabbies, rather) like maniacs back to the resort.

Chances are that my compadres' faces are up on a post office wall in Playa Del Carmen today.

Today was the day.

I was tested for aids today.

I promise it's not contagious

Famous last words of a person who just gave you something... I promise it's not contagious.

Setting: Local YMCA Lap Pool

It's mid-to-late afternoon and I was at the YMCA after work to swim some laps. They say it works every muscle group. I don't know who they are... don't really care. So I'm swimming in my lane, minding my own lap-business, and mentally listening to tracks from Outkast's Aquemini (it's what I do).

I notice a bulbous man standing just at the end of the lane that I am swimming in. He's not in the water. No, he's standing on the concrete level, goggles on his forehead, towel and water bottle in hand. I keep going. Swimming, that is.

I get to the opposite end and pause. I have my goggles on, but I'm eyeing Bulbous Man (now a formal salutation since I know nothing else thereof) and he is still just standing. I mean - he's breathing and all - but he's just standing there, like a Peeping Tom outside the window of their prey. And at this point I'm said prey.

To the left the other lanes are full. And to the right. So I assume Bulbous Man is actually waiting - more wanting - to split a lane (mark that) so that he can get his lap on as well. From the other end of the pool I give him the point (acknowledge him), point to the pool (acknowledge the field of play), and the thumbs up (universal symbol of acceptance). He breaks his stare and bulbously nods.

Time out - when I say bulbous - I don't mean that this man is fat. Or portly even. He's just... bulbous. Like an onion. Vidalia - not red.

I go back into my laps, but upon arriving at the other end I notice that Bulbous Man has not gotten in the pool yet. So I stop. I pull my goggles down (always to the neck, never the forehead for me) and make eye contact with my perpetrator.

He speaks.
"You just wanna choose a side?"
"Yeah, I'll stay left."
"Okay. I got this thing. I promise its not contagious. I think its some sort of sinus infection."

You're kidding right? You are absolutely kidding me that only three sentences into this conversation he is raising my threat level to red? If you don't know me by name - should you include the words contagious or infection in a conversation with me? Much less get into a lap pool with me and swim next to me? Same lane?

Now - grain of salt - I could drop a gallon of Freddy Mercury's AB in that pool, take a razor blade to my epidermis and jackknife into that pool without worrying about lesions. It's that chemically altered. Seriously - I've stopped showering for the purpose of removing dirt because I basically swim in Clorox. In fact, if you want me to take your whites up there I'm going in a couple of hours. Call me.

Back to Bulbous Man. So this sinus infection... he continues:
"I don't know for sure what it is. Have you ever had one of these?"
"Yeah. I get about two a year. Normally I'm on an anti-biotic for four days and a decongestant and then I'm fine."
"I haven't gone to the doctor. But I'm draining alot. I mean alot of flem."

Now this guy's thrown a non-specific amount of flem at me (figuratively speaking).

But he's basically saying "look dude - I'm sick and I'm about to get within feet of you and we're going to be swimming laps in the same clorox filled backwash infested waters." I've been pausing for a minute or two - anxious to get back to swimming - so I try to break it off.

"Well, flem's certainly a sticky situation. Good luck."

I turn, pull my goggles up and attempt to position them.

"Yeah, see, the thing is I haven't felt 100% since last weekend. I think it was the weather change."

Weather change? It went from 106 to 99 and tough guy here thinks it made him start producing more flem. Nice logic.

Moral of the story? I don't know. But I don't feel very well... ___________________________________________________________________ And now, a recurring bit that hasn't recurred, occurred or just plain curred for that matter:
OBSCURE STAR OF THE DAY

If this is new to you... it's okay. Don't be shy about it. I just want to point out and or celebrate obscurity in its finest form.

Michael C. Maronna

Maronna's acting creds include Pete and Pete, 40 Days and 40 Nights, and Slackers. He is rather brilliant in all - but the sock steals the show in Slackers.

Humanizing.

Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this arena are of sole purpose to educate and capitulate others. The author does not take responsibility for said views and opinions to be incorrect or against your 'religion.' Furthermore, the author has only been wrong 5 times in his entire life - an average of once per half-decade - and it is unlikely that he will offer his one mistake to this mole hill.

THEORY: You are not officially human until you are 1 year of age. Additionally, being of 1 year of age does not completely mean that you are human.

EVIDENCE: I don't care who you are - what your x or y chromosomes are about, or how 'hot' you think your mother-in-law was as a Varsity Cheerleader in high school. Your baby is not necessarily cute... your baby is an alien.

I have had this conversation before and will have it again. I believe that there is no such thing as a cute baby. How can something be 'cute' after passing through that baby-shooting portal?

Let's compare this to produce shopping. Let's say you have a banana and carry that banana in a ziploc full of vinegar, and that ziploc bag full of vinegar inside of a balloon for the better part of a year. Now pop the ziploc and then shove the banana through the small opening in the balloon. Okay, you can expand your opening enough to make room for the banana.

No matter how you slice and or seal it - some damage to your banana is going to occur. It may take the banana a little time to get back into proper produce-like shape.

Same for your baby.

My best estimate is that it takes approximately one year for your child to take on actual human form.

Perhaps a visual would help:

Fetus = Alien.












So when a child has its birth-moment... it still looks pretty much like this.

Again - after about a year I believe that you take on human form and it is only at that point that I will consider said child human.

However, there have been some notable beings that have not taken on human form.

Exhibit A - Sam Cassell









Still a fetus. Still an alien.

Exhibit B - Keith Richards














Still alive? Still not human.

And yes, this rule will apply to even the fruit of my very own loins in their time. No one is immune, and all eventually must pass through this portal into manhood, womanhood and, if relevant, humanhood.

All my best...

Things Couples Shouldn't Do

It has come to my attention that I have a responsibility to my inform my audience. There are certain things that should not be done by couples - never. Never-ever.

• Couples should not sway together. This morning, while sitting in a worship service at church, I noticed the couple in front of me. This particular couple was made up of a girl taller than guy scenario - not ideal. No offense, but girls taller than guys in relationships is just flat out weird. Okay, so this couple began to sway. Not side to side - front to back. Maybe its more of a rock than a sway. But the tallshe began the act. Soon enough, the short guy that mildly resembled an older version of Buddy Lembeck was rocking with. Front to back. Front to back. Inappropriate.
• Couples should not sit in the same side of the booth together. There are two sides of the booth for a reason. Use them, douchebag. It is perfectly acceptable to use go one coke, two straws, but you can't properly share said coke when you are on the same side of the booth.
• Couples should not have a 'song.' This has never been kosher, that is, blessed by a Rabbi. Why do you need to identify your relationship with a particular song? Do you think that the artist had you in mind when they recorded it? Get a flipping clue, boss. Now, let me be frank - I have tried to have a song with girlfriends in the past. Seventh grade - my first girlfriend. Kim Hale. I would call Power 103.7 in Abilene at night and attempt to request a song for Kim. It was Shai - Baby, I'm Yours. I would call time after time (and it was a long distance call from Sweetwater to Abilene at the time) and request Shai. And, time after time, the guy on the other end of the line would tell me that they did not have that song. They would still include my dedication, "This one goes out to Kimberly from Justin... he says what's up." That, friend, is a sign. No songs. No way.
• Couples should not announce to others when they are 'trying.' This has come up recently, being as we are surrounding ourselves with more and more preggers. I have an overactive imagination. The last thing I need is to have an image of you 'trying' creeping into my head and making me laugh. It's just distracting.
• Finally, couples should not 'go' in front of one another. This is a private act. In fact, I maintain that my wife does not 'go.' I 'go.' If it offends you, that's fine, but I 'go' daily. I am what they call "reg-u-lar." However, somewhere, some way the path got twisted. Someone felt it appropriate to do this most gross of human actions in front of one another. Close the door. And, if the door is closed - respect that. Don't beat on the door. Don't ask how things are going because I don't really want to give a play-by-play and I don't have someone to provide the color. There was a moment - probably a year in to mine and Joanna's relationship - when we were at her parents' house in Arlington. I was about to get in the shower and had closed the door. I turned on the shower, then sat to urinate. I was tired, and didn't feel like standing. So I sat. The next thing I know my girlfriend is walking in the door to get a hairbrush or somesuch, and I am stark naked peeing sitting down. See, moments like this can be avoided if you don't 'go' in front of one another.

Let these words pour over you and cover you with enlightenment. Ommm.

Fibromyalgin - F-I-B-R-O-M-Y-A-L-G-I-N

Well, I must admit, I have been a quarter-century old for almost a week now.

The world is different at 25. I am officially closer to 30 than I am to 20. It can't be too long before I give up on what the world thinks and starting wearing pants that rely on elastic.

In the mean time, I have a few things to note.

1) I had a brush with greatness (all in perspective). Joanna and Julie
threw Craig and I surprise birthday party. At that party we had a minor celebrity of the most pious state: one of the up and coming preachers in the United States. Yes, that's right. The fake Jack Bauer. The double-fake dwarf of Ivan Drago. You can see him here to the right.



2) In route to my birthday party - I was like this. Let me tell you,
when your wife hands you a bandana and tells you to cover your eyes, you dont think you are going to end up in the backseat with a dude. That's not even on the radar. Very Brokeback.





3) I was very domestic yesterday (Saturday). It's not normally this way,
believe me. Joanna and I make it a point to preserve our youth and spend
our Saturdays spending time together, not doing 'married things. Then again, yesterday was different. We moved furniture, moved 'lumber' from 'Home Depot' for someone to make a fence. We bought the big TV. We went to Ikea. It was officially the most domestic I have ever been and let me tell you, it feels violating. But, then again, thanks to domestication, I now have the McCordVision Cinema Center (also known as my living room/family room/den). Yes, those are my feet, and yes, I will have that picture on my desktop so that, even while at work, the Chief
and the Samsung will make me feel at home.

Even worse this time.

A while ago, I shared an experience from On The Border in which my wife was hit on in front of me. It was kind of like being castrated without anesthesia.

It happened again. Kind of.

At On The Border, we had a small 'confrontation' with a mildly attractive young man who looked like he could be on a soap opera.

This time, the place was Main Event. The culprit - a rather large and portly white woman with hair like Brian Bosworth. Oh no. Boom goes the dynamite.

Joanna and I met our small group from church at Main Event recently to play laser tag. While waiting in line to enter the laser tag facility, my wife spotted the very popular game, Dance Dance Revolution.

Because my wife spends more time around 9-year olds than she does me (who may or may not act like a 9 year old), there are times she falls into the trap of being consumed by their culture. She doesnt wear Hello Kitty t-shirts. I have to put my foot down somewhere.

Anyhow, so Joanna decides to get on this game and begin dancing - without any credits to start the interactive portion.

At this point the female John Daly enters. She says to my wife - 'You wanna dance?' At this point I am three feet from this going on. Rather than become defensive, I decided to let it play out. I figured I could take the mammoth of a woman if need be.

Joanna blindly answers yes. So the woman (debateable) produces four Main Event game cards from her fanny pack. I kid you not. Joanna and her try one - no credits. Relieved, I say 'Well, let's get by the laser tag door. They should open it any minute.'

Before Joanna could decide, the she-Daly begins swiping card after card, like a person coming off of a Red Balls binge. She looks at my wife - eyes blurred by the Miller Lite - and esteems, 'There you go. I want to see your little ass dance.'

The music scratched - maybe only in my head.

So Joanna danced. Yes, I allowed it. One - I wanted to see the woman's reaction. Two - Joanna was very focused and it amused me. Three - who's to argue with a white woman who looks like a heavy-set Tommy Gunn?

Not me.

Does dating ever end?

Now that I am more than a year-and-a-half married, you'd think I was done dating. Nope.

Before you grab your cell phone to call my wife and scream unfaithfulness, let me let you in on this little secret: she's in on it too. And, no, we don't 'swing' that way (both literal and metaphorical in meaning).

Here's the thing - dating doesn't end. Ever.

Recently we have become good friends with a couple of other young married couples. Let me explain the story. I have changed the names of those involved to protect them - you never know.

We me Bonnie and Clyde at church. Sunday school class. Yes, we knew them from Baylor - knew of them - but never crossed the societal circles in place to hang out with them then. My wife and I thought it might be fun to spend time with them. So she went out of her way to do research on them and their likes/dislikes.

Point A - this is exactly what you would do as a dude interested in a hot chick. You would ask another female about her to see if you might possibly be compatible. It just so happens that my wife internet 'stalked' Bonnie through the facebook. To-may-to, to-mah-to.

Then came the approach. We asked them to dinner on a Sunday morning - again at church.

Point B - ask someone out in a safe place. You are making yourself vulnerable to rejection and want to have a safety net nearby incase they say "Not interested. You smell like doody." Believe me - it happens.

After Bonnie and Clyde accepted the invite - we decided on a place... an obscure and relatively quiet restaraunt where the conversation can carry the evening.

Point C - location for the actual date is huge. Dont blow it with Chili's if you want this to work.

So then came the actual evening - and yes, I found myself as well as my wife actually cogniscient of the attire we would don. The evening was good - began by holding our cards all close to our respective chests, but then, as it carried on, we felt more comfortable around one another and let our gaurds down.

You see what I am talking about? Am I the only one who notices the exact parallels to dating?

It's the same thing when looking for a home, looking for a church, meeting your co-workers, etc.

Perhaps that is the only way we know to meet and or get to know other people.

Anyhow - Bonnie and Clyde had us over for the Super Bowl and are actually coming over for dinner tonight. That's like the third date. Things are getting pretty serious. Maybe we'll make out.

Releasing of the hounds.

It has been too long. I apologize. I have no excuse. I have no reason.

(Why do I talk to you like we are in a relationship?)

I don't have an over-arching theme for this, more just minor observations and theories that I have been thinking about:

1. Weddings would be much more enjoyable if everyone loosened up. That being said, I might embark on a new career as a wedding planner. However, in order to use my services, you must comply with these two principles: No flower girls. Flower girls are a waste of time and space. From now on we will replace flower girls with clowns in full clown garb. Also, just to mess with people, I want to serve toast for the toast. Not champagne or sparkling cider. Toast.

2. Traffic makes me suicidal. Not really, but kind of. When I retire I want to think about how much of my life was wasted in traffic and say - gee, its no wonder that people shot each other trying to get through that mess.

3. I paid for a single 24 oz Corona at a gas station recently completely in change. Does that conjur any stereotypes? That's what I do - break down barriers.

4. I think the British sound far more intelligent than any other people in the world. Think about it... take a news story about a fire burning down an apartment complex. There is always one witness - if you listened to an American and a Brit say the exact same thing you would think the Brit sounded more intelligent. I want to be a Brit. They have an air of class about their everyday life. Love it.

5. What is the real difference in college and the real world? I don't think there's much. It's a time shift, but not much else. College is just like the outside world - it's just the outside world is more boring.

That's it for me. I bet I could throw a football over that mountain.

Baylor Homcoming 2005 Review

Joanna & I went back to Waco for Homecoming this past weekend. This is my second year as an alumni and I can say that college life continues without me. Before I start slow piano music and begin to open up about how old I felt - let me give you a quick review.

I have a new invention. I call it ConVo. It is sorta like TiVo but revolutionary. I think it could honestly change the way intelligent people approach life.

ConVo is a way to see life in on-demand. ConVo is a way to enjoy certain parts of your day and eliminate useless conversation at akward social events like Baylor Homecoming.

I probably made contact with 250 people over the course of two days in Waco. I saw people I hadn't seen since I was a freshman in 1999. I saw people I tried to avoid while at Baylor. I saw people who I thought I would make an attempt to keep up with - and didn't.

I don't think its a stretch to assume that of the 250 people I made contact with over the weekend - I cared to see less than 10%. I think it was probably around 15 - and that is high balling.

So what's with ConVo - how would it help me?

TiVo allows you to control your telelife by recording television programs you enjoy and watching them at your convenience. This means you can stop, pause or fast forward a program. You can rewind. You can speed through commercials.

By digitally recording the Texas-OU game I was able to watch the game - in its entireity - in about 50 minutes.

Imagine the ease of TiVo applied to life's most punitive social situations... that's ConVo!

I'll give you an example. I was at the Pigksin Revue on Friday night (sidenote - Pigskin is a broadway like show containing 8 fraternities and sororities performing in costumes - not comletely homosexual I promise) when a guy I knew from my undergraduate days made eye contact with me. He lit up with enthusiasm and began to skip in my direction.

Already his fake-dom had beaten me into submission and I hadn't broken a sweat. He approached and gave me a man-hug (back patting included). He then began to ask the usual questions: "Where are you? What are you doing? Hows married life?"

With each penetrating question I sunk lower and lower until my convexed spine was wimpering in pain. First - I am in Dallas. If I wanted you to know I would have made contact with you two years ago and let you know. Second - dont obligitorily ask me what my job is - I dont care for you to know anymore than you earnestly care to. Third - you can see my wife is sitting next to me so obviously we are not divorced and she is still living. What do you think my answer is going to be? Marriage blows? Come on - guy - get a clue!

Now, with ConVo, I could have fast forwarded through all of that nonsense and not had to cause myself acne over it. Thank you sir - you cause blemishes.

ConVo is still in development phases. We anticipate having a prototype in the second quarter of 2006, so keep you eyes open.

**Disclaimer regarding BU Homecoming 2005 Review**

If you saw me this weekend and are reading this now and think - hey, I wonder if he is talking about the conversation we had... do you think he would have like to FF through our special time of reconnecting?

Some things we were not meant to know. Other things are highly likely. I'm joking. But not really.

Tiled Floors and Flabby Bodies

The men's locker room might be one of the most awkward places in the free world.

I work out at the local YMCA every day during lunch. And I sweat. So, as a refresher, I will shower before buttoning up and returning to my office.

The YMCA is a very nice facility - mostly clean - and I enjoy my time working out. It is the before and after I am bound and determine to change... the locker room.

There is no other place in the world you will find men ranging from 20-65 clothing and unclothing themselves at the same time. And believe me - it is not the nakedness that bothers me... wait, I dont want you to think I prefer old men in the nude... or men at all (young or old). Do you see what I mean? This is awfully uncomfortable.

I have some issues with the Men's Locker room I was hoping we could address:

1. Is small talk necessary? It never fails. I am changing - let's say putting on a pair of socks, and some guy walks in the locker room. Instinct makes me look up - eye contact. Dang it! Now I am trapped. In a very non-thought provoking manner he musters, "Weather sure is nice." Am I required to respond to this? Do I need to talk about "weather" or "the game" with this dude who I have never spoken to before?
2. Haven't we moved past the briefs? I guess small talk leads me to being the wardrobe consultant... because as I continue fighting through his babble of jet streams and his shock collar on his dog I notice that he has dropped trow and is standing in front of me in briefs. Nothing more - except the argyle dress socks. Briefs man! Briefs! Yes, Tom Cruise did a wonderful job in Risky Business and made them cool. Yes, at one time I wore them - actually painted the Ultimate Warrior's logo on them. But briefs! It is all I can do to prevent myself from drop-kicking this idiot in the mouth and telling him to go directly to Target for a nice plaid boxer.
3. What about the spray deoderant? I swear to you - it doesn't matter where I am in the locker room - the second someone uses the spray deoderant I get that awful taste in my nose and my mouth. Not necessary! Get the stick and move on!
4. Can we get a ruling on going to and fro the showers? Its bad enough that the showers are crawling with every type of eczema there is - but the trip - the actual walk to and from is really awkward. I dont want to be the guy who throws the towel over my shoulder and jaunts toward the showers. I dont want to be the guy who wears his boxers under his towel to the showers. Where can I fit in between? I prefer to confidently drop trow next to my locker (as a show of masculinity) and then cover myself adequately with my towel (in respect to those around me) to the effect that hands are not needed to hold the towel up (again - confidence).

These four things plague my corporate life almost every day. It's almost sickening to tell you the truth. And yes, I have thought to myself, "Why am I analyzing this so much?" Because I dont want to be the guy who over exposing his "welcome" (largely considered gay - not gay-gay, but gay) and I dont want to be the guy who squirrels in and out, unsure of his place.

Either way - you lose.

Okay - time to go work out.

Potty Humor

I have to confess - I love the handicap stall. It's like having your own little room within a room.

Think about it - you get side bars, a separate sink, ample leg space - what is not to love?

This is where the joy of the story ends...

It was my junior year at Baylor. I was just a knuckle-head on his way home for Thanksgiving - cruising down I-20 trying to get to Sweetwater.

Let me pause... clarification is needed before I continue. Handicap stalls are the caddilac of public restroom amenities. Since being introduced to the professional world (and working in sales where you are out of the office for a good portion of each day) I need to let you in on something that can make your caddilac even better.

When in need of a public restroom - go for a hotel. Not a gas station, truck stop, WalMart (gross) or Wendy's. Head for the Hampton Inn or the nearest Sheraton. Why? Lobbies of nice hotels have very clean and seldom used restrooms.

Think of it this way - if you want to find a caddilac - are you going to go for this beauty?

Thats what the local Flying J has to offer. However, the hotels have brand new caddys just waiting. Okay, back to the story...

I was on my way home when I felt my stomach move. It wasn't really a move - it was one of those gurgles you feel just as much in your throat as in your stomach. I needed to find a "caddilac."

I knew the lay of this road well and a Love's Truck Stop was just ahead. As I moved closer to the exit the gurgling stopped - only because I felt it move south.

DISCLAIMER - Forgive my graphic description... hang in there... it gets better.

I think at that moment I knew what a water balloon felt like just before popping.

By the grace of you know who I managed my way to the truck stop, eased from my Geo Prizm LSI, and waddled through the store to the men's room. As I opened the door I was taken back by a line of men... a line? This is the Men's room! There are no lines in the Men's Room - you take care of it and get out of the way. I felt like the last guy to get in line for the Star Wars premiere... although the two stalls were a mere 10 yards away they appeared 100.

So what do you do? What could I do? I squeezed.

The line budged. One by one the truckers left their mark. Tall ones, short ones, fat ones and fatter ones - they each went ahead and prepared the place.

About 15 minutes later I was face to face with two stall doors. I didn't care which opened. When the handicap door came open and a hispanic man emerged, I was more than pleased.

So I built my bridge. Necessary in ALL public restrooms.

Then - paydirt. Jackpot. Relief. No side bars needed.

Tick tock, tick tock. Phew.

I knew people were waiting, so I went about my business.

Then I heard this noise. It was like a singing... humming... something tense. It sounded forced or irritated. It sounded just outside my door! Was this man trying to signal to me that I had taken my time and should move on? Was he trying to make me leave?

I am not a spiteful person - but I do have a healthy respect for spite. I waited for this stall - I am going to take my time.

The singing grew louder. More tense.

I cleared my throat. Eh - that will shut him up. That will tell him I know he's here.

Louder!

Okay, I was just about ready to share my thoughts. I peered under to see where the guy was... and saw... a wheelchair?

Uh-oh. I am tearing up the handicap stall while a handicap person wait on me.

So I think this - I am bigger than this. I can win this. I do have a decided advantage.

Knowing he is preparing a "So you're the guy in the handicap stall who isn't handicapped" face, I put on my best "I crap where I want to - you can piss off" face and open the door.

Before I can deliver my face he delivers a bigger blow - he rams me in the shins with his chair!

That bloody muppet! The pain! Shin-shot by a guy in a wheel chair! I folded like Nancy Kerigan and stumbled to the sink as he went into the stall.

Moral of the story - there's not one. I still use the handicap stall - still prefer it. Just make sure to turn up your spidey-sense.

Concert Woes & Saturday musings

Its been a week removed since I went to watch Coldplay at Smirnoff Music Centre. It was the first concert I had been to in 3-4 years - the last being a Counting Crows performance in Austin while I was in college.

I love music. I would venture to say that at all times I have some song in my head. More than likely I am singing, whistling or humming said song. That being said... I dont know how to act at concerts.

A co worker and friend of mine attended the concert last week as well. He is a Michigander and very in touch with rope sandals, camping, outdoors and the like. We briefly reviewed the concert post haste - but wanted to wait until it had given us time to digest our evenings. This past Monday Lumburg, the co-worker I mentioned, approached me and delivered, "I dont know that the crowd reciprocated the energy that the guys put forth."

I had to let this marinate - you see I am a music lover but not a concert frequenter.

So I began to review the concert in my mind within the spectrum of Lumburg's claim. Again - I dont know how I should act at a concert. Now if I were at a rap concert (or hip-hop, etc) I would feel the beat and bob my head to an angle, delivering the lines as I knew them. If I were at a country music concert (signifying the end times) I would two-step, line dance, or tip my hat as the evening called for. But what do you do at a Rock/Alternative concert? Coldplay's music is methodical and not overly "rock" although most would put them in that category.

Bear in mind that I specifically remember being in this predicament at the show. I evaluated my options and came to a couple of possibilites:

1) I could ask my concert neighbor for a "jibber" and join the circle of wealthy high schoolers in a circle-toke. Probably not the best option...
2) I could dance around like a hippie, arms spread and head cocked, singing as though I wrote the songs. Not really my style...
3) I could stand with my arms crossed, feet tapping. The risk of this is that I look like I am not having a good time...
4) Purchase enough $7 adult beverages to let a lack of inhibitions determine my concertative actions. I was driving...

So I chose number 3. I crossed my arms and stood in a comfortable position - tapped my foot - and sang with the songs. I was sure to not sing so loud that those around me were uncomfortable.

Notice that my actions are opposite that of Lumburg. He did his best woodstock demonstration, and I stiffened up like a chapparone.

Again, back to our review... Lumburg's comments were, in essence, an observation of my actions. My rebuttle was simple - "Maybe the crowd didnt know how to express themselves and didnt want to look like the parents from Dharma and Greg."

He knew that I knew and I knew that he knew - smiling - his added, "What, you mean you thought everyone should stand around with their arms crossed like cigar store indians?"

"No - but that doesnt mean we should have all performed a rain dance either."

This was not a tense confrontation - more of a sparring of spite.

All that being said, I still don't know how to act at a concert.

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On another note - not completely unrelated, please check out He-Man in this little ditty:

http://www.whoomp.com/articles/163/1/He-Man-does-4-non-blondes
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Obscure Star for the Day:

Todd Luiso

Luiso has been in 15 major motion productions - most notable in Jerry Maguire as Chad, the nanny, and Dick in High Fidelity. In both he plays a confused and possibly homo guy with an affinity for music - specifically jazz. Wow, way to avoid typecasting yourself in a completely irrelevant manor.

Congratulations Todd. World O' McCord salutes you.

Pee Shivers

Guys are the only ones who ever come into contact with the pee-shivers - at least, according to my wife. The pee-shiver is by far one of the most enjoyable part of my day. It normally occurs between 1am and 4am - just after I have taken Duncan out to perform his societal duties on the grass.

I guess watching a dog pee in the middle of the night makes my bladder perk up. I normally get back upstairs, blindly walk to the bathroom and allow instinct to direct me to the most porcelain of porcelains. It would probably be a good idea to turn on the lights - but why would I want to do that? That would wake me up and screw up my "sleepiness."

So I hover in and lift the lid - always - and then let, well, you know what happens.

Sometime in the middle of this act I am stirred with a chilling sensation - like little elves poke my sides and pull up the hairs on my neck. My only reaction is to quiver - shake - shiver in an attempt to get the elves off of me.

That, my friends, is the essence of the pee-shiver.

I am through with you for now.

Wow - when I first signed up for this thing I thought I would do this more often. In the words of the great Darius Rucker (of Hootie & The Blowfish fame), "Time, why do you punish me?"

Time has not been on the side of my entries lately. For that - I apologize (but not really). I have been creating demand - making you people want more of me, more of this.

Lots of things have happened since we last shared this same cup - Joanna and I have marked our territory as newlyweds no longer - we celebrated our first anniversary. Duncan has also marked his territory - repeatedly - in multiple areas. Would life be easier if we all just pee'd wherever we want? In some accounts, yes. You could just drop trow and go to work. But then again, isn't it nice to excuse oneself from a particular social situation and urniate... or, excuse oneself to urinate just to excuse oneself, sans urination.

You know - I have many times faked phone calls to avoid talking to people - is that wrong? I think it is a relatively easy way to get away from people that I am through with. Now don't get me wrong - I love people, all people. I just don't like to talk to all people. So I will call my wife and tell her to call me in 6 minutes so that I can get out of whatever it is that I am in. Again, is this wrong? Would it be better for me to say "I am through with you." and end the conversation?

Maybe I could combine the two - for example, tell someone "I am through with you." End the conversation - and then pee on them unexpectantly.

(Insert the sound of unzipping here)

Joanna, Justin & Mickey. Mickey did not hit on Joanna in front of Justin... unlike Soap Opera Ryan from On The Border.