Anyway, lest ye bethinks me a slothful sod (that’s oldy-time talk), or peg me as a shiftless scurvy cur (that’s pirate talk), or a good-for-nothing punk who will never amount to anything (that’s binge-drinking daddy talk), I have a good reason for my lack of production.

I’ve been really freaked out about the shrinking face thing. Five weeks ago I went to a neurologist who had initially diagnosed me with Facioscapulohumoral Dystrophy (FSHD), a progressive but not particularly nasty form of muscular dystrophy.  (The neurologist’s name is Dr. Dick, a title which I could never actually bring myself to call him out loud for fear of igniting a convulsive case of the schoolgirl giggles, or worse, exposing myself as a juvenile hack.  I mean, at fifty-plus years old, what penis joke hasn’t poor Mr. Dick had to endure?*)  To confirm, he scheduled an appointment for me with a neuromuscular specialist at the Cleveland Clinic.  Problem is, the Clinic couldn’t get me an appointment for five weeks.  So I’ve had the pleasure of spending the last month plus of my life shopping for handicapped-accessible home modifications, cutting-edge ass-wiping devices, and eagerly anticipating all fantastic parking opportunities I would enjoy with my new disabled person parking pass.

Yesterday I had my appointment at the Clinic and, as it turns out, I don’t have FSHD.  And as far as my new favorite neuromuscular neurologist could tell, I don’t have anything nearly so alarming. More expensive and invasive testing is needed, but the prognosis at this point is pretty damn good. 

Dr Dick’s reponse?  “Oopsie!  Sorry about fucking up your worldview for the last five weeks.  That’ll be $250, please.” 

Aptly-named cocksucker.

By the way, I didn’t tell Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. or anyone else about the initial diagnosis as I did not want to cause anyone any distress before it was absolutely certain.  Not because of any noble intention, but out of fear that the love pipeline would suddenly be clogged by visions of bed-sore dressings and adult diapers.  I tend to think the least of people.  That’s just how I roll.

Anyway, yesterday I was prematurely deteriorating sad case, today I’m just a borderline hypochondriac with an oddly-shaped head and a whole shitload of writing to catch up on.  Let me tell you, being overwhelmed never felt so good. 

* My general doctor, the one who referred me to Dr. Dick, mentioned to me later she had once called his office to make a referral and that his receptionist told her that he was on vacation and that Dr. Seaman was filling in for him.  She said that, without thinking, she instinctively asked the receptionist if she was fucking with her.  Absolutely true story.

My doctor rules.

Like most adolescents, my high school years were basically filled with pitiful attempts to get laid and a give-me-liberty-or-give-me-death attitude towards the fascist regime that called themselves my parents.  College brought even more pitiful and increasingly desperate attempts, and a give-me-liberty-or-give-me-death attitude towards the fascist regime that called itself Student Housing. 

By my late twenties, my biological needs finally started getting met (in much the same way that a famished Ethiopian needs are met when he gets unwittingly bonked on his thinly-skinned skull by an errant box of Uncle Ben’s that was swept out of  the cargo hold of a passing UNICEF plane).  While this only fueled my appetite, just knowing that intercourse with a woman was a real possibility helped to free up some of my waking moments to focus on an equally shallow endeavor: making money.  And in this new pursuit I was equally successful.   

Contrast that with my forties, where my main objective is simply avoiding cancer.  It’s kind of ironic that, having wasted the first have of my life chasing one c-word, I’m now spending the second half avoiding the other c-word.

Among other things, this fear has lead to a near-religious pursuit of all things fiber.  These days I eat so much roughage that I crap mulch.  My colon is basically a wood chipper. On the plus side, if I ever get nailed for that jaywalking rampage I went on last year, the mass unmarked grave of mattress tags in my backyard, or my international plutonium mail-order business (I doctor-up and re-use cancelled postage stamps), a bear-trap bunghole might serve me well in prison.  Or make me the belle of the ball.  I’m not really sure how that would work out.

Really, though, food has long been a problem for me. And like most of the problems in my adult life, it is the result of a vulnerable moment in childhood when I was wearing nothing but underpants.  There I was, a wide-eyed boy, innocent in the ways of the world, practicing my Gene Simmons impression in the full-length mirror on the changing room wall in the local Sears-Roebucks.  Suddenly a hand reaches into my stall, the hand of a trusted adult, and forever changed the course of my eight year-old life.

That was the day that my mother, well-meaning but practical to a fault, passed me a pair of “Husky” size Sears’ and ordered them put on.  Of course, I tried to fight back, but a child is no match for a desperate mother in the waning hours of a back-to-school sale.  

Later that evening, wrapped tightly in my cherished NFL bedspread on the lower bunk, a harsh new reality crowded out my carefree past.  I had started the day as just a kid, but I would end it as a fat kid, wholly aware and self-conscious of my undeniable huskiness.

By age ten I was jogging.  By eleven I was making my own lunches. By twelve, I was having nightmares about gorging myself on Snicker’s bars, waking up relieved and thankful that I hadn’t actually consumed those horrible, empty calories, and then falling out of bed into some push-ups for good measure. 

Ever since I have been plagued with the need to watch what I eat, to cautiously avoid the simple pleasure of the moment in case it leads to tomorrow’s ruin.  Ice cream?  I’ll have frozen yogurt instead.  Pizza?  OK, but just a slice and first let me dab off the grease.  Fudge? Get the fuck away from me with that shit, you maniac!

Now, staring down the barrel of 45, cracks are beginning to form in the foundation of my food-control philosophy.  In the past twelve months I have been side-swiped by the threat of testicular cancer, melanoma, and the whole shrinking face thing (still a mystery) despite a general lack of regrettable, unhealthy behaviors.  Were I able to blame Hostess, Mr. Hero or Frito-Lay for these brushes with death, there would at least be a feeling of control over my destiny.  It’s the difference between knowingly allowing the steering wheel to slide between your fingers and veer off the road, and being clamped down hard on the steering wheel and realizing it isn’t actually attached to anything.  As it stands, I’ve got nothing to blame and feel all the more helpless because of it.

Don’t get me wrong, I believe it is possible to minimize certain risks – don’t mount, in any sense of the word, a moving armored vehicle; don’t clean the sneeze-guard at the Denny’s all-you-can-eat seafood buffet with your tongue; don’t tease Darfurian warlords by tickling their earlobes with a tree branch - it is absolutely naïve (or arrogant) to think you can control risk as a whole.  Fat or thin, healthy or poxed, benevolent or belligerent, everyone but Molly Brown sinks when the Titanic goes down.  And who do you think felt better about themselves when the icy waters rushed in: the impulsive slobs who nabbed seconds off the dessert cart, or the smug discontents who mocked them for it?

Which, in lieu of a point, brings me to my conclusion: here is a list of forbidden foods that I vow to once again to enjoy, if only on occasion:

Chocolate Vanilla Crème Pop Tarts
Single-serving Bluebird Cherry Pies
Chocolate-Covered Oreos
Malted Milk Balls poured directly into my mouth from the carton
Macaroni & cheese, burnt around edges
Twinkies, Ding-Dongs and Ho-Hos. 
A wheel of cheddar cheese and a sleeve of Saltines
Pizza with double pepperoni
Captain Crunch
Deep-fried pickles
Crispy buffalo wings, extra hot
Mr. Hero’s Romanburger (quite possibly the unhealthiest combination of food items ever assembled)
Lime and Chile Tostidos by the fist-full
Any cupcake, anywhere, anytime
Chicken-fried steak with gravy
Elephant ears, or any fried dough within shouting distance of powdered sugar

It’s a place where the Neighborhood Watch Program is both a necessary safety precaution and an amazing form of entertainment.

It’s a place where whether or not the Historical Society will allow you to patch your siding with non-original materials is the immediate concern following the discovery of a bullet hole in the side of your house.

It’s a place where a drive-by gang murder attracts an equal number of drive-by revenge seekers and drive-by real-estate speculators.

It’s a bizarre, nonsensical stew of airport strippers and paint strippers, heroin junkies and antique junkies, lead glass windows and lead flying through your glass windows.

You get the idea.

For some reason, Shakes-A-Can loves this neighborhood.  Maybe it is because she is a very religious person and believes in helping people in need.  I mean if you love candy, work in a candy store, right?

Of course, that was until last Saturday morning.  As Shakes-A-Can was nearing her home with her new puppy, she passed by a fragrant, unkempt man and, as is her way, politely said hello.  The man promptly turned around and began to follow her.  Over the next few hundred feet, Shakes heard and felt his presence approaching behind her and, as the fear and adrenaline in her body rose to an unbearable level, she turned to confront her pursuer and instinctively screamed.

The man had his junk out and was waving it at her. 

Shakes screamed again and her eyes tore around the street for any sign of help.  Catching a man sitting on his porch across the street, she yelled for him to do something.  The response came, “No hablo anglais.”
 
Apparently to this latin douchebag, a crazy street urchin with his cock out chasing a middle-aged woman down the street is an impenetrable linguistics problem.  For all he knows, she could be yelling for him to come take pictures for her internet porn site, “Dog Walking Grandmas With Public Rape Fantasies.”

I’d like to punch this fucking asshole in the balls until he pukes up the lint from between his filthy toenails.

Anyway, Shakes-A-Can quickly grabbed up her puppy and ran home, arriving badly shaken but unscathed.

This is the extent of the story as Nerdy told it to me after speaking to her mother immediately after the incident. I, of course, had a lot of questions.  Unfortunately, to my amazement and disappointment, Nerdy had not thought to ask her mother these seemingly obvious questions.

First, what was the size of the creep’s unit, and was it flaccid or erect?  Other than sheer curiosity, this is a critical question is assessing the immediacy of the danger.  Small and flaccid, you’ve got time to consider the options and let out a chuckle or two before jogging off.  Big and hard, though, and you better run for your fucking life!

Second, was the way he was wagging it friendly or scolding?  If it was friendly, maybe the guy is just a street performer, an aspiring puppeteer who simply lacked the funding for a proper marionette.  If it was scolding, then the threat is more severe, especially if the scolding seems to be coming from the penis itself.
 
Third, what was he saying as he flailed his flounder?  “You’ve been asking for it,” in a deep, guttural murmur is a far different animal altogether than one who mumbles, “Elvis started the Iraq war to gain control of the world’s Skittle supply.”

The list of questions just goes on from there, but Nerdy didn’t even think to gather the basic facts.  I mean, there’s a great story here, and all she seemed to be concerned with was her mother’s welfare.  That’s kind of selfish, if you ask me.

Finally, Shakes-A-Can is a person who believes in signs and thinks that everything happens for a reason.  Everything.  Unlike nearly every conversation we have had, this is one that I’m really going to enjoy.

Like any red-haired, fair-skinned Irishman –ginger sods, as I like to call us - the sun is my mortal enemy.  Its white hot rays are veritable laser beams against my thin, pasty skin.  While some people see Jacob’s Ladder as a sign of a benevolent God who is welcoming us to Heaven, I see it as the sweeping search lights of the melanoma prison from which I am trying to escape, and I cower in my nakedness from their presence. 

Basically, I’m a vampire without the erotic bloodlust, immortality and kick-ass wardrobe.

Suffice to say, I don’t tan.  My skin pigment has a total of three tones; pink, baboon’s ass and baboon’s ass covered in bubble-wrap. However, it was not until I was in my mid-twenties that I finally accepted my crimson fate.  Throughout my adolescence and young adult years I basked in the sun in a moronic and feeble attempt to “train” my skin to tan.  This was the late 70’s, a time when protecting against sunburn meant wearing Coppertone SPF 4 (not surprising, I guess, from the same decade that believed protecting against venereal disease by wearing leisure suits).  In any case, I got sunburned.  A lot.

In an attempt to compensate to the merciless gods of cancer for my blistered childhood, I have spent most of my adult life avoiding the sun as the searing mass-murderer it truly is.   I also get an annual screening by a dermatologist in hopes of identifying and removing the inevitable freckle of death before it gets a chance to unpack its bags and settle in.

Yesterday I went to such a screening and the doctor found and removed a patch of skin above my left eyebrow for biopsy.   Now, I am in no way concerned that this patch is cancerous.  What I am concerned about is large, unavoidable and embarrassing Band-Aid they placed over the subsequent wound.  

As an adult, you simply cannot wear a Band-Aid without looking stupid.  Bandages are fine. Gauze with medical tape is even better.  Both signify something serious that required the attention of a medical profession and were “applied.”  But Band-Aids are something you put on yourself.  They are something you “wear” to draw attention to your hypochondria and germophobia.

That said, a Band-Aid on your head is simply ludicrous.  Place a bandage on your head, and you can grab a fife, a drum, two close friends and start a fucking parade.   But, as an adult, you cannot, CAN NOT walk around with a Band-Aid on your head.  It requires explanation. Otherwise people are just going to think you are trying to cover up a pulsating zit, a minor episode of spousal abuse, or you’re the type of idiot that wanders around in front of dart boards.  

(To paraphrase an analogy by the late, great George Carlin, if you “don’t feel good,” everyone will roll their eyes and think you’re just a pain in the ass.  But if you’re sick – “Excuse me, I’m sick!” - people will get out of your way in a big goddamn hurry.)

So here I am with a stupid Band-Aid on my head, a social event at Nerdy Squirrels’ office tonight and a business trip tomorrow.   What kind of first impression can I possibly make? 

“Hi, my name’s Crunchy.  Nice to meet you.  You’re probably wondering what this Band-Aid is on my head.  Well, I can assure you it is not a zit.  Ha ha.  Seriously, I might have cancer.  So, do you like baseball?” 

I always knew my skin would take its revenge on me, I just never thought it would be such a dick about it.  And when I do finally die, you better believe I will stop to load up on sunscreen before walking into the light.
 

Anyway, as I occupied a stall and stuffed the extra toilet paper rolls into my gym bag – doing business as I was doing my business, one might say – the bathroom door swung open.  I froze, certain that a hidden camera had filmed my prospecting, and began to consider the implications of my imminent Youtube infamy.  Just then a man’s voice rang out with words that stiffened my back and I immediately kicked a foot out to brace the stall door and protect my vulnerable condition. 

"I’m want to take it to the next level and am not afraid to get my hands dirty"

"Do you have an open-door policy?"

"I like to think outside the box"

"I’m a peep-hole person"  

Clearly upon re-examination this two-bit hack was reciting some last minute clichés for an upcoming and probably unsuccessful interview.  While I have certainly heard these phrases before during the numerous interviews in which I have conducted, sitting in the context of a men’s public restroom had a shockingly new and dare I say dramatic affect on my immediate interpretation.

At first I thought that I had become far more homophobic than I had ever realized.  But that’s not it.  Thanks to the likes of George Michael, Larry Craig, Tim McGreevy and the Wiggles (you know it’s only a matter of time), public men’s restrooms now share the same reputation as a Turkish prison and a cast afterparty of the traveling production of Rent. 

The good thing is that it is typically not an issue when there are three or more guys in the can, but when there are just two, it’s a Code Rainbow Alert.  Defense walls fly up, gaydars kick into full spin, and smart soldiers wear their war faces.  This is no time for chit-chat or friendly gestures.  Chances are if the other guy isn’t trolling for treats, he’s an undercover reporter looking for a quick story, and you better believe his editor can and will splice your,

“How’s it going, pal? See the game last night?  Yep, they lost again. I’m getting tired of watching them play eight innings of solid baseball just to see their closer come in and blow it in the bottom of the ninth,” 

into

“I’m going to blow your solid eight again and come in your bottom,”

without the slightest blip.

At least that is what I’ll be spending the next month trying to convince Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. to believe.

(POSTED FROM THE SUNNY, SANDY BEACHES OF COROLLA, BITCHES!)

For some unknown reason – unknown not only to me but my orthodontist (the new braces being my first suspicion), family doctor, ENT (ears, nose and throat) specialist, and CT scan technician so far – my temples, cheeks and eyes are sucking into my skull.  It is as if Linda Lovelace got left behind in my cranium by the Fantastic Voyage crew and fell into old habit. 

The weird thing is that I’m not losing weight anywhere else on my body.  From the neck up I’m beginning to look like an albino Ethiopian with a fancy grill, but from the shoulders down it is blubbery business as usual. 

And it is driving me insane.

Over the past three weeks I have wasted a colossal amount of time and energy trying to figure out what the hell is going on.  Google and Lexis-Nexis (go, Nerdy!) searches have turned up nothing.  I poured over every option, from a brain tumor to a jilted ex-girlfriend with a newfound interest in voodoo, and have come up empty.  Did I accidentally peek when the Ark of the Covenant was opened?  Did I choose poorly and drink from the wrong chalice?  Did the horribly-disappointing new Indiana Jones movie destroy my brain’s will to live?  (Seriously, Mr. Spielberg, giant CGI ants and a CGI-enhanced swordfight with a gratuitous procession of nut shots?  You own me $8.)  I simply can’t figure it out.

I’ve got an appointment with a neurologist in a few weeks.  In the mean time I’ll try to post some photos so you can have fun diagnosing my likely life-threatening affliction. 

Oh, and I’m also going to Corolla next week to pickle my liver, provoke looming melanoma and pack my belly.  If my body thinks it can kill me before I do, then it has one final lesson to learn.

Here are some of the increasingly treacherous offerings in pre-production over the next three seasons:

2009
Thin Ice Fishermen
Aging Knife Throwers’ Lovely Assistants
Roofers with Vertigo

2010
Base-Jumping Procrastinators
Homeless Window-Washers on Highway 101
Lindsey Lohan’s Laundress

2011
Caucasian Harlem Bus Drivers with Rampant, Racially-Inclined Tourette Syndrome
Solo Thailand Vacationers with Latex Allergies
The Road to the BME Olympics

(Editor's note: Do not Google "BME Olympics" unless you have an iron stomach and black, lifeless soul.)

“Look, children.  See the cute little monkey with its new robotic arms?  Look at how he peels his banana.  Monkeys like bananas, don’t they?  Yes, William, even monkeys with robotic arms.  No, Bobby, his arm will never rust.  It’s made of titanium.  In fact, his robotic arms will last his whole life and longer, and they’re super strong.  Oh look, kids! The monkey wants to give the scientist a great big hug to say thanks for his new robotic arms.   How cute!  Wait, what’s that trickling out of the scientist’s eyes…dear God, no!  Run!  Run, children! Run for your lives!!!”

And so begins the end of the world as we know it with the headline in last week’s New York Times, “Monkeys Control a Robot Arm With Their Thoughts.”

Have we learned nothing?  Apparently these arrogant scientists were too busy with their fancy book-learnin’ and self-experimentation (you know what I’m talking about) to learn the epic Hollywood lessons of the 70’s and 80’s. 

So let me spell it out for those pencil-necked sons-of bitches.

You don’t teach monkeys to act like humans, you don’t build artificially-intelligent supercomputers that have access to the Pentagon’s weapons systems, and you don’t buy your daughter a bunny rabbit and then screw some crazy broad when your wife is out of town!  Period!  End of discussion!

(Also, don’t have a toga party when you’re on double-secret probation, don’t forget to attach the electrodes to the Barbie doll when trying to re-create another perfect woman to impress your so-called bra-headed friends, and don’t drink an experimental weight-loss formula unless you want to spend the rest of your film career “acting” in a fat suit.)

Talk about the perfect storm of catastrophic scenarios.  Seriously, why didn’t these idiot scientists just attach chainsaws to the monkeys’ robotic arms, dip them in Ebola and call it a day?

And what about me?  Between mowing the grass and plucking the wild hairs out of my ears, who has time to stockpile food, weapons and cerebrally-uploadable martial arts software?  I mean, I understand the seriousness of the impending apocalypse and all, but it just doesn’t fit into my busy schedule right now. 

We have only one option that I can see; one hope that we no longer deserve. 

Save us, Tom Cruise.  Forgive us, and save us with your magical Scientology powers.  We’re sorry we made so much fun. 

Central to my ongoing quest to appear humble has been a lifelong refusal to fix my crooked teeth.  To be honest, my choppers are not all that bad.  Strangers don’t frequently mistake me for a citizen of the British Empire, nor am I regularly commandeered by the National Park Service to help dam up rising rivers (that’s a beaver joke, folks!).  Let’s just say that that the nocturnal dental pixie that occasioned upon me as a child was less concerned with the “tooth” part of his job than the “fairy” part.  And for some strange reason, he always seemed to appear in the form of my Uncle Felix. 

Despite having a few nasty nippers (and a terrible childhood secret), I’ve managed to live well into my adult life without feeling the need to “correct my defects.”  Of course, in my early years this was less a conscious decision than a lack of an effective response to my dad’s standing prerequisite that I could “waste good money on (braces/a mini bike/a lock for my bedroom door) just as soon as you get a job.”  Later on, I embraced my jagged fangs as they served as a handy excuse for why I had not yet been discovered by Hollywood. 

Last week, at 43 ½ years old, I finally decided to get braces.  While vanity certainly does have a way of wearing a person down over time, especially when you reach the age where your hips are as likely to shatter as your dreams, I have a good excuse: the gum line between my bad teeth was receding (and here I was worrying about my hairline.  What else do I need to be concerned will recede?!!).  And though I might feel I’m a little too old to get braces, I’m quite certain I feel too young to get dentures.  So the decision was an easy one, other than the fucking price tag.

In any case, I’m now just twelve months and several thousand dollars away from a million dollar smile.  If this self-improvement project goes well, who knows?  There might be a pair of orthopedic shoes, an algebra tutor, and a case of Oxy-5 in my future.  Maybe I’ll even get around to addressing those inappropriate erections that always seem to be interrupting my job interviews and Girl Scout cookie purchases. 

To my credit, I chose one of the most reputable skilled nursing facilities in Lake County for his two-week rehab stint.  Well, the most reputable that Medicare would buy, but now we are splitting hairs, aren’t we?  Anyway, we arrived at the old folk’s home on Friday at 3:00PM, which is apparently the same time that the old ladies hold their slow-motion wheelchair demolition derby.  Wheeling dad to his room, I had to dodge a veritable gaggle of grey geese who were toeing their way around the hallways, inch-by-creeping-inch, in search of their rooms, medications, and long-dead husbands.  Fortunately my driving skills are Steve McQueen-esque, and our arrival (and, more importantly, my imminent departure) was not seriously delayed.  And while there was a highly-concealed yet unmistakable scent of piss in the air – imagine a lush, sparkling lemon grove with a babbling brook of ammonia running through it – I had been assured that this was a great place to be, assuming you have to be in such a place.

So I stuffed some flowers in an oddly-shaped plastic vase, unpacked his bags, and headed home to pack my own.

In my former career, I did quite a lot of business in Las Vegas and made frequent visits to the city of vice.  Nerdy Squirrel, Esq, on the other hand, has never experienced the cheese-smothered majesty and self-inflicted carnage of the town that Bugsy built.  So we’re off to comb the Strip, marvel at Fremont Street, and, if no one blabs, make a visit to the Bunny Ranch.  Nerdy loves the idea of getting to pet a plethora of furry little animals.  Me, too, though I tend to like my hares a little less hairy.

Get it?!

P.S. Notice how brave and smart-assy I get now that everything worked out for my dad. 

Sincere thanks to all for your thoughts and kind words.  After resolving some lingering concerns, my dad is now doing well and rehabing nicely.  Thanks again.

This morning I’m sitting in the Lake West Hospital waiting room as my father is getting prepped for emergency triple by-pass heart surgery.   There was no accident, no incident.  He simply showed up for his annual check-up a few days ago and mentioned some fatigue. One thing lead to another, and two days later here we are.

My father is not an esteemed or accomplished man.  After dropping out of high school in the 1940’s to find work, he spent the better part of his life working swing-shift in a grueling factory job (for eight hours a day, his job was to lift 50lb. bags of chemicals off a conveyor belt and onto a scale).  Due to his ever-changing work schedule, he probably spent 2/3 of my childhood waking hours just trying to get a little sleep. 

Later, after a community-devastating lay-off by the factory, he went back to school and got licensed as a boiler-operator. 

Despite what one might call meager accomplishments, my father is honest, strong, hard-working, supportive, and as fair-minded a person as I have ever met.  Once during high school, when I was working at a dive fried chicken shack, I bragged in passing about giving some extra tater tots to one of my friends at the drive-thru window.  Hell, most of my co-workers were taking home boxes of frozen tater tots if not cash from the register.  Dad got very serious, sat me down and once again explained to me that you don’t take what isn’t yours, and you take care of what is.

Simply put, he is a good man.  Better than most.  Better than me.

Now I sit here in a hospital waiting room for the nurses to call my name.  Every time the recovery room doors open into the waiting area, the bile rises in my throat.  If they call too soon, it is bad.  If they call too late, it’s worse. 

In the mean time, I try to pass the time and keep my thoughts from getting carried away.  Some are bad.  Infection.  Stroke.  Death.  A few are even worse, because of what they say about me.  Will this interfere with my upcoming vacation?  Will I have to spend the next years of my life helping to care for him? If he dies, what is his estate worth? 

Still, everything I try to read blurs into nothing, and every attempt at small talk quickly dissipates into distant stares.  Writing this is all I can do to pass the time.

Another thing I will tell you about my father is that since he went from annual check-up to emergency open-heart surgery with the course of the last forty-eight hours, he has not complained.  No “why me?”  No “what if?”  No anger.  No regret.  He has continued to be in high spirits, joking with us, the nurses, and anyone who passes his way. 

Words simply can’t convey the anguish of watching my father in his hospital bed this morning, smiling and joking with his family, and wondering if this might be the last time I will see him.   I know that sounds dramatic, but it is nevertheless still true.

Just a few minutes before the anesthesiologist wheeled him away early this morning, he dad told us one last joke:

A man died.  After his funeral service, as the pall bearers were carrying his body from the church, they gently lost their balance and bumped into the doorway of the main entrance.  They heard a noise inside the casket, opened it up, and the man jumped out alive and started dancing a jig.

A year later, the man died again.   As the pall bearers were walking the casket out the door of the church, the man’s wife jumped up and yelled out, “Be careful of that doorway!”

Everyone dies.  Death is not a bad thing. Without it, life would be boring and ridiculous, not to mention a little crowded.  The trick is to know you’re going to die and then using that knowledge as motivation to live like you want.  It is a delicate balancing act, one that I have yet to master. 

Anyway, if it suits you, next time you walk through a doorway give it a bump and spend the day as if you just got a second chance at life, if for no other reason than that there are some out here who deserve one but might not get it.

The club offered a special eight-week introductory offer for $99, during which it was promised that I would have to purchase no equipment.  As an extra enticement, the introductory session culminates in a mock tournament, a feature that definitely appeals to my highly competitive nature.  And let me assure you, in two months the only thing that this dashing yet ruthless swordsman will be “mocking” are the bloody, wound-ridden corpses of his many felled opponents.

After registering, I was instructed to show up to the training classes wearing comfortable workout clothing.  While that might be perfectly suitable for Jimmy, the awkward, pimply teenager who fancies himself as the future Captain Jack Sparrow and will likely never know the warmth of a woman, I do not have time to fuck around.  In 60 days there is an important tournament, an aristocratic cage match, a round-robin duel to the death, and it is never too early to start intimidating opponents.  

To maximize my stealth and ninja-like mystique, I arrived at the first class wearing a black sweat suit.  Ducking in behind the other attendees, I moved to the nearest wall and dropped into a modified lotus position (modified because I have achy knees), and eyed my future opponents while whispering ominous gibberish and slicing at my throat.  Before long, I thought, the Master Swordsman would arrive and begin culling this sad assortment of soccer moms, geeky teens, and misguided middle-aged men, all of whom were so clearly undeserving of his wise and deadly teachings, eventually leaving only me to carry on his noble tradition.  My very own Pai Mei.

Instead, what appeared to be his portly stable girl emerged from the back room (Oh, how I desire to see the inner working of that chamber, sit at what is certain to be its ancient round table cut from a prehistoric tree, and trace my finger along the names of the brave knights that have been carved into it).  Wielding a cheap clipboard, she began to read off names and pelt the class with wildly unfunny jokes about Douglas Adams and Russian literature.  Eventually I heard my name.

“Crunchy Blue Commando?” the sad jester bellowed.

I snapped to my feet, certain that the Master was observing our every move from a secret spy hole in the wall.

“Yes, Censai!”

The giggles that emerged from the gallery were softened by the certain knowledge that they would all soon die by my own swift hand. 

Once all the names had been called, the Master’s lackey drew a saber to her side and asked us to line up.

“Cobra Kai!” I yelled, unable to control the instinct, and dashed to the front of the line to begin loosening my shoulders.

More giggles.  Their blood will run in rivers so sweet. 

The lackey continued.

“My name is (who cares), blah, blah, blah…”

Out of the corner of my eye I searched for our discreet and elusive Master.  Surely, I reasoned, this was a serious and hardened man who had defeated evil, who ate danger for breakfast (sprinkled with flax seed to assist with evacuation), and was not so careless as to expose himself unnecessarily to a corpulent band of misfits and wannabes.  He would watch and wait, only finally presenting himself to the class when we had been made ready to receive him.

Unless…

Unless he was already among us.   Disguised as an inept student, he could disarm us with his bumbling ruse, learning our every weakness and targeting our vital points.  Oh, clever Master!  You have already won my heart with your wise and judicious ways!

The lackey continued to yap as I redirected my gaze to my classmates with a newfound wonder.  Among these imbeciles is the one who will lift me out of my dreary, humble life and send me on the path of adventure and unbridled passion. How silly I was to indirectly challenge them all upon first entering the training facility.  How quickly I would have reached an unfortunate end had I unwittingly shoved, noogied, or Indian-burned my incognito Master.

Indeed, I have learned my first lesson, wise one.  For letting me live to see another day, I will forever be your dedicated pupil.  I will shed my old self like a bad case of psoriasis. My new name shall be Epee Le Pew.

Just then, the stable girl in the dirty t-shirt said something that caught my attention.  Surely, I had misunderstood.

“Sorry,” I pleaded, “Can you please repeat that?”

“Sure,” she smiled, as only a stupid and petty servant can. “I was just saying that even though I am the owner and head instructor of the school, please just call me Sue.  We like to keep it fun and light here.  Did you have a question?”

Yeah. How do I get my $99 back?

Award a sweetheart deal to my brother-in-law as the exclusive cleaning service for CLE.

Spend all season cleaning the bathroom only to have Michael Jordan, John Elway and the Florida Marlins show up at the last minute and smear feces on the walls. 

Allocate millions and millions of scarce public dollars to develop a PR campaign touting the cleanliness of CLE's bathrooms, but do no actual cleaning. 

After I flush the toilet, squirt lighter fluid in the bowl and set it on fire.

“If you like Mexican, there’s Pedro’s up the road,” came the reply.

Indeed I do like Mexican.  Pork tamales, black beans and chorizo, and a flight of top-shelf tequila sounded like an excellent way to celebrate my imminent departure from Wisconsin.  Pedro’s it was.

In fact, the thought of leaving the great cheese state was so exhilarating that I sort of forgot I was still there.  Mexican food in Milwaukee?  In hindsight, probably not the smartest choice I made this trip.  Of course, like any bad decision or bad relationship, when you look back it is always a bit startling to see the flashing lights and warning sirens that you inexplicably missed the first time around.

Entering Pedro’s, my first impression was that the place was too brightly lit.  Not bright as in a light and airy mood, but bright as in they got a great deal on 120 watt bulbs that “fell off” a Sam’s Club delivery truck.  Even with plate glass windows covering two of the four exterior walls, the sickly luminescence gave you the feel of an underground interrogation room.  Still, I was tired and hungry, and reasoned that the food must be good because they wouldn’t dare serve shitty Mexican under such searing and unforgiving lights.

A disaffected hostess asked, “How many?” and replied, “Follow me” without every making eye contact.  On the way to my table, I noticed a row of games and vending machines in the lobby.  This is never a good sign.  The presence of video games usually means that the restaurant is desperately trying to supplement its dying food business by catering to children and squeezing them for every quarter.  Not only will the food likely be bad, it will also be smeared and caked into every crevice of your booth, the flooring, the window panes and the ceiling tiles, not to mention the curious presence of nomadic Cheerios which aren’t anywhere on the fucking menu.

The restaurant was nearly empty, save for a large table of twenty-something girls that had clearly been exploiting the “Half-Price Margaritas on Thursday” special and a couple of behemoths whose measure of restaurant food quality was entirely a function of the quantity served.  I was beginning to suspect the worst and considering flight, but then I was promptly greeted with a basket of tortilla chips.

(To me, tortilla chips are as enjoyable as a lazy, expressive cliché that is on crack, is on steroids, is from Hell, and that makes you throw up in your mouth a little.  I’ll eat tortilla chips until my back hurts, and then lay down on a hard surface until I fish out every last crumb.   Me likey, is what I’m trying to say.) 

Crunching away on fistfuls of chips, I looked over and noticed a neon sign that said, “El Patio,” which, after asking, I learned is Spanish for “The Patio.”  It filled me with rage, and I immediately hated Pedro and anyone that had ever patronized his excessively incandescent establishment.  Had I seen this sign when I first entered, I would have punched the hostess in her unaffected face (she wouldn’t have seen it coming).  As it was, though, there were tortilla chips to eat.  However, I decided that if the menu was titled “El Menu” or the restrooms labeled “El Restroom,” I would vow to execute Pedro’s every living relation.

Just then the waiter approached.  He was middle-aged and appeared to be of Latin descent.  This gave me some hope.  I mean, Mexicans in Milwaukee must be rare, and if I had found the restaurant where they work, well it must be some kind of endorsement, right?  He asked if he could get me something to drink. 

“What beers do you have on tap?”

“Oh,” he replied without an accent, “mostly the usual stuff.”

All at once the retorts blistered through my mind. 

“That’s helpful.  You, sir, are an excellent waiter!”

“Sounds good, I’ll take it.” 

“Great.  My usual is Young’s Double Chocolate Stout garnished with a hooker’s severed finger.  It’s usually hard to find, but thankfully not here at Pedro’s!”

Fortunately my brain did the math before my mouth opened, and I figured there was another basket of chips with my name on it if I played my cards right.

“Hmm,” I squeaked out, “Do you have any dark beer?”

“Yes, we do.  It’s…um…um…”

“Modelo Negro?” I helped, offering the most obvious choice.

“That’s the one!”

Knowing I probably wouldn’t get another chance, I ordered two with a glass, barely stopping myself short of requesting a clean one, if that was even possible.  As he turned, I quickly stopped him.

“I’m ready to order, too, if that’s OK.”

“You bet,” he replied.  If nothing else, and so far there was nothing else, the guy seemed cheery.

“I’m torn between the fish tacos and the pork tamales.  Which would you recommend?”

“I would say the burrito platter.  It is the most food.” 

“Um, yeah.  I’m not really interested in the most food.  But say, what about the fish tacos?”

He shook his head. “Not so good,”

“Okey dokey. What about…hmm…the pork tamales?”

“It’s not very popular.”

“Right, but is it good.  Do you like them?”

“Yes, they are good, but the burrito platter is more popular.”
 
“Gotcha.  I think I have the tamales then.”

“With mild sauce?” he recommended.

Jesus. Clearly it was time for my good if mildly brain-damaged Mexican friend to learn that I was no novice white boy from Milwaukee who confuses Taco Bell as food and needs a thorough explanation of the mole sauce and instruction on how to pronounce it correctly.  I am a well-traveled man of the world, tolerant and well-versed in all things and damn near kin to his south-of-the-border culture.   A bold statement was needed.

“No, no,” I protested too much. “I like it spicy. Gimme your hottest sauce. ” 

“It’s very hot.  Are you sure?”

“Ha ha!  Of course,” I laughed, and dismissed his concern with a wave of my hand.

Eventually my food arrived. As it turned out, my insecure need to impress ethnic waiters (and damn near everyone else for that matter) paid off this time.  The tamales were total crap.  Fortunately, one effective way to maneuver though an awful meal is to devastate your taste buds with pepper sauce. 

A few hours later, as my white-knuckles were firmed latched onto handicap-assistance bar mounted on the wall next to my hotel room commode, I began to wonder if my waiter wasn’t actually Mexican at all, but rather Aztec.  A direct descendent of Montezuma, I suspect.  

P.S. Most of this post was written as I sat waiting for my bill to arrive.