Mental Jewelry

Sometimes I think I'd like to not think so much.

Being a man of words, sometimes it becomes quite difficult to shut them off. I spend about 99 percent of my waking hours with thousands of thoughts boiling around between my ears. Ask anyone who knows me and they’ll probably tell you that I think too much. Unfortunately, try as I might sometimes, it’s hard to shut that faucet off.

I think about the typical things - work, bills, errands, appointments, manners, food, Jimmy Hoffa’s burial place, you know, the usual - but there are dozens of other thoughts racing around in there that startle me sometimes. Occasionally, I'll share a thought or two with my wife, and occasionally, I think she must think I've lost my mind. Lifelong friends of mine are used to my “fits,” if you will, but my lovely bride and I have been together for a little less than five years, so I think she’s still getting used to being married to half a nutjob.

While I can assure her and you that my mind is still all there, I can’t really say that what is there is normal. When I look into the mirror, I don’t think, “holy cow, you’re f***ed up,” but I do sometimes snicker at the funky monologue that goes on 24x7 in my head. And of course, I don’t know for sure that the rest of you don’t house a similar kangaroo court of thoughts between your ears similar in their breadth and depth to mine. I do know, however, that when I share some of that strangeness with those around me, I often receive quizzical looks that suggest that they think I might be better served to put the peyote away for a little while.

For instance, have you ever wondered about your refrigerator light? I know that it does go off when the door is partially closed, but how do we know it doesn't come back on when the door is shut? There could be a conspiracy between the electric company and the refrigerator people to jack up the electric bills and to see more refrigerator light bulbs.

I've actually gotten on my hands and knees and stuck my eye right up to the crack of the door and tried to see if the light comes back on as the door closes. Perhaps the only way to find out is to remove all the shelves and climb in. I'll let you know what I discover. Maybe I should make sure someone else is home when I do that.

Sometimes, I also wonder about graffiti on bridges and overpasses. Who puts that there? And why? I've never met a single person who would admit to spray painting their beloved's name on a bridge. Sometimes, I think the construction crews must pre-graffiti things just so they blend in with the rest of our infrastructure.

But I assume that the people who do spray paint 'Steve and Lisa 4-ever' (inside a misshapen heart) must be terribly in love. I've done some pretty silly things in the name of romance, but I've never been so inspired as to drive to Sherwin-Williams, pick out a suitable color, locate an un-graffitied bridge, dodge passing traffic and scrawl a love letter to my sweet thang. Maybe I'm just not all that romantic after all.

Do you ever wonder why the people who put graffiti on bridges have common names, like Bob and Mike, Lisa and Mary? I think I’ve figured that one out. It's because people with names such as Montgomery and Willowdeen would never risk permanently scribbling their names anywhere. I mean, there’s about a billion Bobs and Lisas out there, so who’s going to know that graffiti on the overpass is yours? If your name is Willowdeen (I actually knew a Willowdeen, believe it or not) then your graffiti will forever immortalize the fact that you once had the hots for some schlep named Montgomery.

I also wonder who "they" are. I can't tell you how many times I've heard people say "I wish 'they' would find a cure for cancer," Or "'they' are making it impossible for a kid to get good education these days." When I've asked who 'they' are, people say, "you know, 'them.'" Aaargg!

This is a obsession that goes clear back to my college days when I was a columnist for The Ball State Daily News. In those days, I wrote a weekly column, titled appropriately enough Straightjacket Required. In 1987, I first publicized my concerns about this nefarious organization of theys and thems. I’ll spare you the entire diatribe (though I reserve the right to post the entire thing here later) but the general gist of that meandering column was that I want to know just who in the hell “they” are and where they’re holed up. I don’t necessarily mean any harm to the good folks at Them, Inc., but I would just like to see their compound and find out what they’re going to invent or do next.

You ever wonder about the fact that they (damn those faceless, sinister bastards) often include Braille on ATM machines? You know, I’m all for making things in our society accessible to those with physical limitations, but this is one thing that makes absolutely no sense whatsoever. Sure, a blind person could walk up to an ATM machine and use the Braille to identify the buttons, but they can’t READ the on-screen prompts so that they know what buttons to push and when. And don’t get me started on why drive-up ATMs include Braille. Seriously, do I need to go into why this is a tremendously bad idea?

Have you ever wondered why we call them fortune cookies? The fortune cookies I usually get would be more appropriately titled “statement cookies.” They usually read something like, “You are strong of character.” That’s not a fortune. That’s a statement. I know. I went to journalism school. A real fortune would be something like “you are about to be found out and clubbed to death by those closest to you.” Now that’s a fortune. I could make a mint at the ol’ fortune cookie factory of they’d just hire me. Were I to be filling those fortune cookies with my thoughts, I'd make you take a deep breath before you blindly open your next fortune cookie after downing a plate of egg foo yung...

I also wonder just how there are still job opportunities for clowns? Is there ANYONE out there who doesn’t find clowns to be at least a little creepy? C’mon – grown, pudgy men wearing wildly colored clothes, freaky pancake makeup, gloves and shoes several sizes too big. The last time I went to a circus (and it’s been a long time because I find clowns to be friggin’ creepy) I nearly chin-skipped one clown who got too close me and invaded my personal space. Read Stephen King’s book It and if after you’re finished, you don’t want to bum rush the next clown you see, then I’ll shut up.

Speaking of people who dress funny, do you ever wonder just what in the hell is up with those Shriner dudes who drive those little souped up go-karts in parades? I mean, really. Most of those old coots shouldn’t be driving automobiles on clearly marked highways in the daylight, much less doing figure eights and crisscrossing in front of each other at light speed in the middle of a crowd of people, many of whom are children. I mean if just one of those guys has a painful gas bubble at the wrong time, it’s going to look like an air show disaster as one after another crashes into the Shriner ahead of him. Just because they’re Shriners, however, I think we give them a pass. You know, they’re cute on their little toys with their fezzes a’flyin’. C’mon folks, they’re a public health hazard. If they want to ride their tiny cars around together, that’s their prerogative, but they should do it somewhere well away from the general public.

I could go on and on about the things that vex me – and I will in future posts – but for now, I’ll leave you with two more random thoughts:

1. How do huge flocks of birds fly together and all move in the same seemingly random way? Is there one leader bird that all of the other birds follow blindly, or more frightening, is there a collective consciousness within flocks of birds and are we doomed if they ever decide to all take a dump at once?

2. Did you know that you can take a Hostess cake donut, place it on a plate and leave it in a closet for two years and when you come back, it will still look like a cake donut? I know because I did that once when I was a kid because I wanted to see what happened. It didn’t mold or crumble. It got really hard, like a hockey puck, but other than that, it looked like a donut that I could go buy at the store. Just what in tarnation could they be putting in a garden variety donut that could make it survive the trials and tribulations of two years deep in the bowels of a 9-year-old boy’s closet and come out the other side intact? And we wonder why our digestive tracks hate us.

I'm sure that They have answers to all of these questions.

What's Good for the Goose...

This morning while driving to work, I received a speeding ticket. I admit that I was driving over the posted speed (not by a lot, but enough) and I do not dispute the charge. Subsequently, I will pay the fine and outrageous court costs without complaint.

I do, however, find it objectionable when I frequently see police officers speeding themselves. I'm not talking about officers on their way to an emergency call (meaning that they are using lights and sirens). I am talking about officers with what appear to be spouses in the car, who are in plain clothes, or who are from agencies that don't have jurisdictions in that area (county police from 75 miles away or more, for instance). These officers are driving in excess of the posted speed, without lights or sirens and very clearly not on their way to an emergency call of any kind. In short, it appears that they are on their way to or from work, or to some other engagement, just like I was this morning when I was stopped.

What makes police officers exempt from the same traffic laws that govern me?

I see this often enough, that I feel that I must speak out, especially when citizens, such as myself are ticketed for the same offense. In fact, the last time I received a ticket, I was absolutely amazed to see an officer in plain clothes - but driving a marked vehicle - go past the same speed trap I was caught in while driving faster than I was traveling. The police officer who stopped me just seconds later actually waved at the first officer before pulling me over and handing me an outrageously expensive ticket. Again, I was wrong here, but so, too, was the off-duty officer ahead of me. At least if our law enforcement officers are going to apply the laws so selectively, they could try to be a little more clandestine about it. There were a good 10-15 cars in the immediate vicinity and every one of those motorists saw the laws unevenly applied. In fact, the officer who drove away unscathed had been tailgating me because he wanted me to lane over so that he could go on his merry way, at a speed a full 20 mph over the posted limit.

I realize that there are times when an officer might exceed the speed limit without lights and sirens for some official purpose unknown to the general public, but I do not believe that each and every time I see an officer speeding in a marked car - often times wearing plain clothes or from a jurisdiction far outside the area I’m in - that the speeding is warranted or legal. Because I take the same home route every day from work, I regularly see the same officer who must get off work at the same time I do. He is a city officer who obviously lives 15 or so miles outside the city in which he has jurisdiction. He consistently speeds, rides the bumpers of the cars in front of him, and in general is an ass on the road. And he’s obviously just driving home. Where’s his ticket?

I have an immense respect for police officers and for the work they do ensuring the public's safety. I realize that their job is dangerous and mostly thankless. That said, I get a pretty bitter taste in mouth on days like today when I receive a ticket for the same offense I see police officers committing regularly. That’s pretty hard to accept or respect.

Frankly, I think those officers out there who do drive in excess of the speed limit because they know they can do so with immunity ought to be ashamed – especially if those same officers write speeding tickets for civilians who are caught speeding. The inequity is just flat stunning.

In the end, I will pay my fine because I was wrong. I just wish the officers I see speeding illegally had their wallets tapped, too.

Communication Breakdown

I made a pretty, ochre-colored splotch on the carpet in my office when I melted down today.

I was in mid-groove this afternoon as I slid out of my shirt and tie and eased into a battle-scarred pair of jeans and big, floppy sweatshirt, and then saddled up to my computer desk.

Everything was fine here at the Kughen Home for the Mentally Deranged and Criminally Insane...that is until I logged in and pulled down my email. Now, it is not unusual for me to receive in excess of 100 email messages a day during the week. I accept this as part of the obligatory ball and chain that goes with being a modern Internet user at home and at work.

But today, as I watched the happy little parade of email roll into my equally happy PC, I began to shudder. With hands trembling and my butt sinking deeply into my high-back chair, I rested my face on the keyboard and wondered just what had happened to my once serene, non-technical existence. As I drifted into a fitful sleep, face-down at my computer, I dreamt of those carefree days when I actually talked to folks on the telephone, occasionally visited in person and almost never got more than a few emails a week. Those were happy days.

With a snort, I flopped over into a bale of computer cables beside my desk and ebbed farther away into a deep sleep. Then, I dreamt of running through a flowery field in the sunshine, the birds singing and chirping in the distance as a fair maiden's lithe voice drifted o'er my head. But as I ran through that utopic field, chasing maidens (all of whom, incidentally, were my wife) and butterflies, I began to notice the world around me begin to change. The change was subtle at first, but it grew more overt with each passing second.

The sun slipped behind menacing clouds, and flowers wilted and dropped their pedals into the yellowing grass. The skies opened and a black rain began to hose this once beautiful field. And as I lay there, cowering in the crab grass, I heard the rodent-like scurries of an army of little feet tramping my way.

That's when I saw them.

There were thousands of sickly grimacing little email notes that had sprouted knobby legs and were wielding pitch forks and hot pokers. They scampered my way, whining and chortling, and in general seeming as though they were up to no good.

I know trouble when I see it, so I stumbled to my feet and ran like the wind, the rain biting my face and the sick, dead grass squishing between my toes. I ran and ran and ran.

They ran faster.

And then I heard their battle cries. They screamed like berserkers as they bailed from miniature airplanes that darted overhead. The sky grew dark as millions of miniature emails blotted out the sun and drifted into the dead grass around me.

Panting like a dog, I stumbled once, twice, then careened into the grass landing on my schnoz with a dull thwack. I lay there for a few seconds with blades of grass stuck to my tongue - eyes hazy and wild - too tired to give additional flight.

They then surrounded me, shouting something about Custer and Little Big Horn, but by then I was curled into a ball, shielding my ashen face from their tiny little hot pokers. I saw one of them wing by my head with what appeared to be a rather large meat fork.

I opened my mouth to scream, but was silenced as they rushed to me, their tiny feet digging into my soft, lily white beer belly and as I tried to bellow again, my mouth was filled with thousands of them and...

With a clatter, I careened away from my desk, knocking over a pile of blank CDs and launching my wireless mouse across the room. Spitting mouthfuls of paper out, I realized that I had swallowed a sizeable portion of a notebook on my desk.

Shaking the sick mass of paper that had formed a spitball the size of a small dog on my tongue, I glanced at my computer screen to see that my in inbox of unsorted mail had grown to more than 1,600 individual pieces of mail in just the past month.

Kicking aside the CDs that had been dashed to the floor, I settled back into my chair and saw that some 100 or so email messages had invaded my machine just today and were now marauding about my inbox. I thought I heard one or two of them snicker, but I wasn't sure.

So after my meltdown, I settled back into a posture that all to familiar these days: me hunched over the keyboard, illuminated by the flicker of a computer monitor, hunting and pecking at breakneck speed, answering the daily typhoon of email.

Sometimes I wonder just why it is necessary for any human to communicate that much. I try to remember a simpler time when folks had to use a crude device known as a telephone to talk to folks who weren't standing in front of them.

I vaguely remember telephones. I believe they're those funky looking things with buttons antennas. If you're not sure, walk over to it, shake the dust bunnies away and lift it off the charger and place it to your ear. You should hear an irritating hum. That's a telephone.

Now if we could just remember how to use the damn things.

The Mustached Lady and the Kid

She was big and ugly.

My third grade teacher used to stand over me with pursed lips and her dark female mustache quivering as her face twisted into a phantasmagoric sneer. She would rap my desk with one of her hairy-knuckled, knobby fingers while showing me the finer points of penmanship.

She was the pure embodiment of all that was wholly frightening to an 8-year-old boy. This was in the days when children watched scary movies, read scary comics and weren’t sheltered from everything slightly that side of wholesome. That meant I had seen my share of bugbears and bogeymen and I was absolutely sure that at that moment, I was staring at pure evil.

Nevertheless, my fellow third grade runts and I spent those long afternoons bent over our desks, tongues jutting from our mouths, gripping our No. 2 pencils with a fury better suited to slaying dragons than to toughing out the alphabet.

I was the class idiot who thought it wise to ask one day why we were spending so much time on our penmanship when all the adults I knew wrote just slightly better than Cro-Magnon man did when all he had for ink was some squashed up bat shit and a gob of saliva, and used a big rock for a tablet. That's not to mention that he used his finger as a pen.

I spent a lot of time that year staring at the corner of the room - my very own Purgatory, as it were - while she continued to enslave her remaining minions, making them fit those damn letters between the lines on page after page of Goldenrod paper until several students had to be carried off to the art room and force-fed some paste before they snapped back to reality.

Evil, that woman.

Life through my early teens was pretty much normal in the penmanship department until I was introduced to my first typewriter. It was a big, old manual-style typewriter that was missing a key or two, giving it sort of a leering, toothless grin. I learned to type on that monster. You had to step back 20 or 30 yards, get a good running start and leap on it with both hands to get it to peck at the paper, but it produced documents somewhat neater than my ransom note-style of writing could ever hope to turn out.

Then, in college, along came the computer...your friend and mine (yes, I had friends who had TRS computers back in the eighties, but they were also the kids who spent their school years getting stuffed into lockers and being given “swirlies” in the john - and wasn’t about to be one of them).

The computer allowed us to type reams and reams of worthless drivel, make and easily correct mistakes, use fancy fonts and put pictures of our dogs into our term papers. For us writers, it became our virtual notepad, our endless canvas where we could feel free to make obscene verb choices and to let our participles dangle. We could even feel free to be obtuse - or as Les Nessman would say, “rounded at the free end” - with correct type only as far away as the backspace key.

This computer fad – as some of the blue hairs called it then – never faded away. In fact, most of us wouldn’t dream of sitting down to write an actual letter to save our very lives. We’ll happily sit down and pound out a windy email on most any topic, but actually grasp a pen and put to paper, c’mon!

Recently, I have realized, with a certain amount of horror, that I have nearly forgotten how to write with a standard pencil and paper. While in the checkout line at the supermarket, I sometimes actually struggle to write a check. Signing a simple Christmas or birthday card is a chore and writing a grocery list is just pure torture. I am so used to being able to back up, revise my thought, correct mistakes and then move on only when it’s perfect, the act of actually writing by hand is frightening.

In fact, this past holiday season while trying to handwrite a note in a Christmas card, I suddenly found myself nearly chewing my tongue off while trying to scratch out a simple note. If I had been under any more pressure, I'm afraid I would have had a third grade flashback and begun winging spitballs and making gross noises with my armpit. When you’re only writing maybe 20 words, it’s pretty bad when you make three mistakes that need to be scratched out. Where’s the backspace key when you need it?

Being of the writer ilk, I used to take my tattered journal out to a riverbank, toss a line in and sit pouring my soul into my little book while nature did the natural thing around me. Now, I'd strongly consider lugging along my Dell and a cigarette lighter power adapter attachment to sit in my truck near a river and surf Facebook or YouTube. I still have all the same “writerly” thoughts I had way back when. It’s just that my medium for getting them from the scary recesses of my head to the paper is totally electronic now.

In fact, I find it hard to actually even be creative any longer with a pen and paper. I get the ideas, sure, but they don’t flow out unless I am behind a keyboard, squinting at my screen and drumming my feet on the floor under my desk.

I sometimes wonder now whatever became of that evil woman. I could go on about the ways in which she is permanently ensconced in my childhood memories, but that’s not the point (at least not for this column). If I had to guess, I would say most likely she was summoned back to whatever fiery pit from which she originally sprang forth. That is, after she tortured another generation or two of kids who feel into her clutches after I moved on.

My whole point here is that despite her pure evil nature, that third grade teacher might actually have had a point. While not as important as it used to be – at least for many professional pursuits these days – penmanship does still have a place. I guess she actually she taught me something on those long spring days when a young boy's fancy turns to kickball and to laying claim to the top rung on the monkey bars.

Good penmanship is an art and that no matter how far we go with this whole technology thing, we're still going to have to scratch our names every now and then, so it pays to not totally eschew the lowly pen and paper.

The again, I could just get a tablet PC…

One Foot in the Grave

40.

4-0.

Forty.

FORTY.

Cripes, 40…

Ahem, sorry, I’m just getting used to saying (or typing) that out loud. Honestly, it’s taking a little time for me to get groovy with that number.

But, alas, with just under three weeks until the big day cometh, I’d better come to grips with the fact that I’m officially old. At least I’m old by the standards I set when I was a teenager. In fact, by those standards, I’m not just old. I’m a Geritol-sucking, left-turn-signal-forever-blinking, sweater-wearing-in-July, dentures-in-a-glass-by-the-sink, liver-spots-on-my-arms old.

Strange thing is…I really don’t feel old. Sure, some things are different now than they were when I was 20, but for the most part, I still feel like the 20-year-old that I left behind in the Bush Part I era (I guess, sadly, some things really don’t change).

Upon further inspection, however, I know that there are a variety of ways in which my life has changed, for the better. I might still be 40 and not at all cool anymore by today’s teenage standards, but I do know there are a variety of ways in which I’m better off as I begin my 40th trip around the sun.

Bye-bye, Mullet

Perhaps the single largest headline grabbing change I’ve made in the last 20 years was finally ditching the mullet that sat atop my head like a tired little woodland creature for far too long. In its heyday, the much maligned mullet was a perfectly acceptable way in which to coif one’s ‘do. For more than a decade, some of the day’s biggest stars wore their hair in the ever-popular business in the front, party in the back style that has today, earned the unfortunate “mullet” moniker. Back in the day, however, we didn’t call them mullets. We just called it a hairstyle and at worst, if your mullet was really long in the back, we said you had long hair. Today, however, sporting a mullet is a little like shopping without pants. It just draws unwanted attention.

Unfortunately for me, however, I wore my mullet off and on for a bit too long – into the late-90s. Unfortunately, that was about eight years too long I expect. According to Wikipedia.com, the hairstyle was popular until the early 90s, so the fact that I kept mine until 1998 means I was just a little past the times. As you can see from this picture, it was a great look for me in the day. Of course, I have worse pictures of me with this unfortunate hairstyle, but I am fortunate enough that all of those pictures were taken with standard film cameras and thus don’t exist digitally anywhere that I am aware of. I plan to keep it that way. I might want to run for office one day…

Today, I sport a radically shorter ‘do that involves copious use of clippers with no guard. Were it to be a little less spiky on top, I believe the military folks out there might call it a high and tight. The biggest advantage to this hairstyle over the mullet is, of course, that I am far more aerodynamic and thus, I run much faster now – even at 40 – than I did in my teens.

Have AAA; Don’t Usually Need It

My first car was without a doubt, the coolest car I’ve ever owned. It was a 1979 midnight blue over silver blue Camaro Rally Sport. The rumble at startup was enough to make the young girls cry. Unfortunately, it also was seriously prone to breaking down – something it did with alarming frequency. While it looked as good sitting dead at the side of the road as it did cruising down the highway at 120 mph, I spent far more time at the side of the road than was reasonable.

After investing literally thousands into new paint, chrome mags, custom exhaust and a stereo system, I discovered that I had to spend thousands more on more important things. You know, things like alternators, spark plugs, belts, carburetors (remember those?), and other things that made it go. On a journalist’s salary, keeping that car running was just slightly easier than bathing a cat.

In 1992 or so, I parked it for the last time in lieu of a vehicle that actually ran reliably, though it looked far less cool than its predecessor. Every vehicle since has had its good points, though none of them sound as throaty or go as fast. Of course, breaking down now is something that almost never happens, which is a good thing. Unfortunately, the young girls don’t break down into sobs when I go past in my run of the mill SUV, but I’m learning to deal with it.

See Ya, Super Chicken (Hello Pillsbury Dough Boy)

You might think this segment is my lame attempt to justify the spare tire around my waist (and you’d be right) but one of the best things about the last 20 years is that my friends can no longer call me Super Chicken. This was an unfortunate nickname I earned while in high school (thanks to my brother) because even at 6-foot-5, I weighed a mere 185 pounds soaking wet and wearing a snowsuit. When I graduated high school, my waist size was, believe it or not, 30 inches. If I turned sideways and stuck out my tongue, I looked like a zipper. Today, I wouldn’t be referred to as skinny, I expect. No, today, I think you might hear me referred to as a well-fed Hoosier boy. I can live with that.

Hiya, George (and Abe, and Jackson)

Not to be materialistic or anything, but the fact that I now have more than a couple of dollars in my wallet at any given moment is perhaps one of the biggest blessings of reaching middle age. Seriously, there was a day when I was digging through the couch cushions, looking for spare change so that I could afford Taco Bell and a six pack of Old Milwaukee Light. Today, at least, I can just reach into my wallet when I want to dine on Qdoba and wash it down with a few cold Miller Lites. Obviously, my tastes have matured as well. I’m certainly not wealthy by any stretch, I’m officially past the wonder how I’m going to pay my rent portion of my life.

I Fought the Law (And the Law Didn’t Win)

Another great thing about being 40 is not wondering if arrest warrants might be out on me. Not that I was exactly a bad kid, but let’s just say that I was no stranger to some less than legal activities. I think the statute of limitations has run out on anything I might have done in the early 80s, but just in case, I’ll not go into details here. Suffice it to say that I am now a squeaky clean, mostly square and entirely boring 40-year-old who bitches about the creepy teenager next door and from time to time says things like “what’s wrong with kids these days?”

Do You Feel Lucky, Punk? Well, Do Ya?

There was a time when I had a very weak grasp on mortality. Like most kids (boys in particular) I had a sense of invincibility that led me to pulling some purely stupid stunts. It wasn’t that I was exactly reckless, but I think like most young males, I had this ridiculous belief that things would always shake out in my favor. Of course, this led to some beautifully stupid stunts, such as leaping off cliffs into the reservoir at night when I didn’t know how deep it was, to driving excessively fast through tight curves, or to drinking enough to stone an entire rugby team. Of course, I’d probably be doing some of that stuff if it didn’t hurt so bad now, but the fact of the matter is that I don’t do crazy crap like that any longer and that fact alone will probably add a fiver or more to my lifespan.

Huggies vs. Pampers

Before the birth of my daughter nearly seven years ago, I didn’t know the first thing about parenthood. Those of you out there who are parents know that this kind of training is generally received on the job under a lot of pressure. While there have been some hiccups along the way, I’ve come a long way in my maturation as a father. And I can, unbelievably, extol the virtues of Huggies over Pampers, as well as a thousand other things that I almost can’t believe. Sometimes, when I listen to some of the things coming out of my mouth when speaking to my daughter, I think “wow, that’s without a doubt the first time you’ve ever strung those words together in that order.” Things such as “Honey, you really shouldn’t touch the doggie’s privates,” really are things that only a parent finds himself uttering (unless, of course, he’s a total nutjob). I can say, without a doubt, however, that I’ve gotten more joy out of this Daddy experience than I’d have ever thought possible. I’m still hip and all. Really, just ask my little girl.

I Caught the Clapp

(I’m sorry, but that subtitle made me laugh out loud).

Seriously, my lovely bride’s maiden name was Clapp and it’s given me no end of joy to announce from time to time that I have indeed caught the Clapp. Joking aside, she and my daughter, Alexa, are what make my world go around now and they are why turning 40 is worth doing. Otherwise, I’d probably still be living in a really dated bachelor’s pad, eating really unhealthy food while sitting on furniture that doesn’t match.

Hell, I might’ve even considered growing that mullet back by now...

A Hunk-a Hunk-a Burnin' Love

Ned, my imaginary friend, saw him first.

He was standing there with a chubby handful of Zagnut candy bars and raspberry fruit rollups.

We – Ned and I – were wading our way through the throngs of hell-bent shoppers who were making a dash for a blue-light special on eyelash curlers when Ned caught a glimpse of The King’s belt buckle.

“Aaarrrgh!” Ned winced, poking a hapless shopper walking behind him with one of his meaty elbows. “What the #@$#@% was that?” he spat out between gritted teeth while absent-mindedly stomping a heavy hiking boot squarely onto the unfortunate shopper’s back.

After helping the dazed little old lady back to her feet and retrieving her dentures from under a shelf stacked high with laxatives, I looked up long enough to see the intense glare coming from The King’s belt buckle – which incidentally, was roughly the size of an early 70s model Buick.

The sequins dazzled in the light as they shimmied from side to side in a rhythmic manner. I was mesmerized. A heavy, ropey stream of saliva swayed dangerously from my chin. Ned was rubbing his eyes and gibbering something about purple and green spots floating in front of him wherever he looked when I spied the rhinestones and bell-bottomed, white jumpsuit bedazzled with sequins. The heels on his leather, side-zippered boots were taller than my dog.

“It’s him…Eh, Eh, Elvis…and we found him right here in Kokomo, hitting the blue-light specials,” I mumbled, dropping an armload of volatile hair chemicals onto the floor. “And look, there’s fried peanut butter and banana sandwich smears on his lapels.”

Squinting through one beady eye, Ned watched The King, sashaying his way through the crowd, softly singing something about hunks of burning love and being someone’s personal teddy bear. As he rounded the corner of aisle nine with a grind of his hips, we heard the thud of a sweat-soaked fan as she dropped to the floor with a shriek.

Rounding the corner, close on his heels, we saw The King wipe his sideburn tangled face with a long silk scarf and drop it on the unconscious young lady who lay lightly twitching on the floor.

“Here you go, Honey,” he said with a thick, Mississippi drawl. “Elvis loves you, HOO-AAH!”

Ned, still half-blinded, stepped on the woman who was just beginning to regain consciousness. Neither of us noticed her muffled cry as we closed in on fate, on destiny, on The King. I did, however, quickly abscond with and pocket the scarf for evidence of my encounter.

“Elvis!” I shouted, trotting up behind the sequined slab with my loathsome friend in tow. He stopped – walking, that is – his undulating hips never missed a beat.

“Whatcha y’all needin’ there,” he said with a snarl that made a woman picking out cat litter in aisle eleven slump over her shopping cart.

“Ya, you, you’re alive,” I stammered, trailing a hand along his studded arm, across his shoulder and through the thick mat of sweaty hair atop his head. Ned had to snatch me by the belt loops as I swooned and nearly joined the women in aisles nine and eleven who were still drooling on the cool floor tiling.

“Easy on the ‘do, son,” he said while swatting away my quivering hand and re-cocking his hips. “The name’s Wilbur and I don’t know where you’ve been since The King checked into the afterlife while sitting on his throne, but whatever you boys been smokin’…”

He trailed off, starring quizzically at the dumbfounded zombie in front of him, who was still being held upright by his belt loops. “I’m an impersonator, son,” he mumbled close to my ear.

“You’d better take this blithering idiot friend of yours home,” he said to Ned who was now tossing me over his shoulder. “I think some a’that hair crapola he’s wearing seeped through his scalp and is eating what’s left of his brain,” he said gesturing toward my still unscathed hair helmet. “The name’s Wilbur and I’m a shoe salesman. I just impersonate Elvis on the weekends.”

I watched from my upside down position over Ned’s shoulder as The King paid for his Zagnuts and fruit roll-ups and made his way through the parking lot, oozing a sweaty funk that toppled nearly every shopper he passed. Once in the parking lot, he climbed inside a beat up AMC Pacer and disappeared in a cloud of oil-blue exhaust.

After The King made his grand exit, Ned rifled through my wallet, paid for my hair arsenal, then prodded me out of the store with a series of sharp, fast finger jabs into my low back. All the while, he was muttering something about never shopping with me again.

I’ve recovered now, and through some intense shock treatment, counseling and few well-timed slaps from Ned, I now know it wasn’t Elvis I saw on that fateful day in aisle nine. It was just Wilbur the shoe salesman.

Perhaps even someday, I’ll stop wearing that sweat-stained silk scarf under my shirt.

Not.

Space. The Final Frontier...

Author's Note: This column originally was published in June 1995 on my now defunct personal web page. I refurbished it a bit here, cleaning up the prose a little and removing some of the more stunning displays of my skills with adjectives. After reading the original again tonight for the first time in years, I thought there's a time and place to be judicious with the descriptive language. This was one of those times.
After reading this, you might think, "now just what in the heck did he cut out?" Trust me. Have keyboard. Will use it. My recent edits aside, most likely, you will end up deciding that only a truly warped individual who spends far too much strapped into his computer chair would dare write this for public consumption. I am that warped guy. This is a true story.

It resembled one of those alien space probe gadgets with an action racing remote control unit.

And as the doctor advanced toward my posterior with this half K-Tel, half Weird Science set prop thingamabob that he planned to root into a most private place, I nearly scampered off the exam table, pants around my ankles and howling.

I am, of course, referring to a colon exam, more affectionately known as a Sigmoidoscopy. The pamphlet my doctor handed me early last week to help explain what we, in the interest of good taste, will refer to as "the procedure," described the apparatus as being "a flexible, fiber optic camera that would be gently inserted into...," well you know where.

I was glad to hear that they planned to be gentle and that the doctor and nurse were not planning on playing yard jarts, with my tail being the target. A guy could break into a sweat thinking about a television camera being jammed, with a certain amount of lower forearm strength, into the backside of his front by a benignly smiling nurse.

When I arrived for my doomsday appointment for the procedure, obviously I was a tad on the jumpy side (we males are furiously suspicious of anyone who wants to introduce foreign objects into our bottoms). After an few anxious minutes in the waiting room, the good nurse called my number with a cheery voice one might expect from a school teacher and not from someone who in just moments would be probing parts of my body that I'd just as soon remain un-chartered territory, where no human has gone before.

So when I entered the exam room, I was surprised to see the standard exam table, with the obligatory disposable tissue covering and the standard jars of cotton balls and tongue depressors. I guess I was expecting an iron maiden and hot pokers. Then I spied the device that would be inserted into my no man's land during the procedure. I began to sweat as she made a few a minor adjustments to what can only be described as a light saber attached to a standard camcorder.

She told me to drop my drawers, climb under the sheet and wait for the doctor. I resisted an urge to ask her if they'd all like to go out for a spot of lunch and get to know each other a little better as I usually have my scruples about probing nether regions on the first date. She didn't seem like the humorous type, so I refrained in the interest of not, um, inspiring her to make the whole experience any more memorable than it had to be.

So, with a fair amount of dread, I dropped my drawers and crawled under the sheet, trying to appear casual, which is quite difficult, I might add, given the gravity of the situation at hand. While she and the doctor were outside planning the invasion of the southerly territories, I had a chance to get a good look at the apparatus and was somewhat relieved to see that from the right angle, that the business end of the device kinda of looked like a length of extra-thick coaxial cable - you know, the kind of cable that delivers your cable television to your TV or the kind we old school computer nerds used years ago for networking cable.

I decided to resist the urge to give the field goal gesture that I often give when making my Ethernet connection on my computer network at home.

Somehow, I just didn't think that the good folks at the butt doctor clinic would find the humor in an off-color computer geek joke. When the doctor (looking a great deal like a prison camp guard, I might add) entered, I tried to make the clumsy chit chat that we all try when we're about to be embarrassed out of our minds. He, however, was all business, obviously ironing out the final details of his voyage into my deep space nine.

He bade me to enjoy the show on their 27-inch color television. I said thank you, while wondering if this just might be an unwanted insider's view of one part of my body that nature obviously placed on our undersides so we couldn't see it.

He explained that the device would be advanced (damn the torpedoes, charge) into my, well, you know, so that they could see if I had developed any polyps in my colon. He further explained that the device was equipped with a camera, a light, a suction device, a device for spraying water and a biopsy device. I resisted the obvious urge to ask whether it could slice, dice, chop, puree and frappe my milkshakes. I'm not always able to quell the urge to be a smartass, but at times like these, I think that my sense of self preservation outweighs my need to be witty.

Without much ado, the procedure was underway. I'm not sure what I expected, but I was surprised with how, uh, matter of fact the doctor was with the whole thing. I guess I thought he might have some kind words for me or that perhaps he would tell me to buck-up and keep a stiff upper lip or something. Instead, he just plowed ahead, as it were. I can't say that the departure into space was tortuous physically (or at least, I didn't cry out for the mercy of the gods), but I can tell you that it was one of those odd, unpleasant and uncomfortable experiences that's best not spoken about around the dinner table (you're not eating while reading this, right?).

Perhaps the most poignant observation I could make is that one finds it difficult to appear dignified while total strangers are plowing the back forty as it were. The visual experience was one I'll not soon forget. And the audio...let's just say that the audio was wholly terrifying.

In the end (that's exactly where they were spelunking, too) the entire exam took about twenty minutes. Although it looked as though they traveled through galaxies of the abyss, I'm told that they actually only perused a few feet of colonspace. Then again, for me, a few feet inside my tuckus was farther than Kirk ever went in his five-year voyage through space.

I left the exam center that day feeling, well, violated in a way that I cannot quite describe (imagine that). Of course, I was pleased to learn that everything down under was just as it should be and that at least for the time being, all was good. Having lost my father to colon cancer when I was teenager, I know that exams like these will be commonplace for me in the years to come. I just hope that I can keep my sense of humor about them. It's easy to laugh now that I'm home, wrapped from head to toe in a large blanket with the lights off and the door securely bolted.

Of course, I'm never going to look at a length of coaxial cable in quite the same way...

Where It All Began...

Author’s Note: In a previous life, I was a reporter for three mid-sized newspapers in central Indiana. While working for the Kokomo Tribune, I also served as a weekly columnist. My first column appears below and is where all of this fish blogging business really began. At the time, I was a rank amateur in the ways of fishing. Little did I know that this very column would lead to me meeting John Martino (now one of my closest friends) who in the parlance of Yoda, would complete my training as a certifiable fishing head case. I’ve spiffed this column up a bit for its appearance here, but left the message the same. I was an angler in crisis. This column originally appeared in the Kokomo Tribune (http://www.ktonline.com/) on November 11, 1991.

It was a frustrating summer.

And I spent it along the creek and reservoir banks of Howard County trying to beguile some amicable fish into falling for the old baited hook routine. As you might guess, few were as compliant as I might have hoped (hence my earlier reference to frustration).

I am a newcomer to these here parts, you see, and I have decided that after seven months of trying to think like a Kokomo fish, that the fish here are just plain weird and wholly uncatchable.

I have baited, rigged, jigged, cranked, spun, buzzed, rattled, popped, danced, prayed, begged and implored a fish – ANY FISH – to bite on my hook that I so faithfully dangled in their general direction almost every night after work. Much to my chagrin, however, I spent many a lonely night on the bank with only a bucketful of minnows to keep me company. And because I was sacrificing them, one by one, to the fish as bait, even they were giving me the cold shoulder, so to speak.

As the summer wore on, the score rose decisively in favor of the fish. Sure, I managed to hook the occasional half-blind, deaf and dumb fish, but given the number of hours I was putting into my new hobby, it certainly was a lopsided affair. I began to feel as though I were the laughing stock of the entire Howard County fish community, providing entertainment for the fish with nothing better to do.

My first attempt at garnering the favor of the marine gods was to purchase more expensive lures. Even on my diminutive salary, I managed to purchase a healthy assortment of Rapala, Mister Twister, Heddon, Mann’s and Storm lures – most of which have never seen a real live fish. Sure, they’ve been wet a few times and have managed to grapple the frequent stick or weed bass, as I call the non-fish refuse I frequently crank in, but most have never lived up to their life’s purpose of hooking a fish.

On one of my more recent trips, another fisherman who was fishing no more than 20 feet from me and catching fish by the bucket while I simmered quietly a stone’s throw away, was dubbing each fish “dinner” before dropping them into a five-gallon bucket. At one point, I guess my repressed aggression wasn’t all that repressed any longer and he gleefully told me that I must not be holding my mouth right. Begrudgingly, I suppressed the urge to wrap my new Abu Garcia around his nugget and make off with his fish bucket. I was a little light on cash that week because of all the new tackle I’d purchased and some ill-gotten fish sounded darn tasty.

My next attempt at improving the score was to beef up my rod and reel collection. So, back to the bait stores I went, thin wallet in hand, to purchase professional-grade fishing rods and reels. Much to the combined joy of the rod and reel makers of the world, I now have some 13 spiffy new rod and reel combos – nearly enough to outfit the entire newsroom for a fishing trip on the Wildcat Creek (though I would fear the ensuing humiliation I’d feel when I went fishless in front of my colleagues).

Later, after too many fruitless weeks of fishing, I enlisted the aid of several local fishing gurus, hoping that they might be able to pull me from my despair. I was told, in so many words, that I was not wiggling my worm correctly.

So, by Jove, I hit the Wildcat with a vengeance – wiggling, bumping, bouncing, flipping, dangling and dancing my various-colored works with all of the seductive moves
I could muster. As you are probably guessing, I enticed few fish. I had a heck of a good time sans fish, unless of course, you considered my bucketful of minnows, who incidentally, were still ignoring me.

Determined to make good my last fleeting days of temperate weather, I begged several local fishing legends for help. Despite their advice and suggestions, I watched helplessly as they caught fish by the scores. I caught a cold.

In desperation (and because the weather was turning foul) I began to rent those instructional videocassettes from the local video stores. I even took notes and practiced rigging my worms just like the guy on television. Then, a friend suggested that I join a local fishing club and subscribe to “Bassmaster” magazine. So, I did both and while I did catch a few keepers, most of my fishing trips nearly ended in tears.

As the summer came to a close and the cold weather settled in, I found myself sitting in my jumbled apartment, amid snarls of spent fishing line, bent fish hooks and scratched bobbers wondering just how it could’ve gone all wrong.

And now that Old Man Winter has arrived and the fish are hiding wherever they hide in the winter, I guess I’ll just take my rods, reels, lures and hurt pride home and begin dreaming about next year (just like those pathetic toys on the Island of Misfit Toys). It’s kind of hard pulling a crankbait through chunks of floating ice anyway. Believe me, I tried.

And just as Charlie Brown always yells after Lucy pulls the ball away when he’s trying to kick it, “Just wait until next year!” Yeah, I’ll get ‘em next year with my new fishing hats, vests, boots, rain gear and other assorted fishing goodies on my Christmas list.

Hey, wait a minute; did someone say something about ice fishing?

The Tale of the Axe

Recently, I went to Big Lots to look for an axe to use for some landscaping work I've been doing. I found one and then decided to look around the store at the other bargains, all the while, carrying the axe. Funnily enough, I noticed that people certainly treat you differently when you're walking around with an axe. I was intentionally carrying it down to my side so that I didn't inadvertently clip something or someone with it while I was shopping. Even though I was carrying it much like I'd carry, say, a rake, I noticed that people were giving me strange looks and giving me a wide berth as I meandered about the store. I sort of envision the mental process of my fellow shoppers being something like this:

"Do-de-da-do, need to find an extension cord for those Christmas lights. C'mon, lady, get the Hell out of my way. I don't care if you're on a walker and dragging an oxygen tank. Move your shriveled, flowered-dress-wearin' tail before I mow you down with my cart. Can't you see that I'm important with my sans-a-belt pants and my golf shirt stretched tightly, like the skin on a grape, over my bulbous midsection? I'm a powerfully built man, on a mission, so move, you dawdling ol' blue hair. Good, I'm finally past that old bag. Uh oh, there's a big, lumbering guy with spiky hair approaching down the same aisle as me. I'm going to get right in the center of the aisle, make direct eye contact with him and refuse to give an inch, even though he's obviously trying to be polite and give me a fair share of the aisle. I'll make him back up and let me past first. And when he says "pardon me," I won't even blink or acknowledge that I heard him trying to be polite, even in the face of my obvious rudeness. Why? Because that's what I do. I'm three-quarters impotent, unhappily married, haven't seen my manparts since, oh, about 1972 and my son is a commie-pinko-liberal-metrosexual. I have lots to be miserable about and I get my only glee through being a rude sack of monkey shit at Big lots. Wait... What's that in his hand? A rake? A shovel? Holt cow, that's an axe! That big dude I was just about to punk is brandishing an axe in a nonchalant, disaffected sort of way that I find strangely unnerving and wholly emasculating. And I'm not sure, but I think a little bit of pee just came out.

Despite my general piece of shit attitude and the fact that when I leave here, I will go back to my rundown ranch-style house in an aging neighborhood and walk into my house that smells of 30 years of greasy cooking and see my grumpy wife, I will be happy to be home and away from that dude with the axe. Wait, let me move this cart aside and say "excuse me" as politely as I can and let him pass so that maybe, just maybe he won't go all Helter Skelter on me right here in Big Lots when all I really wanted to do was buy an extension cord for my Christmas lights."

So, to make a long story short, I think I'm just going to start carrying that axe everywhere I go.

Tip of the Day: Is the Fish You Caught Safe to Eat?

While catching and eating fish is enjoyable and practical, it also can be dangerous if you’re not familiar with the water quality in your local fisheries. Many heavily fished bodies of water have state-mandated fish consumption advisories that either warn anglers not to eat any fish from that body of water, or limit the number of fish consumed within a certain time period. Before you keep, clean and eat fish, make sure you check into the water quality. This information can be found at your state’s Department of Natural Resources and is sometimes posted at public access points on certain bodies of water.

Of course, if you’re like me, you’ll find some of these advisories a bit befuddling. For instance, one advisory in my area warns anglers not to eat fish caught from a specific creek west of a specific road. So, um, what prevents those dirty westsider fish from swimming over to the east side of that road? For me, that means I don’t eat fish from any location in that creek, regardless of whether it’s purportedly safe to dine on those eastside fish since you never know if one of those rabblerousing westsiders might have slipped in undetected.

Breathable Waders - A Good Investment

After my last post about expensive waders (read: ones that cost as much or more than an iPod!) I do want to clarify that breathable nylon waders are absolutely worth purchasing.

I was skeptical about these when they first hit the market – mainly because they are significantly more expensive than their normal nylon counterparts. After reading a number of glowing reviews, I broke down and purchased a pair and I’ll never go back. The breathable nylon – through some scientific hocus pocus that I’ll not try to explain – really does breathe, so to speak, keeping the angler dry and comfortable. The downside to breathable nylon is that they require some extra care to keep them working properly.

I learned the hard way with my first set of breathable nylon waders. After a single season of treating them like normal waders and not following the manufacturer’s instructions, I developed a number of leaks in my waders and had to patch them repeatedly. My newest pair of breathable nylons are treated with a lot more respect and thus, have remained leak free. My advice: read and follow the manufacturer’s instructions for air drying and storing your waders properly. The instructions vary among manufacturers, so I recommend just doing what they tell you.

They’re right.

Bonus Rant of the Day: $400 for Waders?!? Are You Mad?

Recently, some top shelf wader manufacturers have introduced new waders with price tags starting at $400. I want to say up front that I’m going to have to be in a MUCH higher income bracket than I’m currently in before I ever agree to spending $400 on a pair of waders. Unless those waders include a built-in fish finder in the boot and have a refrigeration unit sewn into the rear to keep me cool on a hot summer day, I’ll not be parting anytime soon with that much money for a pair of waders.

That said, the $400 waders probably are darn good waders with a lot of thoughtful features built into them. Unfortunately for the wader companies asking this kind of price, most of us just can’t justify that kind of expense for something to keep us dry, especially when there are plenty of $100-ish (or less) waders that perform admirably. Honestly, if you spend more than $100-150 for a pair of waders, you should be making some money while out there chucking lures. If you are a guide and spend all day, every day in waders, then I understand. If you’re an Average Joe like the rest of us, then you’re just not going to get your money out them.

Feel free to disagree, of course. I will, however, leave you with this: the waders I wear now cost me $65 and were a closeout from Orvis. They’ve kept me bone dry for several seasons, are comfortable and doggone it, they look good. I’m just sayin’...

Random Rant of the Day: Game Laws Aren't Just Bureaucracy

Don’t mistake my comments here about obeying rules as simply being a way to avoid being hassled by The Man (also known as your friendly, smiling conservation officer). While I do hope that you follow the laws and thus, avoid a ticket, I really hope that you’re seeing the bigger picture here...and that is that it’s far more important to obey the laws because it’s the right thing to do. While it might seem that there are a lot of fishing regulations - and there are - there’s a reason for all those regulations that goes way beyond simple bureaucracy run amok.

Fishing regulations have been put into place to ensure that the fish we anglers so unashamedly covet are here season after season for us to catch, eat and enjoy. Were it not for the regulations enforced by the state, fishing would be far, far less enjoyable because we humans as a whole have proven that we are not necessarily capable of exercising restraint unless given some ironclad boundaries. For instance, bag or creel limits are imposed to ensure that a species of fish is not fished out. Keeping too many fish of one species also can damage delicate ecosystems that depend on the populations of each species of fish being balanced.

As an admittedly simplified example, consider what would happen if anglers were allowed to keep as many largemouth bass as they wanted. The ensuing effect would be that the largemouth population would dwindle, meaning that the bluegill (which are food for bass) would explode, creating a trickle down effect that would create more competition between bluegills for food, thus stunting the bluegill population. And of course, the largemouth bass population would eventually be severely damaged. There are fisheries biologists who are paid to study this stuff and set bag limits that protect the fish that you want to catch, thereby helping ensure that those very fish are available for the catching in the first place.

My point to this little tirade is to tell you that there is a name for people who keep more fish allowable under law, fish without a license, use illegal fishing methods, and in general, behave as if the laws don’t apply to them. Those people are poachers, plain and simple, and they make me sick.

I once knew a poacher (a family member, I am ashamed to say) who bragged about never getting a fishing or hunting license, taking fish any way he pleased, and filling his freezer with ill-gotten meat. He indignantly referred to his actions as being “his American, God given right.” I’m sure you know the type. He was so convinced that his way was right that he openly made a mockery of the state and federal agencies that work day and night to protect our lakes, rivers and woodlands so that all of us may enjoy them. To this day, I not-so-secretly hope that he one day is fined, jailed and stripped of all of his hunting a fishing gear. It will happen. He’s an idiot who mistakes his idiocy for an ideology. Don’t be one of those people. Get a license, learn the rules, and follow them. If you disagree with a particular game law, write the agency managing the waterways in your state, talk to your state representatives, and organize others who feel the same way. If the game law truly is a bad one, it eventually will be changed, especially if smart people like you make smart arguments. This is how democracy works.

If, however, you decide to simply ignore existing laws and do as you please, then well, you deserve whatever unpleasant outcome that befalls you.

Random Fishing Tip: Storing Strung Rods

While it is generally acceptable to store a strung rod by placing the hook on one the pole eyes and drawing the line tight with the reel, use caution not to draw the line so taut that the tip of the rod bends - even a little. Over time, the torque on the rod tip will cause the rod to lose its proper shape. When this happens, not only will your rod look funny, but even a small amount of curvature in the rod will seriously affect the distance of your casts, not to mention your accuracy. Also, be careful that once strung in this matter (even when done properly) the line can be easily and inadvertently tightened by the reel handle being turned when moving in and out of a car or a boat.

I tell you all of this because I once ruined a great little rod that had bested hundreds of smallmouth bass. I knew better than to intentionally tighten the line until the rod tip bent, but I had been carrying the rod in the trunk of a vehicle for months and didn’t realize that the reel had over-tightened while being jostled in the trunk. It was a tearful moment for me the next time I attempted to use the rod, only to discover that it was misshapen and thus ruined.

21 Things I’ve Learned About Fatherhood: Tales from a Rookie Father

Author's Note: The following post is a column I wrote about four years ago about my then recent thoughts on becoming a father.

While I've certainly become more experienced in the ways of fatherhood, these 21 immutable laws of fatherhood remain unchanged.


Prior to becoming a father, I had little to no experience with babies. In fact, aside from holding my nephew a couple of times when he was an infant and briefly (and nervously) holding the children of a few friends, I had absolutely no experience with anything baby-related. I couldn’t have been more of a rookie. Along the way, I’ve gathered some pearls of wisdom I’d like to share. Think of this as a roadmap for the unwashed masses of Dads out there who suddenly find themselves in a fourth and long situation, on the road, in the playoffs, and with a gimpy quarterback. I offer these 21 tips to those who, like me, are learning fatherhood on the fly. I categorize these tips as things I wish someone had told me.

1. Your crotch has a bull’s-eye on it - a big, red one. One that your child can find blindfolded, in the dark, and with all the pinpoint accuracy you’d expect from today’s most technologically advanced weapons guidance systems. Everything – and I mean everything from hands, feet, sippie cups, remote controls, toys or anything your child can pick up – will eventually be driven into your crotch. You will find that you can sing tenor, and maybe a little alto, even if you generally sound like Barry White. Whether you plan on procreating in the future or not, it is your child’s mission to turn you into a one-hit-wonder. Cover up now. Stay that way…until they grow up and leave the house.

2. Sippie cups are dangerous projectile weapons. Your child might not be able to toss a ball more than a couple of feet in a planned direction, but your child can hit you upside the head (or below the belt – see point #1) with a full sippie cup from anywhere in the house. Think Crocodile Dundee here. Giving a child a sippie cup in the backseat of your car is a little like having John Wilkes Booth sitting behind you in a theater. Think about it.

3. Bodily noises are funny. Yours. Theirs. It doesn’t matter. Make plenty of bodily noises and your child will love you for it. And you’ll feel better.

4. When dressing your child for any occasion, fewer snaps are always better. Much to the chagrin of fathers everywhere, many infant clothes are more like puzzles than actual clothing. I’ve seen Chinese Origami that wasn’t this confusing. Take my word on this. If the outfit you are considering putting on your child has more than three snaps, toss it back into the drawer. If it uses buttons instead of snaps, throw it into the trash. At two in the morning, you’ll be lucky to get those three little snaps snapped when your child is screaming full tilt, kicking and spinning her little head around on her shoulders. The whole event will end in tears – yours – if the sleeper uses buttons. Why no one has invented glow-in-the-dark, color-coded snaps for infant clothing is beyond me. Then again, so is the industry-wide resistance to using Velcro on baby clothes. Obviously, men aren’t in influential positions at baby clothing companies. Were that to be true, all baby clothing would be monochromatic, would use no fold and snap leg closures and would be easily secured in place with Velcro or duct tape.

5. If you have a dog, then you can skip this point. If you don’t have a dog, get one. Dogs are built-in entertainment devices for your child. Dogs are funny. Even if your dog is a lazy one that only moves to eat and lick its crotch, your dog will amuse the bejesus out of your child. Just be sure to be on the look out for those times when your child thinks it’s funny to try and brush the dog’s teeth, make him wear sunglasses or make him sit on a potty seat. Your dog might or might not be amused.

6. When preparing to feed your child, you should consider any clothes you are wearing and any outfit they are wearing to be immediately trashed. That means you should either change your clothes before feeding your child or get a nice rain slicker. This also means that you should have a spare outfit on hand for your child to wear after you feed her. Don’t think for a second that your child’s bib will save the day. It won’t. It will take some of the abuse, but unless you drape a rain poncho over your child before they eat, they will find a way to mash pureed peas and carrots into their clothes and hair. Also, be wary of formula sodden bibs and burp cloths. Side note: always wash formula-soaked bibs and clothing right away. Fresh formula smells like rotten milk. Rotten formula smells like your, uh, well, you get the point.

7. When getting yourself and your child dressed in the morning, dress your child first, then yourself. This is very important. If you dress first, your child will, without exception, take the opportunity to spit up on you, leak a diaper on you or wad your nicely-pressed dress shirt into a network of little baby fist-sized wrinkles.

8. When changing your child’s diaper, it is imperative that you do several things. Pay close attention here. The life I save will be yours. First, open diapers slowly and only when the child is laying on her back and somewhat restrained. Evil lurks inside that little diaper. Next, always, always, always, put some sort of absorbent and disposable surface under your child before you open the diaper (particularly if you are forced to change your child in your lap or in a vehicle). A new diaper works very well. Next, always make sure your child’s shirt and pants are well away from the action before you peel open the diaper. Lastly, master the hog-tie and roll technique when changing a dirty diaper. To perform this maneuver, use one hand to grasp and lift both legs and one arm (much like you’d hog-tie a steer) and roll the child’s bottom toward your child’s free hand. This does two things. One, it incapacitates both legs and one hand. Secondly, the rolling technique rolls the child onto her shoulder enough to prevent her from reaching into the dirty diaper with her free hand. Work quickly now. Much like a hog-tied and annoyed steer, your child won’t stay still for long. You have a limited window of opportunity here to successfully change and dispose the soiled diaper before your child has one or both hands in the mix. Go with God.

9. In regard to point #8, you might have seen parents check diapers by wriggling a finger inside the diaper. Don’t do this. Most of the time, this is an acceptable method for determining whether your child is wet. However – and this is a known certainty – if you use this method for any period of time, you will encounter surprise substances that are best left unprobed.

10. A garden hose is a perfectly viable and acceptable dirty diaper cleanup tool. While most dirty diaper cleanups require only a few baby wipes and nerves of steel, others will require some additional firepower to clean up – especially those involving waste spills in high chairs, baby swings and other baby apparatus. Laugh now, but there will be a time when you find yourself at 2 a.m. with a poop-covered child, looking at an equally sodden high chair or swing, and holding a tiny baby wipe, realizing that you are outmatched. The garden hose is a man’s friend. Lean on it in hard times.

11. Going to the bathroom – especially those longer trips – is a private experience for most men. It’s a time during which we collect our thoughts, think about sports and catch up on our reading. Once you have a child who is self-mobile, those days of bathroom solace and reflection are a thing of the past. It’s now a party in the bathroom every time you go (especially, if you are a single father). Get over your modesty now. Be ready to sing songs, have a child in your lap and still try to finish the business at hand. This one takes some skill, but you’re up to the task. Buck up.

12. Baby swings are gifts from heaven. If you don’t have one, get one. Today. Now. Go. Stockpile batteries and change them frequently. Rejoice.

13. If you have ivory or white carpets, accept your fate now. Soon, it will be an overall dishwater gray, complete with sippie cup drip spots. Don’t believe it when they tell you sippie cups are drip proof. That goes in the same category with wrinkle-free Dockers actually being wrinkle-free. It’s a myth. Just like the Sasquatch. Get over it.

14. When your child is teething, you will not sleep. Plan it. Nap accordingly. Your only hope is Infant’s Tylenol. Buy it by the bucket. Use it. Take some yourself. Pray.

15. Keep your old cell phones, beepers and remote controls. Your toddler will love them. Just make sure the cell phones don’t actually work. The other day, I heard my two-year-old having a conversation on my old cell phone that sounded an awful lot like Chinese. Mandarin if I had to guess. I’m wondering whether I should be expecting a large cell bill?

16. Resign yourself to evenings full of Teletubbies, Elmo and Barney and other assorted programming. Break down, go to Target, and arm yourself with plenty of children’s DVDs. Plan on knowing every DVD by heart. Prepare yourself for humming Elmo’s World at the water cooler. Get a grip when you realize you’re talking about yourself in the third person, like Elmo does… “and now, Daddy is going to change your diaper. Yes, that’s what Daddy is going to do.” And know you're not the only adult out there losing his grip on sanity.

17. Before leaving the house in the morning, visually inspect your clothing for bits of food, dried tear stains and other unidentified smears. Typical locations include your shoulders, backs or your sleeves and around the collars. Your co-workers will not tell you that you have squash stains on your shirts. They’re evil that way.

18. Once you have a child, you will find yourself part of an entirely new clique at work. No longer are you the outcast when your co-workers start swapping diaper-from-hell stories. No longer will you think these people have lost their minds. Sooner or later, you will discover that you’ve lost yours, too. Sooner or later, you will tell a diaper-from-hell story. Sooner or later, you will be welcomed to the fold.

19. Be prepared to do the same things, over and over again. If you talk in a silly voice, make up a goofy game to get your child to eat, sing a happy song, then be prepared to do it until it ceases to have any meaning. Be ready for command performances, encores, and middle-of-the-night performances. You’re in the big leagues now. Side note: Interestingly enough, if you have pets and you speak to your pets in a different voice, you will find that you speak to your child in the same, silly voice. Go figure.

20. If you followed Point #5 about getting a dog, be prepared for all the extra maintenance that comes with having a dog and a child in the same house. For instance, your child will quickly learn the aesthetic properties of throwing food from a high chair onto the floor to watch your dog lap it up. Your child will chase your dog with toy sweepers and shopping carts. Your child will discover that your dog goes potty, too. Enough said.

21. Whether you are a single father or part of a wonderful relationship with a mother in the same household, you can do this. Whether you have any prior experience with children, you can do this. You might be more comfortable working on crank cases or slinging cement, but you can do this. And if you think being a doting father isn’t manly, then you’re looking at all wrong. Being a Dad, a good Dad, is the truest test of manhood. Fathers who think being a man means that the aforementioned pieces of advice can be summed up as women’s work, really aren’t men at all. They’re still boys. Be a man. Now go get in the game.

Oh, and there’s one other thing. Consider this to be a bonus point. When you’ve just finished feeding a bottle to your infant and she smiles at you, duck. Duck now. Don’t ask.

Just do it.

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