IF YOU WILL

Some of you wrote me to tell me to lighten up about the blog thing. That I'm taking myself too seriously. Look, if you were me, you'd be taking yourself seriously, too. Too seriously. Too. It's what I do. And it's what you'd do, too, if you were me. It's part of being me. And it would be part of being you, too, if you were me. I can't not be me, can I? And you couldn't not be you if you were me, either, could you? I think not. And you'd think not as well if you were me, wouldn't you? Of course.

Today is a perfectly good day for ...

Funny. I had every intention of finishing that thought, but nothing came immediately to mind. Oh sure, I could come up with a host of things to say. That's the easy part. But finding something that really stands out, that is really outstanding, that would really connect with the reader, that would seriously resonate at the very core of one's being ... not so easy. Unless you're me, of course. So here goes:

Today is a perfectly good day to end every sentence with the phrase: If you will.

I know what you're thinking. How does he do it?! What can I say? It's a gift. One of my special powers, if you will.

STALKERS

You may have noticed that I delete certain comments that get posted here. I have nothing against the content of those comments. It's just that, well, stalkers should not be encouraged. So I delete them. If I could, I would delete the stalkers as well. Except for one. It's always good to keep just one stalker alive. One is easier to keep track of and to fend off. It's when they hunt in packs that it gets a bit troublesome. But then they end up fighting each other, which is understandable, what with their predatory and territorial nature and all.

Say this, fast: "A little old lady got mutilated late last night." Once you get up to speed, it should sound like this: "A lillollady gomulade laylass snie." Having mastered the phonetics of this fine piece of lyrical genius, go listen to, and sing along with, Warren Zevon's "Werewolves of London."

Hah! Draw blood!

Approaches to Blogging

Some people (not the stalkers) think that I have to have inspiration before I sit down to a blank blog page. Not true. Once, I had a quiet and pensive moment, and a co-worker said, "You're going to write about this in your blog aren't you?" I had a puzzled look on my face, because I was puzzled as to why someone would (a) think such a thing, let alone (b) say it out loud at a funeral. I was in no state of mind to discuss blog theory at that moment, so I just silently shook my head, making the most chiding expression I could muster. That's a difficult expression. It comes in handy when scolding one's kids from across a room without saying a word.

Granted (like a wish from a genie), there are definitely times that the content reflects actual events and experiences. But at other times, I enjoy just sitting down to the blank field and begin typing. The letters just spill out, and then I have to arrange them into coherent sentences. Like this:

Aeprpocahs to Bggilong

Smoe ploeppe (nto teh srklates) tnhik taht I hvae to vhae iostnpiarin boerfe I sti dwon to a bnalk bolg pgae. Tno ture.

By the way, I find myself profoundly moved by the fact that this entry, which is about writing that does not reflect actual events or experiences, actually does reflect actual events and experiences. Fascinating that.

WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO TELL ME?

If you're any one of the myriad stalkers I've had to fend off or against whom I have a restraining order, I don't want to hear from you. Do you hear me? Stay away. I mean it. Seriously. I mean it. If you come within 50 feet of me, I will Taze you. Dzzzzzzzt! Just like last time. Remember how that felt? You collapsed to the ground like pathetic slug in spasmic convulsions. And I stood there shaking my head in disgust, saying: "See? I told you I would Taze you. But you wouldn't listen. No. You wouldn't stay away. By not staying away, you were basically begging me to Taze you. And there you have it. And there you are. All Tazed and stuff."

*My sincere thanks to Stephen D. Long for duly berating me for the egregious grammar sin of putting "their" for "there." In utter abject humiliation, I have corrected the violation, and have repented of my trespass in sackcloth and ashes.

Suh-weeeeeet.

Ethan is my 7-year-old son. Tabitha is my 9-year-old daughter. Caleb is my 12-year-old son and has nothing to do with what follows. I, of course, am me.

I am a late sleeper because I am a late worker. And nocturnal. The following event occurred in late morning (9:30-ish) as I lay in bed, in a state of quasi-sleep:

I hear Ethan talking me, and register the following in my waking mind:

Ethan: Papa.

Me: Mmmmmwah?

He: Papa?

Me: Nnnggnnfffbbbllmmmmwhaddyawantethan?

He: Papa, I totally dunked in the toilet!

Me: What? What do you mean?

He: I sat down on the toilet and the seat was up. I totally dunked right in it!

Me: Did you get water everywhere?

He: Just a little bit. I wiped it up with a towel.

Me: K.

He: But I totally dunked right in the toilet. My pants are wet. I have to change them.

Me: That's OK. Good job cleaning up the water.

At this point, I roll over and hug my pillow for a few extra zees. Ethan goes out of my bedroom and starts up the stairs to his. The kids' bedrooms are on the second floor; mine is on the first.

As Ethan is going up the stairs, I hear him say to Tabitha, who is watching TV (television) in the living room: Hey Tabitha!

Tabitha: What?

He: I totally dunked right in the toilet!

She, in a cool, Fonz-like sort of way: Suh-weeeeet.

Experiments In Fashion Violations #2

Today, instead of coming to work with Hat Head, I decided (I hope you're sitting down) to wear the exact same sweater I wore yesterday. I know, I know: That's crazy!!! But I did it. And I deliberately avoided saying a word to anyone about it. I was waiting for someone, anyone to notice and to whisper about it to the person next to them whilst surreptitiously pointing in my direction. I kept a wary eye peeled, but no such reaction was gotten.

Needless to say -- well, it's needless to say, so I don't need to say it. OK, I'll say it anyway. I was disappointed that no one noticed. Am I that invisible? Am I that incidental? So before everyone left (I'm the late shift), I announced to the office:

Look at this! I'm wearing the same sweater I wore yesterday. I didn't have to. I have plently of sweaters I could have worn. But I chose to wear this again. Isn't that crazy?

Everyone looked at me with that "why?" expression.

It's freedom, baby! I won't let the Man tell me what to wear. I won't let some fashion nazi tell me I can't wear the same thing twice on back-to-back days. If I want to come to work in a stretched out sweater and heinous Hat Head, I'm going to do it, and I dare you, any of you, to ridicule me for it.

By that point, everyone had politely smiled and gone back to their work. I then climbed down off my desk and brushed my dusty footprints off of the desk surface.

The Mother Of All Hat Heads

It was 4:30 p.m. and time to head to work. I had been wearing a hat all day. As a result, I found myself sporting the quintessentially timeless coif: Hathead. And it was not your standard, run-of-the-mill, gravy-train, garden-variety, meat-and-potatoes, typical, basic, general, everyday kind of hat head, but hat head with a vengeance. A Clint-Eastwood/Charles-Branson sort of vengeance. I had the Mother Of All Hat Heads.

So it was 4:30 p.m. and time to head to work. I had to decide: Do I bother wetting my head down and throwing some gel into the nest that is my hair, or do I just show up at the office like this? It's Monday. It's the afternoon shift. What the heck. There's nothing that makes one feel more alive, and more aware of oneself, than walking around in public, intensely fixated of one's own goofy hairstyle.

To add to this challenge, I decided to leave the hat itself at home. That way, I had no way of covering this tangled, disheveled, multi-directional chaos atop my skull. I would be forced to face my embarrassment and public humiliation without a mask, without a screen, without any recourse with which to hide my hirsute hideosity.

So I've studied how it makes me feel. It's fascinating. Intriguing. Captivating. Mystifying. Enlightening. How am I feeling? I'm feeling vulnerable, waiting for that murmer, that knowing glance between co-workers, that shared giggle in the corner of the office, only to look over and to see someone pointing and secretly communicating into another's ear. I love it. It is invigorating. And in an odd, twisted sort of way, it's empowering: I am Hat Head, Lord of the Tussled Locks, Emperor of the Unkempt Coiffure, Ruler Supreme of the Mussed Mane. The only problem is, I talked about it so much that it ruined any chance of my co-workers murmering to each other, giggling at me from the other side of the office, etc. It's like they wouldn't give me the satisfaction of enjoying the invigoration that would come from public ridicule and humilation.

What's a guy got to do to get himself humilated in public? If the Mother Of All Hat Heads doesn't do it, it looks like I'm going to have to push the Proverbial Envelope.

Christmas: The Demise of the Human Race

In a Nov 3, 2005 article titled "Scientists explain why viruses thrive during winter," Tan Ee Lyn writes:

One question is why influenza peaks at this time each year. Scientists suggest a plethora of likely explanations, from viruses surviving better in cooler and wetter environments to people crowding together in the festive season, creating the perfect setting for viruses to proliferate. (Reuters)

That's what I'm talking about.

`J°