Aw, Crap!

"Well it's been a long time since I did that." I said the words aloud, though no one was around to hear them. The only sound to that point had been my crunching.
I was at home alone, eating a bowl of cereal. I had no appetite, not since the sudden onset of whatever it was attacking my body from within, but I thought that perhaps some sugar would calm the headache and shore up my energy against the fatigue.
The day had been a normal one. I visited a routine client in the morning, then headed off to install a firewall and vpn at a new break/fix client. It would be a quick 2 hour visit, then home to work on my taxes. My body felt fine, and my head free of pressure.
The firewall installed and configured, I tended to a few minor issues that had been troubling the client's network. It was just after 3:00 when they asked me to upgrade their antivirus, because it had been a few years since anyone had paid any attention to it. I figured it would take about 90 minutes, and since every minute onsite was billable I decided to stay and get it done. I was also looking to impress, since they are a fairly new client and their network in need of some tender loving surgery.
I stepped outside to call Elizabeth and told her that I would most likely not be back in time to watch Solomon when she and the other kids left for their music and ballet classes. We chatted for a moment, and as we did the sun peeked through the grey above, just for a few minutes. I felt good.
Back to work, and before long the work was done. I was feeling good, having accomplished a lot in this single visit, and adding an extra 5 hours of billing to my month. I was sitting at the server desk, making my last checks to the system before logging off and heading for home when it hit.
The chills came on in an instant, followed by a dizzy sensation that had me wavering as I stood. I reached out and grabbed at the wall in order to steady myself. The moment my hand touched the dry, white surface, a stabbing cramp gripped my stomach. My hand pulled away from the wall, my reflexes acting to protect me from what they interpreted in a flash to be an electric shock. With nothing to hold me steady, I spun around in a lightheaded circle, crashing back into the chair I had left just a moment before.
I doubled over with a groan as a longer ripple of cramps that must have fallen short of birthing contractions but was still one of the most painful sensations I had ever felt stretched across my belly. Beads of sweat popped out along my forehead, as the chills were replaced with an instant fever.
"What the hell?" I groaned, my arms wrapped around my waist, my face between my knees.
I took a few deep breaths, and the fever subsided, taking the cramps with it. I walked with a ginger gait over to my laptop and packed it away. Within a few seconds I had bid goodbye to my client (without a hand shake) and climbed into my car with some effort. I called Elizabeth at once.
"I am leaving now, and I am just calling to let you know that if I don't make it home tonight, I love you." My joking voice was laced with a perceptible seriousness.
"Kid, what happened?" She always calls me "Kid" when I am being silly.
"I don't know, but I feel like I've been through the ringer. I almost passed out earlier, and I am achy all over." I whined.
"Kid, it sounds like you've got it." She didn't have to say it; I knew she meant the Norovirus. It had attacked her friend just a few days earlier. All the same symptoms in a sudden onset.
"I hope not, but this is how bad it is; I want to go to bed in my clothes, without taking a shower first." (Whine)
"Ok, that's pretty bad." She agreed.
We traded a few sentences of catch-up talk as we did every day on my drive home. The kids, school, etc.
She interrupted, "Ok, you need to focus on driving, I am going to let you go. Everybody say hi to Dad!" I pictured her holding the phone aloft and heard our kids shout happy hellos and love-yous.
We hung up and I focused on the road. I listened to a loud comedy show from BBC radio in order to stay sharp. The loud laughter, high-pitched comic host with thick Northern accent, and the obnoxious musical tones screeched against the blackboard of my mind, but it kept me from driving off into the guardrail.
I made it home and dropped everything on my desk, stripping off clothes as I made my way to the bathroom. Ten minutes of a soothing hot shower later I was feeling better, but I knew that there was more to come. I just didn't know how bad or how long it would last.
I was standing naked in my bedroom when the doorbell rang. I made the mistake of peeking out the window, and was sure that the driver of the car had caught sight of the blinds shifting as I did so. I sighed, pulled on my pajama pants (inside-out) and slid a tee-shirt over my head.
Several minutes later, after a long discussion with an apologetic neighborhood boy and his mother about a moment of bullying that had taken place that day (something I knew nothing about), I wandered into the kitchen to eat something in hopes of calming down the intense headache that had just gotten worse. I really don't like bullies.
I poured a bowl of cereal and sat down to eat. The bowl was almost empty when I felt a rumbling. It was the kind of rumbling that signals the onset of something nasty. The rumbling spread through my belly, then turned south, snaking its way through my guts.

And then I pooped my pants.


Just a little.


But enough.


The gaps are for comedic timing, but it really wasn't funny. It was terrible.


I haven't pooped my pants in years. The last time I did was in Paraguay, at the age of 20. I remember visiting one of the poorest husband and wife that I have ever known. They lived in a shack on the side of a hill, and had at least a half a dozen kids. They had nothing. I mean nothing. Clothes, some dishes, and a place to sleep. That was the whole of their life together, but I remember them being happy. The mother smiled as her children ran up to greet us, the father taking my hand in his and chattering a happy welcome, the words passing with a whistle between large gaps in his blackened teeth. I marveled at their obvious affection for each other under such miserable circumstances.
They offered us some water. I looked across their dirt yard and noticed their well. It was a hole in the earth, right beside their cooking fire. I could see the water, just six inches below the edge of the hole. It was stagnant. I looked up at the shacks settled above theirs on the hillside, and wondered how much of the waste from the people living up there drained down into this family's well.
The moment was one of innumerable opportunities I had already been given to offend while in Paraguay. To refuse their offer of the only thing they had to give would have broken their spirit. Neither I nor my companion had the cold courage to do so. We nodded in acceptance.
The mother produced two glasses, dipping them one at a time into the well, filling them with water. She carried them over to us I like a waiter at a swanky restaurant carrying two bottles of fine wine. As she approached I noticed that the water looked like lemonade.
It looked like lemonade, but it wasn't lemonade. I took the glass offered with a gracious thanks, and my eyes widened at the sight of tiny little somethings swirling around in the dirty drink. I looked over at my companion and smiled with a slight shrug. He returned the same, his glass of liquid looking no better than mine.
And then we drank. Both glasses drained to the bottom in one long synchronous pull. We left the couple and their children after twenty or so minutes of chatting, the national pastime of Paraguayans. The sun was high and hot as we made our way back to the little house that we shared. My companion and I were sweating more than usual. We knew what was coming, we just didn't know when.
It sucker-punched me as we turned onto our street. I wanted to but was afraid to run. In running I might have lost control of the muscles holding back the onslaught. in the end it didn't matter, because my pants were soaked with the sickness before we made it inside. I entered the shower full dressed. The gravity-fed plumbing had hardly enough pressure to wash it all away, but I did the best I could. I even had to rinse my shoes.
The days that followed were terrible. If not for a woman named Kiti, a midwife by trade and a surrogate mother to us both, we might had died. She spoon fed us on iv drip fluids, keeping us from dehydrating and passing into comas. I lost weight, dropping at least 10 pounds from my hearty 150. It wasn't the first time I had been sick in Paraguay, and it would not be the last, but it was by far one of the worst.

20 years later it had happened again, and my reaction was to laugh and say, "Well it's been a long time since I did that."
A few minutes later I stood in the shower, rinsing a tiny amount (in comparison) of sick from my body and clothes. I was achy, feverish, and my stomach was convulsing. I wanted to collapse into bed and sleep until the weekend. I was too beat up to be ashamed, but I did hide my (rinsed) pajama pants in the dirty clothes, crammed down deep between the towels.
I spent a miserable night and all of today plagued by intermittent cramps, an everlasting headache, and a feverish chill that would not relent.
But I am looking on the bright side. I don't live in a shack on a hill, I have filtered water, and a beautiful nursemaid brings me medicine and soda crackers whenever I ask.
And best of all, it has been 24 hours since I pooped my pants!

Ample Wingspan

It came out of the bushes, a brown blur in the lower right-hand corner of my vision. As it crossed in front of my car I stomped on the brake pedal, sending my precious Nook, my glasses, and my sweatshirt off the passenger seat and into the air. I heard them slam into the glove box and drop to the floor as I watched the giant bird strike my front end dead center. The resulting thump passed through the frame of the car and into my seat. A bursting pillow's worth of feathers rolled up onto the hood and towards my windshield. Panic wrapped her cold fingers around my spine. I imagined the wounded bird falling through my open moon roof and into my lap. My face would be scratched and bleeding, torn by the frantic beating of terrified wings and vengeful cutting of the hawk's beak.

My foot remained jammed on the brake pedal. At last the car came to a halt, causing the bird to flop across the windshield and into the road on the left side of the car. I saw the hawk beating its wings in desperation. It could only manage to hop in little steps across the road and into the woods. The thunder of drums from the stereo speakers matched the meter of my heart. I sat in my car, stopped in the middle of the road, thinking of the lousy start to a first date twenty-five years ago.

Her name was Tamara. I had not known her long, but for some reason I wanted to know her more. It may have had something to do with the fact that she had developed far faster (and far more, in certain areas) than any other girl that I had ever known. After dancing with her for a single slow song at a church dance, I was sure that the devil had a special torture room under construction just for me. Oh, the thoughts and sensations that traveled my circulatory system for the next several days!

I had finally had the courage to ask her out and she had said yes. Since I was only fifteen, my sister drove us to the movies. Tamara's older sister Sherry came along too, riding shotgun up front. At least they had let us sit together in the back seat.

We turned left out of Tamara's driveway, then right around the curve that would take us out to the main road. As we approached the corner, the windshield turned red with the sudden burst of brake lights as the car in front of us swerved and braked. Our own car stopped with a jerk. The four of us squealed in helpless surprise as a raccoon ran beneath the rear tires of the swerving car. The scene played out in the dual spotlights of our low beams, like a center-stage murder in a Shakespeare tragedy.

"Is it dead?" Tamara asked, her face now protected from the horror by her hands.

"No, it's limping off into the woods." I answered, a fresh piece of Big Red gum burning my tongue.

"The poor thing, he's suffering." This from one of the girls as the car in front of us fled the scene.

"Jerk." I said to the driver who couldn't hear me. I opened my door and stepped out into the road.

A light rain had started to fall. I stood on the side of the road and listened through the sound of water dripping on leaves.

"I can hear him, he's crawling through the ferns. His back must be broken if he can't walk on all fours." I stood at the edge of the road, wondering what I could possibly do to remedy the situation.

"We can't just leave him out there like that, he's suffering." Tamara said, applying a pleading tone to her voice.

"Ok, I'll take care of it; you stay here." I said with an authority born of female distress mated with several thousand years of male ego-lution.

I spent a minute or so fumbling around in the dark for something I could use to "take care of it." I settled on a fallen branch that nearly sent me sprawling when my foot tripped over it. It was about five feet long, and just a bit thicker than a baseball bat on one end. As I hefted it in one hand, I thought that it would have made an excellent magic walking staff for an aging wizard.

The rustling had continued up to this point, making it easy to follow the broken creature into the wet underbrush. As I approached, however, the rustling stopped. This gave me pause, and I too halted my forward progress, even to the point of retreat. I had no desire to corner a wounded animal in the dark, wet, forest, no matter how ample the bosom of the girl waiting for me back in the car.

After a moment of silence, the raccoon continued on his dreadful way. I gave cautious chase, still not certain what  I was about to do. I assumed that I was about to swing down on the creature's head with one, solid, crushing blow, ending his life and misery in an instant. I had never killed anything up close other than bugs and slugs, and while the thought of killing the raccoon bothered me, it would be an act of mercy.

Or so I thought. At last I found the crippled critter, in a little clearing with enough light to see that he was done for. His rear legs were dragging behind him like wet strips of paper mache clinging to a pull toy. I watched him crawling, an overwhelming sadness overtaking me so that I could not move. He had sensed my approach, and tried to look over his shoulder at me as he crawled. He began to hiss and wail, his angry warning passing through teeth that I could not see clearly through the dark, but could imagine as being sharp enough to draw my blood.

I was scared, sad, and sorry as I raised the makeshift club over my head. The first strike glanced off his back, and he made a crying sound that I knew in an instant was one I never wanted to hear again. The hollow thunk of the club's impact against his little body horrified me as it passed through my arms and into my chest. Adrenaline widened my eyes, blood swelled the veins in my head, and tears coated my cheeks as I swung at the poor animal a second time, once again missing his head. Soon all I could hear over the white noise of blood rushing through the veins in my head and past my eardrums were his screams. They mixed with mine as I brought the branch down several more times onto his back and eventually, his head.

At last his wailing ceased. I slammed the branch down onto his head a few more times, telling myself that the extra blows were to make sure he was actually dead and his suffering at an end. I stood over his little broken body, the instrument of death hanging from my right hand. My chest heaved with the deep breath of exertion and anguish. The rain was falling harder, but it felt like a cool relief dripping onto my shoulders from the dark leaves. Once I had regained my composure, I dropped the club and walked back to the car, wondering what the girls had heard. It must have sounded terrible and frightening, the sounds of the dying creature, the thud of the branch against his body, and me, his killer, weeping throughout the whole dreadful, merciful delivery of death.

I said nothing much, just climbed into the car and shut the door. The ride was a quiet one for several minutes, each of us lost in our own analysis of the experience. Tamara and I sat still and silent in the back seat, more than a center seat dividing us. I felt unloveable, and considered asking to be taken home, but was too much of a coward to Soon our two sisters began to chat quietly in the front seat, and before long the four of us were laughing as we made our way into the theater. The movie was some silly and forgettable farce. Afterwords, Tamara and I climbed into the very back of the station wagon, as far away from our sisters as we could. The evening took a better turn from that point on.

Sitting in my car, parked in the middle of a New Hampshire back road twenty-five years later, I watched the hawk as it hopped into the woods, wings flapping in a futile attempt to leave the ground. I got out of my car, wishing that Elizabeth and I had already bought the pistol she had been wishing for all summer. I followed the great big bird into the woods. It was a huge and beautiful bird, but looked rather pitiful hopping along on the ground, wings smacking into the dead leaves and twigs on the ground. It stopped at a fallen tree that lay across its path. Wings flapped and talons ripped at the side of the fallen tree, but the poor beast could not even hop high enough to get on top of it, let alone over it. As I watched, the hawk turned its head and looked at me. His eyes were skittish and desperate, the black and gold of them both wide with warning. The hooked beak below them looked too sharp to even think about, let alone get close to.

What was I going to do? I muttered a dammit, then walked back out onto the road for a moment's thought. No cars passed by, so there was no one to consult with. A house sat quiet across the road. I wondered what the occupants would think of a stranger knocking to ask them if they had a gun he could borrow for just a moment in order to kill a hawk? I walked back into the woods, once again cornering a wounded wild animal with the thought of beating it to death with a stick.

At my approach, the hawk the hawk warned me away with a weird sort of sound. I thought of my daughter's husky, scratchy, Kathleen Turner voice when she is truly sick.

"Well, whatinthehelldoyouwantmetodo?" I yelled at the bird.

As the sound of my voice died away, the hawk stretched its wings, and with a sudden bursting whoosh, took flight. My heart leapt inside my chest at the sight of his full wingspan. I laughed away the tension, watching the bird disappear into the woods.

I walked back to the road and checked the back seat of my car.

It was empty. My ample bosomed date had abandoned me.

Eating Painted Crow On Mars

I turned the car off the interstate to enter the Petrified Forest National Park from the North end. We parked and headed over to the visitor’s center, paying a nominal fee to drive the twenty-eight miles through the park. Walking back to the car we passed through a tiny courtyard. Without a word of warning, Michael took off running like a bloodhound back on the scent. I followed close behind, pulling the camera from my pocket. I had no idea what my brother was about to do, but I knew that it was sure to be worthy of a photograph.

And it was. Michael dropped down to the ground in front of a simple sculpture of what appeared to be a cougar. The big cat had been cut from a flat piece of iron measuring one inch thick. The rusted animal was at least seven feet long, with a long metal tail curving up over its body. Michael rolled onto his back beneath the animal and made like he was fending off the cat’s attack. I snapped several shots while laughing at yet another silly moment on the side of the road.

Michael picked himself up, and we started across the courtyard once again. We stopped at the edge of an empty fountain. Recessed into the ground, the cement square was only a foot deep. It was bordered by three feet of round river stones on all sides, and the inside bottom and walls were painted a light blue. A metal sprinkler pipe stood silent and dry in the center.

“I’m going in.” I handed Michael the camera before pretending to wade into deep water. I lay down on my stomach and began to swim over the blue, pushing my hands and kicking my feet through imaginary water. I stretched my arms out long and straight, turning my head to take a breath after each stroke.

I heard the camera clicking away in Michael’s hand. I swam out to nowhere and back before relaxing my body and letting my head drop. The yellow sun was comfortable and warm on my back, the hard sea of blue beneath me calming and cool against my cheek. I could have fallen headlong into a nap, but the temptation disappeared with the sound of Michael’s laughter.

“Matthew, look over there, at those windows, is that a restaurant?”

I twisted around to take a look at a long string of windows in the visitor’s center building no more than forty feet away from my swimming hole. I squinted through the sunlight and focused my eyes on one window after another.

“Yep, it is. There are people in there, and they are probably watching us!” I laughed, then rolled onto my back and swam a few more imaginary yards before leaping to my feet. I took a bow for anyone that might have been watching.

“Dinner and a show, folks! Try the veal, we’re here all week!” I said it with a smile before walking back to the car, not really knowing or caring if anyone could hear me.

As we began our drive through what is known as the Painted Desert, it was made clear to me that Jared had at least one thing in common with God. They shared the ability to take hold of a drab, empty canvas and work a beautiful blend of colors and imagination into something capable of making me cry. I couldn’t help but think that we were weaving our way through God’s personal studio.

I pulled into a parking space at a well-marked overlook. Michael was out of the car and running into the red yonder before I could even release my seatbelt. I opened my car door and stepped out. I watched as Michael ran through a gap in the rock wall marking the edge of the parking lot.

A crow was perched on the corner of the wall. The big black bird didn’t so much as flinch when Michael sped past, despite the fact that he could have reached out and swiped the bird across the beak as he did. I stared in wonder at the confident creature.

He seemed to be looking right at me, his head cocked to one side as if he were scrutinizing me.

 “What do you want?” I asked the bird. At the sound of my voice he jumped down from his rock wall perch and waddled a couple of steps in front of the car.

“This is incredible!” I heard Michael shout. The happiness in his voiced pulled my attention away from the fearless black bird. I had not expected to hear such joy in my brother’s voice for a long time, if ever again. I skirted around the crow and followed the path that Michael had taken.

I held my breath at the sight of a red landscape that could not have been anything other than a rough draft of the otherworldly landscape of the red planet nearest our own.

“Matthew, it’s like running around on Mars!” Michael’s unwitting agreement with my own thoughts made me feel good inside. I smiled as I watched him run down into a little valley below me. His shoepers left odd-looking tracks in the red dust.

I snapped a few pictures as Michael bent down, grabbed handfuls of red earth, and flung them into the air above him. Even from my position far above him, I could see the smile on my brother’s face. I laughed, his absolute joy opening a pressure relief valve somewhere within me.

Like a puppy off his leash in a park full of fir hydrants and buried bones, Michael ran around inspecting the terrain for several minutes. I watched from my vantage point and marveled at the beauty all around me. Tears wandered their way down my cheeks.

Michael ran up a trail on the other side of the little valley, stopping at the top of a hill matching mine in height. He turned to face me, both arms hanging at his sides. Warm winds tousled his hair and lifted the bottom corner of his pearl-buttoned western style shirt. His dark blue jeans and black bracelet-wristwatch stood out against the indigo sky behind him. In my mind’s eye we were acting out a living metaphor of our own past, standing atop two distinct hills, a deep chasm separating us.

I took a few pictures of my little brother and wondered if I looked half as cool, dressed as I was in brown shorts and a light blue tee shirt with a red dinosaur printed on the front.

“He’s right; I feel like I’m on Mars.” I whispered to myself, feeling self-conscious as the words left my lips and blew away into the Painted Desert.

So Many Doggone Reasons!

I am not fond of dogs. The reasons are many, and I often number them for my children. At last count we are well into the four digit numbers, and the list continues to grow. A basic few of the many grounds for my argument against dogs living with humans would be that they bark, they puke, they drool, they shed, they crap, they piss, they fart, and they sniff at human crotches. Now, I will agree that we humans are messy enough. Indeed, we do many of the same disgusting things that dogs do. I myself am guilty of all of the above. The difference is that we are capable of cleaning up after ourselves. If I take a dump on the side of the road, I can pick it up and dispose of it. Oh blessed opposable thumbs! Of course, if I take a dump on the side of the road, the police will most likely pick me up and dispose of me, but that is a matter for another essay,  hopefully one that will never be written from an experienced point of view.

Another reason for hating canines would be that I have carried around since childhood a great fear of dogs. I am not sure if there is a single incident that sparked this terror, but I do recall a neighbor's dog being rather large and threatening. The animal seemed vicious to me, so much so that he thwarted my first attempt at running away merely by standing behind his fence and growling. In my experience, you can never tell what a dog will do. Even the most friendly and welcoming dogs have become dangerous in a flash-pan instant. I recall our cousin's dog Bingo. Bingo lived on their dairy farm in Idaho, and he was the nice dog. They had other dogs, but we only saw them from the windows of the van as we pulled up for our not-so-frequent visits. The moment we arrived, our cousins had to drag the angry dogs into a shed and lock them up for the duration of our visit, presumably so that they would not eat us. Over the course of one summer, something mysterious was killing the chickens in great numbers. We spent a few days on the farm that year, and I remember filling a wheelbarrow with dead chickens, then throwing them into the canal. We had been instructed to bury them, but the ground was too hard and the fun we wanted to have too tempting. On the last day of our visit, just moments before we were to leave, Bingo was found in the hen house, killing chickens. I have a very vivid memory-image of a farmhand heaving a very large rock at Bingo, just as our van turned the corner of the house and out of view. I never learned of Bingo's fate, but have often wondered if that rock had something to do with it.

Whatever the reasons, dogs still cause a twinge of fear to course through my body. Even snotty little lapdogs, with their nasty little teeth, yippy barking, and ass-breath trigger something within me. I try to be kind to dog owners. I tell them it is no bother, letting their foul animals lick my hand and sniff my crotch, even as the cold sweat squeezes up from within me, my heart thuds against my chest, and I begin to wish I were anywhere else. As a parent of human children, I try to keep my kids from annoying, threatening, or sexually molesting any visitor to our home. Why is this not the case with all dog owners? Some are gracious and kind, hiding their beasts away in some dark corner of their house, but just as many if not more seem to enjoy my discomfort. They employ that ridiculous baby talk and laugh sweetly as their four-footed child sniffs my butt, slaps my shins with their anxious tail, and plants their paws roughly against my groin, as if digging for-yes, I am going to say it, a bone!

I am running a lot these days. The reasons? Fighting off old age, losing weight, training for a race, or eluding depression, I don't know on any given day why I run. The fact is that I run many miles throughout the week, and I see a lot of angry, drooling beasts. They all want a piece of me. I pump loud music through headphones crammed deep into my ears so that I will not hear their menacing barks trailing after me as I try to keep both my pace and my calm. On bad days, typically the days when I am running from my own thoughts, I will laugh at them, mocking them as they run to the very edge of their invisible fences. Sometimes I even bark back. Elizabeth hates that I do this, and is sure that one day I will be dragged into a police cruiser wearing a straightjacket.

Returning to the mess that dogs make. I am father to three children that I love beyond measure. I changed my share of their smelly diapers, and wiped their bums through the terrible training years. I did this out of love, and not because I hoped that they would someday do the same for me should I need it. With all of that done and behind me, I don't want to do it again. No more babies except for the occasional loaner, and even then they have to be truly cute, and no matter how cute, I will not wipe their ass. I like to be clean. I love a good shower or four throughout the day. If a pair of my shoes gets dog mess on them, I throw them away. No need to worry myself over the poop germs spreading like an oil spill over the entire shoe and up my legs. No shoes are worth what the worry will do to me.

Today, I broke all my rules. My fifteen year old son had committed to walking his friends two dogs while he is away for vacation. My wife and kids headed into Boston for the day, prompting me to volunteer to drop by and care for the dogs. All the way up the street, I felt the dread growing within me. I got to the house, unlocked the door, and waited for the barking to start. Nothing. I entered the house, and saw the green crap bags and leashes hanging by the door. I grabbed them, and a gagging sound entered my throat as I thought of what I was about to endure. The dogs were in the family room, one on the couch and one in her kennel. They gave me no trouble, allowing me to fasten the leashes without a fuss, a bark, or so much as a moan. One did lick me, and my skin seemed to tighten as her spit dried into an invisible icing of germs coating my forearm.

We made our way outside, and I found myself speaking to them with a high-pitched British accent.

"Walkies? Are you ready for walkies, guys?" I felt ridiculous, but knew the worst was yet to come.

I have always laughed at dog owners as I drive past them. No matter the weather, they walk their damn dogs. They stand in gale force winds, under the hot summer sun, or in the pounding rain at a discreet distance while their beloved pets squat and pinch off loaves of stinky waste onto the ground. Some will try to act the essence of nonchalance, but we who pass by know that they are waiting for their pet to poop. The indignity of it all is then amplified as they casually stroll over and bend to pinch the nasty surprise into a little blue or green plastic bag. A quick tie-off, and they hang it from a single finger, as far away from their whole hand as it can be without dropping it. The bag of crap swings in time to their gait as they finish their walk, their furry companion sniffing spots on the ground that I picture to be yesterday's drop off spot, or perhaps the drop off spot of another dog.

And so I walked up the road a piece, waiting for these two to perform their magic trick. The bigger one decided on a spot, and that must have been a sign for the other to proceed, because she quickly followed suit. Their poop was green, and there was so much of it I almost felt for their bowels and all the work they must have had to perform that morning. I had trouble opening the silly green bag, and in a moment of absent-minded panic almost licked my finger to get the sides to part. I had not even come close to the mess, but to stand in the general area of it gives me a feeling of germy dread. To lick my fingers in the presence of it would have put me in the hospital. At last the bag was open, and my moment to shine arrived. I had my headphones in, my music pounding loud so I could not hear the words of disgust leaving my mouth as I reached out and grabbed each pile, the bag acting as both glove and receptacle. No cars passed that I noticed, but then again a parade could have been in procession nearby and I would have missed it, my mind taking me to a happier place and time rather than focus on my living nightmare.

The deed done, we took a brief walk before I returned the dogs to their home. They were very appreciative, and gave me no trouble at all, but for the fact that I had to clean up their waste. I washed my hands until they were red before jumping into my car and heading home for a shower and a change of clothes.

And that is reason 6, 312 that we will never own a dog.

Blues and Greys

And on the eighth day, God created the Dallas Cowboys. Years later in a stony communique with a man named Moses, he stopped short of adding an eleventh commandment to love the Cowboys above all other teams. With that being said, I've read the text between the lines in Exodus, and so I do as God says.

Much like the Jews living under the copper fist of slavery in Egypt, I spent four long years of my childhood in Steeler country, just outside of Pittsburgh. I took my share of beatings for the love of God's team. During the 1970s the Cowboys went to the Superbowl five times, losing to the Steelers twice. New England fans could learn a thing or two from my eight year old self. It takes little heart to cheer when those you love are winning, but it takes everything you have to keep cheering when they lose.

I was in the third grade when the Cowboys lost the Superbowl to the Steelers in 1979. I was puny, weighing about as much as the pads that Roger Staubauch donned each week before heading out onto the gridiron. Still, I loved my Cowboys, and so I wore my number 12 jersey to school the next day with courage and pride. I got my ass kicked, and the teachers watched. No bloody nose, no abrasions, but some bruises that my favorite shirt covered up well. Worse than the physical thumping was the verbal abuse. I was threatened, called filthy names, and teased without mercy.

The following year the Steelers once again made it to the Superbowl. This time they were to face the Los Angeles Rams. I had a choice to make. My Cowboys were out of it, and while I didn't love them any less, you can't pull for a team that isn't playing. I agonized over what to do. Steelers fans were the sworn enemy of Cowboys fans, and to become one, no matter the reasoning, seemed a betrayal of the highest degree. On the other hand, the Rams had taken Dallas out of contention, and I loved them not a whit. To pull for the Rams was a fresher betrayal of my 'boys.

Putting all of the above aside, I felt that for once I might belong if I could find it within myself to cheer for the "Black and Gold." I had never fit in at school; it seemed that everything I did served to push me further away from popularity. I longed for complete social invisibility and the comfort I imagined it would bring. To be ignored entirely had to be better than living every day as a walking target.

After a few days of painful deliberation, I decided that the better benefit would be to embrace the enemy of my enemy for a short while. I thought I might find temporary refuge from the storm of social persecution that had rained upon me for years.

It amazed me, how quickly the mindless mouth-breathers accepted me into their black and gold flock. All I had to do was declare my (momentary) loyalty to the Steeler cause. The mad mob rushed to embrace me as if I had arrived at an ill-planned lynching with a rope in one hand and a stack of pizzas in the other. I was soon enjoying the thrill of walking through the lunchroom rather than being chased, and the odd joy of sitting with fellow students as I ate. I felt no shame in opening my lunch box to reveal a homemade lunch, as my peers inhaled hot brown food substitutes from the green plastic trays that were in my mind the lunchtime standard of popularity.

I was soon reminded, however, that my childhood was not destined to be one of fearless security, endless acceptance, and joyful ease. The recollection itself was not so difficult to take as the fact that it came from such an unexpected direction.

I was at home one afternoon, singing the Steeler fight song that my new friends had taught me. I don't remember the words now, I never intended to. I knew that ours was a winter romance, centered around one Sunday night in Pasadena. After the game (win or lose Pittsburgh) I would let the fervor die down for a week before putting on my Cowboys gear again, and wait for another year of ass-kicking and solitary confinement to commence. Nevertheless, I knew the words on that afternoon and my heart was happy, so I gave them voice as I sat on the floor and played with my Star Wars toys.

"Matthew, stop singing that song! It hurts my feelings!" The sudden boom of my mother's voice bouncing off the paneled walls of the family room startled me into silence.

"I grew up in the Los Angeles area, you know that. Didn't you stop and think that I might want the Rams to win? " I stared at the floor rather than face her. An action figure quivered in my hand.

She went on to explain how insensitive and thoughtless I had been in my decision to cheer on a team that stood between her hometown and a championship title. I knew then that I had hurt my mother with my reckless betrayal of the Cowboys. And for what? A short break from the persecution of my classmates, who were sure to go back to hating me the moment I showed up for school dressed in blue and silver. I felt the warm welling of tears, but held them back as best I could. I sat on the floor, quiet, embarrassed, and ashamed. Within a few moments she was gone, and I was left to digest what had occurred. I spent the rest of the afternoon in muted play, unable to fully enjoy myself.

Later that night, as I lay in my bed wondering what I was to do about school the next day, I began to think about mom's blitzkrieg-like descent upon my new found social standing. I searched my memory banks for a single instance of my mother having claimed the Rams as her favorite football team. I could not recall one such moment; in fact everything I had ever heard her say about California led me to believe that she had fled the state like a refugee. I could not understand her intentions, and it angered me that she would accuse me of being insensitive, when she herself had been so thoughtless.

Still, she was my mother, and I feared her. I decided to root for the Steelers in secret at home, and with great vigor at school. All that week, there were pep rallies and posters making parties, and I participated in all of them. I made new friends, stopped fearing the bullies, and even garnered the respect of the teachers that had given me such grief over my love for the Cowboys.

The day came and the Steelers beat the Rams without much trouble. I was happy inside, and ignored my mother as best I could. The following day I shared in the joy at school, squeezing the last bit of happiness out of a strange situation.

Life soon returned to normal. I didn't last the wee, and the blue and silver colors of my apparel betrayed my true loyalties, and I was cast out, forced to live once again on the fringes of schoolyard society. The Cowboys have since had their ups and downs, and but for a few moments of disgust with some of their off the field antics, I have remained loyal. So much so that I was once caught half-naked in a hospital waiting room, watching the Cowboys play the Bills. It was Superbowl XXVII, and I should have been in surgery prep, having my privates shaved for an emergency appendectomy.

All of this loyalty has paid off, for I now have an heir in Solomon, my eight year old son. He loves his Cowboys, and is so fond of the sweatshirt that we bought him for Christmas that we have to sneak it into the wash.

My oldest, Caleb, was born in Seattle. Though he doesn't watch much football, he has expressed a love for the Seattle Seahawks. This year, they surprised everyone by beating the Superbowl champion Saints up and down the field, expelling them from the playoffs.

Gee, isn't he lucky I never lived in New Orleans?

Will The Gay Giraffes Go To Hell?

Giraffes have always fascinated me. Their long necks and dark tongues, along with the fact that they remain for the most part mute would qualify them as excellent candidates for family members. Their heads up in the clouds, they munch on leaves that few other animals can reach while little birds perch on their backs and search their skin for ticks to eat.

I have recently given giraffes some thought while driving from one appointment to another, and these are some of the things that occurred to me regarding the tallest animal on earth.

I am confident that given the chance, giraffes could really get into yoga. Their long necks and legs would flex and bend with such grace into all of the poses that yoga offers. Happy Baby and Frog would be the ones I'd most like to see a giraffe attempt, as well as the entire Warrior series. My only concern would be the uncontrollable farting. It always seems to befall me whenever I practice yoga, so it stands to reason that it would befall giraffes as well.

I also think that giraffes would make great therapists. As I mentioned earlier, they are for the most part mute, which could make them good listeners. Being so very tall, they are very aware of everything going on around them. Their early warning system might easily be converted to watch for the onset of all sorts of mental and emotional afflictions. They also look down on the rest of the animal kingdom, and I am sure that more than one human therapist does the same with their patients. My last therapist kept calling me by my brother's name. What would Freud say about that?

Regardless of their height advantage, I don't think that giraffes would be very good at basketball. I doubt they could dribble without losing control of the ball due to the cloven shape of their feet. They can also kick the head off a lion, so their passes would be far to dangerous to catch. On a side note, last week I had the great pleasure of going to a Celtic's game. Even from the nosebleed seats, Shaq looked like a giraffe that swallowed a family of hippos. The man is very large.

I do think that giraffes would make great friends. They seem calm and patient, and not all that demanding. Since they can kick the head off a lion and run thirty miles per hour, they would be good to have on your side in a fight. If something was out of reach, they could grasp it for you and bring it down to your level. I once saw a video of tick birds eating the flesh right out of huge open sores on the skin of a living giraffe. It reminded me that relationships can be draining at times, and it is easy to be taken advantage of. I would never eat the flesh of a living giraffe friend. That would be too rude, as well as disgusting.

In documented studies, it has been shown that male giraffes tend to "neck" with each other, and this behavior often leads to them mounting each other to completion. Indeed, 50% of all male giraffes are bisexual in their behavior. Only about 1% of female giraffes participate in similar behavior with those of their same sex, leading me to believe that very few lady giraffes ever lived in a sorority, and that most male giraffes will probably go to hell, if so very many of the world's religions have their say.

What a shame.

Surfing For Dollars (and pride).

Neil is a friend.

Captain Rob is a friend.

Captain Rob bet Neil that he could get me to go surfing.

Neil tried to pay me double not to go.

Neil owes Rob some money, and I'm going surfing again.

New

Watching this made me very happy this afternoon.

I was at home alone watching a trashy BBC

soap and browsing for some sweet

house beats on youtube.

I came upon a Journey remix with a nice thump

and a smooth blending with the original vocals.

To the right were listed other videos

that youtube thought I might like.

Not sure why this was on there, or why

I clicked it, but I am glad I did.

Everyone should be in a music video

like this one.

Maybe I'll make one with my wife and kids.

Photos From The Edge Of My Phone

I take photos of bathrooms. Here's one in a gas station near Newburyport, MA.

Shopping for the zombie apocalypse.

So hot. Nothing like your woman holding a weapon and shouting at varmints.

I couldn't resist.

Shopping with Caleb is always lined with laughter.

Solomon studying his spelling list for school. Notice how the hole in the sock does not detract from the coolness this kid exudes.

Solomon waiting for the toast. 

This was me waiting for the toast 35 years ago.

Roller derby. Everyone should go to at least one bout.

Imogen Heap in Boston at the sweaty theater. Girl got mad skills.

Mat Kearney up in Maine. Boy got mad skills.

Moving my brother David up to Dover on the hottest day in recent history. Somebody get my ass a towel!

My brother Michael playing guitar in my yard. Boy got mad skills.

Michael Meyers smoking a cig.

How's about a poke? Check out the 'tache and the tight 80's jeans! Sexy smokin' hot!

Only uncle Michael can do Hannah's hair the way she likes it.

Hello Good People, It's Me. Are You Out There?

I wanted to chemically alter my state of being. I bought the kids a trampoline instead.

As we were setting it up, a hornet stung my left arm. Right on the muscle. I swiped at the pain, and the nasty little bugger leapt from my arm to my hand, stinging me again. The sting on my knuckle began to throb in time with the one on my arm.

I do not like being stung once, let alone twice. Elizabeth was there for me, sweet salve and soft bandages at the ready. My hand began to swell and a lump formed on the underside of my arm. I am not allergic, and the pain would have subsided without her attentions. But who doesn't like some love and kindness when they are stung?

Later, while once again assembling the trampoline, I picked up a bolt. There was a sharp metal sliver clinging to the head. It pierced my thumb. Blood dripped down onto page three of the trampoline assembly instructions that I had placed on the ground between my knees.

I thought about that bolt later, while underwater in the tub (yeah, I tub). That metal splinter had been hanging on to that bolt since the machining process. It made it through the cold forging, the inspection, the packaging, the shipping, and the storage phase of that bolt's journey. It waited in that plastic bag, deep inside the giant box that held the trampoline destined to be ours. How long it had to wait to cut me I do not know, but I bet it was a long time.

For many years I could not understand why Jared would get so angry at God when a plane crashed, killing happy, traveling people. I remember his rage at the news about a little boy from Cambridge, MA that had gone missing. The boy's body was discovered some time later, in a weighted rubbermaid bin at the bottom of a pond near Jared's house. Jared lived up in Maine at the time, a long haul from the boy's neighborhood. My little brother was visibly shaken when he described to me the wellspring of emotions that roiled inside his heart and mind during his daily drives over that bridge. A happy, innocent, undamaged boy had been discarded like trash after being tortured, raped, and murdered. To know that as he drove over that bridge ate at away at Jared's loving heart. He was angry at God for letting it happen. I tried to explain that God didn't let it happen, but that he loved the little boy. I told him that the men responsible were just bad people, and that they would pay someday.

It didn't soften Jared's anger. He couldn't fathom a loving Father in Heaven that would allow men that would do that to a boy come to earth to live. I couldn't either, but I held the party line, stating that the devil was at work in the world and that some men were just plain evil. I had heard grown men that I respected say it, and it felt like a reasonable explanation at the time. Jared didn't agree. I was uncomfortable with his bitterness towards heaven, and blind to the foundation of his rage.

Until now.

I myself am not bitter towards heaven, but I am beginning to understand Jared's bitterness. We grew up together in the same house, in the same church. We sat near each other in Sunday School, listened to the same sermons and teachers, and of course, the same parents. While I was infatuated with every older girl I met, Jared was confused about his feelings for our father's male friends. I felt guilty for some of the things I did which were "bad," but the impulses that I gave into were categorized as "the natural man,"and so I at least had a fighting chance. Jared's impulses were, on the other hand, categorized as "unnatural," and so he was a living affront to God and his plan for man. Jared could not understand the motivations of a "loving" God that had sent him to earth as a homosexual, while commanding him not to be one at the same time. Add to that life-long challenge the insensitive, unforgiving nature of religious zealots and the rejection of family members. The odds against a happy life go from bad to incalculable.

I cannot recall ever having heard that the world would be better off without my "kind" of people, and that we should all be gathered together onto an island and nuked. To have heard that must have made Jared's heart weaken, and his blood to lay still and cold in his veins. If being gay is unnatural, then what is it to be so hateful and cruel? Seems unnatural to me, maybe anyone who thinks that way should be gathered together on an island...

What does all this mean? The hell if I know, I freely admit to wandering in mind, body, and spirit for some time now. It does feel good to express myself though, no matter how few people hear me. Or how even fewer of those that hear me will understand me.

The other day we went into the elementary school for a parent-teacher conference with Solomon's teacher. She said something that split a crack right down the middle of my grey, letting a burst of happy sunlight shine through. She confessed to having told the kids in her class that she didn't care how long it took them to read or write well. She only cared that they become good people.

I think the world would be better off with more people like that. Let's gather them all together on an island, so I can go live there.

Thanks, in no particular order, for...

-ICarly-it'sfunny, with (or without) the kids
-Chicago with Elizabeth, Ricky Gervais, and Louis CK, and hotel sex (with Elizabeth, not Ricky Gervais and/or Louis CK
-The sound of Michael's car pulling up in front of the house
-Harper Blynn's cover of Beyonce's "Halo"
-Courier Font
-The Jesus of prostitutes
-Judy, the waitress with the crooked back that works at the T n' A diner and serves up great pie
-Hannah's kick-ass attitude (most days)
-Solomon's mischief
-Caleb's confidence
-Dark Chocolate
-Jared, for wandering in and out of my dreams once again
-The BBC (1, 2, 3, 4...)
-Alien Beings
-Calm without an impending storm
-Weird, honest, friendly, good, and real people
-Books, Words, Language, Expression
-Feeling good
-My newly open mind
-A man named Zap Rowsdower
-Fried turkey and nobody to share it with but the wife and kids
-The 4th of July Rodeo
-Headphones-so many applications for them it astounds me
-Snaps on my shirts
-Planet Fitness
-Great clients
-The Ability and Will to change