Tuesday, September 02, 2014

25 Manly Things Every Manly Man Should Know How To Do

I wear wingtips to the beach. Deal with it.

I've been reading Popular Mechanics again. I checked their back issues, just to be certain, and indeed, men used to work there once upon a time. I think men used to read it, too, not just women who wave it under their boyfriend's nose while saying, "See, Orlando Bloom can defrag a hardrive while giving a foot massage, what's your problem?"

I thought that I could help. Lend a hand, like a narcoleptic at a bandsaw, as they say. I am, after all, the Manliest Man on the Intertunnel. I know Lawrence of Arabia once brought a horde of Bedouins out of the Nefud Desert, but I once brought a man out of a wine cellar four times in an hour-and-a-half. Seriously.

Since the Dos Equis guy got ten minutes older and now he's just another guy in the nursing home, I thought I should step up to the plate and offer the youngsters some guidance on what makes a Manly Man. It's not enough that they should learn simply from studying Freddie Mercury posters while listening to Black Oak Arkansas records. I mean, that's pretty manly stuff, and it's a good start and all, but this is Graduate School for Pheromones, baby. Here's my 25 Manly Things Every Manly Man Should Know How To Do:
  • Parallel park a supertanker
  • Gap a spark plug while windsurfing
  • Bring a woman to orgasm using only cologne
  • Walk into any room, approach the biggest, meanest person there, say nothing, and then punch them in the throat -- Bonus points are awarded if there are any adult males in the room.
  • Circumcise a Great White Shark -- A boat is cheating.
  • Eat a flash cube -- Remember to punch anyone that asks you what a flash cube is.
  • Drink from the skull of your vanquished enemies -- If you're currently battling a squirrel in the attic, it's more of a shot glass thing.
  • Hear the lamentations of their women -- That's why you should always wear hearing protection. Don't want to miss out on the lamentation because of tinnitus
  • Carve a holiday turkey with a chainsaw
  • Iron a button-down shirt while you're wearing it
  • Fell a tree
  • Tree a feller
  • Use a torque wrench to, like, you know, torque things 
  • Wear a hockey helmet to a board meeting
  • Drive a stick shift to drink
  • Grow your own lasagna
  • Mix concrete in your wife's blender and get away with it
  • Replace a broken windowpane using molten glass
  • Know how to treat severe sunburn caused by exposure to the little lightbulb in the refrigerator that holds your beer
  • Perform the Heimlich Maneuver on anyone that sneezes
  • Give a tick Lyme Disease
  • When you're at work, and there's a Women's Studies graduate in the next cubicle, every time you make a mistake loudly declaim: At home I put my wife on top so I can screw up there, too!
  • Lose those love handles using a jack plane
  • Build a fire in the wilderness using only one match and fourteen gallons of gasoline
  • Your mother

Monday, September 01, 2014

A Particular Kind Of Salieri

She's gone past gray to the shores of Thanatos.
And there the children of dark Night have their dwellings, Sleep and Death, awful gods. The glowing Sun never looks upon them with his beams, neither as he goes up into heaven, nor as he comes down from heaven. And the former of them roams peacefully over the earth and the sea's broad back and is kindly to men; but the other has a heart of iron, and his spirit within him is pitiless as bronze: whomsoever of men he has once seized he holds fast: and he is hateful even to the deathless gods.
No matter. She was born to be old. I'm sure she wears Cleopatra's blue eyeshadow still. She would pick up the rice in the church where the wedding has been, but the children of her charges do not marry as she did and there is no rice. Rice kills the birds so we killed the marriage.

She put her hand on my teenaged leg all those years ago and said I could be a writer. I knew I could be a writer without a spotted hand on my leg and left it there empty. She filled her hand with a particular kind of Salieri.

He had another Italian name, one of those names that will always sounds like jetsam from a terrible shipwreck on a foreign shore. None of us belong here; but then again, we don't belong anywhere. To belong you must stay or conquer, and we could do neither. One coward in Santa Vittoria is worth a battalion of heroes in America.

He loved things overmuch. He didn't know his ass from his elbow but he loved things. It's a glorious thing to love things that have no merit at all with a fury that defies all understanding. He would drop the needle on the song over and over and tell you why it was wonderful. No -- past wonderful; it was the hinge on which the stripmall of his little galaxy went round and round under the benificent gaze of a Newberry's god.

Mozart could kick such a man in the shins and hand him a business card that said I'm Mozart on the front and back and he'd push past him to get at Mouth & MacNeal in the cutout bin. He was a man that wanted desperately to be a lotus-eater but rhododendrons were everywhere and twice as tasty, surely. 

I think she was wise to marry a man that would love her like a retarded boy loves a baseball player. He's dead now and she's alone forever but at least she can say that she was revered by a particular kind of Salieri, a man that could live with her for forty years and never figure out she wasn't Cleopatra.

Saturday, August 30, 2014

Google Is Very Wise Indeed

Google is very wise indeed.

In the right-hand column of YouTube where I found this video, it suggested that I'd be interested in viewing Marilyn Manson debating Bill O'Reilly.

This is what I'm talkin' 'bout. That there. That's genius. It's inspired. Google knows me better than I know myself. See, I thought I wanted to hear about the process of the creation  of a song I admire. It was just a bonus to see Lyle Lovett bang it out naked on a weird minor league TED Talk stage.

But Google knows things. Astonishing things. Ask the people that run it. They know everything about everything important, and that's just the people that work there. They make the Genius Bar look like the short bus. Their thingie that searches the Intertunnel knows even more. It knows everything. It looks right into your soul every time you go lookin' for something. It knows why you mistyped that gerund, even if you don't. It knows that you're just being oblique. So it's a Slavic Bride you're in the market for. Slavonic Dances is just a ruse to fool the fellow sitting next to you at the grimy public library computer terminal, isn't it? Google knows.

I had no idea I wanted to see Marilyn Manson debate Bill O'Reilly. I still don't, but I must. Google said so.

Friday, August 29, 2014

I Built A Birdhouse

I built a birdhouse. They said the birds would not come.

They said it was all wrong. They said that I was all wrong. They said they were experts. They said the birds would not come.

That is not what birds like, they said. Birds don't like that. Birds aren't like that. Birds don't want that. The birds will not come.

Everyone knows the birds will not come but you. Everyone knows that everyone but you knows that the birds won't come. We laugh at you because we know the birds won't come but you don't. Everyone does.

You put the birdhouse on a post that no one wants. It was out for the trash and you took it. No one will want that post. Everyone knows that no one will want that post. We replaced that post with a really good pressure treated post that everyone but you knows is good and better. Why don't you know what everyone knows? We know that you know and still don't know and that makes it much worse. You stubbornly refuse to know that the post is no good and the birdhouse won't work and the birds won't come. If you'd only cooperate and know what everyone knows you wouldn't be in such trouble all the time. You wouldn't waste all your time making a birdhouse that the birds won't like and put it on top of a post no one wants.
Dear God; reading this reassures those of us that
remember the goodness of our past is not gone.
It lives in a corner of western Maine...reading this
brings to mind "Granger" speaking in the closing
pages of Fahrenheit 451: "...we'll turn around and
walk upstream. They'll be needing us up that way."

Any other words I could write would fail me; I
hold tight to your writing when thoughts of
mine, joyful or dark, rule the paths of inner
contemplation. Hold tight the wonders of your
spouse and heirs.  -Delaware Dave

But the birds came anyway.

Thursday, August 28, 2014

Good Chemistry

I see the dead hand of dad on that young fellow's video. Not a signature. Brush strokes or something.

My little son is importunate. He starts his pleasant little harangue the minute his eyes pop open. I heard him, bang on seven this morning, begin the little burble of narration he keeps for his life. It's Sunday and the sun is out and the world is his oyster again today.

I'd been awake for a couple hours. I'd left the windows open in my office last night and so I was outdoors instantly. The sun rose gently over my textual exertions. There cannot be a sweeter place to be than western Maine staring down a sunny day knocking on June's door.

I went up to his world, filled with talking sponges and grinning dinosaurs and the Google Earth carpet of a cartoon town.

Dad, I want you to help me make a video with Bionicles and muzzle flashes and space ships and galactic battles and dancing robots and talking animals and it won't be hard because we can do it in 4 fps so the camera won't die of no battery and the moviemaker won't crash and mom says you have to work all day today and tomorrow and the day after and even more days so I'll wait until you don't have to make furniture one day but don't make me wait too long because I'm impatient.

There is no quality time. There is no such thing as quality time. There is only time. Time is teflon and adjectives and adverbs just slide right off it. It cannot be condensed, or frozen, or hoarded, or distilled, or saved for later, or borrowed and paid back.

You don't have any story that anyone wants to see, son.

What is a good story?

It doesn't matter what it's about. It just needs to make people want to keep reading it, or hearing it, or seeing it. People need to feel differently when they're done. That's all.

I don't know any stories like that.

You are a story like that. Everybody is a story like that. You're a little boy. What happens to a little boy?

I don't know.

Of course you know. It's whatever you want. What's in the bowl there in the kitchen?


You eat the banana. What do you become?

A monkey!

That's a story. There's an apple. What do you become?

I don't know!

You have to think of something. That's all.

(A hint of tears) I don't know!

Of course you do. Don't be sad or you'll spoil your story.

Johnny Appleseed!

Mom puts honey on your waffle.

A grizzly bear! Then there's cheese and I'm a mouse! Another mouse comes and I'm a cat! Another cat comes and I'm a dog!

And when you're all done, you're a boy again. That's a story. It's slightly better than every book you've gotten from the library for a year.

And then he went out back and rode his bike in a circle because his father lied, and his time has adjectives all over it, and under it, and all around it. The adjectives are stacked like cordwood outside the door.

And so Dad has his story too.

[First offered in 2012, rerun with comments intact]

Tuesday, August 26, 2014

Spahn And Sain And Pray For Rain

When I was still in the gas station renovation business, I got a call from a project manager for a petro company. He wanted to meet at a defunct station they'd taken over from some independent gone tits up.

I met him there. He was younger than I -- though I was still quite young -- and more earnest about his job than I was, which is saying something. The place was gone to seed, the bowsprit of the triangular canopy rusting overhead, the blockhouse building looking a more like Paul Bunyan's buttsprung ottoman than a concrete block bunker. The glass in the overhead doors was painted white --the winding sheet of commerce --and the concrete and pavement was spidered to bits.

The fellow asked me if I'd ever been there before. I told him I'd been there on the day it opened in 1967 but never since. He laughed and thought I was joking, but I wasn't. I lived about five miles from there for sixteen years, and remembered the day it was opened quite clearly. I kept the remembrance to myself.

My father liked the baseball game. He was a  Braves fan, when they were still in Boston, and then a Sox fan. I think he actually loved the Braves, but considered the Red Sox a kind of mail-order bride he couldn't afford to return. I think it's because his father took him to Braves games.
First we'll use Spahn
then we'll use Sain
Then an off day
followed by rain
Back will come Spahn
followed by Sain
And followed
we hope
by two days of rain.
My father worked at a bank, and they lent money to all the ballplayers --well, all the profligate and deadbeat ones, anyway -- and he was often tasked with trying to collect it. We used to go to Fenway Park from time to time, though it was pretty far away, and we'd sit directly behind the catcher, maybe ten rows back. The tickets were always free. Nobody went to Red Sox games back then. They'd stunk for decades.

The park was dirty and run down, and so were the players. I've never understood people that say Fenway Park is beautiful. It looks like Joe Stalin designed it and inebriated people that didn't like Boston very much built it. Some people have a problem with all the advertising all over it now, but believe me, back in the day it was unremittingly green and it was much, much uglier, because you could really see it. The advertising is like planting vines on an ugly overpass. It helps a little.

The overhead doors at the gas station were open that warm day we went to the opening. There were strings of triangle flags snapping smartly in the breeze, the place was a new penny, and there were a half-dozen or so Red Sox players sitting at card tables in the open doorways. They dutifully autographed 8-1/2 by 11 black and white photos of themselves and smiled, at least until my dad and I showed up and then they smiled at me and then got kind of straight-lipped for my dad, and haltingly offered, without being asked, that the restaurant wasn't doing so good right now Buddy but they'd catch up on their loan pretty quick, you betcha. He was off duty and didn't care but such is life.

I think I remember Jerry Adair, maybe, Rico Petrocelli and George Scott, and forget who else. Lord knows what happened to the promo pictures. I had ten billion dollars-worth of baseball cards back then, and they're gone, too. No one kept such things. Pro athletes were able to earn a living without working so they were exotic, but that's about it. In my youth only little children and the odd addled adult would plaster their lives with the memorabilia of an athletic team. Baseball cards and autographs were fun, and so, worthless. You can't be both.

But my Dad -- he loved the baseball game. My mind drifts back to the game wafting out of the crummy AM transistor radio on a lazy summer afternoon while my father mowed the nasty brown patch of grass he kept in front of our house. We'd sit together occasionally for a short moment in the shade of the big pine on cheap lawnchairs made from aluminum tubing and nasty fibrous strapping that cut into your legs.

Ken Coleman's voice would wash over us, the polyglot names of the batters would come in their turn, and Dad would wordlessly give me a sip of his beer right from the cold, steel can.

I wonder if my own sons will ever remember anything so fondly about me as that.

[Note: First offered in 2012]

Monday, August 25, 2014

A Bad Workman Quarrels With His Tools

This video is something on the order of five years old at this point. That's a century in Intertunnel years. Seemed topical today, after yesterday's extravaganza. It has the production values of a porno made by the  Department of Agriculture, but we're not curing cancer here; it'll do.

I've never ascribed to the old saw: A bad workman quarrels with his tools. I've always thought Bierce had it right: A bad workman quarrels with the man who calls him that.

Left to my own devices when writing, I'd make James Joyce look like Erma Bombeck. I feel an obligation to the reader on these here Intertunnels to tone it down a skosh, and not be so obscure about everything I'm talking about. I could stop writing using expressions that are meant to be spoken aloud in the head, for instance. I could stop making references to Wodehouse in blogposts about roofing. I could explain myself to the last jot and tittle. Hell, I could explain why I'm writing this paragraph right now.

I can use words like hammers, and be paid for it. I do. But I won't do it here. If you don't know what it says I can't help you. Well, I won't help you.