A Foul Run Afoul

The warm, summer breezes have ushered in new additions to the grounds of my abode – blooming flowers, lush grass, sprouting weeds, and a new companion. He joins me during the daytime hours on the screened-in porch, which serves as a gentle portal to the sun’s harsh rays beating down across the backyard. An escape from the heat while still communing with nature, the space is a welcoming enclosure for man and beast alike.

My first encounter with the unexpected visitor was complete with a proper greeting to my new-found friend.

“What the hell?! There’s a bird in here,” I said.

His presence brought forth a gentle reminder of Mother Nature’s transition of seasons, but I decided the winged guest would be more comfortable in familiar surroundings, so with the wave of my broom, I kindly escorted him out the door and wished him well in all his endeavors.

“Get outta here, bird!”

After a wink and a smile, I untied the wires holding up the doggy door that the previous home owners had fashioned in place, as that was clearly how my feathered neighbor had been coming and going.

Not quite a week had passed, however, when I noticed him again residing in the porch. The industrious creature was not swayed by the sealed doggy door. A careful review of the screens around the perimeter revealed a few gaps where the netting was not attached to the structure’s wooden posts.

I delighted in the prospect of the challenge before me.

“Damn it!” I yelled to no one in particular.

After hurrying to my toolbox, I crudely reattached each gap in the screens with my trusty staple gun. I didn’t want my airborne friend to feel unwelcome, I was simply looking out for him. I knew that in his own environment, he could thrive; soaring among the clouds and the tree limbs that danced across them.

Upon completing my task, I once again whooshed him out the door and hoped that he would continue to visit me whenever I ventured outside the porch and into the yard.

“Now beat it, you flying, disease-carrying rat.”

Mere hours later I gazed into the porch, admiring the work I had not planned on performing, but would nonetheless appreciate while sitting bird-free in my sanctuary.

Only it wasn’t bird-free.

His return left me feeling slightly deflated, but I wanted him to know I admired his persistence and determination.

“F*#k you, bird! Do you hear me? F*#k you!!”

It appeared he had now entered through one or multiple holes that either previously existed, or that he had created by continually pecking at the screen. I was forced to resort to the even cruder solution of applying duct tape to said holes. It was a move that ignored aesthetics and focused solely on eliminating the bird’s return. It was also a move that, an hour later, proved ineffective.

Admittedly I was a tad frustrated. I let out a quiet sigh, humbled by my failure to adequately secure the enclosure.

“That’s it, I’m buying a bb gun,” I told him. “I’m going to wipe the Earth clean of your species. Then I’m going to wipe out all species of birds. Maybe bats too. After that I’ll destroy every last flying insect I come across. Nothing with wings will exist on this planet ever again!”

I could sense that the bird now feared me. The way he looked me in the eye and relieved himself on my patio chair told me that he took my threat seriously. At this point, my wife provided me with a window into his refusal to retreat. Or should I say, ‘her’ refusal.

“I thought I heard some chirping in the rafters, so I took a peak up there,” Brigitte said. “There’s a nest and some babies.”

Suddenly the bird’s ambition was clear. And I ceased referring to it as ‘him’. She was a momma and she was taking care of her young. I felt my irritation soften.

“I think we’ll have to let her in, and we can’t move the nest or she’ll abandon the babies,” Brigitte noted.

With a family of my own, I sympathized with the bird and agreed we must let the mother nurse her young until they were ready to soar alongside her. However, thoughts of what may come weighed heavy on my mind.

“I’m just afraid that while we wait for the babies to leave, another one will get in here, build a nest, lay more eggs and before we know it, there will be bird shit everywhere,” I said.

Pondering this, my wife agreed that the situation presented quite a conundrum.

“Yeah,” she said.

So far, however, no other visitors have stopped by. And the momma and her babies have not been seen for a couple days. It seems they’ve taken to the outside world, and I’m actually starting to miss them and their melodic songs. Sure, I bought some rubber snakes to put in the rafters, but still.

Good luck, birds.

Where's My Mutant Bank Teller?

If you’ve turned on your TV for five minutes in the last two weeks, you’ve probably seen previews for a movie called Splice. The premise looks easy enough to understand – scientists, or at least two people who stole a couple of white coats, toy around in a lab until they create a being that’s half human, half Fox News correspondent. Then the Ann Coulter baby tries to devour its creators and wreak havoc for registered Democrats AND Republicans. No one is safe.

I’m not going to watch this movie and I advise that you don’t either. For one thing, it’s not an original premise. Humans creating things that come to life and turn on them has been seen since at least as far back as Frankenstein. And without knowing how it ends, I imagine most of the movie is pretty predictable. What do the main characters think will happen by tinkering with the DNA of someone from Fox, anyway?

I’d like to see a movie where people take some genomes here, some genomes there, and create a pig/bird/hippo human baby, then raise it and send it off to public school. They could show it playing soccer or t-ball with his peers, learning to ride a bike, participating poorly in spelling bees… or maybe it would do well in spelling bees. Who knows? Surprise us. Don’t have it become class president, though, or take the cutest girl to the senior prom. That’s a little too Teen Wolf or Encino Man. The movie needs to have some foothold in reality, and I imagine a kid with a beak and a curly tail would face just a little criticism from middle schoolers.

It may sound dull, but the movie should be devoid of any extremes. Despite the ridicule he’s sure to receive, I don’t want any scenes where the hippo kid loses control and takes a gun to school, or cries for 3/4s of the movie and then overcomes his adversity to get nominated to the Supreme Court (we’ve seen that already with Justice Scalia). Nothing that teaches valuable lessons or spins a heart-warming tale. Just show his family going to Applebee’s or visiting him at his telemarketing job. Life can’t be all about slithering on the ground and eating everyone you come across. At some point you have to renew your car insurance, no matter how many monkey paws you have.

And it absolutely should not become a super hero or super villain. We’ve definitely seen that before. Every theatrical mutant creature either wants to save the world or destroy it. Something about mixing the genes of people with the genes of animals creates a crazy amount of ambition. Give me a break! If there’s a half-man, half-horse running around, he’s not stopping bank robbers, he’s most likely driving the Greyhound I just passed.

But I get it. That’s not entertaining. Well, here’s betting that Splice isn’t either.

The Family That Scares Together...

I haven’t truly been scared by a horror movie since I was a kid. I haven’t been a big fan of them since, but that one certainly didn’t shy me away from them. I’ve seen my fair share, it’s just that most of them are pretty stupid and don’t leave much of an impression.

At least I thought they hadn’t. These days, though, I’ve been a little on edge (particularly at night), and I put all the blame on horror movies. Lately, whenever I come out of my bedroom after, say, 8:30 p.m. there’s a good chance my three-year-old son will be standing in the hallway staring at me. Since he’s supposed to be in bed, I always jump out of my socks. Or sometimes I’ll round the corner and he’ll be standing at the top of the stairs, which is even spookier.

Whenever he does this, I explain to him, “Son, you have to stop getting out of bed like this. You see, throughout history, children in your age bracket have been depicted as harbingers of evil in scary movies. They’re usually motionless, staring ominously into the darkness, much like you’re doing now. A lot of times they start out as innocent bystanders, happily playing with their toys or their dog, when one day they’re overcome by some demonic presence bent on destroying civilization. Other times they start off rotten and are sent to Earth by a malicious overlord who wants to harvest our souls for his own personal gain. Things never turn out well for those who get their souls harvested.

“There are rare occasions when an evil spirit will possess the child’s doll, but that’s not quite as frightening as the child becoming possessed himself. Sure, it’s a story line that’s been beaten into the ground, but it’s become tradition. A horror movie just isn’t complete without the freaky kid.”

He usually stares at me blankly, which of course worries me, so I’m forced to ask him, “Buddy, are you possessed?”

He typically responds by saying, “No, I just have to poop.”

Sometimes he’ll say he wants to brush his teeth. And other times he’ll want me or his mother to read him a bedtime story. I’ve yet to hear him say anything like, “The seas will run red with your blood.”

So, I should probably relax and not be so jumpy, but it’s tough. Too many damn movies.

I'll Just Stick with the Haircut, Thanks

It used to be that if you had an undesirable, embarrassing ailment or condition, you had to search high and low for information on a remedy. You might see or hear an advertisement for a pill to cure your overwhelming body odor, but it would only be late at night on some public access channel. Nowadays there’s a product to combat anything you can think of and each one is marketed during all hours of the day.

For a lot of people, this is a good thing. But the FCC needs to create some new technology that regulates how these products are marketed. Here’s my solution: Televisions should be wired so that commercials filtered through personal TVs are different from the ones that are shown on public/business TVs. I don’t know how this would work. The ‘how’ isn’t important, just the fact that it needs to happen.

I appreciate when a business owner is kind enough to provide a TV in his or her waiting room, but it’s almost more of a risk than a perk. Twice in the last couple of months, I have been at a place of business in the middle of the day, surrounded by strangers, when a Viagra commercial has come on. I can’t think of many places where I would like to be when the word ‘erection’ is overheard, but I can immediately think of two places where I don’t want to be and those are the car dealership and the barbershop.

I guess it could have been worse. Overhearing it at the hardware store would be uncomfortable. Standing in line for movie tickets would be odd. Work, church, the deli counter, a parent-teacher conference… all of these seem like highly inappropriate places.

The airport wouldn’t be so bad, simply because of the sheer number of people who are preoccupied with their own lives to really notice. But on an airplane would be awful. Aside from hearing that word through your headset while watching the in-flight movie (which doesn’t count because the headset makes you feel like you’re the only one hearing it), the only way you’d hear it on a plane is if it’s said by the person next to you, a stewardess or the pilot over the intercom.

Still, I stand by my assertion that one of the worst places to be is sitting in a chair while an old man runs his fingers through your hair. The ease of the room seems to disappear when that low, smoky voice tells you to consult your doctor if an erection lasts for more than four hours.

And plenty of other commercials fit this bill. If I visit a relative in a retirement home, I don’t want to worry about ads for funeral homes coming on while I’m there. And when I’m at the gym, I’d prefer that none of the TVs show a woman who’s concerned about her level of freshness. Granted, given the number of times I go to these places, the likelihood of either scenario occurring is slim to none (particularly the one at the gym). But still. It’s possible.

A more likely scenario is one day soon I will cart a busload of kids to Chuck-E-Cheeses (which surely have TVs these days) and one of my own will turn to me and say, “Daddy, this advertisement with women in yellow bathing suits falling into a pool and doing a synchronized dance… is it trying to sell birth control?”

If that happens, I’ll have to be straightforward with my kid and answer honestly and to the best of my ability by saying, “How the hell should I know?”

My point is that you can’t go anywhere these days without commercials creating uncomfortable social moments. Just yesterday I walked into my boss’ office to ask for some paperwork I needed. While she was searching for it, an ad came on her radio for discount vasectomies. There’s only one thing to do in that situation.

“SO… HOW ‘BOUT THOSE METS?” I asked.

Something has to be done. We all need vasectomies, but don’t remind me at work. Send some literature to my home. And wrap it tightly in a brown paper bag.

The News is Making Me Thirsty

With so much political divisiveness going on these days, all sorts of new political parties have formed with ideas of how to change our government. It may be hard to keep track of all the groups and what they stand for, so feel free to consult the list below for some answers.

Tea Party – a loud, unorganized group that uses its title to hearken back to a Revolutionary movement without really understanding what that original movement was about. Many of its members are even unsure of what their current movement is about.

Coffee Party – formed in response to the Tea Party and consisting of similar types of people with similarly vague, unspecific ideas about what they expect from their government. This party’s only distinguishable trait is its pompous refusal to pay reasonable prices for coffee.

Kool-Aid Party – this group’s name strikes fear in those hearing of it for the first time because of the images it conjures up about Jim Jones. Instead, it consists largely of moms who drive mini-vans and get their kids to burn energy by playing soccer, only to fuel them up again by serving them Kool-Aid afterwards. Members fail to realize they can save thousands of dollars a year in sugar and gasoline by having their kids participate in something equally enjoyable, such as playing with fish hooks.

Lemonade Party – a moderate, easy-going party that is typically heard from only in the summer. Their off-shoot ‘pink’ contingent is highly active in raising cancer awareness.

Punch Party – this group has a hard time advancing its ideals unless they align themselves with a stronger group whose members display more confidence and fewer inhibitions. They do very well in the polls when partnering with Russian political advisors (see next party).

Vodka Party – enjoyed its renaissance during Boris Yeltsin’s administration

Soda Party – this group fails to gain any significant foothold due to its many fractured divisions. Members often bicker about which division is superior, with many groups changing their original colors from dark to clear. These members typically contain fewer ingredients and are often viewed as less influential. Other factors contributing to the group’s troubles include a divide over what to be called. Depending on where supporters live, the group may prefer to be called the ‘Pop Party,’ the ‘Cola Party’ or the traditional ‘Soft Drink Party’.

Sweet Tea Party – despite its name, has few viewpoints that are similar to the Tea Party. Sweet Tea advocates stand for everything that is right in the universe. It is a delicious, mouth-watering group that goes well with just about any entrée. Its roots can be traced back to a southern movement, and members can tolerate just about anything, even Jimmy Carter.

Bourbon, Rum, Scotch, Wine and Tequila Parties – Highly powerful, highly controversial groups that benefit from a lot of support, but ultimately fail on election day due to their struggles to sober up and make it out to the voting booths. Many also face scrutiny over questions of their citizenship.

I Want My Picture Back

A few weeks ago I submitted a writing entry to a regular monthly contest offered by Writer's Digest. As part of the contest, titled 'Your Story,' the editors provide a fictional prompt for those who would like to enter an article. I check out the prompts from time to time to see if any of them sound fun or spark my imagination. The one in the February issue did, so I gave it a shot.

Unfortunately my piece wasn't picked as a finalist. I guess the naked picture of myself that I attached to my article didn't impress the judges. Next time I'll make sure the picture includes my torso.

I decided, however, that I'd post it to my blog (the article, not the picture. Sorry ladies). If you want to read the five entries that were picked as finalists, you can visit the Writer's Digest Forum page. You'll have to register a new account, and then you'll receive a password from them to use when you sign in. After signing in with your password, just scroll down the page and click the 'Your Story' link.

Or you can just trust me when I say that mine was the best and clearly should have won. That's much easier. Hope you enjoy it.

Prompt: Parents look on in horror as a magician's trick goes terribly awry at a child's birthday party - 750 word maximum.

The sunny, 70-degree Saturday morning was making it hard to reconcile the fact that I was driving to a six year old’s birthday party. Weather like this hadn’t come along since… well, last year. And for the first time in almost two months, I didn’t have to spend the weekend working. By the time we pulled into Devin’s neighborhood, the number of other things I dreamed of doing was staggering.

As I helped Robbie out of the car, the expression on my face spoke volumes.

“Remember what mom said,” Robbie practically begged. “No swearing.”

I smirked at my son and told him not to worry. Attending a young person’s birthday party is a vacation compared to hosting one, and coupled with the comedy of errors that occurred at his celebration, anyone could understand my recent slip up. But I assured him that Devin’s party wouldn’t rattle me, so long as it ended quickly.

Despite my angst, I wanted Robbie to have a good time and I like seeing him interact with his classmates. I even like Devin. It’s his dad, Kurt, I can do without. His last name might as well be Jones because there is no keeping up with him. And he revels in making you know that. As we walked past his perfectly-manicured lawn and luxury car in the driveway, I told myself to smile and be polite. Today was about the kids.

Kurt greeted us at the door.

“Hey guys! Come on in,” he said. “Where’s Beth, she couldn’t make it?”

“No, she came down with a stomach bug last night,” I told him.

“Oh, that’s too bad,” he said with genuine disappointment.

My wife was all the rage during Robbie’s party, but not by design. Just as she was leaning down to hand out birthday cupcakes to all the neighborhood kids, she accidentally, and quite unfortunately, popped out of her dress. As a result, Beth’s current stomach bug didn’t actually hit her last night, but was carefully planned weeks ago when our invitation arrived in the mail. Not having her at Devin’s party meant I had to bear Kurt on my own.

“Well, you guys are gonna have a great time,” Kurt said. “Devin and the other kids are playing out back before the entertainment starts.”

The invitation didn’t mention anything about entertainment, but Beth and I spent the last three days wondering what was in store.

“We got this magician who is unbelievable,” Kurt said, as it was just the two of us now standing in his foyer. “This guy puts David Copperfield to shame. I was talking to him and he told me that with birthdays, little league parties and bar mitzvahs, he made over 150 grand last year.”

“Wow, he sounds good,” I politely smiled.

“Ah well,” he said, then paused before adding, “We can’t do anything to top what happened at Robbie’s party, huh?”

Kurt laughed as if I had no problem with him joking about the way he and his wife and eight other couples, not to mention their kids, saw my wife in a partial state of undress. I longed to break my “no swearing” promise.

For the next 30 minutes, however, I chatted with the other parents and remembered that free punch and cake wasn’t a terrible way to spend an afternoon. I then settled into the back of the room as the kids grabbed chairs in front of the magician.

“Behold!” He shouted. “I am the Great Wiz-ardo. Prepare to look on in wand-erment.”

Certainly his act was better than his puns, I hoped. Then Kurt sidled up next to me.

“You won’t believe some of the stuff he does,” he whispered.

“For my first trick, I will make Mr. Sprinkles disappear!”

Mr. Sprinkles was Devin’s hamster, who sat contently in his glass-enclosed cage on Wiz-ardo’s prop table. Wiz-ardo then pulled the cape from around his neck and draped it over the cage. After waving his hand and muttering some magician’s gibberish, he yanked the cape away, only Mr. Sprinkles didn’t disappear. Instead, the cape caught onto the back of his cage, pulled it forward and toppled it over the side of the table, spilling Mr. Sprinkles to the floor. The cage quickly followed, and ended its descent by landing on Mr. Sprinkles.

Screams rang out from parents and kids alike as the hamster’s head rolled to a stop at the magician’s feet.

Barely stifling a chuckle, I leaned toward Kurt and said, “You’re such a topper.”

Sports Fan? Welcome to Suckuary

If you’re a sports fan, February is hands down the worst month of the year for watching sporting events. College and pro football is over, baseball hasn’t started (pitchers and catchers reporting to Spring Training is as exciting as waiting for the groundhog), and college basketball is still weeks away from getting really exciting. The NBA, though… now that’s another story. In February, the NBA is years away from getting really exciting.

Our options for sports during February usually consist of NASCAR and trying to figure out if Tiger Woods will play at the Masters, or if he’ll be passed out under a mountain of escorts while John Daly stands in the doorway saying, “Can we go now, Tiger? I’m tiiiiiired.”

This year is different though. This year we once again get to watch the Winter Olympics, which makes the month of February, in terms of sports viewing, much, much worse.

On the surface, it might seem like a nice diversion from Super Bowl wrap-up talk and shots of NBA players getting tattoos during timeouts, but really it’s nothing but two weeks of figure skating. Sure there’s other events going on, but you won’t see them. Somehow the networks have become convinced (I guess through something often referred to as “ratings”) that we ache for people covered in sequins, twirling around and alternating their expressions from “my dog just got hit by a car” to “no, wait, he’s getting back up!” to “oh no, he got hit again” and back to “wait, wait, he’s on his feet, I think he’ll be ok!”

Women are the reason that figure skating gets such high “ratings”. They’ve forced us to watch it for decades, but not because they like it. Instead it’s payback for us having football on for 46 hours each weekend from September to February every year. As soon as the Olympics started airing on TV, women everywhere would turn on figure skating and then leave the room to do something more enjoyable, like pull the refrigerator down on top of themselves. Eventually the networks took this to mean that viewers were clamoring for prime time figure skating, so that’s what we’re forced to watch.

And figure skating hasn’t been intriguing since that former celebrity boxer whacked her Mickey Mouse-hating teammate with a Foreman Grill. Turns out neither one of them won the gold. The Russian teenage phenom won instead, and has since spent her time picking up DUIs. But hey, she’s Russian. And if she doesn’t spend her time drinking, her only other option is figure skating.

Anyway, if you pay really close attention, you might see some speed skating or the giant slalom or the two-man luge. Even so, the Winter Olympics just can’t compare to the Summer Olympics. For one, so much of the competition depends on the athletes’ equipment - the sleds staying upright, the skis not snapping, the skates not flying off and spearing a judge. There’s little need to use performance enhancing drugs in the Winter Olympics. The Summer Olympics, however, are teeming with drug users. The drugs help the athletes run faster, throw farther and stab harder than they ever could naturally.

I for one am not in favor of athletes using performance enhancing drugs, but let’s face it, they make every event more exciting, from football, to baseball, to boxing and even horse racing. There’s nothing they can’t make more exciting. Just think if both guys involved in a chess match were on bovine steroids. That would be fascinating. If the Food Network were a little more lax on their drug policy, NBC, ABC, CBS and Fox would all be bidding for the rights to Iron Chef. With Bobby Flay and Paula Deen battling it out around those hot stoves and sharp utensils… you telling me you wouldn’t watch if they were both full of the same ingredients that Jose Canseco puts in his milkshakes?

At any rate, enjoy February. U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A!