Making a New Year’s Resolution Three Months In

As is customary around the first of January, many people make resolutions to achieve a goal or change their behavior in some manner that will improve their lives or the lives of others. The resolutions that involve behavioral changes are typically intended to last the duration of the year.

As is customary around the first of April, my friend Bob likes to make a resolution based on how the first quarter of his year has played out. Below are the ones he’s considering for the rest of 2013:

I thought I would have lost 10 pounds by now, but I’ve gained eight, so I’m not making that my resolution until I lose at least the first eight and another four.

           

I’m still smoking; half a pack more than I was at the first of the year, so that won’t be the one either.

           

I’ve always wanted to take piano lessons, but now the weather is getting so nice.

I could try to finish my novel, but I haven’t started it because of the album I thought I was going to record.

I was going to adopt a puppy from one of those no-kill shelters, but after running over that cat, I felt like I had to get two puppies to make up for it and my apartment has a one pet limit.

I could take that cardio class at the gym four days a week, but that’s really more of a half-year resolution than a three-quarters-of-the-year resolution.

I have a lot of stuff in storage that I need to go through, but it gets so hot in the unit this time of the year. It will cool off again in the fall, but I can’t start a resolution with only three months left in the year. That would just be sad.

I had hoped to apply for a new job every week, but since January 1st, I’ve only sent out one resume. To get on pace with my goal, I’d have to send out 12 before Friday and… I mean, come on. That’s a lot of cover letters.

At Christmas, my girlfriend gave me a cookbook because I’ve been wanting to get into cooking for the longest time. Then she dumped me on Valentine’s Day, so I threw it out. The recipes were probably controlling and judgmental anyway.

I totally planned to give more to charity this year, but I’m a little short on funds since the trashcan fire I set in order to get rid of all my ex-girlfriend’s stuff got out of hand and damaged most of the living room wall of my apartment. I swear, I don’t even know why I have insurance.

Since I’m not getting a puppy, I thought about doing some volunteer work, but I really don’t have time if I want to finish my novel, which I’ll never get to if I don’t start recording that album.

At the end of last year, I thought about making amends with my estranged uncle, but he died during halftime of the Super Bowl. Apparently he tried to get in touch with me about six months before he died, but he didn’t have my latest phone number or address.

Guess I could be better about letting people know when I change my phone number and address. Everyone except for my stupid ex-girlfriend, of course. Think she’ll take me back?

Where's Chicken Little When You Need Him?

A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. Carpe Diem. Life imitates art. Famous sayings, all. Sayings that have stood the test of time and hold infinite amounts of wisdom, even though no one knows what the first two mean.

But if I know anything, which is yet to be determined, it’s that the third one is true – life does imitate art. And so if Hollywood has its way, nature will obliterate us all.

Every year we’re treated to a new blockbuster in which mankind succumbs to earthquakes, massive volcanic eruptions, the Earth’s core overheating, the onslaught of an instant ice age, giant ocean swells, a general rise in ocean levels, the next great boy band, and sometimes all of those at once. But a lot of these terrible movies followed in the footsteps of two giant-asteroid-blowing-Earth-to-bits movies released 15 years ago – Armageddon and Deep Impact.

Two weeks ago, when millions of Russians could see a meteor blasting through the sky without the aid of even a contact lens, we got scarily close to the moment when Hollywood would have been able to say, “See? Told ya.”

But in this instance, Hollywood didn’t have it right for two reasons. One being that the asteroid, this asteroid, didn’t hit Earth’s surface. The other reason is we’re supposed to know when we’ll be crushed by a giant asteroid, but this one seemed to catch everyone with their pants around their ankles (I know what that saying means too).

In the two asteroid movies, we know the gigantic rocks are coming. Scientists see them hurtling towards us. We develop plans. We train people. We question the training. We set the training to musical montages. Then we execute the plan. Well, in one of them anyway. In the other movie, the plan initially doesn’t work, so we have a contingency plan in which the old and infirm are asked to block the young, healthy, high-powered government officials from the asteroid’s impact. Or maybe those people are shuffled underground and the old and infirm get to absorb the impact however they wish. Either way, Elijah Wood escapes death because he has a motorcycle.

The reality is we’ll be as prepared for an asteroid as the dinosaurs were. The question was often asked how so many Russian cameras were able to capture the meteor during the brief time it flew overhead. The answer was NOT because everyone knew that it would fly over Russia on that specific day at that specific time. Not at all, because each of us is as prepared for an asteroid as we are for a traffic light snapping and falling on us while crossing the street.

The answer turned out to be because Russia is a horrible place to live. Sadly it was made an even more horrible place to live because nobody knew an asteroid was coming.

If it’s not too much to ask, I would like to know that a giant asteroid is coming. As a short, skinny man with an average education and a pale, freckly complexion who is past his peak physical condition, I assume I would not be among those chosen to hide in the underground government bunkers, but I could at least start digging my own bunker. Or, since I’m past my peak physical condition, pay someone to dig me a bunker. Since money would no longer be worth anything, I’d probably have to find someone with less of an education than I have. All of this would of course take time. So can someone who majored in asteroid identification please start manning the telescopes?

Viva St. Valentine

“Love? Love?! Is that all that’s left?”

“Afraid so. There are worse things, you know.”

“No one will take me seriously if that’s what I’m known for.”

“Oh, come on! That’s ridiculous. Love is a many splendored thing. Love makes the world go round. All you need is love.”

“What the hell does any of that mean?”

“What? People say that. I’ve heard people say that.”

“Makes the world go round? That’s preposterous. It’s utterly impossible. Go round. Go round what?”

“Whatever. Look, love is what it’s all about.”

“You and I both know that love is nothing more than… than… than a battlefield.”

“Oooh, that’s a good one.”

“I can’t be known for love. What about the blind or the infirmed or the homeless?”

“I told you - those are all taken. You want to be a saint, you gotta be the saint of love.”

“Pish! St. Valentine, the patron saint of love? Nobody will hear the name Valentine and think love. For generations, the name Valentine has struck fear in the hearts of men. It’s stared down demons and defeated the most steadfast armies.”

“Dude, two days before you ended up here, the whole town saw you twirling around on your roof in your underwear.”

“I was drunk! Why do you think I fell off my roof and wound up in this position?!”

“And for that I would have gladly anointed you the patron saint of beer, but even that has been taken.”

“I can’t believe this has happened to me. You know, my brother Cupid spends every weekend spinning around on the roof in his underwear and he’s never fallen off once. Three weeks ago he filled up his quiver with a bunch of arrows and drug it up there with him. Somehow he got one stuck in his ass. Didn’t fall off, though. The first time I trot up there to show him how stupid he looks and I end up talking to you. That’s what I called him growing up – Cupid the Stupid. Serves me right, I guess.”

“If it’s any consolation, I have a feeling his eternal fate won’t be much different than yours. Look, for thousands of years to come, lovers will celebrate you on the anniversary of your death. They’ll give their hearts over to each other, commemorating their feelings all in the name of St. Valentine.”

“You think so?”

“Of course!”

“What about the lonely? The lovelorn? Those who have loved and lost, never to love again? Won’t they be miserable every year on this day?”

“Don’t worry, they have a patron saint of their own.”

And... They're Off!

Know anyone in their 30s? Do they run? Like, not to get anywhere, but for fun? Of course they do. Running seems to be the thing to do among people in my age bracket. Strike that. It seems to be the thing to do among everyone in my age bracket. Once people reach their 30s, in this country anyway, they run. Not from anything or to anywhere, physically speaking. Metaphorically, however, perhaps they run to get away from middle age, or to get back to their youth, or a combination of the two, or just one of those because really they’re the same thing. Whatever the reason, people run. Like a bunch of damn Forrest Gumps.

Once we cross the threshold into 30, a starter’s pistol goes off in our heads. I guess the thinking is, if you’re able to travel 13 miles in under half an hour, then you’re moving too fast. Slow down. Take in the sights. Breathe the fresh air. Feel the cramps. Pin a number to your shirt as if you’ve been tagged by the government.

Running is good for us. It clears the mind, clears the arteries, reduces excess weight and builds up endurance. And while running may be harder on the nipples than driving a car, it’s also good for the environment. Of course, nobody trades in their car for a pair of running shoes. It’s not typically done as a means of transport. I’ve yet to see someone run to the grocery store and then run home with a week’s worth of food in their arms. Runners tend to only move in circles. Or at least have cars waiting for them at the finish line. But even if they’re still destroying the environment, at least runners enjoy longer lives in the muck and the mire.

Our 30s are when we start to feel the years catching up to us. That’s why we’re dumbfounded when professional athletes that age manage to not puke on themselves after shooting a pair of particularly grueling free throws. People in their 50s and 60s, however, are quick to scoff at the notion of a 30-something feeling old. “You don’t know what it feels like to be old,” they mumble through the drool. But if the geezers could somehow remember their lives 20 years prior, they’d recall that their bodies started wearing down long before diapers became necessary again.

My hunch is that people don’t take up running to learn how to appreciate cramps or to aid the environment. Health plays a factor, as we all get more health conscious as the years tick by, but while the driving force certainly has to do with the movement of a clock, it’s our hope to make it turn backwards as opposed to our concern over triglyceride levels as it ticks forward.

Wanting to feel like we can still swim laps all day, outrun our kids or dunk a basketball. To stop compiling injuries to our necks, backs, arms and legs that were brought on by sleeping on them funny. To, as I said earlier, recapture our youth. That’s my hunch. At least it was.

Now I tend to think we just get braver once we hit our 30s. We become more willing to stare down our fears, to try things we weren’t willing to try before. At this point people usually know what they’re capable of, what their limitations are, but they’re also more confident. A lot of people have secured a career, gotten married, bought a house and had kids before saying goodbye to their 30s. That’s a lot to be confident for. Hell, raising kids who know not to hold their pet hamster out the window of a moving car is reason enough to give a person confidence.

Sure, it means we have a lot more to lose than we did in our 20s, but we understand the risks better too. We look to go after what stirs the fire inside us. Plus, there’s not much we should be afraid of trying. And there isn't.

Good luck, Sweetie. And look out, Everest.

Enough With Your Ambition

I don’t know how other people do it. By ‘it’ I mean anything. I don’t know how other people do anything.

I’m always impressed whenever anyone achieves the slightest of accomplishments. Like the other day when my daughter put together a 24 piece puzzle by herself. A modest achievement given her age and the fact that this wasn’t the first time she had worked on it. Nevertheless, I was immediately filled with pride over her obvious intelligence, and then quickly filled with shame when I remembered it took me twice as long to put it together the day before and I had to use a piece from a different puzzle in order to finish it.

My awe doesn’t stop at my kids, though. I find I’m most impressed by what professional athletes my age can do. Actually, if they’re my age I’m impressed they can do anything at all. Most professional athletes, no matter what the sport, are younger than I am. If you’re involved in a professional sport at my age and are able to remain upright for more than 15 consecutive minutes, you’re most likely a coach.

Every year around this time, I find myself particularly admiring the Super Bowl-winning quarterback, who in most seasons hasn’t reached his mid-30s or any part of his 30s, for leading a team through the duration of a grueling football season and then to the championship title. Sadly, though, that’s not so much impressive as it is the standard in professional football. The reality is that on those rare occasions when the Super Bowl-winning quarterback is in his mid-30s, everyone else really admires him for the simple fact that he can run 20 yards without vomiting all over his jersey.

But most non-professional athletes are wowed by rare athletic talents. What lazy slob wouldn’t be? I somehow manage to get blown over by Super Bowl winners, tiny puzzle assemblers and everyone in between. My jaw tends to drop when I hear of someone buying a house, earning a managerial job, writing a book, writing a screenplay, earning a Best Actor nomination, climbing Mt. Everest, or even just getting to Mt. Everest. I used to think doing any of those things is impressive at 25, but now I think they’re all pretty remarkable at 45.

I just never feel like I’m old enough, or talented enough, to pull off things the way others do who are my age or younger. I know one day when I’m strolling through the local farmer’s market while weighing the pros and cons of a cane compared to a scooter, I’ll mutter to myself, “How can that guy possibly run a fruit stand, he’s only 52 years old?”

A couple of psychological factors may be at play here. As one possibility, it seems likely that I use my incomprehension over others’ accomplishments as a way to justify my unimpressive, sloth-like behavior. Another factor might be… uh… no, I think that’s pretty much the answer (see, I can’t even come up with another reason).

There are those rare occasions when I surprise myself with what I can do. Like the time I proved not only how capable, but also how manly I am by fixing the gutter. Of course the only reason I had to fix the gutter is because I first proved how womanly I am by running over it with my car.

Even though trillions of people have done it before me, I still occasionally marvel at how I’m helping to raise two kids. Then again it’s too early to gauge how good of a job I’m doing. They’re still too young to get arrested or disappoint me with all of their major life decisions (although they are starting to disappoint me with their musical choices).

I can bowl over 200. Not in real life, but on Nintendo Wii. Is that something?

Perhaps I should give it a shot at an actual bowling alley. Or try to earn a Best Actor nomination. Or travel to Mt. Everest. I’m not climbing the damn thing; I’m in my mid-30s for crying out loud. You know how many jerseys I’d go through?

Santa vs. Santa Monica

“All rise. The honorable Henry T. Larimore presiding.”

Judge Larimore enters courtroom and sits behind bench.

“You may be seated. The court will now hear the case of Dwayne Fairborn vs. the city of Santa Monica, California. It says hear that Mr. Fairborn performed the duties of Santa Claus in the city’s annual Thanksgiving Day parade, but has yet to receive payment for the duties performed, is that correct?”

“Yes, your honor. The defense is arguing that my client didn’t live up to the terms of their agreement in performing his tasks. We plan to show that indeed he did and deserves to be paid the agreed upon amount, as well as the costs necessary to cover his medical expenses, which arose as a result of the deplorable working conditions unresolved by the city. ”

“It also says here that representing the city is the parade organizer, Mrs. Tulula Robinson. Is that correct?”

“Yes, your honor. My client, Mrs. Robinson, works for the city’s Chamber of Commerce and also sits on the tourism board. She was in charge of scheduling the parade and hiring the staff and event performers, including Mr. Fairborn.”

“Very well. The prosecution may begin its case by calling its first witness.”

“Thank you, your honor. We call Mr. Fairborn to the stand and, per his wishes, ask that the court refer to him as St. Nick.”

“Denied.”

“Alrighty.”

Mr. Fairborn takes the stand.

“Mr. Fairborn, you appeared in the Santa Monica Thanksgiving Day parade as Santa Claus on the morning of November 22^nd, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“And afterwards you sat in the library for two hours so children could tell you… excuse me… tell whom they thought was Santa Claus what they wanted for Christmas, correct?”

“That’s correct.”

“When the city agreed to hire you to perform these duties, when did they say you would be paid for these services?”

“On the 22^nd. As soon as the last kid was out of line, in fact.”

“And nearly a month later, have you been paid for your work on the 22^nd?”

“No.”

“The prosecution would also like to point out that in addition to not getting paid, Mr. Claus, sorry, Mr. Fairborn, was subjected to horrible working conditions and now suffers from a medical condition as a result of said conditions. For starters, the driver assigned to pick up my client from the airport was late and didn’t have an adequate amount of gas to complete the trip, which ultimately made him late to the parade. To rectify being stranded on the side of the road, my client was forced to push the car half a mile to the nearest gas station.

“Ironically, Mr. Fairborn would have been better off being dozens of miles from a gas station that day because the float he was required to sit on was not up to code and actually caught fire during the parade. In addition, at no time did he receive any breaks, even to clean himself up after a child threw up on him. If that wasn’t enough, one of the gentlemen on parole hired to play an elf urinated behind Santa’s, sorry, Mr. Fairborn’s chair while the children were waiting in line to speak to him.

“Perhaps the most humiliating moment for my client came when one of the reindeer used for the parade knocked him to the ground and began… uh… for lack of a better term… humping him behind the float. Finally, while my client did not get to take any breaks, the city was kind enough to grant him a complimentary lunch. Unfortunately, the medical condition I referred to earlier came about due to the turkey sandwich supplied by Mrs. Robinson. It seems the turkey was quite rancid and now my client has herpes.

“You do testify that this was your experience on the 22^nd, correct Mr. Fairborn?”

“Yes, all of that is correct.”

“That’s all from the prosecution, your honor.”

“Would the defense like to cross-examine this witness?”

“Yes, thank you, your honor. Mr. Fairborn, is it true that the Santa Monica police were called and upon arriving on the scene they administered a blood alcohol test on you?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“And is it also true that your blood alcohol level registered at nearly three times the legal driving limit?”

“I like to add a little rum to my eggnog.”

“I’m sure you do. Could that explain why you mistakenly remember a child throwing up on you when in fact it was your own dog that vomited on you?”

“I always let Buster sip on my eggnog. He loves it more than I do.”

“Perhaps your inebriated state also kept you from remembering that it was Buster clad in foam reindeer ears that humped you behind the float. The defense would like to point out to the court that Mrs. Robinson told Mr. Fairborn that he could not bring his dog with him on the day of the parade, but he chose to ignore that part of their agreement. This ultimately makes Mr. Fairborn responsible for the vomit ending up on his suit and the assault he withstood from his dog.

“We’d also like to point out that while the float did catch fire, it met all the necessary safety standards and Mr. Fairborn was also directly responsible for it going up in flames. The prosecution failed to mention that its client smoked throughout the parade, in direct conflict to the clearly visible “No Smoking” sign on his and all of the floats. If he wished for it to remain flame free, he should have considered not dropping his lit cigarette butts on the floor of the sled.”

“I guess I should have used my empty eggnog glass to put out my cigarettes.”

“Was it ever empty, Mr. Fairborn?”

“Ha! Good point. I guess not.”

“Your honor, at this point we’d like to submit the video taken of the day’s events to show that in addition to the vomit, the humping and the fire, Mr. Fairborn was also directly responsible for the urine behind his chair. The prosecution grossly misstated the situation, as the man in the elf costume was not on parole, he is Mrs. Robinson’s husband, Mr. Robinson. And the urine wasn’t his, it was urine belonging to Mr. Fairborn that leaked out of the bag he had taped to his leg as part of the amateur catheter he fashioned to himself.

“Unfortunately we cannot dispute the fact that the driver hired to pick up Mr. Fairborn at the airport was a little late and his car did run out of gas. But the driver pushed the car himself to the gas station. Mr. Fairborn probably remembers trying to fruitlessly push the car as it was parked at the station, having gas pumped into it. I feel I should mention that he did this while dressed in his full Santa costume, creating quite the scene for the other patrons. The driver in fact still managed to drop his already-inebriated passenger at the hotel two hours before Mr. Fairborn was supposed to arrive at the starting point of the parade route. It turns out Mr. Fairborn later failed to catch the cab from the hotel that was sent to take him to the parade and that’s why he was late.

“In closing, the city does not intend to pay Mr. Fairborn for his performance because of the gross violations of the work agreement, and it has no intention of paying for his medical bills either. When the front desk of the hotel called Mr. Fairborn’s room to let him know he had a cab waiting for him, roughly an hour and a half after he arrived, they reported hearing what sounded like prostitutes in his room. The clerk who called said he heard at least two female voices say, ‘Thanks for the hour,’ ‘That’s not my underwear,’ and ‘No, I can’t take a check, I’m a prostitute.’

“So I think the origin of your venereal disease is pretty clear, seeing as how you can’t get herpes from a turkey sandwich, can you Mr. Fairborn?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“The defense rests.”

The Regurgitation Goes 'Round and 'Round, 'Round and 'Round

Everyone in my house is throwing up. Everyone. My son, my daughter, my dog, my… well… that’s it. Almost everyone. Well… three out of the five of us are throwing up. That’s not everyone or even almost everyone, but it is 60%, which is a lot. A little more than half, I guess. So technically a majority of the people in my house are throwing up.

No, that’s not true either. Exactly half of the people in the house are throwing up. But a majority of those who reside in the dwelling. The dependents. Yeah, there we go. Wait, no. I can’t claim the dog as a dependent. Whatever. Three out of the five beings that sleep in the house are throwing up. For now.

Seeing, smelling, hearing or even talking about vomit nearly makes my wife throw up, so she may be next. Then again, worrying that I’ll soon be throwing up is enough to actually make me throw up before I ever contract anything. I don’t like throwing up. My wife doesn’t like other people’s throw up. We’re a sad pair, really.

Apparently something’s going around. Isn’t that always the case? If anyone ever vomits for reasons other than food or alcohol poisoning, it’s because something is going around. And that seems to be the case now. I guess it will always be the case too because if “something is going around” anytime someone vomits then it must not originate anywhere. No one starts the vomiting cycle; it just keeps spinning.

So how do we stop it? I’m afraid we don’t. I mean, we probably could, but I’m afraid it won’t happen. Literally afraid. Like I said, I don’t like throwing up. I’ve heard I’m not alone in this. What’s to like? The lurching, the awful taste, the awfuler smell, the awfulest bile left in your mouth afterwards, the sound of it hitting the toilet water or a trashcan or the floor of the car or whatever. The sinking feeling that that wasn’t the last of it. I’m getting nauseous just writing about it.

The worst part is knowing there’s no escaping it. If someone at work is sick, you and the rest of the office can berate them until they go home. You just tell them over and over again what a horrible person they are for exposing everyone else to it. You remind them how unimportant their work actually is and how out of touch with reality they are for thinking anyone will even notice if their duties are left undone for the next two weeks. But if you live with a person who has it and your main residence happens to be your only residence, then your days are numbered.

I guess I could starve myself in anticipation of the vomiting and hope that there’s nothing in my stomach to come back on me. But I think we all know that if you’re going to wretch, you’re going to wretch. Dry heaving won’t improve the situation much. Maybe I could only eat food that has a chance of tasting good coming up. Not sure what that would be, though. I don’t think that I’ve thrown up anything that tasted good on the way out. Oooh, that must mean I should eat things I’ve never eaten before, like liver and caviar. That might taste… o… k… when I throw… no, that can’t possibly be right. Screw it.

Whatever happens happens. Wish me well through the process and I’ll do the same for you when it’s your turn. Tick… tick… tick.