Laughter, The Best Addiction

Enough with the moody shit, ok? I'm tired of you all bringing me down. Today has been a rather weird day. I think somebody slipped some crack into my string cheese. Don't ask me how or why that is possible, it just is. Ok? Ok. It all started today when I almost died because this slow bastard two cars in front of me wouldn't speed up so I could squeeze past a semi in the merge lane. Ok, so I was already doing 50 in a 35, but that's not important. Actually none of this is. It just really pissed me off so I laid on the horn which succeeded in nothing but pissing me off even more. Then I started laughing. I don't know why. I just did. What's with all the questions? It wasn't just regular laughing, it was crazy, psychotic, I-just-murdered-your-87-year-old-grandmother-and-painted-the-diningroom-chairs-with-her-blood type of laughter. Just kidding. It was just a little chuckle to myself, but it set the mood for the rest of the day.

My own personal hilarity continued at work when Shelly, who is one of the best people you could ever dream of working with, showed up with what were supposed to be auburn highlights in her hair. Oh yeah, it was on like Donkey Kong from that point on. Not from me though. I am a gentleman after all. Ok, I made a "pinkish" comment, so sue me. Once we got down to the unit is when the fun really started. Soon after our arrival came, "Did you dye your hair pink?" from an inmate. I could see tendrils of steam starting to rise from her Shelly's ears. That was followed shortly by, "I like your strawberry highlights," from a guy who obviously has an infatuation with my coworker (which was cause for more laughter on my part). Later, from yet another inmate, came, "Why your hair purple?", followed quickly by a "I mean, that's cool. That your hair is purple. You're like punk-rock or something...I'm gonna leave now." Which was probably about the smartest thing that this person had said up to this point. Shelly was about to reach critical mass but that didn't stop me from rolling on the floor with laughter on the inside. After that the word must have spread on Inmate.com not to mention her hair because there were no more comments from anybody else. Ok, I had to make a comment about how well her hair went with her dark purple eyeliner, but isn't that what are friends for? It didn't take long for us all to start laughing about it.

The conversation eventually turned to another coworker of ours named Bradley. To put it nicely, Brad is not a team player. Because of this he has been given the nickname of Blue Falcon, which, as all you military people out there know, is code for "buddy fucker". What makes this totally awesome is the fact that his initials actually are B.F. Whenever a conversation about the Falcon comes up, it inevitably turns into a discussion about his inherent weirdness and lack of people skills coupled with the Falcon's mating preferences and falcon birdcalls. Somehow this degraded into an in depth study of children's shows such as "The Wonderpets" and their theme of "teamwork". This, of course, led to Shelly and I, who are both parents of toddlers, to singing songs from the show.

I think by now you probably realize that this post is about absolutely nothing, but seriously though, somebody had to have slipped crack into the string cheese, or maybe it was in the yogurt that I stole from the refrigerator. Either way, any hint of professionalism there might have been was out the window and on it's way to Elsewhere. Crack is whack, man. Crack is whack.

Thought of the day:

"The most wasted of all days is one without laughter" - E. E. Cummings

At What Cost This Life?

Two days ago I helped to save a man's life. He had hanged himself with two belts knotted together from the bottom of the stairs on his housing tier at the prison where I work. When Larry, the other officer, and I reached him, I lifted the inmate and and Larry pulled the belt from around his neck. We laid the inmate on the floor and he had no pulse and no breath. Larry and I performed CPR and started his heart and breathing after a couple of minutes. Then the ambulance arrived and the EMT's hauled him off to the emergency room.

This is not the first time that this particular inmate had attempted suicide by hanging. He had tried a month and a half earlier and I happened to be the officer on scene for that one too. For what reason he was back at our facility, I have no idea. The man obviously wanted to die. This was no "cry for help". These attempts were, pardon the term, dead serious. The responsibilities of my job, however, have prevented him from being successful twice. Other factors stemming from this situation are causing me a moral dilemma.

The powers that be have submitted recommendations for Larry and I to receive Lifesaving Medals or "Letters of Appreciation" or something on that order. This is what I am having a problem with: While performing the my duties as a Correctional Officer for the State of Idaho I prevented a man from killing himself. This man, as of the last updates, is now in a vegetative state. Would it not have been better just to let him die? Do I deserve a medal for this? I would rather be dead than a nothing, a shell of a human being. At what point does duty supercede personal choice? Does anybody have an answer to these questions? I sure as hell don't. Somebody help me with this. Please.

Thoughts of the day:

“Suicide is a fundamental human right. This does not mean that it is morally desirable. It only means that society does not have the moral right to interfere” - Thomas Szasz

“There is but one truly serious philosophical problem and that is suicide.” - Albert Camus

Next To Godliness...Or Something Like That

My wife says I'm messy. Or at least I think she does. I'm never 100% sure about anything she says anymore. She's always saying stuff like, "You could at least pick up her toys instead of just stepping over them?", or "How may times do I have to ask you to put your dirty dishes in the dishwasher? And to rinse them off before you put them in there?" Then there's my all-time favorite: "Why can't you wipe down the toilet when you're done using it? It doesn't clean itself, you know." I know, right? Nag, nag, nag...It's kinda like white noise.

Anyway, the problem is that she's turning my daughter into a Neat Nazi too. It's not like Em isn't totally OCD already or anything, having to wash her hands every five minutes, like after going to the bathroom (what's up with that anyway?). But now she bosses me around like her mom, telling me to change her diapers, or to put my book away, or to wash my hands after I use the bathroom. Today it was dirty socks. We have a pile of shoes next to the boxes in my livingroom. It seemed like a logical place to leave dirty socks. Am I right or am I right? Apparently not. Apparently that is what the dirty clothes basket in the closet is for. Isn't that just a little inconvenient? It started with the wife asking, "Why do you always have to leave your dirty socks lying around everywhere?" (I didn't know the shoe-pile had a name, but it does. That name is Everywhere.) Then from the next room, as if she were being beseiged by an army of stinky crew-length Hanes, comes the exasperated voice of Emma: "DIRTY SOCKS! EVERYWHERE!", followed shortly by a maniacal laugh.

It's not like I am purposely being messy or anything. I am just a little forgetful. Ok, maybe a lot forgetful. But that doesn't change the fact that I do try to help out a little bit. I'll change a diaper every once in a while or empty the dishwasher. I also take out the trash if it's blocking the door when leave for work. Is nothing good enough to please her? Ok, so I do leave my socks Everywhere and I don't pick up Em's toys all the time. She's just going to throw them all over again anyway. And, FYI, the toilet does clean itself. It's always clean when I get home from work.

What do you want from me woman? Tell me. TELL ME!

Thoughts of the day:

"The male is a domestic animal which, if treated with firmness, can be trained to do most things." - Jilly Cooper

"Men live in a fantasy world. I know this because I am one, and I actually receive my mail there." - Scott Adams

Death To Ty Pennington!

I have found new victims on which to focus my inner rage and worldly hate - Ty Pennington and the rest of the "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition" crew. (Yes, Oprah, you can finally take a breath of sweet relief and come out of hiding. For now.) How dare they rape my tear ducts and pilfer my precious optical lubrication? I am a man damnit! It is unfair for you, Ty, to show me a crying mother and a joyous mentally handicapped child and make my eyes water. And that choked up feeling? It just plain sucks. How am I supposed to maintain my manhood when you keep showing communities of hundreds of people pulling together to help underpriveleged families? I mean, when does that ever really happen? Seriously now. And pulling the bus away to reveal the house to an ecstatic family - that's just a low blow.

Let it be known - and this is the only warning that I am going to give - that I am on to you Ty Pennington. I will hunt you down and I will reveal you for what you really are. I will show the world that you are Lucifer incarnate here to strip men of their virility. I will show men everywhere that they will no longer have to worry for their reputation or the risk of dehydration. I'm coming for you, Ty. Your army of do-gooders with their hammers and saws will not be able to stop me. I will find you. You will rue the day you made me cry...I mean...made my eyes water...a little...barely...You're gonna pay!

Thought of the day:

"I have learned two lessons in my life: first, there are no sufficient literary, psychological, or historical answers to human tragedy, only moral ones. Second, just as despair can come to one another only from other human beings, hope, too, can be given to one only by other human beings." - Elie Wiesel

The Centurion

Well, as long as I'm going to do this blog thing, I might as well jump in with both feet. I know, I know, I'm about a century behind everybody else in doing this, but here are my 100 goofy (or maybe not) facts about me:

1. When my mom was in labor with me, she was driven to the hospital in the back of a drug-dealing gangster's pimp-mobile.
2. I once had a Victoria's Secret model tell me she was jealous of my eyelashes.
3. I have been to 12 different countries, none of them were either Mexico or Canada.
4. I once played a practical joke on Geraldo Rivera.
5. I'm semi-ambidextrous.
6. I can count in German.
7. My eyes used to be brown, but now they are mostly green.
8. In my past life I'm pretty sure I was a fighter pilot in WWII, probably flying P-51 Mustangs in Europe. I died.
9. I have one of the highest security clearances in the military (Top Secret-SCI) but have never used it.
10. I used to illegally collect golf balls at the American Falls golf course for candy money.
11. On February 21, 2005, I almost died in Iraq when a rocket hit our fuel dump. The next day I was in Boise, ID, for the death of my father.
12. I have met Clint Eastwood 3 times.
13. I used to go sledding at the golf course where I collected balls.
14. I am a distant cousin of Tom Brokaw.
15. I was the Boise Regional Chess Champion in the 6th grade.
16. I have a birthmark on the tip of my you-know-what.
17. My favorite drink is the Long Island Iced Tea.
18. It drives me nuts when people don't signal their turns.
19. Female soccer players are the sexiest thing in sports.
20. I cannot bend the tip of my right pinky due to a machete accident.
21. I have had silver hairs on my head since I was 15.
22. I am the Eggman.
23. My birthday was on the 37th anniversary of the bombing of Hiroshima.
24. When I was 12 I had a testicular torsion.
25. My elbows hyper-extend.
26. School buses and slow drivers are my #1 causes of road rage.
27. I am a geographical genius. There's a plaque in my elementary school to prove it.
28. I am the master of useless knowledge.
29. I hate avocados but I love guacamole. Go figure.
30. Hot sauce is a gift from the gods.
31. I currently own 332 cd's.
32. When I was a kid I thought tigers were the coolest animal ever. I still do.
33. I took three years of Latin in high school and hardly remember any of it.
34. Valonus Amniculi is my real name - in Latin.
35. I am a Marine Corps expert rifleman.
36. I voted for Bush the first time. For this I apologize.
37. I could read by the time I was three and a half. My first book was "The Hobbit".
38. I'm a cuddler.
39. I got my first "girlfriend" by giving her a dollar in 3rd grade. Her name was Nikki. We held hands.
40. My first grade teacher tried to force me to write righthanded - until my mom threatened to hit her.
41. I used to be a telephone surveyor.
42. I have been to NYC but never saw the Empire State Building.
43. My dad once threw my bike and broke it because I wasn't learning how to ride it fast enough. I didn't have another bike for two years.
44. I keep any coin I get minted before 1960.
45. I could live on Asian cuisine.
46. I could live on Italian cuisine.
47. I could live on Mexican cuisine.
48. I would die for a good plate of BBQ ribs.
49. Every year I say I'm going to switch football teams. Every year I stick with Green Bay.
50. I have had sex during an earthquake.
51. My wife and I drove from Boise to Jacksonville, NC, in 2.5 days.
52. When I die I want my ashes thrown off the Bixby Bridge in Big Sur.
53. I prefer brunettes.
54. I'm not racist but I love racial slurs.
55. I have eaten camel.
56. Burnt matches is one of my favorite smells.
57. I have a homemade tattoo on my right ankle that says "FMC" - for the Flightline Muppet Club.
58. Sometimes I really do have Jedi reflexes.
59. I can write my name in Arabic.
60. With a good team, I could completely remove and re-install an engine from a CH-46E Sea Knight helicopter in under 30 minutes.
61. I have a cat named Simian. He has 14 toes.
62. My favorite beer is Yuengling, from America's oldest brewery.
63. I didn't get drunk for the first time until I was 19. Coincidently I got married at 19 too.
64. I have never taken an illegal drug, but if I had my choice it would probably be psilocybin mushrooms.
65. My Marine Corps nickname was "Guido".
66. At one time I drove a silver 2001 VW Beetle. It was called the "Turbo Dome" by my condescending peers.
67. I loved that car.
68. My first car was a '66 Ford F100 pickup which is currently rusting away in my stepmom's driveway.
69. I played DE and TE in school.
70. Although I scored in the 99 percentile in national testing, my final highschool GPA was 2.47.
71. I can't drink Crown Royal anymore.
72. I can't drink Southern Comfort anymore.
73. I plan on going to school to be a pilot, or a lawyer, or a history teacher, or a forensic scientist, or a...
74. More than one person has told me that I should be a stand up comedian.
75. I have a badge.
76. I can disassemble and rebuild an M-16A2 service rifle in under a minute.
77. I have "hobbit feet" which are a constant source of amusement (and disgust) for my wife.
78. I am not a "boob man" or an "ass man", I am a "woman man".
79. I love cemetaries.
80. I can and have chewed a whole roll of Bubble Tape. All at once.
81. WWII is my "favorite war".
82. I didn't cry at the end of "Old Yeller". The dog was rabid. He had to die. Get over it.
83. I did, however, cry at the end of "Saving Private Ryan".
84. Spanish women are the hottest women on earth.
85. I have been through 3 hurricanes.
86. I nearly died in Yellowstone Nat'l Park when my dad almost drove us off a bridge.
87. Clowns don't scare me, but they all should die.
88. I have a psychotic hatred of anything having to do with Oprah.
89. My favorite word is "onomatopoeia".
90. I always wanted an RC plane. I never got one.
91. My oldest cat, Shadow, is 17. I just can't make myself get her put to sleep.
92. When I was 5 I stuffed a lilac pod up my sister's nose and lost it. I thought she was going to die. I also thought I was going to get grounded if she died.
93. I once ate a fly for $25.
94. In my junior year of high school I had a short story published in a literary magazine. I can't remember the name of the magazine or the name of the story.
95. I was named after Waylon Jennings.
96. My earliest memory is of standing in the kitchen watching dust in the sunbeams coming through the window. I was two and a half.
97. George Carlin is my hero.
98. I have read "Lord of the Rings" thirteen times. Every time I catch something new.
99. I am an accomplished cross-stitcher.
100. I started playing chess with my dad when I was 5. I didn't beat him until I was 13.

There, I did it. Finally. Now I have a headache. Where is the Advil?

Thought of the day:

"Autobiography is only to be trusted when it reveals something disgraceful. A man who gives a good account of himself is probably lying, since any life when viewed from the inside is simply a series of defeats." - George Orwell

VKP Day

Prologue

For the past 6 months, ever since we moved into the Kristin Park Apartments in March, The Gargoyle made our life a living hell. She harassed, stank and complained, and in the end nearly destroyed my family. The Gargoyle, with her reign of terror, started what will be forever known as the Kristin Park War. What ensued was not only a struggle for our basic rights as apartment tenants, but a battle for human dignity and peace of mind. This is the story of that historic conflict.

It Begins

It started with the stench of cigarettes in our bedroom. It seemed to amass in our closet almost like a living thing, creeping out at night to strangle us while we slept. At first we thought it was the water heater seeing as that was where it was stationed but that turned out to be a false lead. The smell was so bad that we couldn't hang any clothes in there (they are still in boxes in the living room) or they too would smell like Satan's asshole. We eventually came to realize that the stench was emanating from the apartment of our 68 year old downstairs neighbor named Juanita, a Spanish expatriate (yes, at one time she was human). Being the kind and naive neighbors we were, we nicely asked her to follow the apartment rules and smoke outside. This was our first mistake. From this point things began to quickly escalate.

Soon began the complaints from below. It started as a subtle, "If you don't stop running around up there I'm going to cut off your legs and deep-fry them," to my 2 year old daughter. As emotionally scarring as this may be to a 2 year old, we took it in stride and ignored it. Then it turned to me "stomping around" when I got off of work at 11 o'clock at night. Meanwhile the smoking continued.

Then, one day in March, as I again woke up with my eyes red from cigarette smoke and my lungs hurting I remarked to my wife, "It'll be a wonder if she doesn't burn this whole place down." That very same night it nearly happened. We awoke choking from thick black smoke at approximately 3:30 in the morning. It seems that Juanita (even then she was regarded as human) had fallen asleep with a cigarette in her hand and had caught the dining room floor on fire. Our problems were nearly ended there when she almost died from smoke inhalation. Feeling no remorse I called the fire department and notified the apartment managers. Finally, we hoped, something would be done. She was told to smoke outside "or else".

The Battle Is Joined

So she complied, kind of. During the day she would squat outside on her folding chair, with the door open mind you, and smoke. And glare. In her bright red stretchy pants and black and white striped t-shirt. This is how she became known as The Gargoyle. Of course she blamed everything on us so things got worse.

In mid-May we received the first notice. "Someone" had complained that we were throwing dirty diapers off the back porch into the back yard. I will state right now that this never happened. I called to ask who the "Someone" was and was told that the management was not allowed to reveal that information. But I knew who it was, and they knew I knew. From this point on I decided to take the offensive. I made my first official complaint of many about her still smoking inside.

The Darkest Hour

For the next couple months things looked grim for the Brooks' Residence. There were almost daily threats from the monster below about amputated limbs and scorching oil punctuated by notices from the management about imaginary trash and pets, all based on false information. The Gargoyle even had my stepmom's car towed from her parking spot which is never used. Then started the calls to the police.

While I was at work and unable to defend myself and my family, she would call the police and complain of "disturbances of the peace" and of me stomping around at 3 o'clock in the morning while I slept. Though no charges were ever pressed, these encounters often left my wife reduced to tears and me in a rage when I returned home after work. Stress began to build and my marital relationship was strained to the limits, causing domestic disturbances which led to more calls to the police from downstairs. The elevation of stress seemed exponential. It was during this time period that she made her fatal mistake.

The Downfall

In August The Gargoyle sank to an all time low and called my work. This proved to be her undoing. This was the straw that broke the camel's back. Harassing my family, though not nice, was tolerable. But attempting to disrupt mine and my family's livelihood and sole source of income was taking things too far. I made a harassment complaint to the management stating that if they did not take care of the situation, it would come to legal issues and they would be forced to be involved at their own expence. This they did not care for.

Unbeknownst to me, I had had silent allies throughout my battle. Like the French Resistance harrying the Nazis, my other neighbors had been submitting complaints against The Gargoyle, chipping away at her war-making capabilities. This coupled with my harassment complaint caused her defenses to crumble. At the end of August she was informed that her lease would not be renewed. She had until the end of September to be moved out. This was what we had been waiting for. Victory seemed certain - but not quite. As a last ditch effort she played the "old crippled lady" card and gained a one month extension. Yes, The Gargoyle would be leaving, but not before another month of hell had passed.

She did her best for the month of September, I'll give her that. Smoking outside stopped completely and was resumed indoors. Loud, thumping Spanish music greeted us early every morning. Four days ago we received one last notice for a baby wipe that was allegedly thrown in her back yard, though no wipe could be produced. Then, as of two days ago, she was gone, leaving behind nothing but Gargoyle stank and a broken end table. The Kristin Park War was finally over. Victory was ours!

The Aftermath

Yes, the evil monster beneath my floor has finally moved. Though I wish I could sing "Ding-Dong The Gargoyle's Dead", alas, this is not so. The menace of The Gargoyle still exists out there somewhere. Nevertheless, it is a time of celebration - and recovery. Finally the stench of cigarettes, nasty food and even nastier old lady may finally dissipate. Maybe sometime in the near future my clothes will be able to claim their rightful place in the bedroom closet. Even more importantly, it is a time to rebuild the family bond that was so badly damaged in the war. But as it says on the Brooks' family crest: "Perseverando" - we will persevere.

Thought of the day:

"Make the best of what is in your power, and take the rest as it happens." - Epictetus