Ride Like a Man

There are a lot of things that define a man. Not all of them are accurate or fair, but even some of those things are generally accepted in society’s definition of A MAN. I’m not referring to the anatomical definition of course. That’s easy. Except in the case of Chas Bono. That’s a mind bender. I’m talking about things like the following:

How much money does he make? (inaccurate and unfair).

What kind of music does he like? (inaccurate but possibly fair).

Is he a good husband? Or Father? (accurate and fair).

Can he grow a cool goatee (totally fair).

There are probably hundreds of other things that people take into cursory consideration when they subconsciously decide if a male is A MAN. And, like deciding if Ben Affleck is a quality actor, or French-Canadians are rude and arrogant, or if the ugly girl should marry the vampire or the werewolf, opinions will, invariably, vary (He is, they are, and who cares).

I’m sure there are people out there who don’t think John Mayer is a “real” man. How can I be sure? I’m one of them. On the flip side, I’m sure there people who think John Mayer is the epitome of A MAN. He does have “manly” qualities. He’s apparently a commitment-phobe and he has some slick tattoos. You see? Those two things I just mentioned are stereotypical “man” qualities. You don’t ever hear a chick say “You know Becky is a REAL woman, with all her one night stands and that Grim Reaper tattoo on her chest!”

When I got my motorcycle recently, several people asked me if it made me feel like A MAN. Some mockingly (my guy friends - including the guy who sold it to me), some with genuine curiosity (BOTH of my shrinks), and some because I’d asked them to call me “Spyder”.

As a guy who has struggled with his image of what a man should be, and constantly questioned whether or not he has those qualities, the question “does having a motorcycle make you feel man” intrigued me. The answer is yes.

This ain’t my first motorbike, you see. I’ve had three other motorcycles that I barely rode on the real streets because I was scared. The last one I had, I was determined, would see the open road. Or at least McCarran. I enlisted the help of my pal Trey to teach me to ride. The first time out, I laid the bike down 20 feet out of his driveway. “Well, got that out of the way” I told myself. No major damage, and though I could tell Trey was having second, and probably as many as
26th thoughts, we continued. When I made a left turn and used my right foot to stop myself from side swiping the curb, we pulled over.

“Where are we going next?” I asked Trey, trying to convince him, and myself, that going anywhere else was a good idea. He wasn’t buying it.

“We’re gonna make a right off this street, head back to my house, and put your bike up for sale on craigslist.” He said, more than matter of factly.

I sold the bike, To a chick. That hit me smack in the manhood. If I said she was a lesbian, would that make it better? She was and it doesn’t.

Fast forward to last summer. I was hanging around Jim McClain (I’ll let you decide if this was an upgrade in companions from Trey) and he’s a biker to the core. I got the bug again and I got myself in the Riders Edge Safety Course at Reno Harley. In a nutshell, I learned to feel safe on a motorcycle. I got some good tips and encouragement from the guys at Harley (yeah, even Kerr) and eventually got motorcycle number 4. And yes, as I said, it does make me feel like a man.

Let me explain.

Some of the things that make me feel like a man are: I’m an adequate and sometimes even good husband. I think I’m a pretty good dad. I’ve learned to not apologize for who I am, and I almost always admit when I’m mistaken, and try to make amends. And now, I've overcome my fear of riding a motorcycle. Every time I get on it and go from my house near McQueen High School to the Sparks Marina, or from work to Idlewild Park, I feel like a man. I’m conquering something that I struggled with for years. I assume that when I get the balls to ride it on the freeway and faster than 60 mph, that feeling will grow even more.

See, it’s a good lesson. If I can beat that fear, what other fears might I be able to overcome? Could I get on an airplane and fly to Florida for Spring Training? Could I take a real stab at being a full time comic? Could I put my hand in my daughter’s gecko tank to feed it? The answers are maybe, maybe and not a fucking chance.

You get my point.

And if you don’t, here it is. Overcoming your fear can make you feel like a man. Even if you’re a woman. Or Chas Bono. Tattoos and fistfights and a high pain threshold and an iPod full of Pantera songs don’t make you a man.

I probably wouldn’t tell a guy with tattoos, a high pain threshold and an iPod full of Pantera songs he wasn’t a man. But I did ride my Harley on Sparks Blvd the other day… so someday I might.

Streaking

Brett Favre's incredible streak of 297 straight starts as an NFL quarterback ended this past Sunday. His streak of getting away with sending pictures of his frank and beans to hot girls is intact at 1.

That we know of.

297 straight times of suiting up for an NFL game is an impressive streak, given the brutality that takes place every Sunday on the field. But there are some other, less glamorous, and certainly less publicized streaks that are equally as impressive.

For example:

Jimmy Lee Dykes of Bowlegs, OK delivered the local newspaper every day for 43 years. From the time he was nine years old until his parents mysteriously disappeared and he was forced to move from their home to his Aunt Frassy's basement. Jimmy Lee currently makes $75 to $80 a month mowing lawns in the summer, rides the same Huffy bicycle he started with, and hopes one day to see "a real live girl totally nekkid... without payin'".

Mitch Broiles who hails from Jacksonville, FL. hasn't missed a slow pitch softball game for his team, The AristoBats, since he began playing in 1987. Despite a dislocated elbow, a ruptured umbilical hernia, and six DUI's, ol' number 69 (what else?) has played every game at first base on Tuesday nights for 23 years. Not surprisingly Mitch can tell you that his career batting average is .567 (It would be higher, he claims, but that year with the DUI's was tough, as Mitch hits better "with a bunch a beers in me..."). Of the 6 Mrs. Broiles' who've attended Mitch's games over that time, the current one holds the longest "married to Mitch" streak at 7 months. Congrats Mr. and Mrs. Broiles and their 3 children!

And lastly...

Reno's own Dave Mencarelli is the owner of a streak of dubious nature. He has NEVER won a single game of Madden football online against a live opponent on the Playstation Network. Not one game. He's never as much as led at halftime. In several games, he hasn't even gained positive yardage. Most of his opponents have been children in their early to late teens, some of which have been interrupted by cries of "IS YOUR HOMEWORK DONE?!" and still beaten him soundly. Dave hopes to one day have a lead at halftime and disconnect, refer to himself in the third person on a blog site where he has less than 5 followers (CHECK!), and get an xBox 360 so he can actually pay to get his ass kicked in online games by kids without armpit hair.

A Preemptive Release of Some Of My Private Documents (or "Screw You, Julian").

Technology can be a cruel mistress. The internet was originally invented to bring the world and it's varied peoples closer together. As long as those varied peoples could afford a computer and AOL.

But that was a long time ago. The internet has evolved. It's become more useful than an "information superhighway". It now allows us to reconnect with our 3rd grade girlfriends, know exactly what Kim Kardashian is up to 24 / 7, and find out what the temperature is in Cayenne, French Guiana, with just a few keystrokes (86 as of this writing). Any of that "information" seem "super" to you? I didn't think so.

And now, Wikileaks.

Releasing sensitive government documents in the midst of all the tweets, youtube videos with cute kids or cats, and soccer scores. MUCKING UP the REAL things the interenet is intended for.

Personal attacks from Wikileaks can't be far behind. So I've decided to do what spin doctors call "getting out in front of it". Before they get me, I'm going to begin exposing my OWN private documents. Right here. On the internet. Beginning with a few years worth of letters to Santa Claus. I've corrected the spelling errors to spare myself and my teachers the embarrassment.

December 11th, 1975 (age 8)

Dear Santa,

Well here we are. Two years since I asked for the Big Wheel, and still no Big Wheel. While I appreciate the Tinker Toys and the Fisher Price Action Garage, I really kinda wanted the Big Wheel, which is why I'll ask for it once again. You brought one for Stevie McMann, a fact which he never lets me forget, and you even gave one to Violet - and she's only THREE. I don't know if there is some kind of Big Wheel lottery that you and the elves do, but I feel like outside of a few incidents (Mrs. Cahill's dog was NOT my fault), I've been "nice". Being good for a Big Wheel is a lot more incentive than doing it for goodness sake. The rest of my list is as follows:

Electric Football

J.J. from Good Times doll (that would be dyno-mite!)

Shrinky Dinks

Easy Bake Oven (I don't care what my dad says)

Steve Austin Six Million Dollar Man action figure (the one where you can look thru the back of his head and use his bionic eye)

That's it for this year, along with of course, the Big Wheel. My dad says I'll be too old for it next year (but he also says only girls and sissies want an Easy Bake Oven, but I don't think knowing how to bake is gender specific).

Mom says she'll skip the cookies and leave you the Pall Mall's and that funny smelling juice you like.

Merry Christmas and say hi to Missus Claus for me!

December 9th 1985 (age 17)

Hey Clausmeister,

I know I haven't asked for 6 or 7 years but I'm ready to try one more time for the Big Wheel and if it'll help, I'm also ready to admit Mrs. Cahill's dog WAS my fault. I wish I'd have had the chance to apologize before she croaked. Hope things are rad at the North Pole! This year has been pretty bodacious for me. The acne has started to clear up and Missy Higgenbotham actually made eye contact with me at the Homecoming game. Dennis says it's becuase I spilled my Jolt on her, but I think it's because my new haircut makes me look exactly like Sonny Crockett.

Anyway, this year's list should be pretty easy to fill, so here goes:

The new Stryper cassette; Soldiers Under Command. It's supposed to be gnarly.

A bass guitar, like the one Nikki Sixx plays in the "Shout at the Devil" video (is there some contradiction in asking for that on Jesus' birthday? If there is I'll take one like Mike Anthony has in "Jump". Van Halen FOR EVER!)

Some Le Tigre shirts in assorted pastel colors

Some of those cool Rags pants

a chain steering wheel for the ol' pinto - I think some bitchen' accesories will make it totally rad

That's it for this year. As always I'll leave the smokes and the screwdriver, though I guess I won't put the muffins out since you don't eat them and the easy bake oven is pretty much dead anyway.

Say hello to Mrs. Claus for me.

The not so Great Outdoors

I spent the weekend out among strangers and after being exposed to them for more than 10 minutes or so, I'm beginning to understand why on-line gaming is so popular. If you're playing Warcraft or Halo 2 and the white trashiness begins to bubble to the surface, you can escape with the flick of a switch. If only it were so easy in the real world. It's not. So I beg of you, if you know anyone who is guilty of the offenses I'm about to discuss - slap them. Hard. Then tell them to read this (or as will be neccessary in many cases, read it to them). Thanks.

1. Keep your mutt on a leash. For chrissakes, at least WATCH it. If it gets near my dogs (who ARE tied to the trailer) or my kid, I'm gonna throw rocks at it. I'm willing to bet lots of trips to the vet or the emergency begin with the words "Oh, don't worry he's harmless". Looking at the empty beer bottles lying around your Dale Earnhardt Jr. blanket and the tribal armband tattoo, I'm not willing to trust your judgement about your dog. Just keep it under control. I'm sure too that it's incessant yelping doesn't bother you while you're out on your boat, but if I wanted to hear that, I'd still be dating my last girlfriend. And how the FUCK do YOU afford a boat? Are marijuana sales not affected by the economy?

2. It's a safe bet that everyone within 200 yards doesn't enjoy Lynard Skynard or Disturbed as much as you. Please turn it down. Or off.

3. It's none of my business if you want to yell things like "Fuckin' shit ass motherfucker" in front of your kids, but I don't really wanna hear it and I don't want my kid hearing it either. She spends enough time in the car with me to know more curse words than most marines, and I don't need her to hear it from you.

4. I'm sure you think you look BAD ASS riding your stand up jet ski 50 mph in the cove, but the speed limit is 10. TEN. It's ten because kids are swimming in the cove. It's ten because no one wants to hear the whine of your engine (though I'd take that over the Lynard Skynard). It's ten because that's as high as a lot of you can count. Bottom line is - it's ten.

5. Don't lollygag at the boat launch. Be ready when it's your turn. Don't back your trailer down there and then stop to change into your bitchen swim trunks with the skull and flames (how old ARE you?). Don't make us wait while you chit chat with your pals about the "fuckin' shit ass motherfucker who told you to tie up your dog and turn down your music". Just put the boat in the water and MOVE.

I know this seems bitter and judgemental. It is. After spending my saturday next to what amounted to a travelling carnival with no rides (that picture is a CHICK), I'm pissed. Cigarette butts flicked into the water and washing up in front of my spot. Potato chip bags being blown all over the beach and into the lake. And the double negatives? Don't get me started.

Just try to have some common courtesy and think about your surroundings. We're all in this together whether I like it or not.

And I can't get a tan in World of Warcraft.

Smmmmmokin!

There’s an old, albeit graphic, proverb that says “you don’t shit where you eat”. It refers to carrying on a romantic relationship at your place of employment. I guess it means that the unpleasantness that could result from screwing around romantically with a co-worker is tantamount to defecating in your breakfast nook. I could see that, considering I met my first ex-wife at work.

A more appropriate saying might be “you don’t smoke where you, or anyone else eats”. I quit smoking two years ago. I enjoyed a post-meal cigarette more than I’d like to admit, but I never had a problem waiting until I got outside to have one. I never smoked inside my own home. I didn’t think my addiction should affect my daughter or the other diners at a restaurant for that matter. Even before smoking sections were eliminated from most places, I didn’t sit in them.

I also spent years working in bars and restaurants where patrons smoked. I felt bad for my co-workers that didn’t smoke and were forced to suffer second hand smoke, which is a proven health hazard. I felt worse that we were subjected to piped in music which featured the likes of Pink, James Blunt and The Pussycat Dolls, but the adverse effects of that, though obvious, have not been scientifically born out.

Nevada lawmakers took the health hazards of second hand smoke into account when they introduced the Clean Indoor Air Act. So did the people who voted it into reality in 2006.

Now, almost three years later, the same lawmakers have decided that those health hazards aren’t nearly as important as kowtowing to businesses that claim to be drastically injured financially by the anti-smoking law. In December, when 36 months have passed and changes can be made to the law, businesses will be able to allow smoking inside as long as no minors are present or a wall is put up to separate a designated smoking area. I’d be more inclined to be excited about a wall being erected to separate me from any minors, but again, no confirmed health hazard in being exposed to pants worn low enough to show parts of the anatomy no one wants to be privy to.

There’s a reason the law doesn’t allow changes to be made to the act until three years have passed. Before that, no one can clearly see what the positive and negative effects are. The positive results of this one are that employees are no longer subjected to the dangers of second hand smoke, people who want to eat dinner at a sports bar don’t have to get a babysitter, and I don’t come home from a night of shooting pool smelling like stale Pall Malls.

The negative results? I don’t know. I haven’t done any research but I can’t think of any businesses off the top of my head that were forced to close up because the anti-smoking bill cost them too many customers. The last restaurant I worked at eliminated the smoking section before they were required to, and business increased.

Non-smokers and smokers are used to things they way they are. It’s been long enough for everyone to adapt. Changing things now would be like getting back together with your ex-girlfriend that your friends hated just when you were finally, really over her.

They say it only takes twenty one days to break a habit. Smokers have had over two years to get used to not smoking indoors in public. I’m sure it wasn’t easy.

It doesn’t seem fair to ruin all that hard work.

Jesus on the Mound

(read in the style of "Casey at the Bat")

Things weren’t looking good for the local hometown nine
Jesus wasn’t happy, he’d spent the season riding pine
The skipper wouldn’t use him, he said Jesus had a ‘tude
He couldn’t understand it, he’d heard the lord was a mellow dude

When he pitched batting practice, Jesus wasn’t nice
Every hacker stepping in would fan - not once, but twice
His fastball whistled in too fast, his slider bent like wire
He threw a nasty change up and his arm would never tire

No one could get the bat around, no one could quite connect
Jesus grinned and said aloud “What did you expect”?
Sportsmanship was lost on him, this one so pure and clean
When he hit the baseball field, the son of God was mean

The other men were angry when Jesus took the mound
Like Kelly Leak he made the plays, no ball would touch the ground
Though Jesus had knuckleball and vast amounts of nerve
One thing had plagued him dauntingly, he couldn’t throw a curve

At every vital juncture, when a game was still in doubt
Jesus tried the bender and rarely got an out
He’d kick the dirt dejectedly while tears began to swell
“You’re no Sandy Koufax” some atheist would yell

Now the score was much to close and the bullpen had been lame
The skipper called to Jesus “You’re going in the game!”
Jesus needed no warm up, he was already loose
The skipper begged him “Jesus, please don’t throw the deuce”.

The visitors had a man on third, the clean up hitter at the plate
Jesus needed just one out, to seal their losing fate
He quickly got to two strikes, throwing nothing but the heat
The batter standing in the box, staring at his feet

Jesus toed the rubber and heard the skipper call
“Jesus, please don’t do it! Not the breaking ball!”
Jesus had been stubborn, yes, all season long
Sticking with that curveball, had turned out to be wrong

Jesus reared and tossed the ball, it had an easy pace
The batter waited patiently, a smile grew on his face
But then the ball, it did a thing, to this grinning hitter
He lunged and missed mightily Jesus had thrown a splitter!

The crowd was going wild, they screamed and whooped and yelled
Jesus swallowed his foolish pride and the enemy had been felled
A lesson had been learned that day, a change in some behavior
Jesus got the final out and became a real savior.

Amen.

Fly Right

I’m no orator. I’m certainly not qualified, officially, to teach anything. I do, though, have some useful “real-world” knowledge, and I don’t mean I know where Puck is now or what the Las Vegas cast did on their summer vacation. I mean I’ve learned stuff. Stuff that I think could help some of the kids I go to community college with. Kids that aren’t old enough to do tequila shots legally, have to keep the TV in their room turned down after 10 because their parents are sleeping, and think My Chemical Romance has something intellectual and important to say.

Typical, dumb-ass, American kids.

I could save them years of heartache and embarrassment with what I’ve picked up in 20 plus years of slacking off. I could be the calamine lotion on the pox that is youthful ignorance.

What I want to tell them is this: Knockithefuckoff.

Trying to get by in life by being a smart-ass, acting coolly disinterested in things you don’t understand, or hoping your tits deflect the fact that you’re a melon-head will only work for so long. About 2 to 3 years at a time, in my experience (though I’ve never tried the tits route).

If you don’t get the work done walk right up to the front of the class when it’s time to present your project and say “I did not complete what was required for this assignment”. Don’t go all A Rod and start making lame excuses about the loosey-goosey nature of the class, the vague directions in the handout, or the pressure you’re under from your part time job at a kiosk in the mall. Certainly don’t make asinine commentary about the other student’s stuff. We’re taking it seriously and you’re wasting our time. Your jokes are only funny to you, as evidenced by the fact that you’re the only one laughing at them. Admit your lack of conviction and sit the fuck down. Wiggling around, pushing your breasts together and standing in front of your incomplete project with a “but aren’t I cute” expression on your face isn’t doing anything for you either. Except maybe proving that your ex-boyfriend was right when he said you had a hell of a future in the adult entertainment industry.

The only thing all that bullshit will get you if you try to get thru life with it is a seat right back in the same classroom TWENTY YEARS LATER. That’s if you’re lucky enough to straighten out one day. If not - I hope you’ll enjoy cashing in your 401k prematurely every two years when you quit / get fired from your menial job, wondering why no one wants to date you for more than three months and watching daytime television religiously.

Community college used to be a punch line for me. The “coolly disinterested, smart-ass” me. Thank God, with the help of an incredible woman and an amazingly supportive family, I’m beginning to straighten out.

I don’t think I could watch “LIVE! With Regis and Kelly” for very much longer.