Unclean Thoughts

I am often slow to adopt trends, fearing the fairweather purchase and fad item accumulation. But one trend in society that I immediately got behind is bacon. Sweet, salty, crispy, hot, bacon. The food, not the Kevin (though he is delicious to some, I'm sure).

Why bacon? Bacon is more than a food. It is a food that you add to other foods to make them better.



Potatoes? Bacon Bits. Chicken livers? Rumaki. Cheeseburgers? Bacon strips. Dog treats? Bacon grease. But what if all of that isn't enough? Well, there is always baconnaise, which can turn any sandwich into a baconwich. Or bacon salt, which can replace Morton's for all purposes in life as far as I am concerned. Chocolate chip pancakes? No thanks, not without bacon. Going to the ballpark? Not without some bacon sunflower seeds. Want a hot dog while you're there? Hmmm... then you need some bacon jam for double the pork action!

There are dozens of ways to cook bacon. Not to go all Gump on you, but it can be fried, baked, microwaved, grilled, sauteed... Why, some folks even cook it in the waffle iron. If you're interested, there is even a book about it.

But is that enough? No. Because sometimes, even when you're not eating bacon, you need bacon. Like ducks need quacks, you need bacon. You want to bath in it, breathe it in, and wear it. Sure, you have issues, but it's bacon.
Have more bacon ideas? Why not send me a letter.

Moms da Bombs

I am a man of many Moms. I'm not sure why, but I have more Moms than I think is normal.
First and foremost, is the one who birthified me, and is my real Mom. I have been a slacker and not called lately. I'm a bit emotionally retarded of late, as life has thrown me several curve balls with a few more hanging over my head. Sorry, Momma. But I am super proud of her because she has plotted a trip to Mexico for herself for her upcoming birthday! Hooray, MOM!!!! I'm a tad bit jealous. I'm invited to join, but unfortunately that isn't in the cards for me. I owe you, Momma.
Then there is my Stepmom, who has a wicked sense of humor and who has done backflips, along with my father, to be supportive of my daughter and I. Thanks, Nana. I'm glad I get to see you and your kids this Christmas.
I have a Mom in San Antonio, too. She was the English Department Chair, though she kept nominating me to take the position. I would start every day I could by going into her room and hugging her. She adopted me early on to make sure the all-girls catholic school didn't eat me alive! Luckily, she has retired and is safe from them, yet she continues to make me want to hug her at the start of every day!
The Boomerang Project has given me many wonderful friends, and a few of them have decided to mother me, as well. Most significantly, my Detroit Mama wraps me in her fleecy wings of love as often as possible, and her cottage has opened its warm doors to me so graciously. Not a euphamism.
And now, I have a department that is 70% women who have all, at times, jumped up to offer me care and love and support, in a motherly way. They have brought me food, lectured me on caring for my back, given me the inside scoop on how the school works, and have come to look in on me when they have seen people blow up emotionally around me.
I don't know if I radiate a desperation that requires women to care for me like a wounded puppy, or if I just have a baby face, but whatever the reason... Thanks to my many Mommas. Sorry I don't write more!

Ursa Delicious

One of the recent challenges to parenting began with the movie Madagascar. In this movie, a lion is deprived of his zoo-provided steak, and begins to view his zebra friend as steak. This prompted a conversation with Miss Neverpoop.

• daughter: Daddy, does steak come from zebras?


• me: No, steak for us comes from cows.


• daughter: No, daddy.


• me: Really, honey. It is from cows that die for our food.


• daughter: No, daddy, it is not a time for joking. We don't eat cows.


• me: I'm not joking honey. That's why we are thankful for our food and we don't waste it. Our steak comes from cows.


• daughter: Don't talk about cows daddy.

A few days pass, in which life progressed with its usual doll-dressings and poop-encouraging serenades on the toilet. I was working away at my research when my daughter saunters into the room. She has been playing chef with her favorite dolls, each seated around a pretend table set with tiny tea cups and plates. Panda is wearing a tutu.

• daughter: Daddy, I made you a special dinner.


• me: Wonderful, Monkey, what did you make?


• daughter: I made you a bear meat sandwich.


• me: A bear meat sandwich? What a new and delicious thing! I want to see!


• daughter: Wait here, I will bring it to you.

Behold... a Bear Meat Sandwich...

Lone Burning Ember

So the dream I have been having recently is set at Boy Scout Camp. But before I dive into my dreams, let's take a splash into my past.

The most life-shaping time in my life was spent in the woods of central Missouri. I worked six years (I regret still it wasn't more) as a camp counselor. At the end of the school year, I moved with a trunk full of clothes and supplies to a one room, screen-windowed cabin with three other guys. Scouts would come in waves for 11 days of merit badging, swimming, and learning how to become men.

That last part is significant. Being a man is something so often defined by being the toughest, or the strongest, or the most admired, or the least sensitive. It's easy, without role models, to let that be the extent of it. But those things miss responsibility, kindness, consequence, work, brotherhood, and humility. These things are only really taught though modeling and experience, and camp was a great chance for that for me.

It hit me at the right time in my life. I was deep in the darkness that comes with adolescence. At camp, I was an important person. I learned to lead a group, to speak aloud, to quit worrying about being cool and focus on the needs of those around me. I learned to be a teacher, a brother, and a man.

My oddly vivid dreams are placed in this setting, on trails that I once walked at night without a flashlight because I knew the rocks and roots like friends. Nothing drastic happens in the dream, but it is a series of events where I must make the best of being unprepared. That is a pretty big thing. Be Prepared. The Scouts kind of harp on that one. In these dreams, I am walking unfamiliar trails, with trees I don't recognize reaching across me. In each dream, I have problems arise that I can't solve, obstacles that I didn't foresee, or jobs that I am incapable of accomplishing. In each, the common factor is that I was unprepared to handle each.

I suppose that isn't surprising. I was completely unprepared to be here in my life. Jobless, injured, isolated, and grasping at a future that I can't foresee. They aren't nightmares, really, but reminders of how I don't want to feel. A good scout is always prepared.

North and Low

I have been a bad blogger again. It is difficult to motivate myself to write sometimes, though it always helps me feel better. The truth is, it's been a low year here in Michigan. I miss the heat of San Antonio, the friends of Texas and Kansas, having a job and feeling like the man of the house. Graduate school has been nice, but I have ruptured two discs in my back and haven't been able to sit or stand for three weeks now. I am only funded to do research through the summer session, and I doubt I will be able to contribute much from my prone and medicated position. My long-planned vacation to Mexico is occurring without me, and I spend my days eating percocet like candy and waiting for the doctors to consider my pain as urgent as I do.

Miss Neverpoop is at least enjoying her Tour de Grandparent: a three week trip to Kansas City and Fort Collins to visit her four sets of grandparents. She will be joined by Dr. Wife for the last 5 days, who will visit her family. I'm sure by the time I see her again she will be thoroughly pampered by doting parents. Dad will be much less entertaining than the boating, camping, puppy-owning, attention-lavishing grandparents. But that is as it should be.

As for my brain, it has been occupied with a retarded amount of facebook ogling, daytime TV drooling, and moping about. I have lost 15 pounds, because I have no appetite and I spent a lot of my time tensed in pain. It has been a long three weeks, though parts of it were a blur of sedative.

I keep looking for bright sides, but there are few to be had right now. I'm not going to fall apart, but I think life has gotten the better of me for the time being. I dislike being this negative, but until the pain stops this may be the best I can do. I should know more in a day, as I am scheduled for an epidural injection in the morning. If that works, I will be back to mobile by the weekend. If it doesn't, I will get on the list for surgery as soon as possible.

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Truckma

It appears without warning. No change in performance. No signs of mechanical trauma. Same six-cylinder sounds. My poor old truck suddenly, quietly, pleads for help. Costly, mystery help.

My normal tact, as this happens quite often, is to wait for a secondary indicator. A misfiring spark plug, a change in gas mileage, a metallic grinding sound accompanied by shrapnel... any of these, really. Then to take it to a mechanic, perform whatever financial maneuver is required to make it go away, and wonder what the hell happened.

Automotive issues confound me. Sure, I teach physics. I can do the math showing what happens in the engine. But that is really different from being able to use the tools and make the fix.

I was brewing beer with my buddy Matt recently. The topic of our dreamed brewpub opened up, and I said that we could do it because between the two of us, I had a degree in chemistry and Matt had practical skills. My audience took this as a dig against Matt. I was confused and didn't understand why. I thought I was complimenting him. You see, here is the truth: I KNOW NOTHING USEFUL!!!! I have no practical knowledge or skills. I can talk for hours about education theory, atomic radii influencing electronegativity, or the influences of Bruce Lee on popular comics. But at the end of the day, I have no job and am getting ready to hand money to someone with practical knowledge so that I can drive my happy ass to the grocery store.

Next time, given the chance, here is what I will say: We can get there, because Matt knows how to do everything, and I can prove it on paper.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to stare at the orange check engine light. If I stare long enough, I may hear the sound of one hand clapping.

Critical

Dr. Wife is playing softball with her colleagues on a city league team. She loves the game, and was trained by her father at an early age how to do such things as "hustle" and "keep your eye on the ball" and "walk it off." She can hit and throw and catch, though it is possible that after success at each she will jump up and down and squeal gleefully. She can "use your cutoff man" and will "watch the third base coach" when appropriate.

Being new to the city, it was a bit of a struggle finding the fields for the first time. Thankfully, Tom-Tom guided us with the power of GPS geekery (thank you, Skynet). We followed its guidance, dutifully turning right ahead and in 500 yards kept left. Across the train tracks. Past the steel building parts wholesale. Carefully past the strip clubs (Kalamazoo has strip clubs?!). And finally, behind the beer distribution center we found the softball fields and playground.

I'm not a city planner, nor do I pretend to be a civil engineer. I do not have experience in managing softball complexes. But I might suggest that this location is not really conducive to a family atmosphere. The grounds themselves were well kept, though muddy. A few large piles of mulch and sand indicated that the spring parks crew would be improving it even further as the weather continued to warm.

Dr. Wife took her glove and went off to join her team, and I took Miss Neverpoop off to explore the playground. Dozens of dandelions later, we reached the playground beyond the fields. It was in relatively good shape, with no sharp edges or broken glass. A smattering of small children scampered about on scooters and with sticks. All normal things.

I was almost lulled into believing that this was an oasis of safety. I was nearly capable of ignoring the proto-thug graffiti in the small canopy above the slide (U Love Me with the L backwards). I blocked out the fact that three-year-olds were running around for an hour with nary a parent in sight.

But then I found a sign that I could not ignore. A token from my own miscreant past. A piece of paraphernalia that brings to mind stolen cigarettes, knives, and lustful thoughts.

A 20 sided die.

That's right. The park has role-players. Gamers. Dungeons and Dragons obsessed nerds. It isn't fit for decent folk. I felt at home.

Stink Trumpets on a Pale Horse

Winter is an icy fist of pain pounding at my bones unrelentingly over and over again. Its razor knuckles cut and slice at cheeks that were meant for grinning on sun-warmed beaches. Bitter cold winds whip knives like ninjas across the fields and through my skin. It seems that nothing can stay its awful bite...

And yet, spring... It approaches... I would dare not admit it, but I have received the sacred promise...

The Three Stinky Harbingers of Spring have arrived.

What? You are unfamiliar with this prophecy? Let me tell it for you.

The first shall come as a ghost of a stench... acrid, still coasting on the currents of flurried snow. The second shall be strong, and its carcass shall be seen in black and white and red all over. The third shall be true in the rain, its awful bouquet bringing tears with spring rains. Thus shall three roadkill skunks trumpet the arrival of warmth unto the world.

And I have smelled them. Though snow may ride its way into town tonight, it will be chased out shortly by the overpowering cloud of rancid that hovers for miles around the body of a skunk taken down by a Peterbilt.

The sad part, these skunks have only just emerged from their slumber to eat and fornicate. They didn't know that they were part of a grander destiny. They merely wanted a Bacchanalian celebration to end their winter slumber. Maybe a Chipotle burrito and a foam party or two. Instead, they become part of an annual crime scene that even David Caruso wouldn't take off his shades for.

Welcome, Spring. And a toast to my fallen skunk-homies. The midwest thanks you for your sacrifice.

Remiss

I'm a bit ashamed of how long it has been since I posted a blog. I suppose I have been a bit uninspired as of late. So I suppose what I will start with is a brief bullet of the weirdness of the Rover life.

• I went to Chicago to work on training teachers. It was a disaster, and left me feeling incompetent and angry.



• I went to Florida with my brother. It was a sunshiny gift from him, and it was some deep contemplative time that I desperately needed.



• I went to Ontario to work on training teachers. I dissected what I did and how I did it. I refocused on new goals and went back to developing skills that needed it. Total success. It left me feeling confident, but exhausted. 8 hours is a long time in a car.



• Yesterday was April 1st. I miss you, Eddie.

And now it's back into the dad role. Miss Neverpoop will be getting a spring break starting on Friday. Really, her preschool teachers will be getting a spring break. So she and I are going to be kicking it this week. I need to find some fun and silly new things to do. I need some silly in my days. Thankfully, an almost-five year-old can provide that.

The Fu

I love martial arts. LOVE. So much that if given the choice between internet porn and kung fu movie clips, I will chose kung fu. Yes, you freaks, I do know that there are videos that include both, but I will leave that blog to other, more twisted folks.

And I love martial arts in all its forms. I love the real, urban-military styles being used by soldiers around the world. I love the mystic KungFu! of fiction, complete with glowing fists and Sinanju masters. I even love the little precious-moment-like children at tae kwon do tournaments with their giant headgear tagging each other for points. I love the slow, grounding, and potentially healing properties of Qigong and Tai Chi.

So why am I not a martial artist? The truth: I'm lazy. It would require me to cut out time and money in my life that I don't want to part with. And I'm afraid of my back. Loading the dishes wrong can leave me limping for months. I'm afraid of what trying to kick above my own waist would do at this point. I'm not afraid of the pain of being punched or kicked or thrown. But living with the deep senseless pain of bad discs is something else.

I miss it. I miss the quiet minded feeling of bunkai fighting drills... The immediate reward of a well executed move as an opponent is stopped... The immediate lesson of a dropped guard or a raised elbow...

It is a transformation of a person. A growth from fat, lazy, anxious people to confident, strong, alert warriors. A balance of quick and calm that I don't feel in other places of life. It is not that I imagine myself ever being Jet Li or Bruce Lee. But it would be nice to feel... more solid?

HULK SMASH!!!

Do you want to know what pisses me off? Think about it. You may have seen me sad, upset, irritated, annoyed, happy, ecstatic, jubilint, and sleepy. Or any other number of dwarf-names/emotions.

But have you ever seen me flip out? Lose control and throw shit? Punch something never intended to be punched? Or even scream insults at someone? Not just ordinary insults, either, but those deep down, I-can-see-into-your-soul's-weak-spot-and-stab-it insults? Have you seen me lash out with a blind and unreasoning rage as if Cops is being filmed live on my location? Probably not.

It is a rare thing. And when it does happen, I tend to flee the scene before the filters that normally block it all back are blown apart. Even that can be dangerous now that I am big and coordinated. As a fat little kid, it might have been a funny sight to see me storm off mid-scream with tiny fists. But I'm 6'2", 200 pounds, and have no fear of other people's punches. Doors wouldn't open fast enough.

So let's say, for argument's sake, that you needed to piss me off. Outside of truly comic book scenarios, I can't imagine a situation in which you would need this. But let's say it occurred. How would you trigger it?

Money. Having it taken away. Being billed for random reasons. Not being able to talk to a person who has the power or information to resolve or explain the issue.

Now I don't mean the daily occurance stuff. A messed up bill at a restaurant? I would probably just pay it and not worry about it. Rung up wrong at the local book store? No problem, just an excuse to laugh with a new salesperson-buddy. And the monthly bill-paying? Just part of the routine.

But when a billion dollar company tries to send ME to collection for a bill that they cannot justify or explain? When after two hours and five customer service employees representing three different languages they cannot explain the bill and I am STILL being penalized?!

I had to stop writing this for a minute and walk away. Even picturing the scenario was making me sick... You see, this happened to me this morning. I know, you're surprised. And it took every bit of control I had to calm down.

Every.
Ounce.
Of.
Control.

I had to channel my inner Bruce Banner...
I WANT TO SNAP YOUR SOULS IN HALF!!!!
I am a pebble in a stream...
I DO NOT FAIL MY FAMILY LIKE THIS BECAUSE YOU ARE A BLOATED CORPORATION THAT IS WRITHING IN THE FESTERING PILE OF YOUR LIES!!!
My coffee is warm, and that is good...
PRAY TO YOUR BASTARD GOD THAT I NEVER FIND WHERE YOU LIVE BECAUSE I WILL ENTER YOUR HOME AND BURN IT TO THE GROUND AROUND US!!!
Language barriers, international phone delays, and bloated billing systems are not the fault of this man on the phone...
I AM BECOME DEATH!!! I WILL THROW A COUCH INTO YOUR FACE!!!
Say thank you, hang up the phone, lower my shoulders out of my ears...

Really, I was good. Stern, to the point, insistent, but not rude or yelling. But sweet-mighty-Kevin-Bacon I was in a tempest of raw rage on the inside. It was close, but for now, the beast was contained.

Where does this anger come from?! How does it hide within me? Really, not much else can bring it out. Slap me? I'll make a joke. Spit in my food? You'll get a stern reprimand. Fat joke? I make worse to myself most days, I'm sure.

If only I could harness this power for good. Or at least superhuman abilities and superhero physique...

More cowbell?

I went to the doctor today. I am one of the many people who totally fail at the whole "preventative care" thing. But thanks to many, many people nagging me to get a new doc in this town, I decided to give it a go. Another back spasm was pretty good encouragement, though thankfully it has faded away.

My body and I go waaaay back. And it's a pretty adversarial relationship. It tries to get fatter, I eat more veggies. It gets depressed, I crank up funky tunes. It ruptures discs randomly, I have them removed.

In fairness, I don't always treat it well. God knows I have tried at times to drown it in beer. And I do pretend to be athletic, despite the blatantly obvious evidence to the contrary. It likes sunshine and heat, and I'm living in Kalamazoo.

Can we get along, this oafish tower of flesh and I? Must we continue this cycle of pain? Oh, the huge manatee!

Sorry, melodramatic there...

So, I'm calling a bit of a truce. Body, I promise to regularly visit physicians to check up on you, rather than waiting for you to cripple me with pain. In return, please only turn me into a whimpering lump of agony with good reason. I promise to continue the regular exercise and a reasonably healthy diet (you may still have cookies). In exchange, let's get into those 34 waist jeans a bit more comfortably, ok?

This could work. Maybe this is a dawn of a bike-riding, beer-tasting, child-chasing, bass-playing power team of The Rover and His Body.

Now, body, I just have one question... What are we going to do about the strip of industrial strength adhesive tape holding that damn cotton ball on our elbow? Really, we're fuzzy and it's gonna hurt.

25 Things

A Facebook originated meme: 25 random things about me. I think among all my readers, I probably have no secrets left. I have collected a large following from all areas of my life. I'm thankful for you all. If you are reading this and have a blog/Facebook/ning page, consider yourself tagged. Write your own list and post it.

1. I have size 13 feet. My shoes are kayaks with laces.
2. I don't like animals. Except to eat.
3. I have been to 4 foreign countries. 2 by plane, 1 by ferry, 1 by canoe.
4. I enjoy cooking, but not recipes.
5. My Kermit the frog impression is nearly perfect.
6. I can mimic bird calls.
7. I grew up with a kid who would have gladly murdered me, and I will never know why.
8. I love airports.
9. I used to type over 90 words per minute. Then I had my pinky kicked inside-out. The letter P now slows me down some.
10. I have always felt and will always feel fat. Reality doesn't matter.
11. I am dangerous to fight with.
12. I am a foot taller than I was as a freshman in high school and 10 pounds lighter.
13. I love wearing a kilt, and own two.
14. I love singing, but should stick to Kermit impressions.
15. I once kicked my wife in the head while competing in a swing dance competition. She forgave me enough to keep dancing.
16. My brother and I have identical voices. We can trick family in person or on the phone.
17. I don't remember junior high. Most of grade school is fuzzy at best.
18. I sing Harry Connick, Jr. in my head whenever I swim laps. I don't know why.
19. I dream of being interviewed on a show played on NPR.
20. I play electric bass in bands on stage, but am uncomfortable with loud stereos.
21. I wanted to name my daughter Kung Fu. Because Kung Fu Killmer sounds damn fine. And her friends could walk up to her and say, "What up, Fu?"
22. I have a tattoo. The ONLY thing stopping me from getting A LOT more ink is money.
23. If you read my blog (http://ramblinrover.blogspot.com) I have made another list like this before that you can find.
24. My hair has been long enough to put in a pony tail and short enough to look like a military cut.
25. I have been shot between the eyes with an arrow.

Indoor Idiocy

What do you do with a four-year-old on a Saturday when you have recently accumulated a foot of snow? Play outside? WRONG!!! YOU WILL KILL THAT CHILD BECAUSE IT IS ONLY 15 DEGREES!!! YOU'RE AN AWFUL PARENT!!!

No, that sort of fun would be hell on all of us. Instead, we went to Bounceland.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with this strange and mystical place, allow me to paint you a picture (no happy trees needed).
Picture those big inflatable moonwalk things you find at kid's birthday parties (also known as The Pukers). Then add in an inflatable obstacle course of ladders, stairs, slides, narrow openings, and bounces. No, add two of those. Then a few more bouncing rooms, with slides and basketball hoops. Give some of the kids birthday cake. Add a few more inflatable multicolored roller-coasters, and a couple of nearly vertical inflatable slides.

Now put all of this in a large, warehouse structure. Add more children from 9 months of age to 8 years. Crank up some bubblegum flavored rock and roll.

Ta-da.


Not that it was unfun, or even unfunny, but there were a few moments of bewilderment that I must share.

First, this is a picture of the name of this particular inflatobarfer. It reads, "Ninja Jump." It is entirely decorated with spongebob characters. Wha? I suppose there could be ninjas. It's not like I'd see them.


Secondly, is "The Pinata Pit", which appears to be some sort of gallows for children who ignore the "No Cake in the Bounce Area" signs. I never witnessed its use, but I would bet that if anything is hanged from there, it isn't a paper mache burro full of candy.


And then there were some warning signs. Sure, they had real labels, but I think mine are more appropriate and accurate.

No fatties.


This is not a gun show.


Do not headbutt the smaller children. Their heads will asplode.


No B-Boys.


I know what you're thinking: I could do better. Please feel free.

Techsex

I don't speak German, but I'm pretty sure that if a half-nekkid android popped into my world speaking it, I would learn damn quickly.


Sweet Jebus I'm a geek. Where did this obsession with robots come from? Oh, yeah, I was born in the 70's. Star Wars, Star Trek, Knight Rider, Battlestar Galactica, Automan (yeah, that's right) Tron, War Games, and Terminator. Heck, those are just the live action ones that come to mind. Don't get me started on animation.

And for those of you who were even slightly geeked by the steampunk dinosaur, make the switch to diesel.

NERDS!!!

I'm sure I have taken the test before, but so as not to leave Viminious hangin' all alone...