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.