My father never had "the talk" with me. Not that my mother didn't push him to. He kept saying he'd get to it, but never did.

Instead, when I was 11, my mother walked into my bedroom, handed me a book, and told me to ask her if I had any questions.

The only question I had then, and now, is why did she get me a sex-ed pop-up book?

It was The Facts Of Life: Three-Dimensional, Moveable Illustrations Showing the Development of a Baby from Conception to Birth.



I remember reading it and thinking I was aware of everything in it. I have a much older brother, after all. For years afterward, I vividly remembered my impressions of the section on male reproductive cells. Which is why paisley makes me uncomfortable.

A Veteran (With the War Paint to Prove It)

I don't know how she does it.How she gets me to do things. Well, I do know. It's her. One of my oldest and dearest friends. The woman who once slammed my hand with my own locker door, who I impersonated Miss Piggy for in Latin class, who never approved of the girls I dated, who got me to get a pedicure nine years ago and again last week.


This time was not as dramatic as the last. I was experienced now. I'd had a pedicure before, so I had a clue. There were some things that were different from then till now. The first time I was the only male in the salon and it was cause for comment among a few of the other non-males in the room. This time it was no deal (big or otherwise) at all. The first time, I got an extra foot rub instead of the nail polish. This time I got both.
 

And this 'ittle pitty got all tarted up.

It's been a week living with technicolor toes and I've noticed a few things:

• Every time (I mean, every. time.) I see my feet now I wonder whose feet are attached to my legs.
• I don't feel the polish has polished my podiatric presentation that much (next time I'm getting the "Dressed to Kilt" red instead of the "Dating a Royal" blue)
• There's no small glee in being at work and knowing that I'm the only one who knows my toes are painted. It's like when I wore the novelty underpants to a funeral.
• That glee is often momentary, because I readily forget about the polish. Which hasn't been an issue, except when I went to change into my sneakers in the locker room and my naked toes reminded me they were painted before my brain did. I'm somebody's story now.
• I did not, repeat NOT, feel like less of a man with nail polish on. It made no difference to my self-perception. Which means, it's the kind of thing I can do or not because I want to, not because someone else expects it.

Thanks to Mei-Mei for taking such thoughtful care of me these last 26 years.

Tis

At the far end of my anger resides a tiny, comforting voice which keeps me from jumping off the cliff or over the shark. It says only one thing: This is silly.

This is silly, or "Tis," has become my mantra. There's something appropriate about it, especially the contraction "Tis," itself an antiquated contraction of "it is." It helps me identify and define what's happening and seems to apply to every situation in my life, from committee meetings to my own egotistical adventures. The voice whispers "Tis" and it puts everything into a livable order. Sometimes it escapes my lips and I sound like an art critic dismissing a new piece with a wave of his hand, "oh this...Tis."

Perhaps it's the Universe communicating reality directly to me, or, more likely, it's my haywired brain trying to make sense of the senseless. Either way, it is the curmudgeon's call which both solves and soothes whatever confronts me. At those moments when I really want to scream, the voice whispers "Tis" and I get that inexplicable yet knowing half-smile which means I know something you don't.

And then, moments later, it comforts me when I realize it's the other way around.

Many Parts

You know you're at an interesting place when you start thinking, "what have I really done with my life?" Usually it means you are dissatisfied or bored with the current state of things, which is how I've been feeling and why I asked the question.

As I thought about the answer, Shakespeare's line "And one man in his time plays many parts" kept popping into my head. I wondered how many and what kinds of parts have I played and if they amounted to anything?
 

I was hoping to find that one really cool achievement. Something that would make me feel instantly better. It turns out, there isn't one. No one thing jumped out at me, but taken as a whole I started to see a different picture of my life emerging, one that is more diverse and balanced than I usually notice.

So what have I been so far? This...

Actor, Adjutant, Adult, Altar boy, Apple picker, Aquarius, Archer, Artist, Author

Babysitter, Best man, Blood Donor, Board member, Book reviewer, Boyfriend, Boy Scout, Brides' man, Brigade major, Brother

Captain, Caterer, Child, Citizen, Class president, Coach, Competitor, Cook, Corporal, Counselor, Coworker, Curator, Custom framer, Customer

Date, Dancer, Delivery guy, Director, Donor, Driver, Drunk

Eagle Scout, Editor, Enemy, Eulogizer, Ex-

Fan, Fencer, Fiancee, Friend

Grandson, Golfer, Godfather, Godson, Groomsman

Historian, Historical consultant, House painter, House sitter

Intern, Insider

Janitor, Juggler

Lieutenant, Lifeguard, Loser, Lover

Male, Manager, Member, Mentee, Mentor, Model

Nephew

Opponent, Organizer, Outsider

Pall bearer, Passenger, Patient, Patron, Private

Racquetball player, Reenactor, Runner

Salesman, Scout master, Sergeant, Sleeper, Son, Stage crew, Storyteller, Stranger, Student, Supervisor, Supporter, Swimmer

Tailor, Taxpayer, Teacher, Teammate, Tenant, Tour guide, Tourist, Traveler

Uncle

Winner

Thinking about all of this has settled my agitation about where I've been, but it hasn't left me any calmer about where I'm headed. Which is OK so long as "deceased" doesn't make it on the list any time soon.

My People

It doesn't seem to matter where I am, I'm always here.

Rooner's Spevenge or Tips of the Slongue

Some days it seems the English language and I aren't speaking. Hard to take when so much of your life is spent being neurotic AND verbal. Those days just add to the neurosis.

But there are days when this problem amuses more than confuses me. Those are the days of the plannel flaid shirt. Rev. Spooner would understand. He was notorious for mixing his words (and credited for more babbling blunders than he actually said).

In a selfless act of archiving (you know, for history's sake), I began to keep a running list of my spoonerisms. It amused me. Besides, I figured if someone could write 14,000 Things to Be Happy About and make money, I could one day publish this list and become rich. This is still my retirement plan.

For now, I offer these for free. Enjoy, and consider it advanced advertising for my upcoming book. The bracketed initials signify it wasn't me.


Plannel flaid shirt (and so it begins)
Spack pare clothes
Tee and flick collar [KY]
Pleck of daying cards
Yoke your peye out
Dear neath experience
Up pose and clersonal
Drainy and rizzly
Moke and smist
Rount Mushmore
Aarrots and capples [AW]
Soroughly thoaked
Chocolate chovered cerries
Pa and skunk
Bailish Iries cream
Vears a bague resemblance
Coly-potton cloth
Meekend wail [SD]
Hunson Boneydue
Smodding and niling
Sooves the sathage beast
Fales sigures
Eak and steggs
Plannel flants (I have a hard time with flannel)
Slies and lander
Plown brain wrapper
Munch loney
One sell foop
Blutter bob
Musty ruskets
West vile nirus [AW]
Herribly tideous
Scarting pouty
Piny wouty face
Explays & dishibits
Wocket patch
Flank Royd Wight House
Acon & beggs
Snuck in stow
Ounger and yolder
Ben Parklin Frankway
Grown bravy [PH]
Robster lavioli
Carm and fow country
Linking is dregendary [MH, without the linking]
Little Ford Lontleroy
Row load
Stane and sable
Lead at reast
Shrab and crimp
Muss or plinus
a tree fial
a vizzled greteran
a poke of smacks [RB]

Ya, Ich Spreche Deutsch

German. This blog's title and my pseudonym are German. They translate as "ship of fools" and "fool" respectively.

Just thought you should know what you're getting yourself into.

I Offend Myself

I hate blogging. I originally created this account so I could post my ridiculous comments to a friend's blog. But sitting here in East Jesus (go east until you cry, "Jesus, where am I?" and you're here) I find myself with the three basic ingredients for a blog: time, thoughts, and boredom.

So despite my blogging aversion, here I am. Blogging. I even hate the word.

Now my ridiculous comments may be read by all.