Most Likely To Take Over The World

I was voted Most Likely To Take Over The World by the Class of ‘97. Check out the senior superlative section of that year’s South Williamsport Mountaineer yearbook. There I am, with my female counterpart, arms crossed and lording over a dusty world globe that sadly saw more action as a photo prop than as a learning tool.

Thinking back all those years ago it occurs to me that the senior class of ’97 had some astronomical expectations for yours truly. TAKE OVER THE WORLD!!! A tall order, indeed. At least the other superlative categories were realistic. Tallest Senior? Okay, the tallest is the tallest. All the tallest senior must do is exist. Most Likely To Succeed In Business? To be the most successful in business requires some skill and determination. However, our class graduated less than 100 and someone had to be the most successful in business, regardless of who was voted the most likely to do so. It’s just a math problem, really. I bet whoever actually became the most successful in business could easily figure the exact percentages. Best Eyes? Subjective, but perception is reality. An enchanting set of peepers can pay dividends. Frankly, I should’ve owned this category.

Apparently, the chances I’d somehow seize control of the whole world were too great for my classmates to ignore, striking hazel eyes be damned.

Another category exists I am proud to have not “won”: Most Likely To Destroy The World. Had I been voted most likely to destroy over the world I would’ve inwardly considered the distinction a testament to clumsiness or witlessness. I would’ve assumed my classmates reckoned me to be the most likely to stumble over my own shoelaces and careen headlong into the big red button, or drunkenly flip off the wrong cracked warmonger with an itchy trigger finger.

“We wouldn’t all be on fire if Bower kept his stupid goddamn mouth shut.”

No disrespect to the two voted most likely to destroy the world, but it seems significantly more challenging to take over the world than destroy it. For instance, to destroy the world by design one must simply acquire control of a super-massive WMD stockpile, and then employ said WMD in grand fashion. Come to think of it, perhaps he who is most likely to take over the world is the same guy who is most likely to destroy it. It’s just a matter of knowing when to stop.

Moreover, we were all destroying the world inch-by-inch. In the yearbook under the headline Most Likely To Destroy the World should’ve been a class photo.

To be fair I did tell my classmates that I'd take over the world someday. In fact, world domination became priority the instant Principal Anderson placed my diploma into my eager palm. My first attempt of fulfilling said senior superlative prophesy came immediately after the valedictorian’s speech when, along with my classmates, I launched my cap like a ninja star skyward  in hopes of shredding a hole in the fabric of time-space directly above South Williamsport Area High School. Instead, my cap landed at the feet of he who was voted Most Likely To Find A Cap At His Feet Seconds After High School Graduation Ceremonies Conclude. At least someone felt accomplished.

Shockingly, at 18 years of age I hadn't yet formulated a viable plan to take over the world. I just said I did. I figured I’d come up with something, someday. However, I hadn't completely lacked vision. When I daydreamed about my impending global dominance in Mr. Meixal’s Art In The Dark class I imaged I’d someday author a text so compelling that harebrained eccentrics would discard Catcher In The Rye from their book bags and replace it with my magnum opus. Perhaps God would allow me to float 20 feet into the air before tearin' into an air guitar solo so fucking epic that throngs of flabbergasted onlookers would deem me as nothing less than an agent of the Second Coming. Or maybe the agent of the First Coming. Chics would toss their hotel room keys. World leaders would toss their blessings and their bloodlines. 

Frankly, I didn’t have the first goddamn clue about navigating an adult life, let alone achieving global dominance. Hell, I couldn't identify a home equity loan or 401k among a lineup of further grown-up concepts.

What the hell do you want? I was 18 years old, an age when anyone imprudently boasts a hearty clutch on life’s Adam’s apple.

I never wrote that magnum opus. And I ceased believing in God long before I knew that a home equity loan was, in fact, a second mortgage that allows one to borrow money using one’s home as collateral.

Though high school guidance counselors and literature for goody two-shoe programs like D.A.R.E. pronounce college to be to a wise-up, buckle-down, and play-it-straight stretch of young adulthood, it’s really just a time to consume tons of Pabst Blue Ribbon and generally fuck up the launch into life’s most consequential years. Although taking over the world remained an honest goal upon entrance into my so-called *freshman experience, I’d managed several leaps backwards within nearly three years into my pursuit of an English degree.

*Don't pledge a fraternity. Well, I shouldn't have pledged a fraternity. (Greek life? Fraternity bros memorize the Greek alphabet to foster a shadow solidarity among members, and wear bed sheets as togas when the Chi Mu sisters schlep over for a mixer. That's about as Greek as it gets. Oh, and the frat house looks like Greek ruins every morning after…) Greek life wasn't for me. But after a fairly boring first college semester, the allure of free beer and house parties offered by Kappa Delta Rho was potent. Next thing I know I'm halfway through my junior year and all I have to show for myself is mediocre grades and sneakers that stick to linoleum floors because of the quarter inch of dried stale jungle juice on the soles.

Without veering into a tangent about the pitfalls of the Greek life I'll exit this portion of the essay by asserting that fraternities, and their group mind archetype, make apt training grounds for a future in the emergent Heaven's Gate II.

I'd never been further from taking over the world as when I excommunicated myself from the damn fraternity. I gradually reconditioned myself for a grand homecoming into the life cycle as…well…myself. Subsequently, I assumed a clear path to world domination would gradually present itself. Throughout my final three semesters my grades soared, as did my penchant for mischief. However lame the self-justification, I felt as though I owed myself the sovereignty which I'd deprived myself the (Greek) years prior. So I compensated by getting away with highly mature exploits. For instance, a newfangled hobby became venturing into local bars and snatching the cue balls from pool tables amid a game among strangers. The payoff was watching the spectacular fallout. "What the fuck?! Where's the fuckin' cue ball. Gary, you seen the cue ball, bro? What the fuck?!" 

I docketed each ball I swiped via Sharpie with date and location. My satchel of pilfered cue balls was my favorite collegiate trophy. I graduate cue laude magna.

The two years following graduation I'd devised an academic method to take over the world. I decided I'd devote two years to film school and earn a Master's Degree. But I had sights on only the most prestigious prize—New York University, in Greenwich Village. No lesser institution would suffice. I'd applied and awaited a response. While doing so, I crashed in my childhood bedroom, partied too frequently, worked 40+ hours a week between gigs at Kmart and as a home health aide, floundered my way through my first serious relationship, and partied too frequently.  The rejection letter came on a gorgeous shitty May morning. In a tirade of sheer pretentiousness I made several copies of the rejection letter, signed them, and passed them out to friends. "Hold on to this," I'd say. "You'll sell for small fortunes on EBAY someday." 

What a fuckin' schmuck I was!

Rebuffing rejection, I decided to broaden my graduate school options. Months later I was accepted into the film program at Chapman University, in Los Angeles. Finally, I foresaw a legitimate opportunity to DO IT. But as the time to accept the invite neared, I rethought my pending foray into the great unknown. LA was a savage behemoth three thousand miles from home. Wide-eyed throngs go there with the same aspirations as the misguided dreamer with the satchel of poached cue balls under his bed. I opted against the structure of further schooling (and the extraordinary probability of being chewed and shit out by the aforementioned behemoth) in exchange for the proverbial blank slate.

I saved up a few bucks during the remainder of my time bumming free board and meals at the parental Bower estate. Nearly two years to the day I received my degree I played a solo game of pin the thumbtack on a AAA map of the East Coast. I pinned Pittsburgh. A Google search of “cheap-Pittsburgh-apartments” revealed a 255 square foot one-room efficiency in the Greenfield neighborhood, about three miles from downtown. I called McQuarters Realty. The conversation went like this:

Me: You still got one of those one-room places available at the Velma Court complex?

McQuarters: Yes. We got one.

Me: Good. I’ll sign the lease ASAP.

McQuarters: Don’t you want to see it first?

Me: No.

A week later I arrived at Velma Courts and pulled into my allotted parking sport, A-20. My life savings was safeguarded by my Velcro wallet—a M&T Bank check in the amount of two grand and change. In the trunk of my Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme was a folding poker table from Value City, a robust collection of Pink Floyd studio albums (I kept my prized bootlegs at home in a Rubbermaid 18 gallon tote), a few plastic bags of Hanes pocket tees, and assorted whatnots.

Armed with an already two-year-old English degree and an inventory of Salvation Store personal items, I challenged myself to cobble together something resembling a real life. Of course, visions of taking over the world still abounded. However, at this stage of my existence I understood the impending journey to be a slog which now began at a black-and-white Kansas, rather than a wind sprint from the vibrant poppy fields, to Oz. 

Along the way, I also hoped to acquire a tolerable yet secure-enough 9-5 job, a few friends, and taste for NHL hockey.

Okay. Here comes the part where I veer from the story. (Although this isn’t really a story, is it?)

I never took over the world. (Duh) Well, at least not upon writing this quasi-memoir as a 37 year-old who wears the same (beautifully stained and holey) Hanes pocket tees he arrived with at Velma Court apartments 13 years ago. But now I rotate collared poplin shirts and Van Heusen ties in the wardrobe line-up. It’s called a friggin’ dress code, people…the cost of maintaining a government pension.

I don’t lament not taking over the world. I’ve built a tiny clichéd empire that anyone of right mind would consider a decent life. For one, I acquired that full-time “real” job—that damn thing that educators perpetually told you, without, you’d eventually devolve into an aging crack-addicted boxcar hobo. My gig is at the local Court of Common Pleas. I spend at least 25 minutes per day in a semi-coherent delirium, rocking back and forth in my Corporate Express desk chair and babbling random fragments of custody case law toward my Bic pen collection while Danse Macabre plays on auto-repeat in my head.

Hey, I had a baby. I suppose having a baby, in-and-of-itself, isn't too impressive of a feat. Anyone can have a baby—just fuck someone. I’m raising a son. (Yeah, that sounds better). You can get a grip on his birth here. And I married a chic whose ability to somehow mostly tolerate my stupid shit continues to amaze me, yet whose mothering skills trump her ability to somehow mostly tolerate my stupid shit. She’s got dynamite gams to boot.

What else I've amassed since my life reboot, and long before, is simply a collection of moments. That's all life really is, right? Life is a series of moments. Some moments have been disappointments. More moments have been rousing successes, at least by my suspect standards. But anyone can say the same about his own life. If life is a series of moments, which it is, particular moments serve as mile markers. I'm not talking about the "successes" necessarily. For me, the most notable moments are those when something unforeseen and bonkers happens, and you're suddenly reminded you're fucking alive.

Here are three recent examples:

1. I was walking by a bus shelter in Shadyside. Two old ladies were boisterously chatting and laughing back and forth as though they were two longtime friends who hadn't had a chance to swab stories since the Carter administration. Seconds before I stepped out of earshot one lady said to the other "By the way, my name is Sylvia. What's yours?"

2. I was walking along Second Ave en route to my drab cubicle at the courthouse. Two others walked ahead of me. A white station wagon slowly approached. The driver appeared to wave at the first pedestrian. As the car passed the second pedestrian the driver appeared to wave again, but something seemed amiss about the gesture. I readied myself to get a good look at the fellow behind the wheel as he rolled past me. The driver was a tiny old man in a cabbie hat. And wouldn't you know it? That old mutha' flipped me the bird like it was nobody's business...all while he continued to stare straight ahead at the road. Apparently, this unflappable geezer makes it his morning mission to simply drive about the city and extend a hearty yet matter-of-fact "fuck you" to whoever happens to be in his periphery.

This man is totally dope. My respect for him knows no bounds.

3. I was the final storyteller at the Moth GrandSLAM, an annual storytelling event. To the 500 people in attendance, I recounted the first time my wife and I attempted to take our son to the Monroeville Mall. I rear-ended a van at the Greenfield on-ramp at the Parkway East. I described my somewhat contentious encounter with the van's driver, a tall lady with long brown dreadlocks. 

After the MC concluded the evening and allowed each storyteller to take a final bow, someone called my name as I exited the stage. I turned and was confronted by an all-too-familiar tall lady with long brown dreadlocks. 

"I'm happy to hear your son is okay," she said.    

Anyway…

If being a husband and parent is two thirds of adulthood, being a homeowner surely makes the pie chart one solid color. The lovely Bower family owns a house on the hill. The house itself is fairly nondescript—a three bedroom colonial, now topped with a 27 gauge burnished slate metal roof. Huzzah! The backyard overlooks downtown Pittsburgh and Oakland, the college district.

As I'm perched on the spec of world for which I pay property taxes I'm sometimes empowered when gazing downward at the mass of skyscrapers. I may not have taken over the world, but I have taken over Parcel ID: 0055-G-00056-0000-00 of the 15th Ward of Pittsburgh. That's what Allegheny County has on record as being my world. 

I don't possess a throne. I got a rickety wooden bench that the previous owner left on a backyard patch of mulch. From that vantage point the hemlock trees frame the city that I blindly pinned on a map years ago. 

I peer through a peephole at a nucleus of millions. I can see them all, but they can't see me. 

From here I sometimes feel as though I've taken over the world after all. (Typically, a few imperial IPA’s help shape this sentiment.) I'm immersed in an imagined explosion of moments that transcend any perks world ownership might allow...

I’m not leaning back in my old man backyard bench, scrolling through dimwitted Facebook memes  on my IPhone and counting how many red sedans pass the adjacent houses. Instead, I’m leaning forward to steer a kayak that’s become unwieldy from the rapids. Each passing boulder taunts me by displaying my embossed name and death date like Ebenezer Scrooge’s tombstone. I’m not engaged in sexual congress in the missionary position atop a Macy's bed spread adorned with floral patterns while a muted Republican debate pollutes the television screen. Instead, my legs ache from shagging in a position the Kama Sutra strongly warns against. We've ignored the No Trespassing sign to slip into a dilapidated rail car lit by the powder blue moonlight that flickers among the scurrying cirrus clouds of a late-June predawn. I’m not gulping the remaining suds of my Dogfish Head 60 Minute as I break between my third and fourth slices of plain cheese pizza. It’s Tuesday, and Tuesday is Rialto's Pizza night. Instead, my throat burns like hell from another shot of Knob Creek whiskey and I’m seeking conditions so weird that a sober mind would flee in panic. I’m not partaking in one of my favorite rainy day boredom cures—smirking at a Cornerstone TeleVision preacher on Channel 7 who offers the ultimatum: find God or make hell your hot tub. Instead, I’m clutching the jagged severed neck of the whiskey bottle I smashed on the back alley lamp post. Yes sir. I’m going to find God tonight, alright, and I’m going to ask Him just who the hell He thinks He is. He should know the whole wide world belongs to me.

But then my son knocks on the dining room window to draw Dada's attention. My imagination snaps back like a manic dog run out of leash. Here I am again, on Parcel ID: 0055-G-00056-0000-00. 

It’s quite cozy here.

I should’ve been voted Best Eyes.

Christian Youth Group Form Prayer Circle Around Tornado. Banish It To Hell.

Bentleyville, USA (AP)- Al Roker never predicted a rapturous burst of the power of prayer in his weekend forecast.

The Child Soldiers For Christ youth group had assembled at their regular “divine debriefing” Sunday morning service when a loud noise startled those inside the First United Bentleyville Church of Our Holy Father's Second Coming of the Trinity. Trouble was brewing from the heavens. But little did the small but devoted congregation of tween Christians realize, they would soon send an F-5 tornado packing for a one-way ticket straight into the brutal confines of hell eternal. 

"Dang thing sounded like a freight train," said youth pastor Mike Beechaum. "But of course, a description of the sound of every tornado in the history of the known universe has been compared to that of freight train. If only the good Lord had blessed me with a broader vocabulary," Beechaum told reporters before joining fellow church members speaking in tongues.

Strong storms had been surging throughout the region several hours before the faith of the youth ministry was severely tested Sunday morning. Local authorities, including Mayor Hinkle and city council, had warned residents to stay home if possible, and to seek refuge in basements or designated shelter facilities. But not even the threat of historically inclement was enough to deter the Child Soldiers For Christ. In fact, it became an opportunity to invoke a greater power.

"I punched a hole in the stained glass window and looked up. When I saw the funnel cloud forming above the steeple, I knew what us troops needed to do," said 10-year-old Todd Fairley, the groups' anointed prayer drill sergeant. Fairly then marched his "fellow Jesus GIs" into the church parking lot despite the chaos outside. With the gradually strengthening mega-twister bearing down, the young Christians formed a hand-in-hand prayer circle around the anticipated touchdown area. "I knew we needed to pray something fierce," said Fairly.

The descending tornado, which unleashed winds estimated to reach 175 mph, cast those feebler church members with infantile grips several hundred feet at blistering speeds into nearby cow pastures. But the prayers were a mighty force, too. "We closed our eyes and bowed our heads, mostly to protect our eyesight from the swirling debris," said one devotee. "Then we just started humbling asking our almighty Savior to spare our pitiful souls from harm."

But the almighty Savior did one better.

"Halleluiah, a big 'ol hole suddenly opened up in the asphalt."

Those in the prayer circle describe the hole as an approximately 10 foot x 10 foot entrance into to an intensely scorching pit of hellfire and brimstone. There was no question; the young believers were standing between a closed low pressure circulation, and Hell itself.

"Then the godforsaken twister got sucked into eternal damnation. Amen! I swear it even cryptically uttered 'I'll get you for this you meddling little shits,' as the hole quickly closed back up," said Fairley. "Whatever. It's Satan's problem now."

The Child Soldiers For Christ youth group are being praised by locals, whose community has been spared from the devastation. Mayor Hinkle plans to commemorate the fearlessness of the group by erecting a statue of Jesus forcefully holding Lucifer's head atop a menacing funnel cloud. "It's a kind of biblical swirlie," says Hinkle.

The statue will be built on the former site of the two handicap spots in the church parking lot.

"Thanks to the power of prayer, the Lord intervened and spared us from the destructive storm," said Pastor Beechaum. But when asked why the good Lord spared the church while other nearby facilities weren't so lucky, including the total annihilation of the Bentleyville Children's Hospital, and Tri-State Cancer Research Center and School for the Blind, Beechaum scampered behind the church parish then intermittently peered around the corner until the news trucks had completely disbursed.

This Wednesday at 7pm, the American Legion Post 239 will host a prayer circle for the loss of the Bentleyville Children's Hospital, and Tri-State Cancer Research Center and School for the Blind.

This work is dedicated to the celebrated Kaitlyn Bower, who conceived of the idea for this bit over morning coffee and the local news. 

Goodnight Jolly Roger

The commute from downtown Pittsburgh to the Greenfield neighborhood can be nasty, despite being merely four miles. I snap at jaywalkers and newborn potholes, but my nerves ease as home nears. Once there, I hang my slightly frayed tie on the hook with seven others in similar states. The ring on the collar of my white dress shirt has darkened. It needs scrubbed now, but screw it; I’m damned exhausted. I snatch a wrinkled pair of shorts from the mounting pile of dirty clothes on the bedroom floor. I’m most comfortable at my least presentable.

Finally, I grab my handheld shortwave radio from the junk drawer and lean my shoulder into the storm door separating the kitchen and the back deck. I’m greeted with uncomfortably humid, but awfully welcome, summer air. The workday is already a vague memory, and first pitch is minutes away.

Turn on the radio.

Superman has his Fortress of Solitude. Homer Simpson has Moe’s Bar. Incarcerated Hannibal Lector has memories of Florence, specifically the “Duomo, seen from the Belvedere.” Here, on my deck – with a Pittsburgh Pirates game on the radio – I’m exactly where I should be.

Radio waves encompass all voids. A Pirates broadcast floats unseen, odorless, and tasteless – yet it’s everywhere, all at once. A Greg Brown “clear the deck” home run call or a dry Bob Walk quip already pervade my sleepy neighborhood for as far as I can see in every direction. The radio snatches the personalities, and the game itself, from the nothingness of the omnipresent air and translates them so I can be an audience of one.

The barely audible background static compliments the pauses in commentary. White noise surely beats the bombardment of green screen birthed corporate logos and gaudy ads that flash beside the catcher’s shoulder like a flip book of highway billboards. Sunoco and Taco Bell – much like crying and designated hitters – do not belong in baseball. Save the propaganda for the outfield wall.

No Fox Sports 1 strike zone grids, no commercial breaks brought to you by Miller Lite in the brand-new NASA engineered Reverse Inertia Bottle, and no trailers for The Hangover 6. Five-second station identification breaks be damned.

Yes sir, Brownie and Rock will be welcomed back as ol’ warm weather companions when the umpire says “play ball.” Breaks in action will be graced by the personalities of Steve Blass and Tim Neverett, and not corrupted by pandering crowd shots of rowdy Cubs fans in from out-of-town, or the snoozing three-year-old wearing the over-sized Parrot hat.

Blass’ tales of attempting to cure the disease of his namesake by wearing loose-fitting underwear at the behest of fan mail, or Walkie’s “lucky noise,” shine when unencumbered by pre-2010 stock footage of the Golden Triangle, or close-ups of two beagles tussling during “Bring Your Dog To The Park Night”. Only hot dogs belong at the park. And down with Twitter Tuesday.

Listen when the broadcasters pause, and discover explicit crowd chatter, or organ music normally buried in the veritable bloatware of live television.

Pop a Cracker Jack and close your eyes. You’re in the bleachers and parking is free, and curbside.

My deck is outside where the air is fresh — well, as fresh as air up-wind from the industrial Mon Valley can be. And the clouds directly above are the same clouds huffing towards PNC Park from the east. The buzz of the Goodyear Blimp –sounding like an airborne lawn mower — passes overhead en route to the North Shore. A sudden rain means — in about five minutes — Greg Brown will announce that the grounds crew has began to gather near the infield tarp.

Sometimes my two-year-old son will join me outside. He’ll wander about the wooden planks while his father rants about a rare booted ground ball off Jordy Mercer‘s shin, or raves about a Marte gap-shot that ricochets about the North Side Notch. “Dig, baby, dig!” Yes, I’ll startle my boy, and the cat watching from the living room window sill will scurry when the scene outside devolves into lunacy. But my resilient son will recover and go about fumbling with his plastic John Deere tractor, and the cat will return amid a humdrum 1-2-3 inning.

The world darkens while the innings mount. My boy, having seen and heard enough childishness from his old man, retires to his bedroom where Mom will read him Goodnight Moon. I’ll teach him the game, and we’ll have a catch, soon enough. But for now, sleep tight.

The little fella’ is replaced by assorted nocturnal moths — there’s always one white beast that beats its wings on the screen door like simultaneous jackhammers — and countless unseen buzzing bastards that land on my eyelids, and heckle my wildly swatting palms. The price of backyard admission, I suppose.

The Big Dipper now dominates the heavens, and gradually tilts toward the north as the game enters its twilight too.

The score tightens and Clint Hurdle calls on Mark Melancon to clinch. I don’t need an TV screen to see the Shark charge across the outfield grass; my imagination is in 3D, HD, and supports THX Dolby audio. The couple of empty IPA bottles near my feet mark the hours like rings on a tree mark the years. The cold beer in my hands (A Belgium Trip-Trip-Trippel) combats the escalating late-inning jitters.

The Shark chomps bats, 1-2-3, and I can hear the Jolly Roger on my front porch flapping, as though the final swing-and-miss pushes a breeze towards Pittsburgh’s East End.

I power down the radio, gather the debris at my feet, and return inside the small plain house where my life is stored. No worries, I’ll do it all again tomorrow. And the next night, and the next. 162 games is a long season, but it’ll go by too fast.

Goodnight moon. Goodnight Greg Brown and Bob Walk. Goodnight Pedro home run ball that jumped over the moon.

Goodnight Jolly Roger.

The Way You Used To

I miss you, baby.

I miss the way you used to read me the morning obituaries in your lusty phone-sex voice. That always reminded me to be thankful I'm alive. I miss the way you used to coerce me to sit on the scale at the grocery store self-checkout to hear the machine voice tell me how much I'd cost if I were an artichoke. That always reminded me that my life had value. I miss the way you used to get me out of all those awkward social jams at your bosses' soirees whenever I had a wee bit much wine and tried to cox his brand new Nepali foster kid to chase the red laser pointer like a feral manx or farted Beethoven's Ninth over Grace or simply tried to make the other guests laugh a bit for once by saying "Yeah, but does the Kama Sutra teach you THIS?" before lunging over the baked cream cheese wonton tray toward Mr. Turnhauer's geriatric mother, just as a goof, and did other such so-called "undignified" things you said "(I'd) live to regret if you pull just one more of your dumbass stunts and lose me another job." That always reminded me you'd be there for me no matter what. I miss the way you started slipping on a Halloween mask while we made love in the dark, and then flip on the bedside lamp mere seconds before I'd climax. That began to remind me your timing was impeccable, and that Ronald Reagan's rubbery face can postpone ejaculation indefinitely. I miss the way you started shoving me onto the dance floor at your sisters' weddings, and then yelled at me "You have the rhythm of an arthritic knock-kneed orangutan you fucking turd." That began to remind me to dance like everyone was watching, and judging harshly. I miss the way you started responding to my subtle allusions about someday starting a family by perfectly recreating the maggot birth scene from the Jeff Goldblum version of the The Fly, props and all. That began to remind me that childbirth is very demanding of the female body, and that I might, might, harbor fly DNA which would explain a lot actually. I miss the way you started to say "Knowledge is power, honey," and then beat me senseless with the "P-Q" volume of the Encyclopedia Britannica. That began to remind me that I can still learn new things, and that I probably should've taken Judo lessons as a kid. I miss the way you started to lock me outside on freezing dead-of-winter nights and the only way I could get back into the house was to strip off all my clothes, smother myself in the Vaseline you'd leave on the welcome mat, and then squeeze myself through the doggie door. That began to remind me that I was juuust flexible enough to avoid hypothermia had I been born a medium-sized German Shorthaired Pointer, and that Vaseline existed as a thing. I miss the way you started to lie with me on a blanket under an endless starry sky and tell me how much you wished against all contemporary understanding of molecular biology and astrophysics that your hominid body could somehow magically take on the specific alien bodily functions that would enable you to exist on a planet—however hostile the environment and cruel the caste system—somewhere in a galaxy millions and millions of light years away from wherever I was at the time and"every-goddamn-thing you ever touched with your creepy claw-like fingers or saw with your stupid should-have-been-born-blind-because-at-least-you'd-deserve-some-pity eyes during your despicably, despicably utterly pitiful shit-stain life. So just die already. Jesus!" That began to remind me just how incredibly vast the universe actually is, which made me feel even closer to you.

But honestly, I always hated the way you never ever washed out the Tupperware after you ate tomato soup. That shit would cake to the sides and the bowl would need to be soaked for at least a good half an hour before being sponged. You're lucky I stuck around as long as I did.

You Tell Me, Corporal.

Deferring to the experts doesn't seem to be an option.

The dominant theme of Tuesday's Republican debate was the strategy to defeat ISIS, and measures to keep Americans safe. All the candidates, bar Rand Paul, basically stated he'd employ any militaristic means to defeat terrorism, short of rowing across the Atlantic Ocean in a canoe and personally, with bare hands, snapping the necks of each Jihadist one-by-one.

"Obama's ISIS strategy is a failure," each candidate bemoaned. "Obama is feckless…he's soft…he's empowering the terrorists." The criticisms spewed from the stage for two hours.

What of the candidate's strategies? "Elect me, and ISIS will rue the day they declared Jihad…20,000 troupes on the ground…A no fly zone." Never ending ground war and a tussle with Russia be damned.

And the people cheered, because the candidates answered firmly and with gusto.

Why can't one candidate, regardless of affiliation, when asked about ISIS, simply say, "Although I have ideas, I don't conclusively know yet what I'd do about defeating ISIS. I'd sit down with my military tacticians first, learn what I don't know because I'm likely not privy to vast amounts of information and scenarios, and THEN map out a strategy."?

Surely, President Obama has a perspective on the extremely nuanced Middle East quagmire that the current presidential candidates do not. Surely, he's briefed daily about what's what. Most likely, he's a yes man, of sorts, to his military and political advisors. He should be. The presidential candidates don't know what they don't know. But they do know their base will whoop and fist bump whenever they promise to "Bomb the hell outta' them."

Concerning the debate, most notable were the issues not raised: climate change, infrastructure repair, and gun control, for instance. Moreover, nor was there a single mention of the most prevalent terror threat – the domestic gun owner with a Facebook manifesto and an itchy trigger finger.

Unless the solution is a rousing, "Bomb the hell outta' them," perhaps those issues, too, are best left to those in the know.

To angry white American males who demand their country back

-From whom? You stole it in the first place. Well, not YOU personally, but your immigrant/refugee blood relatives. In fact, you should be trying to give it back to the natives. Naming the mascots of high school football teams after the victims isn't suitable compensation.

-From when? The 1950's, I bet. You want every household on the block to be the Cleavers again. Your perception of history is about as black and white as Leave It To Beaver. What the producers of that show neglected to air was the mass discrimination of anyone who wasn't you. June Cleaver was probably a sobbing wreck between the canned laughs, Wally Cleaver was probably gay but kept it hush in fear of becoming the villain of a high school scare film, and the black neighbor…he never got to move Pine Street because the fire hose guarded the suburbs.  

-Why? Because you're an arrogant wimp, that's why. It's not good enough that you're a white male living in 21^st century America. The marvelous advancement of medicine, science, and internet porn doesn't cut it. You want even MORE privilege. You're the cookie monster, and privilege is cookies. Brush those crumbs from that Hacksaw Jim Duggan beard; you've consumed more than your fair share.

-From where? You're standing on it, duh.

-What? You're country. You've made that quite clear on Facebook, Twitter, and at Cruz rallies and happy hour at Chuck's Bar and Bib Overhaul Wholesaler, and basically whenever you flap your pale face hole.

-How? That's the big question, ain't it? I'm sure you tried prayer already. Jesus would think you’re a prick too. Perhaps your scolding 187-character status update will ignite a movement, as though your See Dick Run brain could comprehend the extraordinarily nuanced situations that have led to you the delusional belief that your once-great nation was swiped from the pocket of your Van Heusen pleaded slacks.

You can have your country back when you pry it from the cold dead hands of everyone you fucked to get it in the first place.  

god is good?

Next time you want to exclaim to the world "God is good," remember today's headline on NBC News...

Alleged Rape Victim, 10, Dies in House Fire Hours Before Rape Suspect's Trial Begins