I watch quite a few movies, even if I don’t mention it much.  You might want to think of me as somewhat of an expert on movies.  I pretty much know all about movies and how they relate to people.  You might even call that my specialty.

Tonight I watched Friday Night Lights.  I wasn’t quite sure what to expect, being one of those hard-hitting Texas football movies and all.  But I liked it.  I never played any high school ball in Texas, preferring to spend most of my football career riding the bench along a Minnesota sideline, but other then that, the movie was right on.  It was everything I ever remembered about playing football.  The pain, the intensity, the desire and fear and need to win.  It was everything I remembered, right down to the coach picking those little name magnets off the board and tossing them down onto the table when the season ended. 

I’m almost positive my high school coach did the exact same thing.  I distinctly remember being at a kegger somewhere, and having that same feeling.  You know the feeling - that magnet-tossed-aside feeling.  Maybe you’ve even felt the same thing once when you were at a kegger.  If you played football, I mean, and the season had just ended.  Not if you’re just standing around drunk, telling a bunch of guys that you love them.  That’s something different altogether.

But don’t think you have to have played Texas football or had a funny feeling at a keg party to enjoy this movie.  No way.  The movie also offers plenty of slow motion game clips mixed right in with a nice selection of fanatical parent closeups.  And my favorite part of all, (although I’m not sure if I should give this away, but I will anyway) is how it just makes Texas look fucking nuts without the state apparently catching on at all.

I love when a movie can pull that off.  Cinematography at it’s best.

I do believe that some critics have gone as far as to say Friday Night Lights is perhaps “the best sports movie ever.” I’m not quite sure you’d ever catch me going that far, although I wouldn’t be one bit surprised, if come Oscar night, Friday Night Lights walks away with Best Dramatic Use of Magnets.  I can’t even think of another movie that comes even close.

I probably should have mentioned long before something about the crack under my house.  It’s kind of an important thing, and runs nearly the entire length of the house in sort of an east-west direction, cutting through what is now my writing room and ending somewhere near the laundry room on the other end of the house.  I don’t mean it cuts through those rooms.  I mean, if you’re in the house, you don’t see it.  That’s not right.  I mean it cuts through the ground, underneath the house, in the ground itself.  It’s that kind of crack.

I should have mentioned the crack long ago because just about everything I know came out of that crack.  You see, if you slide off the sheet metal door that hides the opening to the crawl space, and then squeeze in and slide along the crack on your belly, there’s always something to read.  Don’t ask me why, but newspapers of all sorts pour out of that crack in the ground, and just sort of pile up along the edge.  It seemed kind of weird at first, watching them mound up like that, then break loose and slide back into the crack when the pile got too high, but a person gets used to things faster then you’d expect when you’re on your belly under a house trying to keep out of reach of the cobwebs and spiderwebs and who knows what else.  You learn to adjust or you just go nuts. 

Anyway, newspapers from all over the world pour out of that crack, which is a shame, really, to have so many old newspapers go to waste.  I can’t make heads or tails out of most of them, and just toss them back down into the crack.  It bothers me, sure, but they seem to keep pouring back out, so I guess it’s alright.

Oh wait, I almost forgot.  You need to bring a flashlight.  Newspapers pour out of the crack under my house, not sunlight.  That would just be crazy.  Whoever heard of sunlight pouring out of a crack in the ground?  No one I’ve ever talked to, that’s for sure.

Where is Headless Lawn Man?  And why did his run for the White House peter out so quickly?  Those were the questions we kept asking ourselves over the weekend.  It was important to get to the bottom of this.  Either that or go outside and mow the lawn.

“Where is Headless Lawn Man?” I wanted to know.  “How can he just disappear like that?”

“That’s easy,” Imaginary Keith said.  “He’s been shelved.”

“By the Imaginary Party?”

“No, I mean literally.  He’s on the shelf.  Right over there.” Imaginary Keith pointed him out, and sure enough, there he was.

“Well good god!  No wonder!  No one’s ever going to become President sitting around on that dusty shelf.”

“Maybe he’s planning his next campaign,” offered Imaginary Keith’s son.  It was a nice try.  The boy champions the cause of all the toys in the house.  He is, perhaps, one of the finest toy lobbyists I’ve ever met.

“Rubbish.  He’s covered in dust and he’s lying down.  Headless Lawn Man is asleep.”

“Maybe he just pulled an all-nighter?” The boy is crafty and must be watched at all times.  Several rooms, crowded with toys, are proof of his cunning.

“No, I think he is actually sleeping.  Look at his chest,” Imaginary Keith says.

“Excuse me, but is everyone here crazy?” I can’t believe these meetings we have around here sometimes.  They make no sense.  “Has everyone here forgotten that Headless Lawn Man is made of plastic.  His chest isn’t moving.”

“Maybe he’s dead,” the boy says.  You see, that’s just the sort of thing you have to be careful about around here.  All this twisting around of the impossible.

“The Imaginary Party clearly needs a new candidate,” the boy adds.  He’s risen to his feet now, pacing the room.  The meeting is getting serious.

“I wouldn’t mind being President,” Imaginary Keith says.

“Yeah, right,” they boy and I both say at the same time.  “Like we could somehow explain away all those marriages.  Besides, there’s never been a President who was single.”

“Well, technically I’m still married . . “ Imaginary Keith starts to rise to his feet.

“Sit down, dad.  I hate to be the one to break it to you, but I’m afraid you’re just not going to grow up and be President one day.  That’s all there is to it.  Sorry.”

It’s an awkward thing, to watch a son dish up truth like that to his own father.  An awkward thing indeed.

Imaginary Keith sits down, staring at his feet.

“I was Vice-President in eighth grade,” he says.  “Maybe everyone’s forgotten about that little bit of valuable experience.”

“No one’s forgotten, dad, don’t worry.  It’s not that you wouldn’t make a good President, it’s just that . . well . . you’re a . . well, how can I say this?  You’re a romantic.  That’s what you are, dad.  A romantic.  And everyone knows there’s never been a romantic in the White House.”

“Oh.  Well why didn’t you just say that in the first place?”

“Sorry, dad.  I didn’t think of it.”

“You crazy kid.  You have so much to learn.” Imaginary Keith cheers up instantly.  He’s like that.  Maybe he would make a good President after all.

“Hey look!  I think Headless Lawn Man is waking up!” he says, making the boy and me turn and look.

Well, maybe not.

To hear the boy tell it, he will live with his father for the rest of their natural lives.  Imaginary Keith, it seems, has no choice in the matter.

“This will be my bedroom,” the boy says, referring to what is now Imaginary Keith’s bedroom.  “The two boys will have my room, and the two girls will have your writing room.”

“What about me?” Imaginary Keith asks.

“You can stay in the garage.” The boy is not joking.  He will keep his father in the garage with the dogs and the furnace and the extra toys.  In the boy’s mind, I do believe it is a place of honor.

I think this is funny because I know all about Imaginary Keith’s dream to build himself a little one room cabin.  A small, cozy place with just enough room for him and his books, a couple of chairs, a small desk, a bed, and a big, stone fireplace to keep his old feet warm at night.  Maybe a small fridge, hidden away under a counter to stash away a few beers cold.  No phone and no television.  No one calling his name night and day, and just enough room for a couple of people to come visiting, but not enough room for anyone to actually stay around. 

I think it’s funny because of the look on his face as the idea of living in his son’s garage slowly sinks in.

“I’m surprised he didn’t pick the tree house,” I tell him, after the boy leaves.  The tree house sits just outside the living room picture window, in clear sight.  “The tree house is the obvious choice if you really want to keep tabs on an old man.”

I wonder if there’s a world record for the oldest man living in a tree house?  The oldest man forced to use a slide to leave his house?  The oldest man to live in a house with a front door only half his height?

“I think this might make you famous,” I tell him.  He says nothing.

It will be a long night.  Not even midnight, and already I have woken up enough times that it feels like a week has passed.  The wind is blowing loud, the trees shaking and leaning hard all around the house.  The boy has climbed into bed with me, and I wonder, what does he dream about all night?  Martial arts?  I climb out of bed and count the bruises on my shins.

And my own dreams aren’t helping.  She is there, taunting me, asking for money and telling me that she will have everything before it is through.  I know, I say, and walk away.  I walk across town, searching for a friend, and find him, having dinner with some people I don’t know.  The gravy looks good, but they don’t invite me to sit down, so I excuse myself, trying to be polite.  I have been excluded and I am on the run from something that I don’t know how to fight.

Where do these things come from?  She has delivered cupcakes along with the boy.  Could these be laced with stress and worry?  But the frosting is so good.  I can’t resist.  I walk the hallway in the dark, making my way to the kitchen, and peel the paper from around another cupcake.  How many have I eaten tonight?  It doesn’t matter.  It melts in my mouth while the wind roars just outside the window.  I notice that the empty cardboard boxes I’ve piled on the back porch are gone, apparently blown off into the dark.  Even they are having a rough night, trying to dream while the wind kicks them around the yard.  At least it is dry in here, I think.  Yes, dry right up until the giant redwood crashes through the roof.  I think about which direction the big tree will fall while I finish my cupcake, then head back to bed.  I will fight back like Keanu Reeves in The Matrix, I think.  I will move so fast I will appear as only a blur.  I will counter everything.  I will block every punch and every kick.  And those reaching for my wallet will come up empty, my pocket having moved a thousand times over during the course of their awkward grab.

As for the dreams, well, we’ll just see who’s in charge of those.  It’s my head, and I want it back.

I am a working man.  Our skeleton crew (yes, I’ve already hired and put the bones to work) needs my help, so today I worked myself to exhaustion.  I wore the tines off of three rakes.  You could hear them snap from half a mile away, I swear.  I strapped on a backpack blower and experimented with the different angles and rpm’s necessary to lift me off the ground.  I pulled on a mower rope a thousand times, gave up, and bought a new mower.

Our part of the metropolis is clean again.  Evil is held at bay.

The little dog keeps dragging home bones that look more and more like human bones all the time.  Broken femurs and ribs.  A section of backbone.  Something I don’t know what it is.  He runs around with his prize bones held high, the way I imagine paleontologists do when no one is looking.

Eventually I get the bones away and throw them in the trash, but this morning I’m having second thoughts.  I’m beginning to think that maybe I should be putting them all in a big box and saving them.  I mean, what if the dog is onto something? 

Maybe he’s discovered a murder scene, or better yet, the long lost bones of Prehistoric Keith.  And no one ever did find out what happened to the old Mr. Cooper who lived here back in the early 60’s.  Sure Mrs. Cooper moved to Florida, everyone knew that, but what about Mr. Cooper?  I still have his old pitchfork out in the barn.  It seems unrelated, but now I don’t know.  Why would Mr. Cooper’s old pitchfork still be hanging around the place after all these years?

I’m kind of hoping the bones belong to Mr. Cooper and not Prehistoric Keith.  I’ve already thrown away a pretty good chunk of backbone, and I would hate for Prehistoric Keith to be reconstructed as such a short man.  And who knows what the dog has already hauled away and lost.  Prehistoric Keith might end up standing no more then two, three feet tall by the time we locate all his bones, and I’m not really comfortable with the idea of people thinking I come from a long line of tiny, little Keiths.  The whole thing might even backfire, leaving me labeled as the odd one.  The freak.  Large Keith.  There’s no telling how the press would run with this story.

No, I think I’m pulling for a Mr. Cooper discovery.  It’s so much easier to explain.  Plus, I own his pitchfork.  That’s something I can understand.

Life is changing, there’s no hiding from it.  I’m dreaming in themes and finding new ways to play with trash.  I’ve half-heartedly agreed to participate in one of those popular memes that are wasting so much of everyone’s time.  I will talk about music, like I am an expert, and tell you things about myself that even I don’t know.  The words will all be in the proper order and it will make perfect sense, but I’m telling you, tomorrow morning when you wake up every single thing that I’ve written might be a lie.

In junior high, my friends and I used to joke about throwing albums through the air like frisbees so we could hear the music.  We tried it and laughed our heads off.  There is nothing more stupid then junior high boys.

One of the recently unearthed treasures was the box of eyeglass samples we found in the trash two years ago at the apartment complex.  A brand new box of samples.  Dozens of eyeglasses.  Who would throw out such a thing?  We snatched it up because that’s the kind of people we are.  The only thing I can’t believe is that we’d somehow lose the entire box for two years.

But there it was.  It was better then picking into a thick vein of gold.  We rushed outside to play a game of modern day tinker.  We modeled everything, trying to sell our eye-wear to anyone that would listen, which mostly meant chickens, dogs, cats, and cows.  Only the oldest dog was interested, although even she had a hard time admitting she was getting old.

“You look great,” we told her.  “Screw the cats.  You can’t let a little laughing get to you.  Besides, look at the cows.  They’re taking you very serious.” Cows are, of course, almost always serious.  But you don’t tell this to a dog that needs glasses.  You focus on the task at hand.  You tell them whatever it takes.  I don’t care if dogs are man’s best friend, when it comes to glasses, they’re a tough sell.

But it’s mostly the dreams that have me thinking.  Every night seems to be a new theme.  Two nights ago it was poverty and racism.  All night, every dream was tied in somehow with the theme.  I wandered around, meeting people and talking things over with them.  I photographed people in situations that made me uncomfortable.  I looked for answers.

And last night - heroes.  Every dream somehow tied in with our relationships to heroes.  I found connections everywhere I looked, and almost got out of bed on several occasions during the night to begin writing about what I was finding.  I didn’t want the night to end.  The dreams were more informative then high school and college put together.

Is this what it was like to have a working brain?  It’s been so long I can’t remember.

I will go work on my meme.  I will listen to every song and search for the common thread.  According to the information at the bottom of the screen, it will take me 10.9 days to hear them all.  I better get started.

Apparently my house and the internet tower are not aligned.  There will be no high-speed here today.

So, what does this mean to you and me?  Well, it means that I need a new diversion.  Something big.  Something that can replace the internet.  Something like a John Ritter cutout.

Yes, if everything goes as planned, a John Ritter cutout will arrive in my mailbox one day in the near future.  He and I will visit the city and take a few photographs before he’s off to his next stop. 

Want to be on the list?  Care to tour your city with Hooperman?  It might be arranged. 

Yesterday afternoon passes without incident.  I am nominated for Father of the Year, but respectively decline for reasons too numerous to list.  A chicken catalog arrives in the mail, and I have a conversation about chickens.  The entrepreneurial spirit in both me and my son contemplates the possibilities of selling farm fresh eggs.  We both decide we will be rich only moments before school is about to start.  Darn the educational system, getting in our way.

Today the house will be adorned with dishes of various sizes.  High-speed internet!  Satellite television!  I love a fast internet connection.  What would I trade away for my endless access to information?  What are my limits?  I will spend the morning sliding around under the house on my belly, installing cables and phone lines.  It will dredge up memories of past plumbing problems and other cable installations.  I will recall the time I took a small troop of boys under the house on an exploration, everyone armed with flashlights.  The boys’ bravery could almost be measured by the size of their eyes, which widened with each scoot that took them further away from the escape hole.  We discussed construction techniques, wild animals, and monsters.  The exploration came to an end, and one by one the boys popped from the hole, eyes blinking against the sunlight, everyone suddenly brave again and bragging about their time under the earth.

The news this morning is that whatever bug the boy had two weeks ago has returned.

The bad news is that in the middle of the night he wandered into the middle of the hallway, disoriented, confused, and sick, and stood there while diarrhea puddled around his ankles onto the carpet.  The other bad news is that one of his parents, in their shock upon encountering the scene, stood there in disbelief too long as the boy then began to vomit all over the carpet.

Fortunately, there is a small bit of good news.  The parent wasn’t me, and the hallway wasn’t mine.

The boy is being delivered to my care within the hour.  Let’s raise our glasses together.  Here’s to long days and longer nights.  Cheers.

“Pull in there,” Imaginary Keith said, his face smashed up against the passenger side window.  “I’m thirsty.” It was a tavern.

I’ve already been having a hard time sleeping, and lately, drinking beer with Imaginary Keith seems to only make things worse.  A few beers now and both of us toss and turn all night.  We kick and flop around.  We wake up every hour, staring at the clock.  We can’t dream right and spend the entire night thinking about something that never comes into focus.  The night seems to go on forever.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Oh come on.  Just one.  One beer and a game of pool.  How can you say no to that?”

“But last time . . “

“Besides, how long have we lived in this town?  Fifteen, twenty years?  And I don’t think we’ve ever even been in this place.  I think we have a responsibility to explore the buildings in our own town, don’t you?  It’s our responsibility to know what’s going on around here.”

“I don’t see how drinking beer qualifies as exploration.  And I’m not so sure responsibility is the word I’d use to convince someone to pull into a tavern.”

“I bet the girl behind the bar is pretty.”

“Okay.  But just one.” I pull hard on the steering wheel and my butt raises slightly off the seat, leaving me airborn for a split second while the car bumps its way into the parking lot.  The back tire catches the edge of the curb, and I hear Imaginary Keith’s head bump against the window. 

“Ouch!”

“Sorry.” Driving isn’t easy when you’re only eight years old.  The steering wheel is too big, my toes barely touch the pedals, and the dials on the radio are out reach.  And split second decisions, well, I won’t try to fool you, when it comes to driving, they never have been my forte.

I’ve never been much for foreshadowing.  I think it’s overrated, as far as storytelling goes.  I mean, either you’re interested in the story or you’re not.  If we happened to sit down together for a talk, I wouldn’t work in little hints of what I’d be talking about in, say, the next thirty or forty minutes.  I wouldn’t string you along like that.  I’d just say what was on my mind without a thought in the world about where the conversation was going.  That’s the beauty of conversation.  No advertising.  Foreshadowing stinks of advertising, and I hate advertising. 

Besides, I’m more of a hindsight and introspection kind of guy.  Who has time to worry about what’s around the next corner when the last corner still holds so much interest?

On the other hand, foreshadowing does have certain timesaving qualities about it that certainly appeal to writers.  It’s much easier to do to a little foreshadowing then actually tell the story.  I watched the news on television the other night, and they apparently have discovered the same trick.  They kept telling me what they were going to be talking about, and as a matter of fact, did so much of it that I don’t think they actually ended up telling me anything.  The news, apparently, is all foreshadowing.

I met a woman named Linda who was in need of some medication, but told an interesting story, at least when I could hear it (Linda was a notorious mumbler), of the day that the sky grew dark and the atmosphere began to thin.  She was there and saw it all, confusing the desire to watch with the desire to run.  “I should have run,” she said, “but I didn’t.”

One only has to listen to the threads of any conversation to really understand how close we all are to being honest to god schizophrenics.  I nodded in agreement to Linda’s story, although it would be an outright lie to say that I’ve felt the atmosphere thin.  But her confusion about whether to watch or run, that desire to become caught up in the fascination - that I understand well.  Yes, Linda, I know what you mean.  I bought her another cup of coffee and a pack of cigarettes and she smiled the way a little girl might when her daddy notices something little, like a new ribbon in her hair.

I am baffled how innocence can survive, trapped in an aging body that spends its nights sleeping on a park bench.

And yet another eventful day of whipping the place into shape.  Another truckload of garbage, almost all of it from the garage.  A truckload of other things, dropped off at the nearest Goodwill.  No, it was the Salvation Army.  Yes!  I support the troops!

Under any sort of imaginable shelf in the garage is a layer of mouse droppings like nothing you’ve ever seen before.  I vacuum and sweep and wash everything away.  I implement The New Deal, which involves nothing touching the floor except mouse traps.  What about the dogs, the boy asks.  They can learn to hover, I tell him.  Everything will hover a foot off the floor, including us.  The mice will be taken completely by surprise and run for cover, jumping into the many conveniently located live traps throughout the room.  The mice will be stripped of power and stability will be returned to the region.

But the war is not without casualties.  The vacuum cord, yanked from across the room flies and hits me in the forehead.  The plugs dig in, leaving two bloody marks.  The vacuum is trying to plug into my brain, I tell the boy.  It wants to know what I am thinking.  He is unimpressed, but calls for a medic.

And what can I say about the treasures.  Boxes of them, unearthed one after another, hidden away so long that I’ve forgotten that they even existed.  Just the other day I was wondering what had become of some of my parents’ old photographs, thinking that they had perhaps disappeared forever, only to find today that they had been stashed away and forgotten over ten years ago, by me!  I am the lucky thief, returned to dig up the treasure.

And art work from my early years.  A drawing of some monsters from when I was only two or three, my mother’s scrawl under the drawing, Keith’s monsters from Outer Limits.  Did my own parents wean me on the terrors of Outer Limits?  I really must dig into this box deeper and uncover the secrets.  I will photograph and scan it all later.  I will let anyone in who insists or has the slightest interest.  I will shed light where there seems to be none.  I will open all the doors and windows.  I am tired of playing alone in dark rooms.

An eventful Friday, full of accomplishment. 

The sun was out, the day unusually warm. 

I solved the high speed internet question. 

I ordered Dish television, giving me and my son separate DVRs, both for free.  And the service is cheaper then my current crappy cable.

I opened the sunroof and drove around with my hand in the sky.  I felt presidential, stopping the car and walking the last thirty or forty feet through the front gates into the Wordshadows Compound.  A dog barks in the distance, but other then that, not a protester in sight.

At 6:30 a.m. the phone rings:

“Dad?”

“Yes.”

“Can you come over and help me study?” He’s been at his mom’s for the night.

“Sure, but give me half an hour.”

Now, before anyone says anything about what a great dad I am, making all these sacrifices for my son, and continually going out of my way and bending over backwards, you should maybe hear about my plan.  I do these things for a reason.  Sure it’s important that he knows how to spell correctly.  I’m all for good spelling.  But I’m really just trying to earn myself some points.  You know, for the future.

“Dad?”

“Yes.”

“Can you come down from Heaven or wherever it is you are and explain to me why you left no inheritance?”

“Sure, but give me half an hour.”

Funny, that it should take me so long to realize that Technorati was targeting me for what they think is some appropriate marketing.

Like the other day, it should have dawned on me that it was no coincidence that menopause became the sidebar marketing of choice on their site.  But it didn’t.

But today the hammer finally hit me squarely between the eyes when I saw advertisement after advertisement about customer service.  Hey!  I’ve been talking about customer service.

So I catch on slow.  I’m pacing myself.

Hammer between the eyes.  Hammer between the eyes.  Hammer between the eyes.  Hammer between the eyes.  Hammer between the eyes.  Hammer between the eyes.  Hammer between the eyes.  Hammer between the eyes.  Hammer between the eyes.  Hammer between the eyes.  Hammer between the eyes.  Hammer between the eyes.  Hammer between the eyes.  Hammer between the eyes.  Hammer between the eyes.  Hammer between the eyes.  Hammer between the eyes.  Hammer between the eyes.  Hammer between the eyes.  Hammer between the eyes.  Hammer between the eyes.  Hammer between the eyes.  Hammer between the eyes.  Hammer between the eyes. 

Bear with me while I conduct some little experiments.

“Hammer between the eyes, come here!  I need you!”
      - from The Proposed Sayings of Alexander Graham Bell, Circa 2005

The problem with too many ideas is that implementing them is just so much of a burden.  Sure a blog is an outlet, but it’s no solution.  What I need is a religion, or maybe a government.  Maybe even a government agency would be enough.

Have you seen the new H&R Block commercials?  I’m telling you, they’re on to something big, and I don’t think they even know it.  What I need right away is my government agency so I can steal the idea and save this country before it’s too late.  Our first campaign will be called - No Dollar Left Behind.

Gambling, of course, is the answer.  Taxes are okay, but if you really want people to give you all their money, and enjoy themselves, you need to make it fun.  Taxes aren’t fun, but gambling is.  H&R Block now has this nice little deal where you can take a chance on doubling your refund.  What a marketing ploy.  You have to love it.

But when I get my government agency, I’m going to crank it up a notch.  I’m so tired of all the government lying that my government agency will simply tell the truth.  Yes, it’s true, my government agency will need all of the money, but everyone, and I mean everyone, has a equally fair and honest chance to win some of it back.  Forget one man, one vote.  Everyone knows what a crock that is.  And forget electoral votes.  Forget campaigning and popularity.  Forget wealth and influence.  There will be no such thing as power ties and television debates will become obsolete.  When I get my government agency, things are going to different.

Like my idea to make April 15 the big giveaway day, when some lucky taxpayer will have the chance to walk away with the biggest taxpayer’s refund.

I know I’ve been asking for free babies lately, but I’ve changed my mind.  What I need is a government agency.  Does anyone happen to have an extra one sitting around they don’t need?  Just about anything will do, although I’d prefer not to start my agency handing out milk or cheese, or anything like that.  But if that’s what you have, I’ll take it.  I’m not picky, just anxious to get started.

My attempt at full disclosure isn’t going so well.  I can’t get anything out.  I’m swelling with things to be disclosed.  I’m full of myself. 

I’m thinking about disclosing what I think about my friend who emailed me the other day to say that he and his wife are having a baby, but then I keep thinking that’s not much of a disclosure at all.  It’s not really about me, no matter how I look at.

The email was sent to three of us, laying out a few important details, like when the baby would be born, how happy they were, and that none of us friends would be allowed to name the baby.

As far as I could tell, this last request should be handled like all other unreasonable rules that I encounter in life.  I emailed immediately back with a short list of name suggestions.

Keith, naturally, was on the list.  There aren’t enough Keiths in the world.  Sure it’s not a Bible name, but I don’t think Bob is either, and look how it took off.

And I thought that Gran Turismo was sort of catchy.  My friend loves that game, so why wouldn’t he love a baby named Gran Turismo just as much?  It made perfect sense.  Just think how much everyone will love playing with the baby, I told him.  They’ll spend countless hours trying to figure out his every move.  I say his, but I’m pretty sure Gran Turismo could go either way.  Or maybe just Turismo for a girl.  You know, let her grow into the Gran part.

And that was it.  Having a new baby is hard enough, so I thought keeping the list short and sweet was rather helpful of me.  And I also offered to take any extra babies that his wife might have.  You know, just in case they had twins or something.  I’m there for them, and I wanted them to know it.

I’m still waiting to hear back about the names, but since the baby isn’t due until July, I suppose they’ll wait until the last minute to spring it on me.  Secretly, I’m pulling for Turismo.  I like my name, don’t get me wrong, but I can’t help but think of where I might have gotten in life if my own parents had named me Turismo.

I think with a name like Turismo I would have turned out a lot cooler.  Better hair, a cleaner car, and maybe even a tattoo.  But let’s keep that last part to ourselves.  If they start thinking of their new baby with tattoos, I’m afraid it’ll blow the whole deal.

Although I haven’t said much about it, I’ve been on the hunt for a Qwest serviceman, because if I’m ever going to get DSL service at this house, I’m going to need a serviceman in my corner.  My conversations with Qwest customer service have been anything but helpful.  Customer service has been anything but helpful.  As far as “customer service” is concerned, I think I’m the only one holding up my end of the bargain.

“I’ll give you a call back in three to five days,” the customer service reps say.  Twice.  Two different customer service reps.  And that was a month ago.  Cripes, you’d think I’d asked them out on a date and they now felt this need to avoid me.  All I want to do is spend some money.

Okay, so spending money is kind of like a date, but that’s not my point.  What is my point?

Oh yea.  I needed a serviceman in my corner.  What I needed was someone who actually knew what the hell was going on, and today, I spotted him, just getting into his truck at the end of my road.  I stopped the car, rolled down the window, and told the man my dilemma.

“Sure.  I saw a free pair in the box just now.  We can do that.”

You see, that’s the kind of thing you’ll never get from a warm body in a headset and ergonomically correct chair sitting somewhere halfway across the country.  You want something done, you need to find the people who actually do the work.  And no, sniveling and sounding irritated doesn’t count as work.

You know, like dating.

No, wait a second.  That doesn’t make any sense at all, does it?  Dating isn’t work.  Dating is . . no wait, that does make sense.  Dating is work.  Okay, but it’s not sniveling or . . . oh hell, forget it.

Anyway, I’m not talking about dating.  I’m talking about getting DSL and having a serviceman in your corner.  At least I thought I was.

“I’ll call them right now and have someone give you a call,” the serviceman said.  “Are you going to be home?”

So yes, if you want to stop by, go ahead.  I’m home.  As a matter of fact, I’ll be home all this month, waiting on my phone call.

You know, it’s a good thing I’m not dating, don’t you think?  A dating man, if I did happen to be such a thing, would never have time to sit around and wait on the phone company.

When I looked up, my friend Randy was in someone’s yard and had broken off two big branches from an evergreen shrub, and was holding them up to the sides of his face, pretending to have a giant pair of mutton chops.  I smiled, then looked away, searching for my own joke. 

When I looked back, he had not only somehow managed to topple over the an entire brick wall, but had whittled a five foot section of it to resemble a giant, peeled apple.  We both start laughing at the foolishness, but just then a woman drove up and starting chasing us off.  It was her wall that Randy had wrecked, and she chased us down the street, all the way back to the car, yelling nonstop in Spanish.  Neither one of us could understand a single word she was saying.

What a break, we thought.  We can’t be in trouble if we can’t understand anything that she’s saying.

But wouldn’t you know it, we’d managed to park the car directly in front of a translation store.  What were the chances of that?  I reluctantly followed the two of them through the front door, Randy’s ear firmly gripped between the strong fingers of the woman.

“Take a number,” two men at the counter said, simultaneously.  Both were Mexican, and from the sound of it, spoke perfect English.  The woman, with Randy’s ear still in her grasp, rattled off something, making both of the men behind the counter smile.

I knew we were in trouble, but couldn’t resist looking around for something that resembled a giant peach.  Somehow I knew that if I could find something that looked like a giant peach, Randy and I would start pretending that our heads had grown really, really big, just like James’ head in James and the Giant Peach.  And that would be really funny.

The feeling of arriving somewhere creeps over me, so I decide to turn off all the lights and wander around the house with only a flashlight.  I think it’s because I’m alone and experiencing a flash of accomplishment.  It’s the first time the house has been silent for four days, and I’ve always been better at wasting time when it’s quiet.

I decide to pretend I’ve discovered a cave with berber carpet.  I will take pictures of things using only a small flashlight, all the while telling myself how nice it feels to be able to go spelunking with bare feet.  The berber feels nice, although I can tell with my bare toes that the cave is littered with toys, clothes, and what feels to be dishes.  My big toe confirms this, tracing the outline of a plate, then a cup, then another plate.  Yes, a boy has inhabited this cave, and judging by the sickly odor of old ketchup, not that long ago.  The beam of my light bounces off a square of reflective glass, confirming the presence of a television.  We are obviously in the largest room of the cave - the living room, if you will.

“Let’s see if there’s anything to eat around here,” I say out loud.  Unlike most caves, this one doesn’t make my voice echo or bounce around at all.  “Let’s try this way.”

The cat follows me around, obviously thrilled with my choice of games.

“You can take those hiking boots off,” I tell the cat.  “The cave is carpeted.” She looks at me like I’m crazy, then heads off into the dark.

I’m glad cats don’t listen.  Really.  Once I hear the squeak of those four small hiking boots on linoleum, finding the kitchen is a breeze.

I don’t watch much news, so things like a tsunami washing away 160,000 lives take me by surprise, which I guess isn’t saying much.  Things like that take everyone by surprise, not just those who are washed away.  No one is ready for something like that.

I tried to watch little bits of the fundraiser telethon that was on television the other night.  I’m not sure why.  The whole thing is sad enough, I certainly don’t need that pounded into my head, and I don’t really care one bit that movie stars are manning the phone banks.  That doesn’t really impress me that much at all.  Truth is, I don’t know many of them, by name, I mean, not personally, and if I called I would be hard pressed most likely to figure out who was who.

“Is this Meg Ryan?” I might ask, and end up embarrassing someone like Leonardo DiCaprio.  I would hate for that to happen.  I’ve heard he’s already sensitive about his hands, and certainly wouldn’t want to damage his career by getting him thinking about his voice.  “No, no.  You just sounded so perky.  Really, I knew it was you, Leo.  Come on!  Leo, I was just screwing with you.”

But like I said, I kept trying to watch little bits of the show, but each time some famous musician would come on, my son would get all fidgety and talkative, and it was hard to appreciate the music.

“Dad, do we have to watch American Idol?” he kept asking, which at first seemed funny because of how wrong it was, and then became even funnier when I realized how close to the truth he’d actually gotten.  I think I might have even heard Madonna trashing the song Imagine, and thought for a second that my son might confuse the tsunami fundraiser show for The Gong Show, but of course, my son doesn’t know about The Gong Show, so that wasn’t even possible.  But then, only moments before I’d thought that killing Imagine wasn’t possible either, which goes to show you that really anything is possible.

I suppose it’s not right to crack jokes at the same time as talking about the tsunami, but I figure if all the movie stars can get on television and smile and laugh and crack jokes while actually working the event, then I can say just about anything that I want as well.  Who’s to stop me?  Besides, my timing has always been off.  I’ve never been very good at knowing what to say when it comes to things serious way beyond any hope of comprehension, and I’m pretty sure I have no way of comprehending the death of so many people, all at once like that.  Life washes over all of us, all the time, a figurative tsunami so to speak, so you’d think that as a species, after witnessing so much death, we’d slowly become hardened to things like actual tsunamis, and that when they hit us, we wouldn’t feel quite so much disbelief.  You’d think that we’d get used to death, witnessing it every day like we do, but I realize all the time that just the opposite seems to be true.  We hate death, and as much as we might like to, we will never get used to the idea.

And some of us, when faced with death and disaster, just happen to crack jokes, no matter how bad the timing seems to be.  I don’t know why.

Several years ago, I hired the teenage boy next door to work for my company.  Work started at 8:00 a.m., which in the summer, means that the sun has already been up for several hours, so you’d think that it would be easy to get up and be to work on time when all you had to do is get out of bed and walk across your yard.  But for whatever reason, the boy could never seem to be on time, and was always hustling across the yard, twenty minutes late, trying to chase one of the trucks down before it pulled out onto the road.

I only mention this because one morning, quite a long time ago now, an ambulance pulled up in front of the boy’s house sometime around 7:00.  I gathered along the fence with all of the other guys who worked for me and came in early, and we watched as the ambulance workers rushed into the house, which, we’d find out later, was because the boy’s mother had had a serious heart attack.  But I didn’t know this at the time, and it’s important to remember this, because I would never joke around about someone’s mother having a heart attack.  That’s important to remember.

Anyway, we all knew it was serious because the ambulance guys were rushing all around, but then we saw the boy step out onto the front porch, which given the circumstances, wasn’t strange at all.  But in my mind, all I could see at that moment was the boy who was never on time for work up earlier then I’d ever seen, and all I could think to say was, “At least it looks like he’ll be to work on time this morning.”

I wish I had a good defense for the things I say, but I don’t.  Maybe I think that people deserve to be caught off guard when life seems too overwhelming; that somehow it helps people, like throwing them a lifeline so they can pull themselves out of the impossible situation.  I don’t know.  Maybe I just need to grow up.  Who knows.  I suppose it’s a little bit of all that and more.

But until the world ends, or tsunamis wash us all away, I’m sorry to say that there will always be people like me wandering around, saying the wrong thing at the wrong time.  We’re easy to spot.  We’re the ones who’ve never minded people staring at us like they want to kill us.  You know the ones.  We’re the people who never have anything to say, but then somehow end up talking when everyone else is smart enough to shut up.

There’s hardly time for thinking because we’re off to the dentist!  My handsome young son has an appointment with the good doctor to have his genetically crooked teeth shined.  Already he is complaining, yelling from the shower.

“When are they going to start giving me some good stuff?” he wants to know.  He’s referring to the small kid’s toothbrush and swallowable toothpaste.  He’s trying so hard to be a full grown man that anything small, sparkly, or intended to be cute on purpose causes him severe distress.

“I’ll tell them to give you the good stuff,” I assure him.  Who would ever think that free samples could cause so much trouble.

“But I don’t really need any of it,” he yells, the shower still running.  “I’m saving up for an electric flosser.” When he emerges from the bathroom, he demonstrates with his hands how the floss gently shimmies back and forth, relaxing the gums.  Those were his exact words.

“I used to shimmy like an electric flosser,” I tell him.  “Look.” I shake around the room like I’ve gotten myself tangled in a whole spool of dental floss, which makes the boy laugh.

You know, sometimes I think I’ll miss those big, crooked teeth of his.  I think I’ll miss these days when it feels like there’s no other smile like his in the entire world.

For those few serious readers, and perhaps those who find hidden meanings in the strangest of life’s places, it is with a heavy heart that I must report that the shave ice machine has been broken.

Seriously.  The actual shave ice machine was damaged last night when one of the dogs, barking at the cat through the backdoor’s glass window, finally drove me insane.  The cat, of course, enjoyed the noise of the dog and wouldn’t move.  But by the end of the day, I’d had about enough, so went down the hall and into the garage to let the dog in.

You know, if you have a house fire, it’s pretty much common knowledge that you should close the doors behind you, in order to contain the fire.  Fire will leap through an open door almost faster then you can blink.  Well, as it turns out, so do muddy dogs with their minds on cats.

So slipping and sliding and hungry for cat the same way a fire is hungry for oxygen, the dog zipped past me and into the house.  It was easy to know what was happening, because the crashing sounds gave most of it away.  And it was easy to find them both, because the trail of mud led me right to them.

But of course, I also thought I should roar something appropriate, so I yelled, “God damn it!” in one of my best frustrated and tired and sick of animal voices.  I don’t swear a whole lot in real life.  Not nearly as much as I do when I write, so you know, I like to think that it made an impact.  I like to think that everyone took notice - that my son looked up and was able to grasp my seriousness, and that the dog stopped gnawing on the cat.  I like to think that maybe even the cat understood what she had begun.  I mean, sitting there staring out the window like that, what was she thinking would happen?

But I calmed down and the dog was scruffed away.  The cat was nowhere to be seen, of course, and the boy even took it upon himself to mop up the muddy hall, although part of my “your dog” lecture might have had a hand in that one.  In hindsight, I don’t think it was the swearing that got anything done.  I usually reserve swearing for things like hitting my thumb with a hammer, or wrenching my back when I misjudge a step.  Oh, and golf.  I tend to swear when I golf.  But even when I do swear, I’ve noticed that most people around me usually just laugh, no matter what’s happened to me.  I guess I injure in a sort of funny way.  I know I golf funny.

Hold on, this wasn’t supposed to be about me.  This was about the shave ice machine.  The broken shave ice machine.

Well, there it was, right where the dog had knocked it to the floor, the handle broken clear off.  My son picked up the pieces in disbelief, clearly sad, and asked me if it would still work.  And I took them into my hands, with my own disbelief.  I mean, what are the odds of picking something by random from your entire house, comparing it to your erection, and then having it broken in two the very next day?  Not good, I’d think.

“No, this thing isn’t broken,” I told the boy.  “It’ll still work.” I gripped the pieces and gave them a small, serious shake, like I used to do with the baseball bat when I was a boy back in Little League and still believed you could get a hit just by being determined.  I looked at the pieces of the shave ice machine like I could determine them back together, and when nothing happend, set them back on the shelf.

“We can fix it.” The working man’s mantra.

You know, of all the nights you might think that I’d break into one of those cold sweats I’ve been having, I would have guessed that last night would be the one.  But no - nothing.  Not a drop.  This morning I’m as dry as a bone. 

And as much as I’d like to go on, throwing more comparisons and metaphors your way, I think I better take the day off and count my blessings.  It’s not like I’m actually religious, or superstitious, or anything like that, but cripes, you have to admit, having the shave ice machine break into pieces like that - it’s a little unnerving.

With renewed strength, I force Imaginary Keith out into the garage with the dogs and piles of . . . piles of . . . no, no, no . . . not dog stuff, but everything else.  The garage may be free of dog crap, but I’m serious when I say that everything else is out there.  And I mean everything.  Everything that hasn’t either been touched in ten years or was just recently touched, stuffed into a box, and then somehow balanced precariously on top of the ten-year untouched stuff.  Looking out through the peephole, it is easy to see the hopelessness sweep over his big, plain face.  What a mug.  There’s no doubt about it, cleaning the garage will be a big job.

“Do you need any help out there?” I yell through the door.  Opening it would be foolish at this point.

“Sure.” Even through the hollow core garage door, his voice sounds weak.  He hasn’t lifted a hand and already he sounds whipped.

“Alright.” It is the least I can do.  No one wants to wear out an imaginary friend forcing them to clean up too much of life’s mess.  That would just be cruel.

“Here you go!” I open the door and toss his son out into the garage.  That would surely cheer him up.

“I’ve got the music, Dad!” See, already the two of them are working out their differences, so I head into the kitchen to pour myself a glass of wine.

***

You know, there wasn’t a wine glass in sight, so I just poured the Cabernet into a pint fruit jar.  Truth be told, there wasn’t a single stemmed glass as far as my eye could see.  Not a stem in the house. 

But with the muffled sounds of polka music, my friend’s anguished screams, and barking dogs, I can’t really claim that it’s much of a stemmed glass kind of house anyway.  Besides, as far as I can tell, the wine goes down just the same, if not easier.  And if anyone shows up, there’s always pretense.  I’ll just hold out my pinky a little before I throw them out into the garage with everyone else.

Did I ever mention that I’d already worn out a housekeeper, after only one visit, and that she’d sent a replacement?  I’m not sure.  I’m not even sure if I ever mentioned the housekeeper stopping by and winning a place in my heart for cleaning my two bathrooms.  But of course, it doesn’t matter, because like I said, that housekeeper wore herself out on my two bathrooms and won’t be back, so what does it matter if I mention her now or not?  That, I guess, is my real question.  Does anything I or you say actually have any real significance?  Do our words matter?

Wait, wait, wait, that’s way too big.  I’m not the man for that job.  Let me be the first to admit it.  But then, I don’t want to get into any sort of discussion either about what job I am the man for.  That will certainly get us nowhere.  I’ve had a lot of jobs, but can’t honestly claim that I was the man for any of them.  In a few of the jobs, I was even put in charge.  If I wasn’t the man for the job, then I was at least given the job of finding the man for the job, but even then I’m afraid I came up short.

Can you tell that I’m trying to talk about disclosure?  I am.  It’s true.  Full disclosure.  It’s clear to me I’m talking about this because I’m inside of my head.  I can see it all from right in here, and it doesn’t matter what I say because in here, inside my head, everything is crystal clear.  It doesn’t matter what I say about the worn out housekeeper or the fresh from prison replacement she sent over, just like it doesn’t matter if I’ve ever been the right man for the right job, the point is, inside my head, I only hear what I want to hear.  And here’s the dirty little secret that I think you and I both already know but don’t talk very much about - I think the same thing might be true of you.

Are those attack words?  Am I trying to start a fight?  Have I gone insane from my fevers or lost all sense of propriety because I’ve run out of money?  Maybe I just don’t give a shit.  Oh, here’s another - a flying fuck.  How about “stirring up the pot”, or “rattling the cage”, or here’s a good one -"playing with fire”.  But maybe we need to strike that last one, because someone who plays with fire might very well be an arsonist, and if they enjoy what they do, they might very well be the right man for the right job, and I’ve already admitted that I wasn’t one of those.

No, I’m not trying to fight, just trying to figure out full disclosure.  What is it?  Would you or I even recognize it if we saw it?  Would God be full disclosure?  Is there even such a thing, and if there is, how would we ever have enough time to embrace it?  If you want to know everything about me it will take an eternity, but even then, I’m afraid there won’t be enough time.  Because, like I said early, you’re only going to hear what you want to here, and I’m going to have to talk or write my way around two eternities, at least, trying to find the right words and the right order, so that you might understand even the simplest thing about me.

I’ve been sweating a lot at night.

Now, some might say that this borders on full disclosure.  Not only have I now told everyone something that they didn’t know before, but something that is true as well.  I’ve disclosed something about myself.  Of course, others might say that I’m still just trying to stir things up.  You can’t just tell us that you’re sweating at night and call it full disclosure, those others might say.  You need to tell us more. Of course, those others would be just as correct.  While I am trying my best to talk about full disclosure, the fact remains, there is no end to full disclosure.  It is a bottomless pit, as endless as the number of questions others might imagine or ask.

But even if we could somehow fully disclose something about ourselves, I can’t help but wonder where it would get us.  Anywhere?  I doubt it.  Take, for example, my disclosure that I am sweating a lot at night.  Where has that gotten us?  Are we any closer to understanding one another now then we were before?  Do you know me better?  Do you have a clearer image in your mind of who I am?  Do I suddenly make complete sense? 

I think friendship is about as close as we can ever get to full disclosure.  Friendship happens when we decide to take a chance and live a small part of our life outside of the gray area that most of life is played out in.  You know the gray area I’m talking about.  The small talk and sidestepping.  The politeness and watching out for toes.  The fear to stare at anything.  It all exists within the gray area.  Almost everything we do exists within the gray area.  Like when the worn out housekeeper sent the fresh from prison replacement over for me to meet.  We moved about the house and talked about cleaning, moving safely within the gray area.  Questions and smiles, body posturing, everything.  “Thank you for stopping by,” I told her.  “I’ll let you know what I decide.” Not a lie, but not the truth.  A gray answer.

The older I get, the more tired I am of the gray area that most of life plays out in.  It doesn’t seem that there’s much gray area when we’re born, just like there’s no gray when we die.  What happens to us between the two?  How do we get so lost, that’s what I want to know.

Maybe that’s what I’ve been sweating about at night.  Maybe once you step outside the gray area our bodies don’t know whether they’re too hot or too cold.  Maybe the body needs this gray area like some sort of cocoon, and it’s the body that tricks the mind into joining it for the duration of our lives.  But who would imagine that a body could possibly trick a mind?  It doesn’t seem possibly, and yet, I was a young man once, humping my way through the days.  It is possible, somehow.

You know, the more I try to write about full disclosure, the further away I seem to be from getting there.  Maybe I’m just not the right man for this job either, which wouldn’t come as a surprise to me at all, given my history.  And this doesn’t bother me, even though you’d think it might after so many failed jobs, but I still like to think of myself as someone on the search.  A man looking for something.  An explorer, if you will, although from a historical perspective, you might have a hard time convincing anyone of this, since almost everything I might possibly discover will happen when I’m flat on my back on my own couch in my own living room.  I’m no Christopher Columbus and will discover no new world.  No, not in my life.  But then, I won’t hunt down and chop off anyone’s hands either in a desperate search for gold.  I won’t be that Christopher Columbus either.  You see how almost everything we do or say exists in that gray area?  We even write our histories within the safety of it.  Full disclosure not only seems impossible on a day to day basis, but from a historical perspective as well.

But this isn’t what I’m trying to say, is it?  I’m trying my hardest to fully disclose something to you.  Trying my best even though I’m pretty sure it’s an impossible task.  And I can’t tell you why I decided it would be about my night sweats.  I have no idea why.  No idea in the least.  Why would I talk about sweating?  I should have written dreaming instead of sweating.  That would have been so much more interesting.  Dreaming is romantic.  Everyone loves a good romance, but no one loves the idea of a man tossing and turning in bed, sweating up the place.  No one.  If you can give me the name of one person, either fictional or nonfictional, who is looked fondly upon because of their ability to sweat at night, not only will I stand corrected, but I will mail you a free gift.  You wouldn’t believe the number of things I’ve found around the house as I’ve cleaned that I have no use for.  Things that I had no idea even existed.  I throw them all into boxes and think about all of the lovely parting gifts that are now mine to give away.

When you get this far into a ramble, it’s really easy to lose your train of thought.  I know.  I am an expert at losing my train of thought.  You might even say that as far as losing a train of thought goes, I am the right man for that job, but of course, losing your train of thought is not a job.  I’ve never heard of a job where someone is paid to lose their train of thought.  Have you?  I’ll tell you what, if you have, there’s another excellent gift just sitting here in a box with your name on it.

I looked up night sweats on the internet, and of course, found something right away.  Everyone apparently already knows about night sweats and there are volumes upon volumes of articles written on the subject.  Everything is just a click away, waiting for me, but of course, the more I look, the more I discover that almost everything I find is about women.  Article after article about women sweating their way through menopause.  Of course I’ve heard of this, but like so many others, having never come face to face with such a thing, have put it to the back of my mind.  Women sweating uncontrollably, who would ever imagine such a thing?  I find my mind drifting to Jonathan Swift’s poor Strephon, who found himself confronted by the mortal qualities of his new wife, Chloe:

from Stephon & Chloe

TWELVE Cups of Tea, (with Grief I speak)
Had now constrain’d the Nymph to leak.
This Point must needs be settled first;
The Bride must either void or burst.
Then, see the dire Effect of Pease,
Think what can give the Colick Ease,
The Nymph opprest before, behind,
As Ships are toss’t by Waves and Wind,
Steals out her Hand by Nature led,
And brings a Vessel into Bed:
Fair Utensil, as smooth and white
As Chloe’s Skin, almost as bright.

STREPHON who heard the fuming Rill
As from a mossy Cliff distill;
Cry’d out, ye Gods, what Sound is this?
Can Chloe , heav’nly Chloe piss?
But, when he smelt a noysom Steam
Which oft attends that luke-warm Stream;
(Salerno both together joins
As sov’reign Med’cines for the Loins)
And, though contriv’d, we may suppose
To slip his Ears, yet struck his Nose:
He found her, while the Scent increas’d,
As mortal as himself at least.
But, soon with like Occasions prest,
He boldly sent his Hand in quest,
(Inspir’d with Courage from his Bride,)
To reach the Pot on t’other Side.
And as he fill’d the reeking Vase,
Let fly a Rouzer in her Face.

But I digress.  I’m trying to write about full disclosure, not Strephon’s ability to let fly his so-called rouzer, although the two, it might be agreed, share certain, simple similarities.

The male form of menopause, I discover, is andropause, with a whole list of symptoms that I pour over with that desperate, quiet attention that somehow comes naturally to just about everyone at one point or another in their life.  If you haven’t reached that point yet, you might not be sure what I’m talking about, but if you’ve reached it, you do know.  You know you’ve reached it when you find yourself looking up medical conditions on the internet, or thinking that every sharp, shooting pain is going to be your last.  If you find yourself staring in the mirror, and you’re past the point of looking away because you don’t believe what you see, you’re probably there.  But it’s different for everyone, I’m sure, and how you begin to recognize your own mortality will certainly be different then the way I do.

But there is was - andropause, which curiously, didn’t show up as a word in dictionary.com, although was frequently mentioned in many of the internet articles I encountered.  I did find the word climacteric, which was close, but found the definition that related to men to be somewhat vague.

Climacteric

n 1: a period in a man’s life corresponding to menopause 2: the time in a woman’s life in which the menstrual cycle end

What do they mean, the period of my life that corresponds to menopause?  Do they mean my own form of menopause, or my indirect or direct relationship to some woman’s menopause?  It’s easy to see that these are very different beasts indeed, although I liked the list of synonyms that came along with climacteric.

change of life, climax, crisis, critical, critical point, crucial, desperate, dire, midlife crisis

But what about the symptoms for andropause?  Could this possibly explain my sweating?  Is andropause part of my full disclosure, that’s what I needed to know.  How could I possibly tell you about myself if I didn’t understand the full meaning of andropause?  Full disclosure, I think everyone can agree, should never mislead or deceive anyone.  It was important that I understand andropause.

Of course, the first false road to understanding is always the definition.  We love definitions almost as much as we love answers.  We even love answering questions, when we can, with definitions.  If someone says something we don’t understand, the first thing we almost always say is, “What do you mean by that?”, which is just another way of forcing someone to define something. 

Andropause, by definition, is the time in a man’s life when the hormones naturally decline.  Well, that seemed simple enough, I thought.  Besides, reading further, I found one article to also say “it is also a time where there is a change of life that may be expressed in terms of a career change, divorce, or reordering of life.” This made slightly less sense, considering I’d met most of these conditions many times over and had never found myself in the sweating position I now found myself.

And then there was the list.  The List.  I repeat it because anytime someone has compiled a list of things that will somehow sum up you or your life, don’t you think it should be capitalized and repeated?  But there it was, The List, trying to sum me up, if in fact, it was andropause causing me to sweat my way through two or three t-shirts a night.

1. Loss of armpit and genitalia hair
2. Shrinkage of testicle size
3. Loss of libido and impotence
4. Tiredness and depression
5. Muscle weakness and bone loss

Do you start to see why full disclosure will never really catch on?  Why it’ll never be as popular as television, no matter how uplifting, self-healing, and soul freeing it might feel?  When it comes to full disclosure, at least in men, it seems that somehow all roads lead back to the testicles.  How could this have happened?  Could it possibly be like I suggested, our bodies, forcing us to live out our lives in the gray area?  I’m serious.  Why this continuous stream of hormonal reasons for everything?

But a mental explorer like me, snuggled onto his couch under a blanket, doesn’t dismiss anything without wasting at least an hour deep in useless thought.  So I went through the list, one by one, giving each and every symptom a fair and honest chance, all the while thinking about full disclosure, of course, wondering how I would even begin to approach something like “shrinkage of testicle size.” But if full disclosure was what the world wants, then full disclosure is what the world gets.  Besides, it’s not like I was going to post pictures or anything.  For all the lies I’ve ever written, I certainly don’t ever recall claiming that I was putting together a medical journal.

The list was fairly easy to dismiss.  I seem as hairy as ever, possibly even more so then ever before, so the first symptom flew right out the door.  Any tiredness and depression that I’ve been feeling over the last couple of years I think can safely be attributed to the failing of my relationship, and the events surrounding that, and is, I think I can safely say, beginning to fade.  I no longer feel nearly as tired as I once was, and actually feel more contemplative then depressed.  The andropause list made no mention of contemplation, at least not directly, so I decided to throw that symptom out as well.

Muscle weakness and bone loss is a little tougher.  I have no way to measure my bone density, at least not that I know of.  And I’ll have to admit the loss of muscle over the years, but I think this is only natural.  The beasts I wrestle these days are more mental then physical, and muscle tone just isn’t as important as it once was.  So let’s strike that one from the list.

Okay, now the tough ones - loss of libido, impotence, and testicle size.  Good grief, are we sure we want to go through with this?  Is full disclosure really your thing?  Will you somehow get through your day a little easier if I tell you these things?

How can I talk about libido without making some joke about it?  Libido?  That’s just not a word that I think I spent much time thinking about, although my body certainly did it’s fair share.  A share, maybe.  Who knows what’s fair?  Certainly not me.  Anyway, I think my libido is nearly nonexistent, but not gone.  It’s still around because I can feel it’s presence sometimes, nudging me, reminding me not to forget.  I think it is packed away somewhere, in a box out in the shed maybe, under a pile of other boxes marked Office Files and Misc.  One day I will dig it out and it will surprise me the way a box of old books might surprise someone who loves books, or an old photo album might surprise the person who forgot that they were once a child.  One day my libido will surprise me and I will feel all giddy with unspent energy.

And let’s cross off impotence right off the list.  While I haven’t had the need for an erection for quite some time now, I still find that I keep one around, just in case.  What can I possibly compare this too?  I suppose it’s kind of like the way we keep a shave ice machine in the back hallway closet, because, well, you know, you just never know when you’ll need a good shave ice.  Can you compare erections to shave ice?  I have no idea.  But I suppose you can try just about anything when you’re going for full disclosure.  So yes, I can still enjoy a good shave ice, but like I also said before, this is no medical journal.

So at this point I’ve crossed off just about everything from the list except for that tricky “shrinkage of testicle size” symptom.  Tricky?  What could possibly be tricky about testicle size, you might ask.  Well, I’m going to tell you, and I’m going to try and give you my best outside-the-gray-area answer.  Full disclosure demand its.  You demand it, if you’ve read this far, and yes, even I demand it.  Let’s face it, if a man can’t talk about his own testicles, then what’s the point?

So here’s my answer.

I don’t think there’s a single man in the world who could tell you if his testicles are shrinking.  Let’s face it, men don’t pay that much attention to things.  I don’t think most men would notice something like that until they’re rolling around on the couch one day, and it suddenly dawns on them that those crazy things aren’t constantly getting in the way, or needing adjustment, or a good scratching.  It won’t be until that very moment that they look down and realize that their testicles have shriveled completely away that your typical man will notice anything.  You’ll know it when it happens to the man in your life because you’ll hear him say something like, “What the hell?” In man-talk, “what the hell” can mean quite a variety of things, but one of the least used definitions, or should I say, the least talked about definition in this gray world we live in, is “Where’d my testicles go?” It should be noted, however, that most men will feign nonchalance, even if caught staring at their missing testicles.  “Sure I said, ‘What the hell?’” will be their most common response, “but I was simply being rhetorical.”

Well, like I said earlier, two days sick on the couch gives a man plenty of time to think, just like it gives a man plenty of time to roll around uncomfortably.  And yes, I did get uncomfortable, and I did need some adjusting.  Nothing took me by surprise (except maybe the complete lack of anything interesting on television), and I didn’t once utter the words “what the hell?” So I think we can safely scratch testicular shrinkage (what fool writer could resist such a setup) from the list, which leads me to believe that I am not, in fact, suffering from andropause.

I think I could kind of get used to this full disclosure thing.  It has a certain charm to it, and ends up being, I just now realize, a perfect way to waste a good part of the day.  If there’s anything else you need to know about me, just ask.  I feel like an open book right now, ready to tell anything.  And if you’re entitled to any of those prizes I mentioned, just say the word.  Not all prizes, it should be noted, come in all shapes, sizes, or colors.  Some may be inappropriate for children.  Under no circumstances whatsoever can prizes be substituted or returned.

Sure I’m a quiet guy, but if I’m quiet for too long, it’s a safe bet that I’ve been sick and experimenting with complete stillness.

But I think I’m getting better, and may even chronicle the adventures of my illness for posterity’s sake.

Two days on the couch gives a guy time to think. 

I realized that you know you’re getting older when you find yourself looking up medical conditions on the internet.  We’re all about answers, aren’t we?  We love our answers.  Always searching for some kind of answer.  I would think that between religion and the internet, we’ve pretty much just about got our fascination with answers covered.

It took me almost all day to realize that the house was too warm to really get anything accomplished.  I was all out of whack and wobbly after my short stint as Nurse Keith and had a hard time keeping my eyes focused on anything for more then five minutes at a time.  I tried reading, then writing, then wandering around outside, tending to animals and reacquainting myself with things I’d been away from for nearly three years.  Rusty come-a-longs and shovels, piles of one gallon pots, extension cords and sacks of wild bird seed, all still hanging on nails or sitting in the exact spot they were I’d left them.  With the exception of a divorce and a thick layer of dust and cobwebs, it’s almost as if nothing has happened.  Almost like the sleep I talked about the other day, where falling asleep and waking up take place at the same moment, yet hours apart, with nothing at all happening between the two.  No passing of time and nothing lost or missed.

But it’s not the same, I know, and walking around, taking it all in, I know this.  Everything needs to be picked up and touched and somehow set back in motion, because before I’d left, that’s what everything around me had been - motion.  There’d been plans and dreams and when something was moved or set down in a place, it was because it was on it’s way there.  Everything had been a part of something bigger, whether it knew it or not, and was eager to get wherever it was that it was going.  Even me.  So walking around now, seeing what happens when everything is ignored for so long, it becomes easy to understand why I have been so slow and depressed.  I am covered with dust, all of me, every bit of my surface.  Cobwebs cling to my dreams and everywhere you look there are mouse droppings, thousands of them, scattered along every wall and piled in every corner.  I walk around and see myself in the piles of dust and window panes, thick with webs and the hollow shells of moths and flies and anything else that thought it could make it to the light.  I hang unfinished like the door to the hay loft, off it’s rollers now for more then a year, and I reach out and touch it as I pass.  Soon I tell it.  Soon. We will all heal together, slowly, wiping away at the dust, sweeping up the droppings, and mending one another, one board at a time until we are complete.

But like I said, it took me so long to realize that it was just too warm in here to think, so I turned off the furnace and sat there, watching the temperature slowly dropping on the thermostat, making myself feel the cold that was all around me.  You turn off your furnace and you take away one of life’s cushions.  The cold pushes at you, and you are either forced to give up or push back.  There is no other choice.

The dentist cannot be put off.  I did that last Friday at the last minute and you could hear them scowl right over the phone, so I thought I better keep my appointment.  It is agreed that the boy’s mother will come over to watch him while I’m away.  A good thing, considering that each attempt by him to get up and move results in either throwing up or another pair of soiled underwear.  Before the day is through the house will look like the barn - in need of a good mucking out.

The dentist is fine - a cleaning by the young, freckled girl, seven months pregnant.  Her belly continually pushes up against my head and I feel for any sign of kicking through my thick skull, realizing that I am getting some sort of mild pleasure by the contact.  Is it just the human contact?  The thought of new life?  An unusual diversion from the usual routine?  It has been a long time since I’ve felt a pregnant belly, although whether I’m actually doing any “feeling” is questionable, considering I’m using the top side of my head.  But you take life as it comes at you, and besides, being knocked around by a pregnant belly is a nice relief from vomit and diarrhea duty.

I arrive home and my son pops up from his nap on the couch.  “Dad!  Mom’s cleaning us out!” Apparently she’s been picking her way around the house in my absence, loading up her car with things that strike her fancy.  Oh well, less for me to worry about, I think.  Besides, anything of importance can always be stolen back.

“Good thing I got back when I did,” I tell the boy, “or she might have taken everything.” I almost make a joke about her leaving the sick boy here with me, but think better of it.  It can go nowhere.  There is no good punch line.  Historically, I have always been the one left to tend the sick, and this is in spite of my hidden aversion to all sick people.  It’s the truth - deep inside I have no patience for the sick.  Deep inside I wish for some ancient Indian tradition that demands the sick to crawl off and lick their own wounds.  But that’s all deep inside, where no one can see, especially not the sick.  It’s not their fault, after all, that they need tending.  Besides, tending the sick, especially one’s own child, can only score me points for later in life, when I’ll be needing a bit of tending.  Some days there is no way in the world that I can imagine myself in diapers with uncontrollable bowels, but then, other days, it just makes sense.  Serve the world right, somehow.  I don’t know how, but somehow.

What the hell.  The boy is sleeping on the couch, I’m steaming rice and vegetables, and am going to watch some monster action on my laptop while wearing headphones.  You know, so I don’t disturb the sick.  I rented Resident Evil 3 (I know it’s not just “3”, but I don’t really care enough to be exact), simply because I saw a preview while I was in the rental store and saw Milla Jovanawhatever run straight down the side of a building.  I’ve always liked Milla ever since she saved the world one other time with Bruce Willis in some other movie whose name escapes me at the moment.  I think it had “Five” in the title.  Doesn’t matter.

Ding! Lunch is ready.  The boy sleeps on.  I’ve untangled the gob of headphones (a twenty minute job just in itself), and am nearly ready to kill monsters.  Well, not me, but someone else.  If I actually wanted to kill monsters, I’d go out and work on the garage.  Now there’s your resident evil for you.  Did you know that parts of both Apocolypse Now and The Village were filmed right here in my garage?  I’m not kidding.  If you ever see either one of those movies, and you get to the part that scares you the most, well, that’s the part they shot here in my garage.

But I digress.  It’s lunchtime, that’s what it is around here.  And look, the boy is stirring.

The day begins at 4:30 with some vomiting.  Not mine, but the boy’s.  A couple of minutes over the toilet, I wipe his mouth, then he climbs into bed beside me, forcing me to sleep on my side.  I love him, sure, but I don’t love his breath.

The day begins again at 4:45 with some more vomiting and a small bit of carpet cleaning.  Oh well, the carpets needed cleaning anyway, I just didn’t think I’d be getting such an early head start.  Another wipe of the mouth and back to bed.

Then again at 5:15, but this time, no carpet cleaning.  It’s funny how when we sleep time doesn’t seem to exist.  How we just slip from one point directly to the next without any feeling of the passing.  When we climb back into bed this time, I find myself trying to imagine death as just sleep - just another one of those passing through times.  But I can tell that it isn’t working.  That I’m not buying into the idea somehow.  I can almost feel myself becoming unnerved one small bit at a time and I know I need to think about something else.  It’s too early for all this.  Life and death wasn’t meant to be thought about in two minute spurts in between fifteen minutes naps, all highlighted by the vomiting of a small boy.

We try sleeping one more time, this time making it all the way to 6:00, then get up for another round.  By now he has a fever, and we just give up on the idea of getting any sleep, just like I’ve forgotten about the idea of thinking about death.  Each time we head back to the bathroom, I step on the wet spot on the carpet, and it helps keep me grounded in my current reality.  I sometimes wonder if we surround ourselves with an endless amount of these “realities” simply so we don’t have to think much about the end possibilities.  With too much to do, there simply isn’t time to contemplate the alternative to living.

With great fanfare and discussion that bordered on argument, the painting was completed.  I was reminded once again that there is no true Democracy, and that even within families, it’s all about the electoral vote.  Some individuals are powerful while others have hardly a voice.  Some may vote, but if their opinion is not popular, they will be drowned out by the others.  Stomping off angry does little good, and in the end, everyone must toe some sort of party line.

But the pink room became the blue room, and in the end, everyone that mattered was happy.  I rushed home for a nap and a quick reminder that I’d mostly forgotten about the movie Uncle Buck.  Then it was off to pick up the boy and a friend, who were coming down from a birthday party sugar high.  All the boys had won enough tokens to buy blow-up hammers, and were busy pounding each other on the heads.  The slapstick continued as we drove home in the dark, each hit accented by a high-pitched squeak!.

“Not the driver!  Not the driver!” I repeated as the occasional blow glanced off the back of my head.

But this morning’s painting party partially inspired me to do a little painting for myself, and I grabbed up a handful of samples when I was at the store.