My 02.22.2012 "All Over the Map" from Arkansas Weekly

Here's my "All Over the Map" from this week's Arkansas Weekly:


Either it was a bug or some bison chili from the night before, but last Tuesday, my stomach had trouble deciding if it should empty its liquefied contents out the top way or out the bottom way.

Now that we have that out of the way, I had not been sick in a while. That day, I woke up with somewhat of a vague sense of nausea. Still, I showered, dressed, and drove to town. Somewhere between Walmart and The Home Depot, that vague sense of nausea was now a sudden full-blown pounding on my door.

The night before, some buddies were over at my house, and one -- the outdoorsman, a guy who worshipped Grizzly Adams -- brought bison chili. I dislike the taste of game. I can’t even eat venison. Grizzly, Jr. once claimed he has eaten speckle bellied goose that was better than the finest filet mignon, a claim I find a tad too...what’s the word...oh, here it is: insane. So, if he is the buddy who says he’s bringing dinner, it’s likely going to be a meat from an animal that our ancestors used to kill and eat on the frontier. And, of course, that night Grizzly, Jr. brings bison chili.

Which brings us back to the nausea at my door that Tuesday morning.

It was somewhere around the local Sherwin-Williams store when I saw the bison chili once again. Another friend was with me this time. We were heading to breakfast, but with the situation rapidly changing, I knew I was getting ready to turn him around and take him back to his office.

But, it was too late.

I stopped in the middle of the road, right in front of that aforementioned Sherwin-Williams store, and I opened the door.

“Eww,” my pal said as my bison chili splattered back into the world. “What’d you have for dinner last night, bud?”

“Bison chili,” I croaked out.

“Yup,” he said. “That’ll do it.”

***

My two other friends from the bison chili night at Rob’s managed to elude the magical combination of fun that my grandmother used to call “the up-chucks and the trots,” which made me think I probably had a bug. I was running some fever, but as I thought later, maybe it was the bison. One friend just had a scoop of the chili on a cracker that night, and the other, Grizzly, Jr., has eaten so much bear food over his life that his constitution would likely welcome rotten possum meat with open arms. He wouldn’t even feel as much as car sick.

I decided to try and sleep it off, so for over two days, I basically stayed in bed. I’d occasionally wake up for the business that, by now, you’re probably tired of reading about. And as I slowly felt better, I started doing some work and watching a little bit of television.

For some reason, the past year has been on turbo charge for me. There’ve been some major, but positive challenges at work. I finally moved into a new home, a process that seemed endless. And, perhaps most stressing of all, the 16-year-old daughter started driving.

No wonder I’ve been feeling frazzled.

Maybe all of this was just my body saying it needed to zone out for a bit. When I slept over those two days, I slept heavy as many bizarre and vivid dreams came and went. And while awake, I worked a little more and watched a lot more television, a habit I don’t practice as often as I did ten years ago. (Betty White’s still kickin’? Wow. She’s everywhere on television. Who’d a thunk she’d be the final Golden Girl remaining? I always picked Bea Arthur to be the last one standing.)

I halfway enjoyed being sick -- which sounds weird, I know. Sleep was great, for the most part. No one interrupted me while I worked. And, I managed to lose a few L.B.s through some dramatic bouts of “purging.” But by Thursday, I was ready to get out of the house and back to work.

I do know that, stomach bug or bison, I’m still staying away from anything that Davy Crockett might have eaten in his day that wasn’t a cow, pig, fish or chicken. Give me a red-blooded beef burger from E & B’s, and I’ll be fine, thanks.

My 02.15.2012 "All Over the Map" from Arkansas Weekly

Here's my "All Over the Map" from the 02.15.2012 Arkansas Weekly:

Sometimes I don’t think too clearly.

A good example: Last week, when I made the incredibly stupid decision to order “skinny” jeans from The Gap’s website.

I’m always looking for deals on denim jeans because, for some reason, my size (35W/34) is hard to find. So when I came across my size on sale on The Gap’s website under the “skinny” fit section, I grabbed a pair without really thinking that the punk-retro style of those jeans would look absolutely ridiculous on any guy above the age of 40.

Particularly if that guy had prematurely white hair and a generous abdominal paunch.

Like me.

However, the night I got around to opening the package from The Gap, I was surprised to find that the jeans did not look too narrow in the legs. Maybe they weren’t that bad, I thought. I’ll give ‘em a shot.

***

The next morning. I’m wearing the new jeans, a t-shirt, and a sweater that feels as if it has shrunk.

I’m at breakfast with my friend.

And he can’t stop laughing.

“Seriously,” my friend says as he tries to compose himself. “Did you look in the mirror before you left your house today?”

“Yes,” I say with a sigh.

“Okay. And when you looked in the mirror before you left your house today, did you look closely at what you’re wearing?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” he says as he takes a bite of his waffle. “So, when you looked in the mirror before you left your house today, and you looked closely at what you’re wearing, did you think – in all seriousness – that you looked good?”

He starts to laugh, but his mouth is full and he is still talking.

“Because you don’t!” he says. “You don’t! Those jeans are horrifying! And your damn sweater is too tight and wrinkled! You look like a goofy nerd! Go home and CHANGE!”

And with that, a few wads of waffle shoot out of his mouth as he busts out laughing again.

***

I don’t go home to change. I’m already late for work.

I walk into the office with a healthy complex about my poor choice in denim.

I greet the receptionist, ready to confront my wardrobe issue head-on.

“Okay, look,” I tell her. “I screwed up when I ordered these jeans, so I need your advice.”

“Oh, great,” she says with a little suspicion. She’s worked with me for years and knows I’m not right. “I’m not gonna have to tell you how your butt looks in them, am I?”

“No,” I say as I walk around her desk. “See? I got the skinny fit by mistake. They look horrible, right?”

“They, uh…Yeah. They really don’t look right on you.”

I sigh with resignation. I notice my back aches. I try to stretch.

“Oh…My back is killing me,” I say.

“Well,” the receptionist says, “if your back is giving you trouble, that’s probably a good sign you’re too old to be wearing jeans that look like that.”

I decide to go home and change.

My 02.08.2012 "All Over the Map" from Arkansas Weekly:

Here's this week's "All Over the Map" from Arkansas Weekly:

Arkansas Weekly is sent to the printer the Friday before our publication date. So, even though Super Bowl XLVI has already been decided as you read these words, the game has yet to be played as I type them.

As most of you know, I am a sports freak of the highest order. I take all athletic competition seriously, and I immerse myself in all types of news, statistics and history regarding professional and collegiate sports. And based on my vast knowledge of football, I can tell you – without hesitation – that the Super XLVI Champions are Peyton Manning and the Baltimore Colts!

Don’t tell me you’re not amazed. Seriously. Don’t.

It’s like I’m Nostradamus. Or The Amazing Kreskin, right?

But I have no psychic abilities. No. The only tools I use are mental, intellectual and, uh, mental.

Or something like that.

Anyway, based on my remarkable ability to access the ginormous sports database in my head, I’d like to offer you some Super Bowl trivia in honor of the Colts Super Bowl XLVI win this past Sunday.

Super Bowl II, 1971 New York Jets quarterback Joe Namath throws for a near record 4,087 yards in the second Super Bowl (1971) as the Jets defeat the Tennessee Titans. After the game, Namath, wearing nothing but fur cowboy chaps and a leather vest, hops on a chopper with pop ingénue Joey Heatherton and heads to a nearby Shakey’s Pizza to celebrate.

Super Bowl VIII, 1973 Perry Mason and Ironside star Raymond Burr receives a then-record $4,000 to perform in the first (and last) live Super Bowl commercial as he demonstrates the new “softy tip” applicator for Preparation H on himself.

Super Bowl VIN, 1975 Geritol sponsors first televised Super Bowl halftime performance. The show stars Florence Henderson of The Brady Bunch and Jim Nabors of Gomer Pyle performing a medley of Black Sabbath songs. The pair gets into trouble with the FCC when Henderson rips off Nabors’ shirt and ‘accidentally’ exposes his underarm hair.

Super Bowl VIP, 1985 The Green Bay Packers introduce the Tickle Formation to football. With a game-winning touchdown on the line, the Packers offensive line suddenly begins aggressively tickling the opposing Chicago Bears defense after the snap. As all the Bears drop to the turf in giggle fits, Packers quarterback Jessie Dumplins walks into the end zone for the win. Dumplins’ wife, Chickinah, is credited for the idea.

Super Bowl VAN, 1994 Dallas Cowboys offensive caterer Crisco St. Feldman is arrested after the Cowboys win over the Sioux Native Americans. Authorities find a highly intoxicated St. Feldman in his hotel hallway wearing nothing but a set of Michelin All Season Radials and loudly accusing a shocked group of little people conventioneers of hiding inside his hotel wastebasket and spying on him.

Super Bowl XENU, 2004 Orlando Dobermans defensive center George Gobel, Jr. becomes the first football player to actually decapitate another football player (Butch Cartlidge of the Kansas City Royals) during the big game. The Dobermans mascot, Fang, escapes from his trainer, runs across the field, swipes Cartlidge’s head by the helmet strap, and runs away with it. As everyone chases Fang around the field, CBS plays the theme music from the Benny Hill television program and converts television coverage to fast-motion black and white.

Super Bowl XHIBIT, 2009 The biggest Super Bowl halftime show in history unfolds with the Charlie Daniels Band, fireworks, dancers, Ice-T reciting poetry, parkour, Cornel West, Charro, the Love Boat singers featuring Gavin MacLeod, the recently removed mole from Enrique Iglesias’ cheek, Garrison Keillor, Tim Allen, Tim McGraw, Tim McCarver, Tim Robbins, Tim Tebow, Tim Burton, Tim Conway, Tiny Tim’s widow, and narration by Morgan Freeman. The show ends with a memorial to Kansas City’s Bruce Cartlidge featuring an emotional appearance by a now ashamed, humbled and very old Orlando Doberman mascot, Fang. Fang tries to exhibit remorse by walking slowly across the stage with his tail between his legs, but as everyone knows, Dobermans don’t have tails, so the show comes to an awkward end.

My 02.01.2012 "All Over the Map" from Arkansas Weekly

Here's this week's "All Over the Map" from Arkansas Weekly:

I’m an idiot.

Yes. Most of you who know me are likely nodding in agreement right now, but people in dire need of some brutal self-truths are usually the last to realize such things.

This isn’t anything new. My family, friends and pretty much everyone here at work have basically come to terms with my sluggish mental comprehension. They know that when explaining things that might be particularly hard for me to grasp, they must talk very slow and sometimes draw helpful diagrams.

Like, at work, when they tried to explain the concept of profit and loss. Or the time when my parents told me that most high school kids did not still sleep with their mommy and daddy at that age.

Now, I’m not a complete idiot. By that, I mean I can do most day-to-day things by myself, like ordering a pizza over the phone, successfully operating a toilet, or putting my shoes on the correct feet. (Though I do admit I have driven all the way to work before realizing I put my underwear on over my pants.)

But, for the most part, I spend much of the day in a clueless state.

A fine example of my lack of any measurable sense of aptitude would be my purchase of some reading glasses last summer. My eyesight has been slowly fading, and this makes sense, of course. Most folks my age (early 30s, cough) have glasses of some sort, and over the past few years, I’ve noticed words becoming fuzzier and smaller. So, I started wearing some low strength prescription glasses.

But last year while on vacation with my kids, I forgot my glasses. I slipped into a bookstore and found a pair of what I believed to be some acceptable and -- even though my children and friends would soon make fun of them -- stylish reading specs. They were even bifocal reading glasses, so as my vision deteriorated through time, I would be able to simply look down through the stronger bottom half for better sight.

I used these glasses on a constant basis. If I was working or reading, and I wasn’t able to find them, everything stopped. I had have to have my glasses to see what I was doing. I thought they were even better than my old prescription glasses.

Until, that is, a recent night last week when my buddy looked through my specs.

“Uh, what’s the magnification on these?” he asked as he tested them out.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “I just picked them up at a bookstore, and I’ve used them ever since. I love ‘em.”

“Well, do you use the bifocal part?”

“No, I’m not that bad off yet,” I said with a chuckle.

“Then, uh, why use them if you’re not looking through the bifocals?”

“Because the regular magnification is perfect for me,” I said. “It really helps.”

“Uh, there is no regular magnification,” he said as he handed the pair back to me. “The top part is not magnified. It’s just a clear plastic lens. It’s just like you are you using your regular vision.”

I grabbed the glasses and put them on, indignant. “No,” I said. “That’s not correct. The top part is magnified. These glasses help out tremendously.”

I pulled them off and on to compare. Everything did look the same. Another friend took them and looked through the lenses.

“No, Rob,” the other friend said, “there’s no difference. The bifocal is the only part of the lens that’s magnified, you big dork.”

So, for almost a year, I’ve been wearing glasses to help me read, thinking all this time that they were invaluable for my everyday routine, when in fact, I was looking through clear, unmagnified plastic lenses.

What an idiot.