The JackB

"When you're in jail, a good friend will be trying to bail you out. A best friend will be in the cell next to you saying, 'Damn, that was fun'." Groucho Marx

Archives for May 2010

A Little Digestive Distress- Chicken Vindaloo

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One of my favorites shared yet again with you.

I wrote a post called the The First Pregnant Man in which I mentioned that I went mad with desire for food. I put on an eating exhibition the likes of which hadn’t been seen in quite some time.

If you are sensitive to bathroom humor or similar items you might want to skip the rest of this post because this is going to fall in the too much information for some of you.

The problem with eating like that is not just the caloric intake, but the radioactive fall out that comes along with it. My body just won’t put up with it any more and after a while it decides that the best thing to do is to punish me for my iniquities.

This is one of the reasons why I don’t eat spicy food all that often anymore. I still very much enjoy it but the result is most unpleasant.

There was a point in time when I had a lot of trouble accepting that I couldn’t do the things I used to do anymore and like so many other people I engaged in a bad case of denial and tried to maintain my old habits.

For a while it had mixed results and then came the night of the Chicken Vindaloo.

I was out with friends at a new Indian restaurant. I’d provide the name but if they knew that I was still alive they might come after me with pitchforks and I’d rather not go through that again.

It started out innocently enough. I ordered a plain water, medium dry and hold the ice. As the waiter went around the table asking for our order I asked for a recommendation and he recommended the Chicken Vindaloo.

That sounded good to me so I asked him to bring me a plate. He smiled and asked if I wanted the spicy version. I smiled back and asked him how spicy it was.

“I can make it so spicy you’ll have problems tomorrow morning,” he said with that same Cheshire cat grin.

That was enough of a challenge to me to accept and so I did. If only I had considered my situation more carefully. You see I was in a small restaurant that offered a single restroom for all of the patrons.

I hate places like that. They make me uncomfortable and I tend to avoid them like the plague, but not that night. Nope, I was feeling bulletproof, invincible and nothing anyone said or did was going to stop me from enjoying my evening.

A short time later the waiter returned with our order and I began to enjoy my Chicken Vindaloo. It was great, just fabulous. I was quite pleased with my decision and dug into my meal with great relish and enthusiasm.

It was a mistake.

I hadn’t been eating for more than ten minutes or so when I heard/felt a familiar rumble emanate from my belly. Apparently it was loud enough that the others at the table heard it too. Concerned looks were pointed in my direction but I smiled and waved them off. No need to be worried, this was nothing.

Seconds later I realized it was more than nothing and I flew out of my seat, vaulted over two tables and spun around two waiters. I needed that bathroom and I needed it NOW! Fortune smiled upon me, it was empty.

I jumped inside locked the door and fumbled for my belt like a newlywed on his wedding night. For a moment my fingers lost all coordination and I hopped up and down begging for a second longer. Finally I flipped it off and jumped onto the toilet.

Splash! For the first time in my life I cursed a man for leaving the toilet seat up, but that was the least of my worries. My entire rear end felt like it was on fire and I was most unhappy.

Simultaneously there was a knock on the door and a voice asking me if I was ok. It was the last thing I wanted to hear and I responded accordingly. In my best pirate voice I growled:

“There do be flames shooting out of my ass. It is a good thing that there do be water in the toilet. Arrgh!”

This must have made a great impact upon them as I heard/felt them step backwards and fall down on the floor.

For an undetermined amount of time I unhappily savaged the porcelain goddess and cried out to the heavens begging for relief. It was like a scene from one of those Lifetime for women movies. I alternately laughed and cried.

Finally the storm ended and I gingerly stood up and readied myself to exit the door. With great trepidation I reached out for the handle and turned it to the right. A soft push on the door and I was blessed with cool fresh air and the sweet savory scent of freedom.

I must have been quite a sight because as I shuffled back to the table a path opened for me. People moved out of the way as if I was Moses parting the Red Sea. When I got there I found a white take out box that had been used to collect the remnants of my Chicken Vindaloo.

It took great effort and care to pick that box up. I knew that the initial bout with the storm was over and that it would be dangerous to do anything that would upset the delicate ecosystem that had been established in my gut.

Outside in the cool night air a homless man approached and asked me for some help. In response I gave him my Chicken Vindaloo and wished him well. I don’t know what happened to that guy. I don’t know if he had better luck or if I was the only lucky one.

All I know is that the car ride home was fraught with suspense. I had to make many stops, but I don’t think that I care to relive those or to share anymore of the story of the night I had the Chicken Vindaloo.

You’ll have to excuse me now, my stomach is starting to hurt.

Housekeeping Notes

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You have probably noticed that there is a bit of construction going on here. I have made some adjustments to the look and feel of this place. The most recent one is the re-installation of  the DISQUS commenting system.

The old comments are not gone and if all goes to plan they will be integrated into the DISQUS system. At least I hope they will. If for some reason they aren’t I’ll have to decide whether I want to say goodbye to them and start fresh.

In that case I might decide to finally move over to WordPress, but that remains to be seen.

Thinking About The Boy Who Was

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It is a few minutes after 12 and I am taking a break from work. A much needed break I might add. Last night I went to The Comedy Store for the #140conf and met a number of bloggers and Twitterers in person. It was my second event and a novel experience for me.

I have guarded my anonymity with varying degrees of ferocity so it is not always easy to allow myself to meet others in person. The freedom to write as I will is addictive. It is among my favorite narcotics because it is. Because I can open the closet doors and clear out all of the crap. Because there are very few that I ever let see what lies beneath the surface and this is the sole exception.

It is not that I am so afraid of being judged or ashamed of who I am and the things I have done. I am no different than any other person. I have a mental checklist of the victories and the defeats. I remember with great clarity things that have happened- a true dual edged sword. Because sometimes I can still hear the cheering and other times I can still taste the bitter swill that I was forced to drink when I could not save the day.

So here I sit, two days after my forty-first birthday, thinking about many things. Here in the home office I stare at a puppy who reminds me of the days when my children were true babies. He is teething this pup and I think that it is driving him crazy. His behavior is a bit erratic, but he finds great comfort in sitting in my lap and listening to my stories.

I stare at the wall and see pictures of a three year-old boy who barely resembles the almost ten year-old who roams the halls here. We speak frequently about the things that are important to him. Much of that relates to his interest in stories about myself as a boy.

And is my nature I think and remember about my childhood. I remember the boy who was. A skinny kid with curly black hair and endless amounts of energy. A boy that rode his bike everywhere, including where he wasn’t supposed to go. “G” was always a part of that. A partner in crime, whose wife wonders why it is that two grown men can still end up wrestling on the floor.

It makes me laugh, thinking about that. We end up wrestling almost every time we see each other, been doing so since 1974. It will be a dark day if we ever reach a point in which we are physically incapable of doing so. Did I mention that the look his wife gives us is the same one that we have received for a thousand years. It is a guy thing, something that we have never quite outgrown.

So when I see my son wrestling with his best friend I smile and wonder if they’ll be able to stand the test of time. Because in many ways G and were lucky. We grew up in the same neighborhood and lived within walking distance. With the exception of 6-9th grades we went to school together throughout our entire school career, that includes college.

That wasn’t planned, just worked out that way. So when he moved across country it wasn’t a strain on our friendship. Don’t get me wrong I miss the old bastard, but we always pick up wherever we left off.

I remember a time during summer break when we were around 12 when we had a discussion about whether we could take on a grown man. Don’t remember what prompted it, probably read about something in the paper. But what I remember is talking about it and deciding that we could. Wasn’t really a question, we trust our lives with each other.

But that is a side issue because as a father I want my children to have that kind of friendship. I want them to have that friend who’d you die for. I want them to have that person or persons that you can trust beyond all others. People need that. It makes a difference.

Last night Jeff Pulver made a comment about growing up lonely and how he still feels lonely. I think that I understand that because there have been moments where I have felt like I live my life alone and apart.  But…I never completely forget that there are a few people that I can always call upon.

I want that for my children. Their parents will always love them. They know that they haven’t created a monster that I won’t fight. Lions, tigers, grizzly bears or angry clevelanders will not harm them as long as I have breath in my body.

But that is not the same as a friend. They deserve it and I think that they’ll find those people. It kind of looks like they have, but we’ll have to wait and see because this really is a situation in which time makes a difference.

In a few minutes it will be time to resume working and I’ll put this aside. But for the remainder of the day I’ll sift through the memories of the boy who was and see if there something good to share with the boy who is and his little sister.

They Have What I Want

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They have what I want. It is not something that I say often. They have what I want is a sentiment that I don’t like much. Nothing gained by being jealous of what others own, or should I say that I am very cautious about what I allow myself to be jealous of.

In this case I am not jealous in the literal sense of the word. Not jealous for a wide variety of reasons, but the primary one is that they have something that I can get. And that makes a significant difference to me. Because if I want something and it is within my grasp than I truly have no reason to be upset with anyone other than myself.

It is about controlling your own destiny. It is about taking life by the balls and steering your ship. There, that is what I have learned. That is 41 years of wisdom. Figure out what it is you want and then go get it. It is not always easy.

It is not always easy because sometimes you don’t really know what you want. That is one of those things that they don’t teach you in school. They tell you to work hard and that if you do you can be anything. What they don’t say is that sometimes you don’t know what you want to be.

I have a list of things that I want to be and a set of goals that go along with it. In this case I can even tell you who the mysterious they are. They are three bloggers who share a number of things in common, but the one that really grabs my attention is author.

Yep, they have all written books. All of them have published tales and that is something that I wish to do. They have what I want, but as I said earlier it is not out of my reach. So now it is up to me to do the work, to find the way and venture down the path.

And because you all want to know who I am referring to I am going to provide links to their blogs:

Ivy League Insecurities
Clark Kent’s Lunchbox
And Triplets Make Six

Now go! Go read their blogs and learn more about them. Read, enjoy and remember that sometimes it is ok to want what others have. Because sometimes that is the one thing you need to realize that you can get it too.

Educating a Crazy Broad

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As an airplane is about to crash, a female passenger jumps up frantically and announces, “If I’m going to die, I want to die feeling like a woman.”
She removes all her clothing and asks, “Is there someone on this plane who is man enough to make me feel like a woman?”
A man stands up, removes his shirt and says, “Here, iron this!”.

And so begins the much awaited response to the silly and ridiculous iVillage article called Translating Man-Speak: What He Is Really Trying to Tell You. The article is an excerpt from a book by Lisa Sussman called  Over 100 Things Women Should Know about Men.

I suppose that if you accept the premise that you get what you pay for then you’ll understand that a book that sells for less than a buck isn’t worth much. If you take the article seriously and believe that it is an accurate representation of men then you are probably wondering why I am writing this because we don’t have a clue as to what we think or feel about anything. Really, just look at this:

The awful truth is, most men have no idea how they feel at any given time. Studies show that men use language to establish difference, separateness and independence (exactly the opposite of women, who talk to connect). So demanding that he talk to you is guaranteed to make him squirm and start rambling about whether new Cheerios really are improved.

Call me uptight, anal or curious but I wonder what studies she is referring to. Probably the one from the Gay Fouker institute that found that 37% of chimpanzees prefer Dole bananas to Chiquita. Or perhaps it is the one that shows that if you own more than 17 pairs of shoes you are a self indulgent, gold digging narcissist with illusions of grandeur.

That is not really nice of me to say. Really it is mean spirited, unkind and degrading. Or maybe not. Sussman offers the following strong advice to her fellow members of the finer sex.

How to talk to a man so he understands you:

Men can only take directions one at a time. So, if you want him to go into the kitchen and get you a cup of tea, make it a two-part request (this also applies to when you are in bed with him).

That’s brilliant. Comments like that help to promote fine responses from men about the best ways to keep women from talking and why women should have flat heads. Oops, I really shouldn’t offer tongue in cheek remarks unless I specify whose tongue and what cheek it should be planted upon.

I am vaguely curious to find out whether Sussman intended for this piece to be taken seriously. That would be a smart move and demonstrative of someone who once worked as a journalist. But what fun would that be? It is much easier to rely upon stereotypes and cliches. Better to take the path of least resistance and offer a poorly constructed essay that lacks substance, or maybe not.

Maybe the smarter course of action is to point out that men communicate quite effectively. Maybe the better path is to point out that not asking loaded questions isn’t indicative of stupidity. Maybe it is worth pointing out that no one wants to feel like they are on trial or that they have to walk on eggshells. Don’t ask questions about whether a certain item of clothing makes you look fat unless you are willing to hear the answer.

Don’t ask us if we think another girl is pretty unless you are willing to hear what we really think. Say what you mean and mean what you say. You might be surprised to find that we do that with far greater frequency than we are given credit for. AND we do it with far greater frequency than women do, again, if we go by crass gender stereotypes.

You don’t appreciate being referred to as the ball and chain or battle axe any more than we appreciate being portrayed as silly buffoons.

Mother’s Day Madness

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Mama just killed a man
“Put a gun against his head
Pulled my trigger, now he’s dead
Mama, life has just begun
But now I’ve gone and thrown it all away
Mama, ooh
Didn’t mean to make you cry
If I’m not back again this time tomorrow
Carry on, carry on as if nothing really matters”

It is close to the witching hour now. I am back at the computer decompressing from my day. Today, May 9 is my birthday. I am 41 now. It seems so strange to write that. Forty one year-olds are supposed to be much older than I am, far older and maybe wiser.
But here I sit, accompanied by a dog, some music and a little nip of Bushmills Whiskey. I don’t drink very often any more and most of the time not very much. Tonight really isn’t an exception. After the long day I felt like a drink and so I grabbed one.
This morning I was woken up far too early. It seems that the dark haired beauty felt the need to climb into bed and snuggle with me. That is not too much to ask for and I am normally happy to oblige her. But this time she found that the only way that she could get comfortable was to smack and kick me. She wasn’t trying to hurt me, but to her 5.5 year old mind I am invulnerable. 
If that was true I wouldn’t have these bruises. 😉 But when I opened my eyes I received a huge smile and an even bigger hug. “Happy birthday, daddy! I love you.” That was a great gift, so very worth it.
And then the racing around town began. A trip to the Westside and then one back to the Valley. There were flowers and cards to be bought, meals to be eaten and mothers to be thanked. Somewhere in between I received a few nice gifts, including a very cool Keurig Coffee maker. Love that.
Came home, threw the kids in the shower, walked the dog and roamed around the house thinking about the day.
Two years ago my grandparents left a birthday greeting on my cellphone. I intentionally saved it because I knew that there was no telling how much longer they would be around. Since my grandmother passed away in March I decided to play the message today.
It was great hearing her voice, but a bit harder than I expected. I was more than a little surprised that it made me choke up for a moment. For forty years I always had at least one grandmother to celebrate with, not this time. Forty one was more than we were allotted.
I am glad for all the time that we had, it was far more than so many. Still, I am greedy enough to ask for more.
Later on we are at my parent’s house. My mother hugs me and tells me that I am still among her favorite gifts- the boy that made her a mother. She grabs my face and tells me that she doesn’t feel old until she says that she has a 41 year-old son. I just flash her the smile. It is the one that makes people nervous, at least those who know me. It is a mischievous grin that makes you wonder what I have done or am going to do.
Mom tries to give me that look, the one that says that I shouldn’t mess with her. My smile grows and two of my sisters ask what is going on. I say nothing and they respond by telling both of my parents that I must have done something. My kids and a nephew chime in their thoughts.
I bend over and kiss mom on the cheek and walk away. As I pass by she looks at me again and I say, “Happy Mother’s Day.” Later on my father will take me aside and tell me that I have to stop causing so much aggravation. I laugh and tell him that my work here is through.
It may be Mother’s day but it is also my birthday and it just wouldn’t be the same if I didn’t cause a little aggravation. My dad rolls his eyes at me and I tell him that this is good for him, helps to keep his parenting skills sharp. He tells me that he doesn’t need to because his kids are grown up.
I laugh again and remind him that his father skills may not be required as they once were, but his grandfathering skills most certainly do. He glares at me and I tell him that all of his grandchildren know that he is a sucker and that because of this no one believes the stories I tell about him.
He laughs and says that payback is sweet. And with that he claps me on the shoulder and heads off to play with the kids. Moments later I hear squeals of laughter- mother’s day is a pain in the ass, but that laughter goes a long way to soothing the pain.