JimFormation

I write about everything in my life. If I think I can find an interesting enough slant or a funny enough line to work into the story and it won’t compromise someone’s privacy or hurt their feelings, I’ll tell the story. Here are some stories I might not have told:

1. Prince B’rynn Ka’a B’rynn Del
   My 11-year-old son is named after a character that I wrote about in several fantasy stories. The character was a warrior prince molded vaguely after (read: stolen from) Michael Moorecock’s Elric of Melnibone.
    

   My prince came from an ancient race of people who ruled the earth before the humans started with their whole history-thing. Why there is no archeological record of their existence was beyond the story’s scope, but I bet that this ancient race of hominids inhabited Atlantis.The prince was stoic and strong. His values on sex and life and death were different from ours. The social values and mores of his people were often 180-degrees opposite of ours. Hell, if you really want to know who the prince was read the Elric series. If there was any art in what I had written it was in how well I hid my petty theft.

   Why didn’t I name him after me? My name is James Caldwell McCormick IV. My entire family wanted a James Caldwell McCormick V – but I had something different going on in my head.

   I was raised, and was closest to, my maternal grandparents. I was not so narcissistic to name a child after me. I felt that you honored your descendants by continuing a family name; I felt naming my son “James” would dishonor the man who raised me.

   With that logic, I should have named my son “Herbert Raymond.” Here’s the problem: A little “Herbie” toddling around the house is pretty cute; a 7-year-old “Herbie” getting off the school bus is pretty goofie.

   I have since changed my ways and have offered my son to have his name legally changed to “James Caldwell McCormick V.” He has thought about it, and he may change it in the future, but for now he likes what he has.

2. I Have a Super Power
   I have only ever hated one person. Chris Ferrone. He and I went to high school together. We played on the same golf team. We played at the same golf club.
    

   Chris was the biggest golf cheater I’d ever met. I’ve seen him pick up a golf ball and throw it forward over a bunker and onto a green. I’ve seen him drop a new ball when he’d obviously lost the ball he hit. I’ve known him to take a 3 when he’s really made a 5.

   Chris told everyone who would listen and everyone that mattered that he was a better golfer than me. Always. At every turn. My response was, “I’m glad that I am the yardstick that Chris has to measure himself by.”

   But inside I seethed.

   I was twice the golfer he was. I could beat him on any course in any type of weather. I told the golf coach, “Play with us, but just watch him. Make sure he doesn’t move his ball. Make sure he counts every stroke.” He can’t beat me. “I know, Jim.”

   I grew to hate, really hate, Chris. It was burning and red, deep inside my gut. I feel it even now.

   Chris died on the Garden State Parkway. He fell asleep while driving and sent his car into the guard rail. The rail dislodged from the supports, went through the windshield, and decapitated him.

   He was 24-years-old.

   I’ve been very careful with my “hate” ever since. As a matter of fact, I can honestly say I haven’t hated anyone since Chris Ferrone. I fear that I have special powers. I must use them wisely.

3. Game Time
   I bought an NES (Nintendo Entertainment System) with money given to me as wedding gifts.
    

   I’m not really proud of this one and probably missed out on a lot of newlywed sex because of it.

   Wedding gifts are given to help the newly wedded set up shop in their new home. It’s the family’s and friend’s way of helping them get over the hump of starting out new. The money should be spent on such things as kitchen essentials and sex toys, right?

   I bought a video game. Geeky loser. I’m surprised my wife stayed with me.

4. I Love a Man Bag
   … and I have a lot of them. I’m obsessed with them. I can’t get enough of them. I have backpacks and fanny bags and messenger sacks. I must have a dozen of them in the basement, maybe more.
    

   Problem is that I don’t use them. I just don’t know what the hell to carry in them. Nothing is that important to me that I have to keep it with me just in case I need it NOW! I carry a thin wallet and my key chain has a memory key and a multi-tool on it. I have my cell phone. I also carry a pen and a small pad or folded piece of paper with me. I don’t need a bag to carry that stuff.

   I am jealous of the dudes I see walking down the street, particularly in Manhattan, with a knapsack or messenger bag. “What are you carrying? I want to know! I want to carry it too! Damn you. Damn you all to hell.”

   Similarly, I have a manly glove collection. I have at least 10 pair of leather work gloves, 2 pair of mechanics gloves, a pair of wide receiver football gloves, 5 pair of winter gloves, 2 pair of mittens, and one manly hunting muff (and I don’t hunt). I can’t get enough of them. It’s insane.

   Oh, and I don’t call a “man bags” “man bags.” I call them “nut sacks.”

5. Boobs
   I touched my Nan’s boob, but you already knew that. I write a lot about boobs and make a lot of boobie jokes. Boobies are fun.
    

   What you don’t know is that I’m not really a “boob man.” Don’t get me wrong, I like boobs. Boobs are fun. But they don’t make or break my libido.

   Same thing with asses. I’m not an “ass man.” Asses are fun, but they’re just asses.

   Maybe I’m a “face man.” I’m attracted to a …

   … no! Do you know what I am? I’m a “vagina man!”  When it comes to sexual attraction, I would have to start there. If you don’t have a vagina, all bets are off.

6. Pet Semetary
   The house I live in has been in the family for 50 years. For forty-five of those years it was the hub of a very large extended family. For five decades every pet of that extended family was buried behind my garage.
    

   I bet there are 25 dogs buried back there. A hundred cats. Countless canaries. And at least three hamsters, two ferrets, and a white rat. Behind my garage. My garage.

   For the better part of my life, I was the family grave digger. I dug the hole. Pop said it had to be at least three feet deep. The problem is I can’t go three feet anymore. At two feet I invariably hit something. That something is always another animal grave.

   I know this because we always wrapped the deceased in tarpaper. And the thing that stopped my spade from digging deeper has always been tarpaper.

   Now animal graves only go down about two feet in my Pet Semetary behind the garage.

7. I Am an Extreme Introvert
   In every psychological evaluation I’ve ever had, most of them in college psych classes, I’ve tested out as an extreme introvert. Like 9-and-a-half on a scale of ten.
    

   That doesn’t mean that I’m shy, far from it. I’m a talker. If you get me into a conversation, you will soon be looking for any way to get out of it: “Excuse me, Jim. I have to go. I, umm, am having a rather heavy period.”

   But I’m not good at approaching people or starting a conversation. I’m awkward: “Umm, so how long were you dating your wife before you started doing it. Oh, I’m sorry, Reverend.”

   So, in social situations, I keep to myself unless someone pulls me into a conversation.

   I guess that makes me a back-of-the-room wallflower. Whatever. The best party is always between my ears anyway.

I’ve been working with women for the better part of 25 years. By-and-large, they have accepted me into their fold. “Don’t worry about Jim. He’s one of us,” they say.

Others have said, “I like Jim. He’s not like other guys. He doesn’t talk to my chest.” I like that.

So what do girls talk about? Well, they talk a lot about sex. Men talk sports; women talk sex.

And their typical sex-talk isn’t man’s typical sex-talk. It’s more nondescript and nuanced. Their stories about sex and not about the graphic details.

This story was told to me about one of my co-workers. It is my favorite sex-story ever. And I’ll even include my alternate ending. My director’s cut.

One night my husband and I were feeling a little amorous and started doing the things that a husband and wife do. In particular, I was doing what a good wife often does to a good husband.

He happily finished and I laid back, closed my eyes, and awaited the return of the favor. You know, the quid pro quo. But it didn’t come.

Instead he got up and walked out of the room. I thought maybe he needed to wash up or had to pee or something. I knew he’d be back and do his duty. He always did.

Actually, the wait, the anticipation was pretty sexy. I laid there smiling and dreaming good dreams.

Finally, after several minutes, he returned. And my smile dropped.

He waltzed into our bedroom with a piece of cake and a glass of chocolate milk in his hands. Oblivious. Totally oblivious to me lying there waiting.

“Ahem. What about me?” I asked.

“Ohmygod! I’m so sorry,” he said. And then did that which he was required.

End of story. I like it just as it is, but it could be jazzed up. If I were her husband it probably would have ended this way:

“Ahem. What about me?”

“Ohmygod! I’m so sorry! I wasn’t thinking. How selfish. Do you want chocolate or regular milk with your cake?”

A nurse I’ve worked with for 10 years was fired from her job on Monday. She’d been working at that company for 20 years. By all accounts, including her annual reviews, she’s been an exemplary employee.

They didn’t give her any reason. My boss tells me that if I fire somebody to not give a reason. Just say, “I’ve made a decision and, with the advice and consent of my superiors, have decided to terminate your employment with us.” Cold and direct. I don’t like it that way, but I have to protect my company; my boss says it’s the best way. “Doesn’t give a labor attorney much to grab on to if it comes to that,” he says.

I’ve fired people that way. It’s awful. I’d much rather coach them through something that is difficult for them. I’d like to give them advice on how to not get fired again. My boss says I can’t, so I don’t.

For right or wrong, my friend was fired. Move on.

Her story reminded me of when comedian Norm Macdonald got fired from Saturday Night Live in 1997. Norm’s story, as related in Artie Lange’s book “Too Fat To Fish” goes like this (You have to read it in Norm’s voice with his timing to appreciate it):

(NBC Executive, Don Ohlmeyer) walked in and Don said, “Norm, I’ve got some bad news. You’re fired.”

“Oh wow. That is bad news,” Norm said. “That’s horrible! Why am I fired?”

“Because you’re not funny.”

“Oh my God. That’s worse! I’m not funny? I’m in comedy! I’ll never get another job!”

You can see him talk to David Letterman about it:

Okay, so this post wasn’t much. At least it’s something.

What do you want for nothing?

She said the children were were “rambunctious and interfering with her television show.” So she sent the two older ones to another room and put the 5-month-old baby in the dryer and turned it on.

The baby is dead, of course.

If you have kids, or if you babysit, you have to realize that kids are jackasses. Among the things they love to do, especially the young ones, is to be rambunctious and to interfere with your television viewing. Get used to it. Better yet, stop watching television.

They’ll also interfere with your napping. I love a nap, and I haven’t had a decent one since 1991.

Let me back up a little. I have three kids. Each one is six or seven years older than the other. I’ve had a person under six years of age in my home every goddamned day for almost 20 years. In those two decades of being charged with the care of the littlest of people, I’ve picked up a few things. Here’s one of them:

I was also the first of my friends to have children. I have given each of my friends the same piece of advice when they were “expecting.”

I take the couple aside and look them earnestly in the eyes and say, “Don’t kill the baby. Don’t laugh; I’m as serious as a heart attack. There is going to be a time when killing the baby will be on the list of things you can do to stop the baby from crying. I’m not saying that it’s going to be very high on your list, but it will flash up there. And thinking of it doesn’t make you a bad person. Just don’t do it. Don’t kill the baby. I’m serious.

“One day — perhaps it’s 3AM, you’ve only slept four-and-a-half hours in the last two days, and the baby is still screaming — it’ll flash up there, ‘I know! I’ll just hold a pillow over her face and she’ll stop crying! This is going to work! I’m a genius.’ It’s then that I want my voice to echo in your head, Jim said, ‘Don’t kill the baby.’ So don’t. Don’t kill the baby.”

I know for a fact that that advice has kept one of my friends’ wives out of prison. She called and thanked me.

The Mason-Dixon Line of NFL football in this area is Lacey Road. People who live south of Lacey Road are 95% Philadelphia Eagles fans. People who live north of Lacey Road are 95% New York Giants fans. (For the record, I don’t count the New York Jets in this mix. I don’t even care if you’re a New York Jets fan; you don’t have to chime in.)

I work just north of Lacey Road, just barely in Giants’ territory. And since the Eagles beat the Giants to earn their way into NFC Championship game yesterday, the Eagles’ fans have jumped the border and have all found their way into my office. They are all waving their private parts in my general direction.

I respond to their shitty smiles and generalized taunts with a quick shot across the bow, “Don’t tell me. I have the game TIVO’d. I’m going to watch it when I get home from work.”

I’m sick of it.

I thought I might gain a day. But no one is buying it.

Halfway through the fourth quarter yesterday, I turned the television off and went to Target to buy a new set of drumsticks for the Guitar Hero game (I’m the drummer in my kid’s cyber-band). I don’t know the final score. I haven’t listened to any of the post-game analysis. I have not read one article regarding the game. Sports radio is verbotten. But I’ll give you my take on the game:

I imagine everyone is blaming Eli Manning’s interceptions or John Carney’s missed field goals. Some might even say that the Giants missed Plaxico “I-Shot-an-NFL-All-Pro-Reciever” Burress. They might even be praising the Eagles defense for making two fourth down stops. I don’t know, but that’s not the game.

The losing started before the game began. The Giants won the coin toss and elected to take the ball. It was a windy day. Every Giants’ fan knows — and I mean EVERY Giants’ fan knows — you don’t take the ball, you take the wind. In the fourth quarter you want the wind going with you. Period. No analysis. The wind in Giants Stadium is legendary. It gets so bad that in a 1985 playoff game against the Bears, the Giants’ All-Pro punter, Sean Landeta, whiffed at a punt because the wind moved it away from his foot on the drop.

If you win the coin toss, you take the wind with you in the fourth quarter. Over thirty years of football at that stadium has proven this out.

The next thing you do in the winter in Giants Stadium on a windy day when you have the NFL’s number one rushing offense is run the damned ball. Smash-mouth. Off tackle. With your best rusher. Not Derrick “Got Him Off the Jets Practice Squad” Ward. Your best rusher is the 6’4″ 265 pound battering ram, Brandon Jacobs. Jacobs falls forward 3 yards. Give him the damned ball.

Doesn’t the coaching staff realize that Ward was shitty when he wasn’t playing #2 to Jacobs? Doesn’t the coaching staff realize that Ward got his best and longest rushes after Brandon Jacobs wore the hell out of defensive lines? Derrick Ward should have only been on the field in the first half on third down or if Jacobs was gassed. Period.

And when you give Jacobs the ball, don’t rush him sideways. Please.

Was that a new wrinkle? Sweeps? With almost 300 pounds of running back? Did Earl Campbell sweep? Did Christian Okoye sweep?  Did John Riggins sweep? Big boys don’t sweep.

Pound the ball. Pound the ball. Pound the ball. Wear out the defense. Wear them out. Period.

In the second half, if you want to work Derrick “Not-Gonna-Be-Here-Next-Year” Ward as a change of pace. Go ahead. That’s what’s worked all year. (Frankly, Ahmad Bradshaw is a better change-of-pace back than Ward, but I’m not going to quibble. Maybe he doesn’t pick up the blitz as well as Ward. I don’t know.)

Don’t worry if you’re losing in the fourth quarter. Just keep the game tight. You have the wind and a worn out defense in the fourth quarter. That alone is worth 10 points. Just be within 10 going into the fourth quarter.

This is Giants Stadium winter football 101. I learned this stuff watching Bill Parcells orchestrate the Giants in the mid-1980′s. The script was written 25 years ago.

Arrggh.

So to reiterate my stance, the New York Football Giants lost because of a panoply of strategic errors starting with winning the coin toss and not taking advantage. Period.

On the last day of fourth grade, my daughter came off the bus crying inconsolably.

“What’s the matter, Baby?”

“sob I got an F sniffle”

My daughter was then and always has been a wonderful, prideful student. She’s always gotten A’s, and would not have it any other way.

“An F? In what?” I asked.

With more sobs and sniffles, she handed over the report card. I opened it.

An A here and a B there. No F’s.

“Where’s the F, Baby?”

She took the report card from my hands, closed it and, tears still in her eyes, pointed to a spot on the front of the card.

There it was. Under her name, under her teacher’s name, and under her class room number:

“Gender – F”

According to CNET, Microsoft is envisioning “pay-as-you-go computing” and has applied for the patent on it. (Hat tip: The Ruminator)

In a nutshell, Microsoft wants to charge you for every moment you use your computer with the fee being a sliding scale for the amount of computer resources you would use. Kids (and geeky guys who can’t attract even one girl) who play high-end games would pay a premium because they use so much of a computer’s resources; moguls who check their email and read The Wall Street Journal online wouldn’t pay as much because they barely touch the computer’s resource potential.

I say all that just to read this to you, the article says:

According to the application, the issue with the existing PC business model is that it “requires more or less a one chance at the consumer kind of mentality, where elasticity curves are based on the pressure to maximize profits on a one-time-sale, one-shot-at-the-consumer mentality.”

That old “PC business model” seems to have worked so far. How much money does Bill Gates have again?

Who here can teach me Linux?*

…

*No one will teach you Linux, Jim. Linux users are, by-and-large, pretentious fucks. Ask them for help and they make fun of you. The best way to get anything out of them is by going to one of their geeky forums and tell them that Linux sucks because it can’t to XYZ. A hundred of them will come out of the woodwork and say, “Yesh it can! Here’sh how …” Lesson learned.

Okay. This one is mostly for the ladies, but I think most men will appreciate it too.

Imagine your favorite food. I’m not talking about Maryland crab cakes or fettuccini alfredo. I’m talking guilty snacking pleasures. For ladies, chocolate used to be high on the list — maybe it still is — but I’ve been hearing more about chocolate-covered pretzels and cookie dough lately. For this exercise, I’m going to assume cookie dough (substitute your favorite guilty pleasure as warranted).

Now imagine that you don’t have any cookie dough. You love cookie dough. You want cookie dough. As much cookie dough as you can get your hands on.

Half the people you know and half the people you meet are carrying cookie dough with them, but it’s covered. Oh, you can make out the outline. You know what’s under the cloth. The shape is uncanny. It’s a container of cookie dough. No one is saying anything. And no one is sharing.

Even half the people at work are carrying cookie dough with them. You are too embarrassed to look directly at their cookie dough. And, God forbid!, you would never ask them to see their cookie dough or certainly request a taste. (I mean, there are people who share cookie dough at work, but that’s a different essay.)

And then you come home from work. Your spouse (or significant other) has cookie dough ice cream. Only he has it covered too. He’s carrying it around everywhere. You keep staring at it, hoping he will share. But he ignores you.

You ask about it. “Hey, is that cookie dough? Can I see? Can I have some?”

“Maybe when the kids are asleep I’ll take out the cookie dough and give you some. Maybe. Unless I’m too tired,” he says.

All evening you wait for the kids to go to bed. You hope they fall asleep fast so that you can have some cookie dough. You might even do some of his chores to help him out. You know, to keep him from getting too tired.

After pulling the trash cans to the side of the road, you try to sneak a peek under his cloth to look at the cookie dough or even touch the container through the cloth. Insulted, he slaps your hand, “If you keep that up. You won’t be getting any cookie dough for a week.”

You sit in front of the television hoping that it will take your mind off the cookie dough. But guess what? Half the people on television are carrying cookie dough too! And by the looks of it, most of them don’t have the pint containers — they have quart or even gallon containers!

You start thinking, “You know, I can’t see the cookie dough. I wonder if it really is cookie dough; it could be brownie dough. Brownie dough is good too. I’d take brownie dough!”

By the time the kids are asleep, your spouse is too tired to share his cookie dough. It’s always that way. You knew it. He knew it.

In bed, in the dark, you put your arm around him and hold his cookie dough and dream: “Maybe tomorrow he’ll let me have some cookie dough. If he won’t let me taste it, maybe he’ll at least take off the cover let me see it for a while.”

Sweet dreams.

For guys, boobs are like cookie dough.

Things you need to know:

• When I was 8-years-old, I moved in with my maternal grandparents. From that day, Nan and Pop raised me.
• Nan taught me how to play the organ. One of the songs she taught me was the drinking song, Little Brown Jug. (You can catch it on youtube here.)
• Nan had a radical mastectomy in the early 1970s. A radical mastectomy is a complete amputation of the breast including the underlying chest muscles and lymph nodes. It leaves a cave of flesh where once there was a breast.
• I am a Registered Nurse by education and license.

In nursing school, an introductory lecture on mastectomy started like this:

“As symbols of her gender, of motherhood and womanhood; as tools of her attractiveness and sexual abilities a woman’s breasts are very important to her. Disfiguring breast surgery, especially amputation, can be psychologically and spiritually devastating. A women’s self-worth and self esteem are often intractably tied to her breasts.”

I must have made a goofy face. The lecturer noticed.

“Do you have a question, Mr. McCormick?”

“Well, I don’t mean to disagree, but — Are you sure? Because that has not been my experience.”

And then I went on to tell her several stories about Nan’s boob:

Part I

Nan was not a cut-up, but she was a funny woman. She was never one to tolerate insults, especially from those in her care. And that was all of us.

This is a tough old bird that you never wanted to mess with. However, she and I had a special arrangement. I could needle her and she’d take it. We traded verbal blows with each relentlessly.

One day, when I was in my teens and sitting on the couch watching television and Nan crocheting in her chair across the room, we got into some verbal jousting. I eventually got in a great zinger.

Nan was not one to be outdone, even when she had nothing left to say. She reached into the neckline of her shirt, pulled out her fake boob, and threw it at me. It landed, heavy and warm, in my lap.

A teenage boy, especially one that had yet to handle his first real breast, has no rebuttal for that.

She wins.

Part II

Same couch. This time Nan is sitting there with me. Pop is between us. His arm around Nan’s shoulder. It’s Sunday. We are watching The Lawrence Welk Show.

All is quiet until Nan abruptly stands up and reaches into the top of her shirt while saying, “Goddammit, Herb. If you want it that bad, here. I’m making tea.” And placed her fake boob, heavy and warm, into Pop’s hands. And walked into the kitchen.

A husband of nearly 50 years, especially one with a blank stare and his wife’s boob in his hand, has no rebuttal for that.

She wins.

Part III

As you’ve just read, Nan had a prosthetic breast. She never opted for plastic surgery to remake and remold her old breast. Who knows? In the 1970s this may not have even been an option.

Prosthetic breasts have to be replaced from time-to-time. I guess they wear out, especially when one was as busy with them as Nan apparently was.

My sister once helped Nan order a new boob out of a catalog. When it came in my sister was aghast. Neither she nor Nan realized that the suffix “-BK” stood for black.

Nan opened the box and there, in her hands, was a dark brown prosthetic breast. My sister was so embarrassed that she was nearly in tears, “I’ll send it back! I’ll send it back!”

“You’ll do no such thing,” said Nan stuffing the plastic and silicone breast into her bra. “It fits perfectly.”

That’s when I started whistling that drinking song that she taught me on the organ: Little Brown Jug.

A woman, especially one with a fake black breast in her bra, has no rebuttal for that.

I win.

Everybody sing!
Ha-ha-ha, Hee-Hee-Hee
Little brown jug, how I love thee