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25 Random Things

30/01/2009
  1. I secretly like internet memes. I know it’s not hip, but memes always give me something to write about.
  2. I cry at dance recitals. Not open weeping, but I tear up a little bit. I don’t know why.
  3. I wish there was a good word that I could call my friends when they act all girlie-weenie that offended neither women nor homosexuals.
  4. I went to Florida on Spring Break when I was a kid. I didn’t hook up with any girls. My wife doesn’t believe that story.
  5. I love my wife.
  6. Billy Smith is my all-time favorite athlete. He was the New York Islanders goalie back in their dynasty days in the 1980′s. He used to drink beer on the rocks; I tried it and didn’t like it.
  7. The State of New Jersey has issued me a license that implicitly states that I can insert a catheter in your bladder through your urethra. However, I can’t do it willy-nilly.
  8. I sleep with a cuddly, nap-time football. I have since I was 11-years-old.
  9. I sleep with the radio on. It has to be talk radio. Music keeps me awake.
  10. I can’t visualize. But I’m really good and imagining proprioceptive awareness (look that one up).
  11. I hate writing. I love having written.
  12. I’ve never smoked a cigarette, toked the marijuana, or snorted a line of coke. Reason: A love of drugs really fucked up my mom’s life.
  13. I can hit a golf ball 300 yards but often have trouble making a 3-foot putt. That’s golf.
  14. I am an unabashed, unashamed car singer.
  15. I became an instant expert on every sport showcased on ABC’s Wide World of Sports. I blame Jim McKay.
  16. I am not religious. I am not spiritual. I follow no faith. I believe what Jesus taught is the most beautiful and pure philosophy that has ever been popularized.
  17. WWJD? I know what Jesus would do. He would abandon all his possessions, renounce his family, and walk around the country healing the sick, feeding the poor, and teaching tolerance, forgiveness and patience.
  18. I worked with a gay guy for two years that thought I was gay. He, and many other gay guys, used to hit on me.
  19. Gay guys don’t hit on me anymore. I guess I lost it.
  20. I count among my personal possessions: 2 sets of go-to golf clubs, 3 jiu-jitsu kimonos, one HP laptop, a rage of manly tools, a John Deere riding mower, and 2 rings. Everything else I own is property I share with my family. (Okay, I lied. I share the mower with the 4-year-old.)
  21. I have 5 pets: a mixed up dog (whose pedigree is rife with champions), a snooty cat, a singing canary (whom I named “Yellow Bird”), a hamster (whose ass hangs out a little too far for my tastes), and a white dwarf hamster that looks like a cotton ball with beedy black eyes.
  22. Last summer I ran over a snake with my riding mower. (That’s nothing. The summer before that my friend ran over a clutch of baby rabbits.)
  23. I built stairs and turned the attic of my old house into a loft. I did it without permits. I’ve also put up a fence beyond my property line; also without a permit. I’M AN ANARCHIST!
  24. I am the graphic designer that creates all those horrible-schlocky ads you see in your weekly local papers. It’s not all my fault though. Tis is what the boss wants. Do you know why he wants them? Because you people respond to the little messages he puts in the bursts. If you’d stop, I’d be free to design better ads.
  25. I don’t believe in astrology, ghosts, or angels sent from heaven. I don’t believe in telekinesis, mind reading, or fortune-telling psychics. I don’t believe in mystic healers, voodoo, or talking to the dead. I don’t believe in little green men in space ships, the Jersey Devil, or Bigfoot. I don’t believe there was a shooter in the grassy knoll.

    But I believe there is more to this world than we see, hear, feel, and taste. I believe there are connections that we don’t understand. I believe there are things that we can’t understand.

    I believe in love.
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7 Things You Didn’t Want to Know About Me

16/01/2009

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.

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Discovery

20/05/2008

I opened the bedroom door and time froze. So much went through my mind before anything was said. It couldn’t have been more than ten seconds between discovery and first words.

There she was in bed with not just another man, there was a woman too. I was so shocked that I didn’t even see the lamb tied to the bedpost (and I didn’t hear about the chicken until much later).

I stood in the doorway for an eternity. These thoughts raced through my numb brain –

There’s a guy. With MY wife. A guy that is not me. Am I inadequate? Wasn’t I good enough? Wasn’t I man enough?

The woman. I can understand a woman, I mean, if she had those inclinations, those urges. I couldn’t help her there. I can’t fill those needs, those desires.

Maybe the guy came with the woman. Maybe that was the only she would come. Maybe that’s the only way she could close the deal.

But if she wanted to bring a woman in our bed, she could’ve tried it with me. Right? That’s every man’s fantasy. Right?

Maybe I shouldn’t have been so vocal about being against it. Telling her there was no intimacy and no rules, no protocols.

How does one go about the business of sex in a group without, at some point, offending one of the players? Leaving someone out? Or being left out? Still, she should have talked to me.

Or, if she wanted to go it alone, that’s kind of sexy. Isn’t it?

Thought after thought. Racing and racing. Chasing each other like a dog after its tail. Like a cat on fire.

But I didn’t move. I just stood there, blank-faced, in the doorway.

Expectant faces stared back at me from the bed. Waiting for me. A voice in my head shouted, “Say something! Anything!”

“WHAT THE FUCK IS A SHEEP
DOING IN MY BEDROOM!”

Finally she stood up, eyes pleading and yearning. She tried to choke the words out. A tear formed on the edge of her eye. She took a small step forward …

… that’s when the eels fell out.

:::

The above was a fictional response based on Question #3 at Whistle&Fish’s meme for the self-indulgent. The question read:

You catch your significant other in bed with a(nother) man, a(nother) woman, a sheep, a chicken, and three eels. Which arouses the most jealousy in you and why? Which is most titillating? Why? (Extra points for narrating the dialogue and series of events occurring in the first fifteen minutes after your initial discovery.)

I will be answering Question #4 presently.

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Distasteful

16/05/2008

He is a young man laying in a hospital bed after a car accident. He hit an abutment or a pole going 80 mph or so.

His body is still alive; his brain is dead. He’s not coming back. His parents are just now signing the papers to donate his eyes and heart and lungs and liver. They are mourning already.

And they have no idea what I’ve just done.

I’ve surreptitiously turned off his ventilator; I know how. And I have held a pillow over his face and suffocated him. It takes less time then you think. The young man is dead.

I’ve heard it said by those who have eaten people that the flesh around the knuckles taste best. I’ve taken that as my advice, tied a tourniquet around his upper arm (I know he’s dead, but I’m hoping that this will reduce any oozing) and began my dissection at the elbow. I plan on making a stew.

It goes slower than I anticipate and know that soon someone will come in the room and around the curtain and catch me in the act. When I get caught (and how the hell is anyone going to get away with crap like this?), I’m going to say:

My friend at Whistle & Fish “dislikes most memes.” He finds the questions soft and unenlightening. He thinks he knows better (and maybe he does), so he’s posed five questions of his own.

His first question: If you had to kill and eat someone, who would it be and why?

Let me get the joke out of the way: That question is distasteful.

I thought long and hard on it, and found it odd that I have a stronger aversion to killing someone than eating him. Killing is hard; eating is easier.

I developed the above scenario thinking that the death of a person almost always impacts more than one life. When a close relative or friend dies the effects ripple through the rest of our lives. In this imaginary scenario, I didn’t want to be the cause of lifelong grief. I figured I would have to kill someone already close to death.

But I would want to eat someone young and tender, not old and gristly. For some reason, I prefer to eat a male over a female. I think it has something to do with my very paternalistic bent.

So when the time came to complete the task. I combed the local papers looking for that teenager who crashed his car and is on life support, whose family is in the process of removing said support. Sure, I would kill him, but he’d already be dead.

Did I cop out? Find a loophole in the question? Some would think I did, but I don’t think so. The reason my friend asked the question was to elicit thought and story. I believe I just gave one.

And there are four more questions left. I plan being as obtuse with those as I was with this.

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