When second base was but a distant dream

This is what I like to consider a motivational post.  Not really for you, but rather to hopefully motivate me to post something else soon so that this one doesn't remain at the top of the page.

Travel back with me if you will, to a simpler time: 1989.  Tone-Loc was in his prime.  I may or may not have still been tight-rolling my 550 Levis.  And I didn't know nearly as much about girls as I do now -- which, granted, still isn't... well, anyway.

I was teacher aide for Coach A's 8th grade social studies class.  I mean, come on -- a coach's class, 8th grade girls swooning (in my mind) over me, a junior -- I had it all.  Plus, I loved grading papers.  In fact, if I could go back and do it all over again, I'd have been a teacher.  Or a writer.  Or maybe a professional Scrabble player.

Anyway, for some reason, I had a rep as a good student, so Coach A would let me leave the classroom pretty much whenever I wanted.  It just so happens a girl I kinda liked was an office aide for the assistant principal at the same time.  (In fact, now that I think about it, it's possible the impetus for our entire "relationship" was that we were both aides during the same period.  Sigh.  Love was so simple then.)

So at some point during that year, we started sneaking out into the hall to make out.  To that point, it was the wildest thing I'd ever done.

There is but one caveat to this story:  we never used our tongues.

The first time was awkward, as you might imagine.  Subsequent make out sessions were downright uncomfortable.

Now some of you might be wondering, how is that even possible -- tongue-less making out?  Let me see if I can describe it.... You both have your mouths open.  Your lips are touching.  But nothing's crossing the border.

Now imagine doing that for what felt like... fifteen seconds.  Maybe thirty.  Each time.

It's kinda like non-invasive surgery.  Laparoscopic kissing!  That's what it was.

At this point it strikes me to ask the question, can it even be considered making out if you don't use your tongue?  I should create an urban dictionary term for a tongue-less make out session.  We could just called it a "bone."  Hmph, turns out that term is already in use.  Oh well.

Back to our story of young love, or... something.  As one might expect, with the absence of a papillae-and-taste bud-covered apparatus as part of our steamy 6th-period trysts, our romance fizzled within a few weeks.

I wonder if she ever told anyone about us.  What am I saying?  Of course she did.  Girls tell everything!  She probably told all the girls in our class, which might help explain why I only dated girls from other schools for the remainder of my high school career.  And suddenly I wonder if any of this had anything to do with my dating drought of '93!

It's good to reminisce, isn't it?

Today, anytime someone asks me to describe what it was like to be living in those days, to be, quote, "heading for the nineties, living in the wild, wild West," needless to say, this is not the story I tell.

(Editor's note: When I write the Revisionist History Of Me: Volume 4, I will have been thirteen years old when all this occurred, and she will have been sixteen.  And my babysitter.)

"Dancin' meant everything.  We were young and we were improvin'.  Laughin', laughin', with our friends.  Holdin' hands meant somethin', baby..."

This could be you (if you weren't famous)

Sometimes I like to imagine celebrities are watching my life and thinking, "This would be me if I weren't famous."

After all, that's pretty much what this blog is -- a reality show in writing.  I remember back when we first began this, I did an interview with the local paper about blogging.  No, really, I did!  Why does no one ever believe me anymore when I tell that story?  I thought the girl who wrote the article might have had a crush on me.  Turns out it was more of a crush on my blog.  

Anyhow, about the only quote I can remember from that interview seven years ago is, "It's kinda like having your own Nick & Jessica show.  Except it's just Nick."  (You may remember Newlyweds: Nick & Jessica?  Even though that's been about one thousand, two hundred and eighty-seven reality shows ago.)

I like to think reading about my life gives celebrities that little extra motivation they need to stay famous.  Take yesterday for example, I came home from work and dozed off while watching General Hospital.  Then I woke up and had two bowls of Cocoa Pebbles.

But that was nothing compared to today.  Today was a big day for me.

First, it's Gordon Lightfoot's birthday.  I don't have to tell you how big a fan I am of Gordon Lightfoot.  And have been ever since I discovered his music, way back a couple of years ago.  I celebrated by tweeting him a birthday message, even though I found no evidence whatsoever that he's even on Twitter.

Secondly, today is also Guinness World Records Day.  I don't have to tell you how badly I want to make it into the Guinness Book Of World Records.  Because I have already told you.  Several times.  It's one of my two main life goals.

To me, 95% of getting into the Guinness Book is finding the perfect record to break.  The rest is easy.  That's why I spend such an enormous amount of time pondering it.  I believe life is best lived in the mind.

As I was reading about the various world record attempts that would be going on around the globe, one in particular jumped out at me: The largest gathering of ABBA impersonators.

What?!?!

I didn't even know there were any ABBA impersonators!  They must be like the Swedish Elvis! 

So I've spent the day sharing my ABBA love with friends, downloading some of their songs I didn't have, and searching (in vain) for a way to make that backwards B appear on the screen.

And lastly, completing the trifecta of my big day, I downloaded a new app for my Blackberry.  I kept hearing all about this game Angry Birds, therefore I decided I would see what all the fuss was about.  Except apparently Angry Birds isn't available for the Torch, at least not that I could find.  So instead, I get to play a game called Angry Farm. It's similar to Angry Birds, but... not quite.

It's kinda like when you were a kid and you wanted a Barbie, but your parents said they couldn't afford one, so you got a Cindy doll instead, for like $1.99.  Then when the other kids came over and brought their Barbies, they looked at your doll and were like, "Who is that?"  Hypothetically, I mean.

Thus concludes my big day.

Now, imagine with me if you will... Somewhere in sun-drenched Celebrityville tomorrow, in between filming another episode of Law & Order: Special Victims Unit and the new season of Ice Loves Coco, Ice-T will take a break to check his Google reader on his iPad and see that I've posted a new blog entry. 

As he reads about my life, he can only shudder and shake his head while thinking, "If I weren't famous, this.... this would be me."  Look closer and you'll see Ice's newest ink is a tatt of my blog URL, underneath the words "Stay Famous."

Later in the day, he'll curse me a little when he realizes he's got "Dancing Queen" stuck in his head.

*pound pound peace*  You're welcome, Ice.

"You are the dancing queen, young and sweet, only seventeen.  Dancing queen, feel the beat from the tambourine..."

Labor pains

In an uncertain world, isn't it comforting to know there are certain inalienable truths about guys you can always count on? 

For example, we prefer long hair.  (That doesn't mean we hate your short hair, it just means we like long hair better.)  We despise asking anyone for directions and consider getting lost a much more attractive option.  We forget things.  (Or sometimes just don't pay attention when we're told the thing in the first place.  Same diff.)  And we are unable to bear children.

But regarding the latter, I tell you this, friends: I came as close as any of my uterus-challenged counterparts ever has this past weekend.

I'm referring, of course, to the Alabama-LSU game.  #1 versus #2.  The so-called Game of the Century.

I've written before to some length as to the near-constant state of anxiety and stress I'm under while watching a Bama game.  But never had I heard it put so perfectly until discussing the game with a friend last week, when she said, "This game will be like birthing a child for you."

Yes!  Finally, someone who gets me.  That's it exactly.  And before anyone gets offended by me comparing childbirth to a football game, let's remember -- this is Alabama.  Also, the comment came from a girl who has a child.  So, I think she would know.  And I have email documentation.  So I will not allow these "birther" questions to derail my campaign for comedy.

I'd say the contractions probably started sometime on Thursday.  When the big day arrived on Saturday, I was beyond nervous, as I'm sure any woman in my situation would be.  I had chosen to do a home birth at LJ's with he and Wolfgang serving as my trusted, if primitive, midwives.  I also decided not to use any sedatives or other medication during the procedure.  That may have been a serious mistake.

As for the labor itself, it was even more painful than I expected.  Four hours of yelling, banging, whining, and possibly a little cursing.  Just before halftime, Wolfgang's wife took her two daughters and went home.  (What?  Was it something I said/threw/yelled?)  Take that as a lesson.  Childbirth is no place for women and children.  The irony of which doesn't escape me.

In the end, imagine my horror as a baby resembling Les Miles emerged wearing a god-awful white LSU cap, and I realized Nick Saban was not the father.  For days I lay listless.  Unfeeling.  In a haze.  Only now am I able to speak of it.

If all that wasn't enough, I gained a pound over the weekend.  Don't you just hate those guys who have kids and never gain an ounce?  Hussies!

And now I'm reading there's a slight chance there could be a rematch?!  Oy.  My now-hollow insides are hurting just thinking about it.  I don't know if I can handle a second one. 

I may have to take a Lamaze class.  Or do some Kegels.

"Who dat is?  That's just my baby daddy..."

Wayfaring stranger

The prodigal blogger has returned.  He who was lost hath been restored to the ninety and nine.  So if you happen to be a shepherd, you should probably be rejoicing about now.  And if you're a father who has a son in his late thirties who's been missing for a few weeks, then by all means make a feast and kiss me.  On second thought, the feast will do just fine.

I sorely miss writing.  And hope to return to it on a much more frequent basis soon.  In the meantime, I have pictures!

October afforded me one more trip to the beach, where I kissed summer good-bye.  At least, I think that was her name. 

Isn't she beautiful?

Then this past weekend, we ventured over to the Little River Canyon area in northeast Alabama.  There we visited Little River Falls: 

The above picture is not Little River Falls.  Had it been, I probably would have been more than a bit disappointed after making that trek.  Also, if you look closely, I'm holding a cell phone in my hand as a point of reference, lest you think me a Philistine.

Fortunately, we did manage to locate Little River Falls a bit later.  I decided not to get as close to the edge of this one:

The afternoon consisted of lots of driving and a bit of hiking.  The trees, near the height of their autumn brilliance, combined with the waterfalls and sheer drops of the cliff walls provided a perfect backdrop for both.  Even though quite a few people were out, there were a couple of times when I could hear nothing but the rushing of the river below.  Absolute peace.

There was one sign which dubbed the area the Grand Canyon of the South.  And to think I'd never been there before, even though it's only a couple hours away.  Sometimes I think we tend to overlook the tourist attractions nearest to us.

I was hopeful of happening upon the remains of an old, abandoned theme park I'd read about which resided in the area many years ago, called Canyon Land.  You know my fascination with defunct theme parks.  It's even greater than my fascination with defunct relationships.  Unfortunately, Google can only get you so far -- in either endeavor --and I was unable to find it.  If I can get a bit more information on its exact location, it would definitely be worth another trip someday.

For now, it's just good to be back in the fold.

"Farewell, my summer love, farewell.  Girl, I won't forget you..."

More to love

What did you do this summer?  Travel?  Swim?  Tan?  Work?  Post four thousand Facebook statuses?  Nothing?

Well, that's all better than what I did. 

I, Bone, gained weight.  Between the months of April and September, I packed on not nine, not ten, but ELEVEN pounds.  Thus putting me at the heaviest weight of my life.  Which would be great if I were a boxer and trying to move up a weight class, but I'm not.  I thought briefly about boxing when I was younger, but I have a fear of getting punched.  So I stuck to Mike Tyson's Punch-Out on the Nintendo.  Don Flamenco, Bald Bull, Soda Popinski -- those were more my speed.  But anyway, I'm getting off track here.

Thus was the summer of my stomach's great content.  I did not exercise much.  Well, I played lots of Word Mole and online Scrabble, but apparently mental exercise doesn't count so much when it comes to weightier matters.  All the while imbibing carbonated beverages like they were about to make them available by prescription only.  What did I expect?

My abs have gone from not-quite-six-pack to she's-just-starting-to-show.  The taut pre-teen Swedish boy body is no more.

So where do I go from here?  I mean, Richard Simmons is not walking through my door.  Believe me, I've tried.  I've written him like three times.

It wasn't at all a surprise to me that I had gained weight over the summer.  I knew.  I was dreading and putting off stepping on the scales.  What has been a surprise, however, is how immensely difficult the pounds have been to shed.

I started eating (slightly) better and running (a lot) more.  I've been doing that for three or four weeks now.  Grand total weight loss in that time?  Three pounds.  Double-you-tee-eff?  Has gravity increased or something in the last few years?  They really should do some research on that.

I'm starting to think this may be the hardest thing I've ever done.  I'm not even kidding.  To understand that, you must understand something about me: I tend to shy away from anything that appears even slightly difficult. 

Oh, also, for years, I lived in a carefree world where things like calories and the future were something for other people to worry about.  I had a metabolism somewhere between an Olympic swimmer and a hummingbird.  As long as I ran two or three times a week, I could pretty much eat anything I wanted.  And indeed, I did.

But now it appears that era of my life has come to a close.  My hummingbird days are over.

Let us mourn the death of my metabolism.

"My next thirty years, I'm gonna watch my weight.  Eat a few more salads and not stay up so late..."

This is really hard

I never thought I'd love that way again.

The year was 1993.  I wasn't long out of high school.  There were tears in my eyes when the burly bartender I'd been seeing for several years came to the door and said, "Cheers is closed." 

A part of me died that day.  A part of me that was young and innocent, idealistic and hopeful.  But somehow I managed to pick up the pieces and move on from my first real love.  I found a new guy.  Single, thin, neat, early thirties.  Well actually it was more of a group thing.  Him and his friends, and me.  A little different, but I wasn't complaining.

In fact, things were great for a few years.  Until he and his friends got into some legal trouble up in Massachusetts.  After they were all thrown in prison, I was back on my own.  Like a Whitesnake song.  But this time I was certain, that I'd never love again.

And then I met him.

When I first encountered him, he was a 40-year-old virgin.  I found him only tolerably amusing, and a bit over-the-top.  By the time we began our weekly Thursday night trysts, he was way over-the-top.  Never did I ever think I would soon come to love this man.

I'm speaking of course of Steve Carell, aka Michael Scott. 

The new season of The Office begins tonight.  And it will do so without its fearless leader, now former leader.  They say the show must go on.  But I, for one, don't see how it can.  Michael Scott was to The Office what Gene Frenkle was to Blue Oyster Cult, what Trapper John was to Trapper John M.D., and Bob Barker was to The Price Is Right.  That show hasn't been funny at all since Barker left.

If you watched The Office you already know what I'm talking about.  If you didn't watch The Office, if you've never seen Michael Scott in all his glory, I have to wonder, have you ever really loved at all? Did I say loved?  I meant laughed.

While I cannot enumerate all the ways Michael Scott was great -- for that would take far too much time and typing -- I would be remiss if I failed to mention his signature joke and crowning achievement: "That's what she said."

Michael Scott single-handedly brought "That's What She Said" and it's internet shorthand counterpart, TWSS, into the daily vernacular.  You'd be hard-pressed today to find a message board frequented by juvenile men (and women) that doesn't have a TWSS reference.  It's a timeless, if slightly immature, joke.  Brilliant both in its simplicity and versatility.  I try to fit it in wherever I can..........

So before we move on -- and some of us never will -- let us look back and remember, Michael Gary Scott.  A man I will miss.  A man who has ruined all other men for me.

Here are a few selected Michael Scott quotes for your enjoyment:

- "It’s how I like to do business, everybody joking around.  It’s like Friends.  I am Chandler, and Joey.  Pam is Rachel. And Dwight is Kramer."

- "I like Donna. Is it wrong to keep seeing her?  Depends on who you ask.  I mean, if you ask her husband, or you took a random poll, yeah, it's wrong."

- "You know what eats a large amount of the day are naps.  You go to sleep it's light out, you wake up it's dark.  That's the whole day.  Where did that day go?  I have no idea."

- "I am actually great with old women.  In fact, for the longest time my best friend was my grandmother.  And then she met Harriet.  And now she thinks she better than everybody."

- "A boss’s salary isn’t just about money.  It’s about perks.  For example, every year I get a $100 gas card.  Can’t put a price on that."

- "My philosophy is basically this.  And this is something that I live by, and I always have.  And I always will.  Don't ever, for any reason, do anything, to anyone, for any reason, ever, no matter what, no matter where, or who or who you are with, or or where you are going, or where you've been.  Ever.  For any reason.  Whatsoever."

- "Jim is like Big Bird.  He is tall and yellow and very nice.  But would I put him in charge?  No.  I don't think so.  Big Bird doesn't make the tough decisions.  If I was gonna put someone in charge, I would put Bert in charge.  Or I would put one of the real grown-ups in charge, like Maria or Gordon, maybe."

- "How do you tell somebody that you care about deeply, 'I told you so.'  Gently with a rose?  In a funny way, like it's a hilarious joke?  Or do you just let it go, because saying it would just make things worse? ... Probably the funny way."

- "I don't need to be friends with Pam.  I have plenty of female friends.  My mom.  Pam's mom.  My aunt... although she just blocked me on IM.  What's her face, from Quiznos?  I see her like four times a week."

- "A boss is like a teacher.  And I am like the cool teacher, like Mister Handell.  Mister Handell would hang out with us and he would tell us awesome jokes and he... actually hooked up with one of the students.  And then like twelve other kids came forward.  It was in all the papers.  Really ruined eighth grade for us."

Best of luck, Michael, in your new life with Holly in Colorado.  Oh who am I kidding?  This is going to suck!  It's going to be like when Bo and Luke left Dukes Of Hazzard and were replaced by Coy and Vance, times a hundred!

I'll miss your mispronunciations and your song parodies, your women's pants and your man-crush on Ryan (and possibly Jim), your Dundie Awards and Scott's Tots, Prison Mike and Date Mike, Lazy Scranton and the Golden Ticket idea, your fake suicide attempt and real George Foreman grill foot injury, the Michael Scott Paper Company and Threat Level Midnight, and perhaps most of all, your uncanny ability to always say the wrong thing and make even the most seemingly benign situation painfully uncomfortable.

I'll miss you, Michael.  In the immortal words of one James Halpert, "You always left me satisfied and smiling."

(sniff) That's what she said.

"I wish you the best.  And I wish you nothing less than everything you've ever dreamed of.  And I hope that you find love along the way.  But most of all, I wish you'd stay..."

Superfan & The Rooftop Caper

For some reason, the 8-month-long wait for college football seemed to drag on even longer than usual for me this year. Maybe it was the constant negative off-season news about college football -- which is kinda like having your friends bring up your ex-girlfriend every single time you're around them. It makes you think of her and miss her, all the while knowing you can't have her. Or maybe it was the complete dearth of anything interesting on TV this summer. I mean, how much keeping up with the Kardashians can one guy do? (I think I'm going for the record.)

But alas, now that the happy season is finally upon us, and my September love has returned, I was able to make it over to Wolfgang's to watch the Bama/Penn State game this past Saturday. Events transpired that day to necessitate a blog entry. This is that entry.

Firstly, at halftime we meandered outside to toss the football around. Because this is what guys do. Deep down, most guys really believe that we're not that far away from athletic glory. A minor tweak here, a coupla better decisions there, a few less donuts and potato chips, and that could be us on TV. This is why we do things like throw football in the yard. We're not out there to have fun. We're working on our form, perfecting our spiral, so that if that call should come some day (I dunno, that they've started an over-40 flag-football league?), we'll be ready.

So anyway, after a few minutes, I decided to try punting one. I kicked it pretty good, but kinda forgot I was wearing flip-flops. Well, my right flip-flop went even higher than the ball. It landed on the roof of their house, and never came down.

My shoe is on top of the house!  This could ONLY happen to me.

Perhaps most disturbing of all was that I had inexplicably taken my trusty spare pair of flip-flops out of my car. So there I stood, helplessly one-shoed in the front yard, as everyone laughed.

Well naturally, Wolfgang didn't have a ladder. So LJ broke a rather large branch off a tree. Then I, standing on the rail of their front porch, used the branch to "sweep" my flip-flop off the roof.

Can we say redneck?

Important side note: Completely overlooked amid all the madness, that was probably the best punt I've ever done.

The other thing that struck me from the weekend is a bit more personal and difficult to talk about. Are you sitting down? Because I'm not sure you're ready for this. But I think I've become a bit of a sideshow for my friends while watching Bama games. I've sort of suspected this from the Darryls for awhile now. But Saturday when Mrs. Wolfgang said she could "sell tickets to watch Bone" pretty much confirmed it.

You might recall my constant-state-of-anxiety-with-small-moments-of-relief habitude of watching Bama games? So I yell. And sometimes call the players/referees/announcers names. The muscles in my neck and back become one gargantuan monkey's fist. And I may or may not have been hoarse by halftime.

I'm sorry, but it's true. Fourteen times a year, seemingly mild-mannered blogger Bone Kent suddenly turns into Superfan.  Poor play and lack of execution are my kryptonite.

I did come across an interesting poll (on a Bama website) that asked which emotion was stronger: the elation of victory, or the agony of defeat? Over 70% said the agony of defeat. Yes! And for me, it's not even close. So that made me feel some better. It gives me hope, that maybe there are more out there like me.

Back to Saturday, by the 3rd quarter -- once the game was pretty much decided -- I had settled down somewhat. This was when the girls thought it would be hilarious to make fun of me. So they started yelling after every play. Look, I don't mind people having a little fun at my expense. I can and do laugh at myself. Often I'm the only person laughing at myself -- usually right after I tell a joke. But I felt their attempt was lacking.

I tried to explain to them the reason their yelling wasn't rising to my level was that they weren't really feeling it. That they'd never cried over a game.  Deep down, it has to mean something to you. It has to hurt your soul when Bama makes a bad play. You have to suffer every single play for the Crimson Tide.  In the end, it's all worth it for those few brief seconds of relief, er, victory.

I'm just so happy it's back!

Is happy the right word?

"I may be disturbed, but won't you concede, even heroes have the right to dream.  And it's not easy to be me..."

Somewhere between summer and fall

Fall came suddenly to Alabama this year. Not with its usual tap-on-the-shoulder, whisper-in-your-ear hint of a chill in the air. But rather much more pronounced. Thanks to Tropical Storm Lee, temps went from 97 to 60 in what seemed like a day.

I spent the Labor Day weekend as I believe it was intended: avoiding labor at all costs. Monday night, I put on a sweatshirt and watched the sun set over the lake. The sky was perfect. The wind coming off the water brought a bit of a chill. I lingered for awhile, not wanting the summer to be over.

Of course, it'll be back. Probably this weekend. But now only in shorter bursts and smaller and smaller pieces until it's gone for good.

And so I spend the week trying to both embrace the coming autumn and cling to the fading summer.

I watch all the football I can -- even those ESPN high school games-- unable to get my fill. But I'd love to get to the beach for one final summer fling.

I turn off the AC and roll down the windows to go out in the crisp evening air. I think of putting on a long-sleeved shirt for the drive, but opt for a plain white t-shirt and one more day of flip-flops instead.

And somehow it all seems to suit me.

There's an easiness to the days now. Memories abound in even the slightest autumn breeze. But that's OK. I like remembering. And though the days are noticeably shorter, and I know the winter won't be far, it doesn't worry my mind. For now, for today, it seems OK to just be.

I leave you today with this most disturbing poll.

Rolling Stone's Ten Worst Songs Of The '90s:

10. 4 Non Blondes - "What's Up?"
9. Right Said Fred - "I'm Too Sexy"
8. Baha Men - "Who Let The Dogs Out?"
7. Celine Dion - "My Heart Will Go On"
6. Hanson - "MMMBop"
5. Chumbawamba - "Tubthumping"
4. Vanilla Ice - "Ice Ice Baby"
3. Billy Ray Cyrus - "Achy Breaky Heart"
2. Los Del Rio - "Macarena"
1. Aqua - "Barbie Girl"

Umm, apparently we have very different definitions of the word "worst." As I have at least half those on my iTunes. And I'm pretty sure I had a couple of those cassette singles.

Also, I'd completely forgotten about 4 Non Blondes! Just went and downloaded it. Thanks, Rolling Stone.

"Lately I've learned how to listen, for a sound like the sun goin' down. In the magic the morning is bringin', there's a song for the life I have found..."