...and holding

The passing of another year in one's life is met with a variety of feelings and reactions, often largely dependent on what particular year it happens to be.  Well, this particular year happened to be the big one for me.

No, not that big one.  That's next year.  But as I can't promise I won't be under 24-hour psychiatric care by then...

Now if you think I'm going to sit here and ramble on about getting old or the blinding speed of the passing of time, and that I'm gonna be all pensive and self-wallowing, well then, I must say, you know me quite well.  Frighteningly well, as a matter of fact.  It's actually making me a bit uncomfortable.  Stop it.

Thirty-nine arrived this past weekend.  And I turned and ran like a little girl. I'm so not ready for this.

When I think of thirty-nine, I think of a guy with a beer belly who's out of shape and helps coach his kid's little league team, but really has no clue what he's doing, and besides, his kid isn't even interested in baseball and would rather be in band but he continues forcing him into sports.  No one in particular, just a general guy.

It just sounds so... grown-up.  So... not me.  And yet, it is me.  There's nothing I can do about it.  I mean, if Ponce de Leon couldn't find the Fountain of Youth, what chance do I have?  Although with GPS technology being what it is these days... Hmm.

Anyway, I celebrated -- or more aptly, commemorated -- the occasion by having dinner in Nashville on Saturday night with friends.  We ate at a Mexican restaurant called Tito's.  Then I closed out the evening by singing their baby girl to sleep.  My friends', not the restaurant owners'.

Sunday was spent with family, a blessing I treasure more and more as the years continue to pass.  It nearly freaks me out every time we're out to eat and Mom orders off the senior menu.  My Mom!?  In my mind, she should still be forty.

How did this happen?  Where did my thirties go?  For that matter, where did my twenties go?  And are they now in the same place comparing notes and saying things to each other like, "Really?  He did the exact same thing when he was with me."

I know all the platitudes.  Life begins at, er, after thirty-nine.  Thirty-nine is the new twenty-nine, or whatever.   But I, for one, happened to like the old twenty-nine just fine.  In fact, I've made a unilateral decision:  I will not be having any more birthdays.

Allow me to clarify.  I'll still be accepting presents, I'll just no longer be counting years.

And heaven help the person who dares put an ad in the paper next year with a photo of Baby Bone that says "Lordy Lordy, Bone is..."  Well, you know.

Anyway, I thank you for allowing me to freak out a bit as I prepare to approach that age which shall forever remain unspoken.  Thus begins my attempt to ward off a crisis of the mid-life variety which, by some acounts, may have already begun.  That should make for some fun blog posts in the coming year, wouldn't you say?

I figure at best, I'll continue to age gracefully and achieve my goal of being the youngest 39-year-old you know.  At worst, I'll go kicking and screaming every step of the way, torturing myself daily with the question of what have I done with my life, and maybe wind up with my own Scott-Baio-Is-45-&-Single-esque reality show.  Or at least, some good meds. 

Either way, I realize that someday we'll look back on this -- yes, even this -- with wistful heart and older eyes.

"She said, you're pretty good with words, but words won't save your life.  And they didn't, so he died..."

XXI to XVII

For those of you who don't follow me on Twitter, we have a special treat for you today.  Seeing as I basically live-tweeted the Super Bowl yesterday, I thought I might share said tweets with you.

Think of it sort of like when the cable company offers free HBO for the weekend.  A brief glimpse into the premium side of Bone.  Or if you missed the game, think of this as the Cliff's Notes.  This is all you really need.

So sit back, pretend you're on the couch there with me as we take in the sights and sounds of Super Bowl XLVI.  Or I'll even let you sit on my Bama beanbag if you want.  And I hope you brought a friend.  Otherwise, there could be some weird tension if it's just the two of us.

(Note: I dozed off a couple hours before kickoff.)

/Begin Twitter log
I just dreamt I was chewing like twenty pieces of gum -- Wrigley's, Spearmint and Doublemint. #nap #subconscious

Aaaaand I missed Kelly Clarkson.

Why don't they keep score with #RomanNumerals? OK, I will. That's IX to... Wait, what's zero in Rome?

Apparently, there is no Roman Numeral for zero.  #IGuessThatsWhy

Officially abandoning my quest to elliptical the whole first half. Can't hear the commercials.

IX to III. Ah, much better.

My Mom, the other day: "Tom Brady's nearly too pretty to be a football player." What's an appropriate response to that? "Uh, yes, he is?"

Speed dating! Bahaha.

There's way too much football game in between these commercials.

X to IX. VIII seconds left in the half.

What's Madonna gonna sing?  I'm hoping for "Papa Don't Preach."

Oh!  That was a G.I. Joe movie trailer.  I thought it was gonna be a kickin' Mountain Dew commercial when it started out.

Bueller!!!! FTW!

I sure hope everybody's at a Super Bowl party.  Else I'm probably losing lots of followers tonight.

Off night for Budweiser. Wow.

Collinsworth: "You get an offsides, and then that 3rd and 8 turns into 3rd and 2." Evidently they're giving 6 yards for offsides now.

Hyundai tonight.#winning

Also loved the Seinfeld commercial. Betcha never could've guessed that.

And then there's the ads that make me never want to buy a product from that company.  Ever. #Samsung

And your Roman Numeral final tally: XXI to XVII
/End Twitter log


If you would like to join me on Twitter -- and after that, well how could you not -- just leave your Twitter handle in the comments and I'll follow you.  But hurry, I plan to cut it off at a thousand followers.  (For those who are curious, I currently have 22.)

If you would like to subscribe to HBO, contact your cable or satellite provider.  Then you can DVR Curb Your Enthusiasm and invite Bone over for a TV night.

I know, BYOB... Bring your own beanbag.

"Papa don't preach, I'm in trouble deep.  Papa don't preach, I've been losing sleep..."

I got ninety-nine blog ideas, but Groundhog Day ain't one

(That title made a lot more sense yesterday.  Trust me.)

Some people do a New Year's post on the last day of the year.  Some wait until the first day of the new year.  But I, I have taken the road less traveled by -- and by less traveled by, I mean probably not traveled by at all.  For I have chosen this early February spring day for my obligatory New Year's post.

I rang in the new year at Axl's.  The night was replete with old school Nelly, multiple complaints from the neighbor, and chopping wood.  The latter is not a euphemism.  Oh, how I wish it were.

Axl had recently reconnected with a high school classmate of ours, and she was on hand for the chopping of the wood, er... party.  At some point, Axl disappeared upstairs, returning a few minutes later with several of his high school yearbooks -- En Retrospect, they were always titled.  I believe it's Latin, meaning "to commiserate over wasted years."  And so the three of us spent entirely too much time doing just that.

At first it was interesting, as we discussed what we remembered about each other.  "I remember Bone always used to sit in the back of the class.  And you were always drawing or writing something."  That was news to me, as I didn't realize I was writing, even then.  And after all, surely there is some value to knowing how others view you.

But then it got to be a bit much.  "Even though H won Most Likely To Succeed, I voted for you."  "I still think you're the most likely to succeed, Bone."

See, I don't need to hear that.  What good does that do me?  For me, New Year's isn't about remembering and learning from past mistakes or thinking about the ways you can do better, it's all about forgetting.  Actually, that's not just New Year's, that's kinda how I view every day: I don't want to think too much about the past, and I sure don't want to ponder the future.

Beyond that, it was a bit of a backwards year for me.  The Januarys arrived in November.  And December was just a lot of days.  I had six weeks of the blahs.  For the first time in my life, I found myself dreading Christmas.  And usually, I'm Mister Christmas.  No, really, I actually had someone say to me, "What's wrong with you?  You're usually Mister Christmas."  Although I'm not sure how official any of these titles really are.

Nothing very devastating happened.  I was just going through some things, stuff was weighing on my mind, and that definitely contributed to a lack of blogging.  But then January was nothing like itself.  There was another Bama national championship to celebrate, and re-watch multiple times.  I saw Gordon Lightfoot in concert.  And the weather has felt more like April. 

So a most belated Happy New Year to you.  And there's reason to believe, maybe this year...



"I guess the winter makes you laugh a little slower, makes you talk a little lower, about the things you could not show her..."

Where have you gone to, Jimmy Wales?

The internet died today.  Well, dead to me anyway.

Wikipedia, yon bastion of free knowledge, shut its virtual doors today.  For 24 hours.  That may not sound like much to you.  But to me, it's eighty-six thousand, four hundred elongated seconds of nothingness.  Outer darkness, where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth. 

Wikipedia has become my source for all knowledge of all things.  Written by people who I like to imagine might have even less of a life than me.  (Sure, it's possible there might be an occasional error.  But that's why there's Snopes.) 

And now?  It's gone.  I knew something like this was gonna happen after Steve Jobs died!

But even I never realized how deeply this would affect me.  That is, until I found myself twenty minutes into an episode of Sesame Street this morning, giving a running commentary on Gmail.

Some excerpts:

"Sarah Jessica Parker is on Sesame Street?  I never really think of her as kid-friendly."

"Now there are salt and pepper shakers on there.  One of them has a moustache, and just put on a pink skirt!  WTF!  The volume is down so I'm not sure if they're trying to say it's OK for men to cross-dress, or if they're trying to hint that women may sometimes need to remember to shave their upper lip area.  Probably the latter."

"If they're still filming new episodes, why do the kids look like they're wearing the same outfits they wore when I watched in the seventies?"

"They are shoving Elmo down our throats!  He's had like six scenes and I haven't seen Big Bird once.  Not to mention Grover.  Grover always gets the shaft.  He must not be in the union."

"I mean, what does Elmo even do?  He's not big and dorky.  He doesn't have an accent.  He doesn't have a male roommate.  He's not grumpy.  He's just... red."

"Oh, apparently there's another red one.  Who knew!  I was confusing Elmo part of the time with someone named Murray Monster?  My apologies to Elmo nation."

My top five Sesame Street characters:
1. Ernie
2. Grover
3. Cookie Monster (although admittedly he is a bit of a one-trick pony.)
4. The Count
5. Bert
(tie) Guy Smiley

I need help.  Look at what I've become after only a few hours with no Wiki.  The Earth cannot revolute fast enough for me today.  Wikipedia, please come back.  SOPA, PIPA, whatever it is, I'm sure we can work this out.  Make a personal appeal.  I'll donate! 

And please hurry.  For crying out loud, I just Asked Jeeves!

"Sunny days, sweeping the clouds away.  On my way to where the air is sweet..."

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..."