I'm all thumbs

As much as I have considered granting unrequested permission to TruTV to feature my life on the first-ever blogger reality show (to be aired right after Forensic Files, of course), even I must admit there are issues to consider.

First off, is there enough interesting material in my life to even fill an hour a week? Secondly, I'd most likely have to wear pants around the house. Then of course, there would be the inevitable invite to be on Dancing With The Stars, where I would probably go out early like Kenny Mayne and the man from Apple because my mom can't see Russia from her house and I was never married to Jon Gosselin. Lastly -- and this is where today's post comes in -- every embarrassing moment of my life would be chronicled for all the world to see.

A little background, if you will:

During football season, if I'm not at the Bama game, I'm watching on TV. And I have a circle of friends with whom I am constantly texting throughout the game, sometimes after every play. I like to think of them as my mobile entourage. There's Axl, my sister, Wolfgang, and the female component of Kywana.

That brings us to earlier this week. I got a call from a number that's not programmed into my phone. Now, I don't usually answer calls from numbers I don't recognize, but I guess I was feeling uncommonly sociable on this particular day.

What follows is a never-before-published recap of that conversation, with my thoughts in italics, included for your enjoyment.

"Hello."

A male voice greets me. "Mister Bone?"

"Yes?"

"Hi, this is (name withheld) from AT&T. We noticed you had gone over your allotted number of text messages last month."

*cringe* "I am aware."

"Looking at your account, you actually would save money if you upgraded your data plan."

Looking at my account? Shouldn't that be illegal? Stupid Patriot Act.

"You currently get 1500 texts per month. You used over 1800 last month, which came out to about 12 dollars in overage charges."

You oughta be thanking me for using that many texts. Ever hear of frequent flier miles? I should be rewarded! There should be an 1800 Club for people like me. Or... at least a Texters Anonymous.

"If you were to go to the next highest plan, it would be 10 dollars more, but you would get unlimited texts."

(Pause for response. There is none.)

"So if you think you're going to be texting a lot every month, then that's something you might want to consider."

Apparently, I'm a teenage girl.

"Don't try to dig what we all say. I'm not trying to cause a big sensation. Just talkin' 'bout my generation..."

Boys night out

I have a possible replacement for the Darryls.

I know, it's quick. But it's someone I've known for a couple of years. We hung out this weekend and I need to see what you guys think about him. (And by "you guys," I pretty much mean, "you girls plus Sage and Ed.")

OK, I can't keep up the suspense any longer. It's Nephew Bone.

We hung out Friday night for a couple of hours. It was BYOG. (Bring Your Own Goldfish.) Kicked it at my place for about thirty minutes. We banged around on some pots and pans and shot some Nerf basketball. Well I shot some, then held him up and he put the ball in. Over and over and over. After that, we hit the tizzown, got our eat on at Chic-Fil-A, then headed to Kywana's for a play date with the godson. I think we were both pretty wiped by the time I dropped him off at grandma's at 9.

Anyway, what I have prepared for you today is a rudimentary pro/con list of how hanging out with Nephew Bone compares to hanging out with the Darryls. First, we'll look at some pros for Nephew Bone:

Nephew Bone brings his own snacks. (See aforementioned BYOG.) The Darryls sometimes did -- Wolfgang moreso than LJ -- but not always.

Girls think Nephew Bone is cuter. And I must agree. And really, do I need any other reason than this? (I promise I never thought I would turn into one of those uncle bloggers.)

Nephew Bone always blows me kisses when I leave. The Darryls would never do this! At least, not sober. I was lucky if I got a "see ya later."

I'm entertained by every single thing Nephew Bone says or does. The Darryls? They were pretty entertaining, too. We'll call this one a wash.

OK, now for the cons:

Nephew Bone has a curfew. The Darryls never had a curfew. Well, not until Wolfgang got a girlfriend. Of course, a curfew could be a good thing if I'm really tired. At my age, I'm starting to adhere to the adage that "Nothing good can happen after sunset."

Nephew Bone doesn't play golf or have a pool table. However, he does have Legos.

Nephew Bone won't buy me a swimsuit calendar for Christmas. At least probably not for ten or fifteen years. (What? It's for a good cause! To help poor, needy, hard-working... Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders.)

Well, there you have it. Nephew Bone versus the Darryls. The data is in your hands. What you choose to do with it is up to you. But I gotta tell you, if this doesn't work, my only remaining option may be a long-term legally-recognized union, with a woman.

Or trying to meet new people. Perish the thought.

"Every day a new discovery. I'm a child again looking through your eyes. With every step you're teaching me how to fall and cry, get up and smile..."

Turning two

Saturday kicked off my busy fall social season, also known as the toddler birthday party circuit. Nephew Bone and I attended the first fall informal of the year, a birthday gala for the godson at Kywana's house. It was boys night out. Or, boys morning out, as he tends to get sleepy around 2 in the afternoon. And to be quite honest, so does his uncle.

The godson officially turned two yesterday, and Nephew Bone hits the big dos mañana. The cool thing about turning two is it's the only time in your life that your age doubles in a day. I've tried explaining this to Nephew Bone, but instead of blowing his mind he seems instead to take it all in stride. I'm like, "OK, but don't act all confused next year when your age only increases by fifty percent."

The other cool thing about being two-years-old is that you have no idea who your friends are, so your parents just invite whoever and tell you, "These are your friends." The red-headed kid down the street? That's your friend. The son of your mother's college roommate? Another friend. That frees you up to concentrate on more important things, like eating cake icing and... pointing at things.

Overall, it was a decent party with delicious cake and a pinata, which I didn't get to hit. And like any happening party, there were girls there, including Setup Girl and her daughter, formerly known as "the kid who was almost mine." Setup Girl is expecting another child, which we'll call "the kid who is definitely not mine," and also engaged. So Nephew Bone and I steered clear and headed for open waters.

At one point, I started playing with this super cool bubble blower and began to lure some of the younger kids away from the pinata. In my plaid shorts, I was beginning to feel a bit like the Pied Piper. But I thought it best not to march out of town. You never know how parents these days are going to react to something like that.

The party started to fizzle out around the break of 12:15, and I decided to take Nephew Bone to see his grandma. On the way over, "Lovefool" came on and of course I turned it up a bit and was singing along. In the middle of the song, I glanced in the back seat to see Nephew Bone "dancing" to the music. "You like this song, buddy?" I asked. He smiled and nodded.

While we were at grandma's, I caught myself still singing the chorus because, well once that song is in your head, it's there for awhile, and let's face it, I'm always singing something. Right after I sang, "Love me, love me," Nephew Bone hummed, in tune, "Ha huh, ha huh."

Sigh. I must have done something right.

And how about one more Nephew Bone story for the road? Alright, you talked me into it. My sister was telling me that while cleaning recently, she had moved Nephew Bone's piggy bank from one end of his dresser to the other. So a couple days ago, he was standing by his dresser and pointing up. When she picked him up, he grabbed the piggy bank and moved it to the other end of the dresser, where it usually sits.

"I think my kid might be a little OCD," she said. "And I'm the complete opposite of OCD, so I don't know where he gets it from."

"Hmm, I have no idea," I replied, reaching to straighten the ever-so-slightly-crooked mouse pad on my desk.

"Love me, love me, say that you love me. Fool me, fool me, go on and fool me..."

On The Road Again

I have interacted with the other humans five of the past six nights. This included a four-consecutive-night socialization extravaganza from Thursday through Sunday, the likes of which I have not seen since the Clinton administration. First term.

There was dinner with Lil' Bootay, dinner with Kywana, re-watching the national championship game with Axl, and shooting pool with the Darryls. That's everyone I know!

But the capper had to be last night, when I went to see Country Music Hall-of-Famer and living legend Willie Nelson in concert. That's right, the Red-Headed Stranger.

By the way, I'm going to make a conscious effort to not make a single weed joke in this post. Because really, it's a cheap laugh. And what a man does in the privacy of his home, tour bus, automobile, or public restroom is really nobody else's business.

That being said, if you had told me when I began this blog all those years ago that some day I'd be writing a post about seeing Willie Nelson in concert, I'd have said you must be smok-... um, never mind. This could be tougher than I thought.

Still, there I was on row N -- in front of the O's, hobnobbing with the L's and M's -- for Willie Nelson and Family.

The show was excellent. Willie can still sing and walk a guitar. At 76, the man is a marvel. The band was flawless. And, I didn't get high from secondhand weed. (This is not a weed joke. This is something I was honestly curious about before the show.)

One of the highlights for me was when someone tossed a Houndstooth hat on stage and Willie's son (and lead guitarist), Lukas, put it on and wore it the rest of the show. Ah, you know you're in 'Bama when...

As the wise grizzled sage recited some of the more memorable hits from his extensive catalog, I was reminded of his songwriting genius. And also inspired by it. Then I got to thinking how I've been blogging less lately. Feeling neglectful, I sat down and penned a few lines, just for you. I'd like to share those with you now.


Maybe I didn't post here
Quite as often as I could have
And maybe I didn't comment
Quite as good as I should have
Little things I could've blogged about
I just never took the time
But you were always on my mind...

Actually, now that I think about it, I'm a little confused as to whether I wrote that to my blog or my blog readers. Hmph. Oh well, who can tell in matters such as these? All I know is it sure is good to be on the blog again.

"How'm I doin'? Oh, I guess that I'm doin' fine. It's been so long now, but it seems like it was only yesterday. Gee, ain't it funny how time slips away..."

Back on the blogging wagon, liberally dispensing parental advice

I think I must have needed some time to decompress following the phenomenon that was Blogtober. But don't think there hasn't been plenty going on, because there has -- depending on your definition of plenty. Not the least of which is that I'm drinking again.

Coffee, that is.

That's right, I'm back on the java wagon. (Or is it off the wagon?) All aboard the Colombian Express. I believe you know our wagon master, Mister Juan Valdez.

It all started a few weeks ago in the midst of my up-every-night-until-at-least-1-AM phase when I was certain the TV gods were conspiring to put irresistible programming on just as I was getting ready to lie down. I mean, Rocky I coming on at 12:30 in the morning? That's not happenstance, people. One morning I was feeling especially tired so I stopped on the way to work and got a large coffee.

I've only had two previous bouts with coffee addiction and neither lasted very long. One was in high school which I barely remember, and the other was three or four years ago when I discovered lattes. I would stop on my way to work every morning. At first, there was a cute female barista who I looked forward to seeing. Then this guy took over and I would think to myself, "This guy seems pretty cool" or "I wonder how you get to be a barista." It's like he replaced the girl and I hardly noticed because all I cared about was the latte. It was actually kinda scary. Am I talking fast? It's very hard to tell.

In other less exciting news -- if that's even possible -- I bought a brace for my ankle the other day, at Kroger. Where else would one go for all of one's self-diagnosed medical needs?

This is the same ankle that I messed up sliding into second base during a fall league softball game in 2004. I never played softball again. Though that really doesn't have anything to do with the injury, I just haven't been asked to be on a team since then.

The orthopedist I saw at the time basically did nothing. He took a few X-Rays, sold me an air cast, charged me a fortune and said I'd be fine. I kept asking him was if he sure I didn't need surgery. Yes, he was. My ankle has never been exactly right since.

I should probably include some sort of disclaimer here so as to avoid any kind of defamation charges. Let's see... No representation is made that the quality of medical services performed was greater than the quality of medical services performed at your average slaughterhouse.

Anyway, my ankle would ache occasionally and be sore after a run but never caused any significant problems until a few weeks ago. That's when a sudden and immense pain brought my evening run in the park to an abrupt end. Now, some might say I have a low tolerance for pain, but I prefer to think of it as having a heightened sensitivity to all stimuli. Almost super-human really. I always require at least three shots of Novocaine at the dentist's before I stop kicking violently. They love me there.

I tried resting it for a week or so, but that didn't seem to help. So I've been taping it up with some athletic tape (also available at Kroger and other fine grocery stores everywhere). That's been working OK, but it's a hassle. So I'm looking forward to trying out my new ankle brace. Excited, even. Nothing makes a runner want to run more than not being able to run.

Before we close today, I'd like to broach a rather serious topic. Recently, the decision was made to allow Kywana Jr. to have her own Facebook account. Now I was not consulted on the decision. However, since she is sort of my god-niece or something, I felt compelled to investigate the situation.

I mean, why should I let my vast reservoir of knowledge and opinions about parenting go to waste simply because I have not managed to impregnate anyone up until and including today? Besides, is there anything people like more than receiving unsolicited advice on how to raise their children?

The following IM conversation occurred between myself and the female portion of Kywana last week as I was checking over Kywana Jr.'s Facebook friend list. I noticed a gray-haired man that looked alarmingly out of place. He appeared to be in his 50s or 60s, somewhat strange to see on the friend list of a ten-year-old girl, no? I sprang into action.

Bone: You better keep a watch on her.
Bone: Do we know this Bob Paine guy?
Bone: Sounds a little shady to me. (Also sounds made up.)

FPK (female portion of Kywana): He's my pastor.
FPK: ROFL

Bone: Oh.
Bone: Well, I suppose that's OK.
Bone: Just keep an eye on him. Could all be a ruse.

"I don't drink as much as I used to. Lately, it just ain't my style. And the hard times don't hurt like they ought to. They pass quicker, like when I was a child..."

That time I almost went all the way

Yesterday was my six-year blogging anniversary, frequently referred to as a bloggiversary. I've never understood why my bloggiversary is so popular in certain regions of Mexico, but it is. No doubt they were partying last night in Puebla like it was 1862.

I got home from the beach Sunday evening, but it feels like my brain is still on vacation. Until it returns, I figured I would regale you with the tale of what went down (that means what happened) with the great head-shaving experiment of 2009.

I was chatting online with the female portion of Kywana on "the day." By the way, do you realize that instant messaging, text messaging, and email now compose approximately 70% of all my communication? The rest of the breakdown is: phone (25%), face-to-face (4%), all other communications, including telepathy (1%).

Anyway, after discussing the topic for awhile, she posed this question: "So are you going to shave it yourself?"

That prompted the following response from me: "Well, that's the other thing. Would you wanna shave me?"

It's safe to say that is the first time in my life I have ever uttered those words to a girl. (Or anyone, for that matter.) But as luck would have it, she agreed. Turns out that while 'Wana is not a professional cosmetologist, she does have previous head-shaving experience. Also, her sister attended cosmetology school, so that has to count for something, right?

Wheels were in motion. I was about to put my head in her hands. The only thing that could stop it at that point was me totally freaking out, which let's be honest, was still a decent possibility.

I showed up armed with every set of clippers I owned--which amounted to three--my trusty Mach 3 razor, and shaving cream. On the drive over, I had a lot of time to think about things. Things like hair, life, Andre Agassi, and what the heck was I doing. I had decided I'd get her to shave it with the #1 guard, which is the shortest, see how I liked that, and then decide if I wanted to go all the way.

After giving me one last chance to back out, she began. There was a brief moment of panic at one point as the clippers died when she was only about halfway done. Apparently, when the instructions say to charge them for at least ten hours before the initial use, you can't just arbitrarily substitute 45 minutes for ten hours.

The shaving process itself wasn't too bad. There was no mirror nearby so the only clue I had about how things were progressing was the looks on the faces of Kywana Jr. and the male portion of Kywana. I would describe them as looks of sympathetic bewilderment. I remember the words "don't look down" being uttered at some point, no doubt as to keep me from freaking out at the sight of my manly locks showering the floor.

As suddenly as it began, it was over.

Then came the hardest part for me--going into the bathroom to look at myself in the mirror. I covered my eyes, separating my fingers slowly to reveal what the clippers hath wrought. And you know what?

It was HORRIBLE!!!!! Noooooooooooooo!! Why?!?!?! Why did I do this?!?!?!

I'm kidding. It wasn't that bad at all. The only question now was whether to stop there or go all the way. I took a pic and sent it to my inner circle. Reaction was swift and decisive. My sister replied, "Oh, you really do look like Steve-O. Yeah, I think you should stop there." My Mom proclaimed, "Well, you'll never get married now. I still had a little hope before." Clearly, everyone was in agreement: it was a complete success.

So now, for the first time in the history of the internet, I am able to present for your enjoyment a freshly shorn (and somewhat tanned) Bone:



OK, so it's not the full Dalhausser. I didn't go all the way. In the head-shaving arena, this is known as third base. And I'm thinking I might stay here awhile.

"Way down south of the border. Way down Mexico way. They're having a big celebration. It's on the fifth of May..."

Party like it's 1983

Friday night, I attended a birthday party for a 10-year-old girl. (It's this or nothing, alright?) The party was for Kywana Jr. She is the godson's stepsister, which basically makes her my step-god-niece. Or something. So pretty much, I had to go. Also, I believe the children are our future. Teach them well and let them lead the way.

Upon arrival, I found myself standing near a circle of five moms, with no other males in sight. After about five minutes of mom talk, I was starting to think this wasn't such a good idea. Wanting to add something to the conversation, I quipped, "Oh, was I supposed to bring a kid?" Then two of the moms started talking about how they couldn't find jeans to fit their daughters' butts. At which point, I made like a defecting Soviet gymnast and snuck away.

Once inside the house I finally spotted some people I knew. The male half of Kywana came out from wherever he had been hiding and Setup Girl showed up with the kid who was almost mine. Then cupcakes and cheese puffs were served and things were starting to look up.

While eating, I eavesdropped on conversations about Hannah Montana and the Jonas Brothers. Again trying to add something to the conversation, I told everyone that the male portion of Kywana was my brother from another mother. That's when Kywana Jr. grabbed one of her little friends and said, "This is my sister from another mister." I started to think about the biological implications, then I just stopped my brain. When Kywana asked who all was spending the night, I raised my hand, but it was not to be.

The next order of business was to pick a movie. I suggested Rocky II, but unfortunately that wasn't one of our choices. We could pick between Bolt (which I'd never heard of), Bedtime Stories, and Marley & Me.

One little girl informed us that she was not allowed to watch Marley & Me. Personally, I thought that was taking the whole Team Aniston/Team Jolie thing way too far. But then she went on to say that she couldn't watch movies where something bad happens to an animal, and she heard something bad happens to Marley. At which point, Setup Girl said, "Well, we could always watch Old Yeller."

Anyway, we wound up watching Bedtime Stories. They had a big projection screen set up in the driveway, and we all sat in the garage and watched. And by all, I mean me, the projection screen guy, one Dad, and the sisters from different misters.

The movie started a bit slow. I thought of slipping out early, but decided to stick it out since there was free popcorn. It was definitely geared towards kids, which makes it all the more strange that a couple of times during the movie I found that I was the only one laughing.

Finally, it was time to go. In addition to the girls, there were two little boys that attended the party who I took to be brothers (from the same mother). One looked to be about Kywana Jr.'s age, and the other a few years younger. When they got ready to leave, Kywana Jr. surprised the older kid with a kiss on the cheek. Instantly, his little brother took off running full speed for the door.

I laughed. I don't remember much about 1983--when I was ten--but it must have been a lot like this. Without the projection screen. Also, fewer girls.

"A little girl came through the front gate holdin' a fishing pole. His dad looked down and smiled, said we can't leave her behind. Son, I know you don't want her to go, but someday you'll change your mind..."

Love me, love me, say that you love me

Remember that song? Lovefool. Cardigans. 1996. It's been stuck in my head. All. Weekend. Long. I've been walking around singing it in my well-polished falsetto, which I first honed while imitating the inimitable Jordan Knight on "I'll Be Loving You Forever" in 1989.

The ability to get a song stuck in someone else's head is one of my little known talents. Some might even say an annoyance. Still, for some reason I was having a bit of trouble getting anybody to pick up on this one.

Saturday night, we went ice skating at the local ice complex, tween hangout & Brian Boitano training facility. (Actually, I just made the Brian Boitano part up.) There were six in our group--Kywana, myself, Little Joe, and two minors. That's down forty-five percent from last year's Valentine Date Skate. I blame the decrease largely on the threat of Winter Storm '09, which would leave us buried beneath half an inch of snow by Sunday morning.

Skating was fairly uneventful. I fell three times, which as I stated last year is actually pretty fun. Honestly, I think I could start calling it body sledding and have all the kids doing it. I've always wanted to be the person who started something. Like the Macarena. Or the wave. Or the guy in that Michael Jackson song, Wanna Be Startin' Somethin'.

There was an entertaining little guy dressed in a toboggan who kept trying to teach us tricks. I assume he worked there, but he could have just been a poser. Anyway, he was kinda corny. He made me think of somebody who would've been on Mister Rogers Neighborhood. Say if Mister Rogers took his neighbors to an ice rink during an episode, this would be the guy at the ice rink showing Mister Rogers around.

As we were getting ready to leave, the female fragment of Kywana looked over at all our shoes sitting underneath a bench.

"Who's shoes are those?" she asked.

"Those are Little Joe's," I responded, shielding my eyes. I already knew which pair she was referring to. That would be the blindingly bright brand new solid white Reeboks. LJ has been wearing solid white Reeboks since the 80's and hasn't looked back. I honestly don't know how he keeps finding places that sell them. They looked like something you'd see on display in a shoe museum.

After skating, I headed over to LJ's and wound up shooting pool with him and Wolfgang for a bit. LJ had gone to the bathroom or something and it was his turn, so we were just standing around waiting. Without warning and probably without thinking, Wolfgang busted out in song.

"Love me, love me, say that you love me."

Yessss! Still got it.

"Leave me, leave me, just say that you need me. I don't care about anything but you..."

Who will dance, on the floor, in the bowling alley

For any of you who don't check my Blogger profile daily for changes, I recently reached an historic milestone. As of last week, Thursday-ish, I am no longer a member of the all-important 18-35 age demographic. Needless to say, between that and General Hospital burning up in the Six-Day (and still ongoing) Fire, it was a tough week. Thanks to Pia for the wonderful birthday dedication post. What more could a guy ask for? Except perhaps my very own Wikipedia entry. Oh well, maybe next year.


Saturday night was Bone's First Annual Bowling For VD. Following the unconfirmed success of last year's Valentine Date Skate, I decided to go in a different direction this year, hoping to find an atmosphere with a few more people--um, how shall I put this--over the age of twelve.

The turnout was overwhelming! There must have been around 200 people there. Of course, my excitement was tempered somewhat when I realized that only eleven of the two hundred were there for my thing.

Things started off well enough. I had a 105 through six frames of the first game. But when I rolled my first ball of the seventh frame, my foot did not slide. It just stuck. Evidently, I had stepped in some spilled Mountain Dew. How come things like this never happen to Walter Ray Williams?

Well that was all she wrote for game one. Mister Sticky Shoes wound up bowling a 138. Then I spent about five minutes between games wiping my shoes on the carpet. That seemed to help and I rebounded for a decent 165 in game two. Also, for future reference, if you ever drop something on the bowling alley carpet, I would say just let it go.

Around 9:00, they pulled down this big movie projection screen in the center of the bowling alley. "Alright, it's movie time!" I exclaimed, only to be informed by Kywana Jr. that it was actually music video time. They proceeded to play what I presumed to be many of the popular videos of the day.

Unfortunately, I didn't know any of the songs they were playing. Fortunately, I've been able to master a couple of dance moves that I can use to blend in and appear hip for just such times. One is where I extend my right arm fully and appear to be bouncing an invisible basketball up and down about head-high. In the other, I... well, you'd just have to see it.

Over the next hour, they actually only played two songs that I recognized. And one of those songs was "Billie Jean."

I should probably mention here that as a kid, I would imitate Michael Jackson at holidays and family gatherings. Mom always made sure to bring the Thriller cassette along wherever we went. I would leave the room, wait for the music to start, and emerge with a dizzying array of movements and yelps.

I knew every "Oww!" and hiccup in every song. Sometimes I'd even wear the zippered jacket. If Michael Jackson impersonators had ever become as popular as Elvis impersonators, I would've had a whole new career on my hands. Or, a career.

So it should come as no surprise that I instinctively started moonwalking when "Billie Jean" came on Saturday night. Sometimes 1983 returns unexpectedly. The kids loved it. Why? Probably because the moonwalk is only the single greatest dance move of all time. "Teach me to do that," they pleaded.

But you can't, you know. It's like saying to Bob Ross, "Teach me to paint friendly clouds like you."

"Billie Jean is not my lover. She's just a girl who claims that I am the one. But the kid is not my son..."

Changing my relationship status

Roughly fourteen months ago, I was the victim of some sort of a failed setup. Failed in the sense that we never went out and five months later the girl had been impregnated by someone who most likely doesn't kiss in multiples of five.

This past Friday, the female portion of Kywana IM'd me to let me know that the baby had arrived. So Saturday night, I rode to the hospital with Kywana to visit. After all, that was almost my kid! Almost, that is, except for the complete lack of any physical contact with the mother. So... really not very close at all.

Shortly after we arrived, some other friends showed up and before long the conversation--as it is wont to do in 2009--turned to Facebook. Normally, this is the time when I look for the first opportunity to change the subject before I gouge my own eyes out. However, I was distracted by setup girl's mother and the uncanny resemblance she bore to small screen legend Judith Light.

So the conversation continued, and at some point turned to our respective familiarity with Facebook or lack thereof. That is when I confessed, "I don't even know how to change my relationship status on Facebook... or in real life."

I said it to get a laugh, which it did. But at the same time, the words stuck with me. It was one of those things you never realize until you say it out loud and actually hear the words coming out of your mouth for the first time.

Earlier in the evening at dinner, I brought up the fact that this May will mark the ten year anniversary of the infamous Atlanta trip. I've been thinking about that a lot since. There were nine people on the trip. All single. All in our twenties. Today, eight of the nine are married. And now there's just me.

By all indicators, I've been going through a bit of a relationship recession the past few months. No doubt due in part to my failed policies over the previous eight years. This is where a back-up plan would really come in handy. I think I had a couple of back-ups at one point. But for the life of me I can't remember who they were with, nor the terms of those agreements.

So where to now? Well, I have made it my goal to get a kiss this coming New Year's Eve. But that's long-term. What about a short-term fix--something to help those who are struggling now?

Here's what I'm thinking: Maybe if I first figure out how to change my relationship status on Facebook, then my real life relationship status will follow. Sort of like a self-fulfilling prophecy.

With logic like that, how can I not fail to succeed?

"I'm getting bored of Facebook. So don't invite me, throw a sheep or bite me. I hate applications. There are far too many and I don't use any..."

National Signing Day

Yesterday was National Signing Day. It's the day that high school seniors announce whether they'll be coming to play for Bama or not next year. It's a big day around here. Some people have even been known to take off work.

One local headline I saw yesterday read: "Make Signing Day A National Holiday." And while there's absolutely no truth to the rumors that I started that grass roots campaign, I could not agree more. It's hard to imagine that workplace productivity was very high yesterday. I had four or five browser tabs open most of the day. I was emailing, texting, and watching live press conferences online.

National Signing Day is the college football equivalent of Election Day. Rivals.com is my cnn.com/politics. ESPN2's Todd McShay and Tom Luginbill are my John King and Bill Schneider. Unfortunately, there is no football recruiting equivalent for Campbell Brown.

Around 2:30 PM, word came down the pike that the battle for 2009 National Recruiting Champion was down to a two-team race between LSU and my beloved Crimson Tide. It all hinged on one final announcement. The #2 rated running back in the country. He was scheduled to announce his intentions at 4 PM. Say it with me. Yes. We. Can.

What follows is a crude timeline of the events occurring between 3:54 PM and 4:12 PM yesterday afternoon:

3:54 PM - My sister calls. She has the link for the live press conference online, but it's blocked from her place of employment. "Watch it and let me know what he says."

3:55 PM - I log into the live feed. There is a counter that says there are currently more than 15,000 people watching online.

3:56 PM - The female portion of Kywana IMs me. She's watching, too.

4:02 PM - The press conference still hasn't begun. My sister calls again.

"Has he announced?"
"No. All I see is a table, five empty chairs, and a bunch of microphones."
"Oh. I read online that his mother's car stalled so that's why it's running late.
(At this point, I cannot express to you the pride I feel about my little sister.)

4:03 PM - I am a giant bundle of nerves. I call Axl just to have someone to chatter to.

4:08 PM - People start arriving at the table. The press conference is beginning. The counter says there are now more than 23,000 people logged on.

4:09 PM - My sister beeps in. I click over and stay on the phone with her. Blood is thicker than water. Here it comes...

4:10 PM - "YES!!! YES!!! YES!!!!" I begin to yell as he makes the announcement that he is "gonna roll with Alabama." Booyah!

4:12 PM - Axl calls. "What happened?" Whoops, forgot I was on the phone with him.

And so, for the second year in a row, Bama wins the recruiting national championship. Not quite the same as the real on-field national championship, but something to cheer about nonetheless.

OK, I'm off to google image Campbell Brown or something. We now return you to your regularly scheduled February sports programming of Winter X-Games and the NBA regular season.

Yawn.

"If we took a holiday, took some time to celebrate, just one day out of life, it would be, it would be so nice..."

Festivus IV

Every year around this time, I start hearing the questions. It really should come as no surprise. I mean, I'm single, thin, mid-thirties, and have an above average knowledge of all things Seinfeld.

"When's Festivus?"

"Are you having Festivus this year?"

After last year's 3rd Annual Festivus At Bone's drew only eight guests, down from the previous year's all-time high of fourteen, I had been considering not having Festivus this year. (Pause for gasps and bellows.)

I know, it's like telling a child Christmas has been cancelled. I just never realized how hard it would be to sustain a fake holiday. As I wrestled back and forth with the decision of whether or not to have a bunch of people over to trash my place, time just slipped up on me.

Tuesday is Festivus. Yet my Festivus pole remains in the crawlspace. Festivus evites have not been sent. And no Twix have been purchased for the candy lineup. Most importantly, my apartment has not been cleaned because I haven't had a girl over in weeks.

It's all these menial tasks. Laundry, grocery shopping, getting on here and surfing the internet. Do you have any idea how much time I waste on this computer? Throw in the fact that the city council has outlawed cockfighting, as well as unsanctioned cage fighting--severely limiting the options for the Feats of Strength--and it looked like Festivus wasn't going to happen.

Still, I was holding out hope right up to the last minute. Maybe some unexpected event, the magnitude of Donna Martin Graduates or the Save The Max radiothon, would occur to save Festivus.

It's kinda like in Liar Liar when Jim Carrey promised he was going to play baseball with the kid who played Lucas on General Hospital. And that girl from ER waited and waited until the very last minute even though Jim Carrey had let them down time and again. Then Jim Carrey gets thrown into jail, which is where the Festivus analogy kind of goes awry. Except that they boarded a plane for Boston with the guy who played David Lookner on Seinfeld, which kind of brings the whole thing full circle. But anyway...

I was ready to come to terms with the fact that there would be no 4th Annual Festivus At Bone's. Then the female portion of Kywana called the other day and said "Silver Bells" had come on the radio when she was in the car, and Kywana Jr. started singing "Silver Pole" instead of "Silver Bells." *sniff sniff*

Well, I just about lost it. And that's when I remembered what Festivus is all about. It's not about having a clean apartment or how many of your friends don't show up even though they tell you they will. Festivus is about getting together with people and feeling no obligation to buy them a gift. It's about letting those you care for know all the ways they have disappointed you over the past year. Most of all, it's about passing Frank Costanza's vision on to the next generation.

So Festivus at Bone's is on for Friday night. It's another Festivus miracle! Besides, if I don't do it, who will?

Sure, it's probably too late to book Christopher Cross. Actually, it's probably not. Still, there'll be lots of shouting and plenty of food if you get there early. And considering how close this Festivus was to not happening at all, I'd say there's a good chance it will surpass all Festivuses (Festivi?) past--all three of them.

Here's wishing you all a Happy Festivus For The Rest Of Us! Now, please join me in singing that favorite of all Festivus songs, Silver Pole.

"Silver Pole, Silver Pole. It's Festivus in the city. Tinsel free. So sturdy. Soon it will be Festivus..."

Have you Scene It?

It was your typical weekday afternoon. I was fighting to stay awake for another hour or so of work, trying to get over the shock of seeing Sonny Corinthos stabbed and dropped in the river with cement blocks chained to his feet. (Fortunately, Carly happened by the waterfront, dove to the bottom of the river, somehow picked the locks on Sonny's chains, unchained him, and swam him back to the surface, all while holding her breath.) A commercial break came on, and that's when I heard it.

"General Hospital, brought to you in part by Scene It Seinfeld."

Wait. Did I hear that right? It couldn't be, could it? Two of the very cornerstones of my life coming together? Apparently, the answer to those questions is yes. Yes I did. Yes it could. And yes they have.

My initial reaction was probably not unlike many of yours--after all this time, my Nuvaring post was finally paying off! At last, they've begun marketing to the 25-39 year old straight male soap viewing crowd. And why not? There must be dozens of us out here.

Next, a Vagisil commercial came on and my thoughts turned to this new product: Scene It? Seinfeld. They've done it! It's been done.

The problem here is the same problem I always face with Seinfeld-related releases, especially around the holidays. Either everyone will get me one and I'll wind up with like four, or no one will get me one because they think everyone else will be getting me one. It can be quite the conundrum.

It didn't take long for people to start contacting me. I must say, there is something quite comforting about friends--even those I've not heard from in awhile--knowing me so well that I'm the first person they think of when there's news regarding Seinfeld, Matchbox Twenty, or Lindsay Lohan.

The female half of Kywana IM'd me one morning to see if I'd heard about it. We discussed what a great addition this will be to this year's Festivus celebration. Then Friday, a girl I've spoken to maybe once in the past year called to tell me about it. She also raised an issue I had yet to think about, saying, "No one will want to play with you because you'll know every single answer."

Drat! She had a point. I would dominate. It'd be like Kramer fighting children in karate. After careful consideration, meditation, and asking myself what would Jason & Jerry do (WWJJD), I came to a decision.

I've decided that I'm perfectly fine with always winning.

"Master of the house, doling out the charm. Ready with a handshake and an open palm..."

Stormtroopers, shakers, and we're #1?

Friday was Halloween. I should have warned you about this ahead of time. I know how unsettling it can be to have people dressed in scary costumes wandering down the street and knocking on your door if you're not prepared for it.

My final trick-or-treater count for the night was four. Kywana brought their two offspring by, which gave me a much needed reason to clean my house. The kids were dressed as Batgirl and a lion. They also had a stray stormtrooper in tow, who apparently had escaped the Death Star but forgot his helmet. I never realized how vital the helmet is to the stormtrooper ensemble. Otherwise, it just sort of looks like a bad Cameo getup. Word up?

After they left, I took the Millenium Falcon over to my sister's to visit Nephew Bone. My sister didn't want to get him out for some reason, so we had to bring his gifts to him. Talk about having it made! Nephew Bone was dressed up as a turtle, as you may or may not be able to see from this picture. Just trust me, he's a turtle.



There seems to be a general decline in the number of trick-or-treaters each year. I find that very disheartening. Kids who do trick-or-treat seem to be giving it up earlier and earlier, bowing out by age nine or ten. I'm thinking of speaking at a couple of Kindergarten assemblies to try and encourage kids to get out there and collect candy from these fools who are so stupidly giving it away.

Saturday, I attended the Bama/Arkansas State game. It was the first time Bama had played Arkansas State since 1982. I was also at that game, which we won 34-7. I remember ASU blocked a punt late for a touchdown. I also remember Mom pointing out Bear Bryant standing by the goal post before the game. It was Bear's last season. That was only the second Bama game I had ever attended. So Saturday had sort of a coming full circle feeling for me.

This week was also homecoming and several of the regulars who sit around us--Earl, DUI, Ultimatum, Carlin--weren't there. Before the game, my sister turns to me and says, "Does this guy behind us have a mullet?" Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, I turned and discovered that yes, indeed, he did. It was old school, too. A vintage Camaro crash helmet. I immediately nicknamed him Billy Ray.

Bama won the game 35-0 thanks to a strong performance by the defense and a solid running game. And after Texas lost to Texas Tech Saturday night, Bama became the #1 ranked team in the nation. It's nice to be recognized, but honestly it makes me even more nervous than I am normally. I'd rather have remained #2 and then jump to #1 after the last game. Rankings don't mean much until the end of the season. I'm going to be shaking like a car with an out of balance tire on the interstate watching the LSU game this coming Saturday.

Speaking of shaking, I want to close today with a heartwarming brother/sister story. Red and white shakers are a big thing at Bama games. It seems like at least half of the 92,000 fans have them, yours truly included. Well, a streamer from one of the shakers wound up in my sister's Coke. So she turns to me and asks, "Is it OK to still drink this?"

"Yeah," I replied, waiting a couple of seconds before continuing. "It's OK for you. It wouldn't be OK for me."

"Wave your hands in the air like you don't care. Glide by the people as they start to look and stare. Do your dance. Do your dance. Do your dance quick, mama..."

Like Elvis, at Libertyland

I have decided that I have the ideal life for a writer. Oh sure, there are no Hemingway-esque safaris to Africa. No lavish Black & White Balls, a la Capote. But my life is so routine that it provides a monumental daily challenge for me to try and make it sound interesting. It's excellent practice really.

I was, however, unusually social this past weekend. Included was dinner at a theme restaurant, a mini Seinfeld marathon at Axl's, and watching the Bama/Tennessee game at Kywana's. It is this latter event which I want to focus on today.

Here is something you should know about me in case we ever hang out. I don't really like watching Bama games with anyone.

First of all, watching the game on TV is like a four hour exercise in anxiety for me. I get extremely nervous just before kickoff and remain that way until the outcome is decided. I pace the floor, put my hands over my face, walk into the kitchen and open the freezer multiple times for no apparent reason. My neck and shoulders become one gargantuan monkey's fist. And we haven't even gotten to the yelling. It's like 95% anxiety, 5% elation and relief. And that's if Bama wins.

As long as I'm at the game, I can stand up and jump and cheer, providing an outlet for my nervous energy. But at home, there isn't as much of an outlet. Especially not with other people around, who I would rather continue to think me sane and allow me around their children.

Over the years, I've conditioned myself to be able to watch a game on TV with one or two other people who know how I am. Anymore than that, or anyone I don't really know, and I'm very uncomfortable. There are certain times one needs to be alone or with one or two members of one's inner circle. It's kinda like when Elvis would rent out Libertyland for the entire night and ride the Zippin Pippin over and over. Or it's nothing at all like that.

Anyway, all season long, various friends have invited me over to watch the away games on TV. And I had turned them all down, or just not answered my phone. Until Saturday night.

Feeling generous, or guilty or something, I accepted Kywana's offer to watch the game at their place. Needless to say, I would never agree to such a meeting without preconditions. I was under the impression it would only be me and Kywana watching the game. The main reason I was under that impression is because they said it would only be me and them watching the game.

Well, I was misled. There wound up being seven adults and five children present--if you consider me an adult--prompting me at one point to remark, "It's like Romper Room up in here." (NOTE: "Up in here" is a hip, cool phrase meaning "in here" or "in dis hizzy.")

I was none too happy at first. But once the game started, I zoned everything else out. Fortunately, I managed to keep my outbursts to a minimum. I think I only yelled a couple of times. Athough it could have been more. I'm not sure I even realize I do it sometimes. It turned out to be not the worst experience in the entire world. Of course, it helped that Bama won.

So I'm thinking maybe being a bit more social isn't so bad after all. I might even start answering the door when someone rings the bell. Or making eye contact with people.

"Thought I knew her, this lady. Opportunist, misled. Always searching for adventure. Like Pandora's box, misled..."

Lunch Lady Land

Blogging away while wondering if I ever really knew how to play hopscotch, because surely it can't be as simple as what I think it is...

Well, I promised more uninhibited bachelor tales, so here you go. Parents, safeguard your children.

Last Wednesday, I had lunch at the local elementary school. When I told a fellow blogger about this, her reply was, "For work? Or to be among your real peers?" See what hilarious friends I have. Although honestly, I do think I fit in pretty well with the fourth grade crowd, other than the two foot differential in our heights.

Actually, I met Kywana and the godson and we had lunch with Kywana Jr. That's the real reason for my return to Lunch Lady Land. I must admit I was a bit nervous, with many of the same anxieties any kid would have their first day at a new school. What is the proper lunchroom line procedure? What if no one talks to me? What if I can't find a seat? Will I be able to pilfer two desserts?

The food was set up sort of buffet style, with two lines of kids, one down each side of the buffet. My first misstep occurred fairly quickly. Shortly after I had gotten into line, I heard Kywana Jr. calling to me from up ahead. "Bone! You're in the girls line."

Looking around, I had failed to notice that all the girls were going down the left side, while all the boys were going down the right side. Oops! Hoping not too many kids had seen my gaffe, I made my way over to the boys line as inconspicuously as a six-foot-tall fourth grader can.

Allow me to interject here. When did they start segregating the boys and the girls? It wasn't only in the lunch line. In the hall as we were waiting to go in, classes would walk by single-file with all the girls in the front then the boys. Shouldn't we be teaching harmony among all sexes? I have fond memories of "accidentally" running into Keisha Cantrell at the water fountain after school, hoping she'd smile at me or talk to me. That was the only thing getting me out of bed in the mornings for the majority of my fourth thru seventh grade years. I'm for desegregated, coed campuses. And dorms!

Getting back to Wednesday, first up on the lunch line were beverages. Juice, milk, or chocolate milk. What, no soft drinks? What an outrage. I chose chololate milk. It was like a half pint. Next up was a cooler of all kinds of ice cream--popsicles, push ups, ice cream cups, etc.

Figuring a little conversation would divert attention away from my girls' line faux pas, I exclaimed, "We get to have ice cream!?" The kid in front of me answered, "Yeah. You can get a slushy, too." He also told me to make sure I got an ice cream spoon, which turned out to be a flat, thin piece of wood. Yes! My first day and I'd already made a friend. Although I forgot to ask his name, and later on when we were eating I was looking around the lunchroom but didn't recognize him.

The buffet choices for the day were quesadillas or taco salad. I chose taco salad. With the ice cream and milk, I was quickly running out of room on my tiny plastic tray. I glanced around at some of the other kids to see where they were putting the food on their trays.

Then it was time to pay. Kywana had told me lunch was $2.75. So I was a little surprised when the lunch lady called out "$3.25." Apparently, the ice cream was an extra fifty cents. Glad I didn't get two.

The rest of my fears were eased when I found that Kywana Jr. had saved us all seats. The kids weren't allowed to talk that day because apparently they'd misbehaved or something. Although as guests, we were allowed to talk.

I found out later that they don't get to talk for the first ten minutes of lunch anyway. That seemed a bit excessive. Although I remember when I was in fourth grade, we had this big traffic light in the lunchroom. Kinda like in Mister Rogers' house, but not as fun. The light was supposedly a noice detector. If it was on green, we were being quiet. Yellow meant we were getting loud. And if it went to red, this really large teacher would stand up and yell "It's red!!!" and we couldn't talk for the rest of the day.

The whole traffic light thing was a bit confusing later in life, as you might imagine. I remember when I started driving and I ran thru a red light, Dad yelled, "Bone! What are you doing?" And I told him, "Shhh! It's red." None of this paragraph is true.

Anyway, back to my story. When I was done eating, I showed the kids how to make a little trash can out of an empty milk carton. Then lunchtime was over. We lined up, deposited our trays in the trash can, and exited the lunchroom single-file.

After that experience, as you might imagine, the rest of my weekend paled in comparison. But to quickly recap, Thursday night, I hung out with the Darryls. The highlight of the evening occurred as I noticed Wolfgang taking an abnormal interest in the outcome of the Oregon State/Stanford game.

Wolfgang: "If Oregon State covers, I win $155."
Me: "Wow. That's pretty good."
Wolfgang: "Yeah. Then I'll only owe the bookie thirty bucks."

Yeah, he has a bit of a problem. Unfortunately for him, Oregon State lost.

I took off work Friday--the Friday before the first Bama game. No it isn't a state holiday, yet. Then Saturday, my beloved Crimson Tide defeated Clemson 34-10! Some of the Bama faithful were understandably exhausted from lots of cheering. This picture was taken shortly after Bama's first touchdown:



OK, so 95% uninhibited bachelor tales. 5% cute nephew blog.

"We learned wondrous things from our teacher so nice. Sat on marshmallow desks with teddy bear smiles. The world seemed to all make sense. But that sense seems to slowly fade, after the third grade..."

Babies R Us

Guess what.



If you guessed that I shaved my facial hair, you are correct. I actually did it a few months ago. It was a pretty big decision, but I figured it was time.

Did you notice anything else different in the picture? Look closely and see if you notice... A WHOLE OTHER PERSON!!!

That's right, my friends. After all these years, I've finally done it. I'm an uncle! Say hello to Nephew Bone. (He's the one on the left.) This picture was taken just as I was telling him all about blogging.

My sister was admitted to the hospital early Tuesday morning to be induced. Nephew Bone finally arrived Wednesday evening at 8 pounds, 3 ounces. I figure thirty-six hours isn't that long to wait for a whole 'nother person, right sis? And no, they didn't name him Seven or Jacob Martin, despite my constant urging friendly suggestion.

From what I can tell, here is a breakdown of how Nephew Bone spends his day:

Sleeping - 70%
Eating - 15%
Causing people to swoon by opening his eyes - 10%
Whining at bothersome, albeit sometimes attractive, nurses - 5%

Total time spent looking cute = 100%

I want to be the best uncle ever. And by best uncle, I mean, fave uncle. However, I've been unable to find any books on uncle-ing, so I've had to come up with other means of research. I have devised what I think you will find is a simple, yet comprehensive two-pronged approach.

First, I have been trying to recall things my uncles taught me. Things like if you hit a golf ball just so, it will run along the cart path and greatly increase shot distance. Although I guess I would have eventually figured that out myself.

Secondly, I have been trying to catch reruns of Full House, Dukes Of Hazzard, and My Three Sons whenever I can. I figure the knowledge I can glean from Uncle Joey, the Uncles Jesse, Uncle Charley and other famous uncles will be invaluable. And what about that old guy on Lost In Space? Was he an uncle, or just some odd character they picked up somewhere in the galaxy?

It is an incredible thing hold a baby while thinking he wasn't even born a few hours before. To experience the miracle of life is... indescribable. I can only imagine how it will be someday when I finally impregnate some unsuspecting girl.

What? I didn't want you to think this was going to turn into one of those boring uncle blogs. I promise a return to golf, General Hospital, and other uninhibited bachelor tales very soon.

I also want to say congratulations to Kywana on the birth of their son this past Monday. He is beautiful! And thanks for letting me be part of that. Well, a small part. It's not like I was there for the delivery or anything. I am also honored they have chosen me to be Kywana Jr's godfather. Starting immediately, you may refer to me as Godfather B.

It's been a busy week around here. Lots of time spent in hospitals. I am most thankful that everything went smoothly (easy for me to say) and that everyone is healthy.

There are two less pregnant women in the world. Two new beautiful Bama fans. And one proud new uncle and godfather.

"His fingerprints are everywhere. I just slowed down to stop and stare. Opened my eyes and man I swear, I saw God today..."

Expectant mothers, Nintendo, & the bachelor

Well, I haven't been blogging much lately. That could be attributed to a number of things, such as being exhausted from NaBloSoThaDraWe, which with at least two participants including me was a rousing success. (Thanks, Eileen.) But I think mostly it comes down to the fact that I haven't been typing things in this box and hitting publish much lately. I've done that like zero times in the past ten days.

It was quite an eventful weekend for me, though. Friday night, I hung out with the Darryls. We did your typical guy stuff. Shot pool, discussed the latest happenings on General Hospital, and even sang a bit of karaoke without music. (I know what you're saying. Is it still considered karaoke without the music, Bone? And all I have to say to that is, probably not.) It was all very manly though, not that I needed to clarify that or anything.

Saturday night, I went to a friend's 40th birthday celebration. At some point in the evening, I found myself in a not uncommon position for a bachelor, wedged between two pregnant women. Not physically. Well, sort of. Anyway, that was even more fun than it sounds.

Unfortunately, I didn't plan ahead, and had no signal to get me out of a conversation, such as head patting or chicken wing. So there I sat, as they discussed contractions, itchy stomachs, minivans, and dilations. Who knew pregnancy affected the eyes!

I found myself unable to contribute much to the conversation, since my gynecology knowledge is pretty much limited to Nuvaring commercials. But I wanted to learn what I could, figuring it could always come in handy later. So during a break in the conversation, I chimed in with, "So what exactly does a contraction feel like?" Not long after that, I went over and started petting the dog.

After the party, I went back to Kywana's for a bit. It's what the kids call the "after party." They had downloaded Super Mario Brothers for the Wii, so we were all taking turns playing. Then when it got to Kywana Junior's turn to play, she asked her mother, "What do I do?"

Oh my gosh. She's never played. It was like I had stepped on a rake and the handle smacked me in the face. Except that I didn't cry. I was sad for her at first, because she had never played Super Mario Brothers. Then I was sad for me, because I was old.

All turned out well though. It wound up being sort of like a little video game history lesson. Early Mario World Civilization 101: The Origins Of Mario Kart.

Tune in next time when I offer Bone's Helpful Lamaze Tips. And also provide an editorial commentary on why Luigi got the shaft. Or maybe I'll just blog about the Olympics.

"Her boyfriend, he don't know, anything about her. He's too stoned, Nintendo. I wish that I could make her see, she's just the flavor of the weak..."