Same ol' Everywhere

four - by DBJ

noreply@blogger.com (PaleRoller) — Sat, 19 May 2012 22:33:00 +0000

Listen to four!
Experimental, distorted, jam session music.

http://d-b-j.bandcamp.com/

The Cure - Pictures Of You

noreply@blogger.com (PaleRoller) — Thu, 26 Jan 2012 16:24:00 +0000

1993 Sportster not so bobber Project

noreply@blogger.com (PaleRoller) — Wed, 08 Jun 2011 19:46:00 +0000

I finally got a seat for the Sportster. It is a stock seat off a 1994 sporty, but it was only $41.50 off eBay. That's about $125 less than most aftermarket seats, and inexpensive is good. I also installed new forward controls (again off eBay) and boy does this make riding more comfortable. Still waiting to get an air cleaner and then maybe start moving on to other items like a headlight/led turn signals...who knows.

Tuesday Test Ride

noreply@blogger.com (PaleRoller) — Wed, 13 Apr 2011 03:58:00 +0000

Today was a beautiful day. And what better way to enjoy the day than a nice motorcycle ride. And how do you make a motorcycle ride better? Invite a friend along and try filming it at 60+ miles per hour.

This is very poor quality video. It was shot with a Canon Powershot A590 camera and then edited in iMovie 09. It was my first attempt at the art of one-handed motorcycle riding/filming, and I know I will get better. One problem may be the very light weight of the camera itself. The other is obviously the meathead holding it.

Please stay tuned. I hope to get some more rides in and put together something magical (or mediocre).

1993 Harley Sportster Bobber Project (Part 4)

noreply@blogger.com (PaleRoller) — Thu, 10 Mar 2011 16:45:00 +0000

Well, the motorcycle is getting nearer to completion (if you can call it that).

I purchased some custom pipes from a great little company called Ragerbuilt Choppers out of North Carolina and they fit like a dream, look awesome and sound great...but...I had a stripped exhaust stud in the rear head that prevented me from doing anything but wish that I could ride. So I took the head to a local motorcycle garage and the owner did about an hour's worth of work trying to get the darn thing loose, but to no avail. Thanks go to Dave at Brown's Cycle Shop Dallas for attempting the removal and NOT charging me anything when they couldn't get it unstuck. They did recommend that I take it to EDM of Garland which is a local machine shop that can burn these suckers out quick. I took it in, spoke with the owner Nolan and by the end of the day had the stud removed and only $50.00 outta my wallet. Great work, thank you!

And while EDM was removing the stud, I had gotten the bike ready to do a rattlecan paint job...and with orange being my mostest favoritest color, proceeded to do the tank in orange and the rest of the tins in classic flat black.

It is coming along and someday I may get around to purchasing a new seat. For now, I am happy. This is such a fun process, I'd recommend it to everyone.

The Anti-HOG Harley owner?

noreply@blogger.com (PaleRoller) — Fri, 21 Jan 2011 01:34:00 +0000

It's has recently come to my attention that the Sportster is not really "accepted" by the "H-D" community. Now this little tidbit of information came to me from a recent metric convert. This particular convert rattled on and on for weeks about the superior performance of his Honda I-Don't-Know-What and explained to me that this particular 750 provoked a lawsuit from Harley regarding it's similarities to Harley's signature exhaust sound. I had to listen to him droning on and on about the reliability of his chosen ride. And I came to the conclusion that the only point my poor coworker was getting across was that he was afraid to work on a bike.

Nowhere in his original argument did my colleague mention the Sportster, in particular. Nor did he mention the displacement of my 54 inch Sporty. Instead, his focus was concentrated on reliability.

Enter Fatboy and the more-money-than-brains complex that is running rampant these days regarding anything mechanical. I am not a skilled mechanic and nor did I spend the night at a Holiday Inn Express, but I know a little about the inner workings of a gasoline motor and I possess the ability to follow instructions. With the advent of the interweb, there is more than enough information available regarding pretty much anything in existence. I read. I hack. I read. I hack. I want to make things go.

I bought an inexpensive Sportster so that I could learn how to hack, chop and shape the motorcycle I want. And the more I look around, the more I realize that like-minded individuals are becoming more rare. All the local HOGs (Harley Owner's Group motorcycle clubs) are filled with middle-aged riders that drive baggers and spend money out the arse on overly-priced "custom" Harley accessories that are put on by the dealer at outrageous labor rates. That's not me. Nor am I a law-breaking, rough 'em up drive it drunk biker.

I guess I'm just a guy that appreciates a little grease under the nails. I appreciate the journey and (one day) the destination. Now, as I watch my friend enter the room in his Harley leather jacket, his Harley chaps, his Harley helmet and his Harley boots, I cant help but wonder if he got a Harley reach-around to go with his Harley arse-raping. Originality simply can't be bought at the local dealership, you gotta find that somewhere else.

(Note - If you are into HOG and enjoy it, great. If you're not into HOG and enjoy it, great. But for God's sake, let's just ride.)

New Biltwell Frisco Handlebars on my Sportster

noreply@blogger.com (PaleRoller) — Thu, 20 Jan 2011 01:52:00 +0000

Well, I went and made my largest single purchase to date for the Sporty. I purchased some Biltwell Frisco bars from Biltwell's website. I was looking for something a little more old-school chopper, but don't really like "Z" bars and haven't found narrow enough mini-apes to force me to take the plunge...then I saw these!

My wife said they look like they are straight off a 3 year-old's tricycle. Sweet! That's exactly what I'm going for. Here is a little video showing off the bars and the audio captures the idle pretty well. I will clean up the wiring, when I clean up everything else (probably in a few years).

Any comments are appreciated.

www.shitluck.com

noreply@blogger.com (PaleRoller) — Thu, 13 Jan 2011 22:17:00 +0000

Ok, this is the funniest thing I have seen in a long time. I stumbled upon this while visiting the Shit Luck Clothing's website at www.shitluck.com. This is just too funny NOT to pass it along to the 3 0r 4 people that land here accidentally.

1993 Harley Sportster Bobber Project

noreply@blogger.com (PaleRoller) — Tue, 23 Nov 2010 18:44:00 +0000

Here is my current project updated! I will write some sillies laters...

1993 Harley Sportster Bobber Project

noreply@blogger.com (PaleRoller) — Sun, 07 Nov 2010 04:26:00 +0000

FedEx Express???

noreply@blogger.com (PaleRoller) — Sat, 05 Jun 2010 02:14:00 +0000

I was sitting in my living room, staring out the window (as I often do) and I noticed a FedEx truck across the street. Only, this was no ordinary FedEx truck. It was a FedEx "Express" truck. Now, I may be old school, but I remember when FedEx was short for Federal Express... Has something changed? Does FedEx now stand for something different? Or is this just some sort of redundancy that is required to make clear to the mass of humanity that, while the conjugation of "federal" and "express" results in the very pleasant (and mind you, very catchy) "FedEx", humanity, in general, is not yet ready for such grammatical wizardry?

In either case, I find it very disturbing. These arrogant bastards are up to something...

Beat But Not Broken

noreply@blogger.com (PaleRoller) — Thu, 01 Oct 2009 01:49:00 +0000

My new job is an ass-kicker...quite literally. Part of my new job is to learn how to “bring the peace” in any given situation, including those that require some hands on assistance. This is done so that in the end I can return safely home from what may be one of the most dangerous jobs in America. However, the problem these days is that after 6 weeks, I am still in the tear-down phase of training...or as I like to think of it, the beatdown phase.

Every single muscle in my body has been the victim of some sort of manipulation or down-right ritualistic abuse. After 8 years in the military, I figured that I had a pretty good handle on my musculo-skeletal system...I was wrong. Aside from the push-up, sit-up and “jumping-jack”, most exercises are simple bastardizations of these tried and true favorites, and I once believed that I had seen them all...

The new exercise that I was most graciously subject to this week is a completely sadistic twist on the old school “mountain climber”. With the “mountain climber”, you get into a push-up position, and then begin to alternate your knees to your chest (imagine a sprinter in the blocks right before the gun goes off)...the result, aside from a lot of hurt, is that you look like you are running in place with your hands on the ground.

Easy enough. I know that my thighs, calves and shoulders are going to be sore the next day, and that I am going to cry like a school-girl during the actual exercise.

Enter the, “I don't know what the fuck to call it exercise.” Get down like you are going to do a push-up, but instead of doing push-ups, twist your trunk and place the outer thigh of you right leg on the ground while keeping your left foot in place. Now return to the push-up position and do the same with the outer thigh of your left leg while keeping your right foot in place. Repeat...over and over and over and over and over and over.

Well, the next morning, thanks to the “I don't know what the fuck to call it exercise”, I woke up with the most excruciating pain in my “I don't know what the fuck to call them muscles in my ass/hip area.” I know I'm getting older, but WTF?

I figured I had just about seen it all. I guess not...

New Post over at PaleRoller.com

noreply@blogger.com (PaleRoller) — Sun, 27 Sep 2009 16:04:00 +0000

Here is a recent post over at PaleRoller.com, that explains my recent slow-down in production...but as my energy returns, I shall begin posting more frequently.

http://www.paleroller.com/2009/09/from-stay-at-home-dad-to-deadbeat-dad.html

Take Care.

Started New Job Very Busy

noreply@blogger.com (PaleRoller) — Sun, 20 Sep 2009 01:53:00 +0000

I started a new job that consumes most, if not all, of my time these days. I have been working on my next "real" post which should happen sometime this week. In the meantime, check out this one from someone very close to me.

Or check out the rest her posts at http://www.thephdmommy.com

Alarming News for Bird Lovers

noreply@blogger.com (PaleRoller) — Mon, 17 Aug 2009 02:07:00 +0000

My wife is always amazed at my love of birds. I usually have to correct her and explain that my love of birds only extends so far as birds of prey, although I do love watching just about any other bird out there. I think it's the twitchiness, or their ability to fly, or maybe the twitchiness. I am not sure what it is about our fine feathered friends that gets me going, but I like them. And that is where the fondness ends.

I am in no way, shape, or form interested in the mating habits of the red-breasted warbler, nor am I interested in how they tend their young. My fascination pretty much ends where that of a biologist begins. I'm like the woman driving the Ferrari to the PTA meeting; I don't care how it works, I just care that it's pretty. That's right, I “went” there. And given the southerly swing of my pecks in recent years, I'm apparently becoming more like that woman every year. But, back to the birds.

My wife, in the past, has even gone so far as to recommend that I “study” birds, but again, I am in no mood to discover the bird equivalent of a cloaca and bury my finger in their to determine the sex of a bird. It's just not my cup of tea. It doesn't “tickle” my fancy. As such, I was both shocked and disgusted today when I discovered one of the most disturbing facts known to man.

BIRDS HAVE BUTTS.

What follows may be too graphic for some of my readers, and parental guidance is suggested.

This morning my wife and I headed to the local zoo, as we have done in the past, to spend the morning checking in on some of the inmates and have a romp in the water feature at the children's zoo. Well, the last time we did this, Catchr had a blast watching the penguins swim by the glass and flip him the bird. So, we headed straight for their cellblock, only to find out the disgusting truth about these particular “animals”. It appears that they may, indeed, actually be little people in tuxedos that have an abnormal affinity for aquatic adventures.

In support of my conjecture, I give you exhibit A:

Now, I don't know about you, but I was always a little bit disgusted when bird layed a turd in my general vicinity. However, I never knew that they were, in fact, using human assholes to shit on all of our landmarks, monuments, cars, and in some unfortunate circumstances, us. I now believe that birds have an intelligence that is far beyond that which we could imagine. How does all that guano hit my car in the parking lot, and not a drop hit the tarmac? Why do seagulls always seem to fly directly overhead?

And why does that penguin at the zoo have a little human asshole poking out of his fine feathered tuxedo?

It's Pronounced, "Thermometer"

noreply@blogger.com (PaleRoller) — Fri, 14 Aug 2009 02:43:00 +0000

This morning, while doing dishes I began to feel a little hot under the collar.; not emotionally hot..environmentally hot. Now being as I was not wearing a collared shirt, or any shirt for that matter, I began to wonder if I might be in the throws of a panic attack. This concerned me, as I had seen many episodes of the Sopranos and knew that this might disturb the pecking order of my family. Furthermore, never having experienced a panic attack, I began to pace the kitchen wondering if there might be some sure-fire way of ascertaining my current condition without divulging the details of this episode to my wife.

I looked to the clock above the sink. “Nope, time is still moving at 60 seconds per minute.” I then surveyed my wrist and neck, searching for a pounding/racing heartbeat only to feel the soft lubdub of normalcy under my sweaty fingertips. Searching for my four-legged diagnostician, I pleaded, “What is happening to me?” But she simply went about staring blankly out the dining room's french doors.

As I made my way to the living room I spied the indoor/outdoor thermometer on the bookshelf. The temperature read 79 degrees inside, but I was sure that it must be 80 degrees. I felt 80 degrees. I couldn't believe that my wife and I had fallen victim to the unscrupulous madmen at Oregon Scientific. Surely I know the difference between 79 and 80 degrees, and these bastards had sent a lemon to the Jarvis house.

(I am surely not suggesting that everyone is out to get me. Some already have. It is the rest of them with whom I am currently concerned.)

As I inspected the thermometer, I began to craft, the outline for an experiment that would expose the phonies at Oregon Scientific once and for all. I had to first leave the confines of my cocoon and venture onto the front porch, amidst all the prying eyes, and retrieve the outside half of my faulty indoor/outdoor thermometer system.

Once safely inside I placed the outdoor probe next to the hopelessly inaccurate indoor unit. I had to ascertain if the faulty mechanism was housed in both units, or if the sinister scientists had merely worked their magic on the indoor probe. While I waited, I set about to find the armpit thermometer my wife had recently purchased for use on our son. (Being a man, it is difficult for me to bring myself to check my son's temperature “old school”, so my wife purchased the armpit thermometer to save us from future therapy sessions.) Once found, I sat and waited patiently for the outdoor probe to come to room temperature; for comparison.

My family and I live in Texas and as you might guess, it is hot outside...very hot...flamin' the fellars hot, if you catch my drift. So by hour three, I was inclined to put the thermometer into the refrigerator for a spell, to help bring it down to room temperature. That did the trick and I began my rigorous investigation.

Placing the indoor and outdoor modules side-by-side, I noticed that both were reading 79 degrees, yet, as I was still feeling 80 degrees, I had to conclude that Oregon Scientific had indeed given me two faulty thermometers. The only problem was that to build my case, I would need the armpit thermometer as a control for the experiment. However, there was no way to get a reading of the ambient temperature, given that the thermometer was designed to measure readings closer to that of the human body, and do so in 30 seconds. Therefore I placed the armpit thermometer exactly where recommended, and proceeded to replace the outdoor probe (from Oregon Scientific) in my other armpit.

After 30 seconds, the armpit thermometer signaled the completion of its task with a charming little beep. 97.9 degrees. That seemed about right, as I tend to run a little cool. The outdoor thermometer was still reading 79 degrees. As it was most likely not designed for its current duty, I decided to sit back and let it do its work uninterrupted, lest I be absurdly accused of favoritism or bias.

By hour three, the temperature was reading 94 degrees and I was now beginning to chafe quite heavily. This was obviously another insidious plot to thwart my efforts at scientific inquiry. Furthermore, my wife was due home any minute and it would already be difficult enough explaining why I had failed to do the dishes, without having to explain why her sweaty, chafing husband was sitting on the floor all day with a thermometer in his armpit with the beginnings of a nice rash.

You win this round Oregon Scientific.

For The Ladies & Gentlemen

noreply@blogger.com (PaleRoller) — Tue, 11 Aug 2009 01:21:00 +0000

In an attempt to add some credibility to yesterday's post and ensure that I did not take too many liberties with the facts, I did a simple search today to expose the evil truth that I revealed.

Exhibit A: http://www.steadyhealth.com/My_penis_and_testicles_shrink_to_almost_child_size_proportions_while_exercising_t91703_st60.html

The above is a horribly funny forum progression that I found through Google search. It almost seems sad to share this with the female readers, but I feel it is necessary to get the truth out into the open. Besides, what doesn't kill us makes us stronger...not necessarily larger, but stronger indeed.

The other reason for this post is to address the misconception that men do not share their feelings. The problem is not that they don't share their feelings, it's that when they do, you have discussions like the above. I have read this particular page of this particular forum about five times, and still feel myself running out of breath with laughter. I imagine the guys writing in during the middle of the night, while their wives are asleep and the blanket of night can hide their shame and embarrassment.

I have never purchased a men's health magazine and the reason why is because I feel I do not have that certain something that prevents me from discussing medical issues with my doctor and relationship issues with my spouse. So ladies, if your husband/boyfriend comes home with some type of men's health magazine, you may want to find out why. I mean, do you really want to find him under the covers, with a flashlight, writing about his doodle on the internet? It may just end up on some asshole's blog.

Checks and Balances: Who's Yer Daddy?

noreply@blogger.com (PaleRoller) — Mon, 10 Aug 2009 02:40:00 +0000

I have an interview scheduled for next Friday, two days AFTER my final police department interviews, with a local financial firm. The timing is impeccable. It will give me the opportunity to really not give a damn during the interview process (unless the police department tells me to go shit in my hat). Maybe I'll waltz into the office wearing nothing but a big smile and a light coat of oil. I imagine that the security guards would try and stop me from making it through the lobby, into the elevator and all the way to the 15^th floor.

Or would they? It has always been my contention that if one were about to get their ass kicked, they should simply rip the clothing from their body. This creates two dilemmas for your opponent. 1) Where do I hit this guy without making it look like we're starring in some low-budget Michael Lucas film; and 2) If this naked guy somehow manages to beat my ass, he's naked...then what? In a fight there generally tends to be a lot of touching. I think it's a safe bet that only the most skilled of pugilists are going to endeavor to whoop your ass while you're nude.

As I make it to the 15^th floor, I am now a glistening mass of heart-pounding enthusiasm. The light coat of oil now mixing with my heavy perspiration, I quickly look down only to realize one sad simple fact. I am man. Well, at least I was man when I exited the car and began my adventure to the 15^th floor. Now, however, it appears that my body has played an evil trick on me. The man that left his vehicle parked, somewhat illegally, on the ground floor has been reduced to what can only be described as a finger food. Thank you sympathetic nervous system, for thwarting, once again, my plans for world domination.

You see, the irony of manhood is that the very activities that men display to impress upon the ladies a certain level of bravado, are the same activities that require ALL of which a man is made.

(Dearest female readers, please understand that the secret which is about to be revealed below is the most damning and emasculating to the male of your species. Most men dare not talk of it for fear of being branded an outcast and traded from the team.)

When men are endeavoring to gain your fancy, they may indulge in certain feats of strength and displays of bravado in an attempt to prove their virility, without having to display actual “proof”. The problem, however, is that in an attempt to “give it their all”, the male's body does just that; pulling blood from idle parts of the anatomy and sending it to more “active” parts of the body. Now, in the rare case of the three-legged racer or the man whose endowment allows him to pummel his opponent with his appendage, this may not be as much of an issue, as their bodies have certainly grown accustomed to the necessity for increased blood flow to the region. But for other 99.36% of adult males, this is not the case, and there may be some longitudinal sacrifices that must be made.

Understand, that I am in no way condoning my females readers to set up a series of short sprints or side-straddle-hops prior to assessing a potential mate's fitness for the role. I simply wanted to clarify the betrayal I experienced in the elevator on the 15^th floor.

“Who's your daddy?”, asks the human body of the human mind.

And the mind's answer is inevitably, “You are.”

One must remember that life is a series of checks and balances. Checks and balances, indeed.

Oh Mr. Heller!

noreply@blogger.com (PaleRoller) — Sat, 08 Aug 2009 03:27:00 +0000

+++Please forgive the bitter tone...it's been one of those years.+++

I submitted my application for the local police department in February 2009, prior to moving across the country (North to South, not East to West). My hope was that I could complete the arduous testing process for the position, and receive a job offer, prior to the move. Thus, eliminating one more stress that I was sure to encounter during our sojourn from the great white north to the smoldering south. Well, the publicized 4-6 week hiring process has entered its 5^th month, and, by my calculations, it seems that they may, or may not, have underestimated their timeframe. As such, I recently posted my resume to some online job boards.

As I have listed in my profile, my previous career was in financial services. While the money was good, the feeling that I was scribbling a contract at the crossroads every morning, began to get to me. How many souls does one person have to sell? I quit to be a stay-at-home dad, and haven't regretted it one bit. Now here's the dilemma.

When a financial services professional (financial advisor, financial consultant or financial planner) tries to find work in the field of finance, the first response from a prospective employer is, “I see you have a lot of experience in sales. Have you ever worked in finance?”

“What the fuck does that mean?” I ask myself. Soon, it becomes very apparent that “financial services” is quite different from “finance”. “Finance” people have college degrees and spend most of their time masturbating the numbers that you and I are supposed to accept as proof that the world is not coming to an end. “Financial services” people come from under some bridge near Oakland and spread the ejaculate to the masses with a sparkle in their eyes and sometimes a complimentary reach-around. They're the salespeople hired to pedal the frothing bile to mom and pop and everyone in between. “Ah, Mr. and Mrs. America, so good to see you again. Can I help you out of that pension?”

I have a bachelor's degree in economics, but acknowledging that I am not quite what the “finance” folks have in mind (as an ideal candidate), I have investigated other sales positions, outside of finance. Swindling people out of their hard-earned money, I can handle. It was swindling people out of ALL their hard-earned money that kept me up at night. And so I set out to interview for a “sales” position.

Unfortunately, given the glorious marketing talents of the big Wall Street firms, good old-fashioned salespeople don't believe that anyone in financial services is a widget-counting salesperson. “We're not really looking for a trusted advisor in this position, Mr. Jarvis. We want someone that can move merchandise,” was the end result of one conversation I had with a certain company's hiring manager. You would not believe how difficult it can be to convince someone that while it is very possible you will never be anyone's trusted advisor again, they can trust that you will move ass-loads of merchandise.

Nice little catch-22 I've got going on.

A Little Bit o' Dizzy

noreply@blogger.com (PaleRoller) — Thu, 06 Aug 2009 16:22:00 +0000

Yesterday I wrote about my triumphant defeat of the caffeine monster. I had to do it. I had to give some backstory before sharing with you the a brief tale of the Karmic ass-whoopin' I received earlier in the week.

Even though I no longer drink caffeinated beverages, I still get a hankering for a sip of coffee or Coke every now and again. And when I say, “a sip,” I literally mean less than a shot glass full of either beverage. I neither want, nor need, the caffeine, I simply enjoy the taste. I think I have made my feelings perfectly clear in regard to decaffeinated coffee, but I don't have the same aversion to Caffeine-Free Coke or even Caffeine-Free Diet Coke, I simply don't feel like buying it when I am at the store. I don't want to be “that” guy. If you buy either of those two Coke products, it can give people at the check-out line the wrong impression. You live at home with your geriatric parents that are always sending you to the store for the bubbly candy-water. Or, you're wearing a wedding band to hide the fact that you are boring and alone and nobody likes you...not even the woman at the check-out stand.

On this particular Tuesday, I had a hankering for Coke. I just wanted a sip, and it had been killing me that we still had a few cans of the stuff in fridge from Catchr's birthday, and my wife refused to “share” a can with me (this means that I open the can, take a sip and hand it back to her to finish off). So I pulled a choice can from the back of the fridge and tickled the pull-tab with my index finger. “I'll pop the top, take a sip, and save the rest for my beautiful wife.” That was about as far as I got. The plan sounded infallible.

I cracked that bastard open with all the authority I could muster (when opening a non-alcoholic beverage), put the can to my lips and tasted the sweet nectar of the gods. Oh the crisp, refreshing taste. It reminded me of my childhood. My brother and I were not allowed to drink sodas, except on the weekends, and we had to split a can at that. My father was a Coke man, and so too were we. We'd carefully fill our glasses with ice, making sure that each of us had the same number of cubes. You didn't want screw yourself by having more cubes than the other guy. Even at an early age we were on to the glass-full-of-ice scam that is perpetrated on millions of hard-working, fast-food eating Americans, every day. And when ice had been divvied up, the pouring began. Crackling ice alerted us that our thirst was only seconds away from meeting its demise. Not really, it usually took about 3-5 minutes to get to the thirst-quenching, as that's about how long it took our mother to tear us away from each other's throats due to our loose interpretations of how to measure equal amounts of the beverage in each glass. Did foam count? Was there any left in the can? Are you fuckin' holdin' out on me? Oh but after the wrangling...that sweet syrup made us feel alive. Ah the good ol' days.

As I allowed the Coke to slowly evaporate in my mouth (again this was only sip), my infallible plan was beginning to strain; already showing signs of buckling. “How the Hell am I going to save the rest of this?” I asked no one in particular (and my dog, Madison, isn't much of process person, either). We are not a Tupperware family. We don't have any of those stupid plastic lids that fit neatly over a Coke can, saving the bubbles for later. We are not “those” people. Drinking 12 fluid ounces does not constitute some sort of arcane feat of strength in our home. I can do that with my eyes closed (and usually do), but this was an issue of caffeine consumption and I simply would not compromise my principles.

I began looking around the house for some method of storing the soda in such a way as to retain its bubbly goodness. I could pour it into a plastic Rubbermaid/Ziploc bowl and put the lid on. Then I would just have to explain to my wife that there was nothing wrong with it, and that I had merely needed a vessel to retain the beverage's essence.

Sip.

Damn! During all the thinking I was doing, I fell back on the oldest habit known to man. If it's in your hand it should probably go in your mouth.

I needed to keep looking. There is no way my wife is going to sit at the table with a half-flat bowl of Coke during dinner. I had to fall back on what I know best. I used the good old fashioned white-trash, plastic wrap method I learned as a kid. I'd simply present the can to my wife at the table and no one would be the wiser. I grabbed the plastic wrap from the drawer, tore off the requisite length and...

“How am I going to seal the top?”

I immediately began looking for a rubber band. I knew we had one somewhere around the house because we had been to the zoo that weekend and I purchased the shirt-rolled-up-in-a-hat deal at the gift shop. I am a sucker for that deal. Regardless of how stupid the hat, or lame the shirt, I gots to gets me it. But anyway, I knew that there was a large rubber band laying idle in my house when it could be put to good use. Now where the heck was it.

Sip.

Getting frustrated at my inability to recall where I had put that beautiful rubber band, I did it again.

By this time, the first sip that I had taken was beginning to dance around my belly with the second and third sip. They began singing and laughing at me. Like a siren's song, they were calling more sips to join them. As I searched in vein for that goddamn rubber band three or four more sips made it into my belly. I began to tingle. And not in that good, “climbing up a rope in gym class” kind of way. I was humming...I was buzzed!

Knowing that I was in no condition to prolong my search, I decided to retreat to the kitchen and find some other method for sealing this demon beast...”right after I find that damn plastic wrap.” I must have discarded it in my search for the rubber band. Once found, I grabbed some Scotch tape from the drawer and began wrapping the top of the can.

Around and around and around and...

I woke up some time later in pool of what must have been a cocktail of urine and Coke. I don't know how long I was down; minutes, hours, days. Where was the dog? Had she survived my absence? I never leave the toilet seat up. She must be parched. What had she been eating and drinking during my vasovagal episode? The horror!

I crawled to the living room and looked to the front door. I imagined that she had witnessed my collapse and went for help. The door was shut and locked. Maybe she had the foresight to grab the keys and lock the door behind her, to protect me in my vulnerable state. What a good dog.

As I slowly rose to my feet, I made my way to the bathroom to get cleaned up and survey the damage. And there lying on the floor was my dear Madison. She had not gone for help. She had not locked the door behind her. She had left the room in disgust. She was not my hero. She was embarrassed to be seen with me.

And I'm still not sure where all the urine came from.

Bitch.

Bye-Bye Caffeine

noreply@blogger.com (PaleRoller) — Thu, 06 Aug 2009 00:44:00 +0000

I stopped drinking caffeine in March of 2009 just to see if I could do it. I had been drinking about three caffeinated drinks a day, but didn't feel that I was gettin' my due. My wife would poor a cup of coffee in the morning and make like it was some sort of pseudo-erotic episode. The sighing, the low moan as that first sip coursed over her tongue and enraptured her soul. I, on the other hand, simply enjoyed the aroma and taste of a freshly brewed cup of coffee minutes before stricken, each and every day, with a mild case of heartburn. So ecstasy for her and a Rolaids chaser for me. Add to that the fact that it pepped her right up. She claims that it wakes her up and helps her get through the day. Caffeine doesn't really have that effect on me, and the only thing it helps me get through is the aforementioned pack of Rolaids. So why keep drinking it?

One randomly boring morning, I decided that I was going to forego my ritualistic abuse and NOT have that cup of coffee. "No Rolaids chaser this morning" I proclaimed to no one in particular, as my wife tended to tune me out before her erotic interlude. I was starting anew. I was going to go a day without morning heartburn and the disappointment I felt every time I witnessed my wife's ever-escalating relationship with the dark bean. I hadn't yet decided against caffeine, I was simply trying to avoid the unpleasant realization that coffee did not want me at the party. There would be no menage-a-trois.

The day went along swimmingly. Catchr, my son, was on his best behavior. At least he was behaving as well as any other teething 9 month old, when alas and alack, I began to feel a headache slowly waltz into my cranium. It took a good six hours from the moment I skipped my morning Joe until the time my cerebral cortex began suffering the repercussion of caffeine free vasodilation. By the time my wife returned home from school, I was all but completely hobbled. Every beautiful sound my son made pounded farther and farther into my brain. Each coo he made and every da-da he uttered may as well have been a volley of cannon fire against the side of my head.

And my wife smiled.

Her fiendish lover was now my arch nemesis, but his name had changed. He was no longer that seductive brown bean, brewed in homes all over the world...every morning. No. His name was Caffeine. My wife offered repeatedly to go across the street and pick up some sort of fix to help me through the night, but I declined. I was determined to fight this demon alone...or maybe with half a bottle of ibuprofen. But I would go it "cold turkey". I don't know the origins of the saying, but now I truly know what it means.

For seven days I suffered from a low-grade headache, even after ingesting the recommended limit of ibuprofen. I did not slip. I did not waiver. With the utmost resolve, I persevered through this ordeal and came out a better, stronger, more liberated person. Admittedly, I have few drink options now. I still enjoy the taste of coffee and will sneak a sip every once in a blue moon. However, I have stayed away from becoming a decaffeinated coffee drinker due to the aforementioned heartburn issues. Besides, walking around with coffee breath and a mild case of diarrhea, without any of the fun of having any addictive substance coursing through my veins just seems absurd.

Have a great day. And drink tea...you won't smell as bad.

Wow, You're Reading This

noreply@blogger.com (PaleRoller) — Tue, 04 Aug 2009 19:02:00 +0000

I started "blogging" about a week ago because I became VERY bored with the Facebook experience that I was having. One-line updates from people that may, or may not, have been my friend at one point in my life were nice. You can easily check out how much better, or worse, off they are than you. Have they gotten fat? Are they bald? Do they appear, on the surface, to be generally happier in their lives than I am in mine? This is the purpose of Facebook, but I wanted more.

I am stricken with what some call insomnia. I think of it as over-active cerebralization. I lay in bed, listening to the sound of my wife's nose whistling away and I ponder all those things that I could be doing if I weren't laying in bed hoping to fall asleep. What is the last thing a "normal" person thinks about before dozing off? My wife's head hits the pillow and BAM...she's out. Like a prize-fighter taking a dive, she ain't gettin' up for nothing. I wish that were me...but it's not.

Sometimes I talk to my wife in her sleep. Most of the times our "sleepy conversations" are simply a series of grunts and clicks on her part and a barrage of, "I'm sorry, I thought you were awake"s on my part. Sometimes she does talk to me though. These are relatively coherent conversations that she "seems to remember" in the morning. She may actually have been awake during the conversations, but it seems more mystical to tell myself that I was talking straight into her brain. Maybe I was. Like Mr. Owl says, "The world may never know."