My latest column for SportsBubbler is up. It discusses why Brewer fans, nearly 20 years after it was discontinued, still love the old “ball and glove” logo. It’s pretty deep stuff.
As I mentioned a couple of posts ago, my almost-4 year old son is still pretty little. The doctor did a “bone scan” or something on him, and it said he had 2 year-old bones. (Which sounds like what you get if you overdose on Viagra.) Our pediatrician, who is a really nice woman, said this was pretty normal for a late bloomer. She thinks he’ll grow to normal size (he’s three apples high, like a smurf) by the time he’s in high school.
But we took him in for a checkup today, and the discussion about his height took a bizarre turn. Somehow, she started asking questions of me, and whether I was a late bloomer. It went something like this:
Doctor: “So Chris, were you a late bloomer?”
Me: ”Yeah, I was always pretty small for my age.”
Doctor: “So, in the early years of high school, you got picked on a lot, teased quite a bit for being small?”
Me: “Uhhhhh….”
Doctor: “So puberty was a little late for you, you didn’t start seeing changes in your privates until 13 or 14?”
Me (squirming): “Uhhhhh….”
Doctor: “So, you started shaving late, maybe your voice didn’t change until junior year or so? It’s harder for boys to tell, because they don’t have a period.”
Me: “Let’s just say I would consider myself to be a late bloomer. And that’s pretty much it.”
I mean seriously, WTF? How did this checkup for my kid somehow become about me? Should I have started asking her about when she grew boobs? This seemed to be a little too much of a one-way conversation. Now, having to re-live being picked on in high school is going to force me to see a completely different doctor. ObamaCare better pay for my f’ing therapy.
(Side note: As it turns out, I was always the smallest kid in my class. In 3rd grade, I was constantly beat up by a roving gang of older girls in my elementary school. My entire life has been devoted to showing those girls that they didn’t get the best of me. And that I don’t smell like poop, as they claimed without having any evidence.)
We’re getting our house painted. But on the west side of the house, it appears there was an underground beehive, so the bees were terrorizing the guy doing the painting. I tried spraying down into the hole with bee killer, but they all just came back in force. So my wife called a bee exterminator. (And trust me, there is nothing more emasculating than your wife having to call a specialist to remove a bee hive. If there were a list of “reasons women continue to talk to men,” beehive removal would be on it. Right behind “making babies.”)
Anyway, I had to run home during work to greet the bee guy. He went on for 20 minutes about this super special potion he had that would kill the bees, or at least insult them to the point that they wouldn’t return. (I imagined him standing next to the hive and telling “yo momma” jokes for an hour.)
He said the hive was pretty easily accessible, so he wouldn’t charge me much. He said he’d have to charge me full price if he had to put on the bee suit and dig around to get the hive out.
I admit, this made me chuckle a little bit, since I pictured the “bee suit” as an actual bee costume. Like if he were the Georgia Tech Yellowjacket mascot or something. But I realized why going this route would be more expensive.
First, upon putting on the bee suit, it would take him a while to get to know them – infiltrate their bee society. Get to know their traditions and customs. Befriend enough of them to be trusted.
Then, at Thanksgiving dinner, having earned their trust, he turns on them and sprays them all. Someone yells “I knew it was you – you broke my heart!” Then he grabs the yams and takes off running. Then I pay him $75.
But instead, he just sprayed the hive. Seems like it worked.
A brief moment of self-indulgence, if I may…
My wife asked me to look through some of my old medical records, to see if my growth pattern matched that of my son. (I was always little, as is he.) When I started digging through my old records, I found a gold mine of old test scores, report cards, and teacher comments from when I was between seven and twelve years old. And it’s unbelievable.
I always knew I aggravated my parents – nary a weekend was spent without being grounded in high school. But I was always smart – I destroyed every standardized test they put in my way from the age of five until I took my SATs (we didn’t take the ACT in Virginia, where I went to high school.) In 5th grade, I made it to the state spelling bee (competing against kids that were, in some cases, two years older), and almost made it to the national bee in Washington, D.C. (When I missed a word, it resulted in me ripping my contestant number card in half, throwing it on the stage, and storming off in tears. I think my parents let me get all the way to the parking lot before they finally got out of their seats to come get me, thinking people wouldn’t know I was their kid if they waited a couple of minutes.)
But my grades were another matter. Let’s just say… I was a little disinterested in schoolwork. And reading first hand accounts about exactly how lazy I was is chilling. And gives me a new perspective on how frustrated my parents must have been. For instance, I was seven years old when a teacher wrote this about me:
“Chris has an inquiring mind. He is extremely verbal and can communicate on an adult level. Though he is an avid reader, he becomes impatient with tasks that require him to do research. He enjoys assignments which challenge his creative abilities in the arts. I believe with maturation, he will be able to attend to tasks which require academic input at a higher level of thinking.” – Mrs. Toma, 1980
Even spookier is how teachers essentially foretold what I would be doing now, at age 36. It’s almost as if my life were pre-programmed at age 8:
“Christian is an extraordinarily witty and creative child. His abilities of elaboration, fluency, and flexibility apply to his performances in figural tasks and in verbal tasks. Christian however does not work up to his ability because he lacks self-discipline. Frequent incomplete assignments result from his inability to concentrate and persist on tasks that do not interest him. Christian’s behavior is also very dependent on the reaction of others. Christian needs regular stimulation of his creative abilities and positive structuring of his intellectual program.” – Nancy Gerke. June 1981
In 5th grade, my favorite teacher was Mr. Kliener. He was a cool guy – yet secretly, that bastard was stabbing me in the back with his letters to my parents. I was 9 years old when he wrote this:
“Chris is extremely bright, creative, and energetic. He is in the ACE (gifted) program. He constantly needs to be challenged and channeled. In writing, he is inventive, creative, but unsound mechanically. He is outstanding on the computer and has one at home. He enjoys creative dramatics as he enjoys having an audience for his antics. Any B’s on his record probably would have been A’s were it not for unproductive behavior. Chris loves brain teasers, puzzles, and word play. He is excellent in Art. Please consider for placement in any enrichment programs available. Thank you.” – David Kleiner, March 1983
Exhuming my childhood may not have been such a good idea. For one, it makes me want to call my parents immediately and apologize for what a disappointment I was for them. I can’t imagine how frustrating it would be to have a kid who clearly has a high intellectual ceiling, but throws it all away. (If I were an 8 year old today, chances of me being diagnosed as ADD are about 98%.) They saw a future doctor or a lawyer, while I clearly had other options in mind.
Plus, there’s the whole issue about whether my life has been predestined all along. In my life, have the decisions that I’ve made actually made any difference? Or was I always going to end up right where I am now, writing goofball blog posts and political commentary? It’s a little harrowing to think that somehow, your life just followed a blueprint, rather than your choices making it what it is. Given what was written about me, I have a hard time distinguishing 8 year old Chris from 36 year old Chris. Have all my life’s experiences meant nothing?
(Boobs.)
I have another post up at SportsBubbler today. Go check it out.
Also, I will be on “Sunday Insight with Charlie Sykes” in Milwaukee on Sunday morning. WATCH!
I’m sorry, I know this is one of the oldest gags on the internet, but it made me laugh…
(Via James T.)
My newest column went up on the WPRI website today. It makes the obvious connection between an obscure Digital Underground album from 1998 and the upcoming gubernatorial race in Wisconsin.
Next up: A discussion of how “The Humpty Dance” relates to President Obama’s proposed health care bill. (Hint: Don’t look for any disease to be covered that you may have caught while getting busy in a Burger King bathroom.)
Despite being in Chicago treating the fam to all the museum and aquarium time they can handle, I was able to bang out a sports column for SportsBubbler.com. Included are:
Read it here.
One of the questions I get the most from people is “where is your office?” You see, my employer’s main office is in the Milwaukee area, but we have an office set up here in Madison, right off the beltline.
When I try to explain to people where it is, I name a couple places that are nearby, and usually get blank stares. Then, I say “it’s right over by Selective Video,” and they go “ahhhhhh….”
Selective Video is a porn shop tucked away in a valley just off Todd Drive near the beltline. While nobody will ever admit to going there, everyone seems to know where it is. Their motto: “We Never Close.”
Needless to say, being so close to an adult entertainment establishment, I’ve seen some pretty sketchy things going on in the parking lot. Occasionally, some old, fat, bearded farmer type will pull up in a pickup truck, get out, walk over to another car where a comely young lass is sitting, they will talk for a few seconds, then they will both get back in their respective cars and drive away together – presumably to the same destination to engage in sweet, heartfelt, intimate $25 lovemaking. In the back of their cars.
But here’s the question I have – why would these people choose the parking lot of Selective Video for their illicit dealings? I mean, they could literally meet anywhere. There’s a Culver’s right across the street – why not meet up there?
Does it just “seem right” to meet in the parking lot of a porn shop? Does the venue make the meetup somehow more appropriate? One would think that if cops were looking to shut down such behavior, they’d just sit in a car in a porn store or strip club parking lot and bust people seeking a low-dollar tryst. So wouldn’t it make more sense to meet at Target, for instance?
Maybe they think meeting johns in porn store parking lots is way too obvious – so they figure the cops give them a lot of credit for their brains and instead set up sting operations at Rocky Rococo’s. Almost reverse psychology. Or maybe cops just like super slices. Who knows.
In any event, I’d be shocked if stores like Selective Video stay in business much longer. The internet just has to be killing places like that. Why go by a video in a store you can get for free-ninety nine online?
I think I just answered my own question – the internet doesn’t have parking lots.
My poor little 3-year old son is recovering from a double ear infection, with a side order of fever. So the other night, I decided to sleep on a mattress on the floor next to his bed, just in case he needed anything.
After what seemed like just a couple minutes after I dozed off, I felt a little hand poking me in the head.
“Dad. Dad. DAAAAAAAD!”
I looked up, and his head was peeking over the corner of the bed. ”What, buddy?”
“Dad. Dad. Babies have to take little bites of food because they don’t have any teeth.”
“Okay, buddy – let’s try to get some sleep – you need to rest because you’re sick.” He laid his head back down, and I started to doze off again. Then I felt the poking again.
“Dad. Dad. DAAAAAAAD!”
“What is it this time, buddy? Are you thirsty?”
“Dad. When it’s light outside, grass is light green. But when it’s night, grass is dark green.”
I realized this was going to go on for a while – and bear a striking resemblance to some of the hazy, smoke-induced discussions I had with college roommates. So I got up and got him some water, hoping that might make him sleep. Then I went back to bed, secure in the knowledge that babies take small bites because they have no teeth.
He’s fine now, thanks for asking.
For the third straight week, I offer up my opinions over at SportsBubbler.com. On the docket: Jason Kendall, boner pills, and whether it’s white boy day or not.