K-911

There is a manhunt going on in Blaine, Minnesota. It's all over the news. My wife and I were watching TV and the cliffhangers for the 10:00 news went something like this, "And police are still on the search for a dangerous man in Blaine tonight...." The previews had showed short videos of backed up traffic and patrolmen combing the fields for clues. I assumed the worse. By the manpower invested in this chase, it was pretty obvious the guy had murdered a dozen people and tore into the woods, none of us were safe.

Our TV show ended at 10 and I had very little interest in being terrified, but before I could turn off the TV, a picture of the fugitive's latest victim was released. His name was Shadow. A police dog. The man had stabbed and severely injured the animal after the dog had caught up to him during a chase through the woods. I thought about how this brave hero had risked its life to keep me safe, and just like that, was stabbed "no less than twice" according to the reporters. The dog is in critical condition and a call has been made for us to send our prayers to speed the recovery of Shadow. What if Shadow didn't pull through though? Would there be a parade down main street in Blaine, honoring the fallen? I like to imagine a scene like those in old firefighter movies of the 90's, where the whole city of New York shuts down to pay their respects. This could actually happen in Blaine if the dog dies. Though, let's be clear, I am not at all hoping this happens. I just like to think of cop dogs being like characters in cop movies. Sitting around their pen, talking to other dogs about how they're too old for this and that. Lapping water with the fellas, daydreaming about going out a hero. Terrified of developing arthritis and being shot in the head by their owner.

I suppose they don't do that anymore though. Shoot animals to put them out of their misery. It seems so barbaric now. These days dogs are kissed on the mouth and owners leave the TV on when they're away so as to keep the dog from feeling lonely. It's hard to believe there was a time putting your own dog down was typical procedure. I had a friend that told me a story about when she was little her dad had ran over her pet dog and had to shoot it shortly after. Can you imagine? Here's a little girl, very attached to a dog her father backed over with the truck and then shot. It's completely unreal. But true. Poor dad, I am sure, would be considered a monster by today's standards.

Priority

There's a time and a place for homework...The seventh grade. It's Saturday night and I've spent the entire day procrastinating. It started last night actually. Fully intending on doing some work on Friday, I instead watched an entire college basketball game for the first time in my life. The game was between Northern Iowa and I didn't care, and as the game came to a close I felt sleep was in order. I had a slight cold and figured my poor health might affect my work, and nothing cures colds like shut eye. It was 10:00. On a Friday.

Knowing how important today was for getting some solid work done, I went mattress shopping at Ikea. I rationalized the all day shopping trip by concluding nothing was more important than spine alignment. And now I am writing a blog at 9:30. I spent the last 3 hours "testing" the new DVD player by watching episodes of 30 Rock, and walking to Subway, because walking was healthier, and necessary if I was going to eat fast food for dinner. So, with nothing left in my wasting time utility belt, I will attempt to do some work. I give myself an hour before I feel too sleepy and figure I have all day Sunday to finish the paper.

Self Inflicted Wounds?

The majority of WNBA fans out there are women. The majority of NBA fans are men. So imagine the shock of walking into a midget wrestling match and not seeing one little person in the crowd. It made me a little uncomfortable. I was among a group of about eight normal sized men and women out celebrating a friend's birthday. After dinner we had decided to try and find a karaoke bar, but while checking a few surrounding establishments, the birthday boy stumbled upon a "Midget Wrestling Match" at a bar down the street.

I was next to him while he was calling the different bars and could only hear half the conversation.

"What?..."

"Are you serious?..."

"That's going on tonight?..."

"When?...."

"OK. Thanks...."

At this point, I had no idea what he was talking about, but he seemed really excited. He announced to us all. "There's midget wrestling going on tonight."

Everybody was excited. He asked if we wanted to go. As I shook my head in dissent, I heard the excited "hell yeses" behind me. I was clearly outnumbered and I worried the rest of the group may be drunk enough to go through with it. Sure enough, we were on our way in less than ten minutes.

When we got to the bar, it was immediately depressing. Not because I was embarrassed, though I'd be lying if I walked in there with my head held high, but I was sort of depressed by how few people turned out for the show. It was sort of ironic. I felt bad that the community couldn't show more support for the little people, and at the same time I was a little relieved more people were proud enough to find better things to do.

The show started uneasily. "Puppet The Psycho Dwarf" came out doing a little stand-up to loosen the awkward crowd. I don't think anyone knew how to act in this situation. The jokes were pretty predictable, lots of little penis jokes, or in his case big penis jokes. He was a self proclaimed "tripod" which I'm sure excited the ladies. At one point he brought a woman on stage to demonstrate how he made love to "normal" sized people. He had her get down on her knees while he stood behind her thrusting while he chanted "Oom...pah...Loom...pah". A thrust for each syllable. It was a huge hit for everyone. Including the woman being dry humped.

After about ten minutes of jokes, we finally got into the action. The first match was between "Beautiful Bobby", who was anything but, which doesn't refer to his ill-proportioned body but his beer gut and less than becoming long blond hair. Bobby fought another small person and for whatever reason I was surprised at how fake the fight was. The advertisements introduced the show as "hardcore," so naturally, I thought things were going to get pretty nasty. In reality, it was no different from any other professional wrestling match. Lots of pulled punches and fake groans of pain, some hard chest slapping. I was actually a little relieved, this seemed harmless enough. Unfortunately though, the feeling didn't last. It didn't take long for it to turn a little too hardcore.

After Beautiful Bobby went down for the count, another little person came out on the stage to perform some sort of challenge. Puppet was at the mike and the little person at his side held an empty pitcher. Puppet gave him a nod and the little person began to piss in the pitcher. Our table was open mouthed with disbelief. After the pitcher was quarter full, we looked at each other shaking our heads, Nah, couldn't be real. He then poured a glass of the yellowish water and drank it with groans erupting from the crowd. Puppet asked the crowd, "Would anyone kiss this guy for twenty bucks?" For five long seconds it was quiet until someone in the small crowd yelled "FIFTY".

It was agreed, the woman came to the stage. She got on her knees so she was eye level with the piss drinker, and at the count of three from the crowd, she began kissing the man to the floor. It seemed degrading to me that the woman had to be paid to kiss a small person, especially since I was certain the pee was fake. To find out for sure I went to the front of the ring to the couple that had the best view.

"Excuse me. Sorry to bother you, but was that real?" I asked

"What part?" (as if the kissing was some sort of ruse)

"The piss. Did he really pee in that pitcher?"

"I don't know man, but there was definitely a dick in there. It looked real from here."

I walked back to our table, the fifty dollars now seeming more justified. The little person left the stage, while Puppet announced a different proposal to the crowd.

"I will staple a dollar to my ballsack and keep it there for as many seconds as there are dollars offered by the highest bidder."
"TEN", was yelled from the crowd, followed by "TWENTY". One of the little people was acting as an auctioneer, and eventually got some drunken asshole to bid sixty dollars.

The stapler was brought out. It was one of those old staple guns like the one Clark Grizwald uses to staple lights to his roof in the movie "Christmas Vacation". To prove the stapler was real, it was tested beforehand by stapling a dollar to the back of the chair Puppet was going to sit on. With a pop the staple was driven into the dollar where it clung securely to the chair. It was definitely real. Puppet sat down and took a single testicle outside of his speedo. A Dollar was brought up and pressed firmly to his ball, the bidder was actually to do the stapling herself. With the pop of the stapler and the screech of Puppet, the dollar stuck. When enough time passed, the staple was ripped off like a band-aid. After the yelling subsided, Puppet looked down at his scrotum and squeezed his testicle to show the blood that dripped from the wound.

We went home to continue drinking and with some effort forget most of the night. To avoid feeling ashamed, we sat around the kitchen justifying our support of midget wrestling. "You know it's their job. I mean, this is what they do." "Yeah, it's not degrading if they choose to wrestle." I thought about that. It made sense. We aren't bad people. What would prostitutes do if they didn't have the hideous and lonely to make love to? Probably work nine-to-fives. That's not what we need. We have plenty of people to fill cubicles. There's only a small number of people out there willing to staple dollars to their scrotums. If we don't support them, I'm afraid my kids will just have to read about it in history books.

It's Raining, It's Pouring...

Snoring. According to the dictionary it's when someone can't help but "breathe during sleep with hoarse or harsh sounds caused by the vibrating of the soft palate." Or, in my experience, it's when someone is being a real asshole. I have no idea what it is about that sound but no matter who it is, and how rational I try to be, while tired and cranky, there's nothing that can convince me it's not on purpose. No matter how nice they are, as soon as they lie down, suddenly in my mind they become cruel sadists mocking my weak attempts to ignore their breathing.

We went on a ski trip this past weekend, and my wife and I shared a room with her brother and his girlfriend Kayla. I had some trouble sleeping due to Kayla's trouble breathing. Not an uncommon occurrence I know. Some people even have spouses that snore, which seems inevitably to lead to separate sleeping rooms. The funny thing is, and I am sure there are exceptions to this, but out of all the friends I had in high school whose parents ended up sleeping in separate bedrooms because one was a snorer, it was well after they had been married. Is there a rule out there that says you have to at least try and sleep in the same room for 10 years before deciding enough is enough? Were relationships at this stage still that fragile?

Maybe it's because it seems so petty. To the snorer, they likely have never heard themselves, and I assume by the way they vehemently deny the fact they snore the first time they hear it, they are a little embarrassed by it. You can't help but feel like a jerk making a big deal out of something they can't help. It's the same feeling I get when I can't control my loud sighing and dramatic eye rolling when I get stuck behind old people walking up the stairs. With snorers, I get that there's nothing they can do about it. I even sympathize, just as I sympathized with Kayla whom I kicked out of our room in the morning. But what other choice do we have than simple avoidance? We have to assume those spouses that finally made the split to a separate bed tried everything for those ten years before settling on the only solution.

Yet, we still fight it for some reason. I am 26, I am well aware how crotchety I am, I don't know why I still find it impossible to simply avoid these situations. There's some honesty lost in the sympathy felt for snorers. After my experience last weekend though, I doubt subjecting people to my passive aggressive behavior in the morning is any better than being honest and telling a snorer, "I can't be anywhere near you tonight, you're too disgusting when you sleep."

Clipped Wings

Last night, while lying in bed, I was complaining to my wife about how little time I have now with all my school work. I kept going on about how oppressed I felt. Like I was a bird in a cage.

"You know, I just can't wait until school is over, I'll feel like someone just shot a pistol into the air and I'll be running around doing all the things I haven't been able to do in years." At this point I was picturing myself in a scene from Springsteen's "Born To Run".

"Like what? What kind of things would you do?" She asked.

"Well, I don't know. Anything. I could watch Lord of the Rings or..."

As my wife interrupted me with laughter, I realized just how small my dreams are. I can reach the stars from my couch.

You Are Welcome

I went to the dentist this morning. Not a pleasant experience for anyone, least of all the dental hygienists. These poor ladies (that isn't a sexist generalization, I've just never seen a male hygienist before. I'm not sure they exist). But trying to imagine what they must go through every working hour, I do my best to make their day. So this morning I went through my pre-dentist prep, brushing, flossing, trimming my nose hairs. I want to make sure that when I leave, they take a deep breath and think, maybe this job isn't so bad after all.

I'm sure there aren't a lot of patients going out of their way to make these people miserable, but I know from experience that some people do. For instance, I distinctly remember my mom annoyed with my dad when she came to pick me and my brothers up for one of our rare childhood visits to the dentist. All three of us came out to the car with a mouth full of snickers bar. My dad was shocked at her disappointment, "What's the big deal? They're about to get all cleaned up anyway."

Though idiotic, this mentality isn't rare, I can even relate a bit. It's sort of like the night before I start a new diet. I go on a chicken wing binge and pound free refills of soda as if I'm having my tongue removed in the morning. But, today, lucky for Sandy, I refused this mentality, and judging by the way she complimented my gums, I am pretty certain this was the best day she's had in a while.

Cold Blooded

I am not a member of PETA. In fact, whenever I see an animal in a pet food commercial I can't help but think about how many kids in Africa we could feed with the money that goes into pets in the United States. The pet alone could probably keep a family full for a night or two. But I'm not heartless. I have always loved animals. In the fifth grade, we were assigned to report on a famous American. I initially picked Buffalo Bill, I can't recall why he was my first pick, but the choice didn't last long. When I had read about how Bill got his name, I was appalled. I don't have the numbers handy but the man would lead hunting excursions in the plains where people would ride a slow moving train and mow down as many buffalo as they could. This was too much for my young bleeding heart. With a chest full of pride, I protested the coward Bill and chose to write about a slave owner instead.

My uneasiness with mindless slaughter was relative. I was recently listening to a song about kids catching bugs and suffocating them in jars without realizing it. I thought about how many bugs I must have killed in the same clueless fashion. I don't remember thinking anything of it. I assume I was under the impression it was just the bug's time to go. I was always catching bugs on their deathbed.

I remember catching all sorts of things when I was younger. One of my favorites was crayfish. For three summers my brother Adam and I would go down to West End Beach as often as we could to catch them. Over the years, we caught hundreds of them. At West End there was a peninsula of stones, a virtual crayfish wonderland. The crayfish love to hide under rocks, and over the years we felt like we turned over every stone on that beach.

Our average catch was about ten crayfish. After we'd make it home with them in an ice cream pail, we would put them in the largest container we could find in the cupboards. Our go-to aquarium was my mom's roasting pan. We would bring the pan out to the yard, transfer the crayfish in and plop a brick in the middle to make them feel like they were at home. When we finally got tired of watching them explore the pan, we'd leave them for something else. In other words, we left them to roast. After about two hours of trying to swim around a single stone looking for shade from the summer sun, the water temperature would rise, and by the time Adam and I finally got back to our catch, they would all be motionless. Again, even with crayfish we had no idea we were at fault. If someone had told us we killed them, we would have started crying. Instead, we'd just curse our luck of finding another batch of sickly crayfish and bury them behind the shed. Burying was important. If you let the dead soak too long, you'd smell your mistake before noticing anything else. This, unfortunately for my mother, happened all too often. The stench would drift throughout our block. Not a summer went by without our house smelling a little like garbage. It surprises me now, how often we could repeat this process and not ever think of changing our routine.

We kept at our sport, never once realizing what awesome killing machines we'd become. Even towards the end of that third summer we were still completely unaware of our impact. We did however start to notice the decline in numbers at West End. Where at times it seemed we couldn't lift a rock without scaring a crayfish out of hiding, the place was practically barren. We were lucky if we saw one crayfish after hours of looking. Where'd they all go? we pondered. I remember thinking it had something to do with water temperature. Or maybe they moved out deeper. Possibly. But if I were to guess now, I'd have to say they were all sent to a cruel hell then buried in our backyard. Without knowing it, we had systematically eradicated West End Beach of crayfish. I had become a young Buffalo Bill.