Costume Party: Like Totally Gag Me With a Spoon!

Cindy and I are going to a costume party on Saturday night for the 30th birthday fiesta of our friend Joel. We are charged with representing one of the past 3 decades in full campy flair. At first I was thinking 70's pimp, then we thought about Mork and Mindy, Hans and Frans, Valley Teens, Shaggy and Velma...ok stop laughing, I'm being serious. We have decided costume parties suck. They are way too hard. It's hard enough to come up with an idea, but it is impossible to find anything to wear. Unless you buy it already pre-assembled in a costume shop, good luck finding anything that would pass for any of the above. So, we are stuck with mixing our favorite 80's fashions. Although it makes me feel old to know 80's retro wear is mockingly funny, I mean it wasn't THAT long ago we were wearing that ugly crap! Remember Dexters with the curly cue laces? Bugle Boy Baggy jeans? Braided leather belts 6 sizes too big so you could loop over and under and let it dangle? Hirachi sandals? Parachute pants and strokers caps? Jean jackets with Bon Jovi and Poison buttons? I wish I had time to grow a mullet. So in the end, I am torn between 80's Biff and Buffy and 80's hood. It is way cooler to wear an Anthrax t-shirt and jean jacket, ripped jeans with a bandanna around the leg and pen inked metal band logo's...but it is WAY funnier to do two pastel polos with collars up, white jean shorts, striped tube socks topped at the knee, and Wayfarers. I may even throw a sweater around my neck and carry a John McEnroe racket...or even drive up in a canary yellow MG with a feathered butt cut. Either way, I'll share the pics.

The Fog

Although this is an extremely personal subject, I feel compelled to open myself up and divulge a bit of my true identity. Beneath a jovial and fun-loving exterior, I am tortured by a debilitating condition I refer to as “The Fog”; although, the medical profession will call it Attention Deficit Disorder. I have been aware since my mid teens but I suspect it has been with me since birth. I’m not sure if mine is a medical condition, or just an annoyance that I have learned to live with, but it has the potential to wreak havoc on my daily life. Take the writing of this blog entry as a descriptive example. I am typing away, spilling out my thoughts, when suddenly I type the word “tortured”. I keep typing, without realizing what I am writing or where the written word is headed. My thoughts are in another world. The word “tortured” has made me think of prisoners at the Hanoi Hilton, then of the napalm that was utilized during the Vietnam War, giant explosions of super hot gas…cool, then of the movie Apocalypse Now, Robert Duvall, the movie Days of Thunder, stock cars, the death of Dale Earnhardt, then an old neighbor that drove a dark green Ford Explorer with a #3 bumper sticker, my old pal JJ Wilson who drove a green explorer, University Commons, and so on. It’s like the six thousand degrees of Eli. Before I know it, I have typed an entire paragraph about which I have no idea. I hold down the delete key and backtrack…trying to refocus. Then the process starts over again. The fog will strike at anytime, day or night. I can be in the car on my way to run an errand, say to pick up a gallon of milk at Braum’s. I will lose track of space and time then suddenly realize I have driven to Target, parked, entered the store and began shopping the electronics section before I realize I am at the wrong place. Then I think how much I want to go to Best Buy and look at a new iPod. Never mind there is a case of iPods one aisle over. Milk, what milk? You can only imagine how this condition can make for an extremely unproductive day at the office. I am thankful that I spend very little time sitting in my office and the majority of time in the field. Sticky notes and a day keeper are vital for me to remain focused throughout the day. But there are times when the fog rolls in so thick that all the 3M and Franklin Covey products in the world won’t make a bit of difference. Those are the days I feel are wasted. I have toyed with the idea of seeking some medical advice, but an earlier post will enlighten you to my issues there. I also do not want to utilize a stimulant to help fight a war I have been covertly and successfully attacking for 20 years. I realized I was not alone in my fight when I read an article several years ago by a contributing editor to Men’s Journal magazine. Ok I admit it, he is the one who renamed ADD, calling it “the fog”, but that is exactly what it is and so now I have adopted the same name. When traveling, I am most vulnerable to thought disruption and experience extremes of good and bad. One day, I am completely with it…highly motivated, productive, and in sync with the outside world…the next; I cannot complete a single thought and spend the day being 100% reactive, knowingly procrastinating to provide for a better time in which to be productive. So the moral of the story, if you are engaged in a conversation with me and I am staring blankly into your eyes, it’s not because I am intrigued by our banter. I have developed a technique for masking the inner workings of my brain during moments where I have no control of my thoughts. I stare because I care. And please don’t be surprised to hear me ask you to repeat most of what you just said. Maybe I should have a signal to communicate whether I am in, or whether I have stepped away from my mind for a few minutes. That would save us both some time. So, here’s hoping the fog burns off quickly, clear skies are ahead, and thoughts are coherent!

ROCK ON!

Finally, after 2 months of anticipation, BUZZFEST arrived on Friday the 13th! We loaded up the MV (the grocery-getting, people-moving van of mini) and drove to OKC for a whirlwind 24 hrs. Now leading up to the beloved event, which I attended with my friend Jeff and his son Cody (the concert virgin), I had to mentally psyche myself for what was about to transpire. Afterall, I had not been to a concert since college (the first time). There was hairstyle to decide, wardrobe planning, much listening to the bands on my iPod to help memorize words I may have either forgotten or just never knew. I had GF drop me off at Hot Topic to buy a shirt. She parked down the lane from the door so no one would see me get out of the ghastly minivan. I was totally 12 again, a 33 year old with the heart of a sixth grader. I bought a Social Distortion tshirt, sewed the belt loops back onto my favorite pair of faded jeans, donned my Chuck Taylor all-stars (also newly purchased) and tried in vain to mohawk my hair. Totally posing! I know I looked ridiculous, but I just did not care. Except for the act of stuffing my ears with cotton to prevent permanent hearing damage, I was totally young again.

Doors opened at 5pm, we were there at 5:03. We had awesome seats, the beer stand was just up the ramp, and the bathroom was right outside the door. The lineup included a local band that won a contest (so great I forgot their name), Saosin, Red Jumpsuit Apparatus, Buckcherry, Papa Roach, and finally AFI. I bought a Buckcherry tshirt...the Crazy B*tch Tour 2007. I helped support the Moore High School band by frequenting their Bud Light stand (run by parents of course). I had a hot dog, like I was at an OU game...and it was by far the very best hot dog I have ever had! Like ever! I spent a little time people watching, which is a sport in and of itself at an event like this. It was just as colorful as the Toughman Contest, although with a slightly darker (clothing, not skin) flavor. I had to laugh when a conservative cowboy type dad entered with his daughter of about 14 and her friend, both completely gothed out. That poor guy had no idea what he was getting into. I later saw him in the bathroom, asked if he was having a good time, he said "sure is loud, can you even understand what they are singing?", well no, but that's not the point.

OHMIGAH! We totally rocked as the night progressed, no doubt I was fueled by liquid courage, poor Cody had to endure two old guys trying to be young...Oh to have been a fly on the rail watching us! We hear "let's see those phones" and a wave of electric blue light fills the arena...where have I been and what happened to lighters? We watched the mosh pit swirl and dudes beat the hell out of each other, crowd surfers fall on their heads, I can't imagine them being able to hoist my fat self up on top of the crowd, much less get passed around...they woulda dropped me like a useless penny. And Cody got to witness a concert rite of passage, the inevitable flash from an adoring female fan! Make that two adoring female fans, but we decided only one counts, the other should have left it to the imagination. We were so proud. So today, after an entire weekend to recuperate, I am still sore. My arms are sore, my stomach still hurts, my ears are still ringing. But there is a smile on my face. I can still hang. Battered by age, and stress, a little excess cargo weight, and time...I can still rock out...if only for a few minutes at a time, it tends to give me a headache.

Turn Your Head And Cough

The phrase I most dread when visiting the doctor's office. I finally broke down, at the behest of my wife, and took my still throbbing ear to the local voodoo clinic on Easter eve. The clinical diagnosis: "Cool, that is one gnarly ear infection." Now I like to think that I work pretty hard for my meager paycheck, and because of such, I like to think that the medical advice I solicit is actually worthy of my dime. Seeing as how the early blooms on my money tree froze last week with the late snow storm, I am fresh out of spare change. So here I am, reminiscing on day 4 of Levaquin about the trials and tribulations of my rounds with the doctor's office. Like the time I thought I had appendicitis, they thought it was a hernia, but turned out to be a pulled muscle. More dimes. The dreaded SNIP last fall. Ooh. Still hurts, but money WELL spent. Teflon coated packs in my nose from sinus surgery, twice. Sleep study and CPAP titration. Which is an eerie feeling being filmed while you sleep, when at your most vulnerable, and only they know what is expelled (verbal and otherwise) while conquering dreamland. Waking up from surgery and spouting off who knows what to the first available ear. Many many dimes. I think out of all the glorious medical moments, my new most dreaded phrase: "Step up on the scale." Now there is no need to rub it in. No need for lecture. I still maintain it is by fault of the mirror in my bathroom. You know how anorexia creates for the afflicted the illusion of being plump even in the face of a mirror of skin and bones? Well, my mirror is the antithesis of anorexia. I see myself and think "ooh, I look good today, must have been my will power's victory over that Nutty Cone last night." But then the voodoo clinic witch doctor spells out the cold, hard, bitter truth. It is time to buy a new mirror. Finally, money well spent.

Eardrum: Huhh? Say Again?? Whaaat?

Earaches and sinus infections, they suck. I have both, the worst I have had since I had two surgeries to correct such afflictions. That was money well spent. Clogged ears, throbbing headache, pulsating eardrums, the drip (nasal, get your mind out of the gutter), scratchy throat, the lung capacity of a 70 year old smoker, vertigo...yeah life is a bowl of cherries this week. So how do I recoup and make myself feel better? By flying to Phoenix on good ol' Southwest, not for pleasure I might add. The family vacationers, screaming babies, nosy toddlers, pushy snow birds, cranky business travelers, too-chipper-for-their-own-good flight attendants, schmoopy honeymooners; eh so I'm cranky myself, sue me. I think it will be no problem, I can ignore the pain and misery that comes with issues of the head. Then they seal the door. We taxi, takeoff, then climb...OH DEAR LORD IN HEAVEN. I am seriously coming out of my seat writhing in pain until finally my inner hearing sanctum succumbs to the pressure. Not kidding, there was an explosion in my head the equivalent of St. Helens or blowing a Bose speaker. I beg and plead for said flight attendants to bestow upon me some drugs: Tylenol, Morphine, or I would have even taken Midol or a blow to the head to put me out of my misery. I could have sworn there was some significant cerebral hemorrhaging going on. For 156 minutes I endure the pain and the pressure which I equate to passing a kidney stone or, dare I say it, CHILDBIRTH (yeah that was quickly squelched by my unsympathetic wife). If only you could take the eardrum to Best Buy for repair. I'm sure I will have to endure more pain until I break down and go to a doctor...more money well spent, but hey, if it takes away the pain, bring it on. I SAID BRING IT ON, NO NO, BRING, ah never mind.

Nakedness and Memory Loss

It's late, so bear with me for two seconds while I digress into two polar opposite topics. I think the older I get the more my memory is impaired, whew now that was profound. But what's funny is I can remember the most obscure movie lines from 1987 and the details of the bus ride where I almost got my ass kicked by Reagan Foley in the 7th grade or any classic memory sparked by a song lyric from WE ARE THE WORLD. Why is it, if I can still recall all of this very foundation building depth to my being, that I cannot remember I have a standing haircut appointment every other Friday at 4? I am fearful that Lindsey (she's my haircut guru) may fire me. I am taking to pinning notes to my shirt as a throw back to my fascination with 80's memories...wish me luck, and a reminder wouldn't hurt.

I am by nature not the most modest person when it comes to nudity...no snickering in the peanut gallery. I make no provisions for hiding the fact that I go to the bathroom, shower, change, yada yada...in front of my kids. So the older they get, the more I start to consider limits and boundaries. I have no idea what fascinates a child about a grown man taking a pee and recently I have started to feel a bit awkward. Me thinks I am in uncharted waters here. While having this discussion with friends one night (obviously with drinks) our good friend Sharon enlightened us with a pretty good clue as to the appropriate time for you to begin using discretion in your nakedness. A friend of hers, while wrapping her head in a towel and proceeding with the female beauty regimen at the vanity in the buff, was approached by her three year old son. He strolled into the bathroom, looked her up and down, and very matter of fact asked "Mom, can I pet your fur?" It was time.