From Feast to Famine

I recently saw a couple of alleged “facts” that I found interesting. The first claim was that women are better able to accurately perceive personality traits of men they find attractive. This alone raises a great many points of interest. Would the opposite be true if we were 2016-07-23-14-24-37-0238speaking of a dude that was found to be unattractive? You know the ugly dude with a heart of gold, but women can’t see his good traits because he has a face like the mangy butt of a bull moose?
There there, good guy. You are entering the friend zone even as she pines away over the abusive serial adulterer with smoldering good looks. Shouldn’t these good looks have made him more susceptible to her vaunted powers of discernment? Or is it that she truly knows that the ugly dude is the good guy and 16807287_387838711592617_6832277088332156708_nthe hunky guy is an arse, but she really doesn’t care?


I would claim, at this point, that this first “fact” is debunked by the example above. However, there is another wrinkle presented in the second supposed “fact”. This one claims that women are more attracted to men who other women find attractive. I can get behind this one based solely on my high-school love life. It went something like this: There was me, the new guy on campus. All would remain quiet for a time until the new herd decided I was not, in fact, a threat to continued survival. Phase two begins when a brave young lady would express interest. Inevitably, there would be a slow but steady buildup of interested parties until such point a teen aged boy could hardly choose but must lest the now agitated males decide to form an aggressive pack. If you’ve ever stood alone against an entire football team, you’ll recognize how uncomfortable it is knowing that you can’t dip out but you should because you’d rather not be forced to drag your own carcass away from the scene of your own murder. In either case, this begins the domino effect that takes you from feast to famine which is kind of ok at the time because all the teeth in your stomach are a great appetite suppressant. One girl loses interest and *poof! They are all gone and I am a social pariah.

I propose that a different perspective can be gleaned from whatever survey determined the two aforementioned “facts”. Perhaps women are less adept a discerning good personality traits in a man as other women come to find him less attractive. Or maybe this is all hogwash and, like men, women see what they want in the one they are attracted to. Maybe they are just more attracted to the one everybody else wants. Holy crap I just realized that the ladies are as competitive as men. My teen years make so much sense right now…

You’ll Never Find Your Super Power While Wearing Clothes

I had a fun little thought while I was showering this morning. The bathroom is where most of my most interesting thoughts come from, after all. I like to think that my best thoughts arrive in the bathroom because clothes inhibit free thought and creativity. I’m telling you, if I were dressed right now I’d still be staring at a blank page with no idea where to begin. Sure, one might mistakenly think the shower thought phenomenon is due to the absence of distractions in the bathroom. There’s just the mirror. And maybe some books. Not in my bathroom though. E-readers don’t live long in there. Other than shaving my face, I can’t tell you when the last time I even looked in the mirror. Except for that time last year when my face started sliding off in the hospital. OK. So that was the last good look in the mirror. But in my defense, one’s face sliding off is something one shouldn’t miss. I was all “Yo, Adrian! I can’t spit.”, but my wife didn’t think it was funny and neither did the doctor who immediately had my head rushed into an inordinately loud magnetic tube. Anyway, the whole blaming it on distractions thing seems like a bit of a stretch. It’s totally the clothing’s fault.

So I was rinsing the soap out of my hair (and no I don’t use shampoo because Army regulation keeps my hair so short that shampoo seems like a purely superfluous amenity) when I realized that my eyes were open. Not that big a deal at first glance, but bear with me. I thought back and realized that I’d been doing this whole open eyed thing for most of my life. When I was a child though, I could chemical burn my corneas in the shower with eyes shut and goggles on while using baby shampoo. It took no effort whatsoever. Now it feels like I have to put forth a great deal of effort to get lye flavored pain in my eyes. Not that I want to do so of course, but you get the idea.

I puzzled it out and had something like an epiphany. One or two things could have occurred to make this possible. 1) As I aged I grew this Neanderthal-like forehead that shields my eyes while the wrinkles I developed serve to divert water away like drainage ditches. And 2) My ludicrously thick eyebrows serve as self-grown sham-wows that soaks up all the water and protects my eyes.


I actually felt the need to go watch that commercial right then and ended up watching Apocalyptica and people interacting with pet ocelot videos. The ocelots, of course, took me to an Archer episode… Sorry. I’m back.

The point is that my body reacted to external threats and mutated accordingly kind of like when Deadpool spent the weekend in that little chamber-o-torture to make his mutations manifest. Long story short: I’m one of the X-Men, y’all! One childhood dream now checked off the bucket list. Granted, it may not be effective against Magneto, frost giants or dark elves, and it’ll get me nowhere with Scarlett Johansson unless I paint myself green and live as an angsty teenager who then develops a gothy “I’m always angry” attitude. Maybe I could jump brands and use my unique abilities to help the Justice League fight Poseidon. BAM! Problem solved. ‘Tis what I do. Well, that and divert water.

Doc is going to be so stoked when she gets this call in the morning!

If anybody has good name suggestions for a dude who fights off evil with his water dissuading facial features, please share.

Mad Cow Blog

It occurs to me that perhaps I should clear some things up since only a select few of you potentially reading this know the true nature of my malady. I know it seems like I may spend more time explaining things than I should, but…. OK. So yeah. Maybe I do, but this topic is one that really needs to be expounded upon. If you read my blog’s “Under the Hood” section or the introductory paragraph formerly pinned to the top of the corresponding Face Book page, you may recall mention of mad cow disease and other microscopic tormentors afflicting my person. I realized today that most people have no idea what I’m talking about. So here it is. The truth. The whole truth. The whole horrifying truth. At least the first part of it anyway. So help me Rod of Asclepius or Caduceus of Hermes. Whichever you prefer. Reader’s choice, really. Unless you work for the World Health Organization and swear your snakey stick is the only correct one.



As a military dependent in my mid-teens, I found myself living in Germany during roughly the same time period in which several calamities befell Europa. Chernobyl went up and we were forced to stay indoors for days on end with our chief form of entertainment being the watching of birds outside in the hopes we’d see them go bald or begin to glow. Italian Wines were giving people lead poisoning, which didn’t really distress me as I had yet to discover the joys of fermented produce. That would come soon though. We had armed and armored Soldiers guarding us in school because the US had yet to take out the Libyan threat.

Then there was an outbreak of mad cow disease. At the time I thought this bore no impact on my life since I typically favored German pork (by God those people cook the best pig in the world). Additionally, the meat we ate almost always came from the commissary on post which was stocked with American meat and produce. I never even got to see a mad cow.


(It’s a great song. Look it up sometime.)

Some time later we returned to the States and my maternal grandmother was facing surgery. They wanted a blood supply, and as luck would have it we shared a common blood type. I guess it’s also beneficial to get your blood from family for a reason they tried to explain. The nurse doing the explaining was quite distracting to a boy in his teens and I can’t tell you a single thing she said after “Hello”. The unfortunate looking vampire taking our blood was not nearly so distracting and I clearly remember her asking if we’d traveled through or lived in Europe during the mid-80s. Before I could open my mouth, I saw my mother shaking her head in an unmistakable “No” from behind the frightful phlebotomist. I quickly lied with a “no” while cataloging the parentally sanctioned fibbery for future ammunition. I later asked my mother why she had me do this thing she’d always taught me not to do. She explained that due to the mad cow outbreak in Europe, the US medical community couldn’t risk spreading the disease.

“So you would have me do it?” I asked. “Who are you? Nergal?”

“What in God’s name are you talking about?” She seemed genuinely perplexed.

“Exactly! Nergal: The Mesopotamian god of death, pestilence, and plague! Or would it be Nergala to make it feminine? I’m likely to reduce the US population by a third and I don’t even know how Mesopotamian naming conventions work!” I was despondent.

She blinked.

“You’ve turned me into a plague rat like the ones loosed on Medieval Europe by North African nations!”

“That is unfounded conspiracy theory,” She corrected.

“I read it somewhere.”

“I should have never encouraged that in you.”


“Reading,” She said without hint of humor.

I know what you are thinking right about now, but you are mistaken. That little convo IS essential to the plotting of how I got this way. You’ll note that she never once denied the fact that I have mad cow disease. Boom! I need the world to know this for two reasons.

1) If you get it, it isn’t because of me. It’s Nergala’s fault (Love you Mom).

2) Mad cow is often misdiagnosed as Alzheimer’s disease. When I start losing it, please have them consider all options.

It gets even more convoluted, but that is a story for another time.

Death and Dirty Hands

While speaking with the Brain recently, he reminded me of a time in which I very nearly died because of his aversion to red clay. He didn’t initially go into detail about it and just referred to it as “The Dirty Hands Incident”. Seeing as how my entire childhood is rife with incidences of both literal and figurative dirty hands, I had to ask that he refresh my memory. Then it all came back to me in a flood of memory filled with innocence lost following a scene I am pretty sure was observed by Disney and replicated when Scar let go of Mufasa, except that the herd animals at the bottom of the ravine were already dead and there was really only one instead of a herd. Also, he momentarily refused to take my hand rather than let go so I could fall to my demise. So maybe it was nothing like The Lion King incident except that there was a ravine and two brothers.

The Brain and I stalked these woods with a small arsenal of BB guns, shooting at anything that sat still long enough. The Daisy Red Rider was my primary weapon, but I also sported a CO2 powered sidearm made to look like a Luger. Its barrel had a distinct bend to the left which made it great for shooting around a tree I suppose, but it was as inaccurate as a Red Rider. It was great though for shock and awe campaigns designed to impress my Lugerless contemporaries. None of this has any bearing on the story except that I just wanted you to know that nothing was in any real danger of the mild bruising our weaponry could produce IF we were actually able to hit a target.

*Just as an aside to any young people out there wishing to explore while armed with BB guns. If the muzzle velocity is so low that you can watch the BB as it arches in the general vicinity of that at which you are aiming, do NOT shoot at a coiled viper. Also, why are you sitting here reading this? Go get a BB gun and get into the woods. Avoid snakes.

Our inquisitive natures led us to explore a ravine we’d stumbled upon during one of our explorations. There was a cool stream of crystal clear spring water ran at the bottom of this small canyon strewn with boulders and lumps of Alabama red clay.  We began at its shallowest point on higher ground and worked our way deeper into the abyss. As we reached the end of our long trek, the walls seemed twice as tall as the ancient pine and oak that clung precariously to the edges. These old growth trees were huge and blotted out the sun where they arched over the expansive void between the cliffs. At the end of the canyon we met a rain swollen, silt blackened river and no outlet other than the way we’d come. A great buck had apparently tried to leap from one cliff to the other. He’d failed and plummeted to his death, dashed on the water smoothed boulders below. At first glance we could see through the scraps of remaining skin that his fall left him with no single unbroken bone. It was truly impressive. Despite our fascinating discovery, the sun would be setting soon and we required sustenance. Rather than trek back up the way we had come, we opted for a climbing adventure. The short cut was not simply a matter of expedience however. At some point we became convinced of a possibility that was of no concern on our way down. The thought of a flash flood striking suddenly out of the clear blue sky imbued us with superhuman speed and primate-like climbing abilities. In short order, we had scaled the vertical face on the southern wall of the ravine. It could have actually been a side affiliated with any one of the cardinal directions since I was pretty terrible at telling directions, but in an arbitrary proclamation I deemed it the southern cliff. The Brain went up first and I followed closely in the hopes that I could save him should he fall. Knowing his proclivity for maximizing every opportunity to gain new stitches, it was just the right thing to do. He skittered over the lip unscathed and looked down at me with a blank look on his face. This is it, I thought. Today is they day he deposes me as the heir apparent. I also marveled for a second at the realization that he was still clean. Loose dirt and scree began to give way under the crushing bulk of my 110-pound frame. I handed up my trusty Daisy Red Rider then reached out my dirty and now bleeding hand.

“Brother,” I pleaded. “Take my hand. Pull me up”.

He looked at my hand, his visage blank and calculating.

“Your hand is dirty,” he stated in a flat, mechanical tone.

I held myself in place by the crook of my left arm around a rapidly loosening root while he poured the contents of a canteen into my hands for cleaning. Then and only then would he save me from the same fate as the once proud buck lying dashed hundreds of feet below.

Despite the fact that it was I that had a brush with death, it seems that the Brain suffers some misplaced trauma and to this day has something just shy of a phobia regarding red clay. I’m pretty sure it’s his way of coping with an uncomfortable affection for an older brother he nearly killed. Me? I just have a fear of asking people for help because they might dump their backwashed water on me. Shudder

The JX-1

Being the sons of an Army aviator, my brothers and I aspired on occasion to becoming unstuck from the earth like our father did. Obviously not just like he did. He was a helicopter pilot and we simply didn’t have the technological prowess to recreate a rotary wing aircraft out of scrap lumber and pilfered bicycle parts. Something along the lines of a glider would have to suffice. After days of scrounging wood scraps and pulling any exposed nails from any available source, we began construction of the JX-1 Albatross. In case you aren’t familiar with the naming conventions of experimental aircraft designed by grade schoolers, JX-1 meant that this was the first iteration of the (J)ohns e(X)perimental glider. I chose the moniker “Albatross” since it was a glider and we hoped to stay aloft for extended periods of time much like the plane’s namesake. Also like the plane’s namesake, we really didn’t expect much in the way of graceful landings.

Construction of this type begins with the straightening of nails which is typically achieved by placing them on concrete and smashing the fingers holding them repeatedly with a rock since your father got sick of things coming apart due to missing nails and hid the hammer from you. With each new mangling of a finger I found myself flailing about on the rough concrete patio. My curly hair would stick to it like Velcro. My t-shirt did much the same and became a mess of little cotton pills, pulled threads, and runs. I’d wipe tears with little bloody hands and prep the next nail for rendering it into aviation quality material. It was a true test of my resolve, but I would not be deterred.

Have you ever tried to tackle a wood working project with little more than a rock? It is challenging to say the least. I know that my father was trying to instill a sense of independence and self-reliance by keeping his power tools from me, but fifth graders rarely understand paternal motives and it seemed to me that my father didn’t share well and was overly cranky when he flew nights and I used power tools near his bedroom window during the day. Honestly, I wouldn’t have trusted me with them either. I am talking about the kid who couldn’t operate a roll of duct tape without losing a tooth that wasn’t even loose. In retrospect, I really did bleed a lot as a kid. Aaaaaaaand I’ve gotten off topic again.

Without the use of a saw my middle brother and I were able to cobble together something that vaguely resembled an aircraft if you really used your imagination. It was experimental after all. It was based on a giant triangularly shaped piece of plywood we liked to tell ourselves was a delta wing configuration. I pulled it out of one of those large dumpsters used at construction sites to cordon off large quantities of tetanus. I didn’t learn this was the true purpose of these bins until I limped home dragging my prize and having to explain to my mother that it was ok because I pulled the nail out and I wouldn’t even have to straighten this one. I brandished my rusty prize and she took me for my third or fourth tetanus shot. Who knew that these things were a series? I didn’t. I’m on like the tenth one in the series.

Upon this delta wing foundation, we mounted the cockpit. It was an old ammo crate I’d pilfered through a hole in the chain link fence of the ammo dump when we lived in Panama. I was enamored of it for some reason, but for the sake of technological advancement, we removed the lid and voila! a place for the pilot to sit once it was nailed to the wing. The lid became a vertical stabilizer that wasn’t quite vertical nor stabilizing, but this was just a prototype, so it was fine. I can’t tell you where the bicycle tires came from, but we had two of them for rear landing gear and a wagon’s front axle for the nose of our plane.

There were no controls in the cockpit. I guess that in my thought processes we would just test it at this stage and gently land a few feet away after a brief and triumphant glide. I envisioned it like the flight of Howard Hughes’s Spruce Goose, but unlike Mr. Hughes, we would take the Albatross on more than one flight. There were just a few more blocks to check before we made history.

For one, we did understand that planes needed lift and thrust to make things work. While we didn’t have thrust, lift seemed an easy enough thing to attain. The massive hill leading down to our house would have been optimal, but I’d been all but banished from it by neighbors pursuant to bicycle and go-cart incidents. Really people. It’s a road, not a parking lot for your new cars. We did have a nicely sloped roof though and I enlisted the aid of The Brain (my middle brother) and Twinkle Toes (the tip-toe everywhere he goes little brother) as porters to move the Albatross from now pock-marked and blood stained construction site to the Cusp of Glory (as I called my newly christened runway. They held our creation there as I silently (no need to wake dad until we had proved air worthiness) climbed down to secure a retaining rope to a large stake driven into the back yard.

To my immense sadness, I would not be the test pilot. My hands were so badly mauled that they were only fit to cut the bonds that held our creation to the earth and I was still limping from my recent discovery that my right foot is really awesome at finding things like nails. The Brain declined the honor with the simple statement “I’m not getting in that thing”. He’s quite intelligent, but has a hard time expressing his thoughts in a non-hurtful manner especially when he’s getting emotional. I understood fully as I too was flushed under the onslaught of excitement and emotion so intense it threatened tears. So I bestowed the honorific title of Ground Crew upon him. Twinkle Toes tried to decline the place of honor as well but acquiesced when we politely insisted. At the time I didn’t understand why he did so with a fearful look at my right hip.

That look became clear once I’d taken my position by the stake to which the Albatross was tethered. I drew my machete from its scabbard and raised it above my head, reveling in the moment. The Brain had vanished altogether. I assumed he was in the front yard so that he might witness our creation take flight. I stood majestically like some Greco-Roman hero poised to strike the head off a dragon. I held the chrome plated decorative machete over my head and watched as a single ray of sunlight broke through the clouds and glinted off its surface. Before I could bring my blade down in its intended arch, my father emerged from the back door of the house with sleepy eyes squinting against the reflected sun light off my blade. There was an audible ping as my machete glanced off of trees in the woods behind the house. I figured that if he couldn’t find it he couldn’t take it away and I was sure he was blind at the moment and couldn’t see where it went or if I even had it.

I was made to free Twinkle Toes from his place of honor before I could lower my masterpiece back to the ground. The JX-1 was subsequently dismantled and Project Albatross was shut down in its entirety. As the project manager, I was placed on indefinite administrative leave through an all too familiar term uttered by he who would remain the only aviator under our roof: “You’re grounded”.

(Image is dad in the cockpit, Germany, 1988)