Cataloged

Its catalog time again. And as thorough as market research is these days, each and every catalog is a specialized peek into the life I wish I had.

It would seem that this year is my masculine year having received glossy membership to such testosterone-rich stalwarts as Woolrich, Russell’s for Men, and Duluth Trading Company. And while I appreciate their confidence in my ruggedness, I’m afraid I might not be man enough.

Look, I love an Oxbow Flannel as much as the next guy, but I’ll probably never wear one while repairing a snow shoe or brooding next to a pile of wood. Sure, I like the idea of wool-lined, fire hose nylon pants, but then I remember that I live in a house and not on a crab boat.

And just in time for Conceal/Carry, this year, I received my first Russell’s for Men. That’s right, ladies, open this catalog at your own risk, and don’t blame us when you get the vapors so far from your fainting couches.

To truly experience the world of Russell’s for Men, it helps to picture Ernest Hemingway on meth. But you know what Hemmingway never had? A combination adjustable wrench, screwdriver, 1 3/8-inch stainless steel blade, and money clip that he could attach to his belt.

I must say, though, the idea of an ostrich skin bi-fold wallet appeals to me in a very primal way. And I hope, as the ostrich died, he had a moment of clarity where, if only just for a moment, he knew that his entire existence was so that his flesh could eventually absorb humidity from my ass. It’s called holding dominion over Nature, pal. Genesis 1-26. Look it up. And, while you’re at it, note the wrinkles and range marks of the hand-tooled leather Bible cover for just $69.95.

But I think Russell’s for Men’s greatest gift to the holiday season is its comprehensive array of military-inspired letter openers. With the Mark 2, the M3, and the Push Dagger, just to name a few, you can not only open the letter, but you can also kill the messenger.

I’m sorry L.L. Bean, but I’m a man now. Signals? Why don’t you hook up with your friend Wireless and go occupy The Vermont Country Store, you Hippie.

And if you ever feel like filling my mailbox again, be warned that I also now have a desk holster. It fits “most” pistols. Page 25.

-Dylan

This Week’s Menu

I’m on something of an “exotic foods” kick these days, so I thought I would share this week’s menu with you on the off chance you wanted to join me on my culinary adventure.

Friday

Breakfast: Alligator egg omelet, shamed wheat muffin, and Bishop Desmond Juice Juice.

Lunch: Stumped otter ribs in a crimson and clover reduction, emotionally-abused potato wedges, and Bananas Foster Brooks.

Dinner: Geriatric squid with cockatiel sauce, lamb embryo in a PETA pocket, and pineapple tetrahedrons.

Saturday

Breakfast: Dryer lint smoothie.

Lunch: Pangaea chicken (separated), shitake owl pellets, and 1500 thread count Egyptian sheet cake.

Dinner: Jus au Jus, critically-injured possum cutlets over origami noodles, a handful of Uncle Jerod’s mystery chips.

Sunday

Breakfast: Goatmeal.

Lunch: Curried bean pudding, julienned beaver tail, and deep-fried cooking spray.

Dinner: Aching mussels, stew of Freudian vegetables with banal crackers, and Erma Bombeck lemon pop-overs.

Monday

Breakfast: Immigrant toast, fancy dandies, sniffle crisp, and mink squeezings.

Lunch: Thrice-baked squash balls, tossed compost compote, and ibex jerky.

Dinner: Prohibitive fondue, poached gull over Girls Gone Wild rice, glazed hamster fingers, and Ginger oleo ice cream.

Tuesday

Breakfast: Irony-filled crepes and tawny kitten butter.

Lunch: Stunned badger sandwiches, crinkle-cut gluten sticks, and Caribbean dream water.

Dinner: Grateful Nation sampler platter, cornmeal-battered understated lake trout, jealous berry sorbet, and canned pumpkin swirled with Hersey squirts.

Wednesday

Breakfast: Exhausted rice with a maple cramped glaze and forbidden fruit juice.

Lunch: Arby’s

Dinner: Puffed stem cells, sink trap bouillabaisse, Giving Tree mixed greens, and angelfish food cake.

Thursday

Breakfast: Gothic waffles, petulant cinnamon coffee, and bonobo bacon.

Lunch: Cajun pasties, Amish friendship gravy, and half-hearted empanadas.

Dinner: A pinch of basil between the cheek and gum, orphaned veal, ficus droppings with a Dr. Pepper vinaigrette, and a green tea I.V. drip.

Bon appetite!

-Dylan

Beast Mode, Yeast Mode, Dianne Wiest Mode

I do not care for the Milwaukee Brewers’ “Beast Mode,” and the main reason is this: There are going to be days when you get thumped 12-3, and when you do, any displays of “Beast Mode” during the afore-mentioned thumping appear childish and trite.

I don’t mean to urinate in anyone’s Cheerios; if “Beast Mode” makes you giddy as a fan, who am I to deny you. But realize that “Beast Mode” is not a one-way street. If you allow “Beast Mode,” you also have to prepare yourself for “Beast Got Hit By A Car And Was In A Lot Of Pain So We Had To Have Beast Put Down Mode.”

It also opens the door to mockery. If you hadn’t noticed, Cardinals’ catcher Yadier Molina has taken to celebrating hits by miming wiping his eyes with his fists or “Crybaby Mode.” I despise him for it, but turnabout is fair play. “Beast Mode” begat “Crybaby Mode.”

And when exactly is “Beast Mode” appropriate? A base hit? Really? A base hit is the most basic of baseball feats. I don’t expect a round of applause when I make toast without starting the house on fire.

I guess I’m of the opinion that the truly rich don’t have to flaunt it, the truly tough don’t start fights, and the truly talented let their work do the talking. If you hit one deep, unless it’s your first, start jogging. A high five, a swat on the butt or, in the case of Ryan Braun, a sensual session of prolonged, roguish eye contact should suffice as celebration. The fans will take care of the rest; that’s what they paid for.

Mind you, I have no problem with pre-game enthusiasm or post-game exuberance, but I’d prefer to just assume that from the first pitch to the 27th out, “Beast Mode” is the default setting.

-Dylan

Cub Scout Caramel Corn

I went to the store today. Near our house, we have one of those large chain grocery stores. Without giving away the name, on another Earth, in another universe, it might have been called Choose N Hoard. I have a card and everything.

Anyway, on the way in, two Cub Scouts eagerly asked me if I wanted to buy some popcorn. Their female chaperone (ostensibly the “Den Mother”) mussed their hair and smiled.

“Popcorn, huh?” I said, “Sounds good. I’ll catch you on the way out.” I nodded to the Den Mother as if to say: “I mean it. I’m not just saying that because I think they’ll forget when I sneak out the other door.”

My time spent shopping today was very enjoyable because I knew, when I left the store, I would then make a couple Cub Scouts very happy. Maybe I was helping fund a trip down to Chicago to visit the Shedd Aquarium or dispose of a body.

The doors opened and there they were. “Alright, fellas, what have we got here? Say, is that caramel corn?” I picked up a sealed bag of caramel corn roughly they size of a dictionary. “This looks delicious,” I added, and winked at the Den Mother, “I’ll take one of these. How much?”

“Ten dollars,” one Cub Scout said while the other put the bag in a different bag.

“Ha, ha,” I replied. There was a pause. “No really.”

“Ten dollars.”

“For popcorn?”

“Caramel corn.”

“Really? Made from unicorn turds?”

[Author’s Note: I didn’t actually say that, but I really, really wanted to. I think I actually said something like: “Let me see how much I have.” In fact, I’m sure I said that, because the next thing I said was…]

“I only have eight.”

There was a frozen moment where it eventually became clear that there would be no bartering. One Cub Scout removed the bag from the other bag and placed it back into the open space. The other Cub Scout gave me that look; the look that said: “You’re just like my emotionally-distant father who never hugs me or keeps his promises.”

“That’s an awful lot of money for popcorn,” I said.

“Caramel corn.” said the Den Mother, “Sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry.” I walked to my car, and never looked back.

I fear that, for one Cub Scout, the memory of my betrayal will be the reason for the firecracker in the frog’s butt. But, c’mon. Ten bucks?

-Dylan

Congratulations From Governor Scott Walker

My wife and I recently received this in the mail from Governor Scott Walker and his wife, Tonette:

It’s a card congratulating us on the birth of our daughter. This is the inside: 

That was nice, we thought, but unfortunately Governor Walker asked us to return it when he found out that Nora’s birth was the result of labor.

Thank you! Don’t forget to tip your waitstaff! G’night!

The Three Secrets to Lazy, Sensational Journalism

This may come as a shock to younger generations, but there once was a time when we didn’t have 24-hour news channels. Things would happen, and then people called reporters would find out more about the things. Later, these reporters became “Journalists” around the same time that weathermen became “Meteorologists.”

Anyway, these journalists would assemble information, verify it, and ask pertinent questions. Then they would either write about it, or tell it to a man with a soothing baritone voice and majestic hair like the beating wings of an eagle taking flight. This man would, in turn, take a half hour every weeknight to tell us about it on television.

Occasionally, something really big would happen, and the man would interrupt “regular scheduled programming” to tell us about it. This was called a “Special Report” or a “News Bulletin,” and it usually had to do with an assassination or a moon landing or something.

The point is, when something was on the news, you could be fairly certain that it had gone through rigorous scrutiny and vetting, and that what ultimately came to you was fact. There were no advertisers, and no one cared about the ratings.

Thankfully, today, Journalism has evolved. Let’s face it; facts are boring and often get in the way of a perfectly entertaining narrative. And verifying facts is hard and unrewarding work. Here are three ways to deliver the news without the burden of actual research and in the most sensational way possible.

The Question Mark

Questions are the currency of Journalism, and, when used properly, the question mark is not only a brilliant “teaser,” but it’s also a “Get out of Facts for Free” card. All you need to do to legitimize the most absurdly fact-free headline is to raise your inflection ever so slightly at the end of the sentence. For example, take the statement:  “Eating Doritos will make you immortal.” Patently false; perhaps even worthy of legal action. But watch what happens when we add the question mark:  “Eating Doritos will make you immortal? We’ll be right back.” Of course, the answer to the question is “no, they won’t,” but by that point, the answer is not nearly as important as the question.

Now you try. Take these ridiculous statements and, using the question mark technique, turn them into legitimate headlines:

“House cats commandeer zeppelin.”

“Brewers yeast cures Cancer.”

“Scientists discover the Devil living in Valparaiso, Indiana.”

Some People

Let’s say you want to imply that actor Morgan Freeman is a transvestite. You may or may not actually think that actor Morgan Freeman is a transvestite, but, if he was, boy, what a scoop it would be! But it would be libelous to print that actor Morgan Freeman was a transvestite, and positing your transvestite theory to Mr. Freeman on camera would ruin you. What to do?

No problem; simply invoke “some people.” It goes like this:  “Mr. Freeman, I hate to bring this up, but, in light of recent rumors, I feel I must. Some people are saying that you are a transvestite. How do you respond to these allegations?”

Naturally, this would infuriate Morgan Freeman, but your defense is iron-clad. After all, you’re not calling him a transvestite; you’re just exercising due diligence and best practices and several other corporate terms, to get to the bottom of what “some people” are saying. You’re giving him the opportunity to set the record straight.

It absolves you of any and all responsibility for being a shallow, sensationalist ratings whore, while at the same time giving you just a whiff of journalistic integrity.

A great, real-world example of this “some people” method involved the recent shut-down of the 405 freeway in Los Angeles. An anchor from one of the 24-hour news networks said:  “Some people are calling it ‘Carmegeddon…’” By saying this, they, too, were able to use the snappy moniker, Carmegeddon, while, at the same time, placing themselves above such a hackneyed cliché. 

Statistics

Mark Twain said:  “There are lies, damned lies, and statistics.” But, then again, he’s dead, so a fat lot of good it did him. Nevertheless, statistics have the lofty air of science while being as flexible as a Chinese Acrobat after three margaritas. Take the following statistic as an example:

“In a recent poll, three out of five people, who considered themselves in the 90th percentile at least 1/2 the time agreed that there’s a 85% chance that climate change is a hoax. (Margin of Error: +/- 3%)”

Now, I’m not going to mention that the sample for this survey was 5 people sitting around a table at Applebee’s, and I’m pretty sure no one is going to ask because everybody knows that 100% of statistics don’t lie at least 50% of the time.

-Dylan

Hello Dear

I know this kind of spam is annoying to some, but I find it to be high art. And if the “Nigerian Phishing Scam” is art, what follows is a Monet. It is verbatim, and my responses are in (bold).

____________________________________________________

Hello Friend, Its me catherine Jasper, (Of course. Hello, Catherine) i want to donate what I have to the needy. (Good for you) You Could be surprised why i picked you. (I most certainly could be. Is it because I’m needy?) But someone has to do it. (I’m sorry. Do what? Pick me, or be needy?) I have been diagonalized (How horrible! That would explain the 45° angle) with Breast and Blood disease (Both?) which has defiled all forms of medical treatment (So it didn’t just defy treatment, it defiled treatment? That’s some serious Breast and Blood disease) and I have been told by my doctor that my days are numbered on earth. (How poetic) I have been touched to donate from what I have made from this World to charity through you (Oh, I see. I have to donate it for you) for the good work of humanity (I think I’ll donate it to the “Foundation to Prevent Email Scams”), rather than allow my relatives to use my hard earned funds inappropriately after my death (Those jerks. Now, you on the other hand…). Please email me with your contact information such as Your Full Names, (Including Aliases?) Address, Direct Telephone number and direct email address (You mean the one you just used to send me this message?) so i can tell you what you need to do and also give you more details about myself (I can’t wait to learn more about you and your Breast and Blood disease, Catherine) . Regards. catherine Jasper

It’s Alive!

So, my wife and the baby are both finally asleep. I should be sleeping, too. That’s what they tell you to do, sleep when the baby sleeps, but I have to read to her. I read to her in a whisper as not to wake her, but in hopes that the information will reach her somehow. (Sure she doesn’t even know what her fingers are for yet, and she still regularly punches herself in the eye, but I have to try).

I read the baby books that my wife and I read. The ones that say she’s supposed to sleep for 16 ½ hours a day. The ones that say she’s supposed to eat every three hours. The ones that assure us that she will eventually learn the difference between night and day. She needs to know this stuff or else the system, devised by two wonderfully analytical parents, will break down.

When we found out we were pregnant, my wife and I couldn’t have known that we would one day be inviting a 9-pound, manic/depressive, abusive milkoholic into our lives. And now we have to think only happy thoughts or she’ll blink us into the cornfield like that Twilight Zone episode starring the kid from Lost in Space. Or worse yet, she’ll poop stone ground Dijon mustard on us.

For being so immature, she’s devised a brilliant method of making us remove her diaper so she can freely loose her cannon-like bowels, unencumbered by any form of absorbent barrier.

Sometimes she’ll make a face, and my wife will say:  “Do you think she’s pooping?” Countless times she has lured us into removing her diaper right before she turned her changing pad into a monochrome Jackson Pollock. But we’re getting wise. Now we listen for that hearty sound; the sound of someone with a mouthful of cream cheese blowing it through a harmonica. That’s when we know it’s real.

I must go now; I hear her stirring and she will want to feed. Over and over again I tell her that Daddy can’t lactate, but still she sucks holes in his tee shirts seeking sweet sustenance. In that dark place, I know that she will not stop until she bends Nature to her will, and her beleaguered father weeps man-milk from his furry bosom.

-Dylan

The Magic Pool Noodle

As I write this, my wife is experiencing what’s called Pre-labor. This is the point where cramps, which sound benign and kind of cute, become contractions, which are anything but.

Even the word “contraction” is loaded with gravitas. A “contract” is a binding document; once signed, there’s no turning back. And we all know what happens when a “contract” is taken out on someone. Suffice to say that it doesn’t end well.

Right now, these contractions are just warming up. The uterus is doing some easy cardio, light circuit training, and maybe enjoying a smoothie before the main event where it will attempt to squeeze a baby out of an impossible opening like toothpaste out of a tube.

Believe it or not, some women find this to be uncomfortable, my wife included.

Thankfully, we’ve discovered the miracle cure for Pre-labor contractions. This thing:

The Magic Pool Noodle

The Magic Pool Noodle

It’s one of those flexible Styrofoam pool noodles cut to roughly 20 inches.

I first saw it when the instructor from our birthing class brought out a crate of various massage tools. Naturally, I was skeptical because “skeptical” is pretty much my default setting. But after using it on and off for 12 hours, both my wife and I agree that it’s the best $1 we’ve ever spent.

You use it like this:

The Magic Pool Noodle Doin' Its Voodoo

The Magic Pool Noodle Doin

It’s flexible for that coveted wrap-around effect, and it evenly displaces the pressure so the partner can really lean into it. I’m under no illusions that it will put so much as a dent in the active phase contractions, but for now, it’s making for a smooth start.