The Royal Splendor (or Must-See-TV!)

Nations on both side of the pond had been at a fever pitch in eager anticipation of the day.  In fact, people throughout the world watched.  It proved to be the once-in-a-generation spectacle that we have come to expect for events so special as this. 

In our little corner of the world, my wife and I had been anxiously awaiting this occasion for weeks.  Huddled by the “telly” in the dark, it did not disappoint.  We’ve been up all night watching the highlights again and again.  We were so struck by the pomp-and-circumstance of it all, but mostly the pomp.  (We’re suckers for pomp.)

Towards the end, tears were streaming down our cheeks.  He looked so handsome, so cool and collected.  When he strode down the corridor, and she followed—it was regal majesty.  We will always remember where we were when we saw it….Pam hugging Michael Scott goodbye.

God Speed, Steve Carell, The Office will not be the same without you.

 

Statistical Analysis of a Closeted Blogger

They said it would be difficult and boy was it ever! 

They say that keeping one’s alternative lifestyle hidden can cause great, inner suffering.  Based on my digestive issues, I knew that I had to go public.  So after six whole days of denial, self-loathing (and gassiness)— I came out on April 8th, 2011 with the bombshell…..I am a blogger! 

Now, three weeks into my blogging “career,” I am glad to report that KevInane has been well received by the general public.  Perhaps I should re-punctuate that; KevInane has been, well, received by the general public.

I am not sure what I was expecting, other than hordes of random people spontaneously happening upon my blog, then dropping all their horde-like activities and hobbies, and intently sitting by their computer eagerly digesting the postings, in giddy anticipation of a new one; 

“Yes, nurse, I’ll be right there, but first I hafta read this blog post about The Beatles.  For now, just stick your finger in the bullet wound.” 

 

“Moamar dear, please could you get off the computer and get back to murderously repressing your own people.  I’d like a chance to look at those Medical Fun Facts, too.  Ha……Irritable Howell Syndrome.  That KevInane makes me Roll On the Floor Laughing.” 

After lowering my sights, my first goal has been accomplished—to obtain my first non-family blog subscriber.  (Thanks again, K—  N—-!)  And more have followed suit.  Now, on to goal number two—to get the endorsement of a minor national celebrity.  I’m not sure how this will impact readership, but it’s gotta do something; Rold Gold Pretzels didn’t hire Jason Alexander for nothing.

For KevInane, I am thinking along the lines of Iowa’s Comptroller Duane Jamison, Minor League Baseball’s TriCity ValleyCats’ Food and Beverage Coordinator Gian Rafaniello, or Matthew McConaughey.  I’ll keep you apprised of my progress.  And, if pinning down a celebrity endorsement requires financial remuneration, I may be calling you.  Just in case, could you please leave your home phone number and credit card information in the comment section of this post?  Thanks! 

SHOCKING, BEHIND-THE-SCENES REVELATIONS!
I’ve found it interesting to see how people have responded to the blog.  Based upon my two-week study of sociology in eleventh grade Social Studies, I have identified four types of responses (strata, if you will) to KevInane, sociologically speaking. 

1.  Some the overwhelimg majority have ignored the blog entirely, hoping it will just go away.  While I and mostly my wife can appreciate this perspective, it is ill-advised, because the blog—just like the ringworm on my thigh— ain’t going away anytime soon. 

2.  Some have given the blog a token look-see and then moved on to other things. This is folly and is downright misguided because really, what else is there to do of any lasting value?  What are you gonna do instead of reading this blog? 
*  take out the trash, accidentally spilling coffee grounds and broken eggs shells on your Charlie Sheen “Duh, Winning” slippers?

*  fall asleep on the couch watching the new reality hit “FlowerBed Weeders” on TV?  (The season 2 premiere is tonight.  I can’t wait to see if Xanthia survived the Casoron fight with Pooky on last season’s finale.)

*  eat the leftover marshmallow Peeps from your children’s Easter basket, while checking online to see if your high school girlfriend has accepted your Facebook friend request, when your wife suddenly walks in, and you explain that “she requested to be my friend, and after all, it was thirty years ago and…YES, she accepted!  Whoa Boy, and she still looks pretty good, doesn’t she, Honey?  Dear??  Sweetheart….why are you holding that meat cleaver?”

3.  Some have read the blog, and in a weak moment, actually subscribed to it. (These sorry few will rue the day because if they ever—EVER—unsubscribe, I’ll know it.   And no one can pout, hold a grudge or bash in your mail box like I can.)

4.  Some none, actually have read it, enjoyed it, laughed like it was 1999, subscribed to it, told all their friends, left glowing comments, and plan on patronizing the big-time advertisers like Costco, Shell Oil, and Dulcolax that are never-in-a-million-years going to be flocking to this blog.  This will, in turn, make this a huge time-wasting money-making enterprise for KevInane, thus allowing him to quit his day job and devote endless hours Googling researching things like “Matthew McConaughey’s home phone number,” and “creative mail box bashing.” 

ANGIE DICKINSON IN A TUBE TOP**
After in-depth statistical analysis, here is what we know, percentage-wise, about the fine folks that have visited this blog.

12%—  People that have searched the terms “Piggly Wiggly,”  “herpetic skin lesion” and “Kaopectate” and have been diverted to this site because of the blog article tags.

65%—  My immediate family members, who are exceedingly wonderful and supportive, and who leave encouraging blog comments like “Son, that’s pretty funny and all, but shouldn’t you be working,” and “Honey, it’s “Muammar”, not “Moamar,” and please come up to bed, it’s 1:45.”

18%—  Friends that I really care for, but that I really worry about.

5%—  Creepy, unemployed 55 to 65-year-old men that think I look like Angie Dickinson.

0%—  Fellow bloggers that find this to be a quality site, an example of great layout design, of stellar, Carrot Top-esque humor, and something that they might aspire to one day.

** I had to snaz-up the heading as I could sense your (and my) waning interest.  And now, if you don’t mind, I have to go hide the meat cleaver.

 

Facebook Frenzy

“Once you’ve been tagged, write a note with 25 random things, facts, habits, or goals about you. At the end, choose at least 25 people to be tagged. You have to tag the person who tagged you. If I tagged you, it’s because I want to know more about you.”        Facebook, February 4th, 2009.

A few times per year, a new Facebook fad spreads like wildfire—fads such as “Post Your Celebrity Doppelganger” and “Bra Color Status Update.” And who can forget last October’s “Name Your Skin Tags” craze.

If you hearken back to early 2009—where as a country, we were rife with Audacious Hope and Changiness— you may recall the “Post 25 Things About Yourself” Facebook phenomenon. To celebrate this bygone era, to provide deeper insights into KevInane and to recycle one of my old writings cuz it’s Easter and I’m in a marshmallow Peep-induced lethargy, here are twenty-five need-to-know things about yours truly.

I have 8,234 hairs on my left arm but only 8,073 on my right arm! 

I’ve broken seven bones; an arm, a leg (twice,) three fingers and a coccyx. But none of them were my own.

My most embarrassing moment?  It was the first day of kindergarten. I didn’t know where the bathroom was and I was too afraid to ask. In all the excitement of the morning….you guessed it; I wet my pants, right there in front of all the students and Ms. Jenkins, just after I’d dropped my daughter off at her desk.

I can inflate my cheeks really fat, wide, and funny looking, like Dizzy Gillespie playing the trumpet. Except only with my, um, bottom cheeks.

If you squint while looking at my left foot, it looks a lot like Billy Ray Cyrus.

In my early twenties, I suffered from a three-week bout of walking projectile insomnia.

I have a recurring dream that a chain-smoking Lynx is sitting on me, burning into my chest with his cigarette the phrase “Bobcats For Obama.”

I love every kind of music!  (Except hard rock, rap, reggae, scream-o, punk, pop, Gregorian chants, hip-hop, emo, grunge, disco, folk rock, jazz, opera, smooth jazz, big band, doo-wop, new wave, new age, folk, baroque, easy listening, country, R&B, bluegrass, barbershop, alternative rock, and classical.)  OK, so I really only like acid harpsichord, Tuvan throat singing and all-tuba rock-a-billy.

When adjusting one of my chiropractic colleagues in the late ’90s, as a practical joke I adjusted his first cervical vertebra at the atlas transverse process in a posterior to anterior, lateral to medial vector, with a counterclockwise torque! To this day, I chuckle when I think about it.

I have never once been to Humptulips, Washington.

My favorite color is blue. But not just any blue; it is a soft, pale blue that I like to call Gilligan’s Pants Blue.

I once won $750 from the Dogs Playing Poker.

I got paddled two times by my principal in fourth grade; once, for taking Tommy S.’s Twinkie, and again for lying about it. Still to this day, my bottom tingles every time I eat a Twinkie.

I’ve not had any plastic surgery, I don’t dye my hair, and I have no tattoos, body piercings, or functioning kidneys. I just don’t believe in all that stuff.

My nickname growing up was “Antidisestablishmentarianism.”

I have an older brother and two older sisters. It was fun being the baby of the family. Like when they would tell me that if I ever stopped handing over my allowance and birthday money, they would let the Arson Monster out of the attic at night.  Ahhh, good times!

I have a birthmark on the back of my right thigh that smells like Canadian bacon.

When I was younger, I climbed out of my crib during naptime and secretly ate seven freshly baked chocolate chips cookies. Later that day, when my wife found out, she was furious.

I am deathly afraid of widths.

I had an imaginary friend as a kid that I called “Mom,” and she would make me meals and clean my room and stuff.  She seemed so real.

My favorite onomatopoeia is “splooooom,” which is the sound that’s made when I rub my face back and forth repeatedly across the louvered air vent on the floor of my psychiatrist’s restroom.

Sometimes when I go out alone at night, roaming in the darkness, I hear voices in my head, saying “Sir, get out of the dumpster, and put your hands up real slowly.”

My latest guilty pleasures:
*  Ben and Jerry’s Berry Berry Bieber ice cream;
*  Texting silly limericks to Charles Manson;
*  Going to bed at night wearing nothing but a “Member’s Only” jacket, my armadillo-skin briefs, and a pair of sexy, candy-apple-red Wax Lips.

My favorite epithet: What The Philbin!

My first kiss was at age 14. I was so nervous and she was so cute in her white blouse and floral culottes. With Captain & Tennille’s “Muskrat Love” playing softly in the background on the 8-Track, I leaned over and kissed her on…well…on pg. 85 of the Sears Catalog’s “Young Miss” section.

 

Medical Fun Facts

The human body is an amazing, miraculous and incredibly complex creation.  In an effort to enhance the blog-reading public’s understanding of the human body, KevInane has put together several medical and anatomical fun facts for your edification.  

Many otolaryngologists affectionately refer to the uvula as “Mr. Bo Dangles.”

The appendix’s sole function is the production of an enzyme vital in the digestion of Christmas fruit cake.

The coccyx was named by the same man that invented Scrabble.

Cryarrhea is the fit of uncontrollable weepiness that affects your eleven-year-old daughter when she sees Justin Bieber.

The penis was the last body part to be named.  Early anatomists had a difficult time finding a word that is as goofy sounding as the penis is goofy looking.

The philtrum is the little ridge on your upper lip.  A deep philtrum is associated with a 75% chance of developing the disfiguring condition known as “Billy Idol Lip.”

Male nipples can secrete trace amounts of a milk-like substance when subjected to various stimuli, like the cry of a baby, or a purple-nurple. 

Our scraggly, dry elbow skin is the sole remaining link to our ancient pachydermal ancestor, Abe Vigoda.

Ear wax is the dried residua of excessive brain sweat.

Nasal hairs filter noxious airborne particulate, and can function as a “comb-over” source for men with male-pattern baldness of the upper lip.

Floating ribs don’t float so much as they hover.

The human brain can perceive, process and respond to over 250,000 different types of sensory stimuli, but it still isn’t sure what to make of Lady Gaga.

 

Odd Diagnoses Added To “The International Classification of Diseases” in 2011

Abdominal Snowman:  is now the official medical diagnosis for the lay term “beer-belly.”

Blinking Sphincter:  The instantaneous, reflexive bottom clench that occurs the moment you see the police officer’s flashing lights in your rear-view mirror.

Restless Greg Syndrome:  A psychological condition that causes most men named Greg to have difficulty holding down a steady job— named after Pope Gregory VI— who held the papacy for less than a year when he quit and took a job as a night janitor for the Black Death Sanitorium And Quickie Mart.

Scoli-o-dee-dosis:  An abnormal curvature of the scat-singer’s spine.

Irritable Howell Syndrome:  The mysterious gastrointestinal disease that was responsible for the death of Jim Backus.

Irritable Cowell Syndrome:  The condition that drove Paula Abdul to step down from American Idol.

Obsessive Repulsive Disorder:  A malady affecting pre-pubescent boys that causes them to incessantly gross-out girls.

Tou-raloo-raloo-rette’s Syndrome:  A disorder where the sufferer breaks out in spontaneous fits of profane Irish Lullabies.

Dennis Elbow:  a spastic condition afflicting the upper extremities of Conservatives when they are required to stand real near Representative Kucinich for more than three minutes.

Cleft Mullet:  A condition which compels men to part their bad, 1980s hairstyle right down the middle.

Pursitis:  A condition affecting females causing them to pack too much into their handbag or suitcase.

 

A Time Machine Love Letter

If you could get in a time machine and travel back in time, way back, to KevInane, circa April 15th, 2011, you will recall that I am a wimp peacemaker at heart.  Conflict?  You can have it.  Yet, about fifteen years ago, my business partner and I decided that it was high time to let go of Justine, one of our secretaries.  Having never fired anyone, combined with the fear that my short-tempered partner might absolutely crush the spirit of this young gal, I volunteered to be the hatchet man.

After about twenty minutes of talking with her, it was a fait accompli.  The die was cast.  Pink slip; delivered.  After I had finished, with a puzzled look on her face, Justine asked me “Am I fired?” 

Okay, so maybe I danced around the issue a bit.  So I responded that yes, we were going to have to let here go.  The point being, I have a history of taking the indirect route when it comes to addressing the tough issues of life head-on. 

In that vein, as long as we’re time traveling, let’s go back to the 1980’s— the days of big hair, short gym trunks and knee-high tube socks—and look at the love letter directed to my now-bride; the letter where I uttered, for the first time, those three little words that can be so hard for a guy to utter; “I voted Mondale”  “I Love You.”

“Dear Lisa,
I, for one, because it’s just me, would like to state for the record, in this card, or letter, with certainty but without pretense, that I, knowing what I do, and in the best interest of all, am excited to say, that, as luck would have it, with the passage of each and every day, while a bit apprehensive, and being fully cognizant of the implicit, as well as the explicit, implications to me, and to you, and to others, who shall remain nameless, lest they decide to name names, which is their prerogative, and which is a given,”

(Whoa boy, I’ve got to get to the point.  Man, how do I say it?)

“…yet even so, as time will tell, as it often does, or sometimes it doesn’t, depending on various factors which are out of our control, unless we cast caution to the wind, grab the bull by the horns, and create our own destiny, if you even believe in determinism, rather than mere fate, which may be fine for you, or for others, though even if you don’t, which is your choice, not mine, because I want you, not me, to decide for yourself which seems most likely…”

(You’re on a roll, Kev.  You can do it!)

“…even as I, or we, begin this path that’s been laid out, or lain out, or whatever, now is the time, not yesterday and not tomorrow, unless today doesn’t work, for tomorrow’s another day, which is obvious, and could’ve been left unsaid, but it wasn’t, cuz I just said it, but now, without delay, I will say to you, you singular, rather than you plural, cuz no one else is reading this, just us, but if they were, I know that many, if not all, but not you, would skim through, especially when I, which I so often do, just drone on, seemingly without end, with no forethought, and no seeming point…”

(Uh-oh, I’m losing it.  Come on, man, come on!)

“..that I think, nay, I know, how much I desire to, out of respect for your time, because it is of the essence, time is, that is, and for that reason, and no other, I want to say, here and now, that you, Lisa, are liked, and loved, by me, because love, like like, stems from the heart, and from the head, but mostly the heart, figuratively, not literally, because that would be, anatomically and physiologically, even biologically, if not impossible, highly unlikely, and kinda gross…”

(Yes, nailed it.  I AM THE MAN!)

“…and now, since I said it, or wrote it, actually typed it, on a typewriter, because it is 1985, it seems I should quit soon, maybe now, or rather, later, because the now back then, it’s gone, and the now now, is now, but now it’s then, so in a bit, not now, I will end, which is soon, so very soon, which is now, right now.”

Once Lisa got a hold of this letter, once she knew how I felt, it was smooth sailing from there.  I think it was the letter, though the six dozen red roses, necklace and matching tennis bracelet I sent along may have swayed her.

Nonetheless, I have worked on brevity and directness over the years, and have made great strides.  But I must go now; my secretary has just brought me some paperwork that needs my attention.  “Thanks, Justine, but really, now, or maybe next week, I have got to talk to you about something.”

 

On Becoming Christ-Like (or, “Kevin Of Nazareth”)

Warning from KevInane; this post is not funny. (Hey, I can get all serious-ey once in a while.)

Jesus has nothin’ on me! 

Okay, before you start waving palm branches at me and saddling me upon a donkey, and for the sake of full disclosure, I should qualify my opening sentence just a tad. 

One, count it, O-N-E characteristic that Jesus and I share is being an early riser. I don’t know why, but my pineal gland, the part of the brain that regulates your body’s wash and spin sleep and wake cycles, is set to go off most mornings around five o’clock.  And unfortunately, my pineal gland has no snooze button.

It is well-documented in the New Testament that Jesus often got up very early and went to quiet, remote places to pray.  When I get up early, I also have the best intentions to have a time of quiet meditation, to read the Bible, to pray for my family, my blog posting comments, my job, my country, and to offer thanks for God’s provision.  

Quite often, however, I will get in a penitent position, with my Bible close at hand, when it happens; disorder or distraction lures me away.  For example, I might spy the kids’ discarded socks at the foot of the couch. 

“Why don’t I toss those in the laundry room real quickly.”  As I come back to the living room, there’s the newspaper from yesterday.  “I wonder if Felix is starting for the Mariners tonight.”  Rustling through the paper, I notice my coffee cup and empty ice cream bowl from last night staring at me from an end table, so I take it to the kitchen.  Just as I get back to the Bible, Ginger comes downstairs and wants out. 

Eventually, back to my quiet time and finally settled to have some quality God time, my pineal gland convulses, oozing out some unexpected melatonin and I nod off, with drool seeping onto Second Thessalonians.  I am awakened by a cat nudging my head, pleading that I fill the cat food dish.  Then, uh-oh, it’s seven fifteen, and I’ve got to be at work at eight o’clock.  I take a shower and sprint off to work.

While I do have successful quiet times, the above scenario is not altogether uncommon.  Please do not get the wrong idea; I don’t mean to imply that I’m at the praying-and-reading-the-Word thing daily.  It is my goal, but I’ve been on cold streaks that could rival the Cubs’ World Series drought.  Okay, that was hyperbole in excess. 

Yet, yesterday morning—Palm Sunday— I awakened early and I did what Jesus often did.  Forsaking the Sunday newspaper, checking email or playing a quick game of Plants Vs Zombies, I got up and out of the house and went out for an early morning walk, to get away from stuff. 

The sun was rising, squirrels scampered along the road and the robins were chirping in full throat.  Let me repeat; the SUN was coming up, and it wasn’t obscured behind a half-mile sheet of drizzling rain clouds.  For you out-of-towners, that’s been a rare thing this spring. 

As I walked, I felt God’s presence and his peace.  I felt zero compulsions to run back home and put away a few dirty dishes of to check Facebook.  I was outside and alone, with God.  I appreciated his Creation: the flowering cherry trees; the daffodils; and the sunlight shimmering off of Hale’s Pass.  I was able to talk to God, and I was able to listen.  And I was blessed.

Jesus realized the need to eliminate distractions and to be alone with God.  Tomorrow morning, the tyranny of the urgent or the desire for just a few more minutes of sleep—the power of procrastination— will challenge me, will face me head-on.  That is your and my ongoing dilemma in these days of over-commitment, busyness and sleep deprivation. 

But we can and should rise to the challenge—to put away our Blackberry, to turn off the TV, to get away from those things that keep us from seeking and listening—if just for a little twenty-minute, countryside walk.  And in that small but significant way, we can find a partial answer to the question “What Would Jesus Do?”

 

My Secret Life As A Tile-Painting Orangutan.

For those of you that have read my first several blog entries and are not entirely repulsed; welcome back!  For the rest of you that are here solely because you are expecting me to flame out in a violent supernova of literary imbecility, that time well draws nigh.  It is, likely, nigher than I care to imagine.

So now you know that I have some no-longer-closeted ambitions to write.  For a variety of reasons, I have repressed these urges for years.  If you have read “About This Blog,” you’ll find the genesis of this writing impulse was my fifth grade teacher’s smiley face on a story that I wrote.  What followed, however, was a miserable seventh grade art class, where I drew what Mr. Sullivan called “the worst straight line ever.”  Any latent impulses towards the arts were stifled. 

Sure, these creative compulsions flared temporarily in my tenth grade English class when Mr. Miller awarded me two bonus points on a test for my answer to the question:  “Define genre:”  At that point, I had no idea what a “genre” was, so I answered “Genre, an Olympic decathlete, as in Bruce Genre.”  It was then, a not-very-funny pun, and is today, a very dated reference.  Yet it was worth two points, and helped keep my grade at a stellar “slightly above average, minus.”

Throughout the remainder of my high school, college and graduate schooling, I never took another art class, and very few writing classes.  By 1990, at the age twenty six, the creative, right side of my brain had withered like the grape you find behind your refrigerator the one-time-every-three-years you pull the it out to clean, despite the fact that your wife asks you much more often than that, not to mention you really should clean up your garage and, please could you throw out that ratty old T-shirt. 

Sure, I had written some imaginative and downright romantic love letters in the courtship of my wife.  But they were driven, not by any activity of my right cerebral hemisphere, but by a more primal, physiologic desire, commonly seen in your Neanderthal man or the really-happy-to-see-you neighborhood mutt. 

Once I had found a way to convince my wife to marry me, and that she it wasn’t quite so easy to activate any of the myriad pre-nuptual escape clauses her intuitive father had demanded, the artsy-fartsy part of me went back into hiding.  A few years went by, and in a moment of inattentiveness (I was watching a football game) I apparently consented to taking a class with my wife at the Torrance Community Center.  Not just a class, but a tile painting class!

Let it be known that my wife, a woman of great intellect and education, has somehow figured out how to get both sides of her brain working, often times simultaneously.  Me? I still have difficulty opening a bag of Corn Flakes.  What I’m saying is, she’s both analytical and artistic.  And inordinately long-suffering.

I believe the tile painting class was a six week class.  On Day One, we were merely to start thinking of designs.  Mind you, this was before you could go onto the Internet and easily and seamlessly plagiarize other’s blog postings do a Google search for “how do I get out of this dumb class without making my wife mad and going without intimacy for a month?” “tile painting ideas.”  As the others in the class started sketching ideas onto paper, I sat there dumbstruck at the request.  The look on my face was likely the look you’d get from an orangutan if you asked him for recipe ideas for tiramisu, except less knowing.  (Although, like the primate, there would be a good chance I’d be scratching my butt, too.)

I am not a sketcher, a drawer or a doodler.  In fourth grade I perfected an alien-in-a-space-ship doodle, and I haven’t doodled since.  So, in the tile painting class, I began to sketch out the rocket ship.  My wife looked over with a concerned expression.  Graciously and sensitively she said that maybe she could come up with something for me to draw, and that a painted spaceship tile— while nice enough— would never, ever grace the innards of our home.  And, she added, I should stop scratching my butt.

I consented to her idea, and the second week of the class, I began to sketch out her drenched-in-estrogen, floral pattern onto a tile.  I was not at all satisfied with the results and I began to feel a bit grouchy.  And I became sarcastic, snide, and less than cooperative with my whole tile painting experience.  My wife will tell you that Iwhined like a spoiled little baby until I bailed out on her I humbly bowed out of the class in the middle of Day Two. 

She went on to finish the class, loving every minute of it, and making some very pretty tiles.  (Available at the KevInane Gift Store for $34.95)  For me, it would be another three years before I recovered from the experience.  But the class did, in some odd way, rekindle an inner desire to do something creative, something out of the box, something—anything— besides tile painting.

TEASER ALERT; Stay tuned for a blog entry, coming soon to an Internet near you, where you will hear about my first real forays into writing.  The posting may include lines from my Suess-like, yet-to-be-published children’s classic about the perils of fascism; lines like “Little Adolph, sat at his window, wishing for a third trike.”  It may even include a “KevInane” exclusive; that my first real try at writing was a scintillating article—rejected by the New Yorker and the Backwater Piggly Wiggly’s “Super Shopper’s Insert”— about an ironing board.

And now, could you look the other way, my bottom itches.

 

Raccoons In Tighty-Whiteys

This morning I was awakened at 4:50AM by a rustling noise from downstairs.  I sat upright, unsure if I had really heard something or whether last night’s late-night pizza was causing some, uh, distress.  I put on my glasses and ventured to the top of the stairs.  Realizing I was just in my underpants, I slunk back and donned some pants and a shirt.  One doesn’t want to meet up with the Great Unknown in one’s tighty-whiteys.

As I stood at the top of the stairs, I listened intently, awaiting the return of the odd noise.  There it was.  At first I thought it might’ve been my cats playing around in the living room.  Then I thought we might’ve had some type of critter in the house.  Over the years, during the summer months, we’ve left a small window open for our cats to come in and out at night.  This has led to the occasional home invasion of raccoons, and once, a possum.  But it’s mid-April, and it’s been pretty cool out, and the windows were closed tightly.  So I slowly ventured down, wishing all the while that I had a tire iron in hand, or in the least, a bazooka, as I had not ruled-out the possibility of bad guys.

Mind you, I’m not afraid to fight.  I’m just scared to death of getting hit, shot or stabbed.  After all, the only fight I’ve ever been in was back in fifth grade.  My foe was a foot taller than me, probably 25 pounds heavier (I was a rail) and was the terror of the school.  It was not and is not in my character to willingly step into confrontation, for I am a peacemaker (see wimp) at heart.   But her bullying had gotten out of hand!  Emboldened by the fact that I was carrying my trumpet case, and Ann only her clarinet, I was oddly compelled to step into the fray. 

I strode towards her.  From behind my trumpet case, I peered up at her and said, “Ann, knock it off.”  That’s precisely what she had in mind as she reared back and took a swing at me with her clarinet.  I thrust my trumpet out in a brilliant defensive move. The two instruments clashed together with a mighty thud, and then they fell to our sides. 

After the figurative dust had settled, calmer heads prevailed.  Ann uttered a “Kevin, you’re so dumb,” and then walked off in a huff.  I had gained as much street cred as I’ve ever had, she didn’t mess with me again, and I’ve never been in a fight since.

Wishing I could remember where my trumpet was stored, I snuck downstairs to find both cats stretched out on the couch.  I wandered stealthily through the other rooms, in search of the intruder.  I was relieved to find no one downstairs to do battle with.  But, my adrenaline was up a bit and I knew I couldn’t fall back asleep.  So I turned on the TV and watched a bit of the Five O’clock News, which consists of traffic and weather every four minutes. 

Eventually bored with the fact that it is going to drizzle today, with a chance of heavy showers, and that traffic was already slow on I-405 at the “S”-curves, and comforted by the complete absence of ominous noises, I laid my head back on the couch and fell asleep. 

I awoke at 7:15 to the dog wanting outside for her morning constitutional on the front lawn.  Aware that she is usually pretty quick about such things, I wondered why she hadn’t scratched at the door to come back in.

As I poked my head out, I saw a veritable cornucopia of garbage slathered all about my porch.  Either my garbage man was getting me back for the three broken cinder blocks I included in the bottom of last weeks’ garbage can, or…like the swallows returning to Capistrano, those cute and cuddly mangy, no-good vagrant raccoons had made their spring debut at the Small household.  Based on the chewed-up bags of garbage, the partially eaten, smooshed rotten bananas, and the totally non-feng shui arrangement of the junk on the porch, my bet was on the raccoons.

  

I then became aware that Ginger was treating this mess as her morning smorgasbord.  She was taking the best-of-the-best from the pile; used cat litter with its associated nuggets, and very-wilted celery stalks, with a chaser of hygiene products.

We have two small dogs.  We have found that when we buy cheap dog food, the dogs vomit on our shoes.  So we buy some fairly pricey dog food.  Yet, there are times that I notice the dogs being picky about their food, like it’s not good enough for them.  They love nothing more than to scarf down cat poop, used baby diapers and decaying food stuffs, and they dare turn their noses up at a helping from a thirty two dollar bag of organic, vitamin-fortified, gold-encrusted dog food?

I cannot begin to understand the doggie mind.  And I have no desire to even try with the raccoon mind, as I am convinced there is nothing there but pure evil.  For now, I am going to get ready for work, sure to check my shoes carefully before putting them on. 

News Flash— it’s “drizzling” outside, and there’s traffic on the roads.

 

Thirty Two Proverbs, Idioms and Aphorisms; (with comment.)

Honesty Is The Best Policy,
    but no shoes, no shirt, no service is a darned good one too.

Don’t Look A Gift-Horse In The Mouth. 
    And, you shouldn’t look a gift-skunk in the anal scent glands.

When The Cat’s Away, The Mice Will Play.  
    When the dog’s away, the cats will go about licking themselves.

There Is Honor Even Among Thieves.  
    But there is also a lot of petty bickering and cliquishness.

Early To Bed, Early To Rise Makes A Man Healthy, Wealthy And Wise.  
    It also makes it real easy for his son to sneak out with the BMW, take his friends to a late showing of “Scissor Slasher III”, and stay out till 2AM bashing mail boxes and tagging “Mr. Jensen’s a Tard” eleven times on the South High gymnasium wall.

A Soft Answer Turns Away Wrath,
    but so does a fully-charged taser.

Curiosity Killed The Cat.  
    Lethargy killed the parakeet.   Gluttony killed the goldfish.   The weird Goth boy down the block killed the dog.

An Apple A Day Keeps The Doctor Away,
    as does his tee time at eleven thirty on Wednesdays.

Once Bitten, Twice Shy.  
    Twice bitten, better get a rabies shot.

Don’t Cut Off Your Nose To Spite Your Face.  
    And don’t torch the neighborhood Burger King to spite your girlfriend.

If It Ain’t Broke, Don’t Fix It. 
    If it is broke, a roll and a half of duct tape is sure to help.  

People Who Live In Glass Houses Shouldn’t Throw Stones.  
    And they shouldn’t prance around in their underwear to George Michael’s “Faith” during daylight hours.   Lesson learned!

Don’t Cry Over Spilt Milk,
    unless it’s in the $4.75 Grande Supremo Double-Shot Peppermint Latte you just “spilt” on your laptop.

Laughter Is The Best Medicine:  
    Serenity, the best vitamin supplement and, oddly, Utter Disdain the best rubbing ointment.

A Rolling Stone Gathers No Moss.  
    That’s why you’ll never see Mick Jagger in a ghillie suit.

Fool Me Once, Shame On You.   Fool Me Twice, Shame On Me.  
    Fool me thrice, shame on the public school system and my parents for raising a complete fool.

Look Before You Leap.  
    Also, stretch your hamstrings before you leap.

A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Words,
    unless it’s of Angelina Jolie’s baby, then it’s worth five million dollars.

The Road To Hell Is Paved With Good Intentions.  
    The road to heaven is paved with a rubberized asphalt composite which is more durable and skid-resistant, reduces traffic noise, provides a smooth, quiet ride AND the process uses 1000 scrap tires per lane mile, thereby reducing landfill and carbon emissions.   Heaven; we’re goin’ green!

Sticks And Stones May Break Your Bones, But Words Will Never Hurt You.  
    And if you believe that then you really ARE a huge, dumb idiot!

There’s More Than One Way To Skin A Cat.  
    One of which involves a roll of Mentos, a liter of Diet Coke, a funnel and three feet of surgical tubing.

Fools Rush In Where Angels Fear To Tread. 
    Fools stumble in after they’ve lost their sixth game in a row of Beer Pong.

Don’t Change Horses In Midstream,
    and don’t zip up your pants in midstream.

Nature Abhors A Vacuum. 
    Science detests a dust mop.

Beware Of Greeks Bearing Gifts,
    and beware of Geeks bearing grits.

Close, But No Cigar,
    would’ve been great dating advice from Mrs. Lewinsky to her daughter.

If Wishes Were Horses Then Beggars Would Ride. 
    If wishes were Kit-Kat bars, beggars would have really bad diabetes.

Laugh, And The World Laughs With You.  Cry, And You Cry Alone. 
    Fart, and blame it on the dog.

Stuck Between A Rock And A Hard Place,
    would be a terrible outcome of your first bungee jump.

Don’t Count Your Chickens Before They Hatch,
    unless you are making a ten-egg Denver omelette.

Keeping Up With The Jones’,
    is a dangerous precedent if your neighbor growing up was Jim Jones.

If You Can’t Stand The Heat, Get Out Of The Kitchen. 
    If you still can’t stand the heat, see your gynecologist because you are probably menopausal.

How about some of your own???  Come on, you can do it, I dare you!

 

Blog Site Update; breaking news!

I’ve now been a blogger for a week and a half.  My “following” has grown from just a few of my immediate family members, to now eight of them.  (Seven, if you don’t count me.)  Also, I am pleased to announce that “KevInane” has its very first non-family member subscriber!  Thank you to K——  N—– for your trust.  When contacted about the blog subscription, she stated “Get out of my garage!  I’m calling the police.”  But, as I was getting cuffed, she did admit her rationale for joining: “I figure it is one of the least repulsive things I could do on the Internet.”  That is high praise indeed! 

Despite this coup, we were hoping for this blog to go a bit more viral.  In fact, we were betting a second
mortgage on it, having remodeled the bonus room and garage to accommodate all the “KevInane” merchandise we’ve stockpiled.  (The tea cozies are darling, BTW.) 

But instead of going viral, we seem to be experiencing more of a slow-growing, fungal-type growth.  This is no small coincidence as last week I discovered a red, circular patch
behind my right thigh, which the doctor diagnosed
as ringworm.  (It turns out it was not such a good idea to try to nurse that sickly possum back to health.)

There is, however, some encouraging news—about the blog, not the ringworm; my thigh still itches like crazy.  WordPress.com gives feedback on the amount of views to the site.  And not to worry, it doesn’t say who visited, so you will remain anonymous, except for K—–  N—–.  We know who you are.  (And yes, the “KevIane Shower Cap/Loofa Brush” gift combo is in the mail.)

The good news?  Yesterday’s traffic on the blog set a daily high with 148 site visits!  (Okay, ten visits would have broken the previous high.)  At first, I thought that maybe I had accounted for most of the visits.  But thankfully, WordPress doesn’t count the blogger’s own activity.  If they did, yesterday’s numbers may have exceeded 300.  But before I could start acting like a blog-diva, I remembered that my brother, a reputed attorney in town, sent out “recommendations” to many of his Facebook friends, that they should consider visiting his younger brother’s blog.  I suspect there may have been some strong-arm legal tactics used to drive people to the site, but no one is talking. 

Nonetheless, one week into the anti-fungal cream the blog, we have changed our projections for growth, and our marketing plan.  If we can simply convince many in my family to start having more children, and if we adopt the whole concept of polygamy—for blog marketing purposes only— in 15-20 years, this blog may be the buzz around the water cooler. 

But for now, stay tuned for more blogging fun on “KevInane.”  (And Honey, that whole polygamy comment was just brainstorming.  Just trying to think outside of the box.  Pretty funny, right?          Lisa?           Sweetheart??)

NOTE:   “KevInane” Tea Cozies now 50%  75%  85% off!