I have a bone to pick with the LGBTQ+ community. I wouldn't go so far as to say I'm mad at the group as a whole, but I definitely have beef.

Anyone who has read anything on this blog knows this isn't about sex or gender at all. Whatever LGBTQ+ people do with their bodies is as beautiful or disgusting as the shit straights do with theirs. Live loud, live proud. Go you. . . like . . . as a group.

I'm having flashbacks to pre-grad school. While those words hold no real polarizing valence, I can tell you with certainty, it's a good thing.

Back in Boston, inhabiting coffee shops. I find various cozy electrified nooks and each day brings new coworkers with colorful tales to overhear. You never forget the first break-up you get to completely overhear one side off.

"Tell me what I just said? What did I just say? Cause you're not even listening. Ok, a summary, the gist, of what I just said? It IS important! This is the whole problem. UUUUUfffff. You're infuriating."

Solid content.

I'm still on superheroes.

But today we're coming at the subject from a completely different angle.

I think comics writers have messed up a bunch of these origin stories. In what Social Psychology calls the Fundamental Attribution Error, many of these stories have emphasized the person as the driving force of their own destiny, and discounted the undeniable importance of the situation. To wit, readers or viewers first meet the young Carol Danvers, Peter Parker, Clark Kent (as a kid pre-powers), Hal Jordan, etc. pre-powers. As a viewer, we feel we understand the moral fiber of these characters before they realize their powers. But I think, for many of them, perhaps their powers ended up being the driving force of their future nature.

A great number of super-villains and evil mutants emit energy beams/lasers/fire/spikes/insert-dangerous-substance-or-weapon shooting from somewhere on/in their body. In my mind, the day you get pissed and turn the JV basketball team into a shish-kebab with your pre-pubescent projectile extrusions, is the day your "good guy" status also gets skewered through the heart. During that double-dutch tournament where Macy's feet begin emitting systemic booms, destroying the gym and killing everyone on the bleachers, she's probs not gonna be drafted to the superhero league of cool kids the next season. Macy's on the run. And that's how Macy became a super-villain.

I was b b b b born to be b b b bad!

I didn't take the dogs out to go to the bathroom before going to bed for a number of reasons.

First and foremost, I was going to bed early. Usually I'm up well past midnight, but I decided to try and start my day bright and early this Tuesday, so I was in the bathroom finishing my bedtime routine around 11:30. This all matters because my wife had gone upstairs a mere hour and a half before me, and both dogs went outside to the bathroom with her, before the little one, the mama's boy, went to crawl into bed with my wife. These dogs can hold it for quite some time, so I figure even with the 1.5 hour start, both of them would be comfortable until morning, 6 hours away.

Second, we have a doggy-door. So really, our polly-prissy-pants pitbulls can expel whatever they want, whenever they want. They have compete, and one could argue, too much, freedom.

"Dad, please open the human door for us for no apparent reason!"

If you need to  pee. Go pee. If you need to poop, same thing. Go poop.

And finally, the last reason I didn't wake up the pups to take them out to pee is that I'm lazy sometimes. Most of all right before bed. And I didn't want to take them out, knowing the probable outcome of that action would be one of them barking into the night like a cacophonous metaphor for life, and then I would have to wrangle that metaphor back into the house.

Essentially, I let sleeping dogs lie. Just like they tell you too.

It did not work out well for me.

I have the sharpest elbow. Yes, elbow, not elbows. It's the right one. Obviously.

Trust that I want to regale you with tales that go against my very nature. Bludgeoning. Perhaps a fairytale like instance whereby I was attacked in the woods by some mystical beast, and just before its outsized incisors clamped down firmly on my exposed throat, down came a haymaker that hit like a spearhead, my right elbow thrust straight through the beast's skull.

Never happened.

I've been wearing hats since my parents let me leave the house in them.

And then he took the clippers and came right at my face. The front of it.

I've seen Sweeney Todd folks. More than once. Hell, I was almost in it once. And therefore, when a barber comes at the non-hair part of my face hole - the eyenosemouth part. I do not react well. I ain't gonna be no meat pie ya'll.

This Wednesday was no different. When my man Ky finished evening off my sides, he swung the cord of his vibrating slicer around to the other side of the elevated chair I sat upon, and came at my face. My neck reeled back so hard, if the chair hadn't been driven into the floor with a metal rod, I swear I would have back somersaulted right out of the shop. Look, I figure, if my neck gets a little bloody from the irritated hair follicles, so be it. But I've broken my nose too many times already (3), and that face-bleeding ship has sailed forever.

Last week was my wife and my sixth anniversary.
*Pause for audience applause*
Anniversaries are like birthdays for your marriage, but they are also unlike birthdays, in that they celebrate an actual accomplishment.
I mean, unless you want to argue that birthdays are a celebration of the accomplishment of your mother giving birth. Because all you really have to do to achieve a subsequent birthday is not die. And since I don't see people having "Mom" themed birthday parties, I'm gonna say that birthdays are like personal New Year's Eve celebrations: Much ado about celebrating the passage of time as an accomplishment.

Now anniversaries are an entirely different beast. Every year of marriage is a legitimate achievement, worthy of celebration. Hell, anniversaries are important. You don't want to take for granted the success of simultaneously negotiating two lives (at least) without complete implosion. Marriage is work. It turns out that "forever," even for humans, is a pretty long-ass time. And so, every year, at the very least, ya'll earned yourselves a cake. More than likely, a night out is in order.

Last year, our dog Grover took us on a trip to the Veterinary ER for our anniversary. It was, and forgive any potential hyperbole, the absolute worst fucking anniversary ever. So, the wife and I decided to bring it back to basics this year. Get our nostalgia on. And since our relationship poked its budding head out of the soil in Boston, we headed back to the Fens for our weekend celebration.

Pictured: My wife and my relationship, as a metaphor, in Boston

Friends. Let's just admit that it's been awhile since my last confession/post. Life, it appears, cycles. And like those bits of laundry that fall between your washer & dryer -- sometimes you miss a cycle or two.  I'm not going to apologize, because I'm a professor now. And being a professor means never having to say your sorry.  You instead say, "I've been working on a bunch of projects."

Ya'll, I've been working on a bunch of projects.

But, one issue above all has brought me back to the electronic typewriter: "Why do products like ass cream require the pharmacy to call your doctor for refills?"

It's fucking insane. I mean let's think of the logic here. First off, said person, let's call him Matt for simplicity's sake, has a burning ass, fiery enough to make a doctor's appointment. Then in said doctor's appointment with Matt's 50-year-old female PA, Matt proclaims his ass to be flammable. I will save you the details, but this fictional Matt character may have complained of blood and hemorrhoids. At least that's the word on the fictional street.  Then Matt, having declared his rectal pain, got to watch said PA search the internet for the best creams for said issue.

*It is here, I must add, that Matt lost a bit of faith in his PA. I mean, he can google his symptoms to find the recommended cures. He can also look at the doctors' reviews of said products and corresponding side effects. Sitting there for 5-10 minutes watching her search on the computer felt a bit bush league to Matt. But I digress.

So, with no inspection of the area of said problem (I can't be sure if that was a good or bad thing -- probably bad in terms of treatment, good in terms of emotional comfort), Matt was sent on his way with a prescription for the most commonly used product for such an ailment that also had the fewest  reported negative side-effects.  In summary, the process of procuring my prescription was awkward and uncomfortable on a variety of levels.  But, this isn't even where my real issue lies.

Straight guys shouldn't write blogs about penis size. I mean, there are a limited amount of directions for said narrative:

"I have a huge dongpipe, and it's cool."

"I have a average dongpipe, and my dong related activities are unrelated to its size."

And, of course, the most fascinating to the general public: "I have a tiny dongpipe and here is how I work to overcome this  . . . shortcoming."

Personally, with the exception of casual sympathy for the micropenis'd (there ARE other ways to please each other though), I find all three storylines rather dull.  HBO felt differently, apparently, when they green-lit their 2009 original series Hung. The entire plot of the show revolved around the main character being a good looking middle-aged guy with a huge schlong. Essentially the guy's penis was the main character.  I watched a few episodes. There was a lot of spur of the moment sex and seemingly satisfied customers. But, with a one eyed worm that hides inside a guys pants all episode as the lead, I legitimately didn't give a damn for any of the characters -- including the dong's owner.  The show lasted 3 seasons. My guess is that it got extended for the later two because the only thing HBO loves more than entertainment is the opportunity to increase viewership with the promise of nudity. It is the Victoria's Fashion Show of TV stations in that way.

It's still free to park in Easthampton, MA. I see this as a temporary perk that will be short lived as our tucked away hamlet fills itself with more and more quality establishments.

For a itinerant worker such as myself, it isn't the buck I save on parking meters that gets me so excited. It is the relief I feel not having to worry about if I'm going to get a ticket. Personally, I've found that the majority of the times I do receive tickets, I'd put in enough money for the maximum time allowed. I'm not sure if the meter maids get sick of staring at my car during their rounds, or if their route randomly passes my vehicle after 3 hours and 2 minutes -- and by not sure, I mean of fucking course they are -- but either way, I get got. And in truth, the constant fear of a parking violation is much worse than the $10-15 fine.  Most of the time.

Today I went to the local coffee shop to work. Parking was free. Not only was it free, but there were a plethora of spots available. A literal plethora. I chose a spot directly across from my shop of choice, two spots back from the crosswalk. I got out and reflexively walked behind my car to the curb side where a meter will greet me in 5 years. But not today. I opened the passenger door to retrieve my computer and consciously decided to use the crosswalk instead of just darting across the two lane road.  The street wasn't particularly busy, but with parked cars on both sides, it can feel congested and filled with blind spots for both pedestrians and motorists.

A beige station wagon was already speeding toward the crosswalk, and just looking at the guy's face, I instinctively knew he wasn't going to stop.  He could. He had enough time and space. But his face -- the mustache, the shitty knock-off sunglasses -- told me that not only was he cruising through those white lines, he but simultaneously telling himself that he didn't have enough time to stop even if he wanted to.  He had the space. He didn't want to.

from collegehumor.com

The good.

As a sit in my idling car outside a small grocery store, a mom walks her crying toddler up to the entrance.  The daughter, held tightly by her left hand, is old enough to walk and old enough to throw a temper tantrum.  She is doing both with abandon.

A second mother, also accompanying her small child then exit the grocery. It's clear that these relatively new mothers know each other. They begin a conversation miles above the still-crying girl and the young boy who exchange glances a foot or two above the pavement.  Without prompt, the boy drops his mother's hand and takes two wobbly but direct steps toward the girl. He wraps his arms around her for no other reason than because she is crying.

Pictured: A reasonable facsimile of the event that transpired

Only once, in an educational career that has spanned three decades, has my physical fitness ever been formally measured.  And, because the Devil, capital D, run's all middle schools, that time was during my 7th grade gym class. Smack in the middle of my pubescent transformation, the Board of Education had me go through a series of physical challenges a la Double Dare.

I've stayed away from locker room centered posts for awhile now. Karma's a bitch and I have no desire to upset the delicate nature of a scale already so precariously balanced.  But yesterday. . . Maaaaaaaan . . . Yesterday. What I saw yesterday in that beat up bygone-era UMASS men's locker room, now used only by recreational swimmers, I don't know what to do BUT write about it.

I have seen a great many bizarre and impossible to predict souls slosh their way through this locker room over the better part of the last decade.  And, more to the point, some aspects of the freak show are now par for the course.  It would be weird if I didn't see some aspect of the show.  I mean, the locker room just isn't the same without Unbelievable-amount-of-back-hair Guy or Jocky McJockerson.

Or, like yesterday, I saw the dude who looks like a miniature version of the Dunkin Donuts' "Time to make the donuts!" Guy from their 90's TV ads. This cross between a New England celebrity (I once saw the actual DD guy while shopping in a Pittsfield TJ Maxx as a youngster) and the Johnny Depp idiration of the Oompa Loompa (see picture puzzle below).  This mostly harmless character has a particular propensity for shuffling along the cement floor in his shower shoes -- totally naked. Like, he's holding his towel lazily in his right, but shuffling like a sad, droopy-skinned, wind-up toy robot.


And this, is normal to me.  It no longer even blips my radar. Catching a passing glimpse of Mini-DD is merely checking off a square on my work-out BINGO card.  Sometimes it happens, sometimes it don't.

But yesterday.  Maaaaaaaaan. Yesterday, we had some wild card shit go down. Possibly even a technical foul.

My title seems like it comes straight out of David Sedaris's Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk.  Perhaps I just wish it to be.  I warn you friends, what come next may not be suitable for young adults with adult sensitivities.

Someone, I'm assuming a janitorial custodian of some sort, cleaned up the weekend rager thrown by the pair of squirrels living the good life in our 3rd floor bathroom.  The fluffy-tailed rats sampled every roll of back up toilet paper and trampled ever surface near a water source.

Someone cleaned it all up.  God bless said person.

When I saw that the bathroom had been repaired back to its original dingy luster, I also assumed that whomever had been tasked with the arduous process of cleaning up that Stage 1 rat den would have taken steps to never let this happen again.  I know I would have.  Not because I am some holier-than-thou workaholic, quite the opposite, I would be too lazy to ever ever ever subject myself to that level of cleaning again.

As I pushed through the door to wash my hands before class, the two grey silhouettes pushing their way into the wall let me know that any news of their death had been greatly exaggerated.  These fuckers were here to stay.

Dear Bakeries,

Let me begin by buttering you up, it seems apropos. I love your work. Hell, I've loved your work right into a larger waistline.  I appreciate that you have to wake up before all those people who wake up super early in order to provide them warm, often crackling, golden doughy goodness. And the filo dough, I mean, shut the fuck up that is so tasty. And with the layering, and maybe some honey. Shit, this is already turning into an advertisement for bakeries worldwide. But that's not what this is. This is a plea.

Many of you provide a category of baked good that goes by many names: Cinnamon rolls, Coffee rolls, or Sticky buns. This is not the complete list.  Again, let me pause to commend you on your decision to concoct such delectables -- they are all excellent.  I realize that pastry chefs are appalled that I can't tell the difference between each independent sweet in this category, but the truth is I choose to see what makes things alike more than to dwell on their differences, because I'm morally superior.

*drool*

Among these coffee rolls (yup, that's what I'm calling all of em) we find more divisiveness.  The greatest division; Greater than the Crocs debate and perhaps even more enflamed than Uggs' controversy. The line in the sand is, of course, raisins versus no raisins.  While I reluctantly agree that coffee rolls may contain raisins, I'm not at all happy about it.  It is an abomination.  A perverse joke composed of desiccated grapes rubbing elbows with such kings and queens of taste the likes of brown sugar, cinnamon sugar, and melted sugar.  Raisins and cinnamon hardly mix (I'm looking at you cinnamon raisin bagels), but we can all agree that raisins are the odd man out of the coffee roll equation.  They're weird, and not in a positive sense.  At all.

When I look at a cinnamon roll with raisins, this is what I see.

Here comes the plea.  If you make coffee rolls, and you choose, despite my best efforts and your better judgements to add raisins, please please please make those raisins visible to the consumer. I'm specifically talking about putting at least a few raisins sprinkled on top.  As a warning.  Cause raisins are that bad in this situation.

I don't eat a lot of donuts and coffee rolls.  At least I try my best not to. I find these particularly glucose-filled delights are best left as occasional treats or rewards. So when I do purchase a swirl of sugary pastry, I begin salivating much like the streams of liquid that drip from my pitties mouth as he waits for the command to "eat."  It's a special moment.

For this reason, nothing gets me quite as ragefull as biting into the doughy outer arm of my swirl only to have my front teeth pop the wrinkled skin of dead fruit hiding inside the caked on brown sugar and cinnamon.  THERE SHOULD BE A LAW AGAINST THIS!!!!  While I admit to suffering the constant worry over the possibility that their may be fruit in my cinnamon roll, to hide those fuckers within the folds with no clear markings denoting their existence is simply immoral. It's immoral.  I'm saying it makes you a bad person. So knock that shit off.