Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. We all have fond memories, or not, of families gathering to feast themselves into a tryptophan induced coma only to awaken clamoring about whether or not they had slept through the turkey sandwich encore. This will not be one of those years.

I'm spending Thanksgiving alone this year. I don't particularly care really. I've done it many times before. I'll miss being with my wife, but for the last seven years, I haven't been with my son Cory anyway.

Cory has been attending the annual University of Florida-Florida State football game. Not that the game is played on Thanksgiving, it's not. It's played on the Saturday following. Cory made the five hour drive down one year, only to turn around and drive back the day after Thanksgiving; I don't blame him for not wanting to do that again. Not only does it take the fun out of the celebration, the drive sucks.

Before Cory went off to Gainesville, there were many years I spent most holidays, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year's; alone. Part of the agreement with the ex when I moved from New Jersey to Florida was Cory would spend all holiday vacations and summers with her. I got to pay the airfare for each of these excursions. Got to be a might pricey around November and December. Particularly if money was tight, which it always was for many years. This year money has nothing to do with me spending Thanksgiving alone.

This is a conscious choice I've made. As many of you who read this know, I've returned to college to get my PhD. My first semester in the doctoral program ends December tenth. My last class convenes on December second. Between now and then I have two presentations to complete, two papers due, one of them quite sizable with a shitload of research still to be done. I also have a series of article reviews to do as well. Please be advised, I'm not complaining. No guts, no glory. Keep your eye on the prize. Reach for the stars. Grab the brass ring. I have to excuse myself for a moment. That run of cliches just made me spit up in my mouth just a little bit.

Much better now thanks. I knew when I signed up for this thing that I'd have to make sacrifices. Spending this Thanksgiving working is just the first.

Less than one percent of adults who've obtained undergraduate degrees have gone on to get PhDs. I expect to make sacrifices for that kind of achievement. I just don't look at having turkey, stuffing, and pie as a sacrifice. My wife Helen is already planning to make those items for our Christmas dinner. So I got that covered.

Will I be lonely? I'm counting on being so busy that I won't have time to dwell on it. Before I got remarried I'd get downright morose when Cory went out of town. Various friends would invite me to spend the day with them until I got incredibly drunk, then for many years the list of friendly invites dwindled to one friend. It was about that time I chose to stay home...alone...drinking...wallowing in self-pity. No more.

Today I am comfortable in my own skin. I don't need people around to feel whole. I really need another leg to feel whole if the truth be told, but you've got my drift. Today I enjoy my own company. Today, after many yesterdays of wish I hads, I'm doing. I'm growing up. I'm maturing...well maybe not the last part. Oh, I know! I'm finally becoming the responsible person I was supposed to become several decades ago.

There will be other Thanksgivings. But there may be other commitments as well. Maybe what I do tomorrow and the rest of this coming weekend is the stepping stone to bigger things down the road. Maybe working this Thanksgiving will one day afford me the luxury of being able to gather all of my family wherever that may be, at the place where I have a commitment to fulfill one Thanksgiving in the future. And I'm just fine with that.

Combover Beethoven

Thankfully, I’m not obsessed with my hair. As a matter of fact, I no longer have enough to obsess over. There was a time when Bob Walther and I were the very first guy’s from our high school that went to Frank Anthony’s Hair Stylists. I continued to go there to get my hair “styled” for twenty years. This afforded me membership into an exclusive club of customers that accumulated that many years of patronage.

I got my hair blow dried, dried under lamps, dried and styled with a hot comb, remember those? My hair was towel dried so it would look like a “loose wave perm” whatever the fuck that was. Tony was able to do all kinds of things with my hair because I had so much of it, no longer.

As I got older Tony styled my hair so I looked like I had more of it. He arranged my hair in such a way to give the illusion of fullness. I tried mousse. I tried hair spray so it never moved in the blusteriest of hurricanes. I left it long, and combed it back using gel to keep it slick against my ever expanding head. Nothing could ward off the ravages of time. I went to the dandelion look, and now have succumbed to the Q-Tip look. I was destined to suffer from the most dreaded of male diseases (MPB) aside from the one that society tells men is the most dreaded (EDS).

Having difficulty getting lead in your pencil and keeping it there can be hidden no matter how bad TV ads make you feel. Male pattern baldness cannot be hidden from anybody no matter how hard you try, and to what lengths men seem to feel the need to do so. I am here to tell my male counterparts, you’re not fooling anyone. Here are a few of the things I’ve spotted in the great pursuit of eternal youth.

If your funds are limited, there is the old standard “combover.” Donald Trump has one of the fanciest, highest maintenance one’s around. I jokingly used to tell people that due to my limited hair or hair per se; I got my hair arranged. Even those days have gone the way of the Mastodon. The Donald must have a hair stylist on call 24/7. The upkeep on that hair must be astronomical as well as time consuming. However, his dye job leaves something to be desired. But everyone doesn’t have Trump’s money, so they have to resort to letting their sideburns grow until that hair touches the shoulder, then they’re able to voila, comb it over. It looks like hell, but if it makes these men feel better about themselves, well, good for you! But you still look like an ass and I don’t care how your insignificant insecurities eat away at your psyche.

Then there are the dyes jobs. Oh boy. Now I’m not talking about those funky David Bowie colors we put in our hair back in the ‘80’s to show how new wave we were. I’m talking about the Kiwi touch up that looks as if you told the guy in Grand Central Station “When you’re done with my Florsheims, would you rub about a half a can on my head.” I know people whose hair is so black –even though it never was to begin with- it looks like mannequin hair. And when you don’t keep up with it, the hair takes on a tri-color hue; black in spots, a faded orangey brown in others, with a little natural gray thrown in for good measure. Hey you! Yes you Mr. Eighty year old with the coal soot hair; I’m talking to you!

Bad toupees are another misguided attempt at hair-like skull coverage. I say “bad” because as I see it, there are no good ones. Oh sure, I may say “Wow! That’s a really good looking hair piece.” But if it was indeed that good, I wouldn’t be able to tell it was a hair piece. Why would anyone want to wear what looks like a dead animal on their head? I understand men who use them to cover scars or a skin disorder; but in this age of shaved heads being all the rage, why spend all that money? I had a neighbor who looked as if some mornings he tossed his rug in the air and ran underneath it, letting the toupe remain as it landed. And he looked great without it; distinguished and dignified. I can’t understand why he preferred silly and ridiculous.

Lastly, there are the big spenders. The men who want to go through the painful procedure of hair plugs. Not only is it painful, but the cost to do an effective job is almost prohibitive. So they do what seems like a trial run. Like the guy who’s restoring a car but only has enough money to do a half-ass job. And what’s wrong with the doctor’s who convince these guys to remove hair from the back of their heads and place these plugs in a perfect semi-circle along one’s brow. These guys look like a human Chia pet until the hair grows in long enough to comb it straight back to cover the bald area you didn’t have the money to transplant. To make matters worse, the back of your head looks like a Titleist golf ball cover after it’s been shanked into a large oak tree. No, no it looks great, really!

Don’t any of these men have wives or girlfriends? They couldn’t possibly encourage their husbands to do some of this shit to themselves could they? “Oh Honey, you look so wonderful I’m about to swoon!”

The only tolerable alternative that makes sense is what my friend calls “Camo.” It reminds me of that old women’s hair color ad, “Does she, or doesn’t she.” In this case it’s a “he.” And no you can’t really tell he colors his hair. There is color (not the real color mind you, but that doesn’t matter) and there is gray. I gotta tell you, it looks like the natural aging process, and isn’t that what us men should be trying to achieve? Not turn back time, but enhance what’s left.

Clint Eastwood doesn’t color his hair. Shit, he doesn’t even do a “Bob Barker” or “Leslie Nielsen.” Clint just let it turn gray and fall out. Sam Elliot has a head full of gray hair, and he still looks pretty badass. George Clooney’s hair looks better when he leaves it alone. Not so Nicholas Cage; he looks sad.

Look,I'm not immune to vanity. One time after repeated vehement refusals, I gave in and let Tony spray that shit on my head that was supposed to cover my once small bald spot. I felt like a douche, and when I looked in the mirror at it, I looked like a douche. Maybe others couldn’t tell what I did, but I could. I may get old and bald, but I refuse to get old, fat and bald. I’m not ready to shave my head. That’s the last resort. I have so many scars and lumps on my head that I’d look like a dirt road after it rains, then several cars drive on it, and then it dries out.

I got my haircut today. It took about ten minutes, max. There is significantly more gray hair on the black smock draped over the front of me then there is hair my color. It makes me a little sad, but not too much. I know the day is coming when all the hair in the middle will be gone and I’ll left with chaps of the head, then I’ll shave it. Just another stage of my life. I don’t need hair to hold onto my youth, I’m terribly immature, that will suffice. And don’t get me going about facelifts for men.

Joe Namath's Plutonium

This blog is not about Joe Namath. Nor does it have anything to do with plutonium. However, about a year and a half ago I mentioned Joe Namath in a blog and other web sites picked it up. The same goes for plutonium. I wrote about the two nuclear submarines colliding in the Atlantic, used the word "plutonium," and lo and behold my blog appeared on other web pages. I get about 400 hits a week now, so in the interest of drumming up more interest, the title.

Two of my friends who I work out at the gym with regularly serve as the impetus for today's blog. I'd like to publicly thank them for -in their infinite wisdom- ignoring me this morning. This is not an unusual occurrence. People frequently ignore me. I guess you wouldn't call it ignoring, it's more like drifting away.

Every now and then a topic will come up that I have a lot of knowledge about. Almost always these two gentlemen choose to ignore me when I start to share on the subject matter. I can't really blame them. I am a bit long winded at times. However, what I share I think will enlighten them. That's my problem, going off thinking and all. This morning was one of those subjects, and it was also one of those times. I should have known what was coming, but yet I trudged blindly onward.

Mario was searching his reliable cellphone (laughter here) for a radio station to listen to while we all lifted weights. That Mario, he aims to please. After about what seemed like a fortnight, no music was forthcoming. I inquired as to what type of cellular device did he own, and he told me a Blackberry Curve, Bold, Feces, or something to that effect. As Mario searched along merrily, getting full use out of the $30.00 data plan whatever wireless "service" provider rapes him monthly; Mario chimed and I'm paraphrasing here, "Wait till Blackberry comes out with their version of the IPad," as if that is the magical solution to being able to locate a music station on a wireless device. Now you need an IPad or something similar to assure you can locate a radio station. My question here is "Are you fucking kidding me?"

As if an Ipad, or something similar, is the key to all that is wireless. You have phones that are able to do everything but wipe your ass, and they aren't good enough so you need to get something else, something better except you can't make phone calls with it. Oh that's just great!

As I stood there thinking to myself that pretty soon we are going to look like someone about to embark on a long journey with all the technological shit we'll have to carry around making everyone look like the geeks we've made fun of for years; Brad and Mario discussed the merits and shortcomings of the IPad or something similar. When, I believe it was Mario who said "I think I'm going to get one." On that note my mouth engaged.

The little men in my brain began to work feverishly to make sure I had an immediate, condensed, contextual argument against such folly. The stupid ass phone still had not located a radio station. At this point I don't believe Mario nor Brad cared. They were too engrossed in discussing all the marvelous things that would be at their disposal if they in fact did purchase an IPad or something similar.

My two friends were blissfully oblivious that the technology that is supposed to summon their radio station is the same technology that's supposed to run the IPad or something similar. I felt a burning need to point this out.

I have railed against the shit cellular service that has existed for many years and the fact that the cellular service providers don't give a flying fuck. There are only so many service providers, yet everyone has a cellphone. These folks may not have a job or a place to live, but son of a bitch, they've got a cell phone. And when the newest updated device (3G, 4G, OG!) becomes available, everyone has to run out and get it. Some assholes even stand in line for this "must have" piece of electronic wizardry. Yet, they don't seem to realize that this is precisely what cellular service companies are counting on.

As long as people get half-erect or wet in the shorts depending on gender, over the latest and greatest, cellular service companies don't have to give good service. People are going to keep paying for their shit service as long as they can get the "whatever toy is hot at the moment" though it will become passe in about six months. Then they'll just have to upgrade. It's a vicious cycle.

As I droned on about how the cellular companies infrastructure is paid for ten times over, and about how they're pulling the same shit as oil companies who haven't invested in their infrastructure since 1976, yet gas prices continue to go up because of the demand exceeds the supply because of the lack of refining capabilities. But those who hold stock in both these industries keep making their substantial dividends. It was about here that I noticed both Mario and Brad had stopped listening long ago.

Where did I lose you dear reader, at the last "or something similar?"

If Brad and Mario do indeed break down and buy these electronic marvels, and pay $39.99 a month for that service, plus their $30.00 a month for their data plan on their phone, plus whatever the exorbitant sum (my guess it's a least $70.00 a month) they pay for their poor excuse for cellular service, this act will reinforce my belief that there is no hope for humanity.

The creepy part is that there are millions nationwide who want to do, or have done, exactly what Brad and Mario plan to.

Not only did Brad and Mario stop listening after about my first eight or nine syllables, they started a whole different conversation until I said "... wait,let me finish." That was a huge mistake on my part. In no time at all they had moved on giving me a few token seconds of consideration before doing so.

Well, I'm not going to buy more pieces of shit that require me to pay handsomely for shitty service. Just another example of American industrial mediocrity in action. And we wonder why nobody wants to buy what we're producing. No wonder we're falling behind in the global marketplace. No wonder why the disparity in wealth is growing wider all the time. I like the old capitalism where quality and service mattered, and if your product wasn't any good, or your service sucked, you went out of business because Americans wouldn't tolerate anything but the best. I'm not buying into the "something similar" we have today.
I wonder if Mario ever found a radio station? Plutonium.

Wild Life

Yesterday morning a tiny frog got into the house when I opened the front door to retrieve my morning paper. I can tell none of you care how this seemingly minor event can cause me such consternation. As I scrambled about in the darkness to corral the diminutive amphibian, I thought of all the fucking critters that have entered my abode uninvited.

The very first non-human that has tormented my dreams was my sister. Only kidding. But what was unleashed that scarred my psyche forever, was directly attributed to my sister.

We had a mutual hate for each other my sister and I. She hated I was born, I hated she lived through birth. She made it the focal point of her existence to make my existence as miserable as she could.

A favorite activity of my sister and her hooligan neighborhood cohorts was to go outside around dusk and shine a flashlight skyward in the hope of attracting a bat. If the innocent flying rodent was enticed to dive at the erratic luminescence my sister wildly wielded, one of her henchmen would take an arbitrary swing with a Jack Kramer model Wilson tennis racket on the off chance they could stun the little flying fucker and trap it in a shoebox.

My sister and her occult practicing friends also probably took great delight in putting fire crackers up frogs assholes, but I wasn't privy to that display.

One evening, by a sheer stroke of luck -no pun intended- my sister landed her quarry. In a moment of what I'm sure she considered pure genius, she raced to my room -while my parents stood idly by gossiping with neighbors in the street- to tie me to the chair in my room.

This chair held fond memories for me. It was where my mother sat when she'd read me a bedtime story. After that evenings festivities, I'm pretty sure I insisted we should burn the chair in the fireplace. And when it was reduced to a mere pile of smoldering ash, collect the remains and bury them in the back yard being sure to spread a healthy amount of salt on the ground where the remnants were laid to rest.

As if tying me to the chair was not enough good-natured disturbing behavior for one night, the piece de resistance was to release the bat from its shoebox prison in my room, turn on the light, and shut the door behind her. While the bat behaved in a fashion similar to an epileptic having a seizure after chugging an economy size bottle of Tabasco sauce; I could hear my sister squealing with delight right outside my door while I screamed as if I was being disemboweled with not so much as an aspirin to take the edge off.

My parents, in their infinite wisdom, sensed the air was rife with uncomfortable discourse, though no sense could be made of my high-pitched, blood curdling emanations that wafted from my window on the soft summer breeze. I received little satisfaction as to my sister's retribution that came in the form of a severe beating. I was hoping she could be secured with barbed wire to the front of a speeding train that was on a collision course with another unsuspecting locomotive. No such luck. This was not my last experience with one of Mother Nature's children of the wood.

There was the raccoon that came down the chimney Santa-like in the living room of the rental home we were refurbishing for the owner in lieu of rent. My step-father was stupid enough to start a fire in the fireplace without opening the thingy and when it was opened, a raccoon that had taken residence in the long out of use flues, decided to make take the path of least resistance to avoid the irritating smoke.

Armed with a broom and I think perhaps a 70's version of a Hazmat suit, I jousted with, what I was sure was rabid, creature of the night. Strategic with every move, I cut off all angles but the one that led out the front door. Secure in my victory over another tormentor, I snickered that had my sister had been there, I would have shooed her out the front door as well. I'm not done.

There was the large black snake our cat Ramone was kind enough to share with my son and I after an evening on the prowl. I didn't notice it was a snake right away. I stared at the cat with an odd wonderment at the macabre Fu Manchu mustache hanging from the corners of the cat's mouth...that is until it writhed, then I believe I may have shat myself, I don't rightly recall. But whatever my response was, I'm sure it had something to do with the release of bodily fluids I was unable to control.
Again my trusty broom served me well. Accompanied by its partner in crime the trusty dustpan, and maybe some Playtex gloves and boric acid, and maybe a small caliber hand gun; I was able to rid my home of another of my bugaboos. Getting rid of the next bat was a stroke of brilliance.

While sitting on the couch watching television in my living where a large Black snake once ruled for a night, my son's nanny remarked about the large clump of dust that had collected in the corner where the ceiling meets the walls...that too was proved to be a false assumption when movement dispelled the myth my mind had generated. A mutual friend of my ex-wife and I was once faced with the very same dilemma. The lightning bolt of ingenuity struck and I told the nanny to fetch the vacuum. I connected the extensions, put the end a hair's breath away from the bat's ass, and yelled "NOW." With a whir, the bat was sucked into the bag. I put the bag in the garbage, and after some hearty laughter at my heartless ingenuity, we resumed watching TV, resting easy that mankind was safe. And then I moved to Florida. Where it seemed like everyday something lizards, palmetto bugs, very small snakes, something was getting into the house. Nothing as serious as the Bumpus hounds, but there was once a squirrel.

The furry miscreant decided one gorgeous winter morn to disrupt my intellectually stimulating crossword puzzle. However, what made matters worse was the fact I was having leg trouble and was sans prosthesis. It came through a small tear in the screen and proceeded to deposit raisinet-like turds about the house. I open every door and hopped from room to room reminding me in retrospect of some crazed Ahab with the my white whale gray, and a squirrel rather than the world's largest sea mammal. I finally met with success. And now the frog.

He (she?) is still here. After evading my dexterous advances, it made its way behind the antique Dutch cupboard in the kitchen. I thought it may meet its end via the cat. I thought it too terrified to come out eventually dying the lonely agonizing death by starvation. But out it is and in my living room under a cup. I must attend to it now. Wish me luck. I hope it isn't angry.