Romancing the Hilarity...Available NOW!!

From my newly released book, 

Romancing the Hilarity (Available now on in print* and on e-reader):

The Birds

       &

The Bees

To paraphrase The Late Mitch Hedberg (may he rest in peace), I used to be a nerd. I still am, but I used to be, too. When I was about ten, I started to get curious. While Kevin McCallister and my peers were rummaging through the locked chests and sock drawers of their older brothers and fathers, I wasn’t.[1] I waited until no one was around, walked into our living room, pulled out the “S” volume of our family’s 1992 edition of the World Book Encyclopedia and flipped it open to “Sex.” I read the following, “See: Sexual Intercourse.” BAM!! I learned something already. So after turning to “Sexual Intercourse,” I read the article, and learned that it had something to do with “privates” and… really, I didn’t get anything useful out of it. Thanks a lot World Book Encyclopedia Company.

In the fifth grade, my parents sent me to a little Christian school. If you went to a Christian school, it was just like you remember. If you didn’t it was basically the movie Saved! without the pregnant girl, the Jewish girl, or the kid in the wheelchair; which is a shame, ‘cause they were awesome and would have made my school experience way more exciting.[2] Marilyn Manson did go to my school, but that was before my time. And, there once was a sex scandal, but that was after my time. So while I was there, the only thing notable about the school was that it was a Christian school— still rather noteworthy when you have to tackle something like Sex Ed. It’s also a big deal when you have a science class where you can’t ask questions about evolution. But, in middle school, Sex Ed seemed way more important.

In the sixth grade, my classmates and I had the opportunity to study the book, Preparing for Adolescence, by Dr. James Dobson.  Now, if you’re not familiar with him, Dr. Dobson is the founder of Focus on the Family, who left that ultra-conservative organization to found another more conservative organization with even less oversight and academic accountability. Along the way, this guy wrote a book about our bodies, the changes within, and the emotions associated with them.[3] It could pretty much be summed up as: Chew ice chips and pray until you get married; because if you touch yourself or have sex before you get married, you’ll become the next Ted Bundy, and the state of Florida will put you down like a dog and your soul will burn. And, I’m paraphrasing.

Early on in our study of this book, our teacher, Mr. T, opened up the floor for preliminary questions. “Ask about whatever,” he said. His proposal met with deafening silence. It’s not that we weren’t interested; it’s just that this particular teacher had a little bit of a temper. He didn’t respond well to things he didn’t like. One day when the class was a little restless, Mr. T  famously slammed a textbook on a table and shouted, “Shut the door!” to one of the other students. The book slam was more striking than it may have been otherwise because of his reddening face and the bulging veins. You could see him choking back far harsher language and a much louder yell. It really came out, “SHUT THE…DOOR!!”And for the WASPy[*]* kids in that class, that was quite overwhelming. But, this same “Shut-the-door” man wanted us to ask him any question we wanted, about puberty? We passed on that offer. But as a teacher, he couldn’t let it go. He called out a specific student by name. “[Student] I can tell you have a question, just ask it.”

“No Thanks.”

“Just ask!”

“I really don’t feel…”

“[Student] ask your question!”

My classmate looks down at his desk and mutters.

“What was that?” Mr. T demands.

“When I get married, will I stop having wet dreams?”

The room actually managed to go even quieter as Mr. T sent one of the five iciest glares I’ve witnessed across the room to the student.

“Get out… just, go to the office, right now…”

And, that in a nutshell was my Sex Ed experience in a Christian private school.

Well…If the private school system fails you, you can always turn to your family, right? The “birds and the bees” talk wasn’t one of the things which I looked forward to having. It’s not that my dad isn’t a good dude. In fact, he’s one of the better people I know. He’s thoughtful, helpful, and does well with most of the basic dad stuff. He taught me how to throw a football, change my oil, and tie a tie. But romance?  Not his strong suit—nor were the emotions that went along with it. So, telling me about women and sex and all that jazz was going to be as tough as a horsefly filling in on a bee’s day off.

While reading a book in my room one summer afternoon just prior to high school, I was surprised when my dad walked in. It wasn’t necessarily surprising that he was in my room, but he was fairly good about knocking. The fact that he didn’t, now worried me more than a little. He loomed uncomfortably in my doorway for a few moments, while I bookmarked my spot with my finger. “Well…,” he began, “you’re old enough that you have probably figured your own attitudes on dating and stuff like that.”

“I guess,” I responded shrugging into my book and avoiding eye contact while bracing for what would likely be the most awkward conversation of my life to that point.

“Well, okay then,” he said. Then as suddenly as he’d come, he was gone.

And that, in a nutshell, was the rest of my experience with Sex Ed.

I’m not entirely sure how I made it to adulthood.

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* To get the 50% off please use the code, and this link. 

[*]White Anglo-Saxon Protestant

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[1] Home Alone. Dir. Chris Columbus. By John Hughes. Perf. Macaulay Culkin. 20th Century Fox, 1990. Videocassette.

In his defense, Kevin wasn’t exploring sex, he was just nosing around his brother’s abandoned room being grossed out by naked women.

[2] Saved! Dir. Brian Dannelly. By Brian Dannelly and Michael Urban. Perf. Jena Malone, Mandy Moore, Macaulay Culkin, Eva Amurri. United Artists, 2004. Film.

I wish this movie was more hyperbolic.

[3] Dobson, James. Preparing for Adolescence. Ventura, California: Regal, 1989. Print.

...Provoke Not Your Children

I'm not a parent. It's on my to-do list. But, in real life, having something on your to-do list doesn't make you an expert, anymore than having an idea about something neat, makes you an inventor. 

That being said, I'm an analyst. I've always been a casual analyst. I dissected most of my actions and interactions at different points in my life. And, I have a few words for parents. I'm not going to give them to you all at once, so today's is: Listen!

My parents did an excellent job on the kids in our family (the four biological ones, and the endless stream of other kids who drifted in and out of our home). They were disciplinarians, but their rules (usually) had a sound internal logic. And they were always tempered with love. 

But, when it came to small things, they didn't always do a great job of listening. 

I tended to do what was expected of me, even as a young child. One day, however, I had committed some offense, for which I was both punished and ashamed. I accepted my punishment, in its justice, and had moved to the differential state of repentance.

The shameful nature of my infraction was still of some humor to my mother. When she decided to share my misdeed with some friend with whom she spoke on the phone. I listened on in horror as she began to tell my story. I loudly, and urgently protested this sharing; which only made the story she was telling funnier to her. So, she told the story. And, I had to sit there and listen. 

While I never loudly and urgently protested any topic of conversation with my parents after that, I was never completely open with them either. 

Actions have consequences. Even parental actions. 

Ephesians 6:4 Parents, do not aggravate your kids to silent, seething fury , but bring them up in the discipline and instruction of the Lord. (Morris's Dodgy Paraphrase).

My Little Thank You

Friends and Followers,

  Thanks for your support of my unusual expression over the years. You all helped me keep writing and improving, telling stories, and having fun.

I feel like I've kinda dropped the ball on posting new material because I got a little caught up in my book, and my Kickstarter Campaign. So here's an uplifting piece just for you my blog friends.

*~*~*

In a world that shares stories of the low expectations for children with no intellectual curiosity and is awash with bad examinations and false equivalencies, I'm privileged to share stories of active and involved parents, who raise fascinated, creative children. My parents set a fine example, but this evening's story is from a friend.

So, we adults went to see Thor. Later, we are sitting around the table discussing the physics of the Thor type movies, and my eight year old granddaughter interrupts and asks, "What's a singularity?" Well, Joel [the girl's father] immediately and with all seriousness begins," A singularity is when....", and I absolutely LOST IT!!! But, it turns out Joel regularly discusses the most advanced quantum theory and particle physics with the little girls, and he is as adept at explaining these mind-boggling concepts as Bill Nye is at teaching how water freezes. Anyway, we got a bit bogged down when I tried to trip Joel up with the conflicting nature of gravitational vs magnetic forces, but it was nice to see my son not JUST speaking with his children about Tinkerbell or Hello Kitty. Although they enjoy those topics just as much.

This reminds me that, for all the children left behind, there are parents taking hands and walking together with the leaders of tomorrow.

Parenting Level: Awesome!

One Giant Pain In the Nose

OK. So this was originally wirtten to be performed aloud. But it's an amusing little tale I wanted to share. Enjoy.

   MoTheThird 

  I'm going to tell you all a story. Not a story full of insight. Not the story of any type of tortured youth. I doubt that this story will leave a mark on you in any meaningful way. Except, I hope it makes you laugh. You can feel sorry for me if you want. That's out of my control and entirely in your hands. I hope you will take this story in the tone of the speaker, who, now having some distance between him and the actual event, now finds the whole affair quite funny. So here's the story about why little kids need their parents.

   Imagine with me, if you will, Morris. A Morris much shorter than the one writing this post. A Morris for whom sink and counter tops are relatively new terrain. A Morris limited in the number of rides available to him at amusement parks. A Morris slight of build, and low of pain tolerance. A Morris of about, say, somewhere between the sixth and eighth year of his life. Years surrounded by discovery and newness of life. Every day was a new adventure, with lessons to learn. It was a beautiful time of life when planning for the future meant, asking mom to buy dessert for the whole week. A carefree time, when fart was a bad word. And race struggles meant trying to run faster than all the other kids. But afterward, we all played kickball anyway...so it didn't matter. It was a great time of ignorant bliss. Back to the story...

  Summertime and the livin' is easy. Let's just say I am seven years old, 'cause I think that it could be right. I'm out and I'm playin', 'cause that's just what kids do (and I was good at being a kid). We were running around, playing with balls (which didn't sound dirty at 7), playing with plastic guns, chasing each other with sticks. We're playing every game we could think of: kickball, baseball, tag, football, etc. If there's a lull we just make up a new game. Frisbeeball (Don't ask me how it worked. We just had a lot of energy), and stranger games than that. 

  In the midst of all this fun gaming, we must reflect on the other certainty of youth...injury. Yes, even at the immortal age of seven, there was the occasional close encounter of the firm kind. Diving from a bicycle to have a fight with the payment was a popular one. And thought the asphalt rarely lost, it was the object of many a tussle. Running into stationary objects was, sadly, not uncommon. Scrapes in the tree, and kick balls to the face, are just some of the ways we imagined to injure ourselves. But the original injury of this day, remains a mystery. 

   Enter young Morris. I am the recent victim of a small, but keenly painful wound inside of my nose. Bounding into the hospital he calls home, I seek, the care of the attending physician (aka mom), the mender of all manner of wound. After the requisite screaming for mom. The I was notified that the attending would not be available for some time. Unavailable?!? This was unacceptable. I need to go back out and play. How hard can patching a wound be?

   Let's just note, at seven, I  didn't know much. One of the things I did know was that hydrogen peroxide was good for cuts. I run to the upstairs bathroom, hop up and kneel on the sink. Fling wide the cabinet, extracting the miracle solution. Sliding down from the sink, I fill a cap full of peroxide as I have seen my mother do, many times before. I am faced with a new problem. I have a cut in my nose in need of tending, and a liquid that refuses to travel up. But, desperate times call for desperate measures. I thus began to lean back, one hand out for balance, the other grasping the cure to my pain. Leaning into a precarious angle, I drain the contents of the cap into my nose. At this point I come to believe that my nose is melting off of my face. I am in pure agony. And, agony doesn't mix well with contortion and balance. A lesson I learned quickly as I surrendered my balance and came crashing to the ground in a heap.

All in all, that ranked among the top painful experiences of my life. Up there with, trying to leap a pillar, getting hit in the face with a bat, and having scarlet fever.

    I said all that, to say this: Every once in a while, do something stupid. When the pain goes away, you'll get a good laugh.