The Pros and Cons of Having Babies

I worked a few days as a nanny (or manny, if you prefer) this summer for a 6-month-old girl.  A lot of people have teased me by saying things to the effect of "Oh, you're practicing for when you have your own kids."  Sort of, but more I would say that I'm using this experience to decide if I really want to have my first kid in my late 30's.

Here are the pros and the cons I've worked out thus far.

Con: Raising a baby is boring.  Yes, sometimes it's beautiful and rewarding and all of that stuff, but a lot of the time it's the most boring thing in the world.  No one tells you that.  People tell you that it's a lot of work, that they don't get any sleep, but you never hear anyone say how boring it is.  Well, I'm saying it.  It's boring.  I wish more parents would just admit it more.

"Booooooooring"

Pro: It can be a heartwarming and wonderful experience.  All I have really done is warmed up some milk and popped it into her mouth, but you can't help but get a feeling inside you that says "I am giving this young being life!"  And this isn't even my kid.  I imagine it's ten times the effect when it's your own.

This isn't me, and this isn't the kid. But same general idea.

Con: It's messy.  The first thing I do when I get home is throw all my clothes in the wash and take a shower because I feel like I'm covered in drool, pee, poop, and woman's breast milk who I'm not even sleeping with.  Sometimes the baby will take a dump while she is sitting down and the pressure created by the floor will send the poop clear up her back almost to her neck.  Powerful ass on this kid.    Mom and dad should be proud.  Then you're trying to change her diaper while she tries to kick her feet into her own poop.  Good lord.  Parenthood is a messy existence.

"And, we're done here."

Pro: Great for meeting chicks.  I spend most of my day at a gigantic park in Chicago, whether we're walking around, playing on the swings, or just laying down a blanket and chilling.  You wouldn't believe how many women are out there, and they're all just as bored as me!  Day after day of baby time leads an individual to want to talk to some adults to make sure you don't lose your ability to converse with people without blurting out pee pee or poo poo.  So all these babes want to talk to me, but I'm spoken for.  So this really is only a pro for those single dads out there.  Or for single dudes that want to use a kid as bait to meet chicks.  There's gold in them there baby parks!

"Come, little one! Together we will be the lords of the baby park!"

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That's all I got so far.  You guys got some more pros or cons, either from direct experience or as an outsider looking in?

The other night I met my good buddy, Southie, for some margaritas and Mexican food before attending a Chicago Cubs game together.  On my way out I used the establishment's ATM for some cash.  My money didn't come out, and when I called my bank to see if the $200 I requested and didn't get was taken out of my account, it was as well as random attempts at taking $20 and another $40.  I cancelled my card and made a claim about those transactions.  Important tip: If a machine ever says there will be no receipts given, cancel right away.

Fast forward a week later when I'm at the bank cashing a check and ask for a printout of my last 20 transactions to be sure there is no more funny business on my account, and there are numerous withdrawals of $500 from an ATM I have never been to on the far west side.  I am freaking out at this point, and while the cashier is looking into it for me she suddenly says, "Oh.  This printout isn't from your account.  This is someone else's."

What?  You're just handing me information on someone else's bank account and scaring the crap out of me?  To tell you the truth, I was so relieved that all was okay that I didn't even give the woman a hard time.  I have worked a lot of jobs, and in every single one of them I have made colossal stupid mistakes.  I truly believe that all is well that ends well, and there is just no need to yell at someone at times like this.  She knows she screwed up bad.  Me hollering at her won't make her get that any more.  Me yelling at the Cubs didn't help them beat the evil Whitesox that afternoon either.  But I did it anyway.

Anyone Need a Karate Announcer?

I know this crazy son of a gun who used to be a prison guard and now does security at a school.  He is all of 5'5" but is intense as hell and a scary ass drill sergeant when he needs to be.  This guy also teaches karate at the school, and he asked me if I would be a judge for a karate tournament.  I tried to respectfully decline do to the fact that I don't know my ass from a hole in the ground when it comes to karate.  His response was hilarious and was this:

"Yeah, but when you see a fight, you know which guy got his ass whipped, right?"

Okay, by that definition I guess I'm a karate judge.

When I got there there was another security guard struggling through his soundcheck on the microphone in an attempt to warm up as the announcer.  He asked if I would swap roles with him.  In my estimation announcing was a way safer bet because as the judge I might have parents pissed off that I picked their kid's opponent.  And with that brilliant trade I made a switch to become the MC for the evening.

I got into the swing of things pretty quickly with my commentary.  When I didn't know what was going on in a match, I just defaulted to pointing out how hard one of the kids was trying with lines like, "Isn't he a scrapper, folks?  Let's give him a hand!"

If it was a back-and-forth tussle, I would say "We got a scrap here, ladies and gentlemen!"  The kindergarten division was particularly cute, by the way.

Just before the judges' decisions I would say something to the effect of "That was a closely contested bout.  It will be interesting to see how the judges scored this one."  Then the four judges would flip their flags to the white or red flag for which opponent won in their uninformed opinions.  It probably would have made more sense to have an odd number of judges, but whatever.  In the result of a tie there was only one way to settle it . . . Who can do more push-ups?!  I'm serious.  So then I counted out the push-ups on the mic and commented on who's arms were shaking and who was losing the integrity of their push-up form.  The organizers of this event were winging it, and I was improvising what the hell to say about it.  It was a blast.

My air time on the mic got me warmed up for my third reverend gig that I had on the upcoming weekend (I got "ordained" online to officiate weddings for friends).  My good buddy, Southie got married, and I was happy to help him out  Just like every other time, I was nervous.  I wasn't sure how I did when I wrapped it up, but I got nothing but compliments all night long.  They weren't just people who bumped into me at the bar and felt a need to say something - many made a point to come up to me for the sole purpose of saying how great they thought the ceremony was.  It felt really good to know that I made the couple's special day even better and managed to entertain and please so many guests.

The reverend rides again.  And I hope the karate announcer sweeps the leg again because that was hilarious.

Anyone ever hear "'Da Butt" by E.U.?  I heard it on my bike ride home from work today and started laughing my ass off at this line: "If you get that notion get your backfield in motion."

I'm going to say something right now: That is singlehandedly the best line ever about American football, booty shaking, or combinations thereof.

The minute I got home I added it to our wedding playlist.  This was a point of contention, but to compromise I'm going to give the d.j. a time to fade it out midway through the song, likely just after that backfield line . . .

The Great Gig In the Sky

I had this dream the other night where I was at a comedy club, or was it a strip bar?  It was hard to tell because the late great Robert Schimmel was trying to do his set on the same stage as a stripper.  I remember being pissed at the time because there were some drunks heckling him, but that's to be expected.  It's just weird trying to make jokes with a woman to your left taking her clothes off.

Here I was yelling at these jerks to shut up, but Schimmel was so understanding.  He was saying, "It's all right.  A gig's a gig."

The real life Robert Schimmel was in a car wreck in which his 19-year-old daughter was driving and the car flipped over on its side.  His son in the car was not hurt at all, his daughter sustained some injuries, but sadly, Mr. Schimmel died from his injuries.

"Yup, she has no clothes on, but listen to this . . ."

I guess I visited him in a dream state in that great Titty Bar/Comedy Club in the sky the other night.  And he was good to see him truly at peace when he said to me "A gig's a gig."

"Good Game"

A bunch of us went to the "American Beer Classic" at Soldier Field (where the Chicago Bears play) where you pay $65 to sample as many beers as you want all day long.  There were two sessions so we were heading in for the 3:30PM session just as the 11:30AM session was getting out.  Giant hoards of people were filing out of there in the opposite direction completely wasted before noon.

It was then that I feel a couple gentle pats on my ass and fat man who was around 6'4 and 280 pounds saying "good game" to me.  I looked up to him to see him staring right back at me.  So, I said what just about any man would say at that point: "What the fuck!?!?"  He said, "It's not gay if you say 'good game.'"  To which I exclaimed as I walked away, "Well, it's a little gay, isn't it?"

I think this guy was looking for a fight or something because if he kept doing that, I would say he would be likely to find someone ready to fight.  I'm not homophobic, but it turns out I really don't like gentle pats on my ass from strangers.  I guess I never knew that until someone did it to me.  He said "good game," and that statement goes along with one slap with decent force.  That I might have been put off by too, but I wouldn't have felt . . . violated.

These guys both thought he had a good game.

I guess for a moment there I understood how women feel powerless when they are harassed by men, to an extent, because what were my options here?  It's not worth fighting this guy, getting arrested, and losing the chance to drink all that beer.  Also, the guy was enormous so a fight might not have went well for me  Then again, he was completely drunk and I was stone sober, so I might have done okay.  But probably not.  I'm a drinker, not a fighter.

So into the beer festival, feeling a little icky, but after a few samples I had forgotten all about the man-on-man sexual harassment I had encountered moments before.

If there are any lessons here they might be as follows:

1. Don't pat the rear ends of anyone you don't know.  If you have developed a bond with someone new and you just shared a victory in a sporting even or even watched one on television, then maybe, but still no.  Saying good game and doing an ass pat on someone you never met and shared no experiences with is just weird and creepy, so don't do it.

2. Try the Chocolate Peanut Butter Porter by Horny Goat Brewing Company.  It's absolutely delicious and helps you forget things.

Good game, readers.

All This Time Off of Blogging and It's a Dang Dream Blog?

I had a dream the other night where I'm out at the bar, and then all of a sudden everyone wants to do cocaine and put things in each other's butt holes.  I don't do either of those things, so in the dream I was desperately trying to get out of there.  Even if I were to dabble in either venture, right in plain sight at the bar hardly seemed like the right time.  To make things even weirder, everyone had bright blue bungholes.

The friends in my dream thought I was the biggest prude ever when I finally got out of there, but boy was I glad to get free of those twisted, blue-butted, drug fiend, anal exhibitionists.

Tell me the last time you saw the above sentence.

And what in the blue blazes do you think the dream means?

My Coworker's Mom's Ex Boyfriend: A Bookie for the Mob

I went out to lunch during a work day, and I saw one of my coworkers sitting in a booth.  He eats there just about every Monday through Friday.  Even if I really wanted to sit by myself and read about Chicago sports and text jokes to my friends, the right thing to do was go sit by him.  I just didn't feel like hearing him bitch about work because getting out of the office for lunch is a time to think about anything but the office.  Actually, he may have been thinking, "Oh crap.  Here comes Dr. Ken to come saddle in here and make annoying observations for his stupid blog."  That's entirely possible.  Sometimes I wish people could be honest with each other and just ask, "mind if I join you?" and the other person could respond either way without hurting anyone's feelings.

So this guy was telling me how excited he was to go to the Kentucky Derby with some friends to drink a ton and bet a bunch of money on little men riding on horses running around in a circle.  He really likes gambling.  He spends every few Saturdays at a race track near his house drinking three dollar beers and betting every race until the joint closes.  He really seems to know his stuff, but then again, gamblers never seem to tell you about the times they lost.

I asked him how he got so knowledgeable about betting the ponies, and apparently his mom's ex boyfriend would take him to the track when he was a kid, starting when he was around eleven years old, and schooled him on how to research and pick a winning bet.  The mom's boyfriend used to be a bookie for the mob, but he had left that life behind to drive a taxi cab.  Still, it was still strange that he drove a taxi in the suburbs but somehow always had giant wads of one hundred dollar bills wherever he went.  I guess he was a pretty great guy, and he took my coworker out for a steak dinner and gave him two hundred bucks for his birthday every year.  Even after his mom and the guy broke up, this dude continued to take him out for his birthday dinner until my coworker was around 19-years-old.  That is around the time his health started failing and he soon passed away.  I think he was a little bit older than the mom.

I asked why it didn't work out, and he said, "I don't know because he was a really great guy.  I think my mom was just too much to deal with."

I said, "So the ex (but probably current) bookie for the mob wasn't the problem in the relationship; your mom was."

"Yeah, pretty much," he said, finishing the last few bites of his omelette and getting a look at his check.

I Guess I'm Mad Max?

I got this late night hamburger joint with awesome burgers, and it's right by my house.  During a long night of drinking, Auto Pilot Dr. Ken directs his taxi cab driver to pull right up to that place.  I then grab my sack of burgers, walk home, and find a good movie to watch on Netflix.

The other night I went in there with Mrs. Noisewater, and the lady at the counter said, "Oh, hey Mad Max!"  Evidently I was in there one night telling her that I was going to watch a "Mad Max" film that night whilst consuming burgers.  I was astonished that she had never heard of the one and only Mad Max, post apocalyptic hero in a world fighting over precious oil.  I didn't ask much more about our conversation that night because Mad Max (that's me) was a little embarrassed.  

I never understood how those marauders in the Mad Max films found oil such a precious and dwindling commodity, yet they built giant V8 monstrosities and just went around cruising, looking for trouble in their S & M outfits.  You would think they would only drive somewhere when they absolutely had to.  I guess the more I think about it, marauding S & M types wouldn't likely be conservationists.

Anyway, I really do have to slow down on the drinking and late night eating.  All those burgers and beer are rough on the waist line, and the alcohol could make my mind slower.  What I'm trying to say is that if the apocalypse goes down I'll need to have my mind sharp and look sexy in my leather bondage outfit.

My outfit will likely be like the one second from the left.

Team Strike Force and One of the Best Summers of Dr. Ken's Life

Many moons ago some friends and I played in a coed softball league and drinking team.  I'm not making a joke here; The sponsor bar actually kept track of how much all the teams drank after each game, certain types of drinks were worth different points, and the highest point getting team would win a free party for all their friends.  Hence, at the end of the season there would be a champion on the diamond and another in the bar.  This is not something that would be allowed now, and it probably wasn't allowed back then seeing as it encourages competitive binge drinking.  Team Strike Force finished near the bottom in terms of our record, but our drinking statistics were the stuff of legend.      

We weren't anything to brag about when it came to playing the actual softball games, but we did have one guy who was maybe the best player I've ever seen.  He could scoop up a ball on the run from anywhere, and throw from deep in the outfield to hit any plate he wanted right on the button.  Plus every time he stepped up to hit it was an automatic extra base hit.  Come to think of it, his girlfriend (now wife) was a really good player.  The rest of us were just biding our time to prove we were worthwhile at the bar immediately following the mere formality of the actual softball game.   

These were the two best moments on the field (because all the other memorable moments were at the bar):

1. One guy's girlfriend (also now wife) had no baseball experience whatsoever, so naturally we put her at catcher.  She was one of those people who could never get past pointing the open side of the mit straight up instead of turning the wrist inward so the open hand faces out.  You know, so you don't worry about plunking her in the face when you throw to her?  Consequently, she was very rarely able to catch much of anything, usually jumping out of the way to avoid getting hurt if you threw to her.  For this reason, the pitcher typically covered home in the event of a play at the plate. 

The RIGHT way

However, one time our stud player with the rifle arm sent one home with a runner on third and first and second base open, and our favorite female catcher was our only chance to tag the runner out.  She stepped up to the front of the plate, actually caught the ball, and jumped up and down saying "yay" as the runner trotted in behind her untagged.  There was no force at home, so she needed to apply a tag.  Nobody on our team cared because it was the funniest thing we had ever seen, and we didn't want to spoil her joyous moment of catching a softball.  Like I said, we sucked.

We would not have challenge the real Strike Force to any athletic event.  Except drinking. 

2. Then another time we were playing our arch rivals.  They had a guy on their team that was friends with a girl I dated not long before that team started.  This guy cheated on his girlfriend with a number of girls, including the one I was dating.  Not at the time I was seeing her though, but maybe.  Who knows.  She was not such a good girl for me, but at the time love was blind and I was young and stupid.  He was a butt hole on the field as well as off because he was like the coach figure, encouraging all his male players to take walks.  When you're a grown man you swing the bat.  That is what you signed up to do, right?

Also, he would yell at the girls when they screwed up.  This made us all really mad, and we found ourselves consoling his girls when they would get on the base paths and yelling at him to take it easy.  It made for a strange dynamic where the score of the game didn't matter; all that really mattered was that this a-hole drop dead.  Then there was another line drive single hit out to center field to our one good player who came up firing the ball towards home plate as Captain A-Hole ran home from third.  Boom!  The ball plunked him square in the back, and he winced in pain as he scored the run.  None of us gave a damn that he scored.  In fact, we were all cheering him getting hit with a ball.  You see, our guy is good enough to have gotten him out.  He chose to peg him in the back from fifty yards; He was that good.  It could very well have been the single most impressive athletic achievement I have ever seen and certainly the most rewarding.

We lost that game and many others that season, but again, in the bar we were champions.  I will never forget the two highest point-getters were a table tapper of Saint Pauli Girl, and a bottle of Tsingtao, a horribly skunky Chinese beer that led to wicked hangovers the following Friday morning.  Win or lose, our table would be littered with table tappers and buckets upon buckets of the green Chinese death juice: Tsingtao.  Then we would all text each other the next day how General Tsingtao had beaten us down with yet another crippling hangover.  But we would do it all again the following Thursday for the good of the team because champions fight through adversity. 

I remember one bye week (a week where our team didn't play) I still went up to the bar to make sure we at least got a few points.  I brought a girl with me who wasn't a heavy drinker.  She could only muscle down one Tsingtao that I insisted she order, and I powered back the other four in the bucket.

In the final week of the season we were eliminated from any chance of winning on the field, but we were very much in the running to win at the drinking.  The only team who had a chance at catching us was the arch rival team.  To make sure we beat those jerks we set up an evite (remember those?) and got all our drinking buddies up there.  We let all our friends know that if they helped us win, they would all be invited to the free party we would earn on a Saturday night for $500 of free boozy fun!  There were five or six tables full of friends for that last night to earn points, and some of those friends were very tangential.  We were marketing wizards and very heavy drinkers. 

And we "must have" bought a hundred that night.

The culminating pivotal moment did not come on the field; It came when Captain A-Hole from the team we hated came over to our table counting up all those buckets and table tappers and he asked, "Shit, you guys aren't team Strike Force are you?"  "You're damn right we are," we all said and a loud cheer roared through out our section of the bar.  Arch rival team only had five or six people to our giant hoards of booze hounds.  It was a lock for Team Strike Force.  We won that "free" party to drink whatever we wanted through paying for tons of types of beer we didn't like every Thursday night.  If you did the math, we likely lost a lot of money, but you can't put a dollar amount on being drinking champs and having that much fun.

I can't run around the bases as fast anymore, I certainly can't drink that much on a Thursday these days, but I can always can look back on that summer as one of the best of my life.  Let's put it this way, If someone asked me right now if I would rather be the first man on Mars or be transported back to the summer of 2005 to watch that guy get pegged with a softball in the back and tip back some celebratory horribly skunky Tsingtao, I would have to give it some serious, serious thought.      

Super Tan Roy

Some folks I have been playing pick up volleyball with for a quite a while now went to visit a friend in the hospital; a friend who just discovered cancerous tumors in his chest and neck.  Roy, sometimes called Super Tan Roy, has to go into for chemotherapy treatments for four days at a time every three weeks.  We call him Super Tan Roy because he is always very sun tanned, and he probably lays out tanning twice as much as he plays volleyball when he comes down to the beach with us the last few summers.  This means that you actually get to know him better because he is always in the sitting out area talking to everyone, and he is just a great dude.  I have never heard him say anything bad about anyone, and he is always in a good mood.

So it was no surprise when we came to visit that he was walking around his spacious hospital room in his cargo shorts and listening to iPod speakers at high volume.  He was really happy to see us, and at no point did he seem down at all.  Apparently what he has is very treatable, and the doctors are confident that after only the first few treatments the tumors will be all wiped out.  Also, when he left after his first stay, he lived his life like normal, going to the gym and everything.  He really hasn't felt any of the side effects, and he even said that the second they hooked him up to the orange bag of chemotherapy juice, he felt better instantly.

Roy was telling us that it sounds strange, but he has never felt this good.  Seeing how many people have been contacting him has made him feel grateful to have so many great friends and family members.  Roy also stays in touch with some rock bands that he has seen over the years and who have played concerts at his house (I suspect Roy is rich), and one pretty big band that I won't say by name said that they want to do a benefit concert just for him!

I told Roy that his point of view has inspired me.  I know for a fact that there is no way I would maintain this guy's level of confidence and upbeat attitude in the face of what he is going through.  Friends would likely come visit me only to hear me blubbering "why me?"  Do you know this dude has made it a point not to turn the giant television in his hospital room on once?   He said that he spends his time emailing friends and writing blogs on his Facebook page.  I like to think that if I were in a similar predicament that it would light a charge into my writing somehow.  But who knows.  I could very likely have the TV on and guests would catch me crying to "The Dukes of Hazard" because Rosco P. Coltrane died and I was scared I would be joining him in a sad redneck afterlife.  But through my brief visit with Roy, I know that wallowing for too long would only be a waste of precious time and a downer to anyone else.

Even though I didn't know Roy all that well, I am glad I decided to go the hospital that night.  It was the right thing to do because he was happy to see all of us but also for the insight he has given me.

Walmart: It's Sad In There

I had to go to Walmart for something, and I learned that Walmart is just about the saddest place in America.  I was looking for knee pads for volleyball, and no one seemed to know a damn thing about them.  They would stop other staff members and ask them, and each person knew nothing.  Then they called over the intercom for someone for sporting goods to come over, and no one came.  The more I think about it, all the people working there seemed to be just wandering sadly and aimlessly.  I didn't take it personally that no one gave a shit.  They just seem to have really crummy jobs.

"Anything I can help you with, or shall I flag someone else down who doesn't know anything about this dump?"

Anyway, while I was there I picked up a pair of pants to wear to work.  I left the newly purchased pants folded up as is and put them into my gym bag to wear the next day.  After the next morning's workout, I'm walking to my car and hear, "Hey, boss.  You get some new pants?"  I said, "I have tags on my pants don't I?"  To which he said with a chuckle, "All over, dude."

First off, he was very much a gym bro-type-guy, a little condescending, and I don't like being called boss by people who aren't my employees.*  However, it was nice of him to let me know so that I didn't walk into work with size 34 x 34 all up and down the back of my pants.  That's why I didn't notice the tags when I put them on - they were all on the back.  That's no excuse.  It was pretty stupid on my part.  Sometimes I think I might be dumb enough to work at Walmart.

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wI don't have any employees.

Mr. and Mrs. Noisewater's Love Story

This is the story of the meeting of Mr. and Mrs. Noisewater that I wrote that will go on the site for our wedding.  Hope you enjoy.

Did I ever tell you about the time I met my bride to be?  It all started back when I was living at the apartment on Nelson Street in Chicago that I lived at with a revolving cast of four roommates for seven years.  We were having a birthday gathering for a good friend and a good roommate, and I was telling the guests the story about the time some middle aged woman gave me her powder blue paisley jacket with shoulder pads.  What happened was I was at a bachelor party and arrived back at the hotel before the rest of my friends and was waiting at the bar.  I saw her goofy jacket slung over the chair and this happened:

Dr. Ken: That's a sharp jacket you got there.

Jacket Lady: Buy me a beer and it's all yours.

Dr. Ken: Sure.  What'l it be?

Jacket Lady: MGD.

Dr. Ken: Bartender, one MGD please.

I didn't know it was a female jacket.  I guess I didn't notice the shoulder pads at the time.  I just slapped it on and texted my best man, Mr. HLP, "I am at the bar in a Mr. Furley jacket!

"No sticker for me?"

So here I am at the apartment telling this story when it dawns on me that I should put The Jacket on as a visual aid to give my listeners a better indication of just how awesome it is.  You just have to see it to believe it.  When we make it out to the bar, I'm in one of those moods where I just decide to go out in public donning The Jacket.  So that's what I did.

We ended up at Four Treys, a wonderfully divey karaoke spot in the Roscoe Village neighborhood of Chicago.  After singing a song or two, I'm feeling pretty tremendous when a gorgeous brunette saunters by, slaps a sticker on the shoulder of my jacket and says, "that's an awful jacket" and just walks by without stopping.  I said to my friends that I had to go talk to this one because she gave me a sticker and she has good taste - the jacket is quite ugly.

She was standing over by the Galaga machine, so I thought it natural that I challenge her to a game.  Galaga is a lot like Space Invaders, only the bad guys swoop down on you from all sorts of angles and you can rescue a second ship to get a double shot going.  She said that she has never played but would accept my challenge.  I figured knowing the whole double shooting trick would give me a clear advantage.  Wrong.  She destroyed me.  Mrs. Noisewater was deftly firing buttons to blast ships and moving her plane around while furiously dodging the alien ships and their laser blasts in a way that was demoralizing to me but sexy nonetheless.  I remember her starting to kick butt at the game and offering somewhat of an explanation for her expertise: "Careful.  I'm Asian, you know."  I tried to buy our historic Galaga machine years later for nostalgic reasons but alas, it was gone.  

Beaten but not broken, I asked for her number and we met up the following Thursday.  I remember picking her up with my car when she was stuck in Chicago's bitter cold and feeling like a hero.  Then on the third date she caught me looking up at the Bulls versus Heat game a few too many times and still liked me!    

We got nuts about each other pretty quickly, and then she got notices back from all of the graduate schools she applied to.  Jaemi was looking for a career change into urban planning, which was something more challenging and exciting for her.  She didn't think she would get accepted to any of the schools, but she got accepted to all three.  What is crazy is that even though we hadn't been together that long, we were both ready to tackle a long distance relationship with no hesitation, and off she went to live in Santa Monica California, enrolled in UCLA's Masters in Urban Planning program.

The distance was difficult at times, but it also meant taking fun trips to meet up with one another.  We met in spots in between Chicago and L.A. with trips to Austin, Texas and Denver, Colorado and spent one New Years together in Costa Rica.  I never bought into the whole "absence makes the heart grow fonder" thing, but it was true in our case.  We were so excited to see each other on my trips to California, or her trips to Chicago where we would sometimes Hotwire a "fancy" hotel.  Also, it made us really appreciate when the two years would be over and we could be together for good.  Forever.  That's what we plan on doing, and that's what we would love you to help us celebrate on August the 1st in one of the cities we travelled to together and fell deeper in love, San Francisco.  Thanks for reading.

Love,

Dr. Kenneth Noisewater

We were out at the bar the other night, and were are all picking up the smell of marijuana from somewhere every so often.  We weren't sure at first who it was, but then we saw couple sitting at the table just below us and knew they were the culprits.  You see, we were in a row of tables elevated up a step or two, and seated below us was a couple not saying one word to each other but rubbing each other's arms and faces.  They enjoyed the texture of one another's skin for the better part of two hours, and it was endlessly entertaining for us.  There is no way this was just pot they were doing because never have I seen two people out in public acting in a way as if there were no one else around, or in the world for that matter.

Or maybe some good pot is just that good these days.  But do I want to be that messed up anymore?  I mean these two couldn't even form words to talk to one another.  Or were they speaking to one another through some sort of weed ESP?

What do you think, readers? What were these kids puffing on?  You ever see anything like that?  

Bands Women Hate

When it comes to couples and music, some is meant to listen to together, and I bet you and that special someone have songs that you dance the night away to or scream out the open windows during a road trip with one another.  But then there are others that us men need to hear on our own.  You don't want her to like that band, and you never would in your wildest dreams expect her to.  That band is just for you.

I conducted extensive research through surveying numerous men of all ages* to see which bands women hate the most.  Now, outright metal is not on then the list would just be dominated by metal, and we wouldn't learn anything from that.  Of course women don't like metal, and the ones that do are often scary and we don't want to date them.  If she can beat the tar out of me in a pit, then I tend to get scared off.  What I set out to do here is to try to find the bands that are hated by women not because they are too heavy for them, but because they annoy them for some other reason.  This way we could find the common factors of non-metal bands that are loved primarily by men.  

I conducted a study in which I played one of the top nine bands (in no particular order) that the men have determined to be disliked universally by females, and I recorded Mrs. Noisewater's reactions to them.  Here is what I discovered.

DISCLAIMER: I got midway through this project and thought that I am really generalizing and making assumptions a lot with a list like this.  And assigning gender stereotypes to music is kind of wrong.  I know this.  But I finished anyway because I was halfway through, and if I keep giving up on stupid projects like this, then I'll never finish any of my stupid projects.

1. Ween are so damn weird that when you're listening to them and someone else pops in they're like "Just what in the hell is this weird-ass stuff?"  They play stuff that is very strange at first, but eventually that weirdness is . . . it's just Ween.  There was no one else like them.  Some songs are too obnoxious even for fans of the band, but then other times it's just genius.  They have tons of songs that are in a wide variety of genres where Gene Ween sings entirely different for every song so that you can sneak them on without anyone knowing it's Ween.  Then they got entire albums worth of stuff like the song listed below that is unmistakably Ween.  And pretty darned annoying to the unconditioned ear.
Sample Song: "Big Jilm" by Ween.  

Mrs. Noisewater's Thoughts: "Halloween music and farting. Happy farts."

Mrs. Noisewater's Verdict: "I don't like it."

2. If you watch the concert video below you will see an arena filled with 95% dudes.  This is because women very rarely like Rush.  I think they have the perfect storm of elements rarely appreciated by female listeners: They're heavy, they're ugly (well the singer is.  He looks like a chicken), they sing in falsetto, and they play progressive music.  And then guys get together and air drum the hell out of their songs, and that doesn't exactly draw women into the band.  
Sample Song: "YYZ" by Rush

Mrs. Noisewater's Thoughts: "It sounds like a a promotional video for a gym with guys cycling and doing x-games stuff.

Mrs. Noisewater's Verdict: It's okay.

3. Steely Dan has the jazz type of vibe that doesn't seem to do it for everyone.  I think there are a song or two that made it big on classic rock radio that infiltrated female audiences, but it's pretty rare that you find a hardcore female Steely Dan fan.  Jerry Seinfeld really likes these guys, and he is man.  Okay, it's true.  I have zero basis for anything on this list . . .
Sample Song: "Peg" by Steely Dan. 

Mrs. Noisewater's Thoughts: "Sounds like bad wedding music.  Or maybe Romantic comedy background music.  

Mrs. Noisewater's Verdict: "Is this Michael McDonald?" - I think that is not a favorable review.

4. Prog rock bands just seem to be a dude thing, and Yes played just about the most pretentious music you could find.  Just look at the clip below: How many keyboard players are on that stage?  Three?  But I have the "Yes Album" and "Fragile" on vinyl, and they're both amazing.  Oh, also, Rick Wakeman wore weird cloaks like a wizard, and Dungeons & Dragons outfits aren't exactly pussy magnets.

Sample Song: “Heart of the Sunrise” by Yes
Mrs. Noisewater's Thoughts: This is the band where your friend wants you to go with to see them and the plays has a bunch of weird-looking dudes bobbing their heads.  

Mrs. Noisewater's Verdict: "Meh."

5. The progressive thing seems to be a very common thread in these bands, and Frank Zaapa also had the weird factor going on, like Ween listed above.  Like Ween, he also has mysoginist lyrics that additionally push the females away.  Then again, Frank's wife did make quilts out of the panties thrown on stage during shows, I am told, so apparently chicks dug him at some point in his career.  I just haven't met any.
Sample Song: "Don't Eat the Yellow Snow" by Frank Zappa

Mrs. Noisewater's Thoughts: This is also like background music, but it’s too annoying to be in the background.  I need to put on a big flowey skirt and dance around with hippies.

Mrs. Noisewater's Verdict: "When is this game over?" - I think that means she hates it.

6. Grunge rock was huge with men and women alike in the early to mid 90's with bands like Pearl Jam and Nirvana, but Alice In Chains seemed to be bigger with the fellas.  Perhaps it was that they played music that was a little heavier and really, really depressing.  Those songs that make you want to do tons of heroin until you die don't bring loads of babes to your shows, but it is terrific on vinyl on a rainy afternoon.
Sample Song: "Over Now" by Alice In Chains

Mrs. Noisewater's Thoughts: “Why are they playing “Taps?  Is this Alice N’ Chains!?  You know I hate Alice n’ Chains!  

Mrs. Noisewater's Verdict: "They sound like a bunch of whining teenage girls."

7. Tool played music that was heavy and progressive, and we are learning that those are sure fire attractions to dudes and dudes only.  They also had videos with disgusting imagery of weird demon-like beings doing gross shit.  I still don't like to watch that part in the "Sober" video where the monster guy opens up the pipe to find a giant bloody worm crawling through, and he touches it!

Sample Song: "Parabola" by Tool

Mrs. Noisewater's Thoughts: This makes me want to slit my wrist.  I want to drink a bottle of whiskey and cry in the corner.  This is Tool!  It sounds like an insane asylum.  It would drive me to an insane asylum and then I would throw that bottle of whiskey into someone’s face!

Mrs. Noisewater's Verdict: I knew she hates Alice N' Chains and Tool more than any other bands, so if I could have done it again I wouldn't have had them right in a row like this.  She almost quit at this point, but I talked her into sitting through the last two clips . . .(skip to 4:45 to bypass the intro)

8. I suppose Dio is the most clearly heavy metal band on the list, and I was supposed to be avoiding metal bands.  However, I did include him because of all his lyrics about dragons, sorcery, and witches.  That's not subject matter that the ladies like to rock out to and sing with their girls.  Or is it? See below . . .
Sample Song: “Rainbow in the Dark” by Dio

Mrs. Noisewater's Thoughts: "I kind of want to dress up like a slut and dance with my girlfriends."

Mrs. Noisewater's Verdict: "I like this one!"

9. AC/DC sang thinly veiled sexual innuendo rockers like "Big Balls" and "Sink the Pink."  Do women like that?  If I overheard an attractive woman singing "Sink the Pink," I would be pretty surprised.  And frisky.  But, now that I think of it, I can remember seeing a lot of concert footage of women lifting up their shirts and showing boobs and AC/DC shows.  Still, they're a pretty dude heavy band if you ask me.  
Sample Song: “Let Me Put My Love Into You” by AC/DC

Mrs. Noisewater's Thoughts: "This is a song you would hear before a sports game.  It’s like a sports pump up song."

Mrs. Noisewater's Verdict: "It sounds like AC/DC."  That's actually a genius assessment because that is exactly what can be said of all AC/DC songs whether you like them or not.  

What do you think of the list, friends?  I have nine bands so I could really use your help to find that tenth . . .

________________________________________

*I group texted two friends who are around the same age as me.  That was the extent of the research.

That's My Girl!

Mrs. Noiswater and I were having breakfast a little while back in this great Greek diner in Chicago where you can get around 38 different egg skillets.  As long as I have been going in there, which is about as long as I've been writing on this blog page, it has been run by a middle aged Greek American with a thick Chicago accent who runs around there trying to run the whole place in his pajama pants.

On this day he was hollering at one of his staff members in a way that was making us uncomfortable, and this is not a side I had ever seen in him.  He is usually very busy and short with people to an extent but always very polite.  On this day he laid into this poor waitress and told her exactly what he though of her and performance for all his customers to hear.  "The toilet's clogged?  Well go plunge it!  Ah, go ahead and cry in the bathroom or whatever it is you do," he said to her as she ran towards the kitchen.  Then he warned someone never to have a daughter, or something to that effect.  So, we gathered that this was daughter he was lambasting.

Then when we brought our bill up to the counter to ring up, he went right back to his usual charming self.  He even commented on how pretty Mrs. Noisewater was and asked if she had a single mom around and winked at me.  What a smoothie!  But Mrs. Noisewater's mom is happily married.  Sorry Pajama Pants.

Well, I'll give the guy a pass because he has been nice every other time I have seen him, maybe this daughter of his really is a pain in the butt, and he does grill up a mean skillet.

What do you think, readers?  Do we get some a-hole liberties when interacting with our own families?

After work today I made a right onto a street with two lanes going in the same direction, and a guy in a mammoth tow trunk in the far lane laid on his horn.  Now, if he can't fit on the road, is that my problem?  I assumed that when he bought the thing he was planning on fitting on streets and what's more having room enough to pick up a car and tow it.  So despite the fact that he didn't seem to think the two of us could fit, he managed to pull up next to me and give me a dirty look.  Looks like we fit just fine.  Then he rolled his window down, glared at me, and then rolled it right back up.  I gave him a look like, "What do you want?"  He rolled it back down so I said, "Oh, I thought you were going to say something."  That came off like I was the world's biggest hard ass and I was being antagonistic.  But I really was just wondering if he was going to say something or not.  I told him, "I thought it was cool, you know, because it appears as if we both fit."  He said something threatening with the fuck word in it, which I think was "You had better watch the fuck out," or something.

That's the closest thing to the truck I could find, and it's blurry.  Whatever.  I'm going to bed.

There really is no need to get into conflicts with random weirdos, and this guy really did look off his nutter.  It's not important to be right.  Getting home safe and sound to your family is a way bigger deal.  We got conceal and carry in Illinois now so this guy could have shot me.  As a matter of fact, by the look on his face, if he had a pistol he certainly would have gunned me down right there on Ashland Avenue.  And my last words would have been, "I know your tow truck is extraordinarily wide, sir, but I was quite sure we could both fit in our respective lanes when I merged."

I always envisioned my last words would be wordy and descriptive.  

Updates. Updates. Updates.

1. Mrs. Noisewater and I have a wedding in August.  My only job was finding the DJ.  I made sure I talked to three or four different reputable DJ services with good Yelp reviews.  Ultimately I went with the guys who got back to me quickly when I had a question, they had a reasonable price, and we were on the same page with a lot of things.  For example, I don't want to hear any songs that are at every other damn wedding you've ever been to like "We Are Family," "Celebrate," or "Last Dance."  Also, no group participation dorky songs like the Conga line, the limbo, or the "Electric Slide."  The guy on the phone was laughing and totally got where I was coming from.  So I booked him.  I just have the photo booth to do and I'm all done.

2. I just finished George Clinton's autobiography, and I think the best story in there came when they were recording "Let's Take It To the Stage," and a random junkie white guy wandered in asking if he could record some guitar for some money.  George is a bit of free spirit so he agreed.  The guy came back with his own beat up guitar, recorded a solo over the song "Shit, God Damn, Get Off Your Ass and Jam," and everyone was speechless because it was so good.  They had agreed on $25, but it was so good George gave him $50.  George wanted to credit him on the album too, but the guy disappeared never to be heard from again.  Nobody knew who the hell he was.  I love reading rock biographies, and even if it's a bad one, if I get one story like that then it's all worth it.

3. Reading about all the Parliament/Funkadelic stuff got me digging through some old songs, and I came across this one by Bootsy Collins.  Tell me this isn't the sexiest damn thing you ever heard!  I've listened to this one 6 times in the last 4 days.

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4. Here is a little known fact: My profile picture on Blogger since the very beginning in 2005 is a picture of George Clinton himself stepping off of the Mothership.

Who among you knew that?

Things I Don't Like Happening At the Gym

Believe it or not, I have encountered all of these in just the last couple of days.

1. A guy two days ago playing "Candy Crush" on his phone while on the crapper.  The fact that he left the sound on incredibly loud makes me think that this was an older guy who didn't know how to turn the sound off of his very own phone that he carries around every day.  I actually went back to my locker on the other side of the locker room and still heard this guy racking up points, and at that point I had to laugh.

2. A guy tonight singing in the shower.  This guy wasn't just casually singing or humming; he was belting it out, putting all his emotions into it, and it still wasn't very good.  It was a soul song along the lines of John Legend, and it sucked.  

No clue what's happening here, but it comes up on Google Images if you search "John Legend + Shower."

3. When you wipe your face hard with the gym towel and it nearly scrapes off a layer of skin, which damn near happened to me yesterday.  One needs to remember to dab the sweat off the face because a hard wipe could leave you looking like Freddy Krueger.

Freddy Fitness?  Shasher-'robics?  Yes!!!!!!

4. Dude today taking selfies with his shirt off in the locker room.  Your physique is very impressive, and I'm sure it's important to you to chart your progress - but that is a glamor shot that you should be doing at home.

And perhaps I'm just tired of these dudes twice my age in way better shape

That's all I got for now, Seven Readers.  Now, if you go to the gym and play "Candy Crush" on the dumper, sing in the shower, wipe your skin off your face with a towel, and take a locker room selfie to cap it off, you're off my blog roll, tough guy.  And I mean that.  : )

Mrs. Noisewater and I went to Costco yesterday after the gym, and all the free samples in the world couldn't stave off our hunger upon finishing shopping.  We needed to eat instantly.  I told her that the Vienna Beef hot dog factory was up the road, and I was pretty sure you could eat there.  Turns out you can, and it's pretty awesome.  It's also the cafeteria for the people who work there, so there are coffee machines and things there too.  Mrs. Noisewater had her first Chicago dog, and I had a pastrami and roast beef sandwich on an onion roll.  We split an order of tater tots with a cup of cheese sauce.  It's a bummer this place is relocating to the South Side far away from us, but I'm glad we got a chance to get in there before that happens.

Open for business. 

While we were enjoying our meal, two Black ladies came in and the one was ordering in a most unusual manner.  She would say each part of her order and end with a "por favor," pronounced like asking someone a favor.  I guess it was nice of her to try to speak a little of the staff's native language, but is it possible she has only seen the words in print and had no idea how to say it correctly?

"One Chicago dog . . . por favor."

"With no tomatoes . . . por favor."

"And sport peppers . . . por favor."

A couple of middle aged white women were in there too talking about a guy they know who has a wife who cheats on him left and right,
but he won't do the same because of his Christian beliefs.

"Go F' yourself, por favor."

Then this guy who looked just like Gene Hackman was in there lecturing the young ladies on how you can never put ketchup on a hot dog.

God, I love Chicago.