Hello, Readers—what’s left of you at this point—and welcome back from my self-imposed get well hiatus due to the less-than-pleasant oral surgery that I had about 10 days ago. For those of you who care, like certain parts of the Bachelor contestants after a night in the Fantasy Suite, my face is still a bit puffy and sore, but I’m recovering nicely. Thanks to all of you who took the time to send me well wishes, emails, and half naked pictures of Pippa Middleton. They were all instrumental parts of my recovery. Coincidentally, there are several bars in Austin that are now unexpectedly stocked with an overabundance of Lone Star Beer. In short, I have a lot of catching up to do.
Flashback a few days and picture a doped up, swollen version of Some Guy in Austin lying on his couch swimming in the delirium of a post-surgical haze. When a person is laid up and chock full of Vicodin and Valium he tends to have a lot of time to ponder life’s deepest questions. Granted, that person can hardly spell the word “life” during that legally-sanctioned, prescription-induced bender, but life’s big questions do rattle around inside his head.
Normally, my thought process can be likened to a school of tadpoles in a shallow pond. They sit there patiently waiting for the interrupted stillness and then dash forward in an orderly, organized fashion with a strong sense of purpose and an uncontrollable desire to live and be heard.
My thought process on the generous supply of Valium and Vicodin prescribed by my doctor was more akin to the bubbles inside of a lava lamp. Thoughts slowly and unpredictably emerged from the mass of gelatinous mush at the bottom of the lamp where they eventually broke off into smaller, directionless bubbles and floated aimlessly toward the top only to collide with other aimless bubbles before bouncing around and falling gently downward and being reabsorbed by the shapeless mass below without accomplishing anything. In short, I was higher than Chicago gas prices for a few days and I got nothing done.
The silence I experienced is a rare thing in my life. Frankly, at one point there was a realization that a.) I’m rarely alone for more than a couple of hours, and b.) aside from the shower and my mid-morning trip down the hall for my post-coffee “consult,” I rarely have the time to really sit and think. After a day or two, I experienced flashes of clarity—some profound, some not so profound. At a certain point, I began to record my thoughts. What you see below is the result of my efforts. Keep in mind that I was loaded with narcotics. The following stuff actually went through my head in the span of a couple of hours. With that said, let’s get to it.
MY MID-LIFE CRISIS
There were moments during my recovery when I could feel every muscle and every bone in my body literally stinging with age. I don’t consider myself old; however, I don’t consider myself young anymore either. Frankly, I’m in the sweet spot. In other words, I’m old enough to date a recently divorced M.I.L.F. (look it up if you don’t know what that means) but young enough to have a fling with her oldest daughter. Granted, I’m not in the habit of doing either of those things, but if I wanted to capitalize, now is the time. I’m just saying. After all, a man is only as old as the woman he feels. Groucho Marx said that and I’m happy to steal it.
Incidentally, I believe the plural form of “M.I.L.F.” is “Milves.” What’s that? Use it in a sentence? “Some Guy in Austin went to the mall and saw a bunch of Milves when he walked by Build-A-Bear Workshop.”
“Bunch of Milves.” Is that the correct nomenclature in order to refer to an instance where more than two Milves congregate? Let’s see, there’s a Pack of Wolves, a Gaggle of Geese, a Murder of Crows, and a Herd of Cattle. I suppose a “Bunch of Milves” will work. Then again, I do like the alliteration of “Myriad of Milves,” “Mass of Milves,” “Morsel of Milves,” “Mob of Milves,” “Multitude of Milves,” or “Mountain of Milves.” It certainly makes it easier to remember. Annnyyyyyyhoooo . . .
Because I was given the unique opportunity of feeling older than I actually am, I began to ponder my inevitable Mid-Life Crisis. Granted, it’s still early, but planning is essential, I reasoned, and now is as good a time as any to kick around a few ideas.
Hair plugs and a sports car is a logical place to start; however, I have a full head of hair and I can’t afford a sports car. Besides, I normally don’t feel my age. I always feel like an 18 year old. Unfortunately, there’s never one around. Ahh, my first one liner in two weeks. It’s good to be back.
For the record, I probably can’t afford an 18 year old either. Well, unless we’re talking mail order bride from Russia or the Philippines, but with my luck “Svetlana” or “Imelda” would quickly discover the bastions of teen fashion Hollister, Gadzooks, or Forever 21 and I’d be broke before either one of them figured out that the crap they paid top dollar for at those stores was actually manufactured by their much younger brethren and smuggled into this country in a shipping container not unlike the one they were surreptitiously loaded into with a gallon of water, some assorted candies, and a urine jar in order to get over here in the first place.
So much for my Mid-Life Crisis.
And another thing: why is “Philippines” spelled with a “ph” but people from that part of the world are referred to as “Filipino:” with an “F?” Seems odd, doesn’t it? It’s a damn good thing that rule doesn’t apply in Thailand. People from Phuket would be called Fuckers.
Speaking of fuckers, the next season of the Bachelorette is getting ready to begin on May 23 and that means my Monday nights—and the first few hours of every new Tuesday—are booked for the next 10 weeks in order that I might regale my loyal and seasonal readers with example after example of my sharp wit and beguiling humor. In order to “prepare” for the upcoming hoopla, I took the time between my Zen-like trips beyond reality to review the ABC.com website in order to remind myself how big Ashley’s forehead is and to see this season’s Parade of Putzes vying for a possible chance at becoming the potential Mr. Fivehead . . . maybe. Hey, do you think Brad and Emily will be invited back along with Ryan and Trista and Jason and Molly to offer some advice on how to handle the stress of . . . oh, wait.
Bangs are the right choice for Ashley, but she’s still just not that attractive to me. I can’t wait to see her judgey, tattooed, attention-seeking, dangerously bitter-below-the surface sister again.
I’ll get to the individual breakdown of the guys next week. We all know that set up sets the tone for the season. Besides, I’d hate to plant any preconceptions in the readers’ minds about the favorite, the psycho, and the dark horse. I’m sure there are wagers being made as I type this and I don’t want to mess up the odds.
I will say that collectively the guys look more like the headshots they’ve submitted were taken during a casting call for the Summer tour of Rent rather than an offering as single men vying for the attention of Ashley’s forehead. Did anyone else notice that?
Look, I doubt that ALL of these guys are gay, but come on. As I looked through the pictures, I could almost hear the Maroon 5 playing in the background. I’m surprised that half these guys didn’t answer “Anderson Cooper” when asked who they admire most. Pastel shirts? Plump Red Lips? Tanning cream? Either something is super gay in Denmark or the airbrush ABC used to tighten up the headshots was inadvertently locked on the Ricky Martin setting.
For crying out loud, one guy admits to having a crush on Arnold Schwarzenegger, which is fortuitous considering the fact that it appears that Arnold is going to have a little spare time on his hands for the rest of his life. Oops.
Remember my comments a few weeks ago about the dangers of revealing long ago infidelity in a marriage when the affair is over? I suppose that applies here, but to be fair to Arnold, it must have been difficult to explain why the housekeeper’s kid spoke with an Austrian accent and had a tendency to bench press his crib. I feel bad for Maria and the kids, especially the illegitimate one. Let’s be honest, though. There are plenty of 10 year old illegitimate kids running around the country without having Conan the Barbarian royalties to go after. At least he’s got that going for him. Back to the “men.”
Another guy claims “hairdresser” as his occupation and another dude (check out thirty-five year old Tim from Massapequa) makes Liza Minelli’s ex-husband look masculine. Hell, he even makes Liza look feminine. I’m certain he’s a Judy Garland fan as well. Again, ALL of these guys can’t be gay, but where there’s smoke there’s fire and where there’s fire you can always find a few flames. Now THAT would be a hell of a twist this season. I can’t wait to see which one of these guys is going to make it past a couple of rounds and then admit to Ashley during a one-on-one that when he filled out the application to be on the show, he thought he was signing up to meet Brad Womack. I literally can’t wait.
Derek and the Boys from South Beach are aware that I don’t care where two consenting men prefer to park their manhood and God knows I don’t care which side of the field a person punts from; however, signing up for a reality show where the intent is to court and marry a woman is a situation where that sort of thing does matter. I’m curious to know what Derek and the Boys can tell us heterosexuals about the selection of suitors this time around. I’m certain they’ll have fun watching the first episode.
Tune in next Tuesday when Some Guy plans to dust off all of his weapons in an effort to provide you an entertaining play by play account of the courting, carousing, and crying. Next subject.
Trees are green. Cedar trees have weird, stringy bark that peels off and smells nice but I’m allergic to cedar so even though I enjoy the sight and smell of the cedar trees in and around Austin, I can’t fully enjoy them because my eyes itch and my chest gets a bit congested when I’m around them. This happens when I go for mountain bike rides in the Hill Country or run down by Barton Creek during the pollination seasons. Live oaks are beautiful tress with thick, immovable bark and powerful, broadly reaching limbs. I like them. When I see the open limbs of a live oak tree I think they look like the open arms of a person and then I invariably think about the recurring dream that Holden Caufield had in Catcher in the Rye where he ran, arms outstretched, toward the children trying to preserve their innocence. O.J. wasn’t innocent but I don’t think it would have mattered if he was because Holden Caufield was a pussy and if O.J. was running toward him in a field of rye grass there is no way Holden could tackle him. I like milkshakes as well. I’m not allergic to them although some people—particularly Hispanics—are lactose intolerant and probably don’t enjoy milkshakes as much as I do. I wonder if they sell less milkshakes in San Antonio because of all of the Hispanics there. Apparently, they found something to replace the milkshake there because San Antonio is literally one of the fattest cities in America. It’s too bad San Antonio isn’t near Phuket, Thailand because then it would be the Phattest City in America, which is an entirely different thing. I think I took one too many pills.
It’s been said that a good piece of literature is like a woman’s skirt: It should be long enough to cover the really good stuff, but short enough to keep a person interested. And, with that, I’ll wind up today’s entry and get some much needed mental rest in order to gear up for the big premier next week.
As always, thank you all for reading, tolerating me, and sending your thoughts and comments. Thank you to all of you who stayed with me during the off season. I hope I continued to entertain despite my departure from my usual material.
I’ll see you back here next week for the rundown of the new season. Take care of yourselves and the people you love and give thanks for what you have. In the meantime, if you need me I’ll be watching Anderson Cooper on mute while dancing around my living room with Maroon 5 on the radio and a class of sangria in my hand. DP