Gripping 2006

The Two-Week Malaise (aka 2006 Government Monkey Disease) has held me in its grip since I was in Vegas. For the first time ever, I'm finding no one that will give me grief about feeling like a candidate for the morgue. Nearly everybody I know has had a run-in with the TWM. It starts with a sore throat, moves to a chest cold and hacking cough, morphs to a sinus and ear infection, and then lingers as a general fatigue and phlegmy mess for another several days. Usually I have one or two friends or relatives who tell me to rub some dirt on it and walk it off. This time, the TWM is kicking everyone's ass. Two of the bigger grief-givers when it comes to illness, Uncle Ted and Dr. Jeff, were both afflicted, so I didn't hear jack from them about it. Although, now that I think about it, Dr. Jeff kicked the Two-Week Malaise in three days with a combination of grapefruit and rest, which I think is a tacit way of telling me I am a giant wuss for feeling like hell for a fortnight.

But that's not the grip (or the grippe) I'm here to talk about.

Anyone who has spent any time here over the past 12 months has figure out that I'm not the biggest fan of 2006. After a 2005 that treated me like Mae West in "I'm No Angel," 2006 turned me into a throw-away character in "Fight Club" who spent most of his time on the other end of Tyler Durden's fist. I rode through it, convinced I was just on the other side of a variance curve and certain that yin and yang would eventually make up and make out.

I was probably at my worst during the month of October (a month that I love but always beats me up). I'd pretty much given up hope. What's more, I got more than a little worried about myself and my relative grip on self-control. I dialed back certain aspects of my life that could lead to peril if abused and tried to figure out if I was in the middle of a spiral or merely just freaked out.

I'm still not sure where I was, but I know this: The past four weeks have shown enough promise that I actually look forward to getting out of bed in the morning. My relationships with my family and friends are better. My work ethic, writing, and poker playing are all in such a way that I'm not ready to quit any of them. I am, in short, quite content.

So, as 2006 comes to a close and we holiday types spend some quality holiday time with our families and friends, I find myself quite willing to say that I'm happy and feel very lucky to have gotten through 2006 without any permanent scars.

Of course, with happiness like this comes a little bit of survivor's guilt. I have several friends and family members who have dealt with a great deal more this year than I have. What's more, they are still suffering. From the wife of a good friend who died, to my family who is missing its patriarch, to people who are trying to figure out how to live lives that are so completely different than they expected due to unexpected circumstances, I know that I am one lucky guy.

The next several days are going to be spent with family and close friends. If I don't make it back before the new year, I wish all of you who continue to come here a very happy holiday.

Let's make 2007 a good one, huh?

By Mennen

I can't remember where I read it, but for some reason I believe that Adolf Hitler was so concerned about potential body odor that he went to extreme measures (I think it was surgery) to alleviate perspiration. Of course, I may be making this all up. All I know is that about ten days ago, I was thinking about Hitler as I walked down the Las Vegas Strip.

It was warm that day and I'd just inhaled some lettuce wraps from P.F. Changs. It was a short walk to the MGM Grand, but by the time we were halfway there, I was sweating.

"Motherfucker," I muttered under my breath. The expletive was fine. Some people may say Vegas is a family town, but, the way I looked at it, if my friends can get rolled by a hooker and wheelchaired back to their hotel suites in this family town without a blink from the Convention and Visitors Bureau, I can mutter a curse word under my breath without fear of reprisal. Hence, "motherfucker."

I have a bit of a paranoia about how I smell. I rarely wear any scent, prefering just to smell clean. The last thing I want, however, is for my deodorant to fail me on any given day. I've spent years finding the perfect antiperspirant/deodorant combination. Without it, I fear that, in short, I might smell bad at any moment.

On this particular day, my hurry to get to the MGM poker room made me forget the third step in my post-shower ritual. Not sure how it happened, but I blame the Transportation Security Administration's 3-1-1 War on Moisture. My Right Guard Clear Stick Antiperspirant Deodorant was in a one quart bag and not right in front of me. It didn't make it to my pits, which, in my estimation, was the pits. Or something.

Now, I was already sweating and my day had barely begun. Walking back to the Aladdin to re-shower and apply the necessary product was an option, but in light of the limited time I had to play that day, I didn't see a trip back to the hotel room as a viable solution. I decided I would stop in at the gift shop in the West Wing of the MGM and buy whatever they had there. As the West Wing is a decent section of the MGM, I had high hopes. Cost be damned, I said.

Well, cost at least be slapped around a little bit, because as I was announcing the problem to my walking mates, they began betting on how much I was going to pay to not smell bad all day long. Somebody set the line at $5.00 (around twice the going rate for my regular product). I can't remember who took what side, but I was hoping whoever took the "over" on the line would trip over a curb and land in a puddle of my sweat.

The sundries shop in the West Wing is right inside the back doors where we normally walk in. Within seconds of hitting the conditioned air, I was looking at the appropriate sundry shelf.

"Motherfucker," I muttered again, this time a little louder and in the direction of the chick behind the counter. "This is all you have?"

She nodded.

The only male deodorant on the shelf was none other than original scent Speed Stick (by Mennen!). There were so many problems with this, I almost walked out and went back to my hotel. First, it was only deodorant and not antiperspirant, which means I was going to be sweating down my sides all day long, the sexy bitch that I am. Second, it was fucking Speed Stick, which meant, regardless of whether I was sweating, I was going to smell like a guy I lived with in college who swore by Mennen products. Third, the container cost $5.05.

"Motherfucker."

By and by, though, I stood in the men's room, at a urinal no less, applying Speed Stick to my pits. The smell hit me like several years of college at once. Anyone standing within a three-foot radius of my arms knew I was wearing Speed Stick. It's one of the most distinctive male products on the market. The only thing that would've been more obvious would be wearing Aqua Velva. Or a toupee.

But, poker player I am, I persevered and made it through the day. Sure, I occasionally muttered profanity and declared to anyone who listened that I smelled like a specific college roommate. But, after five hours or so, I got used to the smell. It was like home. A very, very smelly home.

The unfortunate smell lasted the better part of the afternoon and until I could get back to the room to clean up for the dinner mentioned in the previous post. Finally I was able to smell like I wanted and get rid of the college smell.

Or so I thought.

My wife is the queen of laundry. If I could find a crown made of dryer sheets and clothes hangers, I would put it on her head. She can get get stains out of mud pies. As for smells, something with which the mother of a toddler is quite familiar, she is an expert in stink removal.

Which made it all the more surprising when I put on one of my favorite t-shirts yesterday morning and realized that I just didn't like the way I smelled.

Somehow, through some fucked up quirk of science, the Speed Stick smell had managed to live through Vegas, a plane trip, a week in the hamper, a wash, a dry cycle with a Bounce Febreze Fresh Scent sheet, and a couple days in my closet.

Now, there's a part of me that has to applaud Mennen for producing a product that can apparently survive nuclear winter and the second coming of Christ. I mean, that takes some serious science. Still, there's another part of me, a part that is exceptionally sensitive in the olfactory area, that just wants his shirt back.

I'm not sure I can beat the science, though. Even Hitler would be impressed.

Stuck at dinner

My wife insists--and only because I think she is a little jealous--that I have a man-crush on Absinthe. It's rare for me to pick up new friends, and when I came home from Vegas last summer talking about this guy, the wife eventually started looking at me like she did when I started wearing pleatless pants and drinking dirty martinis. When I mentioned all of this to Absinthe, who incidentally is married with a child on the way, he replied laconically, "If that's the case, the crush will go unrequited."

All of the above makes it even more frustrating to explain to the wife how Absinthe's last text message of the weekend is not at all homoerotic, despite reading "If I tell you to put something in your mouth, you had best do it."

***

For the first time in as long as I can remember, I was not hungover after my first night in Vegas. I'd been playing cards all day in an extremely fun and potentially profitable game. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I left such a game without being forced to.

In gambler's terms, being "stuck" means to be in the hole, to have lost money, to be down. Though I would end the trip with a modest profit, I was stuck heading into this particular game. I'd hoped to leave the game unstuck, but there just wasn't time before following Absinthe to dinner.

Now, normally, when I'm in Vegas, I don't spend a lot of time away from the poker table. Most places will deliver food right to your chair for no more than a small tip to the waitress. It's really the best of both worlds. Unless, of course, you live in Absinthe's world.

Which is different.

***

I was wearing no-pleat pants, and that doesn't make me gay. If I had worn the shiny black shirt (the one that would've made me look like Johnny Cash does the Village People), there might have been some merit to the arugment. Instead, I wore a toned down, less shiny, certainly not gay shirt.

There were six of us at dinner. As the accented man led us to a cozy table, I surveyed our group and found two attorneys, a doctor, a journalist, Absinthe, and myself.

Six months earlier, Absinthe had taken some friends and me to dinner at another nice place as a "thank you" for sweating him through the World Series of Poker. It was a nice and unnecessary gesture. Still, it had re-awakened my tastebuds and I was hankering for another good meal.

The result was Michael Mina, nestled in the back of the Bellagio Conservatory, wherein I would find myself only barely able to answer this question, as posed by a drunk guy: "Is it outside in here?"

***

As I am no genius in the ways of fine dining, I won't pretend to offer a review of my meal, except to say that at point I remarked, "If I ever brought my wife here, there would never again be a need for foreplay."

Over the course of two hours, a small platoon of the restaurant's staff served us the following:

* Pumpkin soup
* Tartare of ahi tuna, seasoned with sesame oil, toasted pine nuts, garlic, chiffonade of mint, with crusts of toast
* Maine Lobster Pot Pie with baby carrots, fingerling potatoes, and black truffles
* Miso-Glazed Chilean Sea Bass with Mushroom Consomme, Shrimp and Scallop Ravioli
* Trio of American Kobe Ribeye with Horseradish, Classic Bearnaise, Foie Gras Emulsion
* Warm Chocolate Cake, Coconut Panna Cotta, Mini Root Beer Float, warm pecan cookies

For those not familiar with such a rundown, it comes courtesy of Michael Mina's cookbook tasting menu, a sampling of his finest dishes, all served in one meal. And by sampling, they bascially mean, "we're going to give you enought to fill you up until Christmas, no matter what time of year you eat."

I ate it all...with the exception of the sea bass' bed of bok choy (er...choi?), which was a little too limp for my taste.

Yeah, I ate the lot. And then wondered if I should've worn the shiny shirt.

***

The past couple years of my life have afforded me the luxury of meeting people who could satisfy nearly every vice I have, not to mention many vices I don't have. Pick a vice--booze, strippers, drugs, cigars, etc.--and I know an expert on the subject. Fortunately, I stick to vices that keep me married and not afoul of the law. And, also fortunately, food is one of those vices. And, damn it, if Absinthe isn't my hook-up.

Vice? Food is a vice? Well, it's not if you're eating the over-cooked prime rib sandwich at the poker tables at Caesar's It is, however, if you spend too much time eating at joints like Michael Mina.

Rather than itemize the tab for you, I offer this little tidbit:

When the check came, Absinthe was the first to review it. I'd already figured the price of our meal in our head, but had failed to calculate one thing. Even I jumped a bit when Absinthe deadpanned, "Well, our water bill is $52."

After running the numbers through an abacus and more than a couple of mental super computers, we figured out the per person cost. Remarkably, the cash hit the table in seconds, and we sated gamblers made for the door.

On our way out, our server stood waiting with a bag for each of us. Inside was a cookbook signed by the chef. Retail price on the book? $50.

***

Before we left to go back to playing poker, I mentioned to our group that there is a difference between being stuck and being food stuck. If you're stuck playing poker, it's either a result of bad play or bad luck. If you're food stuck, it's because you chose to satisfy one of life's greatest pleasures.

Here's the thing about poker, though. Unlike a lot of people who have the food vice (or any other vice), a poker player can get unstuck if he works at it.

Over the course of the next couple of days, I got unstuck and un-food-stuck. By the time I crawled onto the redeye home, I had more money in my pocket than when I arrived.

And that means, my friends, that little meal I had Friday night was free.

And the cookbook? Well, that's just a little bit of mushroom consomme gravy, baby.

Alive

Indeed, I think I am, but not so much that I'm ready to bet the farm on it.

For those who don't know, I'm just back from a trip to Las Vegas. And by "just back," I mean that I got home 24 hours ago. The balance of the time has been spent in a coughing, sneezing, shivering fit that I assume can only be rivaled by the pre-death throes of someone afflicted with some government-sponsored monkey disease.

I've just recently found the strength to crawl out of bed. It's been more than 24 hours since I've eaten. During that time, I've sipped two glasses of water. Funny thing, I spent four straight days with my brother, a freakin' doctor, and I get this sick within 12 hours of sending him on his way.

Hopefully I'll have more to offer later. For now, yes, I'm alive. I have a monkey-disease, but I'm alive.

My deadly toothpaste or my bloody Valentine?

I've been home for a while and it's been nice. Though I've taken a couple of roadtrips in recent months, my domestic and international travel schedule has been slow. In fact, the last time I was on a plane was two days after the now infamous Liquid-A-Go-Go Scare of August 2006. Even though I was flying out of a notoriously slow airport (and one that had been visited by 9/11 terrorists), my trip was pretty routine. Mundane, even.

My travel season is about to pick up again with flights both domestic and international. While I'll certainly check my bags when I fly overseas, I prefer to carry-on, if possible, during domestic flights. Anyone who flies on a regular basis knows that lost luggage, or even waiting at the baggage carousel can be a real drag. Plus, carrying-on forces a traveler to pack lighter (read: only what he needs).

Based on the Liquid-A-Go-Go Scare, I wasn't sure what I would now be allowed to carry on and what I would have to leave behind. As I have referenced in previous posts, my middle-aged vanity is getting the better of me and I have a few products that have to come with me, no matter where I go.

So, I hit up the TSA website to determine what was allowed and what was not. Apparently, many liquid and gel products are no longer verboten, as long as you carry three ounces or less. For instance, my clear stick anti-perspirant/deodorant is cool becauase it comes in a 2 oz. container. Same goes for a little hair product I use. However, I'll have to downsize my toothpaste and shaving cream. Once I have made the trip to the drug store for the requisite downsizing, I have to find a way to fit all I need into a single one-quart ziplock bag. Any variaton from said scheme could result in a body cavity search by Hoppy the Long-Fingered TSA Agent.

I'm all for security. I don't even mind having to put forth a little extra effort to make people feel a little safer when they are going to see Grandma for the holidays. If I have to carry a smaller version of my Aquafresh Whitening, so be it.

But, after looking over the TSA site, I think I've found a flaw in the logic somewhere. For instance, while my wife can't carry on more than three ounces of saline solution, anyone (including Joe Terrorist), can carry on the following:

Corkscrew--Anyone who has seen True Romance knows that corkscrews, especially in the hands of a woman fighting for her man, can be a really nasty weapons. And I won't even mention what happened to Crispin Glover in Friday the 13th: The Final Chapter.

Knitting needles--Knitting needles? You gotta be kidding me. I mean, yeah, as this guy points out, knitting needles may not be really strong, but making one that is strong wouldn't be a feat of science. Hell, a knitting needle just looks dangerous. I recall one episode of CSI where the writers used it as a murder weapon.

Scissors--The web site stipulates that the scissors can be metal with pointed tips, as long as the blades are shorter than four inches in length. Four inches? I can't have more than three ounces of shaving cream, but somebody can carry something that could plunge four inches into my body? I mean four inches is pretty damned deep, no matter what my wife says.

And here's the one that finally set me over the edge.

Toy Transformer Robots--Robots? Fucking robots can get on the plane? Sure, the TSA says they have to be "toys," but how many times have we seen a perfectly innocent looking robot vaporize scores of people with the push of a button. Motherfucking robots.

So, I'll go to CVS and get my miniature products. And I'll declare them at the gate. And I'll do it all with a smile. But when a robot terrorist stabs an air marshal in the back with a knitting needle, uses a corkscrew to take out his eye, slits his throat with a pair of scissors and then vaporizes the lot of us, don't blame me if I say I told you so.

Oh, wow

It took fighting brain-splitting traffic, holiday shoppers, a tree salesman with a remedial knowledge of simple machinery, and a new-fangled Christmas tree stand, but by the end of the day, it was, of course, quite worth it.

Because, the kid says, "Oh, wow, Dad. Look."

Secrets

There was only one other guy there. He was unkempt. His shirt hung untucked over his gut. The mop on his head hadn't been cut in some time and it was obvious he'd combed it in a way to hide an ever-receding hairline. We looked at each other, but said nothing. There hung in the air an unspoken unease with how we were handling this particular ugly necessity. We were both there to satisfy something that was embarassing. If we actually went through with it, we both knew it would give us a certain amount of pleasure. We also knew that if we did it, we wouldn't want anyone else to know.

I didn't nod at him and he didn't nod at me as we looked at our choices.

***

I turn 33 years old today. As I said to a friend the other day, birthdays have reached a point at which they are no longer exciting, but neither are they all that depressing. Thirty-three, I've come to accept, is not all that old. Sure, my life has changed a lot in the last decade. Sure, I look and feel older than I once did. But, when it comes down to it, barring bus accident or an unfortunate run-in with a billiards gambler and a pool cue, I stand a chance of living for a good long while if I can take care of myself.

"Condolences," my friend said.

***

I looked over my shoulder to see if anyone was looking. The other guy left me alone. I knew I'd been standing too close to him. If someone had done the same thing to me in that situation, I would've left, too. I was sure there was some protocol for these situations, but I'd never been there before. I didn't know. At that point, I just wanted to make sure I didn't see anyone I knew.

I feel dirty, I thought.

The wife had sent me out to pick up a few things for our only child and I ended up considering something that, if I actually went through with it, I would never tell my spouse about.

A man's needs change, the rationalizing part of my psyche assured me. It's okay. What happens here, stays here.

***

I saw Tracey over the summer. She's as tall as me and is humble about how beautiful she is. No one who has ever met her, least of all me, can deny that she is one of the most striking and approachable people you will ever meet.

I hadn't seen her in a long time. We'd parted ways under good terms many years before. This summer, she came into town for a mutual friend's funeral. Many of the mourners retired to a bar after the service. Though I knew we were in a crowd, I had to say something to her. After an hour, I walked through the crowd and waited for her to finish a conversation. Finally, she turned to me with a small smile and pulled me into a warm embrace.

The last time I saw her, she had dressed and done her hair differently. In the years that had passed, she'd worked in the big city. Now, she was startlingly cosmopolitan. She told me she was going to work for a boutique PR firm in the city.

I looked different, as well. Five years before, my hair was longer and made-for-TV. I had no facial hair and I weighed 15-20 pounds more.

"You look good," she said. She reached out and fingered beard on my chin. "I love how you're not doing anything with the gray."

***

Vanity is a bitch.

What's weird about it is, back when I was regularly in the hunt, I paid litle attention to my appearance. My hair grew to my shoulders, my weight was directly proportional to the amount I was drinking (a lot), and I would go days without making the acquaintance of a razor. Even when I was still working in television (the time of my life when appearance was pretty important), I didn't take exceptional care of myself. I could've looked better than I did.

Since the kid was born, I've found msyelf inordinately concerned with how I look. Though a wedding ring is welded to my finger and I rarely go to bars where women hang out, I spend a lot more time in front of mirrors. I trim, scrub, and preen. I found a fancy, bald man who knows how to cut my hair and does it with precision (if a little too much time and proximity).

It's all a little sad.

***

This is sad, I admitted to myself. I shouldn't be doing this.

Now alone, I could satisfy this male necessity. It would cost more than I expected, but if I paid in cash, my wife would never know. Ever since Tracey had returned to the city, I couldn't think of anything else. My wife couldn't help. As much as I loved her, she was powerless.

You know, spoke my reasonable side, she'll know. She'll either smell it on you. Or she'll find some sort of CSI-trace-transfer scientific bullshit. She'll know.

I couldn't argue. Chances are, even if no one saw me, even if I paid in cash, even if I was able to be sneaky around my wife, she would figure it out.

Alone, I was forced to make a decision. I wouldn't likely have this chance again any time soon.

I can't believe this, said my rational brain.

And then everything went silent.

***

Later that night, I sat on the couch next to my wife. She looked at me adoringly, like she loved me and would love me regardless.

I broke.

"I have a confession to make," I said.

The look on her face was one of controlled worry. She's put up with a lot in our ten years together. She knows I have a tendency to flirt with the deep end. However, I've never given her any reason to believe I would go where I'd been in the past 24 hours.

"Okay..." she said.

"I spent a little time in the Just For Men aisle at the grocery store today."

My visison was clouded with relief. I'd said it. Now it was out there and I couldn't take it back.

But, the look on her face was more than I could bear and I looked away.

***

In the end, I couldn't do it. I couldn't bring myself to buy Grecian Formula, Just For Men, or any of the other products on the shelf. It wasn't just the embarassment that went along with it. It was the fact that, if I had actually gone ahead with it, I would've be admitting that I'm actually concerned about not only getting old, but looking old.

Some people might suggest that even walking into the aisle is a tacit admission of defeat.

Me? I'm just proud of myself for walking away with what little pride I have left still intact.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to exfoliate.

Winter Soldier

A creature of habit, and a habitual creature, I'm back on a rhythm that makes me think 2am is 6pm. The house is quiet enough for sipping beer and turning my noodle inside-out for a while. Early this morning, while the dog snoozed on a pillow, the kid rustled in bed, and the wife slept off a late-autmn cold, I turned on the TV.

The programming selection, as usual, was poor. For a while, I found myself watching Justine Bateman and Juila Roberts in "Satisfaction" and wondering what programming genius thought it would be good to slip that one back in rotation. I watched it longer than I intended before realizing I had killed just enough brain cells to forget how old I turn on Monday.

Sundance was showing a film titled "Winter Soldier."

I'll admit, though this film was made before I was born and re-released last year, I'd never heard of it. In short, more than 100 Vietnam vets went to Detroit in 1971 to testify in front of TV cameras about atrocities during the war.

Watch it. If you find it at all compelling, be prepared to be called an idiot by anyone who opposes John Kerry. I've done little more research than wiki-ing the movie, but it's pretty clear the film's contents are hot enough to spark the kind of debate that results in moving exactly nowhere. Because the event was put on by anti-war activists, it was largely assumed that much of the testimony was false or exaggerated for effect.

I don't know. I never will know. But I do know this: It would be damned interesting to take 125 vets of Iraq and put them in front of a camera for a day.