Give Us a Chance. We're Just Like You.

We've got a high school senior in our midst, and lately, she's been dishing up dollops of household angst. 

She's been getting all deep on us, harshing our mellows with her sentimentality and nostalgic yearning. 

All this, and her mom and I just want to party.

It's a time most of us remember vividly—that last chapter of traditional schooling when all that's left is a million flicks of the wrist launching a million mortarboards and nearly gauging out the cataract-clouded eyes of a million Great Aunt Carolines.

Yeah, our kid has really been reflecting recently, feeling little daggers of regret for not having soaked it all in just a bit more, that growing realization that things will never be the same. 

It's so tempting to extract the "when I was a boy" arrow from my quiver, but any anecdotal wisdom would surely careen off her still-teenage deflector shields. Plus, I can't really reach my quiver anymore, so I'm thinking it may finally be time to sign up for Pilates.

So, rather than inserting my gin-blossomed face into her grill and delivering a forceful lecture on my ability to relate to her senior sorrow, I'm going to jot it down in passive, twelve-point Arial. 

What better way to explain the mindset of youth than through popular music? Throughout the past sixty years, the pop charts have chronicled the pulse of our youth, and I'd like to demonstrate how things haven't really changed much. I've decided to sample the tops song names from my dad's graduation year (1951), mine (1981) and my daughter's (2013). You decide.

All included songs about hands:

In 1951, Nelson Eddy and Jo Stafford hit number 22, singing "With These Hands," 1981's number 19 tune was "Slow Hand" by the Pointer Sisters. And 2013 featured Akon at number 30 with "Hold My Hand."

Apparently, kids have always appreciated hands. I know I did, especially during that long, boring summer of 1978.

Commentaries on societal taboo and scandal :

In 1951, Vaughn Monroe reached number 76 with "On Top of Old Smokey," a song of forbidden love at remote Michigan logging camp. 1981's "Whip It," as performed by Devo, climbed to number 98, and in 2013, one man's sociopathic manipulation of his Irish Wolfhound is revealed in David Guetta's "Sexy Bitch," at number 31.

Crying songs:

Johnnie Ray hit the stratosphere with 1951's number 3 song, "Cry." In 1981, Don McLean reached number 40, with "Crying," and Flo Rida hit number 93 in 2013 with "I Cry." 

Wow, what a bunch of babies. Sorry, I should keep it positive.

Tunes promoting safe sex:

In 1951, Del Wood became one of the first artists to provide us with a road map of proper condom placement, singing the year's number 60 song, "Down Yonder," 1981's number 34 title, "Living Inside Myself" by Gino Vanelli,  points out the simplest way to avoid STDs and unwanted pregnancies. And BoB featuring Bruno Mars, currently at number 28, extols the virtues of condom use, with "Nothing On You." 

After reviewing these themes, I've got to tell you, I'm pretty impressed with the voices of America's youth over the past sixty years. I'd expected to find a predominance of gratuitous sexual themes, but I'm pleasantly surprised at the consistency of socially conscious subject matter. Hopefully, this exercise will help prove to our kids that we really do know what they're going through since we were there once ourselves.

Now, if Taylor Swift would just go away for a while.

Crap. Does This Mean I'm an Old Man?

Today, I'm asking for your assistance.

You, the loyal reader, the benevolent soul who has kindly carved out a smidge of his or her busy docket to read my anemic diatribes.

You, the compassionate peruser, who has chosen to ingest my drivel while sitting on the porcelain perch after finally growing weary of studying the contents of every Tylenol PM and Kleenex box within reach.

Yeah, you.

I need you to help me decide whether my recent behavior is the direct result of aging, or merely a by product of a changing familial dynamic.

For as long I can remember, I've been  driving my thirteen-year-old daughter to school every Friday morning, stopping on the way to hook her up with a breakfast of questionable integrity. While, for many school years, her meal of choice was an Assiago cheese bagel and chocolate milk, she's now elevated her tastes to more processed fare. 

That's why we now stop at 7-Eleven instead of Safeway.

This morning, I looked over at her as she eased herself into the Hyundai. Carefully avoiding any oil puddles or gum wads on the convenience store's well-trodden asphalt, she gingerly clutched her meal of choice—a protein bar with a side of hot chocolate with a side of mini marshmallows.

Engulfed within the car's dull interior, she sparkled. Her hair fell in loose ringlets over a white sweater, a sky blue tank top peaking out to closely match her glittery blue TOMS flats and compliment her indigo skinny jeans. As I merged the dirty sedan onto West Seattle's main drag, she looked over at me, betraying lines of sparkly something-or-other across her eyelids. 

She was freaking impeccable.

She sipped her cocoa. "I forgot to brush my teeth today."

"How can you forget to brush your teeth? That's a basic morning thing," I said.

"Okay, just kidding. I decided not to brush my teeth."

"Gross. Why?"

"Because my toothpaste has a slight orange taste and I didn't want it to interfere with the hot chocolate or the mint of the protein bar."

"Interfere?" I asked. "Doesn't the flavor wear off after a few minutes? Now your going to school with a nasty mouth."

"I don't care."

I believed her.

"Aren't you worried that someone will notice?"

"No."

Again, I believed her.

"Okay, I'm just curious, though," I said. "How can you spend forty-five minutes and be so meticulous with your outfit and hair and everything, but not practice basic hygiene?"

"Brushing teeth isn't basic hygiene, Dad."

She argues with everything my wife and I say. Seriously, everything. My newly–minted teenage daughter has even debated the year my wife was born—with my wife. 

We finally just decided to nod our heads, say "Hmmm" and allow her egregious misstatements to evaporate into the ozone like a rusty can of old Aquanet. Not worth it.

And that leads to the question about my own behavior. With all the pregnant silences that have resulted from my kid's cockamamie outbursts, I've been trying to fill in the gaps. The problem is, I sound like a crusty old man. I'll bring up the weather, or the traffic, or how those cherry tomatoes we ate last night were closer to plums than cherries and I think I slept weird on my neck because its really stiff.

Not only have I been boring my family silly with idle idioms and mundane musings, I've been boring myself. Is this as good as it's going to get? Should I just resign myself, when in the presence of my family, to discuss nothing more interesting than the kid I saw littering at the bus stop or how or how expensive Scott's Turf Builder is?

Maybe it's time to buy a Corvette…

The Real Mother's Day.

You probably already know this, but most holidays aren't celebrated on the days they actually happened, even a lot of famous birthdays.

Martin Luther King and Abe Lincoln are each honored on Mondays, yet King was born on a Tuesday,  while Lincoln emancipated his spindly self from the womb on a Sunday. Honest.

Of course, we're not really sure of the day or date that Mary, without the benefit of an epidural or even some ice chips, bore J.C. back in the year zero. Rumor has it that, while rapt in the throes of excruciating labor, she glared contemptuously at Joseph and screamed out her son's name. After the dust had settled, Mary reportedly stated that she wasn't cursing her mate, but simply rewarding all in attendance with a sneak preview of her new infant's nome de plume.

That's what I heard, anyway.

And I guess that's my point today. While I'm on the subject of childbirth, I would submit that the historically accurate Mother's Day is any date on which a mom initially becomes a mother.

Follow my theory? That first day of motherhood, whether a woman has given birth or secured her new bundle in some other fashion—that's the real Mother's Day. Today is an honorary figurehead, like t-ball trophies or Prince Harry.

I'd like to relate a father's perspective to my wife's original Mom's Day, on April 23, 1995. Not expecting our little angel for three more weeks, we ventured up to Semiahmoo, a resort near the Canadian border, for one last hurrah before our lives changed forever.

After a relaxing day basking in the warmth of an unseasonable spring day, we enjoyed a nice dinner and retreated to our room. I dozed on the bed, sedated in the fuzzy blanket of the two Red Hooks I'd consumed during the evening.

Sometime later, I think it was around 10:30, my wife's throttling clutch jarred me from my slumber. "I think my water broke. Tim, can you hear me? I think my water broke."

"Nah," I lamely said. "The baby isn't due for three weeks. Go to sleep."

"You're not listening. I'm calling the doctor."

Before I could rise and walk to the mirror to re-adjust my ponytail, she was on the phone (the land line; cell phones were around then, but we didn't feel like renting a trailer to haul ours up with us). Our obstetrician wasn't on call that Saturday night, and the doctor on call advised us to hang tight and come in the next morning.

She hung up. "No way," she said. "We're going tonight."

I wasn't about to argue. We'd both learned that after the amniotic sack ruptures, the risk of infection increases. And while we didn't understand why we'd been told to wait, especially two hours from our hospital in Seattle, within ten minutes, the two of us were speeding down Interstate Five, rushing toward our new lives at eighty miles per hour.

Remembering the Flintstones episode where Pebbles is born, I secretly hoped to be pulled over with the ultimate excuse and given a police escort. Didn't happen, but boy did I enjoy finding out what our new Kia sedan was made of.

We arrived at Swedish Hospital around midnight, my wife's mood gradually waning in reverse proportion to her intensifying contractions. By the time we'd settled into a room and she'd been hooked up to all the stuff, she was hurting a lot, but her labor hadn't yet progressed enough for the summoning of Dr. Feelgood.

While armed with a cursory knowledge of what to expect, my attempts at helping her breathe rang hollow and even offensive, so I shut the hell up, quietly praying for the magic spinal blocking cart to roll in.

I dozed off and immediately felt a jolt to my sternum. It was the second time she'd awakened me that night, but this time, knuckles were involved.

"You will not be fall asleep," she said, replacing her business hand back atop her belly.

"Gotcha." I sat up and stared straight ahead.

At length, the anesthesiologist arrived. I'd never witnessed my wife so elated to see a man, including me, and I was fairly stoked as well. Soon, we were actually chatting in the gradually lightening room, and as dawn approached, pushing time had finally arrived.

Lights were rolled out of closets. Nurses gathered. When the doctor walked into the room, it reminded me of Elvis finally strutting onto the stage after his band had worked the crowd into a lather for a few minutes. Showtime.

She pushed and pushed and pushed and pushed, to no avail. It wasn't working because the baby's head was slightly tilted, the doctor said. He tried the vacuum cup device to straighten her little noggin and suck her on out.

Nothing.

"Forceps," I heard him finally say.

"Shit," I thought. "They're pulling my girl out with something that looks like it's used for peeling chicken breasts from the Weber. Oh, well, I suppose he knows what he's doing."

The doctor locked the instrument in place and pulled while she pushed. Our baby's wet little body oozed out and for the first time, I looked at her. "Hi, Zoe," I said. I focused on my new daughter while the nurse cleaned her up and placed her on my wife's chest.

But something was wrong. My wife's face blanched as the monitor glowed with the descending digits of her blood pressure. Before I knew it, more gowned people had entered the room and I listened to the words "stat" bandied about. They wheeled her out following a hasty explanation of what needed to be done.

My baby was whisked to the nursery and I stood alone in the room which had only minutes before been a beehive of joy and activity. What had happened?

I began sobbing.

A nurse entered and patted my back, escorting me to the waiting area while uttering words of encouragement and optimism. I watched a meaningless basketball game in a meaningless room, so much hanging in the balance.

Finally, the doctor approached. My wife was just fine. Congratulations. Tears of gratitude streamed down my face, covering the dried salt stains of despair from minutes before.

It was a Mother's Day, and boy, was it a Father's Day, too.

Thanks for Watching Vietnam, the Sequel.

I'd like to preface my comments with the following statement: Every half-baked opinion I'm permitted to regurgitate in this forum is the direct result of a lot of suffering endured by a lot of people who don't happen to be me.

Or politicians.

The "The Baby Boomer" generation consists of anyone born between 1946 and 1964. Since I blew onto the scene in 1962, I consider myself still a part of that parade, but more like the guy in the clown suit who trails the whole procession with a scoop shovel. 

These folks are supposed to be the offspring of returning World War II veterans. The only way my ten-year-old dad could have taken part in the ass whoopin' would have been by protecting his parents' victory garden from fascist tyranny with the business end of his Daisy Red Ryder. 

Jokes aside, World War II was a national effort. Here's a small sampling of goods rationed for stateside citizens during that era: gasoline, rubber, sugar, processed foods and…you won't believe this one…coffee! The homefront received but a smidge of God's steamy rich nectar between 1942 and 1945. Talk about a bunch of cranky riveters.

The decade following the Big One ushered in a sparkling period of prosperity and consumer excess. Even the president himself capitalized on the nearly unlimited supply of pants fabric:

America discovered a new mission—life, liberty and the pursuit of—stuff. We fell in love with stuff and lots of it. In fact, we accumulated so much stuff that we bought bigger houses out in the suburbs to hold all of it. Stuff made us comfortable, stuff made us happy, and by God, we'd earned it. 

We felt a little bad about sending all those Japanese Americans out to the desert, but you know, even supermodels need to go number two sometimes.

Then the Sixties rolled around and a little donnybrook flared up in southeast Asia. But this time, we weren't asked to give up any stuff to support the war effort, since it really wasn't a war, just a misunderstanding. 

With the savagery of Korea still fresh in our memories, we tried our damnedest to secure student deferments for our best and brightest (please see Dick Cheney with hair and original heart). You know, leave that skirmish to the people who displayed a willingness to participate through an inability to pay for college. As a result, West Virginia led America in poverty patriotism, experiencing 84.1 deaths in Vietnam per hundred thousand males living in the state. 

47,359 soldiers were killed in "hostile actions." Another 10,797 died from other causes—disease, accident, suicide. And thanks to our new television technology and a few daft-yet-courageous war correspondents, the true carnage caused by a guerrilla war—the booby traps, punji stakes, land mines—piped its cinematic splendor into our living rooms as we ate our tater tot casserole from floral patterned TV trays.

It didn’t take long for America to spill into the streets and demand an end to such a futile, yet bloody fiasco. Nevertheless, the war raged for a decade until the final Americans were airlifted from an overrun embassy thirty-eight years ago today, on May 7, 1975.

Why the history lesson? I'm sure you're thinking, "Who is this guy, some frustrated left-wing professor wannabe?" Well, yes, but there's another reason. 

It's even worse now. 

The United States and a smattering of its NATO allies have been bogged down in Afghanistan since October 7, 2001, a twisted new American record. Ghosts of Vietnam litter the landscape—the improvised explosive devices, the indigenous enemy that can melt into the civilian landscape at will—and the ambiguous mission. 

And the real tragedy is that most of us don't even think about it. Unless we have a "dog" in this battle—a friend or family member—we live our lives sprawled on the creamy memory foam of ignorant bliss. 

No draft? No problem.

Did you know that fourteen coalition forces have already died this month in Afghanistan? Why aren't we more outraged? 

I'll tell you why. Because we've got our stuff.

Your Guide to Finding the Perfect Toilet.

My wife and have been married twenty-four years.

That's kind of a long time, you know? When I really pondered this the other day, I realized the last time I kissed any female other than her or another family member, East German soldiers were still shooting at people trying to escape over the wall in balloons made from pig ears and babushka scraps.

It was an era when I remember defying Nancy Reagan's pleas on a regular basis.

The basketball I watched during this period was still played in shorts constricting enough to render an entire generation of male athletes infertile. To this day, the torso-less specter of a Larry Bird's lower extremities haunts me with a relentless vigor.

It's when my mom and dad were the same age I am now. Ouch.

Throughout my wife's and my storied epoch, situations have arisen which have chipped away at the once pristine asphalt of our relationship's high road.

Okay, that's a little murky, so let me explain.

When you first begin dating someone, you reveal only that  portion of your personality that is charming and alluring, which in my case was a tad under thirty percent. I could hold it together for a good long while, sometimes even an entire weekend, knowing that I'd eventually be free to return home and scarf an entire double cheese pizza, watch The Three Stooges marathon and scratch any itch that needed addressing.

Any itch at all.

Then we moved in together. Suddenly, I had to discreetly unsheathe my most unappealing characteristics while trying to cling to the momentum of that inspired the invitation to her hearth in the first place.

Practical considerations instantly abounded:

Where will I find a spot in the living room for my Rush poster?

What if I can't pee in the back yard?

Was I now expected to do stuff I'd seen my dad do, like taking out the garbage, changing the oil and—the holy grail of "since you're going, would you mind..." errands—buying anything made by either Playtex, Kotex or Tampax?

I remember thinking: Are you there God? It's me, Tim. If you love me like Jimmy Swaggart says you do, please drop a pack of the kind with plastic applicators in my lap right now, because otherwise I know I'll see one of my friends at Safeway shopping for Trojans two feet from my station in the feminine hygiene section.

I know what you're thinking. Grow up, little man.

And I did. In fact, I just got back from the store and guess what was nestled in the bag right next to the fat free Ready Whip, its packaging wispily decorated in pastel blues and pinks?

It wasn't the freaking Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue.

Yes, humility slowly erodes as we ramble down that freeway with our partner. By the time childbirth rolls around, as the kids say, "Shit gets real." Although guys have usually bared every unsightly aspect of themselves by this point, all remnants of female modesty are quickly shed when a baby is brought into the world.

And the odd thing is, nothing is gross. Everything is surreal and amazing. By the time that veiny, blue little noggin crowns, you've seen a lot, but you've also worked your way slowly up to that moment.

From then on, no subject is sacrosanct or taboo. Feces is everywhere—on your skin, on your clothes, sometimes landing in perilous proximity to your mouth and mucus membranes. You talk about when your kid poos, how frequently, how much and what color. You compare amounts consumed to quantities expelled...

...and you talk about it with each other in the same manner you formerly discussed which appetizer to order or which earrings look better with that top.

The reason I'm bringing all this up is because the other day, my wife and I went toilet shopping. We traipsed down the expansive aisle at Lowe's and stopped at a massive display of the latest in bathroom barcalounger technology.

They had really cool names, like the "Cadet 3" and the"Archer." Needless to say, I was swept up in commode mania, and I'm not going to lie—my bride appeared equally stoked about picking out a new organic matter displacement device.

Ultimately, our crucible emerged. Scrawled on a sign next to the American Standard "Champion" were the words that closed the deal:

"Capable of flushing an entire bucket of golf balls!"

No words were necessary; we looked at each other like we'd just stumbled upon our dream house.

How life has changed.

Selling Myself to Myself.

Just curious—do you have a mantra? A credo? Perhaps some sort of slogan, tenet or delusional proscription to a paranoid manifesto?

You don't? Well this is awkward.

Ben Franklin had a million of them. Here's a little sampling:

"Three can keep a secret, if two of them are dead."
"A good conscience is a continual Christmas."
"Beware of the old doctor and the young barber."

Speaking of barbers, not too bad for a guy with the same hair style as the dudes who live in Winnebagos and take money at those go cart tracks that just appear in the Super Saver parking lot, then vanish after some kid named Lonnie separates his shoulder after slamming into a stack of old tires.

Anyway, other humorist/philosophers have imparted wisdom upon the masses through thought-provoking axioms. Of course there was Will Rogers and Mark Twain, and who can forget that great sage, Bill O'Reilly, whose enlightened contemplations produced the following creeds:

"Seven wrongs and two saliva-spraying threats make a right."
"A loud voice cultivates a bushy beard on the cheeks of stupidity."

I'm certainly not going to clump myself in with the aforementioned well-spoken Caucasians. I would, however, like to share with you a slogan to which I've clung over the years with more resolve than a black leather man bag brimming with pornography:

It's only a matter of time before everyone figures out what a fraud I am.

I know, it sounds a little dramatic; I'm not saying this phrase applies to all aspects of my life and personality.

Just the big stuff.

I graduated from college with an accounting degree. Following that, I even passed the CPA Exam, thanks to a solid review course combined with a nice Santerian ritual involving herbs and divination. Did such bona fides bolster my confidence for that first day on the job, the moment I slipped on those shiny Florsheims and green eye shade?

Nah. I figured two, maybe three weeks maximum, until someone woke the hell up and got rid of me.

Five years later, just as I'd convinced myself that, although I despised rising each morning to cinch up the Windsor noose and strap on the ten-key, maybe, just maybe, I didn't suck at accounting.

What better time to change careers? I returned to academia for the necessary tools to pursue a career in my lifelong passion—graphic design. Did I truly believe that my talents merited being hired and actually compensated with cash paper?

Nah. I figured two, maybe three weeks maximum, until someone woke the hell up and got rid of me.

And now, twenty years later, I'm feeling it again—the paranoia and the insecurity, the raw anxiety I haven't felt since the Internet was just a twinkle in Al Gore's eye. But I'm not talking about a career change, it's more of a life's endgame.

For the past two years, with both my sister's encouragement and her hours of editing expertise, I've been writing a book. It's a kids' novel, formally known as middle grade fiction. Back in 2009, when I first began scratching out blog posts, she suggested that I write a children's book. I thought, "Yeah, right. Like any kid would ever want to read a book written by, you know, me."

She badgered me relentlessly, hearkening back to a more innocent time when her badgering included a physical component, like a sneaky and well-placed kick to one of my growth plates. 

Finally, I wrote a single chapter, the big chapter where everything comes crashing down on the main character. A story solidified around that scene. While occasionally I'd write chronologically, I would more often tap out scenarios to be inserted at various junctures in the story. Eventually, a beginning, middle and ending stared back at me from the soothing blue and white hues of Microsoft Word. A draft was complete.

Holy shit, I thought, you just wrote a book. It took two years, but you just put an entire story down on paper. How did that happen?

This past weekend, I attended a writer's conference sponsored by the Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators. Prior to Saturday and Sunday's full slate of speakers and breakout sessions, I participated in two roundtable critique groups, where an actual agent listened as each of us read the first five hundred words of our stories.

I was terrified; it was like one of those dreams where I'm in a room full of people and I'm the only one who forgot to wear clothes. I'd come up with every single one of those half thousand words that were being lobbed into the critical air of the conference room.

It was the first time anyone other than my sister and I had heard a single sentence I'd written, and wouldn't you know it, who pulled up a chair next to me but that same destructive muse with that same tired message:

Eventually, they'll figure out you're a fraud. Give up now and forget about it.

It pissed me off that time, and I would have slugged that muse in the kidneys if he hadn't have actual been the same person occupying my skin. How can I be a fraud? This is my story and I'm the only person who can tell it. So, you know, shut up, muse ass.

Even though I've just topped off the gas tank, I haven't even turned the key on this long, frustrating journey. But once I get through the traffic lights and merge onto that freeway, I'm only stopping to pee and restock my beef jerky supply.

I'll call you when I get to Fresno.

How to Overcome Writer's Block by Not Writing.

Lo and begorrah. I haven't posted to this consarn log in nary a fortnight!

Sorry, sometimes I enjoy talking like Pa Ingalls—the real one, not the dashing yet sappy actor who left us far too soon.

It's been ten days. Jeez.

Don’t think it hasn't been bothering me, though. For the past week-and-a-half, I've stood here at the literary urinal with the worst case of stage fright ever, and not even visualizations of babbling brooks and waterfalls have primed the prose from my creative renal system.

Apparently, my muse needs Meuslix.

When I've not been able to summon a topic in the past, I've turned to the pages of the newspaper for inspiration, where I can typically extract a nugget or two of lampoonable material from the day's headlines. But with the Boston tragedy still so raw, the atmosphere is not unlike the aftermath of September 11, where the premature use of humor seems almost ignorant  and patronizing to the human suffering.

In the days leading up to Monday's horrific events, North Korea's newly anointed divine psychopath, Kim Jun Eun, had been dominating the media's face time. I'd decided to learn more about the struggles of the North Korean people and read a book entitled, Escape From Camp 14. It's the story of a man who, after having spent his first twenty-three years in a North Korean labor camp, escaped to China, then on to South Korea and the United States. 

While I endorse this account co-authored by Washington Post journalist Blaine Harden, I wouldn't recommend reading it if you aren't prepared to encounter gruesome stories of a nation's institutionalized brutality on its own people over the past sixty years. Truly chilling.

So, yeah, like many of the world's with even a light dusting of compassion, I've been in a downright funk. And when you pen a blog that attempts to keep things buoyant, you tend to feel as if there are some pretty heavy issues that supersede your airy blatherings.

This morning, however, a new hypothesis needled its way into my medulla oblongata:

What if I'm done? Tapped? Sapped of my pedantical chi? Perhaps I've failed to acknowledge that my mental pantry holds only finite supply of ideas, much like the earth's helium stores which are slated to expire sometime around 2043.

Maybe it's time to come to terms with it. After all, who wants to make Shake 'n' Bake with pork chops that expired last Tuesday?

Think of all the ill-advised artistic follow-up works which litter the pop culture cemetery:

After recording the classic Frampton Comes Alive, Peter Frampton probably should have named the next album, Sorry, Dead Again. Or how about all the ill-fated spin-off shows, like  Joanie Loves Chachi?  Let's just say it's a good thing she loved him, because every one else wanted to strangle him with his own freaking mullet.

I don't want to be end up like Jack Tripper in Three's a Crowd or Joey in, well, Joey. Hey, if the tank is dry, there's no shame, which is why I tearfully bid you farewell, loyal readers.

Just kidding. I've got a prostate exam coming up. Who else can I tell about it?