Datsa Nice

One of my hobbies has become reading novels and stories written about the Bronx. About a month ago, I was reading "Vito Loves Geraldine," a short story by Janice Eidus. Most of Eidus' stories fit into the "self-important literary fiction" genre; they're peopled with oversensitive prima donnas who are having incredibly meaningful moments that change their worlds forever in ways that lesser souls could never understand.

In other words, they're absolute dreck.

"Vito Loves Geraldine" is different. It basically tells the story of Dion from Dion and the Belmonts: a 1950's-era Bronx doowop star and the girl who falls in love with him. It is clever, funny, and filled with local detail. Vito's catchphrase, "Aaaay! Geraldine Rizzoli!" quickly became a staple in our house. Georgia, of course, picked up on it, and would walk around piping "Aaaaaaay! Dewadeen Bazzoli!" She sounded like a miniature, lisping version of the Fonz.

Georgia's gotten to the age in which she is compelled to repeat everything she hears. One big problem with this is that Virginia and I both swear like sailors. This isn't too surprising, given the fact that we are both the children of sailors, but it is getting to be a little dangerous. We've started watching our language and policing each other, but we still slip up from time to time. It's generally pretty easy to figure out who George is imitating. If she says "shit," the culprit is my wife, while if she says "fuck" or "douchebag," I am usually to blame.

I never realized it before, but swearing is as idiosyncratic as any other form of expression. Personally, I don't care for "shit," and will only use it on the spur of the moment. My wife, on the other hand, thinks it's the shit.

Another problem is the fact that George's renditions of classic swear words are pretty funny. Her version of "doos bag" particularly kills me. Of course, we can't laugh, as she will see this as encouragement, which means we spend a lot of time biting our lips and trying to think of sad things.

The other night, I said "goddamn," and immediately regretted it. My embarrassment came a moment too late, as George immediately picked up on the word. She even gave a perfect copy of my intonation: "GOD-DAAAAAAM...god-dam, goddamn, goddamn...GOD-DAAAAM!" I found myself trying not to laugh as I told my daughter "okay, honey...once is enough...okay, you can stop now...Look! Dinner is on!"

To her credit, my wife refrained from scolding me.

This isn't to say that we are George's only influence. She also peppers her language with words from Spanish, generally delivered with a Dominican accent. Often, we think that her words are childish gibberish, only to discover that she's simply speaking another language. For example, she recently told her mother "Keefer shirt!," followed by "keefer shoes," "keefer pants," and "keefer socks." We subsequently found out that the Spanish word for "to remove" is quittar, which sounds a lot like "keefer" when you say it Dominican-style.

Her time in Little Italy and Spanish Harlem have also given her the gestures and attitude of a miniature Caporegime. Tonight, I picked her up from behind after we were done watching a movie. She leaned back and snuggled against my shoulder. I smiled and said "that's nice." She leaned into me further and said "Ohhhh...datsa nice. Datsa weely, weely nice" while giving me little slaps on my cheek. My wife couldn't stop laughing. I couldn't either.

Back in the Saddle

I drove back from New York today. It was wonderful spending a few days with the wife and George, not to mention seeing my sister Jen, her fiance, and my godmother. Misanthropster and I played tourist on the south end of Manhattan, and she helped iron out a few of my creases, putting up with my occasional bursts of crankiness. It was amazing reconnecting with my daughter, who has really grown up in the last month. She has a wonderful, wicked sense of humor, and got a real kick out of testing boundaries with daddy. I was too happy to get up in arms about her silliness.

On my first morning in New York, I went out to move the car, as the street sweeper was running through my godmother's neighborhood. After parking the car a few blocks away, I walked back to the apartment. Along the way, a dog almost tripped me with his leash. His owner looked at me with big eyes and apologized profusely. I wondered why she was so apologetic until I looked down and realized that I was wearing a Tech sweatshirt. This happened a few other times, but it always took me by surprise. I was amazed that, even in a city as big as New York, people were still so quick to console.

Of course, some people took this for granted. Misanthropster and I noticed a homeless man was wearing a Virginia Tech sweatshirt to elicit sympathy. To be honest, however, it is quite possible that he was an actual Tech graduate. My bet would be that he majored in Philosophy or English.

I drove back from New York in record time. When I stopped off for gas in southern Pennsylvania, a man at one of the other pumps nodded at the magnetic VT decals on the side of my car and said "Nice." I told him that I taught at Virginia Tech. He asked me if I knew the killer and I said him that I didn't. He shook his head.

Once I entered Virginia, I noticed things starting to change. The first thing was that the highway warning signs were all flashing the same message: "Welcome Virginia Tech. Drive Safely." Every thirty miles or so, I'd see another one of these signs and think about the fact that the cars around me were filled with Tech students who were traveling South, unsure about what the next few weeks are going to hold.

At Harrisonburg, where James Madison University is situated, the students decorated one of the highway overpasses with orange and maroon fabric, a la Christo's Central Park installation. It was a beautiful gesture from a rival school, and I found myself getting back into the pride tinged with melancholy that I felt before I left town. I had the same feeling when I passed the Days Inn located north of Staunton, whose sign flashed the following message:

Great Rooms
Great Rates
God Bless the Hokies

In the entire trip, I only saw one car pulled over. I wonder if the police were taking it easy on the Tech traffic. Regardless, the cars around me were showing the grim determination that characterizes the school. I don't know if everyone is eager to go back or is dreading it, but I do know that they were hell-bent for leather, driving at top speed to return to Blacksburg. As I passed cars, I noticed messages written on the windows in orange electrical tape: "Hokie Nation," "Hokies Forever," and "We Are Virginia Tech." Unlike the shallow rah-rah that usually characterizes Virginia Tech, this touched me, not least because it shows some of the determination and pride that, at its best, is one of Tech's greatest trademarks.

Driving down Route 460 into Christiansburg, I noticed a car pulled over to the side of the road. A young man was sitting on the ground, crying, while his friend hugged him. I'm proud of the students of Tech. They're dealing with some of the hardest emotions that they will ever have to digest, and they're helping each other deal with loss.

I'm worried about what I'm going to say when class starts tomorrow. I always have a friendly banter with my students, and I generally try to help them address the current problems in their world. Simply speaking, I don't know what I can say, what words I can use, to help them make sense of this tragedy. I don't know if even discussing it is presumptuous. I thought about this on the drive down, and I have a few ideas, but I'm still nervous.

Last night, I had a nightmare. I dreamed that it was tomorrow, and that I was trying to help my students finish out the semester. I was teaching in Whittemore, one of the big lecture halls that seats 300 people, and the room was dimly lit. As I tried to talk, the lights flickered and I saw my students faces covered in thick white pancake makeup, like Japanese Noh theater. Their hair was dark and oily. They began to squawk like crows, and the shadowy outlines of their bodies looked like slick black feathers. As I tried to calm them down, they got increasingly distressed and started squawking more and more loudly. I finally woke up. I looked up at the ceiling for a little while and finally snuggled into my wife's back. I fell asleep a few minutes later.

Of course, having listened to Dane Cook recently, I realize that the dream means that I'm a deeply closeted homosexual. Did I mention the crab?

The nightmare was actually somewhat reassuring. Regardless of what happens tomorrow, I can guarantee that my students won't be turning into birds. I can deal with just about everything else.

The Lost Scrolls

Going through some old papers, I came across notes that I made for a post back in January. As some of you may remember, Misanthropster, my sister Ella, and I reviewed all the deodorants that Wal-Mart carried. For those of you who weren't around yet, here's the post on men's deodorants, and here's the post on women's deodorants.

Having had so much fun "taste-testing" the mass-market deodorants, we decided to check out the more rarified scents that one of the local department stores carry. Luckily, Misanthropster worked at the department store, so she knew how the scents were organized. Unluckily, the cologne counter was manned by 'Nette, a half-crazed cologne Nazi who ran her little spot with an iron hand. Oddly enough, she had absolutely no personal odor (those of you who have read Perfume by Patrick Suskind will understand how creepy that is), and was very stingy when it came to sharing the scents.

Faced with an exciting goal and a formidable foe, our strategic planning went into overdrive. About a week before D-day, I reconnoitered the counter, taking note of all the brands. I then prepared a form that we could use to make comments. My wife checked the schedule, noting the few hours in which 'Nette wouldn't be around. We compared these to Ella's schedule and set the date.

The fact that all of us were doing this together meant that there wasn't anyone to watch George, so she had to come along. On the bright side, the kid loves colognes and perfumes and was happy to join in. The only problems ocurred when we forgot to let her sniff a particular deodorant or testing strip and she went ballistic. She saved all the strips, hiding them around the house. I'm still catching phantom whiffs of "Phat Farm" and "Boss."

The other downside was that we had to do this fairly late in the evening, which meant that we had to rush to make it before closing. Because of this, we weren't all able to test all the scents. We planned to return to the scene of the crime, but Ella had to go to Pennsylvania, where she got a job offer to work in an Art department at a small college, and Misanthropster moved to New York. Perhaps we will one day be able to take advantage of the extensive fragrance counters in Bloomies or Macy's.

Although this list is by no means complete, it does offer some clear tasting notes on a few of the mass-market men's fragrances. We limited our study to the fragrances that featured deodorant sticks for sale at this particular department store. Consequently, I cannot make any claim to completeness!

Looking at this, I can see our distinct personalities emerging. Misanthropster has a very educated nose, and makes numerous connections to other perfumes and colognes. I, on the other hand, am somewhat old fashioned. I like what Misanthropster calls "1940's colognes": woodsy, assertive scents. My sister lands somewhere in the middle, although her tastes revolve around anything that covers up the smell of hemp and paint.

Without further ado, here are our findings:

Aramis
Crankster: Sweet and ice-creamy.
Misanthropster: Like old-timey women's perfume. Smells like a men's version of Estee Lauder's "Youth Dew."
Ella: Like "Teen Spirit." The women's deodorant, not the song.

Atman by Phat Farm
Crankster: Cheap musk mixed with pencil shavings.
Misanthropster: Basil.
Ella: Pine.

Azzaro Chrome
Crankster: Soapy, industrial, and toilet-pucky.
Misanthropster: Like grass.
Ella: Like a women's deodorant.

Boss Selection
Crankster: Like licorice and sugar.
Misanthropster: Like licorice.

Burberry Brit
Crankster: Powdery, like baby oil.
Misanthropster: Warm. A lot like the women's version.
Ella: Musty and complex, with notes of frankincense. Like a Catholic Church.

Burberry Touch
Crankster: Like musk and bananas.
Misanthropster: Very floral.
Ella: Soapy baby powder.

Calvin Klein Eternity
Crankster: Like Ivory soap.
Misanthropster: Soapy.
Ella: Ivory soap crossed with autumn.

Calvin Klein Euphoria
Crankster: Soapy, with a touch of spices and leather.
Misanthropster: Fruity.
Ella: Soapy and sweet, with clover undertones.

Carlos Santana
Crankster: Like soap and vinegar.
Misanthropster: Like Burberry Brit for men.
Ella: I can't smell anything.

Claiborne Curve Soul
Crankster: Leathery, with soap tones.
Misanthropster: Freshly cut grass.
Ella: Grassy and light.

Davidoff Cool Water
Crankster: Soapy.
Misanthropster: Soapy and ocean-y.
Ella: Sweet.

Davidoff Silver Shadow
Crankster: Like vanilla and sugar.
Misanthropster: Like Sweet Tarts.
Ella: Like cotton candy.

Drakkar Noir
Crankster: A LOT of alcohol. It's difficult to decipher anything else.
Misanthropster: Like my high school band director, Mr. Rayford.
Ella:Too much alcohol. It smells like toned-down Old Spice.

Guess
Crankster: Cloying and sweet.
Misanthropster: Ginger.
Ella: Flowery and soapy.

Hugo by Hugo Boss
Crankster: Smells like Bactine.
Misanthropster: Nothing.
Ella: Antibiotic ointment.

Kenneth Cole Black
Crankster: Pepper. Specifically, it smells like lemon pepper.
Misanthropster: Lemony and soapy.
Ella: I refuse to respond.

Kenneth Cole Reaction
Crankster: Smells like cucumbers, looks like nuclear waste.
Misanthropster: Standard men's cologne.
Ella: Subtle. Like cucumbers.

Kenneth Cole RSVP
Crankster: Smells industrial, like cheap, fake musk.
Misanthropster: Like leather and cigars.
Ella: Like musk and frankincense.


Kiss
Crankster: Ball sweat with floral tones.
Misanthropster: Like Gene Simmons' armpits after a long concert and a lot of pot.
Ella: Plastic-y, like a new Barbie.

Ralph Lauren Polo Blue
Crankster: Smells like pears.
Misanthropster: Like apples.
Ella: Smells like apples.

Tommy Bahama
Crankster: Smells like pee.
Misanthropster: Like my grandfather's cigar boxes.
Ella: Cinnamon-y.

Tommy Bahama Very Cool
Crankster: Sweetish. Very herb-y, vegetable-y.
Misanthropster: Standard men's cologne.
Ella: Smells like my ex-boyfriend.

Tommy Hilfiger
Crankster: Strong notes of menthol.
Misanthropster: Smells like bug spray.
Ella: Minty and blue.

Unforgiveable by Sean John
Crankster: Perfectly named. Nasty mix of citrus and cheap musk.
Misanthropster: Smells like rotten fruit.
Ella: Like rubbing alcohol. Overtly.

My Daughter's Gift to Me

Uncle Don was my father's only sibling. When I was growing up, he was a shadowy figure, shrouded in legend. Don was the one who told off my bitter, miserable grandparents, left his wife and son, and ran away to Mississippi. He remarried, fathered a couple of other kids, divorced again, and moved to Orlando. I met him years later, when I was in my early teens. He looked like Kenny Rogers, with a grizzled beard and eyes that were constantly laughing. In his relaxed, laconic style, there was nothing of the grim restraint that characterized my Long Island family. In fact, the only similarity between my grandparents and my uncle was that he was a (mostly) functional alcoholic.

Once Don came back into our lives, we started to see him every couple of years. He and my father could never truly be friends--my grandparents had hardwired hatred and competition into their sons from birth--but the two brothers also understood each other, and there was a genuine love that underlay the fist fights and drunken insults. For me, it was incredibly sad: even as a kid, I saw that, if they could ever get past their compulsive need to attack each other, the two men would be an unstoppable force. I also knew that this would never happen. The Watson boys would always be the best of enemies.

When my father died, Don came to visit. My sisters were convinced that he was sniffing around in search of whatever money he could scam off us. This might be true; he disappeared pretty soon after the funeral. I still like to give him the benefit of the doubt, though. He had his own life and family in Cincinnati and he needed to get back to work. Regardless, he did me a pretty big favor. Shortly after my dad died, I found myself completely overwhelmed. I had to arrange to have Dad's body shipped from the University of Virginia hospital in Charlottesville to the Everly Funeral Home in Fairfax while I was also planning for his funeral, dealing with visiting relatives, trying to get a job to support my family, writing an obituary, and making sure my sisters were doing well in school. In the middle of all of this, the well pump broke, and we found ourselves without water. Realizing that I was a hair's breadth away from a total meltdown, Don put his wife Trish in charge of the well and took me out for a beer. One beer turned into many, and I found myself unable to feel my toes. For the first, and only, time in my life, I had gotten wasted in a mall bar.

As we were draining pitchers, Don got me talking. We discussed all the responsibilities that I had to face, and my plans for the future. In the process, we got on to his relationship with Dad and the fact that they'd never been able to move beyond the hatred that their parents had so carefully cultivated. In the middle of all of this, Don said something really amazing. He told me that I'd completely changed my father. According to Don, Dad had always been taciturn and agressive as a child, and had never really been able to tone down his brutal, cruel intelligence far enough to deal with mere mortals. After I was born, Don told me, my father had finally allowed his humor to emerge, and had become a really funny, lovable person.

All my life, I had enjoyed my father's wicked, keen wit and incredible personal warmth. It had never occurred to me that these were not permanent parts of his personality, much less that I had had anything to do with them. Of course, I realize that Don might have been buttering me up, but I don't think he was. I think he was simply acknowledging a part of my father that he couldn't help loving.

Years later, I came across an interview with my mother's father, Maurice Kramer. Maurice was a health fanatic. He worked out a few days a week, swam constantly, and only ate "natural" food. What's really bizarre is that he followed this regimen in the 1940's, when "healthy lifestyle" could be roughly translated as "only smoking three packs of Luckys a day." At any rate, Maurice stated that he had performed his first handstand in his forties. I had always thought that Maurice was born in a gym, and it floored me to realize that he began working out only after the birth of his first few children. I began to glimpse how much fatherhood had changed even that unchangeable man.

I found out that my wife was pregnant in January 2005. Since then, I quit smoking, gained 20 pounds, began working out three times a week, started doing cardio exercises every day, watched my diet, and dropped 35 pounds. I got a tattoo. I started writing a blog. I began preparations for moving my family to New York. Within the next few months, I will leave Southwest Virginia and teaching and will begin a new life and a new profession in a new city. I have dropped friendships that stressed me out and cultivated relationships that make my life more meaningful. I have, in a very real way, tried to become the person that I always wanted to be. On the other hand, I have also been worrying more and laughing less. I find myself desperately trying to preserve my own sense of humor, even as my sense of self completely changes.

I have not gotten on this self-improvement kick for shits and giggles. Unlike my parents, I want to live to see my children graduate from college. Like my parents, I want to show my daughter what it is to be successful and self-actualized. I want my legacy to be one of joy and fulfillment, not bitterness and disappointment. I want to give George the best of my childhood, and demonstrate the best of my adulthood.

Thinking about my father and my grandfather, I wonder if this is something that every parent goes through. I have heard people whine about how having children forced them to give up their dreams, or cramped their lifestyles. It seems to me that George is making me pursue my dreams, and is forcing me to expand my lifestyle. Because of my daughter, I'm becoming the adult that I always wanted to look up to.

I can't help but think that our children are, at least to some extent, put here to remind us that our dreams are still attainable.

Strong Enough to Knock a Buzzard Off a Shit-Wagon

...But Ph balanced for a woman!

As promised, Ella, Misanthropster, and I have now smell-tested all the women's deodorants. Again, we did this in two visits, which explains why Ella sniffed some, and Misanthropster sniffed others. Also, George decided to get into the act, throwing a tantrum until we let her give it a try. I hope anti-perspirant doesn't cause brain damage, as she had a little moustache by the time we were done.

At any rate, here are the results. I imagine that Glamourpuss, who was surprised at the number of men's deodorants, will flip her wig at this. Of course, most of them smell like baby powder.

Ban Regular:
Crankster: Urine and rotted fruit.
Misanthropster: Alcohol and baby powder. Like Georgia on a Friday night.

Ban Powder Fresh:
Crankster: Basic powder scent.
Misanthropster: Baby powder.

Ban Shower Fresh:
Crankster: Cherry Kool-Aid.
Misanthropster: Like some awful mixed drink crap.

Ban Satin Breeze:
Crankster: Basic powder scent.
Misanthropster: Like the ocean. Not in a good way.

Ban Fresh Cotton:
Crankster: Pear-y.
Misanthropster: Alcohol and something nasty.

Ban Sweet Surrender:
Crankster: Spoiled jelly. And the worst deodorant name ever.
Misanthropster: Jagermeister and Kahlua. I surrender.

Dove Powder:
Crankster: Acetone and diapers.
Misanthropster: Ass and cinnamon.

Dove Original Clean:
Crankster: Laundry detergent.
Misanthropster: Ass and Midori.

Dove Radiant Silk:
Crankster: What I'd imagine a serial killer's house would smell like.
Misanthropster: Ass and lily.

Dove Fresh:
Crankster: Melons.
Misanthropster: Ass and something nasty.

Lady's Choice Shower Fresh:
Crankster:Tilex
Ella: An Italian hostel

Lady's Choice Cucumber Melon:
Crankster:Cherry Jolly Ranchers
Ella: Apple Jolly Ranchers

Lady's Choice Powder Fresh:
Crankster: Scrubbing Bubbles cleanser
Ella: Jolly Ranchers

Lady Speed Stick 24/7 Powder Burst:
Crankster: Way too powdery
Ella: Smells like baby powder. Very dry.

Lady Speed Stick 24/7 Fresh Fusion:
Crankster: White grapes
Ella: Baby powder

Lady Speed Stick 24/7 Satin Pear:
Crankster: Jello
Ella: Green Jolly Ranchers

Lady Speed Stick 24/7 Cool Breeze:
Crankster: Cucumber and ammonia.
Ella: Fruity disinfectant.

Lady Speed Stick Invisible Dry Wild Freesia:
Crankster: Fruit punch
Ella: Raspberries and new car cherry scent (Ella used to work in a car wash).

Lady Speed Stick Invisible Dry Fruity Melon:
Crankster: Canteloupe
Ella: Honeydew and Jolly Ranchers.

Lady Speed Stick Invisible Dry Shower Fresh:
Crankster: Industrial cleaner
Ella: Soft Scrub

Lady Speed Stick Invisible Dry Orchard Blossom:
Crankster: Green Apple Jolly Ranchers
Ella: Apple Jolly Ranchers. Way too sweet.

Lady Speed Stick Invisible Dry Caribbean Cool:
Crankster: Baby powder
Ella: Baby powder

Mitchum for Women Powder Fresh Clear Gel:
Crankster: Baby powder mixed with a glue stick.
Ella: Baby powder

Mitchum for Women Shower Fresh:
Crankster: Dishwasher detergent and Comet cleanser.
Ella: Household cleaner.

Secret Platinum Velvet Powder:
Crankster: Salad with mint.
Ella: Baby powder.

Secret Platinum Botanical Silk:
Crankster: Nice scent. Cucumbery.
Ella: Parsley

Secret Platinum Powder Fresh:
Crankster: Aggressively flowery.
Ella: Melon and powder

Secret Platinum Ocean Breeze:
Crankster: Berries, softly flowery.
Ella: Those small purple flowers that are generally dried when you buy them.

Secret Platinum Mystic Rain:
Crankster: Berries and Sea World.
Ella: Cucumbers

Secret Platinum Glacier Mist:
Crankster: Fruit punch.
Ella: Baby powder and chlorine.

Secret Platinum Tropical Satin:
Crankster: Powdery and flowery
Misanthropster: Rotting grape jelly.

Secret Platinum Spring Breeze:
Crankster: Sophisticated. Reminds me of Joy perfume.
Misanthropster: Rotting baby powder.

Secret Platinum Peach Shimmer:
Crankster: Did Strawberry Shortcake have a peach friend? Flowery and melony.
Misanthropster: Rotting fruit punch with roses and bourbon.

Secret Platinum Sparkling Vanilla:
Crankster: Rancid coconut milk.
Misanthropster: Straight vanilla extract.

Secret Platinum Lavender Splash:
Crankster: A mix of rubbing alcohol and a toilet puck.
Misanthropster: Window cleaner.

Secret Platinum Tropical Radiance:
Crankster: Rubbing Alcohol and a sleazy rum bar.
Misanthropster: Rum and rotting fruit.

Secret Platinum Gardenia Spray:
Crankster: Old man.
Misanthropster: Rotting fruit.

Secret Platinum Genuine:
Crankster: Mild, wet-smelling.
Misanthropster: Lily of the valley.

Secret Violet Dazzle:
Crankster: Actually smells like violets.
Misanthropster: Actually smells like violets.

Secret Pear:
Crankster: WAY too sweet.
Misanthropster: Smells like green apples.

Soft and Dri Derma Stripe Whisper:
Crankster: Powder, pears, and jasmine.
Ella:Melony.

Soft and Dri Power Stripe Passion Flower:
Crankster: Berries
Ella: Cool and cucumbery.

Soft and Dri DriGel Baby Powder:
Crankster: Smells overpoweringly of baby powder. As a side note, the "DriGel" has the texture of semen.
Ella:Baby Powder with a touch of alcohol.

Soft and Dri Soft Scent:
Crankster: Scented tampons.
Ella: Exactly. Scented tampons.

Sure Fresh Scent:
Crankster: White wine and grapes.
Misanthropster: Like men's cologne.

Sure Powder Scent:
Crankster: Heavy powder smell.
Misanthropster: Baby powder.

Sure Regular Scent:
Crankster: If global warming had a smell, this would be it. Smells like ozone coming off a broken electrical appliance.
Misanthropster: Like men's cologne.

Suave Naturals Sun-Ripened Raspberry:
Crankster: Smells like raspberries.
Misanthropster: Ass.

Suave Naturals Sweet Pea and Violet:
Crankster: Sugary flowers.
Misanthropster: Ass, sweet ass.

Suave Naturals Soothing Aloe Vera:
Crankster: Crushed grass.
Misanthropster: Tangy ass.

Suave Naturals Cucumber and Melon:
Crankster: Green Apple Jolly Ranchers.
Misanthropster: Ass.

Suave Naturals Pacific Breeze:
Crankster: Grapes
Misanthropster: Just fuckin' nasty.

Suave Fresh Powder :
Crankster: Basic powder scent.
Misanthropster: I hate Suave.

Suave Powder :
Crankster: Sweetly, cloyingly flowery. Gross.
Misanthropster: Gross b.o. Like Tanya, a girl I knew in High School.

Teen Spirit Berry Blossom:
Crankster: Powder and fruit punch.
Misanthropster: Rasberrys. Fuck, I can't spell.

Teen Spirit Cool Coconut:
Crankster: Coconut Oil
Misanthropster: Coconuts. And teen spirit.

Party Like It's 2000

The wife and I are planning on leaving the area in 2007. In preparation for the move, I'm trying to relive a few of my favorite places and moments in the New River Valley. Since we didn't really have any plans for New Year's Eve, I talked the wife, Ella, and my friend Sean, who was visiting from Charlottesville, into reliving December 31, 1999 with me.


I've mentioned New Year's Eve 1999 before. For our last trip of the milennium, we went to the Roanoke Star and Miniature Graceland for the first time. It was a nice day, if a little overcast, and we had a wonderful time tooling around Roanoke.

December 31, 2006 was a little different.

To say it was overcast is like saying that France's military is a little incompetent, or the Dutch language is somewhat harsh, or Keven Federline is a moderately untalented scuzzball hack who prostituted himself for cash and a shot at fame. It wasn't just overcast; it was a three-dimensional diorama of Paris Hilton's thought process.

The cloud cover started something like three inches off the ground. Everything was gray, and visibility was approximately twenty feet or so. It was like being in Limbo.


It perfectly suited our moods.

We should have been scared to drive around in this muck, but we were amazed at the beauty of it all. It was a little clearer on the interstate, but the highway seemed to disappear a few hundred feet in front of the car, and every mountain's edge looked like a gateway to nothingness. In Roanoke, the cloud cover was a little higher, but Mill Mountain was still covered. It was like Mount Fuji, Southwest Virginia style.

We got a little lost on the way to the star, but ultimately found it. Right below the star is an overlook that, usually, has about a 60-mile view. Here's what it looked like on December 31:


That's my sister, Ella, dressed like an immigrant, circa 1906. Here's George in a similar costume:


As always, we had to take "Russian Heroic" pictures of ourselves at the star. Here's Ella, looking like a Soviet recruitment poster, circa 1947:



After we spent a little time looking out over the cloud cover shrouding the city of Roanoke, we went to Miniature Graceland. Surprisingly, we were able to find it very quickly. Every other time I've visited, I've found it overgrown and very shabby looking. This time, it was a different story. The Elvis statue had been cleaned up, and looked pretty sharp:


And the owner's son has done a beautiful job with Graceland itself. He's installed a little wall around it, and is in the process of putting in a replica of Elvis' gravesite. Overall, it looked pretty great. Here's Ella and George menacing it with their best monster looks:


And here's Sean doing his best one-man re-enactment of the history of Rock Music, circa 1976:


When we got home, we had a great Chinese dinner, then returned to the house to ring in the New Year. The next day was clear and bright.

I'm taking the weather as a portent. 2007 is going to be good.

My Men Wear ??? (Or Nothing At All)

Recently, I decided to switch my deodorant. I had to face the fact that I'd gotten sick of my old scent, and it clashed with the cologne that my wife bought me for Christmas. To put it bluntly, whereas Burberry London has a woodsy, spicy scent, Speed Stick Original Scent smells like a lime rolled in baby powder.


I've done this before, and I dread it. For me, switching deodorants is a traumatic experience, involving deep soul-searching. No longer content with my identity, I have to ask myself difficult questions:

Am I still a stodgy Speed Stick traditionalist, or have I progressed into the world of Adidas athleticism?

Can I still pull off the bracing, skunk-defying scent of "musk," or is it time to throw in the towel and give "Arctic Rush" a try?

If I wear Old Spice, do I smell sophisticated, or do I reek of sterno that's been filtered through a sock?

Heady questions, indeed. Unprepared to face this level of self-analysis, I decided to employ a delaying tactic; I bought a stick of Old Spice "Pacific Surge," one of those innocuous, "cool water" scents, which would hold me over while I thought this through. Still, as much as I delayed, I knew the time had come. I had to choose a new scent. A new me.

Of course, there was only one way to do this. I had to smell every deodorant in Wal-Mart. Needless to say, this was going to burn the hell out of my sinuses, but you don't screw around with a thing like this. One false move, and you end up reeking like a Bulgarian taxi driver during mating season.


I knew that I'd need a woman's input. I enlisted my lovely wife, Misanthropster. Unfortunately, however, she only made it about halfway through the Speed Sticks before a screaming headache tabled her contribution. Undaunted, I enlisted my sister, Ella. Bribing her with a bag of boiled peanuts (one of her favorite foods), I got her to contribute to my in-depth study.

This was serious business, and we knew that we'd need something to clear our noses after each deodorant, so we began with a visit to Millstone, the gourmet coffee stand in the middle of Wal-Mart. After a little discussion, we chose "Columbian Supremo," deciding that its rich scent and slightly burned overtones would do the trick. We put about a quarter pound in a bag and trekked over to the deodorant section.


An hour later, our sinuses torched beyond recognition, and sporting a slight buzz from the alcohol inhalation, Ella and I had smelled all the deodorants. She was impressed by the variety of scents, while I was surprised at the similarities. We were both shocked by the fact that we nearly got kicked out when a Wal-Mart employee caught Ella taking pictures of the deodorant section. Apparently, taking pictures in Wal-Mart is a major no-no.

Still, she was able to click a shot of what we agreed was the best scent:


All in all, it was a total blast, and Ella has already started plans for a test of the women's anti-perspirants. I'm trying to talk her into checking out the high-end department store deodorants.

Stay posted.

Here are our findings:

AXE Clix
Crankster: Like a toilet puck mixed with telicherry pepper.
Ella: Very fruity. Like "Country Apple" from Bath and Body Works.
Misanthropster: Very fruity.

AXE Essence
Crankster: Smells like a salad. Lots of celery and pine.
Ella: Like a Christmas tree.
Misanthropster: Cedary. Definitely the best of the Axes.

AXE Unlimited
Crankster: Cloyingly sweet.
Ella: Like rubbing alcohol mixed with potpourri.
Misanthropster: Like body odor.

AXE Touch
Crankster: Like a honeydew crossed with a watermelon Jolly Rancher.
Ella: Like melon with Jolly Rancher tones.
Misanthropster: Foul and rotten.

Brut Original Scent
Crankster: Notes of nutmeg, allspice, and cinnamon.
Ella: Notes of liquorice, mint, and baby powder.

Degree Clean Slate
Crankster: Smells like a walk through the woods.
Ella: Smells like spring in the forest.

Degree Ocean Blast
Crankster: Smells like Jock-itch medication.
Ella: Horrible. Like B.O.

Old Spice Aqua Reef
Crankster: Sweet and cloying.
Ella: Smells like Uncle Ted.
Misanthropster: Something a Middle Easterner would wear.

Old Spice Classic Fresh Scent
Crankster: A mixture of musk, citrus, and sterno.
Ella: Like a cross between liquor and bathroom cleaner.

Old Spice Classic Original Scent
Crankster: Lots of alcohol and musk.
Ella: Just like Jagermeister. Never wear on a date unless you run out of roofies.

Old Spice High Endurance Arctic Force
Crankster: Sweet, with berry tones.
Ella: Sweet, with spicy undertones.

Old Spice High Endurance Mountain Rush
Crankster: Slightly musky.
Ella: Heavy reek of rubbing alcohol. Smells slightly sour.

Old Spice High Endurance NASCAR
Crankster: Sweet, with a talc-y smell.
Ella: Smells just like Arctic force.

Old Spice High Endurance Original Scent
Crankster: Cool and clean. Slightly minty.
Ella: Salty, like the ocean.

Old Spice High Endurance Pure Sport
Crankster: Mountain berry Kool Aid mixed with poison.
Ella: Berry notes.

Old Spice Red Zone Pure Sport
Crankster: Cucumber notes. Musky.
Ella: Alcohol mixed with Uncle Ted.
Misanthropster: Too fruity. Hints of musk.

Power Stick (generic)
Crankster: A laundromat.
Ella: Baby powder crossed with a swimming pool.
Misanthropster: Pepper.

Right Guard Extreme Fresh Blast
Crankster: Powdery, with an overbearing scent of industrial cleaner.
Ella: Woodsy. Like a freshly cleaned highway rest area bathroom.

Right Guard Sport Cool
Crankster: Like Pine-Sol mixed with plasticine clay.
Ella: A full bouquet with berry notes

Right Guard Sport Fresh
Crankster: Like a banana covered in Karo syrup and corn starch.
Ella: Woodsy. Like an Italian hostel.

Speed Stick Active Fresh
Crankster: Like Pine Sol.
Ella: Like disinfectant in the wilderness.

Speed Stick Clean Blast
Crankster: Crushed weeds.
Ella: Tilex mildew remover.
Misanthropster: Ass.

Speed Stick Cool Fusion
Crankster: Powdery.
Ella: Like open air and shaving cream.
Misanthropster: Light and inoffensive.

Speed Stick Fresh Rush
Crankster: Like public bathroom soap crossed with Caldo lotion.
Ella: Like some rubbing alcohol I bought in Italy.
Misanthropster: Like the average men's cologne.

Speed Stick Irish Spring Original
Crankster: Herbal and soapy.
Ella: Minty, like a cut lawn.

Speed Stick Irish Spring Icy Blast
Crankster: Berry notes.
Ella: Very cool, clean, clear, blue. Simple.

Speed Stick Musk
Crankster: Notes of musk and leather.
Ella: Smells like a charming old house.

Speed Stick Ocean Surf
Crankster: Notes of laundry soap and lavender.
Ella: Smells like a Barnes and Noble bookstore.

Speed Stick Regular Scent
Crankster: Like Canoe cologne with lime notes.
Ella: Soapy, powdery, and fruity.

Speed Stick With Aloe
Crankster: Smells like Irish Spring mixed with cucumbers.
Ella: Very fruity. Smells like the cucumber perfume that Victoria's Secret used to carry.
Misanthropster: Cucumbery.

Snuff-Film Imagination

When I was very young, I was diagnosed with MBD, or Minimal Brain Disfunction. Basically, this meant that I tended to call out in class, was chronically disorganized, and didn't like to focus on my math homework. When I read books on MBD (which was later changed to ADD and then ADHD), I discovered that the symptoms ranged from hyperactivity to hypoactivity, from excessive intelligence to substandard intelligence. In the late seveties, MBD was a catchall for every student who didn't fit into a standard classroom.

Anyway, the upshot was that my parents didn't want me put on Ritalin, so I had to see a psychiatrist when I was in third grade. They finally found a good, highly recommended one in Georgetown, Dr. Kraft. Within a week or two, I had figured him out. He was a nice guy, but was a little too insecure. He had a problem connecting meaningfully with women, and was very uncomfortable with his own looks. Week after week, I would go to his office in Georgetown, where we would discuss his problems and try to find creative solutions to them. In other words, therapy was a total bust, at least for me.

As time went on, I started getting tired of Dr. Kraft. To be honest, he was just a little too needy. More to the point, it seemed silly to me that my parents were paying $90 a week for me to listen to his problems. Also, I got the feeling that our sessions had become a little too much of a crutch for the good doctor--he needed to move on.

So I found myself with a problem. If I told my parents that I was finished with therapy, they'd never believe me. In fact, when I tried to broach the subject, they decided that my irritation was a definite sign that Dr. Kraft and I were making progress. To get out, I'd need to be a little sneaky. I remember trying to think of ways to escape. After a few weeks, I figured it out.

That night, I drew a picture. It was of a stick figure blowing up. Stick arms, legs, torso, and head were all flying in different directions. I used the better part of a red crayon to give the picture verissimilitude. It wasn't very good, but it was clear enough to make my father choke, and he practically recoiled when I handed it to him.

"What is this?" my father asked.

"A picture," I replied.

"Why did you draw this?" he asked.

Now was the crucial part. The smallest smile on my part could ruin the whole thing. No problem; I'd practiced. Looking at my father with the wide-eyed look that I'd perfected in the mirror, I said "I thought Dr. Kraft wanted me to."

The next week, my last week in therapy, Dr. Kraft told me that I'd see him again, and that I should feel free to call him whenever I needed to talk. I assured him that it would be okay, and he tried to be brave. Apart from a few phone calls, I never heard from him again. My father later told me that Dr. Kraft had offered to see me for free, but they had turned him down.


This strange thing, my snuff-film imagination, only grew over the years, and was always a reliable tool for dealing with bullies and assorted annoyances. In sixth grade, I found numerous ways to get people to leave me alone. One day, a seventh grader was making my life difficult, so I started giving him a funny look. When he asked me what was up, I replied, in a calm, steady voice, "I'm imagining your head exploding." His eyes were latched onto mine as I continued, "it's like a cherry tomato with an M-80 in it."

For some reason, my classmates thought I was weird.

Luckily, I discovered a fair number of fellow horror film fanatics in high school. I realized that, even if I wasn't necessarily normal, I was, at least, relatively healthy. When I got my first job, I used to go down to the record store every week to buy one horror film. I would take it home, watch it, analyze it, and add it to the collection. I have probably seen over a thousand people killed in more ways than I can count, and it has left only mimimal scars on my psyche. It has, however, only fueled my freaky imagination. With very little effort, I can visualize fairly horrifying things. (It's worth noting that I have the same skill with pornography, but that's another post).

Anyhoo, flash forward a few years and a few hundred horror movies, and I find myself raising a little girl. A little girl who now seems to be able to occupy five places at the same time. A little girl who seems to love endangering her little life.

In my imagination, George has turned into a suicidal version of MacGuyver. Give her anything--anything--no matter how small, and I can tell you five ways that she can maim, kill, or mutilate herself with it. A rubber band? Easy--she can choke on it, cut off her circulation, get it caught in her nose, flick her eye out, use it to piss off the cat (who will surely respond with claws bared), strangle herself with it, or use it to shoot deadly missiles into her brain.

A piece of tinfoil? Don't get me started; in my overactive imagination, she's already fashioned an aluminum dagger that she's jammed into her eye, her ear, her nose, or her heart. This is, I should point out, after she's swallowed part of it, and sliced up her tender little internal organs.

And so it goes with lockblocks, Tickle-Me-Elmo toys, baby spoons, plastic key toys, stuffed animals, and drums. I realize that the talking caterpillar won't kill her, but I am constantly tempted to put it in the blender. Of course Crayolas are non-toxic, but still...

The other morning, I woke up convinced that my daughter was in the kitchen, where she'd found the knife blocks (which, incidentally, are a very safe distance beyond her reach), and was doing terrible things. I knew it was just my imagination, but I still checked in on her. Just in case.

I realize, of course, that this is all a little ridiculous. On the other hand, I also feel like it's some sort of cosmic retribution for the fact that I allowed my imagination such free rein for so long. Now that I have something to really worry about, I'm unable to turn the damn thing off.

I'd like to write more, but I gotta run. It's been quiet for a while, and I think she might have just gotten into the Q-tips. 1001 uses, and at least 327 of them could, conceivably, leave her maimed for life.

My First Tattoo

A little while ago, I was reading a meme on Boondoggled , a blog that I really enjoy. Reading through the list of items, I agreed with most of Just D's responses. However, in one of the categories, "Things I Would Never Do," she wrote that she would never have a tattoo. I was a little surprised, in part because I know so many people with tattoos, but also because I got my first tattoo this year.

For years, I'd thought about getting some skin art. My original idea was to get "Made in Korea" on the back of my calf. My reasons for this were two-fold. First of all, I was, in fact, made in Korea by an American Navy officer and a U.S. staff worker in the embassy. My second reason was that, well, tattoos are cool. And edgy. And I wanted to be cool. And edgy.

Not surprisingly, these reasons weren't enough to get me into a chair, particularly when I realized that the tattoo I had in mind would probably cost about $150. Of course, I always blamed my decision on timing, or poverty, or some other excuse. Deep down inside, though, I knew the true reason: it wasn't the right tattoo.

Almost two years ago, my wife told me that she was pregnant. After I got over my initial terror, we began thinking about names for the little tyke. When we found out that we were going to have a little girl, we decided to name her Georgia. We had three reasons for this. First, my wife is also named after a state, and the whole state thing struck us as a total riot. Second, my wife's father was named George. George was in the process of dying, and we decided that naming his granddaughter after him was a particularly cool way to memorialize him. Finally, between George Trayne (Nancy Drew's best buddy), George Eliot, and George Sands, we had a huge number of great female Georges for our daughter to look up to. Even then, we knew that we were going to call her George.

George was born in October, and her grandfather died in April. In the months in between, she and he were able to meet, and they really hit it off. That summer, as Father's day got nearer, I started thinking about fatherhood, mortality, and being a grown-up. I decided that, at the advanced age of 34, I had reached the point where I probably didn't have to worry about outgrowing my tattoos. I was pretty sure that I would never regret the tattoo I had in mind. Besides, it was something that I really wanted to do. Best of all, between my daughter, my father-in-law, and my favorite writer, I knew exactly what to get on my arm.

George Orwell.

First off, I picked out the perfect picture of Orwell. Half his face was in shadow, giving him an intense, mysterious aura:



My next move was figuring out what I wanted the tattoo to look like. I finally decided on this as a tentative design:


When it came to finding an artist, I didn't want to screw around. After all, I knew that I would be wearing this for the rest of my life. I went to Ancient Art, the best tattoo studio in town. Once I got there, I talked to Richie, one of the artists. We finalized the design and set up an appointment for a few days later. When the day rolled around, I was a little scared, but I decided that I needed to do this because I was scared. I wanted to overcome this one.

Anyway, I went in, sat down and started reading the book that I had brought along. However, I soon found myself getting involved in the tattooing process, discussing details of Orwell's hair and smile, and generally collaborating with Richie. To be honest, the two and a half hours went really quickly. Now, I'm not going to pretend that the tattoo didn't hurt, but it wasn't unbearable. To be precise, it felt like I had skinned my arm and someone was rubbing it with a vibrator. Here's what George looked like when I got out of the parlor:


He was a little too intense at first. However, Richie assured me that George's bright white eyes and demon-red skin tone would fade considerably by the time he healed.

Of course, the healing process was interesting, too. Especially when George scabbed over:


This picture doesn't quite convey the total skin-rot realities of George at this time. To put it bluntly, it looked like I'd gotten the world's most artistic case of leprosy. However, within a month or so, George had healed. This is what he looks like today:


While I'm not totally pleased with the tattoo, I like it a lot. Richie went with a photo-realistic technique that didn't come out perfectly, and I will probably go to a major urban center for my next tattoo, but I'm generally happy with George. As is my daughter, who sometimes talks to him when she thinks I'm not looking.

For my other arm, I'm thinking about Franz Kafka:


No, I'm not naming the next kid "Franz."

Georgia, Then and Now

This is my daughter, Georgia. We call her George:



We took this picture of her a year ago:



We took this picture this morning:



(She wouldn't let me put the sticker on her head.)

I wish all of you a great election day.

Best,

Crankster