Rock My World

About 430 miles into our 970 mile trek from Gold Beach, Oregon, back to our home in San Diego, we decided to stop for the night. When you wait until midnight to find a room, you pretty much have to take whatever you can get. We found a Motel 6. Too wound up from driving to go to sleep, we sat in bed with our computers on our laps, sipping Smoking Loon cabernet from plastic cups.

John Hutchison's Ray Guns Silenced

Today's post is an update of Monday's saga: My Neighbors Have Ray Guns. You may want to read that post first.

John and Nancy Hutchison
Photo Credit

The sheriff finally came for a visit and forced my neighbors, self proclaimed scientist (crackpot?) John Hutchison and his gang, to turn down the volume on the homemade ray gun they claimed was cleaning the Pacific Ocean. My neighbors complied with the deputy’s request, telling him that the ray gun had already decontaminated land and sea all the way up to the North Pole. It was a bittersweet victory. On the one hand, I’m grateful for the silence, but, on the other hand, I may have lost the most fertile source of blog material imaginable. Now, with the ray gun operating at reduced power, who knows what ill awaits us?

Sleep Battles

Sleep Battles was first published on 2/2/12.  It was revised and republished on 6/18/12 for Yeah Write Challenge #62
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While waiting for my daughter Kyra to finish her piano lesson, I sat in my car browsing through my mobile Facebook app.  I noticed that Kellie had updated her profile information, but it appears that she might not understand what sort of items to place in each of the categories.  

My Neighbors Have Ray Guns

I received a phone call from a woman who identified herself as Nancy Hutchison. Nancy’s husband, world renown (never heard of him) scientist John Hutchison, had designed a device to remove radioactivity from the Pacific Ocean and installed it next to our vacation rental property in Gold Beach, OR. Kellie and I decided to make a quick thousand-mile jaunt up the coast to investigate. 

Home Invasion

I hate it when I hear strange noises in the middle of night. As the man of the house I’m obligated to investigate. The clanging in my kitchen at zero-dark-thirty didn’t sound like one of my teenagers foraging for food, but someone was definitely looking for some grub. Needing a weapon, I picked up my 24-inch Stiff Stick (it’s a massage device, pervert) and headed downstairs. My approach was intentionally unstealthy, but my stomping did little to scare off the intruders. I raised my Stiff Stick and turned on the light expecting to find the Hamburglar rummaging through my refrigerator for ground beef. That’s not what I encountered. I lowered my Stiff-Stick and stood there speechless and staring, unable to comprehend and process what I was seeing. 

A Child Is Born

It was midnight when the phone rang. The doctor wanted permission to perform an emergency Caesarean section. “Your wife’s condition is extremely serious. Her kidneys are failing; her liver is failing, and her blood pressure is 210 over 180. We had to medicate her to prevent a stroke. She’s not sufficiently coherent to grant consent for the procedure. The baby has to come out, now.”

The Secret To Having More Sex (With Your Wife)

There's an old joke that goes like this: “How do you stop a girl from having sex.” When telling the joke, you usually pick a descriptive modifier and insert it in front of the word girl to single out the particular ethnic group, religion, or subculture for which you want to display your gross insensitivity.  Also, a graphic expletive typically replaces the word sex, preferably something with a hard “k” sound. It's a well known comedic fact that the “k” sound is naturally funny. That’s why Kellie calls me a dick head instead of a penis cranium.  Although, based upon the principle just stated, penis cranium should be funny too, and dick cranium should be even funnier, but neither phrase rolls off the tongue very well. Interestingly enough, if you say the words dick cranium quickly, it sounds like it could be the name for some rare radioactive element.  But I digress.  Anyway, the joke is a very customizable little gag. The punch line, as many men already know, is: “You marry her.” The humor comes from its near universal truth.

Kellie Speaks

I’ve been begging my wife to write a post for the blog, but she always say no. Yesterday she had to write a few paragraphs for a contest to win a travel book; I snagged it for today’s post. 

Crap, I just turned 49, and I am stinging from the realization that 50 is now less than a year away. Fifty years-old, what does that even mean? Am I really going to be half a century old?  Have the best years of my life already passed along with my youth, or will the knowledge and experience that come with age make the next 50 years even better?

Lessons From A Drag Club

Kellie is the one
in the middle. 

I got stuck with designated driver duty for Kellie’s birthday party at Lips, San Diego’s ultimate nightclub for some good old-fashioned drag queen fun. It’s not as enjoyable if you're sober, but it’s much more educational, and I learned a few new things about drag culture and lifestyle.

If you are male and homophobic, try to

Birthday Week, Are You Kidding Me?

Today is the official kickoff of Kellie’s birthday week. It seems that one day of celebrating isn’t sufficient for the queen. Is this normal? Do all wives get a birthday week, or have I been brainwashed?