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Month: December 2020

Hindsight Is 2020: Never Mind That Colossal Looming Threat…

2 Min Read

Well, folks. It seems that we made it. It’s hard to believe that the end of 2020 is finally upon is, yet here we are. As you may already be aware, alot has happened in the past 12 months. So it’s forgivable if you missed a post or two from your ever-faithful1*Ahem* Except for a few weeks in late March. Point of the Story. But don’t worry, we’ve got you covered!

I propose we say farewell to the Year From Hell by taking a look back at one story from each of the last 12 months, shall we? Whether it was an interesting read in its own right, or whether it captured the Zeitgeist of the moment–or, *gasp*, both–each of these tales were hand-selected by the editor especially for you, the busy Dear Reader.

So sit back, relax, and pour yourself a tall glass of champagne as we start this celebration off with an in memoriam for those no longer with us, aka “The Before Times.” January through March of the Year 2020, we drink this in remembrance of you…


January: Kicked On A Place

Click here to read Kicked On A Plane

In retrospect, a tale about air travel, white-ish privilege, and socio-economic disparities may actually be the most 2020 thing I could have written about. Ahh, the blissful ignorance of That Which Was To Come…

Honorable Mentions:
But I Still Love Technology-The Other Odds
I Had A Dream…Or Two


February: Touched By An Angel

Click here to read Touched By An Angel

The unsung heroics of nurses? Seemingly endless suffering? A near-death experience? It’s like I somehow knew what was going to be all the rage in 2020…

Honorable Mentions:
Breaking Ephen Like A Stephen
My Time To Go


March: The First Rule Of Dealing Club

The First Rule Of Dealing Club represents the Point of the Story’s 2020 watershed moment. As the last post published before the true gravity of COVID-19 and the rest of 2020 hit us, it was one final look at The Before Times before we knew they were The Before Times. Now, just thinking about selling cookies to strangers in person feels so…weird. Heck, we would be thrown in jail for these father-daughter hijinx if they happened now.

Honorable Mentions:
The Men Of Her Dreams
Blowin’ In The Wind


Next up: April-September


Content compiled on: 28/29/31 December 2020 (Mon/Tues/Thurs)

Footnotes & References:[+]

The Gift Of The Magic Fire Water

6 Min Read

Here comes Santa Claus, here comes Santa Claus, with his Pillow-Sack-Of-Fun…


During that magical year in my life in between getting my undergrad degree and heading off to grad school, I lived in a house with 7 other fine young men. Most, if not all, of these fellas were “upright in the eyes of the Lord.”

One of the things that made this year so ----- magical was my best friend Andrew. Let’s see…I would describe him as “upright–but not exactly uptight–in the eyes of the Lord.” He wasn’t debaucherous by any means, but he did know how to appreciate a little bit of alcohol–in moderation, of course.

He lived just across town, so he would come over to our place after work and hang out several times a week. Since he had taken it upon himself to teach me the finer points of enjoying fermented drinks, he would often bring with him various liquors and spirits for us to imbibe whilst we chilled.

However, he seemed really concerned that he might offend some of the other roommates who perhaps, unlike him, had a different moral perspective on getting drunk on the holy spirits. His solution? Discreetly transport his goods in a plain, unmarked pillow case.

It was such a jolly sight indeed, him showing up at my door in the evening like an adult-themed Santa Claus, Pillow-Case-O-Fun slung over his shoulder.

Of all the fond memories we made together, my 24th birthday was not supposed to have been one of them. We had exactly zero plans for the evening beyond just hanging out and sipping on the booze du jour hiding in his PCOF–which was Vodka on this particular mid-December evening, I believe.

Well, “sipping” may not be the most accurate term. That would imply a small quantity and a slow rate of consumption. Let’s just say that 32-ounce Taco Bell cups were involved.

But don’t get too worried–it was mostly just Mountain Dew, with only about a fifth of the cup’s volume accounted for by the Vodka. We gotta give him some credit: he wasn’t just teaching me to drink–he was teaching me to drink in moderation.

We mostly passed the evening eating, drinking, and being merry in general. And maybe, just maybe, drinking a wee bit more.

But, seriously, while enjoyable, it was perhaps the most unnoteworthy 2-3 hours of my life.

About halfway through Taco Bell cup number two, I noticed that the alcohol was hitting me much harder than expected. I honestly didn’t know where I had gone wrong, because–I say this with a straight face–I had been drinking responsibly.

I sat there for a moment gazing into my cup before commenting to Andrew, “Man, this Vodka tastes oddly strong…”

Andrew paused briefly with a slightly confused look on his face before informing me, “That’s because that ‘Vodka’ is actually Everclear. I was wondering why you were hitting it so hard…”

“Aw, ----- , now you tell me. I had been mixing my drinks based on the assumption that this was Vodka the whole time. Dammit, now I’m drunk.”

“I would be worried if you weren’t at this point–Everclear is double the proof of Vodka. I’m surprised you’re even able to stand,” he said, trying to stifle his trademark chuckle.

*Tries to stand up, sits down immediately.*

“Uh, I think I’ll just sit here at the kitchen table for now…”

Though I was only 24, in that moment I felt wise beyond my years…


“Well, what do you wanna do now, Birthday Boy?” Andrew said, trying not to let my newfound inebriation–and my new-lost ability to walk on my own two legs–kill our buzz.

“Hmm, let’s see…I’ve been needing to re-order checks rather desperately. Since the laptop’s here anyways and I’m not going anywhere for awhile… ----- it. I might as well do that.”

…and I proceeded to do exactly that.

No, strike that thought. I proceeded to attempt to do exactly that.

For the life of me, I could not get all the way through the process successfully, despite multiple attempts. I mean, I knew I was a bit drunk, but not that drunk, for crying out loud.

…or was I? Maybe I was so drunk, that it felt like I was putting in all those number correctly, but in reality I was claiming my bank’s routing number was “1800MIXALOT.” Could it be possible?

I needed a second opinion. Despite being notably less intoxicated than myself, Andrew failed on both of his attempts as well.

There was no way that we were both so drunk that we couldn’t enter in ~20 digits correctly after 6 combined attempts. Or was the Everclear just really that good?

We needed a third opinion, and this time we had to eliminate the alcohol factor. For this task we summoned in Seth, one of the roomies that never drank, so he was guaranteed to be stone-cold sober.

When he failed after 3 attempts, that’s when we all erupted into celebratory cheers–“HUZZAH! We’re not as drunk as we feared! Hip-hip-hooray!”


A peculiar feature about this large house we all lived in was that there were two kitchens–one upstairs where we were, and one on the ground floor–thus naturally splitting us roommates into two seperate, but equal, groups.

It just so happened that all the while Andrew, Seth, and I were quietly celebrating my birthday/not being numerically-challenged-drunk, Zach, one of the downstairs guys, had been babysitting a pair of youngsters that belonged to the Youth Pastor at his church. He was so close to this family, in fact, that the kids affectionately called him “Uncle Zach.”

We had no idea any of this was going on below our feet–and frankly it didn’t matter–until the dad came back to collect his offspring. Zach came upstairs and insisted we come downstairs and meet him.

“Uhhh, no, man, that’s probably not a great idea, Zach, my man.”

I may have been under the influence, but I still had some common sense and better judgement left in the tank.

“Oh, no, it’ll be fine! Come on down before leaves!” Zach was clearly not listening to me.

Since I had stopped drinking over an hour earlier, I thought maybe I could fake being sober long enough to shake his hand and say “pleased to meet you.” I took a few deep breaths and carefully made my way down the stairs, bracing myself along the wall the whole way down.

Thank goodness the other guys were with me, as I was able to keep my speaking to a bare-ass minimum. More than 3 sentences of a speaking, and I’m pretty sure he would have picked up on my, um, “altered” state. I shook his hand, over-enunciated a few words, and kept my eyes coordinated at all times, though that last task took every bit of effort I could muster.

Just a couple of minutes of chit-chat, and we bid the dad adieu and made our way back upstairs to celebrate my Emmy-worthy acting performance. Only this time we behaved like the mature, responsible, grown-ass men that we were and enjoyed shots of straight water instead of that other, confusingly-clear liquid from earlier…


A couple months later, we were all hanging out one Sunday afternoon, when Zach came home from church with an odd experience he had to share with us.

“So after church Eva and Evan1Fuck if I know if those were actually there names. Seeing as how their dad was a youth pastor, I would say that’s probably a pretty good guess though. came running up to me…”

” ‘Uncle Zack! Uncle Zack! When are you going to be able to babysit us again? Every time Daddy says that you’ve been too busy, and to that, we say Boo!’ “

“They must have noticed the confused look on my face–or maybe just plain forgot what they were talking about–because only two seconds later they took off.”

” ‘That’s straaaaange…’ I thought to myself, ‘I haven’t been too busy to babysit them. And no one has even asked me to babysit since mid-December…'”

We all kinda chuckled because at that point, as we all knew what had really happened.

While my intoxicated numerical abilities were much better than I had perceived, conversely, my inebriated acting skills were much poorer than I had fancied them to be.

“Well, I’m truly sorry to hear that your babysitting gig is no more,” I half-assedly consoled Zach, who was at least taking it all in stride. “But to be fair, Uncle Zach wouldn’t have gotten himself into this pickle if he would have listened to Uncle BJ when he tried to warn him multiple times that Uncle BJ was not so much “Uncle BJ” in that moment as he was “Drunk Uncle.”

He gave me a begrudging grin, on account of the very fair point I just made. This one was probably more on him than me.

But, completely sabotaging Zach’s career in early childhood education aside, I stand by my assertion that that birthday ended up being one of my most delightfully memorable ones ever.

No, strike that–I sit safely at the kitchen table futilely trying to reorder checks by that assertion…

Really, though, the point of the story is, despite their uncanny resemblance, Vodka and Everclear are not “pretty much the same thing.” Only one of those two will get Child Protective Services called on your housemate, so you best figure out most directly which one you’re pouring into that over-sized Taco Bell cup of yours right now…


Content created on: 23 December 2020 (Wednesday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Don’t Worry Little Buddy, Your Secrets Are Safe With Me…

3 Min Read

Long ago, back when I was in kindergarten at Rolla Grade School, every morning I would take a ride on Ol’ Trusty Yellow School Bus #7. And almost every morning, I would always sit next to that one kid in our class who would eat glue. You know what I’m talking about–everyone had one of those kids in their class growing up.

“Elmer”–as I’ll call him for obvious reasons–may have been a bit of a spaz, but he was still my tried-and-true Bus Buddy. Indeed, there was a bond of trust there that was simply unbreakable.

On the last day of school before Christmas break, we sat next to each other on the bus just like every other morning. But unlike most school day mornings, the crisp Kansan air was abuzz with excitement and anticipation. After all, it was one of the few truly exciting days on the school calendar: Santa Day.

Now, there were many reasons for a kid to get pumped about Santa Day, but the one item on the itenary relevant to today’s holiday tale was the class gift exchange. I’m sure most everybody experienced these growing up, where you would bring a small gender-appropriate gift to school, which would in turn be distributed via a random sex-segregated drawing.

Since we had a level of trust like none other, Elmer naturally confided to me that his gift was…*suspiciously looks around to see if anyone is within earshot*…a set of 5 Hot Wheels cars.

That was a pretty decent gift for a 5-to-6-year-old boy, I thought.

For me, though, it wasn’t really a matter of how much I trusted him, per se, cuz I couldn’t keep a ----- secret to save my life. So, yes, of course I excitedly shared with him that wrapped up in my little package was….*eagerly looks around to see if anyone is within earshot, because hey, I got some inside info and what good is it if only one other person knows I’m so special?*…a set of wooden toy road signs.

He agreed that that was a pretty nifty gift as well.

Pleased with ourselves that we had Top Secret intel that no one else had, we spent the rest of our bus ride dreamily wondering aloud what super-cool toy the Universe would endow upon us at the gift exchange…


I have feeling that it won’t exactly come as a shock when I tell you that roughly an hour later we discovered that–surprise, surprise–Father Fate is a real dickhead to little kids who can’t keep secrets.

Sure as reindeer shit, we ended up drawing each other’s names, totally destroying the sacred element of surprise that every other little boy and girl got to enjoy that morning. I wouldn’t quite say Christmas was ruined, but it sure was a let down.

But on the bright side, I learned a new and very useful vocabulary word that day. Here, let me use it in a sentence for you:

“You’ve got to be ----- kidding me.”

The point of the story is, kids, if you know what is good for you, you’ll keep your dang mouths shut when it comes to Christmas gifts. The Yuletide magic you save may very well be your own.


I now would like to leave you, my Dear Readers, with a little bonus in your stockings this year: just for kicks, exactly how fool-hardy was it for Elmer & I to tell each other what our gifts were? Was it a just a fluke that we ended up with each other’s gifts, or we were actually tempting fate with our ill-advised actions?

Much like we did with Birthday Twins, let’s calculate the probability of such an event. Thankfully, it’s not as complicated this time around.

Assuming that there’s a protocol in place to prevent us from getting our own gifts, then there is 1 out of (the total number of boys in our class minus one) chance that one of us gets the other’s gift. My fact-checker tells me that there were 8 boys in the kindergarten class of ’87, so we’re looking at a 1/7, or ~14.3% probability.

What we really need to know, though, is what are the odds of two events both happening: I get his gift and he gets mine. This one is easy: we just multiply the two probabilities–in this case both 14.3%–to reveal that there was ~2% chance of this happening (approximately 1 in 50).

Now there’s a possibility that this actually happened in first grade, when there were only 7 of us boys, in which case those numbers come out to 1 in 36, or a 2.8% chance.

The irony here is that I just calculated those odds as I wrote this, and I thought I was going to laugh at how bad kids are at estimating such things. But, really, adult-me fully expected those numbers to be much higher, given the small size of the classes in our Podunk town. So it turn out I’m the one with crappy risk-reward intuition, eh?

Well, this disgression didn’t turn out as I had expected. So much for a “Christmas Miracle”…

Anyways, Happy Merry Christmas Eve! Or, for the Rest of Us, today1The day I wrote this, not the day you’re reading it, that is. is the day when we can officially say…Happy Festivus!


Content created on: 23 December 2020 (Wednesday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Oh, The Places You’ll Go (When Your Tank’s Really Full)

4 Min Read

Nothing really matters, ’tis all but a dream!

So ahead we shall go, full-stream…


When I was around 9 years, I had this random dream that I was in this old early 1900’s-era house with archetypical Ozarkian architecture. You know exactly what I’m talking about–the kind that has the master bedroom at the front of the house with the other bedrooms in the back, and in the dining area there’s a floor furnace that really ties the room together. Indeed, a classic example of “archetypical [early 1900’s] Ozarkian” if I ever saw one.

Ok, so I’ll confess that the reason I’m so confident in these oddly specific details is because, in fact, this house was the very same house in Springfield that we happened to be living in at the time.

Anyways, in this particular night-vision, there wasn’t much context or plot. It started with me standing somewhere in the front of the house, in either the living room or my mom’s bedroom. And all I knew is that I was super-tired and needed to get back to my bedroom, which was through the dining room and past the kitchen at the back of the house.

I know, I know. It seems kind of redundant to share such details about the floorplan, given that I’ve already established pretty clearly that this was an early 1900’s-era Ozarkian home. But–believe it or not–there are actually people out there unfamiliar with this school of thought within the architect community, so bear with my while I kindly suffer these ignorant fools.

Okay, so there I was needing to get from the front of the house to the back of the house. Simple enough, right?

Well nothing is ever that simple is it? About 4 steps through the living room the plot got a whole lot thicker: I realized that I had to pee. Like a mother ----- racehorse. I had never had to take a whizz so bad up until that point in my life, and perhaps has only been surpassed by the now [in]famous OMG-The-Nurse-Touched-My-Wee-Wee experience.

Now, I don’t have to tell you fans of early 1900’s-era Ozark residential architecture twice that my newly re-calibrated destination–the lone bathroom in these types of homes–was about 12 good paces from my location in the living room, off to the side of the dining room.

Nor would I want to insult your spatial visualization skills by painting a mental image for you like you were a 5-year-old. No, no, don’t let me interrupt you as you envision in your mind’s eye what it would be like to be standing where the living room and dining room meet, looking at the bathroom door, and then looking down at your feet to see the floor furnace conveniently located only 1 pace from your current location.

And since you’re already reliving the dream with me in your head, I bet you’ve already jumped to the clear and obvious logical conclusion that, in retrospect, seems kinda genius: “Why suffer a full bladder all the way to the bathroom, when there’s a perfectly good floor furnace right here? I mean, ----- it, this is just a dream, so who cares, right?”

Truly, I was quite relieved by the realization that I was merely experiencing a consequence-free dream…

Relieved–just like my bladder was in that dream-version of our family’s floor furnace! *rim-shot*

*sigh*

Apparently, this mildly-interesting-at-best dream stuck with me, on account of me-thinksing me-self to be such a clever boy. Honestly, though, I was kind of proud of my display of quick-witted problem-solving skills, even if it was only in my imagination…


Later that year, Mom and I were doing some light spring cleaning, and we were almost done with the living room. The last task? That neo-classical early 1900’s era Ozarkian floor furnace, of course.

We got to scrubbing on it, and something about it vaguely reminded me of a distant dream that was just beyond the grasp of my consciousness. Mom must have been able to tell from my face that I was trying to put some puzzle pieces together in my head, because she got this funny look, like there was something she should say, but was trying hard not to.1Hmmm…where have I seen that look before?

“Did you notice faint hints of an odd scent, perhaps?” she finally said.

“Yeah, a bit,” I replied. “Did a bunch of mice get in here? It smells like hot-baked urine–but not like hot-baked mouse poo, oddly enough.”

“Well, actually…”

Her pause only confirmed what I suspected to be true. I was starting to see the pieces fit 2That there’s a TOOL Schism reference, for the very select few of you who’ll appreciate it. alright.

“You see, a few months ago I was up late working in my bedroom, when you showed up out of nowhere asking to borrow a pen…”

“Umm…okay…”

“I was so shocked to see you that I had to ask you to repeat yourself, but instead of answering you just mumbled unintelligibly and wandered out of my room. Next thing I know, it sounded like you were pouring water out of a gallon jug into a really big metal cup.”

“You don’t say…”

“Confused, I went to investigate, and there you were, just doing your business right there in the middle of the dining room. You seemed to really be enjoying yourself in that moment, and I guess I was too embarrassed to say anything. So I figured it best to never bring it up again if I could help it.”

Of course.

Of course, it would turn out not to be a dream after all…


I think the real lesson here, though, is that perhaps a good rule of thumb to live by is that any time you’re inclined to say to yourself “f*ck it!” and proceed to do something slightly ill-advised despite the possible consequences, maybe that’s your first clue to not do whatever your dumbass is about to do.

I mean, have we learned nothing from my Very Merry Bar-Shitzvah?!?

What? You didn’t think I would let my birthday pass without bringing that up, did you?


Bonus: For all you pun-loving Bob Villa fans out there, I thought it would be nice to toss a little sumpin’ your way…so you should know how badly I wanted to entitle this post “Piss Old House.”


Content created on: 15 December 2020 (Tuesday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Famous Last Words Of A Guy Needing A Reliable Ride

3 Min Read

Sometimes I fancy myself a bit of a guardian angel:

Unseen, but always looking out for unsuspecting fine young honeys everywhere…


One of the wonderful benefits of riding public transportation to and from one’s job is that you get to meet all sorts of new and interesting people. For example, a few years ago, I was waiting at my usual bus stop waiting to head home after work. There I was, just minding my own business when one such new and interesting fella approached me. I could see hunger in his eyes, so I was fully expecting him to ask me for some money for food.

Instead, he proceeds to launch into this long and complicated tale that started out like any other “I need bus and/or gas money to get from Point A (our current location) to Point B (a very important place that I need to be most urgently).” I sat there and smiled and nodded politely, not paying close attention at first because, hey, if you’ve heard one of these stories, you’ve heard ’em all, right?

As you can imagine, his request was indeed for money for the bus fare so he could get himself on over to the neighboring city in a most expedient manner. “But what such pressing matters could there be for this young chap in the neighboring city?” you are indubitably wondering right now.

Well, it turns out, there was a “fine young honey”1I can’t remember the exact street slang he used here, but this is a pretty good approximation. in that city impatiently waiting for him to show up for their second date. And he made it pretty clear that if he didn’t make it in time, they wouldn’t be, um…”pressing [their] matters” together later. I mean, he was nearly in tears as he confided in me his worst fear: that there would be no bumping-of-uglies that night.

Oh, things were starting to make sense now. That hunger I had seen in his eyes? Pure sexual hunger. This dude wasn’t asking for gas money; he was asking for ass money.

But the best part was that he tried the classic empathy-inducing “We’ve all been there, right?” line on me.

No, dude, I can’t say I’ve been in your shoes. I have never had to beg strangers for bus money so I could make it to a 2nd-date booty call.

Though I gotta confess, I was tempted to give him the money, as I felt him more than deserving of points for honesty and/or creativity.

Trying to keep my professional demeanor I suppressed my grin as I told him I didn’t have any cash on me and sent him on his way. In the end, I really had to think of that poor young woman. I actually had enough cash to cover his bus fare, but I didn’t have enough to cover what he really should be spending his money on: rubbers.2Kids, this what people used to call condoms, believe it or not.

#DontWantNoScrubs3This tale was initially live-tweeted to my secret Twitter account, so #hashtags make much more sense in that context. And a few select people out there will appreciate this hashtag include in the original tweet: #Gintus.


Moments after this encounter, while I was busy patting myself on the back for helping that young lady dodge a bullet, I noticed the randy lad approach another regular bus stop patron who had just walked up.

I happened to be within earshot, so I got to listen in as he solicited this other guy. After the Scrub-Looking-For-A-Sensual-Rub finished his pathetic plea for ass-money, Guy #2 replied he had just spent his last bit of cash buying crackers at the nearby gas station for another guy who had asked him for money.

“But next time,” he reassured the Scrub, “I promise I’ll buy you some crackers.”

Clearly, this was not the outcome our pitiful supplicant was hoping for.

Before stomping off in disgust, he loudly muttered:

“Man, I don’t want no crackers!”

Now that I can relate to…

#DontWantNoCrackers


Content created on: 12 October 2017 & 17 December 2020 (Thurs/Thurs)

Footnotes & References:[+]

The Forgotten Dreams Of A Promising Young Boy, Revisited

5 Min Read

Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life.

Proverbs 13:12, The Good-ish Book (NIV)

As long as I can ever remember, I have been pretty certain that I wanted to be one thing and one thing only in this lifetime: Inventor.

I mean, sure, I wanted to be a firefighter for like two weeks after I finally found the courage to go down the fireman’s pole on the playground. But that was just a momentary 5-year-old’s fling that was never meant to last. Naive puppy love, if you will.

Being an inventor, though–that has truly stood the test of time. In fact, that’s still my answer when someone asks me what I want to be “when I grow up.” I suppose that everlasting desire of my heart is rooted in the allure of being patently1Pun intended, mother ----- . clever. In fact, you may recall how I once mused that “clever” is the single word I want on my tombstone (if they’re charging by the character, that is). That’s probably not going to change any time soon.

But there’s a fundamental truth about inventing that I learned early on, and that is inventing is hard.

When I was six or so, I had found an old 1950’s-era radio at the town landfill and instantly knew what I was going to do with it. Shortly after I brought it home with me, I set about the task of inventing something with it.

And sit I did. In fact, I sat there for probably at least an hour, just staring at it, thinking to myself, “I’m inventing! I’m inventing! I’m…so…when does the actual inventing start?”

Clearly, “inventing” isn’t something that you just go and do. Like life, it’s much more complicated than that. But a boy can still dream, right?


“Professional Nomad.” That’s a fairly apt description of my career thus far. Sure, I’ve been in the field of the physical sciences most of my adult life. But that’s a pretty big field, and I’ve taken more than my share of opportunities to wander in that wilderness.

Honestly, I have had a hard time establishing–or even just settling on–a professional identity. True, I’ve had some achievements worth celebrating: earning a Ph.D., becoming a published author,2Published in scientific journals, just to clarify. working on interesting scientific and medical problems in some high-caliber labs, etc. But without some sense of identity, that nagging feeling of wandering persists, leaving me to wonder if I’m ever going to do anything worthwhile with my life.

Then came along the Year 2020.

I don’t want to admit it to myself, but I’ll confess this to you: it’s been a rough year on me. I like to pretend that I’ve had the mental fortitude to thrive in this ----- -up year, but the wheels are going to eventually fall off that wagon. And not least of these struggles have been job-related.

For starters, I’ve had to share a workspace with the Boss Lady, whose competency and skill has only been put on steroids in these times of crises. No lie–she is literally being dragged up the corporate ladder kicking and screaming. She’s deserving every bit of the glory coming her way, and I couldn’t be more proud to be her Marty Ginsburg.

Meanwhile, in the other corner of the bedroom, though, I’m sitting here feeling like I’ve been running in place as a part-time scientist. Running in place–at best. Not to mention the underperformance of my other side hustles, like The Prissy Pet Project.

But you know what the icing on the 2020 shit-cake is for me? In but just a few days I turn 40. And oh boy, I’m starting to feel all the trappings of going over the Hill starting to creep up on me–namely, the early stages of a mid-life crisis. For someone that had so much potential in their youth, I have to fight tooth and nail against the fear that my life is going to pass me by and I’m going to be left with nothing but the realization that I’ve squandered all that potential.

Seriously, ----- 2020. ----- it right in its skull-holes.


Earlier this morning, as I was desperately trying to finish my diatribe about the dangers of talking to your parents about drugs, I noticed an email pop up in my work account. I glanced at it just long enough to see the term “Disclosure”–noting that it was undoubtedly yet another bureaucratic task in which I have to verify that I have no “conflicts of interest.” This is common paperwork for almost everybody in academia…and also yet another reminder that no, I’m not doing anything remotely close to being of monetary value with the time that I’m not being a scientist.

Thanks for asking, though. Assholes.

When I got around to directly looking at the subject line, it turned out that’s not what it was at all. Instead, it was “Invention Disclosure Received.” Okay, well, clearly this wasn’t directed at me. I’m pretty sure that I would remember if I had submitted any invention anywhere at any point in my lifetime.

But then I got to actually reading the email itself, and saw that it was addressed specifically to me, alongside several of my collaborators and coworkers from when I was a full-time scientists a couple of years ago.

Wait, what? This isn’t junk mail or busy work or random spam–this is something worth paying attention to.

Now, in the academic research world, there’s often a years-long delay between “work done” and “pay-off for work done.” So I’m actually used to finding out third-hand via similar-looking emails that I’m an author on some paper that’s about to be published–despite that project being 5 years in my rear-view mirror.

But, lo and behold, this wasn’t just another scientific paper to append to my modest-yet-respectable LinkedIn C.V. I read through the email carefully 3 times and confirmed, yup, this was indeed a project that I had poured waaaay too much time into. I figured that for my efforts I might get to be a footnote on the paper that would (maybe) eventually be published.

Apparently, though, this technology was novel enough that it was being classified as an invention. Very cool.

And one little detail had escaped my attention that I finally caught on my third read-through:

“If you are an inventor, please click here to complete the signature portion of the Invention Disclosure Form…”

An increasingly interesting work email

Did you catch that?

“If you are an inventor…

Holy. Shit. They are talking to me.

Or, in the language of the 1984 Rob Reiner cult classic mockumentary, This Is Spinal Tap, I’m “Authorized Personnel:”


It took a few minutes for this new reality to sink in, and even then, I could hardly believe it. Me. Inventor? Yes, it really was true!

And I gotta admit, I never saw this one coming. I’m mean talk about the Universe coming through with–if I may be so bold–The Best 40th Birthday Present. EVER.

In one fell swoop, on the doorstep of what was going to be one of the most depressing birthdays in the midst of one of the most traumatizing years that any living folk under the age of 98 will ever experience, out of the blue comes the most pleasant of surprises:

  • Childhood dream fulfilled before 40? Check.
  • That identity that I have been long searching for? Check.
  • A Tree Of Mother- ----- Life? Check!

Sometimes I have a hard time knowing where the line is between inviting others to share in the joys, celebrations, and victories of my life vs. just plain #HumbleBragging like an oblivious asshat.

But you know what? I’m gonna unapologetically own this one. My hard work has unexpectedly paid off, my heart is delighted, my countenance is lifted, and my spirit is soaring.

In the middle of all that is going on around us right now, the world needs all the uplifting stories it can get it.

Thank you, you’re welcome, and–why the ----- not, since we’re already here–Happy Birthday, Me!

Signed Yours Truly,

–The Inventor


Content created on: 10/11 December 2020 (Thurs/Fri)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Talking To My Parents About Drugs Sure Was Informative, Man

3 Min Read

“And the award for ‘Least Amount Of Substances Abused Over A Lifetime’ goes to…”

*ahem* Drum roll, please…


When I was in my early twenties, my mom and I went on a road trip together, and it turned out to be a great opportunity to get to know her as an adult. Somewhere around Saint Louis the topic of illicit drug use came up, as I was curious as to what kind of wild youth she might have had before I came along.

To my surprise, that conversation was much shorter than I expected, as she was able to exhaustively inventory the handful of experiences she had in under 10 minutes. As one might suspect, she had samplings of beer or wine spread throughout her adult years.

Oh, and that one time when she was in grade school when she learned a very valuable life lesson the hard way: once she and her cousin Kenny once dared her uncle to let them have a puff or two on his cigar. In true King Solomon-like fashion, though, he obliged them…on the one condition that they smoked the whole thing.

I’m not sure who called who’s bluff here, but they oh-so-unwisely took him up on his offer, and–in a shocking turn of events–both got sick af. And, she hasn’t touched tobackkie since that fateful 1960 summer day…

While that the tobacco story was quite entertaining and in fact left me laughing so hard I could barely drive, I must say I was a just a wee bit disappointed.

No LSD. No drunken benders. Not even a single drag of the icky-sticky Mary Jane. Not a single ----- skeleton in her closet to incorporate into her eulogy one day.

If I was hoping to hear mind-blowing stories about popping acid I guess I chose the wrong parent to talk to about drugs…


Given her sparse history with judgement-altering chemicals, then, I naturally assumed that there were no new shenanigans of hers to be discovered if the subject were to ever surface again. Or at most, that said shenanigans would be of the “cheeky and fun” variety.1https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JNPW2wZ4D2s

Fast-forward to a couple months ago when we were just chattin’ away when one of us happened to joke that the two-year-old in the household was acting lightly inebriated. You know, the classic “toddlers are basically drunk midgets” joke and all.

“Ha ha, well you don’t exactly have a whole lot of first-hand experience with that, right, Mom?” I casually commented.

“Just twice that I can think of,” she replied.

Well, this was a mildly interesting development.

“Oh, you’ve actually drank that much before?”

“Yeah, on one of our dates your dad and I went to Hugoton and I drank an entire Bloody Mary. I was a little tipsy after that.”

“Hah! You’re such a lightweight, Mom!”

She just stood there in silence, lightly blushing.

“Hmmph,” I thought to myself, “I’m not sure why my mother’s inability to efficiently metabolize alcohol would warrant an awkward pause…”

After a few more moments of silence, it occurred to me that she seemed to be working hard to not say anything more about that particular incident.

“Wait a minute…”

No doubt she could tell by the look on my face that the puzzle pieces were falling in place in my head.

“Did I…did I just…”

No, surely it couldn’t be.

Did I just accidentally hear the story of how I was conceived?!?

Now, the correct response here would have been an immediate and emphatic “No, of course not, Sweetie! That’s silly–you were a spontaneous localized manifestation of multi-dimensional positive energy, just like any other angel.”

But instead, she only blushed harder.

After another pregnant2Yes, of course this pun was very much so indeed intentional. pause, I said the only thing I could think to say in that very dazed and confused moment.

“Welp, I guess I just walked right into that one, didn’t I?”

Looking at me with pity in her eyes, she simply replied, “Yup.”


While typically I would leave you with a singular zinger of pithy life advice, I thought I would change it up and share with you a few of the alternate endings I was kicking around. Here’s an excerpt from my notes as I workshopped the possibilities:

  • “I used to think that those who claimed ‘you learn something new everyday’ were full of shit. Oh, how I wish that were true…”
  • “Well, that was unexpected.” Narrator: “That’s what your mom said!”
  • “…and through all this, it was apparent that Mother had learned yet another very valuable life lesson, as she has never had another beer nor another child since…”
  • Or simply: “Beer: The Fountain Of Youths!”

The truth is, though, it’s alternate beginnings that I’m left wishing for.

Like, what the hell am I supposed to do with this newfound knowledge that I was a Beer Baby?!? Oh, the ----- humanity!


Content created on: 9/10 December 2020 (Weds/Thurs)

Footnotes & References:[+]

All I Want For Festivus Is My Rightful Tech Fortune

5 Min Read

In the timeless words of Frank Costanza, “I’ve got a lot of problems with you people, and you’re going to hear all about it!”

So, Harvey, if you’re listening, this grievance is for you…


While it’s debatable whether or not I really invented Cake Pops, one actual claim to fame I have is that I was part of the 3-man team that built the very first U.S.D. 217/Rolla High School website. I know it’s hard to imagine, but before Mr. Taylor’s ’97-’98 Computer 3 dream team came along, www.usd217.org was nothing but a 404 Error in one’s browser, a Digital Void in the Nothingness of the Interwebs.

At first, me and my two partners in crime–my beloved brother 1SkinnyJ, and David, the captain of our Scholar’s Bowl squad–were pretty pumped. Here we were, three of the most creative minds in the school, and we were given a blank canvas on which to create the outside world’s portal to our school and community.

This was also the same year that our school had acquired it’s very first digital camera, and it’s hard to overstate the sense of limitless potential this gave the students and staff. It didn’t take but a day or two before I had convinced everyone of this potential by Photoshopping 1SkinnyJ’s head onto the body of one of the cheerleaders.

Well, maybe “convinced” isn’t quite the right term here. Turns out that the only one bemused when that picture was found mysteriously plastered all over the school was 1SkinnyJ himself. That particular cheerleader? She was pissed af. Which I didn’t get, because you couldn’t even tell it was her! And, honestly, how did the teachers not see the humor in all of this?!? But I digress…

Perturbed by the lack of appreciation for my artistic work, I decided to channel my creative energies into the school’s website instead. While boring ol’ Rolla is literally a one-stoplight town (see Figure 1), it wasn’t long before I realized that this was actually a huge opportunity to do something cool.

Figure 1. Rolla, KS, circa 2020–which is pretty much the same as “circa 1997.”

Digital camera + basic website navigation + small town = ???

It was the perfect idea: Why not create a virtual tour of our little hamlet?

If we wanted to show off our community to the outside world, why not literally do just that? As you can see, Rolla is roughly just a 13×8 grid. It would only take us one or two beautiful Fall afternoons to go down each street, taking 4 pictures at each intersection, and then another 4 pictures in each direction in between intersections. By my calculations, that would have been around 1000 pictures–okay maybe it would have taken 3-4 afternoons, but tractable nonetheless.

Slapping together a web page with Left/Right/Forward buttons that would navigate between the various views from the streets of Rolla was well within our technical abilities as well. This was going to be the coolest ----- thing since the invention of the internet, and it was all well within reach.


But, alas. Just like my bro’s head on a cheerleader’s bod, my genius was ahead of its time. And for someone so ahead of his time, it turns out that I’m a bit stuck on the past.

And thusly, Mr. Harvey Taylor, I hereby bestow upon you the honor once only reserved for one Mr. Howard Raff: you is about to be only the second Rolla High School teacher to be the recipient of a grievance that’s more than a couple of decades overdue.1For the record, I only air grievance against those teachers I actually was pretty fond of. Consider it an honor, if you will.

I gotta say, Mr. Taylor, you blew your chance at being a part of something revolutionary, but noooooooo. You just had to shoot down my proposal. I guess it turned out to be perfectly on brand for your vision of the website, though: the world must know that at one point you actually demanded that we make it as boring as possible because “you gotta think about who might be looking for information on the website: old people. Old people will only be confused if you make it too fancy.”

Yeah. Whatever. Well, it was bad enough to have all our great ideas–and collectively we had a lot of them–preemptively shot down in the name of being practical to a stupid degree.

Well, then, one can imagine how I felt then, when, 10 WHOLE YEARS LATER, Google launched Street View. Yeah, that’s why my idea sounded so familiar to you: it was exactly Street View–over a decade earlier, and at least a year before Google itself was even founded.

Perhaps you (Dear Reader) can’t imagine how I feel about being robbed of the glory and other trappings that would have come my way, if only that dastardly Mr. Taylor would have let this little light of mine shine. So let me try communicating in my second-favorite language I like to speak in these parts: semi-obscure pop-culture references…


In the 2003 hit movie, The Italian Job2https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0317740–the one with Marky Mark Wahlberg, not the 1969 one with Alfred from Batman–the lovable and zany Seth Green plays Lyle, the hacker/computer expert of the gold-heisting team. Yes, the very same Seth Green that appeared at the end of my recent chestnut of a pop-culture reference as the son of Dr. Evil.

In what may be one of my all-time favorite completely unnecessary plotline, Lyle claims to be “the Real Napster”–the true inventor of the free music-sharing internet platform that was ubiquitous back from 1999-2001, but (likely story) his college roommate had stolen the code for it from him while he napped and received all the glory instead.

Surprisingly, I couldn’t find a great clip or two from the movie that fully expressed how big of a chip on his shoulder this was, but the first 30 seconds of this scene (which happens to be the best Seth Greene scene in movie history for entirely other reasons), will give you a taste:

[Editor’s note: the original clip that was shared here is no longer available on YouTube. If you’re curious what happens after the first 30 seconds in that clip, you can see that here. As a poor substitute, here is a clip from later in the movie which vaguely references the now-missing clip–in that clip our character had aired a grievance about how his college roommate had stolen the idea for Napster from him…while he was napping. Hope everything else after this still kinda makes sense. If not, just go watch The Italian Job (2003 version) in its entirety.]

Yeah, I feel ya buddy. So now if you’re wondering how I felt about the whole “Rolla virtual tour” thing, you can just imagine me blurting out with an air of utmost grievance to random strangers on the street: “Me! ME! I’m the real Google Mapster!”3This a direct parody of one of the scenes in the movie, I just couldn’t find a clip of it.

Anyways, the point of the story is that maybe–just maybe–you shouldn’t take yourself too seriously.

Sure, you just may rightfully be the Google Mapster, but isn’t it about time you moved on?


For more information about the wonderful holiday known as Festivus, you can start by visiting https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Festivus and/or donating to the Human Fund: “Money For People.”


Content created on: 11 November & 5 December 2020 (Weds/Sat)

Update on 21 February 2022 (Monday) to replace broken YouTube link, and to sheeplishly try to convey the humor and relevance of the original clip.

Footnotes & References:[+]

Tis Better To Just Lust After Your Neighbor’s Wife Instead

3 Min Read

Some call me The Human Garbage Disposal.

Unfortunately, I thought that was a compliment…


“You gonna finish that?”

Rosie stared at me blankly, pulled what little remained of her sandwich out of her open mouth, and stated flatly, “Probably not. Would you like my leftovers?”

“Sure! I let nothing go to waste–and that cranberry turkey sandwich was really what I should have ordered in the first place. You’re the best, Rosie!”

I proceeded to pick up that juicy morsel and devour it in a single gulp. Man, did she sure know how to order the most delicious dishes!

You know, in hindsight, though, I would have been much better served had I picked up on her dry sarcasm instead.

To the objective observer it would have been more than clear that she was not done savoring her sandwich–on account of it already being inserted halfway into her oral cavity and all. At that point y’all gotta know she’s pretty much committed to the act of mastication, and wasn’t exactly hemming and hawing any more about whether she was going to polish it off or not.

Yet somehow, all that was obvious in that moment escaped my grasp, and I sat there and enjoyed the final moments of her meal in blissful oblivion.


Maybe my social faux-pas wouldn’t have been so bad had I not been a grown-ass college student. At the time, I had a summer job toiling away my days with the maintenance crew at a resort in Colorado.1Snow Mountain Ranch in Winter Park, for future reference. Joining me there were a bunch of other Jesus-loving college students all taking part in a larger work-ministry project,2If you need more context, I was heavily involved in the Navigators Christian campus ministry throughout college, for what it’s worth. and we would get together twice a week and have ourselves little church-like meetings. Somehow I fell bass-ackwards into the role of bassist in the band that led the Jesus-loving music for these meetings.

Now, near the end of that summer, the handful of us that comprised the Band–Rosie included–had snuck into town to enjoy one last meal together and reflect on all the memories we had made. And in the midst of this sentimental and solemn moment, there I was, passive-aggressively stealing my bandmate’s food like a complete jackass.

Fortunately, this incident didn’t completely pass without at least one kind soul pointing out the error of my ways.

Chip, the band leader, had come to our celebratory lunch with envelopes containing personal letters for each of us, thanking us for our time and efforts over the last 3 months. Once we were all finished up eating and had a few minutes to chat amongst ourselves, he passed them out to us one by one.

I opened mine and as I read through one thoughtful and touching reflection after another, I found myself trying to not get all misty-eyed. And then, I noticed a last-minute addendum scribbled in the margin at the bottom:

“Seriously, though, you need to let people finish their dang meals in peace. I love you, man, but…what the hell is wrong with you?!?

In Christ, Chip”

Clearly, this was a very important life lesson that he felt needed to be passed on to me with an utmost sense of urgency…


Turns out, his wisdom has proven quite prescient. You wouldn’t believe how many times over the last 13 years the Boss Lady has given me the exact same advice. I’m embarrassed to say that all too often I’m still that same oblivious knucklehead that succulently harassed3It’s a sexual harassment pun…though on second thought, I’m not so sure it’s a funny as I thought it would be… Rosie 20 years ago.

On occasion, though, there are glimpses of hope. One time I had finished my pizza before the Boss Lady had, and caught myself gazing lustily at the half-piece left on her plate.

Realizing that it was already enough to ruin the remaining pleasuring of her palate, I rued quietly to myself, “I wish I could take back that look…”

Self-awareness takes time. But I’m getting there.


Ironically, though, it has been becoming a parent that has really driven the lesson home for me. Sure, it’s a bit self-serving for me to care about this now, but it’s for their own good that I constantly press this hallowed fatherly advice upon my insatiable little goblins:

Always remember: “The Last Bite Is Sacred.”

the #1 Rule of Social Eating

Seriously, though, somebody should have beat my ass in Christ’s name4This is a random place to bring this up, but, Fun Facts: Chip lived next door to me in the employee dorms where we were staying that summer. Then I later found out that Chip and Rosie ended up dating and getting married a year or two later. So in sense, I was lusting after my neighbor’s future wife’s final bit of food. True story. long ago for trying to take their precious final crumbs from them…


Content created on: 2/3 December 2020 (Wed/Thurs)

Footnotes & References:[+]

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