Home on a Friday

I’m home today because I had my lower wisdom teeth extracted yesterday.  #’s 17 and 32, I think.  I guess they will end up in a landfill somewhere, only to be discovered centuries later by archeologists who will be forced to assume that a strange colony of two-toothed humanoids once inhabited the garbage dumps of early 21-century America.  If my spelling and homonym switching are worse than normal today, it is because I am on narcotics.  My brain and my fingers are even less coordinated than usual.  But what better time to write a blog post?

I probably should have had these teeth removed years ago.  My upper wisdom teeth were extracted sometime in 2004.  One of those teeth was so bad off that it actually broke in two in my mouth.  This sounds painful, but it actually brought a great deal of relief.  However, the tooth had incredibly bad timing.

In the Fall of 2003 I did an internship at the Capitol Hill Baptist Church in Washington, DC where Mark Dever is the pastor.  One part of the internship is to accompany Mark and the staff to a conference.  The conference that our group got to attended was the Desiring God National Conference celebrating the 300th anniversary of Jonathan Edwards’s birth (I think).  Since Mark was one of the speakers, he and his entire entourage were invited to have lunch at John Piper’s house on Sunday afternoon after the conference was over.  I was pretty blown a way that we were going to John Piper’s house, a personal hero of mine.  Even more remarkable was that J. I. Paker  and Iain Murray was going to be there.  I think Don Whitney was there too, and possibly Sam Storms.

However, as I sat in a chair in the corner of the living room, eating my bowl of beef stew, I was undergoing the most intense tooth pain.  This tooth had bothered me on and off for months.  The pain would be pretty bad for a few minutes, but it would always subside.  But this time seemed even worse.  I was trying my best to be cheerful and think of something insightful to talk to about with these great, godly men.  No seminary nerd can resist the temptation of trying to impress someone he thinks is important.  But all of my mental energy was consumed with trying to appear normal.  It is probably for the best though, as I would have probably just said something sycophantic and embarrassing.

But my ever-resourceful mouth had another avenue of embarassment to pursue.  Just as the theologians were wrapping up lunch, the pain was reaching a crescendo, and my tooth actually broke off in my mouth.  This was alarming.  I had no idea where the bathroom was, and I didn’t want to draw attention to myself.  So discretely as possible, I fished the tooth out of my mouth and slipped it into my pocket, unsure of the dental ramifications.  To my surprise, there was no bleeding and the pain almost instantly stopped.  I was disconcerted, but extremely thankful to be somewhat back to normal.

At this point the theologians made their way over from the big people table to the living room where all of the interns were eating.  They were all very gracious, as we circled around them, smiling awkwardly.  I think I talked to Iain Murray for a second, and maybe shook J. I. Packer’s hand.  No profound questions were asked, that I recall.  And after a few minutes, I excused myself to take a phone call from my good friend Mark Steinbach who was in Indiana at the time.  I know it seems like a dumb move to talk on the cell phone instead of J. I. Packer, but given the awkwardness and the trauma of the afternoon, I was more than happy to have a reason to step outside and talk to someone I knew.

The story of losing the wisdom teeth yesterday is much less exciting, although once I came out of sedation, Lindsay says I had a crazy look in my eye and was saying all kinds of strange things.  I’m always worried that in those situations I will say something wierd or unseemly to the medical professionals.  I’m sure they are used to it, but it is disconcerting to be so out of control of your faculties.  Thankfully the recovery is going well.  I still have just a little numbness in my lower lip, but it isn’t too bad.  And the hydrocodone is doing its job very well.  Now I’m going to finish recuperating by laying on the couch and playing fetch with Gus.

The Voyage of the Beagle

It is about time that I write a few words to commemorate the passing of Bujo’s Indiana Jones.  This was his registered name, and the “Bujo’s” part came from his sire.  At the time it seemed very official and significant to include that, just in case Indiana turned out to be a champion or something.  We usually called him either Indiana or Indy, although my sister Kara called him many different names.  These included, “Howard” (inexplicably), “Nanapoo,” and others that I am sure that I’m forgetting.

Indy joined us in January of 1998 to replace Barney the Beagle, who had run away a from home.  Barney broke the Beagle barrier in the Newcomer household and paved the way for Indiana’s successful career as our family’s dog.

Indy began his career as the Auxiliary Dog, with Skippy the Schnauzer holding down the position of Primary Dog until his passing in late 2004.  As an auxiliary dog, Indy performed well, if not always cheerfully.  (Despite the murky accusations implicating him in the death of Skippy, he was never convicted of any wrongdoing.)  Most importantly, Indiana contributed youthful vigor, cuteness, and velvety soft ears, which Skippy was either beginning to lose or never had to begin with.

Once Skippy died, Indy’s approach to the Primary Dog role was unique.  It is possible that all of the torture he endured as a puppy (see picture above) is what gave him a more surly disposition, but I think he was born that way. Instead of playing the part of the slobbering, tail-wagging companion, he was more like the needy old uncle who lived upstairs.  He was always around (especially at meal times), could be counted on to bark at strangers, and you didn’t want to sit in his chair.

Indiana’s life also represented another milestone since he was the second consecutive canine to live out the extent of his natural days with the Newcomers (this is not counting Cody the Lab-Chow Mutt who came as a stray and eventaully strayed away).  The flipside of this is that he accrued more veterinary bills than any other pet.  Who knew Beagles were so fragile?

It’s difficult to eulogize a dog, but I am glad to have known Indiana Jones.  He was a very doggy dog, and that is really all we could have asked of him.

Insane x2

We’ve all had dogs who like a good scratching.  And we’ve all found that one spot, usually right on the ribs, where when you scratch, the dog enters a comotose state and it’s rear leg begins to twitch uncontrollably.  Did you ever wonder how they must feel when that goes on?  In the last couple of weeks, I have found out for myself.

Somehow I have developed some allergy to something.  I am ithcy all over, and there are these certain spots on my legs that, when scratched, send my whole nervous system into this dog-like transe.  I’ve even found myself twitching my foot a few times.

The allergist has put me on Prednisone and I have a allergy test scheduled for next week.  But in the mean time, I’m one itchy mess, especially at night.  The allergist told me that some people go crazy from the itching.  And he also told me that some people go crazy from taking Prednisone.  While I’m lying in bed, thinking about how much I itch, I also wonder if I’m about to go crazy.  It is a sadistic feedback loop.  This is just a warning in case you hear that I have come to some bizarre end.  You’ll know exactly why.

The Scientific Dog Owner

As it comes to our rearing of Gus the Schnauzer, I would like to think of myself as one of those 18th-century naturalists who traveled the world observing and collecting various animal specimens. Do you remember that doctor in the Master & Commander movie with Russel Crowe? Like that guy. Overall, I haven’t been too successful. For instance, I occasionally find myself furious at his housebreaking failures. This is relatively rare for me – I haven’t been this angry with any creature since the days when I used to chunk the basketball at my brother’s head for “cheating” (i.e. beating me) during our epic battles on the driveway. On the flip side, sometimes I give in to being smitten with his cuteness.

But in pursuit of science I keep a mental log of his toilet habits, and I occasionally (and futilely) try to persuade Lindsay not to refer to herself as a “mommy” and me as “daddy” when addressing the dog. Presently, I’m planning to put pen to paper and make a written training schedule: Leash work in the morning, “Off” and “Mine” at lunch time, and “Sit,” “Stay” and “Down,” in the evening. Up to this point, we have haphazardly oscillated between a variety of exercises. I will say that he sits with some reliability, and he is learning to politely wait for his dinner.

My only semi-success in my naturalistic endeavor has come from his weekly photo of record. This is my attempt to mark his growth by way of a sort of mug shot. As you can see below , this is harder than it sounds.

We tried a variety of methods. But this is the best we got for his Week 11 Photo of Record.

You may not be able to tell from the photo, but the top of his back he is measuring just a little under 9 inches tall. The vet weighed him in at 5 lbs 15 oz.

The next week I concocted a different setup. I think he grew somewhere in the neighborhood of .25 to 0.5 inches. Here is what week 12 looks like:

You will all be excited to know that you can expect more of these photos as we record the growth of Gus, the Schnauzer. Tomorrow I will try weighing him and measuring him again (he was born on a Sunday). Once he learns the “Stand” command, perhaps the photos will look a little better. I also hope to buy one of those flexible tape measures the tailor uses so that I can more accurately measure his girth and length. I think the cause of science demands it.

How Much for These Plates?

I’ve recently discovered a new addiction.

I assume that every married couple gets a bevy of wedding gifts that they have no idea what to do with. To say the least these are not things you registered for, and what is more, they are often confusing. Most of these came in the form of strange dishes. After we got back from our honeymoon, Lindsay and I did our best to track down the store of origin and return these gems, but there were a few that came from nowhere. Apparently some of our guests were very crafty, so much so that they had their own kilns and glazing operations. But before I go further, let me be quick to say that it wasn’t any of your gifts that we returned or were confused by – just other peoples’ presents. Those other people are always pulling stuff like this.

Since these items that have no home, what do you do with them? There is always the regifting, but these aren’t exactly the kinds of things you want your friends to connect with you. “Why did Kyle and Lindsay give us plates with clowns on them? Weird!” One of these gifts still rides around in the trunk of the Jetta in a gift bag, just waiting to find its home. This actually worked for us one day when we were carting around this platter. We were shopping at HEB of all places and I saw the box. Viola! we had $8 to spend on groceries. But the granddaddy of them all spent about six months on the floor beside this computer desk I’m at right now, and has spent the other nine in a closet.

It is a soup tureen. Not just any tureen, but an Arthur Court Tureen with Ladle. Let me give you the Dillards description:

Arthur Court “Grape” Tureen with Ladle

// This stunning 3-piece tureen boasts a scrolling vine design. Includes lid and ladle. Rendered in sand-cast aluminum that’s been hand-finished and buffed to a luminous shine that never needs polishing.
15” long x 5” wide x 10” high.

This thing is a chunk. I’m not sure how much it weighs, but I can tell you that when I sell it on ebay, I’m charging $20 for postage. And that brings me back to my first line. I’ve been meaning to list this thing ebay for a while, ever since I first took the time to research what it was online. To my surprise, this less-than-aesthetically-pleasing item is somehow a collectible, and it retails for $200. That’s right, $200 for this:

After all, it does hold 3 1/2 quarts of whatever you got. So finally, after months of procrastination, I posted it on ebay a couple of nights ago. And let me tell you, it has taken off like wildfire. Within eight hours I had a lady from California who wanted to buy it outright. Sensing her desperation I quoted her a price that was pretty close to retail and her excitement waned. But within 36 hours, the bidding has gotten up to over $50, with over 4 days left in the auction.

And now I’m an e-bay maniac. I want to sell everything I can think of: old computers, dishes, furniture. It is just so much fun to watch the amount rise and dream of a bidding war break out between grandma #1 and grandma #2. There is someone out there for whom this grape soup tureen will finish off their collection of cast-aluminum grape-patterned knickknacks, and I want to be the one who helps them do that. To this point, I have restrained myself to listing a rarely used iPod and a once-nice film camera that has been in a drawer for 16 months. But I have to stop myself from opening the cabinet where we keep the china and dreaming about what price it would fetch in its original packaging.

But aside from that, if you find yourself in need of a nice aluminum bowl (with lid and ladle!), a third generation 20 GB iPod, or a Nikon N75 35mm film camera with 20-80mm Nikkor lens, please join in the fray.

If Men Bore Children, What Would Their Blogs Be Like?

03 September 2007
A great sports weekend to start off the fall. A no-hitter by a BoSox rookie and a huge college football upset in week 1. I love sports. By the way, Dr. says I’m pregnant – something about 7 weeks along or whatnot. Baby’s supposed to come sometime next year.

08 October 2007: 12 weeks
Man, I have had the worst gas. Talk about clearing out a room. So Dr. says no hunting this season – being around firearms could be harmful to the baby. Also said something about lead in the bullets. Did he ever stop to think about how being a sissy could be harmful to the baby?

05 November 2007: 16 weeks
Gotta love that $1 menu at McDonald’s. I just had a what I call the 4×4x6: 4 double cheeseburgers, 4 apple pies, $6. The kid’s gotta eat.

03 December 2007: 20 weeks
Dr. says he’s pretty sure it’s a girl (how accurate can those things really be?). Wife says I have to stop playing football games into the headphones on my belly.

28 January 2008: 28 weeks
These paternity boxer briefs aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.

25 February 2008: 32 weeks
Some random dude came up to me at Home Depot and said, I kid you not, “You look like you’re about ready to pop!” I punched him right in the mouth.

10 March 2008: 34 weeks
Felt like a good cry: Stayed in bed and watched Hoosiers. My back feels like it got run over with a mack truck.

17 March 2008: 35 weeks
Fantasy baseball draft tonight. Hoping the baby somehow gives me extra drafting prowess.

24 March 2008: 36 weeks
My wife insisted on this:

22 April 2008: 40 weeks, 1 day
I just bought a bottle of whiskey and scalpel. If this thing doesn’t come out soon, I’m going in after it.

25 April 2008
Can’t believe we’re almost a month in to baseball season. With Joe Torre at the helm of the Astros this year, I think we can expect some really great things. Oh yeah, the baby came out on its own the other night.

The Chili’s Theory of Movies

I’ve developed a brilliant theory for classifying movies with analogues in the food service industry. It goes something like this: First we must all agree that there is better and worse food in the world. For instance, McDonald’s is okay if you are in the mood for a mass-produced burger-like product slathered in ketchup and mustard, but we’d all agree that Chili’s is better. Want the “nice” version of Chili’s? Give Outback a try – it’s still a chain, but they have steak and Bloomin’ Onions and Cheese Fries. But if you want something that qualifies as an excellent cullinary experience, then you need to seek out the bastion of fine dining in your area. Here in Bryan-College Station we have Christopher’s World Grill and Madden’s. Now that we’ve got the basics down, let’s put our theory to work.

1. The McDonald’s Movies
The McDonald’s movies have very bad plots, mediocre acting, and unbearable writing. Movies that spring to mind here are Under Siege, Road House, The Blues Brothers 2000, and any movie whose title is preceded by “National Lampoon’s.” Since Lindsay and I just watched it, I’m going to include the movie “Because I Said So,” which starred Diane Keaton, Mandy Moore, and the lady who played Lorelai in Gilmore Girls playing the same character with a different name and a better job. This was a perfect McDonald’s movie. The plot had more unanswered questions than a lecture on the Problem of Evil. In addition, there were two outbursts in song which can only be explained by the presence of Mandy Moore. Even Lindsay agreed that it was bad. Just like a burger and fries from McD’s, it left you feeling a little bloated and greasy.

2. The Chili’s Group
The Chili’s movies are very formulaic too, but usually you come away liking them. As far as chick flicks go, I would put “You’ve Got Mail” in this category. It was “Sleepless in Seattle,” except that the role of the dead wife and mother was played by the out-of-business Shop Around the Corner. But it is impossible not to like Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan and that catchy version of Somewhere over the Rainbow at the end. The Oceans XX franchise probably belongs here, too. Make Vegas look cool and glamorous, get lots of cool actors, and viola, you’ve got a Chili’s movie. One common trick that makers of Chili’s movies make is the music montage that substitutes for significant plot development. Instead of having characters talk to each other, you show lots of scenes of them doing fun things together accompanied by inspiring/playful/whistful music in order to take them from coquettish rivals to passionate lovers. Watch out for this in the next romantic comedy you see. Lindsay and I just saw this happen in “No Reservations,” which is a Chili’s movie set in better restaurant than Chili’s.

3. The Outback Movies
As you would expect the Outback movies are just a tad better than Chili’s movies. Still formulaic, but better writing, directing and acting. I think the Bourne franchise falls here. It is hard to argue that they achieve the status of great art, but they are smart and entertaining. A recent example I saw was the movie “The Interpreter.” It is sort of borderline Chili’s/Outback, actually, but I thought it was a decent thriller. Let me list a few of it’s biggest faults:

• The stereotypical emotionally wounded cop with a chip on his shoulder, played by Sean Penn as a secret service agent. The age-old recent widower trick (also used successfully in Sleepless in Seattle as noted above) is used to make you sympathetic and understand why he’s a little bit of a jerk.
• A made-up African nation: Matobo. There is just something strange when a movie about international intrigue has to make up a country. Maybe Zimbabwe would sell them to the rights to use their name or something
• Closely related to this last point is the mystical wisdom of the heathen tribe. This probably brings this movie down the most. Nicole Kidman plays a white woman who grew up in Matobo, and through the entire movie she keeps yammering on about the way the native Matobans deal with death and victimization – very corny. It would have been slightly forgivable if Matobo were a real place. But again, this is a classic sign that you are not watching great art.

Listing all those points has almost made me demote The Interpreter to a Chili’s movie, but for now it will retain its Outback status.

4. The Christopher’s Films
I’m not enough of a film critic to really say what should go here, but I have my opinions. Personally, I think some of the Wes Anderson movies make it. “Stranger than Fiction” is a recent movie that I would put here. Discuss amongst yourselves what else you thing belongs here, but there is one other category of movies I’d like to talk about.

5. The Good Company Bar-b-Que Movies
Most of you probably don’t know what the Good Company Bar-B-Que is, but trust me in that it is the best place to eat BBQ in Houston. The Good Company has picnic tables and a large outdoor dining area, and it looks like it might have been cobbled together in stages when they got enough money to add on. It is one of those great, one-off places in every town that everyone loves. If the Good Company ever closes, I think I would cry. There are a lot of unique, great movies that for one reason or another don’t really qualify as a great artistic achievement. “Raising Arizona,” is just such a movie. It doesn’t have a high production value or a profound story, but that is part of its charm. Many of the Coen Brothers movies probably belong here, but I’m sure you could think of others. Maybe the Princess Bride goes here, or perhaps one of my favorite movies, “The Zero Effect.” Just like little hole-in-the-wall joints, everyone probably knows of a movie or two that fall into this category.

So there you have my current taxonomy of movies. I’ll be sure to inform you in the future when I see a movie that exemplifies one of these categories. Until then, good golf, good tennis, or whatever makes you happy.

Eating With The Enemy

Tonight Lindsay and I crossed a line. Some would say that we compromised our principles, but all good spies know that they are not permitted the luxury of living in a black and white world. Further, let me say that we didn’t pay for all of what we ate. We didn’t do anything technically illegal, mind you, but we know how to work the system.

Many of you are unaware of the recent goings on in Aggieland. For years there has been a little greasy spoon shack near the campus of Texas A&M University that exclusively serves chicken fingers and fries (and lobster, when in season). It’s called “Layne’s of College Station,” and it has long enjoyed a sort of cult following. It is not obscure enough to be a secret, but it isn’t as widely known and appreciated as some of the other favorites of the students. I don’t think I went to Layne’s until my junior year. It just isn’t a place you automatically notice.

I’ve never been to any other restaurant like Layne’s. Their basic menu item is the Chicken Finger Basket (known as the Chicken Finger Box if you’re getting it to go). A Chicken Finger Basket comes with 5 or 6 fried chicken fingers, a generous portion of fries, Texas toast, potato salad, and Layne’s secret sauce. But the baskets are also customizeable. You can omit any item and order extra of something else. You can also order the chicken fingers in bulk if you’re having a big get together or you can order a chicken finger sandwich. Other than the lobster, that’s all you can get at Laynes.

Of course it takes more than food to make a restaurant. The atmosphere is about as laid back as it can get. The cashiers aren’t exactly friendly, and the decor is spare. The parking lot, though surrounded by concrete, is gravel. The building looks like it is about to fall apart. A friend of mine claims to have helped install the central A/C system when he worked at Layne’s one year. This friend, I should note, had no expertise whatsoever in A/C installation. Layne’s is a dive. It’s cramped, furnished with bare-bones laminate booth seating, and the walls are decorated by photo’s brought in by patrons.

But for some reason, mostly because of the sauce, Layne’s is a very endearing place. After your first time at Layne’s you feel like you’ve reached a level of higher knowledge, the gnosis of Aggieland.

But this summer, things changed. Raising Cane’s moved in two doors down from Layne’s. This is a stretch of Texas Avenue where there are relatively few stores. There’s a Chili’s not too far away, a pool hall, a hair salon, and one of those buildings that is a different restaurant every other month, usually alternating between a Chineese buffet and Mexican food. For a long while when the building was vacant, the marque said something like, “Out of Business. Eat at Layne’s.”

Raising Cane’s is everything that Layne’s is and yet the exact opposite. The menu is identical (minus the lobster, and with cole slaw instead of potato salad). The sauce is a very close (though imperfect) imitation of Layne’s sauce. They have good ice. You can trade out your cole slaw for extra toast or fries. But on the other hand, they have a slick new building with professionally designed graphics. Their parking lot is made of new concrete and is brightly lit at night. Their service is friendly and their interior design is sleek and even a bit edgy. Raising Cane’s the anti-Layne’s.

Thus you can understand my outspoken opposition to Raising Cane’s from the first time I saw it. I have held a very strong line against it. I have ridiculed many who have dared to eat there as being of low moral fiber and of extremely poor taste. I have convinced my wife that we should make a family policy of hating Raising Cane’s.

But a unique opportunity presented iteslf to infiltrate Raising Cane’s. Since the Texas A&M men’s basketball team scored 70 points last night against Winthrop, and since Lindsay and I were present at the game, our ticket stubs became two-for-one coupons at Raising Cane’s. When faced with such a moral crisis, we did what any poor married couple would do; we ditched our principles and went to eat at Raising Cane’s. I’m sure that Layne’s would have loved to give us free chicken fingers if only it were backed by multi-national forces of evil and could therefore afford to purchase garish advertising at Texas A&M sporting events. And besides, by eating at Raising Caine’s via coupon, we felt we were slowly undermining their bottom line, especially if we got several drink refills (I should note that the ability to get your own drink refills is the one and only place where the Raising Cane’s experience improves upon Layne’s, but even a broken clock is right twice a day).

So we ate at the new fancy Raising Cane’s, right along with everyone else who was at the basketball game last night. And to be honest, we were not that impressed. The most ridiculous thing about Raising Cane’s is that they have several posters inside reciting the history of the restaurant in a pathetic attempt at saying, “We’re really not copying Layne’s.” I wouldn’t be surprised if one day we learn that Cane, whoever he is, is revealed to be a spawn of The Colonel, who, as we all know, put an addictive chemical in his chicken to make you crave it fortnightly.

Love is in the Air, or is it just Gas?

I know that everyone has been waiting patiently on pushpins and pine-needles for the proper completion to this post. And now it is time to tell you how it is done, how to close the deal, get out of the inning, float the keg, in other words, how to land the fish once you’ve got her on the hook.

The prerequisite for this part of the course is that you have successfully strung together a series of marvelously successful dates. The subject has been thoroughly wined, dined, and charmed. Let me congratulate you for making it this far. I realize what you have been through to get here. You’ve listened to more Kelly Clarkson CD’s and romantic comedy soundtracks than a Gitmo detainee. You have attained heights of control over your bodily functions of which lesser men dare not even dream. Be encouraged, comrade, those days have come to an end. Now is the time to press forward in phase two of the Creep’s foolproof plan for securing the troth of the subject. We call this phase, Operation Ugly Side. You may be able to guess where we are headed, but do not get ahead of yourself. Pealing back the layer of cuddly perfection must be carefully done in strategic stages.

A. The Car
No doubt to this point you have kept your coach-o-love in pristine shape. This has meant either frequent and expensive trips to Mr. Carwash for the lazy ones among you, or hours of sweat equity for our more industrious brothers. This is stage one of the reveal. The areas of exposure will become progressively intimate, but we must ease her into your slovenliness.

This is, of course, the old kill-a-frog-by-slowly-heating-up-the-water trick. So we start with the primary environment of every American courtship: the automobile. First, let a nice layer of dust and grime collect. No exterior washing for weeks. The inside must still be kept tidy. Consciously the subject will still be convinced of your cleanliness, while subconsciously she grows accustomed to the grime accumulating on the outside.

Then, slowly, introduce a few elements of chaos to the interior. A fast food cup here, a few pieces of paper there (Google maps to a new restaurant are always a good idea). Slowly, the back floorboards should be covered and filled with discarded paper goods, CD cases, etc. This stage should take about 3 months in total. Then on to stage 2, the person.

B. Bye Bye Mach 3
We all know that you have never shaved this much in your life. You’re face has been baby’s-bottom smooth for months now, and we all understand that your endurance is lagging at this point. Cut your shaving frequency in half. You want some visible stubble developing here. And this is a key step. At this point the subject will have two possible reactions. Reaction A is negative, “What is that stuff on your face?” This is a clear sign that the reveal is happening too quickly. If this is what you hear the first time the subject sees the stubbly you, you must immediately revert back to clean-shaven you. I cannot stress this enough. You have not thoroughly wooed the subject. Clean out the car, go back to Mr. Carwash. Do not attempt the Operation Ugly Side for at least 30 days.

The reaction you want, and the reaction that gives you the green light for moving forward is this: “Awww, I like your manly stubble.” If this is accompanied by any facial caressing, you know she is putty in your hands. If you have achieved this, comrade, then there is little else that I can teach you.

There are many different aspects to letting your person go to seed. It may begin with something small, like acknowledging that you actually do occasionally have to visit the men’s room. Perhaps one day you will skip a shower, but keep it to yourself, of course. But we all know what the real issue is here. That’s right, the climax of this stage is oft attempted but rarely achieved: Successfully breaking the Fart Barrier. There is little instruction I can give you about exactly how you should go about this yourself. Some like to let a small one slip during an evening walk. If you chicken out or get an unwelcoming vibe, you can always blame it on a barking dog or your shoe. Sometimes it is better if you don’t think about it too much. Just let yourself relax and the event will take care of itself in in the course of battle. You’ll bend over to pick something up off the ground, and wham! it will happen. Again, the reaction here is key. You’re looking for laughter, jokes, or the best of all possible reactions: reciprocated flatulence. Has true love a more beautiful name than this? The Creep’s ears know of no such name.

But, you ask, what happens if there is no such reaction? How do you deal with unrequited gas? This is indeed a problem, but not an insurmountable one. You must respond with a solid fortnight of impeccable hygiene. Attention to detail is vital: ear wax, fingernails, and nose hair are all areas that are often overlooked. Let no body part go unturned. Whatever you do, do not resort to accusations. Though the statistics are on your side, do not ever, under any circumstances, accuse an anti-farter that they indeed also at times pass gas. This is a battle that you cannot win. It seems that the fairer sex is so skilled in masking flatulence – what with their frequent trips to the powder room and such – that you have a better chance of spotting a big foot than you do of catching a woman “in the act.” The best option here is to let time work its magic. Try again in a month and see if you get a different reaction. There will always be some who are more resistant and they will feel forced by laws of propriety and decorum to disapprove, but even the toughest nut will eventually be cracked. After all, it is a law of the universe: farting is funny.

C. The Grizzly Underbelly of the Soul
Once you have achieved full fart freedom in your relationship, you are ready to move on to the third and final stage of Operation Ugly Side. No doubt that you have been on your best behavior to this point. You have said nothing incriminating. In her eyes, you are a gentle teddy bear who loves all things cute and cuddly. This phase is the most sensitive because some miscreants see this stage as license to be jerks. Let it be stated that the Creep repudiates such behavior. Rather, the point of stage 3 is simply to allow for more honesty. Allowable areas of scrutiny: clothing and apparel, music and movies, dogs and cats, other people, and vices. Here you are allowed to say something like, “I think Capri pants are ridiculous.” Of course you want to be careful here if you have noticed that your subject exclusively wears Capri pants. Don’t shoot yourself in the foot. Put your musical tastes out on the table; be willing to admit that you don’t ever want to see the movie Monster In-law. But at the same time you must be genuinely willing to give something a try if the other party insists. Of course here is a great time to introduce the barter system. “If we watch Sound of Music tonight, then tomorrow we can watch Fargo! Deal?” This is the stage where you can admit, “I will watch Monster In-law because I love you and I want to spend time with you, but I think J-Lo should go back to being a Selena impersonator.” Love is honest, after all.

Engaging
This is the end of the line friends. Some of you will get disembark here, buy a diamond ring, and live happily ever after with your mate. Congratulations, kids. Others of you will take the train back down the line to singles-ville and try again. Keep your chin up. You haven’t found that special someone who is wiling to put up with your unique breed of gross quite yet, but she’s out there. Do you need any proof? Let me present you with exhibit A, the Creep. Miracles still happen, friends.

Phew! This is really stinkin’ long isn’t it? I mean, it is ridiculous. Don’t you have something else you should be doing? Well, it has been quite a journey. Some of you may say that I’m engaged in spite of my methods and not because of them. You have my pity for your inability to conceal your jealousy. We are not all equally gifted friends, especially in this crazy little game called love. Let me leave with this. In the movie The Tao of Steve, the motto was, “be desireless. be excellent. be gone.” But to those crude and immoral methods I and all responsible lovers say “nay.” Instead hear this, my motto for finding, beginning, and securing true love: be passionate, be flatulent, and be married and have lots of babies. Cheers!

Ode to Skippy II

July 9, 1989 – December 4, 2004

Faithful readers of Creeps may recall a post way back in March of this year [2004] in which rumors swirled around the
disappearance of Skippy, the Newcomer’s senior dog. A wildly exaggerated conspiracy emerged about Skippy’s brief vacation and mysterious return, but in the end, all was back to normal in our household.

Unfortunately, such will not be the case in this, the last chapter of the story of Skippy. The lifeless body of the 15 year-old canine was discovered floating in the Newcomer’s backyard swimming pool by Skippy’s owner, Larry Newcomer. At this point the cause of death is still unknown, and seeing as an autopsy is unlikely, Skippy’s demise is likely to remain shrouded in a cloud of mystery, much like his life.

Four possibilities emerge given the evidence: The first would be foul play involving the junior dog, Indiana. Although the nefarious character of Indiana does nothing to exonerate him, he had little motive for elaborately staging Skippy’s death. A second option would be that Skippy’s arthritic legs gave out whilst he was drinking from the pool (as he was prone to do), he fell in and subsequently drowned, unable to swim to safety. Personally I think this theory is unlikely, because I believe Skippy would have found a way out or at least to a stair if he fell in while still conscious. A third possibility is that Skippy passed away while standing near the pool and fell in, thus dying of natural causes. And finally, we come to the most controversial theory.

Skippy was tired and old. His 75 doggy years had taken their toll and surviving two beagle puppies had irreparably damaged his psyche. He wasn’t thinking straight, he was in pain, he decided to end it all. So early in the morning on December 4th while the rest of the house slumbered, he slowly took one last walk around the house, and in his methodical way, he went out the doggie door into the back yard. With a shaft of moonlight beaming down upon the pool, Skippy made his way past the Sego Palm, under the water slide and around to the diving board. After painfully dragging his aching legs upon the platform, he stood in quiet solitude at the end of the board, staring at the water. With his feeble dog mind he tried to recall the good times. The car rides to school, the treats, the good scratches he’d had at the hands of his family. Those were good times, but they were all in the past, there was nothing to live for. And with his decision made, he started with a violent spinout and he sprinted like he hadn’t sprinted in years. By the time he reached the end of the board he was in full gallop and then he leapt. He leapt a leap that young dogs would dream off. He gracefully soared through the night air for what seemed like minutes. He floated – his silver fur shining in the moonlight – and finally he came splashing down. Down. Down. Down he went, and by the time he reached the bottom, he had given up his spirit, and Skippy was gathered to his people. Thus were the days of Skippy.

Considering that he had no soul, Skippy really had nothing to lose by taking his own life, and though suicide seems contradictory to the nature of most animal life, Skippy was always a little ahead of the curve. Plus he was a Schnauzer and we all know how depressed those Germans can be. It could have been that Skippy was a nihilist all along and just acting as if he were a Christian dog so as not to make waves in the family. I certainly appreciate that kind of irenic spirit. In the end, we will never know the exact cause of Skippy’s death. I prefer theory number three, personally. Being such a good dog, he doesn’t deserve the shame of being known as the Suicidal Schnauzer. That wouldn’t do for such a stately little dog. We shall remember him with dignity and love in our hearts.

Skippy was preceded in death by a Beagle named Barney, and is survived by his owners, his co-dog, Indiana, but no biological offspring (that we know of).