Friction and Harmony

Mrs. Who wanted me to post a picture of my Halloween costume. 

So what am I?  (I’m the “victim” on the right…)

Think you have it?  Look below for the answer…

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But the movies totally sucked wind. We own all three Rings movies, but this one voiceover parody scene pretty much sums up how I feel about the whole eight or nine hours of gheyness.

Mrs. Who posted about this recently. No doubt she was inspired by the fact that it has been playing almost non-stop for several days in our living room, attended by one or another bored kid. I don’t know why they choose these movies over any other. Repeatedly.

This morning in the shower – I dropped the soap and was afraid, even though I was alone.

My psyche is beyond damaged by these films.

In nearly eight years, Mrs. Who and I never had to worry about birth control or condoms.  Hell, we actually tried to get pregnant for at least two or three of those years…  But in light of recent circumstances, we have been advised by medical professionals to – ahem – practice safe sex.

So, we found ourselves at the pharmacy tonight – shopping for condoms.

Oh. My. Farooking. HELL!!

I’m looking for someone to blame.  Was it the Internet?  The Damnocrats?  Global frikkin’ Warming?!   All I know is that I don’t even recognize some of what we saw tonight…  So come to think of it, put Three Mile Island and Chernobyl on the list too!

I worked in a pharmacy while I was in high school.  Condoms were kept in a 24″ x 30″ display on top of the counter near the “sanitary” items and portable urinals.  There were exactly four kinds to choose from:  Plain non-lubricated, Plain lubricated, Reservoir Tip non-lubricated, and Reservoir Tip lubricated.  There might even have been “ribbed” and “spermicidally-lubricated,” but I don’t recall in great detail.  What I do know is they were ALL “Trojan” brand, and they were usually just referred to as “rubbers.”

What we saw tonight was lightyears beyond that modest counter-top display — but I’m almost at a loss as to how to describe it…

So I took pictures! 

There was more than half an aisle dedicated to different sex related products —  it was almost overwhelming to wade through all the colorful boxes, tins, bottles and… and…  Things.

But we were on a mission to find some basic barrier-protection birth control.  How hard difficult can that be, afterall?  Well, have a look for yourself…

Do you see it?  That little blue graphic at the bottom?  That’s a representation of the condom shape.  What the fuck is that?  After examining the package, I handed it to Mrs. Who and asked, “didn’t you say you were wanting a new toothbrush?” 

We began laughing hysterically.  Then there’s this one…

Uhm…  Isn’t one of the main reasons to use a condom to prevent you from one day looking down to see something shaped like that on you?  Oops!  Too late.  So here you go — we made a condom to fit your…  uh…  little problem.

By this time, we were on our knees in the aisle, giggling, snorting, and laughing ourselves to tears as I was trying to position my camera to get a clear shot.  Of course my crappy phone-camera makes recorded clickwhirr camera sounds, and the volume is at near maximum.  A curious shopper peered around the end-display and turned quickly around to escape her own embarrassment.

“Shit!  That one’s crooked!  Oh HELL, I can’t get it still enough to… THERE!  That’s good!”

Mrs. Who chimed, “are you going to SAVE that one?  Make sure you save it!”

Yup, for a few moments there, we had the pharmacy technicians leaning over the counter to see what the hell two middle-aged lunatics were doing so noisily on their knees in the condom aisle with a camera.  I was certain security had been called when I said to Mrs. Who, “we better get the hell outta here before we make the local news.”

This is a small town, afterall. 

It’s funny to see how they name some of these… bedroom accessories.  For instance, here’s a sexual enhancement product that is evidently created for women, claims to be approved by women, and even contains ”All Natural Ingredients”…  but it was undoubtedly named by a man:

We hadn’t realized how badly we needed a good laugh! 

Now I’m going to go see if Mrs. Who needs help brushing her teeth.  

We have a BEER CAVE! 

I wish this picture was clear.  This was taken with my crappy little cell-phone camera at a 4-way intersection that is so in the middle of backwoods Alabama, that it is literally referred to by locals as, “The 4-way.”

The sign says, “EXPLORE OUR NEW BEER CAVE”.  Maybe the idea of a “Beer Cave” has been done elsewhere, but the site of THIS beer cave is legendary.  It might even be considered by some to be a hurricane shelter.  This very corner gas station and mini-mart was the center of humanity immediately before, during, and after Hurricanes Ivan and Katrina.  They may not have had a drop of gasoline to sell, but by god, they had the essentials…  Beer and Cigarettes!

And yes, I said during the hurricanes.  As in… they never closed, not even as a Cat-4 storm was slamming the coast just a few miles away and heading straight toward them.  Their windows and doors were boarded-up, but they had peep-holes so they could unlock the door for anyone brave desperate enough to leave the safety of their homes in the middle of a hurricane for a nicotine fix…  Or of course, any of a wide selection of 32-degree chilled beers!

Before I say anything else… Thank you, everyone.

The outpouring of love, well-wishes and prayers from our family, friends, parishioners, and all you who have touched our lives and hearts through the blogosphere has been and continues to be profoundly moving.

We knew our little one would have to overcome a great deal to make it “all the way”… We were surprised and overjoyed at her mere (albeit surprising) presence, which touched our whole family and all our friends so deeply. Her loss was not so sudden. It was the desperate, tragic and dwindling loss of hope which made losing our baby so terribly painful… I tried to deny it as long as I could. I tried to tell myself that our baby was never really here, so it couldn’t be so painful as it felt deep inside. Perhaps I could have continued that charade for a while…

Thankfully, tonight we lit a candle to mark our loss, and to honor the little soul that I feel with all my heart awaits us in Heaven. It wasn’t until I saw the expressions of grief around me that I knew I could fully acknowledge my own.

Each of our children displayed their own sadness at the loss, consistent with their unique and wonderful personalities.  Goob – our gentle-hearted “rebel” – laid his head on my shoulder and hugged me.  PrincessNo – our tender, sweet and dynamic little girl on the brink of being a stunning young lady – silently cried, tears streaming down her face.  Eraserhead – our likely future attorney whom seems somehow genetically compelled to plead for fairness and justice wherever he encounters the slightest iniquity - pleaded this time for hope, demanding that our collective joy should not turn to loss so quickly.  And Buck – our future Marine – quietly, stoically clenched his jaw and stared the “thousand yard stare,” deep into the living room wall.

Mrs. Who and I quietly wept, held each other and dreamed of the beautiful, smoochable, loving and bright little one we might have had… If only. Then we held hands and prayed as a family for our family’s newest Ambassador to Heaven.

While her name was perhaps never to be written in this world, it is forever etched in our hearts, and in His.

Goodbye for now, little one.  You are one powerful little soul to have touched our lives so deeply without us ever having had the chance to count your tiny fingers and toes, smell your sweet hair or blow kisses on your tummy while delighting in your laughter…  You only had to be for a moment to lift all our hearts.  And what a precious moment it was.  You made us One.

Until we see you, Sweetheart, one bright and joyous day…

We love you.

My Lord, our baby is dead!

Why, my Lord — dare I ask why?  She will not hear the whisper of the wind nor see the beauty of her parents’ faces — she will not see the beauty of Your creation nor the flame of a sunrise.  Why, my Lord?

“Why, My child — do you ask ‘why’?  Well, I will tell you why.

You see, your child lives!  Instead of the wind, she hears the sound of angels singing before My throne.  Instead of the beauty that passes, she sees everlasting Beauty—she sees My face.  She was created and lived a short time so the image of her parents imprinted on her face may stand before Me as their personal intercessor.  She knows secrets of heaven unknown to men on earth.  She laughs with a special joy that only the innocent possess.  My ways are not the ways of man.  I create for My Kingdom and each creature fills a place in that Kingdom that could not be filled by another.  She was created for My joy and her parents’ merits.  She has never seen pain or sin.  She has never felt hunger or pain.   I breathed a soul into a seed, made her grow and called her forth.”

I am humbled before you, my Lord, for questioning Your wisdom, goodness, and love.  I speak as a fool — forgive me.  I acknowledge Your sovereign rights over life and death.  I thank You for the life that began for so short a time to enjoy so long an Eternity.

– Mother M. Angelica

Jack Wheeler, as reported in this World Tribune.com report on the September 6 Israeli strike on Syria:

“The primary point of the attack was not to destroy that target,” Wheeler said. “It was to shut down Syria’s Russian air defense system during the attack. Doing so made the attack an incredible success. Syria is shamed and silent. Iran is freaking out in panic. Defenseless enemies are fun.” [emphasis mine]

Heh. Indeed they are.

Hey, Ahmadinejad… Knock, knock.

Today, I went for my first haircut in months.  No, I’m not a head-blader any more…  I gave-in to Mrs. Who’s desire for me to have hair again.  Maybe I should have known then that we had a hormone-thing going on! 

*pausing to duck flying office products hurled by Mrs. Who*

While I was waiting for my haircut, the gentleman in the chair was admiring our barber’s 2006 Electra Glide which sparked his favorite subject – motorcycles.  And by motorcycles, I mean Harley Davidson.  As our biker-barber tallied the list of hardware that’s been added to his body, even noting odd bits and pieces lost through various accidents stupid-motorist induced tragedies, there was no mistaking that he was preaching his own Testimony of Freedom…  Life on the open road.  He even recounted how after one accident that left his hip shattered and his ankle and knee damaged almost irreparably, he would “army-crawl” from his living room to his garage to work on rebuilding his shattered bike – and his own morale.  “Riding,” he said, “is what gave me the desire and courage to walk again.  It was get back in the saddle and ride, or die on my back.”

I asked him about his first bike – a 1954 Flathead Custom.

“Your first is always the one you go back to.  She’s the one you think about when you’re ridin’ whatever you’re ridin’.”

He ran through his list of motorcycles – almost every one of them a Harley, except for, “an old Indian I picked up and rebuilt.  Sold that one though…  For good money, too.”

Since he was the one wielding the clippers and the straight-razor, I didn’t tell him about my sweetheart - my first.  He wouldn’t understand.  He is a Vietnam veteran, and an American.  And for him, nothing but American Iron deserves to share the open road.  He wouldn’t understand my early obsession with… exotics.  Mongrels, he would call them.  Rice-burners, he would sneer…  I never take it personally, especially from a Vet.

But my past is my past, and I couldn’t help but think about her.  She was something special.  Oh, I had maybe fooled around with a few other bikes before her.  There was a little Kawasaki road bike and a couple of Honda enduros.  Even a pure motocross two-stroker.  But all of them meant nothing.  We teased each other and played the bases some, but none of it was very serious until I met…  Her.

She was a 1986 Honda VF500F Interceptor.  Red, white and blue, arranged in bands of color that crafted the illusion she was racing, even while resting on her kickstand.  One of my good riding buddies used to laugh…  He’d say, “look!  It’s Captain America!”  I’d just smile, because I knew it was jealousy speaking.  I knew it, ’cause it was my ears that heard her throaty purr…  And my touch that made her scream.  Together, we were one as we’d pound through the curves — leaning, pulling, pushing shifting wieght and shifting gears hard and fast through twisting canyon roads as I wrung her throttle and punished her clutch.  I wasn’t just riding a bike.  With her, going anywhere was never just a ride.   It took my whole body – all muscle, bone and sinew, and every single nerve to move and feel and drink-in the experience of unwinding the road beneath us.  And we did it fast. 

We raced bikes up to twice her displacement and came up even – until we hit the curves.  Then we were gone.  I would often “lane-split” to the front of an intersection to get a jump on traffic.  Frequently, cars would rev their engines and the race was on.  The only car that ever beat us off the line, however, was a Ferrari.  We lost that race graciously, and with much awe.

I’ll never forget the look on the Honda mechanic’s face when I brought her back to the shop for the third time in our first weeks together, demanding they adjust or repair my high-performance bike for the way I rode it, not merely for what was the legal limit of the road.  She had a wheel-balancing problem in the beginning that caused her front forks to jackhammer the road at about 115 mph.  Pushing her to near 120 had the front tire literally leaping off the pavement – it was scary as hell.  I told them that I wanted a new front wheel, new front forks, whatever it took to fix her.  The solution?  They removed the balancing fluid that some jackass decided would be a good addition when he built her.  It was pooling at high speeds and actually causing the wheel to become un-balanced.

Also, I’ll never forget the feeling and what must have been the unmistakable look of righteous fury on my face when another jackass Honda mechanic took her out for a “safety inspection” ride.  He dumped the clutch and wheelied her for 50′ down the road past the shop.  I howled at his manager in front of every customer in the store.  Said mechanic collected his belongings within minutes of returning my bike, only after trying to “endo” my baby on the road near the service doors - while Mr. Manager stood beside me, a witness to the source of my rage. 

There are just some liberties you don’t take with another man’s girl – at least not without suffering dire consequences.

I’ll never forget these sage words my barber confided this day:

“You get the right bike and you just know…  It’s the most intimate relationship a human being can have with a machine that doesn’t run on batteries.”

Indeed.