However, the other day I realized my crowning achievement.  In all my years, I’m happy to report that I have never walked in on my parents getting it on.

You laugh.  But I’m serious!!

Right now you’re thinking “that’s complete and utter mumbo-jumbo.”  But here’s the thing.  I have this very strong feeling that my life would’ve been permanently altered by an experience such as that.  There ain’t enough Ajax to wash that sort of dirt away, brother.  No sir, that is one sweaty mess of an image that would burn the back of my eye balls like a nasty light saber.

Here’s the scary part.  What if I DID walk in on my parents doing the hokey-pokey?  What if I stumbled upon their horizontal mambo and it was so traumatizing that I blocked it from my memory?  That’s the sort of thing that could fry one’s frontal lobe in a puff of ozone-blue smoke.

If that’s what happened, I don’t want to know.  DO YOU HEAR ME?  I don’t need the truth.  This is one bloke who is happy to not go through the regression therapy.

I don’t want you to think that I had some dysfunctional up-bringing.  I’m can’t sit here and wine about wire coat hangers and cigarette burns.  Heck, by today’s standards, my life was freakin’ great.  We weren’t a well-to-do family.  We didn’t have money coming out of our cracks, but we rarely went wanting for anything.  Before my sister and I reached the age of 10, my Mom was left with the arduous task of raising us on her own. I’m half surprised she didn’t drop us off at a K-Mart somewhere and drive like Hell.

Anyway, I’m rambling.  Back to my point.

The time period from Thanksgiving through New Years Eve…yikes.  It was like sitting on a rumbling volcano and waiting for it to erupt.  Don’t get me wrong.  We were (and are today) very festive.  To borrow a phrase from Clark Griswold, we were whistling Frosty The Snowman out our assholes.

But there was always this unspoken question on all our minds.  My sister and I could literally utter it between us telepathically. One deftly-raised eyebrow would speak volumes.

“When was the shit going to hit the fan?”

I’m sure that if my mother is reading this (and she probably will), she will assume that I’m pointing my finger at her.  This couldn’t be further from the truth, my friends.  My mom’s fault in all this is that she is a fixer.  She loves to not get involved.  I’m sure that makes no sense but let me lay it out for ya.

Mom:  Michael, make sure you get the kids in their nice dresses for Christmas Eve
Me:  I was going to put them in skirts and sweaters
Mom:  What about the dresses I bought them last year?
Me:  The red ones with frosty playing the electric guitar?
Mom:  No not those.  The shiny ones with the snowflakes…
Me:  I like the sweaters better
Mom:  No, the shiny ones are nicer.
Me:  I’m not sure they fit them anymore but I can check-
Mom: Whatever, I’m not getting involved.

This could be applied to most actions.  But the end result:  She always got involved.

And it’s these sort of gems that need to be shared with the world… at least I think so.  Maybe we just don’t tell my Mom.  Deal?

What most of you DON’T know is that my art studio was down there.  I use the past tense because I no longer have a working studio.  Luckily, I placed my originals on high ground.  I say luck because it was from no particular grand design.  That’s just where they ended up.

Misty and I sprinted frantically across the store, dodging over-turned shopping carts and fallen shoppers.  The floor was littered with debris.  An exploded pack of Cheez-Its.  A toppled display of Star Wars Legos (only $16.99 – whadda bargain!).  Snack-Pack pudding and blood smeared across the tiles floor.  Acrid smoke billowed up between the aisles somewhere near the cosmetics.  A larger-than-life sized poster of Ellen Degeneres-apparently the covergirl for our generation (a true sign of society’s collapse)-smiled pleasantly thru the haze.  I could see the Sporting Goods section up ahead. 

We rounded an aisle and came to a halt.  Two portly women and a preacher were fighting over a treadmill.  Purses were swinging and cuss words were flying.  I almost felt sorry for the Father.

“This treadmill is for the orphans,” the preacher pleaded.  His black shirt and white collar were filthy with a gray powerdy substance.  Must’ve come from Cosmetics, I thought.  He had his arms wrapped around one of the treadmill’s braces and hung on for dear life.  His chunky attackers were doing their damnedest to separate the holy man from the exercise machine.

“Give it a rest, Father,” the heavier of the two women snarled.  The armpits of her mauve moo-moo were stained with sweat.  The curls of her sandy blonde fading to black hair (the drapes didn’t match the carpet if you know what I mean) were plastered to the side of her damp and glistening face. This epic battle had been raging for some time.  With an impatient growl, she bent and grabbed the preacher by his ankles.  He cried out in a mix of surprise and anger.  His fingers clamped tighter around the cheap metal supports of the treadmill, his arms outstretch as the rotund gorillas in night gowns attempted to pull him from his prize. 

“C’mon Padre,” chuckled the second lady, “don’t make this harder than it has to be.  Be a good little man and let go a’ this walkin’ machine.”

Her amusement in the situation must’ve sparked something in him.  As he flailed, he managed to free one foot from their pudgy grasp.  His eyes flashed with rage.  A burning anger targeted at the women still clamped on to his one leg.  A look so fiery and intense that it seemed to make the rest of the room dim around it in comparison.  The Chub Twins seemed to lose some of their resolve in light of it.

“Oh damn,” I muttered, nudging Misty and giggling childishly, “he’s about to lose his shit!”

And lose his shit, he did. 

“In the name of the Father,” the preacher spat, now filled with fire and brimstone, “I KICK THINE ASS!!!” 

His free foot shot up like a missile, connecting with the alpha-hog’s face. Blood exploded under the sole of his shoe as her nose collapsed.  She fell back hard on her ample ass, her hands pressed to her gushing face in an attempt to stop the bleeding.  The other woman turned towards her partner, staring in shock at the damage the preacher had done.   Her face was a round white moon of amazement one second, a wrinkled twist of anger the next. 

“Look what you done to my sister,” she screeched, “I’m gonna kill you, you mother fu-” 

And that was all she had time to utter.  In her distraction, the Holy Warrior had time to reach for two brightly-colored 20lb hand weights.  With each barbell in hand, he spread his arms back behind him and swung full force.  The barbells crashed into both of her ears, sandwiching her head with a meaty thud. 

“OH!!!” I exclaimed, jumping back a step. Misty hid her face in my shoulder. 

Father McAsskicker stepped back and stared intensely at his victim as if she would suddenly lunge forward at him.  Instead, her lips moved, trying to form words that just wouldn’t come.  Finally her eyes rolled back, exposing the whites as her body swayed drunkenly.

“Schnauzer,” she gurgled, shuffling a few steps forward.  Then her legs collapsed beneath her and she crumpled into a pile on the floor.

The preacher dropped the weights to the ground, dusted off the front of his shirt, adjusted his collar and said “go with God, bitches.”

“Whoo-hooo-hooaaa,” I said, the word dragging out thru my laughter and amazement.  Misty sighed, grabbing my arm and pulling me in the direction of the Sporting Goods.

“Oh, come on,” I bellowed.  “THAT was awesome.  You gotta admit that was awesome!”

“What in the hairy hell is going on?” I bellowed, doing my best to keep the fear out of my voice.  Failing miserably.  “This is, by far, the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen.”

“This is nothing,” Misty said, parting the hanging clothing ever so slightly to peer out.  “You should see Black Friday.”

“This is normal?” I asked incredulously, my arms waving around frantically.  “All this is normal to you?”

“Totally,” she said nonchalantly, still peering thru the rack.

“Yeah?  Then who’s that?” I asked, pointing to the other occupant in our hidey hole: A middle-aged man in Woodsy Owl glasses and a powder blue v-neck sweater. Over top of his snazzy sweater was the familiar blue Wal-Mart employee apron.  A pink and white-flowered Barbie bicycle helmet two sizes too small sat on his head, perched slighty off-kilter. He was clutching a bright yellow wiffle bat and smiling politely.

“I’m Walt,” he said, pointing to his name tag. 

I stared at him for what seemed an eternity.  I was sure the little yellow smiley face on the front of his smock was going to reduce me to screaming.  The cacophony outside rose and fell like an ocean of clatter.  I couldn’t take my eyes off that crooked helmet.

“Walt,” I muttered.  “Why the hell not.” 

I turned back towards Misty who was still peering out, apparently plotting our next forward advance.  Somewhere outside, the collapse of what sounded like a mountain metal cans rang out while rabid shoppers cussed and barked at each other.

“Lotsa good sales today,” Walt chimed in, smiling proudly.  He was still clutching his wiffle bat.  “Eighty percent off all Christmas decorations!”

I stared at him, waiting for him to start singing Deck The Halls while his head spun around.  “Look…Walt,” I said rubbing my eyes with my hands, “I don’t know if you’re running on all four pistons but take a look around yo-”

“We’re headed to electronics,” Misty interjected, smiling back at Walt.  “We’re picking up a Blu-Ray player.”  I blinked in amazement, cocking my head in confusion.  Everyone has lost their minds, I thought.  They’ve hopped the train to Bat-Shit Crazytown.  It felt like these two were speaking Hungarian to me.  Here we were in the middle of a war zone that made Somalia look like the mono-rail ride at Disney.  Not two minutes ago I literally bludgeoned Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum with a George Forman Outdoor Grill and now we were discussing purchasing options with Walt the Wal-Mart crackpot. 

“In that case,” Walt chimed as his smile widened, “you’re gonna want to hurry.  Last time I checked, supplies were thin.”  

Suddenly, the look on Walt’s face immediately switched to concern.  The transformation was so swift it was as if someone had thrown a switch in his frontal lobe.  Apparently, he was being summoned by the mothership.  His perma-grin immediately hardened to a strained look of concern, his mouth reduced to a thin tight line.  He stood up so fast that it startled both of us.  His head shot up through the hole and he peered out from the center of the clothing rack as if it were the hatch of an M1 tank.  The knuckles of his wiffle bat hand glared white as he loosen and tightened his grip.

“HEY!” His voice cracked as he barked at some unseen gaggle of shoppers, “those tube socks are only three per customer!!!” 

Walt must’ve come to the conclusion that he had to take matters into his own hands.  He let out a blood curdling shriek that was actually a little frightening (all things considered).  Grasping the circular chrome bar that made up the top portion of the rack, he vaulted out of hiding and out of our sight.  We listened as he bellowed wildly “only three per customer!!!”  Each proclamation was followed by the hollow “wha-ping” of the wiffle bat as it connected with one poor shopper or another.

Three per customer! <wha-ping>

Three per CUSTOMER!! <wha-ping PANG>

THREE <pang> PER <pong> CUS<pang>TO<pank>MER!!! <wha-ping-a-ding-dong>

I popped up through the center hole and caught a glimpse of Walt swinging his wiffle bat furiously.  The yellow plastic whistled thru the air like an angry hornet, cracking a young pajama-panted lady in the ear. She turned on him, dropping the seven packs of white socks she was cradling.  In an instant she was on him, flailing and thrashing.  Other disgruntled shoppers followed suit and soon there was a nothing but a mass of writhing limbs and holiday coupons in the boy’s undergarment section.

“We gotta move,” I said, dropping back down into the clothing rack. “We gotta go NOW! This place is falling apart around us.” 

I shimmied out of our hiding space with Misty right behind me.  I paused, looking up at the signs that designated the different departments.  My eyes fell on what I was looking for.  I grabbed Misty’s hand and pulled her along with me.  A six-year-old girl in footy pajamas came sprinting at me, growling and screeching about Pillow Pets.  Heroically, I kicked her square in the chest.  Her long blonde hair billowed around her head as she was thrust backwards by the sheer power of my manly leg.

“Wait,” she exclaimed, “electronics is way over there in the opposite direction.”

“We need to make a little detour first,” I explained.  “Sporting Goods.”

“Sporting Goods? What the hell for?”

I turned to gaze into her face, my eyes locking with hers. “Cause it’s hunting season, ” I growled, “and Daddy’s on the prowl.”

She looked up at me with what could only be described as disgusted disdain. “Boy, you really suck at this.”

I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m actually sad to see it go.  Granted, it snuck up on me like a ninja in bunny slippers. But I think I may be suffering a little of the post-Christmas blahs.  Maybe it’s because I didn’t experience enough alcohol-induced holiday cheer.  Maybe it’s because I didn’t get a bright, shiny BMW under the tree (does ANYONE ever get a new car under the tree?  And how much do they charge for those big-assed bows?).  A better explanation could be that I have the chore of taking down the holiday decorations staring me right in the puss.

WHO KNOWS!? 

All I know is I’m a little blah.  And to top it off, I thought I could remedy the blahs (even if only slightly) by making the trek to Wal-Mart the day after Christmas.  What, you ask, could cure my mumbly-grumblys? Easy.  The procurement of sparkling-new electronics!  In this case, a Blu-Ray player.  Every avid hermitous movie fan should own one, right? 

I’ve heard it said that spending money releases endorphins.  Don’t believe me?  Ask my girlfriend.  One foot in a shoe store and her pupils dilate.  One whiff of a designer purse and she starts to quiver and babble incoherently.  I once saw her embrace a Dolce & Gabbana hobo handbag and weep ever so softly.  I could’ve sworn I heard her whimper “at last, I’ve found you.”

So, I decided to take a page from her book and spend a little Xmas moohlah on the manquivalent. 

I know what you’re saying.  Wal-Mart. Day after Christmas. Recipe for disaster.  Perfect storm.  In hindsight, I would tend to agree with you my friend.  However, in my defense, I actually had the balls to shop Wally World the day BEFORE Christmas and to be honest, it was relatively pain-free.  So as I sat there pondering the ramifications of diving into a potential sea of pajama-panted house wives and camo-panted yokels I thought “how bad can it be?”

Remember that scene in the newest Star Trek movie where the Enterprise is heading into its maiden voyage to answer a distress call?  They jump to warp behind the rest of the fleet and come out on the other side in the middle of a hellstorm of angry battle?  That’s what we experienced as the double doors to the store whooshed open.

It was insanity.  Shopping carts whooshed past us as we dove forward, rolling across the floor towards the produce stands.  We slid to a stop under the grapefruit bin.  Greedy shoppers with a strange and burning lust in their eyes raced by, growling and grunting, their Keds-covered feet slapping on the tiled floor.  Small children screeched and wailed like prehistoric lizards.  Old men in blue aprons wandered aimlessly about, greeting both the living and inanimate objects.  The cacophony and clatter of shopping cart wheels filled our ears.

“What do we do now,” I asked with fear in my eyes.  I’d known terror before.  Not like this.  “What do we DO?”

My girlfriend’s already vibrant blue eyes seemed to grow colder and more calculating.  This was well-known territory to her.  She grabbed me by the shirt, shaking the composure back into me. 

“We shop,” she growled. 

Reaching up into the bin above us she came down with two grapefruits.  Thrusting them at me, she said “cover me.”  I knew better than to ask questions.  Not that I would’ve had time. She was up and making a b-line towards the center aisle. I flew to my feet already six paces behind her, my heartbeat thundering in my ears.  Two elderly women were rolling on the floor directly in our path, fighting over a Martha Stewart designer Crock-Pot. 

“Oh, nice,” Misty chimed, admiring the cookware as she hurdled the old brawlers.  

Unbeknownst to her, an angry Spanish lady charged in from her right side like a linebacker wielding a shopping cart. The cart wheels chattered madly across the shiny floor.   I acted without thinking, cocking my left arm back and firing the grapefruit mid stride. The pink missile (ew) rocketed towards the lady’s curly unkempt mop, hammering into the side of her chubby face with a gratifying thunk. The orb exploded in a cloud of citris debris and rind.  She cursed in her native language, cartwheeling sideways into a table stand of poinsettia. Red petals and potting soil exploded and rained down around us.  One of her fuzzy pink house shoes flipped into the air.  Misty’s hand shot out and snatched it in mid-flight, swinging it in a wide arc.  It connected with the cheek of an over-weight gentleman who was admiring a Dinty-Moore Beef Stew end cap.  The white rubber sole connected with cheek flesh with a sharp crack that made me wince.

“Heeeeyyyy,” the man wailed, the sausage fingers of one pudgy hand came up to his already reddening cheek.  Before he complain further he was swept down upon by ravenous shoppers clawing and scratching.  I shuddered as I read the sign above his head.  Beef Stew – 4 for $1. 

Poor bastard. Never had a chance.

“Wit!” I heard Misty cry, snapping me back into reality.  She was backed up against a center display of multi-colored Hanes relaxed-fit briefs.  Only $2.99 per pair.  HOLY CHRIST!!!  Two over-sized sweat hogs were shuffling towards her. “Elaaaaastic waaaist baannnd,” one of them moaned.  I looked around frantically for anything I could use as a weapon.  I reached for the first thing I could find as the underpants zombies closed in.

“Hey Tons Of Fun,” I growled and swung the George Foreman in an upwards arc as the ogres turned.  George’s patented cast-iron grill shattered Thing One’s jaw with a crunch as his meaty head snapped back.  Thing Two stared dumbfounded as I brought the grill down in the middle of his forehead.  Blood oozed from a deep gash as he collapsed to his knees.

“George is right,” I said, panting with fatigue, “these things really do knock out the fat.”

“Really?” Misty sneered, unimpressed by my heroism.

“Oh c’mon,” I urged, “that was bad-ass.”  I turned around to find myself standing in front of a display of lawn darts. Two-foot long shiny metal spikes with colorful plastic wings.  “Shit, that would’ve been so much cooler,” I exclaimed. 

In my distraction I realized I’d lost sight of Misty.  I whirled around trying to get a glimpse of where she could be.  I could feel panic setting in when a hand reached out from a “Big and Husky” clothing rack and clamped onto my shirt.  I shrieked in terror, my voice echoing loudly like a little girl. With amazing strength, I was yanked towards a collection of 52 pants.

“Sweet Baby Jesus, don’t kill me,” I wailed at I was thrust into the clothing rack. I threw my hands up to cover my face and cowered waiting for the heavy-handed blows to pummel my head and neck.

To Be Continued – Stay Tuned

Along with that tradition comes another pointed directly at me.  I whip up a fresh steaming batch of green bean casserole.

What can I say?  It’s a hit with the fans.  Now before you start hammering me about my culinary prowess, you need to understand something.  My girlfriend commandeers the kitchen from dusk til dawn on Thanksgiving.   I have to approach it stealthily. I must be a kitchen ninja.  Get in and out of the cooking area like a chubby, bald John Rambo.

With that being said, I’m thinking about bringing something new to the Thanksgiving table.  This is where you guys come into play.  I need some suggestions from you.  The only stipulation is that this dish needs to be a side dish and I’d prefer it be hot.

What choo got?

Look, it’s been a rough year for everyone.  The economy has been dismal.  The job market is sour.  Life in general has been a little tough for everyone.

In these gray times it would be easy for me to fire off with some scroogerrific ramblings.  I could bah-humbug my holiday-cheer-challenged ass off.

Yet…

I can’t believe I’m saying this but I’m starting to come around. Maybe it’s old-fashioned optimism.  Maybe I’m hoping to relive the joyful holiday enchantment of my childhood.  Could be the fact that my girlfriend threatened disembowelment if I didn’t show a little holiday enthusiasm. But I don’t think so. I’m afraid to admit that it just might be genuine.

My girlfriend and I hit Wally World tonight in much need of supplies for the troops.  Fish sticks and fries, paper towels and deodorant.  Staples.  As we walked through the double-doors, side stepping the elderly greeter, we were immediately struck by the sounds of Christmas.

For so many years past, I felt that Christmas displays before Thanksgiving should be against the law.  But ya know what?  I’m ready!

After the year we’ve all had I don’t think it’s too much to ask for a little holiday magic.  I, for one, can’t afford to waltz through these holidays with my bottom lip jutted out like a green, smelly Grinch.  I guess I’m looking forward to having something to believe in.  Even if it’s simply the smile on a loved-one’s face or the warmth of those close to me.

Bring on the holiday music.  Bring on the lights.  Let’s hope for a little snow ’round December 24th.

You can keep the fruitcake.

But the most solid notion I’ve run across in my years of searching for the next interesting thing to listen to is this:  There is no music fan as hardcore as a metal fan. Now let me be clear on something before we jump off this cliff kicking and screaming.  When I say metal I am NOT talking about Poison.  I’m not talking about Def Leppard. That is not metal, folks.  Run these pussy hair bands past any kid in the mall wearing a Mastodon t-shirt and you’re likely to walk away with a bloody nose and a foot in your ass.

Metal to any metal fan is not a musical preference.  It’s a way of life, spewed forth by early pioneers like Sabbath, Led Zeppelin, Deep Purple, and later Iron Maiden and (depending on your opinion) Judas Priest.

I’ve always been more fascinated by metal’s minions than by the music itself.  There are, of course exceptions, but this music genre is largely a man’s world.  An army of unkempt 15 to 50 year olds who raise their “devil horns” in salute to the gods of loudness.  Their loyalty is no less than stunning.  Their t-shirts are like battle dress uniforms.  Their hair…maybe a little disturbing (specially on those older dudes).  You gotta admire that though.  Don’t you?

Don’t be fooled.  This army of black tees and denim has a weakness.  What, you ask could be the one chink in the metal soldier’s army?  The one thing that all metal fans point to as the harbinger of death?  Two words:

Kurt Cobain

I hear it all the time.  Nirvana killed metal.  Nirvana came along and killed mainstream metal.  Honestly, I think it’s a load of crap.  Lets be honest for a second, metal guys.  Nirvana came along and killed GLAM metal.  Nirvana came along and made guys start dressing like guys again.  Sure, they may have put a dent in Aqua-Net sales.  Sure, Maybelline mascara stock may have dropped drastically.  But who gives a shit.  I was getting tired of getting visually assaulted by some spandex clad man-cameltoe gyrating behind a pointy guitar.

Honestly, who was sorry to see Warrant go?  Who cried a tear when Ratt stopped applying the eye makeup and resumed their jobs at Best Buy?  So Sebastian Bach had to start blowing people behind a 7-Eleven dumpster.  Nobody cried when Britney Spears did it.

The REAL metal bands at the time… the bands that carried the torch of Sabbath and Zep, bands like Pantera, Slayer, Megadeth, Sepultura, Metallica…they all continued to operate business as usual.  And let’s face it, these bands got very little, if zero support from radio BEFORE Nirvana hit.  Why would it matter after?

Plus, without the dreaded grunge movement we would never have such amazing bands as Soundgarden and Alice In Chains, arguably two of the most rockinest bands in the history of rock.

So I guess I’m not on board with that whole mentality.  In my eyes, metal has always been an underground sport.  A punk rock for american kids who wanted to listen to guys who actually know how to play their instruments. Personally, I think the 90′s did metal (and everyone) a favor.  I think the genre is in pretty good shape these days too.

\m/ – Witmer out!

BUNK.  BUNK, I SAY!

Sure, I may not answer my phone when you call.  Maybe my mouth is full.  Maybe I’m in the shower. Maybe I’m being held hostage.  You don’t know!!

Truth be told, I’ve always wrestled with being social.  As odd as it sounds, I’m so much more at home talking to people in THIS format than in a face to face situation. Believe me, it pisses no one off more than me.  Matter of fact, it causes me great anxiety.  I have to literally coax my sorry ass into new social situations.  Granted, once I’m THERE, it’s fine.  I just have a real problem with that uncomfortable period that sits between first meeting a person and feeling comfortable enough around them to act like the idiot that I am.

For example: I can walk up to any of my close friends and utter something ridiculous like “I’ve got such a swamp ass today that there are gators in my pants” and that would be perfectly normal.  If I walked up to someone in the grocery store and said that, they’d lock me in the meat freezer ’til the authorities arrived.

So I tend to come off a little distant to new people…standoffish if you will.  Makes it a little hard to make new friends.  The reality of it is that I’m just biding my time until I reach that point in our relationship where I can let the real me out of the meat freezer.

What got me on this rant?  I’m proud to say that I was offered a new job today.  In my excitement I felt like I needed to tell my peeps.  You know, blurt it to the masses.  Of course I told my BEST friend (my girlfriend) first.  That much is obvious.

Then I sat there trying to think who to call.  I racked my brain in an effort to come up with people who might be excited for me.

…and who did I end up calling?  My Mother.

HA! They say a boy’s best friend is his mother…in which case his second best friend would be his therapist.