My Boss is Gross



The BossMan just finished describing, in detail, his nocturnal emission last night. He believes there is an inverse relationship between sodium intake and vitality.

Sweet Dreams


Two nights ago, I had a nightmare that I shot and killed the Youngest, along with two other civilians. I’m not sure why I was firing a hand cannon from a protected position, or why, after the targets were eliminated, I continued to shoot the Youngest until he fell twisted and bloody onto the steel floor of some futuristic dystopian environment, but I sure did wake up with the fantods when I was unable to hide his body. It’s a scary thing to have blood on your hands, and nowhere to stash the corpse.

Strangely, the killing of the Youngest elicited roughly the same emotional response in the dream world as mowing down the first suicidal Charlie in the classic NES video game Contra, a man I have shot and killed several hundred times. Usually, when I have violent dreams involving the Youngest, we’re like modern day Butch Cassidays and the Sun Dance Kids, running, shooting, beating, and other scenarios ripped off (poorly) from the big screen. When he gets got, I vow revenge. Although you're innocent when you dream, I apologize just the same for two nights ago. (Although you probably had it coming)

Then last night, groups of people spontaneously erected elaborate bridges in the shapes of letters along the Mississippi river. The collective unconscious of the good people of the river valley spewed forth monstrosities of construction in some sort of message to God knows who.



The dream flashed to hicks in overalls, wallowing in the mud, building a giant letter L bridge over a sharply banked river. I walked into the marshy land to investigate. It felt like I was in North by Northwest – completely alone and yet completely vulnerable. A dirty looking man appeared nearby, head lolling a bit. I grabbed a two by four and hit him across the face. A solid thunk, but the “man” appeared nonplussed. Another man appeared, so I hit him as well. I ran back and forth, between the two, hitting these zombies in the head with a long piece of wood about 10 or 15 times. Thunk! Thunk! Thunk! Thunk! They neither advanced, nor retreated, they just took their beating with an undead stoicism.

You don’t have to be Sigmund Fucking Frued to interpret these dreams. These dreams mean…they mean…. It’s Springtime in Los Angeles! It’s shootin' season on the express ways. The gangs are back outdoors, and the beaches are packed. The long, somewhat cool winter has run its cycle, and now it’s time to toss away the long sleeved shirts for another season. We keep the windows open at night, and the wailing of the city's populous pours forth as we lie in bed, somewhere between awake and asleep with damp sheets. We are torporific. Was that a scream of agony or ectasy? Are those the foot falls of a recyclables collector, a graffiti artist, or a homeless man looking to relieve himself? A tidal wave of humanity flows into our room and effects our dreams.

Last night, I choked one of my teammates unconscious. It started when he made gagging-gargling sounds, but he’s made those before. I tightened the choke. He made some more gagging-gargling sounds, and so I sunk it in tighter, aroused at the propsect of tapping him out. He stopped making gagging-gargling sounds, and sort of went limp so I let go, and he fell forward at an awkward angle, like a half-cross legged bow to Mecca. The lead instructor/owner came over, and helped revive the poor son of a bitch who came to, and proceeded to attack the lead instructor/owner, thinking he was still involved in a sparring session. His dreams were no doubt as troubling as mine.

“Now there’s a true fighter,” the lead instructor/owner said of the formerly unconscious Brazilian Jiu Jitsu practitioner, “He passes out, and when he comes to, he’s still going!”

I fucking love Brazilians!

Email From Training Partner

Hey Guys,

As my birthday is next Wednesday, Jen (the girlfriend) has decide to get some of my friends together tomorrow night to eat wings, drink, and watch the UFC fight. I think we are shooting for 7pm at my place, and we'll probably head out to a local watering hole after to drink more, start fist-fights, and high-five each other.

Even though many of you are constantly choking me, throwing me, putting me to sleep, or trying to break my arm, I assume (perhaps naively) that you do it out of love, and therefore, you are welcome in my home.

If you are free tomorrow night, please come on by or meet up with us later.

-Bruce

Spring Ritual


I don't watch sports outside of mixed martial arts, and Olympic synchronized diving (The only sport, incidentally, in which showering with your teammate after your performance is televised), but if the St. Louis Blues or the Minnesota Wild make the playoffs, I'll try to catch every game until they inevitably get knocked out. This has less to do with the fact that I played the sport in my formative years than with my Old Man, who was born and raised in St. Louis, Missouri, and has been following the Blues since they began playing in 1967. They've never won the Cup, and haven't come close in many, many years.

All my life, playoff hockey was a ritual of Spring. It seems like we were always on a family vacation during the playoffs, and always watching games in unlikely places. One time, we watched on a tiny TV at a sports bar that doubled as a male revue, separated only by a thin curtain. During the third period, we could hear the DJ announce, "Ladies! Do you like what you see? Do you want to see him TAKE. IT. OFF???"

Years later, the Youngest and I saw a ghost while we were catching a playoff game in Dinky Town. I damn near blew my grades in '99 when the Blues made the second round. I've pissed off a lot of people beating them to a TV playing a game for which they have no love.

But my most enduring playoff hockey memory was when I was child living in Duluth, Minnesota. In Duluth, playoff hockey did not signal Spring as much as cabin fever. The days were longer, but the weather was still cold. In this pre-satellite TV, pre-Internet era, we had no way of watching the playoffs, so my Dad would sit in his minivan in our cold garage, wearing a heavy winter coat, tuning into KMOX 1120AM St. Louis. He told me that he couldn't get the signal during the daylight, or from any other radio in the house, but at night, with his minivan radio, it would come in*. Sort of. I tried listening with him a couple of times, but the signal was mostly static - like 80% static. I've never wanted to hear the results of a sporting event half that much.

Last week, the Youngest emailed the news that the St. Louis Blues made an unlikely, late season run, and just might make the playoffs. Last night, the wife and I caught the third period of game 1 at a sports bar a few blocks away on a big screen, high definition TV sans audio, which was very irritating, almost unwatchable. Which made me think of my Dad, hunched over alone in the garage, listening to the static of a team that has been losing for decades.

Last night, the Blues lost by a goal, and will inevitably get knocked out of the playoffs. Spring arrives. Blues lose, and the cycle of seasons keep on turning, like the summersault tuck of a synchronized diver.

*From Wikipedia: Medium wave and short wave radio signals act differently during daytime and nighttime. During the day, AM signals travel by groundwave, diffracting around the curve of the earth over a distance up to a few hundred miles (or kilometers) from the signal transmitter. However, after sunset, changes in the ionosphere cause AM signals to travel by skywave, enabling AM radio stations to be heard much farther from their point of origin than is normal during the day.