My son (putting on his clothes just now): “Dad, my shirt is too small.”
Me: “Son, you’re trying to push your head through the arm hole.”
Son: “Oh.”
And he’s in a gifted and talented school. Seriously.



It’s been about a year since my last installment about the proper and improper usage of bacon and its glorious image, so I felt like it was time for me to take another run at it. Plus it’ll help my ass get out of my non-writing funk, which is a deep enough funk to even impress George Clinton. Yeah.

This man is not easily funk-impressed. --from

I already laid out my thoughts on good and bad bacon, so this time I’m just going to show you bacon, and tell you – yes, I will tell you whether it’s a great implement or something from Satan’s Land’s End knapsack.

(Note: I don’t know if Satan shops at Land’s End. But I mean, why wouldn’t he? It’s a fine retail establishment, and there are some good deals there, especially for outerwear, and we all know how nippy it gets in North Hell.

Actually, I bet Satan shops at Aeropostale, which would make sense because I hate that place. But I digress.)

Let’s evaluate the good and the bad of baconry.

Yes. Yes, dear God yes. --from

Bacon + hotdogs = [I’m sorry, I’m eating bacon-wrapped hotdogs now and both hands are occupied, baby.]

Yes, with 3 thumbs up. --from

Bacon + bourbon = drunk and full.

No. Nice try, though. --from

Bacon + shoes = a foot that looks like it went through a furnace.

No. I mean, come ON. --from

Bacon + costumes = idiocy. That doesn’t even look like bacon. It looks like the world’s worst Christmas scarf given by blind Aunt Eunice. Twice. And don’t even ask me what that faux fried egg is all about. I hate eggs.

Yes (for women). --from

Bacon + perfume = Me following women around Target for reasons unknown to me.

No (for men). --from

Bacon + cologne = Me following men around Target for reasons unknown and disturbing to me.

Yes. Start 'em off early in life. --from

Bacon + babies = Awesome. This is always true.

Yes. This would make me drink coffee. --from

Bacon + coffee = a complete breakfast you can drink. I dislike coffee, and yet I’d drink this daily like it was insulin. And you don’t even drink insulin. THAT’S HOW AWESOME IT IS.

No. As good as bacon --from

Bacon + toiletries = a bad idea. Bacon breath isn’t as hot as you’d think. Well, it’s as hot as someone who just ate bacon talking directly into your face would be. So…ruminate on that.

Um...Yes? Maybe? --from

Bacon + candles = I’ll be honest…I’m not sure about this. If it truly smells like bacon, then this is the best olfactory experience I could ever hope for. If it smells like a burning Goodyear radial, I will want to punch a llama.

Yes. Si. Da. Whatever the language, hell yes. --from

Bacon + batter + deep frying = [gurgling sounds of pure, unadulterated joy]

Gaze upon greatness, folks. Stare at it for 20 seconds without blinking; emblazon this image upon your cerebral cortex until it burns in permanently like 1983 Atari Pac-Man on a 13″ black and white TV after 5 straight hours of  play. This is battered, deep-friend bacon, and it’s so good that I nearly elbowed the elderly in the chest to get some at the State Fair. On 2 separate occasions.  It’s so damn good, I saw visions when I ate it. It was like the Pink Elephants on Parade scene from “Dumbo”. Time slowed. My mind expanded. Taylor Swift was, for the briefest of moments, pleasant to listen to. It was Xanadu on a bun made of bliss and Paradise, marinated in awesome.

You know, I’m just gonna end this here – it won’t get any better than this, and if I find one more image of the bacon bra I think I’m gonna go all Gary Busey on someone.


My grandmother turned 90 a couple of weeks ago. That fact alone is pretty amazing, considering that last summer, she was very ill and we weren’t sure she was going to make it. But she recovered with the help of the family (my mother most of all), and she’s just as feisty as ever now. But you didn’t come here to read about my grandma, no matter how awesome she is.

Yes, even more awesome than this

My family decided to have a celebration for Grandma to commemorate her incredible milestone. Now, I need to point out a couple of things: (1) my family is huge. Ginormous. “Wearing name tags at reunions” big. (2) My family never does anything halfway or on a small scale. This event wasn’t planned as a small get-together at someones’s house, with people bringing covered dishes and desserts. Oh but no – that’s like Charlie Sheen only thinking about having ONE drink. No, this event would be on the scale of a Rotary Club event or a Boy Scout Jamboree or Sarah Palin book signing in areas without the Internet. This party was to be huge, and everyone – EVERYONE – was expected to be there. I couldn’t say no.

But there were a few moments when I regretted not thinking it over more.

This event was planned to the hilt – there were performances, speeches, pre-arranged actions and movements…everything you’d expect from a formal gathering. There was even a printed program with my grandma’s picture on the front. It wasn’t hosted in someone’s converted garage…no, for this shindig, we had an entire church, including the kitchen and fellowship hall. This thing was major.

As with any major event, there were jobs for everyone. It wasn’t enough for me to simply attend – I was a part of the entertainment too. I was to help escort Grandma to her seat, and give a speech on behalf of the children, grandchildren, and great-grands. No sweat – talking is something I can do effortlessly, like failing a math quiz. My sister was slated to sing, my young cousin gave a speech, and so on. Just about everybody had a job to do. Bearing in mind that my family is very devout in its Christianity, most of the event was centered around religion and its role in my grandmother’s life, and on the family. I’m not a churchgoer, but I was growing up, so I’m accustomed to the pomp and circumstance that goes along with the religutainment (ree-LIDGE-oo-TAYNE-munt) that surrounds our usual festivities. However, sometimes Life throws you curveballs, and it’s up to you to stop laughing long enough to hit ’em.

When I looked at the event program, I noticed that one of the scheduled events was something called “praise dancing”, to be performed by a person I didn’t know. And as we proceeded through all of the speakers and well-wishers, I got more curious about that one line in the program because I genuinely didn’t know what that could possibly mean. My great-aunt (Grandma’s sister) introduced the young lady who would be performing this routine, lauding her ability to evoke the Holy Spirit and to personify the Word of God through her dance. I was intrigued. Allow me to set the scene for you, if you will.

  • Imagine a young woman, around 25-26, wearing a choir robe and white gloves (but with no accompanying choir).
  • Watch her as she walks alone to the front of the church, carrying a CD that she inserts into a little boombox that had already been pre-set for her.
  • Imagine her standing in front of my grandmother, eyes closed, listening to the song on the CD as it progresses through the introductory chords and notes.
  • Note in your mind that she is not holding a microphone.
  • Note Damian noticing that she is not holding a microphone, and the confusion on his face as he wonders if she’ll melt his face off by singing at a decibel level that would liquefy granite.
  • Hear the music moving into the first verse.
  • Observe the fact that the young is not singing, as you might have assumed.
  • Pay attention to her as she begins…miming the song.

(I’ll repeat that, because I bet it flew right by you. She starting miming. As in, doing mime-like activities. In conjunction to and in phase with the lyrics of the song. Yes.)

Like this, but with 64% more church

Not knowing what to expect with respect to praise dancing still did not prepare my mind for this. She began acting out the song’s lyrics and message, in a highly animated fashion. Oh, and she was lip synching the song too. Not singing it aloud – mouthing the words to the song as she pantomimed them to the audience. If the song said “Reach your arms to Heaven”, she reared back and stretched her arms to the ceiling. If it said “He saved me from sin”, she would wrap her arms around herself, then point to her own chest, then sweep her hands toward the ground to represent sin. And if the song said “He died on the cross”, she…yeah, she did. She stretched out her arms, hands dangling, with her head lolling off to one side. I think her tongue might’ve been sticking out too, I was flummoxed. And honestly, I wanted to laugh. Really, really bad. But I was  sitting on the front row, right in front of her and right next to my grandmother and mother, so I couldn’t just bust a gut without ramifications.

As this young lady continued her performance by running down the aisle at Mach 2, I took the opportunity to scan the crowd to gauge other people’s reactions to this. I mean, maybe I’m the crazy one – it’s utterly possible. As I scanned faces, I saw a mixture of reactions – some were crying, some looked bemused, some were scowling, some were smiling and thoroughly enjoying it. Evidently this form of expression is not only known, it’s condoned and liked by many people. I made eye contact with one of my cousins while watching the Praise Mime, and our nonverbal, 10-second ocular conversation went something like this.

Me: “Are you seeing this? Have I gone mad?”
Her: “Yeah, I see it.”
Me: “Is this the way this should be, or is she having some sort of fit?”
Her: “I think this is the correctly planned arrangement of activities.”
Me: “I wonder what time my flight is in the morning.”

This performance went on for nearly 8 minutes, with the lady even pantomiming the vocal flourishes that good gospel singers do while singing. And I sat there, stone-faced, thinking of the economy or orange chicken or ANYTHING that would stop me from busting out laughing. Later that night, I gently asked my mom what she thought of it. She indicated that it was entertaining. I held my tongue. I may be going to Hell for laughing in my head, but I didn’t want to go with my mom’s handprint upside my head. I’m stupid but not crazy.


It’s been just about 2 months since The Incident, or as I like to call it,  the “I Really Want to Install A Vibrating Titanium Hook” Event, and it’s been about 6 weeks since my surgery. Things are moving along, slowly, but positively. Since one of my resolutions is to post more, and since I’m also lazy as hell, I’m going to do a pictorial update of my wound.

WARNING: Some of the pictures are a bit rough. If pictures of scars/wounds/stitches/other freaky things upset you, then don’t watch Discovery Health Channel. And don’t look at the pics I’m about to post. You have been warned.


Here’s where Ol’ Lefty was after the incident, but before the surgery.

The ER in SC works on CP time

The initial injury is a horizontal gash starting above the thumb and moving toward the palm. Lucky for you, it was covered in steri-strips so that you can’t witness the carnage beneath. The other areas are additional bites, scrapes, cuts, and whatnot.

Righty, feeling neglected and sad

My right arm had some punctures, scratches, and abrasions too, so I threw that pic up to show the whole story. Did I mention it all hurt like hell? No? Well, it did.


After the surgery, I was rockin’ the lovely and stylish and completely comfortable half-cast, half-Ace bandage look. This is what I wore in multiple airports as I made my way through multiple airports on my way to Fargo, ND and back again, one week after surgery.

Not shown: Joy, happiness, glee, comfort.

Airports are funny. In the Dallas airport, they swabbed the cast/bandage (which I will hereafter refer to as my “castage”), ran the little swab through the Mystical Terrorist Bomb and Really Bad Chemical Detector Gadget, and waved me on through. In Minneapolis, they did nothing. In Fargo, they pulled me aside and did the swab thing (though to be fair, they may have pulled me aside because I was black in North Dakota), and waved me on through. Then there was Denver.

Apparently the guys in Denver’s lovely airport of the endless concourses and giant blue balled horse statues were bored when I passed through. They noticed my situation, and reacted as though they finally found an opportunity to use that 1 day training they got 6 months prior. They made me identify my belongings (without touching them), then they ushered me into a small, separate room where some sort of contraption lived. All this was done in a very pleasant environment – the TSA guys were friendly and talkative, asking me about the injury and telling me their own harrowing tales of canine terror, all while scanning me and all my crap with some radio wave thing that’s supposed to find bombs and dirty magazines and tooth decay. It was bizarre and annoying, because my gate was B61. Anyone who has ever flown to and from Denver can tell you why that’s bad.

The Bataan Death March

So wasting time with the Call Of Duty: Black Ops wannabes wasn’t at the top of my To Do list. Moving on…

Occupational Therapy

After my post-op doctor’s visit, he thankfully removed the castage so that I could be fitted with something sexier to begin occupational therapy (not to be confused with physical therapy, which apparently is unemployed). In my short few moments of castless bliss, I snapped this lovely photo.

This is just after the very cute but very sadistic nurse removed my stitches, minus the topical anesthesia. “It won’t hurt,” she said. She lied. Hard. It looks like I’m carrying a caterpillar to a picnic or something. But as you can see, the plastic surgeon saw my wound and raised it by two other incisions going toward the index finger and thumb. This he did to locate and reconnect the severed nerve endings, and to try to clean up the tendon damage. And apparently to practice his backward Zorro signature.

After my first visit to occupational therapy, I got to wear this hot little number for a few weeks.

Black sock worn as a gauntlet sold separately

I wore this bad boy day and night, taking it off only to shower or to do therapy. And let me tell you, folks…therapy is hard. I have a good bit of scar tissue in my finger and palm, and the tendon thinks that it’s Kwanzaa and refuses to work full-time, preventing me from moving my finger correctly. 3 days per week I go through torture, flexing and stretching and bending and grabbing and generally doing any and everything to make the fingers move correctly, and to rebuild strength and nerve sensitivity. I would call it fun and relaxing, but if I did, I’m afraid my left hand would punch me dead in the mouth for lying to you. But it’s paying off. When I started therapy, I could barely move my index finger half an inch in any direction. After a month of intense therapy, I’m out of the splint 80% of the time, and I can now do this:

You can't see me sweating and shaking while doing this

HELL YES. Obviously I still have a ways to go, but this is progress. Happiness is doled out by the teaspoon, not by the pound.


Here’s what the hand looks like today.

What scar?

Seriously, it’s amazing what doctors can do now. When I finally cleaned it up and removed all the gross dead skin, I was genuinely shocked at what I saw. After seeing the Caterpillar Hand, I figured I’d have to wear a glove like Luke Skywalker for a while just to avoid grossing people out. But this? This is downright pretty by comparison. A hideous deformation has diminished to an interesting conversation piece. Now, pictures are deceiving – I still can’t play the bass yet, and though it looks like it’s better, I would scream like a howler monkey if anything hit that palm area with any force. Yesterday morning, the doctor was checking it out and tapping it with his fingers as he was making a point. It took a lot of effort not to throw his monitor at him, ’cause that just plain hurts. But, all in all, I can’t complain.

After all, I’m typing this post with two hands. That’s progress.


Thank you for a great year, everyone! One of my resolutions is to post more. Hold me to that.

The stats helper monkeys at mulled over how this blog did in 2010, and here’s a high level summary of its overall blog health:

Healthy blog!

The Blog-Health-o-Meter™ reads Wow.

Crunchy numbers

Featured image

A helper monkey made this abstract painting, inspired by your stats.

A Boeing 747-400 passenger jet can hold 416 passengers. This blog was viewed about 13,000 times in 2010. That’s about 31 full 747s.


In 2010, there were 15 new posts, growing the total archive of this blog to 384 posts. There were 3 pictures uploaded, taking up a total of 151kb.

The busiest day of the year was July 15th with 116 views. The most popular post that day was Mel Gibson’s Predictive Text.

Where did they come from?

The top referring sites in 2010 were,,,, and Google Reader.

Some visitors came searching, mostly for jillian micheals, lil kim ass, nancy kerrigan, lil kim thong, and taylor swift.

Attractions in 2010

These are the posts and pages that got the most views in 2010.


Mel Gibson’s Predictive Text July 2010


Jillian Micheals Can Bite Me January 2009


I said a hip, a hop, a hibbit, a hibbity… April 2009


Pope Benedict = Darth Sidious? December 2006


The Mystery of Taylor Swift February 2010


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  • 110,183 reasons to read me, baby.
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