Walking in the Light

I’ve decided to become a better man.

Stop. Before you scroll down to the comment section to give me a pep talk, wait and hear me out. I’m not feeling bad about myself, or deficient, or whatever. I believe that I am good man. But I want to be a better one.

So I’ve enlisted the help of one of my favorite websites/blogs – theartofmanliness.com, which published its impressive course “30 Days to a Better Man” some time ago. It’s really an interesting and diverse program, touching of all sorts of subjects, from “write a letter to your father” to “memorize a significant poem”. I saw it, bought the e-book, but haven’t begun until today.

Don’t misunderstand. This blog is not going to become a diary for my progress through the 30-day program, because some of that stuff isn’t really appropriate for publication. But I did just want to talk about the first task, Day 1, which I’ve been thinking about and ruminating on.

The assignment for Day 1 is to draw up a list of core values. Not a definitive list – in fact, you’re restricted to five. This was difficult, actually. For one thing, it was difficult to pin down specific values that were important to me. Then, it became difficult to siphon through the values that I actually have and the value I just wish I had. I guess the list I put together is somewhere between the two.

I’m not expecting anyone to be interested in this, by the way. It’s just given me a lot to think about, and besides, I wanted this list to be somewhere I can find it in case I lose the physical copy.

These are my core values – the values that are most important to me as a man right now. These are not necessarily my strongest qualities. In fact, these aren’t even all qualities that I can honestly say I possess. But they *are* the values that are most important to me, that I admire, and that I most want to develop. My hope is that this list will steer my actions and my decisions to work toward the goal of developing and perfecting these values.

Devotion – I value complete devotion above everything else. By this I refer to devotion to my God and devotion to my loved ones. I want every decision, every action, every movement to be in the interest of serving my God, my family, and my friends, and strengthening my relationship with them. I want my constant prayer to be in all things “Serviam” – I will serve.

Integrity – This value encompasses many others. Honesty, loyalty, trust-worthiness. I want to strive always to be a man of true integrity. Such a man does not lie, or cheat. He’s a man one can trust always to stay true to his word and stand a pillar of dependability in a castle made of sand.

Courage – The strength to make the difficult decisions. This value applies in all situations, whether the decision be a professional risk, or a personal risk, or a physical risk. I want the courage to climb to the top of a tall tree and the courage to stand up for myself the ones I love, and make the decisions that will be most fruitful and rewarding regardless of how terrifying they may be.

Discipline – This is a value that is very important to me but that I *really* need to work on developing. It applies to every aspect of life – eating, exercising, studying, working, praying, learning, sleeping, playing. Discipline in these areas separates the men from the boys, and I really long to develop this aspect of my masculinity.

Independence – One of my most treasured values, and one that I hope to continue always to develop is my sense of independence. My life is mine alone, and it is mine to live however I see fit, without submission to any buy my God. I will not be captures or enslaved by any entity – work, family, friends, responsibility. Instead, I will balance these important aspects of my life on my own terms. I will control my own happiness and my own future. I will be dependent on no one and nothing. Each day I will rise up and take command of my own life, my own future, and my own destiny. I will work under the direction of my King and within the parameters of my core values to progress in my journey and my lifelong search for happiness, fulfillment, and masculinity.

I work with HAZMAT.

Well not really. I work with a third party administrator for insurance providers. But the claims department is pretty much a HAZMAT.

Usually we all keep to ourselves. We work on our claims, we stay in our cubicles. We’re a quiet bunch. So it’s understandable that when one of us goes missing, it takes a while for us to figure it out.

So at around 9:45 I hear someone say “Where’s Melanie?”.

Melanie was gone.

We all just kind of exchanged puzzled looks until one of our supervisors Kip came out and solved the mystery.

“She has a stomach bug and she was violently ill. She left about an hour ago.”

The words were not even out of his mouth when pandemonium ensued. All of a sudden, every female in the claims department whips out – out of NOWHERE, mind you – cans of Lysol, bottles of antibacterial sanitizer, alcohol wipes. I blink and all of a sudden everyone has a face mask on. It was downright apocalyptic.

“I will NOT catch a stomach bug!” Melissa says, spraying Melanie’s vacant cubicle until Lysol starts dripping from her computer monitor.

It is at this point where Carrie, the secretary, runs in from the other side of the office, holding a bottle of Lysol in the air and spraying as she dashes between the cubicles, leaving a trail of mist streaming through the air like a ribbon dancer. Meanwhile, Kimberly is spraying herself down – I mean literally soaking her hair in Lysol - and Ginger is crawling on her hands and knees in the break area wiping the floor down with alcohol. You would think it was ebola Melanie had come down with instead of a simple stomach virus.

I mean, I can’t even describe how absurd this was. Every mother in the office called their children at home to make sure they weren’t feeling feverish, nauseous, hot, cold, tired, or hyperactive. Doctor’s appointments were made in preparation for the illness they and their families would inevitably contract.

“But you don’t understand!” Carrie insisted through her facemask. “There are no windows in here!”

I still don’t get the facemasks. Last time I even saw those it was on a news story about SARS.

So now I sit here, waiting for the hazy cloud of disinfectant to settle and the taste of rubbing alcohol to fade, and I just can’t wait for the go ahead to take this face mask off. Because hey, it’s better to be safe than sorry.

It’s only Monday, and I’ve already had the best claim of the week. I know this because there will never be a claim as hilarious as this one. Let me back it up for you.

This is the loss report I receive:

“Claimant fell from 3rd floor balcony at Ramada Inn in Metairie. Video footage is available. Claimant admitted to front desk that he was intoxicated. Putting insurance on notice”

That’s it. So this claimant – let’s call him Dude. We have a couple of other statements from neighboring guests. Apparently, Dude was having a wild time in his hotel room. Loud music, lots of noise, the usual bro fare. My guess (and the other adjusters’ guesses) was this Dude was hanging with his bros for a last summer hoorah before school starts. Getting wasted, scoring the honeys, whatever. Apparently the party got a little out of control and Dude took a little tumble a la Scarlet.

So it’s time for Super Sleuth Kori to put his detective hat on and get to the bottom of this. So I pick up and the phone and decide to give Dude a call. I was just going to take a casual little interview to lock down Dude’s admittance to being loaded the night of the incident, close off the report with a liability assessment of 0%, and move along with my life.

But that’s not exactly what happens. Because when I call the number, an old man answers the phone.

Surprised. Unsettled. Is this Dude’s father? Grandfather? What’s the deal here? I politely ask to speak to Dude.

“This is he.”

Whoa whoa whoa, hold the phone. YOU are Dude? You’re like the crypt keeper! This must be some sort of mistake. Maybe you have a son with the same name?

Nope. One Dude, and one Dude only. Except Dude is not a dude. He’s an adult man. And here’s the story.

This man, the Artist Formerly Known as Dude, was on a business trip to New Orleans for his company, which collects urine samples from across the country to do drug screenings. The Artist Formerly Known as Dude went to dinner with his boss the evening of the incident.

And that’s all he remembers.

That’s right, folks. Utter blackout. Absolutely no recollection of finishing dinner, paying the bill, going back to the hotel, falling three stories off a balcony, or being in the hospital. The next thing he remembers is around 7:00 the next evening, when he’s on a flight back home to Arkansas with a bad headache and 2 black eyes.

He doesn’t remember the raucous party.

He doesn’t remember the neighbors complaining.

He doesn’t remember the police showing up and telling him to keep it down.

He doesn’t remember the hospital.

The Artist Formerly Known as Dude doesn’t even remember falling off a freaking balcony.

Are you ready for the kicker? The Artist Formerly Known as Dude is FIFTY FIVE YEARS OLD!!!!

This 55 year old man got completely wasted out of his mind, threw a humongous one-man party in the Ramada Inn, and then jumped off the balcony!!!!

This guy is hardcore.

The best part is that the boss woke up the next morning, went to his hotel room, and the Artist Formerly Known as Dude wasn’t there. Didn’t answer his calls either. So, concerned about his employee’s whereabouts, Mr. Boss goes down to the hotel desk, asking if they knew anything. They inform him that his employee fell 3 stories off a balcony and is in the hospital now. Mr. Boss then continues on with his day of work and then goes to pick up Artist Formerly Known as Dude at the hospital that evening.

Did you catch that? Mr. Boss left his employee (and assumedly friend) rotting in a hospital after a 3 story fall for the WHOLE DAY while he was out collecting pee. What is going on up in Arkansas? I mean, really.

I’m willing to bet there’s a whole lot more to this story, Hangover-style. The pieces are just not fitting right. Did Mr. Boss roofie the Artist Formerly Known as Dude? What happened between dinner and the fall? Was there a tiger or Mike Tyson involved?

I think I’m going to spend the rest of this day thinking of the possible events that occurred that night to the Artist Formerly Known as Dude. Expect a post about this. I’m willing to bet he had a pretty epic night.

If only he could remember it…

Growing up in my household, I was the one with the appreciation for beautiful things. I would like to say that this was the result of some divine favor, that out of all my family members God looked upon me and chose me to be the one to appreciate the beauty of life and art and creation. But if I’m going to be honest with myself, it’s probably more a result of my inherent laziness than any kind of providence.
My parents used to make us work in the yard all the time, picking up sticks. If there is anything more mundane and torturous than picking up a thousand little sticks outside in the heat of Louisiana summer, I have not experienced it. And they made my brother and me perform this task literally every weekend. Of course, it never occurred to me that if I had just picked up all the sticks the first time around, we wouldn’t have to do it so often, but I was too busy moaning about how unfair my life was to think past the moment. All I knew was how infuriating it was that I walked around, wilted and sweating, bending over like a slave to pick up twigs while my ran drove around on the lawn mower, his hair blown back in the wind, pointing and laughing at me in my misery.
And there was literally no reason why these sticks needed to be collected. Though my father insisted that these tiny little sticks would ruin the blade on the lawn mower, I knew better. I was lazy, but I was not stupid. The lawn mower could easily have plowed right over them with relative ease. I tried to think of other reasons why he would want a thousand little twigs. Surely he didn’t want a fire; after all, the heat index was roughly 110 degrees on any given day in the summer. Perhaps he wanted to build a tiny little log cabin for gnomes.
In any case, I would find just about any reason I could to avoid doing this job, or to abandon it in the middle. And in the late afternoon, that reason was frequently the sky.
“What the hell are you doing? I still see sticks on the ground”
“I’m looking at the sky, dad. Look how pretty it is”
“Yeah, it’s gorgeous. Now go pick up the sticks. What are you gonna do if I roll over one with the lawnmower and it spits it up into my eyes and blinds me, huh? Is that what you want?”
Even at a young age I knew this was unlikely. The physics of it all just didn’t add up. Regardless, I would sigh, take one last longing look at my only source of procrastination, take another look at the miniature forest of twigs on our lawn, and promptly go inside to get a glass of water and watch TV.
As I said, it is to these experiences that I attribute my love for beautiful things as I was growing up. It seems understandable; in my young days, I compared the beauty of a sky or a living room with air condition to the relative ugliness of a Saturday spent picking up sticks, and I focused my attention on those things. It’s the same basic concept when it comes to art. Anyone who likes to look at beautiful things does so because they’re better to look at then the ugly ones.
My whole word was rocked, though, when art, ugliness, and my father all collided.
There’s nothing that will instill pretention in a child quite as effectively as being in college. This is especially true if that child’s parents could boast a High School Diploma as their highest level of education. If I was snooty before I went off to university, it was nothing compared to the air of superiority I held after having attended for a few years. I came home one Friday evening to grace my parents with a weekend of my presence. It was always good for them, I figured, to spend some time around me and take advantage of the opportunity to absorb some of the culture to which I had been exposed for the last several years.
But when I walked in, I dropped my laundry hamper in horror at the sight I saw before me. There, in the hallway, was the most hideous “painting” I had ever seen in my life, and my father right beside it, beaming like a proud new parent.
“Do you like it? I know you’re all into paintings and stuff”
Clearly I did not like it. Clearly I would not like it. This thing hanging on the wall – even now I cannot find the words to describe it.
It was a faux painting printed on canvas, but even the cheapness of it wasn’t the turn off. If it had been a cheap printing of swans or gentlemen or ballerinas, that would be fine, if a little tacky. This image was not a montage of ballerinas. This image was a montage of fictional gangsters.
There was Marlon Brando, his cotton-stuffed cheeks identifying him as Vito Corleone. On the lower left, several unidentified mobsters held a gun up to a screaming man’s forehead, grinning perversely. Scarface was represented at the top, introducing the viewer to his little friend. And there, dead center, was Tony Soprano, clad in a Hawaiian shirt and smiling affectionately at a severed head in a bowling ball bag.
It was truly the most horrifying image I’ve ever seen.
My mother, for her part, handled it with all the grace of little Ralphie’s mother when her husband uncovered that leg lamp. That leg lamp was hideous. This painting was worse. But when I started with a “what the-“ she abruptly pursed her lips and shook her head. Apparently, she had accepted this mark of insanity, at least for the moment.
Through the years that painting has been one of my dad’s prized possessions. Whenever someone new comes in the house he inevitably steers them past the family portraits, past the trophies of our accomplishments, past his wife and children, even, and brings them to this “painting”.
“Ain’t she a beaut?” he says. “See here, there’s Tony Soprano. Remember when they cut that bastard’s head off?” And his guest will smile and nod uncomfortably and start paying close attention to my dad’s accent and any mention of family members or connections.
The rest of us, whenever we had company, did our best to shield them from the monstrosity in the hallway.
Since those days, a lot has happened. I’ve graduated from college and gotten a job. My dad had a heart attack and survived. We’ve painted the walls, replaced the furniture. But this painting remains in its original spot, hanging grotesquely for everyone to fear and avoid. Mom and I talk about taking it down, replacing it with something else, but we never do. Dad doesn’t really pay attention to it anymore, no longer describes it proudly to any mailmen or salesmen who come to our door, but it’s somehow, in a way none of us can quite describe, become a part of him. It’s as much a part of our home now as he is.
I have a feeling that when my parents pass away and it’s time to divide the estate, my brother and I won’t be fighting over the china or the property divisions or my parents assets. No, none of those things. In my imagination I foresee my brother and I fighting over who gets to keep that horrible, accursed painting to display it proudly in their living room and trap unsuspecting guests. “See this guy? Tony Soprano. Remember when he cut that guy’s head off”?

This is Miracle Powder. This is the stuff of gods. It is rest for the weary. It turns men into deities.

This is not cocaine.

This is corn starch.

It's a common kitchen item. It functions primarily as a thickener for sauces and gravies. You probably have a box of it in your kitchen somewhere. I do.

But I don't just have a box in my kitchen. I also have a small ziploc bag of it hidden in one of my bathroom cabinets.

You see, my friends, I have a little problem. A little annoying, recurring problem.

I chafe.

I chafe bad.

Sure, okay. Lots of people chafe. What's the big deal?

The big deal is that I don't chafe...normally. I don't chafe like everyone else chafes. Or rather, I don't chafe where everyone else chafes.

I chafe in...

I chafe in...

I chafe in my buttcrack.

There, it's out. I've said it. On hot days I come home with a painful, bloody buttcrack. It burns. It itches. It makes my life miserable. And there's only one antidote.

Corn starch.

You see, I get home, and I go up to the bathroom, and I grab a handful of cornstarch and just pack it all up in there.

And oh, my friends, you don't know. You cannot possibly know the glory of the feeling of a handful of cool, fresh cornstarch in a hot, chafed, bleeding buttcrack. It is heaven. It is bliss. It is a sensation unlike any other that man has ever had the divine blessing to experience. With the help of our powdery friends, two butt cheeks slide effortless against each other. It's almost as if the skin was removed and replaced with silk. That's exactly it. You're walking around with a silk buttcrack.

This gift, though, like all great gifts, comes with consequences. It's a very delicate matter, walking around with a butt full of corn starch. Boxer shorts + corn starched butt = serious difficulties. You can forget about walking on dark carpet. As you walk, the excess powder can sprinkle out down your pant leg, leaving a little trail of cornstarch in your wake. It's an embarrassing problem, but at least it leaves the witnesses puzzled and not disgusted.

There it is. My big confession. I feel so much better now, don't you?

Just watch out for the little white trails, okay? If you see them, you'll know why the man leaving them behind has that extra little pep in his step, but you'll probably want to steer clear of them all the same.

There are a lot of things about women that men just don’t understand. We men are simple creatures. We like to be comfortable, we like to be effective, and we like to feel accomplished. Those are pretty much our three great motivations. Be comfortable. Be effective. Feel accomplished. Anything that doesn’t fall into one of those is just lagniappe.

But women – they’re complicated. And not in the way that makes them superior, like the way The Brothers Karamozov is superior to Hop on Pop. They’re complicated in the unnecessary way, like how Finnegan’s Wake is more complicated than pretty much anything ever written. They’re complicated in this baffling, “why the hell is that even important to you?” way.

And, in the same vein, they like weird things. Correction: they are obsessed with weird things. Like shoes, for instance. When a man looks for a shoe, he goes back to those three basic criteria. Comfort. Effectiveness. Accomplishment. Are these shoes comfortable? Are they effective for what I need them to do? By buying these shoes, am I accomplishing my goal of having something to protect my feet or support my ankles so that I can succeed in walking, running, hiking, playing sports, whatever the reason. You will never, ever, ever hear a man call a shoe “cute”. We couldn’t care less what the shoe looks like. And, with the exception of business or dress shoes (which can be explained by the criteria as well), we will always, always, always choose function over style. A woman will buy a 6-inch heel with a tiny toe torture chamber because it looks “cute” (despite the fact that the men will then have to endure an endless tirade about how their toes are bleeding and deformed after wearing the little cuties for a day).

But there is one thing that women almost universally obsess over that men could truly not give a damn about. This thing is perhaps the greatest puzzle to man who thinks he knows women.

Luggage.

Seriously, luggage? I cannot count the times I have been in a store with a girl when she finds some piece of luggage she finds “adorable”, “beautiful” or – that accursed word again – “cute”. I have seen girls go slack-jawed in admiration over luggage. I have seen girls ask random women in airports where they got there luggage.

And this luggage is not cheap! These babies comes with price tags of sometimes hundreds of dollars! Ask a man what he could do with a couple of hundred dollars and he’ll immediately start calculating bills in his head. Ask a woman what she could do with a couple of hundred dollars, and what will you hear about? The omg SOOOOOO CUTE floral luggage they have at Bloomingdale’s that they’re just DYING to have.

So I ask you – what is it with the luggage? Why do you obsess over what is essentially a bag of clothes that no one will see except the grimy airline loaders, the hotel bellhops, and the inside walls of your car trunk? What is it about this that makes you need to have it? At least a purse is an accessory. It’s stupid, but it’s at least regularly viewable. But luggage? You will buy that, shove it in your attic, and take it out 9 months later, smelling like moth balls and probably gnawed on by some rodents, fill it with clothing, and throw it in your trunk. Why would you spend a small fortune on that?

If we lived in a world entirely populated by men, things would be different. There would be no “luggage”. There would be trash bags. If we were feeling particularly flamboyant we might tie a thin rope to the top to distinguish it as ours when it goes to fraternize with the other garbage bags full of clothes. But women will let their electricity go out that month just to get her hands on a new set of luggage.

I think the fascination with luggage is one of the most defining differences between men and women. But hey, it could be worse. They could complain when you leave the seat up.