TMI before it was TMI

It was the Fall of 1993 and I was in the first semester of my junior year at Notre Dame.  Having to fulfill a philosophy requirement and being a political science major, I chose to kill 2 birds with one stone and take a political philosophy class.  My expectations were to postulate on Hobbes, Locke, and all of the other mental titans that shaped our modern public service model.  For most, this would be an enlightening experience.  But deep thinking was not and never was my thing . . . but I had to do it in order to graduate.  So I set my expectations the same as Judge Elihu Smails went he sent boys a lot younger than me to the gas chamber . . . didn’t want to do it . . . felt I owed it to them (them, in this case, being myself).

The professor I had was your standard younger college academic: passionate, educated, in tune with the current culture while still subtly reminding  us of his intellectual superiority.  And for the most part, he kept a fairly even keel demeanor when imparting his wisdom on us.  He typically would come into class with a friendly greeting and get right into the guts of why rulers rule and what motivates them.

But today seemed different.  He came into class a little disheveled; not physically like he had kicked the keg at the local watering hole 5 hours prior (typically that was left to the undergrads) but more in the way he was carrying himself.  He had a smirk, was looking down at the ground, and then perused the class with his eyes.  He had something to tells us, and from his expression it didn’t appear to be bad news.  We sat there for about 30 seconds waiting for him to make us smarter and . . . nothing.  We started looking around at each other to venture a guess as to why we were drifting off course.  Then he started to talk . . . . “Alright, I have something to share.”

Except that we weren’t talking about the deep stuff that is usually our soup d’jour.  We started talking about an event that gained much notoriety in June of that year.  The wedded bliss of one John Bobbitt and his bride Lorena had hit a rough patch.  If you don’t remember the root cause of this story, you can look it up online.  Needless to say Lorena took great exception to her hubby’s actions and decided to pursue a lifelong dream of amateur surgery.  So while Johnny Boy was deep in dream land, his wifey grabbed one of her best Ginsu knives from the kitchen and proceeded to remove the main offender of this dispute.  (She was successful so I assume that she had stayed at a Holiday Inn the night before).  A quick drive out into the country, a toss of said evidence out the window, and Lorena had closure.

The problem was that when multiple crimes like this are committed, the police tend to get involved.  Crime scene analysis and evidence retrieval go hand in hand and this was no exception.  The reason why I am telling you this is because the lead detective in this case happened to be the brother of my professor.  And with news like this to share, you could hardly blame my professor for breaking character.  The question is, how do you relay a message like this (you have to in this case) to a bunch of college students who are still working on their maturity, hygiene, and alcohol tolerance?  Here’s how:

“So many of you have heard about the recent John Wayne Bobbit case. (snicker).  Well, I will come right out and say it . . .my brother is a detective on the case in Virginia and he found it . . . er, the missing evidence.  He drove off to the side of the road, walked down an embankment, and presto . . . there it was.”

After a slight pause from the not so sure peanut gallery, a slow laughter started to take over the room . . . started of course by my professor.  For us, it was entertaining as it fed into most of our sophomoric senses of humor.  For him, it was cathartic, maybe even therapeutic.  After all, what would the greatest philosophical thinkers say about this gory, yet slightly comedic incident?

I think they would laugh too.

Who does Number 2 work for?

My current company has a fairly spacious campus in that sometimes you need to allot enough walking time in between meetings.  A random Tuesday in the Fall was one of those back and forth kind of days where I think I wound up traversing the campus at least 3 times.  On my way back to my desk, I made a stop in the restroom to let nature take its course.  As is customary, I put my laptop and notebook down on the sink and made my way over to a much nicer (and individualized) version of the Wrigley Field bleachers’ trough.  Next to me were 3 stalls where at least once a year I would hear logic defied by a full blown phone conversation going on, describing a technical programming change in one of our applications in between “plop, plop, fizz, fizz, . . . “ I never did understand how that mode of communication made sense but who am I to defy the posture of the Thinking Man . . .with a cell phone .. . sitting on a toilet.  (Somewhere the inventor of the phrase “multi-tasking” is shaking his head.) Fortunately, the sole occupant of the middle stall must not have felt the urge to converse as he was nostril deep in stench.  The interesting intestinal sounds reverberating off of the tile walls reminded me of thunder off in the distance.  I wanted to get out of there as soon as possible before I was serenaded by a bowel shaking symphony.  But then there was a brief silence.  I made my way over to the sink to wash my hands in hopes of making a clean getaway.  One quick towel dry and I would leave my neighbor to continue his dirty work.  But as I turned to grab my things, I heard him grunt and then very eloquently articulate the phrase, “Oh brother!”. 

Poor chap . . . in the last stages of male childbirth, probably dripping in sweat.  And yet he somehow had felt the need to share his pain, agony, and workmanlike charm with me despite the fact that neither of us knew who the other one was.  It took guts. It took bravado.  And it took me 2 seconds after that to vacate the premises in fear of seeing the man behind the curtain.  As guys, we’ve all been there but we never want to see (or hear for that matter) the captain of the ship when he is in the worst dogfight of his life.  Had I seen this person come out of the stall, I guarantee that I would have seen him in the hallway or been in the same meeting room with him at some point in the future.  And it would have been one of the awkward moments where he would say something important, career changing even, but my mind would be dominated by thoughts about what exactly that guy ate to make him say “Oh brother”. 

The bathroom is like (literally and figuratively) like a box of chocolates . . . you never know what you’re gonna get.  Sorry but poop stories are funny.

All I wanted was a beer after 18 . . .

So, I am on my guys golfing weekend down on the Jersey shore and we finish up our Saturday round.  As usual, the course got the best of me and it was indeed Miller time.  Time to get cleaned up, grab a bite, quick drink, and head to where the upper crust hangs out in the southern part of the garden state . . . Atlantic City of course!

I go over to sink to comb my hair after getting out of the shower and locker room attendant Gary makes his presence known to me. I am not above small talk in a golf locker room . . .greens were fast, should have laid up on 17 . . . that kind of stuff.  But from the sounds of it, Gary is in search of a ghost writer for his biography.  And I am caught in a surprise audition. Okay, I’ll go with it.  And while I was pining for another beer before heading out, I listened to stories about  his teenage baseball aspirations (he is currently 65 years young) and his multiple girlfriends (is that legal in New Jersey?) sprinkled in with F-bombs every 5th word . . .you know . . . for effect. And when I made the mistake of telling him where I lived, he of course had a connection in that his mechanic lived about 10 miles away.  But wait . . . we were 90 miles from home and apparently his mechanic.  Doesn’t everyone drive an hour and a half to get their 87 Monte Carlo fixed?  Of course they do.  As I tried to wrap up our one sided conversation I inserted my request to go obtain another beverage, to which Gary quipped, “That is the only way you will feel good inside . . . is with a drink”.  Indeed Gary, indeed.  Now, on to Atlantic City to feel even better about myself than I did before!

The Intro - For Regular Guys

Well, nothing like jumping head first into the blogging world.  Do you remember in the movie “Easy Money” (you remember, Joe Pesci’s breakout role before playing Tommy D. in “Goodfellas”) where he and Rodney Dangerfield referred to themselves as browsers (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5fScy9BgPEs&list=PLOFn8fuEyxrKJn0audQrRUEp89teC9QXO), eventually leading to the Regular Guy fashion show?  Okay, well I do and that is all that matters!

Anyway . . . that is the moniker that  comes to mind when I think of myself.  Married suburban dad of 3 wonderful girls, who as much as I love them, cause me to seek solace in any sport that is on.  Can you say #MACtion?  The goal . . . just to share my story, whether it is workplace musings (there are plenty - are people really this crazy?), psychotic episodes of sports addiction (Notre Dame alum from Boston - nuff said), spending time with the kids, or what I call game changers - life experiences that leave an indelible impression about which you may or may not understand the meaning.  I’ll try keep it short and sweet because I hate reading too.