A Stitch in Time...

... is funny as hell when you're not the one who has to pee.

-or-

Reason 2,162 for why I'm going to Hell

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I've moved around a lot in this country of ours, setting roots, of sorts, in Idaho, California, Nevada, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and most recently Texas. Most of this moving - almost all of it, as a matter of fact - has occurred after I passed the age of 30, or, as my daughter refers to it, "the age you should start preparing to die."

Having lived most of my life in Reno, Nevada (no, it's not close to Vegas) with my extended family, I had to promise on paper, in triplicate, that a couple times a year I'd return home for a visit.

To that end, every July 4th week, BuddhaWife and I would pack Shamu (our nickname for the Suburban) with all the camping gear, hitch the jetskis, and head for a week of rustic life in the woods outside Reno. Very quickly these visits turned into reunions, attracting nearly the entire family to the campground. For one week each summer we were one, big, happy family; living in harmony and peace, like Canada or the people who work at Saturn.

One year my younger brother Mike was part of the reunion group. This time, though, Mike was apparently in the mood for some power drinking. He started early and double fisted his way through the day. I don't know, maybe he owned stock in Budweiser and sought a revenue boost. At any rate, when he fell into the fire my older brother, Larry, and I decided Mike had had enough and it was time to put him to bed. We took the beer from his hand, spun him around a few times, handed him his Maglite, then pointed him in the general direction of his tent.

He serpentined his way off into the woods, I suppose to make it harder for any forest creature to get a clean shot. The rest of us sat naked around the sacrificial fire, drinking beer, smoking peyote, and banging drums while humming and ancient song. Well ok, that's not entirely accurate. They were more bongos than drums.

After a while Larry and I shared a look that said we knew Mike had started his way to his tent, but we never really heard him go inside. Granted, there's no real reason we should have heard him unzip the nylon door and go inside; it was just one of those intuitive things, like when you're sitting at work and you suddenly have the nagging feeling one of your naughty spawn just drank the last damned Dr. Pepper from the fridge.

Not long after he staggered off we did hear him crash into his ice chest, though, spilling its contents all over the forest floor, but aside from the cloud of obscenity that still hung in the air there was no evidence he'd made it any further. So we both grabbed flashlights and set off to ensure he had, in fact, made it to his tent before passing out. Or even most of the way to his tent would have been fine for me. I mean, what's the worst that could have happened? It's not like there were bears or any other dangerous animals in that campground. The worst think I could imagine happening to him involved squirrels searching for nuts. So it was win-win in my book.

Dang the woods were dark. As creatures of the burbs we're used to having at least some ambient light by which to make our way, but not here. No, here it was dark. Really dark. When we got there we unzipped the door to fine an open space inside. No Mike. Oh great.

We stood up and shined our flashlights around. No sign of him. To the side were the sad, scattered remains of what used to be his styro cooler that he'd purchased for $1.95 at Wal-Mart. I switched into Indian tracker mode, cuz, ya know, how hard could it be really? I started scanning the ground for footprints or broken blades of grass or bread crubs; empty beer bottles; something. But no sign. We listened hard for any sound... nope. No luck there either. Mike's tent was set up apart from the rest of ours, next to the creek (which was more of a small river than the image "creek" usually produces). Problem was, the flowing water was making so much noise we couldn't... wait. You don't suppose?...

Larry and I shared a long look, then crashed through the brush, arriving at the shore of the creek and peered across with our flashlights. Nothing obvious, but a pang of momentary fear hit us because this little river was pretty fast moving and the water is always very very cold and given how much Mike had been drinking there's little chance he'd have the clarity of mind to launch into survival mode if he'd fallen in.

I shined my light along the shore and sure enough, not five feet away from us was what looked like the frantic claw marks of someone trying to quickly pull his drunk ass out of the water.

"Mike! Mike! Where are you?!"

Not far from where we were standing there was a small knoll, covered with wild grass. As the beams from our flashlights illuminated that area we saw an arm pop up like a periscope from the two foot tall grass. "I'm over here." Actually is sounded more like "mumble mumble mver hrrrr mumble -hic-"

He was lying on his back with his pants and shorts around his ankles. And he was soaked to the bone.

Me: what the hell happened to you?

Mike: I was on my way to bed when I realized I had to pee, so I came to the river -

Me: Gross. I'm glad I wasn't downstream soaking my feet

Mike: - and while I was standing there I lost my balance.

Of course I'm speculating somewhat here, because what he actually said was "mmmmbrm rmbmm murmur pee mumble mumble shleee blnce mfmnrg wet."

Me: well, let's get you to bed.

Mike: mmmmkaaa hlpmeup.

Me: mmm no can do chief. I have this thing about touching naked men. (I pointed to his tent with my flashlight beam) You're bed's right over there.

He forced himself somewhat vertical and Larry and I tried to steady him without actually touching his nakedness.

After pouring him into his tent, we zipped it up and started walking away when it hit me.

"Hey Larry."

"What?"

"Let's sew the tent flaps shut!"

Two minutes later saw us rummaging through the camping supplies looking for the repair kit. Five minutes after that, the deed had been done. But rather than sew the actual fabric together, we simply looped the threads through the eyelets of the zippers to tie them together. We figured that way all someone would have to do was draw a blade between the zipper handles to cut the threads.

Oh, and anyone considering spending $100 on a flashlight should really consider those Maglites. After we'd sewed him into the tent I remembered that when he'd originally left the campfire we'd given him one, but he didn't have it on him when we found him exposing himself to mother nature. We went back to the creek and searched, but didn't find it. Then it hit me.

"Wait. Larry, turn off your light."

We both clicked off our Maglites and it suddenly became visisble. In the sudden pitch blackness, we could now see the faint, yellow glow of his flashlight emanating from the smack dab middle of the fast moving vein of ice water making its way out of the mountains and it couldn't have been thawed more than a day before flowing past the spot where we now stood.

Once we stopped laughing our asses off, we decided that the nice thing to do would be to wait till morning and tell Mike where it was so he could go get it himself. For the rest of the night, everyone at the campsite would venture out to the stream every so often to see the glowing water. Sometime around 2am, the batteries died and the stream was dark water again.

Some time later we were again sitting around the fire when suddenly we hear a distant, muffled yell:

"Hey! Hey, I can't get out!!! Someone let me oooouuuuutt! I have to peeeeeee!!! Hello??!!! Someone!!! Help!!!"


Then:

"Kelly I'm going to kick your ass when I get out of here!!!!"

Needless to say I wasn't so concerned at that point with going to help him. I figured that was too much like being told to cut your own switch. Besides, after a minute or two, he got quiet again and, hey, it wasn't my tent he was borrowing. Actually, now that I think about it, I think it was our mother's tent.

The next morning I awoke to a typical northern Nevada summer morning: cool, fresh, and beautiful. Time for coffe or a Dr. Pepper. As I stepped outside I found Mike walking through the campsite dressed like he was about to go diving for oysters; flippers, mask, and snorkel. He found out, as we all did that morning, that in addition to being fast moving and bitingly cold, that stream is also deep! I stood there watching him struggle to time his dive such that he could ge to the bottom just as the current pulled him over the spot where we'd told him his Maglite should be. Then I decided I should probably do something to help. So I went to get a lawnchair and a drink so I could sit on the shore and laugh my ass off while telling him "ooooo! that time you were this close to getting it!"

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Epilogue: I had such fun with the flashlight rescue operation that I'd completely forgotten to ask Mike how he got out of his tent that morning. Larry told me he was able to find his pocket knife once it was daylight and cut his own way to freedom. Upon asking how Mike was able to get out to pee (I was afraid he'd decided to just pee inside the tent. After all, it wasn't his tent he was borrowing either), Larry said:

"He didn't! He said he could only get the zippers far enough apart to stick the end out and pee out the hole!"

Much more laughter all around.

Quick Ass Entry

I used to think I was unique in my use of "ass" in language. For me, using "ass" just makes the point so much better than would be the case if I used some other adjective, like "butt" or "freaking" or simply using nothing at all. Now I find that there is at least one more person on the planet for whom ass is ideal. Wait, I may want to rephrase that. Anyway, for years I've been using ass as the high octane boost to my vernacular, sort of like liquid Schwartz. Personally I've always found it versatile and useful, but mostly I use it descriptively, by calling someone a "dumb ass."

Speaking of ass, I've got a new bumper sticker I thought you'd like to see. As we travel around the nation, we want those who see us on the road in the big brown MoHo to get a feel for who's inside:

That's me on the left.

Some other descriptives I've been known to use:
"Pinhead." As in: "You pinhead, you can't use liquid dish soap in the dishwasher!"
"Doorknob." As in: "What kind of a doorknob would do that?"
"Dorkmeyer." As in: "Dorkmeyer."
"Jerkweed." Self explanatory
and finally,
"You pussy communist!" (also self-explanatory).


In closing, I'm sure many of you have done as I have and are collecting the state quarters as they come out, right? Well I just ran across a rare, first prototype quarter for Nevada, which, being my home state, I thought I'd share with you:



Oh hey, in case you're bored, take this survey to see how "Dixie" you are. According to my results, I'm a total Yankee and should probably not venture into the deep south without protection. Personally, I'm not sure how condoms will help, but ok, thanks for the tip. And I don't even like baseball.

Potpourri

Is it just me, or has anyone else noticed that when an uber-conservative opens his/her mouth, it' s to do nothing except bash "liberals?" I'm neither Democrat nor Republican. It sends my father into fits, but frankly I can identify reasons on both sides that would make someone pick one or the other. There are aspects of each that would - or should - appeal to anyone. But that's neither here nor there right now.

I came to an observation, if you will, the other day when listening to the radio on my way home from work. Now, this may just be my own misguided impression, but when I hear a so-called "liberal" speak, I hear them talk about the Democratic ideals or societal platforms they feel they can support best. When I hear them bash a Republican, it's usually a specific person or body, like President Bush or his administration's policies. But I don't seem to hear a lot of universal "this is all your fault" crap. Some, but not too much.

However, when your ultra-conservatives open their mouths - your Hannitys, O'Reillys, Limbaughs, or Coulters - it's to blame everything from social security to Katrina on this nameless, faceless entity called "Liberals." The books they write and self-proclaim as blockbusters, ad nauseum, are rather short on solutions to society's ills, but looooong on name calling and finger pointing, all directed at "Liberals." They spew hundreds of pages about how Liberals hate America; how Liberals are destroying the American way of life; that Liberals are responsible for all that ails America.

I hear Coulter blame 9-11 on "Liberals." Hannity blames "Liberals" for Katrina's aftermath, even going so far as to say that it was "Liberals" that contributed to the damage. O'Reilly simply makes up "facts" and prevents anyone from calling him to task for it, claiming it's the "Liberal" media trying to silence the truth. Limbaugh claimed for years when I was a loyal listener that it was "Liberal fuzzy thinking" that spawned not only the drug problems in America, but an atmosphere in which no one was responsible for his/her own actions. Of course I had to laugh when he was caught in the felonious act of prescription hunting and claimed he couldn't help himself because he was the victim of an addiction. I remember a specific show in 1994 in which he claimed "addiction" was nothing but "Liberals trying to make society responsible for individual weakness." And wasn't he just caught AGAIN in the last couple weeks for having a pirated script for Viagra? I guess some people will always try to ice skate uphill.

And I'm left wondering: who are these "Liberals" of which they speak? Is it some secret club? Do they mean Democrats? All Democrats? And if it's these evil, self-serving Liberals who are wrecking it for the rest of us, how does that bode for the Conservative's leadership skills considering it has been they who have been in power for the last ten years?

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Don't you find it interesting that states will claim you need to wear seatbelts (or face citation) because it saves lives, blah blah blah, but at the same time will allow motorcycle riders to ride without helmets, stating it's a personal freedom?

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Why do people use "and" when saying something like "try and come to the party?" Is this proper English? Shouldn't it be "to?" "Try to come to the party?" Sure sounds better to me.

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What in God's name happened to all my socks? We moved from one house to another last month. My socks went from closet to box to truck to closet, but somewhere along that 8-mile journey, half of them little cotton suckers jumped ship. I used to have too many pairs to fit into the sock drawer, now I could hide Jimmy Hoffa's body in there with them and still not have to press them down while I slide the drawer closed.

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It really bugs me when people read over my shoulder and correct my diction, typing, or grammar as I'm writing. You know who you are, BuddhaWife.

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I thought up a new invention I think we should get the scientists working on immediately. Men's scratch and sniff scented shirt collars. If I had one of these when visiting a public rest room, I wouldn't be forced to smell whatever that is that crawled up the ass of that guy in the last stall and died. I mean good GOD, what the hell is that?! Oh, you try to avoid the stench by breathing through your mouth, but that only works for a short time. Soon you start to wonder if, by using your mouth, you're bypassing some microbe-filtering system your nose contains, so instead of being stopped at the nose where they can be discretely picked out later, germs are traveling the Audubon right into your blood stream. With the Scratch-n-Sniff Collar (don't worry, those Harvard educated marketing types will think of a catchier name later) you won't be bothered any longer. When you walk into the restroom at work, only to notice the stench is so thick it actually makes it harder to move through the air, just give your collar a quick scratch and suddenly it'll smell like roses, or vanilla, or any number of an array of pleasant aromas. Yes, Business Hall of Fame, here I come!

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One month to the start of NFL pre-season people! One month! But I do wonder why the Cowboys have to hire every single arrogant prick the NFL can produce.

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Why do people think a disrespectful or hurtful comment can be excused by simply saying "hey, at least I'm being honest." Does honesty make up for saying something another would find objectionable?

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Speaking of objectionable things, I saw a sign the other day that offended me. It was one of those large, diamond shaped yellow signs. Printed on it, in big black letters, were the words: "HEAVY PEDESTRIAN CROSSING"

What the hell? Has our society become so base, so discriminate, so... something else bad ...that we have fallen this low? I mean, why only notify people of the heavy pedestrians? Skinny people cross streets too, ya know. Are they warning drivers of the possibility of totaling their $60,000 SUVs by hitting a fat person who's trying to cross the street? Do they single out the "heavy pedestrians" because the skinny ones would be able to leap out of harm's way when necessary? Whereas a fatty would just lumber along behind like that rhino from Jumanji? Maybe this isn't to warn drivers at all. Maybe it's to point it out in the same way a municipality would point out, say, the spot where a civil war battle took place. Maybe it's the city's attempt to attract spectators to the site of a major migration route between all-you-can-eat buffets. Or maybe this isn't for drivers at all. Maybe it's for the so-called "heavy pedestrians" themselves, to let them know where they should cross. Is the concrete thicker at this point, making it less likely the heavies will cause street damage? Or perhaps there are fewer predators at that crossing, thereby making it safer for more lumberous members of society to make their way across the street without being harpooned. Or, perhaps, it's a decoy designed to make it easier for predators to bag a kill. Regardless of the reason, I'm not crossing there even if I do qualify.

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And finally, I was inspired and so wrote TWO blog entries today! (go me, go me, it's my birthday, well, no it's not). So continue reading for the second one.

I Write the Songs

You know, I just totally love music. Whenever the day just makes me feel like hammering a nail through my forehead, I just slap that little plastic disc of comfort into my Sony and suddenly I only feel like hammering a nail through everyone else's forehead. Yes, music; it has the... uh... whatever it has... to sooth the savage... um, how the hell does that saying go again? I'll get back to you on this one.

One of the major advantages of my current so-called "yob" is that I can listen to all the tunes I want. It's one of those menial, no future, you're the first we're going to lay off kind of jobs, but hey, it gives me the mad money I need to travel the country in my Arrrr-Veeee. Say it with me, just the way Randy Quaid does in Christmas Vacation: "that there's an aaarrrr-VEE."

I'm not sure any of the four people who read this blog (make that three, since disgruntled seems to have dropped off the face of the planet) know it or not, but I'm a founding member of a family of four - five if you count Jake the Feline - who have decided to experience life for all it has to offer, rather than live our lives making someone else rich in the pursuit of more shtuff we can buy on credit.

I have to say I've never been happier. We roll into a town, stay long enough to experience all those things one would never take a vacation to see, then we hoist anchor and move to another town. I oft feel like an explorer of yon past, only the places I go have already been discovered. Still, you know what I mean. Anyway, I'm getting kinda far afield here.

What was I talking about? -scrolling up- That's right, music, and my ability to listen to it while working.

I get to spend the entire workday with my headphones on, since I'm not encumbered with the burden of actually having to give a shit what anyone else in the joint wants me to do. I have a very specific, very narrow, set of job responsibilities:

1. take card "A" from in-box.
2. Enter data from card "A" into computer "B."
3. Return card "A" to out-box "C."
4. Try not to feel too trivial and expendable.
   

Now if I were the ambitious type, I might care that they do things in a manner that's only one small step beyond pressing a beveled reed into a tablet of clay, but see, I'm not the ambitious type. Not anymore, anyway. I come in, slap my headphones on, crank up the tunes, type like a madman for exactly eight hours, then tip my butt right out the door. "Eight -n- Skate," baby; that's me. And since I'm neither in desperate need of a job nor trying to get hired on by the company, this works just fine for me.

But I do have to say the music sometimes gets me into the groove and while that's great for making the day fly by, it also makes me forget that while I may be able to hear the music in all its rich, robust clarity, I am in fact wearing headphones and therefore am the only one in the office who can hear said music. On the plus side, it's in general agreement that when I sing I sound like Rob Thomas. So I suppose that's good.

When I listen to tunes, I really get into what I'm hearing. I'm one of those people who owns thousands of CDs and would buy another even if it only had one track I knew I'd like. None of this downloading crap for me, especially since when it's downloaded you don't have the same control over it as you do when you own the actual disk.

It's also very common for me, when listening to a CD I've either just bought or haven't heard in a long time, to repeat it over and over again in an effort to learn the words and determine the meaning of the song. Hey, I've never said I have an actual life, have I?

This lyrical education has proven two things to me. One, I can't understand a freaking thing Scott Weiland says and two, I could totally make money as a song writer. I mean, say you want to write one of those artsy-fartsy avant garde songs. You know, the type you hear on open mic night at Starbucks. Just make it damned near incomprehensible and you're there. Something like:

Dawn.
A subway train careens
Down licorice rails.
Hello rabbit.
Is that your tail?
Or has the man spoken?

I dunno, sounds more fartsy to me. Maybe I can go the Nashville route:

My dog and my horse
are my best friends
And my old pickup truck
is the best lover I've had.
I'd give her a ring
and make my heart sing,
But then my girlfriend would get mad.

Or Blues:

Beer, TV and bowling
is all I crave.
A big bag of pork rinds
is gonna carry me to my grave.
Born under a bad sign
Been doooowwwn since
I been able to crawl
If it wasn't' for bad luck
I said I'd have no luck at all.

Or rock?

Different town, different girl
I'm on tour with the devil.
Oh, I'm like Captain Kirk
but I don't do green chicks
and I don't like Tribbles.

Hmmm... I suppose I could just go thrash metal and just scream or mumble a lot.

Why I'm Going to Hell, Part II

When I used to work for a major Fortune-Something company, I used to have to travel from time to time to the company's sister sites around the country. Not because I was that important, mind you, but because I'd have to attend a lot of meetings and for some reason the company never seemed to grasp the concepts of modern video conference technology. Some schmo in Illinois would decide a bunch of people absolutely HAD to discuss some largely irrelevant subject - in person - and so, off I'd go.

One day I was on my way to Chicago, but as is usually the case for Mr. Effortlessly Average, it wasn't destined to be a smooth trip because it'd only just started and already the plane wasn't leaving the terminal on time. We sat there, door closed but still attached to that rolly terminal arm thingy they maneuver up to the planes for boarding-slash-unboarding. And why is it, by the way, that once they close the door you can't get up from your seat no matter how freaking long they sit there at the terminal? Do they really expect us to believe that when the word comes from the tower that we're cleared for take off, the pilot has to punch the gas like a cop headed for the 1/2 off sale at Dunkin Donuts? Wouldn't they have time to announce "it's time to go so everyone back to your seats now!"

Anyway, I thought I was going to have pretty good luck on that particular flight because I hate sitting so close to someone I don't know. Especially when that person is NEVER the type you want it to be. I get the cowboy who thinks bathing in Stetson is sexy. Or the old lady who smells like cats. Pick your nightmare, that's who I seem to sit beside on those flights. This time, however, the seat beside me was empty so I figured I'd have a nice, leisurely trip to Chicago.

Suddenly, however, the door opened and into the plane stepped another passenger. This woman looked as if she'd had to sprint across the airport to get to the plane. She made her way to the middle of the plane and I could tell almost as soon as she looked my way that my extra space was about to be filled with her ample backside and endless chatter. As she made her way down the isle she peppered the other passengers with random statements that told me she was the type who felt uncomfortable in silence. Sure enough, her migration ended at my row.

"I'm right there, honey" she said in a thick Jersey Jewish accent, pointing to the seat beside me.

I stared up at her, thinking to myself lady, if I have to spend this flight listening to you tell me about your husband Bernie's bagel shop, I'm going to chew my way through this bulkhead and leap to my death.

"Oh, right. Sorry" I said as I unbuckled my seatbelt and stood to let her wedge her bulk between the two rows and into her seat.

Apparently there is a little understood, but widely known, force in nature that connects my seat cushion to the vocal cords of the person next to me, because no sooner had my weight hit the seat before she started jamming the cabin with words. No sleep for me this flight, I see.

Now on the one hand I felt a little sorry for her because it was pretty obvious she was nervous about flying. Like my father, she was willing to disbelieve mountains of physical and mathematical evidence to the contrary and give into the fear that sometime soon, when they were in the air, God was going to look up from his stack of pink "While You Were Out" memos and decide planes aren't supposed to actually fly.

On the other hand, I was becoming really annoyed. I didn't want to go to Chicago because I knew it was going to be another excuse for my co-workers (or ass-kisisng sycophants, as I called them) to develop more work for everyone. I hated that I'd been in this huge tube with wings for an hour, in the summer heat and without air conditioning, waiting for God knows what. I hated that I'd had to surrender the extra space that I'd intended to use to spread my arms and catch a nap for a thickly-accented North Easterner who's mouth was apparently already on autopilot.

So when she made a comment about having mixed feelings about the flight I couldn't resist.

"Why?" I asked.

"Well I'm not really comfortable on planes so I woodn't really mind missing it, but becooahze the flight is so late I made it anyways."

"Yeah," I nodded.

"I wondah why it's so late anyways." She said almost to herself, as if one of the voices in her head was trying to convince the others that something might be wrong.

Suddenly, the wise ass in me took over.

"Well we would have left on time, but the last pilot said he heard something knocking in the engine and refused to fly the plane, and it took the airline this long to find a pilot who would."

Quote of the Day

Actually, it was yesterday, but "Quote of Yesterday" sounds dumb, don't you think? And I didn't post it last night because, dang it, I'm toon enough!

Anyway, last night was game night. The four of us played Apples to Apples with my brother and his eldest son. Did I mention we bought a house in Houston with my brother? Perhaps not; but then again, none of you would care, anyway, since it's boring news to anyone but us, right? LOL.

For those not familiar with Apples to Apples, the object is to select the card from your hand that most closely describes the subject of the card in play. The subject card is chosen from a stack of green cards, each with an adjective printed on it. The cards in your hand are chosen from a stack of red cards, each printed with a noun. Once everyone has played one card - or two if your speedy enough - the dealer reads all choices and picks the one that (s)he likes best. Whomever threw that card gets to keep the green card. The first one with six green cards wins.

The word in play was "boring." My nephew was the dealer. We'd all thrown our cards and he was selecting the one he liked best, reading them out loud as he placed them face up next to the play card.

"The New York Yankees..." (some general nods)

"Fidel Castro..." (nods from adults, looks of confusion from children)

"My Childhood..." ("oooohhhh"'s from everyone)

"Disco Music..." ("what's Disco" from the kids)

"Michael Pifler..." (looks of confusion from everyone.)

Michael Pifler? Who's that? Then he layed the card down so we could read for ourselves and all I can say is I bet Catwoman would be insulted. Clearly he's never seen the kiss.

Yes I'm Here

I've had literally ones of people hounding me to update my blog -sigh- so I guess I should do something along those lines. Still, let me be honest here: I'm not sure I'm going to continue Effortlessly Average. See, I love to write, but I don't seem to get much interest in what I put down on this here blog thingy so I'm struggling finding reasons why it should continue. I do a bit of blog surfing myself - although not enough to be classified "excessive" - and it just feels like Effortlessly Average is much like the years I spent in high school. There are the cool blogs, on which people apparently wet themselves to be able to post. Then there are those blogs which are so segmented as to contain subject matter I just don't understand. And those which are for specific purposes, e.g., political, satirical, consumer-oriented, etc. And the sports blogs, and the punks, and the motorheads, and the smart kids who can't play sports very well and therefore didn't get the dates with the cheerleaders but you all sure came running to me when you were about to fail computer math didn't you? DIDN'T YOU??!!!

Ahem... anyway...

Finally, there's blogs like Effortlessly Average, which I started to chronicle the misadventures of the world's most average man, surrounded by above average people.

There are so many blogs to enjoy: Zazzafooky, You Had Me at Idiot, Disgruntled, Pinky's Brain, Zubegirl, and so many more. I'm kinda partial to Disgruntled and Zubegirl, mostly because they share the same "fuck you" attitude of which I've been accused as having.

In following the adventures of all these fine bloggers, however, I've noticed something that sets them apart from Effortlessly: ACTUAL READERS! Ok, ok; and perhaps talent, too, but let's just stick with ACTUAL READERS for now. Focus, people!

Signing up with a statcounter service only served to confirm my averagessness, as 90% of visitors to EA bail within a minute. Great. That sort of makes EA feel like the wrong bathroom someone just walked into and, after realizing their mistake, they quickly step out. Even my wife, who claims to not be able to write to save her life, started a blog quite some time after I started EA, and her hits are not only exceedingly more numerous, but her visitors actually stay to, get this, read her blog! Most of the people who ping EA, if you believe the stat-service, are search engine users looking for "sex with my brother" or "hot nurse to shave my balls." I mean really, they don't even know my brother, so why would they want to have sex with him? Then I'm forced to wonder, which brother? After all, I have three. Although I suspect they mean my older brother, since he's the one to whom I lost several girlfriends in the past. And I don't even want to know what they expected to find by searching for ball-shaving sexy nurses.

Now, keep in mind that this is NOT a cry for comments, ok you three readers? Please, I may be somewhat insecure, but I'm far from pathetic enough to attempt to guilt people into stroking my ego. All I mean is that I have one of those handy little counters at the bottom of EA (or is it at the side? I don't remember) and I've just not seen much action there. So I'm left wondering what is the delicate balance that separates exposing my thoughts and adventures, such as they may be, for only a few people and being just plain pathetic enough to appear to be talking to myself?

So far, I can't decide. On the one hand I really want to keep writing in it. But on the other hand, it feels like I'm gypping those few readers I have by taking so long between posts. I suppose I could remove the stat counter and close comments and just fool myself into believing more people read EA than People Magazine, but that just seems a little too, I dunno, emperor's-new-clothes-ian, don't you think?

I suppose I could try to boost my readership. But how? Well, here are a few items I think would make that stat counter click so fast it would need regular lubricating.

Option 1: Change the name to TomKat Updates and proclaim to have all the latest news on their lives, thoughts, movie deals, sexual proclivities, and stool samples.

Option 2: Proclaim to have the internet's largest collection of porn. Oh, and insist it's all FREE and no credit card is required.

Option 3: repeat the phrases "I like to deepthroat" and "smack my milf ass" 263,000 times.

Option 4: Change the text in the banner to: "Send this blog link to 15 people in the next 15 minutes and something really cool will happen on your screen."

Option 5: Or, change the banner to read: "For every 100 people to whom you send a link to this blog, Microsoft (or Nike, or M&Ms, or whomever; pick your mega-corp) will send you a check for $40,000 dollars."

Option 6: Change my profile to pretend to be a hot blonde nympho named Kelly, who lives in L.A. and started blogging to meet portly, middle-aged perverts whose frigid wives don't know they're blogging.

Option 7: Buy readers, just like I do my friends.

Option 8: Learn to write better.

Option 9: Create and release a virus that redirects web traffic to this site. Of course this first requires my learning how to create a virus, then how to avoid prison when come corporate fat-cat gets pissed about it and sicks the Feds on me. So I'll hold this one in reserve, I think.

Option 10: Change the name to "Die Infidel Americans!" At least that would boost my NSA readership.

Option 11: Claim to have proof that Anne Coulter is having Jesse Jackson's illegitimate love child.

Option 12: Offer free Viagra and Botox.

Option 13: Advertise as "The World's #1 American Idol Info Site!"

and, finally

Option 14: Fill the site with pictures of drunk college kids, videos of people dong stupid things, and intoxicated young girls doing things they likely regretted when they sobered up.

Now I only need select one, or several, of these fine options and just sit back and watch my popularity soar!