Real Joe

Tonight my sons are coming down for dinner and then our whole family is going to play Cashflow 101, the financial literacy game by Rich Dad, Poor Dad author Robert Kiyosaki.

I never learned about money from my parents, and my wife and I never really tried to teach our kids about money. So this seems to be a good way to start making up for it and have some fun at the same time. Some might say it’s a little late in life for me to start, but what the hell, I figure I’ve got another 60 years to get the hang of it.

This week I got a little involved in an issue before our local school board and one of their sponsored charter schools that my daughter attends. I talked to my state representative (former school board member) about it and made a couple calls to board members. But I didn’t feel very effective. I wasn’t very knowledgeable and was aware that I didn’t have much of a relationship with board members or the superintendent. If an issue came up with the city, it would be much the same.

It made me realize that I need to spend a little more of my time and energy each week on civic stuff. So I decided to help the local league of women voters get their web site revamped. And tonight I might get back on the board of the citizens online group I helped found.

God doesn’t test people like this, he said. But he does bestow blessings to mitigate the hurt and sustain those affected by tragedy. “You take the blessings in whatever package, say thank you and you use them,” said Swedberg, who is expected to make a full recovery.

Good to hear an interpretation like that from a man of the cloth. One of his parishioners needs a little whack from him, though: “If he can withstand two major accidents, you know there’s a higher purpose for him.” Bullshit. Yeah, he’s got a higher purpose, but so do we all. His survival just means he’s lucky.

But what about this hobby of his, aerial acrobatics? For him to say that “… the accident is a reminder that evil is present in the world…” is, well, not quite honest. He’s indulging himself in a dangerous hobby when he’s got a wife, two kids, and congregation who depend on him. My motorcycling hobby is in the same category, but if I got smashed up doing it, I wouldn’t chalk it up evil in the world.

Do we thank God that he wasn’t killed? Or is God trying to tell Mel Gibson something? Article: Jesus actor struck by lightning twice

Stuart Greene’s column in the Nov. issue of The Rake is must-read: Dancing With Myself: Why must married men continue to abuse themselves?

“… the water was rushing, a scented candle, a little bath oil, things were swimming along nicely, I must not have heard the door open, and there was my precious staring in horror at my private moment.”

Yep, that’s happened to me. And yes, I too still take matters into my own hands once a week or so, even though I’m getting to be geezerly. Sometimes my rationale is simply prevention of blue-balls syndrome, which I seem to get after about five days of chastity; other times, it’s just a little fantasy indulgence. And the latest medical research, as Greene notes, is that more frequent ejaculations help prevent prostate problems. What more rationale do I need?

All of that is not likely to change what’s taught in sex ed programs for kids, however. Dumb dumb dumb.

For a good chuckle, visit World Wide Wank’s Random Masturbation Synonym Generator for little gems like “Working a cramp out of Pedro.” And on the same site, read Mark Twain’s Some Thoughts on the Science of Onanism.

Ego Orgasms. It’s soon to be a book. A radio show. A magazine. A major motion picture.

Well, maybe, but for now, it’s a weblog. From the creator of Real Joe.

My sons Tyson and Graham are rehabbing the bathroom and kitchen in Tyson’s house in St. Paul. No minor project, this. They’ve ripped everything out, right down to the studs and are completely redoing the plumbing and electrical. Here’s a photo of Graham in the bathroom, with the heated tile floor installed.

It’s an amazing thing for this father to behold.

My dad was a master at everything handyman-related but was too much of a perfectionist about it, his hand-built house wound too tightly with his fragile self. He didn’t have the patience to teach and I was too afraid of his temper to want to learn from him. And so while my sons were growing up, I pretty much avoided the whole scene, not only because of my lack of skill and interest, but primarily because of my lack of confidence.

I guess I can be grateful for the non-traditional, project-based learning schools they attended. To see their confidence in tackling a complex project, learning on their own, asking for help from knowledgeable friends… well, it’s inspiring. Since I can’t take credit for it, it’s a different kind of parental pride than usual.

According to StarTribune reporter Pat Reusse, Mariano Rivera kissed the pitcher’s mound after the Yankees won game 7 of the ALCS against the Red Sox.

“I went to have a conversation with God,” Rivera said. “I was thankful to the Lord, because there’s nothing better than this. I had had a big conversation with The Man and he came through.” What had The Man told Rivera? “You’re going to win this game,” Rivera said. Does that mean God is not a Red Sox fan? “No, he’s not a Red Sox fan,” Rivera said.

Reusse should have sought out Boston’s Trott Nixon for a comment. Nixon won an extra-inning game for Boston in the ALDS with a homerun and gave credit to the Lord. Nixon faced Rivera in the late innings of game 7 and could have won it with a homerun had the Lord seen fit, I guess.

And last Sunday night, after Yankee pitcher Andy Pettit won game 2, he was asked by a Fox reporter how he managed to contain Marlins phenom Juan Pierre. He credited his friends and family around the country who were praying for him… the Lord just blessed him.

My wife and I watched an episode from season 2 of The Sopranos on Sat. night. Paulie was pissed at his parish priest because despite all his tithing, he got a message via a spirit medium that some of his mafia hits from years back were going to land him in hell. He was willing to accept that he might deserve a few thousand years of purgatory, but hell? No way.

The nation laughs at the childish Catholicism of the Sopranos but for some reason, there’s more than a little respect afforded to professional athletes who espouse similar bullshit.

I had my two-week knee check-up today with my surgeon. I can now shed my crutches and the CPM machine. I only have to wear the knee-immobilizer when I’m out of the house. I can go for walks, drive, and if I want, I can try swimming (ugh) and bicycling (yeah). My rehab therapist says I’m about a week ahead of schedule, so he’s nonstop on the warnings to not overdo it. I’ve been good so far.

I get an occasional pang of longing for more activity, especially these past few Indian summer days. Seeing and hearing motorcycles tends to trigger it, but I counter with a gentle mental whack, “It’s okay, you’ll likely have plenty of these days to enjoy next year. Plus, there’s lots of shit to enjoy right here.” And so I’ve been listening to some classical piano music that I’ve never heard before. And closely watching some of the playoff baseball games on TV. And, believe it or not, I’m reading a novel, The Corrections, by Jonathan Franzen. Unbelievably good. I never read a novel unless I’m on vacation.

So yeah, it’s a pisser to be laid up, but life’s still good.

I walked into the physical therapy clinic on Friday without using crutches and the therapist said, “Jeez, you’re doing really well for only a week and half post-op.” When I told her it was only a day and a half, she grabbed her chart to check if I was telling the truth. When I showed her that I could do a leg lift with my bum leg, she called over her fellow therapists to marvel at the wonderboy, a patient that she then stated she wanted for herself since as a part-timer, she rarely got to start with a patient from day 1. “Instead of leftovers, I got fresh, quality meat,” she laughed.

This was a heady experience, of course, and I could see that I’d like working with her. My lookma ego (AKA “Look, Ma, no hands!”) got saddled up and was off to the races until my “silent watcher” paid a brief visit, indicating it would likely be a bad outcome if I went along for the ride. I was grateful when, at the end of the session, she followed me out to the scheduling desk and said that as much as she’d like to work with me, it would probably be better for me to mainly work with one of the full-time therapists. As we left, I told my wife that I was glad to be scheduled with someone else since it would be hard to deal with someone who was impressed with me all the time. Trying to impress is my Achilles heel. And having someone around who’s easily impressed with me dumps a motherload (pun intended) of psychological cargo on my psyche.

But the good side of all this was a heightened awareness that lookma’s going to be lurking constantly throughout my recovery. Every time I sat down to do my homework exercises this weekend, it (he?) would pay a visit, with something like, “Just wait till my new therapist on Tuesday sees how well I’m doing.” Maybe 25% of the time I’d catch it, dismiss it with an offhand shrug, and then just try to focus on counting the repetitions or my breathing, or putting my hand on both knees so as to notice the differences in the muscles as they tensed and relaxed. If I get better at paying attention, this shit’s going to make me stronger in more ways than just my knee.