Direct download of the podcast: Dyslexic Heart 5/29/10 (58:47 min, 53.9 MB) or subscribe.

Direct download of the podcast: Dyslexic Heart 3/27/10 (54:13 min, 49.7 MB) or subscribe.

Direct download of the podcast: Dyslexic Heart 12/25/09 (95:24 min, 87.4 MB) or subscribe.

Direct download of the podcast: Dyslexic Heart 9/5/09 (74:38 min, 68.4 MB) or subscribe.

You see, I’m one of those people who bestows child status on his pets. My dogs, Otis and Zoe, don’t have full rights—we strictly enforce a 10 p.m. curfew—but they’re largely doted upon like infants. So imagine my disappointment when Michele told me just before bed that I missed one of those once-in-a-lifetime, wish-I-had-video moments earlier in the day.

While cleaning the area beneath his tail nub, Otis audibly farted and then coughed. How could I have missed it? That moment may well be the funniest thing to ever happen within the walls of our 57-year-old home, and I wasn’t there. Ever since Michele broke the news to me, I keep replaying the scene in my head, imagining what it must have been like.

Here’s the sad part: If a parent misses his kid’s first word, he’ll probably get to hear a reasonable facsimile within a day or two. Within a couple months, he’ll wish the brat was a mute. But the chances of a repeat performance from Otis are miniscule. Sure, I’ll see him lick his ass plenty of times, and I have no doubts I’ll hear him fart within the next 24 hours. Unfortunately, I think I missed the one occasion when these two events are executed together and topped off with a cough for the canine comedy trifecta.

I missed it.

I can’t believe I missed it.

On the way home from a one-night rock ‘n’ roll road trip to see Green Day in Omaha last week, my beloved LeSabre began acting strangely. As we pulled into a gas station somewhere in the middle of Iowa, the car jerked a little as I was accelerating. It happened again as I was merging onto the freeway after refueling. I didn’t think much of it.

Unfortunately, when we hit stop-and-go traffic about an hour from home, the problem became more pronounced. Each time I accelerated, the car jolted us a bit. I began to silently worry we wouldn’t make it home without a stall. Just a few blocks from home, the service engine light clicked on, but we made it.

After unloading the cooler and our bags, I headed to my usual mechanic to check out the problem. By this point, I assumed the problem was transmission-related, as the jerkiness seemed to occur when the car was shifting gears. Sure enough, when the mechanic checked the diagnostic code, it pinpointed a problem with the torque converter clutch, which is apparently part of the transmission. He directed me to a different garage, which specializes in transmissions. Following a more thorough examination, the transmission shop determined the tranny has an internal leak and gave me the bad news: Fixing it requires a complete overhaul, estimated at $2,000. Lucky me.

The LeSabre has only 60,000 miles and isn’t even paid off yet, so there wasn’t a question whether I would shell out the money. What really bothers me about a $2,000 car repair bill is that I won’t have anything to show for my investment. We’re having a new garage door installed in a week or so. While I’m not thrilled about spending $1,200 to replace my old, busted door, at least I’ll have a nice new door to show for the money.

Would it be weird to ask the guys at the transmission shop to give me the bad transmission parts in a big jar of formaldehyde?

Direct download of the podcast: Dyslexic Heart 7/4/09 (62:25 min, 57.2 MB) or subscribe.

Direct download of the podcast: Dyslexic Heart 6/6/09 (60:05 min, 55 MB) or  subscribe.

I have no desire to celebrate with a party because I’m not all that comfortable being the center of attention. Besides, Patton Oswalt is correct when he insists people should only get 20 birthday parties during their lives.

My greatest birthday joy now comes from making up rules of conduct for Michele to follow during the designated birthday period. This year’s observation of my birthday stretches from seven days before until seven days following my actual birthday. Michele insisted birthday week only lasts seven days, but she’s wrong. Birthday week is not a typical week. It’s sort of like the baker’s dozen of weeks. Besides, it’s my week so I get to set the rules. How dare she question me during birthday week.

Following are a few of this year’s rules:

1. At some point during birthday week, I shall arrive home from work to find the house adorned with a birthday wreath. Wreaths don’t get the respect they are due as a decoration. They’ve been confined to Christmas and funerals, but why? Think of the joy a wreath could add to Easter, Independence Day, Arbor Day or any other time of celebration. Most of all, think of the joy a wreath could add to birthday week.
2. Making fun of me, picking on me or purposely irritating me are strictly prohibited during birthday week. It’s my special time. Show me some respect.
3. Music I don’t enjoy can be played only on headphones during birthday week. This includes, but is not limited to, Morrissey, Train, all mellow hits of the 70s, and “Baker Street” by Gerry Rafferty.
4. At my discretion, birthday week and its rules may be applied through the end of birthday month, which began on Feb. 28 and ends on April 27.
5. Additional rules may be developed at any time during birthday week.

1. I don’t drink coffee.
2. I hate wedding receptions. If you invite me to your wedding and I RSVP yes, I’m lying. I’ll likely come up with an excuse to skip it at the last minute.
3. One of the Indigo Girls gave me a disapproving look for wearing a Metallica t-shirt to one of their concerts.
4. My favorite unexpected Las Vegas celebrity sighting is a three-way tie between Bono, Joe Rogan and Phil Giroux.
5. I hate conflict but sometimes say things I know will annoy people and may lead to disagreements. What’s that all about?
6. When I get stressed about work, I dream about the video store job I had in high school and college.
7. Most of the funny things I say are slightly altered jokes from comedy albums in the late ’80s.
8. My best friends in high school were girls, resulting in my voluntary attendance at three New Kids on the Block concerts.
9. I sometimes get jealous of my dogs’ lives. That all goes away when they have to shit outside in January.
10. My friend Cathy has referred to me as Mr. Bubby for the past 14 years, and I’m not really sure why.
11. I’ve never lived more than 3.5 miles from my childhood home.
12. I went to Catholic school from kindergarten through college, which means I’m no longer Catholic but have a thing for girls in plaid skirts.
13. I think the popularity of mobile phones is the worst technological development of my lifetime.
14. My favorite food was, is and probably always will be toast.
15. For at least 12 years, my wallet has consisted of a rubber band. I get a new one about every four months.
16. I miss the Mayte era of Prince’s career.
17. I find few greater joys than sipping cocktails on my deck with my wife on warm Saturday nights with music from inside the house blasting, dogs playing in the yard and bunnies scampering in the distance.
18. I had Minnesota Twins season tickets during a couple of their worst seasons. It ceased being fun when they became good and other people started showing up for the games.
19. I have owned five cars: a Mercury Cougar, two Pontiac 6000s and two Buick LeSabres.
20. I like swearing. Shit. Fuck.
21. I really wish this list was only supposed to be 20 random things because it has taken me more than two hours to get this far.
22. Several times in grade school, I was sent home after vomiting in class. Once I even yacked in the lunchroom, covering Jeff Robertson’s PB&J sandwich with my chunks. In high school, my vomiting moved from the classroom to social events. If I began to feel queasy, I typically went outside to spew. For some reason, I always convinced my friend Dave to come along. He saw me throw up several times. As an adult, I rarely vomit. When I do, it’s directly tied to careless drinking.
23. When I meet people for the first time, I usually assume they’re idiots and let them try to prove that notion false. It saves a lot of time and disappointment.
24. When I go to the bank, I’m paranoid security is watching me and thinking I’m about to rob the place.
25. I had a monster crush on Jessica Alba until she did a movie with Dane Cook

Even in the worst times, however, good things do happen. Looking back on the past 12 months, I see many roses amongst the weeds:

New Dogs: The first few months of the year were some of the saddest days of my life. Following the death of our 10-year-old boxer, Abby, the house was quiet. Really quiet. Painfully quiet. Things couldn’t stay that way for long. On April 5, Michele and I adopted Zoe, another brindle boxer. She immediately returned joy to our home. We soon found that Zoe needed a friend. Some dogs are well-suited to being solo pets. Zoe isn’t one of them. In August, we adopted a three-year-old fawn boxer named Thunder. We loved everything about him except his name, so we changed it to Otis. Zoe and Otis (collectively known as The Zotis) have provided a substantial injection of energy in our lives.

Concerts: I was thinking about doing a year-end list of favorite concerts from 2008 but had a difficult time ranking them. Top shows included Bruce Springsteen, The Hold Steady, George Michael, R.E.M., Semisonic and Oasis. All of these shows left me with post-concert buzzes that lasted for days.

Las Vegas: Taking a trip to Las Vegas is a guaranteed way to make the best of any lame year. In 2008, we squeezed in three trips. Our February trip included a quest for meat that led us to Righteous Urban Barbeque at Rio, a return visit to Bally’s Sterling Brunch, and several other great meals. We ate well. Despite losing, we had so much fine that we attempted (unsuccessfully) to extend our trip by a day. 

The second trip of the year was sort of half business/half pleasure, although all of it was great fun. Thanks to New Media Expo’s move from Ontario, Calif., to Las Vegas, we simply had to go. Although the event itself was largely lame, we had the chance to finally meet several fellow podcaster friends for the first time. Brian Ibbott’s Coverville 500 concert was a definite highlight. In conjunction with NME, we participated in the first Vegas Podcast-a-Palooza with VegasGang and The Strip. I’ll get to that shortly.

Our November trip was much shorter than most of our Vegas vacations. Spanning just three nights, this one was all about packing in as much video poker and Diamond Lounge time as possible. Within 10 minutes of sitting down at the first video poker machine, I hit a royal flush for $1,000. I played on the casino’s money for the next two days. The night before our flight home, I was almost back to even when I hit another $1,000 royal. I ended up taking an extra $1,200 home. Woohoo! In the evenings, we visited our friends in the Paris Diamond Lounge. As always, they took good care of us, providing us with unlimited free booze and good conversation. 

Vegas Podcast-a-Palooza: Despite our social anxieties, Michele and I agreed to record our podcast live on stage in front of an audience at Palms during our August trip. Thanks to an enthusiastic audience and countless pre-show cocktails, our nerves quickly subsided and we had a really fun time. Having a couple hundred people show up to see us, along with the hosts of VegasGang and The Strip, record our shows was mind-blowing. Meeting so many of our listeners (as well as Carrot Top and George Maloof) was pretty damn cool too.

Atlantic City: Over Memorial Day weekend, we returned to Atlantic City for a relaxing four-night vacation. Our previous visit was far too short. Staying a couple additional days gave us the chance to explore the Boardwalk, hang out with our friend Dave and venture over to the legendary White House Subs for unforgettable sandwiches. We drank heavily, gambled a lot and laughed even more. Even though Las Vegas is my heaven, Atlantic City holds a special place in this gambler’s heart as well.

July 4 Road Trip: Some people might cringe at the thought of spending 28+ hours in a vehicle with their spouse over the course of just four days. Not me. Even when our vacations consist of a quick trip to Oklahoma to see the inlaws, I can always count on a good time. In addition to trips to a bunch of crappy casinos in Oklahoma, we worked in a one-night stay at Harrah’s in Council Bluffs, Iowa, which resulted in a $1,000 royal flush, making the trip profitable as well as fun. Bonus.

Old Friends: Events beginning with an unexpected e-mail from a friend I lost touch with about 17 years ago led to a reunion with seven high school chums. After exchanging a bunch of e-mails and messages on Facebook, we got together for dinner and drinks. Despite my repeated proclamations that “this is fucking weird” seeing everyone again was incredible. I realized how much I missed them and found that I still really like these people. I love having my best friends from so long ago back in my life.

I was the first to arrive. I promptly grabbed a seat at the bar and ordered a tall vodka and soda. I knew I’d relax after a couple drinks. A few minutes later, the others began to arrive. For 10 minutes, there was a steady stream of hugs and handshakes, smiles and small talk. 

It didn’t take long for my nerves to subside, although I couldn’t help but exclaim at least five times, “This is fucking weird.” Looking around the table at the faces of the people with whom I spent the better part of four years so long ago was a tad surreal. 

For five hours, we reminisced, talked about major events from the past 18 years and passed around family photos. Drinks flowed, as did stories. I haven’t laughed so much in a long time. 

My only regret of the evening was that it took so long to get back together. As the evening wound down, we began making tentative plans to get together again—much much sooner than 18 years from now. 

During the drive home, I smiled with the realization that I still really like these people. I’m glad they were my friends way back in the ’80s, and I’m even happier they’re my friends today.

As a result of all of these voices from the past, I’ve found myself revisiting The Box, a collection of items I can never bring myself to toss—photos, notebooks containing bad poetry and other mementos. The most insightful glimpse into my past has come from a shoebox full of notes. As I comb through these gems I’m realizing my memory of high school is way different from the reality I was dealing with at the time.

Overall, I look back at high school fondly. I remember having some of the best friends a guy could ask for and enjoying the experience. Maybe it’s all relative. I have mostly bad memories of grade school, and although college started off OK, the last two years were a nightmare. So compared to the 13 years that made up kindergarten through eighth grade plus college, my four years of high school were a pleasant stroll through a field of daisies.

Don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t want to relive my high school years, and I’ve never referred to them as the best years of my life. I’m not that guy. But I’m also not one to dismiss high school as a tragic, painful time. Maybe I’ve been kidding myself.

As I’ve been pulling random notes out of the shoebox, I’m finding that my friends and I were absolutely miserable. Many of the notes paint a picture of tortured boyfriend/girlfriend relationships (or lack of, in my case), petty disagreements with other friends and the agony of every tiny aspect of our lives. Holy shit! We were typical, overdramatic teenagers. 

Despite all of this drama and misery, I still remember the high school experience positively. I think it’s because for the first time my friendships were based on emotional connections. We weren’t friends because we lived near each other, liked the same baseball team or needed someone to play catch with. We were friends because we understood each other. We cared about each other. We would have done anything for each other. My relationships with my best friends were built on endless hours on the telephone late at night, therapy via notes written in purple ink, and a shoulder to cry on whenever one of us needed one. I had never felt loved like that and had never cared so deeply for anyone before. 

I guess having really close friends who meant the world to me supersedes all of the overdramatic teen angst because most of the bad stuff is confined to an old shoebox and has long since vanished from my mind.

Anyway, this got me thinking about the worst common Halloween giveaways from my youth. People who have ever given away any of the following “treats” on Halloween should be banished to hell forever.

• Candy corn: See above. 
• Pennies: If you’re one of those assholes who cleaned out his change jar every October by giving the neighborhood kids five pennies each, you’re a cheap motherfucker who deserved to have his house plastered with eggs. 
• Fruit: Your good intentions of supporting healthy habits were wasted, hippie. I guarantee none of your tasty apples ever made it home before being discarded. Even though they’re packaged, raisins fall under this category. Nature’s candy, my ass.
• Anything homemade: Handing out something you took the time and effort to prepare may have been a quaint practice in the 1960s, but by the early ’80s even bad parents recognized the harm in letting their kids eat your potentially tainted cookies.
• Peanut Butter Chews: If you think no candy can taste worse than candy corn, put one of these chewy shit nuggets in your mouth. You’ll never want to trick-or-treat again.

That brings us to today. I recently received an impressive seven-word vice president title. I suspect the promotion will bring with it even more spreadsheets, reports and long meetings. And even less writing.

So, with that, I begin my quest to become a writer again—not for the title and certainly not for the $9.75 an hour I made when I started. This time it’s all about finding the right words, sharing my neurotic observations and getting some use out of this awesome domain I’ve been sitting on for the past six months. Let’s see where it takes me.