Like I needed the help in this area!

A word of caution, moreso for any ladies reading than anything else. This post will begin in the bathroom, and most likely remain there. You've been warned...

So, last week, I had this whole root canal thingie done to clear out some infection. As a result, I was given this particular anti-biotic that I had to take for about a week and a half.

It has side effects. Baaaaaddd side effects. For my wife.

Look, most of the time, I'm already a Hindenburg, meandering through my day with enough molecular methane to power a small country. Not a morning goes by that I don't wait for my beloved to get out of sight before releasing the sweet sounds of blessed internal combustion relief. At least I'm not giving her the Dutch Oven treatment. Often.

So I begin taking my new meds, as perscribed by the doctor. Guess what one of the side effects are for this particular medication?

I could qualify now as a star ready to go supernova at any time. I can't even walk up or down stairs without clenching, less a real cheek-flapper bust loose or I break the sound barrier. My own dog won't even sit under my feet anymore, though I think she's more freaked out by seeing me momentarily levitate than anything else. Kitty didn't move far enough out of the blast radius and now has a lot more in common with Mr. Bigglesworth than before.

Looong week

As the title suggests, last week was a bear. Between keeping up with school, packing my wife up and shipping her to the Bahamas with 15 other ladies, and recovering from a root canal that was supposed to bring sweet blessed relief (it didn't immediately), ye olde blogge has suffered like a red-headed, step-black-sheep-child.

Nevertheless, I have a rivetting series of posts in the hopper coming to you... sometime.

Whatever - it's not like you pay for this shtuff. :D

Name-jacking

One of the most fun - and dare I imagine most stressful - parts of having a child comes with the name. Herein you can eternally set your child up for humiliation, like naming your child something that sounds like Gay Land. So you and (hopefully) your wife, once the great news has come along, begin the task of figuring out the proper moniker for the new peanut. In some cases, books are bought, lists scavenged, so that the perfect name will fit the child. Case in point - Alexander might not have been so Great had he been named Bocephus (100 points to anybody that knows that reference without having to Google it).

Once this name has been settled on, it is almost considered hallowed, to a point. Many parents will share the name only with a select few, if any at all. Most guard the name like a penguin sitting on an egg in the arctic circle.

It inevitably happens, though, that the name gets jacked. Sometimes it's intentional, most times not, yet there always seems to be a good bit of emotion and hurt feelings surrounding this - justifiably so, I might add. Now with all that said...

Last month, just before my grandfather's funeral, there was a time for just the family to be together before the ride to the church. I don't have the space nor time to go in to it, but let's just say that my family is... interesting. Both of my grandparents come from huge families, each with 8 or more siblings. While many stayed somewhat local (to their own detriment), others moved elsewhere, seeking something a little more "civilized". Think the Clampetts moving to Beverly Hills.

One of these so-called "eccentrics" came in from the high society of Mississippi on that morning, and you would have thought the whole morning was about her. I have no problems admitting this - beyond an amiable nod, I didn't really want to spend that much time with her. I intentionally pretended to not hear her call my name out as I walked past her the first time, instead convincing myself that the message I carried was of the utmost importance - it wasn't. On my return trip, I got caged, and was called upon to bask in her presence. With my brother.

There was the usual blabber about something - my filter was on - but then she said something that really caught my attention. "Y'all know there's a third Bocephus, don't you? This is him," she said, pointing to the shmuck on her right. I thought I heard a bump and a roll from the casket.

My grandfather was Bocephus Sr. My dad was Bocephus Jr. My brother is Bocephus III!

Free hugs

By the end, it makes you feel pretty good. Cool song choice, too.
Hat tip: Jeff.

Book Review: Biggest Brother

Biggest Brother (by Larry Alexander) is the collective thoughts of Major Dick Winters, 101st Airborne, 506th PIR, from the time he entertained thoughts of military service through basic training, jump training, Normandy, Holland, The Battle of the Bulge, Hitler's Eagles Nest, to his life afterwards. Even if you're not already familiar in some respect with the book or mini-series Band of Brothers, there's nothing to stop you from picking up this book and figuring out, rather quickly, that Major Winters is as close to an American Hero as there might actually be.

The book starts with some background on his family life, even before he was born. Coming from a hard-nosed, working class family, Winters was born just before the Great Depression. He witnessed the fallout from that - loss of a family business - but never really became bitter. "That's just the way it was," is how he put it and many other things. Once in junior high and high school, he excelled at sports and eventually went on to college - and then the war came calling.

Winters volunteered for the new Parachute Infantry Regiment, and was assigned to Easy Company of the 506th. Under the steel fist of his company commander, Winters and the men of Easy Co. were honed in to the finest group of men in the entire army. It's also where he, as 2nd Lieutenant (and eventually 1st Lt) began to develop in to the natural combat commander that would set him apart from all others. He had a knack for tactics, was an excellent map reader, but most importantly, was a leader the men respected and trusted.

The book draws on letters written back home to friends and family, as well as interviews done for Stephen Ambrose's books and this one. The majority of the book is spent in WWII from Normandy to Austria, when the war ended. It's after this that it tends to fall off a bit, as Winters attempted to bring himself back in to "normal" everyday life - which he did, as promised, for most of the rest of his days.

Towards the end, you even get Winter's thoughts on the book and the mini-series, both of which he was overall pleased with. You even get a bit of a glimpse of him as a celebrity, something that would eventually take it's toll on him. In all, it's a fascinating read for any WWII history buff, though many of Winter's lessons can also be applied to leadership in general.

It just hit me...

I just registered for classes... for the last time.

Feet don't fail me...

Most everybody that knows me is aware of my obsession fascination with guns. Kinda comes with the territory of me. However, surprisingly, I'm not a hunter - I just enjoy shooting defenseless paper targets - "Take that silhouette man!"

But I'm not at all averted to hunting; it's just that if I'm going to do that, the payoff has to be there - the thrill of the kill is not enough to lure me. Neither is deer meat - it's only a mild "okay" in my book. Now if they had cow hunting? Bow season for chickens? I'm so there.

The only avenue of "mainstream" hunting that I have considered, but have not done yet, is hog hunting. Me likes the pig. My smoker likes the pig even more.

But with stuff like this running around out there...











Something in the genetic pool of hogs went terribly wrong. Maybe he ate his brothers. Maybe he ate his mama. Maybe a hippo was feeling particularly lonely one day and saw a cute little hog. Maybe a hog was feeling particularly lonely one day and saw a cute little hippo. Sleeping.

Gentle reader, I assure you that if the days comes that I am in the woods at the butt-crack of dawn, loaded rifle on my shoulder, scanning the horizon for signs of BBQ-to-come, and I see that...

You will find boots and a warm pile of poo. Manliness be darned.