Guy-Polar

“I told my wife the truth. I told her I was seeing a psychiatrist. Then she told me the truth: that she was seeing a psychiatrist, two plumbers, and a bartender.”

― Rodney Dangerfield

“When we remember we are all mad, the mysteries disappear and life stands explained”.

-Mark Twain

Feeling a bit down in the dumps lately. Not what I’d call serious depression. I mean, not do a Greg Louganis off the Golden Gate bridge or join a tribute band kind of depression, but I have been eyeballing a week-old hard-boiled egg with morbid interest. To most that may seem rather harmless, but for someone with severe expiration date-o-phobia, this would be akin to playing Salmonella roulette. And if you had ever witnessed my usual reaction to expired food, you'd quickly surmise I was now one nip and tuck short of Caitlyn Jenner and banish me to a rubber (though fabulously upscale and chic) room.

I guess the depression could be nothing more than winter blues. After all, the temperature has been in the low 70’s and it did rain for two (don’t be a hater) days. Added to that, I find it extremely hard to work out when it’s chilly. Lay off the weights too long and my body begins to resemble a marshmallow left out in the sun too long. It may also be the ridiculously bad haircut I received recently. I sincerely believe if 100 monkeys were given scissors, a cheap rental space, and three weeks, they would be outperforming Supercuts by the fourth week. 'Nuf said.

I was thinking a new hobby might get the old juices flowing again. I briefly considered teaching myself how to play the violin, but I love my wife too much. And knitting is out of the question as I am not allowed to play with sharp objects. Origami might be doable because no cutting utensils are required.

One of my millennial co-workers suggested I get a tattoo. You know, colorful body art might make me feel better about myself. Hmmm…

Got one of those. At 18, under the influence of something, I allowed my friend to wrap a needle with a bit of thread (don’t wanna go too deep now) and then proceeded to give me a permanent reminder of my teenage stupidity, that hurt like ##%!! and "branded" me like an ex-con.

Oh, and we used the wrong ink. The day after the vicious micro-assault, I had half of a faded tattoo. It took another two hours of embroidering ink into skin that was now as raw as hamburger for my new tat to be realized. I don’t recall, but I assume much cursing and drugs of some sort were needed for this second session.

After all, I couldn’t go through life with half a hoosegow tattoo, could I?

Seems teenagers occasionally make good decisions, right?

K.G.

To Know Us Is To Love Us

To Know Us Is To Love Us

I knew who I was this morning, but I’ve changed a few times since then.

-Alice in Wonderland

I talk to myself constantly. That’s not to say I don’t find you interesting enough to converse with, I just find myself more fascinating.

-Kenneth Goorabian

Don’t take it personal. My wife doesn’t. Although she will let out a scream reminiscent of Jurassic Park’s main attraction if I repeat myself more than two (three is my average) times. But I understand. It’s sometimes difficult living with all of us.

According to her, I have more than a few personalities lurking within. Let’s not confuse this with crazy. I’m not stand-on-a-street-corner and yell at people crazy. Squirrely might be a better term.

Here’s a typical exchange.

Me: “That looks good. I think I’ll wear that. But, the color makes you look fat.”

Her: (From the other room) “Are you talking to me?”

Me: “No. Stop interrupting us.”

I believe her when she says it’s like living with mini- me’s.

The Musician Me

The ultra-cool (coulda been a contender) rock star me. Been slinging the ‘ol six-string since I was knee-high to a Vox AC30. That’s cool musician talk for “I’ve been playing guitar as long as most Congressmen have been in office, but unlike them, haven’t got rich or made an intern cry.”

The Fashionista Me

How do I love thee, oh, Heidi Klum? Let me count the ways.  Fashion and rock –n- roll go together like a Chinese spare rib. Brightly colored and slightly greasy. 

I’ve been experimenting with fashion since junior high, when on the first day of 7^th grade I wore a cow-hide (sorry, PETA) poncho, white skintight pants and knee-high boots. I was a hit for the first five minutes until they politely (ha, this was the ‘60s) told me to go home and change. Now I live vicariously through televisions shows like Project Runway and America’s Next Top Model. Pretty fly for a straight guy.

The Hypochondriac Me

After starting out my young life with a string of hospital stays, I’m sure it would come as no surprise I might occasionally self-diagnose my illnesses. So far, I have had cancer three times, two heart attacks, flesh-eating disease and a hundred or so runs-ins with Ebola, e coli, and the fish one, Salmonella. I attribute my miracle recoveries to prayer and fasting (gave up Del Taco bean and cheese burritos for a year). My wife gives the credit to eating unprocessed food, my therapist, and a lifetime prescription for anti-anxiety medication.

The Fitness Me

I adore working out. Okay, not true, but I do love my skinny jeans, so workout I must. I split my time between running and lifting. I have installed a 40-lb toilet seat cover so when I run to the bathroom 10 times in the middle of the night I work the biceps lifting the seat.  Just kidding. Really, I just run up and down the hills of Fullerton, which at my age is akin to taking the stairs to the top of the Empire State building three times a week with a backpack full of Jumbo Jack’s. I also lift weights for maximum moob control. For you lazy/busy guys, they now have men’s Manx shirts with built-in pecs and shoulder muscles.  Can you say, “Ahem, turn out the lights, Honey, while I slip into something more comfortable and chubby”?

I once used biking as my weight-control method.  The only problem with biking is I had to ride ten times as far to achieve the same results as running.  The upside was I had a much better chance of outdistancing the coyotes if they suddenly developed a taste for aged beefcake.

The Humorous Me

I believe he is my wife’s favorite.

You can shower a woman with love, attention and gifts, but if you can’t tickle her fancy, she will likely go looking for someone with a bigger feather.

-Kenneth Goorabian