WWRD (What Would Rumsfeld Do)?

I don't like killing things.

In fact, the only creature in the entire world that I have no qualms about killing on sight, with malice, is a mosquito. And that mostly has to do with them sucking blood from my small children.

But, in general, I instruct my children to not step on a bug just because one happens to be crawling by.

I just don't enjoy ending life.

Even wasps, I guess.

Even though one of them once did this to me while I was only trying to trim a bush:



That wasp and its entire nest would soon be wiped out in a holocaust of insecticide spray. I was just doing my job, and we all remember Pearl Harbor.

Fast forward a couple of years from that swollen lip to this past Friday.

I came home and caught a glimpse of three wasps building one of their gray mud nests on the ceiling above my front porch. I had just gotten off work, which didn't leave me in a particularly philosophical state of mind about the nature of life and death.

I matter-of-factly set my case of Miller Lite down on the kitchen table, grabbed the central-nervous-system-ravaging weapon of mass destruction spray and obliterated their settlement.

I didn't think much of it, except that I kind of wished they hadn't picked that spot, for their own sake. But at least they didn't pick another bush to ambush me.

As the weekend progressed, I progressively became more relaxed. And lazy.

I sat on the screened-in deck Sunday afternoon, drinking several beers in the aftermath of my 4-year-old son's birthday party. Sitting there in a haze, I looked up to the ceiling. Out of boredom, really. It's not like I've got an ever-trained eye looking for problems with my house.

Nonetheless, up there was a single wasp busily constructing a nest.

I thought to go get the spray, but a few things struck me.

For one, I didn't feel like getting up. Nor did I really want to deal with the pungent scent of annihilation. And for some reason, I began to question whether it was necessary to kill this wasp.

After all, there it was, working hard. Making a life for itself. While I was just sitting there enjoying the lavish fruits of being a human being, an advanced creature who is fortunate enough to participate in a complex economy that allows me easy access to fermented liquid grain in a refridgerated can.

It made me think of the doctrine of pre-emptive war, and how I'm not sold on that idea.

It forced me to consider how much more difficult it is for me to kill something when I have so much time to think about it. I mean ... the end of existence for a living thing hinging on the whims of your desire to kill it.

Should I let it live another day or two because I'm in a good mood and don't feel like killing? Or should I make the minimal effort to go ahead and end this thing so that some creature doesn't have to do all that work in vain?

What a downer. You either feel like a lazy hypocrite or nothing more than a killer who has to kill because you're facing an existential mini-crisis.

Maybe being a human isn't all that easy, even when you're just sitting with a beer and nothing to do but let your mind think.

After all of that thinking, I chose to do nothing. To put it off to a day more-dedicated to labor and killing.

But now, today, after a day of work and less room in my mind for patience and sympathy for an insect that has proved that it will sting my lip at the slightest provocation, I find myself on the cusp of a decision.

Something has to happen. It can't just stay there in an enclosed space where my loved ones live their lives and invite all its friends and family.

I think I'll go with what the pre-iron-lung Darth Vader referred to as "aggressive negotiations."

I'll open the screen door, tear the nest down and see if it will fly out and stay the shit out of my personal space.

If not, I will retaliate with extreme prejudice.

If it's smart, it'll buy me another case of beer.

They Say To Eat Slowly Or You'll Get Cramps And Die, But ...

I never see as many buzzards circling the sky as I do when I go back home.

Where everything just seems to ... die. Presumably from apathy. Or, maybe, just stupidity that an absence of caring cultivates.

Which leads me to wonder:

Why is it that when I travel down the long rural road of despair where every species known to the Midlands of South Carolina seems to have succumbed along the roadside and cashed in its chips with a horrible expression on its lifeless face ... why is it that I find dead buzzards partially flattened and oozing intestines on the pavement?

All they do is fly around looking for something lying dead.

From such a high vantage point, surely they have to see how their meal met its demise.

They must understand more about death than any of us who haven't fought in a war or worked on a homicide unit ever could.

Buzzards don't kill, but they are acutely aware of death. It's, ironically, their life -- or as Obi-Wan would say, it's their "speh-shee-AL-ity."

But yet there they are. Partially crushed by a Michelin super-duper-maximum-ultra-weather-tread special, their expansive wings awkwardly straddling the double-yellow centerline.

All because they either refused or were too oblivious to leave -- for just one moment -- the dinner they scouted from the sky.

I suppose it should be said that I've never heard a cliche that involved a buzzard's recognition of its own irony.

Sweet Charity

The American Diabetes Association has been waiting for me to send them the $10 I pledged to them a few months ago.

I feel bad that it took me so long.

I'm happy to do it. After all, I've watched my Grandma inject herself with insulin every morning since I can remember. Much respect for that woman on many levels, particularly the times when she's had to fight through a haze of disorientation -- a widow, all by herself -- to get her sugar back in line when it goes crazy.

But as I lick the self-stamped envelope to seal my check, something really sticks with me.

Why is it that the glue on the envelope has to taste so utterly disgusting? Some envelopes offer just a hint of pleasurable flavor. Just a taste to make the check you're writing go down a little smoother.

Then there are the others. The ones that taste like rotten peanuts. Or like ... glue.

So, as I lick the envelope and beg for a swig of carbonated water to wash the bitter taste down, I can't help but think a thought that evokes at least a hint of irony:

A little sugar would do this envelope good.

Or, at the least, a little taste of Splenda.

Sanjaya, Shmanjaya

Yeah, I watch "American Idol."

I started out having to watch the show. Now, no longer forced to watch it thanks to the departure of a certain contestant, I find myself wanting to see how the season plays out. Yes, I dig the show, dawg. Because The Dawg always keeps it hot.

Tonight was a big night. One the culture media will search a zillion puns from their central database to describe.

Sanjaya got voted off.

So what?

Everybody told the kid he was horrible. But he's not horrible. Just not very good. Seriously, he's got a decent singing voice. Just not for that level of competition.

It's easy to hate on somebody like him. America loves having something or someone to thrash, whether it's Sanjaya or whether it's a washed-up shock jock who's probably wondering whether he'd still have a job if there had been a mass college campus shooting to take up the media's time.

Sanjaya is a nice guy.

The judges put him through, and the show learned a lesson in karma. Intentionally try to embarrass people with bad talent at the auditions before millions of viewers and America will let you know just how sympathetic they are to those who refuse to refuse the praise.

And to any of those who whined about a contestant going home before Sanajay even though he didn't have as much talent his peers ... those contestants weren't good enough to win, anyway.

But I'll tell you who's going to win.

You heard it.

Jordin Sparks.

Melinda is the best singer. Her voice can do so many things, and she understands the art of performance. You have to respect that. But she's missing something. Something, I think, that makes that connection with people.

I can't quite place it. But it's not really all that important, because Jordin Sparks is going to win.

Why?

This is Mike Tyson vs. Buster Douglas.

George Foreman vs. Muhammed Ali.

The Favorite vs. The Winner.

And she's a Steve Nash fan.

There have been only two songs I've heard on "American Idol" that I would listen to if they were on the radio, and both of them were sung by the 17-year-old from Glendale, Ariz., who looks like she could follow her Dad in the NFL -- except I think she'd make a better linebacker than cornerback.

Seriously, the girl's good. Her voice -- though not as flexible and resourceful as Melinda's -- is powerful. And she can turn off the bubbly teenager who can probably text message an essay in 20 seconds blindfolded and totally trade it in for the brooding jilted lover that makes you want slit your own wrists in her place.

She's got the youth vote on lock. She's got the mothers of teens who just think she looks so cute. And I'm sure she's got the other males who are totally gay for watching "American Idol" tapping into that old-fashioned, All-American girl ideal.

And she's got people who probably are just a little more excited than they are after a Melinda performance, for reasons they'd like to better express but can't because they just took a Lunesta and are beginning to struggle to make intelligible sentences.

So, yeah, mark it down.

Melinda Doolittle is the favorite. And if she wins, she deserves it.

But Jordin Sparks is winning that thang.

"I ... can ... only ... watchyouwith ... my nose ... pressedupagainst ... the ... window ... PAAAAAAAAAAAAAANE!"

I Really Need To Find A Whammy To Bludgeon

The focus groups have adjourned.The suits in the corporate boardroom have made their final executive decisions. The audience has been targeted.

Now to move in on the prey.

This is a science. Or an art. Whichever. Either way, it helps make people a lot of money off other people.

The truest gauge of success that I see is this: Can advertising convince a person that they're something they are not simply because they're watching the commercial?

Here I am, on a Saturday afternoon, willingly existing in a haze of apathy as I watch the Game Show Network.

First is the old '80s game show they called "Press Your Luck" -- the one that everybody instead called "Whammy," because the obnoxious little cartoon characters wiping out the pot of some feathered-haired contestant yelling "Big money! No Whammies!" was about all the show had going for it.

(When it was remade a few years ago, they just got right down to business and called it "Whammy").

Quite fascinating. Reliving those childhood halcyon days of instant-fortune voyeurism and (like "Deal Or No Deal") rooting against the contestants just so you can judge them for being too greedy.

So, speaking of judging people based on a handful of minutes of television exposure, it's on to the "Love Connection" with host Chuck Woolery.

This, of course, is the more-polite version of "Elimidate."

I pontificate on how societal mores have changed such that game shows about love and making connections have become so much more cold-blooded.

I marvel at my advanced level of awareness now, stroking my ego that I'm smarter now than my mother was when she engrossed herself in this show and actually believed that these people had found true love.

I do this until I'm ambushed by advertising.

I watch as a commercial promoting an amazing new weight loss system (where the women, in my opinion, look better in the before picture than the after one) is immediately followed by a commercial imploring the viewer to indulge sinful desire by partaking in a tub of Breyer's ice cream.

You know, if I want ice cream, it's OK. There's a perfect weight loss system I can turn to once I emerge from my indulgence in the fantasy of instant success, whether that be striking "rich" with a $13,000 pot or finding a soul mate after a night at a moderately priced steakhouse paid for by the producers of "Love Connection."

Is this what people who watch the Game Show Network are most apt to respond to? And if so, what does that say about me and my acquiescence to this state of mind?

I can only say that my Saturday was salvaged by an obligation to take my son to Dixie Youth baseball practice, followed by an obligation to join my church league basketball team in our race to the championship.

And tonight, I find myself feeling better.

My son found an interesting show this afternoon. I thought he had fallen asleep before I looked over and saw him enthralled in a Discovery Channel show called "Man vs. Wild."

This is where a former British military survivalist guy named Bear Grylls thrusts himself into situations where he must find a way to survive and ultimately rejoin civilization.

As I watch Bear suck the fluid out of a fish as he floats in a self-made bamboo raft in the South Pacific desperate for even the slightest bit of fresh water ... and bite the head off a water snake and eat the rest of the body whole on spot in Sierra Nevada ... and bludgeon a bunny rabbit with an improvised weapon made of wood ... and crush the roots of an exotic plant that will poison fish to float to the surface ... all to prove that he could survive any boneheaded situation we might find ourselves thrust into ...

I realize I am in a different place tonight.

For the commercials don't implore me to partake in sinful indulgences that will lead me to amazing weight loss systems. They advertise manly things -- like big trucks and virility drugs and "MANday" Monday with a multitude of images of men doing manly things like punching bears in the face.

I feel better now.

But maybe, even, a little worse.

After all, it's not like I'm bludgeoning bunny rabbits with improvised weaponry or crafting manmade bamboo rafts.

I'm just watching, waiting for somebody to tell me who I am because of what I'm watching.

Under Caution

I totally want to wreck this Tony Stewart chocolate stock car.

I want to blow out the tires. Crunch the hood. Rip off the roof.

Give the crowd what they really want.

With my teeth.

But I've got a problem.

An Indian food problem.

---

I respect Indian culture. A deep admiration, in fact.

I've been fortunate enough to investigate their culture and religions. To speak intimately with the most knowledgeable of them about what they believe and why they believe it. I've learned the enlightening truth behind the sacred cow. The (actual) worship of education. The duty to family. The beauty of their women and their children and, as I've often encountered, the beauty of their souls.

But, holy hell, is their food something I simply cannot abide.

I've never felt comfortable with that distinct Indian smell. I've always been scared of their food. I've looked at it, smelled it and, ultimately, passed on it.

Until today.

See, I'm in a situation where I must eat Indian food twice.

Tonight, I ordered my first Indian meal.

I researched the menu as much as I could going in. I even Googled it.

I saw the curry. The meat marinated in yogurt. The entrees of goat.

I feared it.

But I went for what seemed to be the closest to something I could handle. I ordered the Chicken Vindaloo. A spicy tomato and onion sauce. I like spicy. Tomatoes and onions. That's within the reach of my Southern familiarity comfort zone.

I brought it home and opened it, smelling everything before tasting. I tasted some special kind of sauce that made my eyeballs convulse. I poured out the rice that smelled like every journey I've had through an Indian home where the relief stepping out into the clear air was sublime.

I pulled out the chicken and the potatoes and put it on my plate around the rice. "I can do this," I thought. "They say this stuff is extremely healthy. And I've come a long way in overcoming the provinciality of my own culture."

One bite. Two bites. Three. Four.

Just. Can't. Do it.

Into the dog dish it went. The dog ate the chicken and left everything else.

I heated the oven and slid in a sizeable serving of frozen tater tots and chicken nuggets to counter my foray into the Indian experience.

I don't usually eat tater tots and chicken nuggets for dinner. Those are for the kids. But it seemed just so stereotypically, over-the-top-American that it just might sweep my palate clean.

But there's a problem.

Everything I eat tastes like Indian food now.

---

The tater tots, the chicken nuggets, the ketchup, the Pez candy, the jelly beans, the other chocolate NASCAR, a #8 Dale Jr. that my son has given me the blessing to destroy.

I can't shake it.

I can't stop thinking about that line in "Anchorman" when Brian Fontana sprays on the Sex Panther cologne and Christina Applegate says it "smells like a dirty diaper filled with Indian food."

As I look at the Tony Stewart chocolate stock car that my children have no real interest in eating, it is impervious. It taunts me. Maybe I should melt it, just out of spite.

But I have more pressing concerns.

Mainly, what am I going to do tomorrow, at lunchtime, when I have to go to an Indian buffet and let the amazingly nice and hard-working owner of an Indian restaurant point out the finer ingredients of each item and insist, through a sense of earnest hospitality, that I try one of each?

He'll surely sit with me while I eat, thanking me for taking the time to inquire and learn about his culture.

But I can't even eat a chocolate NASCAR.

***

PART II

I entered the restaurant a few minutes after they closed for lunch. I couldn't decide whether the buffet was a good thing or a bad thing. I could try just a little bit of everything. See it before it ended up on my plate. And fake like I'm just a guy who doesn't eat much.

It didn't matter. The buffet had closed. The owner told me he'd serve me from the kitchen.

His menu was a little more detailed than the other one. I decided I would pore over it as if I were looking for a loose contact. I saw Mango Chicken. Somehow that seemed like it would be more ... dry.

(By the way, you're in the right place if you're a guy who doesn't eat beef or pork).

The owner took my order. Told me I'd enjoy it. Then, he fulfilled my fears of this day.

"I would like to bring you a number of different things from the kitchen, so you can get a full experience of what we have to offer."

I nodded yes. The best I could do was say, "I'm not all that big on curry." Other than that, I was at his mercy.

Now, here's the thing: His restaurant is nice. Very well run. A lot of attention to detail. Great service and presentation. A charming experince.

And the food? Well, I can totally see how someone who likes Indian food would consider this place top-notch. But that's about all I can say. And it's not as if I don't speak from newfound experience.

I went from eating my very-first-ever-ever-in-my-life Indian dish just one night before to this:





And that wasn't even all of it.

I never use my camera phone. I busted the lens on it long ago after dropping it too many times.

But in a private moment, as I trudged onward on a mission not to offend, I had to document for posterity the irony bludgeoning me like a sitar cracked over my head.

Everything still smells and tastes like Indian food.

I don't know if I'll ever be the same.

With A Clang

Happy 7th Birthday, son.

Well, Happy Birthday four days later.

These birthdays are getting laborious. Same story each year. Me refusing until 1:12 a.m., April 1, to accept the reality that you're another year older.

So, I've decided to commemorate your grand entry into this world a different way. Late, in fact, but not without a measure of significance. I want to tell you a story, here on this day four days after your birthday seven years ago.

After all, we remember our first-born children not so much by the very second they emerged from the womb, but by the day-to-day crushing realities that changed us as human beings. Those fresh, raw realizations that shaped us in those early days and were more far-reaching than simply watching a newborn baby cry for the first time.

If anything, it reminds me of how seven years has perhaps given me time to become a better father. Or, let's just say a more-experienced father.

You be the judge.

---

You were only four days old. Your head bobbled around and saliva flowed freely. You were a bit jaundiced, so you slept in nothing but a diaper in the sunlight as you came down with a case of the strangest -- but most adorable -- sounding hiccups for a good hour.

Your mother sat with you and held you in her arms. She was suffering from a nasty infection and began to feel nauseous. She called to me to help her. She was about to vomit.

On you.

So I -- as a new father inexperienced in really caring too much if someone gets thrown up on -- had to think quickly. Do I have time to snatch a fragile baby from a mother's arms? Or should I immediately try to find something to catch the downpour soon to come?

I chose the latter.

(The choice turned out to be like so many of the choices I make under duress. Kind of like the time the guy at the beach was drowning in the ocean after his float left him ... and I dove after the float to take it to him ... but by the time I got to it someone had already pulled him to safety ... and I looked like the idiot who saved the float while a guy was drowning).

I ran back to the kitchen to grab a frying pan.

Your Mom pleaded with me to hurry. She could feel it coming.

I ran over to put the frying pan under her mouth.

Clang!

I smacked you in the head with frying pan. Hard. Like "Three Stooges" hard.

She threw up on you anyway.

I grabbed you and -- for your first first bath ever in the house-- held you screaming under the faucet to clean you off. You shrieked quite a bit. I suppose you might have thought this whole life thing was going to suck if this type of ordeal was a normal part of it.

I suppose I should apologize, son, but you'll just have to understand.

I simply love to tell that story.

So, thank you on this fourth day after your birthday, for the laugh at your own expense.

And may you live life the way you entered it.

With a clang.