Wednesday, November 14, 2007

A blog post.

So here’s something weird that just happened:

I took a break from my writing to wake up and get some fresh air by going for a walk through the woods on the trail around my house. I get into the trees, and I look up, and I’m face-to-face with this deer almost. Ten yards anyway, pretty close. “Oh, hello,” I say. Then when she doesn’t answer, I say, “Wow, I’m surprised you let me get this close.” And she’s just staring at me and I realize that this kind of an abstract thing is happening and I get just a tiny bit creeped-out, so I say, “You know, you should probably run or something,” and so she does.


But there’s these other deer in the woods too, and I swear they were kind of circling me as I walked. They stayed about fifty yards away, but they kept moving around and watching me and they wouldn’t run away which would be proper deer behavior. I figure that either they were mustering up the nerve to mug me, or maybe I was close to their nest and they had eggs or something. Anyhow, they never made their move and I got home okay.

Check out my word-count. Betcha can't guess when I got sick and was trying to quit smoking. (hint: I'm still sick and still trying to quit, but I'm getting used to it)

Saturday, November 10, 2007

photos of sexy women in locker room

With a title like that, I'm hoping this will be one of the most-viewed posts in Chilldaddy's history. And if you have just read this first line and are suddenly feeling the initial tingling sensation one gets when it begins to dawn on them that they have been betrayed, lied to, made a fool of - relax. This post does indeed deal with the subject matter of 'sexy women', and equally indeedly, photos of them, which reside in our lockers at the hospital.
This initial photo sets the stage. Three lockers. Andy's, Craig's, and mine. Note that of the three of us, only Craig cares to lock his locker. In my ten-plus years of living in this locker, I have never had a single item stolen, except for a certain personal item that somehow found it's way into Andy's locker. It was in fact, a sexy photo - of my wife. After that, tension escalated. Eyes en-squinted and looked sideways at co-workers. Private detectives were retained. Anonymous tips were made to government agencies. Retaliation was inevitable.
Thus began a history of distrust and unspoken hostility.

The latest development in this mire of unfortunate circumstance began perhaps two weeks ago. A picture of Craig's girlfriend, Kelly (also one of our co-workers... hmmm, better give y'all a quick player roster: Andy B. - surgical tech, Notoya B. - surgical tech and Andy's new wife, Craig - X-ray tech, Kelly - surgical tech and Craig's beloved, Cindy V. - cytology assistant and my beloved). So a picture of Kelly fell out of Craig's locker and he did not notice. I found it, and as a joke, attatched it to the outside of my locker with a note that said: 'Ray's other woman'.

A fierce battle of wits ensued. A ballet of attack and counter-attack, 'tit-for-tat' (another innocent insertion of a word designed to attract internet browsers), 'you-got-chocolate-in-my-peanut-butter', and 'you-got-peanut-butter-in-my-chocolate'. The whole unpleasant drama was recorded on this scrap of paper you can see to the left. The caption evolved, the paper changed lockers, and at one point, the picture of Kelly was replaced with a picture of a dude.

Even now, as I look back over the visual reminders of our epic war, I cannot help but shake my head and wipe my nose to clear the running snot of sadness.
Okay, on to the present day.
Yesterday I arrived at work to find that Andy had taken the drama to whole new level. Hanging on his locker was the following series of pictures.

Somehow he had acquired pictures of me with my wife, and Craig with Kelly, and then spent a considerable amount of time on his computer, cutting, pasting, and trimming, until our handsome and rugged faces were obscured by his weasel-ey visage. (By his own admission, he was supposed to be raking his yard that afternoon, so, you get some idea to what extent pure evil reigns in his heart) The note above the collection of forged photograph's proclaimed them to be: 'all of Andy's women'.

What can I do? How do I top that? I'm just a simple husband and scrub-tech, and I find myself ill-equipped to do battle in a war of this scale. Sure I've referred to myself as a 'creative genius' in the past, but I've sworn only to use my powers for good. Faries, unicorns, frolicking little elves. I cannot face this darkness. I am outgunned.

And so I turn to you.

What should I do?

Here's the pathetic little bit that I've come up with so far. Step-one: under the caption 'All of Andy's women' I wrote 'fantasize about real men'. Step-two: I got my hands on a label-maker.

Andy's locker has a new name.
Step three: well, see for yourself. I thought to myself, 'what man wouldn't be driven into a state of jealous madness at finding a picture of his new wife nestled in close to a dashing pirate?'
But there are two problems. First off, this pirate looks quite gay and not at all dashing, and secondly, I'm just playing copy-cat. I need something better.
Any thoughts?

A halloween party our young wasn't welcome at

Here we are, Cindy and I, all festive and pirate-y. Cindy was sick and I was not, so Cindy drank nothing but water. I drank everything but water. And so, we had our fun, despite our beverage preferences, and went home happy with our heads full of fond memories. In the lower collage, you can see my baby sister Jamie as 'Dead Anna-Nicole', Barb, a freaky punk chick I went to high school with, and my other sister Laura and her priest. We all thought it was strange that she brought her priest to an 'adult' party, but he was pleasant to talk to and kept his hands where people could see them.

So, there is this video.

I didn't post it because it's exceedingly dark, but I will, if I get, say, five individual comments begging me to. "But Ray, what good possible reason would we have to slip out of the anonymity of the shadows and call attention to ourselves?"

Because, my shy little friends, the title of this video is: "O Brother - Drunk Gay Pirate Karaoke".

Thursday, November 08, 2007


Wednesday, November 07, 2007

Awww, does the widdle baby need his ba-ba?

You know how when you're quitting smoking, it feels like you're swimming through maple syrup most of the time? And those little details just refuse to stick to your consciousness, sliding right off the refridgerator door of your mind as if you were trying to tape your reminders to ice. Emotionally, it feels like you've had a good friend die, or that you've had a particularly cherished limb amputated. You know what I'm saying? Of course you do (because for the purpose of this blog post, we're all quitting together and experiencing the misery simultaneously). Another thing I hate is when you're trying to write and the sentences that sound so good in your head land on the paper with a wet slap like vomit and no amount of pushing them around with a spoon will make them better cuz your sentences just keep getting longer and longer and your grasp of the mechanics of punctuation seem to elude your ever-distracted mind and then your kids want to know what you're doing and you yell at them to spank themselves and go to bed even though they just got home from school but you don't want them to come in and see you letting a sentence turn into such a trainwreck and suddenly you're struck by what a profound impact chemical stimulants have always had on your ability to control your writing muse but that control is now nothing more than a shadow of a ghost of shred of a scrap. And it's all gone.

Quitting smoking is the armpit of... I don't know, something exponentially more foul.

I could have picked a less busy time to do it, but really, the perfect time never comes. And besides, I'm the king of quitting. I do it all the time. I rock at not smoking. But of course, I suck at staying not smoking. So, yeah, I'll probably fail in a week or two. And then around New Year's you'll get to read yet another post about how unpleasant is it to quit.

But do me a favor: pretend like it's the first time you've heard it and respond with appropriate plattitudes and feigned sympathy.

Saturday, November 03, 2007

I do other things besides write

So I was driving my motorized unicycle through this ritzy neighborhood, and this cellphone-shaped spaceship landed and these zebra aliens got out and challenged me to a race. I won, of course, but I sustained no fewer than thirty-one mortal wounds from the rings of fire and my airbag which has a tendancy to cause hangnails when mean-spirited telekinetic spectators set it off unexpectedly. My prize was a romantic weekend getaway with a balding werewolf woman at Micheal Jackson's 'Neverland Ranch'. It was either that, or 'Dollywood' with a three-eyed Roman gladiator but the Chill don't swing that-a-way.

I have absolutely nothing to blog about. Just felt the irrational urge to update.

Speaking of updating, 'Ancient Dance of the Chill' had 310 visitors last month and zero comments. It don't make no nevermind to me, but like most manly men, I'm strangely aroused by statistics. So. Thought I'd share.