Nude Zen

Hiatus, sabbatical - whatever you want to call it

Turns out, I broke my hand a couple Saturdays ago while playing baseball in Abilene. I'll run it through spell-check, but if parts of this post look like a page from Flowers for Algernon, that's why. It's incredibly hard to type with one hand securely splinted and wrapped. Frustrating, too.

I had hoped to be back to regular posting by now, but it appears I've got too many irons in the fire. As my wife can attest, I tend to acquire duties, obligations and activities like gnats to a brown banana. Then, before you know it, I'm doing none of them well.

So, since my hand is broken, I figure it's a good time to take a little hiatus from Nude Zen. Consider it a sabbatical, while I concentrate on writing projects that actually bring a little cash into Ye Olde Householde. Christmas is nearing you know - and I've got a new granddaughter.

I don't know how long Nude Zen will be off air, but I'll crank her up again as soon as I'm able. Odds are, I'll make some changes and relaunch the blog under a new design, etc. For now, though, I need to focus on my professional writing efforts.

As Samuel Johnson said, "No man but a blockhead ever wrote except for money."

He also said, "Being in a ship is being in a jail - with the chance of being drowned." I know, not relevant ... but, quite astute, nevertheless.

As much as I enjoy writing this blog, it's a diversion. And, at the moment, I just don't have the time this particular diversion deserves. Thanks for reading. Aloha. I'll be back as soon as I'm able.

(Fade to black)

(Roll credits)

(Background music: The Lemon Song by Led Zeppelin - on ukulele)

Schnookered

So, last weekend I chose to stay home, do some laundry and play Civilization Revolution on X-Box for six hours straight. Actually, I didn't decide to play Civilization Revolution for six hours straight; it just sorta happened. Playing Omnipotent Being can be addictive, and I can now understand why religious people say 1000 years is like one day to God. Time flies when you're running the planet.

That was Saturday, and since my wife had Sunday off, I decided to forego my plan to annihilate the Chinese with my Ninja Tank Army and spend time with her. Unfortunately, our community is hardly a cultural hub, so there's little to do on a Sunday afternoon except some laundry and play Civilization Revolution on X-Box for six hours straight.

My wife, however, hates that game. She thinks it's stupid and boring. (And, that my friends - in a nutshell - is why women make lousy dictators).

Anyway, we lazily tossed ideas back and forth about how to spend our Sunday. My objective was to steer the brainstorming clear of work projects around the house, so I was thrilled at my wife's suggestion that we drive over to another town and stroll through the mall.

I know, pathetic. But, believe me, it's much better than watching traffic from the porch. That just makes you depressed for the rest of the day.

Besides, they've got a really cool hippie store at the mall - and, I needed some more cone incense for my meditation space. And, of course, I thought it might be nice to spend time with my wife, walking around and looking at stuff we don't need.

Once I'd entered the mall's doors, though, I began to suspect I'd been snookered. "Snookered," by the way, is a Ron Schneider-ism (Ron Schneider being my old man), meaning "hoodwinked," "duped," "taken for a ride," etc.

I'd forgotten that the new school year is just around the corner, and signs announcing "Half Off," "75% off," "Buy One, Get One Free" blanketed the mall.

I was screwed.

I got my cone incense, but I spent the most of the afternoon trying to look cheerful (an adaptive behavior facilitating self-preservation), while my wife hacked her way through a jungle of heavily discounted clothing.

I sat on a mall bench, where I passed in and out of semi-consciousness. All I clearly recall is wiping the drool from my chin from time to time and watching a large woman in a small halter top chew out her chocolate covered pre-adolescent boy.

On the upside, we stopped at roadside stand on the way home and got some Hawaiian shave ice. Strange how a cupful of Strawberry Colada-flavored snow can make everything better. Come to think of it, an actual Strawberry Colada would have made everything even more better. Note to self.

In a completely unrelated development, my son's band finished their demo this week. Here's their new publicity photo:

 

The photo is obviously doctored - well, obvious to me. Maybe, not so much to you. The band's name is Schnozz - which, incidentally, was my dad's nickname growing up. I don't know why he was called Schnozz; his nose didn't seem inordinately large. I suspect a secret Mob past.

Anyway, I think it's pretty cool my son and his band mates chose that name. Dad would be proud - at least, until he heard track three of the demo: My One-Night Stand With A Slutty Sucubus. 

And, for the record, the person second from left is NOT Chaz Bono, pre-op. It's the drummer.

Damage Control

This morning, I washed down a "fiber-packed" protein bar with a bottle of Bolthouse Farms berry/veggie blend. For lunch, I ate pink salmon, an avocado and a Texas Ruby Red grapefruit. For dinner, I'm thinking Brussels sprouts and a 30-minute stroll.

Why the uber-healthy, middle-aged effort-to-stave-off-cardiac arrest menu? Partly because my wife refuses to move with me to a hippie commune - but mostly because of damage control.

It's mid-summer, and my calendar of events is winding down. Already, I've participated in two family reunions, two July 4th horseshoe tournaments, and three vintage baseball games. I've eaten an untold number of brats and hotdogs and soaked up a ton of sun. And the beer? Well, use your imagination.

All I've got left is Warped Tour in Kansas City and a couple more baseball games in a couple other places, and my summer is essentially over.

So, I figure it's time to start repairing some of the damage I've inflicted on this poor ol' body of mine. Besides, I'm turning 44 years old at the end of the month, and it's occurred to me that not one of my New Year's or Birthday resolutions has ever stuck.

What was it Micky Mantle said? "If I knew I was going to live this long, I'd have taken better care of myself."

I hear ya, Mick. But, then again, the stories wouldn't be nearly as good.

"I remember one time, I took that water aerobics class at the senior center. Boy, that was ... leisurely."

See what I mean?

Anyway, I'll post some family reunion pictures later this week. I realize that sounds about as exciting as a water aerobics class at the senior center, but I've got to build my strength for Warped Tour - it's the summer's last hurrah, and those pits don't mosh themselves.

A Good Day

I've never been a high-maintenance kind of guy. On the contrary, I'm pretty easy to please - simple tastes, simple pleasures. Which, actually, is a good way to be if you're not rich.

All I need for a good time is plenty of sunshine, a body of water, maybe some ice-cold beers, minimal physical activity and lots of laughter and fellowship (and, I'm not talking about the church kind of fellowship either). By the way, that good time can include my wife - as well as, my peeps. Believe it or not, I actually like hanging out with the Mrs. - she's quite adept at keeping me in line without using too tight a leash.

Here's what I'm getting at: I spent Saturday drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon and playing horseshoes near a lake with my brother and two buddies. Then, in the evening, my wife joined us for grilled steaks at my mother's house (Mom had invited us all earlier in the afternoon).

Now, I don't know how much time I've got left on this earth, but I know I'll remember that day 'til the end. There's a certain satisfaction gained from a day well-spent. 

By the time my wife and I got home that night, my skin was sticky, sweaty and sunburned, and every one of my rarely-used muscles throbbed like a Wal-Mart woofer. But, as I crawled into bed after a long, cool shower, I thought, "That was a damned good day."

I don't know if I've mentioned it before, but I'm a summer person through and through. I spend the winter months in virtual hibernation because I despise cold weather. I'm not exaggerating either - I literally despise cold weather, which is why I'll never be Canadian. Or, at least, a happy Canadian.

During the summer months, though, I burst forth like a Roman candle and spend as many waking hours as possible running hither and yon in the bright sunshine.

So, if you find yourself wondering why the frequency of my posts seems a bit haphazard of late - blame it on summer. I'm simply out having good days.

On Muses

Every Muse I've seen has been a beautiful woman, usually dressed like an ancient Greek goddess in lace-up sandals and a twin-sized bed sheet. Whether a normal mortal or a bona fide daughter of Zeus, a Muse is always hot-looking. Hell, Albert Brooks actually starred in a movie called "The Muse." Guess who played the title character ... Sharon Stone. I rest my case.

So, it's just my luck that my Muse, more often than not is Bart Cumberledge. His inspiration usually arrives, slightly slurred, in my voice mail like so:

"Shane Schneider .... this is Bart Cumberledge. You may know this already, but Dennis Hopper died. For people like me and Will and Dave and ... and ... and ... I think that's all ... Dennis Hopper is a god, man ... You should write about him ... Seriously .... Bye."

Now, Bart's anything but a hot-looking woman - although, I did once see a Hooters waitress who bore a freakish resemblance to him. It gave me the dry heaves.

I actually remember when Bart and Will and Dave Trulin fell head-over-heels in love with Harley-Davidson motorcycles. They spent long hours talking about Super Glides, Soft Tails, Electra Glides and every other double entendre Harley-Davidson marketers could come up with. I, on the other hand, didn't share their enthusiasm. My own interest in motorcycles was limited to Sturgis fantasies and visits to the bathroom with one of Bart's Easyriders magazines tucked under my arm. Leather-clad girls in heavy mascara and tattoos - you do the math.

Anyway, I called Bart back and told him I would gladly pay my respects to Dennis Hopper because, after all, he was a hero to more than just bikers. He was also inspirational to the counterculture, and if I'd been born 20 years earlier, I undoubtedly would have been a hippie during the '60s. And, like Hopper, I would have barely survived the experience - or, so my wife says. 

As it turns out, I was born too late and came of age in the 1980s - the antithesis of everything 1960s. And, the music sucked, too.

So, during my youth, Journey influenced me more than Dennis Hopper ever did - which, judging by this quote, is probably a good thing:

“You want to hear about insanity? I was found running naked through the jungles in Mexico. At the Mexico City airport, I decided I was in the middle of a movie and walked out on the wing on takeoff. My body... my liver... okay, my brain... went.”

R.I.P. Dennis Hopper.

As a counterculture icon, Dennis Hopper rocked. But, as a source of inspiration? Maybe not so good. Same with Bart, although he does come up with a good idea every now and then. But, for proper inspiration, a Muse is supposed to be a woman, preferably a goddess or a wood nymph. At the very least, she ought to be an Easyriders girl. 

Or, Bart in a Hooters uniform.

Zombie Strippers

My wife and her sister departed our driveway at 3 o'clock Friday morning, bound for Galveston. They're spending a few days with their mother, sisters and brother, which means my son and I will be left to our own devices for about a week.

This has never been tried before, and I am reminded of the quote Robert Oppenheimer used following the first test of an atomic bomb in 1945 - "Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds."

Actually, that may be a tad melodramatic. Perhaps, Kenneth Bainbridge's quote is closer to the mark: "Now we are all sons of bitches."

Anyhoo, the first day wasn't so bad - a buddy came over to the house, and we knocked back a few brewskies and watched Inglourious Basterds, followed by some Skinemax. It was cool - kinda like having Quentin Tarantino as a substitute teacher.

By Saturday, though, I was lonely. My son, who's 16 years old and the most intermittently obnoxious person I currently associate with, figured he'd have more fun standing in a pasture and hitting golf balls at cows than watching the replay of the LOST pilot with his clingy father. 

(I really hope that boy becomes rich and famous because he owes me a house in Hawaii.)

Neither did he want to watch the LOST finale with me on Sunday. Instead, he and his pals bought pickled pig's feet at the grocery store so they could mix them with a bucket of rotting oranges they discovered in another buddy's car. Then, they took turns sniffing it.

"I puked all over the place," said my son, proudly.

(It doesn't need to be a fancy house; I'd settle for a lean-to near a coconut tree.)

I don't know what I expected. Maybe ... that my son and I would spend the week sharing meals of Sloppy Joe's and Tuna Helper in between our various, hilarious high jinks. Perhaps, that we'd get ourselves into madcap fixes and then laugh like crazy and slap each other affectionately on the back afterward. Or, that - after one particularly silly adventure - my son would turn to me and say, "Ya know, Pop? You're not so bad."

Kind of like Balki and Larry in Perfect Strangers. Remember that show? Boy-oh-boy, those guys were a hoot.

It hasn't turned out that way, though. Rather, I've learned something sobering about myself: I'm just a high school graduation away from becoming the Jewish mother that Jewish stand-up comics make fun of. That, or a barcalounging, t-shirt and boxer shorts-wearing, why don't you ever call anymore, cat person.

Shudder.

So, to hell with it. While browsing for titles to replenish my Netflix queue, I came across this:

Zombie Strippers - "A deadly government-controlled virus strikes a small Nebraska strip club, where the head dancer is quickly infected and transformed into a flesh-eating zombie -- and becomes an instant hit with the customers. To be or not to be a zombie: That is the question facing the remaining jealous strippers in this outrageous horror comedy."

My first thought was, "Man, what a cool job." Not the stripping, but writing paragraph-long movie synopses for Netflix.

Not that I have anything against strippers, though.

My second thought was, "I'd rather watch Zombie Strippers than sniff rotting oranges and pickled pig's feet anyway ... which, come to think of it, probably smells very similar to what a zombie stripper would actually smell like."

So, I called a buddy, and he's game for brewskies and Zombie Strippers sometime this week. Granted, it's not the most high-brow way to spend an evening, but - when pressed - I must confess I've spent many an evening engaged in activities that would make a Neanderthal bar me from his country club.

Besides, it'll be like having Quentin Tarantino as a substitute teacher.

Mustard stains are hard to get out

I took my mother and my wife out to eat at a fancy-schmancy place Sunday for Mother's Day. I figured it was the least I could do - considering that, in real life, I'm rarely the charming, debonair fella you've no doubt grown to expect in this blog.

I do have my shining moments, but they tend to occur at rather broad intervals and mostly accidentally.

Actually, on paper, I'm not much of a prize. Fortunately, I know how to operate a washing machine, and I can quickly rustle up a mean plate of spaghetti. And, I'm generally friendly.

So, as Bill Murray said in Caddyshack, "I got that goin' for me."

I was, however, a rotten teenager - even by teenage standards. I know I was a rotten teenager because my mother once threw a ham sandwich at me - the same ham sandwich she'd prepared for me mere moments before I decided to criticize the way she made ham sandwiches.

I never did get the mustard out of my brand new OP shirt.

Neither was I the best husband early in my marriage. I'm still not the best husband, but I am better. I assume I'm better because my wife doesn't curse me under her breath nearly as much as she used to. It's been some time since I've heard the words "horse's ass" hissed through clenched teeth.

That's one good thing about aging: the mellowing.

Yes, aging kinda sucks - male pattern baldness, belly fat, ear hair, man-boobs. But, I'm not nearly as concerned by it as I would have been at 16 years old. Add acne, and those features on a 16-year-old can be a real deal breaker when it comes getting a date.

All in all, we just don't get so worked up about the stuff that used to get us so worked up. My wife, my mom, me - we're all three a lot more easy-going. More mellow.

I can't imagine ever criticizing my mother again over her sandwich-making. I would simply eat the sandwich and thank her for serving it to me on a plate. Besides, my reflexes aren't what they used to be, and I still don't know how to get out mustard stains.

As for my mother, well, I'd have to say something pretty asinine for her to hurl ham and mustard at me again. More likely, she'd just say, "Fix your own damn sandwich then."

 

Smell popcorn?

Okay, so I get this email the other day from my old Coast Guard buddy, Bart:

"I'm itching for another story; no pun intended."

First of all, I don't believe him for an instant - I think he fully intended a pun.

He was, of course, referring to my last post in which I mentioned the case of crabs I contracted - or, re-contracted - during boot camp. By the way, several people told me that was a "brave" post, which just goes to show that there's a mighty fine line between the bravery of, say, a front-line infantry soldier and the bravery of those guys from Jackass. Or, between a man who stands on his principles and a man who stands on one leg so he can prop the other one on an exam table and spread his butt cheeks.

It's all relative. 

Anyway, I know it's been a couple of weeks since I last posted. What can I say? Computer problems. You've probably already guessed that I'm not the most mechanically or technically-oriented person. I'm okay with that, though; it's gotten me out of a lot of work. On the other hand, I'm forever at the mercy of people who are mechanically or technically-oriented.

So, since I'm back up and running, I wanted to make a quick post so you wouldn't think my wife had killed me in my sleep and buried my body in the basement so she could collect the insurance money.

Not yet, at least.

Thanks to Bart for letting me know that some people actually read my drivel. It's good to know I'm not just singing in the shower.

But, then again, Bart was always the smart one. Anyone who can get a person to suck in a deep lungful of flatulence simply by asking, "Smell popcorn?" is brilliant. You, sir, are an evil genius.

Gotta go; I'll write more Friday.

 

Seagulls and crabs

About a week before my scheduled departure for Coast Guard boot camp, I sat in the Travel Inn Tavern, sharing a pitcher of beer with a fraternity brother. We drank a lot of beer in that joint, a dark hole-in-the-wall with two pool tables and a juke box amply stocked with Merle Haggard and Hank Williams Jr. songs. Our fraternity had essentially co-opted the place, making it our exclusive hangout. We'd even renamed it The TIT - after the first letters of Travel Inn Tavern.

Just one of the benefits of a college education - acronym skills.

Anyway, Matt (my fraternity brother) had recently returned from Army basic training. He'd joined the Army for pretty much the same reason I was heading for the Coast Guard - we'd both pissed away any chance of graduating from college. Literally. Most of our education had gone right down the toilet of The TIT.

Since he'd just returned from basic training, Matt was still pretty gung ho and convinced I was on the verge of making a major mistake in joining the Coast Guard.

"You should join the Army instead," said Matt. "Why wouldn't you want to be a soldier in the best-trained, best-equipped military force in the world?"

"I don't want to be a soldier," I said. "Besides, the Coast Guard has cooler-looking uniforms."

Matt's basic training stories didn't help his argument anyway. Marching marathons, heavy packs, ridiculous numbers of push-ups, camping, pain, humiliation ... Not for me. As I've said, I wanted to be in Onionhead's military.

As it turned out, Andy Griffith grossly misled me. Granted, Coast Guard boot camp wasn't as tough as Army basic training, but there was still much more running and many more push-ups than I would have preferred. And, of course, there was the humiliation.

Our company commander (Coast Guard for drill sergeant) scared the hell out of us. His name was Senior Chief Evans - a cross between Robert De Niro in Taxi Driver and Freddy Krueger in, well, every movie with Freddy Krueger. He was also a master at intimidation - right down to his mirrored sunglasses and the taps he wore on his shoes so you could hear his approach from four squad bays away.

He was also a "cat person," which I found strangely incongruous. I'd pegged him for a pit bull owner.

Anyway, my boot camp survival plan was simple - keep my head down and try not to get noticed. It was a good plan - in theory.

One afternoon, after lunch, our recruit company formed up outside the galley. We were required to stand at attention until everyone finished eating and joined the formation. Then, we would march to our next class. No talking, no moving, no nothing.

The recruit training center at Cape May is situated very near the ocean, so there are seagulls everywhere, all the time. Generally, they leave the humans alone. That afternoon, however, one seagull made a strafing run.

As I stood at attention, afraid to even wipe away the beads of sweat rolling into my eyes, that damn seagull dropped a full load on the top of my head with pinpoint accuracy. I didn't move, though. Even as seagull poop oozed over my cap, down the nape of my neck and under my shirt collar.

My fellow recruits had a harder time. Try as they might, they could not contain themselves, and the entire line was soon snorting and giggling. DiCarlo, the guy directly behind me, was actually crying when Senior Chief Evans jumped in his face and growled.

"DiCarlo, what's so damn funny?"

"Sir, Seaman Recruit Schneider is out of uniform, sir."

Senior Chief paused, then spoke into my ear, "Schneider, what did you do to that seagull to piss him off?"

"Sir, this recruit doesn't know. He barely knows the seagull, sir."

The entire company burst out laughing, and we got to go on a five mile run that afternoon. I spent the evening scrubbing seagull crap out of my cap.

Shortly after that episode, I noticed the return of phthirus pubis. My first experience with them occurred just prior to my departure for boot camp, following my going away party and subsequent liaison with a girl in our apartment complex. I should have read the directions on that special shampoo bottle.

I noticed the itching sensation three to four weeks into boot camp. A close examination within the privacy of a bathroom stall confirmed my fears. What to do? I tried to ignore it. I tried to shave it. No dice. My biggest fear was that my fellow recruits might notice I was spending an inordinate amount of time scratching down below. The nicknames resulting from such a discovery ... well, I wouldn't wish that on anyone.

After a couple days, I worked up my courage, threw self-esteem to wind and knocked on Senior Chief's office door.

"Enter!"

I stepped inside and stood at attention.

"What is it, Schneider?"

"Sir, request permission to go to the infirmary, sir."

"Why?"

"Sir, this recruit has reason to believe he has ... crabs, sir."

"What makes you think that?"

"Sir, itching, sir. And, tiny crabs, sir"

He ordered me to the infirmary straightaway, and within minutes, I was explaining the purpose of my visit to a Health Services Technician First Class. Now, at the time, the training center was also the home of the corpsman school, so this HS1 saw my condition as a perfect teaching opportunity for his trainees.

"Would you mind if I had some of the students take a look at this?"

"Uh, well ... I guess maybe that would be okay ... if it's for science."

"Excellent."

He escorted a half dozen other people into the room who then proceeded to examine my nether regions with magnifying glasses - while I propped one leg onto the examining table to better lift and spread body parts.

As they nonchalantly discussed my condition, I struggled to find my happy place.

"See there's one."

"There's another one."

"Wow, they really do look like little crabs."

Finally, they finished, thanked me profusely and sent me on my way with another bottle of special shampoo.

Back at the squad bay, I gave my report to Senior Chief.

"Tough break, Schneider. Nevertheless, I appreciate your guts. Maybe, we can get you a medal for your trouble."

I'm pretty sure that last part was joke, because I never did get a medal for crabs.

I did, however, get to buy Senior Chief several rounds at the Enlisted Club after graduation. As it turned out, he was an okay guy - talked about his cats a lot, though.

And, back at The TIT, Matt and I shared a pitcher and swapped basic training "war stories."

"See," he said. "I told you the Army was better."

 

 

 

 

Nintendo Nympho

I've gotta confess - my wife and I haven't turned on our Wii Fit in about two months. Like much in a marriage, the novelty has worn off. We had a good time for a few weeks, getting the blood pumping and working up a nice sweat. After a while, though, the activity evolved into just another routine in a long list of "things to do."

I had resigned myself to a life void of vigorous exercise within the comfort of my living room, when I came across this yesterday in The Huffington Post:

Amanda Flowers Claims Wii Fit Injury Made Her A Sex Addict

Amanda Flowers, a 24-year-old from Manchester, claims that a Wii Fit injury has turned her into a sex addict.

After falling from her Wii Fit board, Flowers reports that even minor vibrations - such as a from a food processor, she says - "turns her on." She was told by a doctor that she had suffered a damaged nerve that has provoked "persistent sexual arousal syndrome."

"It began as a twinge down below before surging through my body. Sometimes it built up into a trembling orgasm," Flowers says, according to the Daily Star's article "Nintendo Wii Made Me A Nympho."

Although Flowers' injury isn't one you see every day, doctors in the UK reported frequently treating patients for Wii-related injuries. According to the Fox News article, "up to ten people a week are being hospitalized with injuries caused by playing Nintendo Wii games." Wii Fit Sex Addict

As you might expect, my first thought after reading this was, "Hmm. Now, here's a chance to kill two birds with one stone."

My second thought was, "I'm so glad we have centuries-old idioms to draw upon for expressing our thoughts."

My third thought was, "Okay, concentrate. Where in the hell is this nerve, and how do I get my wife back on the Wii Fit?"