New Years Resolve

As a new year’s resolution my family, spurred by my eldest brother, has jointly engaged in the Body For Life challenge. Even now, looking down at my pasty, rolling, patchily haired torso, I ask myself, “why”. Sure if I were still in my late teens or early twenties this body would seem like a sick fraternity prank. But to a man nigh unto 30, this body is a trophy, a guerdon if you will, for reaching such a noble milestone as thirty. I should feel no need to shroud this body in shame but should be encouraged by those within my circle of influence to display it with pride, to be admired by all.

All I can say is damn the fashion magazines for taking that glory from me. The time of sexual equality is run out and I can’t help but quietly covet the bygone days when men where admired and loved for their minds and tender hearts. Of course, I would be amiss to say women are entirely to blame alone. They are products of their environment; a relative species in a relative world, conditioned and catechized by corporate America till they are no longer free thinkers but assimilated. Damn modern media and the object it has made of a man’s body. And damn those who adhere to that twisted media’s false doctrines. DAMN THEM ALL!

I wish you the best with your goals too.

In the beginning...

This marks the beginning of my life as a blogger. And although it sounds like a British insult I’m willing to try it on. (Mmm, cozy. Like a wool sweater.)

I’m feeling particularly reflective at the beginning of this year. Maybe because it’s a new year, maybe because my son was born two weeks ago. Or maybe because this is the year I will breech the big 3-0. I use the word breech because I feel like I’m approaching this birthday butt first with my feet up by my head. To one who has breached the big 4-0, the big 3-0 probably sounds like a welcome and exciting bike ride through a grove of beautiful aspens. But to someone coming from the big 2-9 it sounds more like collapsing during a walk in a forest from an asthma attack and being hit by some old fart on a bike.

The inevitable aside, my son Cash, named after the late great Johnny Cash (because my wife wouldn’t let me name him Don Juan de Ben-O, a name combination of his father and the man my wife wishes was his father), was born on the 18th of December. His name is actually Jackson Cash Quinn. My vote was for all single syllable names, Jack Cash Quinn. My wife however, convinced Jack Quinn said in quick succession sounded Chinese, or like Jaclyn. 

It wasn’t until one of my close friends informed me that Jack Cash sounds remarkably similar to Jackass (thanks Dan, you really saved my jackass on that one) that I was appreciative of my wife’s unbending stubborn pride.

Cash’s 20-month-old sister, Maggie, who calls him “be be” or “be be Cass” still thinks he’s a doll mommy pushed through her tearing nether region (to use the scientific term) for her own playtime pleasure. The fact that he’s so life like and makes real baby crying sounds whenever she pokes his eyes is an added bonus. Its not just his eyes mind you. Eyes are Maggie’s favorite part of all of God’s creatures and she shows her love by pressing on them at any chance she gets while repeating in her cute 20 month voice, “eyes.”

I’m almost 30, the father of two, and it’s a new year. The possibilities are endless.