Worst Vice

I used to think I knew a lot. That should have been the first sign that I was stupid.

But it wasn’t. I didn’t realize that until I was much smarter.

Neither, apparently, did anybody else.

Friends have come to me for advice for as long as I can remember—and I can remember back a ways, to dispensing quasisophical advice to my friend Jared as I sat on the arm of his parents’ 2nd tier couch in their basement. I can remember having long, deep phone conversations with emotionally tortured friends as I sat behind my 1970s-era metal office desk, chatting on my black, oversized office telephone that I insisted on having because I liked how important it looked. I would have these important phone conversations with friends while sitting in a tufted leather office manager’s chair, up in my old bedroom.

It would have been a strange sight—were anybody watching. It’s a good thing they weren’t.

No, nobody was watching, but everybody, it seemed, was listening. People my age, and older, instinctively came to me with their problems, their troubles, their struggles, and their questions. For real—people asked ME questions. Me, not “Dear Apron.” The me boy person man thing. People told me things they may never have told anybody else, and, honestly, I don’t know why. Did I engender trust or confidence? If so, I don’t know how I do it.

Today, I get paid to listen to people tell me about their problems. They tell me they’re suicidal, or were. They tell me their paranoid delusions or their homicidal fantasies, and I write it all down in my reports, I pass some of it along to the nurses, and I swipe my badge and I go home, locking the door securely behind me.

They pay me to listen.

Today, in my capacity at work, I do much more listening and much less advising. My job isn’t to give advice, and I frequently tell patients that—usually after they blatantly come out and ask me for it. Would I advise them to do something moderate and judicious and appropriate? Sure I would, because I know what’s rational and what’s not*.

*Most of the time.

But that’s not important. That doesn’t matter. I am not a prophet on the mount. I am not Moses or Yaweh or some other mustachioed gray-head with a cane he refers to as a “staff.” Maybe they come to me because I wear glasses and tuck in my shirts and have reasonably well-kept hair. I don’t know why they trust me—my friends and my patients. Maybe it’s because I would never violate a trust. But they don’t know that. You never know if someone’s violated your trust until you find out about it, right?

By and large, the friends who so earnestly sought my counsel when I was young have gone away. They weren’t dramatic exits—most of them—they were more like melting snow or flaking paint just sort of… going away slowly and gradually until there was nothing left.

I hope it wasn’t something I said.

The Worst Vice

They say that the worst vice is advice.

Then again, they also say that "Tide 2x Ultra Laundry Detergent" gets rid of even the toughest stains. But it doesn't. That's why they're called stains, assholes.

I'm not so sure that advice is the worst vice. I do speak from a modicum of personal experience, having briefly caught two of my fingers in a vice in wood shop in 8th grade. I'm pretty convinced that was worse than somebody telling me not to wear a brown belt with navy trousers.

Which, by the way, I do because, let's face it: I'm a fucking rebel. A fucking rebel who is listening to celtic women's folk music on Pandora. Oh, and if somebody finds my vagina and eyebrow pencil-- I've been looking for them for, like, weeks.

Thanks.

I got a piece of advice last weekend, and it really stuck with me. I don't know why, especially-- perhaps because I'm not often offered advice. Well, except for Dear Apron, but that's, well, that's different. In real life, people often solicit advice from me, and that makes me feel good, and I like to think I give decent advice, grounded in reality and fact, and a relatively unwarped view of the world.

But, last weekend, I received advice, and it was unsolicited, but that's okay. Here was the advice:

"The train's going this way," I was told, "and you have three choices-- you can either run and jump on board, or you can run like hell the other way, or you can let it run you over. Whatever you choose, just remember: the train's going this way."

And, you know what? As this person was sharing me this little tidtot of wisdom, with his brow furrowed in concern for me, with his hand even on my shoulder in an avuncular, non-molestery way, all I could think about was Asperger's Syndrome.

Isn't it good to know that I'm always paying such close attention when people talk to me?

But seriously-- why trains?

Why does it seem like every kid I know or read about who has Asperger's Syndrome is fascinated by trains? I mean-- where does that come from? Like, why can't they be obsessed with-- I don't know-- pull-tractors or voles or digital camera aperture?

And why is it that Tourrettes Syndrome often manifests itself in the uncontrollable recitation of profanities? Why don't people with Tourrettes say "Aloe!" or "Puff-Pastries!" or "Kashi Good Friends!"

And, while we're kind of on the subject, why aren't there any decent monologues and plays out there written for young performers? Every time I try to find a decent monologue or a scene to do work on with a student, there's invariably a fuck or a cunt or some sort of situation involving a needle in someone's arm or people gayin' it up in a bathtub. I mean, "Our Town" is great, but how many times can you go up to that fucking graveyard with Mr. Stimson, the organist for the congregational church and our friend, Mrs. Soames, who enjoyed the wedding so? Yesterday, I was leafing through a book of "One Acts for Young Actors" and there was a play about a father who molested his daughter every night (Daughter: "All you ever said to me each night was four words, 'Can I come in?' Four words and forty grunts.") and they're fishing together in Hell after he's dead and she's killed herself. At one point in the play, she drives a fishing hook into his hand and then they both crack up laughing.

I mean, that's just great, isn't it?

I suppose giving me advice is not really worth it, because my brain doesn't really stay still long enough to accept, process, evaluate, and respond to it. I mean-- I get it, of course. It's just another, kinder way to say, "Shit or get off the pot." And that's fine, but, when I hear that expression, I can't help but try to remember who famously said that in U.S. politics. I think it was Lyndon Johnson-- or Nixon-- or Eisenhower. It was definitely one of those fuckers in that, like, twenty year period between the '50s and the '70s.

And then I start thinking about my own shit, and how it comes out in those tiny little balls but only after what is tantamount to a Herculean effort and it feels like I'm going to pass this glorious yard-stick proportioned thing, but it's just those disappointing little poo-marbles, and I know it's because I don't eat enough fiber or drink enough water. I mean, I don't drink any water. I drink 20 oz of coffee in the morning, Caffiene-Free Diet Coke with lunch, and the same with dinner. And then I wonder-- well, how am I even alive?

------------------------------

God, life's funny. I just got up to take a shit, and I happen today to be wearing my favorite trousers-- they're shamrock green Dockers-- the kind that you might see a WASP-y octogenarian wearing at a country club and, as I was sitting on the bowl squeezing out my poo-marbles in anguish, I noticed that, along the inside waistband of the trousers is written the phrase "ONE LEG AT A TIME."

Advice, my dears, is everywhere-- it's all in how you respond to it.

The Secrets of a Successful Blog

If you've decided to read my post because you're a.) longing to know the secrets of a successful blog and b.) thinking you'll find them here, then I'm very sorry for you.

Very.

Someone once told me that THE secret to a successful blog is to "post regularly, each day, and at the same time each day." I don't remember who the hell it was-- someone with a successful blog, apparently.

As I'm sure most of you who are by now familiar with my dickhead-may-care attitude, this piece of advice certainly wasn't given in response to my asking this person, "Hey, what are the secrets of a successful blog?" Most of the advice I receive is unsolicited, not to mention unnecessary, and unused.

Truth be told, (that's why you come here, isn't it?), I don't even know what a successful blog is, and, even if I found out, I'm not even sure I'd want one. Is a successful blog defined by the number of hits? The number of visits? The number of times some random person in Perth gets directed here by Googling the phrase, "foaming neck pussy?" Is it defined by the number of readers? The number of followers? The number of comments per post? Per week?

Jesus. It seems like, whatever success is typically defined as, it has an awful lot to do with numbers. Well, I don't do numbers. Just ask every math teacher I've ever had since 2nd grade.

Frankly, I think my blog is successful because I'm writing it, and you're reading it. And, if I haven't thanked you for that in the recent past, thank you. You rock this pissparty. Hard.

Whether or not it's a component of "success" or not, I do try to post at the same time each day. Posting every day isn't a problem for me, since I have obsessive-compulsive tendencies, blogging fits in nicely to the various routines I find so comforting in life. However, it's not always possible for me to blog at the same time every day. Take today, for example. Maybe, for some of you, at 7:31 (EST) you checked out My Masonic Apron and you were like, "What the fuck? Where is this little twattard?" Well, I was at the garage getting the oil changed in my wife's car. This requires much humorous banter with Soly & Jack, the Israeli and Chinese mechanics with whom I would spend every working day of my life if I had any mechanical competence whatsoever. So, that took a while. Then, I had to come home and walk the dog. Then I had to buy my wife an anniversary card (3 YEARS, PEEPS!) and, while I was doing all of these things, I realized:

"Wow. It's a good thing I'm a blogger and not a writer."

Because, really, you can't walk into your editor's office and be like, "Hey, Mr. Jimmerjims, sorry that piece was late-- I was bullshitting with my mechanics and walking my dog and stuff."

You know? You'd get a size 11 Florsheim in your crotch for pulling that kind of shit at work.

And I realized that I really, truly, madly, deeply, obscenely LOVE being a blogger. And it's, of course, you who have made me a blogger. So, I guess, in some weird, syllogistic way, I... love... you?

Whoa.

That's hot.

And maybe that's the secret of being a successful blogger: embracing your readers, and embracing who you are to them-- and who you are to yourself. Fuck what you're not. That's just a head case waiting to happen.

One thing is for sure: there are many rules of the blogging world that I don't follow. New templates. Advertising. Giveaways. Award regulations. Responding diligently to commentatortots. Keeping posts short. Adding music, pics, links, eye candy, suggestive pictures of self draped around telephone poles... um.... cute puppies and shit?

But I'm pretty sure I have a successful blog anyway. And now I (and you!) know the secret.

After Church, Why Not Get Your DEAR APRON Dirty?

I wasn't going to do another Dear Apron column so soon after the last one... you know, I don't want you guys getting burned out on this shit, but today's was just too good to pass up. Apparently, on Dear Abby, today was Husband Bashing Day-- and how can I, as a husband, let this event go unanswered?

Got a question that can only be answered by me? Write it down on

my masonic apron

and eagerly await a reply!

DEAR APRON: "Ralph" and I have been married a little over a year. It's the second marriage for both of us. We were both single for six years after our divorces, so we had time to become independent.

Ralph still spends his evenings and weekends the way he did when he was a bachelor. He stays in the garage and watches TV alone. We have talked about it, set up family time, and even bought the large-screen TV he wanted for the living room, but still he hides out in the garage. He comes in only to eat and use the bathroom.

I know Ralph loves me and our new family, but this is causing strain. I have two children from my last marriage, and the younger one feels deeply hurt because my husband spends no time with him. What can I do? I feel alone in this marriage.

ALONE AND LONELY IN INDIANA

DEAR GARAGE WIDOW:

Here's a thought: instead of writing whining, pathetic letters about your husband's tendency to conceal himself from you and your family in the garage (which I hope is at least partially finished), maybe you should take a good, hard look at yourself. Ask yourself: what is it about me that makes my husband run and hide from me? Do I bathe enough and, when I do, do I scrub vigorously? Is there a yellowy film beneath my breasts? Do I have a visible mustache? Are my teeth crooked? Is my breath bangin'? My ass pimply?

See? There's a myriad of reasons your husband would choose TV in the garage over you, and I haven't even gotten to your attitude or your personality yet.

Seriously, though, Ethel-- I doubt your husband is "watching TV" in the garage. Does he have a computer with DSL or Fios in there? If so, he's definitely chokin' some serious chicken in there. He may have "Hill Street Blues" on the tube to conceal the sounds of underage Korean girls squealing in agony, but that's what he's really doing in there.

Or he's drinking. Have you ever gone in there while he's at work? (This is assuming, of course, that he works.) If he works, go in there and take a look under the couch or something. Chances are you'll find a couple bottles of Captain Morgan or Jack Daniels. Maybe you'll even stumble upon a small mirror with a powdery residue.

Uh-oh! Ralph's a cokehead!

You say you know Ralph loves you, but, really, he doesn't. Ralph loves coke, porn, and alcohol, in that order. You come in maybe 8th or 9th, somewhere in between navel-exploration and defecation.

Speaking of which, you may think you've got it rough, but at least be thankful that Ralph emerges from the garage to go to the bathroom. I'm glad you mentioned that, by the way. Otherwise, I'd really be worried.

DEAR APRON:

I have an issue with my husband and can't seem to get my point across. He refuses to wear a seat belt. He says it's uncomfortable, and he hates when he pulls it too quickly and it gets caught. I have asked him repeatedly to wear it, not only because he could get a ticket, but also for his own safety.

My car has an alarm on it, so if you don't buckle up, it beeps. He goes as far as buckling the belt behind him so it will stop. I have tried everything from explaining the safety hazards to telling him he can no longer drive my car if he can't drive safely. What can I do to make him buckle up?

-- FRUSTRATED IN ALABAMA

DEAR FUTURE WIDOW:

Your husband is an asshole and deserves to die of massive head trauma. I suggest that you take him on the ride of his life. Out on one of the neighborhood roads. Do any of your kids live nearby? If so, drive to one of their houses, preferably the daughter that he loves better than all the rest of your kids.

About 500 feet before arriving at her house, stomp on the accelerator. Hopefully you have at least a 6 cylinder car-- get that bitch up to speed. Then, slam into your daughter's house, right at the stone underneath the living room picture window, so your husband crashes through the car's windshield, through the window of his daughter's house and so that his corpse lands in her fucking living room. His daughter, her husband, and little kids will then be standing around his dead body, and will have to forever endure the memory of seeing dear ol' Dad, his head now resembling a ketchup-covered, partially-deflated volley-ball.

Sure, you might die in the collision, too, but it'll be worth it to teach this particular lesson.

Nobody said marriage was easy.

DEAR APRON:

My fiance insists upon asking our server's name if it is not offered when she approaches our table. I am insulted that he even cares. Personally, I do not want him asking for another woman's name in my presence. I find it rude.

He, on the other hand, thinks it's rude if the server does not introduce herself. Who is right?

-- NAMELESS IN GRAND PRAIRIE, TEXAS

DEAR NAMELESS:

"Who is right?" I love these questions. What you're really asking is, "I'm right, right?" Well, biatch: neither of you is "right." You're both assholes and idiots: him for flirting with whorey waitresses with you at the table, you for writing to me about it.

I'm curious about something. I've never been to Grand Prairie, Texas, and I hope to never be, so I'll have to just ask you: are there any male waiters in Grand Prairie, Texas? Because, from your letter, it seems like only women fill that particular position. Do you ever get waited on by a man and, if you do, does your husband ask for the feller's name? If he does, then it's just a personality quirk that you can just get over and be thankful that your fiance doesn't do coke and jerk off to underage porn in the garage with his thumb up his ass. If he only asks for waitresses names then, yeah, he's a d-bag and he's hitting on them in front of your dumpass.

Which is sad and all but, what can you do? I can't imagine that any waitress in Grand Prairie, Texas is hot enough to hit on, but what do I know? When I picture a waitress in Grand Prairie, Texas, I picture a droopy-assed, saggy-faced grammaw with purple hair, plastic pineapple earrings and lipstick on her teeth. If I was this guy's fiance and realized that he wanted to hit that instead of me, I'd just go ahead and kill myself.

This isn't a question about etiquitte, it's a question about taste, and you and your fiance obviously have neither. Even for Texans.