Goddamn, Thors and Thorettes: It's My Masonic Apron's 900th BLOGDAY!

Well, here we are, kids.

When I started this ass-crap, on Friday, March 13th, 2009, I was not just a 20something Blogger but, as that moniker would imply, a twenty-something.

Now, I'm a thirty-something. And not a 30something Blogger, because that website is all about Cialis and shit. And I can still get it up.

(Obvs.)

Speaking of which, as you know, in mid-to-late December, I'll become a father to two assuredly charming and awkward children. The way I figure it, my impending fatherhood will coincide nicely with the termination of this blog, or at least the obsessive, habitual, ritualized nature of the postings on this blog. I somehow don't think I'm going to manage keeping my marriage together, changing scads of freshly-sharted diapers, doing feedings, tummy-time, G&S lullaby-singing, working, and maintaining my sanity whilst blogging daily.

Will I still write on this site? Sure. Probably. We'll see. When my mother used to say, "We'll see" to me, it always, universally meant "No" but, when I say it, I really mean it.

We'll see.

At the rate I'm going, and have been going for some time, I'll reach a thousand posts before the children are born, and that'll be good, because reaching a thousand posts will satisfy that itch I have for roundness-- must be why I've always been a breast man. Lots of zeroes in a thousand. Lots of big, round... things.

900 is a good number, too, though-- don't get me wrong. But it's not the kind of number to crap out on, necessarily. Not at all.

Mrs. Apron suggested that, on this 900th post, I reflect on what I've been doing on here lo these many months, but I'm a little resistant to that idea. See, there's a fine little line between healthy self-analysis and a kind of neurotic self-absorption that threatens to envelop bloggers throughout Blogsylvania. And I don't want to be enveloped.

Unless it's during sex.

I go back and forth on whether or not I like blogging. If you're doing something for the 900th time, you'd think, "Well, fuck-- I'd better like this." But, even after all this time, I'm still not sure. I've always expressed myself better through the written word than I have through speaking. I get tongue-tied, emotional, my voice starts to break. I get confused, stymied, lost, unhinged, distracted. Caught up. Caught off guard.

Unguarded.

I don't like being caught off guard, and I don't like being unguarded. It's kind of a big reason why I don't do drugs, or drink. Or talk.

Writing is a way to bring it in, real thin. It's a way to make yourself vulnerable, and yet, at the same time, to keep everything firmly in check. Edited. Restrained. Controlled. Guarded. Even my work that appears to be the most wild, the most revealing, the most off-the-cuff, well, isn't. It's the illusion of familiarity and manufactured freedom. It's the performance aspect. It's me letting go, but not.

I think people who meet me after reading me (I make sure that there aren't many of those people) must be phenomenally let down, in a way. And bored. And confused. There's so much... quiet in me. So much furrowed brow and rumpled shirt and half-finished phrases and thoughts-- so much vacant glancing at my own shoes and socks. It's a good thing I usually wear interesting socks.

Or maybe not. I don't know.

I'm kind of surprised, in many ways, that we're here together, you and me. 900 posts. I sort of didn't think I had it in me-- the scourge of the sea, just little old me. Mrs. Hook's little baby boy.

(Sorry-- "Peter Pan" moment. It happens to me sometimes.)

In another way, though, I knew we'd get here. Because I couldn't let us not. I'm not ready to let go of... whatever this is.

Not just yet.

See you tomorrow, Pan.

Holy Shitknuckles, It's My Masonic Apron's 800th Blogday

As John Hiatt once dolefully sang, “What do we do now?”

Here we are—you and I. Eight hundred posts.

Eight-hunny. Honey.

Some of them have been ricockulous, some of them have been tender and some sad. Some posts have probably made you question whether or not I am on hallucinogenic additives, and some may have made you wish that we could go out for coffee sometime.

I take a lot of sugar, by the way-- more than is socially appropriate. But, you already knew that.

I didn’t understand blogging when I started blogging. I don’t really understand it now, either, but I’m reasonably comfortable with what I do. If there is a certain skill involved in blogging, I’m pretty sure I don’t have it. If there’s a technique or a rationale or a goal, I’ll content myself with being appropriately mystified. After three-or-so years behind the monitor, where I’m most cozy, I find that plopping down in my chair and banging out a post, or three, is as much a part of my routine as any other part of my routine. And, in that respect, I like it.

Do I actually like… blogging? The actual physical and mental aspect of writing? I don’t know. That’s kind of like asking me if I like coffee. Clearly, anybody who puts as much sugar into a 16 ounce tumbler of coffee as I do probably doesn’t like coffee very much, but, if I go three days without it, I’d probably have to be hospitalized.

In my counseling session on Tuesday, my therapist recommended that we set up an end-date for our work together, as it’s his feeling that a little structure might appeal to my desire for, well, structure. I reacted skittishly to this proposition because, viscerally, it felt like abandonment, and I’m just starting to feel comfortable with the blazer-wearing guy. Why set up some arbitrary-feeling time to stop what we’re doing? But I get it. He’s giving me tools that I’m to apply outside of his presence. That’s kind of the whole point.

“After all,” he asked, “what is your vision of what ‘the end’ for us will look like? What will our work being ‘done’ look and feel like to you?”

And I, of course, had no answer. And I think the same holds true for this blog. At least, it may.

One day, I’ll get it into my hamsteresque mind to quit blogging—I’ve already hinted that 1,000 might be a good place to give the keyboard a little rest, and maybe fondle the banjo a little bit more.

(That’s not a euphemism, by the way.)

But I don’t know exactly what that’s going to do for me. Will it force me to “get serious” about blogging, to increase my rate of navel-gazing and focus less on entertainment or writing for an audience? God, that would be dreadful for you, and I wouldn’t do it to you. You can only take so much of that shit, I can imagine. Will I come to some sort of realization, at the point when I’m ready to stop, that I won’t lose my identity as one who writes (I can’t call myself a writer—I just can’t do it) or that the ability to connect with people on a funny or satirical or sardonic or emotional level won’t just go away? Will I be able to accept myself as who I really am, and not as Mr. Apron?

Or will I just… stop?

Back in the summertime, I stopped blogging for a little bit because I was looking for work and not finding it and I was beginning to unsuccessfully wrestle with the guilt demon that was habitually telling me that I was being selfish and vain and potentially disastrous to myself and my wife if I didn’t shitcan the blog in favor of looking for work, constantly. That was probably immature of me, and a bit foolish, because I was, in fact, depriving myself of a pleasure, albeit a small one, at a time when I needed all the pleasure I could reasonably get for under $19.95+s/h.

But I did it because I thought I needed to do it. And, look, Ma. We still made it to 800 posts. Give me a hug.

Life’s funny, you know? I used to write because I loved seeing my name underneath the masthead or the title of something I’d written. Back in middle school, I developed the habit of including my middle initial when writing my name on work I’d written because it made my name look more important. Now, I write every day and my name is nowhere to be found, with or without the middle initial.

Oh, life. I love you.

Like Pussy On Toast it's... MY MASONIC APRON'S 300TH POST!

There's a demented black beggar in Clint Eastwood's otherwise forgettable 1999 flick "True Crime" who mercilessly hounds Eastwood's character, named Steve.

"Steve!" the toothless, crazy bastard shouts as Eastwood's journalist character passes by in a huff, "gimme some-a-dat pussy on toast!" The beggar clasps his outstretched hands and arms together like a child might do in an imitation of an alligator's jaws.

CLAP! CLAP! CLAP!

"Gimme some pussy on toast!" he screams. Later on in the film, evidently feeling less horny and more poverty-stricken, he requests "money on toast," though I don't especially know what he'd do with either, and why necessarily he requires it on toast. I guess because he's fucking nuts or just loves carbs.

You're unmistakably drawn to this character, who appears twice or maybe three times in the film. I saw the movie once the year it came out, and that was ten years ago. I couldn't tell you anything really substantive about the plot, but I remember Mr. Pussy-on-Toast vividly, partly because I can remember almost exploding my pancreas laughing when I heard that line.

That's easily one of the best lines in American cinema today-- in entirely another league than "Frankly, Scarlet...," "Soilent Green is People...," and "Welease Wodewick!"

I hope I never become a crazy, homeless black guy but, if I do, I sure as hell hope I run around screaming stuff like, "Gimme some-a-dat pussy on toast!" and I hope I get to know people well enough to call them by their first names when I make these requests.

At this stage in my life, I think becoming a crazy, homeless black guy is pretty unlikely. I'm a relatively sane, caucasian homeowner. I'm gainfully if not happily employed, and I'm married to the cutest, most loyal, intelligent and snuggly buddy in the world. Hell, even the dog is clean and smells delicious, having just gotten "the works" at the local groomer yesterday. Life is pretty solid today as I pen my 300th blog post, and so, as a result, you're being treated to a relatively upbeat Mr. Apron.

Lucky you!

When I wake up in the morning and I go through my morning routine (tippy-top secret, bitches) and I get around to looking at Blogger.com and I see the lovely avatars and faces of "my followers" (whoa-- that makes me sound like David Koresh or, worse, Oprah) I can't tell you how proud and soupie-glowy it makes me to know that you're sitting around in Meadville or Princeton Junction (yes, I have tracking software and I use it!) saying to me:

"Hey, Apron! Gimme some-a-dat blog on toast!"

I'm accountable to people, good, fun, engaging, interesting people, and that feels really good. You expect something of me, and it's my responsibility in a way to deliver. When I was in college, I had an independent study in playwriting where I was required to have fresh material each week-- at least three or four pages of dialogue or monologue. Because I have OCD-type-issues, I wrote a one-act play a week for ten weeks. That was 2002. I haven't written a one-act play since.

There is something to be said, people, for accountability.

This is not to say, of course, that, if I didn't blog every day, your worlds would implode and your dog would nuclear-shit all over your dry-cleaning and your eyelids would disintigrate and all of your coworkers would immediately vomit into each others' shirt pockets while performing "It's Rainin' Men in sign language.

I know that. But, still, you'd be kind of bummed. Right?

You'd be all like, "Apron! Where's my blog on pussy? You toast."

And I hear you.

I was very skeptical about blogging in the way way beginning. "Blogging," I said derisively, "Isn't that for self-absorbed prats?" I asked my wife. "I think so," she answered, "but so is therapy, and you did that almost all through college."

She had me there!

Of course, I guess, if you think about it, I was dubious about blogging before I had ever met any of you, well, most of you, and maybe that's the reason why I didn't know if it would be the thing for me. After 300 posts, I know that it is. Maybe it won't be forever, but it's done the trick beautifully so far. And so have you.

To those of you who are regular, loyal readers who comment all the time: you're like Jesus on toast as far as I'm concerned.

To those of you who are regular, loyal readers who smile silently and move on to something else: I like the strong, silent types. Don't sweat it. You're awesome.

To those of you who pop in once in a while: I'm grateful for your visits, however infrequent.

To those of you who don't read my blog: give me your home address so I can break into your house, put hardcore gay porno mags inside your sock drawer and rub my naked ass all over your sofa.

On toast.

It's My Masonic Apron's 200TH BLOGDAY!

Praise be, my little darlings-- I never thought we'd get here.

Certainly not together.

Today marks 200 posts on this here bloggy-doo, and I'm grateful to you for sticking it out with me. Some of you have been with me since the old Pudd'nhead Nathan days-- you dealt with the abrupt cancellation of that blog, and you dutifully tied on your masonic apron and followed me along this path.

You've waded through countless posts about anxiety, personal incompetence, home ownership, dead cops, lost friendships, home ownership, suburban inferiority, a nice, chunky sampling of some Dear Apron ire, and the sporadic rant.

You've even continued reading after I made the decision to stop spending hours of my time searching for funny hyperlink pictures.

Well, shit-- you're all kinds of swell.

Funny thing is-- my 200th Blogday almost didn't happen today-- because I couldn't remember my blogger password for a minute or so there. No password? No post.

Actually, it's kind of a good thing that this happened, because I didn't know what I was going to write about until I forgot my password, then remembered it, then realized that this minor event underscored a uniquely 21st century dilemma that I have no doubt a lot of us are having-- and what better way to celebrate a 200th blogday than by bitching about something that affects not just me, but you, too? Here's the dilemma:

I have too fucking many usernames and passwords.

I mean, Jesus Christ. What the dick?

Here's a short list of all the institutions/websites I frequent with at least moderate regularity that force me to keep track of a username and password:

Auto Insurance website

Credit Card website

My bank's website

My cellphone company's website

Health insurance website

Student loan website

Online class website

PayPal

Ebay

Photobucket

Shutterfly (yes, we do both-- one for business, one for pleasure. Yowza!)

Email

Work email

Facebook

Amazon

And, of course

www.blogger.com

And Icerocket, the blog tracking software I use so that I know when I am visited by Guelph, Ontario or Fishers, Indiana or Elmhurst, Illinois. Hi, y'alls! I see you!

And that's just a sampling of websites that require username and password entry. There are at least eight or nine that I have to use for work purposes that I can frequently never remember. I just had to ask my boss how to log into the Theatre Alliance website because I couldn't remember the username and password. Pretty sad.

But, seriously, how's a brotha supposed to keep track of all his skeez like that? Are we supposed to write it all down, every username and every password for all our websites-- even our financial institutions and such, so that any petty pilferer or day laborer who happens to be working in our house can access anything and everything online? I know we're not supposed to make all our usernames and passwords exactly the same, because then, one someone has one, they have them all.

Right?

This isn't just me, right?

So, I make them slightly different, but then I can never remember which variant of which username or password goes with what website. And, of course, the credit card website is the one I can never remember, and it's one of the few websites that, if you get it wrong three times, sorry! You're locked out until tomorrow. Try again, please.

How did it come to this? Sure, usernames and passwords are good ideas in theory, but sometimes all this security blows up in our faces when we try to pay our credit card bill online. We ought to be rewarded for "going green" and getting paperless statements-- instead we're forced to commit to memory dozens of usernames and passwords until they start leaking out of our ears. I mean, yeah, we're young and virile now, but as Generation Y or whatever the fuck we are ages, we're never going to be able to remember all this shit.

Will "Password Retrieval Services" start springing up all over the place, created by some enterprising bastard wishing to capitalize off the graying of America's online generation? Will websites start charging you a dollar every time you can't remember your password, like your R.A. used to do when you couldn't find your dorm room key?

Speaking of higher education, I think the first online password I ever created was in college. This demonstrates how old I am. My freshman year, I was shoved in a cramped dorm room with a shoulder-tufted leviathan who grunted instead of speaking, showered in Aqua Velva and possessed a remarkably cro-magnon forehead. The dorm building was one of the oldest on the campus, the windows only opened a crack, there was no air conditioning and the floors were movie theatre sticky. The dorm's name was Walz.

My online password for all of freshman year?

ihatewalz

HOLY WALRUS TITTIES, BATMAN: IT'S MY MASONIC APRON'S 100th BLOGDAY!

It's a day I thought would never come.

I wistfully remember my old blog's 100th blogday. And 200th. And 300th. I snuffed that bastard out at 336 posts, and it still pains me. But what is anonymous blogging when it ceases to be anonymous?

Oh, right-- a threat to one's way-of-life.

Right.

After I killed the old blog, I got very depressed. Mrs. Apron got even more depressed, I think and, even though I created My Masonic Apron that very same day, even though I made a clear statement that I was not going to wave bye-byes to the blogging world, there was a definite fear that I would not return with the same resolve I had from June-March.

And, you know what? I probably haven't.

I am thrilled, though, to have a dedicated emsemble of readers who, apparently, don't care about that or just haven't noticed. Thanks, buddieboos!

These blogs are funny little things, aren't they? In the old days of philosophy and pointless masturbation, we used to wonder "Why am I here?" When bloggers get all philosophical and meta, we wonder, "Why are you here?" Seriously-- with so many other blogs out there in the universe, what brings you here? I mean, there aren't even any YouTube clips to watch. I should probably look into that. But I won't.

Anywhoo, in the tradition of my blogdays of yore, instead of needlessly pontificating and getting all smushy about life and blogging and the momentousness of the blogday event before us, I'll just do what I normally do on here: lift up my masonic apron for all's y'alls to get a good, strong whiff and a tasteless peek.

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

"Surprise: You're The Asshole!"

I had to pop into Genaurdi's supermarket this morning, because I promised Mrs. Apron I would. If you can't keep your promise to your wife, especially such a banal and easily accomplished promise, than you're pretty much a totally useless fuckhead.

(Remind me of that, will you, the next time I forget that peeing in the shower is inappropriate for someone with two advanced degrees and the correct number of chromosomes.)

I went in there prior to heading in for work and I raced around like a madman, fearing I would be late for work, only to later arrive at work 1/2-an-hour early. I was in and out of the supermarket in 7 minutes, probably a record, and, if not, close. As I tromped through the prepared food section, I paused for approximately five-or-so-seconds to catch an Asian man involved in a heated debate with the obese, Asian woman behind the sushi counter.

"Just tell me," the customer implored, "Do you use long-grain rice or not? Also-- what is your process for making the tempura? I want to know what kind of oils you use. Okay? O-i-l." He sounded out the word for her very clearly and very loudly, just in case she happened to be retarded, deaf and/or made of wood-chips.

Wow, I thought as I passed by this very unusual exchange, you, sir, are a fucking asshole. What, exactly, do you hope to gain by berating the unfortunate, lumpy, pock-marked behemoth who has the misfortune to prepare sushi for arrogant bastards like you in exchange for $6.00/hr and a ten minute pee-pee/psychotic meltdown prevention break? What do you really want to know? "You make sushi like mamasan?" No, needledick. Of course she doesn't. Because she doesn't love you. Only mamasan love you. Long time. Now go buy a fucking sandwich like everybody else and leave this poor potatosack-shaped woman alone. Really, it's your fault for buying the food of your own culture at a supermarket. What do you expect? Do you think I would buy falafel from Shoprite? No. I mean, I don't eat that shit anyway. I hate chickpeas.

After buying my six groceries, I found that I had time to go run the groceries home to the refrigerator before work instead of leaving them in the car to spoil in the 70 degree sun, which was fortunate, because spoiling the groceries kind of defeats the points you score from remembering to go to the market and remembering not to step on the dog's face while he sleeps. On my way home, I was in back of a McCandless Home Heating gas truck (and if I had seen the truck number, I would have posted it here, you bastard) that was driving approximately seven miles-per-hour. He made a left turn, and I did the same behind him and, at the corner, he put on his hazard lights and stopped at the curb. Well, half of my car's ass was hanging in the middle of the intersection, as I was in mid-turn behind the fucker. So, I checked and then I drove around him. A van was coming down the street from the other way, but he was going extremely slow and I had ample time to pass the parked gas truck. As I passed him, he stuck his scruffy head out the window, pointed at the slowly-approaching van and screamed,

"WHAT DO YOU THINK I PULLED OVER FOR, YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!"

If I had more time, bigger balls, a loaded Glock, or life insurance, I would have slammed on the brakes and shouted back,

"MAYBE TO MAKE A FUCKING GAS DELIVERY AT THE HOUSE ON THE CORNER, YOU SHIT-FACED, HALF-WITTED SISTER-FUCK!"

But I didn't have either of those four aforementioned items, so I just kept on driving. Yet another example of someone thinking they were doing the right thing by calling someone out on a wrong, only to commit a larger, more obscene wrong. You may have thought I was the asshole, but, surprise, you're the asshole!

Then, later on in the day, I saw a cadre of fat, slovenly, pimply adolescents horsing around at a playground and I thought, "Gee, it's 10:30am: you numbtitties should be in school. 'Cause nothing makes you look more like an asshole than being fifteen, playing around on a swingset in the middle of the morning, while 3 and 4 year olds with their parents can only look on, dejected and bemused, wondering if that's what they'll become.