Hello Anger, My Old Friend

Through the years, I’ve done some pretty boneheaded things. Like the time I drove my brother’s new scooter into the side of my Dad’s truck. At 12, I was relatively new to driving motorized, two-wheeled vehicles, and on my first go ‘round, I wasn’t 100% confident in my ability to distinguish between throttle and brake, both of which were conveniently located on the right handlebar. Looking back, I probably should have solidified that in my mind before assuming the reigns. But I didn’t. So, as I sped towards the side of the parked truck, I reached for the brake, but instead choked down on the throttle. The little red Toyota never saw what hit it. In a flash, I had lodged the scooter securely into the truck’s rear quarter panel, ripping it in two. That was boneheaded.


But of all my ridiculously dumb moves, the worst, by a country mile, are the ones committed while under the influence of anger. I once was conscripted by the Mrs. into attaching sun screens to our windows in our Arizona home. Her desire, which I have to admit was a noble one, was to provide us with the means to save on our electric bill. However, her timing couldn’t have been worse. It was the middle of a Arizonan summer’s afternoon. It was hot. Hellish hot. On top of that, it was Sunday – or as I like to call it – nap day. I would have gladly done it after my nap… after it had cooled down a bit. But that wasn’t good enough, and she let me know it. So I relented, but I did so under the influence of anger.


A funny thing happens when you’re angry – you lose all ability to think rationally. Such was the case with me, anyways. In my rush to get the screens up, I made several costly mistakes. Mistake #1- I measured incorrectly. You see, the windows ended up being about a half inch wider and a half inch longer than the hastily made screens. But I was not about to make my mistake the focal point of the afternoon. No way, in pig-headed determination, I pressed on, thinking I could somehow screw the screen into the window frame at an angle and miss the glazing entirely. Which leads us to mistake #2 – I tried to correct a previous mistake with another one. As I drilled through the frame of the screen, I heard distinct pop. It wasn’t a pleasant sounding pop, such as the sound of pop corn or rice kispies. This was an ominous sounding pop, like the sound of a blood vessel exploding in one’s head. I rushed inside to assess the damage from another angle. From the outside, it looked as if the window was in 7 different pieces. Hopefully , it would look better from the inside. As I walked into our bedroom, I found my wife lying on our bed. I was furious. I couldn’t take my anger out on her – I hadn’t hit her once in the 7 years we had been married, and I wasn’t about to start today. Instead, I quickly rushed to mistake #3 – I tried to kick one of my son’s toys, which was lying innocently on the floor of my bedroom. Notice the word ‘tried’. In my state of anger, I completely missed the toy. As I whiffed on the toy, I heard another pop. This, too, was not a pleasant pop. This one came from my knee as I hyper-extended it by about 90 degrees. I walked with a limp for days, and sometimes, when it’s really cold, I can still feel the pain in my knee.


Last night, my old friend anger dropped in at the worst possible moment. We were in bed. I was exhausted. I came very close to falling asleep. Then Heather tossed. Now, I must clarify something here. My wife does nothing half-way. It’s all or nothing, even when she’s tossing and turning in the bed. As she inexplicably levitated off the bed, rolled over in mid-air and then allowed her body to come crashing down on the mattress with a loud THUD, I was awakened. “No matter,” I thought to myself. “I’ll just drift off again.” A few minutes later, it happened again. Then again. Then again. I finally lost count of just how many times we replayed this dreadful scene, but with each deafening thud, I got a little bit angrier. I politely asked Heather to stop moving, but it turns out, she was asleep the entire time. So after an hour and a half of angry frustration, I got up out of bed and headed into the den to sleep on my loveseat-sized couch. As I made my way through the hall in the darkness, I heard another pop. Like so many that have gone before, this was not a pleasant sounding pop. This was the pop of my ring toe smacking against the tire of my daughter's tricycle which, for some unknown reason, we keep in the house. I bit my tongue as the pain shot through my foot, up my leg and rattled around in my head. But like that sunny day in Arizona a few years before, I was too proud to stop and see about my wound. No sir, I went straight to the couch and slept like a baby – literally… I had to, because I’m in the fetal position, I won’t fit on our couch. I woke up the next morning, to the sight of a battered toe. Thinking I had just jammed it real good, I decided to give it a good yank, so as to pop it back into place (there’s that word again). This was mistake #2. The throbbing finally quit around lunch time.


I’ve heard you can tell a lot about a man by the company he keeps. Those of us who keep company with Anger… often walk with a limp.

My Ruben Bender

I'm coming off a 3-day Ruben binge, so I apologize in advance for the words I am about to type. I'm cranky, and I cannot be sure that I will be very cordial as I pontificate. For days, I've been living, moving and breathing under the intoxicating influence of my favorite sandwich. But as Newton taught us, what goes up must come down, and I'm well on my way to a fiery crash. Sweet dreams and flying machines in pieces on the ground.

It all started on Saturday, when my wife returned from the market with a large bag of thinly-sliced, perfectly-cooked corned beef, 2 loaves of Jewish rye, a large bag of sauerkraut, a bag of deliciously delightful deli Swiss cheese and a bottle of Thousand Island dressing. I wept as I opened the grocery bags and caressed what would soon be breakfast, lunch and dinner over the next few days. With one seemingly innocuous purchase, she had made me a happy man, though she would live to regret her decision and soon found herself in the midst of an intervention.

It had been years since my last Ruben bender. So long, in fact, that I had convinced myself that I had tamed my cravings for this succulent sandwich. Wickenburg, AZ, was where it all began, which in itself is an irony. You see, Wickenburg is the treatment center capital of the US. Folks come from all over the world to get cleaned up from their addictions in Wickenburg, and yet it was here that I developed my first serious addiction.

Frank's Deli had just opened up. I was young and impressionable. I had never eaten a Ruben - never even heard of 'em, actually. I know it may seem strange to you, but although many wonderful culinary creations have hailed from the Southeast over the years, sandwiches are not chief among them. In my home town, your sandwich options were ham and cheese, pimento cheese, or on rare occasions, banana and mayonnaise. Corned beef was not an orthodox food item in my house, and I was 24 before I discovered the magical mystery tour that is sauerkraut. On a wild hare, I decided to expand my horizons, so I ordered up a Ruben. I think it was the name that first drew me in. Ruben. It's ethnic... it's edgy... and it's downright fun to say. While my wife was busy ordering an entree with a side of this and a side of that, but not too heavy on the this-that-and-the-other, I just winked at the waitress and said, 'give me a Ruben, sweetheart.' When my order arrived, I was intrigued. Though promising with its beef, dripping melted cheese and kraut, I was taken aback by the 2 thick slabs of marble rye bread that flanked my inner sandwich goody. My previous encounters with rye bread had all ended badly, as the mediciney taste of caraway seed sometimes triggers my gag reflexes. But I had come too far to back down at this point. The last thing I remember, as I picked up the massive sandwich, was the feeling of melted butter running down my arms as I lunged face-first into the steamy layers of beef, cheese, kraut and dressing. Instantly, I was transported to a time and a place that transcended all that I had previously known. The room began to spin as I saw colors never before seen by the human eye. Ethereal, melodious sounds began to woo me as my body shivered with delight. I had become one with the Ruben, and like so many junkies who had gone before me, I was hooked.

That first Ruben led to another... then another. Pretty soon, I was a regular at Frank’s. In a month’s time, our ‘Dining Out’ budget was shot to hell. When the money ran out, I looked for new ways to fund my addiction. Armed robbery, prostitution, dealing… I would have pursued any of them had I not had such generous friends who willingly supported my habit. Fortunately, my wife loved me enough then to intervene and get me the help that I needed. Thanks to her, I’m alive today. What possessed her to dangle the forbidden fruit in front of my face once more, I may never know.

As for me, I’m thinking a trip to Wickenburg may be in order. Somehow, I’ve got to get the help that I need. And if the plethora of treatment centers can’t give me the solution to my problem, there’s always Frank’s Deli.

Happy 36th

I just turned 36 a week ago. It was a milestone birthday for me. You see, I’ve now outlived my biological father. He died at 35, and for years, the thought of turning the very age at which he passed was not a welcome one for me. So much so, in fact, I often found myself wishing I could fast forward to my 36^th birthday, so I could just be done with it all. I know this may seem odd to you, but truth be told, we all wrestle with certain oddities that, if left unchecked, can shape our realities. And for years, this was my pet oddity.

Now, let me be clear on something. I am a profound lover of Jesus Christ, and over the years I have learned to trust Him in this area of my life. I have honestly experienced monumental victory over a fear of death that once haunted me. Even so, 35, for me, was always the final battle. And I knew that it would have to be fought. So I just wanted it over and done with.

But now that it is, I am struck with remorse over a life that was not allowed to live in the present, because of its preoccupation with the future. In other words, I spent so much energy wanting time to pass that I didn’t make the most of the time that I had. Now that I’m 36, I can hear the clock ticking, and the question that is being asked of me is “what will you do with the time you've been given?”

We’re all going to die. That is inevitable. But how many of us truly live? How many of us really enjoy life? Savor its fragrances, bask in it’s warm hues and rich tones, dance to its rythms? How many of us are lucid enough to recognize the preciousness of the gift of life that we've received? At 36, I am hit with the reality that I only get one go round on the carousel, and I’ve missed too much of the ride. I’ve wasted opportunities, avoided uncomfortable situations, shunned risk and surrounded myself with people and things that make me feel safe. But I’m done with safe. It’s now time to live, and live with intention.

What’s in your heart? What do you want to do with your life? Who do you want to be? What is your dream? What do you want to be said about you when they lay your lifeless body to rest? These are the questions I’m now asking myself, and I encourage you to do the same.

As a follower of Jesus, I know that our dreams were given to us by God Himself. And the greatest act of worship to the God of creation is to chase those dreams down with fearless abandonment.

We each have the opportunity to write our own eulogies, and I’m now in the process of thinking about what I want mine to say.

For those of you who are wondering, yes this is the funny guy’s blog, but it’s been hijacked by a profound thinker. The funny guy will be back in time for the next blog.

English Good

I had to work the day after the day after Christmas, which in itself is a hardship. And given the circumstances, I’m sure anyone could have had an ‘off day’. I certainly did, and I haven’t been able to let go of it yet.

My 12th grade English teacher came into the bank. I hadn’t seen her in 17 and a half years. Many things can change in a 17 and a half year period, however she is not one of them. In my younger days, I called her the pit bull because of her stern demeanor and her hulk-like forearms. I had forgotten this, but it all came back to me the instant I saw her again. She embraced me with her burly arms as she greeted me. It was a good hug, but not one you’d expect from an elderly woman. We briefly exchanged pleasantries. Then I asked her about my son, who now attends my alma matter, where she holds an administrative position. And this is where I collapsed.

“Oh, he’s wonderful,” she said as her expression moved from pit bull to grandma. “We don’t have any trouble out of him. He’s a good student and he’s so smart, especially in math. Just like his daddy.” And like a jolt of lightning out of the clear blue, it hit me. My English teacher was insinuating that I was no good in English. Oh sure, to the average person, it sounds as if I was being complimented. But I am no average person (see the genius article below). I can read between the lines. I could hear what she was saying, loud and clear: “You must have been smart in math, because you sure as heck sucked at English.”

I protested, “Actually, Isaac is very verbal, just like me.” And this is where the train wreck occurred. I panicked. I literally couldn’t construct a linear thought from that point. Ever try to convince someone you’re good at something while failing to do the very thing you’re bragging about? I stuttered. My sentences ran on. I dangled my participles. I even ended a sentence with a preposition. I could see the doubt in her eye, and I should have just ended the conversation there. But I didn’t. I went on. Out of desperation, I began a ‘no really’ tirade of nonsense as I desperately tried to convince her of my verbal proficiency. I’m not sure exactly what I said, but as I look back, I remember it this way: “me good English. Me want to write book. Isaac too book write yes. English good. Ben good too.”

The conversation eventually collapsed, and we parted ways. As we did, I detected a slight twinkle in her eye. Only it wasn’t a feel good twinkle. It was more like an ‘I told you so twinkle’. In the course of just 10 minutes, I had convinced us both that I am math smart.

And After the 6th Blog, I Rested

I’m young. I know this to be true, despite the fact that sometimes I ache when I get up in the morning. Oh sure, I’m now officially in my late 30’s, but relatively speaking, I’m still very much young and spry. I say this because I still have my boyish good looks, and I can also hold my own on the tennis court (at least against the senior citizens that I often find myself playing with). However, like most young people I know, I sometimes have a problem biting off more than I can chew.

When I began this blog some 2 months ago, I had big plans for it. Very big plans. This was to be my ticket to stardom – a guaranteed means of connecting my talent with those who would value it enough to pay. I know that I have what it takes to be a literary star, and this blog was all about exposure. I was confident that, after a few brilliant posts, my subscriber list would explode in population size - enough so to make the state of Texas blush. I was on my way to becoming a pop culture sensation, all thanks to this blog, and at some point, some national blogging syndicate would sign me to a multi-year, multi-million dollar contract. I would never have to work another day in my life. It was a brilliantly concocted, fail-safe plan. After all, if I could get my material on the internet, I was guaranteed success – they don’t just let any old fool onto the world wide web.

Ah, but the best laid plans of mice and men…

What I hadn’t counted on was the x factor. As in, I have x-hausted all of my creative resources on just 6 blogs and I only have 3 subscribers… how x-cruciating!

And as quickly as it began, the dream started to sputter. I soon found myself in the throes of a mild state of semi-depression, having completely lost the desire to blog. As a result, I was lost. What's a fish without water? What's pepperoni without pizza? What's Brad without Angelina? What’s a writer when there’s nothing to write about?

In my state of lostness, I sought escape. I considered turning to alcohol to take the edge off the pain, but my Christian faith demands that I not take too much pleasure there. I thought about burying myself in my career, but as I’ve eluded to in other posts, the IT officer at the Bank of Edison doesn’t really have enough work to cover the mandated 32 hours a week, let alone a substantial burial. So in desperation, my thoughts turned darker, and I considered ending it all. And just when I was on the verge of announcing the death of my blog, it hit me. Even God found it necessary to take a breather from time to time. After all, He rested on the 7^th day, so why shouldn’t I take some much needed R&R after my 6^th blog.

What can I tell you friends? It worked. I've now rediscovered my love for blogging. I’m in the saddle once more, and I have lots to blog about. So, while I’m still confident that the million-dollar contract is soon in coming, I’m now writing for the sheer joy of blogging alone.

So eat up, 'Blah, Blah, Blog' fans… ‘cause in the words of the late great George Costanza, “I’m back baby!”

A Night To Remember

Yesterday was a big day for the Dismukes household. A very big day. November 20, 2008 will go down in the annals of the Dismukes family history as one of the greatest days in the month of November, 2008 - just ahead of the day that I hung out with the Masons and nearly ate myself into a sugar induced coma and right behind (I predict) Thanksgiving Day itself. No, we weren’t celebrating Universal Children’s Day or even African Industrialization Day (though it was tempting). No sir. November 20 for the Dismukes family was all about college football. The 7-3 Georgia Tech Yellow Jackets played host to the #23 Miami Hurricanes in a Thursday night clash at Bobby Dodd Stadium in Atlanta, GA, and no Dismukes in my family was about to miss out.

The 2 older kids got to sit out a day of school for the big event, which instantly put this day among the grand occasions of holidays, teacher work days and the chicken pox. We began the 3 hour trek northward to the ATL at around 10 in the morning. While all members of the family were present, we were not all at 100 percent. Abby was still hanging on to a cold, and I was recovering from a stomach bug that had manifested the day before. Never you worry, however. Nothing keeps a Dismukes from enjoying Georgia Tech football. I simply popped a half dozen or so Immodium and we all drove northward for the big event.

The forecast for the evening called for a steady breeze of arctic cold temperatures, so we stopped along the way to buy some thermal underwear for everyone. As we pulled into the parking lot of Dick’s Sporting Goods, my son made an unwise decision. He used the store’s name to his advantage and made several crude jokes before he could be reached with a backhand. But the fascination for anatomy didn’t end in the parking lot. Once inside, he yanked down the pants of a sporty mannequin to see if he was anatomically correct. Then while waiting in the checkout line, he grabbed a couple of nearby oversized Koosh balls, which he used to pretend that he had ‘boobies’. After a few snickers from nearby onlookers, I administered another backhand.

We left Dick’s and headed up to the Tech campus. We arrived at around 3:00. The plan was to meet up with 2 old college buddies of mine, along with their families, and spend the afternoon tail-gaiting and visiting with old friends. We parked in the parking lot of the world famous Varsity – world’s largest drive-in restaurant – just blocks away from the beautiful downtown campus. We were the first to arrive, so we took our time getting our things together. Yes… I said ‘things’. When I was young and single, going to a ball game required only that I wear clothes. Now that I have kids, going to a game requires diaper bags, coats, snacks, crayons, extra clothes, sippie cups, pacifiers, seat cushions, and a football. We loaded ourselves up like pack mules, locked the car doors, grabbed the kids and began the walk to campus. After several minutes it dawned on me. We had left the most precious item in the car – the tickets. We headed back. Eventually we found them tucked up under the center console, but for a few minutes, I was panicked.

Having arrived on campus so early for a 7:30 game, we were able to claim our ground relatively easy. I threw the football with the kids until our friends arrived. Within an hour and a half, everyone was there, catching up, eating, and enjoying the on campus festivities. As the band assembled on the lawn in front of the Student Center, we all went closer for a listen. With my 2-year old daughter in hand, I made my way closer and waded through a flock of female Tech cheerleaders. I noticed that they didn’t appear manish as they did back when I was in school. No sir, these girls were actually cute. They all gawked at my daughter and smiled at me as we passed by. A thought hit me, “I finally have the attention of some cute cheerleaders and I can’t do a darn thing about it.” The thought passed quickly as the kids played football while we listened to the band. The Ramblin’ Wreck (a historical Georgia Tech icon picture above) drove by and the kids were quickly in hot pursuit. Isaac and Emily both touched it and swore they would never wash their hands again. I was proud of them. At twilight, we looked up in the sky and caught a glimpse of the Space Shuttle Endeavor as it orbited the Earth with 3 Georgia Tech graduates on board. It was a profound moment.

We caught the band once more at the library, then joined them as they marched ‘down the hill’ towards the stadium. The kids were eating it up – every moment of it. As we reached the stadium, we said our good-byes to friends and headed for our seats. It was cold – very cold. But we were warmed from the inside out by something greater – a severe butt-whipping by the Yellow Jackets over Thug U. That and the fact that we were in the midst of another wonderful family trip.

Sometimes being a Dismukes is hard business – like when people mispronounce your name, or when they make jokes about mucous and then laugh as if it were an original thought, or at a family reunion when there’s hardly anybody there (unlike the Smith or Jones family reunions where they must pack out entire football stadiums). But not last night. No sir, last night was a night for the Dismukes – one we’ll be talking about for days.

A Genius in the Making

The other day, I was in my back yard when I spotted my neighbors coming out of their house. I quickly darted behind the rapidly deteriorating tool shed behind my house before they could spot me, and I watched them through the ever widening cracks in the building’s siding. As they got into their SUV and drove out of sight, it dawned on me that there’s something wrong with the picture in which I then found myself. After all, it’s not every day that you hear of a 35 year old man spying on his neighbors in broad daylight. Then it hit me. I wasn’t spying. I was avoiding.

I was instantly ashamed. Then I thought of all the times I’ve avoided people over the course of my 35 years. I have actually become quite good at it. From fake stomach aches to made up schedule conflicts to the age-old excuse of “I was going to go, but I fell asleep” I’ve avoided lots of potentially uncomfortable situations over the course of my young life. Take for instance, my chance encounter with an old high school classmate, which took place just a few weeks ago. I hadn’t seen Ray in almost 18 years. I was in Target with my daughter. We were shopping for men’s toiletries, when I looked up and discovered a face that just 18 years earlier had been covered in the most horrible acne you’d ever hope to see. Now clean shaven and acne free, Ray had all the signs of a model citizen, and I should have approached him. I didn’t. Instead, Emily and I spent the next 30 minutes dodging in and out of the aisles like cockroaches in a recently lit room, hoping that he wouldn’t spot us. Actually… I was hoping. Poor Emily was as confused as she was dizzy from all of our back tracking. She couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t just go say ‘hey’ to my old friend.

At first glance, such antisocial behavior can be a little troubling. After all, many criminals get their start by spying on their neighbors and dodging old friends at Target. However, I’d like to offer an alternative explanation. My anti-social tendencies are less a sign of criminal element and more an indication of genius… ness.

Schopenhauer postulated that true geniuses are almost always anti-social. One of the reasons for this is the simple fact that a genius can’t find intellectual stimulation in others, so he’s forced to choose instead his own company. Another cause for the observed behavior is the fact that geniuses often see the world in a different light than others – so it becomes necessary for them to ‘break away’ from the widely accepted views of the masses by refusing to conform to their social bonds.

Now, I’m not exactly sure who Schopenhauer is, but he makes a very compelling case. After all, I’ve always rather enjoyed my own company and many times, I find myself laughing out loud at my own internal dialogue. Other people, for the most part, just aren’t that interesting, and many times I fake laugh at their jokes just to get them to go away. Sometimes this backfires – like when I become so bored that I quit listening, then I fake laugh as they’re telling me about the death of a loved one. Of course, because I’ve quit listening, they’re the only ones who truly feel uncomfortable, so it’s not all bad.

At this point in my argument, you may be thinking, “what other signs of genius-ness have you demonstrated?” I’ve never developed an atomic bomb. I didn’t paint ‘The Last Supper’ or compose Sonatas at the age of 4. I don’t hold the patent to the light bulb or the computer. When I was 8, I did manage to build a house for my dog Skipper. I framed out the sides using 1x6’s, which took a long time. I was only 8. So when it came time to putting a roof on, I opted for the quick and easy route of buying a sheet of poster board and gluing it to the frame. I painted the whole thing baby blue, except for the top, which was a neon yellow sheet of poster board. Skipper was too scared of the house’s unnatural color that he never once went inside. My brother took one look at it and said, “nice job, genius.” And while I’m sure he meant well, I’m not sure that dog house qualifies me for genius status.

But I’m convinced that one day I will do something great. One day I will invent something. Or perhaps I’ll sculpt something beautiful. Or maybe I’ll become President of the US or start a multi-level marketing company. Until then, however, I’m a genius waiting to happen. I show all the signs. I’m truly an Einstein in the making.