mission creep

a little over a month ago, mr nice guy posted a wee mission statement. it was a lofty list of goals for his time on leave. i have no doubt that the faithful among you are dying, DYING, to know: how is it going? art thou meeting thine goals, goodman nice guy? well, let me tell you!

1. the sideburns: ah. well, the sideburns suffered a setback. you see, i did grow a manly set of deadly burning chops. and the lord saw that it was good. then my hair got very long and afrolicious and my little *cough gag* "soulpatch" got real mangy. in short, i looked like the banjo player of your least favorite bluegrass band (we interrupt the regularly scheduled nice-guy-programming for this banjo-oriented joke: How can you tell if the stage is level at a bluegrass concert? The banjo player is drooling from both sides of his mouth.). anyway, i looked like some feral unabomber bear hunter. something had to go. it was the sideburns. stupidly, the next day i got a last-minute unplanned haircut. so. in one day i essentially went from Grisly Man to Opie. i went from looking like a child-molesting 48-year-old to a 12-year-old child molestee. i was stymied. flummoxed, even. and so, i have grown back the sideburns! they are back! and now i look like a mangy 12-year-old with sideburns. not sexy, people. not sexy.

2. the ipod: MY GOD. at this point i need tangible proof that steve jobs doesn't have it out for ME and ME ALONE. i have had three ipods in 14 months and ALL OF THEM HAVE DIED HORRIBLE DEATHS FROM AUTO-IPODIC ASPHYXIATION. they just stop working. i brought my ipod in to the egregiously inaccurately named "genius bar" at the otherwise glorious apple store. i showed my ipod to the "genius" (MAN, CAN YOU TASTE THE IRONY??) and, shaking with epileptic anger, i said "i have not dropped, kicked, drop-kicked, thrown, doused, set fire to, stabbed, urinated upon, swallowed, stuck in the coffee grinder, froze, grown sideburns near, or otherwise besmirched my ipod AND YET FOR THE THIRD TIME IN A ROW IT HAS DECIDED TO STOP WORKING." he shrugged and said "it's a piece of hardware. sometimes they stop working. here's a free replacement." i said "i love steve jobs, even though he so clearly hates me." the pendulum of rage, her swing is fierce. she is fickle. and my ipod? now that it is undead, it is better than yours.

3. the figuring out how not to work and still become independently wealthy: actually, we might have solved this problem after all. it seems that in mrs nice guy's office building there is a modeling agency for babies (ahhh, only in new york) called Funny Face. the other day i paid mrs nice guy a visit at her office, but not before being stopped by a craggly old smoking lady on the sidewalk who said: "ehh, that's a good lookin' baby you got there. you should bring photos by my office. you know, funny face." coming from los angeles, i missed not one beat: "oh so you're an agent," i said, thoroughly nonplussed. she said "yeah, i'm an agent." but she said it in this tone of voice that was meant to convey: "agent?! i am the BEST IN THE BUSINESS, SWEETHEART. watch your step." so now i am constantly hectoring mrs nice guy to bring photos to the baby modeling agency. imagine: college tuition paid! baby needs new pairs of shoes! free vacations on baby! but, sadly, mrs nice guy is not so hot on the idea. i sense a heroic battle on the horizon.

4. the feeling sexless in the bjorn: guess what! mr nice guy has succeeded in getting hit upon while wearing the bjorn! yes! it's true! i was in a store with the kid this weekend, browsing, and the proprietrix sauntered up and totally busted a full-frontal move on me. ("hiiii! how are you. how is your day going? it's so good to see you.") what's the rub, you ask? ah, the rub: mrs nice guy was standing right next to me. so flagrantly devastating was the shoplady's come-on that, upon exiting the store, mrs nice guy turned to me and, with rage-spittle in the corners of her mouth, sputteringly inquired "WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT ALL ABOUT????" honestly? here's the story: i bought mrs nice guy her birthday gift there earlier this year. while buying the gift, i spent some time casually, innocently, non-flirtingly, chatting with the aforementioned proprietrix, who, i should note, pointed out that she was engaged to be married. i bought mrs nice guy gifts--a very handsome imitation leather bag and some fancy flip-flops. mrs nice guy, for her part, decided to return the handsome imitation leather bag. last week, as we were passing the store, mrs nice guy demanded to go in and see what she could get for her store credit. it turns out that seeing a newly-married/apparently-disgruntled proprietrix get her freak on all over mr nice guy was not what the wife had wanted in exchange. my theory: it was the bjorn.

5: the knee surgery: oy. my knees could write a blog of their own. the long and short of it is that i was pretty sure i needed a quasi-experimental meniscal transplant surgery. apparently, one of my many, many teenage-era knee surgeries was a medial meniscectomy on my left knee, which means that my left knee no longer produces milk. that was then. as for now, the transplant surgery is apparently no longer an option because it seems that my knee is too far gone to repair. like ten years too far gone. but wait there's more: the lateral meniscus of the same knee, the little meniscus that actually remains in that knee, is torn. so at 30 years of age i have arthritis. bone is grinding against bone. the joint is beginning to bow. it hurts all the time. in a word: i am 100% grade-A 30-year-old man-meat with 100% grade-F 90-year-old knee-meat. i saw a super knee guru at the "hospital for special surgery" (so named because the "hospital for patients who should relinquish all hope of ever walking ever again" sounded too grim) and he said "here's a knee brace. there's nothing we can do. you're fucked."