I'm baaaack!

Oh man, does it feel good to be back or what? Let's jump right in and get caught up...

What the Heck has Mike Been Doing?

Getting Married
I'm sure you've seen the pictures on Facebook (Speaking of, I'm now at www.facebook.com/nagel.mike - the other itinerations of my custom url had been taken by Mike Nagel's with far fewer friends and way more time on their hands. And I'm mad about it.). Please do take the time to soak in the glory that is a tailored tuxedo worn with white Chuck Taylors, while you're at it. We do promise to post pics of our own as soon as we get the digitals back from our photographer.

As I was remarking to a co-worker the other day, the process of getting married is pretty much like having a second, full-time job. One that's a lot of fun, but also takes a lot of work, a lot of time, a lot of patience, and you have to pay half the salary of your other job to work there. Oh, and when the job's over, there's no exit interview. There's just half a cake left and a car ride to a court-mandated, two-week vacation where you're left to wonder, "Did that just happen?"

I do want to write more about the wedding in the near future, but for now I feel guilty about mentioning it at all since Sonja and I have yet to post a single thank-you in the seven weeks after the Big Day.

Honeymooning
If you have about six hours to spare (like, you know, when you're at work reading this), you can check out the pictures of our two-week trip to Italy: Rome, Florence, a quick stop in Pisa, a day trip via bike through Tuscany, and Venice. As you'll see, the trip was absolutely amazing... and I'll write all about it coming up. Suffice it to say, we have a whole lot of souvenirs hanging on the walls of our place.

Moving In
Speaking of, did you know when someone moves in with someone else it takes them twice as long to do it as it would if just one of them moved? Yeah, we're still finding places to put all of Sonja's stuff and others places where we can donate mine.

More importantly, when you get married, people give you a lot of stuff. And they give you a lot of money. We're enjoying refurbishing the kitchen and the non-existent linen closet.

Work
Yup, back at it. Moving on!

Reading
Okay, so I'm not reading that much, but I am reading a little. I'll even tell you what I'm reading - Team of Rivals - in the hope that the next time one of you asks what I'm reading I'll have finished and moved on to something else. If not, I'll lie and say I've been buried up to *here* in literary magazines and haven't touched any book-length work in ages, darling.

Music
So, here's what it's my iPod of late that you should totally check out... MuteMath's Spotlight EP - fantastic single from an album that drops on 8/18, Our Lady Peace Burn, Burn if only for nostalgic purposes, The Devil Wears Prada Dear Love: A Beautiful Dischord suggested by a dude from GYG, and Michael Jackson Off the Wall because it's great to remember when the King of Pop was still royalty.

And While I was Writing This Post...
I learned how to pop popcorn on the stove without a JiffyPop exploding foil bag.

A Christmas Reading...

My company held its annual holiday party last night, and the organizers asked me and a co-worker to do a reading at the end of the night. It actually was my first-ever reading and a ton of fun.

Each of wrote the "12 Days of Christmas" from their genders perspective. Here's what I came up with...

Sunday, December 14th – 12 days to go. I don’t have a gift. Probably should get one. But it’s a Sunday. They play football on Sundays. And, on Sundays, I eat pizza, chips and drink beer until I can’t bring another crust to my lips or raise the bottle in my hand. Since it’s a triple-header today, there will be no shopping for me.

Monday, December 15th – I know she wants something. And, if history is any proof, she probably dropped hints. But they’re never good enough! She mentioned something about a sweater and her size, I tried to remember it, but then I started thinking about meatball subs. Mmm… I love meatball subs. This other time, we were driving and I’m pretty sure she gazed longingly at a spa, but I forgot about it because I was trying to figure out my miles per gallon ratio. It’s so much better on the highways—I can do almost 31 versus 27 in the cities. Do you know how much money that saves? Let’s see… carry the four… It’s like 7.3 cents per mile!

Tuesday, December 16th– I’d go shopping, but ESPN’s showing a re-run of the 2008 World Series of Poker. I’m going to watch it because there’s nothing quite so awesome as a bunch of fat guys wearing sunglasses, struggling to breathe while they grunt bets and eat French fries in between hands. Nine shopping days left.

Wednesday, December 17th – I went to the mall today on my lunch break. No, really. I walked past stores and everything. It was exhausting and I built up an appetite, so I got lunch at Panda Express. Mmmm… orange chicken. Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la!

Thursday, December 18th – Spent the evening examining the gifts under our tree, hoping that I’d put one underneath and completely forgot about buying it. It’s happened before. Hmm… let’s see… None of the gifts are wrapped in grocery bags and they all have coordinated bows. No way are those aren’t from me. I’m still on the hook. Wait a second—here’s one that looks just like Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare. My January just got completely booked up.

Friday, December 19th– That package indeed was the new Call of Duty. I opened it, took the disc out, rewrapped it and played the game all night. She’ll never know. Yawn. Now I'm too tired to shop. Six days to go; I’ve got time, right? Right?

Saturday, December 20th – Went to Home Depot to look for gifts. Tried to imagine the look on her face when I show her the sparkling-new snowblower parked in our driveway. Then, I thought better of it. Went to look at the circular saws instead and I found a sweet, red, 7 1/4-inch one that’ll always remind her of Christmas. Bought that instead of the snowblower. I am awesome.

Sunday, December 21st – Returned the saw. Called a work buddy of mine and said he bought the same model last year. She used it to slash his tires before threatening to take his jingle bells, too. Red must be a bad color or something.

Monday, December 22nd – Today’s the first day of Hanukkah. I put the menorah too close to the curtains and set them on fire. As the poly-cotton melted and black smoke filled the air, she berated me, “Eagle Scout, my butt!” I diplomatically reminded her that it was her idea to put the candles in the freaking window. Found myself locked out. Did you know it’s cold in the middle of December? Went back to Home Depot for a new fire extinguisher. Briefly thought about putting a green bow on the red tank and giving it to her, but I didn’t think she’d see the humor. Bought a set of lock picks, too.

Tuesday, December 23rd – Still no gift, but there’s time. I was all set to go shopping, but then I saw that TBS was running A Christmas Story marathon. Haha—he put the leg lamp in the window! Frah-gee-le is a city in Italy! A Red Rider BB-gun! This never gets old, no matter if I’ve seen it a dozen times. That day. In a row.

Wednesday, December 24th – It’s 7:30. The mall closes at 8 and it's an all-male crowd. We’re milling through the halls, like a group of elf-zombies. Winding in circles, looking at carts full of cheese and sausage, furry Crocs, 365-day cartoon calendars and over-sized novelty slippers, I got too close to the Dead Sea Beauty Products and the salesperson attacked me. Now my right-hand has been violently exfoliated and I’ve been talked into buying the bulk gift set—the one with the foot scrubber and some sort of imported mud in a jar. If I’d know I could’ve made my own beauty kit with a wire brush and a jar of dirt, I’d have done it. But it’s too late to get the brush—Home Depot closed at seven. I’m worried that the dirt I bought won’t be good enough, so I keep looking…

That’s Jared!

I go up to the glass counter, whip out a credit card and tell the guy to give me the best he’s got. He tells me the price. I swallow hard, pull out another card… and ask, "What’s on clearance?"

Thursday, December 25th – She’s crying. It’s the good kind, not the “you-got-me-a-crockpot-for-our-anniversary-kind.” Man, I’m good

Merry Christmas!

A Perfect Space for Writing...

I can't write. I don't have a desk. I have a great new place and there's a ton of space in my room, but a big empty spot that should hold a desk. In the hole where the desk should go, there's a laptop stand that's really not cutting it. It has an edge, designed to hold a computer in place, that slices into my wrists were I ever to sit there. So I don't. I need a desk to be a writer.

At this desk I don't have, there needs to be a chair. Oh, I have one now, but I don't like it. It's a "rescued piece." Not "rescued" like this-is-from-an-18th-century-New-England-barn "rescued," but someone-was-going-to-throw-this-in-the-dumpster-and-I-took-it "rescued." It's not particularly comfy and it smells of moth balls, which is probably why someone left it in front of the dumpster in the first place.

No desk, no chair, I cannot write. I need a muse--and to be unencumbered from wires. You see, I need music to provide background noise when I write. But in order to have music, I have to have my external hard drive plugged into my laptop, and that just causes wires to go in all directions. I have a cable coming in one side of the computer from the hard drive and another on the other side, which runs through the power pack to the wall. Two cords are far too many. I only have a 12-inch laptop. That cords-to-inches ratio is far too high. I cannot write in these conditions.

And as far as that muse goes, I feel it's departed. I've left traveling behind (for the time being), so I can't entertain you about eating in strange places and pooping in stranger. Nope. I eat in a kitchen now. It's sterile, with just enough small bits of rust and minuscule food stains that it's not worth writing about the sterility and it's definitely not dirty enough to note.

But perhaps my muse is exhausted--I do have two Twitter accounts, after all, and that's a whole lot of brilliance shoveled out there on a daily basis. I now think in 140-character spans. That definitely doesn't lend to full paragraphs. Or sentences, for that matter.

There are many things I have to do, in writing's stead. The weekends, for example, are full of adult-type chores. I needed to frame artwork, clean the bathroom, work out, organize my recycling, clean the dust off of my television cables, change the batteries in the remote, wash a dish, ponder buying a beta fish, watch the Florida A&M football game while simultaneously watching a MadTV re-run, change socks, remove lint from my toenails, kill a spider, stare a hole into the wall, charge my laptop since I plugged it in to write and then didn't touch it and its battery died while I was staring (unsuccessful) holes into the wall. I'm a busy man.

You see? It's impossible to be a writer. People say that all you have to do is write. Well, they're wrong. You need a desk. You need a chair. You need the perfect amount of noise and the perfect lack of wires. You need a muse, but you don't need social media. And you definitely, definitely can't be cleaning the lint out of your toes.

How do those people who write for three hours a day do it?

They must have linty feet.

Urinal Etiquette...

There's a Boston expression that goes like this, "Wicked pissah, dude!"

It has nothing to do with actual urination or any sort of bowel movement, evil or not. Rather, it's something you say when you like something. Perhaps a friend's shirt is "wicked pissah." One's mode of transportation, a movie or an extra-large burrito can all qualify. Papi hitting a homah ovah da Monstah is always "wicked pissah." Whatever you determine to be "wicked pissah," it's always a good thing—a moment for celebration and camaraderie among friends.

It is important to note the pronunciation. Although the phrase is, literally, "wicked pisser," you can't just go around saying it that way. The harsh R sound at the end is dropped and replaced with an elongated, breathy "ahhhh" sound. It's not unlike the involuntary noise you make after sipping a much-needed, cold drink on a hot day. I like it. It makes the phrase sound satisyfying.

"Wicked pissahhhh."

While I've known about the phrase for a while (being from New England and all), I had no idea that there were also wicked pissers in Boston until this past week. Standing apart from the jolly, colloquial expression, wicked pissers are most certainly not "wicked pissah."

There is a certain unwritten and unspoken etiquette when it comes to the men's restroom. Guys, you already know what I'm talking about. Girls, in case you haven't been filled in, the major rules are, as follows:

• Do not make eye contact.
• Do not look down.
• Do not smile.
• Do not say a stall is disgusting. Quietly back out and move to another one.
• When waiting in line, keep your hands in plain view.
• Above all, never use a urinal directly next to another urinal that's currently in use unless all other empty spaces are taken.

There are other regulations, too, such as "washing your hands requires water, but not always soap" and "no smiling," but those tend to be subjective. The ones bulleted are the bathroom's cardinal law and every man who values his manhood holds to them truly.

So it was a dark, dark night when I found myself in violation this week.

I went to see the Kings of Leon at the Orpheum Theater this past Thursday. On the way to our seats, I decided to take a pre-show leak (no sense in getting up during a set, right?).

The Orpheum's bathrooms are old, just like the building. I'm not sure how old, but it had to built during an era where the man's average height was 4'6" and shoes came with brass buckles. Like all old rooms, it was small. The toilet fixtures had, thankfully, been updated. But due to a lack of space constraints, they were crammed tightly together.

When I say tight, I mean to say there were four urinals in a section of wall that was five feet across. When the Orpheum's owners redid the restrooms, they found the slimmest models on the market. Then, they positioned them shoulder to porcelain shoulder along the wall. It looked like john paneling—there wasn't so much as a crack in between each urinal.

When I got into the bathroom, there was a guy on either end of the row of four. They had done their duty and chosen the urinals furthest from each other. No matter that there was only two feet (and two urinals) separating them. They'd made the correct call.

It was my turn to chose. I had the option of picking the left-center or right-center one. I always favor the right-hand sides of things, mostly due to some slight form of OCD I've nurtured over the past 25 years, so I picked that side.

It wasn't until I'd gotten right up to the urinal that I realized just how close I was to my new neighbor. I could smell his cologne. I could feel his itchy sweater. His stubble of a beard was prickly. It was like we were crossing swords in the same toilet. We may have well been sharing pants, too. My right side completely pushed up against his left. I tried maneuvering myself to come at the urinal at an angle that minimized any contact but also shielded my unmentionables from sight, in accordance with common decorum, but it was no use. We stood shoulder to shoulder, both of us shifting weight in opposite directions and making every effort to appear nonchalant and unaware of any sort of inconvenience.

Just as I'd unbuckled my belt and opened my fly, the gentleman at the far, left-hand station zipped his and backed away. Now, not only were my compadre and I rubbing elbows (and no more, thanks to some nifty side-lean work), but we were the only two at the row of urinals.

And I couldn't go. The pressure of the situation was too great. All I wanted to do was to quickly fasten my pants and get the heck out of there, but I knew I couldn't do that. For if there's another, greater rule of the restroom than the ones I haven't listed—one that trumps all others—it's to act tougher than you actually are at all times. Soap must be applied violently. Noisy bodily functions are not to be giggled at. Hands should be slapped on pants and not just wiped. You get the point. And in this situation, a tough man had to tough it out. I couldn't back down from this pissing contest.

So, I stood there. Right arm abutting my neighbor, hand on the hose, and I waited. And I waited. And I waited some more. There was a drip. Then nothing but a white flag. But still I stood, weight shifted to the left, staring straight ahead and pretending like everything was fine. In my head, I made trickling noises.

Finally, my neighbor left. I waited an obligatory eight seconds, then left, too. I washed my hands, keeping up the having peed illusion, then left the bathroom and the wicked pissers behind as quickly as I could.

Definitely not "wicked pissah."