Second Effort

In a few short hours I will enter the final year of my 20’s. Sept. 18. My Birthday. Twenty-fucking-nine. I know, in the long run that’s not really old. But at the very least I have passed the halfway point to my first heart attack. My grandfather had his first heart attack at 28. My dad had me at 28. While we could debate the similarities of those two happenings in Nowski lore, I choose to overlook that coincidence and focus on the fact that I haven’t accomplished either to this point.

Speaking of Dad, there’s a story from my actual birth day that warrants publication. There are plenty of little, lets call them quirks or nuances, to my dad’s personality. But I think this one is evidence of just how witty and cool the old man can be.

Mom cranked me out at a hospital in Oelwein, IA that was in some way afilliated with the Catholic church. Because I can get longwinded sometimes and chase away readers, I’ll give you the short background that mom was raised in the Episcopal church and Dad spent some time bouncing around Catholic schools while trying to avoid flunking or being killed in inner city Chicago. Neither had practiced any religion since getting married. I came along to spoil the fun about eight years later.

So as they are filling out the birth certificate (APB3 4 LIFE), the nuns that keep shit kosher (yeah, I know) at the hospital first have a brief argument with Dad about the official time. It was 2:58 or 2:59 in the p.m. and Dad lobbied for 3 straight up, just for simplicity’s sake, I think. They insisted it be to the minute.

Then comes the biggie. “What religion is he?” the nuns ask, batting their sexy eyelashes. Or so I imagine they did. I mean, nuns in Oelwein probably don’t look like Julie Andrews, but they’ve still got that dirty thing going on and use it to the fullest extent of the law. Skanky wenches that they are.

You’re thinking that I built this up too much for the one liner that it is. And maybe you’re right. But it says a lot about the open mind my dad is CAPABLE of having when he isn’t just out to pick a fight with me or my mom. It says a lot about how my parents raised me; why I turned out so cynical. And why I’m so glad I am theirs.

He replied, “I don’t know, he hasn’t told me yet.”

The nuns, they were not pleased.

I’ve had my eye on her for a while. Sleek, svelt and a little ticklish. We met at the mall a couple times. I got to run my fingers over her ivory skin. Then, when I finally had the gumption to bring her home, I came right out and exposed myself. But I couldn’t just tap that right away. I had to let the tension build a little. For a week or so now we’ve just flirted. And I was right to wait. Because now it feels even better.

I’ve been grumbling about the old girl just about as long as I can remember. Sara knew I was fed up, and I think she understands, but she’s a little more emotional about it than me. She had more invested. I’m ready to cut all ties, and that’s what this post is all about.

We got a new iMac. This is the first time I’ve done more than type an e-mail or web address on this smooth little bitch and goddamn if it isn’t the best typographical experience of my life.

There’s plenty of bells and whistles. The screen is probably two and a half times bigger than the iBook we’ve been squinting at since Sara and I moved in together five years ago. Porn loads in microseconds despite our outdated ethernet cable. We went all out and purchased extra memory and Microsoft Office, so there’s actually a decent word processing program, eliminating the only real drawback of Macs. I’m no computer geek. I don’t need anything spectacular and I’ll never build my own. This baby has everything I’ve ever wanted in a home computer.

But there’s a bonus. This keyboard is fucking Nirvana. It’s better than that. It’s Kurt Cobain with a needle in his arm hammering away at Dorothy, who’s wearing only her ruby slippers, in a field of poppies with the army of flying monkeys cheering them on. Zeppelin provides the soundtrack.

These things are going to save people’s lives. Those that don’t sit at a computer for a living have laughed at the carpal tunnel stuff. I used to. But that shit is real, and I was well on my way. These new keyboards are so smooth people are buying dozens from Apple now for fear they will try and improve on them down the line and fuck them up. I love it so much I am seriously considering investing in one to take to work.

That’s all boring. But if you have used one you can testify. Can I get a hell yeah?

The old lady just walked in and busted me fooling around with her girlfriend. “Are you writing porn?” she said. Not yet, but with this lovely piece of ass at my fingertips, the sky’s the limit.