Kind of a big day for the Jaypo.

Tomorrow I take my first step towards the world of the gelded. I have an appointment with the physician assistant who reports to Dr. Franksandbeans (and who I assume I get to sleep with), to discuss my impending maiming.

The smirky cow who made my appointment at the Urological Correctional Facility was very non-specific about what this PA would want to do or discuss, so I am assuming that she simply wanted a copay, and to sleep with me. I haven’t discussed the matter with my wife, but I can only assume that she is cool with letting me party a bit before Dr. Smokedsausage uses my undercarriage as his personal amusement park.

I’ve had plenty of time to imagine this procedure, and that may have contributed to why it took me so long to make the appointment, but I am now on my way.

I think it is only appropriate to put my best foot forward, so after I finish my twelfth vodka tonight, it will be time to do some personal grooming. And as I finish writing that statement, I can’t help but wonder if you knew what you were getting yourself in for when you subscribed to my work.

Despite the flood of requests, I will not be publishing pictures after Dr. Isthatallugot finishes making my farverbean holder look like an Ikea cutting board. And considering I chose to confess my lack of faith to the universe just days ago, I am also assuming that any and all higher powers will be taking this opportunity to write the next Law of Murphy as Dr. WaitwhatwasIdoing has a brainfart.

No “I pushed a bowling ball out of my urethra” comments will be tolerated.

I went to church today.

Not any kind of milestone, or monumental achievement for most people, and not for me. See, my wife likes to go. And when she says she wants to go, I support her, and we go.

But I gotta tell you, with a 42nd birthday on the not-so-distant horizon, I sit here still with the same questions, doubts, and lack of faith.

After a year of blogging, I haven’t gone here at all. I’ve avoided it. Deliberately. Because I have yet to learn the “halftime lesson” in regards to religion.

Where did Cain’s wife come from?

7 days? Really?

Why should I put so much time, heart, and dare I say FAITH into something that I cannot prove, and that routinely throws so much doubt my way?

I sit in the pew, I really do enjoy hearing him speak. It feels good to support my wife, and to expose my children to something decent without jading their lessons.

But as I look around, I see the others. The people who close their eyes, say the words, hold up their hands, and allegedly feel what I do not. Some I respect, and others. Some I know who are there heart and soul, some who aren’t.

The only person who has ever made sense to me was my aunt, who said, “what’s the harm?” And she’s right…but still that realization doesn’t get me where I think I may have to be.

So I am throwing this out into the universe tonight. And I am turning off comments…not because I don’t care what you may want to say, but because I hope to find an answer for myself. And honestly, after looking for a very long time, I have no idea if that answer will come. Or when.

I know we just went past another September 11th, but I wanted this post to be a part of my blog record, so I’m inserting it today. This article was first published 2 weeks ago in DFW’s NeighborsGo, a Dallas Morning News publication.

We all live with this now. It’s always with us, the memory of that terrible day, where we were, who was lost.

But every year, on one day, it comes to the forefront in the news, in the schools, in our homes. And we each have to make decisions, based on the ages of our children, about how to talk about September 11.

I don’t want her to be scared. I don’t want her to look at airplanes with anything less than excitement, or be afraid to push the very top button in an elevator. And although I want her to understand that most people would do her no harm, you can’t always tell who the bad ones are. There are plenty of years for details, for newfound incredulity and fear. The loss of childhood innocence after that terrible day is needless and avoidable collateral damage if I can simply find the right words.

So this year as my oldest reaches a level of understanding about things that go wrong in the world, she and I will sit and talk about what happened that day. And there will be things I tell her, and things I don’t. She will ask pointed questions, and I will guide her to a safer place. And I will send her back to school understanding that September 11, like all days, is a time to be thankful.

Thankful for those people who put themselves in danger, to keep us safe.

You ever feel like you are walking on the ragged edge?

You oughta.

I have come to the conclusion that it is only a matter of time before I get lost in the specifics of all my technological fascinations, and make the whopper of all mistakes. It’s kinda like when I was a kid and I desperately wanted one of those chronograph watches with six thousand functions. And when I went to my “dad” and asked him for one, he said “you know, the more bells and whistles you have on it, the more that there is to go wrong.”

Well, this particular watch isn’t just gonna stop glowing at some point, it has the potential to leave a crater where I once stood.

Like many bloggers, I love the feeling like I am building something. And the tools available to build a following are plenty. But those tools don’t discriminate between a wife and an ex girlfriend, or between your boyz and your boss.

See, I’m a blogger. And I Twitter. And yes, I Facebook. And that doesn’t even account for email, two cellphones and a texting addiction. Oops, one more…I sit by the mailbox every day waiting for credit card offers…but thats a whole other thing.

When the pieces begin to be put together, you quickly uncover pitfalls with each. And you work through the problems to put in place the safest, most productive combination possible.

On my blog, I like to think I can say whatever I want. My domain, you know? Only, the wife is watching. Sometimes other family members do. What’s more, it’s out there to be found by search engines. And folks I work with? Human resources? Careful…

However, on my blog I have the ability to edit, or even remove a post that I should have been more considerate about…unlike Twitter. With Twitter, once it leaves your keyboard, it’s out there. Gone, and permanent. Plus, you see all those followers that you are “best friends” with? What’s to say one isn’t your creative boss, watching from the darkness? Much as I think I know every sordid detail about every Twitter follower, I’m also pretty sure I’m an idiot.

And that brings us to the beloved Facebook. Spouses, family, friends, neighbors, co-workers, bloggers…not to mention exes of every variety. Some of whom know about my blog, some who don’t. Some who have wives or husbands who don’t understand any of the social media thing, think it’s stupid, and who are nervous about their newfound connections. And they should be, as divorce rates are climbing, especially among Facebookers et al, who use these vehicles as opportunities to see if “the one that got away” is at all…interested.

With Facebook, the biggest pitfall is the diversity of your friends. What is gonna crack up one is gonna insult another, and a new, even remotely attractive “friend” is potentially an invitation to the Spanish Inquisition hosted by your spouse.

For a blogger, Facebook provides an opportunity to develop more of a following of your work, and a very good one at that. Benefits can be great, mistakes can be costly. Wire in your blog using NetworkedBlogs, and every time you post, it runs on the wall for all to see. But write a controvercial piece and forget for just one second that your boss is a Facebook friend, and a wisp of smoke will be where your career once stood.

My advice is simple. Develop a list of questions to ask yourself before posting anything anywhere.

Blog – Who is this gonna hurt? Do I care?

Twitter – Will I hit enter on this Tweet and wish I hadn’t? 5 minutes from now? 5 years from now?

Facebook – Is this status/wall post appropriate for Trixie, my wife, Mr. Lumberg, and Pastor Stephen?

Write ‘em out. Sticky them on your monitor if you have to, or staple them to your forehead, as I have done. Take a minute, and think about it. Be as controvercial as you want to, but be ready. Mistakes are gonna leave a mark.

And that ex-boyfriend?

There was a reason why you dumped him before. Same guy.

You know, I can’t take credit for this title, but I also can’t give credit either. I have heard so many people say it, and they are right.

I rarely talk about celebrities, when I do it is about something I believe strongly in. And today is no exception.

I called it years ago, by the way. After his first couple of antics, I remember noticing in him an excessive moronic trait that leapfrogged many other egomaniac celebs.

And then this latest incident.

Kanye, I hope for your sake that you are bipolar, and it is your mania that stops you from being able to function like a rational human being with adequate impulse control.

But honestly, I’m pretty sure you’re not manic.

I’m pretty sure you’re just a douche.

It was pretty humorous to watch you try to reign in your anger on Leno when he brought up your mother. And then sure as anything, rather than simply acknowledging again that you had made a mistake and actually apologizing, you chose to craft another Kanye pity party.

I said this a couple of days ago, and I’ll say it again.

You need to handcuff one arm to a publicist and the other to a life coach at all times. Or you could pay me to follow you around saying “close your mouth, douchebag”. Good job security.

Whatever you do, do it quick. Your douchiousness is solidifying you as the joke of the music industry.

Of course, you could cash it all in and become the new Massengill spokesman.

Yesterday I set the stage a bit for what Vegas has become and the cost to enjoy it. Today I want to share what happens when the price tag is removed.

Arrive at the Vegas airport way too early, since I can’t afford the good flights. Despite my early arrival, my two friends pick me up in a stretch limo, and begin to tease me with what is to come. Ten minutes to the front door of Mandalay Bay, and I turn away the bellman who offers to take my bag for me. Really not used to being pampered. Plus I didn’t want to part with the $5 tip.

My weighty pals escort me to the room where I’ll be staying after bypassing all the people waiting in the checkout/checkin line. Whales don’t wait. Up the private elevator that only stops at floors 60-62. The penthouse floors. Nice room on 60, fantastic western view of the mountains, far above the apex of the Luxor Hotel, reminding me how high 60 floors is.

Up to 61 to Whales-R-Us. This is the suite that the guys are sharing with the bachelor. And since I had never been to a room like this, and knew that no one would probably believe me, I took video. 4600 square feet, which makes it larger than the two floors of my house ADDED to the single floor of my last house.

Finally, up to 62 to see the hospitality suite, fully stocked with free food, drink, and huge living spaces/media areas to accommodate any need I might have to get drunk and watch football all day. I didn’t of course, but I damn well could have. Not to mention, access to this room means I don’t have to shell out $35 for the breakfast buffet each day. Again, not that I would have, the Luxor has a McDonalds, a fact I monopolized on a couple of times…Ok, a lot.

Spent the first day doing some unprofitable gambling, and riding back and forth in the limos to the airport to pick up additional members of our party. Dinner at the House of Blues with two great friends, listened to some live music, gambled some more, fell down exhausted late that night. Great first day.

That brings us to Friday, which ended up being the best and worst of the trip. Showed my rookie colors but good.

Due to a time change and the excitement (not to mention trying to sleep with a shrimp PoBoy and several Crown and Cokes lodged in my gullet) awoke way too early. Went to breakfast, Starbucks, and on to sign up for the only poker tournament I would be able to play on this trip. Ended up finishing around 12th out of 50, so a good effort, but no payday.

And then it started. Went to join our large group who were now launching into their day at the 3 Card Poker table. I sat, bought in, ordered my first double Ketel One and Sprite (no fruit please, ma’am), and began to play. And the run started. Now, I find 3 Card Poker absolutely mindless. VERY little strategy, you just keep doing the same thing, and hoping for good cards. And for once I got them. A LOT of them. I hit pairs, flushes, straights, 3 of a kind a couple of times (pays 30 to 1), AND hit a straight flush at 40 to 1. The whole table was running hot, and we had every chair locked up.

And all the while, I was drinking. A lot. Anyone who knows me knows I am not the loudest guy at any table, but on this day, well, I was. We all were. But mostly me. I was winning in Las Vegas for once, playing with the big boys, and I easily had the best time gambling I ever have.

The dealer at one point said, “Sir, you are going to have to keep it down”.

“Am I the loud guy at the table?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“I’m that guy?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Hey everyone!! I’m THAT guy!!” And I was so proud…I had never been that guy before.

At least, that’s what I’m told I said.

Because at some point, I stopped being able to remember what was going on. I remember going to the High Limit slots, living vicariously through those who could afford to play there, and then I was in my room where I’ll spare you details of my exploits. But the idea was that we would all be meeting for a fantastic dinner at StripSteak that night, and when my roommate walked in the room later on I assumed it was time to get ready for dinner. Only dinner had come and gone.

It was 1am.

I missed dinner. Not only that, I missed the whole night. The real irony was that years before my wife and I had made the same rookie mistake…clearly I never learned the lesson.

But the upside, I checked my pockets…and found some very large chips.

So I got up and went downstairs in an utter lack of sense and personal show of defiance, to go play some more, and pushed on through for the next 24 hours. And what a day, Saturday. Great breakfast, went for a hotel walk with my good friend, met the guys for wings and beer at noon.

And then, the next surprise. A high roller cabana complete with drinks and masseuse at the private pool for the day. Slightly overcast to cut the heat, fantastic staff to cater to every whim, and plenty of…well…nice Godfearing folks to look at.

Dinner was another treat,
off in a limo to Koi at the Planet Hollywood resort for sushi and saki, treated by a new friend. And finally, it was back to the Foundation Room at the Mandalay, where exclusivity is the game, and an inner area called the Buddha room had been reserved for us again.

All the while, I held onto my winnings as tightly as my impulses would allow. I gave some back, sure, but in the end, for once in all my visits to Sin City, I came home a winner. And though she didn’t actually say it, I think my wife was actually proud of me. For everything but drinking all of Las Vegas’ vodka on Friday afternoon. Whatever.

In the end, you can probably guess what the retail cost of a weekend like this would be, and it sure as hell isn’t a dollar a day. And I am eternally grateful for an experience that I would never (be able to) purchase for myself. And I know the next time I go I’ll be trying to sleep in a cramped room at a cheap hotel trying not to think about the $100 I lost.

But today, I’m a winner.

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