So there has been some speculation as to why I called my blog "Nix Bones". I asked the question, and Craig made a good stab for it, and if anyone is to get the prize of two penguin pelts, its him. Nix Bones refers to that idyllic moment in the hallowed movie Willow, where the High Elwin wizard decides the fate of their village by tossing chicken bones on the floor and reading them. This is significant for two reasons.
First, I make no representation that my posts are or will ever be coherent, intelligent or in any way understandable. Understanding these ramblings and trying to ascertain any sketch of my life or fragile mental state would be just as fruitful as trying to understand me by reading a samonilla riddled pile of nasty chicken bones.
Secondly and more succinctly, I believe that my life has been pushed to and fro by decisions as scientific as if I were reading a pile of bones. Most of us are in same boat. We do what seems intelligent or divinely inspired in the moment and ten years later we realize that that particular decision was Pin the Tail on the Donkey. Don't get me wrong, I absolutely believe that if we live worthily of being led by a higher power, it will be so, and success will come. My point is that when looking back, most of these decisions could have been one way or the other, and it was just a small, almost imperceptible divine nudge in one direction that made the difference. And on most of those decisions that were not of divine import, it was throwing the bones.

Continuing mid-life crisis

I have been a very bad blogger. I am not nearly as dedicated as I should be. Whenever I go to blog, I end up wanting to say things that truly should not be for public consumption. You know, those little thoughts that nag at you, that you wish to speak to someone "out there" in the anonymous internet cloud, only to realize that if your mother in law, or your sister-in-law who would immediately report to your mother-in law, found out what you said or thought, you would be in deep doo-doo. So yeah, I try to write but get pre censored. . . .Uh oh, it is date time and my wife is rifling through my wallet. Gotta go.

Best medicine

I love trying to make people laugh. Given that I have no comedic timing, or truly any appreciable sense of humor, I, like most comedians must resort to cheap jokes and petty antics to insight a chuckle. It is in this sense that I endeavor to make one, and only one person on earth laugh: my wife...

"poop"



(Exhibit)

...And a lip ring, yes a lip ring.

I've had various questions about the name of my blog. Deciphering blog names is as fun as reading vanity license plates like I1221ME , and yes, yes I do. I'm curious however of what you think the blog means. Post a comment with your guess and we'll see who is in tune with the "wa" of the blogosphere. Three hints as to the meaning:

1. Yes, there is a meaning
2. Yes I think it is witty
   
3. No, it couldn't be less important

This is the last weekend I will spend in my 20's. My glorious, fun filled, self finding, getting married, baby having, career changing 20's. Next Friday is my 30th birthday (yes Evan, I realize that means I just finished my 30th year, not my 29th. Shut up) and I will be one step closer to my highly anticipated midlife crisis. If I plan it right, my midlife crisis will encompass at least 3 years of

1. Motorcycle riding
2. Swearing
   
3. Getting in shape only to sadly realize that no matter what I do, I will never again be attractive to 19 year old co-eds. . .(who am I kidding, the only 19 year old co-ed I was ever attractive to, I ended up having to bribe to marry me). . . but if I got a tattoo. . .
   
4. Frantically popping out as many kids as human gestation will permit before either mine or my wife's equipment stops working.
5. Gold mining
6. Getting a silver cap placed on at least one toof

It will be a fun filled, action packed couple dozen months. The sad thing is that mid life crises are contagious. No plan is so good that adding one or two best friends cannot make it better and now, potentially lethal. Women fear this time in men's lives, not because of their unimaginative husband's rash decisions that can be dashed by threats of no sex for the rest of the year, but fear this time because of the husband's friends. These fiends that have forever been pied-pipering husbands away for weekends of hunting, nights of sports watching, enabling bad habits and poor grooming standards. Wive's envision friend's houses being something like Pleasure Island from Pinochio, and their husbands come back as ... well you know. And yet, nothing a woman can do, threat or withholding can keep a man from getting a picture of Hulk Hogan tattooed across their shoulders. Ladies, face it, you might as well just stop trying.

As it stands, I am a blog widower. I can't find my wife, but she sees her blog regularly. I felt abused and neglected... until I saw for myself the happiness that can be found by checking to see if "that person" from Norway read your recent post. OK I admit it. Blogging is cooler than me. It is probably cooler than you. If we all band together with our collective coolness, maybe, just maybe, we will be as cool as...OK no we won't. Therefore with the sound of a mighty gong, let the blogging begin.