Reversing the Trend

A somber fact - the thought of marriage has never been that appealing to me. It started with the obvious life style drawbacks that I noticed in my wedded associates: the surrender of one's independence, the loss of bed space, the decrease in friends. My opinion worsened when my golf course boss Mr. Jonathan Brubaker invited me and Nathan into his office one memorable day for both a pay and a reality check. "When a man gets married," he sermoned, "he gets what we wants for a little while. And then he dies." Not exactly inspiring words, unless you happen to be suicidal.

Then there were my mentors. Jerry Seinfeld spent nine seasons going after girls ranging in caliber from gymnasts to possible prostitutes. He never got married. This despite the fact that Jerry was famous, funny and not bald; surely someone that prolific could have found a wife with ease, lending credence to the belief that he must have chosen against it. Perhaps it was Kramer's lecture, comparing wedded life to prison, that did him in.

My second mentor, Indiana Jones, went three movies and 24 years as a proud bachelor. Unlike Jerry, Indiana eventually did end up married, but that was in the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull and how are we expected to take anything that happened in that movie seriously? In fact I know a kid who considers anyone who cites that movie, be it for social or educational purposes, to be a human not worth knowing (the name of that person is Spencer Hansen, in case you were wondering).

I wouldn't go as far to say the entire institution of marriage is without benefit. Marriage brings the luxury of enjoying two incomes and living away from my sister, not to mention that sparkling married-filing-jointly tax status. And it's not like there isn't precedent for people being happy in marriage. Why that Corey couldn't have been more chipper in his final season with Topanga.

Still, the discouraging parts of marriage have always outweighed the good parts in my mind. And speaking of weight, well that's another fear factor altogether. Married couples -- having nothing left to prove once married -- historically become not only less attractive with the pass of time, they tend to deteriorate at speeds unparalleled in nature. Consider a wedding reception the private sector's version of cash for clunkers - a wedding stash for chunkers. Weight gain isn't the only downgrade in appearance. Beautiful hair is exchanged for short "styles" ( this happens to both genders), sweat pants become the norm, inactivity becomes the couples principle activity.

Four paragraphs written and the greatest fear hasn't even been mentioned yet - divorce. The statistics don't inspire confidence. Commonly cited percentages suggest 35 to 45 percent of marriages go down in flames, meaning out of your six man college apartment over two of your comrades are destined to be the next Ross Gellar. I already have a history of, er,  turning girls against the grain (read here), I'd rather not fulfill part two of Ross's dating resume as well.

With the list of marriage cons ever increasing, my mind reasons that a veritable goddess would be the only person whose constant company could make the thought of wedded life palatable. It would require a jack-of-all trades, one capable of doing anything, everything, and nothing. This girl would love sports and books, which by means of the transitive property would make her love me. Petty challenges like not being able to stretch in bed would be the smallest of prices to pay for her company. She'd be so enjoyable to follow that the idea of divorce would be transformed from fear to comedy. As a mix between Buffy, Sarah and Rachel (the only good thing about Ross), this dream girl would strike the ideal balance between athleticism, professionality, attractiveness and the ability to kill vampires.

She'd be perfect I guess. She'd have to be in order to drive away all the worries that marriage brings. So what, I wonder, are the chances of finding such a girl? The odds of obtaining perfection?

Well, not that bad apparently. 

Pod 23 - Fat Man Walking

Episode 23: Wherein Spencer and Nathan tackle the hefty issue of obesity. Special guest "Jared" weighs in to discuss his experience as a revolting 195-pounder, as well as his pathway to redemption as a 150-pound normalite. Spencer's claustraphoia and love of short skirts is also discussed. Meanwhile Nathan betrays himself.

Guest starring: Jared

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The Petriarch

The incident remains my most disgusting betrayal to this day, a permanent stain on an otherwise unsullied history of loyalty. An accounting professional had come to deliver a sermon of boredom to a class of deeply disinterested tax men. The only part I recall being awake for came at the only moment the speaker engaged the audience. He asked a question: what is your email address? The inquiry was fielded by a few souls hoping to shake their arms and vocal chords from a coma.

"Bigwheeler_steeler@yahoo!"
"Skaterkid_6@gmail!"

The exact responses from the sitting dead I forget, but the accountant's response I remember. "Too unprofessional. Those email addresses are simply too unprofessional. When you include emails on resumes, when you correspond with clients you want your address to reflect a professionals tone." I considered my internet handle at that time, cpt.climps@gmail, and sized it up as being just that, too unprofessional. An email named after a cat was no title for a briefcase-carrying, button-shirt wearing, client-shmoozing, serious to the core businessman. I wanted money and success, and if I had to leave behind cpt.climps in the process, so be it. Sdv.hansen@gmail thus was born, becoming my principal hub for all things adult. Meanwhile cpt.climps@gmail was demoted to friends and spam only.

The cat which inspired that address is dead now. On Thanksgiving he was as spry as MJ on the dance floor. Six days later a shot to the leg finished off the body that had quit on Climps' soul. I may cry that Climps is gone, but am proud of his legend, which at this point exceeds even my own and reads like the history of a traveling lifeguard: saved two lives, pooped in the sand, renowned in multiple continents.

While Climps performed many memorable works and wonders, his absence sparks a gratitude for the small tasks he completed as well. Besides being a chick magnet, conversation piece, and general cat-about-town, Climps was most importantly an inspirer. His swagger gave me confidence, and his untamed whiskers showed me I too could go without shaving, even if it did make me look Mexican. In his ten year history he never took a single bath, a feat Nathan Ballard drew strength from when he went one week without showering in order to woo his wife. In his last days he lost over 20% of his body weight, leaving a testimony that despite being aged, obesity can be reversed, fatness defeated. And for years every time I submitted a resume, communicated via email, named a Fantasy Football team, or registered to become an online member of a website, the username of climps rode with me.

Until I became embarrassed. Until I valued job prospects, money and professionalism more than the loyal pet who used two of his lives to twice save my own.

By eliminating cpt.climps as my principal username and email I didn't just betray Climps the cat, but another of my inspirers as well, the great Henry Jones Jr. The man who touched the Holy Grail and rid Peru of aliens also had a pet of consequence in his life, a dog named Indiana. Somewhere in Jones' early years that dog won his heart, or vice versa, and a critical moment of decision arose - to carry on with his own name, or pay honor by taking on the name of his beloved pet.

We know what happened that day. Indiana eventually became so loyal to his adopted name that instances in which his father referred to him as Junior were followed by Indy's rage-filled obliteration of Nazis.

A man who was unashamed of his pet

I've always wished I were Indiana Jones. Wanted to be a professor. Wanted a fedora. Wanted Sean Connerey for a dad. But when faced with the one chance to be like Indy, I muffed it.

I apologize to the great archeologist, for not following in his footsteps. I apologize to my employers, for tricking them into thinking I'm a professional. And I apologize to Climps, for valuing his name less than my own. Since his death I've attempted tributes in all the normal fashions: I dug the grave, I recited a poem, I wrote this blog. But the final nod to Climps came only when I restored my email to its true order earlier this very afternoon. And so if you wish to express your condolences, expound on your favorite memory of Climps or simply leave a few words to be read at his weekly commemoration (every Thursday night from 7 to 7:30), drop me a line. I'm confident you'll know where to send it to.