Disturbing image of the day:

Pudgy, pale carptenter in short shorts, no shirt, wearing a tool belt, a bandana and glazed with sweat. Add to that image his team of apprentices in the same get up and you have a moment that Richard Simmons would run away from. I feel like I’m caught in some sort of sex dream that the Village People would have.

Great. Now "Village People Sex Dream" will show up in a google search. Why do I do this to myself?

Eh?

I’m back. Sore and tired, but I’m back. The move didn’t take long, once a truck was finally procured. GeekFriend, needless to say, was rather miffed with the rental company. I mean, he reserved a certain truck at a certain time and it was more than 24 hours late in getting to him. Bad business, if you ask me.

If one pays for a truck from your company, one should get a truck from your company.

I was able to meet his dad, which was a treat. He’s a wonderfully funny and kind man. I’m sworn to secrecy regarding everything he told me, however. I may not even discuss it with GeekFriend himself. If I did, I’d have to kill him.

We had to move some extremely heavy things down stairs that were nearly vertical. In many ways, it was horrible. Drenched in sweat, the appliances and furniture would slip and we’d have to readjust as we moved down the stairs. Very odd, indeed. But, it was much easier than when we moved stuff in there. The fact that I have the upper body strength of an anorexic fourteen-year old asthmatic girl didn’t help much.

Our last big item of the day was a cat pole. It was around three hundred feet tall and had geometric arrays of platforms that would make a cat go nuts with pleasure as it moved from level to level. However, we don’t know how we were able to get it up the stairs of the fire escape because we couldn’t get it down.

Enter rope and GeekFriend’s amazing ability to tie knots. We looped around the top platform, made a pulley system out of the fire escape’s railing system. We lowered that sucker down.

With all his stuff loaded in the truck, his pick-up on the trailer . . . the only thing left to do was say good bye. We’d been discussing this for a long time and, I think, it was hard for both of us. Neither of us have much faith in humanity . . . or maybe we just find most humans annoying. So, the fact they we formed a strong friendship in such a short time was unusual for both of us. I actually had a buddy again. Something I hadn’t had since Boston Friend became Boston Friend.

But life is a series of hellos and goodbyes. Whether it's on a daily basis or on a grand scale. We are always saying hello and goodbye to one another. It's those open-ended goodbyes that are the most difficult.

So the truck was loaded, locked and ready to go. We stood on the sidewalk, his dad and ex-wife staring at us. In the end, neither one of us could really face the fact that we had formed a bond and really truly cared about each other. And . . . we said good-bye. As if he was going on a long vacation and nothing more.

I suppose that is the way I should look at it. Life is such that we never know which way it will flow. Perhaps someday my family and I will find ourselves out in Oregon. Or, perhaps, GeekFriend will wind up back here again. Life has a funny way of leading us along a crooked path. We’re never really that far away from those we care about. In fact, I haven’t been reading all this science fiction all these years only to be frightened by something as simple as time, space and distance. Bah! I should say. Tis only a few thousand miles.

But, really, it’s not the distance. Just like it isn’t the distance from here to Boston that’s the issue. Portland and Boston are far away, that is true. But it’s the daily grind that I miss. No more movies together, not phone conversations about how Superman’s cape is not logical because it causes drag. No more sub movies.

Life will have to suffice with the occasional visit. But the time will be so short. That’s what intimidates me the most. It’s not the long periods between visits but the short time allotted for visits.

In the end, we were both allowed to have a portion of our childhoods back because, for three years at least, we both had a playmate who was willing to dig in the dirt and act like a little kid.

But as for the final goodbye, we chickened out. I’m glad we did because I don’t think I wanted anyone to see my emotions. Or hear the lump in my throat. I’m a grown man who was sending his friend off to his new life in a distant state. I should be able to handle this. I’ve done it before. I shouldn’t feel so selfish.

But I wasn’t being selfish. I was feeling bad for both of us. We were a good team; still will be, albeit over a distance. We had fun. And I guess that’s what I was mourning. The future fun that wouldn’t be had. Now, after my wife goes to bed, when I point up in the sky and say, “Wow, look! Venus is really bright tonight.” No one will be there to hear me.

I walked to my car and threw a final inane joke back to the group and through my rearview mirror I watched them get in the cab of the truck. I drove away quickly. If I saw the truck pull away, I’d know that my friend actually left. At least now my last memory of his time in St. Louis will be of him in his alleyway, rather than pulling away.

I turned the corner, with the early evening’s sun casting a golden light on the tree-lined drive. On the car stereo played “Bookends” by Simon and Garfunkel.

Time it was, and what a time it was, it was
A time of innocence, a time of confidences
Long ago, it must be, I have a photograph
Preserve your memories; They're all that's left you

And those were the end credits to the buddy movie phase.

Right . . . so that truck loading thing? Didn't happen. The bastiches at the truck place neglected to actually have a truck on hand, despite the reservation. GeekFriend pointed out that making a reservation means that, well, they have a truck for him. They didn't care.

So, we hope that it's today. If not, then I suppose he can't move.

Well . . . today is the day we load GeekFriend's truck and send him off cross-country. So, no major update for today. I just don't fargin' feel like it.

I'm not getting misty or anything.

Just wait until he finds out we sabotaged him. Heh heh.

Good news is Boston Friends will be in on the 13th. She's pregnant. He's nervous. It'll be great!

Miss them too.

Warning: If you befriend me, odds are you'll move. It's written in the stars. Seriously, check it out. Just connect the dots.

Not much to say today. Was up late last night at a concert and my brain is a tad fuzzy. Litterally. It's beginning to grow hair of its own. I fear that it may very well become its own sentient being, pop out of my head and go on a heinous crime spree. And then, of course, I'll be blamed because it's my brain, after all. You just can't get around that, can you?

But, I would like to thank Meg for the links and kind words about my wife and me. Of all the wonderful things she said about us, I think my favorite is that she said we're "in love."

True. So true.

I had the distinct pleasure of meeting my new neighbor yesterday. At eleven p.m. As he was unloading his truck to move in. Great.

I hear he has a five-year-old daughter, which will be great for Matilda and her friends. They could use another little girl. But her dad? Oh boy. Maybe the rumors about a child are exaggerated.

GeekFriend and I had just seen K-19, continuing a great tradition of watching sub movies together and looking for clichés (red lights, tapping gauges to see if they work, leaking pipes, etc.) and we were chatting outside, as is our habit. This SSV (Social Status Vehicle) comes backing into the spot next to GeekFriend’s truck. Glancing in the back, there was a coffee table, some rugs and a computer.

Ah, I thought. My new neighbor!

The window his SSV was open and my heart sank. Drifting out were the strains of that classic song, “Smack My Bitch Up.” Yes, this individual is not only hip and up to date; he has the proper attitude towards women. They don’t belong in the workplace or in politics. The bitches and hoes should be barefoot and pregnant catering to men’s every whim.

He seemed friendly enough. However, after I went in to tell my wife about my encounter with the new neighbor (as if he were some sort of strange alien being) I began to wonder about him.

Supposing he is one of those guys. One of those ultra-hip white guys who like to listen to urban music because they feel it gives them a sense of toughness. Much like people used to listen to Frank Sinatra because Tommy “Two Times” Grambano did.

I started to worry that the crew of “Cops” would be visiting our neighborhood because they had such a great subject. Here’s new neighbor, with his copy of the newly minted Eminem album blasting, screaming to his wife, “You don’t know me. You don’t know me!” And the cops are beating him down as he yells “Playa hata!”

Actually, he seems nice enough. It’s just that he has destroyed me secret dream of having a new, cool neighbor. (Granted, he thinks he’s cool because he listens to Rap. Rap is defiant and rebellious. To this I say, um, no. Rap deals with issues that are too obvious to be rebellious. If you sing about drugs and murder people will get pissed off. It’s too easy. If you want to be truly rebellious, take on real issues in extremely singable songs.)

My dream was that a writer, his artist wife and their neo-hippy child named Destini would move in next door. The husband would be the writer of intellectual essays that were described as heartfelt and moving with neo-Sedaris sentimentalism. The wife would be an abstract painter who worked in the oft-overlooked medium of duct-tape and store mannequins. They would both look at me eagerly, hanging on my every word as I told them what cool music to listen to and insist that they absolutely MUST see Un Chien Andelou because it is a wonderful example of cinematic surrealism!

Oh and they’d look like Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpi.

But, alas, I have to deal with a guy who thinks he’s a member of the Wu-Tang Clan. Or maybe the Funky Bunch.

Way too hard to tell at 11 o’clock at night.

A particularly rambling and poorly thought out installment of the Halves and Half Knots is up today.

Long gone are the summer days where I would spend hours reading a book, sometimes reading one a day. 75 pages a day was a light day. Now, I’m lucky to read 74% of a page. Life changes and your priorities shift.

I was never exactly the wild child, unless you consider having three beers and wings with extra hot sauce on the side wild. However, my life these days makes my earl twenties self look like Charlie Sheen on a bender.

I miss the days where I would read non-stop. No matter the size of the book, no matter the subject, I’d devour it like it was a candy bar. And then move on to another one. Read, read, read.

I still have the desire and the need to do so. I just lack the time and ability to stay awake. One page into “Calculating God” last night and I was fast asleep. Like a baby. (On the flip side, my baby slept like an adult.)

It’s not like I’m not reading, though. I’m just not reading the books I want to read. The books that are sitting in a pile next to the bed, piled high enough to become a public safety hazard. (I think I’m up to roughly 22 or so). I slowly make my way through the pile but I just don’t have the time to read even a chapter a day.

These days I look at a books length as a measure of time. “488 pages? Geez, I won’t be done with that for eight months. Perhaps I should read this pamphlet on food poisoning. That’s only two nights worth of reading.”

I do read. I really do. It’s just I read as a performer now, and not as the primary audience. Matilda and I have always read together but now, it’s a ceremony and we have to make sure we have at least an hour set aside for it.

This summer, we’ve already burned through two of the Harry Potter books (there are four) and are on track to complete the third long before the school year starts. I read and provide voices and Matilda provides me with critiques on my performance.

“I feel Ron’s motivation was clear, but Hermione’s needs work. When you said, ‘totally barbaric’ I didn’t feel as though you meant it. You were just saying the words.”

Each morning I wake up to a set of notes that will guide the next evening’s performance. It wouldn’t be so bad if she hadn’t started wearing a beret and sitting in a canvas chair with her name on the back, demanding a double-cap-frap-half-caf-mocha-alpacino.

In all seriousness, the hour or so we spend reading Harry Potter is a joy. We’re both totally immersed in the world. So much so that we discuss everything throughout the day when I’m supposed to be working and she’s supposed to be playing.

“So, who do you think the Heir of Slytherin is?”

“Clearly it can’t be Harry. He doesn’t have Slytherin blood, does he? Malfoy denied it, but perhaps it is his father or maybe even someone who hasn’t been fully developed yet.”

And on and on. (By the way, the Heir of Slytherin was a complete surprise.)

The only problem is that summer is nearly over and soon we’ll be done with the third book. What will we do then? She’ll be focused on school and I’ll have to start focusing on “Calculating God” or some other silly physics based story that purports that you can find proof of the Creator in the basic laws of Physics.

If that’s true, and there is a Creator and he is, in fact, trapped in the laws of Physics . . . he’s saying, “Dude a body at rest stays at rest and, you know what? Creating a universe is tiring. I’m on break.”

Yay! New design. I kinda like it.

If I were stranded on a desert island I would die. Quickly. Within the first eight minutes of landing I’d be dead of starvation and would be a new wild animal snack food.

I say this because I recently watched Swiss Family Robinson for the first time since I was very young. It’s still a great movie, with all sorts of really exciting contraptions, exotic animals that, biologically speaking, would never co-exist on the same island and a few really mean baddies that are not your usual pirates, but make great cultural stereotypes. Plus, there was this great Swiss family that seemed to consist of two British parents and a bunch of American kids.

They built this amazing tree house in the middle of an empty island, complete with running water, satellite television and broadband Internet access, which really pissed off their neighbors in upstate New York who have been waiting for broadband for years.

This was done to show how well the family adapted to their new environment. Apparently, in their sinking ship they carried the whole series of Time Life Driftwood Architecture books. How some effete Swiss with his annoying children and his slowly over boiling sexpot of a wife knew how to build a house in a tree is beyond me. In fact, it should be well beyond them, but I don’t suppose it ever occurred to the author.

They found food on the island, probably at the Deserted Island Chicken Shack because they never hunted, fished or gathered food. Yet, they appeared to be in good health and happy, despite the fact that the swimming hole they adopted probably had generous amounts of dysentery floating around in its brackish, brownish-green depths. They captured plenty of edible animals that their youngest son adopted as pets and they never thought twice about not eating. Personally, I’d look at the Ostrich and think of burgers with 80% less fat than cattle. And the pigs? Floating playmates, not bacon.

This is why I’d never survive being stranded, if Disney produced my shipwreck. I’d line up those animals and come up with my meal plan until a luxury liner came to rescue me. Fluffy the pig would quickly become a pork chop feast. Screw Disney morality. I’m friggin’ hungry! Nothing’s too cute to eat at that point.

So, Uncle Walt would never hire me. Of course, Uncle Walt is rather dead, so I doubt he’d be able to.

Naturally, if the film was made today, it would be produced by Jerry Bruckheimer and contain some wondrous explosions.

That was pointless. Oh well.

I went to a wedding this weekend of an old friend. This friend and I spent much of our single days together. Alone. With beer. A lot of beer. Both of us were hopeless romantics, sure that life could be just like a movie in which the perfect woman would just waltz into our lives and turn us upside down. We thought we were wrong. Turns out, we were wrong about being wrong.

We don’t talk very much anymore. We try to get a beer now and then but somehow our pathetic lives transformed into busy lives and we have very little time to get together. Yet, we still consider ourselves good friends. Why? It’s hard to say. All I know is that if he called after not speaking with me for two years and said he needed help with something, I’d be there.

Anyway, the story of how he met his wife is interesting, and thought provoking. They met in kindergarten. Spent grade school together and then . . . nothing. Perhaps they saw one another at a movie or a coffee shop, but nothing else. They moved on with their respective lives, putting the kids from grade school behind them. Much as we all do. Then, one day, their mothers ran into one another. Then they started seeing each other and . . . voila! Love hits them after 20 years.

It occurred to me, because this is the type of person I am, that we spend our lives envisioning everything that happens to us as scenes from films. When looked at in retrospect, we can take those scenes from our lives and categorize them into genre films. Romantic comedies, tragic love stories, action, and on and on.

At the time this friend and I would convene for beer and hot wings, we were in the midst of our depressed singles movie. Our conversations, much like the dialogue of Swingers or even the television show Sex and the City, pondered our abilities to love and be loved. Why, we would moan, does it have to be so hard? We’d reconvene and talk about our attempts that week to not be alone or revisit past failures and try to analyze them, all the while flirting with the waitress. Once we had an odd urge for toast and bacon after our beer, so we went across the street to Denny’s.

These moments, these details are what we see in movies. These are the moments that these movies ring true.

Prior to meeting my wife, I had gone through my teen comedy phase (though I was a supporting character in that one . . . Kind of a Ducky type). It was funny, but hardly a romp that I look back at fondly. The good news out of that one was, when I entered my pondering college film phase, I had made a friend from the teen comedy phase that acted as my partner. The end of my pondering college film was interrupted by a tragic drama, after my mom died. That film was about a young man who finds himself on his own trying to cut ties and make connections. Lost, sad and confused. The tragedy was replaced by the depressed singles comedy where I floated from one infatuation to another, while convening with friends to have deep conversations about the nature of love. Beer was usually involved. Sometimes coffee. Often music.

Then, in the third act of that film I entered the romantic comedy phase, when I met my wife. In a series of touching, funny and romantic gestures, we fell in love. Slowly our romantic comedy evolved into a family comedy, where we work hard to raise our kids and not lose our minds (though the passionate love story film is ongoing). Interspersed were a few working comedies (a la Clerks and Office Space) that will someday go down in history as classics in the genre. Right now I’m in the midst of a Mr. Mom type of film, where I use 220, 221 . . . whatever it takes.

Because GeekFriend is moving back home, which is the best decision he can make, I’ve been reflecting on the time that my wife and I have spent with him. Generally, geography has always come between my closest friends and me (East Coast seems to be popular). So, I had become used to not having friends outside of my wife and kids. I’m generally closed off and do not trust potential friends. Much to my surprise, in the midst of one of those workplace comedies I found myself entering into a buddy movie. I hadn’t intended it to happen, but it did. We were Murtaugh and Riggs. He was a loose cannon and I was getting too old for this shit. We moved through a series of buddy scenarios, including a few situation comedies. And the time was good. I had always imagined that one day he, Boston Friend and I would be a bunch of crusty old men sitting somewhere drinking coffee and complaining about how all these youngsters had no idea what real music was. “Why in my day . . .” we’d say. We’d yell at kids about Elvis Costello, Stereolab, Roger Waters and contemporary classical music (which by then will probably just be “classical” music).

Odds are, this probably will happen from time to time. The three of us are suited for each other. We’re all obsessive geeks who, in some ways, are interchangeable. GeekFriend and Boston Friend had a chance to hang out with each other last summer. Oddly, when the three of us did things together, it felt as if we always did things together. It was an easy, pleasing fit.

Now, I’ll be in the middle of them. One to the east, the other to the west. Hell, I’ll have good travel opportunities.

GeekFriend is now in his coming of age road flick. He’s packing his things and moving cross-country, no job, no place to live. He’ll reflect over his life as he drives and moll over the concept of home, which is where he is going (though he denies it). His journey is one that will help a soul find its way. And he’ll be the better for it. He’s truly wild at heart.

Me? I don’t know what my next film is. Whatever it is, it will be interesting, I’m sure.

But, I can’t think of that just now. Soon enough, my girls will be starring in their own teenage romps and I have to prepare for my role of the stern but loving curmudgeon of a father.

“You kids turn down that noise you call music!”

We’re being invaded. Gone are the days of the economy car. Today we are faced with the specters of the SUV, casting its long shadow across the highways and byways of the US like a convoy of tanks that come with factory installed portable DVD players.

I won’t go into one of the main reasons why I don’t like SUVs. Which, of course, is the fact that they eat gasoline like a bulimic eats chocolate cake only to expel its noxious fumes into the air making our air quality disgusting.

I won’t even discuss the fact that most of the people who own SUVs don’t actually need its specific abilities. My neighbor, whom we refer to as icehole, uses his to drive to his job and intimidate people into giving him a better parking spot. The closest he’s ever come to off-roading is parking in our grass because he can’t be bothered with finding pavement to park on. He hauls exactly nothing. He’s never hooked up a trailer nor has the damn thing ever even been dirty.

What exactly do some of these people need this much car for? Going to church? Sure, if Jesus was preaching the Sermon on the Mount and there were no paved roads, I understand. But I live in an affluent area. Most of our churches have paved roads. Hell, most of them have valet parking and complimentary washing and buffing of the sins.

It has nothing to do with utility, which is the whole point of an SUV. Sport (An active pastime; recreation) Utility (Designed for various often heavy-duty practical uses: a utility knife; a utility vehicle) Vehicle (A self-propelled conveyance that runs on tires). Not using the utility portion makes it a pointless endeavor. Rather than taking something that hogs up resources and doesn’t actually fit on the road and making it useful, my neighbors have turned it into a status symbol. It’s an SSV. Status Symbol Vehicle. It’s a pissing contest.

Here’s how it works. Neighbor A buys an Explorer making Neighbor B feel impotent. Neighbor B trades in his mini-van for an Expedition, making the Explorer look like a Passat. Neighbor A, undaunted, scraps his Explorer and buys a Land Rover, complete with mountings for a gun turret. Neighbor B, buys a Hummer, keeps the Expedition and leaves it running on the driveway 24 hours a day, to prove that he needs not worry about gas! Neighbor A builds his own SUV out of the discarded shell of a 747 and a decommissioned nuclear reactor.

Meanwhile, the cloud of fumes blocks out the sun and our non-renewable resources expire. My neighbors are left in their driveways scratching their heads while I drive by on my Segway, mooning them (which is hard considering I need both hands to drive the thing).

But I digress.

What I find deplorable about these machines (which do have a use, I do not deny) is the fact that the people driving them do not, in fact, know how to drive a car of unusual size. They are rocketing down the highway in a two-ton death machine while reading the paper or applying make up. Parallel parking? Impossible, unless it’s on the tarmac of the local airport. Parking in a parking lot? No way. In fact, you can see a segregation going on at the local mall. Up front are the economy cars, in the middle are the luxury sedans and WAY in the back, with three spots between each are the SUVs, usually straddling two are three spots.

Worse, they can barely keep themselves in their lanes. The highway has become the adult version of dodge ball. I feel like I’ve come to the game armed with a kooshball. My little economy car is no match for their steel tanks. I’m dead meat.

Two weeks ago I was driving in a construction zone. The lanes were haphazard and almost non-existent. I hit an SUV. We pulled over and inspected our cars for damage. I had a dent on my door. The SUV had nothing.

The owner comes out and exclaims, “This thing can survive anything!” Giggle, giggle, giggle.

I’ll try harder next time.

Why am I not the subject of a reality television show? I think it would be rather interesting. You’ve already had “The Osbournes” which show a family at home (albeit a really odd one), “The Mole” where people try to figure out who’s screwing who, “Survivor” an ode to greed, deception and poor eating habits and, of course, “Big Brother” where people are trapped in a house with people that drive them nuts.

I propose they film my life and call it “The Freelancer.” You can see my odd family, watch me try and figure out which client is trying to screw me over rates, see me jump up and down when I get a check, run the clock while I’m surfing the net and eat Cheetos all the while being trapped in one room. My living room.

Oh, but you think it would be boring? That’s where you are wrong.

1. I have no one to talk to all day long, except for the cat and occasionally a group of seven-year-olds who wander in and out of the house. Often, I don’t know which one is mine. In fact, I once gave the wrong kid dinner. Now that’s funny! Watch me go nuts!
2. I get bored easily. Therefore, to burn off excess energy I feel the urge to dance. If you’ve ever seen me dance then, well . . . your problem not mine.
3. Ever watched someone cut paper up and paste it to other paper? It’s riveting, I tell you.
4. I have a theory that the long hours alone are sending me down the path of insanity. Wouldn’t you like to watch?
5. My pants, shirt and socks rarely match. And when they do, I’m not wearing them.
6. Find out exactly how a freelancer spends his day!

For example, one would expect my day to be rather boring, right? I had my to do list today and I was prepared to get my hours in, feed my family and buy our mansion on the hill next door to that creepy guy who smells funny but has a nice garden.

Well, it started out that way. Then I set Matilda on the task of cleaning her room. Which, of course, took supervision. I then was able to sit down and get some work done.

However, we needed to go to Mickey G’s to mail some materials to one of my author teams. Once we got there, we realized that we needed items for Target. On the two-minute drive from Mickey G’s to Target, we realized that we should add a car cup holder to the list.

So, we picked up the following: 1 universal remote for the broken TV that I have sitting above my computer; 1 black plastic cup holder; 1 safety gate; 1 Pepsi One, to test out the cup holder; 1 Go Pack of Doritos 3-Ds, nacho cheese flavor to combine with the enjoyment of the Pepsi One.

Now, of course, we couldn’t get out of the store without wandering. We looked at Harry Potter action figures and 20-inch bicycles.

Not content with the amount of choice we then went to Toys R Us to investigate further. We discovered that Toys R Us had a dismal selection as well. And their prices are higher (obviously to feed the heroin addiction of Geoffrey the Giraffe).

Of course, we couldn’t leave until we looked at baby toys. Natch. That’s when I saw it. It called me quietly. When I arrived, the heavenly choir sang and a single shaft of sunlight hit it. Swiss Family Robinson, fully restored, anamorphic, two full discs. For a reasonable price.

Then we had to go home and try out all of our toys, including the gate. Then I got some work done. Now I’m not getting work done.

But it all balances out. Because some day I’ll live the life of leisure and I’ll suddenly be distracted by work.

It’s called Karma Stank.

So, who wants to invest in “The Freelancer”? Guaranteed Emmy nomination! I’ll give you producer credit, but no merchandising cut.

This morning I was wakened by fat little baby hands beating on my arms to a resounding chant of “Da da da da da.” It was such a wonderful moment that I didn’t want to open my eyes. It’s one of those you wish you can bottle and keep forever, to be used when the going is rough.

When I rolled over, the baby promptly ruined it by reaching into my mouth and trying to pull out my tongue. This is why I had wanted to bottle the previous moment.

This got me thinking, as did watching the wonderful film Amelie last night. There are hundreds of tiny moments day to day that we take for granted and forget, choosing to focus on the dank and dreary, hum-drum moments that seem to depress us so.

It’s the little things in life that bring us joy. Not an anamorphic 16X9 television, though it would help.

What little things do you cherish, without realizing it?

When I crawl into bed, next to my sleeping wife, she instinctively snuggles up to me.

The baby often kisses my chin, very sloppily.

The opening moments of a movie in a silent, dark theater.

Walking out of a summer matinee into the bright, warm sunlight.

Matilda telling me a wild story that may or may not be true. In fact, at that moment she may or may not be Matilda.

The hazy fog of a summer morning.

The way the sheets feel when you first wake up.

Those moments right before sleep when reality and dream have no boundaries.

A sleepy baby cuddled up on my shoulder, eyes drooping.

The feeling of cool grass on bare feet.

The smell of a freshly opened book.

Opening the shrink-wrap on a new CD.

The smell of a wood fire.

Reading one of the books Matilda has written on her own.

The smell of the baby’s hair buds after a bath.

Pool chlorine on a hot summer’s day.

The first taste of a Guinness after a long wait.

The anticipation when the house lights go out at a concert, moments before the band hits the stage.

Pushing a stroller through the park while Matilda regales me with her tales of wizarding at the tender age of seven.

Telling Matilda that the Who’s “The Seeker” is about Quiddich. And her believing me.

Family hugs.

Popsicles dripping down your hand.

Reading a book for the fifth time and feeling as if you’ve gone home.

Those first few moments when you see a friend after a long absence.

Finding a letter addressed to you in the mailbox.

Being greeted with a cheerful, “Daddy!”

Chubby baby legs.

It doesn’t matter what they are. These are the tiny things that bring you joy. Don’t forget them. Take a moment to notice. Forget the fact that your boss is about to be a huge jerk in the meeting you’re entering. Instead, notice the hiss of air escaping from the padded chair.

Our time with each other is much too short. People float in and out of our lives faster than we can ever imagine. One moment we’re 12 and playing in a creek, the next we’re pushing 30 and staring at our kids as they sleep.

Life isn’t what you make of it. Life just is. Life is all that goes on around you. Everything else is just an ancillary.

Enjoy those little moments. Because when you’re 90, sitting in wheel chair, someone will ask you what the best day of your life was. You’ll think a moment and smile as memories come flooding back. Sights, smells, tastes emotions.

“It was a Thursday,” you’ll say. “Definitely a Thursday.”

It recently occurred to me that many retail choices make no sense whatsoever. For example, the most common place to buy cigarettes is at a gas station. A gas station is the last place on earth where you’d want to light a match, much less walk around with a burning ember in your mouth.

Liquor stores are often located next door to tanning salons. To me, this suggests that you take the edge of your radiation burn by downing a fifth of Southern Comfort.

It’s all relative, I tell you.

However, what bothers me the most is the local butcher. Yes, that harmless man who carves cow and poultry corpses for our amusement and enjoyment. The man whom we trust with the job, which we fear the most: connecting our food with dead animals.

If you walk into any grocery store you’ll find the butcher standing behind his glass case, proudly surveying his flayed meat, glistening in the cool, harsh light of the fluorescent bulbs. He knows what part of the animal each cut of meat came from. He knows, so that we don’t have to. He does the dirty work and we’re willing to pay him a premium for derumping a heifer for our roast. We trust that “tender loins” is just a phrase, and are happy that they aren’t named “tender crotch.” He calls it “milk-fed veal” so that we don’t have to call it “imprisoned, crippled, force-fed, tortured baby steer.” It’s “sausage” not “scraped from the floor leftovers stuffed into intestines, flavored for ripeness.”

But, the only thing that bothers me about the butcher is their uniform. Their job is to carve meat. A bloody, gross job. Why do they wear white coats? They emerge from the fright-inducing back room splattered in blood, looking like a back-alley plastic surgeon who has lost his license and performs nose jobs for a rock of crack and sexual favors. Blood stained, pristine white coats and goggles to protect their eyes from flying meat debris that is deflected off their gleaming sharp instruments.

Why white coats, which soak up and display the remnants of their gruesome task so well? White coats. Like doctors. People, whom we are supposed to respect, admire and trust.

Who do we see more of? The doctor? No, we like to avoid him because he has odd, cold, clammy hands that massage and prod our bodies looking for what may possibly a life-threatening tumor lodged deep inside our soft parts. No, we see the butcher who gives us lovely, red, beautiful meat. Meat we will gather around as a family and admire as it is screaming and searing on the grill.

We associate the doctor with sickness and life saving work. We associate the butcher with cold beer, picnics and tangy sauces. And, bloody clothes.

I think we should allow the butcher to wear multi-colored clothes that befits his industry. Giving him a white coat makes him look like a screaming, insane scientist performing horrible experiments in the backroom. We envision the Island of Dr. Moreau, not Fun Time With Meats and Sauces.

I propose that we provide our butchers with a nice burgundy outfit, with coordinated, comfortable shoes. We should call him Mister and never, ever mention what he does for a living. We should thank him, but look blankly at the ground so as to not make eye contact.

And let’s change his title to “Meat Artiste.” Butcher just sounds udderly barbaric.

My, it’s been a long time since I’ve updated here, much less posted a rant. And I’ve never done much with my fiction section, have I? That will change, I swear. I have something to post there, but it isn’t ready yet. Soon. Very soon.

Well, I’ve been busy with work and, well . . . hanging out with my family. Been a little depressed for unknown reasons, can’t find any good music to listen to and am bored with most of the movies I’ve been watching. I hate the book I’m reading and I think there may be a conspiracy against me getting good coffee.

GeekFriend has decided to move and, though I will miss him terribly, I laud him for the decision. The move will be good for him, especially if it gets him to produce some creative work again. In the very least, I’ll have an excuse to visit my beloved (because of Twin Peaks) Pacific Northwest. I just hope that when the day comes, he’ll understand why I’m wearing a dark blue suit, slicked back hair and keep yelling, “Damn good coffee. And HOT!”

Side note. Never wash down Tylenol with hot coffee as I just did. Ow.

My lovely wife has a new haircut. She’s swears it’s the last one for a while. It looks good. She has this sexy, avant garde artiste thing going for her. Very swanky. I just hope that no one else thinks so. It’s my sexy, avant garde wife, damn it.

However, things are actually going really well, despite my general funk. The kids are amazing. Fantastic. Wonderful. The best.

Baby Gertrude is crawling like a maniac. And teething. Which, of course, means that I’m ready for a disaster at any minute, with very little sleep. The poor kid just can’t sleep. She only wants her mother for comfort in the middle of the night, which means mom can’t sleep. I try to help, but Gertrude just won’t have me in the middle of the night. Poor kid. She’s still cute though.

She’s also trying to walk a little. She mastered crawling. The challenge just isn’t there anymore. So, walking is the next logical step. We have this little rolling play . . . um . . . thing that she motors around with, looking like a mini-bag lady. Periodically she’ll stand there without holding on to anything. Of course, she falls down because everyone starts screaming, “OH MY GOD! YOU’RE STANDING! LOOK AT YOU!” She gets a startled look on her face and falls down.

Matilda, who now knows her screen name, is growing smarter and smarter everyday. On Saturday, we were driving along, going to the park and she asked her mother how the world will end. Mom valiantly launched into an explanation of how stars die, etc. After explaining supernovas and large explosions, Matilda says, matter-of-factly, “Well, that will be an experience.” Startling.

She’s so wise beyond her years, it’s scary. She took a summer school class that involved making books. One of the stories she wrote was about a turtle that didn’t have any friends. No fish wanted him. No snail, no whale. He was all alone.

As I read it, I expected the turtle to meet another turtle, or have some sort of revelation on what it means to have friends. Matilda’s ending? “That’s okay. The turtle liked being alone.” Wonder where she gets that?

Since I’ve been working freelance, I feel as though I know this kid better than I ever had. I didn’t meet her until she was two, so our history doesn’t involve her infancy. However, to us, we’ve been together forever.

Her latest interest, and therefore mine too, is Harry Potter. We burned through the first book and are nearly finished with the second. We hope to have the third completed before school starts. I can’t explain how much I look forward to our hour of reading together at night. Maybe it’s the knowledge that she can read it herself, albeit belabored, and knowing that she’s doing it to share an experience with me.

We discuss the books over breakfast, float theories together and mine the Internet for new things. We have an elaborate fantasy life in which she is Harry’s main nemesis Draco Malfoy (her favorite character) and I am his evil father Lucious. It’s wonderful.

The books really are wonderful and I find myself enjoying them much more than my other diversions these days. I look forward to that hour a day like no other hour I’ve ever had.

It’s odd. Matilda and I have always been close. When we went to Disney World, mom felt left out. As if we had our won two-person club and we allowed her access periodically. We conspire together all the time and hatch plans to get the things we deeply desire (usually a movie or some sort of food). We’re partners in crime.

Plus, we talk all the time. About feelings, her friends, etc. Every Friday it’s just the two of us wandering around the city. We fight, we make up, we laugh, we cry. We talk about our feelings.

But this one hour a day is different. We’re sharing something in a way that we haven’t been able to before. On an intellectual level of sorts. We’ve always enjoyed movies and books together, but Harry Potter is different. Perhaps it’s that we have discovered a fantasy world in which we both enjoy finding relief from the usual grind. We do it together, and that’s pretty special in and of itself.

When we look back on our childhood, we have these warm and fuzzy memories of our parents. Special things we used to do together. Camping, vacations, going to theme parks. Little did I know that parents look back at their children’s childhood with the same warm fuzzy feelings.

On Matlida’s wedding day, as I’m holstering my shotgun, I’ll look at this beautiful young woman embarking on her adulthood and I’ll see this little blonde girl, wearing the T-Shirt I got for Father’s Day that says “Too Blessed To Be Stressed” as jammies (I get misty every time she says, “I’m sleeping in Daddy’s shirt!”) and carrying a Harry Potter book.

Everyone else will be hearing “I do” but all I’ll hear is, “Come on Daddy! Just one more chapter tonight.”

Damn it. I made myself all misty.

Confessions of a Geek will return to its regular schedule this week. I shall post something later today. Sorry for the delay. Much going on behind the scenes here at Geek Central. Some good, some not. But, so is life, I suppose. Much back room dealings. Some if it makes you feel good. Some of it makes you feel like a prison bitch wearing a head scarf and calling yourself Edith.

I think I shall start getting back to blogging very soon. I've been quite busy and today we have Parents as Teachers coming, which cuts about two hours out of my day. Matilda's summer school ends this week as well, so I'm trying to prepare for the onslaught of the next six weeks until school starts again. Daily I will get this.

"I'm bored."

"Can you take me swimming?"

"Mom always makes me a hot lunch."

"No one will play with me."

"Can we go get ice cream?"

"Mom lets me play with the nail polish remover on the coffee table."

"I hate my friends. They called me fat."

"I'm worried that the Dow lost 10% yesterday, will this mean that when I grow up the economy will be ruined because of the poor spending habits of your generation and their techno-lust in the stock market?"

Sigh.

Hello. I've not forgotten about Confessions of a Geek.

If you have any experience with the publishing industry, I'm currently going through something called "Transmittal". While this has nothing to do with the reproductive organs of an Ox, it at times feels as though I am giving birth to one.

R.I.P Ward Kimball. A man who could take a blank sheet of paper and give it a life so vibrant and alive that his creations will live long after he's gone.

Well, another four-day weekend gone by and you have to ask yourself, “where did it go?” It seems as if, the older you get, the shorter time is. I suppose that when the measure of your life is the growth and development of your children, your mental yardstick seems to get shorter all the time. One minute they’re drooling on you, the next minute they’re reciting the Periodic Table of the Elements.

The Fourth was very fun. I spent the day with newly returned GeekFriend at the Hi-Pointe theater watching the restored print of 2001: A Space Odyssey. What a great flick! However, never walk through 100-degree heat and humidity to a movie theater and watch a gentle, beautiful film. Your brain thinks: “This place is COMFORTABLE. Just close your eyes! No one will notice. No one will, will they?”

We then went home for a poultry and soystravaganza indoor cookout. That was fun. Good potato chips can often make the world go round, in many ways. We loaded up the kids in the car and went to our favorite community fireworks display. The girls played on the blanket in the grass, eating ice cream (okay, only one of them) and yelling and drooling. Matilda, GeekFriend and I played Frisbee in the dirt for a while, until we got dusty and thirsty.

Baby Gertrude thought the fireworks were pretty cool. We didn’t expect her to. When things explode at that volume, kids usually get freaked out. Not my little one! She even got bored with it and fell asleep!

After we got home I walked GeekFriend out to his car at about 11:30. I came back in at 2. If we had patio furniture out there, we might have watched the sun come up. It was good though. We had a nice talk about . . . well . . . everything. From marriage to kids to life in general to places to live to what family is. Good conversation.

Friday is a blur. I think I did something. I’m not sure though.

Saturday my lovely sister came over and played with the baby while we took Matilda to see Lilo & Stitch. GREAT MOVIE. I laughed in ways that I haven’t laughed in a long time. It felt wonderful. It took some time to relax, though. Leaving the baby at home was like leaving your left arm behind. It didn’t seem natural. It was the first time in eight months we didn’t have her with us. It was too odd. I kept checking my pockets because I felt like something was missing.

The movie, however, led to a series of Dad Sucker Moments that extended through the rest of the weekend. It all started on the ride home, when we decided we wanted the soundtrack to Lilo & Stitch. Figured I’d order it from Amazon. However, Matilda then came upstairs wearing a skirt, lei and flowers in her hair, doing the hula much like Lilo in the film. I was immediately in the car, rushing up to Borders (where the morons that worked there made me wait for thirty minutes to check out. Yargh.)

Apparently while I was gone, my girls went outside and Matilda hulaed for the cars passing by, giving the drivers a nice smile and a good memory. Matilda then thought it would be a great idea to sell hula dances for a quarter to passersby. As she ran to make a sign, her mother stopped her and said, “You are NOT dancing for money.”

Thank god. I hope we never have that conversation again.

Sunday, my lifetime ban from grocery shopping was lifted and I went with the wife and baby (Matilda was at bio-dad’s). I was carrying the baby around in my arms, handing her random things that she shouldn’t have been holding and getting yelled at to behave myself. Then, Dad Sucker moment #2 occurred.

I handed Gertrude a Powerpuff Girls ball. She squealed in delight, giggled non-stop and batted that thing like there was no tomorrow. The ball now lives at home with us. Baby is happy.

Later that evening I went to the drug store alone. I figured I was safe. I was wrong. As I was walking to check out I noticed they had wooden models for a dollar apiece. I loaded my arms and brought them home for Matilda.

She was thrilled and we immediately put the fish model together. It was tough, but we had a great time. It was a nice way to unwind before we headed off to read another chapter in Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets.

But I realized something. This is what dads do. They pick up random things for their kids. Not just toys, but things they can do with their children. Kids expect this. For some reason, no matter how much time a dad spends with their children, doing something special with dad means more.

Whether it’s building a model, washing the car, hanging a picture . . . it doesn’t matter. Kids like to help their dads. It makes them feel special, a little powerful.

We finished that model, and looked at it when we were done. It’s a little lopsided, and we can’t quite figure out where the head is supposed to be, but that’s okay.

To us, it’s the most beautiful piece of craftsmanship ever. Because we did it together.

Being as tomorrow is Independence Day, a day which most people have previously only thought of as a day off from work during which they are allowed to drink heavily and play with explosives, I’ve been thinking of what is truly American.

With our presence on the world stage so often making the front page of newspapers world wide, and seeing our national pride distilled into Levis and Elvis, I’ve been looking around me to see what I felt were the true symbols of my country, outside of the flag. What espouses our values? What says, Liberty, Freedom and all the other things we value so highly.

So far my answer is nothing. You can’t really put a symbol to our freedom, nor can you visualize liberty. You can’t describe these things and they aren’t exactly something you can place in your pocket. Freedom to a farmer may be different than freedom to a stockbroker. And yet, we are one.

So I gave up. Instead, I turned to those things that are important to me to find this intangible feeling I get when I think about my country. Music, more than anything else, can give you a sense of place. It helps you touch the intangible and taste a phantom life. You can’t put your finger on it, but it’s transporting, transformative and expressive.

So what music says “America”?

The Beach Boys. Their early music sends you to a place of innocence when a fast car and a girl at your side was all that mattered. You’d spend summer days in the sun and summer nights in the coolness of a movie theater, wondering whether or not to hold her hand. Loose clothing, warm water and fun, fun, fun. They dabbled in rebellion (“til your daddy takes the T-bird away), and pondered adolescent mistakes (“remember when I spilled Coke all over your blouse?”). The music of Brian Wilson evokes a feeling, a sense of place. It may call itself California, but it may remind you of mowing the lawn, driving a cool car and sitting with your girl. It’s sweet, innocent, and reminds you of a time when you didn’t worry about things so much. It’s the sound of youth. It’s the sound of an American youth. Does it ring true today? Perhaps not, since Brian and his collaborators never discussed popping a cap in anyone’s ass.

But Brian’s music, like America’s own youth, became disenchanted with the world around him. The music grew up, and many of his fans left. And yet, here is a distinct record of a youth losing his innocence and yet longing for the past. Pet Sounds, arguably the greatest album ever recorded, is filled with music that bridges childhood and adulthood. It doesn’t rebel, but it often asks why. Looks for answers:

I keep looking for a place to fit
Where I can speak my mind
I've been trying hard to find the people
That I won't leave behind

And yet it never loses that place. The seasons may change, but the truth of the matter remains. Whether it’s from the innocence of touting the toughness of your machine:

Superstock Dodge is windin' out in low
But my fuel injected Stingray's really startin' to go

Or your feeling of being lost amidst the world around you:

I'm a cork on the ocean
Floating over the raging sea
How deep is the ocean?

It doesn’t matter. This is a testament to youth, and the loss of it. It puts you in a place that is long forgotten. A place of innocence and lost innocence. When Coke, surfing, cruising and puppy love gives way to fear of isolation, lonliness, mortality and loss.

My other debatable American Icon is Bruce Springsteen. Springsteen took a unique American sound (Phil Spector’s Wall of Sound, i.e. “Be My Baby”) and created his own style. One that is distinctly American.

Springsteen is like the continuation of the Beach Boys. He starts off jaded and confused. He doesn’t see the America that he has been promised. With the industrial skyline as his backdrop, Bruce longs for the open road, simple pleasures and an indescribable freedom.

In his songs, farmers, factory workers and union men are kindred spirits. They look at the mansion on the hill with disdain and longing. Their hands are course, their loves rough. And still, there is a pride in their toil, a pride in their hardship. Working construction is held up with office work. Sometimes the economy is tough in his music. Sometimes everything is wonderful. His music reflects where we stand, on the border between an industrial landscape and the untamed wilderness at our backs.

The innocence is still there, if a little tarnished. Bruce sings about sitting with his girl by his side. He sings of an ideal of a girl in the front seat next to you as you strike out on the great American journey:

They scream your name at night in the street
Your graduation gown lies in rags at their feet
And in the lonely cool before dawn
You hear their engines roaring on
But when you get to the porch they're gone
On the wind, so Mary climb in
It's a town full of losers
And I'm pulling out of here to win.

Again, Springsteen gives you a sense of place. It’s an America on the border between innocence and bitterness.

Lights out tonight
trouble in the heartland
Got a head-on collision
smashin' in my guts, man
I'm caught in a cross fire
that I don't understand
But there's one thing I know for sure girl
I don't give a damn
For the same old played out scenes
I don't give a damn
For just the in betweens
Honey, I want the heart, I want the soul
I want control right now
talk about a dream
Try to make it real
you wake up in the night
With a fear so real
Spend your life waiting
for a moment that just don't come
Well, don't waste your time waiting

So how does any of this mean America? Like I said, it’s hard to describe intangibles. Good music gives voice to emotion.

What does it mean to be American? I don’t know. What makes me proud of being an American? I know this country always believes there will be a better day. We recover. We always work, toil and sweat for a better life. We take pride in these things. Again, I can’t put my finger on it.

Perhaps it is because I live in a country that allows me to be who I am, no questions asked. Unless, of course, I’m a tax evader. Then, of course, someone is bound to ask questions.

“It ain’t no sin to be glad you’re alive.”

Wow. I'd like to say that the post below just really sucked. Sorry about that! See what being tired does to the brain???

I feel I must take a few moments out of my hectic schedule these days to post something. If only for my own sanity! I’m cramming quite a bit of work into these few days and it’s driving me nuts.

Every time I receive an email in my work in-box I hear Buzz Lightyear ask, “You’re mocking me, aren’t you?” Sometimes it rings true. Entirely too true.

Enough of that. On to other things.

Matilda’s seventh-birthday-extravaganza was held this weekend at a local water park. That was mistake number one. Water park. That’s insane. What were we thinking? The second mistake was actually inviting anyone outside of the family. The third mistake was holding the party during the day, under the cruelty of the sun. The fourth mistake was allowing the Brownie Bitches (more on them some other time) to stay with us. Yargh.

The party went well. Most of the kids are of the age where they are okay to wander this relatively small park alone. However, that doesn’t mean I wasn’t walking around the park looking for the kids half the day.

One kid, who lives hear us, is obsessed with being accepted. For an entire week, this is all she could say, “I don’t know if I’ll enjoy the party if other kids are there. They probably won’t like me. I think you (Matilda) should do everything with me and not your other friends. I’ll be lonely if you don’t. I’m not sure if I could be your friend anymore if you pay attention to the other guests. Why did you invite them? They probably won’t like me and they’ll make fun of me.” And on and on and on.

We have pictures of this child watching Matilda open her gift on her actual birthday. Matilda is beaming with pride and happiness over her new American Girl doll while the neighbor has this look of pain and anger on her face.

But, she ended up doing fine at the party. For the first hour she wandered off alone and didn’t pay attention to the other children, which clearly didn’t give them the chance to hate her as she planned.

For the most part the other girls were great. All my nieces and nephews, of course, were wonderful and had a great time. However, one of Matilda’s friends did not. Her father stayed with her, much to my chagrin. This is a vibrant, intelligent child who is funny, loud and excitable. Except when her dad is around. Then she’s withdrawn, embarrassed, shy and almost on the verge of social collapse. He does this to her by protecting her within an inch of her life, always standing over her, coddling, cooing and fixing everything.

We invited this little girl over once. Her father nearly had a heart attack when he realized he couldn’t weasel his way into staying. He stammered and backed out of the house apologizing to his daughter. She batted her eyes and waved back, sadly. As soon as the door closed, she turned to Matlida and bellowed, “So what do you want to do first??” They played for three hours and screamed like wild banshees, having a wonderful time. The father called every thirty minutes to make sure she was okay. When I told him his daughter was walking around the house acting like an elephant he nearly passed out. He double-checked to make sure we were talking about the same girl.

She came down with a mysterious illness shortly after lunch and went home. I did not find out why they left until the day after the party being as they left without saying goodbye.

Baby Gertrude had a blast! She flopped in the water as if she had lived there for nine months (come to think of it . . . ). Once she got over the fear that we were about to apply Baby Magic all over her hair buds, she relaxed and just giggled with sheer joy. She even stuck her face in the water. Granted, she was trying to grab something that wasn’t there and didn’t realize there was a barrier between her face and her goal. The important thing is that she didn’t cry or drown. I think she viewed it as a minor accomplishment, based on the look on her face, which seemed to say, “Well . . . I won’t do that again.”

I think the adults had a good time too. Except for the portions of my body that are now teeming with tumors brought out by the UV Rays of the sun, which on Sunday was extremely active with cool explosions. Not that we could see it or anything, but there’s particles everywhere! There might even be a neutron passing through your brain right now! RUN!

Overall, I learned a very important lesson. Perhaps I already knew this and needed a refresher. However, if you ever plan on entering the water feet first from a high-speed water slide, hold your nose. Otherwise water runs straight up it, acting as a nasal enema.

I think there is still some water lodged up there in the cavities somewhere. At night I can still smell the chlorine.

On the flipside, the kids thought it was funny as hell. And that means they were paying attention to me for at least a nanosecond. And that ain’t bad.

Sorry for the lack of updates.

Afterall, we have a three-day work week ahead of us. To a freelancer, that means three days to do five days worth of work. So, I'm cramming in as much as possible.

The good news is, I found a great new place to buy my coffee beans. Yummy!