Today marks the one-year anniversary of “Confessions of a Geek.” One year of writing this . . . um . . . stuff.

We’ve been through at least seven designs, a few aborted attempts at new formats, and several weird-linking situations. In that year I’ve some how managed to top 7000 visits to this crappy little site and, I have to ask, why?

I mean, sure, sometimes I say some funny things. I make an ass of myself, that’s my forte. But, really, what has this site offered to the world?

Well, we’ve discussed the concept of Wang Chung, body pillows, irrational fears, hot dog conspiracies, robo-rats, purple fuzz monkeys, toothbrush technology, breastfeeding and much more. Too much more.

How far we have come from my first entry that stated:

“This is my first blog. More later. Ack. Ack.”

Right. Um, yeah. What was I thinking?

Since I’ve blogged my family has grown by one (young Gertrude) and Matilda has burned through first grade and started second. I’ve left one horrible, terrible, no good job and started off on my own. Plus, I’ve read three and one half Harry Potter books.

Most importantly, however, is that I’ve been writing pretty much every day. Every single day. That’s good. I haven’t done that since college. Now that I do this I have ideas and things to write about, even if they have nothing to do with this site. I’ve got book ideas, film ideas, and proposals for NASA on why I should command the next shuttle mission. Not bad for someone who previously hadn’t completed any writing since 1995.

But, now I’m back. And for this I blame GeekFriend, for showing me Blogger and James Lileks himself for inspiring me to be the idiot I am.

And I have you to thank, dear reader. For some reason you come back every day. Even when I’m not being particularly witty and insightful. And sometimes you email to give me some encouragement or thanks. And that means a lot.

So, have a good long weekend (those of you in the US). If you’re one of my pregnant readers, tell your husband to treat you right this weekend. Put your feet up and let him get you whatever you want.

And if you’re one of my breastfeeding mom readers, give your little tyke a hug for me and tell them they have a good mom.

Well. I was up late last night, worked hard all day yesterday and will rinse, lather and repeat today. Except for now, of course. I’m goofing off right now.

One has to wonder why “goofing off” is a horrible thing. Why must we be so serious all the time? What greater good does it serve to be a scowling grouch during work? Sure, I understand being serious about your work. That is necessary. But why is it wrong to sing, air guitar and leap from your chair dancing to release some excess energy?

Not that I’ve ever done that. Really. I’m a very quiet reserved human being. That’s why I no longer work in the office. I just can’t handle that wild office life of eating yogurt, scheduled bathroom breaks and water cooler water.

I think, if I ever open my own office, I’d insist on high quality work and a complete disregard for seriousness outside of that work. Right now I’m doing very good work for my clients. They seem to like it. Do they know that right now I’m wearing a green crocodile visor from the zoo? No. Because everything I write for them is nice and serious. And I don’t wear it when I go to see them because, well . . . it would disturb them.

And if they ever make shoes with blinky lights for adults, I'd wear those too.

My lovely wife stayed home with me while I worked once. She wondered if I always acted that way. I said, “yes.”

“That way” consisted of the following:
· Talking to myself in an English accent
· Referring to the computer as “Trevor”
· Dancing to a particularly groovy song
· Disagreeing with myself and subsequently firing me. I was later rehired as it was deemed that the employment pool in our house was too shallow.
· More dancing
· Talking like Mickey Mouse
· Saying, “Uh huh huh ha ha wee wooo!”
· Dancing with my chair as a partner
· Hiding under the windowsill and peeking out the window whenever a white van drove by and screaming, “They’re here! My God they found me!” and then putting on a tin foil hat so they couldn’t read my thoughts.

But I got my work done, hit my deadlines and drank WAY too much coffee (which leads to bad, bad dancing).

When I worked in an office, I always had various toys on my desk, along with my now defunct Fargo Snow Globe (moment of silence). I also had a PT Cruiser hot wheel, a Mickey Mouse figurine, a giant coffee cup, a signed photo of Harrison Ford, and an odd alien that squirts water. Oh, and a motorized replica of the Walt Disney World monorail (pull it back and watch it zoom!). However, the greatest addition to any desk I could ever have came after I worked in public (sigh).

For my birthday this year GeekFriend gave me (among other things) an oddly decorated glass jar. It contains black and white pictures of tribal piercings, mummies, monkeys and more. When you open the jar it is dark and black. Then you see it. A replica of a dismembered human ear (see Blue Velvet for the reference). I could really freak out some office mates with that one. Heh.

I wonder why I’m always the “office weird guy”?

I’ve met one person in my life who shared my love for office mayhem. His name is Ken and he had more toys than I did. He’s my office hero. He could tease someone and it would take them weeks to figure out the he was making fun of them. As far as I know, I was his greatest ally and nemesis rolled into one. When we played “one-up” I could keep it going, at his expense. He loved it. I loved it.

The greatest thing in Ken’s office was a stuffed monkey that hung from the ceiling.

“What’s that,” I innocently asked one day. Ken looked at me with a malicious grin.

“That’s Spank. My monkey,” he said.

Pure, evil brilliance.

Today is Wondermints day in the O’Brien household. I’ve ripped all the CDs onto my hard drive, put them on shuffle and am enjoying the wonder that are the wonderful Wondermints. If I could only share with you the visceral enjoyment that is “Arnoldo Said.” Alas, you’ll just have to go out and buy “Bali.”

Before I get into my usual self-important drudgery, I feel I have to say something. Yesterday, John did something insanely nice for me. Because of John’s intervention, I will now be able to watch the Sopranos fourth season real time, rather than via DVD a year later. However, I have to get caught up first (hurry up mail!!!!).

John’s act of generosity is rather interesting, when you think about it. Truth is, we’ve never met. I’ve never seen John face to face. Yet, over the last three years, we’ve done a lot of work together thanks to the magic of the Internet. He helps me with my computer, we come up with amazing ideas (some of which we’ll actually do someday) and work on his website. Despite the fact that my experience with him has been on the phone or via email, I feel that I’ve grown rather close to him. The fact that we live 1200 miles away from each other is irritating. For example, when he was building his new server I bet I would have been handing him tools like Igor if we lived a few blocks away rather than a few states away.

I hope to see him face to face early next year as we launch our latest and greatest project for world consumption.

Anyway, thanks John. For your kindness, support, the knowledge you’ve imparted upon me and, of course, your friendship.

*********************************************************************************************************

So, what have I learned since yesterday’s blathering about music? Not a hell of a lot, to be honest. I’ve gotten some really great recommendations ranging from indie lo fi to instrumental gospel. Each act was accompanied by some wonderful superlatives about the particular attributes that make them special. I look forward to checking them out and following the threads that are connected to them.

It’s a horrible moment when an explorer discovers a dead end. And yesterday I felt that way. I’ve gone so far as to turn down an Elvis Costello concert. My love for Elvis has not diminished a bit. However, there were extenuating circumstances that I couldn’t bear.

First, I couldn’t get the seats I wanted. And to be honest, I’ve come to far in life to stand on the floor smelling other people while I’m trying to listen to the music. Secondly, I recently missed a concert I desperately wanted to see because of extenuating circumstances (That would have been Stew, for those keeping score).

I’m not upset about Elvis because, well, I’ve seen him. He and I have had a long relationship. So, I think he’ll understand if I don’t show up. Actually, Elvis was the second act on a whirlwind few years where I got to see every member of my “Must see before I die” list. (Roger Waters, Elvis Costello, David Byrne, Brian Wilson). Between August 1999 and October 2001, I saw all four. I also threw in Bruce Springsteen for good measure (and many others, but those were the important ones).

Plus, after too many concerts to count, I feel like I may be done with the big-ticket guys for a while. Of course, I’d see Brian Wilson again without question.

Now I want to focus on seeing people like Stew live. I missed The Apples in Stereo last year. And Guided By Voices (not one of my favorite bands, but watching Robert Pollard self-destruct on stage has a certain car-wreck appeal). And a few others like The Flaming Lips.

I hear Stew will return. I won’t miss it this time. I also hope The Wondermints (guys, you need a homepage! Talk to Patrick.) wander through my little town. And Splitsville, Sparkle*Jets UK, The Orange Peels, Hutch, Apples in Stereo, Steve Ward and more. And hey, a certain guy named Steve is supposed to be coming out with an album. Hurry Steve! I like what I've heard. I like songs about Science and Love!

One can hope, can’t he?

I feel like I’m in a rut. A musical rut. I can’t seem to find a comfortable place where music makes me happy and I can listen for hours on end in happiness.

There was once a time when I could listen to the same album over and over and over and over until it was worn out and I could play each part on its respective instrument without bothering to know how to play said instrument.

In fifth through seventh grade it was Van Halen. I was a total addict. I wore the shirts and hats and had Eddie Van Halen plastered all over my walls. I wanted to dress like him, act like him and marry Valerie Bertonelli like him. I didn’t, however have a desire to have a cocaine and alcohol problem or be an arrogant ass. So I grew out of it (though my inexplicable love for their music lasted until my freshman year of college).

In high school it was Led Zeppelin. Constant listens to Physical Graffiti somehow gave me a new level of consciousness. I was cool and hip and groovy, even though I never said groovy. I could quote the dreamy lyrics of Robert Plant the way some people can quote the bible.

High school also meant Jimi Hendrix and any other guitar god known to man. Jeff Beck, Clapton, Stevie Ray Vaughan and blues legends like Buddy Guy and BB King. I was learning how to expand my horizons but I was still limited to the familiar.

In college I got into Springsteen and Dylan. I was moving toward the intellectual. Then I discovered Elvis Costello. Elvis is the one musical act that most people identify me with. I don’t think I look like an Elvis Costello fan, but I must have the smell or something.

I continued my love for blues and cultivated my love for off-the-beat-path music.

Then my brother introduced me to Pet Sounds by the Beach Boys and I became enamored with the amazing sounds of Brian Wilson’s genius and insanity (Sweet Insanity, to be specific).

Around the same time a friend from work started introducing me to music that was so far off the beaten track that you had to go to specialized stores to find it. Yet another friend was showing me contemporary classical music. And yet another friend was trying to get me into French pop.

And it happened. My musical identity fractured and exploded. I had no identifiable music, per se (though Power Pop seems to be what most people peg me for). Rather I am a musical schizophrenic. My hard drive is filled with various music that I play all day long as I work. An example of any give hour:

Ben Folds, Antonio Carlos Jobim, Loud Family, Coldplay, Radiohead, Elvis Costello, Aimee Mann, Cherry Twister, Moby, Rocking Teenage Combo, Beach Boys, The Faces, Velvet Underground, Stew, Wondermints, Splitsville, Belle and Sebastian, Call and Response, Linus of Hollywood, Charles Mingus, Louis Prima, Air, Arling & Cameron, Sterolab, High Llamas, Bruce Springsteen, The Flaming Lips, Michael Nyman, Damon Albaron, Apples in Stereo, Cornelius, Ramones . . .

It goes on. I like myself now, musically. I enjoy knowing all these bands as a group rather than being stuck in a genre. I like the fact that I knew who Ryan Adams, Ben Kweller and Norah Jones were long before the masses picked up on their talent. I like that I’m told that I listen to the weirdest music only to then be told that my CD compilations are works of genius. I like handing someone a CD I made and watching their face as The Kinks deftly fade into The Magnetic Fields before you’re assaulted with The Flashing Lights.

But lately . . . I feel too fragmented. Too far spread across the musical map. Too undefined. Do they have prescription drugs for this?

I’m looking forward to the new Negro Problem CD and the new Wondermints. But those are one and two weeks off from release. I’ll listen to them until they’re worn out, that’s for sure.

I realized that I’m addicted to discovery and I’m running out of avenues to trod. I went on a musical bacchanal for the last several years and I’ve just woken up with an aural hang over. I don’t know where I am or where to go.

Any ideas? Know any good music that cannot possibly live without? (Thanks to John for his latest recommendation, by the way.)

What runs through the mind of a baby when it dreams? What thoughts occur to that slumbering mind? Are they based on what they know or do they ascend to a different level of consciousness where they can interpret what they see through a more sophisticated eye?

This morning, Baby Gertrude lay slumbering in our bed while we waited to get into the shower, the alarm only minutes away from buzzing. If she had been put back in her bed she surely would have woken up again, after her pre-dawn food. So it was for our sanity that she slept between us.

I awoke to find her head planted firmly in my back with her little hand grasping my arm. She was quiet and content. But, I was hanging off the bed, so she had to be moved, lest I fall and crack my skull on the nightstand.

She was moved into a position that was parallel to mine and she stirred. A little back scratching and she was slumbering once again. With her held in my arms, a contentment which most of the world surely cannot understand, I fell back into slumber.

And was interrupted by the alarm. I leaned over and shut it off, cursing the forward movement of time in moments as perfect as this. Why must I give up a cuddling baby for the purposes of work and obligation? Would my talents not serve me better here? Should I not shirk all other duties and simply love this child with all my might?

She began to whimper and stir, but did not awaken. Rather, she seemed troubled in her sleep as she kicked her chubby little feet and furrowed her cute little brow.

She was having a nightmare. A nine-month old’s version, at least.

What could she have been dreaming about? Running out of food? Being left in a room alone? An uncomfortable diaper?

And yet she dreamed. No thoughts of crime, punishment or taxes. She probably wasn’t dreaming of mortal danger or accidentally going to her sitter’s naked. She likes being naked. So, what was bothering her? What process was that little mind running? Where were her thoughts?

I’ll never know the level of sophistication of her little brain waves, I suppose. All I can do in those moments, awake or asleep, is hold her. Assure her that she is safe and loved.

And that’s what I did. I put my arm around her to let her know that daddy was there. She cuddled up closer to me and heaved a contented sigh.

And then she farted.

By the way, it’s the episode where Albert is addicted to morphine and they have to send him up the river for drug possession. Then he becomes Willie Olson’s prison bitch named Beatrice.

I may not be remembering it correctly, so don’t quote me on that.

Baby is home with me this morning as we wait to take her to a doctor’s appointment. We’re watching Little House on the Prairie. She wants to know why I don’t cry like Pa.

We have survived the first day of school (at least getting on the morning bus). There was much wringing of hands, nervous pacing, worried looks and a few tears. But mom’s fine now. We gave her a Zoloft and sent her to work.

Matilda was chomping at the bit, ready for second grade. Hell, I think she’s ready for fifth grade. I was standing in the classroom with Matilda’s Bio-Dad yesterday looking at the books the teacher had set out for the kids.

“She’s way past these,” he said.

“I know. What if she gets bored?”

“Well,” he wondered, “should we send her to school with her own copies of Proust? Or would that be too presumptuous?”

“Maybe we should go for Faulkner. I think the kids won’t tease her as much if she’s carrying a book called ‘As I Lay Dying.’”

Now I wait for the burly men to come and pick up my old Corolla, which we’ve donated to “Cars For Hope” which is a children’s cancer charity.

Goodbye old friend. You served me well. Remember all those times I called you a worthless piece of crap? I meant every single one.

But in a good way.

Every man has his limits and I have reached mine. I’ve discovered my breaking point and it was delivered by Maxtor, the evil bastards who design, build and sell really terrible hard drives that die and die and die.

I’m on my third Maxtor hard drive on the current machine on which I am currently typing. The machine that works sometimes, and doesn’t other times. And, finally, yesterday, I had enough.

My computer delivered a digital suicide note in the form of “Bad Sector”. I’ve fixed it and the thing is sort of working for the time being, but the time has come to retire this piece o’digital junk and replace it with something more . . . appropriate.

I had originally planned on building my own. But time is of the essence and, I do not have the time. I’d have to compile the components, get it all installed, format, load and do a lot of crying. Unfortunately, I have to work as well and . . . I just don’t have the time to go through that.

So I interviewed potential computing mates yesterday. People who could build my dream machine in a custom manner and still respect me in the morning. I was surprised by my findings. Going to a local store will get you a better machine, cheaper, and probably more reliable, than going to any of the national chains and asking them to do the same.

The eventual winner was Jacob at Computer Renaissance. I walked in, showed him my requirements and he started to smile. “Ah,” he said. “You want a high performance machine.” Why yes. Yes I do Jacob.

“Have you ever thought much about computers Mr. O’Brien? It’s the central preoccupation of my life.”

He pulled out a motherboard that made me cry. It was beautiful. Full of slots and chips and circuits. They shone like digital diamonds. I imagined all the beautiful data that would be shooting across those circuits and diodes. I looked at the slots and the ports and cried. Jacob held me, told me he understood.

We worked out what I wanted. Made sure that I could upgrade everything. This is the Mother Board.

It’s beautiful, isn’t it? I’ll be able to set up RAID in a few months, when I’m ready. I’ll be starting out with 512 MB of RAM and will eventually add another 512MB. If I want, I can go up to 3 gigs of ram. I’m drooling just thinking about it.

And, I’ll be putting an AMD Anthalon XP 2000+ processor on there. This puppy is going to fly.

Jacob will be taking my old machine and trying to give it a new life for another person. He said that it is like donating organs. They’ll gut it, ditch all the crappy pieces and give it to a worthy person.

And so, there goes my dream of upgrading it with a sledgehammer. But I’ll have a new computer and I’ll be happy.

And I’ll be able to watch DVDs on it. Which means now I’ll have three DVD players in my house. The power. Insane power? Can you feel it?

Oh yeah. I can feel it.

Blogging will be sparse the next few days. I have much work to do, both paid and unpaid.

Right now I have to figure out what form factor I need for my new processor, buy some RAM, hard drives, video cards, audio cards, heat sinks, cooling units, and on and on and on. Sigh.

Plus, Matilda starts school Thursday, so I have to prepare for that too.

And, I’m involved in an exciting new project that I may tell you about someday.

And the fanged squirrels are out to get you.

Don't click this.

It occurred to me that while others are afraid of war, more terror attacks, sickness, death and pestilence, I actually fear mutant animals.

No, not frogs with three eyes or the occasional two-headed snakes. But actual, frightening genetic aberrations that strike fear into the hearts of men.

Giant lizards with wet forked tongues that hiss at you would be frightening. One that could swallow your leg if you’re not careful. If it was breathing fire, that would be worse.

Dogs with no eyes that can sense the darkness in your soul. Their wet noses sniffing and pulsating in the air smelling your secret desires.

Winged Wombats with learning disorders. They swoop down to eat you and bring you to Sylvain Learning Center.

But most of all I fear squirrels with fangs. That would be really scary. Those suckers are mean little animals, bent only on satisfying their own hunger. They don’t give a damn about you.

Have you ever seen a squirrel up close? They are frightening. When you get past their cute little fluffy tail, you’ll see that they are muscular. Lithe little machines of death.

Oh goody, the nice lady in white is here with my afternoon meds.

Thorozine take me away!

There should be a special store that sells only embarrassing items (no, not the kind that you hide in your suitcase and get embarrassed about when the security agent pulls it out and questions you about its use). I’m talking about those things that deal with the biological necessities that you don’t really want anyone to know about.

Have you ever walked into a store to buy one item, say something for flatulence, toilet paper or . . . worse . . . something for your wife that you would never use.

There should be a special lane in the store that is completely enclosed, totally dark that hides your voice and face. That way no one will ever know.

These items range from Preparation H to toilet paper to feminine hygiene products to Nair for Men (yep, it exists).

Why must we confront the bitter, stupid teen behind the counter with our most embarrassing items? If we need Imodium, odds are we REALLY need it at the moment and the last face we want to see is one with a tongue stud who chuckles at you as he rings up your item.

Don’t worry pal, your day will come.

I thought of this recently for some reason. I was taken back to my days in college when a friend of mine was having a little problem with, uh, itching. So we went to the local grocery store to pick up a remedy. We specifically waited until 1 a.m. to ensure the fewest people around. We figured that, if anyone were shopping at 1 a.m. they’d have far bigger problems than his. We found the section of the store and he started browsing. He started reading the back of one of the items when, who should show up but perhaps the two most beautiful women awake at that time of day.

These weren’t just good looking women. They had fallen off the pages of a magazine. Perfectly put together, as if Nature was trying to top herself.

It really didn’t matter if he had a hygiene product in his hand. He could have been holding a stack of one hundred dollar bills. These girls never would have paid attention to us. But, when he’s holding up an unmistakable box that essentially takes him out of the realm of potential mate and they glance over, I had to laugh. Naturally, as soon as they walked in I scooted down the aisle to the vitamins. But I laughed. They couldn’t see me. All they saw was my friend, holding one of the most embarrassing items in the store, looking as though he were a deer facing down a Mack truck. All the color left his face, as he stood there frozen, the girls staring at him wondering where this hysterical laughter was coming from.

I laughed so hard that I was doubled over on the floor, as if I were having a seizure. And I couldn’t stop. I was gasping for air.

My friend ducked out of site and the girls disappeared. He came over and started kicking me, “Get up you ass! As if it wasn’t embarrassing enough!” It was too late though. He could have shaved my head and I wouldn’t have been able to stop laughing.

We waited enough time to make sure the girls were out of the store to check out. With his product in hand, we went to the late-night checker who clearly could care less what we were buying. She just didn’t care. Who walks in behind us? The girls. I lost composure again.

At least they didn’t have to do a price check.

My point is if there were a special store, he wouldn’t have had this issue. No questions asked. No one would ever know what his discomfort was, they wouldn’t care. Of course, only cash would be an option. Otherwise the clerk would know who he was and his credit card company would know what he was doing and why.

I’m not immune to this, of course. I’m married and, periodically, I have to go pick up things for my wife. Things that I would never use. COULD never use. Everyone who sees me carrying them should know that I’m there out of my undying love for my mate. Yet, as soon as I check out I start making excuses.

“Uh. My dogs drool a lot so we put these under their chins. That’s why they have wings and stuff. Because it’s really hard to get a St. Bernard to wear this because they are big and stuff and I have to sedate them. Can I have a Playboy too? Yeah, thanks. You know, I am manly. Really manly. I look at naked chicks all the time because I’m really manly and stuff. You have a good night Sven! We should hang some time and go to a strip club or something!”

Then I punch him and run away, my masculinity secure.

We had a wonderful time with the out of towners yesterday. We spent a very hot day at the zoo looking at very hot animals that, in turn, were looking out at us wondering what the hell we were doing.

In the monkey house I SWEAR I heard a monkey say, “Why Gerard, look. Those hairless things keep coming back. Don’t they have their own homes? Go home! Get out of my yard!”

The baby was wonderful all day and didn’t cry once. She became exhausted at one point, near the elephants, and fell asleep on my shoulder. Poor baby. However, in the summer sun it meant that our bodies became melded in one form of sweat and skin. On the walk back to the car I must have lost about thirty pounds. I needed that.

As I said, everything went really well. We all had a wonderful time talking, eating and sweating. At one point Matilda and I had a grape shaved ice. With purple tongues we had the mark of summer happiness.

Only one thing was slightly askew. The baby seemed to enjoy our company’s time with us. She smiled and cooed at them. However, she kept making a rude gesture at the husband. Over and over she’d extend that little middle finger and shoot the guy the bird.

I don’t think he’s ever done anything to offend her. He’s always been very nice. But Gertrude just seemed to take offense at something he did. Maybe she knows something we don’t? Is he listed in the Registry of Baby Enemies? I doubt it. He’s pretty funny with kids and he even gave her a present. She loved the wife though. Maybe later today I’ll ask the baby what was going on. Had they exchanged grunts and drool earlier in the day that we didn’t see? Did she not like his car?

Or maybe she knows he’s the one who gave me the CD with the song about the cows. She hates that song. It goes something like this: “So you wanna know a little bit about little bit about little bit about my cows.”

Matilda had a birthday party after the zoo. She didn’t get home until almost nine and didn’t hit the pillow until near ten. She’s still sleeping.

Lucky kid.

P.S. Didn't see one genetically engineered mutant monkey. Damn.

I'll be out today. We have friends in from out of town, so we'll be spending time with them.

I'll leave you with a topic of discussion for your amusement.

Genetically engineered mutant monkeys from hell and their impact on life as we know it.

Discuss.

Society and fashion mavens have us under their complete control and I’m here to say, “Screw you buddy. You can keep your smart, wrinkle-free pants and your button down light-blue oxford.”

Women don’t realize it, but they have it much better than men (just click on the geek picture to send the hate mail, but please . . . hear me out). Let’s take society’s first, and let’s face it, weirdest, condition. Shaving.

Yes, shaving is a weird requirement. After all, nature made us have hair, both men and women. There are various reasons for this. Warmth, on the most fundamental level is one. Acting as a defense barrier to bugs and what not is another. Besides, if Mother Nature wanted us to have clean-shaven faces and legs and armpits, she would not have invented razor burn.

In fact, at one time a beard was a sign of manhood (for women too, if they were unusually hirsute). And I’m not sure what the historical significance of women being forced to scrape their hair off their legs or duly torture themselves by actually ripping the hair out by the friggin’ FOLICLE actually is. Where did this come from and what is the logic behind it?

However, I still say that women have the distinct advantage in this area. Consider this: If a woman doesn’t want to shave she simply wears pants. If I don’t want to shave what can I wear? A mask? No. Though it is socially acceptable for me to have a “shadow” I can’t go in with two-days growth. Now, there’s the argument that “Well, if it’s one hundred degrees, I’d prefer to wear a nice sun dress or a skirt. So I’ll have to shave.”

To this I say, wah, wah wah. Okay, let’s take heat into consideration. Let’s say it’s 95 degrees outside. Let’s say you are going to an outside wedding. What do you wear?

If you are a woman, you can wear a nice, light dress. Or perhaps a cool sundress. No hose, depending on the shoes you choose. Voila. You’re still hot, but considerably cooler than you could be. You still look good and you’re happy.

Men? Screwed. No matter what the temperature, shirt, tie and jacket. The shirt cannot be short-sleeved, lest you be considered a low-class fool. Let’s go over the uniform. First you put on an undershirt, so that you don’t sweat through to your good shirt. Which, of course, is put on next. That shirt is often pressed and starched. Yes starched. Chemically treated so that it has the consistency of cardboard. Naturally, the shirt must be buttoned all the way up (for the tie), cutting off the circulation to your head. Have you ever been sweating, wearing a starched collar, freshly shaven and try to turn your head? Between the sodium in the sweat, the razor burn and the chafing with the collar, your neck looks like a red beacon for passing aircraft.

Then there’s the tie. Who in the hell came up with this? “Well, I think it looks cool when you tie a piece of cloth around your neck. No, tighter. Tighter. Tighter. Tighter.” The only variations on the tie are the knots (Windsor, Double Windsor, etc.) or you can wear a bow tie. Yes, you too can look like Senator Paul Simon and, you too can be a complete social dweeb.

So, it’s ninety-five degrees and you already have two layers on. Wait! We’re not done! Let’s add a friggin’ coat! In the summer! Three layers!

I don’t wear that many clothes in the winter. And yet, in the summer, it is expected. Somewhere there is someone sitting in Bermuda shorts, drinking a margarita and laughing their ass of at us.

Men's clothes completely defy rationality. At least there is style to consider, right? Well, no. Women get a new set of clothes every year. Cool new designs, more flattering in their shape and fit, different colors, patterns and more.

Men? Well, in the last two centuries our styles have changed thusly: Pattern, width and, periodically, fabric. Our clothes are usually made out of cotton. Sometimes we get rayon, but rarely. In some dire times there is polyester. Other fabrics are reserved for people who are willing to spend $100 on a shirt you’re not allowed to eat, sleep, drink or sweat in.

Oh sure, we can have a shirt that is blue that looks like the one that is white that looks like the shirt that is yellow (but, really, who’d buy it?). To really mix things up we can add a sweater! Yay!

Our pants shift in and out in width. The eighties were the era of tight pants. Now we have loose pants. Someday we’ll go back to tight pants. And then back . . . It's all part of the great circle of pants.

Shoes? Forget it. Women get all the good stuff there. Men have four types of shoes: dress, boots, sandals, and sneakers. If I were to wear my grandfather’s dress shoes, no one would notice. Sure, there are periodic daring feats of shoe revolution, but where does it lead us? Wing Tips.

It’s hard to say if men’s designers are inept or if they are just lazy. But, let’s face it; we’re a long way off from any sort of change. Look at the movie fashions they envision. In Star Wars, women get all these groovy, insane clothes to wear. Men? Well, Luke Skywalker wore, what? Some stupid seventies shirt that looked like he was going to a karate lesson. Han Solo? White shirt, black vest, matching pants. Of course, Han got to change. He also got to wear a white shirt with a blue jacket and matching pants. And a white shirt with a blue jacket with gold piping and matching pants. Jedis? They wear robes and look like a bunch of scruffy guys who get out of bed late and go bowling a lot.

Look, there is more pressure on women to look good in our society. I do not deny that. However, they have more options. The world is open to them to experiment and find a style. My only option is mixing and matching different shirts with different pants.

Of course, who am I to complain? My daily uniform is either jeans or shorts with various Disney-themed t-shirts. I do mix it up sometimes. I might throw in an Elvis Costello shirt or a Roger Waters shirt. Maybe a surf shop shirt. It tends to throw people off.

Well, another day another . . . day, I guess. I’m so sluggish today that I can barely concentrate on blinking. I’ll try. Damn, the eyes went out of sequence. Oh well, I can always try again tomorrow.

I spent an inordinate amount of time yesterday just writing. A story. Actual fiction. I’m almost as shocked as you are. That’s twice this year that I’ve delved back into the realm of fiction. Twice! Prior to that I had maybe written one short story since college. The juices just weren’t flowing.

Here’s a basic idea. Imagine you were sitting in a coffee shop and on the table next to you there is a bound journal just sitting there. No one was at the table when you arrived. You wait and wait, but no one shows up. So, out of morbid curiosity, you pick up the journal and start reading it. Inside you find a jumbled mess of random thoughts, stories and conversations all involving the writer, who appears to be slightly unbalanced. A story forms around these little segments and you can’t help but read further. Even though you know you shouldn’t. Are you watching the unraveling of a sane mind? Or are you witnessing the coming of clarity from insanity. It’s hard to tell.

I suppose this little “freelancing” thing that I’m doing is working out for me. Granted, a good amount of my day is spent working on things that actually carry a monetary value. However, throughout the day I get to exercise my creative side, as I’m doing now. If you call describing a peculiar eye-twitch creative. It probably isn’t, but for a guy who spends most of his time considering the healthiness of the baby’s poop, I suppose that I’ll take what I can get.

Speaking of the baby . . . she’s still damn cute. She now has three and ½ teeth. Two on the bottom and one on the top. The fourth is trying very hard to break through the gums and pissing little Gertrude off. Yesterday I found her chewing on the couch looking for relief. I told her they would come soon enough and that the irony was that they would just fall out in five years. She punched me.

Today is her nine-month birthday. Nine months ago, her sleep-deprived parents welcomed her into this world with open arms. We had no idea when she was born that she’d turn into an evil genius. But that’s okay, we love her anyway.

How is she evil? Well, if she notices that one of us is walking through the gate that separates her from all the danger in the house, she’ll start crawling like a mad woman--tearing through the room at break-neck speeds. Periodically she makes it through. Cackling wildly she aims for the stairs and starts climbing, with a rabid grin on her face.

This kid loves danger. Some monrings, after mom has fed her, she’ll crawl over to me in the bed and start slapping my arms and yelling “Ba ba dididididid phhhhhbbbbbbt” with such glee that I imagine her as the villain from a Japanese monster movie, “Oh yes father. Right now you may have power over me. But soon. Yes soon. You will find out the destructive power that is this baby. That is to say, you will know that I am a force to be reckoned with. You will know what it feels like to be turned upside down and have your tummy zerberted. Oh yes. You will. And you will cry. Big tears that fall down you face like the autumn is the fall of the year. HAHAHAHAHA.”

Of course this morning, she cuddled up to me and put her hand gently on my cheek. Later, she was petting my hair. I promptly signed over every possession I own to her and started a trust fund. At the tender age of nine-months she already has my ticket. Of course, at the tender age of .01111 seconds, she had my ticket. Once I saw that little, hyper-pink, wrinkled face, I knew I was done for. No matter what I did, it would be for her. And no matter what I thought, she was in control.

The best part of this age is that she’s very nearly walking. Every day she gets bolder and bolder. At one time she would only walk if I were holding her hands. Now she’s down to one hand. She stands on her own and gets ready to take a step. Many times she has tried to take a step, only to fall on her gently padded bottom.

It’s like watching a drunk trying to take his first step towards the bathroom. Gertrude KNOWS what she’s supposed to do. She sees us doing it all the time. She just doesn’t understand the mechanics of it.

To put it in terms that we can understand . . . Imagine looking at a list of components for a rocket. You know what the rocket is supposed to look like. You know what it’s supposed to do. You may even be able to piece together a rudimentary rocket from basic knowledge. But without practice and study, you won’t be able to make a functioning rocket. In essence, you’ll fall on your not so padded butt pretty frequently.

We take our ability to walk and talk for granted. To be a baby must be frustrating at times. I’m sure she KNOWS what she wants to communicate or do. She just doesn’t have the knowledge base to do so. She can’t control her own body yet.

Still . . . to see that look of sheer joy on her face when she stands on her own, mustering the courage to take a step . . . It’s all I can do to not sweep her up in my arms and give her a big hug.

Taking you children for photographs is one of the time-honored traditions started by the Spanish Inquisition and continued by several South American regimes to this day. It is a way to force parents to part with money and scare the living daylights out of children.

First, let’s look at it from the perspective of the baby, who has never experienced this before.

We dress her in a cute little outfit that makes it look like she’s going to the hot-dog roast down on the beach with Doogie and the Moon Man, after they shoot the curl of course. In essence, she looks like a gnarly Gidget and we’re excited to see how beautiful she looks on film. Truth be told, we know she’s the most beautiful baby in the world; we just need confirmation from the unwashed masses.

She gets to ride in the car. Again, cool. (In the back seat her sister was singing, “Oh Yoshimi, they don’t believe me/But you won’t let those robots defeat me, Yoshimi.”)

We arrive at the mall early, so we stop off at the Disney Store to see if our friend Mike was working. He was not. However, the kids were dazzled by the synergistic marketing of the company and desperately wanted everything. In the short ten minutes we were there, no less than eighty Disney employees asking if we’re finding what we’re looking for accosted us. “Yes, I’m looking for Disney stuff. Do you have any?”

We head off to the photographer and fill out paper work promising that we’ll allow the photographer and her assistant full rights to suck our children’s souls out through a camera.

This is when it got scary for the baby. First, her sister climbs up on top of a giant platform and lies down. Then we place her next to her sister. On a PLATFORM. And we walk away! What the hell? What are you people doing.

Now starts the ritual of making the baby smile. Our daughter is a smart kid. But it doesn’t take much to make her smile. Talk to her and give her a big smile, and she’ll reciprocate. This subtlety is lost on the photographer who proceeds to wave crap in front of the baby’s face screaming bizarre comments in a horribly screechy voice.

The baby looks at her mom as if to say, “Is this woman okay? I think she may be having a seizure.”

Needless to say, the baby only smirked. But only out of pity for the photographer. She felt sorry for her. Most people in her mental condition aren’t allowed out in public. Her time was short in this job, and Gertrude knew it.

We moved on to big sister. Matilda was dressed in a cute skirt and a Spanish looking blouse that inspired jealousy from every woman around. She looked beautiful. And she knew it. We gave her a Gidget hairdo and she had been wearing sunglasses. She looked like a star and she knew it. And, damn it, she demanded the respect that her status deserved.

Not that it mattered to the photographer who was trapped in her Tourette’s inspired mania. She sputtered and muttered and tried to get Matilda to smile. She smiled, but out of fear of upsetting this unbalanced woman.

“Keep that smile!” she’d yell at the poor child. So she did. Even while the photographer was switching backgrounds. A terrified smile was plastered on her face. She knew that if she stopped smiling this woman might snap.

“You can stop smiling between pictures.” Good. She stopped smiling.

“Keep that smile!” What did this woman want?

Finally it was all over and the children were relieved to get out of there. So was our wallet, which was considerably lighter.

So, we stopped off for a cinnamon and sugar pretzel and looked at puppies.

All in all it was a good day. But I fear that photographer is still out there, waving a stuffed red dog in people’s faces screaming, “KEEP THAT SMILE!”

She’ll eventually be picked up and put in the pokey where she’ll be demoralized by the other prisoners who lock her in a closet and tell her to shut the hell up.

I’ve gotten a virus via email. This one is particularly insidious as it skips infecting your computer and infects you directly. It is called the Wombat.exe and it was sent to me by Jimmy in Detroit.

Now, you say this is impossible. That I cannot get a biological virus from an email. I’d say that you are wrong, wrong, wrong. This virus takes the form of a wombat that burrows into your digestive system and sleeps. It slumbers happily until the exact moment you introduce food into your system. Then the wombat sharpens its claws on your intestines.

I went to the certified kneetologist today. He asked me how my knee was feeling. I told him it was feeling surprisingly well and that it seemed to get better every day. He then proceeded to go through his assessment routine and jiggled and jaggled the knee every which way. Now the friggin’ thing hurt.

I got to go to have X-rays. That was fun. Turns out that, other than my kneecap being tilted slightly (it sounds bad, but he didn’t seem worried), it was merely inflamed and irritated (which describes its owner pretty well).

He gave me Celebrex which is supposed to help with the swelling. I’m glad he told me that because I thought it was a mood drug and that I would walk around happy for a week while I took it.

Can’t have that, can we?

No. Never.

Don’t forget to vote for the name of my wife’s new company (see below).

Give me a break. It’s Friday and my knee is swollen. I don’t have a lot more to say than that.

Purple Fuzz Monkey!

Wanna name a company? Sure you do. My lovely wife and her friend are starting a greeting card company. They will design and create their very own greeting cards to be distributed throughout well . . . where ever wants them (they have no pride).

So, how can you help? You can simply click here and register your thoughts. After you choose, the window will want to close. Go ahead and let it. Then you can see where you stand against everyone else.

An amazingly powerful sentence. “That’s okay Daddy. I understand.”

I’ve recently relaxed my rules for outside play again. In the last few weeks, I’ve been on heightened alert, where Matilda was not allowed to play outside without an adult present. Why? Well, there have been a bunch of toothless bastards trolling the streets and snatching little girls. The bastards, by the way, deserve the worst society can offer them. No mercy whatsoever.

But I digress.

Matilda is now allowed to play outside again. My nervousness about it hasn’t abated. However, I’ve read dozens of articles about child safety over the past few weeks and have shared the knowledge with Matilda. I’m freaking out and checking every few minutes. And she’s been there each time.

But there is no way to ignore that icy knife that suddenly slices through your heart when you, for no reason whatsoever, feel the need to run to the door and look outside to get an exact location on the children. Not just your own, but the entire neighborhood.

“Okay, Matilda. Check. Jessica. Check. Grace. Check. Job. Check. Katie. Check. Kelsey. Check.” And on.

As a parent, it is my job to worry. However, it is also my job to allow a child to discover her own boundaries and make mistakes while not under the constant watchful eye of a parent. I’m supposed to teach her how to use the world properly and, eventually, I’m going to have to take the training wheels off of life.

Still, I check every few minutes.

The last time I looked out the door Matilda and two of her friends had their backs pressed up against it. There was a roving pack of forty geese pressing in on them. The geese had the girls pinned down.

It was like watching a war movie.

“Go get bread!”

“No! It will only cause them to advance further.”

“I never got to say goodbye to my teddy bear.”

“Call in an air strike.”

Eventually, the geese were defeated. But the scars remain. Ever since, I’ve been walking up behind the girls and hissing like an angry goose. And they jump three feet in the air.

Ah the joys of parenthood. One part comforter. One part protector. One part torturer.

Well, I’m going to see an “orthopedic” on Friday. Meaning: “Certified Kneetologist.”

I swear, some people get so hung up on titles.

I’ve damaged my knee somehow. I don’t say “injured” because that would insinuate that I was aware of how I managed to do this. However, I do not know. One day it just started hurting. It’s swollen and painful. Much like my entire high school career.

So, the question is, what do I do? I’m calling the doctor today and I know they are going to ask me about the pain.

Where does it hurt?

The knee.

What does the pain feel like?

Um . . . Pain?

Is it a stabbing pain or a dull ache?

More like a short burst of pain followed by long bouts of pain interrupted by several extended periods of pain.

Is it swollen?

Yes.

How much?

More than usual.

Does it hurt when you move it?

Yes.

How much?

Can I please see the doctor?

No.

Why?

Because you’re mean.

So, the way I figure it I’ll see my doctor who will send me to a doctor who specializes in knees. A kneetologist, or something. That doctor will send me to get X-Rays. Then I’ll have to go back to the second doctor and he’ll tell me that I hurt my knee. After that I’ll either a) have to go for surgery and physical therapy or b) just go for physical therapy.

Physical therapy is terrible. Terrible. I hate it. It’s supposed to help regain strength in the hurt appendage. However, I believe it may have been designed by the Marquis de Sade as a way to slowly torture a reasonable human being and test his limits.

The last time I had PT I was hooked up to an electrical device that shocks my leg muscles so that they jump like crazy. I’m not sure what this device was supposed to do. However, it reminded me of seventh grade when we hooked up a nine-volt battery to the frog we were dissecting.

It jumped.

Ow. My knee hurts. Ow.

It all happens so fast. In the blink of an eye your child that was a slobbering pile of goo is suddenly writing a dissertation on genetic engineering. One day you just wake up and you realize that your children have survived their childhood and that you’ll never get it back.

I, of course, do not speak from experience. My youngest daughter is still a slobbering mass of goo and my eldest is still dressed as a gypsy, prancing around the house like a maniac singing songs that only make sense to her.

But tomorrow I could wake up and one will be an astronaut and the other a physicist (one can hope). It all changes so quickly. In the turning of a season, a child grows and matures. They become wise, beyond anything we could ever understand.

Case in point. A few weeks ago we were driving to the park to play at the coolest playground in town. Matilda pipes up from the back seat, “How will the world end?”

My lovely wife explains the concept of the life span of stars and what will probably happen to our sun. Matilda exclaims, “Well that would be an event!”

It sure would. There was no fear in the voice, but more of a curiosity. As if the Universe is a playmate that’s totally unpredictable. The Universe has untreated ADD. One day it’s the dinosaurs, the next humanity the next it just moves on completely.

These thoughts were spurred by reviewing videotape of the last few years. There was Matilda, pre-kindergarten, cute as a button. My God, did we realize how cute she was then? Or did we take it for granted? She pranced around and played and sang and was just irresistible. At that point Baby Gertrude wasn’t even a thought. She hadn’t passed the transom of our minds and a remote possibility. We were still saying, “When we have a baby . . .”

And now we do. A nine-month-old baby. One that is slowly coming into her own consciousness. Amazed at the world around her because, well, it’s all new. Each taste, smell, sight, sound is a new experience. She’s never done many of the things we take for granted and can sit for an hour mesmerized by a piece of fuzz.

We took a walk around the complex lake the other day. Just the baby and me. A duck walked across our path and Gertrude couldn’t stop staring. She just watched that strange creature. It looked soft, something she’d like to put in her mouth. Yet, it made this horrible guttural sound. Why? Why did it do that? What would it feel like? What would it taste like? Would it be something to play with?

Every day is a new adventure. And each adventure gives a child a new piece of knowledge that allows her to move on to the next. Slowly they accumulate this knowledge base that defines who they are, what they are interested in. And maybe I’ll be able to share in it. Or maybe they’ll leave me in the dust.

For now, I’m allowed to share. Last night, as Matilda and I worked our way through Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, we reached a point that we felt it was impossible to stop reading. So we bargained with mom and she let us stay up late.

Even that extra chapter wasn’t enough. Matilda begged for another chapter. “PLEASE” she cried. “Just one more.” Mom said no. It was too late. Matilda pleaded with me, “You’re my partner. We have to read one more! Come on partner!”

But mom was right. It was too late.

But now I know that I’m her partner. That Harry Potter means something to her like it does to me. Perhaps someday we’ll reminisce about our time reading together. But when?

She’ll be an adult. Gertrude will be an adult. My girls will be women and I . . . I will just be silly old Dad. No longer the hero or partner, but just a man. They won’t rush up to me screaming, “Daddy” anymore. More likely they’ll just say, “Hey dad” without looking up.

For now, I’ll relish that giant “S” the girls see on my chest. It’s only temporary. But for now, I can chase off lightning, lift amazing weights and vanquish evil with the flick of my wrist.

And I’ll gladly do it. It’s my job. After all, I’m a Dad.

This weekend we ventured into a world to which I will never visit again. The world was called “Wal-Mart” and the experience was, to put it simply, horrible. Simply horrible.

It started out innocently enough. We went back-to-school shopping and Wal-Mart happened to have bottles of Elmer’s Glue for a mere quarter. Plus, they had a great price on the new paperback version of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. We had a mission and, we gladly accepted it.

The trip started off on a good note. We stopped for a Slurpee. On the drive out to Wal-Mart, we passed the cherry ice confection between us and smiled as our core body temperatures lowered to a normal level after battling the oppressive summer heat.

We pulled into the parking lot and noticed what should have been our first warning. It was jam-packed. We had to park in what seemed to be northern Iowa and walk back to St. Louis County.

Now, I must admit, that this was my first trip to a Wal-Mart that I can recall. Growing up, we didn’t have one around, so I never had the opportunity to visit Sam Walton’s greatest creation. Sure, we went to Sam’s Club before, but this is different. Wal-Mart is a symbol of American, for some reason. A town may not have paved roads, but it will have a Wal-Mart and it will be the town’s center of activity.

After all, it’s not every store that will allow you to eat lunch, buy a TV, a pet, clothes, bulk food and get your car fixed in the same afternoon.

Perhaps I should have known before I walked in that this would be a bad experience. You see, the site on which Wal-Mart was built had been under water a few years ago. It sits on a flood plain, less than half a mile from a levy. To me, this isn’t exactly a brilliant real estate move. But maybe that’s just me.

So, we were met by a greet who seemed to have escaped from the same mental ward where Jack Nicholson did his stint in One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest. He seemed friendly enough, unless you made eye contact with him. Then he’d melt into a pile of tears and screaming fear.

The aisles looked as though they had been designed to accommodate the traffic of carts. That is, until the good people at Wal-Mart felt it necessary to fill it with pallets full of crap. Dog food, paper towels, etc. You couldn’t make it through an aisle if your life depended upon it. Our only way of shopping was to allow one person to stand at an end cap with the cart and allow someone else, the brave souls, to wade through the throng of smelly people and get what we were looking for.

Matilda was often brave enough to do this. “I’m going in for pencils,” she’d say bravely and disappear into a mess of pudgy legs, sweat stained shirts and support hose.

She’d come out of this mess, in tears, carrying poster board. “I tried! I saw the pencils. I almost had them in my hands and then someone pushed me out of the way and grabbed the pencils. It was the last package!” Tears were now streaming down her face. Less out of sadness and more out of abject humiliation. She had gone in with a task and was unable to fulfill it. And the poster board? “I didn’t want to come out empty handed!”

Slowly, despite the best efforts of the rest of Wall-Mart’s patrons, we were able to get most of the things on our list. Including the Harry Potter book, which, I have to admit, was one hell of a price. We had a few more things to look for, so we tried to head into the crowd again. That’s when we snapped. We couldn’t take it anymore.

Now, I’m sure Wal-Mart is a wonderful place. And I don’t want to seem like a snob for saying this but . . . Where in the hell do these people come from? The moment we walked in the door it felt as though we had been sent back to 1975, which was the most recent year any of the customers had updated their wardrobe. Baby Gertrude had more hair than most of the women in the store and, the cumulative number of teeth amongst the group was seven. I checked out the toothbrush aisle and, to no surprise, they were still selling Knight Rider toothbrushes. No one touched them.

Walking down each aisle was like entering into a joust. No one was willing to share the space and people would often park their carts sideways in the aisle to ensure that no one else could traverse the space whilst they used it. Even people politely saying, “excuse me” devolved. Instead of asking nicely the first time, people would immediately say, “Move your damn cart!”

The employees were no better. I think they were shipped in from the social aversion ward at the local Psych hospital. Ask them, “Where is your loose-leaf paper” and they’d respond, “I wash my hands, but it never comes off! Smell that! It’s bad. Bad I tell you. Lord, I’m acomin! I’m acomin! Lord. I just try to do they biddin’. Do you want to see my leg sores? It’s an infection! Stop yellin’ at me!”

In the middle of one aisle, I swear to you, there was a woman sleeping in an electric scooter. Yes, seriously sleeping. Using a package of Charmin as a pillow.

It was then that we decided that we should leave and head back to our comfortable spot, which is the Target of the Gods. (Sure, they call it Target Greatland, but we know the truth!)

We checked out and escaped. Dante never had to enter this level of hell in his search for Beatrice. Following his suggestion, however, Wal-Mart should add the sign “ABANDON ALL HOPE, YE WHO ENTER HERE.”

Now, I have to admit that I have nothing against Wal-Mart, nor its patrons. I just have something against this particular Wal-Mart and its moron brigade of patrons.

I don’t know what I did to deserve this. I don’t know why I had to enter the Carnival of Smelly Fools but, I tell you, I won’t go again.

Plus we never got the damn glue.

Sam Walton can burn in hell for all I care. I’m a Target man and a Target man I shall remain.

Yes kids, I'm the top site in this Google search.

I ask again . . . Why do I do this to myself?

I’m back! I’m back! I feel as though I’ve been floating in the ether for the last day, as I watched Blogger eat posts, but not regurgitate them back here. It was an empty feeling. After all, I have my fans to consider.

Both of them.

Wayne in Durand, Illinois. He and I go way back to our days on AOL when I was Luakabop and he was Nozpkr929392. We’re buds, of the cyber kind, that nothing can tear asunder. Except for dropped connections, downed lines or busy signals on his cheap, external 14.4 modem that he refuses to update. In fact, Wayne, screw you. Update your technology man. I mean, you suck. DSL, my luddite friend.

Patty in Blue Springs, Missouri. Actually, Patty reads this site daily, though she doesn’t realize that there’s a person writing it. For some reason she thinks that the entire Internet is a message from an alien race giving her instructions on how to defeat the encroachment of intelligent marmosets hell-bent on taking over the world. Patty also drinks water straight from a stream that is down river from a factory that makes industrial cleaners.

While I was having a problem publishing to the main page (it published to archives, for some reason) I started cursing the software and my site hosting service. This is no way to run a business. I need to blog. My life depends on it. Well, not really. But what if it did? What if I was being held hostage and my only contact to the real world was updating my blog (okay, so the kidnappers would be insanely stupid)? I could very well have blown my own ransom demand.

Stupid Blogger. Why do I pay them for this service if they can’t provide reliability? Oh wait. I don’t pay them. It’s free. Blogger rocks! (Seriously, this is just another reason for me to get my own domain and host it through John. I think he’d let me pay him in Yes CDs for the hosting.)

(Cool interjection. My daughter Matilda is standing behind me wearing her invisibility cloak and some “Little House on the Prairie” bonnet singing “Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots Pt. 1” by The Flaming Lips. Sometimes kids are cooler than you can ever imagine.)

So, why do I blog? Because I’m a total attention hound. I want everyone to love me because I’m witty, urbane, intelligent, slightly off-kilter and unpredictable.

Purple Fuzz Monkey!

See? Totally unpredictable.

And I want people to think I’m cool. I doubt anyone does. However, I just received an email that had the following statement:

“But the longest carbon nanotubes accomplished to date are something like 8 cm in length. So it would be necessary to somehow bind these short filaments together. I've never heard that the structure of the tube can be manipulated such that one can be made to fit end-to-end with another like screwing together pipe sections. If you could do that it seems to me you'd also have the capability of just merging two strands into one longer, seamless filament instead.”

That was written by Brad Walsh. Though he’s no engineer, I still think he’s pretty cool for discussing carbon nanotubes. This is from a mailing list about the space elevator I recently joined. This is a list that I have no hope of ever contributing to. These guys are just way too smart for me.

Actually, why does anyone have a weblog other than they want attention? I use it to hone my writing, make sure I’m writing something every day. You know, keep the juices flowing. (No, the other juices. Higher. Higher. Yes, there.) I couldn’t imagine putting intensely personal information on the web. That would seem, well, intensely personal. I don’t want people who are searching my site for “Furry Mascot Foam Sex” to read about how I was broken-hearted when Audrey Steinbeck rejected me in sixth grade because I wore parachute pants with white Nike high tops. Crap. Now you know. And so do those people who get a thrill out of mascot lovin’.

Well, this has been, perhaps, the most pointless post I’ve ever put up here. (No, wait, that was the Robo Rat post.) I hope you’ve enjoyed this little trip through my brain.

Tomorrow we’ll inspect my colon, so wear rubber gloves and a mining helmet.

For Marion O'Brien, 1926-2002

And instead of saying all of your goodbyes - let them know
You realize that life goes fast
It's hard to make the good things last
You realize the sun doesn't go down
It's just an illusion caused by the world spinning round
--Wayne Coyne

Blogger really hates me today. It's not letting me in on the server level. Why? Because it hates me. Granted, I did call its mother a "ratty bitch of a 286." Is that bad?

Blogger refuses to work today. Instead, it queues my posts. Or, perhaps it is reading them, making sure that it isn't a coded message to my alien overlords detailing my spywork on Earth.

This morning, despite the fact that I had no desire to wake up, I had to take the girls to the sitter. My lovely wife needed to go to work early to make up some hours, so it fell upon me to deliver the children to their daily internment camp filled with toys, macaroni and pretzel rods.

Why didn’t I want to wake up? Because sleeping felt so damn good. I often wonder if sleeping is what we’re supposed to be doing because, well, it feels a lot better than being awake. It doesn’t hurt, it’s restful and no one tells me I’m doing it wrong. In fact, I’m quite good at sleeping. I’d say that I have a natural talent.

Once I got going I realized that only the right side of my body was awake. I had no depth perception, as, for some reason, my left eye was not functioning properly. It took a long time for the systems to come on line. Since only my right brain was functioning, I had this random intuitiveness that I don’t normally have. There’s a general battle between the two sides of my brain. Logic versus holistic thought.

I had composed an epic poem about this when, out of the blue, my left-brain became active and blew it away with a mathematical equation that I didn’t understand.

After feeding and watering the kids, my lovely wife had to go. She handed the baby to me and said, “She needs to be changed.”

I joked that she was fine the way she was. We all laughed and decided that I should tour with a comedy troupe because of my intense original comedy.

So, the wife departed and I took the baby upstairs to change her diaper. That’s when I realized a crime had taken place. I had been set up. I was a patsy.

There was something in that diaper that defies explanation. It was horrible. It may have been sentient. It was proof that nature is laughing at us.

Now, normally, it wouldn’t be a problem to change a diaper. But this . . . this . . . stuff wanted to move on its own and escape. It was the blob, wanting to replicate and grow, devouring all human life in its path.

Worse, still, is the baby is now in her total Fidget (her nickname) mode. She wasn’t content to let daddy free her from the expulsions of her own body. No, she wanted to roll in it. It was like trying to horizontally thread a wet spaghetti noodle into an oscillating fan.

Distraction worked as I repressed my gag reflex. I contained the biological contamination zone, sealed of the girls’ room until the men with the hazmat suits could come and make it fit again for human dwelling. I put the nearly naked baby in a cute little sundress and placed her in her car seat for the drive to the sitter.

Halfway there, I realized that Matilda had wanted to spend the morning with her mother at work. Why? Because she enjoys watching the corporate system beats down mom.

I glanced in the backseat and saw that she was covered in a silver, reflective fabric. It’s her invisibility cloak (from Harry Potter). I knew that I wasn’t allowed to talk to her because she was invisible. One must respect the controlled dementia of childhood. The baby was snoozing in her seat, so I just listened to the plaintive wails of the new Flaming Lips CD.

I dropped off Matilda at her mother’s work. She denied all knowledge of the heinous science experiment contained within her youngest daughter’s diaper.

But I know the truth is out there. And revenge will be had. Oh yes. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But when she least expects it. And I know the baby is on my side because I give her tummy zerberts and she giggles.