Good evening. I am writing in the evening. I like to say evening. Wasn’t there a Led Zeppelin song called “The Even Song”? Even so, it’s fun to say “even.”

So, I had a busy day. In the publishing world there is this document called “The Hot Sheet”. A hot sheet is Marketing’s way of not doing any work. They have editorial write the hot sheet and they give it to advertising who writes the ads based on the information contained within the hotsheet. When the book sells 10,000 copies on its first day, Marketing takes all the credit. Marketing is a bunch of doped up monkeys who should be whacked senseless with garden hoses.

(Not you Pam. Seriously, talk to my wife and you’ll find out what I’m talking about.)

I don’t really have anything against the marketing department. Specifically, I don’t have anything against the marketing department I’m working with now.

HOWEVER, the marketing departments I’ve worked with in the past have been a bunch of useless morons who played “what if” games.

“What if we gave out candles with our logo?”

Well, people would melt our logo.

“What if we put our logo on a whistle?”

Uh. Annoying.

“What if we gave out a heart shaped key chain and our tag line was ‘Get to the heart of the matter?’”

No.

“How about we use sandals as a marketing trinket? We’ll put the logo on the bottom and any time our customers walk through the sand they’ll leave our company logo!”

Right.

So, only one of those up there is made up. All of the others have either been said or actually executed. Sad, isn’t it? The marketing departments I’ve been associated with are obsessed with trinkets and trash. As if passing out useless tchotchkes are going to make people say, “MY GOD! X COMPANY IS THE GREATES THING SINCE THE BATTERY OPERATED VIBRATOR!”

Whoops. I suddenly got angry about something. Sorry about that. I simply intended to illustrate that I was busy today and instead I insulted three companies and an entire profession.

Actually, it felt pretty good.

Weekend was great. Kids were great. I finished the story for the short film. I think it turned out pretty good. It’s a rough first draft. But I’m looking forward to hashing it out with the rest of the group.

Next task is to edit my manuscript and finish the website. I like publicly stating my monthly goals. Makes me accountable to someone. Like, oh, everyone reading this.

Please don’t hurt me.

Well kids, it is done. I have registered Sciencefictiontwin.com. If you type that URL right now you will find . . . well . . . this. However, planning and work are now underway to create the world’s most mediocre website! For your semi-enjoyment! In the very least, I hope to create a website that will provide you with enough entertainment to amuse yourself through at least two mouthfuls of cottage cheese at lunch. Maybe more. Maybe even three.

This means that this website will go on hiatus soon and, eventually, die a horrible death. (Note, just poured coffee all over my chest. It was invigorating.) I’ll be moving all the archives over to the new domain. I don’t know what that will mean for this sucker. We’ll find out. Poor stupid website. It’s served me so well. And yet . . . I need my freedom!

Anyway, I’ll have to take a break from this because the new site needs to be planned, designed, built, loaded and all the other fun stuff that goes along with it. I’m dizzy just thinking about the implications. I’ll have space to store all the embarrassing screencaps I’ve taken from John’s webcam in the last few weeks. I have three gigs of stuff.

I’m pretty sure I know what I’ll be doing. However, I’m just not a designer. I have a gracious offer for help, but the fact remains that I’ll still have to DO it. I’m scared. Hold me.

So, I’m pretty hyped up, even though I’m extremely tired. I had weird dreams last night that kept me from having a good night’s sleep and now I’m walking around, waiting for the dream to become reality.

You see, in my dream, the Earth Roaches were in league with an alien bug that had an amazing armor system, huge, razor sharp teeth and were about the size of a fist. I was running around trying to kill them and save my family. It was kind of like a zombie movie, really. We’d move into one room and lock the door only to find the bugs . . . behind us! Ahhhhh!

Even though I’m an adult, I’m freaked out this morning. I can’t get rid of that creepy, crawly bug feeling. Grrr. I checked my shoes, looked in my cup before I poured the coffee. The whole nine yards.

And you know what? I KNEW those damn roaches would sell us out.

Matilda had her first Brownie meeting of the year yesterday. I didn’t think it would be worse than last year for me, but . . . it is. I went to pick her up and I was chatting with the moms that were there. Matilda saw me, grabbed her backpack and we left. I’m walking down the hall talking to a Mom and the Brownie leader comes screaming down the hall, “SIR! SIR! You have to check out with me!”

Gee. Okay. MAYBE if you MORONS who write the Brownie meeting notices would learn to COMMUNICATE I would have known that I had to check out with Betty Safety. Just like her communications skills were so GREAT that she didn’t actually tell us who to make out the dues checks to. Plus, we didn’t check out last year. We waved to the leader and left. Just like I did.

“I’m Patsy McStupid, the Brownie leader this year.” I’ve met this woman at least ten times. When I was trying to explain to her last year that we couldn’t participate in April Showers because we were already doing a March of Dimes event, she looked at me as if I were speaking Sanskrit.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m Gary, Matilda’s dad. Just like last year.”

These Brownie moms have been so freaked out whenever I’m involved. I feel like they’re going to yell, “MAN!” and run away screaming. Not that any of my male counterparts at Daughter’s school are helping. In the three years Matilda has been attending, I think I’ve seen some of them once or twice. So, these Brownie women have no idea how to react to a man who is involved. Plus, they still think I’m unemployed.

Just wait until I volunteer to run one of the meetings. These Brownie Nazis won’t know what to do. Especially if I wear my shirt with the hibiscus flowers. Mwahahahahaha.

I think I need to get a golf club. It’s something to do. Because then I could go out to the driving range and hit stuff with it.

Wow am I in a rotten mood today. I mean rotten. Stinking angry. Festering, slithering, bubbling, puss-ridden vitriol. It’s a chronic grumpiness that I can’t shake.

I mean, I am in a mood where a Girl Scout could ask me to buy cookies and I’d yell at her for perpetuating an Imperialistic socialist society in which the cute Girl Scout sells overpriced cookies tinged with a searing does of social guilt. (I don’t think that really. I think Thin Mints should have won a Nobel Prize in Cookistrey.)

I’m not really sure of the source of my anger. And anger isn’t exactly the right word. It’s more frustration. I think I’m spinning my wheels. I’ve allowed myself to become complacent professionally. I attained a certain level, got happy with it and stayed there. I have almost everything I’ve ever wanted. Good job, good family, great music, fast computer. I’m happy in that sense. But it isn’t enough. There’s something missing.

Now I’m looking at all the dreams I had that I didn’t follow through on. And they’re sitting there, dusty. And it ain’t pixie dust. My dreams aren’t sparkling anymore. They’ve become a burden.

So know I need to decide. Do I cast aside the dreams or go after them full throttle?

I don’t know. That’s a tough decision. The things I want to do will take time. A lot of time. Blood, sweat and tears. A lot of tears. I wasn’t ready for the toil when I came up with my dreams, am I ready for them now that I have a full-fledged family backing me?

I don’t know. That’s the funny thing about dreams. They can dissipate like smoke. Poof! They’re gone in an instant. They have a freshness date on them and if you don’t act, they become this albatross tied to your neck that weighs you down. Unrealized dreams.

I guess what I have to ask myself is what I want to be when I grow up. Do I know that? Am I treading water or am I going to swim out deeper?

There’s a recognized concept that some dead guy came up with. “Dream, Believe, Dare, Do.” In this concept I have to have confidence in my dreams and go after them with full gusto. No one built castles in the sky by thinking about it. They had to do it. The library at Alexandria wasn’t built overnight by some guy lounging on his ass watching Survivor. And it wasn’t destroyed by some guy drinking eight cups of coffee proclaiming, “We should knock that sucker down.”

People have dreams. They follow them or they cast them aside for new dreams. My quest now is to evaluate my dreams.

I’m not the type to give up on dreams and live life in an insular comfort based on my own complacency. Neither is my wife nor my friends. However, I am heading in that direction lately.

I think GRAND act bland. I need a kick in the pants.

Look at the people I admire. Brian Wilson, Walt Disney, John Lasseter, Kurt Vonnegut. These are men who had dreams and desires and followed them. One was destroyed and reborn from his dreams. Two built amazing companies known for innovation and creativity. The other is a fantastic writer who discovered himself after years of wallowing professionally.

I should be learning something here. But I’m not.

Walt Disney used to tell his people, “Don’t tell me how it can’t be done. I already know that. Tell me how it can be done.” Maybe that’s how I should look at my life. Dream the impossible dream, so to speak.

Maybe I will. Maybe I should get off my fat Irish duff and plug away at my dreams.

Wouldn’t that be a great legacy to leave my kids? “One thing you can say about Daddy, he always followed his dreams. Even when there was no hope of success, he had to try.” It’s not a bad legacy. And it says something. It says, “When you believe in your dreams, there is nothing you can’t do. Except fly, because that’s against the law of physics.”

Okay. So, maybe I’ll do it. I need to sit down and just start following the path I believe I should be on. Now, to decide on which fork.

"The way to get started is to quit talking and begin doing." –Walt Disney

Another afternoon update. Another morning gone by and my body feels like it has been beat to hell for some reason. Who knew all this editorial freelancing would be so physically demanding? Copying, paper cuts; puncture wounds from paper clips and more. It’s hell, I tell you. Hell. Why just this morning I was accosted by a man who sells bathroom stalls for public bathrooms. Why did he accost me? I don’t know. Does Ugly Shirt Guy look like he needs to have a bathroom stall installed? No, he doesn’t. My regular bathroom is just fine.

But he had a really cool little bathroom mock up that even showed his new, state of the art latching system. Latch-o-matic or something. I was disappointed when the model didn’t actually flush. He seemed offended when I asked. Sigh.

We do have some good news today. It seems that Angie and Jeff are expecting a little Pudding Pop in April. I vote for an early arrival. April 21st is a great day to have a birthday. Not only would Pudding Pop share that day with me, but Queen Elisabeth II and Tina Yothers, of Family Ties fame. Yeah baby!

I congratulate Angie and Jeff on a job well done. I know conception is a difficult task that requires much thought; planning, diagrams and complex war plans. Trust me, you’ll enjoy being parents. It’s a tough job, but it’s rewarding. To see that little zygote take shape and grow into a thinking being is something that blows the mind. When that thinking being licks your ear and fills it with baby spit, well, there is no greater reward.

Speaking of thinking blobs . . . Mine is getting increasingly weird. I don’t know where it comes from. However, she’s falling into my hands and helping her older sister and I conspire against her mother for our benefit.

Case in point. On Sunday we spent some quality time at Target. Reason for going? Buying $10 dollar toy for birthday party. End result? $80 worth of crap. Target has a way of doing that to you. You go in for a Garden Hose and you walk out with a Phillip Stark designed tampon disposal unit. It’s a sickness. A sickness I tell you.

We were wandering around the baby department looking at clothes for Baby Gertrude. She didn’t need anything, per se. I just wanted her to have whatever she wanted. Since she’s still too young to know what she actually wants, I get to decide for her.

We found a cook Khaki jacket that is an exact replica of Dad’s retro-Fifties geek look. Gertrude had to have it. She had to look just like her daddy and be the slide rule of Daddy’s eye. I decided she needed it.

Mom, financial Nazi that she is, decided that she didn’t need it. She had a jacket. Three, in fact. All cute and all gender appropriate.

”Say bye bye to your jacket Gertrude,” I said.

“Ba ba” Gertrude says, waving.

The jacket went into the cart. But it wasn’t a guarantee yet. She also had to get this cute little Mickey Mouse outfit that would work as a Halloween costume as well as a cute outfit for the rest of the fall and early spring. At the check out, mom told me that we’d have to Veto one or the other.

“Say bye bye to your jacket Gertrude,” I said.

“Ba ba,” Gertrude said waving.

We got the jacket.

But now I had an idea. Whatever cute little baby wants, cute little baby gets as long as she displays ample amounts of cuteness.

Next stop: Ultimate Electronics. “Say bye bye to your Plasma Screen TV Gertrude.” But she wouldn’t play along. Did she not know how great Rolie Polie Olie would look on a Plasma? She’s got some learning to do.

But her cuteness didn’t stop there. Recently I placed a clock radio in my office/living room/dining room/TV room/children’s playroom. I was showing her how to work it. Press “Sleep” music appears. Press “Snooze” and it goes away.

She showed her amusement. Every time we pressed “Sleep” she’d grab onto the couch and boogie in that way only babies can. Bouncing up and down with an innocent glee. Turn it off she’d stop. We did this for fifteen minutes. I showed all the neighbors and videotaped it to show the powerful Hollywood producers who are looking for a cute bouncing baby.

She lost interest though. She wandered off to her plastic rocking horse, named Old Blue, and climbed on top and stood there squealing, as if to say, “I have no fear!” Then she took a header into the wall and laughed. And did it again.

That’s okay though. The song on the radio was the Edgar Winter Group’s “Frankenstein.” I think it has that effect on people.

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Ever get the feeling that you’re wallowing? Kind of flip-flopping around on the floor not really going anywhere?

I have that feeling today. I have a ton of work to do and the more I complete, the less I feel I accomplish. I’m like Sisyphus. That damn rock never quite makes it to the top of the hill.

But it’s less my pay work that I feel is wallowing, but my more creative work. I have a ton of things on my plate that I’ve been back-burnering for a great group of people. A short film, a new website, updates to existing websites . . . my own website.

I want to move on to bigger and better things and yet . . . I don’t know how. I don’t know where the time is to do these things. Lest I give up the work that feeds my family. I can’t do that, now can I?

I have two book manuscripts I’ve been working on here and there. They need to get polished and submitted for publication. I need to find an agent. I need to finish writing the story for that short film. I need to start my own website outside of Blog Spot with cool little sections that will amuse the general public.

I need to get those books published. I need to write a book for a friend. I need to find extra time in the day, damn it. Where is it?

My ultimate goal here is to succeed at something. I’m doing well as a freelancer and I’m very happy about that. But I feel like a hired gun, in that respect.

I want something of my own. I have never had something of my own. But what is it and how can I do it?

Since going freelance I feel like I’ve regressed to being a six-year-old again. When I was a Content Manager, I had a career. When I was an Editor, I had a career. Now I have work, but no identity outside of Ugly Shirt Guy. So, I’m at a point where I have to decide what to be when I grow up.

Here are all the things I want to be. Let me know if you have any ideas on how to begin.

Rock Star—preferably lead guitar in a Power Pop trio that specializes in neo-sixties pop.
Film Director—preferably in surrealism.
Animator--or at least “Head of Story” on an animated film.
Mickey Mouse—in Orlando.
Owner of a Drafthouse—preferably in the location of the old Shady Oak Theater.
Crazy Old Guy Down the Street—I think that takes time.
Radio Side Kick—In the local market. Just that goofy guy who says weird things at the wrong moments.
Coffee Shop Owner—Small place that specializes in damn good coffee.
Resort Owner—Pacific Northwest. An old lodge that resembles the old park services lodges from the 1930s.
Trivia Guy—Need to know who played Spider in Goodfellas and how that relates to The Sopranos? Who played drums on “Wouldn’t That Be Nice”? I know . . .

Essentially, I feel it’s time for my grand schemes to come to fruition. I need to take the time to finish what I started.

So, I hereby promise the following:

I will write the story to the short film by this weekend.

I will edit and polish manuscript number one by Halloween. Submit it to agents by Thanksgiving.

I will write John’s book by January. At least the first draft.

I will write the play I’ve been working on by next summer.

I will have my own website up and running before Halloween.

In ten minutes I will post a poll on what my URL should be.

I will solve all the world’s problems by inventing an ink cartridge for printers that never runs out in the middle of a big print job.

I had the weirdest damn weekend. And I learned much more than a father ever should about his children. It scares me and I think I want to go home. Except I am home and there’s no escape from the knowledge.

It all started on Friday when we all settled down to watch the Monsters, Inc. DVD. Never mind the fact that we’ve been singing, “Put that thing back where it came from or so help me” ever since. That’s beside the point. Rather, it was baby Gertrude that provided the evening’s entertainment.

As soon as the movie started, she pressed her face up against the TV screen and started squealing in delight. Now, I don’t think she was excited about seeing the latest Pixar masterpiece in its full digital glory. Though she should. Rather, I believe she was like an old hippie who just found an acid flashback buried deep in the fatty cells in her brain. She tripped and was amazed at all the pretty colors.

She abandoned the movie soon enough and left Matilda and I to enjoy the show for what it was. Now, I know the movie was slammed for having a little too much emotional pastiche and overly cutesy little Boo. However, that’s what I loved about the movie. There were some amazingly touching, human moments in a film filled with monsters. For example, the slow development of the relationship between Sully and Boo. You can actually see him beginning to love this little being. And you can see that unconditional love on her face. Though this big blue monstrosity should frighten her, she sees him as a protector. Rarely in a film, much less an animated film, do you see such a deep relationship develop. But, leave it to Pixar to do so. These guys know characters and story.

The ending shot tears me apart. Both for its emotional content and its artistry. A slightly sullen Sully has been given the chance to see his beloved Boo once again. The shot is just of Sully’s face and you hear Boo’s term of endearment for Sully, “Kitty!” Sully’s face erupts into a smile of sheer joy. And the animators captured this feeling with the beautiful melting from unsure to rapture with an ease and care that showed that this moment was as important for them as it was for the characters. When Sully smiles you can almost feel his breath being taken away at his sheer enjoyment of the moment. Kudos to the entire Pixar staff for developing such a beautiful moment. A moment that makes you tear up because of its emotional honesty.

But I digress. Matilda and I were watching the movie and laughing really hard and clutching each other for comfort during the scary parts. Then we came to a scene that made us look at each other with mischief and goofy intentions. At one point Sully is throwing Monster Cheerios to Boo and she catches them in her mouth. When she wants another one, she opens her mouth and yells, “Ah!” Matilda and I looked at each other and then over to Baby Gertrude who was chewing on the wall with an intensity that no one truly understands. In that moment, Matilda and I knew exactly what our number one priority would be for the coming months. Training her little sister to catch Cheerios in her mouth.

And this plays perfectly into Gertrude’s latest developmental tic. She thinks she’s a dog. It started off with a simple panting with her tongue sticking out. We thought that was cute. But now she picks up a little rubber ball with her mouth and runs around the house growling. Matilda even taught her to play fetch.

But that betrays her human side as well. She got her first baby doll this weekend. A cast off from big sister. The doll is mostly naked and grotesquely out of proportion. But Gertrude clearly adores this doll. She picks it up and kisses it and loves it. Then she body slams it and jumps on top of it. I think it’s a mixture of love and fear. She feels the need to nurture the baby doll, but not at her own expense. She needs to let it know that she’s still the boss.

Sunday we went to a skating party that Matilda was invited to. First of all, I didn’t know they even had skating parties anymore. Secondly, Matilda was the only girl from her class invited.

I didn’t think anything of this at first. She’s a cute girl and very popular at school. But, until I talked to some other parents I hadn’t realized. One mother told me that Matilda had broken many hearts last year by turning down several marriage proposals. I assured this mother that Matilda is too young to get married. We’re waiting until she’s at least ten.

But I was horror struck. She hadn’t told me. I knew she was popular. She’s a cute, likable kid. But to have all these boys fawning over her, with an empty look as if their souls had been sucked out. For two hours boys were calling her, pushing her (sign of affection) and she just la-di-da ignored them. Thereby, of course, encouraging their amorous attention even further.

Ahhhh! No! Not my little girl. One boy was poking her in the shoulder as she gently ignored him. I told him to stop. He asked why. I towered over him and said, “I eat little boys for breakfast.” He ran away shrieking.

I held baby Gertrude most of the time, enjoying the platitudes of the other parents. Oh she’s so cute. So well behaved. She walks so well for a ten-month old. Blah blah blah.

One mom told me she couldn’t even remember when her kids were this young. I told her that maybe she should have video taped them more often. She stared at me wondering if I was joking or not. I didn’t give her an indication either way.

Gertrude, again, looked like she was wasted on LSD. The walls were painted with day-glo planets and stars, shining in the black lights and shimmering with thumping bass.

Gertrude walked around, touching the stars on the walls, trying to grab the glowing planets off the carpet. She was having fun. Then she fell to all fours and started licking the walls.

So, I picked her up and put her on my shoulders. She licked my ear, growled, panted like a puppy and laughed.

I live in a Dave Berry column.

I was watching Sesame Street today at lunch. (Yes, I am a grown man watching Sesame Street at lunch. What’s it to you? I happen to like letters, numbers and Muppets.) I noticed something disturbing that I hadn’t noticed before. More disturbing than the theories that Bert and Ernie are gay (they’re not . . . they were found naked together once, but it was hot and the building doesn’t have air) or the fact that Mr. Hooper was actually a CIA hit man.

No, the truth is that Sesame Street seems to have taken a turn into the erotic. You don’t believe me?

First, Big Bird and Snuffy were having a genial conversation out on the street. Now, disregarding the fact that everyone can now see Snuffy has destroyed the mental stability of children ‘round the world (think about it . . . when the regular inhabitants of Sesame Street started seeing Snuffy, it proved to children that their imaginary friends were real and it was EVERYONE ELSE that had the problem . . . of course everyone else on Sesame Street talks to a giant bird) something truly disturbing happened.

While strolling down the street, Big Bird gently asked Snuffy if he’d “like to play a game of In and Out.”

The world stopped at that moment. I’ve seen A Clockwork Orange. I’m up on my double entendres. I know what that meant. Big Bird just asked Snuffy to have sex with him. Snuffy’s response, “I’d love to Bird!”

“Great,” said Big Bird. “Oscar can help!”

Dear God. What did I do to deserve this? What has happened to children’s television when you can turn it on to see a giant yellow bird ask a once imaginary wooly mammoth thing to have sex. I mean, I always knew. I just didn’t . . . know.

By the way, I’m not making this up.

So, I’m getting over my trauma when they cut away to the next scene. There’s Elmo walking down the street in his usual moronic self-imposed stupidity based on his frozen development at the age of six. I know monsters are different than humans but, for crying out loud, get the fuzzy little kid some help! He’s a moron! Despite all the touting of education and knowledge on the show, Elmo hasn’t learned squat. What sort of sign is this of the effectiveness of this program? Deaf, dumb and blind kids sure can play pinball, but Elmo the monster is a diploid that can’t seem to remember a simple sequence of twenty-six letters.

Anyway, Elmo’s walking down the street and then starts jumping up and down. I can only say that he was emotionally erect. He was excited because his friend Edie Falco was coming down the street. Yes, Edie Falco. Carmella Soprano herself. Mob boss’ wife.

They greet and exchange pleasantries. Suddenly, Elmo gets sullen. When pressed, he reveals that his hand hurts. Edie kisses it. Elmo then states his arm hurts. Edie kisses it. Elmo states that his cheek hurts. Edie kisses it. Elmo says his leg hurts. Edie suggests that she just hug him (oh, we’ve all been there, haven’t we?). Again, this all really did happen and I’m not making it up.

Then it hit me. That little furry runt isn’t a kid at all. Not in the true sense of the word. He’s pretending to be a child to gain the sympathy of beautiful women so that he can nuzzle in their buxom areas. He’s a scam artist! My god, the women he’s probably groped over the years. He’s a furry pervie.

I’m traumatized. Truly. Now I have to decide whether or not I should expose Baby Gertrude to this or . . . Let her watch David Lynch movies. Which one will give her the truer picture of the real word? Midgets that talk backwards or furry monsters trying to pick up the ladies?

I do know one thing for sure. I’m going to hell for what I’ve written

This post brought to you by the letter X.

I’m back. An addendum to the post below. (For those of us who are a little slow today, that means “The post directly underneath this one. That is to say, the post that was posted before this post. The pre post.”)

All I know is that my anger is betraying the new persona I have created for myself. What new persona you ask? Why I’m glad you ask.

Because I no longer work in an office, I feel as though it is my duty to portray the relaxed guy who works at home. You know the guy. He comes in the office in jeans to pick up work. He’s happy, chats with everyone and you think, “Wow, what a great guy. I wish he were my friend. I think I’ll give him money!” And then you give him money!

But I’ve further refined that image. Yes. I’m laid back freelance guy. I walk into the office, crack some jokes, make people smile and wish they had my job. We all gain something out of this. They gain a good memory of the day. Maybe it’s a horrible day. Could be. Most of them are. But at least Gary came in and made you smile with that joke about the Cuban monkey dancer, right? And I get the lone social interaction of my day outside of my family (and they are required to pay attention to me).

I’ve taken it further. I’m now “Ugly Shirt Guy.”

I didn’t feel that it was enough just being visibly laid back. I need to project laid back in the most obnoxious way possible. And what better way than with outrageously colored and patterned shirts, indiscreetly untucked. They’re loose, they’re comfortable and they annoy people.

Oh, one other minor point. I actually look good in them.

So, I went into Mickey G’s yesterday wearing my favorite Ugly Shirt. It is technically white. At least that’s the base. But it’s the scene of a Woody (it’s a car, pervert) sitting on the beach under a lightly cloudy sky. My shoulders and chest are the sky and my stomach sports the Woody (stop thinking dirty thoughts!). It’s lovely. It’s loud. It screams, “I work at home and fashion means nothing to me! Be happy I’m wearing pants!”

I always wear pants, by the way.

So, I’m riding the elevator with a Mickey G’s employee. She says, “Is that a jeep on your shirt?”

“No, it’s a Woody. Very popular part of the surf culture of the early sixties.”

“Oh. You and your damn shirts.”

Me and my damn shirts. Finally. I get recognition. I am officially ugly shirt guy! Even better, the UPS guy, Dan, was riding back down with me. “You know, I wish I had a job where I could wear a Hawaiian shirt like that.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Ugly shirts are the way to go.”

“It’s not ugly! It’s a status symbol. That shirt signifies that you have what we all want. Freedom and happiness. Enjoy it!”

And so I shall.

And history supports me. Many great men have worn ugly shirts. They’ve been highly creative men who over come great problems and revolutionize the world, as we know it.

Who is it you ask?

For one, Brian Wilson. Despite his paranoid schizophrenia, heavy drug use, massive weight gain and nearly debilitating depression of decades past, he revolutionized music as we know it.

Another? John Lasseter. One of the coolest men on Earth. Head of Pixar, Super Genius. Plus, his entire staff wears ugly shirts. Hats off to you boys!

So I accept this responsibility. As Ugly Shirt Guy, I will exude my own version of cool, not bending to the rules of society at large. I will ooze laidback happiness. I will show the world what it means to be an Ugly Shirt Guy. I will urge people to add some music to their day. I will skip and sing and say weird things.

I am Ugly Shirt Guy. See me roar.

I’m late today. Why? Because I’m in a big, hairy rotten mood. That’s why.

Maybe it’s the weather. Maybe it’s China’s fault. I don’t know. Maybe you should just blame Walter Knoll for failing to deliver my wife’s anniversary flowers yesterday. Those bastards. I hope they get pricked by a rose and get a really nasty infection that smells bad.

Plus, I encountered a serious problem on the elevator today. It smelled like Body Odor of Biblical proportions. The entire defensive squad of the Rams doesn’t smell this bad after playing a day game in New Orleans in August.

Look, if you have body odor that’s so bad it LINGERS behind you, you have a problem. How in the hell could you not notice that you smell so bad that you leave vapor trails that peel paint off the walls? I know people want to leave their mark but, my God. This could cause brain damage.

I rode the elevator, trying to hold my breath (I don’t want pit stank in my blood system! It might seep into my body and start oozing out of me!). I said a silent prayer to the God of Embarassment. “Dear God, whose name I do not know, though I suspect it may be Bob, please don’t let anyone get on this elevator, lest they think it is me that smells like the rotting floor of a boys locker room.”

Friggin’ thing stopped at the next floor. I guess there is no Bob. I decided to head off his thoughts at the pass.

“This isn’t me,” I said to the very tall man who entered the elevator. “There must have been someone who boarded the elevator before me who has a glandular problem.”

His response, “Yeah, that happens.” I could see that he didn’t believe me.

Jerk. I was reaching out to him. Trying to connect on a level that few people ever connect on. And he rejected me.

And you wonder why I don’t like people.

I clearly remember the first time I saw her. It was five years ago. She was standing at a copier. She had on gray pants and a long sleeve silky white shirt. She had the longest brown hair I had ever seen in my life.

I was instantly transfixed. I wanted to meet her, but I had to be sure that the conditions were right. So, I called in the CIA of my office, Angie, Carol and Kim. First step was I had some freelance work. I notified everyone and asked Kim to tell the new girl, so that she could have an opportunity for extra money. She emailed me. Bingo. I had her name and other pertinent information.

Next, the CIA and I staked out her cube. She had a picture of a little girl holding a cucumber. Okay, could be a niece. But could be a daughter. Alarms started sounding. The covert operatives did some checking and discovered that it was a daughter.

Damn! Where there are children there are usually significant others. I was ready to abort the mission.

Then I got a call from Agent Angie, “She is unattached. Repeat. She is unattached. Proceed with project Happy Hour.”

We set up a happy hour that Wednesday. She was able to come. In my nervousness I drank too much too quickly. I made a total ass of myself by talking too loudly. She left. DAMN.

What followed was a group lunch that led me to request a personal meeting in the form of a date. I asked in an email. IDIOT. No one accepts a date over email.

But it was the only way I could do it. I was nervous. I was out of practice. Plus, what were the odds that a woman as beautiful as her would ever consider going out on a date with me. I’m a geek for crying out loud!

She said yes. I’m not sure if she saw it from her cube, but I launched head first into the ceiling out of excitement.

The next few months were a whirlwind. I fell in love. I fell hard and fast. And over coffee in Denny’s (Literally, the coffee was all over the table and my arm because she spilled it) I realized that I would do anything to spend the rest of my life with her.

Months later I picked a ring, with ample advice from my big brother. I didn’t ask any of my family to join me, except for that one bit of advice. This was something I was doing on my own. For the first time in my life, this was mine.

I had this elaborate plan. We’d go to the scene of our first date. I’d have the ring in my pocket and we’d chat over coffee for a while. And then I’d pop out the ring and ask her.

It was a great plan. Such a great plan that I emailed Angie to tell her all about it. She still has the email somewhere in her vast archives.

I picked up the ring and hid it in my brief case. The plan was to ask her that weekend and it was only Tuesday. I went to her place for dinner after work, as usual. We put her daughter to bed and settled down to watch TV for the evening. I lasted exactly one minute.

It wasn’t exactly romantic. Not like I had planned. But it was certainly from the heart.

You see, when you realize that you want to spend the rest of your life with someone, you don’t want to wait for the rest of your life to start. You want it to begin right at that moment.

I didn’t want to wait. I knew then, as I know now. We were meant to be together. Not exactly like Romeo and Juliet, mind you. But, more like the couples in those goofy Sixties pop songs.

And so here we find ourselves. Three years ago today, I did the smartest thing I’ve done. I married the woman of my dreams. I’ve loved every single moment.

Each morning I wake up and I see her and I smile. That’s my wife. When she was showing off her truly unique watercolors to our friends I thought, “That’s my wife.” When she was holding our daughter for the first time, tears streaming down her face I thought, “That’s my wife.” When I make her cry by saying something insanely stupid, tears well up in my eyes and I think, “That’s my wife.”

Three wonderful years have gone past. In one sense they feel like only a moment. In another sense, they feel like a lifetime.

Ours is a relationship that feels more mature than it is. It’s a three-year-old marriage, but I feel as though I’ve known her all my life. As if, when each of us were conceived our hearts were automatically destined for one another.

And after three years I can still get lost in those eyes.

Happy anniversary honey! I love you more than I can possibly ever find the words to express.

If I haven’t said it enough . . . Thank you for marrying me.

Hi kids. There’s much work to be done today. I hope to get a blog up later today.

In the mean time, go buy the new Wondermints CD.

Ever since Geek Friend left, my wife keeps telling me that I need some sort of social interaction outside of seven-year-olds after school and the fleeting moments that I spend with Mickey G’s people at the office when I drop things off.

I agree except, the only things I’m interested in doing are listening to music, watching movies and reading. Those are my favorite relaxing moments and they aren’t exactly social, you know? You talk to me during a movie and I’ll punch you.

She suggested taking a class. Which is a good idea but, all the classes I want to take would involve people I really wouldn’t want to hang out with. Astronomy students would be fun, but I’m not sure they relax by watching surreal French films. Do they? I don’t know. Physics students would all be smarter than me. Plus, I’m not sure I’m prepared to head back to college life without committing to an overall goal. Maybe I’ll go get my PhD in English or something.

I have a ton of projects to keep my busy. I’m writing two books of my own, John and I have a ton of irons in the fire, I’m working on a play that I hope my brother-in-law will find a way to perform and I’m writing a short film. All in addition to writing for this website and doing my daily work. It’s hectic.

If I had any “buddies” that had time or lived near by, we’d go get beer periodically. But my old beer buddies are working on getting their lives set up with new wives, new kids, etc. Just like me.

So, I have no social interaction or outlets at all. I sit in the same room all day. I work here. I play here. I eat here. I’m surprised I don’t sleep here. I need a change of scenery.

So, I’m considering taking up a new hobby. First I considered quilting. I hear it’s a great social event and a good place to meet ladies of a certain age and experience. But, I’m not sure my wife would like that. I also considered starting a writer’s group, where we could share our writing and talk about it. But, most writers are insecure. Yet they have a feeling of superiority over other writers. So, most of the time no one would talk. We’d all brood and think how horrible our own work is while secretly feeling that Joanie’s poem was complete tripe and how we could all write a sonnet better than that with our eyes closed and both muses tied behind our backs.

I’ve also ruled out scuba diving, sky diving, swan diving, cliff diving, boat racing, car racing, pig racing, cock fighting, autophillia, ballroom dancing, fashion design, softball, basketball, lacrosse, floor hockey, air hockey, ski ball, skeet shooting and multi-level checkers.

What to do?

Then it dawned on me. I’m too sedentary. I need to find a hobby that I not only enjoy, get social interaction out of AND that provides me with physical exertion. I ruled out my first instinct, which was calling large men unseemly names and then running like hell. So, I searched my entire life trying to remember what I was good at that brought me joy and endorphins.

Then it hit me. Semi-professional kickball. As far as I know there isn’t a currently existing league. I’ll call all my old beer buddies and grant each one a team. We’ll work out a schedule and start league play in the spring. We hope to expand by next fall into new markets.

Let’s look at the plusses:

1. Good sport.
2. Great sound when a ball is kicked.
3. Who doesn’t love the smell of a good kickball?
4. We could sell tickets.
5. We could still drink beer.
6. Skinned knees.

The minuses:

1. Salary caps.
2. Arbitration.
3. Fitting in luxury boxes at the local playground.

The rules will remain the same. Only now, tagging someone out will happen with a certain ferocity that wasn’t there before. Plus, the more beer that is consumed, the better the game gets.

Besides, softball is for wimps. Kickball ’03 is on its way!

If you’re looking for the story that was referenced on Four Aunties please scroll down to the previous post.

Pat Leahy has officially gone insane. Perhaps last year’s letter that reportedly contained Anthrax contained something else and Senator Leahy has been sniffing the hell out of it.

Wait a second. Maybe he’s not insane. This document was just found.

Memo
Date: August 1, 1999
To: Sheik Osama Bin Laden
From: Those Who Wish To Remain Anonymous So That We May Perpetrate More Cowardly Acts
Re: West Nile Virus and The Death of The American Infidel Pig Dog Bastards

Sheik Osama,
We have been studying very hard this “West Nile Virus” you have asked us to investigate. We’ve discovered that most people who contract the illness exhibit fever, headache, and body aches. In some cases we can even get them to get a rash. However, we’ve found that when the infirm are exposed, they also get symptoms of encephalitis, which include severe headache, high fever, stiff neck, confusion, loss of consciousness, muscle weakness and brain swelling. In extreme cases, this results in the death of the Infidel American Pig Dog Bastard.

We have discovered, however, that this only happens in the elderly, transplant patients and people with an otherwise compromised immune systems.

Delivery is also an issue. We cannot get an airborne strain. However, we can deliver it by injection by mosquito. Yes, this sounds like a radical idea. However, we’ve hired a group of out of work minstrels to inject several million of what the Pig Dogs refer to as “Skeeters” with the virus.

We will then release the bugs in New York and allow their natural mating habits (they copulate like Saddam on Viagra and whiskey!) to spread the disease throughout the Pig Dog’s nation.

Our only set back at this point is finding needles small enough to inject the bugs. Also, our workers keep missing the bugs and injecting themselves. They are all complaining of muscle aches, fever and headaches. But they have not taken the day off to recover! Right now there are fourteen miserable minstrels injecting mosquitoes!

I know what you are thinking, Sheik Osama. What good does it do us to kill the elderly and infirm?

I’m here to tell you, my Sheik, that it would cripple their economy. Right now, as we speak, millions of elderly American Pig Dogs are sitting down at an Infidel establishment known as Denny’s to eat the Super Bird at wildly discount prices because of Super Senior Savings Saturday. Not only do they eat the Super Bird, but also Grand Slam Breakfasts, Denny Burgers and Ice Cream Sundaes. Symbols of American Pig Dog excess!

But if we were to eliminate the main consumers on Super Senior Saving Saturday, we would cripple the Denny’s monopoly, thereby creating a domino effect. First, Denny’s would fold because of the lack of senior citizens. The Egg Council, who is inexorably tied to the Omelet Cartel, would shortly follow this. Of course, this would cripple the all-powerful American Pig Dog Chicken farmer. Additionally, Major League Baseball would lose a huge purveyor of their “Flip Action Sluggers Coin Cards”. By losing this outlet for their merchandise, Major League Baseball would then fall. Without baseball, men across America would fall into a deep depression, thereby compromising their immune system making them susceptible to the West Nile Virus.

The American Pig Dog would therefore be wiped off the Earth.

I will continue my research, Sheik Osama, with your blessing.

I look forward to seeing you this weekend at our 401(K) planning retreat.

Also, I need next Thursday off to wait for the cable guy.

Wow. I just noticed how heavy and depressing I’ve been lately. Sorry about that. Sometimes you get introspective. For me, I write it. So, I suppose that it becomes extrospective.

The good news is that I’m not depressed. In fact, I’m very happy. Tired and busy, longing for a real house to own, but happy nonetheless.

I still am listening to a lot of Nick Cave though.

But there are more important things going on these days. For instance, the invasion of the Lizard People. When I say Lizard People I, of course, mean one lizard that is not really a person or humanoid but, rather, a very small, cute little salamander about the size of my pinky.

Yes cute. He’s a cute little bugger. I wonder how he got in? Maybe . . . due to the fact that the kid-cattle that runs in and out of my house all day leaves the door open constantly?

So, it’s Monday morning and I’m getting my Cheerios for breakfast. (Now known as Ochee-O’s in our house. The ones that Gertrude finds on the floor, the ones she saves for moments when she gets hungry, are called “Icky O’s”. ) There on the door jam of the pantry is a tiny lizard. I go to get our humane trap (a big cup and a file folder) to release him back to the wild, but he jumps into the pantry and hides amongst our bulk items on the bottom. Crap. We have a lizard in the pantry.

I get my breakfast and sit down with Matilda.

“There’s a lizard in the pantry,” I say calmly.

“WHAT? Will you put my bowl in the sink for me? I’m afraid now.”

“It’s only a small one. It’s not like there’s Kimodo Dragon in there. He won’t hurt you. In fact, he only eats bugs and is probably terrified of your giant feet.”

“But. Gross!”

“Honey, Herbert can’t hurt you.”

“Herbert? YOU NAMED THE LIZARD?”

Of course I named the lizard. This isn’t Planet of the Apes. I have compassion for the little guy. He doesn’t want to be here any more than we want him here. He’d prefer to be on a big, warm rock, sunning himself before heading south for the winter. (Lizards head south for the winter, right?)

I saw him a few times since. But he always moved too quickly. The little bastard thought I was going to hurt him.

But today. Today I saw him by Matilda’s shoes. The kind that light up when she steps. So, I ran to get my humane trap and . . . I tapped the shoe. The lights dazed him and I put the cup over him and slid the folder underneath. Walking to the door, I said good-bye, and I set him down outside and he scampered off.

At least now I know he’s safe in his own world again. And not eating my Ochee-O’s. That little lizard bastard.

Heard somewhere deep within a lizard home:
“Herbert! You’re home! I was so worried.”

“I’m okay Mom. Gary caught me and set me free. He’s really nice.”

”YOU NAMED THE HUMAN????”

There are times in your life where you sit down and look at yourself and those around you and wonder how much you really know. How much do I know about me? How much do I know about my friends? How much do they know about me?

I’ve been trying to figure myself out, but I can’t. Most people see me as the goofy, fun-loving Mickey Mouse fan. An overly sentimental father who weeps at the sight of his children, who checks to make sure they are breathing at night. That’s true. I am those men. And yet, there’s the part of me who loves the darkness of a David Lynch film. I hide my politics from others, for my own reasons, and yet I get so angry when I see something the world does that is supremely stupid.

Lately, though, I’ve been analyzing myself through the music I listen to on a daily basis. I’ve found that, in one respect I’m a romantic. I love songs of beautiful simplicity about love. Songs that notice minor details about life. On the other hand, I like boldly experimental music that breaks all the boundaries of conventional music. And on my third hand, grown from exposure to radioactive waste, I like a dark brooding music that destroys any sense of hope you have. All of these songs, I think, describe me by the images and emotions that are associated with them.

Take for instance the music of Ben Folds, who can really span all three. In one instance, he writes a song that’s so brutally honest about a love that it is heart breaking:

i don't get
many things right the first time
in fact, i am told that a lot
now i know all the wrong turns,
the stumbles and falls brought me here
and where was i before the day
that i first saw your lovely face
now i see it everyday
and i know

that i am, i am
i am the luckiest
what if i'd been born
fifty years before you
in a house
on the street where you live
maybe i'd be outside
as you passed on your bike
would i know?
in a wide sea of eyes
i see one pair that i recognize
and i know

that i am, i am
i am the luckiest

i love you more than i have
ever found a way to say to you
next door
there's an old man
who lived into his nineties
and one day passed away in his sleep
and his wife, she stayed
for a couple of days and passed away
i'm sorry i know that's a
strange way to tell you that i know
we belong
that i know

that i am, i am
i am the luckiest

It’s the image of the old couple that gets me. I think that’s me in that song. Singing about my wife. In fact, if I had the talent for piano and singing, I’d sing this song to my wife every morning when she woke up. Because, it’s true. I love her more than I have ever found a way to say. But, with this song, I can say it. Through a proxy.

Again, on that honest love front is Stephin Merritt of Magnetic Fields (and fifty other bands, really).

Dance with me my old friend
once before we go
Let's pretend this song won't end
and we never have to go home
and we'll dance among the chandeliers
And nothing matters when we're dancing
In tat or tatters you're entrancing
Be we in Paris or in Lansing
nothing matters when we're dancing
You've never been more beautiful
your eyes like two full moons
than here in this poor old dancehall
among the dreadful tunes
the awful songs we don't even hear...

Again, it’s my wife and my inability to communicate my hopes and dreams to her. That song is us. I picture the two of us, dressed in all the trappings of a Busby Berkley musical, floating in the air among a gaudy chandelier. Waltzing through the air in each other’s arms.

Sometimes I feel the love so strongly it over takes me. I don’t know what to do with the extra emotions. “But you’re so beautiful that you make me want to cry.”

I don’t feel lightly. I don’t feel in grays. I emote with a primitive ferocity that is betrayed by my wont for the sentimental. It’s all black and white. Either I feel it or I don’t. But when I feel it, I feel it with the power of a Super Nova ready to burst.

In a way, it’s a shame that others can’t feel with such ferocity. It’s a shame that they can’t walk out their door and be so taken with the beauty of a sunset that they need to sit down. Or that they can’t feel what I feel when I watch my wife sleep at night, her chest rising and falling with her rhythmic breathing. It’s almost as if I can’t breathe, I’m so overtaken with emotion and gratitude.

But, for each wonderful emotion I feel with strength, there is a darkness. Yes, I check my kids when they sleep. The fear and need to protect them is overwhelming, especially at night. The fear that death is a step away for one, or all, of us. Sometimes I feel like I should stay awake all night, to guard the ones I love from anything that can harm them. It’s my prime directive.

But, those dark feelings extend further. To the darkness that I don’t understand. Probably never will. I suppose it’s born out of the feeling of loss I still feel over the loss of my parents, the loss of friends, the death and holes that life has left behind me. After all, as Wayne Coyne says:

Love is the greatest thing a heart can know
but the hole that it leaves in its absence
can make you feel so low

But the darkness goes further, to areas I can’t describe. And that’s where Nick Cave comes in. I view Nick Cave as a traveling Medieval Troubadour who comes to your town to tell the sordid tales of the wicked and despicable. They’re irresistible songs. So pained, so literate, so raw.

And so I've left my home
I drift from land to land
I am upon your step and you are a family man
Outside the vultures wheel
The wolves howl, the serpents hiss
And to extend this small favour, friend
Would be the sum of earthly bliss
Do you reckon me a friend?
The sun to me is dark
And silent as the moon
Do you, sir, have a room?
Are you beckoning me in?

The words contain a darkness that feels like an exposed nerve. Dripping Milton references, darkness, coldness, anger . . . Who doesn’t feel this way? Or:

As I sat sadly by her side
The kitten she did gently pass
Over to me and again we pressed
Our different faces to the glass
"That may be very well", I said
"But watch the one falling in the street
See him gesture to his neighbours
See him trampled beneath their feet
All outward motion connects to nothing
For each is concerned with their immediate need
Witness the man reaching up from the gutter
See the other one stumbling on who can not see"

With trembling hand I turned toward her
And pushed the hair out of her eyes
The kitten jumped back to her lap
As I sat sadly by her side

Then she drew the curtains down
And said, "When will you ever learn
That what happens there beyond the glass
Is simply none of your concern?
God has given you but one heart
You are not a home for the hearts of your brothers

And God does not care for your benevolence
Anymore than he cares for the lack of it in others
Nor does he care for you to sit
At windows in judgment of the world He created
While sorrows pile up around you
Ugly, useless and over-inflated"

Again, so inextricably my wife and me. Our arguments of optimism versus pessimism. We switch sides periodically, but this is us. Utterly us.

But, Nick can represent both sides of us. The darkness and . . . The better stuff of love:

I don't believe in an interventionist God
But I know, darling, that you do
But if I did I would kneel down and ask Him
Not to intervene when it came to you
Not to touch a hair on your head
To leave you as you are
And if He felt He had to direct you
Then direct you into my arms
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms

The thing about Nick Cave is that you don’t know who he is. What he represents. Is he outside petting the kitten, or holding it under the water. It’s his enigma that entrances me. I don’t know who he is. But then, who am I? Who are you?

Finally, I leave you again with Wayne Coyne. He bridges the goofiness, the emotion the darkness with this wonderful little bit that sums up what is probably my own world view. The dreadful and the hope rolled into one:

Do You Realize - that you have the most beautiful face
Do You Realize - we're floating in space -
Do You Realize - that happiness makes you cry
Do You Realize - that everyone you know someday will die

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

So. Who am I, really? Hell if I know. If I had that figured out I’d probably be the sanest man on Earth.

And we all know that’s not true, don’t we?

I know some of my regular readers will be looking for a post today. However, I have nothing to say. Joking around about things today seems disrespectful.

Someone may expect me to write about September 11, but I won’t do that either. There is nothing I can say that hasn’t been said a thousand times over. I could put my own spin on it, but my personal feelings about the events of one year ago, and what has happened to me in the time in between are my personal feelings.

Rather, I sit here remembering how I felt one year ago. When this whole thing began. Oddly, I do not remember the mixture of fear and insanity I felt. The sorrow. I don’t remember how when I was listening to the news via the Internet I desperately wanted to go home.

Instead, I remember the reaction of my employer at the time. My coworkers and I rushed into the President’s office to watch the news coverage. As the first tower collapsed, we were shooed out of the room so they could hold their manager’s meeting.

The company itself did nothing. Said nothing until nearly 4 p.m. It was as if nothing was happening. No information was disseminated. No one set up radios, televisions. No one provided reports. No one passed along a message.

Silence. Complete silence. We sat in our offices, scanning over our lists of friends, trying to remember if we knew someone who worked in the area. One coworker sat in his office, trembling, waiting for the phone to ring. His girlfriend was on a business trip in New York. He knew she was physically okay. But he knew about the fear and chaos in New York. He just wanted to hold her.

So, to my former employer I firmly extend my middle finger on this one year anniversary of their indifference and selfishness. I exult in your failure because of your stupidity and arrogance. I am happy that my friends were able to move on to bigger and better things.

And for the rest of my life, when I mark this anniversary, I will remember how callous and stupid you were on this day.

Why do we do it? Why do we continue to pursue relationships, despite what we know? Despite all we learn. We continue to follow along to find the next relationship, or we keep going back to the one we already have.

Why do love and the need for companionship do this to us?

If you stick your hand in a fire, you get burned. Odds are, unless you are very dense and have a sick enjoyment of blisters, you won’t do it again. But, the first time you are burned by love, you go back. And the second, third, fourth . . .

What is it about love and friendship that causes us to repeat the pain? Is it that rewarding? What does it provide us? For every high, there’s an equal low. For every moment you look into her eyes and see the world, you look into her eyes and see a wall.

When love ends, you feel a hole. A great, gaping hole that causes you to lay there and do nothing. Usually in the dark. This hole inside you is like a black hole. It sucks light and happiness in and only emits low-range bitterness. You lock yourself inside and do nothing but watch bad television and eat cheese fries. Yes, heart clogging cheese fries.

The lack of love is the greatest humiliation. You look at the world with rose-colored glasses when you are in love. When it’s over . . . you look at the world as your enemy.

We’ve all known the sweet pain of losing someone. Laying on your bed, feeling as though the world is closing in on you.

Love causes us endless pain. Even in the midst of the greatest love, you feel pain. She walks away from you. You look into her eyes, searching, but find nothing. You do all the wrong things. She hurts and you can’t help.

Love is a constant opening and closing of a wound. Healing, injuring, healing.

So why? Why do we do it?

Humans are one of the few animals that believe in monogamy. We’re one of the few that tries (many fail) to mate for life. But it’s hard. Damn hard. There’s hurt feelings, lost dreams, failed hopes.

Why?

I don’t know. I can’t say. But I know that some day I’ll see my little girls face down on a bed, sobbing over what a boy has done to them. And I’ll resist the urge to order a hit. I know that sometimes I do something profoundly stupid and hurt my wife, so that it’s her face down on the bed sobbing. And sometimes it’s my heart that is broken. Sometimes you have to watch your friends go through it. Sometimes even your parents.

Love, for all its grandeur and its pain is the one common denominator humans have. We may believe in different gods, live within a different moral framework, like different music, follow different political trails. But, if you sit down with your bitterest enemy, you’ll be able to commiserate about the pain of love. The sting.

So why do we do it? Because, in the end, the ecstasy outweighs the existential torment. The black hole eventually shrinks to the point where you’re able to function. The bitterness fades and suddenly, you forget the pain and seek the pleasure.

For there’s nothing in the world like a burgeoning love. The moment where two would-be lovers accidentally touch skin. Her hand falls on yours. You bump into one another while walking down the hall. The smell of her hair, or the look of that one pair of jeans she wears. The way her nose crinkles when she laughs or the way she hiccups.

The important thing is to not lose these things, no matter what is going on. Listen to the way she walks and watch the way she reads. Enjoy her faults, for they are what make her who she is. They make her interesting.

And don’t forget your own. You snore. You have gas too much. You’re quick to anger. You pout when you’re hurt.

Sometimes, we just need to go into the arms of the person we love and tell them, “Loving you was the smartest thing I’ve ever done.” Or, “Thank you.”

Maybe we don’t do that enough. Maybe we are too obsessed by the agony vs. ecstasy of love.

But we can’t miss the small things, or we’re sunk. Brush her hair behind her ear. Put your hand on his five o’clock shadow. Feel how your hand fits into the small of her back. Or how strong his arms are when they are around you.

It’s the small things we miss. Don’t let them pile up. Look at them, appreciate them. Marvel at them.

Young Gertrude has learned how to wave. She was crawling up the stairs to take a bath, her mother acting as safety net. The whole way up the stairs she waved to me, giggling.

If you heard the shattering of glass, that would be my heart breaking. As you know, this happens to me periodically. The girls will do something that fills my heart with such love and happiness that it feels as though it will burst.

And, of course, at other times they do things that show me how much they have grown and my heart breaks. It’s a difficult emotion to bear. The world falls away and you sit there staring at one person who, in that single moment, represents the entire world to you.

There is a simple test of this moment, especially if you have kids (girls work best). There is a moment where a child threads her little hands around your neck, buries her face in your chest, squeezing tight and says, “I love you daddy.” In that moment wild marmosets could descend from the ceiling and start clawing your eyes out. You wouldn’t feel it because you’d be walking on air, trying to keep your heart bursting out of your chest.

It’s an odd feeling, it’s true. This feeling that you love someone so much that you can’t possibly put it into words or actions. That this little being sitting before you, be she seven or ten months, represents something you love beyond the mere power of mortal men’s descriptions. This love is Epic. This love is heroic. This love is something you can barely contain and yet you must learn how, lest you smother this little child.

Parenting is a series of hellos and goodbyes. I no longer get a goodbye hug at the bus stop. It would betray Matilda’s grown-up nature. After all, how would it look for a second grader to show her emotions in front of her friends? In that moment I have to say goodbye and suppress the urge to run after the bus in a desperate attempt to protect her from the harsh realities of the world. I had to do the same thing when she played soccer. I had to let go and let her do her thing. And Brownies, and birthday parties, and more . . . Already the baby is making us say goodbye. She’s an independent little bugger.

But those goodbyes are balanced out with the hellos. Matilida will come home upset over something that happened and she’ll search out my counsel and comfort. Or, she’ll need to figure something out. So she’ll ask. Or, better yet, she’ll need the answer to a scientific question (how long will the world last?).

But the best hellos are the ones that come unexpectedly. You’re just sitting there, minding your own business and you’ll be attacked with a random act of affection. Those are the best. Yesterday the baby saw me walking up her grandma’s driveway from a window. Her arms started flapping and she was shrieking with joy to see her daddy. The daddy who had walked to the car exactly thirty seconds ago. It made me feel like the most important man on earth.

You never know when that moment will hit you. You just never know. Several years ago, not long after I had met my wife and her lovely two-year-old daughter, I was moving into a new apartment. I had sent my future wife and daughter out to get us all some dinner while my friend and I continued to move all my junk into the new place.

She was gone 30 minutes. Then an hour. Then almost two. No call. No answer at her apartment. I began to worry, I began to fret. We didn’t have the phone turned on at the new place yet and all we had was the friend’s cell phone. I called, frantic, every five seconds, thinking the worst. Finally I got an answer.

And my (future) wife promptly burst into tears. They had been in an accident.I felt that feeling. It was the first time I had felt it. That my entire world was built upon toothpicks and someone had just kicked it. Had anything happened to her . . .

They were fine. But that didn’t make me feel better. I saw the car weeks later and that feeling came back. It was a mangled mess of metal. How both my wife and her daughter had come out of this unscathed . . . I have no idea.

It was that moment that I decided that I’d never be apart from them. That if anything ever happened again, I could be there to make it right.

Sure, the truth of the matter is, I couldn’t make it right all the time. But, I would try. I would give my life trying. Because at that moment I realized that there was nothing in this world more important to me than the two people who had been in that car. And now that car was destroyed. How close had they come?

Thankfully those to people were okay.

But, to this day, if they’re even a second late I break out into a cold sweat.

There are three of them now. My girls. And I will do anything in my power to assure they live a safe and happy life. I know I can’t control the world, but I will fight to the end to ensure their safety and happiness.

Because when a baby stands at your feet with her arms raised, eyes pleading or that little girl wraps her hands around your neck, you sign a contract. A binding, life-long contract.

Another weekend is upon us and yet . . . I don’t have any plans. At least, I don’t think I do. I don’t normally make the plans. When I wake up on Saturday morning my wife and kids submit an itinerary and I see where I have to be, when, what I should wear and if I have to drive.

Based on a few basic assumptions, I can whittle down what I’m not doing this weekend.

1. Going out with friends—There are two reasons why I know I’m not doing this. First, I have a baby at home, so it’s not an option unless we pay for a sitter. Second, well, I don’t have any friends. Those bastards all moved away or live in other cities. I suppose I could fly out to Maryland to see John’s new TV or drive out to Oregon. All my friends in town suck. They hate me, I hate them. We’re friends only out of habit. When we see one another we often snarl and hiss. The friends I do like are also unable to go out often.
2. Cure a disease. The government confiscated my lab equipment. Thought I was making crystal meth. All I was trying to do was genetically alter a coffee bean to make the caffeine eight times more powerful.
3. Develop a super power. I’ve been trying for years but to no avail. I’m beginning to think I’ll never be successful. Maybe some day. Anyone have a radioactive spider on hand?
4. Read Literature (yes with a capital L). Who has time for it? These days I fall asleep while reading the care labels on my t-shirts.
5. Listen to the new Negro Problem CD. As far as I can tell, no one in St. Louis has it in stock. Farging iceholes.
6. Paint. Anything. Besides, John took all the green paint in the US and decided not to use most of it. Now he’s hording it in his garage along with the secret formula for Kentucky Fried Chicken.
7. Ride Horizons at Walt Disney World. The bastards tore it down.
8. Wear leopard print underwear and sing “Burning Down the House.”
9. Because my leopard print underwear is in the laundry.
10. I think I’ll wear zebra print.
11. This is no longer a list.

What I will be doing this weekend is watching Disc Three of The Sopranos Third Season. Yes. I love that show. Each season leaves me with something to quote. “What no effin’ Ziti?” Or, this time it’s Ralphie’s horrible pronunciation of the word “whore.” He keeps saying, “She’s a hooer.” I’m just waiting for the day when they have the “Paulie and Silvio Show.” That would be good.

What I find interesting about the show is that it’s just as much about Tony’s real family as it is about his mob family. There’s an interesting struggle and internal conflict. In his line of work he can have someone whacked for disobeying him. And yet . . . you can’t whack your kid for not cleaning his room. There’s a strange parallel between his brutality and his struggle to show love for his kids.

Might eat something. I hear it’s required to live. And maybe drink coffee. Of course I do that anyway.

In essence, I lead a very boring life. I do nothing but think about stuff all the time. For example, have you ever considered why a Kumquat is called a Kumquat? Why would I eat that? What about an eggplant? It doesn’t even look like an egg and it has the consistency of fried rubber.

Oh well. I just proved that there is something seriously wrong with me and that there isn’t merit in writing every day.

I’ll just sit here and wait for my call from NASA. Surely soon they’ll realize they need me.

Ring, damn it. Ring.

Great. Another thing to buy. Yoinks!

I'll be back later today. I have meetings this morning. Yay!

Hope they don't mind that I'm still wearing my jammies.

Sometimes I am truly grateful for the fact that I was born male. Seriously, we have it so much easier than women. I’ve never had to wear pantyhose nor have I had to suffer other men giving me “dirty looks”. And we won’t even get into menstruation. A man would have one cramp and fall to the floor and cry for five days.

But my true reason goes back to childhood. Growing up a girl must be one of the most horrible experiences ever. I’m watching it happen right now and am often flabbergasted that what I’ve seen hasn’t left my daughter with a deep emotional scar (and it may, we just haven’t progressed that far yet).

Little girls wield their emotions like swords. They slice and dice one another with phrases, hurt looks and the silent treatment. It’s cruel. A little girl will cut off another girl emotionally until they are either no longer friends or the other girl bends to her will.

I’ve always thought that the female of the species was the sensitive one. The one in touch with emotions. Kind, caring, considerate. What I’ve seen of seven-year-old girls proves me wrong. They are Attila the Hun and Idi Amin rolled into one. Barbaric, emotional dictators.

Show no weakness around little girls. They prey upon it looking for the upper hand. And when they smell a weakness, such as being over sensitive and being prone to crying, they seize it and press your buttons until you run away crying.

I can’t figure out why this is. I suppose it’s a normal jockeying amongst friends to find the balance of power. But I can’t explain it and I don’t understand it.

Look at boys in comparison. If boys disagree, they’ll beat the crap out of one another and that’s it. It’s out of their system and they wipe up the blood and go back to their usual thing. Here’s how boys apologize.

“Dude.”

“Dude. Wanna play Tony Hawk?”

”Primo.”

A girl fight can spread for days and one will never know that they are fighting. They’ll give one another icy stares and they will ignore each other and they’ll cry alone. One of them will eventually break and they’ll go back to one another. But those two or three days are filled with a frosty air of indifference.

Worse yet is the way they subtly attack one another. For example they’ll be playing nicely together and then they’ll pull out the knives.

“Why are you being so sensitive?”

Wham. The gloves are down and the battle of emotions is on. Estrogen is sprayed all over the walls and the girls lock into a death stare of youthful indifference. Everything they say really means, “I can live without you.” Everything they do is meant to be an insult. Hearts are broken and emotions left wounded.

It’s damn messy. Makes me miss the fistfights my brothers and I used to have over Stomper trucks.

I’m glad I’m a male. Really glad. Though I think I’d look pretty hot in a nice silk dress with a Mandarin collar.

I have some Grape Juice in my fridge. I like to drink it periodically because I find it to be a light and refreshing, tasty treat. Plus it makes my tongue purple. Actually, to be honest it’s really Grape Juice From Concentrate. Which means that the people who operated the press that squished the cute little grapes thought really, really hard about what they were doing. They are quite safety conscious.

At least, I thought it was from concentrate. I looked at the ingredients late last night and was stunned at what I found. Listed as ingredients are:

Grape Juice Concentrate—I expected this one. It’s also listed on the front of the label. Truth in advertising you know.

Grape Juice—Huh?

Okay, if you are going to concentrate Grape Juice why add Grape Juice to it? Doesn’t that defeat the purpose? It’s like adding water to powdered water. It doesn’t make sense. Grape Juice concentrate, one would assume, is made out of grape juice. Right? So why add more grape juice to it?

Don’t get me wrong. The more grape juice the better. I like grape juice and grape juice likes me. It provides me with essential vitamins and minerals and I provide it with a purpose in life. That purpose is, of course, to be broken down by my body and feed my cells.

So I did a little investigating and I’m confused. Concentrate is something that has had the liquid removed (which, oddly enough seems to defeat the purpose of juicing, being as that is the action of removing the solid portion, but we’ll ignore that). So, what you are left with, essentially, is grape (in this case) sludge. Highly flavorful grape sludge. Therefore, to bring it back to its full potency you add water, the elixir of life.

For example, if you buy orange juice concentrate you put the sludge in your pitcher and add three cans of water. It’s easy. You do not, however, add three cans of orange juice to your orange juice concentrate. That would seem to defeat the purpose, would it not?

If you have grape juice on hand, why bother adding the concentrate? Just give me the grape juice.

In fact, it makes no sense. Why would you go through the trouble of preparing the solution only to have it reconstituted with itself?

For that matter, why is it if you buy a carton of juice from concentrate you pay less than freshly squeezed? Let’s go through the processes.

From concentrate:
1. Squeeze.
2. Pasteurize.
3. Concentrate.
4. Reconstitute
5. Package.

Okay. A five-step process. And I’m sure I’ve over-simplified. So, let’s look at fresh squeezed:

1. Squeeze.
2. Pasteurize (if lucky)
3. Package.

There you go. Three steps and without an entire factory to concentrate and rehydrate. In fact, one team can do the fresh squeezed job while it takes three or four to do the concentrated.

Therefore I ask why we must live with this excess? I say boycott your concentrated juices and demand fresh squeezed. Especially with grape juice.

I know, it’s cruel to make those poor little Central American kids cut the grapes in half and twist each half on the juicer but this is America. I demand my juice.

And tomorrow I take on my Hydrogen Peroxide. My bottle only contains three percent Hydrogen Peroxide. The other 97% is “inactive ingredients.” But they don’t tell me of what the 97% is comprised.

Have I been dousing my wounds with sheep pee?

According to my calendar summer is officially over. Yesterday was Labor Day and we retired our favorite white pants and shoes to the closet. The days of drinking ice cold lemonade and iced tea will be replaced with cool evenings sipping spiced teas and nibbling petite fors on the porch while wishing for the cool yumminess of a cucumber sandwich.

The kids are back in school, the pumpkins are growing and we’re shopping for Halloween costumes. The pools are closed and our shorts will soon be packed away, making way for sensible jeans and sweaters. Yes, summer is over.

Hold on. Just checked my calendar. It’s still summer, despite what Katie Couric told me on the Today show. Summer isn’t over until the Autumnal Equinox on September 21.

So it’s still summer, even though it’s not summer, according to society. We’ve entered the time of year known as Fallmer. Or Autumner. That no man’s land between summer and fall before the coming of winter. Right?

So, what do I do if it’s both summer and not summer? Do I wear shorts with white shoes or not? What if it’s still hot outside?

I’m confused. So, let me check Target and see what they are selling. Hang on . . .

Okay, Target has a clearance on camping equipment. That’s a telltale sign of the end of summer. Of course no one wants to go camping in the fall. It’s too chilly!

But wait. Target’s seasonal aisle is not filled with Christmas lights. So, does that mean that we’ve left summer behind, skipped fall and headed straight for winter? It’s too early to tell.

Hell, I don’t even have a Halloween costume yet! Where has the time gone?

Our Labor Day was mostly nice. We decided to go get ice cream and watch the trains in beautiful downtown Kirkwood. The girls had a great time, but the baby was a little freaked out by the train’s horn. I feel sorry for the engineer, because he was waving at the girls as he blew the horn. He was clearly doing it for their benefit. Matilda waved back. But poor Gertrude crawled up my side and perched on top of my head in a crumpled mass of fear.

She got over it though. In all, I think she enjoyed the train. It was a new sight for her. Something she’s never experienced. We only have about four million things to see before everything is no longer new.

Daddy did get in a little trouble because he let baby play in the dirt. Her little feet were dirty, her hands, her bottom, her hair. But she was happy.

The girls really enjoyed their final day of summer. Now we just have to make it through Halloween (Harry Potter costumes this year) and Gertrude’s first birthday.

Wow. There’s a shock! She’ll be a whole year old in two months. It’s almost too much to comprehend.

A year ago I was in a job I hated. Really hated. Now I have a job I love. Making good money and proving everyone who thought it couldn’t be done wrong, wrong, wrong.

It seems like only yesterday that the little monster arrived all pink and tiny. I’ve been making slide shows on the computer and have been flabbergasted at her growth. A few months ago she was this little lump that couldn’t do anything but eat and fill her diaper. Now she’s almost walking and babbling non-stop. She’s always on the move, investigating and curious. A real little ball of fire.

But don’t tell her it’s actually still summer, unlike I told her yesterday. I don’t think her tiny little brain can comprehend that.

I know my tiny little brain can’t.