Today is prog Rock Day at ScienceFictionTwin. Why? I don't know. But I'm blasting out the neighborhood by listening to this at ear-bleeding levels. It started by listening to a song from a different album (Real Media File) at deafening levels.
Now I'm happy.
But my ears are ringing.
And I'm seeing dead relatives.
That's not really bad, per se. But even in death Uncle Leon is incontinent.
Tuesday, December 30, 2003
Five Things I Do Not Plan On Doing in 2004 (Though I Won’t Rule Them Out Completely)
1. Smothering myself if spray cheese and smashed crackers, walking into a local Jack in the Box and doing a song and dance routine to the Leo Sayer classic “Dancing the Night Away”.
2. Starting my own band, comprised solely of people named Gary.
3. Contracting any disease named after the person who discovered it. Screw that. Cure the damn disease, then you can name it.
4. Order a pizza under the name of John Ashcroft and tell the pizza boy he better give me a discount because “We saw what you did to yourself in your bedroom”.
5. Write another list of five things I’ll do in 2004.
Bonus: One thing I would like to do is become a Muppeteer. I wonder how one becomes a Muppeteer. Is there a school for that?
2. Starting my own band, comprised solely of people named Gary.
3. Contracting any disease named after the person who discovered it. Screw that. Cure the damn disease, then you can name it.
4. Order a pizza under the name of John Ashcroft and tell the pizza boy he better give me a discount because “We saw what you did to yourself in your bedroom”.
5. Write another list of five things I’ll do in 2004.
Bonus: One thing I would like to do is become a Muppeteer. I wonder how one becomes a Muppeteer. Is there a school for that?
Monday, December 29, 2003
Christmas Time is Gone
I can’t explain why, but I’m always happy when Christmas is over. It’s almost like leading up to a blind date, where you spend hours getting ready to meet Audrey Hepburn but it turns out that you’re meeting Ma Kettle.
It rarely turns out that way, but you spend so much time preparing that your expectations of the day can never be what you want. Either the presents you bought for your family don’t go over well, the ham dries out or a giant bird commits suicide in your front yard and you don’t know how to deal with it. Plus, the holidays being what they are anyway, you have a hard time dealing with anything.
You stand sobbing in the kitchen. “What’s wrong?”
“The freezer is measured in Fahrenheit not Kelvin! Waaaaaaah!”
Everyone goes nuts at Christmas. To the point where familial psychosis seems to be the norm.
The kids had a great time. Christmas Eve is always an orgy of presents, food and playing with cousins. There are kids oozing out of the walls at my sister’s house and the beer flows, the cheese ball is consumed and the little weenies roast over an open stove. We run the kids to exhaustion and then throw them in bed so that we can loudly prepare our Christmas Bacchanal for the next morning.
Christmas morning came at 6 a.m. for Matilda, who was bursting with such excitement that she couldn’t stand it. So she climbed in bed with us and promptly fell back asleep, snoring and drooling all over our pillows. The three of us got up around 8 a.m. Mom put the coffee cake in the oven and we waited for the baby to wake up. 8:15 . . . 8:30. Is she still alive?
There she was, in her crib, butt sticking up in the air, face firmly planted in the mattress, as if she were running, shot with a tranquilizer and came to a crashing, skidding halt into this position.
Matilda was about to burst, so we woke Gertrude up. “Go away,” she told us.
“It’s Christmas morning,” Matilda said. “Santa came!”
“Santa?” I’ve never seen a toddler run faster in my life. They were both out of the room and in front of the tree within seconds. They squealed with a glee that can only mean they were given guiltless presents, gifts with no expected return gratuity.
My girls are very patient. Matilda hands out the presents and we each open one at a time. Their excitement builds into a gentle fury as each gift from Santa gets more and more magnificent. But as time moved on, Gertrude was overcome by the spirit of the day and started tearing into gifts that weren’t for her. She opened her uncle’s gifts, friends’ gifts, even those fake gifts that are used as decorations.
The surprise hits of the day were Matilda’s Spirograph, which she wasn’t even expecting and Gertrude’s teddy bear, which she hugged with the ferocity of a child who had never experienced love. “I really love it,” she said.
By day’s end, exhaustion had set in. Matilda went to her dad’s, Gertrude drifted off to sleep. I watched pieces of the Indiana Jones boxed set. Mom played with her PDA.
For all the gifts I received, including my groovy new telescope, the greatest thing I was given was the joy of my children. Christmas has always been a strange time for my family (both my parents died shortly before Christmas). But each year, as I see the joy on these kids’ faces, I remember what it’s all about.
Discuss
It rarely turns out that way, but you spend so much time preparing that your expectations of the day can never be what you want. Either the presents you bought for your family don’t go over well, the ham dries out or a giant bird commits suicide in your front yard and you don’t know how to deal with it. Plus, the holidays being what they are anyway, you have a hard time dealing with anything.
You stand sobbing in the kitchen. “What’s wrong?”
“The freezer is measured in Fahrenheit not Kelvin! Waaaaaaah!”
Everyone goes nuts at Christmas. To the point where familial psychosis seems to be the norm.
The kids had a great time. Christmas Eve is always an orgy of presents, food and playing with cousins. There are kids oozing out of the walls at my sister’s house and the beer flows, the cheese ball is consumed and the little weenies roast over an open stove. We run the kids to exhaustion and then throw them in bed so that we can loudly prepare our Christmas Bacchanal for the next morning.
Christmas morning came at 6 a.m. for Matilda, who was bursting with such excitement that she couldn’t stand it. So she climbed in bed with us and promptly fell back asleep, snoring and drooling all over our pillows. The three of us got up around 8 a.m. Mom put the coffee cake in the oven and we waited for the baby to wake up. 8:15 . . . 8:30. Is she still alive?
There she was, in her crib, butt sticking up in the air, face firmly planted in the mattress, as if she were running, shot with a tranquilizer and came to a crashing, skidding halt into this position.
Matilda was about to burst, so we woke Gertrude up. “Go away,” she told us.
“It’s Christmas morning,” Matilda said. “Santa came!”
“Santa?” I’ve never seen a toddler run faster in my life. They were both out of the room and in front of the tree within seconds. They squealed with a glee that can only mean they were given guiltless presents, gifts with no expected return gratuity.
My girls are very patient. Matilda hands out the presents and we each open one at a time. Their excitement builds into a gentle fury as each gift from Santa gets more and more magnificent. But as time moved on, Gertrude was overcome by the spirit of the day and started tearing into gifts that weren’t for her. She opened her uncle’s gifts, friends’ gifts, even those fake gifts that are used as decorations.
The surprise hits of the day were Matilda’s Spirograph, which she wasn’t even expecting and Gertrude’s teddy bear, which she hugged with the ferocity of a child who had never experienced love. “I really love it,” she said.
By day’s end, exhaustion had set in. Matilda went to her dad’s, Gertrude drifted off to sleep. I watched pieces of the Indiana Jones boxed set. Mom played with her PDA.
For all the gifts I received, including my groovy new telescope, the greatest thing I was given was the joy of my children. Christmas has always been a strange time for my family (both my parents died shortly before Christmas). But each year, as I see the joy on these kids’ faces, I remember what it’s all about.
Discuss
Wednesday, December 24, 2003
Five Pseudonyms I Will Adopt in 2004
1. Chip McSweeny
2. Link Sawsayje
3. Spanky McFarlane
4. Sesquah X. Listerline
5. Murray Wiggle
2. Link Sawsayje
3. Spanky McFarlane
4. Sesquah X. Listerline
5. Murray Wiggle
Five Self-Help Books I Plan to Write, Publish and Market in 2004
1. Is This Bad?: A Guide to Refrigerator Leftovers
2. Will You Check My Mole?: An Amateur’s Guide to the ABCs of Party Mole Checking
3. You’re Not Going To Eat That Whole Gallon of Ice Cream?: 1001 Things Not to Say To A Pregnant Woman
4. Marrying Your Maid for Green Card Purposes For Dummies
5. No I Won’t Fix Your Computer: How To Change Your Name, Address, Telephone Number and Social Security Number for Geeks Who Want to “Disappear” and Not Update Their Sister-in-Law's Virus Definitions While Farscape is On Ever Again
2. Will You Check My Mole?: An Amateur’s Guide to the ABCs of Party Mole Checking
3. You’re Not Going To Eat That Whole Gallon of Ice Cream?: 1001 Things Not to Say To A Pregnant Woman
4. Marrying Your Maid for Green Card Purposes For Dummies
5. No I Won’t Fix Your Computer: How To Change Your Name, Address, Telephone Number and Social Security Number for Geeks Who Want to “Disappear” and Not Update Their Sister-in-Law's Virus Definitions While Farscape is On Ever Again
Five Country Songs I Plan To Write, Perform and Market in 2004
1. I Gave Her My Heart, She Gave Me the Clap
2. Honey Don’t (I Just Painted That)
3. Drop Kick Me Linus Torvald Through the Production Kernel 2.6.0 Patch of Life
4. I’ve Got Friends (Who Use Windows 3.1)
5. The Monkey Ate The Nachos
2. Honey Don’t (I Just Painted That)
3. Drop Kick Me Linus Torvald Through the Production Kernel 2.6.0 Patch of Life
4. I’ve Got Friends (Who Use Windows 3.1)
5. The Monkey Ate The Nachos
Five Movies I Plan to Write, Shoot and Market in 2004
1. Showgirls 2: The Return of Myra Breckenridge
2. My Goiter, My Love
3. Once Bitten, Impetigo
4. Monkeys With Guns
5. Indiana Jones and the Linux Server Cluster
2. My Goiter, My Love
3. Once Bitten, Impetigo
4. Monkeys With Guns
5. Indiana Jones and the Linux Server Cluster
Monday, December 22, 2003
‘Tis the Season To Be Jolly
Or maybe not. Most people I know aren’t jolly this time of year. In fact, they are downright stressed out and bitchy. The exception to the rule being my favorite coffee shop who gave me some brandy chocolates to thank me for being such a great customer. What a great group of people! Eat that Charbucks!
This time of year I find myself getting depressed. Everyone else is going off to office parties. My wife, in fact, is attending what I believe is her office’s thirtieth holiday party of the year. They get cheese and pastries and more cheese.
I work alone. In my basement. I don’t get an office party. I considered dropping by a local office and pretending to be one of the IT guys, but was afraid I’d get busted right as I was dipping my chip into the nacho cheese.
So, I’ve decided to throw my own office party. Starring: Me.
It starts at three this afternoon with a rousing game of charades. At 3:30 we’ll trot out the margaritas, the Holiday drink of choice. By 5:00 we’ll be toasting a happy non-descript, non-religious, non-denominational, inoffensive Holiday of Your Choice to everyone.
At 5:30, after having consumed 13 margaritas, I will meet myself in my supply closet and touch myself inappropriately.
At 6 p.m. I’ll report myself for harassment and fire myself tomorrow morning.
Just like every other company, we’ll be having holiday layoffs.
I’ll promptly hire myself back on Wednesday as a consultant, charging offensively high rates but happy that I won’t have to give myself benefits.
Merry whatever you celebrate!
Happy New Year!
Unless you’re Chinese. Then I’m either too late or too early. Damn!
This time of year I find myself getting depressed. Everyone else is going off to office parties. My wife, in fact, is attending what I believe is her office’s thirtieth holiday party of the year. They get cheese and pastries and more cheese.
I work alone. In my basement. I don’t get an office party. I considered dropping by a local office and pretending to be one of the IT guys, but was afraid I’d get busted right as I was dipping my chip into the nacho cheese.
So, I’ve decided to throw my own office party. Starring: Me.
It starts at three this afternoon with a rousing game of charades. At 3:30 we’ll trot out the margaritas, the Holiday drink of choice. By 5:00 we’ll be toasting a happy non-descript, non-religious, non-denominational, inoffensive Holiday of Your Choice to everyone.
At 5:30, after having consumed 13 margaritas, I will meet myself in my supply closet and touch myself inappropriately.
At 6 p.m. I’ll report myself for harassment and fire myself tomorrow morning.
Just like every other company, we’ll be having holiday layoffs.
I’ll promptly hire myself back on Wednesday as a consultant, charging offensively high rates but happy that I won’t have to give myself benefits.
Merry whatever you celebrate!
Happy New Year!
Unless you’re Chinese. Then I’m either too late or too early. Damn!
Thursday, December 18, 2003
My Cockles Are Sufficiently Warmed
Last night, young Gertrude wasn’t feeling well. It started during dinner, when in the midst of eating a yummy biscuit, she decided she needed to sit on my lap and stick her fingers in my potatoes. She whimpered and cried throughout the meal, switching parents frequently.
After dinner, we watched an episode of Jo Jo’s Circus which I had Tivoed for her. She seemed happy, but completely flat. She laid on my chest, limp and tired, periodically getting up to “drum on her tum”.
After her bath, she was almost inconsolable. She’d whimper, cry and moan. She didn’t want to sit, walk, stand, lay down or anything. So I wrapped her in a blanket and said we’d go watch the Wiggles Christmas special. “Okay,” she said.
With Gertrude on my lap and Matilda at my side, we watched the show for about a half hour. Gertrude started drifting, her eyes were drooping and she was no longer lucid . . . Mommy asked her if she wanted to go to bed.
“No,” she answered, “I sleep in Daddy’s arms.”
Wrap it, put a bow on it and get it under the tree, because I don’t need presents now. Damn if that didn’t make me feel good. That one simple sentence made my entire year.
Eventually, she relented to Mom and went off to rock in the rocking chair and go to bed.
Matilda and I were left there with a Wiggles Christmas special and fifteen minutes until bed time.
“Maybe we should turn it off,” I said.
“Why? I like the Wiggles.”
“We’ll get in trouble,” I said. “We’re too old to watch the Wiggles.”
“Who cares? We can make fun of the dancers.”
That’s my girl. So we decided to watch the end of the show. We knew all the words and we sang, sang, sang.
When mom came out of the baby’s room she shot us a dirty look. “Gertrude is upset.”
“Why,” we asked.
“She said, ‘what are Dad and Matilda doing? They still watching it!’”
“See,” I yelled. “I told you we’d get in trouble!”
Discuss My Christmas Present
After dinner, we watched an episode of Jo Jo’s Circus which I had Tivoed for her. She seemed happy, but completely flat. She laid on my chest, limp and tired, periodically getting up to “drum on her tum”.
After her bath, she was almost inconsolable. She’d whimper, cry and moan. She didn’t want to sit, walk, stand, lay down or anything. So I wrapped her in a blanket and said we’d go watch the Wiggles Christmas special. “Okay,” she said.
With Gertrude on my lap and Matilda at my side, we watched the show for about a half hour. Gertrude started drifting, her eyes were drooping and she was no longer lucid . . . Mommy asked her if she wanted to go to bed.
“No,” she answered, “I sleep in Daddy’s arms.”
Wrap it, put a bow on it and get it under the tree, because I don’t need presents now. Damn if that didn’t make me feel good. That one simple sentence made my entire year.
Eventually, she relented to Mom and went off to rock in the rocking chair and go to bed.
Matilda and I were left there with a Wiggles Christmas special and fifteen minutes until bed time.
“Maybe we should turn it off,” I said.
“Why? I like the Wiggles.”
“We’ll get in trouble,” I said. “We’re too old to watch the Wiggles.”
“Who cares? We can make fun of the dancers.”
That’s my girl. So we decided to watch the end of the show. We knew all the words and we sang, sang, sang.
When mom came out of the baby’s room she shot us a dirty look. “Gertrude is upset.”
“Why,” we asked.
“She said, ‘what are Dad and Matilda doing? They still watching it!’”
“See,” I yelled. “I told you we’d get in trouble!”
Discuss My Christmas Present
Tuesday, December 16, 2003
Living Art
Anyone who knows me knows that I’m addicted to music. The consumption, experience and discussion of music are part of my daily existence. Whether it’s listening to one of the greatest albums of all time or discovering a new band that no one seems to know about, music makes life a little bit happier for me.
Music, to me, is something that can’t be owned. Once the music leaves the speaker and you start to hear it, the music becomes yours. The images, thoughts, feelings it makes inside of you are yours. The music is, if it’s good, a catalyst. Music, at its worst, is background noise. At its best, it’s a package of time that can remind you of something that was great, terrible or sentimental.
Because of the argument between the record industry and the general consumer, including lawsuits, discovering new music isn’t as fun as it once was. It used to be that I’d be an album on an independent label and be happy about having something that was undiscovered. Now I buy the album and say, “Ha! Screw you, RIAA. This label isn’t a member. Ha!”
However, the joy of discovery is mine once again. Because of a website known as Opsound. Opsound is an “open source” record label that publishes music under the Creative Commons License, which allows artists, writers, musicians and more to publish their works with “some rights reserved”. Through this creative arrangement, artists can put their work out for consumption, and more.
The greatest achievement of the Creative Commons is that it allows artists to collaborate on work, without knowing it. You could post a photo of your painting under the CC and another artist could one day contact you with a “remix” of your work. They could have taken your painting and turned it into a mosaic, a fresco, 3D art or more. It isn’t stealing, plagiarism or ripping off. It’s living art. Your art does not stop the moment you complete it under the Creative Commons License. Rather, it becomes an organic entity.
For example, guitarist and composer Colin Mutchler recorded a track known as “My Life”. It’s a lovely acoustic guitar melody. Colin finished his work and posted it to Opsound under the Creative Commons License. One day he received and email from a violinist named Cora Beth. Cora heard “My Life” and loved it. But when she listened to it, she heard another melody that provided a counter to Colin’s guitar. So she added her violin melody to Colin’s song and called it “My Life Changed”. She took an already beautiful song and built upon it by reacting to what she heard in the song, making it a more organic entity. Colin was thrilled. He hopes that someday the music can be taken even further.
Both songs can be heard here.
Three people can listen to the same song and hear different things. One can hear a child laughing, another can see an elephant marching and another can hear a full orchestra behind it. With Opsound, and the Creative Commons, art doesn’t stop at consumption. It takes a life of its own, ever-changing, ever-morphing, ever-living.
Opsound is filled with talented song-writers, musicians and remixers. I plan on spending quite a bit of time listening to the offerings there. But more importantly, I’m excited about what Opsound means. That I can hear music from the source and enjoy it, and then find out that someone else heard the song differently, altered it to reflect their ideas and experiences. Some may think that it would take away from the original artist’s work, but that’s far from the truth. It is not unlike a director looking at a play’s script and seeing a tension that another director didn’t see, or a theme that was not apparent on the first read. You can see the same play a thousand times, by a thousand different directors and get a different experience each time. Because it’s always open for interpretation. If anything, this application of the Creative Commons shines a light on that work by drawing out elements I wouldn’t have noticed, adding nuance that I wasn’t aware of or a counter-melody that seemed to be buried just below the surface.
Living art may not be for everyone, but I’m certainly intrigued by it. The artist and the listener can work together, creating an ever-evolving piece of art.
And I find that amazing.
Discuss Living Art
Music, to me, is something that can’t be owned. Once the music leaves the speaker and you start to hear it, the music becomes yours. The images, thoughts, feelings it makes inside of you are yours. The music is, if it’s good, a catalyst. Music, at its worst, is background noise. At its best, it’s a package of time that can remind you of something that was great, terrible or sentimental.
Because of the argument between the record industry and the general consumer, including lawsuits, discovering new music isn’t as fun as it once was. It used to be that I’d be an album on an independent label and be happy about having something that was undiscovered. Now I buy the album and say, “Ha! Screw you, RIAA. This label isn’t a member. Ha!”
However, the joy of discovery is mine once again. Because of a website known as Opsound. Opsound is an “open source” record label that publishes music under the Creative Commons License, which allows artists, writers, musicians and more to publish their works with “some rights reserved”. Through this creative arrangement, artists can put their work out for consumption, and more.
The greatest achievement of the Creative Commons is that it allows artists to collaborate on work, without knowing it. You could post a photo of your painting under the CC and another artist could one day contact you with a “remix” of your work. They could have taken your painting and turned it into a mosaic, a fresco, 3D art or more. It isn’t stealing, plagiarism or ripping off. It’s living art. Your art does not stop the moment you complete it under the Creative Commons License. Rather, it becomes an organic entity.
For example, guitarist and composer Colin Mutchler recorded a track known as “My Life”. It’s a lovely acoustic guitar melody. Colin finished his work and posted it to Opsound under the Creative Commons License. One day he received and email from a violinist named Cora Beth. Cora heard “My Life” and loved it. But when she listened to it, she heard another melody that provided a counter to Colin’s guitar. So she added her violin melody to Colin’s song and called it “My Life Changed”. She took an already beautiful song and built upon it by reacting to what she heard in the song, making it a more organic entity. Colin was thrilled. He hopes that someday the music can be taken even further.
Both songs can be heard here.
Three people can listen to the same song and hear different things. One can hear a child laughing, another can see an elephant marching and another can hear a full orchestra behind it. With Opsound, and the Creative Commons, art doesn’t stop at consumption. It takes a life of its own, ever-changing, ever-morphing, ever-living.
Opsound is filled with talented song-writers, musicians and remixers. I plan on spending quite a bit of time listening to the offerings there. But more importantly, I’m excited about what Opsound means. That I can hear music from the source and enjoy it, and then find out that someone else heard the song differently, altered it to reflect their ideas and experiences. Some may think that it would take away from the original artist’s work, but that’s far from the truth. It is not unlike a director looking at a play’s script and seeing a tension that another director didn’t see, or a theme that was not apparent on the first read. You can see the same play a thousand times, by a thousand different directors and get a different experience each time. Because it’s always open for interpretation. If anything, this application of the Creative Commons shines a light on that work by drawing out elements I wouldn’t have noticed, adding nuance that I wasn’t aware of or a counter-melody that seemed to be buried just below the surface.
Living art may not be for everyone, but I’m certainly intrigued by it. The artist and the listener can work together, creating an ever-evolving piece of art.
And I find that amazing.
Discuss Living Art
Thursday, December 11, 2003
We're Sorry, The Blogger You're Trying to Reach is Insane
It's that time of year. When my clients change the rules and the schedule I was working from becomes pointless and I have to spend stomach acid-producing hours rushing to get my projects done before they were supposed to be done. That I have to depend on other people to give me material is beside the point. I have to get them done. So I have to threaten people with psychic violence (I'm a physical pacifist, but I have no problem with thinking really hard about breaking someone's knee caps).
So, blogging will be at a minimum for the next few weeks, as I try to complete these projects two weeks earlier than I was planning. Sigh.
In the mean time, you can look at the book I'm reading and tell me if I should even be reading it. I mean, considering that M Theory now exists, should I be reading this book? There are now eleven dimensions, not ten. Besides, M Theory tells us that all versions of String Theory are just different ways of looking at the same thing (Much like Feynman, Schwinger and Tomanga's separate work, with unification by Dyson,on QED many decades ago). Besides, Kaku has kind of become a media whore, spewing out silliness about "the science" of the Matrix and other dorky things for Tech TV. Not only are the topics silly, but he never actually says anything meaningful or remotely scientific (the guy is a theoretical physicist . . . You'd think he couldn't help being scientific). But his hair always looks finely coifed.
So, you tell me. Should I still read this book (hell, I'll still read it no matter what, it's interesting)? Or is it just a diversion from my overall quest? Should I still read it so that my understanding of M Theory will increase?
Or maybe I should find out more about how a beam of light was stopped in its tracks, with all its photons in tact. Now there's something to see.
But, odds are you aren't interested. So here are some punk rock kittens instead. Enjoy.
Huzzah!
Discuss
So, blogging will be at a minimum for the next few weeks, as I try to complete these projects two weeks earlier than I was planning. Sigh.
In the mean time, you can look at the book I'm reading and tell me if I should even be reading it. I mean, considering that M Theory now exists, should I be reading this book? There are now eleven dimensions, not ten. Besides, M Theory tells us that all versions of String Theory are just different ways of looking at the same thing (Much like Feynman, Schwinger and Tomanga's separate work, with unification by Dyson,on QED many decades ago). Besides, Kaku has kind of become a media whore, spewing out silliness about "the science" of the Matrix and other dorky things for Tech TV. Not only are the topics silly, but he never actually says anything meaningful or remotely scientific (the guy is a theoretical physicist . . . You'd think he couldn't help being scientific). But his hair always looks finely coifed.
So, you tell me. Should I still read this book (hell, I'll still read it no matter what, it's interesting)? Or is it just a diversion from my overall quest? Should I still read it so that my understanding of M Theory will increase?
Or maybe I should find out more about how a beam of light was stopped in its tracks, with all its photons in tact. Now there's something to see.
But, odds are you aren't interested. So here are some punk rock kittens instead. Enjoy.
Huzzah!
Discuss
Wednesday, December 10, 2003
Yes, Virginia, The Fat Man is Looking For You
It’s Christmas time again. Glass balls hang from slowly dying trees in living rooms, greedy children conspire to get expensive toys, people bring in homemade candy as you wonder about their daily cleansing ritual (are those scabs?). Yes, it’s the time of giving and caring, but not really.
This is the first year that Gertrude is really aware of Christmas. The last two years she was still too much of a baby. But now, she gets it. There are presents involved and she will be getting some. Seems like a sweet deal to her, despite the fact whenever she sees a gift she sings “Happy Birthday to Mommy.” And, because she told me this morning that she “really likes” me, she gets extra presents. (She also described her breakfast as “pretty yummy”.)
But, for all of her zeal, she just doesn’t get the idea of Santa, that Jolly Old Elf. In fact, in Gertrude’s mind, she sees Santa as more of a mafia boss. An enforcer. When asked what Santa says, Gert responds, “Gimme da presents.” So, in her mind, Santa comes in and takes your presents away. Not a good thing, at least in my mind. I mean, if Santa is such a jolly guy, why the hell is he stealing our stuff? For that matter, if he has an entire slave force making him toys year round, why does he need our toys?
My theory, based on Gertrude’s idea, is that Santa is blackmailing us with this whole naughty/nice thing. Santa giveth, Santa taketh away. Jolly bastard.
Matilda is another story. She is eight. And doubtful. This whole Santa thing (along with the Tooth Fairy and Easter Bunny) doesn’t sit well with her. She questions everything.
“So, uh, we don’t have a chimney. How does Santa get in?”
“He has a master key. He can open any door in the world.”
“Damn. Okay, okay, how does he know if we’re naughty or nice? Huh? He can’t possibly know that.”
“He’s omnipotent. He can do anything, including making your hair turn green, if he sees fit.”
“Okay, so if he’s so all powerful, why did he leave the Toys-R-Us tag on my present last year?”
“Like anyone else, Santa has had issues in this economy. The elves organized early in 2002 and started demanding all sorts of things, higher wages, better gingerbread, no more pointy shoes. You know, typical labor disputes. Santa, rather than bowing to organized labor, decided to outsource the entire operation and contracted with Toys-R-Us to distribute their merchandise. That’s why if you stay up until Santa comes, you’ll see the Toys-R-Us logo plastered to his sleigh. It’s economics.”
“Huh?”
But I know she doesn’t believe anymore, despite her posturing and feigning. It’s clear she’s not into the make-believe element. Why doesn’t she tell us? Yellow-freaking fear. She’s terrified that if she lets on that she knows that the Jolly Fat Man is really me that would spell the end to getting gifts on Christmas morning. Then the balance of power would rest in the hands of her sister, who clearly wouldn’t be able to handle it. So Matilda has sacrificed her knowledge for the tradition.
I mean, let’s face it, the kid is too damn smart to believe that some magic old man comes into our house to eat cookies and leave us gifts. She’s not stupid. Hell, I figured it out in first grade when I looked it up in the dictionary (I had to check the definition of “Fictional” as well, to fully understand).
So this year we’re having a different tradition. No Santa. This year, Abe Vigoda is coming to leave our gifts. I’ve actually hired him. Seriously.
The kids are going to sit on his lap and tell “Santa Fish” what they want for Christmas.
“Daddy! Santa Fish already looks dead. Do we have to touch him?”
“He’s still alive honey. Don’t worry.”
There’s nothing like Abe Vigoda to put the fear of Christmas in these damned modern kids.
Discuss Santa Fish
This is the first year that Gertrude is really aware of Christmas. The last two years she was still too much of a baby. But now, she gets it. There are presents involved and she will be getting some. Seems like a sweet deal to her, despite the fact whenever she sees a gift she sings “Happy Birthday to Mommy.” And, because she told me this morning that she “really likes” me, she gets extra presents. (She also described her breakfast as “pretty yummy”.)
But, for all of her zeal, she just doesn’t get the idea of Santa, that Jolly Old Elf. In fact, in Gertrude’s mind, she sees Santa as more of a mafia boss. An enforcer. When asked what Santa says, Gert responds, “Gimme da presents.” So, in her mind, Santa comes in and takes your presents away. Not a good thing, at least in my mind. I mean, if Santa is such a jolly guy, why the hell is he stealing our stuff? For that matter, if he has an entire slave force making him toys year round, why does he need our toys?
My theory, based on Gertrude’s idea, is that Santa is blackmailing us with this whole naughty/nice thing. Santa giveth, Santa taketh away. Jolly bastard.
Matilda is another story. She is eight. And doubtful. This whole Santa thing (along with the Tooth Fairy and Easter Bunny) doesn’t sit well with her. She questions everything.
“So, uh, we don’t have a chimney. How does Santa get in?”
“He has a master key. He can open any door in the world.”
“Damn. Okay, okay, how does he know if we’re naughty or nice? Huh? He can’t possibly know that.”
“He’s omnipotent. He can do anything, including making your hair turn green, if he sees fit.”
“Okay, so if he’s so all powerful, why did he leave the Toys-R-Us tag on my present last year?”
“Like anyone else, Santa has had issues in this economy. The elves organized early in 2002 and started demanding all sorts of things, higher wages, better gingerbread, no more pointy shoes. You know, typical labor disputes. Santa, rather than bowing to organized labor, decided to outsource the entire operation and contracted with Toys-R-Us to distribute their merchandise. That’s why if you stay up until Santa comes, you’ll see the Toys-R-Us logo plastered to his sleigh. It’s economics.”
“Huh?”
But I know she doesn’t believe anymore, despite her posturing and feigning. It’s clear she’s not into the make-believe element. Why doesn’t she tell us? Yellow-freaking fear. She’s terrified that if she lets on that she knows that the Jolly Fat Man is really me that would spell the end to getting gifts on Christmas morning. Then the balance of power would rest in the hands of her sister, who clearly wouldn’t be able to handle it. So Matilda has sacrificed her knowledge for the tradition.
I mean, let’s face it, the kid is too damn smart to believe that some magic old man comes into our house to eat cookies and leave us gifts. She’s not stupid. Hell, I figured it out in first grade when I looked it up in the dictionary (I had to check the definition of “Fictional” as well, to fully understand).
So this year we’re having a different tradition. No Santa. This year, Abe Vigoda is coming to leave our gifts. I’ve actually hired him. Seriously.
The kids are going to sit on his lap and tell “Santa Fish” what they want for Christmas.
“Daddy! Santa Fish already looks dead. Do we have to touch him?”
“He’s still alive honey. Don’t worry.”
There’s nothing like Abe Vigoda to put the fear of Christmas in these damned modern kids.
Discuss Santa Fish
Monday, December 08, 2003
If You Must Know . . .
Yes. I am being a total geek. I am taking the day off on December 17th. Why? Because Return of the King opens. And it's much easier to take the day off than find a time when I can see it on a weekend or in the evening.
And, for the record, except for caring for the kids, I haven't taken a day off since May. Therefore, I believe that seeing Return of the King is a very worthwhile project.
Plus, it's geekalicious.
And, for the record, except for caring for the kids, I haven't taken a day off since May. Therefore, I believe that seeing Return of the King is a very worthwhile project.
Plus, it's geekalicious.
Kids: Are They Brain Damaged?
This weekend was a veritable cornucopia of childish strangeness. It all started innocently enough. Matilda wanted to have some friends over to practice a dance routine she and her friends hope to bring to the school’s talent show at the end of the year.
“Sure. How many kids did you want to invite?”
“Eight.”
Heart seizure as visions of sugar-high eight year old girls are dancing through my house, tearing things off the walls and ganging up on the weakest girl and eating her alive. While I was seizing on the floor, mommy sat down and discussed the whole deal with Matilda and had the number reduced to four girls, three of whom could make it.
I love it when Matilda has friends over. I get to act weird and embarrass her. And every parent knows that the actual event is never quite as stressful as leading up to the event, which is often painful. You have to clean, prepare for your house to be judged by other parents (and we were in mid-Christmas decorating), awkward conversations at the door with parents you really don’t know, kids with strange fears, etc.
But this time it was different. Because they were going to be working on a dance, Matilda had been practicing the song non-stop all week. It’s a song by Hillary Duff. A former Disney Channel Sweetheart, now full-fledged Pop-Tarte. Oddly enough, most of her songs were co-written and produced by the same people who worked on Liz Phair’s new album. It’s cute when Hillary Duff sings about puppy love, but downright disturbing when Liz Phair does the same.
“Matilda, do you want oatmeal for breakfast?”
“Ready for the big time, ready for the small / Whatever's comin' to me, I'll be ready for it all / Sometimes it ain't easy, sometimes its not polite / Some days I don't get it, some days I get it right . . .”
“Does that mean no?”
It was non-stop, twenty-four hours a day belting out of this tune. In the car, in the bathtub, in the hallway, watching TV, while reading, going to the bus stop, brushing teeth or, worse, singing LOUDLY over whatever is being played in the car. I think I know the words to this song better than she does now.
Now, Matilda is a very talented girl. She’s smart, funny, artistically creative, and sensitive. You name it, she has that talent. She can do almost anything.
Almost. Singing, I fear, is not her strong suit. To be fair, none of us can. But by the time Saturday rolled around I would have done anything to have gotten her not to sing.
We were sitting in my office, burning the song onto a CD so each girl could practice the routine at home. Whenever I would check the disc to make sure it burned properly she’d launch into singing it, at the top of her lungs.
“Please. I’m trying to burn the CDs! Can we give the song a rest for a while? Even Hillary Duff didn’t sing it that much.”
“Why do they call it burning? How does it work?”
Ah. She asked a geek question. I was so proud. I launched into an explanation of resins, aluminum platters, lasers, digital encoding, ones and zeros, spin speeds, you name it. The whole process right down to explaining how CD players read the data on the disc.
“So,” she said finally, looking a little glassy-eyed, “nothing actually melts? There’s no fire in the computer?”
Sigh. I should have known she just wanted to know why they called it “burning”. Not a technical discussion of CD technology.
The girls arrived, and they practiced in the basement. Poor Gertrude was beside herself. She desperately needed to be part of this group. But she was separated by six years in age, and a thousand years in motor skills. But still, she tried. She sat on the stairs in the basement, watching the big girls practice dancing. Sometimes she’d stand up and shake a leg a little, but for the most part she watched patiently. Hoping against hope that they might need her. That they might see her inner dancing talent and ask her to joining the group. And, for their part, those eight year old girls were fantastic. When they were finished they included Gert in their play, dressing her up, chasing her around and treating her like a little mascot. It was sweet.
Towards the end of the afternoon, they were playing some sort of hiding game. Walking through my house, I saw one of the girls hiding behind a bed (there was a mirror on the wall behind her, effectively making hiding useless). At the foot of the bed was Gertrude. She was laying face down on the ground, arms at her side perfectly still, her head under the bed, but the rest of her body sticking out into the room.
“Gert, what are you doing?”
“I hiding under the bed!” And she was, effectively. She was face down on the floor. She couldn’t see anyone; therefore no one could see her. And she was still. Totally still. Except for her left foot, which was wiggling back and forth as if to announce her inner giggle.
Ten minutes later the other girl was back with the gaggle of kids. But Gertrude was still missing. I went to find her and there she was, still partially under the bed. Face down. Still.
“Gertrude, come on. We have to get moving.”
“I,” she said emphatically, “hiding under the BED!”
Discuss
“Sure. How many kids did you want to invite?”
“Eight.”
Heart seizure as visions of sugar-high eight year old girls are dancing through my house, tearing things off the walls and ganging up on the weakest girl and eating her alive. While I was seizing on the floor, mommy sat down and discussed the whole deal with Matilda and had the number reduced to four girls, three of whom could make it.
I love it when Matilda has friends over. I get to act weird and embarrass her. And every parent knows that the actual event is never quite as stressful as leading up to the event, which is often painful. You have to clean, prepare for your house to be judged by other parents (and we were in mid-Christmas decorating), awkward conversations at the door with parents you really don’t know, kids with strange fears, etc.
But this time it was different. Because they were going to be working on a dance, Matilda had been practicing the song non-stop all week. It’s a song by Hillary Duff. A former Disney Channel Sweetheart, now full-fledged Pop-Tarte. Oddly enough, most of her songs were co-written and produced by the same people who worked on Liz Phair’s new album. It’s cute when Hillary Duff sings about puppy love, but downright disturbing when Liz Phair does the same.
“Matilda, do you want oatmeal for breakfast?”
“Ready for the big time, ready for the small / Whatever's comin' to me, I'll be ready for it all / Sometimes it ain't easy, sometimes its not polite / Some days I don't get it, some days I get it right . . .”
“Does that mean no?”
It was non-stop, twenty-four hours a day belting out of this tune. In the car, in the bathtub, in the hallway, watching TV, while reading, going to the bus stop, brushing teeth or, worse, singing LOUDLY over whatever is being played in the car. I think I know the words to this song better than she does now.
Now, Matilda is a very talented girl. She’s smart, funny, artistically creative, and sensitive. You name it, she has that talent. She can do almost anything.
Almost. Singing, I fear, is not her strong suit. To be fair, none of us can. But by the time Saturday rolled around I would have done anything to have gotten her not to sing.
We were sitting in my office, burning the song onto a CD so each girl could practice the routine at home. Whenever I would check the disc to make sure it burned properly she’d launch into singing it, at the top of her lungs.
“Please. I’m trying to burn the CDs! Can we give the song a rest for a while? Even Hillary Duff didn’t sing it that much.”
“Why do they call it burning? How does it work?”
Ah. She asked a geek question. I was so proud. I launched into an explanation of resins, aluminum platters, lasers, digital encoding, ones and zeros, spin speeds, you name it. The whole process right down to explaining how CD players read the data on the disc.
“So,” she said finally, looking a little glassy-eyed, “nothing actually melts? There’s no fire in the computer?”
Sigh. I should have known she just wanted to know why they called it “burning”. Not a technical discussion of CD technology.
The girls arrived, and they practiced in the basement. Poor Gertrude was beside herself. She desperately needed to be part of this group. But she was separated by six years in age, and a thousand years in motor skills. But still, she tried. She sat on the stairs in the basement, watching the big girls practice dancing. Sometimes she’d stand up and shake a leg a little, but for the most part she watched patiently. Hoping against hope that they might need her. That they might see her inner dancing talent and ask her to joining the group. And, for their part, those eight year old girls were fantastic. When they were finished they included Gert in their play, dressing her up, chasing her around and treating her like a little mascot. It was sweet.
Towards the end of the afternoon, they were playing some sort of hiding game. Walking through my house, I saw one of the girls hiding behind a bed (there was a mirror on the wall behind her, effectively making hiding useless). At the foot of the bed was Gertrude. She was laying face down on the ground, arms at her side perfectly still, her head under the bed, but the rest of her body sticking out into the room.
“Gert, what are you doing?”
“I hiding under the bed!” And she was, effectively. She was face down on the floor. She couldn’t see anyone; therefore no one could see her. And she was still. Totally still. Except for her left foot, which was wiggling back and forth as if to announce her inner giggle.
Ten minutes later the other girl was back with the gaggle of kids. But Gertrude was still missing. I went to find her and there she was, still partially under the bed. Face down. Still.
“Gertrude, come on. We have to get moving.”
“I,” she said emphatically, “hiding under the BED!”
Discuss
Friday, December 05, 2003
Is Everybody Ready for Boredom?
Yes, today is the obligatory, “Hey-I’m-really-busy-and-everyone-I-work-with-on-a-website-is-all-meeting-in-Disney-World-but-I-couldn’t-go-because-I-bought-a-house-and-have-no-disposable-income-and-my-kids-would-kill-me-if-I-went-anyway-but-here-are-some-stupid-observations-before-I-go-off-and-read-the-second-draft-of-some-chapters-from-an-Epidemiology-book” post.
My new technology was installed yesterday. It’s a Tivo. Groovy. I think I love it.
And today, whilst I work, I’m listening to archives of CDs that various friends have given me over the years. The best one, oddly enough, is probably the oldest. Recorded in Nashville, circa 2000, I think. Again, groovy.
I do have one question, however. Are two-year olds, especially ones that have barely crossed that threshold, supposed to be able to understand the concept of “pretend”?
Gertrude was playing with Play-Dough and started to put it up to her mouth.
“Gertrude, no,” I cried hoping to stop her from putting that brown sludge in her mouth.
“Daddy,” she said, looking at me like I’m an idiot, “It pretend.” She then proceeded to make pretend eating noises.
Well, duh.
Discuss Stuff and Things
My new technology was installed yesterday. It’s a Tivo. Groovy. I think I love it.
And today, whilst I work, I’m listening to archives of CDs that various friends have given me over the years. The best one, oddly enough, is probably the oldest. Recorded in Nashville, circa 2000, I think. Again, groovy.
I do have one question, however. Are two-year olds, especially ones that have barely crossed that threshold, supposed to be able to understand the concept of “pretend”?
Gertrude was playing with Play-Dough and started to put it up to her mouth.
“Gertrude, no,” I cried hoping to stop her from putting that brown sludge in her mouth.
“Daddy,” she said, looking at me like I’m an idiot, “It pretend.” She then proceeded to make pretend eating noises.
Well, duh.
Discuss Stuff and Things
Thursday, December 04, 2003
Upgrading My Life
Well, not really. But there’s a guy here installing an ultragruvan piece of technology in my house, so I won’t have time to write today. Because, of course, when he’s done I have to play with it. Heh.
But I do have a story. Baby woke up in advance of Mom and Dad today. Mom dropped the baby off in our bed on the way to the shower.
Gertrude fell back asleep next to me and seemed to be slumbering peacefully. Then she began mumbling and fidgeting. And then, talking coherently. Though still asleep.
“No hurt Gertrude,” she said frantically. I leaned over to comfort her. As soon as my arm touched her she flinched and yelled.
“Big Bird, NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
Torn between my need to comfort my child in her terror-inducing dream and my need to laugh hysterically, I hugged her to make her feel better.
But I still have no idea what was going on. During breakfast I asked Gertrude what happened in her dream.
“Puppies nip,” she said. So she was dreaming about Grandma’s dogs. Okay, that explains the “no hurt” comment. I feel better about that since my imagination was running wild.
“What was Big Bird doing,” I asked.
“He thwow Ernie! Big Bird in Big Trouble.”
Wow. In her dreams Muppets turn into the Sopranos. There must be a turf war on Sesame Street. That’s a strange little mind that kid has.
Discuss
But I do have a story. Baby woke up in advance of Mom and Dad today. Mom dropped the baby off in our bed on the way to the shower.
Gertrude fell back asleep next to me and seemed to be slumbering peacefully. Then she began mumbling and fidgeting. And then, talking coherently. Though still asleep.
“No hurt Gertrude,” she said frantically. I leaned over to comfort her. As soon as my arm touched her she flinched and yelled.
“Big Bird, NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
Torn between my need to comfort my child in her terror-inducing dream and my need to laugh hysterically, I hugged her to make her feel better.
But I still have no idea what was going on. During breakfast I asked Gertrude what happened in her dream.
“Puppies nip,” she said. So she was dreaming about Grandma’s dogs. Okay, that explains the “no hurt” comment. I feel better about that since my imagination was running wild.
“What was Big Bird doing,” I asked.
“He thwow Ernie! Big Bird in Big Trouble.”
Wow. In her dreams Muppets turn into the Sopranos. There must be a turf war on Sesame Street. That’s a strange little mind that kid has.
Discuss
Wednesday, December 03, 2003
Opinions
It struck me recently that our world has suddenly become one of opinions more than it ever has been in the past. If you look through history, the people who had the power of opinion were those with access to the written word, be it through the press, or as a mass of agreement through letter writing protests or complaints. Don’t like that Lucy and Ricky sleep in the same bed? Write in to CBS! Did your new Electrolux eat your three-year-old dachshund? Write in to complain to Electrolux! There are stories of people actually changing the mind of a president by writing him a compassionate, moving letter.
The world changed slightly, in that respect, with the wide-spread adoption of the telephone. Now that you could light up a switchboard, the need to spend the time writing a letter seemed pointless.
Now we have the Internet. The vast, sometimes unnavigable, web of information (and disinformation) has the power to move mountains. Or so we think.
As the Internet has grown, we’ve seen the growth of “grassroots” campaigns. You can find a ton of online petitions and movements, from the absurd to the heartfelt. Most online petitions and organizations are pointless and completely powerless. But, there are times when an online movement is powerful and effective. Howard Dean would be nothing without his embrace of technology.
Even more impressive was the fight to save Farscape, a critically-acclaimed, popular television show on the Sci-Fi network. After its cancellation, fans of the show banded together as Save Farscape to let the Powers That Be know that they wanted more Farscape. Not only were they willing to work for what they believed in, they were willing to spend their own money on advertising to let the world know that “I Am Farscape.” And they’ve succeeded. Farscape is currently in production on a mini-series to air sometime next year. Good for Save Farscape.
But they didn’t stop there. They worked together to provide charities that collect DVDs for a variety of reasons with Farscape DVDs. As of this date they are donating Farscape DVDs to local libraries and the US Navy’s recreation program. Rather than just be another Internet group with a single-minded goal, they are spreading their love of their beloved show in charitable ways.
Sharing of opinions spreads far beyond filling out petitions. Every person with an Internet account is now empowered to provide their opinion to anyone willing to read it. Any product on Amazon, BestBuy.com, Barnes & Noble, etc. is up for your criticism. Didn’t like your DVD player, let people who might buy it know. Didn’t like the movie you saw last week? Surf on over to the IMDB and post your opinion. Can’t find a place to voice your opinion about some specific concept? Go to e-opinions and let your feelings be known.
There was once a time when our opinions about products and services were based on television commercials, word of mouth from friends and, if you were lucky, Consumer Reports. Movies were reviewed by men who were provided with passes before it came out, and they were always hoity toity. And that guy who reviewed your favorite album didn’t know what he was talking about. Why, if you had written that review, you’d do it right. Now you can. Whether you’re a professor of English literature or some half-wit, mono-syllabic moron who broke his DVD player when taking it out of the box and taking his poorly constructed, rambling rage out on the manufacturer?
Now you don’t need your neighbor to tell you about his TV. Jean, from Poughkeepsie can let you know. Or you can go by the average user rating on Cnet, Amazon or any other website.
It’s incredibly empowering for the consumer. Now, if you love or hate a product, you don’t have to settle for simply telling the maker of your feelings. You can pass along your feeling directly to the consumer. It’s almost as good as standing next to the product in the store with a megaphone. Hate it or loathe it, you can shout you feelings to the mountain top.
But there is a danger with so much power. Are we doing our fellow consumers a favor to share our opinions, which in some cases may be biased or rash? Or are we doing some harm?
As John Lennon once said, “Everybody’s talking and no one says a word.”
Are we becoming a large group of voices that is quickly becoming background noise? Or are we really making an impact on the marketplace? Does that online form we fill out to give feedback really work? Do our emails reach the right people? Does my review of Joe Versus the Volcano on Netflix really make a difference? Will people see the movie in a different light?
Or are there too many voices all shouting at the same time? Have we just become crowd noise? Does anything rise above the din of public opinion?
It’s hard to tell. But one thing is certain; when given the opportunity to express an opinion, the public is willing to take the offer. And voice it they will. For better or worse, right or wrong, they will give you their two cents. Whether it’s to get Scott Baio back on television, laud the merits of a Tivo or get justice for a victim of a crime, they will let you know.
Discuss Opinions
The world changed slightly, in that respect, with the wide-spread adoption of the telephone. Now that you could light up a switchboard, the need to spend the time writing a letter seemed pointless.
Now we have the Internet. The vast, sometimes unnavigable, web of information (and disinformation) has the power to move mountains. Or so we think.
As the Internet has grown, we’ve seen the growth of “grassroots” campaigns. You can find a ton of online petitions and movements, from the absurd to the heartfelt. Most online petitions and organizations are pointless and completely powerless. But, there are times when an online movement is powerful and effective. Howard Dean would be nothing without his embrace of technology.
Even more impressive was the fight to save Farscape, a critically-acclaimed, popular television show on the Sci-Fi network. After its cancellation, fans of the show banded together as Save Farscape to let the Powers That Be know that they wanted more Farscape. Not only were they willing to work for what they believed in, they were willing to spend their own money on advertising to let the world know that “I Am Farscape.” And they’ve succeeded. Farscape is currently in production on a mini-series to air sometime next year. Good for Save Farscape.
But they didn’t stop there. They worked together to provide charities that collect DVDs for a variety of reasons with Farscape DVDs. As of this date they are donating Farscape DVDs to local libraries and the US Navy’s recreation program. Rather than just be another Internet group with a single-minded goal, they are spreading their love of their beloved show in charitable ways.
Sharing of opinions spreads far beyond filling out petitions. Every person with an Internet account is now empowered to provide their opinion to anyone willing to read it. Any product on Amazon, BestBuy.com, Barnes & Noble, etc. is up for your criticism. Didn’t like your DVD player, let people who might buy it know. Didn’t like the movie you saw last week? Surf on over to the IMDB and post your opinion. Can’t find a place to voice your opinion about some specific concept? Go to e-opinions and let your feelings be known.
There was once a time when our opinions about products and services were based on television commercials, word of mouth from friends and, if you were lucky, Consumer Reports. Movies were reviewed by men who were provided with passes before it came out, and they were always hoity toity. And that guy who reviewed your favorite album didn’t know what he was talking about. Why, if you had written that review, you’d do it right. Now you can. Whether you’re a professor of English literature or some half-wit, mono-syllabic moron who broke his DVD player when taking it out of the box and taking his poorly constructed, rambling rage out on the manufacturer?
Now you don’t need your neighbor to tell you about his TV. Jean, from Poughkeepsie can let you know. Or you can go by the average user rating on Cnet, Amazon or any other website.
It’s incredibly empowering for the consumer. Now, if you love or hate a product, you don’t have to settle for simply telling the maker of your feelings. You can pass along your feeling directly to the consumer. It’s almost as good as standing next to the product in the store with a megaphone. Hate it or loathe it, you can shout you feelings to the mountain top.
But there is a danger with so much power. Are we doing our fellow consumers a favor to share our opinions, which in some cases may be biased or rash? Or are we doing some harm?
As John Lennon once said, “Everybody’s talking and no one says a word.”
Are we becoming a large group of voices that is quickly becoming background noise? Or are we really making an impact on the marketplace? Does that online form we fill out to give feedback really work? Do our emails reach the right people? Does my review of Joe Versus the Volcano on Netflix really make a difference? Will people see the movie in a different light?
Or are there too many voices all shouting at the same time? Have we just become crowd noise? Does anything rise above the din of public opinion?
It’s hard to tell. But one thing is certain; when given the opportunity to express an opinion, the public is willing to take the offer. And voice it they will. For better or worse, right or wrong, they will give you their two cents. Whether it’s to get Scott Baio back on television, laud the merits of a Tivo or get justice for a victim of a crime, they will let you know.
Discuss Opinions
Tuesday, December 02, 2003
Gluttony
So we all survived Thanksgiving. Which, in my mind, is a plus. I was able to start reading a new book which, in my mind, is a plus. Here’s the recap. Starting tomorrow, no more of this mundane, shot-by-shot, “picture of life” crap. Promise.
We had my in-laws over for Thanksgiving lunch. Which meant we were up at the crack of dawn doing things to a turkey corpse that I never thought I would do. It’s strange, but if I were sticking my hand in the gut of any other dead animal I would be horrified. But if I call it “food” then it’s all good. I don’t get it.
But, the good news is the turkey turned out beautifully. Gorgeous, as a matter of fact.
Of course, by the time my wife and I sat down to eat, the food was cold and my in-laws were already leaving the table. It reminded me very much of my childhood, where it was every man for themselves. There were no second servings in my family. May God have mercy on your soul if you happened to be at the end of the serving line. You’d get a tablespoon of potatoes, three peas and a dollop of cold gravy with a hair in it. You look down the table and see your brothers and sisters with plates full of enough food to choke the entire Bolivian Navy. And they were all eating as if the world were about to end in five minutes.
The sight was bad enough. But the sound of twelve people eating as fast as possible is horrifying.
And as soon as the meal had begun, we all started arguing over pudding skins. That was my childhood.
The highlight, at least for my wife, was when her not-so-world-wise brother accepted a glass of wine by asking: “What proof is it?”
My wife’s only response was, “Um, what? I don’t know. Would you be more comfortable with grape juice?” My other brother-in-law, who is a little more traveled, eschewed the “dinky” wine glass and drank his wine out of a large drinking glass.
“Hey,” my wife said, “do you just want a paper bag to wrap around the bottle?”
Meanwhile, the kids were drunk on pie. Bouncing off the walls in their best attempts at impressing “Grumpa” with their best tricks. Grumpa, meanwhile, desperately wanted to go to sleep.
Later in the day we went to my family’s for the same event. Many of the same events unfolded there as well. Except we know our liquor. My nephew, in a desire to out-beer me, was showing off his import beer. I was very proud of him. He’s giving up the typical piss-water combinations that most American males worship and trying something a little higher in quality.
Honestly, I don’t understand why people make fun of me for drinking good beer. If I brought over a really nice bottle of wine instead of drinking Mad Dog, no one would care. But bring a nice six pack of Boulevard Pale Ale and everyone teases you for being a beer snob, or worse. When, in reality, they just can’t handle the stronger taste. Wimps. Heh.
The rest of the weekend was pretty uneventful. Did some shopping, watched some Two Towers extras, finished watching Taken (ending sucked), Matilda had a cousin over for a sleepover on Friday . . . Typical stuff really.
But the highlight came on Friday morning when we had our first snow of the year. Sort of. If you consider six flakes per square foot a “snow”. However, in the midst of the raging flurry, the girls were running around in circles squealing in joy. “It’s snowing! It’s snowing! It’s snowing!”
Sigh. Do you remember those days? When the promise of snow meant a few days of frozen, outdoors, childish debauchery? Snow in your pants, wet sneakers, red cheeks and the promise of mom making a hot cup of cocoa to make you happy? That wonderful feeling of your cold-tightened skin warming by the glowing heating register? The smell of wool gloves drying in the forced air heat?
Now when I see snow, I think if backaches, salt on my car, slick roads. It’s just not the same.
But the girls, they have a purity of joy. It was marvelous to see.
And finally, the heart-breaking moment of the four-day weekend. We were standing in the kitchen on Sunday night. Matilda was at her bio-dad’s, so it was just Mommy, Baby and me. Most of the weekend, Gertrude was being Daddy’s little girl. Always choosing me over anything else. It was great.
We were making dinner. “Up,” she demanded. So I picked her up. Then, a strange look drifted over her face. She looked suspiciously at her mom.
“Don’t take my daddy away,” she said.
“Don’t worry,” Mom responded, “I won’t.”
And she hugged me.
That sound of shattering glass you heard was my heart breaking into a million pieces.
But in a good way.
Discuss
We had my in-laws over for Thanksgiving lunch. Which meant we were up at the crack of dawn doing things to a turkey corpse that I never thought I would do. It’s strange, but if I were sticking my hand in the gut of any other dead animal I would be horrified. But if I call it “food” then it’s all good. I don’t get it.
But, the good news is the turkey turned out beautifully. Gorgeous, as a matter of fact.
Of course, by the time my wife and I sat down to eat, the food was cold and my in-laws were already leaving the table. It reminded me very much of my childhood, where it was every man for themselves. There were no second servings in my family. May God have mercy on your soul if you happened to be at the end of the serving line. You’d get a tablespoon of potatoes, three peas and a dollop of cold gravy with a hair in it. You look down the table and see your brothers and sisters with plates full of enough food to choke the entire Bolivian Navy. And they were all eating as if the world were about to end in five minutes.
The sight was bad enough. But the sound of twelve people eating as fast as possible is horrifying.
And as soon as the meal had begun, we all started arguing over pudding skins. That was my childhood.
The highlight, at least for my wife, was when her not-so-world-wise brother accepted a glass of wine by asking: “What proof is it?”
My wife’s only response was, “Um, what? I don’t know. Would you be more comfortable with grape juice?” My other brother-in-law, who is a little more traveled, eschewed the “dinky” wine glass and drank his wine out of a large drinking glass.
“Hey,” my wife said, “do you just want a paper bag to wrap around the bottle?”
Meanwhile, the kids were drunk on pie. Bouncing off the walls in their best attempts at impressing “Grumpa” with their best tricks. Grumpa, meanwhile, desperately wanted to go to sleep.
Later in the day we went to my family’s for the same event. Many of the same events unfolded there as well. Except we know our liquor. My nephew, in a desire to out-beer me, was showing off his import beer. I was very proud of him. He’s giving up the typical piss-water combinations that most American males worship and trying something a little higher in quality.
Honestly, I don’t understand why people make fun of me for drinking good beer. If I brought over a really nice bottle of wine instead of drinking Mad Dog, no one would care. But bring a nice six pack of Boulevard Pale Ale and everyone teases you for being a beer snob, or worse. When, in reality, they just can’t handle the stronger taste. Wimps. Heh.
The rest of the weekend was pretty uneventful. Did some shopping, watched some Two Towers extras, finished watching Taken (ending sucked), Matilda had a cousin over for a sleepover on Friday . . . Typical stuff really.
But the highlight came on Friday morning when we had our first snow of the year. Sort of. If you consider six flakes per square foot a “snow”. However, in the midst of the raging flurry, the girls were running around in circles squealing in joy. “It’s snowing! It’s snowing! It’s snowing!”
Sigh. Do you remember those days? When the promise of snow meant a few days of frozen, outdoors, childish debauchery? Snow in your pants, wet sneakers, red cheeks and the promise of mom making a hot cup of cocoa to make you happy? That wonderful feeling of your cold-tightened skin warming by the glowing heating register? The smell of wool gloves drying in the forced air heat?
Now when I see snow, I think if backaches, salt on my car, slick roads. It’s just not the same.
But the girls, they have a purity of joy. It was marvelous to see.
And finally, the heart-breaking moment of the four-day weekend. We were standing in the kitchen on Sunday night. Matilda was at her bio-dad’s, so it was just Mommy, Baby and me. Most of the weekend, Gertrude was being Daddy’s little girl. Always choosing me over anything else. It was great.
We were making dinner. “Up,” she demanded. So I picked her up. Then, a strange look drifted over her face. She looked suspiciously at her mom.
“Don’t take my daddy away,” she said.
“Don’t worry,” Mom responded, “I won’t.”
And she hugged me.
That sound of shattering glass you heard was my heart breaking into a million pieces.
But in a good way.
Discuss
Monday, December 01, 2003
Loads
I have much to write about, but little time. My computer encountered a little glitch that required too much of my time, so I'll return to blogging tomorrow.
I will tell you this. I won the bad parenting award for 2003 yesterday because of my computer problems. At the apex of my frustration I let loose a stream of words that would make Joe Pesci blush. Never has a more foul and wretched sequence of profanity been unleashed in this household.
Lo and behold, it was heard. Later that evening I received a glare from my wife that put icecubes in my veins. There she was, sweet little Gertrude, sitting at the table playing with Play-Dough. When she decided that she did not want to work on a piece anymore, she shoved it away and gleefully said . . .
"F*** it!"
I will tell you this. I won the bad parenting award for 2003 yesterday because of my computer problems. At the apex of my frustration I let loose a stream of words that would make Joe Pesci blush. Never has a more foul and wretched sequence of profanity been unleashed in this household.
Lo and behold, it was heard. Later that evening I received a glare from my wife that put icecubes in my veins. There she was, sweet little Gertrude, sitting at the table playing with Play-Dough. When she decided that she did not want to work on a piece anymore, she shoved it away and gleefully said . . .
"F*** it!"
Monday, November 24, 2003
Time
You know what they say. Time is on my side. Time waits for no man. Time is money. Life is short, time is swift. Rome wasn’t built in a day. Time heals all wounds.
Einstein said in his theory of special relativity time was relative. He claimed that time and distance were not absolute. The movement of a clock was dependant upon the movement of the observer. Time could move slower for one observer and faster for another. He was fond of saying that “you spend an hour with a pretty girl and it feels like a minute; spend a minute with your hand on a hot stove and it feels like an hour.”
Though not a perfect analogy, this is appropriate. An hour in a meeting with your boss discussing your performance evaluation feels like it will never end, especially if your performance was subpar. An hour eating a good meal with a good friend who will be leaving and not returning at the end of the meal seems to melt away quickly.
Time, though measured in easy to digest increments, is not a rigid structure in your mind. Though you can reasonably count off a minute in your head, with decent accuracy, that does not mean that your mind distills each minute as the same increment of time. It is relative, in the sense that to you time marks itself off in a different manner than it may for your friends and colleagues. The same horrible hour you spend with your boss, the one that seems to drag on forever, may be gone in an instant for your younger brother and his new lover lying in bed for the first time. It may go even slower for the hospital patient waiting for the results of a biopsy. Though the hour is comprised of the same sixty minutes, the same 3600 seconds, the span of time may differ depending upon who is doing the measure. In the rigid sense, the same amount of time has passed. In the personal sense time has differed.
This sense of time becomes more and more evident as you grow older. Time seems to speed up with each passing year. The time between one Christmas to the next when you are eight seems like millennia. When you’re 25 and struggling to pay the bills, Christmas is suddenly upon you, beckoning and causing dread within you as you wonder how you’re going to float gifts when you’re already over your head. When you’re 85, one Christmas seems to bleed into another.
Time becomes a wholly different dimension as soon as you have children. While you have a sense of time growing up, it is relative only to yourself. You don’t notice your parents getting older, your brother getting taller or your dog slowing down. You look in the mirror every day and see that you look the same, to yourself, as you did yesterday. And the day before that and the day before that. At the end of the school year, you look at your school picture from September and don’t notice that your hair has grown markedly darker, your cheeks thinned out.
But to the parent, each day goes by in a minute. You look at your child in the morning and she is an infant. Helpless, hungry, in need of constant care. By lunchtime she is speaking fluently, walking, and grasping concepts that just a short time ago would have confounded her. At dinner, she is ten; smart, funny and just beginning her journey into selfish discovery. By 7 p.m. she is a teen, wrapped up in her own world. By bedtime she’s married with children of her own.
The child has moved through 24 years of her life in the span of what seems like a day to you. “It seems like only yesterday . . .” you are fond of saying. Just yesterday you were changing her diapers. Just yesterday she was starting kindergarten. Just yesterday she graduated from High School. Time melts away.
But for her, the time between school letting out and dinner is an endless desert. Once her homework is done, there is nothing to do. She’s played with her toys, has no interest in television. She sits and stares at you. You see her as a blur of light, moving from one thing to another. She sees you almost as a statue, moving with the speed of mud.
Do you remember the first time you looked at your mother and thought, “My God, she’s getting old.” It rarely happens. Because in your mind, you have unconsciously decided to make your mother an eternal 32. She will always be young, the way she was when she put the jelly on your toast for you because it tasted better when she did it. She is an unchanging constant in your mind.
You look at your children and you get a daily reminder of how quickly, how mercilessly time marches. Your chubby little baby is suddenly a mischievous little toddler, full of curiosity and questions. How did this happen?
You remember every single moment of her life. From birth until this very moment. Yet, the math doesn’t seem to work. Two years? How could it be? We just brought her home from the hospital yesterday! How can she be going off to an advanced placement test for third graders? Didn’t we just wean her from her bedtime bottle a few nights ago?
Time waits for no one. Not you, not me, not our kids. Time is all about how you use it. Sixty minutes may contain 3600 seconds. But a lifetime contains an unquantifiable measure of time.
How well do you use it?
Discuss
Einstein said in his theory of special relativity time was relative. He claimed that time and distance were not absolute. The movement of a clock was dependant upon the movement of the observer. Time could move slower for one observer and faster for another. He was fond of saying that “you spend an hour with a pretty girl and it feels like a minute; spend a minute with your hand on a hot stove and it feels like an hour.”
Though not a perfect analogy, this is appropriate. An hour in a meeting with your boss discussing your performance evaluation feels like it will never end, especially if your performance was subpar. An hour eating a good meal with a good friend who will be leaving and not returning at the end of the meal seems to melt away quickly.
Time, though measured in easy to digest increments, is not a rigid structure in your mind. Though you can reasonably count off a minute in your head, with decent accuracy, that does not mean that your mind distills each minute as the same increment of time. It is relative, in the sense that to you time marks itself off in a different manner than it may for your friends and colleagues. The same horrible hour you spend with your boss, the one that seems to drag on forever, may be gone in an instant for your younger brother and his new lover lying in bed for the first time. It may go even slower for the hospital patient waiting for the results of a biopsy. Though the hour is comprised of the same sixty minutes, the same 3600 seconds, the span of time may differ depending upon who is doing the measure. In the rigid sense, the same amount of time has passed. In the personal sense time has differed.
This sense of time becomes more and more evident as you grow older. Time seems to speed up with each passing year. The time between one Christmas to the next when you are eight seems like millennia. When you’re 25 and struggling to pay the bills, Christmas is suddenly upon you, beckoning and causing dread within you as you wonder how you’re going to float gifts when you’re already over your head. When you’re 85, one Christmas seems to bleed into another.
Time becomes a wholly different dimension as soon as you have children. While you have a sense of time growing up, it is relative only to yourself. You don’t notice your parents getting older, your brother getting taller or your dog slowing down. You look in the mirror every day and see that you look the same, to yourself, as you did yesterday. And the day before that and the day before that. At the end of the school year, you look at your school picture from September and don’t notice that your hair has grown markedly darker, your cheeks thinned out.
But to the parent, each day goes by in a minute. You look at your child in the morning and she is an infant. Helpless, hungry, in need of constant care. By lunchtime she is speaking fluently, walking, and grasping concepts that just a short time ago would have confounded her. At dinner, she is ten; smart, funny and just beginning her journey into selfish discovery. By 7 p.m. she is a teen, wrapped up in her own world. By bedtime she’s married with children of her own.
The child has moved through 24 years of her life in the span of what seems like a day to you. “It seems like only yesterday . . .” you are fond of saying. Just yesterday you were changing her diapers. Just yesterday she was starting kindergarten. Just yesterday she graduated from High School. Time melts away.
But for her, the time between school letting out and dinner is an endless desert. Once her homework is done, there is nothing to do. She’s played with her toys, has no interest in television. She sits and stares at you. You see her as a blur of light, moving from one thing to another. She sees you almost as a statue, moving with the speed of mud.
Do you remember the first time you looked at your mother and thought, “My God, she’s getting old.” It rarely happens. Because in your mind, you have unconsciously decided to make your mother an eternal 32. She will always be young, the way she was when she put the jelly on your toast for you because it tasted better when she did it. She is an unchanging constant in your mind.
You look at your children and you get a daily reminder of how quickly, how mercilessly time marches. Your chubby little baby is suddenly a mischievous little toddler, full of curiosity and questions. How did this happen?
You remember every single moment of her life. From birth until this very moment. Yet, the math doesn’t seem to work. Two years? How could it be? We just brought her home from the hospital yesterday! How can she be going off to an advanced placement test for third graders? Didn’t we just wean her from her bedtime bottle a few nights ago?
Time waits for no one. Not you, not me, not our kids. Time is all about how you use it. Sixty minutes may contain 3600 seconds. But a lifetime contains an unquantifiable measure of time.
How well do you use it?
Discuss
Thursday, November 20, 2003
Dad Eye for the Single Guy
There needs to be a new reality show. Not one that makes people more glamorous than they were before, but one that makes people more real than they were before.
You take one care-free single guy, who stays out all night on Friday, parties all day Saturday and sits and drinks beer and watches football on Sundays until he stumbles into bed late Sunday night. During the week he wears clean, crisp, hip clothing and drives a cool, clean car listening to the latest, coolest tracks.
You pair that guy up with five dads who have kids ranging in age from 3 months to 15 years.
When they first meet the single guy welcomes the dads. He’s looking forward to getting a lesson in responsibility. He feels that he’s been partying too much and spending too much time carousing, watching TV and trolling for skanky girls in smoky bars. He wants to straighten out his life, focus on his career and maybe settle down, find a wife and start a family.
Meet our five dads:
Kyle—Home design and improvement
Dan—Hair and grooming
Mike—Fashion
Jeff—Culture
Jim—Food
The five dads arrive at our single’s apartment at 5:30 a.m. Two hours before they were scheduled to arrive. They don’t knock, but rather just run into his bedroom and jump on his bed until he wakes up.
They introduce themselves and ask him if he’s ready to have his life made over into a dad’s life. Why yes he is!
They throw him into the shower.
“This water is cold” he complains.
Dan laughs at him. “Listen, I have a wife and three kids at home. I’m always the last one to get in the shower. I haven’t taken a warm shower in twelve years.”
“Oh, it’s okay,” our single says, “It’s getting warmer.”
Just then the toilet flushes, and Jim makes a relieved sound.
“Auuuuuuuggggh,” screams our single. “Why’d you have to flush the toilet while I’m in the shower?”
“I really had to go,” answers Jim. “I mean, I really had to go.”
“Can I have a towel,” our single asks.
“We’re out,” answers Dan. “I haven’t had a towel in twelve years either. I have a wife and three kids at home, did I mention that? Yeah, well all the kids are girls. They each use an average of seven towels apiece in their shower.”
“But I’m wet,” the single complains.
“Use some toilet paper.”
In the bedroom Mike, our fashion guy, is going through all of our single’s clothes.
“Are these all new,” he asks.
“Yeah,” says the single. “I actually like to shop. I like to look good.”
“Well,” says Mike, “They all have to go.”
“What?”
“That’s part of your make over. I’ve brought you a new wardrobe that I picked up at Good Will. It’s all at least six years old. What size pants are you? 34? These are 32. You’ll have to squeeze into them.”
“But they’re too small!”
“Yeah, but you don’t want to give them up,” Mike says. “You swear you’ll get your weight down one of these days to fit in them.”
“But there are two pairs of jeans, one has paint on them and the other has holes. And what are those? Three pairs of wrinkled and worn out Dockers? That’s all I get for work clothes?”
“Hey, you make do man. Kids grow like baseball players on steroids. Their clothes take precedence.”
Our single puts on a new shirt, a very outdated Rugby shirt with threadbare elbows. He looks in the mirror and doesn’t mind what he sees.
“Actually, I kind of look like my dad.” Just at that moment Mike wipes his nose on the shirt.
“What the hell did you do that for? There’s Kleenex right there!”
“Sorry. Let it dry.”
Out in the living room of our single’s apartment Kyle has removed a light fixture and it is hanging down by the wires. Jim is pouring a variety of juices on the rug and couch.
“What are you doing” the single screams.
“Well,” Kyle answers, “I was going to change out that fixture there but I don’t have the right tools. And besides, I’m not sure if I’m comfortable working with electric.”
”So you’re just going to leave it there?”
“Jesus,” screams Kyle, “do I look like Bob Frickin’ Villa? Stop being such a bitch!” And with that Kyle walks to the door, leaving the light hanging and the wires sparking. He punches the wall and puts a huge hole in the wall on his way out the door.
“Aren’t you going to fix that,” our single asks. “I have a security deposit that I want back when I move out.”
“Stop riding my ass,” yells Kyle. “Hag!” And with that he slams the door, leaving our single standing with his mouth agape.
“Well,” Jeff says, “Kyle’s going through a divorce. Give him a break. So, you have a nice CD collection and a lot of DVDs too! Wow, Bladerunner, The Searchers. The entire Beatles collection, nice.”
“Thanks. I’ve been collecting them for years.”
“We’ll you’ve done a nice job,” Jeff answers. “Very impressive. Okay, box ‘em up boys.”
”WHAT?”
“ We have a surprise for you! You’ve had a whole new video and CD collection donated. You now have every Raffi and Barney CD ever recorded. And for videos, you have all the Wiggles, Baby Mozart and all the Disney Sing Alongs.”
“But,” our single protests, “half of the videos don’t even have cases!”
“Yeah,” answers Jeff. “That’s always the first thing to go. Check under the couch.”
Dan looks at our single’s hair. “Nice coif.”
“Thanks! I go to a really expensive salon and I spend a lot of time styling it every morning.”
“Nice,” Dan answers. He then takes a wet cloth and messes up our single’s hair, making it look like he just got out of bed.
“Okay,” yells Jim, “time for shopping!”
So everyone loads into a minivan.
“Hang on,” Jim says. “Let me move that car seat. You can put the soccer ball in the back. What the hell is that? Is it moving? Okay, just step over it.”
Jamming to the feel-good songs of the Wiggles they head out on the open road, a bunch of guys. Happy guys. Bonding together. A good old fashioned road trip.
Three minutes later they’re pulling into a Walgreen’s parking lot.
“Wait,” our single says. “I thought we were going shopping. Don’t I get to pick out clothes and get a hair cut and new furniture?”
The four remaining dads laugh.
“Yes, we are shopping,” Dan laughs. “But not for that stuff! Our first stop is Walgreen’s. You need to pick up a package of panty liners for my wife.”
“Oh God help me.”
“Go on. Make sure you get the right ones. Something about absorbent thin wings or something.”
Our single, crying, goes into the store. 30 minutes later, he walks out still crying.
“That was terrible.”
“You get used to it,” Dan says.
“No you don’t,” Jim answers. “Okay, let’s get to the supermarket.”
“So am I going to learn how to make Foie Gras?”
All the dads laugh.
They emerge from the supermarket loaded down with groceries.
“Did we actually get anything that I want to eat,” the single guy asks.
“Well, let’s see, you have fruit snacks, Nilla Wafers, waffles, a variety of oatmeals, seven gallons of apple juice and Flintstone’s vitamins. You should be fine.”
Upon arriving back at our single’s apartment he is shocked to see what seems like a million people in his living room. Kids swinging from the chandeliers, one is throwing a ball against the window and there’s one on top of the refrigerator.
“What the hell is this,” our single asks.
“Our families,” Jeff answers.
Suddenly a thirteen-year-old girl walks up to the single and says, “I hate you!” She bursts into tears and runs into his bedroom, locking the door.
“What the hell just happened? What is that smell?”
“Oh,” answers Jeff’s wife, “That’s junior. He just filled his diaper. Or he may just have gas. You might want to do the dip test.”
“The what?”
“The dip test. That’s where you stick your fingers in the diaper to see if it’s messy.”
“There’s no way in hell . . .”
“Okay, just pick him up and smell his butt.”
“Well,” says Dan, “I think this was a success!”
“Me too,” says Jim.
“But my apartment is a mess, I look like hell, the carpet is stained, everything smells funny and there’s nothing here for an adult to eat,” complains the single.
“Like I said, a success,” answers Dan.
“Well, let’s go,” says Mike. And with that all the wives pair up with their respective husband and start to leave.
“Where are you going,” asks the single. “You’re forgetting your kids.”
“No we’re not,” answers Mike. “Check the contract you signed. You’re keeping them overnight. We’re all going to stay at a luxury hotel tonight and have a fancy dinner. Do you know how long it’s been since we’ve spent an evening alone with our wives?”
“But . . .”
“See you tomorrow morning!”
Breaking down into tears, our single watches the door close as he is enveloped by a gaggle of children asking him for something.
“I hate you,” screams the thirteen-year-old girl from the bedroom.
Discuss Announcing The Triuphant Return of Comments!
You take one care-free single guy, who stays out all night on Friday, parties all day Saturday and sits and drinks beer and watches football on Sundays until he stumbles into bed late Sunday night. During the week he wears clean, crisp, hip clothing and drives a cool, clean car listening to the latest, coolest tracks.
You pair that guy up with five dads who have kids ranging in age from 3 months to 15 years.
When they first meet the single guy welcomes the dads. He’s looking forward to getting a lesson in responsibility. He feels that he’s been partying too much and spending too much time carousing, watching TV and trolling for skanky girls in smoky bars. He wants to straighten out his life, focus on his career and maybe settle down, find a wife and start a family.
Meet our five dads:
Kyle—Home design and improvement
Dan—Hair and grooming
Mike—Fashion
Jeff—Culture
Jim—Food
The five dads arrive at our single’s apartment at 5:30 a.m. Two hours before they were scheduled to arrive. They don’t knock, but rather just run into his bedroom and jump on his bed until he wakes up.
They introduce themselves and ask him if he’s ready to have his life made over into a dad’s life. Why yes he is!
They throw him into the shower.
“This water is cold” he complains.
Dan laughs at him. “Listen, I have a wife and three kids at home. I’m always the last one to get in the shower. I haven’t taken a warm shower in twelve years.”
“Oh, it’s okay,” our single says, “It’s getting warmer.”
Just then the toilet flushes, and Jim makes a relieved sound.
“Auuuuuuuggggh,” screams our single. “Why’d you have to flush the toilet while I’m in the shower?”
“I really had to go,” answers Jim. “I mean, I really had to go.”
“Can I have a towel,” our single asks.
“We’re out,” answers Dan. “I haven’t had a towel in twelve years either. I have a wife and three kids at home, did I mention that? Yeah, well all the kids are girls. They each use an average of seven towels apiece in their shower.”
“But I’m wet,” the single complains.
“Use some toilet paper.”
In the bedroom Mike, our fashion guy, is going through all of our single’s clothes.
“Are these all new,” he asks.
“Yeah,” says the single. “I actually like to shop. I like to look good.”
“Well,” says Mike, “They all have to go.”
“What?”
“That’s part of your make over. I’ve brought you a new wardrobe that I picked up at Good Will. It’s all at least six years old. What size pants are you? 34? These are 32. You’ll have to squeeze into them.”
“But they’re too small!”
“Yeah, but you don’t want to give them up,” Mike says. “You swear you’ll get your weight down one of these days to fit in them.”
“But there are two pairs of jeans, one has paint on them and the other has holes. And what are those? Three pairs of wrinkled and worn out Dockers? That’s all I get for work clothes?”
“Hey, you make do man. Kids grow like baseball players on steroids. Their clothes take precedence.”
Our single puts on a new shirt, a very outdated Rugby shirt with threadbare elbows. He looks in the mirror and doesn’t mind what he sees.
“Actually, I kind of look like my dad.” Just at that moment Mike wipes his nose on the shirt.
“What the hell did you do that for? There’s Kleenex right there!”
“Sorry. Let it dry.”
Out in the living room of our single’s apartment Kyle has removed a light fixture and it is hanging down by the wires. Jim is pouring a variety of juices on the rug and couch.
“What are you doing” the single screams.
“Well,” Kyle answers, “I was going to change out that fixture there but I don’t have the right tools. And besides, I’m not sure if I’m comfortable working with electric.”
”So you’re just going to leave it there?”
“Jesus,” screams Kyle, “do I look like Bob Frickin’ Villa? Stop being such a bitch!” And with that Kyle walks to the door, leaving the light hanging and the wires sparking. He punches the wall and puts a huge hole in the wall on his way out the door.
“Aren’t you going to fix that,” our single asks. “I have a security deposit that I want back when I move out.”
“Stop riding my ass,” yells Kyle. “Hag!” And with that he slams the door, leaving our single standing with his mouth agape.
“Well,” Jeff says, “Kyle’s going through a divorce. Give him a break. So, you have a nice CD collection and a lot of DVDs too! Wow, Bladerunner, The Searchers. The entire Beatles collection, nice.”
“Thanks. I’ve been collecting them for years.”
“We’ll you’ve done a nice job,” Jeff answers. “Very impressive. Okay, box ‘em up boys.”
”WHAT?”
“ We have a surprise for you! You’ve had a whole new video and CD collection donated. You now have every Raffi and Barney CD ever recorded. And for videos, you have all the Wiggles, Baby Mozart and all the Disney Sing Alongs.”
“But,” our single protests, “half of the videos don’t even have cases!”
“Yeah,” answers Jeff. “That’s always the first thing to go. Check under the couch.”
Dan looks at our single’s hair. “Nice coif.”
“Thanks! I go to a really expensive salon and I spend a lot of time styling it every morning.”
“Nice,” Dan answers. He then takes a wet cloth and messes up our single’s hair, making it look like he just got out of bed.
“Okay,” yells Jim, “time for shopping!”
So everyone loads into a minivan.
“Hang on,” Jim says. “Let me move that car seat. You can put the soccer ball in the back. What the hell is that? Is it moving? Okay, just step over it.”
Jamming to the feel-good songs of the Wiggles they head out on the open road, a bunch of guys. Happy guys. Bonding together. A good old fashioned road trip.
Three minutes later they’re pulling into a Walgreen’s parking lot.
“Wait,” our single says. “I thought we were going shopping. Don’t I get to pick out clothes and get a hair cut and new furniture?”
The four remaining dads laugh.
“Yes, we are shopping,” Dan laughs. “But not for that stuff! Our first stop is Walgreen’s. You need to pick up a package of panty liners for my wife.”
“Oh God help me.”
“Go on. Make sure you get the right ones. Something about absorbent thin wings or something.”
Our single, crying, goes into the store. 30 minutes later, he walks out still crying.
“That was terrible.”
“You get used to it,” Dan says.
“No you don’t,” Jim answers. “Okay, let’s get to the supermarket.”
“So am I going to learn how to make Foie Gras?”
All the dads laugh.
They emerge from the supermarket loaded down with groceries.
“Did we actually get anything that I want to eat,” the single guy asks.
“Well, let’s see, you have fruit snacks, Nilla Wafers, waffles, a variety of oatmeals, seven gallons of apple juice and Flintstone’s vitamins. You should be fine.”
Upon arriving back at our single’s apartment he is shocked to see what seems like a million people in his living room. Kids swinging from the chandeliers, one is throwing a ball against the window and there’s one on top of the refrigerator.
“What the hell is this,” our single asks.
“Our families,” Jeff answers.
Suddenly a thirteen-year-old girl walks up to the single and says, “I hate you!” She bursts into tears and runs into his bedroom, locking the door.
“What the hell just happened? What is that smell?”
“Oh,” answers Jeff’s wife, “That’s junior. He just filled his diaper. Or he may just have gas. You might want to do the dip test.”
“The what?”
“The dip test. That’s where you stick your fingers in the diaper to see if it’s messy.”
“There’s no way in hell . . .”
“Okay, just pick him up and smell his butt.”
“Well,” says Dan, “I think this was a success!”
“Me too,” says Jim.
“But my apartment is a mess, I look like hell, the carpet is stained, everything smells funny and there’s nothing here for an adult to eat,” complains the single.
“Like I said, a success,” answers Dan.
“Well, let’s go,” says Mike. And with that all the wives pair up with their respective husband and start to leave.
“Where are you going,” asks the single. “You’re forgetting your kids.”
“No we’re not,” answers Mike. “Check the contract you signed. You’re keeping them overnight. We’re all going to stay at a luxury hotel tonight and have a fancy dinner. Do you know how long it’s been since we’ve spent an evening alone with our wives?”
“But . . .”
“See you tomorrow morning!”
Breaking down into tears, our single watches the door close as he is enveloped by a gaggle of children asking him for something.
“I hate you,” screams the thirteen-year-old girl from the bedroom.
Discuss Announcing The Triuphant Return of Comments!
Wednesday, November 19, 2003
Happy Birthday!
So, it was roughly twenty some-odd years ago that two people biologically conspired to create one perfect being. That being is my lovely wife.
Happy Birthday lovely wife!
Thanks for putting up with me.
And not hitting me too hard.
Happy Birthday lovely wife!
Thanks for putting up with me.
And not hitting me too hard.
Tuesday, November 18, 2003
Song of the Day
"Thank You Jack White (For the Fiber-Optic Jesus That You Gave Me) by the Flaming Lips. I picked up two of their EPs today and, they are fantastic. For some reason they managed to bump out the Beatles' Let it Be: Naked. Don't know why.
But this song is brilliant.
I picked up some DVD that came out today. What was the name of that movie again? Something about Twins? Twos? Tower Records? I don't know. Some Fanboy movie.
But this song is brilliant.
I picked up some DVD that came out today. What was the name of that movie again? Something about Twins? Twos? Tower Records? I don't know. Some Fanboy movie.
Family Physics
I don't have a lot of time today, so I've decided to post something I wrote earlier this year. I recently rediscovered it and have found out that it is something I'm rather proud of. All hail my happiness, or something.
I've change some names to protect the seemingly innocent (i.e. the Sci Fi author who probably doesn't want me talking about him on this crappy blog). Here it is:
Yesterday, while being chided for my skills with the alphabet by a successful Sci Fi author, I realized that my life is merely a series of illustrations of physics theories.
Let me explain. I complimented this author's book and told him that I’d place it on my shelf somewhere between John Varley and Richard Feynman. He appreciated the compliment, but wondered how exactly I was able to alphabetize his last name, which begins with "D", between Feynman and Varley.
Very easily. I have kids. We threw out the alphabet years ago and replaced it with Chaos Theory. Chaos Theory is where everything has a place and that place happens to be wherever it fits. For example, you have seven thousand toys strewn about the room and three plastic bins in pretty primary colors in which to place them. How do you get those seven thousand toys into those containers? Answer: You don’t. It is impossible. Nature has taught us that toys grow in volume from the time they leave the floor to the time they are placed within the bin. A bin that should hold, say, three cubic feet of toys that are strewn on the floor can, in reality, only hold two toys. How do you fix this? Quite simple. Put the smallest toys in the bin and shove the rest under the couch, table, rug, neighbor’s yard, etc.
The same thing has happened with our bookshelves. Where there once was an order, there is now chaos. It only takes the baby clearing the shelf one time to realize that you have no desire to replace all of your Vonnegut books in the order of publication. It’s no fun when you just have to do it every few days.
Chaos Theory leads to Entropy. Which, in parental terms, means that you say, “Aw screw it. I could organize this crap, but the kids will just do it again tomorrow.” You give in to the disorder and reorganize your life around it. I now walk through my house as if it were a minefield. Careful. Don’t step on that doll! Watch out for the Lincoln Log!
The second theory is String Theory. This theory states that any given toy’s interesting qualities increase exponentially when string is tied around it. A simple block becomes a toy that demonstrates the scientific qualities of centripetal forces. And a sailing missile of death. Kids are drawn to string (and tape for that matter). How many times have I walked into the house to find Barbie bound like Laura Palmer? Someday I fully expect to see poor Barbie in the bathtub wrapped in plastic. As a good parent, you ignore this because you secretly fear that your child is acting on sociopathic behavior. Better to pretend that it doesn’t exist.
The Negative Charge is related to Chaos Theory. Any given room in the house emits a positive charge. Children emit a negative charge. As they pass through a room, all objects are attracted to the child, but the force of attraction diminishes as the child moves from the center of the room to the edge. Therefore, the Theory of Negative Charge states that all objects in a room that is, or was, occupied by a child will fall to the ground as the child leaves.
Ohm’s Law states that when a parent sees the mess left by the Theory of the Negative Charge he or she will say “ohm-ygod.”
Of course, one of the basic laws of physics states, “an object in motion tends to stay in motion”. This applies to parenting as well. Have you ever seen a one-year-old? However, the inertia changes conversely when you tell the child it is time to go somewhere. At that point, “an object at rest tends to stay at rest.”
Now, at the end of the day we have the Grand Unification Theory. This theory states that a mother just wants her family to be able to enjoy dinner together as, well, a family. However, with opposite forces pulling each family member in opposite directions, the theory turns out to be bogus. For example, child #1 just wants to watch TV while she eats. Child #2 simply wants to spread her food on the table. Dad wants to sit quietly and read the paper (damn it!). But mom, undeterred, acts under the rules of the Theory of Everything which states that one must answer her questions with every possible detail, lest you wish to discover how electrons can travel backwards in time.
Illustration: “Honey, how was your day?”
“Fine.”
“Just fine? What did you do?”
“Work. Not much exciting stuff.”
“What did you work on?”
“What I always work on.”
“Maybe the kids will like to hear about it.”
“I sincerely doubt it. Can I please just read the paper?”
“NO. I just wanted to know about your day! Is that so much to ask?”
Mom then illustrates the theory of Fluid Dynamics as she runs from the table crying.
Finally, we deal with the most important familial physics concepts. The theories of General Relativity and Special Relativity. General Relativity states that your children are undeniably yours. They look like you. They act like you. The administrators of the school recognize you as your child’s parent. When she excels at school, she is under the influence of General Relativity. When she scores the winning goal at the soccer game she is under the influence of General Relativity.
However, sometimes outside forces act upon the family nuclear unit and cause odd reactions, which result in Special Relativity.
Example: you go to pick up your daughter at school and you see her walking down the hallway with her teacher. Your daughter’s clothes are soaking wet. You can hear the soft squish of water expelling itself from the foam insoles of her tennis shoes as she steps down. Her wet hair is wrapped around her head in a circular swirl. The teacher looks angry.
When the teacher says, “I just found your daughter with her head stuck down a flushing toilet because she was curious to see where the water went” the Theory of Special Relativity states that you must respond:
“I’ve never seen that child before in my life.”
I've change some names to protect the seemingly innocent (i.e. the Sci Fi author who probably doesn't want me talking about him on this crappy blog). Here it is:
Yesterday, while being chided for my skills with the alphabet by a successful Sci Fi author, I realized that my life is merely a series of illustrations of physics theories.
Let me explain. I complimented this author's book and told him that I’d place it on my shelf somewhere between John Varley and Richard Feynman. He appreciated the compliment, but wondered how exactly I was able to alphabetize his last name, which begins with "D", between Feynman and Varley.
Very easily. I have kids. We threw out the alphabet years ago and replaced it with Chaos Theory. Chaos Theory is where everything has a place and that place happens to be wherever it fits. For example, you have seven thousand toys strewn about the room and three plastic bins in pretty primary colors in which to place them. How do you get those seven thousand toys into those containers? Answer: You don’t. It is impossible. Nature has taught us that toys grow in volume from the time they leave the floor to the time they are placed within the bin. A bin that should hold, say, three cubic feet of toys that are strewn on the floor can, in reality, only hold two toys. How do you fix this? Quite simple. Put the smallest toys in the bin and shove the rest under the couch, table, rug, neighbor’s yard, etc.
The same thing has happened with our bookshelves. Where there once was an order, there is now chaos. It only takes the baby clearing the shelf one time to realize that you have no desire to replace all of your Vonnegut books in the order of publication. It’s no fun when you just have to do it every few days.
Chaos Theory leads to Entropy. Which, in parental terms, means that you say, “Aw screw it. I could organize this crap, but the kids will just do it again tomorrow.” You give in to the disorder and reorganize your life around it. I now walk through my house as if it were a minefield. Careful. Don’t step on that doll! Watch out for the Lincoln Log!
The second theory is String Theory. This theory states that any given toy’s interesting qualities increase exponentially when string is tied around it. A simple block becomes a toy that demonstrates the scientific qualities of centripetal forces. And a sailing missile of death. Kids are drawn to string (and tape for that matter). How many times have I walked into the house to find Barbie bound like Laura Palmer? Someday I fully expect to see poor Barbie in the bathtub wrapped in plastic. As a good parent, you ignore this because you secretly fear that your child is acting on sociopathic behavior. Better to pretend that it doesn’t exist.
The Negative Charge is related to Chaos Theory. Any given room in the house emits a positive charge. Children emit a negative charge. As they pass through a room, all objects are attracted to the child, but the force of attraction diminishes as the child moves from the center of the room to the edge. Therefore, the Theory of Negative Charge states that all objects in a room that is, or was, occupied by a child will fall to the ground as the child leaves.
Ohm’s Law states that when a parent sees the mess left by the Theory of the Negative Charge he or she will say “ohm-ygod.”
Of course, one of the basic laws of physics states, “an object in motion tends to stay in motion”. This applies to parenting as well. Have you ever seen a one-year-old? However, the inertia changes conversely when you tell the child it is time to go somewhere. At that point, “an object at rest tends to stay at rest.”
Now, at the end of the day we have the Grand Unification Theory. This theory states that a mother just wants her family to be able to enjoy dinner together as, well, a family. However, with opposite forces pulling each family member in opposite directions, the theory turns out to be bogus. For example, child #1 just wants to watch TV while she eats. Child #2 simply wants to spread her food on the table. Dad wants to sit quietly and read the paper (damn it!). But mom, undeterred, acts under the rules of the Theory of Everything which states that one must answer her questions with every possible detail, lest you wish to discover how electrons can travel backwards in time.
Illustration: “Honey, how was your day?”
“Fine.”
“Just fine? What did you do?”
“Work. Not much exciting stuff.”
“What did you work on?”
“What I always work on.”
“Maybe the kids will like to hear about it.”
“I sincerely doubt it. Can I please just read the paper?”
“NO. I just wanted to know about your day! Is that so much to ask?”
Mom then illustrates the theory of Fluid Dynamics as she runs from the table crying.
Finally, we deal with the most important familial physics concepts. The theories of General Relativity and Special Relativity. General Relativity states that your children are undeniably yours. They look like you. They act like you. The administrators of the school recognize you as your child’s parent. When she excels at school, she is under the influence of General Relativity. When she scores the winning goal at the soccer game she is under the influence of General Relativity.
However, sometimes outside forces act upon the family nuclear unit and cause odd reactions, which result in Special Relativity.
Example: you go to pick up your daughter at school and you see her walking down the hallway with her teacher. Your daughter’s clothes are soaking wet. You can hear the soft squish of water expelling itself from the foam insoles of her tennis shoes as she steps down. Her wet hair is wrapped around her head in a circular swirl. The teacher looks angry.
When the teacher says, “I just found your daughter with her head stuck down a flushing toilet because she was curious to see where the water went” the Theory of Special Relativity states that you must respond:
“I’ve never seen that child before in my life.”
Monday, November 17, 2003
We All Have Our Limits
Saturday morning we were preparing to go out to the mall to do mall things. We had to tear Matilda away from the computer and Gertrude away from her Wiggles guitar. Both objected to the change in momentum. Matilda walked off to her room to sullenly put on her shoes.
Gertrude, however, put up a protest about the Wiggles guitar.
“MY guitar.”
“I know honey,” mommy said quietly. “But we can’t bring it everywhere we go.”
“MINE!” At this point she presses the button that plays, at sound levels higher than the last concert I went to, “Dance the Oobey Doo With Dorothy The Dinosaur.”
“Okay, Mommy’s turning off the guitar and putting it away.”
“Nooooooo!”
“Gertrude, we’re putting this away. Now. Mommy has her limits.”
“Mommy has limits?”
Suppressing a laugh mommy responds, “Yes sweetie. I have limits.”
“I see them?”
“Keep pressing the button and you will.”
The idea that mommy has limits, whatever those things may be, intrigued Gertrude. She wanted to see the limits. Touch them. Feel them. Take them apart and examine them. But mommy would not yield.
Instead, we loaded in the car and went off to the mall. We stopped off at a store and Gertrude proudly announced, “Mommy has limits!”
We went to the T-Mobile stores to look at cases for my communications device. The sales girl asked if we needed help, to which Gertrude explained, “Mommy has limits!” When we were looking at the puppies in their cages, Gertrude told the Golden Retriever, Beagle, Malamute, Husky and Bischon Frise that “Mommy has limits!”
Matilda stopped by her favorite store that houses gaudy home decorations for girls, products that range from pink lamps covered in fur and strange dangly things that protect your room, all in pink, of course. Matilda asked for a few things. But Gertrude set her straight. “Mommy has limits.”
So we went home. Later that day we had “Family Fun Night” in which we watched the surprisingly groovy family movie “Holes” (which contained no less than two Eels songs). We didn’t expect Gert to pay attention, since she’s only two and the movie was for Matilda. Yet, she sat there throughout the whole movie, rapt with attention. It was amazing. I was proud. Though, to my horror, as soon as the credits rolled Gertrude stood up and said, “Okay. Turn off TV.”
“No honey, we watch the credits.”
“No. Off TV!” She was adamant, but I wouldn’t budge.
Matilda saved the day by starting to sing along with the ending credits song. It went something like, “Diggin up up holes (dig it), diggin’ up up holes (dig it).” Suddenly, Gertrude stops. And she starts singing along in her closest approximation of a bass voice. “Diggin’ up up howes. Diggin’ up up howes.” She sang herself to sleep Saturday, by digging up up holes. I tried to get her to dig up up weeds in the backyard on Sunday, but to no avail. She saw through my ruse.
Instead, we had to make a trek back to the mall. To appease Gert, who demanded copious amounts of food after her nap (she routinely eats four breakfasts in the morning, one of which is mine) I gave her a package of Dragon Tales fruit snacks. Dragon Tales fruit snacks are purported fruit that has been melted into a waxy substance and flavored to taste like All Fruit. They take that muck and put it into molds of licensed characters. The results of which look something like what would happen if you took a Dragon and dropped it off the Empire State Building. (I’ve watched the show. After five minutes, I have an urge to do exactly that to each and every dragon. Especially the freakish genetic mutation with two heads and the IQ of a vegetable.)
It was getting to be about that time, so we were discussing dinner. None of us really had any deep desires for any specific food, so the menu was up for grabs.
“Gertrude, what would you like for dinner?”
“No want dinner. I have dragons in my tummy.”
“What if we made pizza?”
“I have dragons in my tummy.”
That settled it. She didn’t care. Her meal of waxy fantasy animals had sated her appetite. Clearly she didn’t need to eat. After all, having a group of dragons in your tummy must be quite filling.
So Mom and I decided and cooked dinner. We were making her a plate, but she was still insisting that the dragons in her tummy were quite happy and didn’t need company.
Then I started eating a yummy, golden-brown, fried concoction.
“Wuzzat?”
“It’s a hushpuppy.”
“I want to eat a puppy!”
“What about the dragons?”
“I want puppies in my tummy!”
We better not let the ASPCA find out about this. I hear they have their limits.
Gertrude, however, put up a protest about the Wiggles guitar.
“MY guitar.”
“I know honey,” mommy said quietly. “But we can’t bring it everywhere we go.”
“MINE!” At this point she presses the button that plays, at sound levels higher than the last concert I went to, “Dance the Oobey Doo With Dorothy The Dinosaur.”
“Okay, Mommy’s turning off the guitar and putting it away.”
“Nooooooo!”
“Gertrude, we’re putting this away. Now. Mommy has her limits.”
“Mommy has limits?”
Suppressing a laugh mommy responds, “Yes sweetie. I have limits.”
“I see them?”
“Keep pressing the button and you will.”
The idea that mommy has limits, whatever those things may be, intrigued Gertrude. She wanted to see the limits. Touch them. Feel them. Take them apart and examine them. But mommy would not yield.
Instead, we loaded in the car and went off to the mall. We stopped off at a store and Gertrude proudly announced, “Mommy has limits!”
We went to the T-Mobile stores to look at cases for my communications device. The sales girl asked if we needed help, to which Gertrude explained, “Mommy has limits!” When we were looking at the puppies in their cages, Gertrude told the Golden Retriever, Beagle, Malamute, Husky and Bischon Frise that “Mommy has limits!”
Matilda stopped by her favorite store that houses gaudy home decorations for girls, products that range from pink lamps covered in fur and strange dangly things that protect your room, all in pink, of course. Matilda asked for a few things. But Gertrude set her straight. “Mommy has limits.”
So we went home. Later that day we had “Family Fun Night” in which we watched the surprisingly groovy family movie “Holes” (which contained no less than two Eels songs). We didn’t expect Gert to pay attention, since she’s only two and the movie was for Matilda. Yet, she sat there throughout the whole movie, rapt with attention. It was amazing. I was proud. Though, to my horror, as soon as the credits rolled Gertrude stood up and said, “Okay. Turn off TV.”
“No honey, we watch the credits.”
“No. Off TV!” She was adamant, but I wouldn’t budge.
Matilda saved the day by starting to sing along with the ending credits song. It went something like, “Diggin up up holes (dig it), diggin’ up up holes (dig it).” Suddenly, Gertrude stops. And she starts singing along in her closest approximation of a bass voice. “Diggin’ up up howes. Diggin’ up up howes.” She sang herself to sleep Saturday, by digging up up holes. I tried to get her to dig up up weeds in the backyard on Sunday, but to no avail. She saw through my ruse.
Instead, we had to make a trek back to the mall. To appease Gert, who demanded copious amounts of food after her nap (she routinely eats four breakfasts in the morning, one of which is mine) I gave her a package of Dragon Tales fruit snacks. Dragon Tales fruit snacks are purported fruit that has been melted into a waxy substance and flavored to taste like All Fruit. They take that muck and put it into molds of licensed characters. The results of which look something like what would happen if you took a Dragon and dropped it off the Empire State Building. (I’ve watched the show. After five minutes, I have an urge to do exactly that to each and every dragon. Especially the freakish genetic mutation with two heads and the IQ of a vegetable.)
It was getting to be about that time, so we were discussing dinner. None of us really had any deep desires for any specific food, so the menu was up for grabs.
“Gertrude, what would you like for dinner?”
“No want dinner. I have dragons in my tummy.”
“What if we made pizza?”
“I have dragons in my tummy.”
That settled it. She didn’t care. Her meal of waxy fantasy animals had sated her appetite. Clearly she didn’t need to eat. After all, having a group of dragons in your tummy must be quite filling.
So Mom and I decided and cooked dinner. We were making her a plate, but she was still insisting that the dragons in her tummy were quite happy and didn’t need company.
Then I started eating a yummy, golden-brown, fried concoction.
“Wuzzat?”
“It’s a hushpuppy.”
“I want to eat a puppy!”
“What about the dragons?”
“I want puppies in my tummy!”
We better not let the ASPCA find out about this. I hear they have their limits.
Friday, November 14, 2003
I God Da Pwesents!
Meemee brought the baby home early. Grumpa had been up since 2 a.m. and he needed to get home to sleep, so the birthday activities would start earlier than planned.
As soon as she walked through the door, she started asking about the “pwesents”. She wanted them. Now. But mommy wouldn’t be home for another thirty minutes and I had to go pick up Matilda from an after school event.
We made dinner, picked up the older sister and keep Meemee and Grumpa happy. All the while Gertrude moved around the room like she had taken speed. She was blurry around the edges, frantic, babbling. Much like I am on the opening day of the Lord of the Rings movies.
We were finally done with dinner, which Gert barely touched in between asking about “pwesents”. We prepared the cake.
“Gasp! Choo choo trains!”
“Yes Gertrude. There are choo choo trains on the cake.”
“I eat them?”
“No, they’re plastic. But you can play with them later.”
So we light the candle and sing Happy Birthday to her, with blatant disregard for the royalties owed to the two little old ladies who wrote the song. She blows out her candle with the minimum amount of spit. We’re all very proud.
“I EAT IT!”
I take the trains off the cake. “Want to lick the icing off Gertrude?”
“Ewww. I not eat them. Plastic!” Duh, Daddy. What’s wrong with you.
She devours a huge piece of cake. Or, to be more exact, she reduces the piece of cake to a mixture of crumbs and icing that become imbedded in her ears and hair. We think some may have landed in her mouth.
And now . . . the presents.
She leaps down off of her booster chair and begins to run around in excitement. She makes random patterns in the kitchen while I go get the wrapped goodies.
She opens her first. A stuffed Dora. Seems decent. Plastic tools? Very cool. Wood puzzle with locks and latches? Also excellent, and stolen by her sister. Wiggles poster? Nice.
We get to one of the bigger presents. He sister begins to help her open it. She sees red. Her eyes widen and she claps. Then the Wiggles logo is revealed. Her clapping intensifies. Then, it is clear. It’s the Wiggles guitar. If you slow down the tape you can see her smile melt into a look of surprise and disbelief. And then her face explodes in joy, she squeals and her arms raise up in the air like her football team just scored the winning touchdown. “Yes,” she seemed to say, “it’s the present I’ve always wanted!”
For the next two hours she pressed buttons, strummed, bopped, danced, sang and pressed the Captain Feathersword button repeatedly so that his song on the guitar sounded as if it were recorded by Beck.
Finally, she wound down. We bathed her and then rocked her for bed. She wouldn’t let go of the guitar.
“It’s time for bed honey. We need to put the guitar away.”
“Noooooo.”
“I’m sorry. We have to put it away.” And I take the guitar.
Then it happened. This moment will never leave my memory. It is burned there forever.
Her face turned from sweet, to something that has been touched by evil. She went from being angelic to looking like a troll who had seen the dark side.
“Nooooo,” she cried. “I wants it! My precious. You’ve stolen my precious. Filthy parentses!”
As soon as she walked through the door, she started asking about the “pwesents”. She wanted them. Now. But mommy wouldn’t be home for another thirty minutes and I had to go pick up Matilda from an after school event.
We made dinner, picked up the older sister and keep Meemee and Grumpa happy. All the while Gertrude moved around the room like she had taken speed. She was blurry around the edges, frantic, babbling. Much like I am on the opening day of the Lord of the Rings movies.
We were finally done with dinner, which Gert barely touched in between asking about “pwesents”. We prepared the cake.
“Gasp! Choo choo trains!”
“Yes Gertrude. There are choo choo trains on the cake.”
“I eat them?”
“No, they’re plastic. But you can play with them later.”
So we light the candle and sing Happy Birthday to her, with blatant disregard for the royalties owed to the two little old ladies who wrote the song. She blows out her candle with the minimum amount of spit. We’re all very proud.
“I EAT IT!”
I take the trains off the cake. “Want to lick the icing off Gertrude?”
“Ewww. I not eat them. Plastic!” Duh, Daddy. What’s wrong with you.
She devours a huge piece of cake. Or, to be more exact, she reduces the piece of cake to a mixture of crumbs and icing that become imbedded in her ears and hair. We think some may have landed in her mouth.
And now . . . the presents.
She leaps down off of her booster chair and begins to run around in excitement. She makes random patterns in the kitchen while I go get the wrapped goodies.
She opens her first. A stuffed Dora. Seems decent. Plastic tools? Very cool. Wood puzzle with locks and latches? Also excellent, and stolen by her sister. Wiggles poster? Nice.
We get to one of the bigger presents. He sister begins to help her open it. She sees red. Her eyes widen and she claps. Then the Wiggles logo is revealed. Her clapping intensifies. Then, it is clear. It’s the Wiggles guitar. If you slow down the tape you can see her smile melt into a look of surprise and disbelief. And then her face explodes in joy, she squeals and her arms raise up in the air like her football team just scored the winning touchdown. “Yes,” she seemed to say, “it’s the present I’ve always wanted!”
For the next two hours she pressed buttons, strummed, bopped, danced, sang and pressed the Captain Feathersword button repeatedly so that his song on the guitar sounded as if it were recorded by Beck.
Finally, she wound down. We bathed her and then rocked her for bed. She wouldn’t let go of the guitar.
“It’s time for bed honey. We need to put the guitar away.”
“Noooooo.”
“I’m sorry. We have to put it away.” And I take the guitar.
Then it happened. This moment will never leave my memory. It is burned there forever.
Her face turned from sweet, to something that has been touched by evil. She went from being angelic to looking like a troll who had seen the dark side.
“Nooooo,” she cried. “I wants it! My precious. You’ve stolen my precious. Filthy parentses!”
Thursday, November 13, 2003
Veteran’s Day Update
A quick update on my comments regarding Veteran’s Day. I was not coming out against the idea of Veteran’s Day. What I was saying is the day that we set aside for it already had some meaning and power behind it. That we should set aside November 11 as a day to remember when a terrible and bloody war ended.
What I propose is that we start a new holiday for veterans that has some true meaning and weight behind it. Not just a day when banks close and the postman gets to watch Montel instead of doing his routes. Set aside a day that is devoted to talking to veterans, asking about their experiences, hearing their stories before the chapter on their life closes.
I have nothing against Veteran’s Day. I have nothing against veterans. I just want a day for them that means something to everyone, rather than a day that holds as much meaning for some people as Columbus day.
This is Brilliant
Outside the Inbox is a compilation of songs by Indie artists who took the subject line of a spam message and turned it into a song. And many of the songs are rather good.
Brilliant idea. Way to go Brad Sucks. I have a feeling your one man band might get a few one girl groupies out of this one.
Brilliant idea. Way to go Brad Sucks. I have a feeling your one man band might get a few one girl groupies out of this one.
A Nice Touch
As if it weren't enough that today is her birthday, little Gertrude serenaded me awake this morning with a song of her own composition.
It had a distinct melody, because she repeated it several times as I lay in bed and she patted me on the back.
“Daddy,” she sang, “I love you so much.”
I’ve returned all of her birthday presents and purchased her a private island in the Caribbean and her own space shuttle.
It had a distinct melody, because she repeated it several times as I lay in bed and she patted me on the back.
“Daddy,” she sang, “I love you so much.”
I’ve returned all of her birthday presents and purchased her a private island in the Caribbean and her own space shuttle.
Happy Birthday Little One
It’s hard to believe, but two years ago today my entire life changed in a way I never imagined possible.
I had already been a step-parent, officially, for two years. Longer if you count all the time Matilda and I spent together during the time I courted her mom. We were already an integrated family. My name had moved naturally from “Gary” to “Daddy Gary” to just plain “Daddy” without any input from either of us. After the wedding, even before, we had settled into the ease and chaos of a normal family.
Matilda had already managed to survive the first day of Kindergarten (I bawled like a baby when she got on the bus), and was freshly implanted in her first grade class.
When her mom told me she was pregnant (a fact it took my family a full thirty seconds to figure out thanks to a denied glass of wine), I was thrilled. Ecstatic. Terrified.
I was working for a company that had filed for bankruptcy. Out of 250 former employees, I was one of six working to close the place down. I felt like I had a knife to my throat. Here I was with a job that was soon ending, a six year old and a pregnant wife.
I threw myself into the pregnancy. I could smell my wife’s nausea. I could sense each new hormonal change.
“Did you hear that,” I asked.
“What?” she replied.
“I think you’re lactating.”
Eventually I transitioned from the dying job to a new, grotesquely high-paying job in the same relative industry. After the first two weeks I was miserable.
So I had come from facing unemployment to facing a life of indentured servitude to a job that filled me with dread, regret and a general gassy feeling. And there was a baby on the way!
The pregnancy went smoothly. The worst thing that happened was my wife’s frequent back aches and her newly discovered power of Super Smell. (“Sniff. You ate chicken at lunch, didn’t you? I think I’m going to puke.”)
We made it through everything together, as a family. Matilda and I hid when Mommy was emotional. We ate weird food and we all sat and dreamed about what this little mystery being would be like when it was finally born. We stared at the ultrasound pictures and thought, “Who will you be? Will you be smart? Will you be pretty? Will you be funny? Will you like music? Will you be a holy terror? Will you be an angel?”
Finally the day arrived. With a stunning alacrity that would foreshadow her energy and zest for life, little Gertrude was born.
After she was born, I was the first to hold her. This little, perfect human being in my arms had just provided me with the most exhilarating moment of my life. I looked into her big blue eyes and knew, from that moment on, I was lost. Between her and her older sister I knew what the future held: Credit Cards, trips to Disney World, books, movies, clothes, cars, villas on the French Riviera, my little girls would have anything they would want.
On our first day home, watching Mom and baby sleeping soundly in each other’s arms, I knew what I had to do. What I had to be.
Without looking back, I threw myself into being a Dad. Not just any Dad, but Gertrude and Matilda’s dad. And without a shred of regret, rather, filled with pride and happiness, I have dedicated myself to that task. I think I’m doing pretty well.
And now my little baby is two. She’s walking, talking, joking, playing and loving like a little human. She’s smart, she’s funny, she’s pretty, she’s a holy terror, she’s an angel, she likes music. She’s everything I ever imagined and more.
Each day her little face greets me with a lust for life that I wish I could tap into. She soaks up new information like Richard Feynman on crack. She inspires me every day.
But what I am most in awe of, what I take the most pride in is her relationship with her big sister. Matilda is the epitome of an older sibling. She’s doting, loving, tender and provides a guiding hand for her impatient little sister. Gertrude imitates her. She follows her and tries to be involved at every turn of Matilda’s life. Sometimes, when I find them sitting in Matilda’s room playing, I’m filled with such a feeling of love that I want to scoop them both up and hug them.
Happy Birthday little one. I hope this universe is everything you want it to be. I hope that you are always adventurous and curious enough to discover those things you don’t know and wise enough to share what you do know. I am amazed by you every time I look at you. And I thank you for the things you’ve taught me, without even trying.
Just remember, though you may hate me someday for all the right reasons, I’m always here. At a moment’s notice I’ll be at your side to comfort you. And know that I am always ready to back off and let you learn life’s little lessons on your own.
But at every turn, at every moment always know that I have been and always shall be your daddy. And you will always be my little girl.
Go to sleep and hush little darling.
It's time for bed, time to put out the light.
Sweet dreams are awaiting behind your closed eyes
and a blanket of night.
Where the bed bugs don't bite.
Go to sleep and hush until morning.
You've said all your prayers.
Time to make them come true.
Don't worry your daddy is here
If you need him tonight.
Ease your mind.
Rest your eyes and sleep tight.
Goodnight.
--Roger Manning
I had already been a step-parent, officially, for two years. Longer if you count all the time Matilda and I spent together during the time I courted her mom. We were already an integrated family. My name had moved naturally from “Gary” to “Daddy Gary” to just plain “Daddy” without any input from either of us. After the wedding, even before, we had settled into the ease and chaos of a normal family.
Matilda had already managed to survive the first day of Kindergarten (I bawled like a baby when she got on the bus), and was freshly implanted in her first grade class.
When her mom told me she was pregnant (a fact it took my family a full thirty seconds to figure out thanks to a denied glass of wine), I was thrilled. Ecstatic. Terrified.
I was working for a company that had filed for bankruptcy. Out of 250 former employees, I was one of six working to close the place down. I felt like I had a knife to my throat. Here I was with a job that was soon ending, a six year old and a pregnant wife.
I threw myself into the pregnancy. I could smell my wife’s nausea. I could sense each new hormonal change.
“Did you hear that,” I asked.
“What?” she replied.
“I think you’re lactating.”
Eventually I transitioned from the dying job to a new, grotesquely high-paying job in the same relative industry. After the first two weeks I was miserable.
So I had come from facing unemployment to facing a life of indentured servitude to a job that filled me with dread, regret and a general gassy feeling. And there was a baby on the way!
The pregnancy went smoothly. The worst thing that happened was my wife’s frequent back aches and her newly discovered power of Super Smell. (“Sniff. You ate chicken at lunch, didn’t you? I think I’m going to puke.”)
We made it through everything together, as a family. Matilda and I hid when Mommy was emotional. We ate weird food and we all sat and dreamed about what this little mystery being would be like when it was finally born. We stared at the ultrasound pictures and thought, “Who will you be? Will you be smart? Will you be pretty? Will you be funny? Will you like music? Will you be a holy terror? Will you be an angel?”
Finally the day arrived. With a stunning alacrity that would foreshadow her energy and zest for life, little Gertrude was born.
After she was born, I was the first to hold her. This little, perfect human being in my arms had just provided me with the most exhilarating moment of my life. I looked into her big blue eyes and knew, from that moment on, I was lost. Between her and her older sister I knew what the future held: Credit Cards, trips to Disney World, books, movies, clothes, cars, villas on the French Riviera, my little girls would have anything they would want.
On our first day home, watching Mom and baby sleeping soundly in each other’s arms, I knew what I had to do. What I had to be.
Without looking back, I threw myself into being a Dad. Not just any Dad, but Gertrude and Matilda’s dad. And without a shred of regret, rather, filled with pride and happiness, I have dedicated myself to that task. I think I’m doing pretty well.
And now my little baby is two. She’s walking, talking, joking, playing and loving like a little human. She’s smart, she’s funny, she’s pretty, she’s a holy terror, she’s an angel, she likes music. She’s everything I ever imagined and more.
Each day her little face greets me with a lust for life that I wish I could tap into. She soaks up new information like Richard Feynman on crack. She inspires me every day.
But what I am most in awe of, what I take the most pride in is her relationship with her big sister. Matilda is the epitome of an older sibling. She’s doting, loving, tender and provides a guiding hand for her impatient little sister. Gertrude imitates her. She follows her and tries to be involved at every turn of Matilda’s life. Sometimes, when I find them sitting in Matilda’s room playing, I’m filled with such a feeling of love that I want to scoop them both up and hug them.
Happy Birthday little one. I hope this universe is everything you want it to be. I hope that you are always adventurous and curious enough to discover those things you don’t know and wise enough to share what you do know. I am amazed by you every time I look at you. And I thank you for the things you’ve taught me, without even trying.
Just remember, though you may hate me someday for all the right reasons, I’m always here. At a moment’s notice I’ll be at your side to comfort you. And know that I am always ready to back off and let you learn life’s little lessons on your own.
But at every turn, at every moment always know that I have been and always shall be your daddy. And you will always be my little girl.
Go to sleep and hush little darling.
It's time for bed, time to put out the light.
Sweet dreams are awaiting behind your closed eyes
and a blanket of night.
Where the bed bugs don't bite.
Go to sleep and hush until morning.
You've said all your prayers.
Time to make them come true.
Don't worry your daddy is here
If you need him tonight.
Ease your mind.
Rest your eyes and sleep tight.
Goodnight.
--Roger Manning
Wednesday, November 12, 2003
To the Googler
Who just hit my site with the search "become a porkchop", I have to ask . . . WHAT?
Why in the world would you even have that thought? What is wrong with you?
True, I was disturbed by the search for "Babies Wearing Glasses Photos", amused by "Dukes of Hazard Heat Transfer" and thoroughly disgusted by "Breastfeeding Public Urination" (huh?).
But "Become a Porkchop"? What possesses someone to look for that? What was going through your head when you came up with that one?
Fool.
Why in the world would you even have that thought? What is wrong with you?
True, I was disturbed by the search for "Babies Wearing Glasses Photos", amused by "Dukes of Hazard Heat Transfer" and thoroughly disgusted by "Breastfeeding Public Urination" (huh?).
But "Become a Porkchop"? What possesses someone to look for that? What was going through your head when you came up with that one?
Fool.
I Neezin'
Last week, I was driving Matilda home from a school activity and suddenly, without warning, her allergies kicked in and there was a rapid fire sneezing fit. Sixteen sneezes in a row. I called Guinness and we need six more for the world record.
Gertrude, not wanting to be left out in the expulsion of bodily fluids, decided to sneeze as well. “Achoo,” says the little voice in the back seat.
“No sneezing,” I say.
“Achoo,” answers the tiny, cute voice.
“Oh jeez,” says the bitter, uber-cool sister.
“Don’t deny her the game of no sneezing,” I say.
“Achoo,” says the tiny voice.
“I can be cute too, I just choose not to be,” says the now blasé big sister.
Now, whenever I want to get one to say “Achoo” and the other to say, “Shut up!” I just say, “No sneezing.” (there were more instances of the word “say” on that sentence than in all of the Michael Jackson/Paul McCartney crapfest, “Say Say Say”.)
Right now there’s a little bitterness in the house, stemming from Matilda’s age and Gertrude’s need for attention. It’s hard to explain why it’s cute when a two year old comes running into the room naked declaring that she is a monkey and simply disturbing when an eight year old does the same thing.
And wholly different when it’s an adult female. But we won’t go there.
Gertrude, not wanting to be left out in the expulsion of bodily fluids, decided to sneeze as well. “Achoo,” says the little voice in the back seat.
“No sneezing,” I say.
“Achoo,” answers the tiny, cute voice.
“Oh jeez,” says the bitter, uber-cool sister.
“Don’t deny her the game of no sneezing,” I say.
“Achoo,” says the tiny voice.
“I can be cute too, I just choose not to be,” says the now blasé big sister.
Now, whenever I want to get one to say “Achoo” and the other to say, “Shut up!” I just say, “No sneezing.” (there were more instances of the word “say” on that sentence than in all of the Michael Jackson/Paul McCartney crapfest, “Say Say Say”.)
Right now there’s a little bitterness in the house, stemming from Matilda’s age and Gertrude’s need for attention. It’s hard to explain why it’s cute when a two year old comes running into the room naked declaring that she is a monkey and simply disturbing when an eight year old does the same thing.
And wholly different when it’s an adult female. But we won’t go there.
Tuesday, November 11, 2003
Veteran’s Day
Subtitle: (What’s So Funny ‘Bout) Peace, Love and Understanding.
And, what’s funny is, that I’m just saying that I like it. Nothing deeper than that.
Today is Veteran’s Day (formerly Armistice Day). The day when the bank is closed, you can’t fix your traffic ticket and no mail arrives. What I think we all consider a major inconvenience. Because, after all, our National Holidays can’t have any other deeper meaning.
But, to me at least, a day set aside for the Veterans has no meaning. It’s an arbitrary day that no one notices and no one acknowledges. Even if we did, however, we’d still just use it as an excuse to sear animal flesh and consume libations.
Worse still, Veteran’s Day has replaced a day that had significance. Armistice Day. The day marking the end of WWI. That had meaning, but instead we grafted on an artifice honoring all veterans. Could you imagine if we turned Pearl Harbor Day into a day to commemorate all people who lost their lives as the result of a surprise attack? What meaning does that have?
None. It does nothing to remember the actual acts and sacrifices of veterans. So I suggest that we find a new day to commemorate all Veterans’ contributions to our lives. A day where any man and woman who served in a war gets the day off. People come over and clean their house, balance their checkbook, make dinner for them. Do whatever they need to have done. Better yet, ask them about their war experience. Because after being shot at, or worse, I think you deserve one day a year, for the rest of your life, to sit in peace and quiet and not have to worry about anything.
But that’s just me. I’ll keep Armistice Day. Not because I don’t believe Veteran’s Day is worthy. It just shouldn’t be today. Today we should stop and remember a moment when human beings managed to stop killing each other.
Below is the text of an email I’ve been sending out every year since I’ve had access to email. It reminds us what today is really about. Consequently, it was written by Kurt Vonnegut. Oddly enough, today is also his birthday. He is a veteran as well. And a former German prisoner of war from WWII.
“So this book is a sidewalk strewn with junk, trash which I throw over my shoulders as I travel in time to November eleventh, nineteen hundred and twenty-two.
“I will come to a time in my backwards trip when November eleventh, accidentally my birthday, was a sacred day called Armistice Day. When I was a boy, all the people of all the nations which had fought in the First World War were silent during the eleventh minute of the eleventh hour of Armistice Day, which was the eleventh day of the eleventh month.
“It was during that minute in nineteen hundred and eighteen, that millions upon millions of human beings stopped butchering one and another. I have talked to old men who were on battlefields during that minute. They have told me in one way or another that the sudden silence was the voice of God. So we still have among us some men who can remember when God spoke clearly to mankind.
“Armistice Day has become Veterans' Day. Armistice Day was sacred. Veterans' day is not.
“So I will throw Veterans' Day over my shoulder. Armistice Day I will keep. I don't want to throw away any sacred things.
“What else is sacred? Oh, Romeo and Juliet, for instance.
“And all music is.”
To that I will add the following piece of Vonnegut’s. This comes from his classic novel Slaughter-House Five. At this moment, Billy Pilgrim has come unstuck in time and views a war movie in reverse. It’s a misguided hope, of sorts. Because I still believe that peace and prosperity are a possibility. I, too, am a fool.
"American planes, full of holes and wounded men and corpses took off backwards from an airfield in England. Over France, a few German fighter plans flew at them backwards, sucked bullets and shell fragments from some of the planes and crewmen. They did the same for wrecked American bombers on the ground, and those planes flew up backwards to join the formation.
"The formation flew backwards over a German city that was in flames. The bombers opened their bomb bay doors, exerted a miraculous magnetism which shrunk the fires, gathered them into cylindrical steel containers, and lifted the containers into the bellies of the planes. The containers were stored neatly in racks. The Germans below had miraculous devices of their own, which were long steel tubes. They used them to suck more fragments from the crewmen and planes. But there were still a few wounded Americans, though, and some of the bombers were in bad repair. Over France, though, German fighters came up again, made everything and everybody as good as new.
"When the bombers got back to their base, the steel cylinders were taken from the racks and shipped back to the United States of America, where factories were operating night and day, dismantling the cylinders, separating the dangerous contents into minerals. Touchingly, it was mainly women who did this work. The minerals were then shipped to specialists in remote areas. It was their business to put them into the ground, to hide them cleverly, so they would never hurt anybody ever again.
"The American fliers turned in their uniforms, became high school kids. And Hitler turned into a baby, Billy Pilgrim supposed. That wasn't in the movie. Billy was extrapolating. Everybody turned into a baby, and all humanity, without exception, conspired biologically to produce two perfect people named Adam and Eve, he supposed."
Happy Armistice Day.
And, what’s funny is, that I’m just saying that I like it. Nothing deeper than that.
Today is Veteran’s Day (formerly Armistice Day). The day when the bank is closed, you can’t fix your traffic ticket and no mail arrives. What I think we all consider a major inconvenience. Because, after all, our National Holidays can’t have any other deeper meaning.
But, to me at least, a day set aside for the Veterans has no meaning. It’s an arbitrary day that no one notices and no one acknowledges. Even if we did, however, we’d still just use it as an excuse to sear animal flesh and consume libations.
Worse still, Veteran’s Day has replaced a day that had significance. Armistice Day. The day marking the end of WWI. That had meaning, but instead we grafted on an artifice honoring all veterans. Could you imagine if we turned Pearl Harbor Day into a day to commemorate all people who lost their lives as the result of a surprise attack? What meaning does that have?
None. It does nothing to remember the actual acts and sacrifices of veterans. So I suggest that we find a new day to commemorate all Veterans’ contributions to our lives. A day where any man and woman who served in a war gets the day off. People come over and clean their house, balance their checkbook, make dinner for them. Do whatever they need to have done. Better yet, ask them about their war experience. Because after being shot at, or worse, I think you deserve one day a year, for the rest of your life, to sit in peace and quiet and not have to worry about anything.
But that’s just me. I’ll keep Armistice Day. Not because I don’t believe Veteran’s Day is worthy. It just shouldn’t be today. Today we should stop and remember a moment when human beings managed to stop killing each other.
Below is the text of an email I’ve been sending out every year since I’ve had access to email. It reminds us what today is really about. Consequently, it was written by Kurt Vonnegut. Oddly enough, today is also his birthday. He is a veteran as well. And a former German prisoner of war from WWII.
“So this book is a sidewalk strewn with junk, trash which I throw over my shoulders as I travel in time to November eleventh, nineteen hundred and twenty-two.
“I will come to a time in my backwards trip when November eleventh, accidentally my birthday, was a sacred day called Armistice Day. When I was a boy, all the people of all the nations which had fought in the First World War were silent during the eleventh minute of the eleventh hour of Armistice Day, which was the eleventh day of the eleventh month.
“It was during that minute in nineteen hundred and eighteen, that millions upon millions of human beings stopped butchering one and another. I have talked to old men who were on battlefields during that minute. They have told me in one way or another that the sudden silence was the voice of God. So we still have among us some men who can remember when God spoke clearly to mankind.
“Armistice Day has become Veterans' Day. Armistice Day was sacred. Veterans' day is not.
“So I will throw Veterans' Day over my shoulder. Armistice Day I will keep. I don't want to throw away any sacred things.
“What else is sacred? Oh, Romeo and Juliet, for instance.
“And all music is.”
To that I will add the following piece of Vonnegut’s. This comes from his classic novel Slaughter-House Five. At this moment, Billy Pilgrim has come unstuck in time and views a war movie in reverse. It’s a misguided hope, of sorts. Because I still believe that peace and prosperity are a possibility. I, too, am a fool.
"American planes, full of holes and wounded men and corpses took off backwards from an airfield in England. Over France, a few German fighter plans flew at them backwards, sucked bullets and shell fragments from some of the planes and crewmen. They did the same for wrecked American bombers on the ground, and those planes flew up backwards to join the formation.
"The formation flew backwards over a German city that was in flames. The bombers opened their bomb bay doors, exerted a miraculous magnetism which shrunk the fires, gathered them into cylindrical steel containers, and lifted the containers into the bellies of the planes. The containers were stored neatly in racks. The Germans below had miraculous devices of their own, which were long steel tubes. They used them to suck more fragments from the crewmen and planes. But there were still a few wounded Americans, though, and some of the bombers were in bad repair. Over France, though, German fighters came up again, made everything and everybody as good as new.
"When the bombers got back to their base, the steel cylinders were taken from the racks and shipped back to the United States of America, where factories were operating night and day, dismantling the cylinders, separating the dangerous contents into minerals. Touchingly, it was mainly women who did this work. The minerals were then shipped to specialists in remote areas. It was their business to put them into the ground, to hide them cleverly, so they would never hurt anybody ever again.
"The American fliers turned in their uniforms, became high school kids. And Hitler turned into a baby, Billy Pilgrim supposed. That wasn't in the movie. Billy was extrapolating. Everybody turned into a baby, and all humanity, without exception, conspired biologically to produce two perfect people named Adam and Eve, he supposed."
Happy Armistice Day.
Monday, November 10, 2003
Proof of the decline of Western Civiliation #3,209
It's apparently the Amazing Toilet Cleaning Sex Toy.
Did the advertisers not look at that picture on the left? Did they not notice the shape?
"Foaming Action Right Where You Need It"?
(Via Dave Barry)
Did the advertisers not look at that picture on the left? Did they not notice the shape?
"Foaming Action Right Where You Need It"?
(Via Dave Barry)
New! Fresh!
Since we moved in the house Gertrude’s room has had this awful ceiling fan, of a color that is so disturbing that it can only be referred to as “brown”. The lights on the fan hung down like limp, dead arms. You might as well have given the kid a padded cell with a bare light bulb hanging down.
When one of the light bulbs fell out (literally, the bulb separated from the metal connector that is screwed into the socket), we decided that, perhaps, it as time to take the damned thing down.
As Gertrude would say when she encounters a situation she finds particularly vexing, “Problem!”
Despite the fact that I’ve watched at least two full half hour programs on home improvement, I do not have the skill to remove and replace an electrical fixture. You see, I’m an idiot when it comes to this.
So, I made the best preparations I could. I donned a rubber suit and handed my wife a two-by-four. “If anything happens,” I said, “Hit me with this.” Shortly there after, I lost consciousness.
When I awoke I saw my wife standing above me, with the two-by-four. “I saw a spider,” she said, as I rubbed the welt on my head.
Seriously, I called my friend Mike over and he helped me out. Or, to be exact, I made him do the dangerous stuff and I watched, shouting encouragement.
“That’s the live wire! I think. Why don’t you lick it and see if it is. I think I shut off the power. Stick it in your ear and see what happens.”
Despite my input, the switching of fixtures went smoothly and Gertrude now has a new light in her room. No more ceiling fan hung just above decapitation height.
“New, fresh light,” Gertrude exclaimed.
“Yes. Mike put it in.”
“Thanks Mike! New fresh light!”
When one of the light bulbs fell out (literally, the bulb separated from the metal connector that is screwed into the socket), we decided that, perhaps, it as time to take the damned thing down.
As Gertrude would say when she encounters a situation she finds particularly vexing, “Problem!”
Despite the fact that I’ve watched at least two full half hour programs on home improvement, I do not have the skill to remove and replace an electrical fixture. You see, I’m an idiot when it comes to this.
So, I made the best preparations I could. I donned a rubber suit and handed my wife a two-by-four. “If anything happens,” I said, “Hit me with this.” Shortly there after, I lost consciousness.
When I awoke I saw my wife standing above me, with the two-by-four. “I saw a spider,” she said, as I rubbed the welt on my head.
Seriously, I called my friend Mike over and he helped me out. Or, to be exact, I made him do the dangerous stuff and I watched, shouting encouragement.
“That’s the live wire! I think. Why don’t you lick it and see if it is. I think I shut off the power. Stick it in your ear and see what happens.”
Despite my input, the switching of fixtures went smoothly and Gertrude now has a new light in her room. No more ceiling fan hung just above decapitation height.
“New, fresh light,” Gertrude exclaimed.
“Yes. Mike put it in.”
“Thanks Mike! New fresh light!”
Thursday, November 06, 2003
Klaus? Klaus? The Pinata’s Drooping.
Sorry. I had to do that. I’m easily distracted these days. So, try not to bail on me as I run through random thought theater.
Thought I’d catch you up on the growth and development of the baby. Next week, this little hobbit turns two. Which is amazing, considering it feels like she just debuted a mere week ago. But, two years. Wow.
However, this morning Gert’s cuteness hit an all-time perplexing level.
I was out late last night and managed to somehow disengage the alarm clock so that we over slept. By disengage I mean “broke” and by overslept, I mean “still didn’t bother to get out of bed when everyone else got up.”
Gertrude came into the room when Mom went into the shower.
“I want Oatmeal,” she says.
“Now?”
I want Oatmeal,” she repeats. Her eyes were sad and she was standing there in her jammies looking all cute.
“Okay,” I said. "Let me put some water on."
So I go into the kitchen and put the kettle on and grab a packet of instant oatmeal.
“I want Oatmeal,” Gertrude says again. Now her voice is trembling and her eyes look a little misty.
“I’m working on it. The water has to boil.”
“Now!”
“Look, I have to get it up to 212 degrees and it’s about ten in here this morning. Give me time.”
She starts to fuss and wander around, muttering like a wino looking for a bottle of mad dog.
I take the water off the stove and mix up a packet of oatmeal. All the time I keep thinking, “Damn, she must really be hungry.” I sit her down in her chair, hand her a spoon.
She looks at me, confused. “I want OATMEAL,” she says with a new urgency.
“That is OATMEAL,” I answer, getting irritated. After all, I’ve been up for a full three minutes.
“I want Oatmeal.”
“Then eat the oatmeal,” I say, pushing the bowl towards her.
“No want it! I want Oatmeal.”
I’m thoroughly confused now. So the fight really begins. We start haggling over the oatmeal. She’s crying, I’m threatening to take her out of my will unless she eats the food she requested. It’s like watching a presidential debate and we’re discussing fuzzy math and intelligence failures. We both have throbbing veins in our foreheads.
“I want OATMEAL,” she screams.
Mom walks in and hands Gert a tiny stuffed dog. “Here you go honey.” And then she’s gone.
“Oatmeal,” squeals Gertrude. Smiling she jumps off the chair and goes rambling after mom.
And there I stand in the kitchen, confused, cold and alone.
What the hell just happened? What was going on?
Oatmeal is a flippin’ dog?
Why am I always the last to know?
I'm going back to bed.
Thought I’d catch you up on the growth and development of the baby. Next week, this little hobbit turns two. Which is amazing, considering it feels like she just debuted a mere week ago. But, two years. Wow.
However, this morning Gert’s cuteness hit an all-time perplexing level.
I was out late last night and managed to somehow disengage the alarm clock so that we over slept. By disengage I mean “broke” and by overslept, I mean “still didn’t bother to get out of bed when everyone else got up.”
Gertrude came into the room when Mom went into the shower.
“I want Oatmeal,” she says.
“Now?”
I want Oatmeal,” she repeats. Her eyes were sad and she was standing there in her jammies looking all cute.
“Okay,” I said. "Let me put some water on."
So I go into the kitchen and put the kettle on and grab a packet of instant oatmeal.
“I want Oatmeal,” Gertrude says again. Now her voice is trembling and her eyes look a little misty.
“I’m working on it. The water has to boil.”
“Now!”
“Look, I have to get it up to 212 degrees and it’s about ten in here this morning. Give me time.”
She starts to fuss and wander around, muttering like a wino looking for a bottle of mad dog.
I take the water off the stove and mix up a packet of oatmeal. All the time I keep thinking, “Damn, she must really be hungry.” I sit her down in her chair, hand her a spoon.
She looks at me, confused. “I want OATMEAL,” she says with a new urgency.
“That is OATMEAL,” I answer, getting irritated. After all, I’ve been up for a full three minutes.
“I want Oatmeal.”
“Then eat the oatmeal,” I say, pushing the bowl towards her.
“No want it! I want Oatmeal.”
I’m thoroughly confused now. So the fight really begins. We start haggling over the oatmeal. She’s crying, I’m threatening to take her out of my will unless she eats the food she requested. It’s like watching a presidential debate and we’re discussing fuzzy math and intelligence failures. We both have throbbing veins in our foreheads.
“I want OATMEAL,” she screams.
Mom walks in and hands Gert a tiny stuffed dog. “Here you go honey.” And then she’s gone.
“Oatmeal,” squeals Gertrude. Smiling she jumps off the chair and goes rambling after mom.
And there I stand in the kitchen, confused, cold and alone.
What the hell just happened? What was going on?
Oatmeal is a flippin’ dog?
Why am I always the last to know?
I'm going back to bed.
Wednesday, November 05, 2003
Ryan Says I Can’t
Ryan says I can’t put Hyper Milk in my coffee because it will kill me. Or make me sleepy. I suppose he’s right. Maybe. Can I trust a guy who decided to skip a party because a new episode of Star Trek was on?
Probably, because I agreed with him.
But, he and I also used to arrange donuts on a table and then eat them all in an hour. All in the name of Twin Peaks.
Ah. Most people have what they call “Salad Days”. I have “Donut Days”. And they were good. And artery clogging.
I like them.
I had started a big post on something, got about three sentences in and I got forty work related emails all on the same subject. Am now diffusing a non-situation that everyone is worked up about.
Funniest thing I heard yesterday that I wish I wrote:
“Klaus? Klaus? The piñata’s drooping.”
Probably, because I agreed with him.
But, he and I also used to arrange donuts on a table and then eat them all in an hour. All in the name of Twin Peaks.
Ah. Most people have what they call “Salad Days”. I have “Donut Days”. And they were good. And artery clogging.
I like them.
I had started a big post on something, got about three sentences in and I got forty work related emails all on the same subject. Am now diffusing a non-situation that everyone is worked up about.
Funniest thing I heard yesterday that I wish I wrote:
“Klaus? Klaus? The piñata’s drooping.”
Tuesday, November 04, 2003
Time Has You
As time moves on your circle of the universe constantly expands and contracts. You meet new people, give birth, lose friends, lose touch with people, people die.
That latter has happened to me. This past Sunday my Uncle George O’Brien passed away.
I was not particularly close to Uncle George. By the time I came along, as a straggler in the O’Brien family, Uncle George was already a grandfather and I ended up palling around with his granddaughters. As a youth, he was always an enigmatic character with snowy white hair and a very distinguished manner. He looked vaguely like my late father, but had different mannerisms and characteristics.
I knew that my mother originally had a crush on George O’Brien. Strike that. She was completely taken with him. He was dashing. When she was still in high school, he was in the Navy in World War II. What could be dreamier to a 14 year old than a war hero?
I don’t know if he was a war hero or not. However, I do know that upon his return from the war he was sleeping in the second floor room he shared with my dad. It was near the Fourth of July and George was still a little bit edgy from his time in combat. While they slept fireworks sounded in the distance.
My father heard a rustle at the window and saw his older brother climbing out. George was still fast asleep. The sounds of the exploding fireworks triggered a reflex in which he needed to abandon ship.
Keep in mind; I heard this story from my mother, who heard it from my father, who was an unreliable story teller. However, I’d like to think it is true. Because an image like that deserves to exist. It’s a semi-funny, semi-sad tale. One that marks a life that was interesting.
As I grew up I started to admire Uncle George more. But not in the typical “uncle” way, where he took you to amusement parks or gave you candy. Rather, it was simply sitting down and talking with George that was exciting. Any opportunity you could find to listen to him tell you stories about his life, your parents, your grandparents, your great-grandparents was not taken lightly. You sat and listened as he spoon-fed you the sort of amazing details that you’d expect from a Raymond Chandler narration.
I always assumed that Uncle George’s stories were on the level. That all of those details were the absolute truth. He had the face of a man you could trust. And the voice of authority. But upon reflection, he had a twinkle in his eye that I recognize as a family trait. That twinkle that tells you that you may be entering into uncharted territory.
I know his stories were all based on fact, at least. But he may have embellished a little bit for dramatic effect. Which is just fine by me.
What strikes me about the death of Uncle George is that my last and final direct connection with my father’s family is gone. We had all talked about visiting him, talking again. But we had drifted. And now that last and final link is gone.
True, all of my cousins are still around. But what’s missing is the person who knew my parents growing up. Who could describe for me the way my grandfather would walk to work in the snow, no matter what the danger. Someone who could describe the childhood that formed my father, which in turn, shaped my own life.
There may be one aunt who is still alive. But we don’t know for sure. She disappeared years ago. So my last known link is gone. It seems very strange.
And perhaps old-fashioned. Is it because I am male that a connection to my father’s family is so important? That I feel that I need that in order to prove who I am? Or is it like seeking the source of a stream?
Or is it because my father died when I was so young that anything connected with him is something I grasp at to prove to myself that he did, in fact, exist.
Things like this get me thinking about life. In kind of a sixth grad sort of a way, honestly. Who will come to my funeral? I wonder.
I have my family. So some of them can be counted on, depending on when I die. My kids, of course. A few friends I’ve worked with over the years . . .
Friends. Well, I have one childhood friend I’m in contact with. He helped me install a light last night. Assuming he doesn’t do himself in by ramming his car into a stationary object, as is his habit, he’ll be there. I have some friends on either coast that I know will come. And that’s about it. I have some other friends, but none of those easy relationships (like with the coastals) that just exist. All my other friends require work. I have to work to convince them to communicate, massage and stroke the friendship until it works for them.
So how big is my circle exactly? I’m not sure. If you count miles between each person it’s pretty big. From Bend, Oregon to Boston, Massachusetts.
I do remember once when I had a large circle of friends. Recently found out that they liked me more when I was depressed than when I was happy. Gee, thanks. Glad my welfare is so high on your list of priorities.
It makes me wonder. Should I be more open and outgoing? Or am I satisfied with the status quo, circlewise?
I do kind of dig the status quo. The friends I have are the type that will drink coffee with me at the age of 80 and our families will meet up for vacations. And I’m pretty lucky to have the friends that I have.
Still, makes you wonder. When you’re gone, what sort of impact will you leave? Will you be a tiny blip? Or will you leave a lasting impact?
That latter has happened to me. This past Sunday my Uncle George O’Brien passed away.
I was not particularly close to Uncle George. By the time I came along, as a straggler in the O’Brien family, Uncle George was already a grandfather and I ended up palling around with his granddaughters. As a youth, he was always an enigmatic character with snowy white hair and a very distinguished manner. He looked vaguely like my late father, but had different mannerisms and characteristics.
I knew that my mother originally had a crush on George O’Brien. Strike that. She was completely taken with him. He was dashing. When she was still in high school, he was in the Navy in World War II. What could be dreamier to a 14 year old than a war hero?
I don’t know if he was a war hero or not. However, I do know that upon his return from the war he was sleeping in the second floor room he shared with my dad. It was near the Fourth of July and George was still a little bit edgy from his time in combat. While they slept fireworks sounded in the distance.
My father heard a rustle at the window and saw his older brother climbing out. George was still fast asleep. The sounds of the exploding fireworks triggered a reflex in which he needed to abandon ship.
Keep in mind; I heard this story from my mother, who heard it from my father, who was an unreliable story teller. However, I’d like to think it is true. Because an image like that deserves to exist. It’s a semi-funny, semi-sad tale. One that marks a life that was interesting.
As I grew up I started to admire Uncle George more. But not in the typical “uncle” way, where he took you to amusement parks or gave you candy. Rather, it was simply sitting down and talking with George that was exciting. Any opportunity you could find to listen to him tell you stories about his life, your parents, your grandparents, your great-grandparents was not taken lightly. You sat and listened as he spoon-fed you the sort of amazing details that you’d expect from a Raymond Chandler narration.
I always assumed that Uncle George’s stories were on the level. That all of those details were the absolute truth. He had the face of a man you could trust. And the voice of authority. But upon reflection, he had a twinkle in his eye that I recognize as a family trait. That twinkle that tells you that you may be entering into uncharted territory.
I know his stories were all based on fact, at least. But he may have embellished a little bit for dramatic effect. Which is just fine by me.
What strikes me about the death of Uncle George is that my last and final direct connection with my father’s family is gone. We had all talked about visiting him, talking again. But we had drifted. And now that last and final link is gone.
True, all of my cousins are still around. But what’s missing is the person who knew my parents growing up. Who could describe for me the way my grandfather would walk to work in the snow, no matter what the danger. Someone who could describe the childhood that formed my father, which in turn, shaped my own life.
There may be one aunt who is still alive. But we don’t know for sure. She disappeared years ago. So my last known link is gone. It seems very strange.
And perhaps old-fashioned. Is it because I am male that a connection to my father’s family is so important? That I feel that I need that in order to prove who I am? Or is it like seeking the source of a stream?
Or is it because my father died when I was so young that anything connected with him is something I grasp at to prove to myself that he did, in fact, exist.
Things like this get me thinking about life. In kind of a sixth grad sort of a way, honestly. Who will come to my funeral? I wonder.
I have my family. So some of them can be counted on, depending on when I die. My kids, of course. A few friends I’ve worked with over the years . . .
Friends. Well, I have one childhood friend I’m in contact with. He helped me install a light last night. Assuming he doesn’t do himself in by ramming his car into a stationary object, as is his habit, he’ll be there. I have some friends on either coast that I know will come. And that’s about it. I have some other friends, but none of those easy relationships (like with the coastals) that just exist. All my other friends require work. I have to work to convince them to communicate, massage and stroke the friendship until it works for them.
So how big is my circle exactly? I’m not sure. If you count miles between each person it’s pretty big. From Bend, Oregon to Boston, Massachusetts.
I do remember once when I had a large circle of friends. Recently found out that they liked me more when I was depressed than when I was happy. Gee, thanks. Glad my welfare is so high on your list of priorities.
It makes me wonder. Should I be more open and outgoing? Or am I satisfied with the status quo, circlewise?
I do kind of dig the status quo. The friends I have are the type that will drink coffee with me at the age of 80 and our families will meet up for vacations. And I’m pretty lucky to have the friends that I have.
Still, makes you wonder. When you’re gone, what sort of impact will you leave? Will you be a tiny blip? Or will you leave a lasting impact?
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