As I sit here researching websites for departments of Parks & Recreation from across the country (mind-numbing doesn’t begin to describe it) I had to do something.
Right now I’m grooving to a collection of Stax/Volt singles from 1968 – 1971. And damn I feel cool. It’s like Steve Cropper and Donald “Duck” Dunn are sitting right next to me egging me on. Isaac Hayes is right here with me and each time I find a good site Isaac says, “Now THAT’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout!”
You’re looking at me funny. I can tell.
Okay, Stax/Volt was THE best soul label on Earth. Was and always will be.
But what about Motown, you say? Screw Motown. Sure, they could produce some killer singles and the Holland/Dozier/Holland songs are a wonderful contribution to the world of music and rank right up there with the Brill Building days of pop, but much of the music is so . . . bland. (You thought I was going to say white, didn’t you?)
Stax/Volt music was sexy, hot and energetic. And Rare Earth didn’t record for them.
I’m sitting here listening to the likes of Eddie Floyd, The Bar-Kays, Rufus Thomas, John Lee Hooker, Albert King, Booker T and the MGs, The Mar-Keys, Delaney and Bonnie, Dino and Doc, The Mad Lads and so much more.
Sweet. Between the groove of Booker T and the MGs’ rhythm track and the balls of The Memphis Horns’ . . . um . . . horns, I am just cookin’.
But it just makes me want my own horn section.
Thursday, July 31, 2003
Give It To Me Straight, Doc
I went to the doctor yesterday for my usual yearly physical where I’m poked and prodded and made to feel like a cooking ham.
We went through the usual rigormarol of discussing my health.
Do you wheeze?
No.
Do you have chest pains?
Only when I’m panicking.
When are you panicking?
Always.
Does your stomach hurt?
No. Unless I forget to take my Prilosec. Then it burns like Kuwait in 1991.
Do you have rectal polyps?
What? No. I mean, I haven’t looked. I can’t see.
Have you ever bled out of your eyes?
Um . . . no.
Woken up with a strange metal object in your nose?
Huh? Well, the baby shoved a spoon up there once. But I woke up immediately.
Do you experience periods of missing time or repeated moments?
Not that I’m aware of.
Do you experience periods of missing time or repeated moments?
Funny.
Do you exhibit any signs of stigmata or other religious phenomena including, but not limited to, birth marks in the shape of any deity, demagogue or dead pop star?
Not that I’m aware of. Though this freckle sometimes resembles Dion.
Dion isn’t dead.
Oh. Nevermind.
So, we’re gong through the usual discussion of my health and I joke that if I just stop taking heroin I’d be fine.
“You’re not addicted to heroin,” he says matter of factly.
How do you know?
“Heroin addicts aren’t chubby.”
Oh. Turns out I have to lose weight. Not bad, I knew that. He’s not putting me on a rigorous diet or exercise program. He just said to “get off my ass and do something.” I told him that I’m busy and I won’t find the time. “Yes you will,” he said. “You forget your wife is a patient of mine too. I know she’ll make you do it.”
Okay. But I run up the stairs at least ten times a day, I told him.
“Refilling your coffee cup doesn’t count,” he replied.
He did an EKG on me just to check my heart, considering I’m thirty, have been diabetic for 22 years and have a family history. And I’m thirty. He kept pointing that out.
“Hey doc. Why does my elbow hurt all the time?”
“You’re thirty. You expect to last forever?”
He’s also signed me up for a stress test later this month. Crap. If I don’t have a heart condition now, I’ll be dead by the end of the treadmill test. I need to get into shape.
Funny. I’m in such bad shape that I have to get into shape for a test that measures how fit I am.
Pathetic.
But, honestly, I’ve been honing my geekness for several years now. My laziness is at a high end. My skin, from sitting in the basement all day, is nearly translucent and my hearing is now so acute I can actually hear the electron gun that makes the lines on a television.
Am I supposed to give that up for . . . health?
He’s right, of course. My dad died when I was 4. He was 49. That’s only 19 years.
It seems like a long time. But it’s not enough. I have two little girls I need to walk down an aisle around that time.
And I have a lovely wife who is going to retire with me and be all cute and artistic while I complain about how the world has changed.
And I’ll have a dog then. And he’ll need me to be his buddy.
There’s too much to do. So, I guess a little exercise is worth it.
Right. I’m getting to it. Right after I finish this box of Krispie Kremes.
Discuss
We went through the usual rigormarol of discussing my health.
Do you wheeze?
No.
Do you have chest pains?
Only when I’m panicking.
When are you panicking?
Always.
Does your stomach hurt?
No. Unless I forget to take my Prilosec. Then it burns like Kuwait in 1991.
Do you have rectal polyps?
What? No. I mean, I haven’t looked. I can’t see.
Have you ever bled out of your eyes?
Um . . . no.
Woken up with a strange metal object in your nose?
Huh? Well, the baby shoved a spoon up there once. But I woke up immediately.
Do you experience periods of missing time or repeated moments?
Not that I’m aware of.
Do you experience periods of missing time or repeated moments?
Funny.
Do you exhibit any signs of stigmata or other religious phenomena including, but not limited to, birth marks in the shape of any deity, demagogue or dead pop star?
Not that I’m aware of. Though this freckle sometimes resembles Dion.
Dion isn’t dead.
Oh. Nevermind.
So, we’re gong through the usual discussion of my health and I joke that if I just stop taking heroin I’d be fine.
“You’re not addicted to heroin,” he says matter of factly.
How do you know?
“Heroin addicts aren’t chubby.”
Oh. Turns out I have to lose weight. Not bad, I knew that. He’s not putting me on a rigorous diet or exercise program. He just said to “get off my ass and do something.” I told him that I’m busy and I won’t find the time. “Yes you will,” he said. “You forget your wife is a patient of mine too. I know she’ll make you do it.”
Okay. But I run up the stairs at least ten times a day, I told him.
“Refilling your coffee cup doesn’t count,” he replied.
He did an EKG on me just to check my heart, considering I’m thirty, have been diabetic for 22 years and have a family history. And I’m thirty. He kept pointing that out.
“Hey doc. Why does my elbow hurt all the time?”
“You’re thirty. You expect to last forever?”
He’s also signed me up for a stress test later this month. Crap. If I don’t have a heart condition now, I’ll be dead by the end of the treadmill test. I need to get into shape.
Funny. I’m in such bad shape that I have to get into shape for a test that measures how fit I am.
Pathetic.
But, honestly, I’ve been honing my geekness for several years now. My laziness is at a high end. My skin, from sitting in the basement all day, is nearly translucent and my hearing is now so acute I can actually hear the electron gun that makes the lines on a television.
Am I supposed to give that up for . . . health?
He’s right, of course. My dad died when I was 4. He was 49. That’s only 19 years.
It seems like a long time. But it’s not enough. I have two little girls I need to walk down an aisle around that time.
And I have a lovely wife who is going to retire with me and be all cute and artistic while I complain about how the world has changed.
And I’ll have a dog then. And he’ll need me to be his buddy.
There’s too much to do. So, I guess a little exercise is worth it.
Right. I’m getting to it. Right after I finish this box of Krispie Kremes.
Discuss
Wednesday, July 30, 2003
Queer Eye for Me, Damn It
I need a new hair cut. I’ve had the same hair cut for a very long time. Short. Spiky. Then I forget and it becomes bouffant and puffy. I go from looking angry all the time to looking like Ted Koppel with bed hair. It’s a shame.
Every time I need a haircut I look in the mirror and think: I need a new hair cut. One that would befit a father of two without giving up his groovy sense of style and weirdness. Something that would make me look cool, edgy and still be able to comb and make me look like Robert Young from “Father Knows Best” at Parent Teacher conferences. The Clash by day, Vaughan Monroe by night.
Last night, while watching our new favorite show, I realized that I need help. Merely picking up a men’s magazine taking it to Great Clips and getting my hair massacred for $12 plus tips wasn’t going to work anymore.
The ladies who graduated from the ACME School of Hair design aren’t going to do it. I need to go to a woman named Che who will put pudding in my hair and sculpt it into a work of art that will take me twenty minutes to do every morning. Twenty minutes for the result of looking like I just woke up. That kind of care, with those kinds of results say, “Hey, look at me! I take time and care about my appearance but I’m casual and cool enough to look like I walked out of a wind tunnel and am ready to eat Sushi with Cameron Diaz!”
So the new show is called “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.” The premise is, five gay guys come to a straight guy’s home and save him from plaid pants and athletic socks from the eighties. It’s like Pygmalion for men. Except it’s Ebenezer Doolittle and Professor Henry Hiphugger.
Quite honestly, these guys really do need help. And I don’t think I’m that bad off. Guys who don’t get haircuts for years. Men who look like they smell. Guys who cite Tim McGraw as a fashion hero. Houses that look like a nuclear waste site. Underwear that actually has to be sandblasted from the ceiling. They’re pretty bad off.
I don’t think I’m that far gone.
But I could use a staff of gay guys to tell me what to do with my hair. Why not? Most of the guy guys I know have really good hair. And, for that matter, dress really well. However, I wouldn’t allow my gay friends to dress me. It’s not that I don’t trust them. It’s that they have a Missouri sense of style. I want an LA sense of style. I want that, “I could be a movie star if I weren’t so fat and lazy and pug-like” sense of style.
I want to be a movie star. Though I fear my results would be Ernest Borgnine. Or worse,
Abe Vigoda.
But I’d settle for looking a little less . . . floofy.
But most of all I want someone other than some Great Clips chick who dates a guy with a mullet what to do with my damn hair.
Then I can look as cool as my personal fashion hero. Bert Convy!
No discussion link today. You really think I’d let you make that much fun of me?
Every time I need a haircut I look in the mirror and think: I need a new hair cut. One that would befit a father of two without giving up his groovy sense of style and weirdness. Something that would make me look cool, edgy and still be able to comb and make me look like Robert Young from “Father Knows Best” at Parent Teacher conferences. The Clash by day, Vaughan Monroe by night.
Last night, while watching our new favorite show, I realized that I need help. Merely picking up a men’s magazine taking it to Great Clips and getting my hair massacred for $12 plus tips wasn’t going to work anymore.
The ladies who graduated from the ACME School of Hair design aren’t going to do it. I need to go to a woman named Che who will put pudding in my hair and sculpt it into a work of art that will take me twenty minutes to do every morning. Twenty minutes for the result of looking like I just woke up. That kind of care, with those kinds of results say, “Hey, look at me! I take time and care about my appearance but I’m casual and cool enough to look like I walked out of a wind tunnel and am ready to eat Sushi with Cameron Diaz!”
So the new show is called “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.” The premise is, five gay guys come to a straight guy’s home and save him from plaid pants and athletic socks from the eighties. It’s like Pygmalion for men. Except it’s Ebenezer Doolittle and Professor Henry Hiphugger.
Quite honestly, these guys really do need help. And I don’t think I’m that bad off. Guys who don’t get haircuts for years. Men who look like they smell. Guys who cite Tim McGraw as a fashion hero. Houses that look like a nuclear waste site. Underwear that actually has to be sandblasted from the ceiling. They’re pretty bad off.
I don’t think I’m that far gone.
But I could use a staff of gay guys to tell me what to do with my hair. Why not? Most of the guy guys I know have really good hair. And, for that matter, dress really well. However, I wouldn’t allow my gay friends to dress me. It’s not that I don’t trust them. It’s that they have a Missouri sense of style. I want an LA sense of style. I want that, “I could be a movie star if I weren’t so fat and lazy and pug-like” sense of style.
I want to be a movie star. Though I fear my results would be Ernest Borgnine. Or worse,
Abe Vigoda.
But I’d settle for looking a little less . . . floofy.
But most of all I want someone other than some Great Clips chick who dates a guy with a mullet what to do with my damn hair.
Then I can look as cool as my personal fashion hero. Bert Convy!
No discussion link today. You really think I’d let you make that much fun of me?
Monday, July 28, 2003
Chicago! Chicago! Watch Out! Car!
We had a wonderful weekend spent in the Chicago area for a family reunion. We reunited with several family members and, in some cases all of us said, “Are you sure we’re related?” With a family as large as ours, it can be hard. My mother and her siblings were rather prodigious when it came to reproduction. Add in spouses, children, grandchildren and random people coming in off the street and that’s a lot of people. The Rolling Meadows police department, shortly before shutting us down, estimated the crowed at about 3,000 revelers, all singing songs and calling each other names like “Lefty”. When we assured them that, no there weren’t 3,000 people there it only seemed like that because we were all wearing two name tags and, no we weren’t speaking in code because our underboss was in prison on racketeering charges. Birdman really was there. Whitey wasn’t though. We all sighed with sadness.
We all had a great time. Really. Despite the fact that we’re all a little rounder and stranger than we were last time we got together. But there’s really a stunning array of people and interests contained within this little microcosm. And when we get together, we get, well . . . strange.
However, the highlight of my evening was probably watching my niece dance to YMCA. This once shy and quiet girl was up there shouting out the lyrics, wearing a cowboy hat and doing the moves perfectly. More so, she was the embodiment of at least three of the village people at one time.
My other highlight was seeing my gorgeous baby daughter, decked out in a little sailor dress, charming the pants off of anyone with in eyesight. And then she danced and danced until she fell asleep on my shoulder dancing to Patsy Cline singing “Crazy.”
But if you ask Matilda, there was only one reason for our trip. The American Girl Place. But I’ll get to that.
The drive up was uneventful, for the most part. Unless you count the time where I almost ran over a woman who was trying to pick up her underwear from the side of the road. Screeching brakes, skidding, car sliding sideways and her looking at me like, “Oh crap. My last act will be picking up my dirty underwear from Interstate 55 somewhere between Bumblecrap and Bellybuttonlint, Illinois.”
She lived. Whatever crap was in my arteries was loosened by the sudden rush of adrenaline and sent straight to my brain. After three hours I was still shaking.
The kids slept through the whole thing.
Then I hit Joliet. And when I say hit, I mean literally. It was like a wall of cars. Traffic was fine until Joliet. Then it was solid until I got to the hotel. I expected this, sure. But I’d never actually driven in Chicago or the surrounding areas. I had either flown and taken cabs or was driven by someone else. Well, no one warned me that people in this area (not all, mind you) resort to something I came to call “Random Braking for Phantom Objects”. I don’t know if there is a need in the area to suddenly check your brakes on the highway by going from 65 to 0 in less than a second or if they just saw my license plate and thought it would be funny to make my bowels liquefy every thirty seconds. By the end of the weekend I realized that no matter where I drove I managed to get behind someone who was hallucinating.
“Holy crap! Air! (Scrrrrrrrreeeeech)”
“Oh no! Godzilla on I-90! (Screeeeeeeecccccch)”
Believe it or not, this happened in parking lots too. I’d be driving along in a totally empty parking lot and the guy in front of me would slam on his brakes for no reason.
Screeeeeeeeeeccccch!
”Oh good. They still work.”
I was a nervous wreck until I got to the hotel. The guy who checked us in was probably wondering why I kissed him full on the lips.
On Saturday we went to the American Girl Place with Matilda. She had been saving every penny for this since the moment we gave her an American Girl doll for her seventh birthday. The week leading up to her trip she had taken to sleeping with the catalog and, two days prior, her mother caught her kissing the catalog and saying, “I’ll see you soon.”
In case you don’t know what American Girl is, it is a cult that recruits little girls at the age of six and programs them through their teen years. What they do is sell them books, dolls, clothes and accessories that are tied together. You can read a series of books about a little girl who is growing up during the Depression, the 1800s, early 1900s, etc. Sure, the books teach the girls about life during different periods and provide them with a deep understanding of the historical perspective of the characters but, it’s the dolls that get you. These suckers are expensive and the clothing and accessories available are incredible. And pretty cool, I might add. The level of detail the craftspeople put into these dolls and their stuff is just amazing. Tiny glasses, working harmonicas, roll top desks. These damn dolls are better outfitted than me.
When we first gave Matilda her doll, she didn’t touch it. It sat on her shelf and she would stare at it for four hours. She called this “playing”. I called it nodding off and equated it to a guy I know who took heroin. Mom explained to me that this wasn’t the type of doll you actually played with. You admired it.
So, essentially, it’s demagoguery.
Later, Matilda began arranging the doll in situations and leaving her there. She was typing a newspaper. For a month. She was lying down and getting rest. For a week. Walking in her room was like going to Madame Toussad’s. You saw dioramas of how Matilda’s doll would be played with. If it were the “playing” type of doll.
Since then, and especially leading up to the trip, the doll has become part of the family. She eats with us. She watches TV with us. She even rebels against our rules. Overall, she’s a nice doll. Not too uppity.
But the dolls are only an inroads. Next are “minis” which are tiny rooms with tiny furniture. You decorate the room and then look at it. That’s it.
Then there’s the magazine that a) sells the new products and b) gives the girls tips for surviving adolescence. Good tips too. Amazingly good tips. In fact, I wish I had American Girl Magazine when I was in junior high. Of course, they’d have to add a tip on how to survive the beatings doled out for being a boy reading a girl’s magazine.
By the time the girls reach teenhood, they are too bitter and disillusioned to want to deal with the doll. It gets packed away and moves with them, confined to a box.
But then the former little girls have little girls of their own. And the cycle of consumerism starts anew.
They are brilliant. Brilliant I tell you.
And, quite honestly, some of the coolest girls’ toys I’ve ever seen. So even though I’m making fun of them, they are quite a positive influence on my daughter’s life. A very expensive positive influence.
One of those positive influences stems from her desire for more American Girl stuff. She scrimped and saved for two years. She did extra chores for us, her bio-dad, grandparents and random strangers who were suckered in by her giant blue eyes.
When we saw the store from across the street, she let out a squeal of delight. When we entered the doors, she nearly melted. When she saw it was three levels, she almost passed out.
Then she started scouring for new stuff like an old pro searching the tables at Feline’s Basement. Two hours later she had bags full of stuff and the look of a girl who was satisfied with life. She had saved and earned $184. We promised to take care of taxes.
How much did she spend? Exactly $184. On the nose. She had planned her trip for weeks and the preparation paid off.
On the street back to the car she proclaimed our little weekend jaunt as the second best trip we’d ever taken (slightly behind Disney World).
And she declared me as the greatest daddy in the world because, even though she had just blown $184 on doll stuff, I had picked up a pair of glasses for her doll. Now they look like twins.
And she smiled and hugged me for the rest of the weekend.
Certainly worth a pair of $6 doll glasses.
Discuss
We all had a great time. Really. Despite the fact that we’re all a little rounder and stranger than we were last time we got together. But there’s really a stunning array of people and interests contained within this little microcosm. And when we get together, we get, well . . . strange.
However, the highlight of my evening was probably watching my niece dance to YMCA. This once shy and quiet girl was up there shouting out the lyrics, wearing a cowboy hat and doing the moves perfectly. More so, she was the embodiment of at least three of the village people at one time.
My other highlight was seeing my gorgeous baby daughter, decked out in a little sailor dress, charming the pants off of anyone with in eyesight. And then she danced and danced until she fell asleep on my shoulder dancing to Patsy Cline singing “Crazy.”
But if you ask Matilda, there was only one reason for our trip. The American Girl Place. But I’ll get to that.
The drive up was uneventful, for the most part. Unless you count the time where I almost ran over a woman who was trying to pick up her underwear from the side of the road. Screeching brakes, skidding, car sliding sideways and her looking at me like, “Oh crap. My last act will be picking up my dirty underwear from Interstate 55 somewhere between Bumblecrap and Bellybuttonlint, Illinois.”
She lived. Whatever crap was in my arteries was loosened by the sudden rush of adrenaline and sent straight to my brain. After three hours I was still shaking.
The kids slept through the whole thing.
Then I hit Joliet. And when I say hit, I mean literally. It was like a wall of cars. Traffic was fine until Joliet. Then it was solid until I got to the hotel. I expected this, sure. But I’d never actually driven in Chicago or the surrounding areas. I had either flown and taken cabs or was driven by someone else. Well, no one warned me that people in this area (not all, mind you) resort to something I came to call “Random Braking for Phantom Objects”. I don’t know if there is a need in the area to suddenly check your brakes on the highway by going from 65 to 0 in less than a second or if they just saw my license plate and thought it would be funny to make my bowels liquefy every thirty seconds. By the end of the weekend I realized that no matter where I drove I managed to get behind someone who was hallucinating.
“Holy crap! Air! (Scrrrrrrrreeeeech)”
“Oh no! Godzilla on I-90! (Screeeeeeeecccccch)”
Believe it or not, this happened in parking lots too. I’d be driving along in a totally empty parking lot and the guy in front of me would slam on his brakes for no reason.
Screeeeeeeeeeccccch!
”Oh good. They still work.”
I was a nervous wreck until I got to the hotel. The guy who checked us in was probably wondering why I kissed him full on the lips.
On Saturday we went to the American Girl Place with Matilda. She had been saving every penny for this since the moment we gave her an American Girl doll for her seventh birthday. The week leading up to her trip she had taken to sleeping with the catalog and, two days prior, her mother caught her kissing the catalog and saying, “I’ll see you soon.”
In case you don’t know what American Girl is, it is a cult that recruits little girls at the age of six and programs them through their teen years. What they do is sell them books, dolls, clothes and accessories that are tied together. You can read a series of books about a little girl who is growing up during the Depression, the 1800s, early 1900s, etc. Sure, the books teach the girls about life during different periods and provide them with a deep understanding of the historical perspective of the characters but, it’s the dolls that get you. These suckers are expensive and the clothing and accessories available are incredible. And pretty cool, I might add. The level of detail the craftspeople put into these dolls and their stuff is just amazing. Tiny glasses, working harmonicas, roll top desks. These damn dolls are better outfitted than me.
When we first gave Matilda her doll, she didn’t touch it. It sat on her shelf and she would stare at it for four hours. She called this “playing”. I called it nodding off and equated it to a guy I know who took heroin. Mom explained to me that this wasn’t the type of doll you actually played with. You admired it.
So, essentially, it’s demagoguery.
Later, Matilda began arranging the doll in situations and leaving her there. She was typing a newspaper. For a month. She was lying down and getting rest. For a week. Walking in her room was like going to Madame Toussad’s. You saw dioramas of how Matilda’s doll would be played with. If it were the “playing” type of doll.
Since then, and especially leading up to the trip, the doll has become part of the family. She eats with us. She watches TV with us. She even rebels against our rules. Overall, she’s a nice doll. Not too uppity.
But the dolls are only an inroads. Next are “minis” which are tiny rooms with tiny furniture. You decorate the room and then look at it. That’s it.
Then there’s the magazine that a) sells the new products and b) gives the girls tips for surviving adolescence. Good tips too. Amazingly good tips. In fact, I wish I had American Girl Magazine when I was in junior high. Of course, they’d have to add a tip on how to survive the beatings doled out for being a boy reading a girl’s magazine.
By the time the girls reach teenhood, they are too bitter and disillusioned to want to deal with the doll. It gets packed away and moves with them, confined to a box.
But then the former little girls have little girls of their own. And the cycle of consumerism starts anew.
They are brilliant. Brilliant I tell you.
And, quite honestly, some of the coolest girls’ toys I’ve ever seen. So even though I’m making fun of them, they are quite a positive influence on my daughter’s life. A very expensive positive influence.
One of those positive influences stems from her desire for more American Girl stuff. She scrimped and saved for two years. She did extra chores for us, her bio-dad, grandparents and random strangers who were suckered in by her giant blue eyes.
When we saw the store from across the street, she let out a squeal of delight. When we entered the doors, she nearly melted. When she saw it was three levels, she almost passed out.
Then she started scouring for new stuff like an old pro searching the tables at Feline’s Basement. Two hours later she had bags full of stuff and the look of a girl who was satisfied with life. She had saved and earned $184. We promised to take care of taxes.
How much did she spend? Exactly $184. On the nose. She had planned her trip for weeks and the preparation paid off.
On the street back to the car she proclaimed our little weekend jaunt as the second best trip we’d ever taken (slightly behind Disney World).
And she declared me as the greatest daddy in the world because, even though she had just blown $184 on doll stuff, I had picked up a pair of glasses for her doll. Now they look like twins.
And she smiled and hugged me for the rest of the weekend.
Certainly worth a pair of $6 doll glasses.
Discuss
Thursday, July 24, 2003
Reader Mail
I thought today would be a good time to answer some reader mail from my tens of fans from all the major continents, two island nations and one sovereign nation that floats above the Lesser Antilles.
Dear Gary:
I’ve been reading your blog for a year now and there’s one thing I can’t figure out. If there were a genetic mutation in a strand of monkey DNA that caused all monkeys to have sudden senses of shame, would there be a need for a monkey textile industry and clothing line? Please answer soon and let me know what clothing requirements you think a group of Capuchin monkeys that live on a beach would have.
Sincerely,
Dale
Dear Dale:
If such a genetic mutation occurred, and I sincerely hope it doesn’t, all monkeys would have to wear monkey pants. Or at least shorts. Shirts may not be needed because of the amount of monkey hair that monkeys currently have. However, another genetic mutation may occur that tell the monkey fur to drop and monkeys would be virtually indistinguishable from people who patronize the Ozzfest. As for your Capuchin beach monkeys, I’d say they’d like some baggies and a straw hat. Perhaps, for more formal arrangements, a nice, loose Hawaiian shirt.
Dear Gary:
You suck. Your blog sucks. Your life sucks. In essence, I think you suck.
Signed,
I Hate You
Dear Hate You:
Thank you for your feedback. I’ll be sure to pass it along to management.
Dear Gary:
Something has always bothered me and, perhaps you can help. What is the connection between a geek and monkeys? I’ve visited a number of sites with geek in the title and, barring the one about the guy who ate chicken heads, they all mention monkeys. Including yours. What up?
Elvin
Dear Elvin:
This is an excellent question that many people ask. There are actually many facets of this answer, so bear with me.
First there is the historical perspective. Without a doubt, Leonardo DaVinci was the very first geek. He spent his days trying to think of new machines that would defy physics. For the most part, his ideas worked but his designs were flawed. Leo certainly couldn’t try his own machines out himself because a) his Patron wouldn’t allow it and b) falling from the sky into the Piazza tended to draw undue attention to oneself when one was dissecting bodies in ones basement to draw ones strange and unusual pictures of dissected bodies. Which was illegal then. At least for painters.
So Leo hired a group of monkeys to test out his ideas. They were the very first test pilots and became Leo’s friends. They were known as La Monkeyata. They flew many missions for Leonardo. Several died in the line of service.
Also, little known fact, a monkey posed for the Mona Lisa. He just made her look human.
Second, another little known fact, Bill Gates has an army of miniature monkeys that he has been prepping for war. Any day now he will unleash his monkey army and send them over to Steve Jobs’ house to bite him in the ankles and steal pretty designs to be used on the next generation of PCs. Beware the monkey elite guard! You may be next! Keep your eyes in the trees and your ears to the ground. But always be on the look out. You never know what a monkey will throw.
And finally, this is the most important part, monkeys are frickin’ funny. Monkeys in clothes are even funnier and Monkees named Mickey are far better than Monkees named Davy.
Dear Gary:
You seem like you should know this. How much coffee do you have to drink to have a heart seizure?
Helen
Dear Helen:
I’ll let you know when I get to that point. So far three pots a day only makes me see dead relatives and hear baroque music in my head.
Dear Gary:
I’ve been reading your blog for a year now and there’s one thing I can’t figure out. If there were a genetic mutation in a strand of monkey DNA that caused all monkeys to have sudden senses of shame, would there be a need for a monkey textile industry and clothing line? Please answer soon and let me know what clothing requirements you think a group of Capuchin monkeys that live on a beach would have.
Sincerely,
Dale
Dear Dale:
If such a genetic mutation occurred, and I sincerely hope it doesn’t, all monkeys would have to wear monkey pants. Or at least shorts. Shirts may not be needed because of the amount of monkey hair that monkeys currently have. However, another genetic mutation may occur that tell the monkey fur to drop and monkeys would be virtually indistinguishable from people who patronize the Ozzfest. As for your Capuchin beach monkeys, I’d say they’d like some baggies and a straw hat. Perhaps, for more formal arrangements, a nice, loose Hawaiian shirt.
Dear Gary:
You suck. Your blog sucks. Your life sucks. In essence, I think you suck.
Signed,
I Hate You
Dear Hate You:
Thank you for your feedback. I’ll be sure to pass it along to management.
Dear Gary:
Something has always bothered me and, perhaps you can help. What is the connection between a geek and monkeys? I’ve visited a number of sites with geek in the title and, barring the one about the guy who ate chicken heads, they all mention monkeys. Including yours. What up?
Elvin
Dear Elvin:
This is an excellent question that many people ask. There are actually many facets of this answer, so bear with me.
First there is the historical perspective. Without a doubt, Leonardo DaVinci was the very first geek. He spent his days trying to think of new machines that would defy physics. For the most part, his ideas worked but his designs were flawed. Leo certainly couldn’t try his own machines out himself because a) his Patron wouldn’t allow it and b) falling from the sky into the Piazza tended to draw undue attention to oneself when one was dissecting bodies in ones basement to draw ones strange and unusual pictures of dissected bodies. Which was illegal then. At least for painters.
So Leo hired a group of monkeys to test out his ideas. They were the very first test pilots and became Leo’s friends. They were known as La Monkeyata. They flew many missions for Leonardo. Several died in the line of service.
Also, little known fact, a monkey posed for the Mona Lisa. He just made her look human.
Second, another little known fact, Bill Gates has an army of miniature monkeys that he has been prepping for war. Any day now he will unleash his monkey army and send them over to Steve Jobs’ house to bite him in the ankles and steal pretty designs to be used on the next generation of PCs. Beware the monkey elite guard! You may be next! Keep your eyes in the trees and your ears to the ground. But always be on the look out. You never know what a monkey will throw.
And finally, this is the most important part, monkeys are frickin’ funny. Monkeys in clothes are even funnier and Monkees named Mickey are far better than Monkees named Davy.
Dear Gary:
You seem like you should know this. How much coffee do you have to drink to have a heart seizure?
Helen
Dear Helen:
I’ll let you know when I get to that point. So far three pots a day only makes me see dead relatives and hear baroque music in my head.
Wednesday, July 23, 2003
Ba Ba Ba I Wanna Be Sedated
There’s a line in Office Space when Peter is explaining to his shrink how each day is worse than the other.
“So I was sitting in my cubicle today,” he says, “and I realized, ever since I started working, every single day of my life has been worse than the day before it. So that means that every single day that you see me, that's on the worst day of my life.”
The doctor asks if this is the worst day of his life. Peter says yes.
“Wow,” says the shrink, “that’s messed up.”
Yes. Yes it is.
Today I feel like Peter though. Yesterday was worse than the day before and today is just beginning.
I’ve been sitting in my chair so far this morning, reading my email and practicing my Kinski responses chanting, “Something good will happen today. Something good will happen today.”
It occurred to me that I wasn’t specifying WHO to have something good happen to. Looks like I screwed that up too.
Anyway, hopefully things get better today. I keep telling myself that it could be worse. That my stress and dissatisfaction with life today is nothing compared to others.
I could be a truck driver, a thousand miles away from my family. I could work behind the counter at a gas station midnight to eight. I could be a heart surgeon. I could be Saddam Hussein’s sons with my decapitated head on a pike.
Now that would suck. I don’t want my head on a pike.
Hopefully that won’t happen to me. I don’t think my offenses go into the area of dissolving people in acid.
No, my offenses are teaching the kids to do weird things. Today we belted out a song in the car:
”The sun is a mass of incandescent gas, a gigantic nuclear furnace.”
And it was good.
I can’t wait until the baby can explain fission to her pre-school teacher.
“So I was sitting in my cubicle today,” he says, “and I realized, ever since I started working, every single day of my life has been worse than the day before it. So that means that every single day that you see me, that's on the worst day of my life.”
The doctor asks if this is the worst day of his life. Peter says yes.
“Wow,” says the shrink, “that’s messed up.”
Yes. Yes it is.
Today I feel like Peter though. Yesterday was worse than the day before and today is just beginning.
I’ve been sitting in my chair so far this morning, reading my email and practicing my Kinski responses chanting, “Something good will happen today. Something good will happen today.”
It occurred to me that I wasn’t specifying WHO to have something good happen to. Looks like I screwed that up too.
Anyway, hopefully things get better today. I keep telling myself that it could be worse. That my stress and dissatisfaction with life today is nothing compared to others.
I could be a truck driver, a thousand miles away from my family. I could work behind the counter at a gas station midnight to eight. I could be a heart surgeon. I could be Saddam Hussein’s sons with my decapitated head on a pike.
Now that would suck. I don’t want my head on a pike.
Hopefully that won’t happen to me. I don’t think my offenses go into the area of dissolving people in acid.
No, my offenses are teaching the kids to do weird things. Today we belted out a song in the car:
”The sun is a mass of incandescent gas, a gigantic nuclear furnace.”
And it was good.
I can’t wait until the baby can explain fission to her pre-school teacher.
Tuesday, July 22, 2003
Yummy!
See and Be Seen
Not only have I been seen. But I have seen. And I have “See and Be Seen” and it must be heard.
This just came in the mail. Written, performed, mixed, designed and mailed by Steve himself. And I love it.
It’s quiet, reflective and somewhat dark. And it has a tone that I can only describe as . . . Earthy.
But I don’t know what that means.
Now, if you haven’t listened to Steve Ward and consider yourself a music lover, you need to check him out.
Steve is good.
More Steve is even better.
Not only have I been seen. But I have seen. And I have “See and Be Seen” and it must be heard.
This just came in the mail. Written, performed, mixed, designed and mailed by Steve himself. And I love it.
It’s quiet, reflective and somewhat dark. And it has a tone that I can only describe as . . . Earthy.
But I don’t know what that means.
Now, if you haven’t listened to Steve Ward and consider yourself a music lover, you need to check him out.
Steve is good.
More Steve is even better.
Sometimes It Just Doesn’t Pay
To get up, that is. Yesterday was one of those days. Everything was fine until around three p.m. and it all went to hell.
I won’t bore you with the details because it’s all work related. But, it’s a pain. And I’m ticked about it. And, for the most part, it’s my fault.
I hate that. I hate making mistakes.
So I’m drowning my sorrows in very loud music. Very loud. My ears are bleeding from it.
Last night I watched the Werner Herzog documentary about his relationship with the actor Klaus Kinski. I found it very inspiring. So inspiring, in fact, I’m going to start acting like Kinski and start throwing tantrums when the focus of attention has moved away from me.
And I’m going to start using some of his more inventive epithets. For example, during one screaming argument with someone over food, he invited his adversary to lick a part of the human body that normally has no oral contact unless it’s been bitten by a snake.
I wonder if I can offer that solution to my client about this little issue.
Kinski believed he was a genius. So, therefore, do I. I am a genius and I do not need your applause or recognition to validate my myriad talents.
Yeah. I’ll be like that from now on. True it has nothing to do with confidence and everything to do with self-doubt. I have plenty of that.
Of course, it all sounds cooler in German.
I won’t bore you with the details because it’s all work related. But, it’s a pain. And I’m ticked about it. And, for the most part, it’s my fault.
I hate that. I hate making mistakes.
So I’m drowning my sorrows in very loud music. Very loud. My ears are bleeding from it.
Last night I watched the Werner Herzog documentary about his relationship with the actor Klaus Kinski. I found it very inspiring. So inspiring, in fact, I’m going to start acting like Kinski and start throwing tantrums when the focus of attention has moved away from me.
And I’m going to start using some of his more inventive epithets. For example, during one screaming argument with someone over food, he invited his adversary to lick a part of the human body that normally has no oral contact unless it’s been bitten by a snake.
I wonder if I can offer that solution to my client about this little issue.
Kinski believed he was a genius. So, therefore, do I. I am a genius and I do not need your applause or recognition to validate my myriad talents.
Yeah. I’ll be like that from now on. True it has nothing to do with confidence and everything to do with self-doubt. I have plenty of that.
Of course, it all sounds cooler in German.
Monday, July 21, 2003
I Like Physics
I really do. But I'm no good with numbers. I'm trying to understand things, but without the basic mathmatical concepts, it's a tad difficult. I have to hash out these numbers at great expense to my brain functioning.
Anyone willing to come over and teach me physics?
Anyone willing to come over and teach me physics?
A Conversation
Matildia: I want a pony.
Me: It’s not that easy. We need land for the pony to run and eat. Ponies need to be outside.
M: So let’s buy the neighbor’s house.
Me: Well, even if we could afford to buy the neighbor’s house and turn it into a stable, we’d still need permits. I’m not even sure it would be allowed by the county or the city. Plus, that’s still not enough room for the pony.
M: Her name would be Sparkles and she’d be my best friend.
Me: I understand, but ponies cost a lot of money. Can I buy you a plastic pony?
M: I want to be president. Can you make me president?
Me: Why would you want to be president? That’s a hard job.
M: So I could make a law to put dads who don’t buy ponies for their daughters in jail.
Me: That’s not what the president does.
M: Okay, I want to be a Congressman.
Me: Woman. A Congresswoman.
M: No, Congressman. They’re more crooked.
Me: Okay. Still, you have to make laws that make sense and appeal to your voters. The people you’re appealing to can’t vote.
M: If I were president, I’d change that.
Me: But you’re not. You’re a Congresswoman.
M: I don’t want to be a Congresswoman anymore. I want to be a model.
Me: That’s a leap. Why do you want to be a model?
M: Am I not cute enough?
Me: Of course you’re cute enough. I just thought that, well . . . especially considering this conversation . . . that you’re smarter than that.
M: So models aren’t smart?
Me: No, it’s not that. But, you seem to have more depth than using your looks to get ahead.
M: So models are shallow? Are you saying I’m shallow?
Me: No honey, of course not. I’m just saying that being cute is only one of your many great attributes.
M: So you don’t think I’m cute enough.
Me: I didn’t say that.
M: Buy me a magazine. I want to be on the cover.
Me: It doesn’t work that way. You can’t just buy a magazine. First it requires a lot of money and you can’t just use a magazine as your personal corkboard.
M: It’s all about money for you. Don’t you want me to be happy?
Me: Of course. But there are limits.
M: To my happiness? You should be willing to make sacrifices for my happiness. I’m your child.
Me: Well yes. And I do make sacrifices. But, honey, there are limits to how much money I have.
M: We’re not talking about money here, father. We’re talking about my ever-lasting happiness.
Me: You’re only eight. The criteria for your ever-lasting happiness changes on a daily basis.
M: So keep up. Do I need to provide you with a tally sheet?
Me: No. I understand what you need to be happy.
M: So we’re clear then.
Me: On what makes you happy? Sure.
M: Good. Just have the pony delivered to the back yard.
Discuss Watching the Ponies
Me: It’s not that easy. We need land for the pony to run and eat. Ponies need to be outside.
M: So let’s buy the neighbor’s house.
Me: Well, even if we could afford to buy the neighbor’s house and turn it into a stable, we’d still need permits. I’m not even sure it would be allowed by the county or the city. Plus, that’s still not enough room for the pony.
M: Her name would be Sparkles and she’d be my best friend.
Me: I understand, but ponies cost a lot of money. Can I buy you a plastic pony?
M: I want to be president. Can you make me president?
Me: Why would you want to be president? That’s a hard job.
M: So I could make a law to put dads who don’t buy ponies for their daughters in jail.
Me: That’s not what the president does.
M: Okay, I want to be a Congressman.
Me: Woman. A Congresswoman.
M: No, Congressman. They’re more crooked.
Me: Okay. Still, you have to make laws that make sense and appeal to your voters. The people you’re appealing to can’t vote.
M: If I were president, I’d change that.
Me: But you’re not. You’re a Congresswoman.
M: I don’t want to be a Congresswoman anymore. I want to be a model.
Me: That’s a leap. Why do you want to be a model?
M: Am I not cute enough?
Me: Of course you’re cute enough. I just thought that, well . . . especially considering this conversation . . . that you’re smarter than that.
M: So models aren’t smart?
Me: No, it’s not that. But, you seem to have more depth than using your looks to get ahead.
M: So models are shallow? Are you saying I’m shallow?
Me: No honey, of course not. I’m just saying that being cute is only one of your many great attributes.
M: So you don’t think I’m cute enough.
Me: I didn’t say that.
M: Buy me a magazine. I want to be on the cover.
Me: It doesn’t work that way. You can’t just buy a magazine. First it requires a lot of money and you can’t just use a magazine as your personal corkboard.
M: It’s all about money for you. Don’t you want me to be happy?
Me: Of course. But there are limits.
M: To my happiness? You should be willing to make sacrifices for my happiness. I’m your child.
Me: Well yes. And I do make sacrifices. But, honey, there are limits to how much money I have.
M: We’re not talking about money here, father. We’re talking about my ever-lasting happiness.
Me: You’re only eight. The criteria for your ever-lasting happiness changes on a daily basis.
M: So keep up. Do I need to provide you with a tally sheet?
Me: No. I understand what you need to be happy.
M: So we’re clear then.
Me: On what makes you happy? Sure.
M: Good. Just have the pony delivered to the back yard.
Discuss Watching the Ponies
Thursday, July 17, 2003
Through the Looking Glass
It’s been almost a week now and I didn’t want to draw attention to it lest it become an issue.
Matilda wears glasses now, as I mentioned. She’s been wearing for a week and, I have to be honest, I haven’t even noticed. She looks so natural. Very intelligent and sophisticated for an eight year old.
Walking out of the store she read every sign she could see. She was so pleased not to be living in a murky world of fuzzy images and blurred edges that she was a machine.
“I can see the building over there! It’s address is 13023! I can see that bird! I can see the gas prices! I can see each pore on our face! You need to have a better plan for that. I’m recommending you for Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.”
She’s spent the better part of the last week in front of the mirror, admiring her face in its newfound resolution.
Last night, as we were reading Harry Potter, she looked over at me and said, “You know, I look good in glasses. I mean, I look really good in glasses.”
And she does. Somehow she looks cuter, more refined. They fit her face perfectly and her normally startling blue eyes are even more sparkling and radiant.
And this is where I’m in trouble. She’s heading toward puberty. She’s always going to be svelte and blonde and now with glasses, she’s going to be damn cute.
Boys are going to dig her. And she’s going to dig boys digging her.
And I’m completely screwed.
At least now with the glasses, the odds of her picking Zeke the Carny over Sheldon the Physicist are slightly slimmer. But I suppose that depends on how much she wants to piss me off.
I know this is a long way off. But I worry. I’m sure she won’t be shallow; she’s a very considerate kid. But I worry. I worry that I’ll have to live in a hotel until she gets married. I won’t be able to handle it.
She’s cute. And smart. And witty. And pretty. And everything else Maria was in Westside Story. And she lives with me. Soon the phone will start ringing and instead of Abby asking for Matilda, it will be Josh. And Josh will have a Z-28. And Josh will be a complete ass that I’ll despise.
I need to teach her criteria. “Look at your mom. She’s beautiful too, right? And she picked a chubby geek for a husband. You don’t want that rich kid with the cool car. Look at the boys in the chemistry lab with silver fingers from handling silver iodide. Those are the boys you want to date.”
But Josh is cute.
“True, he is cute. But Josh is a jock. Being a geek I am programmed to dislike jocks because they beat me up and stuffed me in trash cans.”
That never happened dad. You always said that in high school you had lots of friends who were all in bands.
“Uh, yeah. You can’t date those boys either.”
Why?
“Trust me. Don’t date boys who listen to Zeppelin 2 repeatedly.”
Why?
“Because they . . . look, you can date guys who understand the blues and its influence on late sixties rock later in life. After I’m dead. Stick with the nerds.”
But they’re pale and they don’t like to go to parties.
“I’m failing to see the problem honey.”
They’re boring.
“And . . .”
They’re boring. And they drive Corollas.
“A sensible, economic safe car.”
Sigh. Never mind dad. I have to get ready for my date.
“Okay. I’ll go get your hair shirt and frock.”
Discuss
Matilda wears glasses now, as I mentioned. She’s been wearing for a week and, I have to be honest, I haven’t even noticed. She looks so natural. Very intelligent and sophisticated for an eight year old.
Walking out of the store she read every sign she could see. She was so pleased not to be living in a murky world of fuzzy images and blurred edges that she was a machine.
“I can see the building over there! It’s address is 13023! I can see that bird! I can see the gas prices! I can see each pore on our face! You need to have a better plan for that. I’m recommending you for Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.”
She’s spent the better part of the last week in front of the mirror, admiring her face in its newfound resolution.
Last night, as we were reading Harry Potter, she looked over at me and said, “You know, I look good in glasses. I mean, I look really good in glasses.”
And she does. Somehow she looks cuter, more refined. They fit her face perfectly and her normally startling blue eyes are even more sparkling and radiant.
And this is where I’m in trouble. She’s heading toward puberty. She’s always going to be svelte and blonde and now with glasses, she’s going to be damn cute.
Boys are going to dig her. And she’s going to dig boys digging her.
And I’m completely screwed.
At least now with the glasses, the odds of her picking Zeke the Carny over Sheldon the Physicist are slightly slimmer. But I suppose that depends on how much she wants to piss me off.
I know this is a long way off. But I worry. I’m sure she won’t be shallow; she’s a very considerate kid. But I worry. I worry that I’ll have to live in a hotel until she gets married. I won’t be able to handle it.
She’s cute. And smart. And witty. And pretty. And everything else Maria was in Westside Story. And she lives with me. Soon the phone will start ringing and instead of Abby asking for Matilda, it will be Josh. And Josh will have a Z-28. And Josh will be a complete ass that I’ll despise.
I need to teach her criteria. “Look at your mom. She’s beautiful too, right? And she picked a chubby geek for a husband. You don’t want that rich kid with the cool car. Look at the boys in the chemistry lab with silver fingers from handling silver iodide. Those are the boys you want to date.”
But Josh is cute.
“True, he is cute. But Josh is a jock. Being a geek I am programmed to dislike jocks because they beat me up and stuffed me in trash cans.”
That never happened dad. You always said that in high school you had lots of friends who were all in bands.
“Uh, yeah. You can’t date those boys either.”
Why?
“Trust me. Don’t date boys who listen to Zeppelin 2 repeatedly.”
Why?
“Because they . . . look, you can date guys who understand the blues and its influence on late sixties rock later in life. After I’m dead. Stick with the nerds.”
But they’re pale and they don’t like to go to parties.
“I’m failing to see the problem honey.”
They’re boring.
“And . . .”
They’re boring. And they drive Corollas.
“A sensible, economic safe car.”
Sigh. Never mind dad. I have to get ready for my date.
“Okay. I’ll go get your hair shirt and frock.”
Discuss
Wednesday, July 16, 2003
First My Sandal . . .
Now my breakfast. It is no longer mine. I want it back.
Each and every morning, we have a very set routine we all follow. Mommy gets the kids up and goes in the shower. Matilda gets ready while the baby sits on my lap and cuddles out the grogginess. Roughly ¾ of the way through Mommy’s shower, Gertrude gets a burst of energy and starts running around like a maniac in her strange off-kilter way. She runs like her knee joints are made out of Jell-O and the world is slightly tilted to the left. She veers, corrects course, veers again. The whole time she runs she says, “Bwababwababwababwaba.” I don’t know why. Perhaps because she’s a weird little kid.
I then get in the shower while the kids brush their teeth, etc. We come out to the kitchen together, make coffee and the baby and her sister go get the paper while we fix them breakfast.
About this time Kismet, the cat, comes out of hiding with an angry look on her face. It’s like she’s just come off a bender and our chattering is ringing in her head like a bunch of monks singing a particularly raucous Gregorian chant. She always looks at us like, “Would you shut the &$*# up? It’s EARLY.”
We give the girls their breakfast while I fix my own and wait for the coffee to finish brewing. Sometimes I can’t wait and I just stick my head underneath the stream of steaming coffee and suck it down raw. If it’s a particularly bad morning, I’ll grab the carafe and drink it straight out of there, forgoing the traditional ceramic mug.
I then sit down with the paper and a bowl of cereal. Matilda at my left, Gertrude straight across. With my first spoonful of the crispy, healthful crispies (unless it’s Apple Jacks, my favorite from childhood), Gertrude starts yelling, "All done! All done!” and hops off her chair, spoon or fork in hand. She then runs over to me yelling, “My daddy, my daddy” and crawls on my lap.
Each morning I think she’s just coming over to give me some affection. But within seconds, her spoon has plunged into my cereal and she’s going to town on my breakfast. Sometimes she can’t get the cereal on her baby sized spoon and she asks for help. As if I’m going to aid her in stealing my food.
Of course, I always do.
Once the last remnant of the cereal is gone, she leaves her spoon in my bowl and hops off to go play before we leave for the sitter.
I thought this was cute the first time it happened. Reasonably adorable the second. Kind of sweet the third and rather hobbit like the fourth. Now I view her as a food leech.
So, yesterday I thought I’d do something different. I picked up a twigs and nuts cereal and dumped it into a bowl of yogurt. Surely, I thought, she wouldn’t like this. Climbing up, she said, “eeeeww, yuck” when she looked at it. But, she plunged her spoon right in and started eating. At first, she gave a disgusted face at the encounter with the yogurt. But within seconds, she was wolfing down my cereal.
When she finished, I gave her her spoon and asked her to put it in the sink. There was still a glob of yogurt on it. Out comes her tongue and she’s lapping it up like a dog with table scraps. Looking up at mom she says, "Yummmmm.”
Today I gave her her own bowl of this concoction. She said, “eew yuck” to it and ate mine. Then she ate hers.
And you wonder why I named her after a hobbit. But she doesn’t have furry feet.
Still, I complain about this. I feel I should. I can’t set a precedent. Daddy isn’t a buffet line. But, her chubby little legs bouncing up and down while she sits on my lap . . . the fat little arm reaching around my neck when she says, “My Daddy”. I wouldn’t trade them for anything.
I wouldn’t and I can’t. Who would take her?
Discuss Breakfast Larceny
Each and every morning, we have a very set routine we all follow. Mommy gets the kids up and goes in the shower. Matilda gets ready while the baby sits on my lap and cuddles out the grogginess. Roughly ¾ of the way through Mommy’s shower, Gertrude gets a burst of energy and starts running around like a maniac in her strange off-kilter way. She runs like her knee joints are made out of Jell-O and the world is slightly tilted to the left. She veers, corrects course, veers again. The whole time she runs she says, “Bwababwababwababwaba.” I don’t know why. Perhaps because she’s a weird little kid.
I then get in the shower while the kids brush their teeth, etc. We come out to the kitchen together, make coffee and the baby and her sister go get the paper while we fix them breakfast.
About this time Kismet, the cat, comes out of hiding with an angry look on her face. It’s like she’s just come off a bender and our chattering is ringing in her head like a bunch of monks singing a particularly raucous Gregorian chant. She always looks at us like, “Would you shut the &$*# up? It’s EARLY.”
We give the girls their breakfast while I fix my own and wait for the coffee to finish brewing. Sometimes I can’t wait and I just stick my head underneath the stream of steaming coffee and suck it down raw. If it’s a particularly bad morning, I’ll grab the carafe and drink it straight out of there, forgoing the traditional ceramic mug.
I then sit down with the paper and a bowl of cereal. Matilda at my left, Gertrude straight across. With my first spoonful of the crispy, healthful crispies (unless it’s Apple Jacks, my favorite from childhood), Gertrude starts yelling, "All done! All done!” and hops off her chair, spoon or fork in hand. She then runs over to me yelling, “My daddy, my daddy” and crawls on my lap.
Each morning I think she’s just coming over to give me some affection. But within seconds, her spoon has plunged into my cereal and she’s going to town on my breakfast. Sometimes she can’t get the cereal on her baby sized spoon and she asks for help. As if I’m going to aid her in stealing my food.
Of course, I always do.
Once the last remnant of the cereal is gone, she leaves her spoon in my bowl and hops off to go play before we leave for the sitter.
I thought this was cute the first time it happened. Reasonably adorable the second. Kind of sweet the third and rather hobbit like the fourth. Now I view her as a food leech.
So, yesterday I thought I’d do something different. I picked up a twigs and nuts cereal and dumped it into a bowl of yogurt. Surely, I thought, she wouldn’t like this. Climbing up, she said, “eeeeww, yuck” when she looked at it. But, she plunged her spoon right in and started eating. At first, she gave a disgusted face at the encounter with the yogurt. But within seconds, she was wolfing down my cereal.
When she finished, I gave her her spoon and asked her to put it in the sink. There was still a glob of yogurt on it. Out comes her tongue and she’s lapping it up like a dog with table scraps. Looking up at mom she says, "Yummmmm.”
Today I gave her her own bowl of this concoction. She said, “eew yuck” to it and ate mine. Then she ate hers.
And you wonder why I named her after a hobbit. But she doesn’t have furry feet.
Still, I complain about this. I feel I should. I can’t set a precedent. Daddy isn’t a buffet line. But, her chubby little legs bouncing up and down while she sits on my lap . . . the fat little arm reaching around my neck when she says, “My Daddy”. I wouldn’t trade them for anything.
I wouldn’t and I can’t. Who would take her?
Discuss Breakfast Larceny
Tuesday, July 15, 2003
Should I Worry?
My current favorite album is a loose “concept album”/comic book about a maniacal dog named Freemdoom who controls the mild-mannered inhabitants of the island nation Krone Ishta. Freemdoom has a monster sidekick named Gorgar and they are intent on controlling and polluting the island and seizing control away from the kind-hearted Frog King and Mal the Fish.
Mal dies, by the way.
Oh yeah, Freemdoom can control people's lungs.
Why do I suddenly feel like I’ve regressed to the days I listened to “Singring and the Glass Guitar” over and over again. I think I was eight. Todd Rungren might have been eight, mentally, when he wrote it.
Oh well.
Freemdoom rocks.
Mal dies, by the way.
Oh yeah, Freemdoom can control people's lungs.
Why do I suddenly feel like I’ve regressed to the days I listened to “Singring and the Glass Guitar” over and over again. I think I was eight. Todd Rungren might have been eight, mentally, when he wrote it.
Oh well.
Freemdoom rocks.
Roll With It Baby
So yesterday I forgot to explain the story of the maniacal baby rolling under the bed and getting stuck.
I apologize for my shortsighted mistake. I have flogged myself duly.
There’s a bit of a back story first. I’ve taken to calling young Gertrude “Pip”. It’s a three-fold reference, really. Classical literature students will recognize this as the main character from Dickens’ “Great Expectations”. However, I picked up my reference from two less respectable sources. The first is the television show Farscape. The main character John Crichton refers to mischievous female alien Chiana as “Pip” (geek proof number one: Gary likes sci fi TV). Gertrude shares many of Chiana’s more mischievous character elements. She has little sense of fear, leaps without looking and grins when she gets caught. The secondary reference is to the Hobbit Pippin from the Lord of the Rings series. Pippin is impatient, nosy and inquisitive. His curiosity often gets his friends in trouble (see the fireworks escapade, or what he does in Moria). (Geek proof #2, Gary knows his Lord of the Rings chronology, topography and cartography.) Plus, Pippin loves food and will take yours if given the chance. Gertrude does this as well. The only difference between the two would be Pippin’s love for beer. Gertrude may share this love, but I’d be reported to family services if I indulged it. Drunken babies, no matter how funny, are illegal. Pippin was also known as “Prince of the Halflings”. Gertrude is a Halfling and a princess.
Close enough.
This weekend, I was distracting young Pip while her mother did some work in the kitchen. Normally Gertrude would “help” mommy by undoing all of the work mommy had accomplished.
So, I did my fatherly duty of playing with the baby. It’s a hard job, but someone has to do it, right?
We started out by jumping on the bed. Gertrude would leap in the air and yell, “I jump!” I’d stop her from falling to her doom. It was a good set up. But she quickly tired of it. There was no element of danger if daddy saved her all the time.
So we moved on to what we call “steam rolling”. We both lie on the floor and roll into each other. This causes the baby to laugh hysterically. For some reason being rolled over, albeit gently, by a man 10 times her size, is hilarious.
Our bedroom is the perfect place for this event. It’s big, with plenty of rolling space and a nice, soft carpet to boot. The only problem is Gertrude has no directional control. Given a wide open space, she’d roll in figure eights. Unfortunately our bedroom has obstacles. Like the bed.
She promptly rolled right and straight under the bed, lodging her shoulder on the box spring frame. She laughed. And laughed and laughed.
But suddenly she realized that being stuck isn’t so funny. “I stuck! Help! I stuck!” I grabbed her by the ankles and pulled her out. She laughed the entire time.
Round two of steam rolling. I figured she’s intelligent; she’ll not do that again. Wrong. When I said GO! She went straight under the bed again. This time I think she did it on purpose.
“I stuck! (Gasping laughter) Help! I stuck!” She giggled the whole time.
Doing my duty, I extracted her again. I’m a good guy, like that. When she came out, hair all statically and flying every which way, she laughed. Hard. Like a surfer who had just wiped out on the rocks and said, “Gnarly.” “Huh huh. Huh huh. Huh huh.”
So I decided this was a bad idea. Next thing I know she’ll be falling down wells and be on the national news.
We moved to the window to watch copious wildlife cavort playfully in the yard. All we got was a squirrel. It did cavort, though. Gertrude laughed and laughed. Every thing seemed to be funny today.
“Squew! Run! Twee!” It was a short show, and I think she was disappointed by the lack of conflict.
We ran through our entire repertoire of animal voices. “What does a birdie say?” Tweet tweet. “What does a dog say?” Barf barf. “What does a monkey say?” Oooh. Oooh. “What does a humpback whale say?” Ooooooooooomooooooan click click tweeeeeeeee!
At this point I was physically exhausted. We had been jumping rolling and howling forever. She hopped off the window sill and proceeded to run around in circles until she fell down. Huh huh huh, she laughed. “Gertrude do it! Daddy do! Daddy do!” So I did.
Observation: A thirty year old gets dizzy faster than a one year old.
Time to check on mommy. Daddy’s going to have a heart attack trying to keep up with this kid.
“Mom? Are you done?”
”Done? No! It’s only been five minutes.”
Crap. She’s only one and I only last for five minutes.
Her sister is so much more reserved. What happened to this one? I’m beginning to think her mother took hallucinogens during pregnancy without telling me. Or sharing.
Could be the fact that the last movie mom saw before Gertrude’s birth was Mulholland Drive.
Or it could be that my caffeine intake somehow warped the chromosomes I contributed to this little goofball.
Still, exhausted, sweating and purple from exertion, I scooped my little girl up in my arms and hugged her tight. You get overwhelmed with love for these little creatures at the strangest time. Even in the middle of a spinning-induced aneurism.
She looked at me, smiled and kissed me on the cheek. My heart swelled with love.
Then her back stiffened and she got a relieved look on her face. “I toot”, she giggled. Sigh. That’s my girl.
Only seventeen more years until I send her to college.
Why does that seem so short all of a sudden?
Discuss Roll With It, Baby
I apologize for my shortsighted mistake. I have flogged myself duly.
There’s a bit of a back story first. I’ve taken to calling young Gertrude “Pip”. It’s a three-fold reference, really. Classical literature students will recognize this as the main character from Dickens’ “Great Expectations”. However, I picked up my reference from two less respectable sources. The first is the television show Farscape. The main character John Crichton refers to mischievous female alien Chiana as “Pip” (geek proof number one: Gary likes sci fi TV). Gertrude shares many of Chiana’s more mischievous character elements. She has little sense of fear, leaps without looking and grins when she gets caught. The secondary reference is to the Hobbit Pippin from the Lord of the Rings series. Pippin is impatient, nosy and inquisitive. His curiosity often gets his friends in trouble (see the fireworks escapade, or what he does in Moria). (Geek proof #2, Gary knows his Lord of the Rings chronology, topography and cartography.) Plus, Pippin loves food and will take yours if given the chance. Gertrude does this as well. The only difference between the two would be Pippin’s love for beer. Gertrude may share this love, but I’d be reported to family services if I indulged it. Drunken babies, no matter how funny, are illegal. Pippin was also known as “Prince of the Halflings”. Gertrude is a Halfling and a princess.
Close enough.
This weekend, I was distracting young Pip while her mother did some work in the kitchen. Normally Gertrude would “help” mommy by undoing all of the work mommy had accomplished.
So, I did my fatherly duty of playing with the baby. It’s a hard job, but someone has to do it, right?
We started out by jumping on the bed. Gertrude would leap in the air and yell, “I jump!” I’d stop her from falling to her doom. It was a good set up. But she quickly tired of it. There was no element of danger if daddy saved her all the time.
So we moved on to what we call “steam rolling”. We both lie on the floor and roll into each other. This causes the baby to laugh hysterically. For some reason being rolled over, albeit gently, by a man 10 times her size, is hilarious.
Our bedroom is the perfect place for this event. It’s big, with plenty of rolling space and a nice, soft carpet to boot. The only problem is Gertrude has no directional control. Given a wide open space, she’d roll in figure eights. Unfortunately our bedroom has obstacles. Like the bed.
She promptly rolled right and straight under the bed, lodging her shoulder on the box spring frame. She laughed. And laughed and laughed.
But suddenly she realized that being stuck isn’t so funny. “I stuck! Help! I stuck!” I grabbed her by the ankles and pulled her out. She laughed the entire time.
Round two of steam rolling. I figured she’s intelligent; she’ll not do that again. Wrong. When I said GO! She went straight under the bed again. This time I think she did it on purpose.
“I stuck! (Gasping laughter) Help! I stuck!” She giggled the whole time.
Doing my duty, I extracted her again. I’m a good guy, like that. When she came out, hair all statically and flying every which way, she laughed. Hard. Like a surfer who had just wiped out on the rocks and said, “Gnarly.” “Huh huh. Huh huh. Huh huh.”
So I decided this was a bad idea. Next thing I know she’ll be falling down wells and be on the national news.
We moved to the window to watch copious wildlife cavort playfully in the yard. All we got was a squirrel. It did cavort, though. Gertrude laughed and laughed. Every thing seemed to be funny today.
“Squew! Run! Twee!” It was a short show, and I think she was disappointed by the lack of conflict.
We ran through our entire repertoire of animal voices. “What does a birdie say?” Tweet tweet. “What does a dog say?” Barf barf. “What does a monkey say?” Oooh. Oooh. “What does a humpback whale say?” Ooooooooooomooooooan click click tweeeeeeeee!
At this point I was physically exhausted. We had been jumping rolling and howling forever. She hopped off the window sill and proceeded to run around in circles until she fell down. Huh huh huh, she laughed. “Gertrude do it! Daddy do! Daddy do!” So I did.
Observation: A thirty year old gets dizzy faster than a one year old.
Time to check on mommy. Daddy’s going to have a heart attack trying to keep up with this kid.
“Mom? Are you done?”
”Done? No! It’s only been five minutes.”
Crap. She’s only one and I only last for five minutes.
Her sister is so much more reserved. What happened to this one? I’m beginning to think her mother took hallucinogens during pregnancy without telling me. Or sharing.
Could be the fact that the last movie mom saw before Gertrude’s birth was Mulholland Drive.
Or it could be that my caffeine intake somehow warped the chromosomes I contributed to this little goofball.
Still, exhausted, sweating and purple from exertion, I scooped my little girl up in my arms and hugged her tight. You get overwhelmed with love for these little creatures at the strangest time. Even in the middle of a spinning-induced aneurism.
She looked at me, smiled and kissed me on the cheek. My heart swelled with love.
Then her back stiffened and she got a relieved look on her face. “I toot”, she giggled. Sigh. That’s my girl.
Only seventeen more years until I send her to college.
Why does that seem so short all of a sudden?
Discuss Roll With It, Baby
Monday, July 14, 2003
Hunt For The Red October
Ah, the weekend. A time to relax and enjoy everything that’s good in life. Like clogged drains, bug bites, railroad tie splinters embedded so deeply in your arm that they become a part of your skeletal system and psychotic babies that roll under the bed, get stuck and giggle insanely when they can’t get out.
I’ll start with the good stuff. We watched a pretty decent movie on Friday. Almodovar’s “Talk to Her.” I enjoyed 90% of the film, but thought it was too predictable in the end. Which is quite an accomplishment considering it was in Spanish.
Saturday morning we decided to rip out the railroad ties in our back yard. Because we’re idiots. Complete, moronic idiots. We shouldn’t be allowed in public. That took what seemed like three or four days. Sweat, blood, dirt and bugs that have more legs than the President has advisors. Yuck.
In the midst of the festivities, my wife discovered a black plastic bag buried beneath the ties. Thinking nothing of it, we threw it away. That was that. Well, two hours later, both the baby and the mommy have strange lesions on their arms. Gasp, we thought. Could this be anthrax?
Now, before you laugh at our psychotic, paranoid delusions, let me explain something. We bought our house two months ago from a man named Oleg. Oleg had about eight people living in his house. All of them were “relatives” but no one looked alike. Suspicious.
What’s more, Oleg had a big satellite dish on the roof. Now, according to law, he is supposed to leave that dish. On our final walkthrough, I noticed the dish was gone. When questioned about this, Oleg replied, “It is a Russian dish. You need nothing of it.”
Okay. From what I saw it was an elliptical DirectTV satellite dish. But what do I know? I’m only a gadget-obsessed geek.
Well, we bought the house and moved in. Besides leaving behind various bits of furniture that we would assume a normal person would like to take with them, we noticed that there were video amplifiers installed in the house. It’s not a big house and there was really no need for Oleg to boost his digital cable signal. This got me thinking. Again, suspicious.
Well, after a few days we noticed that there was a rectangular patch in the far end of the back yard that seemed to be slightly higher than the rest of the ground. Obviously a grave. Plus, strewn about in the same area were various car parts. Like an exhaust system for a 1985 Thunderbird, an oil pan for a 72 Chevy Vega and another exhaust system for a Peugeot.
So, naturally, we put two and two together and got Q. Oleg was, quite obviously, a spy. And he had to kill his partner, get rid of his cars and bury them all in the back yard.
Therefore (bear with me, I’m getting back to the point), it was clear that the black plastic bag was filled with weapons-grade anthrax that Oleg was refining in order to keep his good standing with the rogue KGB agents who, after the war in Iraq, are planning on staging a coup and putting Russia back under a pure Communist regime.
Turns out the anthrax lesions that my wife and daughter have are actually bug bites. But I still stand by my theory that Oleg was a Russian spy. We don’t like Russians, right? Because they have nuclear weapons and put Laika in space before we were able to launch the Mars rover or something?
I should probably read the paper periodically.
So anyway, after rustling the kids into bed after a finely barbequed meal by yours truly with only three grease fires and one scarrable burn, we were getting ready to settle in for an evening of relaxation.
Then my wife said it.
“Would you switch the load of laundry?”
Why of course. I’d love to. Hey, what’s that water streaming underneath the wall of the basement bathroom? I do hope nothing is terribly awry.
Holy Crap. Mother of Edith Head. Sweet Bake McBride.
The sink in the bathroom seemed to have exploded with the ectoplasm of a thousand writhing souls doing time in the pits of hell. The floor was caked in a one-inch thick quagmire of muck and blackened grime being fed by a bubbling, spitting mass of blackened sludge oozing from the sink. And I swear it was staring at me.
“Dear God,” I thought, “I’m on Dagobah.”
I summoned my wife. She cried for an hour and started packing our things, swearing that renting property wasn’t so bad, as I prepared the dynamite packs, trying to make it look like a gas leak lest we lose the insurance.
Shortly after midnight, we were finished. I swore I would figure it out the next day and fix it myself, by gum. After I mowed the lawn, edged, trimmed bushes and complained about the heat and humidity.
Well, I did figure out the problem. It was basic science. There was a blockage in the drain slightly below the joint where the sinks’ drain met up with the pipe. Whenever we used the kitchen sink, which is on the same drain, the water and contents from the garbage disposal would end up in the sink in the bathroom. It was lovely.
But wait! They have products to deal with this sort of thing! I can buy something and fix it good as new! Yay! My man-ness was salvaged.
Sort of. I never considered that if it is impossible for this store-bought sludge to actually reach the crud in the pipe, it won’t work.
So, after many hours I relented and hired a professional. He came in, without any butt crack showing, and cleared our drain. He was very impressed that I was able to tell him where the problem was, despite my lack of knowledge of the term “Furncoe”. Even now I don’t think I know what it is, or even if it really is something. Maybe he screwed me when installing the furncoe. Or something. Who cares? I can now do dishes without flooding the basement.
But, to top off my fantastic weekend, when I woke up this morning, the trashmen had come two and a half hours ahead of schedule, so I still have my trash. And then, when hanging up my towel, the hook fell out of the wall.
I’m so happy I work in an editorial capacity. Because if I worked with nuclear materials, I’d surely have an extra head, with the luck I’m having.
Discuss Paranoid Delusions
I’ll start with the good stuff. We watched a pretty decent movie on Friday. Almodovar’s “Talk to Her.” I enjoyed 90% of the film, but thought it was too predictable in the end. Which is quite an accomplishment considering it was in Spanish.
Saturday morning we decided to rip out the railroad ties in our back yard. Because we’re idiots. Complete, moronic idiots. We shouldn’t be allowed in public. That took what seemed like three or four days. Sweat, blood, dirt and bugs that have more legs than the President has advisors. Yuck.
In the midst of the festivities, my wife discovered a black plastic bag buried beneath the ties. Thinking nothing of it, we threw it away. That was that. Well, two hours later, both the baby and the mommy have strange lesions on their arms. Gasp, we thought. Could this be anthrax?
Now, before you laugh at our psychotic, paranoid delusions, let me explain something. We bought our house two months ago from a man named Oleg. Oleg had about eight people living in his house. All of them were “relatives” but no one looked alike. Suspicious.
What’s more, Oleg had a big satellite dish on the roof. Now, according to law, he is supposed to leave that dish. On our final walkthrough, I noticed the dish was gone. When questioned about this, Oleg replied, “It is a Russian dish. You need nothing of it.”
Okay. From what I saw it was an elliptical DirectTV satellite dish. But what do I know? I’m only a gadget-obsessed geek.
Well, we bought the house and moved in. Besides leaving behind various bits of furniture that we would assume a normal person would like to take with them, we noticed that there were video amplifiers installed in the house. It’s not a big house and there was really no need for Oleg to boost his digital cable signal. This got me thinking. Again, suspicious.
Well, after a few days we noticed that there was a rectangular patch in the far end of the back yard that seemed to be slightly higher than the rest of the ground. Obviously a grave. Plus, strewn about in the same area were various car parts. Like an exhaust system for a 1985 Thunderbird, an oil pan for a 72 Chevy Vega and another exhaust system for a Peugeot.
So, naturally, we put two and two together and got Q. Oleg was, quite obviously, a spy. And he had to kill his partner, get rid of his cars and bury them all in the back yard.
Therefore (bear with me, I’m getting back to the point), it was clear that the black plastic bag was filled with weapons-grade anthrax that Oleg was refining in order to keep his good standing with the rogue KGB agents who, after the war in Iraq, are planning on staging a coup and putting Russia back under a pure Communist regime.
Turns out the anthrax lesions that my wife and daughter have are actually bug bites. But I still stand by my theory that Oleg was a Russian spy. We don’t like Russians, right? Because they have nuclear weapons and put Laika in space before we were able to launch the Mars rover or something?
I should probably read the paper periodically.
So anyway, after rustling the kids into bed after a finely barbequed meal by yours truly with only three grease fires and one scarrable burn, we were getting ready to settle in for an evening of relaxation.
Then my wife said it.
“Would you switch the load of laundry?”
Why of course. I’d love to. Hey, what’s that water streaming underneath the wall of the basement bathroom? I do hope nothing is terribly awry.
Holy Crap. Mother of Edith Head. Sweet Bake McBride.
The sink in the bathroom seemed to have exploded with the ectoplasm of a thousand writhing souls doing time in the pits of hell. The floor was caked in a one-inch thick quagmire of muck and blackened grime being fed by a bubbling, spitting mass of blackened sludge oozing from the sink. And I swear it was staring at me.
“Dear God,” I thought, “I’m on Dagobah.”
I summoned my wife. She cried for an hour and started packing our things, swearing that renting property wasn’t so bad, as I prepared the dynamite packs, trying to make it look like a gas leak lest we lose the insurance.
Shortly after midnight, we were finished. I swore I would figure it out the next day and fix it myself, by gum. After I mowed the lawn, edged, trimmed bushes and complained about the heat and humidity.
Well, I did figure out the problem. It was basic science. There was a blockage in the drain slightly below the joint where the sinks’ drain met up with the pipe. Whenever we used the kitchen sink, which is on the same drain, the water and contents from the garbage disposal would end up in the sink in the bathroom. It was lovely.
But wait! They have products to deal with this sort of thing! I can buy something and fix it good as new! Yay! My man-ness was salvaged.
Sort of. I never considered that if it is impossible for this store-bought sludge to actually reach the crud in the pipe, it won’t work.
So, after many hours I relented and hired a professional. He came in, without any butt crack showing, and cleared our drain. He was very impressed that I was able to tell him where the problem was, despite my lack of knowledge of the term “Furncoe”. Even now I don’t think I know what it is, or even if it really is something. Maybe he screwed me when installing the furncoe. Or something. Who cares? I can now do dishes without flooding the basement.
But, to top off my fantastic weekend, when I woke up this morning, the trashmen had come two and a half hours ahead of schedule, so I still have my trash. And then, when hanging up my towel, the hook fell out of the wall.
I’m so happy I work in an editorial capacity. Because if I worked with nuclear materials, I’d surely have an extra head, with the luck I’m having.
Discuss Paranoid Delusions
Thursday, July 10, 2003
Beat The Meat
No, literally.
Now that I can breathe again, let’s dissect this article a little bit.
First of all, look at the photo. Italian Americans are up in arms over their portrayal in The Sopranos, but a gumba sausage is okay?
Pittsburgh first baseman Randall Simon was booked for misdemeanor battery for hitting one of the Milwaukee Brewers' popular racing sausages with a bat during Wednesday night's game.
Hands down a phrase I never expected to see in writing: “popular racing sausages.”
. . . and it will be up to prosecutors to determine whether formal charges are filed.
What will the charges be? Assault on a sausage with a blunt object? Does Randall Simon have a history of assault on anthropomorphic grilled foods?
In an event that's a fan favorite at Miller Park, four people in sausage costumes race around the bases between the sixth and seventh innings at Milwaukee Brewers games.
This is also a popular event in the Missouri legislature. But, really, who can resist racing sausages? Or can they? Is it a good idea to humanize food?
Simon took a two-handed chop at the Italian sausage character
All I can say in Simon’s defense is: “Five years ago, a man's fantasy became
a reality in a form never seen before: Kitchen Stadium, a giant cooking arena.”
As she fell, a nearby sausage -- the hot dog -- went down as well.
I can’t breathe again. Must. Stop. Laughing. Hands down, this is the funniest thing I’ve ever read.
"They were doing the sausage race. He hit her with the baseball bat . . ."
Wait . . . are we talking about the assault or a date? This comment seems like a quadruple entendre.
"It was very strange," he said.
That’s the understatement of the century.
Rick Schlessinger, the Brewers' executive vice president for business operations, said he felt Simon's "conduct is just unjustified."
Any abuse of an Italian Sausage and a Hot Dog is unjustified. Where is PETA when you need them?
To sum up:
Ryan Borghoff, 16, who wore the bratwurst costume in the race, called the episode "unbelievable."
"He just hit the costume and she fell over," he said. "These things are so top-heavy that it doesn't take much."
Borghoff went on to win the race.
"Somebody had to, I guess," he said.
Again, a phrase I never expected to see in print: “Who wore the bratwurst costume . . .” Wow. That’s almost frightening.
But I think we need to investigate this, because it’s suspicious. We didn’t hear from the Kielbasa who came in second. There were four sausages. Or were there five? Was there a sausage on the grassy knoll?
And I don’t think Borghoff himself is above suspicion. Not only did he win the race, but he was available to the press after such a tragedy involving his fellow sausages.
Did Borghoff have previous contact with Simon? Was he paid off to allow Borghoff?
And where was Tonya Harding at the time?
Discuss Sausages
Now that I can breathe again, let’s dissect this article a little bit.
First of all, look at the photo. Italian Americans are up in arms over their portrayal in The Sopranos, but a gumba sausage is okay?
Pittsburgh first baseman Randall Simon was booked for misdemeanor battery for hitting one of the Milwaukee Brewers' popular racing sausages with a bat during Wednesday night's game.
Hands down a phrase I never expected to see in writing: “popular racing sausages.”
. . . and it will be up to prosecutors to determine whether formal charges are filed.
What will the charges be? Assault on a sausage with a blunt object? Does Randall Simon have a history of assault on anthropomorphic grilled foods?
In an event that's a fan favorite at Miller Park, four people in sausage costumes race around the bases between the sixth and seventh innings at Milwaukee Brewers games.
This is also a popular event in the Missouri legislature. But, really, who can resist racing sausages? Or can they? Is it a good idea to humanize food?
Simon took a two-handed chop at the Italian sausage character
All I can say in Simon’s defense is: “Five years ago, a man's fantasy became
a reality in a form never seen before: Kitchen Stadium, a giant cooking arena.”
As she fell, a nearby sausage -- the hot dog -- went down as well.
I can’t breathe again. Must. Stop. Laughing. Hands down, this is the funniest thing I’ve ever read.
"They were doing the sausage race. He hit her with the baseball bat . . ."
Wait . . . are we talking about the assault or a date? This comment seems like a quadruple entendre.
"It was very strange," he said.
That’s the understatement of the century.
Rick Schlessinger, the Brewers' executive vice president for business operations, said he felt Simon's "conduct is just unjustified."
Any abuse of an Italian Sausage and a Hot Dog is unjustified. Where is PETA when you need them?
To sum up:
Ryan Borghoff, 16, who wore the bratwurst costume in the race, called the episode "unbelievable."
"He just hit the costume and she fell over," he said. "These things are so top-heavy that it doesn't take much."
Borghoff went on to win the race.
"Somebody had to, I guess," he said.
Again, a phrase I never expected to see in print: “Who wore the bratwurst costume . . .” Wow. That’s almost frightening.
But I think we need to investigate this, because it’s suspicious. We didn’t hear from the Kielbasa who came in second. There were four sausages. Or were there five? Was there a sausage on the grassy knoll?
And I don’t think Borghoff himself is above suspicion. Not only did he win the race, but he was available to the press after such a tragedy involving his fellow sausages.
Did Borghoff have previous contact with Simon? Was he paid off to allow Borghoff?
And where was Tonya Harding at the time?
Discuss Sausages
Wednesday, July 09, 2003
Blogger Acting Weird
Sorry if you’ve seen strange posts, strange fonts, etc. I’m having Blogger issues.
The Island of Lost Projects
This is where I live. The Island of Lost Projects. It’s a lot like Fantasy Island except there are no fantasies, jiggley eighties babes or Ricardo Montalban. But still here I am.
Why do I live in the Island of Lost Projects? Because that’s what I do. I start projects and then lose them. Right now I have either lost, forgotten about, abandoned or am too lazy to complete:
The Halves and Half Knots—My Political Blog
Part of this Nutritious Breakfast—My Creative Blog
Jesus Saves—My collection of strange, and ill-advised, Church direct mailings.
Audio Biograpy—My life in song. I’ll get back to that though.
The Truth—Where I mine public domain photos and write stories about them. If you haven’t seen what I’ve done thus far, click to your left.
Earth, Inc.—A science fiction novel about something . . . or other. Actually, I think Earth, Inc. was the title of someone else’s novel and I can’t remember what the hell I was calling mine.
What’s He Building in There—Another novel about a guy who builds stuff. It had subtext. Or maybe it was supertext. Maybe that’s why I never wrote it.
Giant Cyborg—This one never got off the ground. The government found out, sent some mind-control robots and now I love the human race. I promise not to destroy you in a firey ball of robotic death. All my evil tendencies have been abated and now I don’t hate the human race except for three specific male tennis players, Bert Convey and Kip Winger. I used to hate Murray Head, but I got over that. He can spend all the time in Bangkok that he wants.
Pizza Kabobs—This was going to make me rich. A grillable pizza on a stick. You put on pieces of crust, meat, veggies and cheese cubes. Then you put it all on the grill. I was on the verge of a breakthrough in cheese technology that would allow me to have a grillable cheese that melted on the inside but remained solid on the outside. That way it didn’t fall through the grill slats. But Wisconsin found out and sent out goons to silence me. Stupid goons. But, it’s okay. Really. My sauce globules never really worked anyway.
Super Bugs—This was just misguided. Who wanted a bullet-proof bug in the first place? Who shoots bugs?
Gangsta Cruises—Specialty cruises for Gangstas. Never got off the ground. I’m not sure why.
It’s Just Happy Hour!!—It was a dating service for business men who didn’t have time for It’s Just Lunch! Had to shut it down when a bad case of The Clap was running among my clients and someone named Tammy suddenly started driving a Lexus. I’m not sure why that happened.
Biblical Transformers—Saul changed into Paul. That’s all I had. No one cared.
Fronteralls—It was designed for women to abate the . . . uh . . . frontal wedgie. This became a problem when Daisy Dukes or “Hoochie Cutters” became popular. It is a problem that has resurfaced. I’ve noticed that both epidemics have coincided with an upswell of Celine Dion’s career. I’m not saying that the two are related. Then again, I’m not saying they aren’t.
Well, it’s time to go in for my shock treatments now.
Say Something! Gary's Lost It! Someone Grab The Thorizine!
Why do I live in the Island of Lost Projects? Because that’s what I do. I start projects and then lose them. Right now I have either lost, forgotten about, abandoned or am too lazy to complete:
The Halves and Half Knots—My Political Blog
Part of this Nutritious Breakfast—My Creative Blog
Jesus Saves—My collection of strange, and ill-advised, Church direct mailings.
Audio Biograpy—My life in song. I’ll get back to that though.
The Truth—Where I mine public domain photos and write stories about them. If you haven’t seen what I’ve done thus far, click to your left.
Earth, Inc.—A science fiction novel about something . . . or other. Actually, I think Earth, Inc. was the title of someone else’s novel and I can’t remember what the hell I was calling mine.
What’s He Building in There—Another novel about a guy who builds stuff. It had subtext. Or maybe it was supertext. Maybe that’s why I never wrote it.
Giant Cyborg—This one never got off the ground. The government found out, sent some mind-control robots and now I love the human race. I promise not to destroy you in a firey ball of robotic death. All my evil tendencies have been abated and now I don’t hate the human race except for three specific male tennis players, Bert Convey and Kip Winger. I used to hate Murray Head, but I got over that. He can spend all the time in Bangkok that he wants.
Pizza Kabobs—This was going to make me rich. A grillable pizza on a stick. You put on pieces of crust, meat, veggies and cheese cubes. Then you put it all on the grill. I was on the verge of a breakthrough in cheese technology that would allow me to have a grillable cheese that melted on the inside but remained solid on the outside. That way it didn’t fall through the grill slats. But Wisconsin found out and sent out goons to silence me. Stupid goons. But, it’s okay. Really. My sauce globules never really worked anyway.
Super Bugs—This was just misguided. Who wanted a bullet-proof bug in the first place? Who shoots bugs?
Gangsta Cruises—Specialty cruises for Gangstas. Never got off the ground. I’m not sure why.
It’s Just Happy Hour!!—It was a dating service for business men who didn’t have time for It’s Just Lunch! Had to shut it down when a bad case of The Clap was running among my clients and someone named Tammy suddenly started driving a Lexus. I’m not sure why that happened.
Biblical Transformers—Saul changed into Paul. That’s all I had. No one cared.
Fronteralls—It was designed for women to abate the . . . uh . . . frontal wedgie. This became a problem when Daisy Dukes or “Hoochie Cutters” became popular. It is a problem that has resurfaced. I’ve noticed that both epidemics have coincided with an upswell of Celine Dion’s career. I’m not saying that the two are related. Then again, I’m not saying they aren’t.
Well, it’s time to go in for my shock treatments now.
Say Something! Gary's Lost It! Someone Grab The Thorizine!
Tuesday, July 08, 2003
Brutal Youth
In The Days of Future Past and all That Jazz . . .
Yesterday I wrote something entitled, “All I Need To Know About You I Learned From Your CD Shelf” but I figured I would lose friends and influence enemies. Suffice it to say that it was something about how the things we choose to display, CDs, books, movies, actually help define us to strangers. That someone like me would be more likely to talk to a stranger in a bar who makes a sly reference to Cornelius’ “Fantasma” than I would, say, someone who said “Lamal’s theme song for The Neverending Story was the greatest song ever recorded.”
But that’s neither here nor there. Seriously. I deleted it. It doesn’t exist, so for once the expression rings true.
Last night we took Matilda to pick out her very first pair of glasses. She was very mature about the whole process. In fact, she has been looking forward to getting glasses. When she came home from finding out she said, “Now I can look like a geek too!”
At least when I die I’ll be able to know that my kids thought I made wearing glasses cool. So, you know, I’ve got that going for me.
But Matilda went in knowing what she wanted. She had a color and a basic idea of how the glasses should look on her. Rather than rushing through the process or feigning indifference she considered each possible frame thoughtfully and picked her favorite pair, despite the fact that I was pushing child-sized Elvis Costello glasses on her.
Meanwhile, the baby and I were off looking at TVs. I’m training her to throw tantrums whenever she sees a plasma. She kicks her feet and screams, “Please plasma! Need a plasma! My life will not be complete without the beauty, clarity and HD capabilities of an anamorphic, 16X9, wall-mountable plasma screen with stunning digital imagery. Imagine the beauty of The Wiggles on that screen.”
I’m working on her response to Mommy’s “No”. Right now she’s learning, “But won’t the extra-special edition of The Two Towers look amazing on it?” That should convince mommy.
Afterward we went to my sisters to pick up my past. That is to say, that my sister has been housing a bunch of boxes for me for the last seven or eight years. So I ended up spending the evening looking at a bunch of crap I should have thrown out years ago. And I did throw a lot of stuff out. Do I really need a notebook that proclaims, perhaps a hundred times, how much I loved whatever current girlfriend I had in high school? No. I say, no. Those are gone. There’s no need to remember how pathetic I was, is there? I mean, I can just look at myself now. Bad hair, ugly shirts, pasty white legs. I look like Ward Cleaver on a bender.
But a rush of names came flooding back to me like a bunch of evil little gnomes with hatchets. Old girlfriends like Lisa, Amy, Tracy. I had forgotten about most of those old girlfriends and our intense high school relationships that consisted of notes written in the heat of math class that proclaimed our undying love (or at least until fourth period). What’s funny is I’m hard-pressed to remember what they looked like. Sorry girls. I’m sure you’re heartbroken as you think, “And Gary is . . .” But, hell, that was almost fifteen years ago. In the time I’ve forgotten your faces, I’ve replaced those memories with thousands of great songs, hundreds of books, movies and the three beautiful girls I’m spending my life with.
It seems apropos to quote Robert Plant when I think about my current and past lives:
Sitting around singing songs 'til the night turns into day
Used to sing on the mountains but the mountains washed away
Now I'm singing all my songs to the girl who won my heart
She is only three years old and it's a real fine way to start
There are other names that came flooding back. Mostly the time I spent with Patrick Rebmann and Paul McClung as some sort of strange trio. Patrick and I used to stage fake sword duels, complete with mock-Shakespearean blank verse, around a mock-piazza at a local dining/shopping area. Paul and I used to sit in his room and discuss the many layers of the song “Comfortably Numb” and retire to his balcony to smoke cigarettes and talk about death.
We thought we were so damn cool back then. In 1988-1990. And, in retrospect, I guess we were cool. We were some of the only teens who used to sit in McDonalds waiting for a movie to start and discussing the significance of the rise and fall of the Third Reich and wondering how far those waves of effect would carry (they’re still waving, by the way). We used to quote Dante (or what we could of Dante) to each other. And of course, we’d dream about girls. Sigh. Good old girls. Our obsessions ran from girls to music and back to girls. The two most significant things in the world.
It’s funny how the past sometimes comes out of the smoky haze to tempt you with memories. You revel in those memories for a while, good and bad, and let them drift back into the smoky haze again. If you’re smart, you’ll let them stay in the smoky haze until needed. After all, the past is merely a ghost that has a strange need for exhibition.
I’m sure Patrick and Paul are still cool. I’m a geek. These things happen. Their moms let them get Van Halen airbrushed on the backs of their jeans jackets and now I’m sitting here listening to Olivia Tremor Control and realizing that, outside of my wife and one other person I know (who introduced them to me), no one else I know is aware of them.
Oh well, as Elvis Costello once said,
Now there's a tragic waste of brutal youth
Strip and polish this unvarnished truth
The tricky door that gapes beneath the ragged noose
The crippled verdict begs again for the lamest excuse
Or something like that. Maybe I meant to say:
My science fiction twin
Escorted by his lovely nieces
Filled up his purse dictating verse
While painting masterpieces
His almost universal excellence
Is starting to disturb me
They asked how in the world he does all these things
And he answered "Superbly"
He's trapped in his own parallel dimension
That's why I'm so forgiving
But how could I possibly forget to mention those fifty-foot women
Who put the fascination back into my science fiction twin
Discuss Stuff and Things
Yesterday I wrote something entitled, “All I Need To Know About You I Learned From Your CD Shelf” but I figured I would lose friends and influence enemies. Suffice it to say that it was something about how the things we choose to display, CDs, books, movies, actually help define us to strangers. That someone like me would be more likely to talk to a stranger in a bar who makes a sly reference to Cornelius’ “Fantasma” than I would, say, someone who said “Lamal’s theme song for The Neverending Story was the greatest song ever recorded.”
But that’s neither here nor there. Seriously. I deleted it. It doesn’t exist, so for once the expression rings true.
Last night we took Matilda to pick out her very first pair of glasses. She was very mature about the whole process. In fact, she has been looking forward to getting glasses. When she came home from finding out she said, “Now I can look like a geek too!”
At least when I die I’ll be able to know that my kids thought I made wearing glasses cool. So, you know, I’ve got that going for me.
But Matilda went in knowing what she wanted. She had a color and a basic idea of how the glasses should look on her. Rather than rushing through the process or feigning indifference she considered each possible frame thoughtfully and picked her favorite pair, despite the fact that I was pushing child-sized Elvis Costello glasses on her.
Meanwhile, the baby and I were off looking at TVs. I’m training her to throw tantrums whenever she sees a plasma. She kicks her feet and screams, “Please plasma! Need a plasma! My life will not be complete without the beauty, clarity and HD capabilities of an anamorphic, 16X9, wall-mountable plasma screen with stunning digital imagery. Imagine the beauty of The Wiggles on that screen.”
I’m working on her response to Mommy’s “No”. Right now she’s learning, “But won’t the extra-special edition of The Two Towers look amazing on it?” That should convince mommy.
Afterward we went to my sisters to pick up my past. That is to say, that my sister has been housing a bunch of boxes for me for the last seven or eight years. So I ended up spending the evening looking at a bunch of crap I should have thrown out years ago. And I did throw a lot of stuff out. Do I really need a notebook that proclaims, perhaps a hundred times, how much I loved whatever current girlfriend I had in high school? No. I say, no. Those are gone. There’s no need to remember how pathetic I was, is there? I mean, I can just look at myself now. Bad hair, ugly shirts, pasty white legs. I look like Ward Cleaver on a bender.
But a rush of names came flooding back to me like a bunch of evil little gnomes with hatchets. Old girlfriends like Lisa, Amy, Tracy. I had forgotten about most of those old girlfriends and our intense high school relationships that consisted of notes written in the heat of math class that proclaimed our undying love (or at least until fourth period). What’s funny is I’m hard-pressed to remember what they looked like. Sorry girls. I’m sure you’re heartbroken as you think, “And Gary is . . .” But, hell, that was almost fifteen years ago. In the time I’ve forgotten your faces, I’ve replaced those memories with thousands of great songs, hundreds of books, movies and the three beautiful girls I’m spending my life with.
It seems apropos to quote Robert Plant when I think about my current and past lives:
Sitting around singing songs 'til the night turns into day
Used to sing on the mountains but the mountains washed away
Now I'm singing all my songs to the girl who won my heart
She is only three years old and it's a real fine way to start
There are other names that came flooding back. Mostly the time I spent with Patrick Rebmann and Paul McClung as some sort of strange trio. Patrick and I used to stage fake sword duels, complete with mock-Shakespearean blank verse, around a mock-piazza at a local dining/shopping area. Paul and I used to sit in his room and discuss the many layers of the song “Comfortably Numb” and retire to his balcony to smoke cigarettes and talk about death.
We thought we were so damn cool back then. In 1988-1990. And, in retrospect, I guess we were cool. We were some of the only teens who used to sit in McDonalds waiting for a movie to start and discussing the significance of the rise and fall of the Third Reich and wondering how far those waves of effect would carry (they’re still waving, by the way). We used to quote Dante (or what we could of Dante) to each other. And of course, we’d dream about girls. Sigh. Good old girls. Our obsessions ran from girls to music and back to girls. The two most significant things in the world.
It’s funny how the past sometimes comes out of the smoky haze to tempt you with memories. You revel in those memories for a while, good and bad, and let them drift back into the smoky haze again. If you’re smart, you’ll let them stay in the smoky haze until needed. After all, the past is merely a ghost that has a strange need for exhibition.
I’m sure Patrick and Paul are still cool. I’m a geek. These things happen. Their moms let them get Van Halen airbrushed on the backs of their jeans jackets and now I’m sitting here listening to Olivia Tremor Control and realizing that, outside of my wife and one other person I know (who introduced them to me), no one else I know is aware of them.
Oh well, as Elvis Costello once said,
Now there's a tragic waste of brutal youth
Strip and polish this unvarnished truth
The tricky door that gapes beneath the ragged noose
The crippled verdict begs again for the lamest excuse
Or something like that. Maybe I meant to say:
My science fiction twin
Escorted by his lovely nieces
Filled up his purse dictating verse
While painting masterpieces
His almost universal excellence
Is starting to disturb me
They asked how in the world he does all these things
And he answered "Superbly"
He's trapped in his own parallel dimension
That's why I'm so forgiving
But how could I possibly forget to mention those fifty-foot women
Who put the fascination back into my science fiction twin
Discuss Stuff and Things
Monday, July 07, 2003
I'm a Shadow Dancer, Baby
This weekend?
Food. Explosions. Beer. Buried car parts. Someone from the past asking to have his/her name removed from the website. Nothing too exciting.
Instead, let’s talk about the baby. The ultra-cute, painfully adorable baby who is quickly growing up into an intelligent, and strangely dangerous, toddler.
For example, the other day when she was given her breakfast she belted out, “Thank you!” And she hasn’t stopped. She’s saying please and thank you better than any other kid I’ve ever met. Suddenly so polite.
I suspect it’s a cover for some nefarious plot. It could be. Who knows? The space aliens talk to her in her sleep.
She made an important discovery last week that may have deep ramifications for the rest of her life.
We were outside in the afternoon waiting for Mom and sister to return from the doctor. It was hot. Like Africa hot. Birds were falling out of the sky from heat exhaustion. Our neighbor’s pool had evaporated and the squirrels were shaving themselves and taking to wearing Bermuda shorts.
So we started throwing ice out on the driveway to watch it melt. It’s fascinating you know. It’s science in action. Like education, only fun.
Well, Gertrude wanted to save the ice from its screaming, melting death. So, she ran out into the driveway to save the dihydrogenoxcide from changing from a solid to liquid and eventually to a gas. “I must stop the evaporation,” she cried.
While standing on the driveway she noticed she wasn’t alone. Right in front of her was another baby. A dark baby, with no face. No discernible features to speak of. But where ever Gertrude stepped, this dark baby would follow. As if this dark baby were attached to her feet.
She started backing away slowly, lest this dark spawn of an evil universe attacked. When she got back to the porch, the dark baby was gone. I laughed and explained that it was her shadow.
“Shadow!” she yelled. But she didn’t seem to believe my explanation. But, from the porch it looked like shadow baby had retreated to its home world, never to bother Gertrude again. Or so she thought.
The driveway seemed safe. So she returned to her task of saving the ice from death. But that damn baby was back. She looked down and saw Shadow Baby attached to her feet again, like an alien trying to leech her life-force, and she screamed, jumped into the air and flew across the space that separated us like she had been shot in the ass by 10,000 volts. She didn’t want to be on the driveway anymore. She didn’t want to be outside anymore. It wasn’t safe. The soul-sucking shadow baby was there.
So we went inside to get a drink of lemonade. When I turned on the kitchen light, there was Shadow Baby again. She’s like a vampire that never leaves. She’s stealthy, sneaky. You never know where she’ll show up next. Again, Gertrude leapt through the air.
We gave up on lemonade. Clearly any lemonade that was in the vicinity of Shadow Baby was not safe. That damn shadow probably poisoned it with shadow juice.
Her mothering instincts inflamed by the encounter with Shadow Baby, she headed off to her room to get one of her babies. When she turned on the light, she screamed and ran. Shadow Baby was there too.
She’s still afraid of Shadow Baby. But she’s beginning to accept her presence. Gertrude doesn’t respond with anger or fear anymore. Just suspicion.
Because she knows that damn baby will suck out her soul. She just knows it.
Discuss
Food. Explosions. Beer. Buried car parts. Someone from the past asking to have his/her name removed from the website. Nothing too exciting.
Instead, let’s talk about the baby. The ultra-cute, painfully adorable baby who is quickly growing up into an intelligent, and strangely dangerous, toddler.
For example, the other day when she was given her breakfast she belted out, “Thank you!” And she hasn’t stopped. She’s saying please and thank you better than any other kid I’ve ever met. Suddenly so polite.
I suspect it’s a cover for some nefarious plot. It could be. Who knows? The space aliens talk to her in her sleep.
She made an important discovery last week that may have deep ramifications for the rest of her life.
We were outside in the afternoon waiting for Mom and sister to return from the doctor. It was hot. Like Africa hot. Birds were falling out of the sky from heat exhaustion. Our neighbor’s pool had evaporated and the squirrels were shaving themselves and taking to wearing Bermuda shorts.
So we started throwing ice out on the driveway to watch it melt. It’s fascinating you know. It’s science in action. Like education, only fun.
Well, Gertrude wanted to save the ice from its screaming, melting death. So, she ran out into the driveway to save the dihydrogenoxcide from changing from a solid to liquid and eventually to a gas. “I must stop the evaporation,” she cried.
While standing on the driveway she noticed she wasn’t alone. Right in front of her was another baby. A dark baby, with no face. No discernible features to speak of. But where ever Gertrude stepped, this dark baby would follow. As if this dark baby were attached to her feet.
She started backing away slowly, lest this dark spawn of an evil universe attacked. When she got back to the porch, the dark baby was gone. I laughed and explained that it was her shadow.
“Shadow!” she yelled. But she didn’t seem to believe my explanation. But, from the porch it looked like shadow baby had retreated to its home world, never to bother Gertrude again. Or so she thought.
The driveway seemed safe. So she returned to her task of saving the ice from death. But that damn baby was back. She looked down and saw Shadow Baby attached to her feet again, like an alien trying to leech her life-force, and she screamed, jumped into the air and flew across the space that separated us like she had been shot in the ass by 10,000 volts. She didn’t want to be on the driveway anymore. She didn’t want to be outside anymore. It wasn’t safe. The soul-sucking shadow baby was there.
So we went inside to get a drink of lemonade. When I turned on the kitchen light, there was Shadow Baby again. She’s like a vampire that never leaves. She’s stealthy, sneaky. You never know where she’ll show up next. Again, Gertrude leapt through the air.
We gave up on lemonade. Clearly any lemonade that was in the vicinity of Shadow Baby was not safe. That damn shadow probably poisoned it with shadow juice.
Her mothering instincts inflamed by the encounter with Shadow Baby, she headed off to her room to get one of her babies. When she turned on the light, she screamed and ran. Shadow Baby was there too.
She’s still afraid of Shadow Baby. But she’s beginning to accept her presence. Gertrude doesn’t respond with anger or fear anymore. Just suspicion.
Because she knows that damn baby will suck out her soul. She just knows it.
Discuss
Thursday, July 03, 2003
Happy Stuff and . . . er . . . stuff
I’d post today, but I have stuff to do. Of course, this is a post. But it’s not a significant post. Ah hell, you know what I mean.
I do have a story to tell you, but it’ll have to wait. It’s entitled “Me and My Shadow”. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry. Well, no, you’ll just laugh. Okay, you might not laugh. Screw it. I won’t even write it up. Are you happy now?
Have a nice 4th, if you’re American. Have a nice Friday if you’re other. We here in the US like to celebrate our independence by searing animal flesh, bathing it in sweet and tangy sauces and cap off our day by drinking too much beer and blowing things up.
I don’t know exactly how that makes us happy to be free. But it’s fun.
Unless you’re the animal who gave us the flesh.
I do have a story to tell you, but it’ll have to wait. It’s entitled “Me and My Shadow”. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry. Well, no, you’ll just laugh. Okay, you might not laugh. Screw it. I won’t even write it up. Are you happy now?
Have a nice 4th, if you’re American. Have a nice Friday if you’re other. We here in the US like to celebrate our independence by searing animal flesh, bathing it in sweet and tangy sauces and cap off our day by drinking too much beer and blowing things up.
I don’t know exactly how that makes us happy to be free. But it’s fun.
Unless you’re the animal who gave us the flesh.
Wednesday, July 02, 2003
Yeah . . .
Someone I know, and I'm not naming names, managed to delete a bunch of files from his computer today that he didn't want deleted.
Now I'm not naming names, but this guy has been searching down back ups of the files ever since.
Without naming names, this guy is pretty stupid.
Now I'm not naming names, but this guy has been searching down back ups of the files ever since.
Without naming names, this guy is pretty stupid.
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