St. Louis catches up with the rest of the world and provides me with this.
Now maybe we'll get indoor plumbing.
Tuesday, September 30, 2003
Kitties
We went to the mall last night to pick up the latest portraits of the children. You may not realize how the whole situation works, so I’ll set it up for you.
1. You have a child.
2. Child is cute, at least to you.
3. Child is photographed upon birth.
4. Child is taken to a professional at three months.
5. Child is taken to a professional at six months.
6. Child is taken to a professional at nine months.
7. And so on for several years, each time spending $70.
Naturally, the pictures are cute. The girls are looking glamorous and amazing. So cute, as a matter of fact, the picture takers actually got several of the pictures so they could display them in their waiting room. As if to say, “If we take pictures of your kids they too will look as cute as these kids!”
There’s one picture of Gertrude that completely amazes me. She has such an angelic look on her face that I’m afraid we’re misleading the public. She’s a little more evil than that.
We decided to go get cookies after getting the photos. On the way to the cookie place we passed the Adopt-a-Stray store. By passed I mean we were within 500 feet. But, somehow, Gertrude sensed the cute kitties. She stopped, looked around and squealed, “Kitties!”
Or, more specifically, she said, “KEEEEEEEETTTTTTEEESSSSSSSSSS!!!! AAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!!”
And she ran and giggled and, I think, licked the glass.
That’s all I have to say. My cell phone isn’t working so I have to call my provider and whine.
1. You have a child.
2. Child is cute, at least to you.
3. Child is photographed upon birth.
4. Child is taken to a professional at three months.
5. Child is taken to a professional at six months.
6. Child is taken to a professional at nine months.
7. And so on for several years, each time spending $70.
Naturally, the pictures are cute. The girls are looking glamorous and amazing. So cute, as a matter of fact, the picture takers actually got several of the pictures so they could display them in their waiting room. As if to say, “If we take pictures of your kids they too will look as cute as these kids!”
There’s one picture of Gertrude that completely amazes me. She has such an angelic look on her face that I’m afraid we’re misleading the public. She’s a little more evil than that.
We decided to go get cookies after getting the photos. On the way to the cookie place we passed the Adopt-a-Stray store. By passed I mean we were within 500 feet. But, somehow, Gertrude sensed the cute kitties. She stopped, looked around and squealed, “Kitties!”
Or, more specifically, she said, “KEEEEEEEETTTTTTEEESSSSSSSSSS!!!! AAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!!”
And she ran and giggled and, I think, licked the glass.
That’s all I have to say. My cell phone isn’t working so I have to call my provider and whine.
Friday, September 26, 2003
Coffee
This morning I was outside with the baby. It was raining and she wanted to sit on the porch and watch the weather. This is a favorite pastime of hers. Just watching things. Whether it’s rain, wind or the “Fiber Truck” coming down the street. She’s wonderfully in tune with the world around her.
I sat in the morning chill with the baby cuddled on my lap and a good, hot cup of coffee in my hand. As I watched the steam billow pleasingly from the hot liquid I couldn’t help thinking of my dad, for some reason.
It’s not that the thought of coffee is indelibly tied to thoughts of my father. I remember him drinking coffee, sure. But it’s no more of a concrete image than of him lifting off his cap, smoothing his hair, replacing his cap and then yelling out some command to his football team. It’s just an image. Not much of a memory.
But watching that steam billow from the coffee made me think of my dad while he was stationed in Korea. I imagine it was hellishly cold there in the winter. He lived in an army issued tent wearing army issued clothes. Warmth in the dead of winter must have been a luxury that was so sought after that men would have paid more for a minute next to a fire than an hour with a pretty girl.
I imagine my father in his army greens huddled with a hot cup of coffee. The coffee, in my imagination, was acrid and foul. A bitter, dark concoction whose only relationship to coffee was the name. I imagine some pallid, brownish beans being crushed rather than ground, placed in a massive cheese cloth filter and dropped into a vat of boiling water with a spigot attached to it.
The coffee probably tasted like acid. Foul and bitter. But its warmth, and the connotations of a good cup of joe, were probably welcome comforts. Perhaps while chugging the brown, brackish swill, he was able to think of himself at home with his buddies in front of Mack’s, the mysterious dime store (I think) that appears in one of my favorite photos of my father from his youth.
More likely, however, he enjoyed the warmth and thought about my mom before he set back out to do whatever assigned task was his. Maybe he calculated the days until he went home. Then he probably looked at his army cohorts and made a wise-ass comment about the cold.
In my head, he flips up his collar and goes back into the wind. Young, bright. Not knowing his fate 29 years later. Not knowing he’d be the father of eight. Not knowing that to some, his memory would be more legend than anything else.
I sat in the morning chill with the baby cuddled on my lap and a good, hot cup of coffee in my hand. As I watched the steam billow pleasingly from the hot liquid I couldn’t help thinking of my dad, for some reason.
It’s not that the thought of coffee is indelibly tied to thoughts of my father. I remember him drinking coffee, sure. But it’s no more of a concrete image than of him lifting off his cap, smoothing his hair, replacing his cap and then yelling out some command to his football team. It’s just an image. Not much of a memory.
But watching that steam billow from the coffee made me think of my dad while he was stationed in Korea. I imagine it was hellishly cold there in the winter. He lived in an army issued tent wearing army issued clothes. Warmth in the dead of winter must have been a luxury that was so sought after that men would have paid more for a minute next to a fire than an hour with a pretty girl.
I imagine my father in his army greens huddled with a hot cup of coffee. The coffee, in my imagination, was acrid and foul. A bitter, dark concoction whose only relationship to coffee was the name. I imagine some pallid, brownish beans being crushed rather than ground, placed in a massive cheese cloth filter and dropped into a vat of boiling water with a spigot attached to it.
The coffee probably tasted like acid. Foul and bitter. But its warmth, and the connotations of a good cup of joe, were probably welcome comforts. Perhaps while chugging the brown, brackish swill, he was able to think of himself at home with his buddies in front of Mack’s, the mysterious dime store (I think) that appears in one of my favorite photos of my father from his youth.
More likely, however, he enjoyed the warmth and thought about my mom before he set back out to do whatever assigned task was his. Maybe he calculated the days until he went home. Then he probably looked at his army cohorts and made a wise-ass comment about the cold.
In my head, he flips up his collar and goes back into the wind. Young, bright. Not knowing his fate 29 years later. Not knowing he’d be the father of eight. Not knowing that to some, his memory would be more legend than anything else.
Thursday, September 25, 2003
Why is It?
While watching the scene in The Two Towers in which Legolas, Gimli and Aragorn meet the Riders of Rohan, I get the distinct feeling that J.R.R.’s characters have suddenly landed in the middle of a Lynard Skynard/Molly Hatchet reunion?
Everyone else in the movie looks like they should be running around with swords. But the Riders look like they should have a flying V guitar and a fifth of Southern Comfort.
When Eomer is expelled from Edoras I expected him to turn to his sister, Eowyn and say:
“What’s your name, little m’lady? If I leave here tomorrow, wouldst thou remember me? I ask the king to gimme three steps. Because I’m a simple kind of man. I want to defeat Sauron. I don’t want to be workin’ for the MCA, man. So don’t ask me no more questions about my sweet home Rohan. Good night Edoras!”
Maybe it’s just me . . .
Rohan Rawks!
Everyone else in the movie looks like they should be running around with swords. But the Riders look like they should have a flying V guitar and a fifth of Southern Comfort.
When Eomer is expelled from Edoras I expected him to turn to his sister, Eowyn and say:
“What’s your name, little m’lady? If I leave here tomorrow, wouldst thou remember me? I ask the king to gimme three steps. Because I’m a simple kind of man. I want to defeat Sauron. I don’t want to be workin’ for the MCA, man. So don’t ask me no more questions about my sweet home Rohan. Good night Edoras!”
Maybe it’s just me . . .
Rohan Rawks!
Aw Man
Gertrude has a new refrain. When a roadblock presents itself, she exclaims, "Aw man!"
She's not even two and she's riddled with disappointment.
Yep. She's my kid.
She's not even two and she's riddled with disappointment.
Yep. She's my kid.
Wednesday, September 24, 2003
I Wanna Be Updated
I often wonder if Neal Stephenson is capable of a small thought. His new book is so large, both in size and scope that it looks like the second coming of Michener with a brain and a point. And continues to surprise.
Seriously, I wonder if he wakes up and wonders simple things, like you and me. “Should I have eggs or Cocoa Puffs today? Why does the dog have gas?”
Sometimes I doubt it. Sometimes I think he only thinks in wikis, cyphers, viruses and obscure philosophers. He makes Bruce Sterling and William Gibson look like intellectual Laruel and Hardys. And yet . . . I want to be Neal Stephenson. At least for an hour. Just to feel the power. It would be like switching from a Nissan to a rocket. The power would be overwhelming.
Alas and alack, I do not believe there is a tiny door into the mind of Mr. Stephenson.
And if there were, I certainly would not be able to gain admittance.
Seriously, I wonder if he wakes up and wonders simple things, like you and me. “Should I have eggs or Cocoa Puffs today? Why does the dog have gas?”
Sometimes I doubt it. Sometimes I think he only thinks in wikis, cyphers, viruses and obscure philosophers. He makes Bruce Sterling and William Gibson look like intellectual Laruel and Hardys. And yet . . . I want to be Neal Stephenson. At least for an hour. Just to feel the power. It would be like switching from a Nissan to a rocket. The power would be overwhelming.
Alas and alack, I do not believe there is a tiny door into the mind of Mr. Stephenson.
And if there were, I certainly would not be able to gain admittance.
Eat it 2: Electric Boogaloo
Walking down the street with Gertrude while waiting for Grandma to come, she noticed there were little nutty things all over the sidewalk.
“Wazzat?”
“Acorns,” I said. “They are the seeds from that tree.”
“Tree?”
“Yes. The tree grows the acorns on its branches until the acorn gets very fat and falls off. The tree hopes that the acorn will get pushed into the dirt so another tree will grow. Then there will be a baby tree.”
“Baby!”
“Exactly. But what’s really neat is that there are more seeds here than the tree needs. So not only does the tree try to make babies, it also is feeding squirrels and birds.”
On the way back to the house, she saw some cracked and crushed acorns. She was very sad. But, she recovered quickly and started picking up as many acorns as possible.
A bird flew over and Gertrude got excited. She ran up to the tree where the bird landed and held up all the acorns.
“Here birdie,” she yelled. “Here birdie, eat it! Eat it!”
Discuss
“Wazzat?”
“Acorns,” I said. “They are the seeds from that tree.”
“Tree?”
“Yes. The tree grows the acorns on its branches until the acorn gets very fat and falls off. The tree hopes that the acorn will get pushed into the dirt so another tree will grow. Then there will be a baby tree.”
“Baby!”
“Exactly. But what’s really neat is that there are more seeds here than the tree needs. So not only does the tree try to make babies, it also is feeding squirrels and birds.”
On the way back to the house, she saw some cracked and crushed acorns. She was very sad. But, she recovered quickly and started picking up as many acorns as possible.
A bird flew over and Gertrude got excited. She ran up to the tree where the bird landed and held up all the acorns.
“Here birdie,” she yelled. “Here birdie, eat it! Eat it!”
Discuss
Tuesday, September 23, 2003
Choices? Or a Conspiracy?
I’m not a rich man. I’m not even a fabulously well-to-do man. I’m comfortable, but that’s because I’m wearing pants that have an ample waistband.
So, who do these media companies think they are? First they put amazingly disgusting prices on their products, make it impossible for anyone to buy a real paperback (unless you’re going for mystery or sci-fi) by creating a larger, more expensive, soft cover book with a trim-size that makes it impossible to carry around without looking like a pretentious git and then they sue 12-year-old students for downloading files.
But this is the last straw. This is clearly collusion on the part of all media companies to part me from my money and I demand that it stops. Somewhere along the lines they got information about me, either from the Internet, or a secret spy that has invaded my home (I suspect the baby . . . I should have known a 22 month old can’t write and doesn’t usually give surveys about media usage).
I’ve long suspected this conspiracy, especially when they started releasing DVDs and then putting out a different version a few months later, thereby causing me to refuse to buy anything less than a Super-Extra-Special Edition That Will Change My Life.
But now . . . now they’ve gone too far. No less than three (THREE!) companies have gotten together and conspired to separate me and some hard-earned cash. Those companies are Image Entertainment, Deutsche Grammophon and HaperCollins.
I’m most upset by Image Entertainment. The other two are massive companies bent on destroying the world and assimilating all of humanity by destroying their minds with things like “music” and “books”. But I thought Image would always keep me safe. They release music, sure. And it’s challenging music, to be sure. But now I know they are working with the big boys. Those bastards!!!
What did they do, you ask? (Or, more likely, you’re wondering how long I can stretch this out.) Well, they did this:
Lemony Snicket: The Slippery Slope--Release Date: September 23. Price: $10.99
Matilda and I love these books. Love them! Filled with dread, literary allusions, lyrical twists, cynical humor and fabulous word play. Of course, that’s why I love them. Matilda likes the stories of the three orphans who just can’t seem to catch a break. Not even when masquerading as Chabo the Wolf Baby. Long story.
Elvis Costello: North--Release Date: September 23. Price (suggested): $18.99.
Yes. The new Elvis Costello CD. The one I fully expect to listen to twice and file it on my Elvis Costello shelf (This will make Elvis CD number 67, I think) and listen to it infrequently. He has a few like this. Artistic interludes in his career that I find intellectually interesting, but emotionally void and difficult to throw myself into. I could be wrong, of course. I expected to hate his album with Bacharach and I loved it. But, still, an album of piano based jazz ballads is not exactly what I’m in the mood for. But, hey, I support his willingness to push himself. It’s like if suddenly I stopped writing stupid blogs and began writing Medieval Cantos about Heaven, Hell and pork.
And finally:
Stew: Something Deeper Than These Changes--Release Date: September 23. Price (suggested): $13.98.
New Stew. Yay! It’s his third CD (including one TNP) in as many years. Always satisfying, always challenging, always catchy. And always a week late showing up in St. Louis. Bastards! I could buy it online, but then it STILL won’t show up until a week later and it would cost me $5 more in shipping. Grr. I know exactly how my exchange with the record clerk will go:
Me: Do you have the new Stew?
Him: We don’t sell cooking books. This is a music store.
Me: I’m aware of that. Stew is a person. He has a new album out.
Him: We don’t have it.
Me: You’ve memorized your inventory.
Him: The new Matchbox 20 is over here if you want that. Oh, and new Dave Matthews.
Me: I thought you record store clerks were supposed to be cool and be aware of off-the-beaten track music.
Him: Oh, I’m totally into odd music, man. I just picked up the newly remastered Let it Be by this band called The Beatles or something. They are off the hook! This stuff is how they intended it and not how the Bill Spencer producer guy wanted it to sound.
Me: The Beatles? Phil Spector? That’s off the track?
Him: That stuff’s old, man. Dude. I love the White Stripes too. They kick ass.
Me: Nevermind. I’ll just go to Borders. At least I know the Clerk Whose Gender Is Not Clear From Outward Appearances will know what I’m talking about. I can trust him/her because he/she understands good music.
Him: Whatever dude. The new Limp Bizkit’s out anyway and I need to listen to it deeply to really hear the medley.
Me: You mean the melody?
Him: I don’t like fruit.
You laugh and think I’m joking. But the last time Stew’s band The Negro Problem had an album out, a clerk at a local record shop thought I was looking for racist music. I was told that they “Don’t carry that kind of music.” Of course, those brain surgeons are out of business now. I think I need to carry a picture of Stew in my pocket from now on.
Now, according to my calculations (math isn’t my strong suit), this conspiracy is going to cost me exactly $1,034.35 plus tax for these three pieces of media.
I really do hate them.
Yay! The record store is open. Gotta go. New music, new music, new music.
I mean, uh, damn them!
Discuss
So, who do these media companies think they are? First they put amazingly disgusting prices on their products, make it impossible for anyone to buy a real paperback (unless you’re going for mystery or sci-fi) by creating a larger, more expensive, soft cover book with a trim-size that makes it impossible to carry around without looking like a pretentious git and then they sue 12-year-old students for downloading files.
But this is the last straw. This is clearly collusion on the part of all media companies to part me from my money and I demand that it stops. Somewhere along the lines they got information about me, either from the Internet, or a secret spy that has invaded my home (I suspect the baby . . . I should have known a 22 month old can’t write and doesn’t usually give surveys about media usage).
I’ve long suspected this conspiracy, especially when they started releasing DVDs and then putting out a different version a few months later, thereby causing me to refuse to buy anything less than a Super-Extra-Special Edition That Will Change My Life.
But now . . . now they’ve gone too far. No less than three (THREE!) companies have gotten together and conspired to separate me and some hard-earned cash. Those companies are Image Entertainment, Deutsche Grammophon and HaperCollins.
I’m most upset by Image Entertainment. The other two are massive companies bent on destroying the world and assimilating all of humanity by destroying their minds with things like “music” and “books”. But I thought Image would always keep me safe. They release music, sure. And it’s challenging music, to be sure. But now I know they are working with the big boys. Those bastards!!!
What did they do, you ask? (Or, more likely, you’re wondering how long I can stretch this out.) Well, they did this:
Lemony Snicket: The Slippery Slope--Release Date: September 23. Price: $10.99
Matilda and I love these books. Love them! Filled with dread, literary allusions, lyrical twists, cynical humor and fabulous word play. Of course, that’s why I love them. Matilda likes the stories of the three orphans who just can’t seem to catch a break. Not even when masquerading as Chabo the Wolf Baby. Long story.
Elvis Costello: North--Release Date: September 23. Price (suggested): $18.99.
Yes. The new Elvis Costello CD. The one I fully expect to listen to twice and file it on my Elvis Costello shelf (This will make Elvis CD number 67, I think) and listen to it infrequently. He has a few like this. Artistic interludes in his career that I find intellectually interesting, but emotionally void and difficult to throw myself into. I could be wrong, of course. I expected to hate his album with Bacharach and I loved it. But, still, an album of piano based jazz ballads is not exactly what I’m in the mood for. But, hey, I support his willingness to push himself. It’s like if suddenly I stopped writing stupid blogs and began writing Medieval Cantos about Heaven, Hell and pork.
And finally:
Stew: Something Deeper Than These Changes--Release Date: September 23. Price (suggested): $13.98.
New Stew. Yay! It’s his third CD (including one TNP) in as many years. Always satisfying, always challenging, always catchy. And always a week late showing up in St. Louis. Bastards! I could buy it online, but then it STILL won’t show up until a week later and it would cost me $5 more in shipping. Grr. I know exactly how my exchange with the record clerk will go:
Me: Do you have the new Stew?
Him: We don’t sell cooking books. This is a music store.
Me: I’m aware of that. Stew is a person. He has a new album out.
Him: We don’t have it.
Me: You’ve memorized your inventory.
Him: The new Matchbox 20 is over here if you want that. Oh, and new Dave Matthews.
Me: I thought you record store clerks were supposed to be cool and be aware of off-the-beaten track music.
Him: Oh, I’m totally into odd music, man. I just picked up the newly remastered Let it Be by this band called The Beatles or something. They are off the hook! This stuff is how they intended it and not how the Bill Spencer producer guy wanted it to sound.
Me: The Beatles? Phil Spector? That’s off the track?
Him: That stuff’s old, man. Dude. I love the White Stripes too. They kick ass.
Me: Nevermind. I’ll just go to Borders. At least I know the Clerk Whose Gender Is Not Clear From Outward Appearances will know what I’m talking about. I can trust him/her because he/she understands good music.
Him: Whatever dude. The new Limp Bizkit’s out anyway and I need to listen to it deeply to really hear the medley.
Me: You mean the melody?
Him: I don’t like fruit.
You laugh and think I’m joking. But the last time Stew’s band The Negro Problem had an album out, a clerk at a local record shop thought I was looking for racist music. I was told that they “Don’t carry that kind of music.” Of course, those brain surgeons are out of business now. I think I need to carry a picture of Stew in my pocket from now on.
Now, according to my calculations (math isn’t my strong suit), this conspiracy is going to cost me exactly $1,034.35 plus tax for these three pieces of media.
I really do hate them.
Yay! The record store is open. Gotta go. New music, new music, new music.
I mean, uh, damn them!
Discuss
Monday, September 22, 2003
Don’t Fence Me In
It seems to me that the point of a fence is to create a confined space in which something can neither get in nor out. Much like some people’s marriages (not mine). A fence should be able to close in on itself creating a completed circuit of fencing, correct?
Then explain to me why, in my back yard, I had a fence that just stopped. It went around most of the yard and then just stops, leaving an open space. Granted, thanks to a neighbor’s work and the ingeniousness of the Russian spy who owned my house before me, there is a closed section further up thanks to a wood fence and what may be a plank nailed to the side of my house using, no doubt, the same technology the Russians employed on the Mir space station.
So, I looked at the chain link fence that led nowhere and decided it was time to take it down. Things grew between the chain link and the wood fence. I don’t think Russian spy Oleg even bothered to rake or clean there for seventeen years.
I wandered outside with tools and started dismantling the fence. Three minutes into it my wife and children decided to leave and go to a fair with Grandma and Grandpa, leaving me alone to do the work. I don’t know if they really wanted to go have fun or if they wanted to escape the flurry of profanities I was using.
I managed to get the fence down. As I was working on clearing out some of the crap on the fence line, the neighbor’s dog came up on the other side barking at me. The neighbor came tearing after the dog fearing it would attack. I, however, sat there unworried. Why? I could have fit that dog in my pocket. My child has more vicious teeth than this little rat. But I humored the woman and acted scared and started waving a hatchet at the goofy little rat, as if it were a rabid wolf.
Why did I humor this woman? Because I’m afraid of her. She looks like she could take me down and put me in a figure four leg lock until I cried; I have already had a run in with this woman. She just doesn’t know that.
I remember it as if it were just a couple weeks ago. There I was, enjoying a nice quiet day working in my back yard. Suddenly, a horrible shrieking noise pierced the nice Sunday afternoon quiet.
I looked around. I thought, perhaps, the neighbors were slaughtering a pig for a luau. But no, this was not the sound of a pig. Maybe it was the sound of metal grinding on metal? No. I strained to listen, as the sound was barely within the range of human hearing.
Then I could make it out. It was a human voice. Was it calling for help? Was one of the neighbors holding someone hostage in a pit in their basement? No, that’s not the sound of pain; it was something that this human was actually enjoying.
Then, after a few minutes, I heard what I thought was a recognizable phrase:
“This is the last, worthless evening you’ll ever spend.”
Holy crap. That’s Don Henley. But what sort of human would be a) singing Don Henley at the top of her lungs and b) why would someone be singing Don Henley at the top of her lungs? Nothing against Mr. Henley but . . . okay, everything against Don Henley. I hated that album when it came out. And I hate it more now. I wish Don Henley would just join Glen Frey and start playing crappy FBI agents in crappy movies and leave me the hell alone. (For the record, I despise the Eagles.)
I looked around and there she was. My neighbor bending over and weeding her garden (about two square feet in her back yard, since the rest is covered in a pool, swing set, makeshift deck, three hundred and seventy two chairs and something that looks like a shrine to Gino Vanelli.) Her southern regions were pointing straight at me and were crammed into shorts that my skinny eight year old daughter would have complained of being too tight.
Yet, there she was. Mooning the entire neighborhood and torturing us with her renditions of songs from Don Henley’s crappy early nineties album that I have tried to forget.
“In a New York Minute,” She sang as I prayed that she not sing the back up part, “ooooh oooh ewwwwww!”
Aw crap. She sang the background parts.
She wasn’t out for very long. Those neighbors never are. I could have been because of the smallish size of her garden. It could have been because the FAA told her to go in because of the whiteness of her legs were causing passing planes to think someone was signaling for help. I don’t know. I don’t care. She took Don Henley with her and I was happy.
After I finished the work outside this weekend, I went inside with a beer and a friend to watch the football game. It ended in disappointment. But that’s okay.
Matilda came in and sat between us. She looked at me.
“You have something in your nose,” she said.
“So?” I asked innocently.
“I want it,” she answered.
My friend looked at me horrified, not realizing that Matilda and I had been rehearsing this for a week, just waiting for a ripe victim. I think we’ll take it on the road.
At one point the baby was laying on top of me in a reclined position. Mom came in and asked what we were doing.
“Learning to watch football,” I said.
“Burp”, said the baby.
“See?”
“I burp,” said the baby.
Even bad, exhausting weekends can end on good notes.
Discuss I Hate Don Henley
Then explain to me why, in my back yard, I had a fence that just stopped. It went around most of the yard and then just stops, leaving an open space. Granted, thanks to a neighbor’s work and the ingeniousness of the Russian spy who owned my house before me, there is a closed section further up thanks to a wood fence and what may be a plank nailed to the side of my house using, no doubt, the same technology the Russians employed on the Mir space station.
So, I looked at the chain link fence that led nowhere and decided it was time to take it down. Things grew between the chain link and the wood fence. I don’t think Russian spy Oleg even bothered to rake or clean there for seventeen years.
I wandered outside with tools and started dismantling the fence. Three minutes into it my wife and children decided to leave and go to a fair with Grandma and Grandpa, leaving me alone to do the work. I don’t know if they really wanted to go have fun or if they wanted to escape the flurry of profanities I was using.
I managed to get the fence down. As I was working on clearing out some of the crap on the fence line, the neighbor’s dog came up on the other side barking at me. The neighbor came tearing after the dog fearing it would attack. I, however, sat there unworried. Why? I could have fit that dog in my pocket. My child has more vicious teeth than this little rat. But I humored the woman and acted scared and started waving a hatchet at the goofy little rat, as if it were a rabid wolf.
Why did I humor this woman? Because I’m afraid of her. She looks like she could take me down and put me in a figure four leg lock until I cried; I have already had a run in with this woman. She just doesn’t know that.
I remember it as if it were just a couple weeks ago. There I was, enjoying a nice quiet day working in my back yard. Suddenly, a horrible shrieking noise pierced the nice Sunday afternoon quiet.
I looked around. I thought, perhaps, the neighbors were slaughtering a pig for a luau. But no, this was not the sound of a pig. Maybe it was the sound of metal grinding on metal? No. I strained to listen, as the sound was barely within the range of human hearing.
Then I could make it out. It was a human voice. Was it calling for help? Was one of the neighbors holding someone hostage in a pit in their basement? No, that’s not the sound of pain; it was something that this human was actually enjoying.
Then, after a few minutes, I heard what I thought was a recognizable phrase:
“This is the last, worthless evening you’ll ever spend.”
Holy crap. That’s Don Henley. But what sort of human would be a) singing Don Henley at the top of her lungs and b) why would someone be singing Don Henley at the top of her lungs? Nothing against Mr. Henley but . . . okay, everything against Don Henley. I hated that album when it came out. And I hate it more now. I wish Don Henley would just join Glen Frey and start playing crappy FBI agents in crappy movies and leave me the hell alone. (For the record, I despise the Eagles.)
I looked around and there she was. My neighbor bending over and weeding her garden (about two square feet in her back yard, since the rest is covered in a pool, swing set, makeshift deck, three hundred and seventy two chairs and something that looks like a shrine to Gino Vanelli.) Her southern regions were pointing straight at me and were crammed into shorts that my skinny eight year old daughter would have complained of being too tight.
Yet, there she was. Mooning the entire neighborhood and torturing us with her renditions of songs from Don Henley’s crappy early nineties album that I have tried to forget.
“In a New York Minute,” She sang as I prayed that she not sing the back up part, “ooooh oooh ewwwwww!”
Aw crap. She sang the background parts.
She wasn’t out for very long. Those neighbors never are. I could have been because of the smallish size of her garden. It could have been because the FAA told her to go in because of the whiteness of her legs were causing passing planes to think someone was signaling for help. I don’t know. I don’t care. She took Don Henley with her and I was happy.
After I finished the work outside this weekend, I went inside with a beer and a friend to watch the football game. It ended in disappointment. But that’s okay.
Matilda came in and sat between us. She looked at me.
“You have something in your nose,” she said.
“So?” I asked innocently.
“I want it,” she answered.
My friend looked at me horrified, not realizing that Matilda and I had been rehearsing this for a week, just waiting for a ripe victim. I think we’ll take it on the road.
At one point the baby was laying on top of me in a reclined position. Mom came in and asked what we were doing.
“Learning to watch football,” I said.
“Burp”, said the baby.
“See?”
“I burp,” said the baby.
Even bad, exhausting weekends can end on good notes.
Discuss I Hate Don Henley
Friday, September 19, 2003
The Scoop
I’m taking a break from Talk Like a Pirate Day. It’s exhausting. Adding “me hearties” or “scurvy dogs” is tiring. You have to decide if the person you’re talking to is a scurvy dog, a scallywag or a hearty. But it’s fun to say, “arrr”.
We bought a car yesterday. The Lovely Wife’s car was destroyed by a moron who apparently does not understand the simple properties of matter. That is to say that he is not able to pass through matter, much like the rest of the human race.
After a protracted argument with various insurance companies, we finally received a settlement and were able to search for a car.
We looked a few, kind of liked them and then wandered over to a Saturn dealer. Score point number one, it’s named after a planet. Geek!
On the lot we spoke with a very nice salesperson who asked us all sorts of questions about what we wanted, etc. He suggested an Ion for our needs. It was smaller than we were thinking about, but its name is a physics term. Geek point! We discussed the finer points of Ions and how they steal electrons from other atoms. No, we talked about the car.
“It fits a big guy like you” said the salesman.
Big? Me? Okay, I’m over 200 pounds but I’m not immensely fat. Not like people call me Shamu or I hide ham sandwiches in my fat folds. No one has ever mistaken me for the reincarnation of Mama Cass. I’m six feet tall, sure. And, again, over 200 pounds. I’ve never been referred to as a “big guy”.
I’m not sure if I was offended. Was he referring to my need to shed a few pounds or did he mean that I’m scary big? Was he afraid that if he pissed me off I’d shove a fist down his throat and pull out his uvula? I doubt it because there’s not a lot about me that screams “violent.” Especially considering I was wearing a Mickey Mouse T-shirt. If anything he’d peg me as a pathetic idiot who couldn’t let go of his childhood.
We went inside and looked at the Ion. Got to sit inside one, touch it in its special places and climb in the trunk. I noticed that this particular model had a built in MP3 player. Sweet! Geek point! Alas, to my chagrin, the MP3 player was not available on the models we could afford. Crap. Minus Geek Point and penalty shot for assuming a Geek Point.
So we started talking about the cars and we found out that if we purchase a 2003 model, we’ll get a free computer. Geek Point! We need a new computer for the kitchen and, even a barebones, off the shelf system will provide us with what we need. Only drawback is that it comes with WordPerfect. Who the hell uses WordPerfect?
We decide to go on a drive. I get in the front side passenger seat and I think, “Holy crap! It’s a shuttle craft from a bad 1970s Sci-Fi movie. I love it!” I didn’t admit that, though.
The salesman took us on a high-speed drive down some back roads to show us how peppy this thing is. And it is. Dangerously peppy. My wife, in the back seat, was beaming with glee. Salesman then takes us to an empty parking lot to show us how the car can drive in small circles. Woah. I never thought I’d find that cool. But I did. Wow.
Turns out we had an ionic bond.
Wife assumes the driving position and we dart around for fun. Within minutes she’s screaming, “Me likey! Me likey! Me likey!” Upon return, I ask why the doors and quarter panels feel funny. Salesman then proceeds to beat the living hell out of the door, with no visible damage.
“We’ll take it!” yells the wife.
“Not that one though,” I said. “I think you just wounded its esteem and I can’t handle the drama of owning an emotionally damaged car.”
We finally found the exact car we want, as I’m drooling over the thought of a new computer and a car that looks like something I could ride from one end of Kingdom City to another in a John Varley novel.
That’s when the strange stuff started happening. Salesman is enamored with Scotland and bagpipes. Mother-in-law plays them. Twenty minute conversation. Salesman vacationed where Richard Feynman grew up. Twenty minute discussion. We fill out paper work, put down money and head out while they process everything.
When we return, financing guy isn’t ready, so we talk about poetry, which he writes. Turns out we know a lot of people in the same poetry circles. Strange.
While finishing up the financing, the finance manager shows us a Turkey Caller that he has in his filing cabinet. We had a ten-minute conversation about a Turkey Caller.
All in all it was one hell of a surreal experience. But it was a three Geek Point experience, so I’m happy.
We pick up the Ion today. Wife and kids will name it then. I’ve given all sorts of ideas, but it will probably end up with some screwed up name like “Noodle”.
Oh, and good news . . . if you go to Google and search for Talk Like a Pirate Day, click on the similar pages link next to the official link. You’ll get this. I’m sandwiched between the official site and The Wiggles! And Stereolab is at the bottom of the page! Groovy!
Avast, me hearties!
Discuss
We bought a car yesterday. The Lovely Wife’s car was destroyed by a moron who apparently does not understand the simple properties of matter. That is to say that he is not able to pass through matter, much like the rest of the human race.
After a protracted argument with various insurance companies, we finally received a settlement and were able to search for a car.
We looked a few, kind of liked them and then wandered over to a Saturn dealer. Score point number one, it’s named after a planet. Geek!
On the lot we spoke with a very nice salesperson who asked us all sorts of questions about what we wanted, etc. He suggested an Ion for our needs. It was smaller than we were thinking about, but its name is a physics term. Geek point! We discussed the finer points of Ions and how they steal electrons from other atoms. No, we talked about the car.
“It fits a big guy like you” said the salesman.
Big? Me? Okay, I’m over 200 pounds but I’m not immensely fat. Not like people call me Shamu or I hide ham sandwiches in my fat folds. No one has ever mistaken me for the reincarnation of Mama Cass. I’m six feet tall, sure. And, again, over 200 pounds. I’ve never been referred to as a “big guy”.
I’m not sure if I was offended. Was he referring to my need to shed a few pounds or did he mean that I’m scary big? Was he afraid that if he pissed me off I’d shove a fist down his throat and pull out his uvula? I doubt it because there’s not a lot about me that screams “violent.” Especially considering I was wearing a Mickey Mouse T-shirt. If anything he’d peg me as a pathetic idiot who couldn’t let go of his childhood.
We went inside and looked at the Ion. Got to sit inside one, touch it in its special places and climb in the trunk. I noticed that this particular model had a built in MP3 player. Sweet! Geek point! Alas, to my chagrin, the MP3 player was not available on the models we could afford. Crap. Minus Geek Point and penalty shot for assuming a Geek Point.
So we started talking about the cars and we found out that if we purchase a 2003 model, we’ll get a free computer. Geek Point! We need a new computer for the kitchen and, even a barebones, off the shelf system will provide us with what we need. Only drawback is that it comes with WordPerfect. Who the hell uses WordPerfect?
We decide to go on a drive. I get in the front side passenger seat and I think, “Holy crap! It’s a shuttle craft from a bad 1970s Sci-Fi movie. I love it!” I didn’t admit that, though.
The salesman took us on a high-speed drive down some back roads to show us how peppy this thing is. And it is. Dangerously peppy. My wife, in the back seat, was beaming with glee. Salesman then takes us to an empty parking lot to show us how the car can drive in small circles. Woah. I never thought I’d find that cool. But I did. Wow.
Turns out we had an ionic bond.
Wife assumes the driving position and we dart around for fun. Within minutes she’s screaming, “Me likey! Me likey! Me likey!” Upon return, I ask why the doors and quarter panels feel funny. Salesman then proceeds to beat the living hell out of the door, with no visible damage.
“We’ll take it!” yells the wife.
“Not that one though,” I said. “I think you just wounded its esteem and I can’t handle the drama of owning an emotionally damaged car.”
We finally found the exact car we want, as I’m drooling over the thought of a new computer and a car that looks like something I could ride from one end of Kingdom City to another in a John Varley novel.
That’s when the strange stuff started happening. Salesman is enamored with Scotland and bagpipes. Mother-in-law plays them. Twenty minute conversation. Salesman vacationed where Richard Feynman grew up. Twenty minute discussion. We fill out paper work, put down money and head out while they process everything.
When we return, financing guy isn’t ready, so we talk about poetry, which he writes. Turns out we know a lot of people in the same poetry circles. Strange.
While finishing up the financing, the finance manager shows us a Turkey Caller that he has in his filing cabinet. We had a ten-minute conversation about a Turkey Caller.
All in all it was one hell of a surreal experience. But it was a three Geek Point experience, so I’m happy.
We pick up the Ion today. Wife and kids will name it then. I’ve given all sorts of ideas, but it will probably end up with some screwed up name like “Noodle”.
Oh, and good news . . . if you go to Google and search for Talk Like a Pirate Day, click on the similar pages link next to the official link. You’ll get this. I’m sandwiched between the official site and The Wiggles! And Stereolab is at the bottom of the page! Groovy!
Avast, me hearties!
Discuss
Yarrrrrgh!
Ahoy me hearties! Today is the day! Do don't be wastin' yer time in the scallywags you scruvey dogs! Get to work!
Arrrrrr.
Avast!
Arrrrrr.
Avast!
Tuesday, September 16, 2003
Aw Forget all That Seriousness
This is Spocktastic. As well as Hobitlicicious. This is the greatest confluence of pointy-eared icons since . . . well . . . Robin Curtis found some Vulcan luvin'. For the record, the fanfic relationship between Sam and Frodo and its Karma Chameleon Sutra of the pointy-eared folk does not count.
Words to Live By
Quoting some of the great minds of humanity is quite an effective way of saying something when you yourself have nothing to say. I find it also to be an effective way of getting your mind to begin thinking about things you refuse to look at. Such as life's complexity and mystery. For when we forget that life itself is a difficult and mysterious adventure, we relegate ourselves to the world of Saturday matinees and the lack of self or outward discovery. And when that happens, what fun is it to be alive? It just becomes a sad and predictable routine. Who wants a routine?
So today, wrap your mind around these thoughts from people who were smarter at birth than I can ever hope to be.
For NASA: "Man is the best computer we can put aboard a spacecraft and the only one that can be mass-produced with unskilled labor."
--Werner von Braun
"It is in the admission of ignorance and the admission of uncertainty that there is a hope for the continuous motion of human beings in some direction that doesn't get confined, permanently blocked, as it has so many times before in various periods in the history of man."
--Richard Feynman
"By honest I don't mean that you only tell what's true. But you make clear the entire situation. You make clear all the information that is required for somebody else who is intelligent to make up their mind."
--Richard Feynman
"This I believe:
That the free, exploring mind of the individual human is the most valuable thing in the world.
And this I would fight for:
The freedom of the mind to take any direction it wishes, undirected.
And this I must fight against:
Any idea, religion, or government which limits or destroys the individual."
-- John Steinbeck
"Imagination is more important than knowledge."
--Albert Einstein
"In science, 'fact' can only mean 'confirmed to such a degree that it would be perverse to withold provisional assent'. I suppose that apples may start to rise tomorrow, but the possibility does not merit equal time in physics classrooms."
--Stephen Jay Gould
For She Who Battles the Irrational Online Wookie: "Rational argument can be defeated by refusing to argue rationally."
--Steven Weinberg
"You can get into a habit of thought in which you enjoy making fun of all those other people who don't see things as clearly as you do. We have to guard carefully against it."
--Carl Sagan
"You cannot depend on your eyes when your imagination is out of focus."
-- Mark Twain
"When I examined myself and my methods of thought, I came to the conclusion that the gift of fantasy has meant more to me than my talent for absorbing positive knowledge."
-- A. Einstein
"The most erroneous stories are those we think we know best -- and therefore never scrutinize or question."
--Stephen Jay Gould
"The radical invents the views. When he has worn them out the conservative adopts them."
-- Mark Twain
"If we want to solve a problem that we have never solved before, we must leave the door to the unknown ajar."
--Richard Feynman
"Name the greatest of all the inventors. Accident."
--Mark Twain
"If the man doesn't believe as we do, we say he is a crank, and that settles it. I mean, it does nowadays, because now we can't burn him."
-- Mark Twain
"Should we be obeying some old piece of paper or should we make our own decisions?"
-- Arthur (the PBS aardvark)
Discuss
So today, wrap your mind around these thoughts from people who were smarter at birth than I can ever hope to be.
For NASA: "Man is the best computer we can put aboard a spacecraft and the only one that can be mass-produced with unskilled labor."
--Werner von Braun
"It is in the admission of ignorance and the admission of uncertainty that there is a hope for the continuous motion of human beings in some direction that doesn't get confined, permanently blocked, as it has so many times before in various periods in the history of man."
--Richard Feynman
"By honest I don't mean that you only tell what's true. But you make clear the entire situation. You make clear all the information that is required for somebody else who is intelligent to make up their mind."
--Richard Feynman
"This I believe:
That the free, exploring mind of the individual human is the most valuable thing in the world.
And this I would fight for:
The freedom of the mind to take any direction it wishes, undirected.
And this I must fight against:
Any idea, religion, or government which limits or destroys the individual."
-- John Steinbeck
"Imagination is more important than knowledge."
--Albert Einstein
"In science, 'fact' can only mean 'confirmed to such a degree that it would be perverse to withold provisional assent'. I suppose that apples may start to rise tomorrow, but the possibility does not merit equal time in physics classrooms."
--Stephen Jay Gould
For She Who Battles the Irrational Online Wookie: "Rational argument can be defeated by refusing to argue rationally."
--Steven Weinberg
"You can get into a habit of thought in which you enjoy making fun of all those other people who don't see things as clearly as you do. We have to guard carefully against it."
--Carl Sagan
"You cannot depend on your eyes when your imagination is out of focus."
-- Mark Twain
"When I examined myself and my methods of thought, I came to the conclusion that the gift of fantasy has meant more to me than my talent for absorbing positive knowledge."
-- A. Einstein
"The most erroneous stories are those we think we know best -- and therefore never scrutinize or question."
--Stephen Jay Gould
"The radical invents the views. When he has worn them out the conservative adopts them."
-- Mark Twain
"If we want to solve a problem that we have never solved before, we must leave the door to the unknown ajar."
--Richard Feynman
"Name the greatest of all the inventors. Accident."
--Mark Twain
"If the man doesn't believe as we do, we say he is a crank, and that settles it. I mean, it does nowadays, because now we can't burn him."
-- Mark Twain
"Should we be obeying some old piece of paper or should we make our own decisions?"
-- Arthur (the PBS aardvark)
Discuss
Monday, September 15, 2003
Friday, September 12, 2003
This Is How It Happened
It’s 5:45 a.m. My wife and I are sleeping in bed, as it is our preferred spot over the floor or in the closet. There is a sound. I sit up and say, “What was that?” My wife responds that she didn’t know. It was apparently a rhythmic sound. Like buttons in the clothes dryer. Or someone scratching on the screen.
She gets up and moves through the darkened house to check on the sound. I go back to sleep.
At least this is what I am told. I have no recollection of these events. For all I know, it is a story she made up to make me feel overtly guilty for sending her into the arms of some serial killer who attracts his victims by running their dryers filled with sweaters and other delicates that should really be left to hang dry.
But I slept. I find this odd.
I’m a paranoid person. I wake up when the wind changes directions. At bed time I lock all the doors and check the windows three times and then get up at 2 a.m. to double check their securness. I hear spiders scampering up the silk of their webs in the neighbor’s attic. And somehow, my sense of need to create a secure home site was not active this morning when I sent my poor wife out to protect me from the onslaught of whatever the scratching horror was.
I hereby promise to be a stronger male in the future.
But right now I have to call my wife to kill this weird bug crawling across the floor. It’s icky. And it’s looking at me funny.
She gets up and moves through the darkened house to check on the sound. I go back to sleep.
At least this is what I am told. I have no recollection of these events. For all I know, it is a story she made up to make me feel overtly guilty for sending her into the arms of some serial killer who attracts his victims by running their dryers filled with sweaters and other delicates that should really be left to hang dry.
But I slept. I find this odd.
I’m a paranoid person. I wake up when the wind changes directions. At bed time I lock all the doors and check the windows three times and then get up at 2 a.m. to double check their securness. I hear spiders scampering up the silk of their webs in the neighbor’s attic. And somehow, my sense of need to create a secure home site was not active this morning when I sent my poor wife out to protect me from the onslaught of whatever the scratching horror was.
I hereby promise to be a stronger male in the future.
But right now I have to call my wife to kill this weird bug crawling across the floor. It’s icky. And it’s looking at me funny.
Thursday, September 11, 2003
This is Scary
This is a doll. A "Lifelike Doll". It looks like a lifelike doll that was born with no rectum and therefore is in a living hell of never being able to expel its products.
If my baby were as unhappy as this doll, I think I would get it counseling. Or have myself removed as parent.
And I certainly wouldn't give this to my child. It's the, "You're a horrible mother and your baby hates you" doll.
Mommy why does my baby look so miserable?
Because you make it miserable honey.
If my baby were as unhappy as this doll, I think I would get it counseling. Or have myself removed as parent.
And I certainly wouldn't give this to my child. It's the, "You're a horrible mother and your baby hates you" doll.
Mommy why does my baby look so miserable?
Because you make it miserable honey.
Tuesday, September 09, 2003
Meet Edvard
This is Edvard. He is the most unbalanced, unhappy doll in the world. I recently found him floating face-down in a doll pool while my lovely daughter proclaimed, "Underwater!"
I'm not sure Edvard was unhappy with his fate. He seems to be unnaturally obsessed with death. He's a goth baby. A black and white boy in a color world.
Look for my first Edvard novel coming soon.
Discuss
I’ve Been Through the Parking Lot with a Man with No Name
This weekend was very tiring, so I won’t bore you with the details of how I edged. If you want to be bored with details on edging, talk to your neighbor Joe. I’m sure he has some good ideas.
The highlight for the weekend was going to a carnival. We took the girls to a local church shindig filled with fried, fatty foods, crappy sno-cones and people with no names running rides that may or may not have contained the correct number of bolts for safety assurances.
But no matter, for they would pack up and move away as soon as possible, never to be heard from again.
We purchased tickets for the rides and went around trying to choose something to ride:
Me: What about the slide?
Matilda: No. Too high.
Me: What about the roller coaster?
Matilda: No. Too fast.
Me: What about the spinner?
Matilda: No. Too spinny.
Me: What about the Ferris Wheel?
Matilda: No. It moves backwards. And it swings down too low.
Me: What about the swings?
Matilda: Angle of swing is greater than 20 degrees.
Me: What about the fun house?
Matilda: I don’t know what’s in there and it’s too loud.
Me: So, let me get this straight. You don’t like things that spin, go up or down, slide, go too high or low, or that go too fast or too slow. What do you like to do?
Matilda: I like the duck game. You know the one where you pick up a duck and it has a number on it and then they give you a prize.
Me: That’s a game, not a ride. Why did we buy all these tickets?
Matilda: I didn’t tell you to buy the tickets. You did it on your own.
Me: Because I thought you’d enjoy the rides.
Matilda: Well, that was dumb, wasn’t it?
Eventually we found two rides that she would ride. The Merry-Go-Round and some Dumbo knock off. As fate would have it Gertrude was also big enough to ride these rides. After Matilda gave each ride a systems check and cited the no-name carnies with various safety flaws, worn out mechanisms and general bad body odor we were ready to ride.
Matilda mounted her horse as if it were a show horse and she was in some sort of show. Gertrude tried to climb under the horse and ride it by grasping its, um . . . nether regions. After we went over the various forms of riding horses, she was sitting in the saddle holding onto the pole.
The first time around she was interested. The second time around she seemed mildly amused. By the time the ride was over, she was yelling “Wooo!”
We then rode the Dumbo thing. Or, more precisely, Matilda took Gertrude on it and left the parents on the ground. That was a very strange feeling. Setting our two children in the hollowed out back of a poorly rendered, day-glo, fiberglass dragon attached to an antiquated ride technology that was run by a woman who had fewer teeth than I had toes. But, hey, it was in a church parking lot! How bad could it be?
After the ride was over, Gertrude announced, “I having fun!” She repeated this phrase several times as we went between the merry-go-round and the Dumbo knock off at least seventy two times. To blow our final tickets I convinced Matilda to go in the fun house. It wasn’t as bad as she thought. Though I could tell by the look on her face she was thinking, “What a pile of crap.” Which it was.
It’s strange how different these two kids are. Matilda is cautious and considers each step she takes, lest a crack form and she fall to the middle of the earth. Gertrude, however, rarely thinks about anything and goes into it with an amazing gusto. Unless it’s too “yowd”. If it’s too “yowd” we can’t go near it. Like lawnmowers, coffee grinders, vacuum cleaners and three of my shirts. I suppose they balance one another out. One teaches the other caution while the other teaches spontaneity. I just think it’s strange how two sisters can approach the same things with totally different attitudes.
The evening ended on a perfect note. As the baby was falling asleep and Matilda and I were watching a special on a chili cook off (yeah, so what?), fireworks started going off in the distance. We went flying down the hallway and outside to watch. Mom and baby joined us and as the evening passed into night, we watched a beautiful fireworks display off in the distance over our neighbor’s roof.
We went inside to see who won the chili cook off and put the baby in bed.
As she was laying down, Gertrude yelled out, “That was too yowd!”
Discuss The Carny
The highlight for the weekend was going to a carnival. We took the girls to a local church shindig filled with fried, fatty foods, crappy sno-cones and people with no names running rides that may or may not have contained the correct number of bolts for safety assurances.
But no matter, for they would pack up and move away as soon as possible, never to be heard from again.
We purchased tickets for the rides and went around trying to choose something to ride:
Me: What about the slide?
Matilda: No. Too high.
Me: What about the roller coaster?
Matilda: No. Too fast.
Me: What about the spinner?
Matilda: No. Too spinny.
Me: What about the Ferris Wheel?
Matilda: No. It moves backwards. And it swings down too low.
Me: What about the swings?
Matilda: Angle of swing is greater than 20 degrees.
Me: What about the fun house?
Matilda: I don’t know what’s in there and it’s too loud.
Me: So, let me get this straight. You don’t like things that spin, go up or down, slide, go too high or low, or that go too fast or too slow. What do you like to do?
Matilda: I like the duck game. You know the one where you pick up a duck and it has a number on it and then they give you a prize.
Me: That’s a game, not a ride. Why did we buy all these tickets?
Matilda: I didn’t tell you to buy the tickets. You did it on your own.
Me: Because I thought you’d enjoy the rides.
Matilda: Well, that was dumb, wasn’t it?
Eventually we found two rides that she would ride. The Merry-Go-Round and some Dumbo knock off. As fate would have it Gertrude was also big enough to ride these rides. After Matilda gave each ride a systems check and cited the no-name carnies with various safety flaws, worn out mechanisms and general bad body odor we were ready to ride.
Matilda mounted her horse as if it were a show horse and she was in some sort of show. Gertrude tried to climb under the horse and ride it by grasping its, um . . . nether regions. After we went over the various forms of riding horses, she was sitting in the saddle holding onto the pole.
The first time around she was interested. The second time around she seemed mildly amused. By the time the ride was over, she was yelling “Wooo!”
We then rode the Dumbo thing. Or, more precisely, Matilda took Gertrude on it and left the parents on the ground. That was a very strange feeling. Setting our two children in the hollowed out back of a poorly rendered, day-glo, fiberglass dragon attached to an antiquated ride technology that was run by a woman who had fewer teeth than I had toes. But, hey, it was in a church parking lot! How bad could it be?
After the ride was over, Gertrude announced, “I having fun!” She repeated this phrase several times as we went between the merry-go-round and the Dumbo knock off at least seventy two times. To blow our final tickets I convinced Matilda to go in the fun house. It wasn’t as bad as she thought. Though I could tell by the look on her face she was thinking, “What a pile of crap.” Which it was.
It’s strange how different these two kids are. Matilda is cautious and considers each step she takes, lest a crack form and she fall to the middle of the earth. Gertrude, however, rarely thinks about anything and goes into it with an amazing gusto. Unless it’s too “yowd”. If it’s too “yowd” we can’t go near it. Like lawnmowers, coffee grinders, vacuum cleaners and three of my shirts. I suppose they balance one another out. One teaches the other caution while the other teaches spontaneity. I just think it’s strange how two sisters can approach the same things with totally different attitudes.
The evening ended on a perfect note. As the baby was falling asleep and Matilda and I were watching a special on a chili cook off (yeah, so what?), fireworks started going off in the distance. We went flying down the hallway and outside to watch. Mom and baby joined us and as the evening passed into night, we watched a beautiful fireworks display off in the distance over our neighbor’s roof.
We went inside to see who won the chili cook off and put the baby in bed.
As she was laying down, Gertrude yelled out, “That was too yowd!”
Discuss The Carny
Friday, September 05, 2003
On (or around, or inside) the Toilet
“I have boo boo owie,” she tells me with tears in her eyes.
“Where does it hurt,” I ask as she thrusts her thumb into my face.
“Oh,” I say, “it’s all red and irritated. What will make it feel better?”
“Med’cin,” she says.
“Well, the apothecary is closed today. How about a Band Aid brand of bandage? You can get stuck on it, but it won’t get stuck on you.”
“Okay!” She toddles off to the bathroom, skimming a wall and bouncing over the threshold and climbs on the toilet seat to await the cleaning and bandaging of her soul threatening wound.
I have a thought. If we are here to clean and sanitize a wound, why is it that we do it upon a toilet, where we deposit our waste? Donna Reed pops into my mind and says, “Don’t be silly! Mothers have been using the bathroom as the infirmary for many years.”
“But the fecal matter and urine!”
Brad Pitt, as Tyler Durden replaces Donna Reed. He reminds me not to listen to her, as she did play an “escort” in From Here to Eternity. Judging the trip from here to eternity, by way of Dayton, would be a very long trip he exclaims “Urine is sterile. You can drink it!”*
Meanwhile, as I’m talking to my imaginary Hollywood friends, Gertrude’s lower lip quivers. “I hurt ,” she tells me.
Okay. We bathe the sore thumb, with no real visible wound, in water. It is a psychic wound. Far more dangerous than a cut. We dab it dry and apply the bandage.
In a transformation not unlike when Sauruman is cast from Theoden, the sadness melts from Gertrude’s face and she is happy once again. She bounds from the bathroom/infirmary and runs away to play another day.
I’m overcome. Not with love, but bemusement at her willingness to play with the universe.
Two minutes later she returns, with her thumb thrust up in the air like Dale Cooper encountering a particularly wonderful cup of coffee.
“I feel bedder,” she says. So we remove the bandage. Her wound healed not by medicine, but comfort.
A bond is formed. A bond that is more concrete than the day we go out for the paper and she was frightened.
Above us a helicopter flies and Gertrude leaps into my arms (stop me if you’ve heard this one).
“Wasat,” she asks.
“A helicopter,” I say.
“Cobby cobby,” she asks.
“Yes, a cobby cobby.”
“I skared,” she tells me.
“Don’t worry,” I tell her as she pushes her head into my chest, “I’ll protect you.”
“You protect?”
“Yes, I protect. I protect all of you.”
“You protect!”
I guess I’ve done my job well. Seeing the cobby cobby is a ritual now. And we routinely look for airplanes when we hear one. Especially when it’s dark out.
“Uplane!”
Someday she’ll start asking me about space. And I’ll tell her, preparing her for her first launch. And we’ll all go down to Cape Canaveral together and see our first manned spaceflight launch together (can you believe I’ve never seen one!). We’ll feel the thunder of the thrust against us and our mouths will drop. We won’t say it, of course, but we’ll marvel over our species flying beyond the troposphere, beyond our planet’s thin skin and beyond anything we’ve ever seen. And at night she’ll look at the stars with Matilda and me and ask what’s out there. Or why. And we’ll talk about an old friend who used to stand on our step for hours with me, looking at the beyond.
And all because I protect. It’s true, I do protect. But I push limits too. The universe bites, and will never be tamed. That’s the beauty of the universe. But, hopefully, she’ll keep pushing and will forever move beyond her current boundaries.
All I can do is show the girls where the boundaries are. It’s their job to find out where they go.
Once, because of a book she read, Matilda wanted to know how a toilet worked. “I have an idea,” I said, “but I really don’t know.” So we got the tools out and proceeded to take apart the toilet.
Mom came in. “Um, what are you guys doing,” she asked, seeing us soaked up to our shoulders holding the inlet valve and flapper in our hands.
“Learning! It’s just a lever and gravity!” we answered.
I just hope Gertrude and Matilda take me with them. Or enlighten me with their discoveries. I hope, as they reach ever higher they thank me for the questions I answered and pushing them to find the answers they need to find on their own. I hope they relish the questions we answered together.
*See Fight Club: Special Edition extras for explanation.
Discuss Toilets and Bounderies and Such
“Where does it hurt,” I ask as she thrusts her thumb into my face.
“Oh,” I say, “it’s all red and irritated. What will make it feel better?”
“Med’cin,” she says.
“Well, the apothecary is closed today. How about a Band Aid brand of bandage? You can get stuck on it, but it won’t get stuck on you.”
“Okay!” She toddles off to the bathroom, skimming a wall and bouncing over the threshold and climbs on the toilet seat to await the cleaning and bandaging of her soul threatening wound.
I have a thought. If we are here to clean and sanitize a wound, why is it that we do it upon a toilet, where we deposit our waste? Donna Reed pops into my mind and says, “Don’t be silly! Mothers have been using the bathroom as the infirmary for many years.”
“But the fecal matter and urine!”
Brad Pitt, as Tyler Durden replaces Donna Reed. He reminds me not to listen to her, as she did play an “escort” in From Here to Eternity. Judging the trip from here to eternity, by way of Dayton, would be a very long trip he exclaims “Urine is sterile. You can drink it!”*
Meanwhile, as I’m talking to my imaginary Hollywood friends, Gertrude’s lower lip quivers. “I hurt ,” she tells me.
Okay. We bathe the sore thumb, with no real visible wound, in water. It is a psychic wound. Far more dangerous than a cut. We dab it dry and apply the bandage.
In a transformation not unlike when Sauruman is cast from Theoden, the sadness melts from Gertrude’s face and she is happy once again. She bounds from the bathroom/infirmary and runs away to play another day.
I’m overcome. Not with love, but bemusement at her willingness to play with the universe.
Two minutes later she returns, with her thumb thrust up in the air like Dale Cooper encountering a particularly wonderful cup of coffee.
“I feel bedder,” she says. So we remove the bandage. Her wound healed not by medicine, but comfort.
A bond is formed. A bond that is more concrete than the day we go out for the paper and she was frightened.
Above us a helicopter flies and Gertrude leaps into my arms (stop me if you’ve heard this one).
“Wasat,” she asks.
“A helicopter,” I say.
“Cobby cobby,” she asks.
“Yes, a cobby cobby.”
“I skared,” she tells me.
“Don’t worry,” I tell her as she pushes her head into my chest, “I’ll protect you.”
“You protect?”
“Yes, I protect. I protect all of you.”
“You protect!”
I guess I’ve done my job well. Seeing the cobby cobby is a ritual now. And we routinely look for airplanes when we hear one. Especially when it’s dark out.
“Uplane!”
Someday she’ll start asking me about space. And I’ll tell her, preparing her for her first launch. And we’ll all go down to Cape Canaveral together and see our first manned spaceflight launch together (can you believe I’ve never seen one!). We’ll feel the thunder of the thrust against us and our mouths will drop. We won’t say it, of course, but we’ll marvel over our species flying beyond the troposphere, beyond our planet’s thin skin and beyond anything we’ve ever seen. And at night she’ll look at the stars with Matilda and me and ask what’s out there. Or why. And we’ll talk about an old friend who used to stand on our step for hours with me, looking at the beyond.
And all because I protect. It’s true, I do protect. But I push limits too. The universe bites, and will never be tamed. That’s the beauty of the universe. But, hopefully, she’ll keep pushing and will forever move beyond her current boundaries.
All I can do is show the girls where the boundaries are. It’s their job to find out where they go.
Once, because of a book she read, Matilda wanted to know how a toilet worked. “I have an idea,” I said, “but I really don’t know.” So we got the tools out and proceeded to take apart the toilet.
Mom came in. “Um, what are you guys doing,” she asked, seeing us soaked up to our shoulders holding the inlet valve and flapper in our hands.
“Learning! It’s just a lever and gravity!” we answered.
I just hope Gertrude and Matilda take me with them. Or enlighten me with their discoveries. I hope, as they reach ever higher they thank me for the questions I answered and pushing them to find the answers they need to find on their own. I hope they relish the questions we answered together.
*See Fight Club: Special Edition extras for explanation.
Discuss Toilets and Bounderies and Such
Thursday, September 04, 2003
Wanted: One Obsession
I’m in need of a productive obsession. Something that will consume my free time and provide me with that sense of well being that I once used to get from books, then movies, then music, then Disney World, then science. I need something that I can research, consume and devour for a long period of time. Like a research project that never ends.
Most people remember my obsession with Disney World. Yes, the theme park in Florida. It all started when I was depressed after college. My girlfriend and I went down there and an obsession started. I think it was less about Disney and more about an extended fantasy world. Something fully immersive with an attention to detail unlike any I had ever experienced.
I still love the place. But now I look at it differently. Something I have to save and scrape money for in order to bring four people down instead of just one. I haven’t been back since May of 2000 and I am getting the itch. But it’s different now because I’m going for the kids. I want to see it through the eyes of an actual child. Not the eyes of a man-child, like myself.
Most recently the obsession has been physics and Richard Feynman. I love Feynman because of the character he presented to the world and his wild stories. I also love the fact that the mind that helped unwrap something as complicated as QED was also as playful and curious as a child. Whether it was physics, the movement patterns of ants or drawing, Feynman would throw himself into a problem with a passion unknown to most mere mortals.
I love physics for the sense of understanding and discovery. Even at my age, as I suddenly understand one of the most basic laws of the universe I feel as though I just created life. There’s something about understanding the sheer mechanics behind the world in which we live that intrigues me. Granted, I’ll never be investigating the finer points of string theory, but basic mechanics are within my grasp.
My obsession with Feynman is starting to wane. It’s not that I don’t like him anymore, but that I’ve reached an end to what I can devour and understand. After I finish my current book (not counting the biography Genius, which I’ve been trudging through for months . . .) I’ll no longer be able to read Feynman’s work without consulting a variety of references to understand what the hell he is talking about. That is to say, what are left are not mere memories of his work or his life, but the actual work itself. And that is no easy nut to crack.
What I’m reading right now is “Tuva or Bust!” which is the story of Feynman’s gang of friends attempts to reach Tannu Tuva, a remote Asian country that was part of the USSR during the Cold War. Because of Feynman’s stature as a physicist and the tensions between the US and USSR at the time, merely getting in touch with someone who would allow them into the country was nearly impossible.
Sadly, Feynman died before the quest was completed. The work wasn’t for naught, however. After his death his group did make it to Tuva. And Feynman is a sort of cultural hero to the Tuvans. Some of this is covered in the documentary “Genghis Blues” about an American’s participation in a Tuvan throat singing contest.
Born out of this quest was an organization known as Friends of Tuva, initially run by Feynman’s friend Ralph Leighton. Friends of Tuva still exists and you couldn’t meet a nicer group of people. Because of them, my car proudly proclaims “Feynman Lives!” To this day I think people are wondering who the hell Feynman is. A Jewish mystic? Nope, I say, just a Nobel Prize winning physicist. “Oh. Okay.”
But this is the quest I need. Something tantamount to Tuva. Except with fewer communists and travel. Something that I can research and work for.
So, if you have any ideas, let me know. What can I investigate?
My initial idea was to start a Corey Feldman look alike club. But that fell through. Then I was going to start a campaign to get Bert Convy back on television, but there was no support. I thought about an Abe Vigoda society devoted to bringing the philosophy of Fish to the world, but Abe probably wouldn’t like that. If Fred Gwynn were still alive I’d start an admiration society, but he’s not so I won’t. Other topics that were shot down were Monkey Culture, Squirrel Mating, Lobster Dancing, Arkansas Hair Design, Dodge Dart Owners Society, the Bring Back MC Lyte Club, Semi-Professional Dodgeball League, Mid-West Surfers Club and the Amateur Brain Surgeons Society of America.
Discuss
Most people remember my obsession with Disney World. Yes, the theme park in Florida. It all started when I was depressed after college. My girlfriend and I went down there and an obsession started. I think it was less about Disney and more about an extended fantasy world. Something fully immersive with an attention to detail unlike any I had ever experienced.
I still love the place. But now I look at it differently. Something I have to save and scrape money for in order to bring four people down instead of just one. I haven’t been back since May of 2000 and I am getting the itch. But it’s different now because I’m going for the kids. I want to see it through the eyes of an actual child. Not the eyes of a man-child, like myself.
Most recently the obsession has been physics and Richard Feynman. I love Feynman because of the character he presented to the world and his wild stories. I also love the fact that the mind that helped unwrap something as complicated as QED was also as playful and curious as a child. Whether it was physics, the movement patterns of ants or drawing, Feynman would throw himself into a problem with a passion unknown to most mere mortals.
I love physics for the sense of understanding and discovery. Even at my age, as I suddenly understand one of the most basic laws of the universe I feel as though I just created life. There’s something about understanding the sheer mechanics behind the world in which we live that intrigues me. Granted, I’ll never be investigating the finer points of string theory, but basic mechanics are within my grasp.
My obsession with Feynman is starting to wane. It’s not that I don’t like him anymore, but that I’ve reached an end to what I can devour and understand. After I finish my current book (not counting the biography Genius, which I’ve been trudging through for months . . .) I’ll no longer be able to read Feynman’s work without consulting a variety of references to understand what the hell he is talking about. That is to say, what are left are not mere memories of his work or his life, but the actual work itself. And that is no easy nut to crack.
What I’m reading right now is “Tuva or Bust!” which is the story of Feynman’s gang of friends attempts to reach Tannu Tuva, a remote Asian country that was part of the USSR during the Cold War. Because of Feynman’s stature as a physicist and the tensions between the US and USSR at the time, merely getting in touch with someone who would allow them into the country was nearly impossible.
Sadly, Feynman died before the quest was completed. The work wasn’t for naught, however. After his death his group did make it to Tuva. And Feynman is a sort of cultural hero to the Tuvans. Some of this is covered in the documentary “Genghis Blues” about an American’s participation in a Tuvan throat singing contest.
Born out of this quest was an organization known as Friends of Tuva, initially run by Feynman’s friend Ralph Leighton. Friends of Tuva still exists and you couldn’t meet a nicer group of people. Because of them, my car proudly proclaims “Feynman Lives!” To this day I think people are wondering who the hell Feynman is. A Jewish mystic? Nope, I say, just a Nobel Prize winning physicist. “Oh. Okay.”
But this is the quest I need. Something tantamount to Tuva. Except with fewer communists and travel. Something that I can research and work for.
So, if you have any ideas, let me know. What can I investigate?
My initial idea was to start a Corey Feldman look alike club. But that fell through. Then I was going to start a campaign to get Bert Convy back on television, but there was no support. I thought about an Abe Vigoda society devoted to bringing the philosophy of Fish to the world, but Abe probably wouldn’t like that. If Fred Gwynn were still alive I’d start an admiration society, but he’s not so I won’t. Other topics that were shot down were Monkey Culture, Squirrel Mating, Lobster Dancing, Arkansas Hair Design, Dodge Dart Owners Society, the Bring Back MC Lyte Club, Semi-Professional Dodgeball League, Mid-West Surfers Club and the Amateur Brain Surgeons Society of America.
Discuss
Wednesday, September 03, 2003
50 Things That Piss Me Off
1. Peter Jennings is out to get me. You think I’m kidding. Next time he’s on watch how he says, “We’ll be right back”. It’s code. The bastard’s coming after me.
2. Security devices on DVDs. Now they don’t merely paste one side shut with the industrial strength glue strip. No. Now they often do at least three sides. And it only sticks when you’re trying to get it off. And it shreds into a million little pieces and then I’m going after Jack Valenti with a golf club and a DVD decryption program.
3. Cat food. It smells bad.
4. Movies with Hell in the title. It ticks me the hell off. Usually because they suck like hell.
5. That Michael Yorke is considered a joke. He used to be cool.
6. That Jason Mraz kid who’s supposedly the new hot thing. Dude. You’re dressed like the guy who used to sell me cigarettes at the 7-11 when I was underage. Trust me, that’s not cool. You look like a fool. And that stupid hat should be burned in the same pile as your stupid CD and your crappy 5 o’clock shadow.
7. People who drive Mini Coopers. You think they’re cool. But you can’t handle them.
8. Bad coffee. Folgers. Yuban. You barf. Come on people. Just because it only costs 3.99 a pound doesn’t mean that it’s good coffee for crying out loud.
9. Rock musicians who find God and lose their soul. I don’t mind them finding a new life path but that doesn’t mean that your music should start sucking.
10. Francis Ford Coppola.
11. Polka dots.
12. French poodles that are shaved like they are topiaries. They’re farging dogs people. Stop treating them like a hydrangea.
13. Just because music is on the radio doesn’t make it good. In fact, most likely it sucks. Trust me.
14. Aerosmith.
15. That the animated version of the Tick is not on DVD.
16. I want a zebra.
17. That the accordion isn’t an acceptable instrument to stroll through a suburban mall playing at full volume.
18. Particularly if the only song you know is Iron Man.
19. Daniel Handler. Overly talented jerk.
20. That no one has ever offered me the job of coordinating the soundtrack to their film.
21. That those people in number 20 just don’t seem to have my email or phone number.
22. People who think the world is so black and white that every problem can be traced back to someone whose ideology is diametrically opposed to their own.
23. That those same people can’t stop writing into the editor at the local paper.
24. And use the phrase “It is incredulous to me.” Asspony.
25. I will never be known as graceful.
26. John Lennon will never wash my clothes.
27. Brittney. Spears. Murphy. All of them. The collective Brittney.
28. That one of the major requirements to be a pop star these days means that you had to start out as a Mousketeer instead of playing for nickels and beer at a local dive.
29. That Jeff Buckley is dead but Dave Matthews keeps assaulting us constantly.
30. Other people who shouldn’t be dead: Carl Wilson, Richard Feynman and Stevie Ray Vaughan.
31. People who should be: Too long to list.
32. Monkeys on the moon. Or lack thereof.
33. That people think we should continue space exploration for the sole purpose of having a new planet to rocket off to when we finish poisoning this one. Brilliant plan. “Don’t worry kids! We choked this little blue-green ball to death but you guys will be able to fly off to another planet.” Don’t be so cruel to your kids.
34. That I seem to be one of the only people on the planet who doesn’t actively avoid my children or make excuses to get away from them. Or they from me.
35. People who leave their kids alone on cars. Don’t treat your kids that way.
36. Or your dogs.
37. That 90% of the people who drive seem to think that they have the right of way based on vehicle size and/or stupidity ratio.
38. People who bitch about gas prices in their Chevy Suburbans. I don’t pay that much in gas bills. Hee hee.
39. That idiot in the PT Cruiser at the grocery store parking lot who kept stopping for no reason. Next time I’m ramming through you.
40. People who walk down the center of a parking lost aisle and get mad at me for trying to drive down it at the same time.
41. That crazy lady at the post office who took my jokes far too seriously and proceeded to ruin my day.
42. Monkeys at convenience stores. Or lack thereof.
43. That I haven’t yet written or published a book.
44. I’m suddenly filled with the urge to purchase and learn to play a ukulele.
45. Monkeys with ukuleles. Or lack thereof.
46. That my main freelance client is trying to make me justify myself to them. Either contract me or don’t. Don’t dick me around the same way you dick around your employees.
47. That I’m pretty sure that no one genuinely likes me.
48. And those that do are faking it.
49. Including you.
50. Monkeys that like me. Or lack thereof.
Bonus: That it's suddenly cool to like Warren Zevon, now that he's dying. Nice people. Couldn't you have liked him when he was vibrant and alive and not rotting with cancer?
Bonuse: The word "Hella". Use of that word is nearly as stupid was when people said, "What's the Dillio?"
Discuss
2. Security devices on DVDs. Now they don’t merely paste one side shut with the industrial strength glue strip. No. Now they often do at least three sides. And it only sticks when you’re trying to get it off. And it shreds into a million little pieces and then I’m going after Jack Valenti with a golf club and a DVD decryption program.
3. Cat food. It smells bad.
4. Movies with Hell in the title. It ticks me the hell off. Usually because they suck like hell.
5. That Michael Yorke is considered a joke. He used to be cool.
6. That Jason Mraz kid who’s supposedly the new hot thing. Dude. You’re dressed like the guy who used to sell me cigarettes at the 7-11 when I was underage. Trust me, that’s not cool. You look like a fool. And that stupid hat should be burned in the same pile as your stupid CD and your crappy 5 o’clock shadow.
7. People who drive Mini Coopers. You think they’re cool. But you can’t handle them.
8. Bad coffee. Folgers. Yuban. You barf. Come on people. Just because it only costs 3.99 a pound doesn’t mean that it’s good coffee for crying out loud.
9. Rock musicians who find God and lose their soul. I don’t mind them finding a new life path but that doesn’t mean that your music should start sucking.
10. Francis Ford Coppola.
11. Polka dots.
12. French poodles that are shaved like they are topiaries. They’re farging dogs people. Stop treating them like a hydrangea.
13. Just because music is on the radio doesn’t make it good. In fact, most likely it sucks. Trust me.
14. Aerosmith.
15. That the animated version of the Tick is not on DVD.
16. I want a zebra.
17. That the accordion isn’t an acceptable instrument to stroll through a suburban mall playing at full volume.
18. Particularly if the only song you know is Iron Man.
19. Daniel Handler. Overly talented jerk.
20. That no one has ever offered me the job of coordinating the soundtrack to their film.
21. That those people in number 20 just don’t seem to have my email or phone number.
22. People who think the world is so black and white that every problem can be traced back to someone whose ideology is diametrically opposed to their own.
23. That those same people can’t stop writing into the editor at the local paper.
24. And use the phrase “It is incredulous to me.” Asspony.
25. I will never be known as graceful.
26. John Lennon will never wash my clothes.
27. Brittney. Spears. Murphy. All of them. The collective Brittney.
28. That one of the major requirements to be a pop star these days means that you had to start out as a Mousketeer instead of playing for nickels and beer at a local dive.
29. That Jeff Buckley is dead but Dave Matthews keeps assaulting us constantly.
30. Other people who shouldn’t be dead: Carl Wilson, Richard Feynman and Stevie Ray Vaughan.
31. People who should be: Too long to list.
32. Monkeys on the moon. Or lack thereof.
33. That people think we should continue space exploration for the sole purpose of having a new planet to rocket off to when we finish poisoning this one. Brilliant plan. “Don’t worry kids! We choked this little blue-green ball to death but you guys will be able to fly off to another planet.” Don’t be so cruel to your kids.
34. That I seem to be one of the only people on the planet who doesn’t actively avoid my children or make excuses to get away from them. Or they from me.
35. People who leave their kids alone on cars. Don’t treat your kids that way.
36. Or your dogs.
37. That 90% of the people who drive seem to think that they have the right of way based on vehicle size and/or stupidity ratio.
38. People who bitch about gas prices in their Chevy Suburbans. I don’t pay that much in gas bills. Hee hee.
39. That idiot in the PT Cruiser at the grocery store parking lot who kept stopping for no reason. Next time I’m ramming through you.
40. People who walk down the center of a parking lost aisle and get mad at me for trying to drive down it at the same time.
41. That crazy lady at the post office who took my jokes far too seriously and proceeded to ruin my day.
42. Monkeys at convenience stores. Or lack thereof.
43. That I haven’t yet written or published a book.
44. I’m suddenly filled with the urge to purchase and learn to play a ukulele.
45. Monkeys with ukuleles. Or lack thereof.
46. That my main freelance client is trying to make me justify myself to them. Either contract me or don’t. Don’t dick me around the same way you dick around your employees.
47. That I’m pretty sure that no one genuinely likes me.
48. And those that do are faking it.
49. Including you.
50. Monkeys that like me. Or lack thereof.
Bonus: That it's suddenly cool to like Warren Zevon, now that he's dying. Nice people. Couldn't you have liked him when he was vibrant and alive and not rotting with cancer?
Bonuse: The word "Hella". Use of that word is nearly as stupid was when people said, "What's the Dillio?"
Discuss
Tuesday, September 02, 2003
Another Weekend
It started. And then it ended. And now we’re in the middle of the week. Yay. Or nay? Who knows? All I know is I don’t have a hell of a lot to say, really.
The girls enjoyed themselves this weekend. They played and what not. Matilda learned how to make potholders with some weaving kit. She won’t stop. She keeps weaving and weaving and weaving. It’s like she’s some sort of strange monkey given a typewriter and is trying to come out with Hamlet.
She claims that she’s going to weave them onto a giant potholder quilt. I don’t know why.
My lovely youngest daughter had a hard weekend. She’s trying to push through a molar and, well, she’s not happy about it. She wails and cries and yells and can’t make up her mind. Then, later, she’ll climb up on your lap and hug you while she’s whimpering uncontrollably. It was so sad. We just hugged her as much as possible.
Her most important consideration all weekend was where she would sit while she ate all weekend. We made dinner and she’d push her chair near whomever she chose as her target and say, “nockadoo! Nockadoo!” That means “next to you.” We help her get into her spot and she says, “thank you!”
Musically, I listened to Stew and TNP all weekend. Stew has a new album coming out next month and, as usual, I like to prime myself for the experience. Stew’s output has been incredible the last few years. At least one new disc a year. Nice. I don’t even have time to get tired of the last one before the new one comes out.
Good Stew.
Discuss Weekend
The girls enjoyed themselves this weekend. They played and what not. Matilda learned how to make potholders with some weaving kit. She won’t stop. She keeps weaving and weaving and weaving. It’s like she’s some sort of strange monkey given a typewriter and is trying to come out with Hamlet.
She claims that she’s going to weave them onto a giant potholder quilt. I don’t know why.
My lovely youngest daughter had a hard weekend. She’s trying to push through a molar and, well, she’s not happy about it. She wails and cries and yells and can’t make up her mind. Then, later, she’ll climb up on your lap and hug you while she’s whimpering uncontrollably. It was so sad. We just hugged her as much as possible.
Her most important consideration all weekend was where she would sit while she ate all weekend. We made dinner and she’d push her chair near whomever she chose as her target and say, “nockadoo! Nockadoo!” That means “next to you.” We help her get into her spot and she says, “thank you!”
Musically, I listened to Stew and TNP all weekend. Stew has a new album coming out next month and, as usual, I like to prime myself for the experience. Stew’s output has been incredible the last few years. At least one new disc a year. Nice. I don’t even have time to get tired of the last one before the new one comes out.
Good Stew.
Discuss Weekend
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