Positively 44 D

I was innocently watching television last night when a Victoria’s Secret ad came on. Now, normally, I enjoy Victoria’s Secret. After all, I rarely have a problem with looking at a scantily clad woman. I wouldn’t turn down a chance to see a good Monet exhibit either.

But last night was . . . different. It was . . . Horrifying.

The commercial began normally enough. But in the background, instead of the usual sensual music, I hear this. Interesting, I thought. Bob Dylan on a Victoria’s Secret commercial. Strange choice of songs, too, considering the subject matter:

My favorite lines in the song, sung with a particularly biting spite by Bob are:

Sometimes the silence can be like the thunder
Sometimes I wanna take to the road and plunder
Could you ever be true?
I think of you
And I wonder

You really have to chew the space between “I think of you” and “I wonder”. You know, to really show that you do wonder.

I’m thinking, this is strange. Is this the image that you want for a lingerie company? That lingerie makes you love sick? That you become tired of the whole damn thing, eventually you are betrayed, lonely, tired, angry and left longing for someone who is absent, but you can still smell her perfume on the pillows? Sign me up for some of those lacy boy shorts for my wife then! Sounds like a great marital aid.

“Hey honey, look! I bought you some sexy underwear! You can use them for your boyfriend. You destroyed me with a smile. You know what? I’m sick of love, but I’m in the thick of it.”

I can feel the romance oozing from this song. I can’t say it’s sexy, exactly. It’s almost creepy. In fact, that’s why that’s my favorite song on Time Out of Mind. But, for sexy underwear? Seems more like a spurned lover watching his ex-girlfriend and her new lover through the window. And I feel . . . icky.

Then it happened. After they show the skimpy, bulimic model prancing around in white lace and wings, they show this face:



That’s right. Bob is in the commercial. And it’s not the nice looking Bob from the mid-sixties. It’s not even the mid-seventies Gritty Bob. No, it’s the lascivious, anachronistic, evil-carnival-barker-freak show-purveyor-from-Hell-as-played-by-Vincent-Price Bob Dylan. And he’s leering at this poor woman in the slutty angel costume. And I need a shower.

I love Bob Dylan. I really do. I also used to like women in lingerie. Now they are forever melded together. Now, whenever I hear “Clean-Cut Kid”, “Handy Dandy”, “Don’t Think Twice, It’s Alright”, “Precious Angel”, or “Gates of Eden” I’m going to think of something totally different.

Discuss

Mmmmmm. Beer. Or Bier.

A friend and I have been discussing beer all morning. All the while I've been listening to songs by Brian Setzer, Otis Redding, Howling Wolf and Sam and Dave, which remind me of my early days as a working single guy when I used to follow Pennsylvania Slim from Mike and Minn's to Johnny's to the Brewhouse and various other beer purveyors. This was back when he had the Horn Dogs backing him up and he played a cool mix of soul and jump blues that, honestly, couldn't be beat.

Anyway, by ten o'clock this morning I was thinking that the six pack I picked up last night was sitting there and was probably nice and cold. Now, I don't drink to get drunk. I drink for the flavor. (Yeah, Bud fans, beer should taste good.)

But ten in the morning is a bit early and it makes me feel like a lush and a bad person.

But lunch is coming up . . .

Oh great. All this talk about beer has made me need to pee.

Danger Will Robinson! Danger!

I'm sitting here writing something about "Maximizing Heart Health". This is funny because, well, I've devoted my life to perfecting the opposite. Cheese is my friend. But this is what they pay me to do. Fools.

So I just wrote the sentence, "Heart attack and stroke may result when plaque bursts or cracks, causing clotting material to be released into the blood stream."

Now I swear I have hunks of plaque floating around my blood system and the damned clotting material is chasing it, just hoping to clog one of my arteries. Leg? Brain? Heart? It's just a matter of time before everything goes black.

The upside? Everything tingles.

Also my wife called and left me a weird message.

"Honey, we're out of dog food."

I thought, um, okay. We don't have a dog. Weird.

I'm not going to tell her though because, honestly, I like it when she goes nuts. She'll believe anything. Last year, during sales meeting, she was so stressed that I had her believing I was a pirate for a week. She even let me wear an eye patch.

Okay, I made that last part up. Time to make coffee.

Quote of the Day

Because a joke just wasn't enough. And, even though it's only a few minutes later, I still don't want to work today. So I'm avoiding it. No one will notice. Oh, sure, they'll say, "Did you get your work done" and I'll say, "Ow! I think someone just shot me in the head with an arrow!"

Here's the quote:

"Harry, I'm going to let you in on a little secret. Every day, once a day, give yourself a present. Don't plan it. Don't wait for it. Just let it happen. It could be a new shirt at the men's store, a catnap in your office chair, or two cups of good, hot black coffee." --Dale Cooper

I'd say ramp that up to 10 or 12 cups of coffee and you're in business.

Discuss Silly Stuff Here Too Because It's the Same Place as the Other Post!

Joke of the Day

Because I don't want to work today.

A neutron walks into a bar and orders a beer. The bartender sets the beer down and says, "For you, no charge!"

Rimshot.

Two shows nightly ladies and germs. Don't forget to tip your waitresses.

Thank you and goodnight!

Say Silly Stuff Here

Science Fiction Twin: Special Edition

I'll be posting scantly over the next few days. It's spring break. And stuff.

So I'll leave you with Science Fiction Twin: Special Edition. Now in animorphic widescreen. With Spencer Tracy, Ethel Merman, Edie Adams, Peter Falk and starring Leo Gorcey as Gary O'Brien.

To My Wife . . .

An explanation on male bathroom etiquette in response to your post yesterday.

To begin with, you are correct, men do have bathroom rules. Very strict bathroom rules. Extremely strict. In fact, I believe they go beyond rules and go into strict dictatorship. Edicts. Unspoken proclamations (which wouldn’t be a proclamation, would it?). There is some cheering, but I’ll get to that.

What are the rules? Well, first we never go to the bathroom in groups. That’s a horrible idea and, in fact, may have historically led to the fact that women talk to each other between stalls. For men, except when it comes to drunken, public urination, this is a private moment (despite the fact that seven other men are usually standing next to you). If you need to talk, it can wait until outside of the bathroom.

I’ll walk you through a general trip to the bathroom. You walk in to survey the situation. You look at the urinals. Are they filled? Is there a line? How many people are there? Would you have to stand directly next to someone? If not, feel free to use the urinal.

Grouping, or coupling, is not considered good form. It doesn’t matter how close you and the man next to you are, common courtesy is to give at least one urinal space between you and the next man. If grouping is inevitable, check out the stalls. For some people avoiding grouping is because of homophobia. I need to dispel this. As a heterosexual male, are you interested in checking out a woman’s equipment while she’s urinating? It’s the same for homosexual males. They aren’t interested in your penis while you are urinating. And, most likely, they aren’t interested in you at all. Get over it.

Here now, for the first time, I am going to explain the real reason for avoidance of grouping. Stage fright. It’s a rarely discussed problem, but some men have stage fright while trying to urinate next to other people. It’s a natural fear, really. For these men, it is recommended that they use stalls.

A few caveats. One, your hands should never be above what you’re holding. Do not place them on the walls or anywhere else. It makes us feel better to know that someone is in control of the aim. LOOK FORWARD. Do not look anywhere else. It is acceptable to look at the ceiling so long as you don’t make eye contact with someone. Some bars are nice enough to have things to read attached to the wall, in order to give you the pretense of being occupied. Do NOT make any noise. Ever. No exclamations of relief, no comments on how long you’ve waited for this, no mention of the volume or color of your urine. If, for any reason, you need to unbuckle, unbutton and unzip completely, use the stall. Let’s face it; if you’re going that far in front of a line of other people, you’re an exhibitionist. Besides, it’s common courtesy.

Now, other men like to use the stall. There is nothing wrong with this. I am one of those men. It is not a badge of shame.

In fact, there are two reasons why I generally use the stalls. One, there is usually a shorter line. Two, at my home I keep my toilet in a small room where no one else is invited while I urinate. In fact, I don’t invite my closest friends and family to urinate with me, so why should I invite perfect strangers to do so as well? I like privacy.

And, finally, though we know it happens, we do not discuss the other activity that occurs in a public restroom. Ever. Period.

Except at work. In that case, if you know the guy in the stall and he’s been in there a while, it is acceptable for you and a large group of your friends to applaud for him when he flushes.

The reasons are two-fold. One, it’s funny. Two, there is a good chance that your friend will never do that at work ever again, thereby making your use of the public restroom more pleasant.

Discuss . . . But I don’t know why you’d want to.

All in the Name of Science

This makes perfect sense. Now, if they would just find donuts on Venus, I'm totally set. (Via BoingBoing.)

Discuss

I Have a New Love

It's Little Steven's Underground Garage. It recently went on the air in St. Louis. It's played across the country at various times and places. But, you can hear archived shows on the Internet.

And let me tell you. Wow. This is what radio is meant to be. I mean, really. This is what I've been trying to accomplish with every single tape and CD I've ever made for anyone. This is real radio. Songs from all over, all different eras and styles put together in a show. And damn, it's good. Where else could you hear the Ramones, Hollies, Courtney Love and Jet in one place, let alone in one hour of radio on one station. Where will you hear the Chesterfield Kings, the Ventures, Howlin' Wolf and Stiv Bators at all?

Exactly.

Here is a good example of a playlist:

Title: Anytime At All
Artist: Beatles

Title: Gladiator 29 BC
Artist: Waistcoats

Title: Open My Eyes
Artist: Nazz

Title: Circumstantial Evidence
Artist: Stiv Bators

Title: Hate to Say I Told You So
Artist: Hives

Title: Killing Floor
Artist: Howlin' Wolf

Title: All the Right Friends
Artist: R.E.M.

Title: Action
Artist: The Ventures

Title: Blue Jean Shuffle
Artist: Plas Johnson

Title: I Wanna Be Loved
Artist: Rolling Stones

Title: I Don't Think So
Artist: Gore Gore Girls

Title: Funky But Chic
Artist: David Johansen

Title: Let Me Take You There
Artist: Jarvis Humby

Title: Tinker Tailor Soldier Sailor
Artist: Yardbirds

Title: Chicken Pickin'
Artist: Lonnie Mack

Title: Deathcar
Artist: Waistcoats

Title: Don't Throw Your Love Away
Artist: Searchers

Title: If I Fell
Artist: Paybacks

Title: Time For Heroes
Artist: Libertines

Title: Time Bomb
Artist: Ramones

Title: Sixty Years
Artist: Brian Setzer

Title: Cave In
Artist: Gruesomes

Title: Hard Cash
Artist: Waistcoats

Title: I Got a War
Artist: Gluecifer

Title: Cry in the Night
Artist: Q65

Title: Daddy Buy Me a Girl
Artist: Golden Earrings

Title: Dollhouse
Artist: Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band

Title: Mile 77
Artist: Preston Wayne Four

Title: Jack's Day Off
Artist: Waistcoats

Title: Come See Me
Artist: Pretty Things

Title: (Ain't Nothin But A) House Party
Artist: J. Geils Band

Title: Devil With a Blue Dress
Artist: Mitch Ryder and the Detroit Wheels

Title: Bye Bye Baby
Artist: Creatures of the Golden Dawn

Title: Innocent World
Artist: Iggy Pop

Title: Weekend
Artist: Kingsmen

Or this one:

Title: I Ain't Got You
Artist: Yardbirds

Title: Do You Remember Rock and Roll Radio
Artist: Ramones

Title: Please Mr. Postman
Artist: Beatles

Title: Ride
Artist: The Vines

Title: Clampdown
Artist: Clash

Title: Rock and Roll Babe
Artist: Cocktail Slippers

Title: Shanghied
Artist: Wailers

Title: Jeff's Boogie
Artist: Yardbirds

Title: Rock Around The Clock
Artist: Bill Haley & the Comets

Title: It's Gonna Take Some Time
Artist: Defectors

Title: Making Time
Artist: Creation

Title: Steppin' Out
Artist: Paul Revere and the Raiders

Title: Mono
Artist: Courtney Love

Title: Pigtails and Kneesocks
Artist: Greenhornes

Title: Galaxy Drive
Artist: Los Straitjackets

Title: Cold Hard Bitch
Artist: Jet

Title: Chinese Rocks
Artist: Johnny Thunders and the Heartbreakers

Title: My Boyfriend's Back
Artist: Angels

Title: Somewhere Nowhere
Artist: Chesterfield Kings

Title: Pay You Back With Interest
Artist: Hollies

Title: Point Panic
Artist: Surfaris

Title: Koko
Artist: Charlie Parker

Title: Lies of the Living Dead
Artist: Minus 5

Title: She Said Yeah
Artist: Larry Williams

Title: Believe
Artist: Charms

Title: Russian Roulette
Artist: Lords of the New Church

Title: Everybody Needs Somebody To Love
Artist: Rolling Stones

Title: Cave In
Artist: Gruesomes

Title: Pipe Bomb
Artist: Ben Vaughn

Title: Hold My Hand
Artist: Rutles

Title: In And Out Of My Life
Artist: Pandoras

Title: Come On Up
Artist: Rascals

Title: Detroit Slums
Artist: Back In Spades

Title: Soldier of Love
Artist: Arthur Alexander

Title: 3's A Crowd
Artist: Ventures

Listen at work. Listen at home. Listen in the car. Listen while you're in labor. It doesn't matter, just listen. It's that damn good. In fact, if you've ever been irritated by radio, and tired of not hearing the best music possible, here is an outlet. You ever wonder what the coolest song in the world is? You'll find it here. Past, present and future. In the process you'll hear good stories, learn a little bit about rock and roll and, for maybe the first time in a while, you'll find yourself jumping out of your chair.

In the few days I've been listening, Little Steven has managed to blow my music budget for six months.

And that, my friends, is a good thing.

Discuss

Seven Words I Thought I'd Never Hear

Exercise Guru Richard Simmons Cited for assault.

I mean, I expected it from Martha Stewart. But Richard Simmons?

Star Trekkin’

This one’s for David. I had originally planned to write an in-depth analysis of the evolution of the word “yeah” in Rock and Roll. This would have been followed up with a treatise about the “Art of the Hey”. But, alas, this will not be the case.

Because, once again, Geek Press has sent me off in a different direction. Paul and Linkfilter brought this amazing, cool site to my attention.

William Shatner Sings! And so does Nichelle Nichols! And Leonard Nimoy! It is a website filled geeky goodness that, in some cases, will make you vomit.

Oh yes. This music is like discovering Brian Wilson’s lost SMiLE tapes. A brilliance that has been lost to the world has once again been found. Or, to tell the truth, I believe we all buried this and hoped that no one would ever bring it up again.

My review:

William Shatner. The. Greatest. Singer. Ever. Period.

Or, well, rhythmic talker.

First Bill, as we like to call him, takes on the Lennon/McCartney classic “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds”. When the Beatles first released the song there was rampant discussion on whether or not the entire song was a reference to drugs. Acid, in specific. The arrangement here is like Leonard Bernstein and Burt Bacharach getting stoned with Alan Ginsburg and, well, William Shatner. After hearing Bill’s take on it I wished I had acid. There’s something about the way Bill belches, “a GIRL with CALIDOscope EYES!” Every line finishes with the same relieving gasp, as if he has just released an enormous bowel movement. Grade: B. Still recognizable as “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds”.

Second, Bill takes on Dylan’s “Mr. Tambourine Man”. True, the Byrds had a hit with it. And, again, there was rampant discussion as to whether or not it was rife with drug references. But, in the hands of Bill Shatner, the song sounds like a man who has forgotten to take his Thorozine has wandered into a Renaissance Fair that was scored by Henry Mancini. Bill is screaming, imploring “Mr. Tambourine Man”. What makes the song fantastic is the fact that if it weren’t about drugs before, it is now. Mr. Shatner imbues the entire song with desperation of a man who needs to get stoned so bad that he’s willing to do anything. His jingle jangle morning is painful, sweating, filled with withdrawal. In fact, not only is he willing to be cast under Mr. Tambourine Man’s dancing spell. Bill PROMISES to go under it. And when he says he’s “not sleepy and there is no place I’m going to” it sounds like a thinly veiled threat. “Listen Mr. Tambourine man; give me what I want or I WON’T LEAVE.”

The next two songs, “The Transformed Man” and “Hamlet, It Was a Very Good Year” are tripe. Even compared to what we’ve already heard. “The Transformed Man” sounds like the narration of a Dragnet episode set to music. And, there is nothing good to say about “Hamlet”. The song, not the play. I felt the play was a wonderful family comedy.

But, then, we get to the brilliance. The beauty. The wonder. “Rocket Man”. Performed live, backed by Bernie Taupin himself, in front of the Science Fiction Awards. These. Are. Bill’s. People.

Even though Bernie told you what song they would be performing, when Bill starts, you aren’t quite sure Bernie was telling the truth. It’s abstract, arrhythmic. It’s frightening. And yet, exhilarating. It’s a freewheeling experiment in music, and I use the term loosely, that makes you happy to be alive. It was performed in the midst of the Disco era and it’s like Bill was saying, “I haven’t forgotten how to Rock and Roll, if that’s what you call this.”

But Bill was not the only Star Trek alum to have a recording career. No, Leonard Nimoy ventured into the world of psychedelic music, if psychedelic music is a white-bread, distilled, completely non-drug influenced music.

But “The Ballad of Bilbo Baggins” is so much more than that. I’m not quite sure what it is exactly, but I do know that it’s something. It’s hummable. And fun.

You can’t say the same for Nichelle Nichols, who sounds like she’s having sex with a Casio keyboard that is running low on batteries. Nichelle, never one to stray too far from her roots, is singing the theme from Star Trek. At least, I think it’s the theme from Star Trek. It sound vaguely like the sound a man makes during a colonoscopy.

Most Trekkies will tell you that the Star Trek theme had lyrics that were not used on the show. Those same Trekkies will also say that they don’t know what the hell Nichelle is singing here. The do know, however, that one minute and eight seconds into the song Nichelle Nichols does something to music that should never, ever have been done. Somewhere out in space those notes are still floating. And one day an alien culture will intercept them and come here to kill us. Mark my words.

Finally, there is “Star Trekkin’”. This isn’t by anyone in particular, and it certainly isn’t the Firm that consisted of Jimmy Page and Paul Rogers. Although, I have to be honest, I’m not sure “Radioactive” is any better song . . . Hell, that sounded like a bad hair band filtered through Taco’s “Puttin’ on the Ritz”.

Now, when it comes time to talk to your kids about drugs, keep the Nichelle Nichols song on hand. Because if your discussions and threats don’t work, waking them up once at three a.m. by blasting the last thirty seconds of her version of “Star Trek” certainly will.

I’ve quit drinking, smoking, eating, breathing and growing for the rest of my life because I’m trying to burn the sonic memory of that squeal out of my brain.

Talk about scared straight.
Discuss Star Trek

Killer Track of the Day

The Yardbirds' "I Ain't Got You". Just a killer guitar riff in there.

A Friend

This is Einstein. He's a friend of mine from Michigan. Today Einstein has to spend about four hours with the doctor. He doesn't really want to, but he knows that it's for his own good.

Anyway, Eintstein's family is really worried about him. So I thought I'd ask you guys to keep snausages and dog treats in your thoughts today.

We want him to be able to get back to his favorite pastime as soon as possible. He's doing it in this picture. For fun, but also the greater common good, Einstein hunts down and kills escaped dolls from It's a Small World.

Irony?

I'm writing a lecture outline for something about Psychoactive Drugs. Oddly enough, as I'm working my way through the stimulants section, I find myself falling asleep. Irony worthy of Alanis Morisette? Perhaps not, because this is actual irony.

Oh sure, I expected to nod off a bit while working on opiates. But while writing about crystal meth? Jeez, I thought I'd at least be able to lift a car. Or is that PCP? I get my drugs confused.

Oh well. I'm doing Club Drugs next. I have a sudden urge to listen to a repetitive rhythm and touch strangers.

Gertrude’s First Romance

When she returned from Diana’s on Friday, she was refreshed and revitalized. She had a great time and adjusted rather quickly. It was a warm day, so she spent part of it outside playing. Better yet, Diana had hermit crabs! They were very fun to watch as they let them play in the water in the bathtub (though probably not the recommended care environment).

We were all happy, it was a gorgeous day. I had promised to share my dinner with my reluctant toddler and so we all debated on where to go for a celebratory dinner. We tossed around a variety of small pizza joints in the area until we settled on a pasta restaurant just down the street. We had a good coupon, which is how we make all of our dining decisions. If we don’t get a significant portion of the bill reduced or something of equal or lesser value for free, we don’t go. Plus, we have a variety of coupons for local merchants thanks to Matilda’s good grades. It seems in our municipality your intelligence is rewarded with a lesson in binge eating and morbid obesity through a stack of free cheese garlic bread coupons.

At the restaurant, we were greeted by a very nice server who quickly engaged with the kids.

“How are you today,” she asked innocently.

“I’m good,” shouted Gertrude. The server tried to speak again, but Gertrude continued. “It was warm today. I didn’t need a coat! I played on the swings and went down the slidey board at Meemee’s house. The puppies nipped at me but Great Grandma’s cat licked me. His name is Anthony. He smells like kitty pee pee.”

Stunned, the server again tried to ask us a question, but Gertrude was taking control of the situation. “I would like a drink,” she informed the server.

“What would you like,” she asked, bemused by this goofball.

“Soda.” We overruled her and opted for milk instead. A few minutes later the server was walking back down the aisle with our drinks. When Gertrude saw her she yelled, “HERE COMES THE LADY!” This theme was repeated throughout the evening. Where is the lady? There is the lady. The lady brought me more milk. The lady looks confused. Hi lady, would you like a pizza ball?

Both of the kids opted for a personal sized “Kid” pizza. It’s roughly the size of a Frisbee and very thin. Mom and I had more adult fare in the form of pastas with impossible names. To be honest, the names were so stupefying, we weren’t even sure if we were getting linguini with Italian sausage or fried porcine tendons drenched in the sweetened snot of a boar. Whatever it was, it was good.

Gertrude quickly polished off her pizza and started in on mom’s unidentified pasta after a few bites of salad that she sucked the moisture out of, spitting out the dried remains on a bread plate. Thank God we were in the corner.

About her pizza eating. She didn’t actually finish the pizza. The pizza was cut in squares and, with surgical precision, she excavated the middle of each piece, leaving a scarred, squared “U” on her plate. When she had collected all of her “U”s, she then squished them all together to form a discarded pizza ball which, to her credit, she offered to every person in the restaurant.

Then she turned around. In the booth behind her was a boy. A real boy, who was staring at her with dark, mysterious eyes. In a moment not unlike when Davy on the Monkees would meet a girl, their eyes met and sizzled with excitement.

His name was Noshua (yeah, we don’t know either) and he was from Texas. He was three. He blithely asked Gertrude how old she was, disregarding common sense about asking a woman her age. But Gertrude complied and explained she was two.

Noshua told his mother that Gertrude was cute. He continued to work his magic, literally. He grabbed a napkin in one hand and held up one finger on the other. Covering his extended finger with the napkin, he made it disappear. He then looked at her with his eyebrows pumping up and down like Groucho Marx on Viagra, much to Gertrude’s delight. His wily ways were working.

But wait, Gertrude grabbed a napkin and performed the same trick, but hers was impromptu. Noshua was a bit taken aback. And yet, oddly intrigued. Was there nothing this captivating girl couldn’t do? In a moment of overwhelming emotion, a moment that he may regret later in life, he expressed his love for Gertrude. He then invited her over to his house. In Texas. Though he thought otherwise, Noshua was firmly wrapped around Gertrude’s finger. He’d do whatever she said.

But it was not to be. He was flying home that night. There was no time to get to know each other well enough to make that sort of commitment. Dessert was over. It was time to go.

I paid the bill. Noshua’s family paid their bill. The two crazy kids said their goodbyes in the parking lot and were duly buckled into their car seats. And off into that dark night went Noshua.

Gertrude knew he was gone. She told us that he was going to “fly in the sky”. A reference to his departure.

Or perhaps a poetic description of the place her first love will hold in her heart.

Discuss

Tomorrow

Gertrude's first romance.

Today: I have to get my glasses fixed. The good news is, with broken glasses everyone in the world looks like David Niven.

Or maybe that's bad news.

For Those Who Care

I've added an RSS feed (well, I've always had one, I just havne't made it public). It's over there on the left. It's the one called "RSS". That's spelled, phonetically, "Are Ess Ess" for those who are a little slow.

If you know what it is, feel free to use it and give me some feedback. I'm not giving the full post out on RSS. Right now it's just a small piece because, well, I want people to come here. But I'm new to feeding you strange people so if you don't like the chow, let me know.

If you don't understand what RSS is . . . you won't need the link. So don't worry about it. But if you want to learn, be my guest. But I can't explain it to you very well. Either because I don't understand it very well or because I'm pissy today.

Most likely it's because I'm pissy.

S'Okay?

Riiiiiiight.

Let’s Discuss This Rationally

“I don’t want to go to Diana’s,” she says plaintively, her big blue eyes staring up at me with a mixture of pain, sadness and longing.

“It’s Friday,” I say. “It’s movie day at Diana’s. Dylan and Austin haven’t seen you in a while and they are looking forward to playing with you.”

“I don’t want to go,” she says, looking quietly at the TV, hoping that Jo Jo would break from the script and support her.

“Why don’t you want to go honey,” I ask. But I already know the reasons.

“I want to stay home with my mommy and daddy.”

“But Mommy and Daddy will be at work, honey. They won’t be able to play.”

“I can go to work with you,” she responds, her hope rising, as if this was the most brilliant idea she’s ever had. Of course, this would work! Everybody gets what they want!

“Well honey, I’m afraid it would be boring. And daddy wouldn’t be able to play.”

“But,” she says, “I will miss you.” Her eyes grow wider, more pleading. We sink back into the episode of Jo Jo’s Circus. Poor Goliath learns he’s too little to do Tiger Tricks. Bummer.

“I will miss you too, sweetie.”

We’re quiet for a few minutes. I have an idea.

“I don’t want to go to work,” I say.

“It’s okay,” she says.

“But I will be sad,” I say.

“You be okay Daddy. You will be safe at your work.”

“Really? I will”

“Sure,” she says, betraying her vast vocabulary. “You will be safe.”

“Really,” I ask one more time.

“I promise,” she says, looking at me with real concern in her eyes.

She hops down off my lap and walks over to Mommy. Without any real warning she blurts out to her, “I love my daddy.” I feel good. Those words meant that my plan was working and she doesn’t hate me.

So she climbs back up on my lap and we go through our morning ritual of putting her shoes and socks on. Her left foot, you see, is afraid of wearing socks, so it hides. Each morning we have to coax it out with promises that the sock will be warm and soft. Once the foot is happy with the sock, we have to convince it that the shoe is really a foot car that Little Foot can drive around. She provides the foot’s voice, with adequate smallness and fear mixed in the voice.

Today, I can’t help but think that this little game has a deep subtext.

“Will I really be safe at work,” I ask.

“Sure,” she says. “When you get home I will share my dinner.” I’m not sure where this came from, but to her it’s a huge gesture. To her, this will make me more secure and easy with my day.

Mom is packing up the car, so we start to head for the door to get her coat on. I have another idea.

“Is that Goodnight Bear,” I ask. “I think she’s crying.”

Gertrude runs over to the bear, who was laying face down on the floor as if she were discarded in mid-play scenario. Her position has that sadness of a forgotten toy. Gertrude picks her up and brings her back to me.

“What’s wrong little bear,” she asks.

“I’m scared,” I say for the bear.

“It’s okay,” Gertrude tells Goodnight Bear.

“I don’t want to go to Diana’s,” Goodnight Bear tells her.

“Diana has movies,” Gertrude tells her. “You can watch a movie.”

“I’m still scared,” Goodnight Bear says.

“We will have fruit snacks,” Gertrude tells Goodnight Bear. She said “we”. That’s good.

“Will you come with me and take care of me,” pleads Goodnight Bear.

“Sure,” Gertrude says. She picks up Goodnight Bear and gives her a big hug.

“I love you,” Goodnight Bear says.

“I love you too,” Gertrude says.

Confident in my parenting, we head off to get her jacket on. I feel as though she’s rationalized the whole thing in her head. She understands, I keep telling myself. She gets it.

As we’re walking down the hall we encounter Mommy who has finished getting the car loaded. She’s heard everything and is ready to do her part. “It’s time to go to Diana’s,” she says cheerily.

Gertrude stops in the hallway. She shoots me a look of betrayal and sadness. “But,” she starts to say as Goodnight Bear is flung to the side, her pain and suffering forgotten like Elia Kazan naming names to the House Un-American Activities Committee, “I don’t want to go to Diana’s.”

Throughout this whole thing, she never cried. She only looked at me with sadness. She appealed to me. She beseeched me. But it was to no avail. Daddy kept her home from Diana’s last week. And the whole point of going to Diana’s was to get her playing with other kids and used to being around people who aren’t family.

Mommy had to take her and do the hard part. She had to separate with her. Gertrude told Mommy she would miss her, with glassy eyes and watched her out the window as Mommy pulled away.

I’m sure she’s okay. I’ll bet she’s enjoying herself, playing with the kids. Diana is great with her and all the kids love her.

Still, when she gets home . . . I think I’ll share my dinner with her.

Discuss

But What About Green Acres?

A brilliant analysis of the Batman theme. So brilliant, in fact, that my brain is boiling with jealousy for not thinking of it before. Good old Geek Press is to blame for showing me my inadequacies. Damn you Paul Hsieh!

Discuss the Greater Meaning of Other TV Theme Songs

St. Patrick’s Day

Ah yes, it’s St. Patrick’s Day. The one day of the year where it is acceptable to do something utterly horrifying to a glass of beer: by coloring it green. Of course, in the U.S. most of us drink such crappy beer it probably improves the taste. If you’re out there celebrating the day, try one of the Irish beers: Guinness, Beamish, Wexford Irish Cream, Murphy’s or, if you are too much of a wimp, grab a Killian’s. It’s not Irish, but at least it’s based on an old Irish recipe.

But that brings us to the celebration of this day. I’ll be honest, I can’t stand it. Why? Well, as Bill Maher said, “If you’re going to get drunk on St. Patrick’s Day just get drunk. Don’t blame the Irish.”

Brief history: St. Patrick was an Englishman who was kidnapped from Great Brittan by marauders from Ireland where he was enslaved. He escaped several years later and returned home to begin studies as a priest. According to legend he was instructed by God to return to Ireland to convert the pagan Irish to Christianity. Which he did. Apparently pretty well. Legend has it that he used a three-leaf shamrock to teach the Irish about the trinity. And, of course, he was credited for driving the snakes out of Ireland. Most people take that literally, and assume that the snakes then moved the U.S. to become corrupt politicians in the early 20th century. In reality, the snake is probably simply a symbol of the pagan religion being driven out of Ireland. It’s a pretty easy symbol. I mean, the whole snake thing is in the bible.

In Ireland, the holiday also marked a one day breaking of the Lenten fast for Catholics. You’d go to mass in the morning, a parade in the afternoon and in the evening it was the one day during Lent you were allowed to drink and dance. Children wore shamrocks on their sweaters, referencing St. Patrick’s teaching of the trinity.

Let’s move over to North America. St. Patrick’s Day was first celebrated in the US in 1737 in, of course, Boston. I imagine that in the late 1800s and early 1900s that St. Patrick’s Day was all that popular, considering most people despised the Irish in urban areas, due to the mass influx of immigrants.

But, somewhere along the lines, a religious holiday turned into a celebration of all things Irish. Even if it isn’t Irish. The wearing of the Shamrock turned into wearing green in general. And if you don’t wear green, you get pinched.

Of course. Because the Irish pinch everyone. It’s an old Irish family custom.

Naturally, on St. Paddy’s day (as we like to call it here) everyone is Irish! That’s right, one and all, you are Irish! How do you demonstrate that you are Irish? First, eat corned beef and cabbage. Never mind that corned beef and cabbage aren’t exactly national foods of Ireland and that most Irish haven’t exactly eaten them. Unless, of course, you were very poor and lived in the rural areas of Ireland. Then you might have eaten corned beef at the end of Lent. But, that’s like everyone eating Collard Greens in Europe to celebrate America.

Now, you have your food down pat. How do you celebrate? I mean, you’re Irish today, right? Why, you get completely shit faced and puke in public! Why not? You’re Irish! Be proud of that! In fact, if you could get into a fight too! Irish people fight. For good measure, urinate on a public building too. That’s a way of showing your Irish pride. And listen to “When Irish Eyes are Smiling”. You know why? Because it says Irish in it. Get it?

Oh, and do you know what you drink on St. Paddy’s day? Beer! Not Irish beer, of course. Your regular, watered down, crappy tasting Mich Dry. Dyed green! Get it? GREEN! It’s Irish.

And, of course, we’ll plaster everything with little leprechauns. Because that’s Irish too! We’ll take a little, short caricature of something out of Irish culture and assume that it represents all of Irish culture! Forget about the rich Irish folklore, history and literary tradition of Joyce, Wilde, O’Brien, Shaw and Beckett. Screw that, we’ll take Frank McCourt and River Dance.

Look, I don’t think it’s wrong that people enjoy St. Patrick’s Day. I don’t even care that they insist that they are all Irish. I just wonder how actual, born and bred Irishmen feel about how we trample their culture on this day. Consider if we decided to celebrate the Jewish holiday of Purim. Rather than acknowledge what the holiday is about, we’d all dress like Hasidim, say we’re cheap, drink Manishevitz wine and say things like, “You Purim I’ll drink ‘em!”

Yeah, that wouldn’t happen. In fact, people would hate that because it celebrates stereotypes and tramples a religion and culture. But having the National Symbol of Ireland be the alcoholic is A-OK!

Ah, screw it. It’s 10 a.m. on St. Patrick’s Day. Time for a beer.

Or, as we say in the O’Brien house, “Just another day!”

Discuss

The Pleasure of Surrender

Ahhhhh. I have a new CD and I’m happy. (Actually, I have three new CDs. But my wife needn’t know that.) I’m surrounded by a sonic bliss that makes me feel . . . good.

Don’t confuse that with happy. I’m still as bitter and irritated as ever. I just feel good because I have new music to throw myself into. And I do mean throw myself into.

(Warning: Entering a long, rambling musical lovefest.)

My main purchase today was David Byrne’s latest, Grown Backwards. And, quite frankly, this is the best Byrne work in a decade at least. It’s different, strange and catchy, filled with captivating melodies, interesting harmonies and bitingly funny lyrics about life, politics, sex and beer. Not necessarily in that order.

At one point Byrne exclaims, “I’m going to be that really cool guy someday.” Of course, he was that really cool guy once. Always has been, despite the fact that he fell out of favor with popular culture. Still, the man has a track record of creativity that shames most musicians. Not to mention filmmakers, writers, photographers and artists. In fact, Byrne’s creativity is in such a high gear that he created a new form of art using PowerPoint. Yes, the ubiquitous meeting presentation software. The kicker is the art was interesting.

Most surprising on this disc, perhaps, is the inclusion of two arias, one by Verdi the other by Bizet. Yes, “Au Fond du Temple Saint” follows a cover version of Lambchop’s (no, not the sock puppet, though that would be funny) “The Man Who Loves Beer”. Byrne’s haunting voice soars through the aria while being chased by the warm and unique tones of Rufus Wainwright. In the end they come crashing together in an orgasmic moment of harmony and crescendo.

There’s a joy in this CD that I haven’t heard in a disc for a while. It’s not that it’s happy music. There’s a joy in the making of this music. In the construction and execution of the music. You can tell, as you listen to a cello playing a counter-melody, while the harp plays a nice run and the marimba is hammering out an interesting repetitive figure. Add on top of that Byrne’s recognizable, unusual voice and you’ve got a fascinating disc that draws on Byrne’s years of experimentation and mold them into a irresistible hybrid of classical, rock, funk, samba, fused with John Cage’s sense of normality and filtered through Byrne’s wry wit. Throw in some interesting cameos from the likes of John Linnell of They Might Be Giants, Rufus Wainwright and an interesting string arrangement by Phillip Glass, and you’re looking at something unusual.

David Byrne has constructed a series of songs that enjoy playing with every piece of music: odd tempo changes, sudden key shifts, time signature swaps, soaring melodies that move in unexpected directions, fascinating silences. Quite honestly, Grown Backwards is unlike any other album I’ve ever heard and certainly Byrne’s most unique to date. And that’s saying something.

Had this album been recorded by someone younger and less accomplished, say the aforementioned Rufus Wainwright, he would be hailed as a genius. Because this is David Byrne, former leader of Talking Heads, the man who wrote “Burning Down the House”, “Once in a Lifetime”, “Life During Wartime”, etc., it will be touted as a nice piece of art and nothing more. Byrne is in the unfortunate position of being an aging rocker who has matured to the point of being Grown Backwards. Because he’s someone who has already achieved both acclaim (as a songwriter, performer, film maker and photographer) and fame, his achievement will be dismissed. Had he written something that sounded like Talking Heads, this would be labeled a comeback.

It’s a shame, too, because the majority of people will not hear the last minute of “Empire” as it works through a soaring fanfare. Most people won’t hear the lovely silliness of “Glad” nor the beauty of “Why”.

But hey, I’m like David. Maybe someday I’ll be that cool guy.

Doubtful, but maybe.

Discuss

I’m The Best Daddy in the World

It’s true. I have proof. Gertrude told me so. Twice. Once in public and once when I changed the TV to “Gertrude Shows”. Not only am I the best daddy in the world, she gave me kisses to seal the deal. So, if anyone else believes they hold this title, you have my daughter to answer to. She’ll disagree with you and, if you’re lucky, she won’t hurt you.

Most likely she will, however. I don’t know what it is about children, but they have an innate ability to make sure they are the last in their genetic line. They will tolerate no replacements. For those little biods who may come later are insufficient replicants, built out of the same genetic materials, but without the same magic quotient that made the child who she is.

Any father knows this is the truth. You’re sitting there, watching TV, minding your own business. Perhaps you have a nice hot cup of coffee, but we’ll get to that in a second. Out of nowhere, like a crack team of Ninjas, a two year old appears, flying through the air at top speed with one foot extended in what’s known as the “Genetic Death Arch”. You try to prepare yourself, you shuffle your body, grab a pillow, but your aging joints are no match for the limber toddler assassin. She’s found her target and is locked on like a laser-guided missile.

You start to scream and everything moves into slow-motion. “Noooooooooooooo!” And she lands, squarely on your crotch, sending lightning bolts of pain through out your entire body. You’re seeing dead inventors, lecturing you about the qualities of electric pulse, your ear drums burst and the nausea hits.

When you get your vision back, the toddler is sitting on your lap. Looking completely innocent. Her face says to you, “Why father, what is wrong? Are you feeling sad?”

This is what you see:

There she is, with her very first set of pig tails, looking adorable. Your anger and paranoia starts to fade with the pain.

“What’s wrong Daddy,” she asks.

“That hurt, honey.”

“I sorry Daddy. I love you.”

“I know honey. It was an accident.”

“Is Mommy still fertile, Daddy?”

“What?”

“You’re the best daddy in the world!”

“Thank you honey. What are you doing with my coffee? Say, when did you get that bionic eye? ”

Discuss

Note To Toddlers

If you call Joe the Coffee Guy "Uncle Joe" he will give you a bag of Swedish Fish for free. If you then tell him that fishes are better than gummy worms because worms are "ucky" he will give you extra red ones.

It is a proven fact. Gertrude just tried and succeeded.

720 Times Happier Than the Unjust Man

Thought Jeff would like that title.

Anyway . . . one of the things I’m trying to do more these days is spend time with the kids where I’m not being a parent. You know, I’m not watching out for them, not worrying about them, not telling them how the world works. Instead, I’m running around, digging in the mud with them and, well, just having a good time.

I remember my Dad doing things like that. Specifically, he’d let me go to work with him on a Saturday. This wasn’t a time when I, the four year old, and my Dad, the adult, would spend time learning about his business. No, this is when I was also a man and I helped him do whatever he needed. Plus, I was allowed to take something from his desk.

So, those are the types of memories I’m trying to give my kids. The times when Dad is a human being, not just an authority figure.

Yesterday before dinner, we were playing in the back yard. What started out as an innocent game of kicking a ball around devolved into a game of chase. That is the girls were the hunters and I was the hunted.

As I ran around the backyard, dodging their outstretched arms, I began to scream, “No! Don’t get me! Ahhh!” Matilda, being the more mature of the two children, went along with the whole game and started to threaten me with all sorts of bizarre, 8-year-old playground tortures.

Gertrude, on the other hand, didn’t understand. She suddenly stopped running and called my name.

I trotted over to her and looked at her face, which was filled with worry and guilt. “Daddy,” she said, as she reached up and put her cold hand on my cheek reassuringly, “don’t be scared. Don’t worry.”

“I’m not scared honey. We’re just having fun.”

“You’re not scared,” she asked.

“No, honey. I’m just having fun.”

“Daddy’s not scared of anything,” she said with extreme confidence.

At that moment, the levity left the situation and I was filled with a sudden sense of responsibility.

Sure, dads aren’t afraid of anything in our children’s eyes. To them, we’re the ones who check the house in the dark when they hear a noise. We always go into the scary situations first, to make sure it’s okay for them. And we’re the one who confronts that jerk at the mall who is cussing up a storm in front of the kids. We’re not afraid of anything because, when it comes to our children, nothing is more important than their safety or well being.

But that’s where the fearlessness ends. Much like Alvy Singer, and his modern day cohort, Slate columnist Jim Holt, I’m terrified of a few things.

Alvy, the protagonist of Annie Hall, stopped doing his homework after learning that the universe is expanding. "The universe is everything, and if it's expanding, some day it will break apart and that will be the end of everything." He wonders, what’s the point of doing his homework if everything is going to end in a great flash? Sure, it may be billions of years off, but after that there’s nothing. So why bother now?

In a way I agree with Alvy and Mr. Holt. The thought of all matter contracting back into a singularity scares me. Not because I will be around, or conceivably, any other human. But if everything that has been, is and will be in our universe is suddenly wiped from existence only to have the possibility of another universe burst forth from the same singularity, what’s the point now?

Think of all we’d lose! Dali, Vonnegut, the Sistine Chapel, The Beatles, the concept of human love, Average Joe: Adam Returns.

Or maybe I’m more like Joe Banks, from Joe Versus the Volcano (a highly underrated movie). Joe is a hypochondriac who thinks he is dying. After learning his fate, he decides to take control of his life. He quits his job and tells his boss, “And why, I ask myself, why have I put up with you? I can't imagine but I know. Fear. Yellow freakin' fear. I've been too chicken shit afraid to live my life so I sold it to you for three hundred freakin' dollars a week! You're lucky I don't kill you! You're lucky I don't rip your freakin' throat out! But I'm not going to and maybe you're not so lucky at that. 'Cause I'm gonna leave you here, Mister Wa-a-Waturi, and what could be worse than that?”

But Joe’s courage is short lived. Soon he’s back into his cycle of fear. Even after falling in love and having a spectacular adventure, he’s floating on a raft with his one true love, aware that he’s never been sick. That’ it’s all been in his head. He’s been battling fear all these years. Still . . . his throat starts to close up, he’s not feeling well. His true love says to him, “It’s always going to be something with you Joe, isn’t it?”

And that’s me. There’s always going to be something. Locking the door a thousand times a night. Wandering the halls making sure the kids are still breathing, reaching out to feel my wife’s warm body in the middle of the night because it somehow reassures me.

Fear is part of life, but I couldn’t tell the baby that. I just hugged her and said yeah.

But as Alvy would say, “There's an old joke. Uh, two elderly women are at a Catskills mountain resort, and one of 'em says, ‘Boy, the food at this place is really terrible.’ The other one says, ‘Yeah, I know, and such small portions.’ Well, that's essentially how I feel about life. Full of loneliness and misery and suffering and unhappiness, and it's all over much too quickly.”

Or, more to the point, “Honey, there's a spider in your bathroom the size of a Buick.”

Discuss

How Can You Laugh

When you know that I’m down?

(Don’t read this if you don’t want to. It’s less of a post, more of a free-writing experiment to figure some things out in my own head. Seriously, click away now if you don’t want to read a treatise, with quotes from Bob Dylan and Randy Newman, about my recent bad mood. Seriously. If you need the goofy strangeness I usually post go here instead. Trust me on that.)

I had this great big post planned for today, explaining this mood I’ve been in lately that has spurred me to take my mental vacation that has never exactly come to fruition. But I realized, quite simply, I can’t figure it out myself. So, how can I explain to others what I can’t figure out on my own? You could probably trace my mood back to the Neil Young post of a few weeks ago.

Facts: I’m feeling down in the dumps. Reasons? Could be many, could be few. It’s hard to tell. But I do know that my moods swing like a razor sharp pendulum that can take your head off if you’re standing too close.

I’m also changing a variety of things in my life; including self-destructive behavior that I’ve clutched to since I was a young, rebellious idiot. Between the personal inventory I’m constantly taking because of the changes, and the general sense of doom I feel, I’ve been kind of a jerk.

So far I’ve pissed off my wife and a good friend in the span of about 24 hours. So, I’d say my track record is pretty good. One’s not mad at me anymore, the other . . . well, I’m not so sure.

Here’s the thing though. Sometimes people need to deal with their problems in their own way. Some people use medication, others therapy, others drink until they forget who they are. Some people enjoy being with friends and family until they just feel better. Me? Well . . . as the great Rap stylist MC Bobby D would say:

What's the matter with me,
I don't have much to say,
Daylight sneakin' through the window
And I'm still in this all-night cafe.
Walkin' to and fro beneath the moon
Out to where the trucks are rollin' slow,
To sit down on this bank of sand
And watch the river flow.

See me, I’m different, I guess. Over the years, for various reasons, I’ve grown attached to the concept of home. We could go into the deep psychological meanings of this need to cocoon, but I don’t think it would illuminate anything that no one really knows already.

But as soon as something goes wrong, I head for the confines of home and stay there until it blows over. Whether it be a job I can’t stand to a disagreement with a friend to a death in the family to the general malaise that is creeping over me now, I run home to heal. Maybe that’s wrong, maybe it’s not. Maybe there are better ways to deal with it, I don’t know. All I know is that when I have a problem, it’s easier for me to deal with it with my family close by. Again, I leave it to the wandering poet:

Throw my ticket out the window,
Throw my suitcase out there, too,
Throw my troubles out the door,
I don't need them any more
'Cause tonight I'll be staying here with you.

Or, really, it could be more like Randy Newman said:

Well, if you knew how much this moment means to me
And how long I've waited for your touch
And if you knew how happy you are making me
I never thought that I'd love anyone so much

It feels like home to me

So, let’s just say that I’m sorry to anyone I’ve trampled over recently. It hasn’t been intentional and it’s nothing personal.

I’ve run out of Bob Dylan quotes I can remember off the top of my head today. So I guess I’m done. But, for the record, I think all Greatest Hits CDs should be in chronological order. Not that it has anything to do with this. But I felt it was important.

Currently on Deck

George Harrison's "Give Me Love (Give Me Peace on Earth)".

Considering the stuff I've posted the last few days, current events, and the conversations I've had with friends, I thought it's kind of appropriate:

Give me love
Give me love
Give me peace on earth
Give me light
Give me life
Keep me free from birth
Give me hope
Help me cope, with this heavy load
Trying to, touch and reach you with,
heart and soul

I swear, mental vacation is imminent. I think. Or something.

In Memorium

I have left a stack of essays I've written and a glass of ice water on my table for the day. In honor of Spaulding.

Oh

Crap. I kept hoping I'd find him scribbling in a notebook in some greasy spoon diner. Though, admittedly, this was my fear all along.

Sometimes you wrassle the monster and other times the monster wrassles you.

So long Spaulding. Here's hoping you found your perfect moment.

Discuss

Did You Ever Notice?

By a freak coincidence of random file grabbing, my computer decided to play Ben Folds Five's "Brick" and the Beatles' "She's Leaving Home" back to back today. (Note to the RIAA: I own both CDs and placed the files on my computer for my own personal enjoyment. And, were it not for this technology, I would not have had this wonderful occurrence happen to me. So bite me.)

It struck me because, I think both songs are about the same girl, or an archetype at least. Though the story in the songs are different (unless you listen to the theory about the "Man from the motor trade", though it doesn't float well in the context of this song) I feel like the girl lying on the couch and the girl crawling out the window into the night are two versions of the same girl. Both feel empty and unloved. Not a strange area for Ben Folds, but for Paul McCartney it must have been very difficult for him not to infuse the song with a nice Gilbert & Sullivan blast of excitement.

I could be wrong. I could be right. You say yes, I say no . . . whatever. But read the lyrics and decide for yourself. Perhaps these are two possible outcomes for the same girl. Though the narrator of "Brick" is more callous and emotionally detached from the girl. Argue if you will, but, according to him, the girl he's driven to get an abortion is drowning him. Nice. (Which is Ben's point.)

Brick
6 am, day after Christmas
I throw some clothes on in the dark
The Smell of cold
Car seat is freezing
The world is sleeping
I am numb

Up the Stairs, to her apartment
She is Balled up on the couch
Her mom and dad went down to Charlotte
They're not home to find us out

And We drive
Now that I have found someone
I'm feeling more alone
Than I ever have before

She's a brick and I'm drowning slowly
Off the coast and I'm heading nowhere
She's a brick and I'm drowning slowly

They call her name at 7:30
I pace around the parking lot
I walk down, to buy her flowers
And sell gifts that I got
Can't you see
It's not me you're dying for

Now she's feeling more alone
Than she ever has before

She's a brick and I'm drowning slowly
Off the coast and I'm heading nowhere
She's a brick and I'm drowning slowly

As weeks went by
It showed that she was not fine
They told me "Son, It's time
To tell the truth" and
She broke down
And I broke down
Cause I was tired, of lying

Driving back, to her apartment
For the moment we're alone
and she's alone
and I'm alone
now I know it

She's a brick and I'm drowning slowly
Off the coast and I'm heading nowhere
She's a brick and I'm drowning slowly


She's Leaving Home
Wednesday morning at five o'clock as the day begins,
Silently closing her bedroom door,
Leaving the not that she hoped would say more,
She goes downstairs to the kitchen clutching her handkerchief,
Quietly turning the back door key,
Stepping outside she is free,

She (We gave her most of our lives),
Is leaving (Sacrificed most of our lives),
Home (We gave her everything money could buy)

She's leaving home after living alone for so many years,
Bye, bye

Farther snores as his wife gets into her dressing gown,
Picks up the letter that's lying there,
Standing alone at the top of the stairs,
She breaks down and cries to her husband,
Our baby's gone,

Why would she treat us so thoughtlessly,
How could she do this to me,

She (We never thought of ourselves)
Is (Never a thought for ourselves)
Home (We struggled hard all our lives to get by)

She's leaving home after living alone for so many years,
Bye, bye,

Friday morning at nine o'clock she is far away,
Waiting to keep the appointment she made,
Meeting a man from the motor trade,

She (What did we do that was wrong)
Is having (We didn't know it was wrong)
Fun (Fun is the one thing that money can't buy)

Something inside that was always denied,
For so many years,
Bye, bye,
She's leaving home,
Bye, bye

Anyway . . . I return you to your regularly scheduled programming.

Discuss

Quick Update Again

I know, I know. I said I wouldn't update. Blah.

But, I thought this was important to note. Last week I was the number 5 result in Yahoo for "Boobah." I have since dropped down very far in the rankings, much to the relief of worried parents all over the world.

However, I am now the number five result on Google for "Boobah Penis". Yeah.

More importantly, I am the top search result for Purple Fuzz Monkey.

And that is all that matters.

Oh, and thank you to those who handed out curses. I have won the battle. Buy each other some beer, would ya?

Quick Announcement

I know, I know. I said I would be on a mental vacation. And I am. But, I have something to tell you.

Young Matlida, with her very first science project, placed first in the Third Grade and won the school award for Best Verbal Presentation.

The best part is, we didn't even know she had to do a verbal presentation. She did it completely off the cuff. I'm pretty certain the reason why she won the awards is because the project was all her own. She came up with her own experiment, designed the process, developed her hypothesis and how many trials she had to go through in order to validate her data. Her write up was fantastic as well.

Now that we have the hang of this thing, I know that next year she'll get honors and go on to the district competition. And then . . . the world will be ours!

Okay. Back to my mental vacation.

Discuss

Around the Dark Side of the Moon

I'll be out of radio contact for a little while. I'm taking a short mental vacation.

In the meantime, go talk to my wife. Her posts are usually much funnier than mine.

Yargh

There is someone with whom I am very angry with at this moment. Someone who has publicly accused me of doing things that I, in fact, did not do. Rather, he took the truth and decided to twist it to his own benefit. I’m hoping that tomorrow he wakes up and has this stuck in his head. Playing until it turns his brain into goo, begins to leak out of his face and he slips on the liquefied gray matter as he walks across the room. When he falls, he will hit his head, causing him to lose his voice. Without his voice, he can’t tell anyone that Leo Sayer is stuck in his head and he will just have to feel like dancin’ for years and years and years.

It’s okay, I have the emails he and I sent back and forth proving otherwise.

You know what? Feel free to come up with your own curses and post them to the discussion link below. That way we can all have fun psychically torturing this ass clown.

Discuss

A Conversation

I drove young Gertrude to her Grandma’s today because Mommy is sick. She begged us again to stay with Mommy and Daddy, but in the end was swayed to go to grandma’s because I had a bag full of Teddy Grahams. A treat few people can resist. (Seriously, I eat the things by the fistful.)

I loaded everything in the car. Her bag, her cough medicine in case her cough comes back, a change of clothes, an extra pair of shoes, a cell phone should she wander off and get lost, a satellite transponder for easy location should she get lost in Grandma’s basement (trust me), pictures of Mommy and Daddy, lest she forget us, a cup filled with juice, her teddy grahams and my coffee.

Before she could get into her car seat, we had to buckle Dolly® (as a smart child, she subscribes to the literal naming policies set forth in her branch of philosophy) into the seat next to her. After all, should there be a car wreck, Dolly® would fly all over the place and possibly cause great bodily damage to one and all, and therefore she must be contained. Then, after running through a checklist and series of adjustments to her five-point safety harness that would put NASA to shame, we were ready to hit the road.

She was quiet for the first few minutes. Then the flood gates opened. This is an actual conversation:

Gertrude: Dolly® is my friend.
Me: That’s good!
Gertrude: She likes cake.
Me: What kind?
Gertrude: Chocolate. Or vabmilla. (I assume she meant vanilla and not some sort of medicine for treating yeast infections.)
Me: Wow. What do you guys do together?
Gertrude: Play games. And tag. I like to hide her.
Me: Okay. With her permission, I assume.
Gertrude: Of course! (Don’t know where she learned this.)
Me: So, who is Dolly’s® mommy?
Gertrude: Um. Dolly®’s mommy?
Me: Yes. Dolly’s® mommy. (Clearly I’ve touched on a sore subject here. I hope that Dolly® doesn’t have some deep dark secret in her past . . .)
Gertrude: Um. I can’t dermember the word.
Me: (Trying not to laugh)You can’t remember the word?
Gertrude: No! Oh wait! I dermember! Cinderella.
Me: Cinderella is Dolly’s® mommy?
Gertrude: Sure. I did it all by myself! I can do it!
Me: Do what?
Gertrude: Dermember the word! I do it all by myself!
Me: Yay!
Gertrude: Yay!

Then we were at Grandma’s. She became all clingy and sad as soon as we arrived. A nutrigrain bar and a glass of apple juice seemed to change her mind.

“Bye,” she said, “drive careful!”

You know, it’s funny. She’s only two years old and she gave me one of the best conversations I’ve had in a while. She’s much funnier and more engaging than some of my adult friends who describe their dinner from the night before to me.

“And then I had chicken. And I dipped it in ketchup. And I had mac and cheese. The kind from the box. What brand was it? Kraft? No. Velveeta? No. Store brand? Maybe. It tasted like cardboard.”

Snore.

I’ll take a discussion of Dolly’s® parentage any day.

Discuss