A Vow

By the end of the year I'll complete (as much as it is possible) the audio biography.  I'll also update the CD Projects, which are now two years old.  But I have, literally, a hundred mixes that could go up there.  I'm just lazy.

Or something.

On a side note, I've been wondering if Universal Studios has ever listened to Cheap Trick's "Surrender", which they are using for their theme park commercials.   Sure, this works:

Mommy's alright, daddy's alright, they just seem a little weird.
Surrender, surrender, but don't give yourself away, ay, ay, ay.

It's easy to get excited over that.  But, really the whole song is pretty twisted.  The opening lines:

Mother told me, yes, she told me I'd meet girls like you.
She also told me, stay away, you'll never know what you'll catch.
Just the other day I heard a soldier falling off some Indonesian junk that's going round.

Yeah.  That really makes me want to visit Orlando. 

Huzzah!

Wilco is coming.  Hurrah.  I shall buy myself tickets and name them all Eleanor.  If the show is half as good as the bonus material on "A Ghost is Born" I'll be happy.  I've seen Wilco once, but under poor circumstances for both them and me.  Neither of us were really into it.  So we broke up.

In the mean time, I really like this song by The Postal Service.  Yeah, it's old news, but it's still a good song.  What do you want from me?  I'm stressed out, the coffee is cold and the dog drooled on my leg.  I'm not having a good morning.

The good news is, of course, that Ashlee Simpson's music is topping the charts.  A further nail in the coffin of popular music.  In that outfit she's wearing in the picture she looks like a gypsy, tramp and thief.  But still smarter than her sister. 

Ashlee's mom says in the article, "She is making her own shadows now."  Which, of course, means that she's no longer stuck in Neverland.   Apparently she isn't smarter than her sister.  When someone has to make shadows for you, then you truly are dumber than a box of rocks.

We Interrupt Your Regularly Schedule Programming

I'm not one who uses this blog to prattle on about my political beliefs.  I exercise my right to do so in different ways, and I pick the battles that I'm most passionate about and debate them until I pass out.  I respect opinions and listen to opposite points of view.

So it's odd for me to point out any political statement, much less one from a party convention.  But last night Barak Obama, a fledgling political figure who is quickly becoming a known entity, delivered one of the finest speeches given in a political forum that I've heard in many, many years.  Eloquent, intelligent and hardly divisive, given he was touting the credentials of his party's nominee for President.   (I tip my hat to TCF, who has been on board with Obama from the beginning.) 

Remove the material about John Kerry and how he'll serve our country and you're left with a powerful speech that needed to be delivered.  A speech that speaks to one important aspect of our nation's basic tenants that is inherent in our country's very name, "The United States". 

Quoth Obama:

Yet even as we speak, there are those who are preparing to divide us, the spin masters and negative ad peddlers who embrace the politics of anything goes. Well, I say to them tonight, there's not a liberal America and a conservative America-there's the United States of America.

There's not a black America and white America and Latino America and Asian America; there's the United States of America. The pundits like to slice-and-dice our country into Red States and Blue States; Red States for Republicans, Blue States for Democrats. But I've got news for them, too. We worship an awesome God in the Blue States, and we don't like federal agents poking around our libraries in the Red States. We coach Little League in the Blue States and have gay friends in the Red States.

There are patriots who opposed the war in Iraq and patriots who supported it. We are one people, all of us pledging allegiance to the stars and stripes, all of us defending the United States of America.

For the Record

My wife is nuts.

That is all.  Go about your business.

Um

In the past 24 hours I've received no less that 31 hits searching for Wilford Brimley.  I had assumed they were from the same person, but they've been coming from different domains.  Is there some Wilford Brimley news I'm not aware of.

Also, it seems the members of a La Leche League have found something on the site.  Welcome ladies!  I hope I did not say anything too stupid in the posts you've been reading.  Odds are that I have and, for that I apologize.

However, longtime reader and breast-feeding advocate BJ would kill me if I did not point out my past post on my question of what would happen if men could breast-feed.  It wasn't pretty, but I think it may be accurate.  And remember, it's satire.  I wouldn't ever say those things to my wife because, well, she's in charge around here.

I Grow Taller and Taller and Bigger and Bigger!

A dispatch from Bread Co., where the Wi Fi is free, the air is sticky with heat and humidity and the men are inexplicably swarthy.  And that bothers me.

Last night Matilda and Mom were partaking in a secret society of women who knit.  It's a society in which I am not allowed because when confronted with yarn, I bat it like a cat.  I can't even make a decent knot, much less knit one pearl one drop a stitch in time saving nine.  Mom and Matilda are good at it.  They make things.  Things that I do not know what they are yet, but time will soon tell.
 
Apparently Matlida was taught how to crochet last night.  Just like my Mom.  I'll let the family know to expect Afghans for Christmas.  Just like Mom used to make.
 
Gertrude would have wanted to go because she too has knitting needles (plastic ones) and she carries around a skein of yarn she has named Sophia.  Periodically she stabs Sophia with the needles and says she is making a hat.  I have to trust her because if I don't she may stab me next.
 
But she's a little too chaotic to join a knitting club.  While the women knit and bitch Gertrude would be flipping around brandishing her knitting needles like a Ninja.  So she and I were left to our own devices.
 
I knew she'd be upset that she didn't get to go to the knitting party, as she calls it, so I just didn't tell her.  Instead, after the ladies left, we loaded into the car and headed off to the park.  In the trunk, I told her, is a surprise.
 
"Is it an elephant," she asked.
 
"No, it's not an elephant."

"I won't look." she promised.
 
Upon arriving at the park I got her out of her seat and carried her to the trunk.  I popped it open and she saw her surprise.
 
"MY BIKE!"
 
She strapped on her helmet and we wheeled her mode of transportation to the path.
 
"Where is your bike," she asked.
 
"Well, my bike is too big for the trunk.  And you're still a little random with your steering choices, so I thought I'd walk beside you."  Stupid me.  Walk.  Ha!  Once she was on the bike she was off like Lance Armstrong breaking away from the peloton.  I ran for a good half a mile in 95 degree heat with 900% humidity.  All the while the child screamed with glee.
 
We made a few pit stops.  First to pick some flowers (or weeds, as landscapers call them) along the edge of the woods.  We stuck them to her bike and continued to ride.  When we encountered a hill, she stood on the pedals and pushed hard, like Lance winding his way through the Alps.
 
After making it once around the half mile track I drank most of the water coming out of the water fountain.  Gertrude took a sip and ran at full tilt to the play ground.
 
"What should we play," she asked.

"How about dehydrated and dead," I suggested.
 
Instead, we played pirates.  We had the entire playground to ourselves, so we played hard and long. 
 
"I'm looking through the noculars," she told me.  I asked what she saw.  After all, we were pirates, so there were going to be rough spots.
 
"A tree," she screamed.  And odd obstacle on the open seas, but one that must be dealt with.
 
"Hard to starboard," I yelled.
 
She took evasive maneuvers and eventually we found land where we rode our horses and collected apples.  I suggested we look for oranges, lest we get scurvy, but I was told that we couldn't make pie with oranges.  True. 
 
Finally we succumbed to real world hunger and hit the road in search of ice cream.   Which we found and consumed with glee.
 
On the way home we somehow decided to discuss school.  "I will grow taller and taller and bigger and bigger until I will go to school," she told me.  That somehow signified the passage of three years.  Little did she know how right she was.  I explained that when she goes to school I will take her to the bus and pick her up every day, just like I do for Matilda.
 
"You know," I said, "on your first day of school I'll probably cry when you leave.  I cried on Matilda's first day of school."
 
"But Daddy," she said, "I'll come back."  Translation:  You are an idiot Dad.
 
After quickly bathing off the sweat and ice cream from her body, we settled down on the couch to watch the rerun of Stage 15 of the Tour.  Yeah, I’m not much for sports, but the Tour is addicting.  And she loves it.
 
"They are going fast," she squealed with joy as she watched a group of riders crest the climb and speed downhill.  

She was allowed to stay up late and as soon as we heard the door open we ran to bed, to pretend like we had gone on time.  Alas, we were discovered.
 
As she listened to her music and snuggled under her covers, she gave me a big hug.  

"I want you to stay with me," she said.
 
"I want to stay with you too," I said.
 
Somehow I think we meant different things.  She was trying to delay bedtime.  I was trying to avoid her growing up.
 
Somehow, despite the fantastic evening we had together, I think we both failed in our endeavors.   For she fell asleep, and I felt a pang of regret mixed with pride as I looked at her sweet face and realize that no matter what I did, she was growing up.  I have to admit, I was getting a little misty.
 
Then I heard a giggle.  Her eyes shot open, "I was fooling," she told me.  And she gave me a hug.  

"Yeah," I said, fighting back emotions.  "So was I." 

Yo, She-Bitch . . . Don't Piss Me Off

I'm sitting here in a St. Louis Bread Company (known as Panera Bread elsewhere) trying to get some work done while Matilda is taking a summer enrichment class down the road.  Bread Co. has free WiFi and decent coffee.  It's a no brainer.
 
Today, sitting next to me is a group of "business people".  Now, I don't mean to mock all people who might fall under this classification, but these people are a breed of humans that fall well below that of fully evolved.  One, for example, is wearing braided leather suspenders.  Another is using a tablet PC which, normally I would think is cool.  However, he's handling it like the gorilla in the old American Tourister commercial.  Respect the technology Professor Luddite.
 
They've been discussing their work in a very animated manner using only buzzwords and jargon.  In the half hour I've been forced to listen to this meeting, I've heard nothing substantive until . . . The She-Bitch in the mauve suit with the too short skirt started talking about her pregnancy.  No, normally I wouldn't complain about a too short skirt.  But when you have the cute tummy pooch of a five-month term, it's unbecoming.  In fact, it smacks of a woman who thinks pregnancy is not important, only a speed bump in the road of her self-centered existence.  It's clear by her demeanor and actions that this kid will be raised by proxy and probably saddled with an unfortunate name like Clay or Trent. 
 
What rankled me, however, was when she started talking about making her husband stay at home with the kid.  She was laughing at the idea.  How absurd.  "He could be Mr. Mom," she said, laughing as she sipped her half-caf double soy mochafrappalpacino. 
 
Suspender guy responded, "That would be so emasculating."
 
Yes, Mr. Mom.  Emasculated.  That's how we are viewed.  Us stupid fathers. We are sperm donors who should remain emotionally detached from the family unit.  God forbid we take an active part in the raising of the child.
 
Or worse.  God forbid we embark on some sort of journey that allows us to pursue a personal career (making more money that we did in an office) that offers the flexibility to take care of the children, or take a day off to go swimming with the kids and that allows our lovely wives to pursue their very successful and rewarding careers.
 
But She-Bitch and her harping little cronies don't understand.
 
It's not emasculating.  It's freeing. 
 
I know my wife and kids better than I ever would if I spent my day far away from them.  I've learned things and have been given opportunities that they will never understand because I've chosen to chart my own career.  And it involves coffee.
 
I feel sorry for this woman, her husband and these men.  They view children as a burden.  Like a boil on their ass that will hang around for eighteen years and seriously impede their ability to go see the next Annie Lennox concert. 
 
That's fine.  They can mock people like me, who have the freedom to work quietly from an Internet cafe while waiting for my lovely daughter to finish her enrichment.  They will never know the joy of riding home while she performs her parts in the summer play in the back seat, or watching her reprogram the TiVo so that it forgets that I'm a 31 year old male and it starts recommending material suitable for a nine year old girl.
 
So, when my daughter is a world-renowned physicist accepting the Nobel Prize, their kid will be dealing oxicontin to other disaffected youths who have been publicly abandoned by their parents and raised by their Game Boys and iPods (both of which my daughters would love to have, and use properly). 
 
So, She-Bitch, be careful while you and your cronies are planning to discuss things "offline" and you develop your "action plan" for "distribution among the ranks" while avoiding the "pitfalls of micromanagement".  Because this scalding hot cup of Joe is about to be poured down suspender Boy's back if he laughs raucously about men who have decided to do "women's work". 
 
At least I'm not a slave to cliches.  And while you're eating the crappy catered lunch and spouting out more buzzwords, I'll probably be taking a break in my back yard, tossing around the ball with my daughter and our dog.
 
And at the end of the day, when you're drooling over your copy of Maxim magazine, I'll be home with my gorgeous flesh and blood wife discussing my emasculation.  And guess what?  I'll still clear more money that you and your stupid braided suspenders.
 
Viva la Eunich!

Ride Fast Like the Boys on TV

Gertrude has taken to riding Matilda's old bike.  We bought this pink Princess bike when Matilda was four.  It was her first bike.  Gertrude is two.  She slaps on her helmet, climbs on to the little pink turbo charged muscle bike and rides around in circles squealing with glee.  She is insane.
 
And, yes, she has training wheels.  Although, to be honest, the only purpose I see them serving is to let her take harder turns. 
 
At this age Matilda would have laughed at us if we mentioned a bike.  In fact, we wouldn't have mentioned a bike at all, because two is pretty darn young.  But we had the little bike hanging in the garage.  And Matilda was riding her bike. Gertrude, not knowing she isn't nine years old herself, demanded to try.  She fell off a few times, learned the idea of balance and . . . vroom.  Off like a bat out of hell.  I tell you, this kid is something else.
 
A few weeks ago I took her on a tour of the neighborhood.  She pedaled like she was trying to cross the border between East and West Germany while I ran at a full sprint holding on to the tail of her dress, trying to make sure she didn't get too far away from me.  The entire ordeal went something like this:
 
"BRAKE!  BRAKE!  HIT THE BRAKES!"
 
"SQUEEEEEEAAAAAAAAALLLLL!  GLEEEEEEEE!"
 
When we returned to the relative safety of the house, she had a grin plastered to her face like she had just discovered the secret of life.  Speed.  Since then, I've forced her to stay on our back patio, riding in circles.  Matilda has even drawn a chalk track for her to follow.  The worst thing that happens there is she and the dog get in each other's way or she crashes into a bush.  She bounces to her feet, says, "Whoops" and hops back on. 
 
Her new name is Crash.
 
Her poor little legs have scrapes and scratches galore on them.  To the point, in fact, where she doesn't have room for anymore.  Now, when she takes a spill, she hops up and says, "No boo boos!" And off she goes again.
 
(Yesterday I was outside playing my Uke while she rode.  She ran up to me and said, "Can I have a drink?  Nice song."  Then she ran off without allowing me to respond.  No time, I suppose.)
 
This weekend, however, I made a terrible mistake.  I watched the live coverage of the Tour de France.  There she sat, next to me, glued to the TV.
 
"Those boys are going fast," she said as they raced towards the end of the stage.
 
"Yes, they are," I said.
 
"I will ride fast," she said.
 
"I have no doubt."
 
She cheered as Lance Armstrong surged at the last minute to win the stage.  Perhaps she was feeding off my excitement because I happen to love Lance.  Why?  Don't know.  He's just amazing, I guess.
 
For the rest of the day she talked about bike racing.  She saw bike riders and mentioned riding fast.  She saw an ad in a magazine and talked about it.
 
Later, as she rode around her track she said, "Look at me!  I ride fast like the boys on TV!"
 
"You sure are going fast," I said.
 
"Not as fast as the boys on TV," she said.
 
But I could see in her eyes she had a goal.  And I saw the sparkle that said to me that I couldn't stop her.  When she wants something, even at two, she will stop at nothing to get it.
 
Especially if Daddy is involved.  Because she knows already that I will not rest until all her dreams are fulfilled.

Dear Stupid People

If I turn a project over to you, say two months ago, and you lose the material, don't make it out to be my fault.  Now I have to turn it over again and you're telling me that I'm late, not early.  Which isn't true.  And I know you're lying.
 
How do I know?  I still have all the Fed Ex information tied to the package I sent you.  You SIGNED for the package.  You LOST it. 
 
Ass clown.

Thank you.
 
That is all.

The Coolest Watch

Ever.

And I mean ever.

Frankly, this is the coolest watch I've ever seen. What's not to like? Design? Cool. Concept? Cool. Ingots? Always cool. Function? Cool. Price? Well . . .

I'm So Tired

I am. Really. It must be the heat because I feel completely wiped out and drained.

So today I'll leave you something that should excite some of you of a certain age. This is a demo for a song on Britta Phillips and Dean Wareham's quite good album L'Avventura. You probably know Dean and Britta from their days in Luna. Or, if you are that person of a certain age, you'll probably recognize Britta as the voice of the animated Pop Tarte Jem (who, in all reality, really was truly outrageous).

But, in the end, even this demo is a really great song. Smooth, jazzy, sultry. Makes me want to sit by the beach and tell Britta that she's truly fab. Right before she slaps me and tells me I'm a pasty, pale geek. But it's okay Britta, I just love you for your voice. It's the same reason I'm in love with Astrud Gilberto, France Gall and Chan Marshall. Who, by the way, don't seem related at all.

Britta Phillips - Your Baby (Demo) (Via Dean and Britta's website.)

Right now it's sleep time.

Nice Evening

While Mommy was out on a quixotic adventure for gardening supplies, the girls and I played out in the backyard with the dog. Gertrude rode her bike in circles on the patio and Matilda and I threw a tennis ball to the dog, who chased it like an outfielder. Once we started to melt, we went back inside. Gertrude refused to take off her bike helmet, so she walked around the house and watched TV looking as though we were trying to stop her from harming herself. Which, given her penchant for danger, isn't too far from the truth.

That she resembled Toad from the old Mario Brothers games wasn't lost on me.

Later, when they were in their jammies, I sat with some music and tried to pick out some songs on the ukulele. Since I know how to play guitar I figured that it wouldn't be too hard to learn the uke. Which it isn't except . . . the frets are really small. So some of the chords are a little torturous.

However, by the end of the evening I had picked my way through Wilco's version of "Be Not So Fearful", Bob Dylan's "All Along the Watchtower", the Flaming Lips' "Do You Realize", and several songs by the Magnetic Fields, including "Papa Was a Rodeo" complete with the flourish run at the end of the chorus, "Parades Go By", "Asleep and Dreaming", "You You You You You" (okay, that's the Sixths), and "My Sentimental Melody".

Mind you, I was mashing my way through the songs and blowing some of the chords, but with practice I may get the hang of this.

But the highlight was when I started strumming through the opening of "Nothing Matters When We're Dancing" (really screwing up the B flat chord, mind you) and Gertrude came flitting into the kitchen where I was playing and started to dance (the whole house is very familiar with this song), making sure that her summer nighty twirled like a ball gown.

"Will you play pretty music," she asked.

"Someday," I said. "But for now, this is what you'll have to put up with."

And she danced away, not caring that some of the chords were a little sad and the tempo was too slow.

That, my friends, no matter how you cut it is what life is all about.

As the song goes:

You've never been more beautiful
Your eyes like two full moons
As here in this poor old dancehall
Among the dreadful tunes
The awful songs we don't even hear
And nothing matters when we're dancing
In tat or tatters you're entrancing
Be we in Paris or in Lansing
Nothing matters when we're dancing

Is It So Wrong?

To sit in the kitchen with the girls, each with a shot glass sized Coke glass and encouraging them to say, "Hit me barkeep" whenever they finish their glass?

I didn't think so.

It's caffeine free, after all . . .

Summer Love

Here's a playlist of a CD I'm working on. The CD is called "Summer Love" though most songs are about neither summer nor love. I'm going for a certain cinematic feel, which was the basis of the song selection. I'm still tinkering and about six songs will have to go, but hey, they're fun. You can always request a copy when I'm done.

Dion - Book of Dreams
Buffalo Springfield - Kind Woman
The Go-Betweens - When She Sang About Angels
Solomon Burke - Soul Searchin'
Bob Dylan - Tonight I'll Be Staying Here With You
The Jayhawks - I'm Gonna Make You Love Me
Cliff Hillis - When You Feel
Badly Drawn Boy - This Song
Grant McLennan - If I Should Fall Behind
Tommy Roe - - Sweet Pea
Yo La Tengo - Center Of Gravity
The Polyphonic Spree - Hold Me Now
Clem Snide - Every Moment
Chad & Jeremy - - A Summer Song
A.C. Newman - Drink To Me Babe Then
Teenage Fanclub - Your Love Is the Place Where I Come From
Wilco - Thirteen
Fonda - I Can Take Your Troubles Away
Bruce Springsteen - Prove it All Night
Love - She Comes in Colors
Sukilove - Please Don't Ever Change
Doleful Lions - Motel Swim
Yo La Tengo - My Little Corner Of The World
Pas/Cal - Duchess
Nick Drake - Fly
AMFM - Disney Girls (1957)
The Beach Boys - Time to Get Alone
Annie Hardy - God Only Knows
Pale Fountains - Thank You (alternate)
Jeff Tweedy - Promising
Mojave 3 - Hard To Miss You
Aimee Mann - Guys Like Me


Now, for my song of the day. Today's tune is my current commercial favorite. No, it isn't played on the radio. But it's in a Saturn commercial. And you can't get any poppier than this. Ba ba ba ba.

Pas/Cal - The Bronze Beached Boys (Come On Let's Go) (Via the Pas/Cal website)

It's just painfully good pop.

I'm Kurious

You know, you'd think that I was linking to music because I care. Because I view myself as a musical missionary whose purpose is to spread the word of the tone.

In truth, while I do want everyone to be exposed to great music that you should be listening to, I actually have nothing to say whatsoever. My life consists of waking, working, dog training and being beaten up by the kids. Last night Matilda and I watched some classic Twilight Zone that I had Tivoed and Gertrude had a fight with the dog about being annoying. I'm not sure who won. Then, after the kids went to bed, my wife and I watched part of the first disc from the Gilmore Girls first season. True, it's not a manly thing to admit. But, Lauren Graham is adorable and does this completely endearing thing with her mouth when she talks.

So I'm sending you to find great music in lieu of having anything important to say.

Of course, I'm off topic.

Komeda is one of my favorite discoveries over the last few years. Think Stereolab stripped of the politics and experimentalism. Komeda's sense of fun and whimsy is only surpassed by their unrelenting energy. This is party music of the highest degree. And they're Swedish. Like the fish. And ABBA. What more could you ask? So fire up some Gauloises, invite some friends over and discuss Godard. All of which is French. I couldn't think of anything Swedish that was funny. Besides the fish.

Komeda - Feeling Fine (right click and save as) (Via Insound)

Song of the (Sometimes) Day

Yeah, I'm jumping on a bandwagon, but who cares. I find links to songs you should have, so I provide them, legally of course. Add this one to your collection and you won't be disappointed.

Today's song is Beulah's "A Man Like Me" (via Insound). Just right click and save the target on the title. Standard stuff.

Essentially take Beulah's normally sparkling pop, take away the anti-depressants, jack up the snarky wit and this is what you get. Still catchy and hooky, but more along the lines of a shot of whiskey in a smoky bar than bubblegum on a sunny afternoon.

Just go buy it.

Plus, I love these guys.

Damn it.

Tomorrow Swedes!

You're On Candid-ate Camera

Think television political ads have changed much since the wide acceptance of television as mass media?

Think again.

The Living Room Candidate is a massive repository of political ads from the past half century of presidential campaigns. Some are laughable, some are horrifying and others, well, don't make sense. But they are still filled with the wonderful sense of, "Vote for me or my opponent might just end up getting us all killed."

Still, it’s more entertaining that watching the ten o’clock news in the final weeks of the campaign. Those few weeks make me miss crappy Ditech commercials. And those commercials make me want to invite an insect into my brain to bore a tunnel through my cortex.

Found via GeekPress.

Polyphonic Kids?

Found this today thanks to a blog a friend sent me to on a separate mission. Give the QuickTime some space to load and you'll be rewarded with the 4th and 5th grade music students at
Oak Knoll Elementary School in Menlo, CA performing the Polyphonic Spree's "Light and Day".

It's pretty cool that this teacher took the time to dissect and arrange the song in a way that elementary kids could play it. Better yet, I was impressed to see some of the kids who "got it" and were bouncing, the same way Tim DeLaughter would, though with less brainwashed, cultish excitement.

Looking at the kids on stage you think, "wow that's a lot of kids". And it is. But they still had 14 fewer kids than the Polyphonic Spree has members.

Um

These AP photos are all over the wires.

I honestly hope we aren't spreading democracy through the world by performing Village People songs. Or maybe it was skit night at diplomat's summer camp?

Ladies and gentlemen, our Secretary of State:



Even the guitar player is saying, "Sweet Jesus that man dances like he has hemorrhoids."

This one is my favorite because it looks like Colin is really shaking his ass, something I feel diplomats don't do enough. The whole US diplomatic team is here, and I bet they fought over who got to be the Indian.



Think of it, if this were our diplomatic plan throughout the world, we might attain peace. Reach an impasse? Sing YMCA. Disagree? Do the hustle.

However, I have to admit, as frightening as these pictures are, as much as I wish Mr. Powell did not choose the International Stage to do this, I am so happy it wasn't Madeline Albright. With bills in her g-string.

Shudder.

Politics and dancing, let's hope that never the twain shall meet again.

What I Do On Saturday

Yes, yes it is true. My lovely wife and I plan on seeing this show. Cutesy comments aside, Mr. Burns released a really good album last fall. And I like it. A lot.

Plus, it's fun to see a former children's TV star rock out to Flaming Lips tinged music.

ALERT!

I'm tired. Thought you should know. I stayed up too late watching a very vulgar movie that made me laugh my ass off.

But it also made me cranky.

And use the F word a lot.

But not in front of the kids. Because they parrot.

Though, honestly, there's nothing funnier than a two year old saying, "Give me my fucking cheerios."

Phone's ringing. Probably DCFS.

I've dropped the F-Bomb quite a bit on this blog lately. You know what that means, right?

Yep. I'm running for public office.