Beer Saves

Hallelujah.

Amen.

Garret the Ferret

Wow. My daughter brought this home from school. Turns out that Weekly Reader is now frightening children into learning about copyright law by telling them that a potential action on their part may put their friends' parents out of work and destroy their future career. Way to go weasel. I kept waiting for something about commie pinkos to pop up.

Meet Garret the ferret, Copyright Crusader. This little comic/morality play is brought to you by Weekly Reader. As I always say, rather than teach children about the real issues, scare the crap out of them. Lord knows that the entire issue of pirating, P2P, Copyright and what not can be boiled down to children who copy cause economic strife. Good thing copyright dispute is so easy to explain to these little criminals in training that a simple comic book can explain the complexities of the debate raging over copyright laws. And there are pins! If you're not wearing a badge you must be a criminal bent on destroying the movie, music and software industries.

I found it so enthralling that I copied it.

Page 1 Page 2 Page 3 Page 4

By the way, this whole comic was sponsored by a software industry association. Not a not-for-profit, not a group dedicated to copyright reform, but the software industry itself. Protecting themselves from their future customers.

I wonder if I produced a comic about Creative Commons and the future of copyright law if I'd get it into Weekly Reader.

Maybe next week she'll get a comic about how our copyright law is antiquated and not sufficient to cover the digital era? That corporations can bend the law to fit their needs (i.e. Disney vs. Public Domain).

Pedagologically speaking, this is a horrible learning tool. "How did Shawn learn about copyright laws?" Um . . . the Ferret told him?

My favorite part is on page three when Garret is explaining the loss of money and jobs caused by copying. Is that blood lust in his eyes?

But remember kids, always trust a weasel.

I'm thinking of starting my own comic. Murray the Marmoset, Copyright Reformer. Protector of the innocent and voice of Public Domain and Fair Use.

UPDATE: David reminds me that BSA likes to copy too!

Buy Me a Present

Sure, they are pricey, but you love me, right? I mean, this is history we're talking about. I rented the first disc of the Apollo 11 series, which covers assembly, training, liftoff and travel to the moon. It's going to take me weeks just to watch that one. And they go into amazing detail. I watched six angles of the take off yesterday. Six angles! And they were all fiery. My wife was teasing me when I started, but after she saw the footage of staging she was hooked.

I need them all. From the X15 project to STS-109. To me they're like travel videos. Someday I'll walk on the moon. Even if it means eight pots of coffee, illegal substances and a vivid imagination.

P.S. If it wasn't clear, I like spacey things. I'm a geek. Duh. But I draw the line at Babylon Five. Snore.

Rampaging Monster

According to this site, I so could have kicked F. Scott Fitzgerald's ass. Patrick McGoohan, on the other hand, is a toss up. He has me on height, but I think I could take him if I punched him in the groin.

Pay Attention Pengelly

New Burton Puppety Goodness, my friend.

Complain not. Because it has a dead bride. Oh yes. Corpsey goodness.

Meaningless

I've created a new Radio SFT playlist to highlight Stephin Merritt for someone who is unfamiliar with Stephin, the Magnetic Fields, Future Bible Heroes, Gothic Archies, the Sixths, etc. ad infinitum.

Oh that's right. You know who you are. You know I can't handle the pressure. Plus, this will give a broad overview of Stephin's work. Though I lied. There isn't any Future Bible Heroes in there.

Enjoy it anyway.

So There's This . . .

For today. For obvious reasons.

Or, because I'm a musical uniter, not a divider, for the rest of you, there's this.

Good night Mrs. Calabash. Wherever you are.

Daddy Manifesto

I am a dad. It’s not sweet that I’m spending time with my kids. Because I am partially responsible for them, I don’t see taking them to play at a park as an extraordinary feat. In fact, I find it normal.

My wife is a lucky woman, that’s true. However, I doubt it’s because I’m interested in my kids. It’s also not because I make dinner, do the dishes, help with the laundry or wipe dirty butts. More likely, it’s because I’m available to kill small bugs.

Why do I make dinner? Because she gets home later and I like to be able to feed my family. Why do I do the dishes? Because I need something to serve dinner on. Why do I do laundry? Because nakedness is both socially unacceptable and cold. Why do I wipe dirty butts? Because they are dirty and need to be cleaned. I know my daughter appreciates it.

I’m a dad, so I watch a lot of children’s programming. Do I find this painful? No. Do I limit how much TV my kids watch? Yes. Do I stop them from watching shows because I find them annoying? No. The very nature of children’s programming requires that it appeal to children. Ergo, I’m not the intended audience. Am I disturbed that Calliou’s world seems to be disintegrating and that he seems to have untreated impetigo (explain a bald four-year-old any other way)? Sure. Nevertheless, my daughter loves the show and, to be honest, it’s watchable.

The fact is I don’t force her to watch the documentaries on the Mercury program that I Tivo all the time. She wouldn’t like them. Because they aren’t made for her. She doesn’t complain about my science shows, so I don’t complain about her children’s shows.

As a dad, I also have to listen to teen pop. Why? Because that’s what my nine-year-old daughter likes. I’m happy that she’s into music and I’m happy to let her follow her own interests. Would I rather listen to Yo La Tengo than Hilary Duff? Sure. But she wouldn’t. So we make allowances. It’s not my music, it’s hers and I’m not going to have a hissy fit because she likes something I don’t. I’m also not going to complain about it. When I was nine, I listened to Journey. Because that’s what was popular. If your kid likes music you don’t, get over it. He/She isn’t you and never will be. You can’t make your child into your image. Nor should you.

If my daughter wants to listen to the Black Eyed Peas, I’m happy to listen to it too. (Beside the fact that BEP are one of the more interesting and innovative Hip Hop groups.) If my three-year-old runs around singing, “Let’s get it started in HAH!” I am happy to oblige. Not only do I get it started, I bring it.

True, as a parent, I’ve given up a lot of stuff. I used to go to ten to thirty live shows a year. Now I go to one or two. One year, one of those shows was The Wiggles. And I had fun. I used to watch 14 movies a week. Now I’m lucky to watch one. In the theater? The last movie I saw in the theater was a family film. And I was happy to see it. I skip a ton of concerts I’d like to see. Why? Because I value my time with my family much more than I value two hours with David Byrne. Would I love to go? Hell yeah. Am I upset? Nope. Life is what it is and I am happy to accept what comes along.

Fact of the matter is, I have no concern about being cool. I’m a parent. Parents aren’t supposed to be cool. They’re supposed to raise kids. That’s what I do, I raise kids. I still listen to the music I’ve always loved. I still wear what I want and do weird things with my hair. But, unlike when I was younger, I do it because it makes me happy. Not because I want to make other people like me.

It’s okay to not be cool. It’s okay that other people see me as a parent. It’s okay that sometimes I go out with snot smeared on my shoulder. It’s a badge of honor I wear proudly. Someday I’ll probably wear black socks with sandals. I’m cool with that. I don’t feel it makes my sense of self suffer any. Will my kids think I’m cool? Nope. They never will. And I’m okay with that. Why? Because my job is to teach them right from wrong, good from bad. My job is not to make them think I’m the coolest person on Earth.

My kids will be who they will be. I will not force them into the mold of what I think they should be. Or to be a mirror image of me. Why? Because they aren’t me and I’m not their arbiter of taste.

Identity? Yes, I’m a parent. That’s what most people see me as. But those who know me also know all of my other interests. I’m also a geek. I’m a music nut. I’m a movie nut. I’m an avid reader. Does the rest of the world know this? Probably not. But I have damn cute, well-behaved, interesting kids.

So, I’m not cool. I don’t go out much. I dress funny. I take care of my kids. I feed my wife. I wipe butts. I do all of this because I love my family.

Not only do I do all of this. I do it all gladly, proudly. I enjoy it. I enjoy it because I’m a dad and I like being a dad. No, I love being a dad.

In the end, not all the hipster CDs, all the art house films, all the great shows, all the non-children’s television programming in the world could replace what I have.

What do I have? I have a lovely wife, whom I find more interesting today than the day we met. I have a sarcastic nine-year-old, whose mocking talents are starting to surpass my own. And I have a precocious three-year-old daughter who loves the world with an intensity that makes Lenny in Of Mice and Men look like an uncaring wimp.

I also have this: Gert calls me from her bed because she has something to tell me. What is it? “Well,” she says, “I just love you.” That’s worth far more than all the coolness in the world.

Another Actual Conversation

Scene: Playing in the snow.

Gert: I like to eat snow. It's cold and wet.

Me: Yeah, but it can be dirty.

Gert: It's not dirty! It's clean. Finnegan eats it.

Me: Well, as Frank Zappa said, don't eat the yellow snow.

Gert: Why?

Me: Because that's where Finnegan went potty.

Gert: Oh. Can I see it?

Me: Um. Okay, let's see if we can find some. I don't see any.

Gert: But I want to see it.

Me: Why? Why do you want to see a peecicle?

Gert: I want to see it. Finnegan! Go pee! Go pee!

It was at this point that I brought her inside and called DCFS on myself. They told me that telling your daughter about yellow snow is not an offense. Though profoundly stupid, considering she's three and obsessed with bodily functions anyway.

Crocadoodles

“Hey Dad,” Gert called from the couch, her feet up after a long day of playing. “Let me tell you about my dream.”

“Okay.”

“Well, I was asleep.” Always a good start for a dream. It shows that it wasn’t an unwarranted hallucination. “I was at a restaurant with eggs. And the crocadoodles kept biting my toes! I told them to stop, but they kept doing it.”

“Wow. That sounds like a bad dream. What’s a crocadoodle?”

“A crocadoodle! They are green and they have sharp pointy teeth.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“They live in the water and they eat things,” she said, sensing my stupidity.

“Oh! A crocodile. Well, I’m glad they didn’t nibble your toes.”

“Yeah,” she said with a laugh. “CrocoDILES. That’s it. Heh.”

Damn. I corrected her cute pronunciation of crocadoodles. Now she won’t say it anymore. It was cute. I lost it. Now she’ll pronounce it correctly forever and ever. Because that’s the kind of kid she is. She’s a sponge for information and she never forgets anything.

“Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I have a Popstart?” That’s cute too. So, stupidly, I decided to correct that too.

“You want a Pop Tart for a snack,” I asked.

“No. a PopSTART. Blueberry please.”

With a smile, I toasted a Popstart. Good. I didn’t ruin it, like a fool.

“Thanks Dad,” she said, chewing on her Popstart. “You know, I realize that all of this processed sugar is not good for my metabolism and will probably increase my activity level before my glycohemoglobin bottoms out. But, trust me old man, it’s worth it for this fruity center.”

Accidental Ping

If you're coming here from STLBloggers, I apologize. It was an accidental ping. So, feel free to mock me in my comments.

I'll give you a topic:

"Gary is so hirsute that . . ."

Ahhhh . . . The Stench of New Music

After a supremely, almost epically, bad week I used some gift certificate money and the return of a gift to fund some music purchases.

First I got this.

And then I got this.

Thanks to Mike Tickle for reminding me about the Punk box. I'm really enjoying it. The cool thing is that as I sit listening to everything from early Punk to New Wave folk is that I've realized that these two boxed sets really contain the roots of almost all the current bands I listen to. From Wilco to Magnetic Fields, their influences are all there. There's some overlap with my collection (Iggy, Elvis, Nick Cave, etc.) but there is enough on them that I would never buy independently (The Adverts, Ministry, The Cameleons) that it's well worth the price of admission.

Seeing the sets side by side in the store (yes, a physical store) I realized how well they segue into each other. One grows out of the other.

What's more, is I have over ten hours of music. Ten hours. Sweet. Don't call, I'm busy.

Best discovery of a band I somehow missed: Ultravox. How did I not notice them before? Where have I been? Obviously Stephin Merritt is well-versed in their music.

Favorite re-discovery: I had forgotten that REM and The Pretenders didn't always suck.

Favorite Song that Sticks Out: Joe Jackson's "Is She Really Going Out With Him" sandwiched between The Pop Group's oddities and The Undertones' classic punk/pop sound.

Song I had completely forgotten about: Camper Van Beethoven's "Take the Sk!nheads Bowling". (Be gone naughty Googlers.) I mean, really, if a sk!nhead discovered how poorly he performs at bowling, would he really feel superior? Come on, the great equalizer is the gutter ball.

Anyway, I'm musically happy.

Campaigner (Updated)

Apparently Missouri's new governor Matt Blunt is married to the missing Boohbah. Don't believe me?

Today's inauguration:



Boohbah:



Updated to add additional evidence:



The fact that she's preggers only further proves my theory. Now I know that Boohbah lives in a Red State. Interesting.

I believe I just upgraded myself to the jacuzzi suite in Hell . . .

Old Man, Take a Look at Your Life

Today is the second week of Matilda's youth theater and voice classes. She wants to be a singer when she grows up. Well, to be more exact, a veterinarian-teacher-dancer-physicist-singer/songwriter.

She's signed up for classes and will be playing a girl in Pirates of the Penzance. She's very excited. And for a kid who so rarely shows emotion, this is incredible.

I'm excited for her. And terrified at the same time. She doesn't know these kids. They've been doing this longer. She's never had a lesson. She doesn't know anything, etc. and so forth.

This week is costume check. Her mother spent the weekend sewing her costumes and did an amazing job. They look fantastic. Matilda said most of the other kids were buying theirs online. This sent a chill down my spine.

She'll be different. They'll all mock her. She'll cry. I'll cry and then beat up the parents of the kids that made her cry.

My stomach is in a knot. I'm frightened that she'll be ostracized for one reason or another.

She doesn't care. She likes her costumes, loves the fact that her mom spent the whole weekend doing something just for her and will love those costumes until they turn to dust. Plus, everyone loves her. She's the real-life Rory Gilmore.

I'm still a wreck.

When I dropped her off, she didn't even wave. She just disappeared into a swarm of unknown kids with a big grin on her face. I felt nauseous.

She has no worry about any of this. Her esteem is so high that she honestly doesn't care what other kids think, she marches to her own drummer. Eventually she'll be the most popular kid there, I have no doubt.

How the hell did I help raise this kid? I worry about being out of place when I go to get my hair cut and poll the waiting room on my style. I've been that way since I was a kid. Terrified of rejection.

She was worried about one thing, though. She made me take off my hat before I went inside with her. It's a cool, hand-made stocking cap with a Wilco patch on it. My wife made it. I love it. I've been wearing it all day. Jeff Tweedy would quiver with envy over the hat.

But to Matilda I looked like a dork. Even my static-charged hat hair was better than my big melon in a stocking hat.

Maybe it wasn't the hat . . . Maybe I am a dork. All parents are. Even if they were listening to Iggy Pop in the car before they went into the swanky arts school. (Odds are the rest of them were listening to their top catorce U2 songs). No matter how good my taste in music is, I'm lumped in with the rest of the parents. After all, we're parents. We're dorks.

I guess some things are universal.

Now, since I said all this she's probably in a puddle of tears. Alone. Different.

Augh. Damn it. Now I'm worried again.

Poppet

Any song with the word "poppet" in it has to be good.

I think so. Don't you?

It's addicting. I've been listening to it non-stop for weeks. Yummy.

Parents Just Don't Understand

Tonight is the monthly skate party. So while Matilda is off with mom flexing her girlie wiles, Gert and I decided to go get an ice cream cone. Added bonus: Indoor germ factory playground.

For quite some time she was the only kid there, having a blast sliding, climbing, jumping and generally acting goofy.

More kids showed up. One was another three-year-old girl, built like a tank, with an attitude to match. At first she was keeping to herself, but then a showdown occurred at a slide.

"This is my slide," Tank tells Gert.

"You can go first," Gert responds.

"Get off my slide," Tank responds.

They both made a play for the slide. I saw the scene unfold. Gert got to the slide, bumped into Tank and tank ended up on the floor. She made sure that everyone in the place heard her wail. Gertrude went and asked if she was okay. Tank told her to shut up.

Now, the kid is crying but her parents don't make a move. They just sit there staring blankly. Tank gets up and continues to play.

I call Gertrude over to ask what happened.

"Well," she said, "the thing is* I was at the slide. And I pushed her with my knee."

"Why did you do that," I asked.

"It was an accident."

"Well," I said, "even when something is an accident you need to tell the person that you are sorry. Did you say you were sorry?"

"No," she said.

So, we got up and walked over to Tank's table, where she was now sucking the marrow out of an elephant's ankle bone.

"My daughter would like to apologize," I said.

"I'm sorry I pushed you," Gert said. "It was an accident."

Tank's parents just stared at me like I was insane.

"She accepts your apology," said Mama Tank with what I guess is the same look she would give me if I had strapped Gert to a pole and gave her 29 lashes with a cat o' ninetails.

After we went back to our table, the Tanks conferred and then shot me another look.

Now, I know kids are kids and these things happen. But Gert admitted that she pushed her, though by accident, and regardless I think an apology was in order.

Look, I'm not trying to humiliate my child. I'm trying to teach her right from wrong. I'm trying to teach her to be a good kid.

Apparently I was wrong. Apparently I should follow the lead of the Tank family. Because as soon as Tank finished her meal, she bullied past my kid at another slide and told her to get of her way. Gert had enough, let out a huge audible sigh and told her dolly, "Let's go home. This place is boring."

Was I wrong? Should I not have had her apologize? Maybe next time I should critique how she pushed and give her pointers to maximize the other kid's injury. Maybe I should follow the lead of the Tanks and raise my kid with a sense of entitlement. At least with that attitude she'd have a future in pro sports.

*Her new favorite phrase. And all of her dialogue is verbatim. That's how this kid talks. Sometimes it's kind of freaky.

Dear Mr. Jobs

"Apple has unlawfully bundled, tied, and/or leveraged its monopoly in the market for the sale of legal online digital music recordings to thwart competition in the separate market for portable hard drive digital music players, and vice-versa."

I agree. Strip the crappy DRM. I don't want to rent my music. If I download something, especially music, I want to own it. I want to listen to it wherever and whenever I want. I don't want a crippled medium. There's a bunch of music on iTunes I'd probably download. But not until I feel as though I own something I pay for.

Now go work with Pixar.

Holiday Recap

Why? Because it seems appropriate. Top ten list:

10. The kids got a Karaoke machine. Yes, a Karaoke machine. Santa is a sadistic son of a bitch. But they love it. Therefore, so do I.

9. Speaking of a Karaoke machine, every song sounds much better when you sing them as William Shatner. Though the kids look at you as if you are nuts.

8. At some point Matilda went completely insane. And by insane, I don’t mean in a cute Winona Ryder sort of way. I mean in a, “Hey get the tranq gun, I think we’re at a safe distance to take her down” sort of way.

7. Gertrude developed new language skills, such as when answering a question she’ll reply, “You see, the thing is . . .” Moreover, she’s doing far too much to illustrate how smart she is to her family and friends. At a party on New Year’s Day she decided to repeat a conversation my wife and I had regarding the dog. He’s been having behavior problems lately and we were worried that he is unhappy here and might be happier with a family that had more time to toss the ball and play the games he seems to need played. With two kids, one who is now in musical theater classes that seem to have endless meetings throughout the week, it’s difficult to find the time in the winter to go play catch. That discussion lasted a fraction of a second. We love that dog damn it. But, Gert remembered the whole thing. And just before birthday cake was served, in a quiet moment with her aunt, she said, “Aunt Patty, my daddy is thinking of getting rid of my dog.” Now, I knew she overheard the conversation. I regretted the conversation. I had already assured her that we love Finnegan and don’t want to give him up. That we were just floating ideas. But she wanted to make SURE we wouldn't ever speak of it again.

6. The funniest phrase I heard over the entire holiday, which I am looking for a reason to use, was “baby-twisting mother fucker”. No, I won’t explain.

5. On New Year’s Eve, both Gertrude and Matilda made it to midnight. Gertrude by the skin of her teeth and through blind spite for sleep. The evening was nice. Mom and I watched a lot of Twilight Zone while Matilda played with a friend and Gert danced to Yo La Tengo’s “Little Honda” EP in her bedroom. (What can I say? She’s cool.)

4. Also on New Year’s Eve, we played Battle Scrabble. Before I met my wife, I loved the game of scrabble. Now it frightens me. Very, very much. My wife comes from a family that will draw blood over board games. My family, well, they just mock you for the rest of your life when you say that Ronald Regan fought in the Battle of Hastings. My lovely wife, however, suddenly becomes the chair of the English department at Oxford and will debate me on any word. Any word. So this time (which I won, by the way, though she won’t admit it) I decided to spell out words which described my mood or actions. Ennui. Despair. Irritation. Escalating. Arrogance. Beaming. Taunting. Mocking. Bloody. Nose. But I won. That’s all that matters. I won. (And I really did play “ennui.”)

3. Grandpa gave the girls makeup so they can play dress up. Thanks Grandpa. No, really. Thanks. Sigh.

2. On Christmas Eve, we arrived home very late from a family shindig (which was still in full swing when we departed). It was well after eleven and the girls were still too wired for sleep as we tried desperately to get them into their jammies and into bed. At one point, Matilda and I decided to check NORAD to track Santa’s progress. Now, normally, NORAD uses Chicago as the landmark for the Midwest. Not this year. Gertrude, standing off in the distance, hears “Santa has just passed through the Gateway Arch and into St. Louis” to which her response was to run to her bed, bury her face in the pillow and sob. She thought it was too late, that she had stayed up too late and missed Santa. It was heartbreaking and adorable.

1. Christmas morning. Matilda, who is no longer among the Santa faithful, woke up at 3:30, 4:30 and finally at 5:30 tried to convince us to get up. She climbed in bed and did some sort of harmonic vibration with her body. At approximately 5:45 my body was contacting the bed with only one big toe and I had a leg in my ear. So I slept on the couch. Finally, at 7:30 we got up and put a coffee cake in the oven while we had to tie Matilda to a chair because she wanted to go investigate the scene without her sister. 8 rolled around. 8:30. No Gert. She was still snoring. Matilda was turning purple. 8:45. No Gert. Matilda’s eyes started to turn red and glow. 8:55. Her hair started smoldering and I swear she started reciting a section of Paradise Lost in Nick Cave’s voice. Out of fear we woke up Gert. She was groggy and as angry as a teenager woken up before noon. Then she found a candy cane hidden under her pillow and she hit the ceiling out of excitement and buzzed for the rest of the day. She was just like Randy in A Christmas Story. “Wow, a baby Annabelle, that’s mine!” The highlight for Matilda was the fact that we bought her a Gameboy (we have always kind of ignored video game trends). She stared at it for five minutes in disbelief. The highlight for Gertrude, well, for me really, was when she opened the present I gave her. It was a mini telescope. “Just like daddy’s!!!!” she cried. She made me set it up and point it out a window. She had the eye piece upside down, both eyes closed and she was looking directly at the neighbor’s siding, but she couldn’t have been happier. “Wow,” she said, “look at the beautiful stars.”