See, Kids, Daddy was Raised in a Barn

Last night, I was saying goodnight to Mr. Z, just talking about the day and rubbing his back. We talked about the usual stuff: his Nintendo game "Animal Crossing," Greek mythology, death, farts & poop. You know, the classics.

So, he's winding down when he says, "Dad, I love my school so much." Music to any parent's ears. He really does love his school. His teacher is incredible, he has friends - what's not to love?

And, as any good dad would do, I replied, "Yeah, it's fuckin' great."

!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I don't know where it came from. The "parents don't say 'fuck'" filter must have somehow been switched off! I mean, I'll blurt out the occasional "shit" or "damn" when I slam a finger/limb/forehead into some sort of drawer/cabinet/door, but to toss out the "fuckin'" modifier so casually... frankly, I shocked even myself.

He was silent after I said it. I wasn't sure if he missed it or if he was saying to himself, "Fuck! Did my dad just say 'fuckin'?" Finally, he came back with a "What?"

My mind raced -- I had to think of a cover, and quick. The best I could come up with was, "I said, yeah, it's fun and great."

Silence.

He either bought it or decided he'd let me think that he'd bought it. I'll never know for sure. That is, until he finishes his breakfast with a, "That Raisin Bran was fuckin' great!"

And When I Woke up, My Pillow Was Gone

Last night's dream:

So, I'm hanging out in a park with a few of my 'friends,' though I have no idea who they were. Apparently, as a wacky prank, we had just buried another friend of ours in the ground and sealed the hole with a metal cover which was then bolted into the ground. Hilarious, huh? We were all standing around the site chuckling in a Butt-Headian manner.

Then, slowly, each of the bolts started unscrewing, one by one. We stood there, incredulous, as our friend began the process of unearthing himself. Don't ask how he was unscrewing these giant steel bolts. Maybe he had a Leatherman in his pocket. Those things are pretty handy.

Finally, he frees himself and declares, "All right, now you fuckers are dead!" But he's not really mad. It was the kind of reaction someone would have had if their friend had just snapped them with a wet towel in gym class.

He pulls out a pellet gun and starts shooting at us. Yeah, a pellet gun. Odd. Anyway, I bolted from the scene and hid behind a tent that was set up near a wooded area. From my vantage point, I could see him pegging each one of my 'friends' with his air pistol. They would scream in pain, rub their wound and then join him as he searched for the next victim.

I'm realizing now that this sounds a bit like a shitty, Rated-G Zombie movie.

Finally, the victim recognizes me and starts coming at me with his gun pointed at my head. I'm pleading for my life, saying "Please! Don't shoot me, man! I had nothing to do with burying you! It was all the other guys!" Crap, am I an asshole or what?! Giving up my buddies because I didn't want to be shot with a pellet gun. Though those things can leave quite a welt. I sure hope a burglar/murderer never breaks into my house because five bucks says I'd give up my family in a heartbeat.

Bad dream short, just as the guy is about to pull the trigger (and I'm realizing right now that I think the guy with the gun was "Jerry" from the movie "Three O'Clock High") I disappear and find myself in the hallways of Deerfield High School, my old high school. I'm late for class and I have no idea where my locker is.



Then I woke up and had to pee. Crap, I'm even a moron in my dreams.

Who You Calling a Fairy, Kid?!

Mr. Z has finally lost another tooth. I was getting worried there for awhile. The boy's seven and, until yesterday, has only lost three choppers. I'll bet the rest of 'em will all fall out at once. Mass tooth exodus. That would be awesome.



So, it falls out and he says, "Dad, I know you're the tooth fairy."

And I say, "What?! That's ridiculous! Have you ever seen me come into your room and put money in there? Besides, what would I do with your tooth? Throw it out? Come on!"

And he kind of bought it. In the why-should-I-even-question-this cuz-I'm-getting-money-out-of-this-deal kind of way. Smart kid.

I was all prepared to type up a little note and put the cash in his room when I got caught up by that new show "Sons and Daughters." It's a bit of a "Arrested Development" ripoff, but I actually found it mildly entertaining. Bottom line, I forgot to put the note/cash in his room.

I woke up at 3 AM in a panic. I stumbled downstairs and printed out a note from the T.F. reading:

Dear Zeke,
FINALLY! I've been waiting for this tooth for MONTHS! You should really start eating more Laffy Taffy and caramels. And don't forget to drink your milk.
Love,
The Tooth Fairy (who is definitely NOT your dad)

I put the note and a couple of bucks on his night stand, swiped the tooth and went back to bed, unable to fall back to sleep for about two hours. At 7:00 he ran in, all excited, waving the note and the cash. Sure, I didn't get any sleep but a grinning, toothless Mr. Z made it all worthwhile. Awwwwww.

Though I have absolutely no idea where I put the damn tooth.

Something's Very Wrong with This Mitten

I haven't lived in Michigan long enough to really understand what it means to be a "Michigander." I do know, however, that it has something to do with actively displaying your hatred of U of M (either via your vehicle or your front lawn) and listening to a shitload of Bob Seger and Ted Nugent on the radio. These people here love the Seeg and the Nuge. If you listen to one of the many "classic rock" stations out here (and hey fucker, you better!) you literally hear a Seger song at LEAST once and hour and some Nugent probably once every two or three.



Usually, it's the standards: for Seger you've got your "Old Time Rock & Roll," "Against the Wind," "Night Moves," and "Turn the Page," among many other timeless melodies. For the Nuge, you're dealing with a smaller pool: "Free-for-All," "Stranglehold" (all nine hours of it), "Dog Eat Dog," and the occasional "Stormtroopin'" (another seven or so hours).

Yesterday, though, I heard "Wango Tango." Wango fucking Tango. That's going too far. I never really listened to the song until I heard it on the radio. Now, I know Mr. Nugent is a bit... odd. The ultra-conservative bow hunting and the kids' camp and the "I've never done drugs" and he does suffer from a bad case of 'Cat Scratch Fever' that he caught from some kitty next-door. But here are some of the lyrics from "Wango Tango":

You take her right ankle out
You take her left ankle out
You get her belly propped down
You get her butt propped up
Yeah lookin' good now baby
I think you're in the right position now baby
Yeah but if you ain't quite ready I'll make sure everything is a little bit nicer 'cos
I'm gonna get a little talcum
I'm gonna borrow it from Malcolm
Yeah you look so good baby I'm startin to drool all over myself
I got the droolin', droolin', get all wet, salivate, salivate
I got salivate late, salivate late, salivate late
Got salivate, salivate, salivate, salivate, heh heh heh
Yeah you look so good baby, I like it, I like it, I like it
You know what I been talkin' about honey
It's a nice dance, we gotta a nice dance goin' here
Now what you gotta do, I'll tell you what you gotta do
You got to pretend your face is a Maserati
It's a Maserati
It's a Maserati
It's a gettin' hotty
It's a Maserati, Maserati, Maserati
It's a fast one too man, that thing's turbocharged
You feel like a little fuel injection honey?
I'll tell ya about it, I'll tell you about it
I'll check out the hood scoop
I gotta get that hood scoop off, shine and shine and buff
I gotta buff it up, buff it up, buff it up, buff it up, buff it up,
Yeah, shiny now baby, heh heh heh
You've been drivin' all night long
It's time to put the old Maserati away
So you look for a garage, you think you see a garage
Wait a minute, Hey!, there's one up ahead
And the damn thing's open
Hello! Get in there!

Wh... whuh?! What the fuck is that?! I mean, it starts out in classic Nuge form, what with the woman there and him being horribly demeaning and frighteningly misogynistic and all, but then, wait a minute. The Maserati thing? Buffing the hood scoop? He takes this bizarre turn and I'm pretty sure he's no longer speaking metaphorically. He's perseverating on his car and he's genuinely getting worked up about finding a garage for it. He's got to get his Maserati under cover, and soon! This song may be the actual point when Mr. Nugent went from 'Motor City Madman' to 'Motor City Paranoid Schizophrenic.'

Oh, and did I mention that Miss O and Mr. Z were in the car while this was playing?! Thank god they were arguing with each other about something because I don't think I could've explained this one away.

"Well, kids, this man has a fancy car and he really needs to clean it up and find a garage for it quickly."

"What's that? Yes, it does seem like he has a problem with his saliva. Perhaps he's suffering from Bell's Palsy. He may have been borrowing that talcum from Malcolm to help soak up some of his saliva. Yes, I know, he does seem to be concerned about that garage. Anyway, let's change the station."

I can't believe I actually saw Nugent in concert... twice... when I was in my early teens. And my parents let me go. "What's that? A man in a loin cloth is playing in downtown Chicago? He rides a buffalo onstage? And he has a song called 'Wang Dang Sweet Poontang? Well, have fun dear."

Oh, and I just went to Ted's website to get a picture for this post. His new tagline is "Full Bluntal Nugity." There's Michigan's new motto. "Michigan: Full Bluntal Nugity... and Seegity."

And I'll Never Eat Turkey Again

Miss O and I went to the grocery store today because a) we needed some lunchy foodstuffs for the upcoming week and 2) for some reason we can't go two days without dropping a goddam hondo at the Kroger. I don't know where this food goes but fuck, we eat a shitload of it. I think one of the kids is hiding loaves of bread and bags of apples in their closet or something. I'm afraid to actually keep track of how much cash we drop at that place because I'd probably shit my drawers. And we don't even eat meat. I can't imagine what we'd be spending if we added a couple of skirt steaks into the mix.

Anyway, we stopped at the deli counter to get some turkey lunchmeat because, for some unknown reason, Miss O will now eat rolled up turkey slices in her lunch (this week) but she refuses to eat just about everything else (peanut butter, jelly, cheese, applesauce, chicken salad, whatever). She drives me bananas (which she also won't eat, by the way). Well, there's this woman who works behind the counter who has these nasty gums that just freak the shit out of me. You know how some people are just really "gummy." Like they've got this wall of gums and then these little Chiclet teeth hanging off the bottom. That's her. But she adds a nauseatingly new twist to her gummitude. Her gums (and I'd stop using the word "gums" but there doesn't seem to be a proper synonym) are this really bright rose-coral/pink color, kinda like they're running on batteries or something. They completely disgust me but, at the same time, I can't look away. They're disgusting and fascinating. They're fasgustinating.

So, I ask for a half-pound of the turkey and she slices off a piece and hands it to me, saying, "Here, have a slice." I was waiting for her to add, "... of my GUMS!" Of course, I couldn't refuse it. I feebly accepted the cold, fleshy meat and forced it into my quivering maw. As I chewed, all I could think of was, "I am eating her gums... please kill me." I only managed to eat half and I gave the other half to Miss O. She wolfed it down and said, "Yummy! I love turkey!" I felt like saying, "THAT'S NOT TURKEY! THAT'S THE LADY'S GUMS! SPIT IT OUT! SPIT IT OUT!!!"



We got our lunchmeat and bolted but the image of those gummy choppers is going to stay with me for awhile. Hoowah! Them's some nasty gums!

Don't Bother Reading This Crap

I'm in a shitty mood today. Everything I've started to write sucks donkey dicks. At least moreso than usual. Took the kids to see "Curious George" today. Feels like I just had two lollipops shoved up my nostrils. The kids seemed to love it but c'mon, it was like eating cotton candy with chocolate syrup on it, shoved in a funnel cake and then encased in a marshmallow Peep. And then shoved up my ass. And poor David Cross. The bad guy again. He's like two steps away from becoming the next Gilbert Gottfried. Five bucks the next movie he's in he'll be playing an evil sidekick parrot with an eyepatch.

I think it was a bad idea to start the day off by visiting the Estate Sale at the house down the street. About a month ago, the guy who lived there was found dead in his chair, watching TV. Well, he wasn't watching it when they found him. He had been watching it... before he died. Anyway, he used to be a professor at MSU but he became this raging alcoholic and basically just drank himself to death. I went over there once when a FedEx box was accidentally dropped off at his place. He answered the door and looked like he was about 78. Turns out he was in his mid-fifties. Bummer. He designed his house, though, and it looks kind of interesting from the outside. So I thought, hey, let's go check it out today. Bad idea. Depressing as fuck. It had been picked clean days ago but it just depressed the shit out of me. It smelled like 1972. Bleh.

And what the hell is an "Estate Sale." I've always imagined them as some hoity-toity setup with roped off rooms and auctioneers. This was basically, "Hey, who wants some dead guy's old TV Guides and laundry detergent. Half off everything!"

I've really gotta start throwing some shit out.

The Sick Mind of a Seven Year Old

Apparently, Mr. Z had a substitute teacher today at school. It sounded like things were a little more freeform in class, and they were allowed to draw cartoons and write non-classwork kinds of things throughout the day. The following are a few of the things Mr. Z brought home to share with me. He seems to have been working on a personal constitution and some accompanying laws...

CONSTI-LOOTY-TOO-TOO-TION:
"We the pepoll of the USA say all pepoll be treetid equilee and Boise eat candy 4 24 hours."

Law #2000
"Boys can eat candy every day for 24 hours."

Law #2001
"Central School can have an arcade."

Law #2002
"We have recess for 24 hours."

Law #2003
"Boys play video games while girls hop in toilets and play Barbies."

Law #2004
"We have Creative Writing, Mythology, Empires, Poetry and Yu-gi-oh all day."

There it is. The Utopian society for a seven-year-old boy consists of a 24 hour candy-eatin', recess havin', arcade visitin', Mythology-based bacchanal where the girls sit in toilets while playing with dolls.

Hey, count me in!

Oh, and the Consti-looti-too-too-tion part, which totally cracked me up, was written in a wacky, olde Englishe style of writing, with backwards S's and N's. The kid cracks me up.

You know, I should let him eat candy for 24 hours and see how much he likes it. Five bucks says that after about 4 hours he'd be amending the shit out of Law #2000.

Miss O: 1, Crabbydad: 0

I'm screwed. Miss O just called me on one of my classic Dad lines and rendered it useless. I was trying to cut her fingernails and she kept pulling her hand away and sticking it under her pillow. I said, "Miss O, you've gotta keep your hand here so I can cut your nails."

She replied, "Dad! I can't flip the pancake if you're doing that!"

And I logically replied, "I'll flip YOUR pancake if you don't give me your hand!" A classic, I know.

Normally, at this point, the child would stop their ill-advised behavior and, based on this odd statement that vaguely sounded threat-like, would submit to the cutting of the nails.

She just said, "Right, Dad. That doesn't even mean anything." And she continued "flipping the pancake."

You win this round, Miss O. But just you wait. Cuticle vengeance will be mine.

And You Wonder Why I'm Crabby

Someone shoot me. In the head. With a shooty thing. Here's the recipe for my perfect day:

Start with no school for Mr. Z because of "parent/teacher conferences." Add a dash of Miss O is still sick and has to stay home from school. Throw in a pinch of gotta take Miss O BACK to the doctor because she's getting worse. And then top it off with two tablespoons of now Mr. Z is sick and has a 102 temp. And voila -- you've got one fairly unwieldy, somewhat confusing metaphor that really doesn't explain what a fucking fuckshit of a day today was.

I'm telling you, if you're planning on having kids, heed my warning. It can be such a pain-in-the-ass sometimes, you don't even know. Those people who tell you how wonderful it is to have kids -- fucking liars. Oh sure, there are great times, don't get me wrong. But days like today are like one giant mind-eraser that just takes a big, steamy elephant dump on all those cherished moments. And it's not a nice, round solid elephant dump with cute little clumps of hay sticking out of it. It's goddamn elephant diarrhea.

And, excuse me, but should I really trust a pediatrician who has a hunchback? The kids' regular doc, who is great, was MIA today, so we had to see one of the other hacks over there. Last week it was Dr. Wu. Like that Steely Dan song. You know... "Are you with me, Dr. Wu?" No, she's not, because she's a crappy physician. Then there's ol' Quasimodo today. He seems like a nice enough guy, but hunchbacks are so 19th century. You'd think the guy could have that thing lanced or something. Gave me the willies. To be fair, though, he put my mind at ease and said we're doing the right things for Miss O and it's a virus and blah, blah, blah. Then he let me rub his hump for good luck, which was nice.



Oh, how I need a vacation. Everyone I know is going somewhere. Florida, Mexico, some islandy place near Trinidad. I'm going to 123 This Chair I'm Sitting In Right Now, Basementville, USA. Though I do get a free long weekend somewhere. See, since the old lady goes to conferences now and then, I get an equal number of days off for myself. I'd like to go out to Cali and see some old friends, but California on three days is not a good idea. I'd get the bird flu for sure. I could probably do New York, I suppose. I have a friend there. Do some shopping. I don't know. Must go somewhere, though. I need distance. Either that or a big ol' bong-aroonie.

S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y... eh.

Classic Saturday here at Hotel Boogersnots. Miss O is still hacking up a the occasional lung and Mr. Z, while improving, has been in a piss-poor mood of late. We were going to take him to the 3-D Imax Undersea movie but he shot himself in the old foot with has crabbitudinous ways today. We'll see how tomorrow goes.

I did take the boy to MSU's Natural History Museum just to get out of the house, though. Kinda crappy. There were like, maybe five rooms of "natural history." Some pretty marginal dino crap (just general crap, not actual coprolites) but mostly stuffed dead animals. Lots of deer, mooses (meeces?) and the occasional rodent. There was also this old frontier cabin that you could walk in and it was all gussied up to look like someone was living in it. It looked just like that adobe house from "Pee-Wee's Big Adventure," complete with the creepy mannequins. The male creepy mannequin was, I don't know, tanning a hide or something, and the frontier lady was mixing up some gopher cakes. Mr. Z refused to go into the house and kept saying, "I'm not going in there. Those things are giving me the creeps." Who is he, Shaggy? It cracked me up. I told him it was okay to go in, as long as he didn't look directly into their eyes. He would have none of it. Classic.

I have a new addiction. And unlike crystal meth, this one won't turn my teeth all gummy. It's an online Boggle game and I think I just blew about and hour and a half on the thing. There are some hardcore Bogglers on the site, though. I made it up to the middle of the pack with maybe 38 words, but the winner(s), "Team of Fools" had about 150. I'm sure they're a bunch of programmers with some sort of auto-thesaurus-anagram-searcher device and they just sit there giggling as they win every round in their stinky, poopy programmer pants. Bastards. I will defeat them. Oh yes. The site is here. You've been warned.

Special thanks to Arnie for being the first person to actually purchase a KICKSOME CD in about 5 months. Because of his kind gesture, he will get his disk autographed by both Mr. Z and Miss O and will receive his official "Kicksome Kollective Membership Card." Way to go, Arnold.

Oh, my night out last night was pretty fun. The band was, eh, but they had a pedal-steel player who rocked the house. That's it. I'm going to get me a pedal-steel, spend the next 20 year figuring out how to play the thing and then, when I'm 60, I'm going to join some country band and tour around, bringing tears to peoples' eyes with my haunting, slidey chops. Mark my word. I'm doing it. Starting... NOW.



But first, more Boggle.

If A Blog Disappears and No One is Around...

My blog was down for two days and I was a lot more stressed about it than I thought I'd be. I think it's because I've actually gotten comments (like, two) from real-live civilians out there and I was foolishly starting to believe that I had something to say in this thing that people might actually want to respond to... to which to respond... to. Well, Blogger showed me that I actually don't have anything to say and promptly shut my skinny ass down. Touche, Blogger. Touche.

So, I basically couldn't work for most of today as I was tending to a sickly Miss O. She was up a lot throughout the night (my night "on duty," of course) with a fever and a nasty sounding phlegmy cough... a phlough, if you will. I let her sleep in, which she did, and when she got up, she was literally as white as a sheet. A white sheet. That had been bleached. I was kind of worried until she puked up a bunch of snot into the garbage can. After that, she returned to her normal color which I'd compare to a white sheet that hasn't been bleached. I'll tell ya, the girl is practically clear, she's so white.

She watched about one complete disk of "The Electric Company," which she and I both dug, and then perked up once the Motrin kicked in. That shit is like liquid gold. Before she took it she was spread out on the couch like braunschweiger on a kaiser roll. But once it took hold, she was literally dancing around her room singing:

I'm dancing in my nipples,
Yeah, Yeah, Yeah!
I'm dancing in my nipples,
Yeah, Yeah, Yeah!

I smell another hit! We'll record that one right after "Slippery Dick." Ah, youth. I think we all wish we were dancing in our nipples, don't we? I know I do.

And the big news: I'm actually "going out" tonight. Randy, the fiance of a woman the old lady works with at the University, is a musician and he's the guy who's giving Mr. Z piano lessons. Anywhich, the old lady has been trying to set up a "play date" between the two of us for quite a while. Both musicians, both homebodies, etc. Although he actually has friends, so there's not as much at stake for him. So, he invited me to see this band called "The Harvestmen" tonight at the Temple Club. Better bring my yarmulke. 'Cuz it's at the Temple Club... and they wear those in temple... heh... er...

All I know is I'm going outside! Woo-hoo!

The Phlegm Phestival Is Back in Town!

Both of the kidlets have some sort of chest cold thing going on. Again. I tell ya, we sure grow some feeble bronchi in this household. It's probably the radon. I think we live over a radon sinkhole. Do they have those? I don't know. Anyway, it's that precarious day to day "are we going to have to keep them home from school tomorrow" deal. In the AM we assess the phlegm-level and act accordingly. So far we're maintained an acceptable phlegm-to-school ratio. We'll have to see what tomorrow holds.

On a positive note, a brand, spanking new eatery just opened up down the road. This is a big event in our town. Being transplanted Chicagoans, the dearth of even mildy acceptable, sub-par restaurants is a constant cloud over our heads in this town and when I saw some work going on in the strip mall between Payless Shoes and Ye Olde GolfPro Shoppe, or whatever the hell it's called, I was giddy with anticipation. I mean, for a college town this place blows, food-wise. Bennigans, Ruby Tuesdays, Olive Garden, Old Chicago (I'm afraid of what goes on there), it's all crap.

So this place opened today and it's called "City Eats." Okay, not the greatest name but at least it doesn't have kooky initials or a weekday in it's title. I walked in and it seemed very pleasant. Open cooking area, maybe 8 little booths lining the walls and it smelled good. Not like lettuce and farts, like Subway. They have a bunch of soups, some salads and a list of sandwiches with names like "Chicago Italian Beef," "Baltimore Crab Cake Sandwich," and "Gloucester Lobster Roll." Not bad.

A woman, who must have been the owner, welcomed me in and asked what I had a hankering for. She offered me a little sample cup of the Chicken Sausage Gumbo and "dirty rice." Normally, I'd be wary of dirty rice in this town, but I think this rice was dirty on purpose. Anywhich, it rocked. I ordered me up a cup of that and the New Orleans Blacken Chicken Sandwich. Is it really "blacken" chicken? That kinda sounds like what the owner would tell the cook. "Hey you - blacken chicken, now." I gave them the benefit of the doubt and ordered it.

I think I finally realized that I really don't like chicken sandwiches. A big ol' chicken breast is really not meant to be in a sandwich. Slice it up and put it in a salad, rip it up and put it in a pulled pork kinda deal. Throw it in some soup. It's just never any good when you plop it on a bun. But it wasn't awful. The gumbo, though, was scrumpdillyumptious... ness... ment.

I'm going back on Friday to see what else they've got going. Perhaps I'll try the "Halifax Brie and Lox Baugette" (their spelling, not mine). Hey, maybe I could get a little freelance work editing their fucking menu. Apparently "City Eats" but "City Doesn't Like to Use Spellcheck."

Slippery wha?!?!

So, the kids are having their baths tonight. Mr. Z finishes and is drying off in one bathroom while Miss O is still in the other tub, singing. I walk in to check on her and she starts singing the following song:

Slippery Dick!
Slippery Dick!
Slippery, slippery, slippery,
Dick!

And she repeats it, over and over again. My mind is racing. "Where the hell did she learn THAT?!" "Has she been singing that at SCHOOL?!" And most importantly, "That's hilarious! I've got to record that song!"

Then Mr. Z comes prancing into the bathroom, wrapped in his towel, and starts marching around, joining in:

Slippery Dick!
Slippery Dick!
Slippery, slippery, slippery,
Dick!

So, I ask them to hold on a second and innocently query, "Hey, that's quite a tune there. Where did you learn that one?" And Mr. Z jumps in, "Duh, dad, it's a fish." He runs and gets his "National Audubon Society Field Guide to North American Fishes" and, sure enough, there it is: that elusive fellow, the "slippery dick."



Huh, I imagined it looking bigger. I guess you always do. Anyway, I felt a little relieved that my kids aren't complete pervs and that they've managed to keep their youthful naivete somewhat intact.

Nonetheless, it's still a hilarious song and I WILL have Miss O record it this weekend. I predict that it'll be even bigger than "Wonder Woman (won)!"*

And by the way, who names a fish "slippery dick"? It must've been the same guy who named the "black crappie" and the "hog choker."

And the "chub."

*If you are at all interested in previous recordings by Mr. Z and Miss O, please go here.

Look, I Just Want a Haircut

So I got a haircut yesterday. One of the guys at work was talking in his blog about how conversation with the stylist can be really awkward, but for me there's something way more awkward.

My 'stylist,' Faith, starts out by giving me a little scalp/neck/shoulder massage thing with some oily shit on her hands. It's nice of her, even though I would enjoy it much more if she put some effort into it. But that's beside the point. The problem I have is, I'd probably relax more if I closed my eyes while she massaged. But I feel that by doing that, it would get exponentially more creepy for her. I mean, here's a woman who I see maybe every four months, I sit down in a chair and she starts massaging my scalp. I feel that the minute I close my eyes, it goes from "Faith, I appreciate the mandatory scalp massage you are forced to perform on all of your clients" to "Faith, I am totally getting off on this massage and I, with my eyes closed, am engaging in an unspeakable fantasy, starring you, that you would no doubt find repulsive."

I have the same problem when she shampoos my hair. I love getting my hair washed because, frankly, it feels great. (I wish I had one of those hair-wash, cutout sink thingies at home so I could get the old lady to wash my hair every now and then. Although she'd never go for it, so never mind.) Anyway, these shampoos would feel even better if I closed my eyes and relaxed. But I sit there like a freak, staring up into the blinding halogen lighting, burning out my retinas, because I know that the minute I close my eyes, she's gonna think, "Ew."

So instead of the stylist thinking, "This guy is such a creep! He's totally getting off on me washing his hair!" she's thinking, "This guy is such a creep! He's staring at the ceiling like some kind of zombie moron!" So I'm a creep either way -- why can't I just close my eyes and revel in my creepiness?

Am I the only guy who thinks this way? Why do I think this way? All the other guys getting massages/shampoos before me close their eyes. Are their stylists repulsed by them? Probably.

Strangely, I don't have this problem when I go in for an actual massage. Hell, I practically fell asleep last time I got one (which I think was about five years ago). But I guess in that case, I'm actually paying for the service of a massage. It's not like I'm going in to get a massage and they trim my sideburns up first, just to get me in the mood. I don't know... it doesn't really make any sense.

Another disturbing thing I noticed at the salon -- my eyebrows are getting really light. It's weird. I almost look like a burn victim or something. It's the first time I looked in the mirror and thought, "Shit, I look old." Can eyebrows be darkened? Do they do that? More importantly, do guys do that? Or would that just make me look like Groucho Marx. Or even worse, Joe Franklin. Maybe there's some sort of Eyebrow Merkin kit I can purchase. I'll have to check my Lillian Vernon catalog.

No wonder I wait four months between haircuts. The whole thing is way too stressful.

Five Across Your Lip!

So, today was the First Annual Wear-Your-Moustache-to-Work Day at Jellyvision. I have to say that I feel as though I missed out a bit of the hirsute-pursuit as a telecommuter. I could only really see the entrants' 'staches if they came up close to the television camera, but it was still enjoyable.

I went for the classic "handlebar" but with a twist. I added what I call "tailpipes" for a net effect that I've dubbed the "bars and pipes":


Look at that badass lip-pursing going on. When you wear a moustache such as this, you need badass lip-pursing at all times to tell the world, "I'm badass and I purse my lips... at YOU!" I think this style can alternatively be known as the "What are You Looking At?!" But then again, can't all moustaches? I've been unconsciously stroking the 'bars and pipes' all day and it repulses and soothes me at once.

When the kids got home from school, they rushed down to the basement to see my creation. Mr. Z said, "Eh... you don't even look like you." Miss O simply cried "AHHHHH!" and ran back up the stairs. I don't blame her. I never realized how easily facial hair can make one feel like a giant asshole.

Tonight I will enjoy the progressive shearing of the 'stache, pausing after each alteration to rush into the bedroom and ask the old lady, "Would you have ever dated me if I looked like this?" Ah, I love that game. I'll end with the classic Chaplin/Hitler and then go back to my life as nekkid-lipper. But the memories will last a lifetime. As will the acne, that will most likely sprout in a day or two.

As far as who won the contest at work? I'd have to say it's a split between Arnie, who excelled in the fullness department (you could hide a roll of nickels in that thing) and Gabe, with his "Ditka." Gabe was born to wear the Ditka. I'm sure it even smelled like pork chops. As far as the "full package" award, I'd have to give it to Allard. He had the Terry Thomas 'stache with a suit and a FEZ! He looked like "Morocco Mole" from the old "Secret Squirrel" cartoons:


But with a moustache.

Oh well, that's what I was looking forward to for a week. Growing a moustache. Actually, to be technically correct, I "grew" a beard and then 'carved' the beard away until I was left with the moustache. Kind of like Michaelangelo subtracting hunks of marble until he was left with the "David." Only the David had a gigantic penis.

My Mind -- She is Blown!

I just received my "The Electric Company" four dvd set today and my shit is freaking out. Miss O and I watched part of the first disk today. Holy crap. First of all, it's an incredible show. It couldn't have come at a better time as Miss O has been really getting into reading of late and the show was totally geared toward early readers. I now know why the illiteracy rate is out of control in this country. They stopped showing "The Electric Company." I mean, pedagogically, the show is rock-solid. You can't even compare the crap on Noggin or PBS to this show. And it's hilarious. And groovy. Like 'shroomin' groovy.

Bill Cosby, Morgan Freeman, Rita Moreno -- they're some heavy hitters. But the one that freaked me out the most was Judy Graubart. She played "Jennifer of the Jungle"? Remember? You won't unless you see her. And I just did a search for her on Google images and there's nada. She was also in one of my favorite movies, "Simon," with Alan Arkin. Ah, here's a not great picture of her from an old "Crunch and Munch" commercial:

Remember her now? Holy crapstain.

The show also has Skip Hinnant, who I COMPLETELY forgot about. He played Fargo North Decoder on the show. Yeah, there's no way you'll remember this guy, but when I saw him I dropped a major turd in the old trousers.

Anyway, if you ever watched "The Electric Company" buy this set. You'll piss yourself. Put on a diaper and watch it.

Here's a link to a trailer for it.

My day with Miss O was pretty good. I took her to the mall for "Chinese food," which is pineapple chicken and she'd eat it everyday if she could. It's from Panda Express and it tastes like carp, but she digs it, so hey. Also bought a pizza stone at Marshall Fields (apostrophe 's' or no? I know not.) I need it to perfect the Italian loaves I plan to make with my new mixer, if you must know.

On the way home, Miss O was looking at the giant piles of nasty, muddy ice-snow glaciers lining the mall parking lot and said, "That snow looks like newspapers." I love that. I could never think of something like that. I've gotta record more songs with her. She's ripe for recording. Maybe this weekend.

This post is very boring. Now I know why most of the popular blogs just link to other sites. It's impossible to crap out something interesting every day. Though I did crap out something this morning that bordered on interesting. All right, I'm reverting to poop. That means it's time to sign off.

Tomorrow I shall regale you with the results of the First Annual Jellyvision Mustache-Growing Contest. I am entered and hope to make a respectable showing. I must sleep for I have some serious trimming to do, come morning.

What the... wha?!?!

Wait a minute. Chloe wins "Project Runway"? With her Texas Prom dresses that look like they're made out of that old blue satin comforter at my parents' house that always used to slide off my bed in the middle of the night (but that I loved because it was always "cold")?!?!


Well then it's official. I know absolutely nothing about fashion. I mean, Daniel's was pretty good. Nice and clean and everything seemed to fit well. And even Santino's stuff was fine. He totally dumbed it down to go for the win, but it wasn't bad, if only a little "one note." But Chloe? Everything I hate about Texas was encapsulated in that first pink dress she sent out. Cold, stiff and stupid. Actually, I think that was the runner up motto for Texas, right behind "Don't Mess Yourself While Visiting Texas."

Ah, I'm glad that damn show's over. Everybody was lame this year. No one will ever live up to the bar set by Jay last year. The "Jay bar." I went to a "jay bar" once. Ordered a beer and almost got a "high ball." Hello! I don't even know what that means.

It's late. This post has nothing to do with my blog. I'll start fresh tomorrow. It's my day with Miss O. I'm sure I'll have plenty of fodder after that.

Chloe?! Talk about "farty."

Adverbs?! Oh No! I Didn't Even Study!

I put a new twist on an old dream the other night. It seemed like the run-of-the-mill stress dream in which I had blown off a class all year and now I had to take a major exam and was completely unprepared. The twist was that I was a student in my son's third grade class and I sat right behind him. Of course, he was prepared but he wouldn't let me copy off of his paper. Ungrateful bastard. It was amazingly stressful, considering how absurd the premise was.

Anywhich, I was relating the dream to my son and ended up saying something like, "Yeah, it was a total stress dream."

Mr. Z replied, "Oh, I know about those. I have those almost every night. All my dreams are love dreams. Falling in love with a different person each night. And it's people I don't even know. It's embarrassing."

Wow. Is that what stress dreams are to a seven-year-old? Falling in love with a different girl each night?! Anonymous, serial crushing?! If so, sign me up. I mean, where's the stress? Is he having a hard time making reservations at restaurants? Is he pulling a Peter Brady with two girls at once? More importantly, is he using protection?

I don't know. It just cracked me up. I just imagine him in his dream, all googley-eyed over some fourth grader and she's standing by her locker, popping her gum or something. Then she turns and locks onto his gaze and he bolts up in bed, all sweaty and out of breath. "Oh my god! What a nightmare! Oh, how stressful!"

The kid kills me.

Mr. Arthur Farteigh... the End of the Story

If you'll remember (and by "you'll" I mean the nonexistent people who read this blog) I had recited the following poem to my son:

Artie Farty had a party,
Everyone was there.
Susie Blewsie let a doozy,
And all the kids ran out for air.

He thought it was "hilarious" and decided to finish the story. Here, then, is his "rest of the story":

Then Marty Farty came and said,
"Why is it so stinky?!"
Then Susie said, "It's all the fault,
of my tiny brother, Pinkie!"

Pinky said, "Oh, I confess!
I guess I really did it."
Then Artie Farty had his party,
And the pinata, they did hit it!"

BOOM!

There it is. Mr. Z's version of the events following Susie Blewsie's poopy postponement of Mr. Farty's "blowout." Not bad. The pinata came out of nowhere, but that's part of Mr. Z's charm. Let's all hope, for young Pinkie's sake, that the pinata was filled with Gas-X.

On a related note, last night my daughter, Miss O, was sitting in her room before bed. When my old lady went in to get her into her pjs, Miss O said, quietly, "I was just sitting in here, by myself, and I said the word 'butt-crack.' But it's okay because I was by myself and no one heard it."

Butt-crack. Pretty good for a four-year-old. Can't wait to hear her material when she hits five.

I'm a proud papa.

Home Alone, Part Deux

7:30... again. On a Sunday. What's wrong with these kids?! I cannot wait until adolescence when all they want to do is sleep. That'll be incredible. Although I can't sleep past 8:00 anyway, so I don't know what I'm complaining about.

Yesterday went pretty well. I finally got the little miscreants to embrace the idea of going out for breakfast. I think maybe not giving them anything to eat until we left at 10:00 might have had something to do with it. They ended up chowing down and having a great time. The key was bringing crayons for them to draw on the placemats. Genius. I ended up getting one of those skillet things again... I don't know why. What is egg substitute? That's what it had in it. Egg substitute? All I could think of was the fake eggy crap inside those nasty easter Cadbury egg things.



Maybe that's what was in my "hobo skillet." No self-respecting hobo would've touched that crap. Next time, I'm going with an omelette. With bona fide eggs.

After breakfast we went to this art show thing at the high school. Mr. Z had something on display there, along with stuff from all the elementaries in town. It was great. Grade school art has apparently come a long way since I was making clay ashtrays in third grade. They also had all these tables set up with different art projects: make a frame, glue some wood crap together, etc. The kids had a great time until we couldn't find Mr. Z's coat when we were ready to go. He started flipping his lid and saying things like, "Now I have to go to school without a coat and I'll be freezing!" I assured him that we wouldn't send him into the arctic tundra without a coat, but I was pissed that it was gone. We looked all around the building for the jacket-jacker but to no avail. Finally, we made one more stop to the coatrack and lo and behold, there it was. Some mom was standing nearby and said, "Oh, I'm so sorry. Is that your coat? I took it by accident... thought it was my son's." I was relieved but her son had some dreary blue coat that looked nothing like Mr. Z's. I think she was trying to rip it off and was overwhelmed by guilt and had to return it. I let her off with a meager, "Oh, hey, so many of these coats look alike. Don't worry about it." Ya klepto.

The rest of the day was uneventful. All in all, I'd say we've had a great time. No real plans for today. I'm going to try to read the NY Times for a bit while they watch one of their movies. The old lady gets back tonight. Then maybe I'll kick back and watch the Oscars with a nice, strong, well-deserved martooni. Or seven.

Home Alone

The old lady is out of town for three days and it's just me and the spawn. Whenever she's gone, I tend to go into hyperdad drive and try to do a whole bunch of stuff to fill up the time. We rented movies last night ("Escape to Witch Mountain" and "Big Top Pee-Wee") and we popped some corn. Of course, like an idiot, I stayed up until midnight watching "Say Anything" for probably the 80th time. Why do I have to watch these movies over and over?! I don't even like Ione Skye. She's got a total horsey mouth.

Anyway, of course, the kidlets got up at 7:30 this morning, even after a long "talking to" last night about the joys of "sleeping in." So I get up and tell them that, for a special treat, we're all going out to breakfast with a couple of friends at "Flapjacks," this glorified Denny's that everyone seems to love out here. Give me a "Golden Apple" over this place any day, but whatever. It's Michigan.

So the kids are like, "Do we have to go? We want to stay home!" What is with them? When I was a kid, if my dad said "Let's go out to breakfast!" I'd be in the car, revving the engine in two seconds. What's not to like about going out for food? It's like they're space aliens sometimes. I have absolutely no idea where they're coming from. Don't like breakfast... bah!

But we're going, and they're going to enjoy their pancake-shaped-like-a-bear's-head if they know what's good for them. And I'm going to eat my cold, crappy hobo-skillet-hashy-eggy-vomitus and drink a four dollar orange juice and we're going to have FUN! Woo!

Mr. Arthur Farteigh

So last night, Mr. Z was having a bath and, for some reason, I blurted out the old schoolyard classic:

Artie Farty had a party,
Everyone was there.
Suzie Blewsie let a doozy,
And all the kids ran out for air.

Well, Mr. Z cracked up and said, "That's hilarious! Who wrote that?"

Who wrote that?! Classic. So I replied, "Uh, I think it was William Shakespeare."

And he said, "Really? No way."

I explained that I was joking but he was obviously quite taken with this little verse. He said, "I think it's autobiographical. What if it were written by Artie Farty?"

And I said if it were, he probably went by the name Arthur Fartie. Mr. Z agreed wholefartedly.

Then he asked, "So what happened after everyone went out for air? How does the next verse go?" I informed him that I didn't think there was a second verse. I had always assumed everyone just went home, pissed off because Susie Blewsie had fouled the party with her unwelcome derriere derring-do.

Well, the boy didn't seem to want to accept that and is now going to write the "rest of the story." I can't wait. It'll be nice to finally wrap up the mystery of Mr. Fartie's soiree and its hasty adjournment. Maybe we'll find out what happened to poor Ms. Blewsie. Did she bounce back from her flatal faux pas or did she spiral down into a murky pit of gassy gloom. It's now in Mr. Z's hands...

AAAaaaaaargh!!!!

What is with this f*ing school district?! School is closed today, again! There's not even any goddamn snow on the ground! It rained a little last night and there was a little ice this morning but good god, these people close their doors if a stiff breeze kicks up.

Now, the three hours I'm supposed to have on a Thursday are gone. I have to stick the kids in front of Spongebob and try to make it through this stupid meeting this morning, hoping one of them doesn't kill the other during a commercial. I mean, what do families do who don't have a schedule as flexible as mine? What if someone's working at McDonalds? I doubt they're going to keep their job if, every two weeks or so, they have to call in sick because Central elementary decides to close up shop because of a high pollen count.

Who's in charge of deciding when to cancel school. Is it some Howard Hughes guy, holed up in some watchtower somewhere, with maps and doppler radars and barometers intermingled amongst his boxes of kleenexes? "Oh dear, precipitation in Sector 7. Sound the alarms, SOUND THE ALARMS!!!!"

You know, if I weren't so damn inert, I would run for the school board. Then I'd make it one of those year-round schools. No five day President's Day weekend. No Wednesday before Thanksgiving. No "Teacher's Inservice" days. Those are the biggest hunk 'a bullshit. Teacher's inservice, my ass.

These people out here! You live in MICHIGAN, people! The weather sucks. Deal with it! Strap on your snow shoes and walk to school if you have to but open the damn doors and start a-learnin' my kids!

Morons!