Attention, Space Nerds!

Mr. Z has never quite gotten over the fact that the Star Wars saga has come to an end. He often asks me, "How can George Lucas just end it?! Why won't he do another episode?!" I explain that he probably feels that he has told the entire story, he wants to leave things on a high note, and that he probably wants to pursue other interests, like trying to combat the nefarious, undulating flesh orb that's attempting to overtake his neck:



Never one to be denied, the boy has apparently decided to craft his own Episode 7. It's called "The Bounty Hunter Saga" and I guess the storyline follows the paths of nine bounty hunters, post-whatever-the-fuck-happened-in-Episode-6. But I should really let Mr. Z explain the plot in his own nerds... er, words:



Actually, it sounds pretty damn interesting. Beats the shit out of that Jar-Jar Binks bullfuck. Damn, I've gotta get the boy his own video camera. I can see it now -- Boba Fett and his Bounty Hunter armada, speeding toward Chaos City in their Slave I Pursuit Vessels, in search of the astro droid named BB-19... all to the tune of "Barbie Girl."

Something Fowl This Way Comes...

This is the view directly out our back door. A robin has built a nest, over the last couple of days, literally inches away from the sliding glass door that leads onto our deck. I'm pretty sure it has something to do with its little woodpecking friend who just happened to mysteriously expire after an unfortunate run-in with an unidentified flying crabbject.

I've caught it staring at me a couple of times while I'm doing the dishes.

Needless to say, I don't go into the backyard anymore.

Dad, Meet My New Girlfriend... Her Name is Cujo...

I've mentioned recently that Mr. Z has been obsessing about this girl in his class for the last month or so. It's very complex -- first he "liked" her, so naturally he told all of his friends, who, as fourth graders are required by law to do, went and told her, and then she apparently freaked out, and now Mr. Z claims that whenever he's near her, "she makes this really mean face and kind of growls like a pit bull." Ah, true love.

So, pretty much every conversation with the boy, lately, somehow involves "the pit bull." She's also letting her presence be known in Mr. Z's artwork, as well. Here's a great drawing Mr. Z did of his latest video game idea, called "Robo Kool." It's based on his "Skool Kool" drawings/writings, which are based on his real-life skool. The drawings are hilarious -- the teachers are all evil, the kids do battle inside these big 'ol robots, and it's just unbridled Mr. Z wackiness at its finest:



My favorite part, though, is this little detail:



That's Mr. Z on the right, giving the evil-eye to a bikini-clad "pit bull." If you'll notice, the mere sight of her in all her coconut-bra glory is literally causing his lid to flip. I think that's one of my all-time favorite drawings of his. His expression is killing me!

Puberty's gonna be a bizznitch for that boy, lemme tell ya.

Not to leave Miss O's artistic crabbility out, she's been totally going to town on her ongoing study of "Girl Surfing the Shit out of a Tsunami":



If I ever decide to get another tattoo, that may very well be it. Hell, maybe I'll have them throw lid-flipping-evil-eye-Mr.-Z on the board, as well. With that mofo on my back, I'd be boss-o-the-beach for sure.

No, Really... Their Grass IS Greener...

I hate summarizing shit up after a long weekend -- if I weren't such a lazy fuck I wouldn't be in this pickle. Mmm.... pickles. Anywhich, let's see:

We went to Ann Arbor for the day on Saturday, just to get out of this life-suck of a town and visit a place guaranteed to make us weep from all its riches. (For the record, we wept.) We spent most of the time at the "Hands-On Children's Museum," which was tits. Four floors of science shit, history shit, technology shit and shit shit. The spawn totally dug it, as did the Old Lady and moi. Miss O went to town on this magnet exhibit -- she's definitely going to be the science geek in the family. Mr. Z tends to spend about four seconds per exhibit, but Miss O will sit there and spend a good 20 minutes just figuring shit out. It's great to see.

Mr. Z really liked the TV studio exhibit, with the newscaster desk and the weather green-screen. He definitely digs being in front of a camera, that boy. If they ever have a 24 hour spaz-news station, he shall be its Wolf Blitzer.

About 500 hours later, we left the place and headed to Zingerman's for lunch. I would murder for a Zingerman's in Okemos, I'll go on record right now. It's obscene, the healthy, alterna-grub bounty that bursts from that place's loins. Sure, our lunch/dessert (gelato!!) came out to about 80 FUCKING DOLLARS, but to see the smile on my colon's face -- well, you can't put a price on that, now, can you?

Then, for the piece-of-resistence, we made a stop at Trader Joe's to stock up on nuts and loaves and crisps and spirits and various and sundry various sundries. I've said it before, and I'll say it again -- ATTENTION TRADER JOE'S!!! OPEN A STORE IN EAST LANSING MICHIGAN, FOR FUCK'S SAKE!!!! THERE ARE 45,000 HUNGRY STUDENTS AND ONE 42 YEAR OLD MAN WHO SPENDS MOST OF HIS LIFE IN HIS BASEMENT AND WHO NEEDS TO SUCKLE YOUR CHILI LIME NUTS ON A REGULAR BASIS!!!! GODDAMMIT!!!!

And then we drove home. Great day. I love that town. We should've bought a house there and made the Old Lady commute to East Lansing. Ah, but then I'd be content... and we can't have that, now, can we?

The rest of the weekend was fine. We rented some movies, went to a park, did some work in the yard. It's just kind of depressing, though, when you think about all the shit we could be doing if we lived in a town like Ann Arbor. It really is ridiculous, the amount of shit they have there. I mean, they're opening up a SECOND Whole Foods because, apparently, the parking was getting a little too crowded at the first one... that being the one that's about 10 blocks away. What the shit?! Do they wipe their dirty asses with 50 dollar bills and throw away their pants after each use, too?! Motherfuckers.

Eh, I'd probably still complain if I lived there. "What?! You're all out of the new New Mexico green chile & cheddar loaf?! That's outrageous!!! Okay, just give me a Detroit Street Round and a Parmesan Pepper loaf. And get me your manager!"

No, I'll be fine here... with the strip malls and the Kohl's and the fucking muttonheads who'd rather shove a 'Bloomin' Onion' into their face slits than a fresh piece of fish. Who needs Trader Joe's and Whole Foods, when you've got the Meijer and Kroger. Who needs the Hands-on Children's Museum when you've got Caesarland? Who needs festivals in the park and fancy restaurants when you've got... I dunno... the Fish Truck?

Put a Barbie Doll in Your Butt...

We were driving home from dinner and a quick cone at "Tasty Freeze," when we heard a song on the radio that may very well displace "Barbie Girl" as Mr. Z's 24-hour-a-day song obsession:

I guess the MSU station was doing some wacky '80s night, or something, but from the minute Eddie Murphy started singing, Mr. Z and Miss O were laughing their asses off. I mean, if you think about it, "Boogie in Your Butt" has to be the funniest goddamn song in the world if you are five or eight years old. Or 42. I haven't heard that thing since college, but it even got a couple of nose laughs from me.

I promised the spawn that I would burn it onto a disk for them this weekend. Shit, I'll fly 1980s Eddie Murphy in for a concert in the backyard, if it'll get Mr. Z to stop playing that fucking "Barbie Girl" dreck.

I Gotta Take a Chat...

I'm not what you'd call a chatty fellow. I'll talk, sure, but I'm not necessarily the verbal initiator in a given situation. I've always been more of a responder... that's why I think I'm better as a "punch-up" kind of writer, rather than a "start-from-scratch" writer. Which is kinda why I started this fucking thing, I guess -- to practice starting from scratch more. Holy fuck, is this post going nowhere.

My point is, I think being isolated in the basement for the last three years is forcing me to become more of an initiator. I'm finding myself talking more... on purpose, and shit. I'll start up conversations with the pharmacist at Kroger ("Is this a crazy spring we're having, or what?!"). I'll actively seek out a salesperson at the True Value to get their opinion on light bulbs ("Hey, what can you tell me about these compact flourescents I've been hearing about?"). And, as I did today, I'll have a ridiculously long conversation about golf, for fuck's sake, with my eye doctor.

I went in for my yearly "how-much-longer-till-I-go-blind" checkup this morning. I sat through the weird-ass stick-your-head-in-this-whirring-machine tests with the oh-my-fuck-you're-so-boring eye nurse who also happens to be the guy at the front desk who answers the phone. Then he stuck me in a room to wait for the real eye doctor. So, the dude comes in and I instantly transform into chatty-fucking-Cathy. I told him all about my job, talked about Chicago, talked about swimming, etc.

Then, remembering that there was a bucket full of personalized golf tees on the front desk, I went all golf on his ass. "Oh, well, I haven't really golfed in a couple of years, but I really love the game. Yeah... the ol' links. I'd love to get back out there and swing the ol' mashie around again. Sure, she's a fickle mistress, she is, but there's just nothing like walking the land with your shaft in your hand... am I right doc?"

It was like I was actively courting this older man to see if he'd invite me out to golf, or something. And he was kinda taking the bait. Luckily, he never actually asked me to hit the links with him. The guy's kind of a tool -- he reminds me of the dickwipes I used to caddy for when I was but a lad, who would tip you 50 cents and wouldn't even buy you a fucking coke at the Weenie-wagon.

But I'm telling ya, get me outta that basement and stick me in a room with some unsuspecting schlub, and I become Baron Von Talkenberg of Chattington. What the shit is happening to me? I'm pissing me off.

I need someone safe I can talk to during the day -- someone who won't talk back and someone I won't regret blathering all kinds of stupid shit at.

Maybe I do need a dog.

I'm Stirring, I'm Stirring!

So, instead of crafting the perfect post tonight, I watched "Goodfellas" for probably the 200th time... literally. Every time that fucker's on the cable, I have to watch its ass. In the early 90s, I worked at a video post-house called Modern Videofilm, and I must've watched that movie 100 times while there. I watched it with closed-captioning, I watched it dubbed into Japanese... I think I even watched an Esperanto claymation version of it once. And yet, I still feel compelled to watch it when I come across it. I know every fucking scene, every camera angle, every song in the background, and I still love it like it's the first time I'm seeing it.

I think it's because I'm soft in the head.

I even put some dialogue from the movie in the screenplay I wrote with a friend back in the late 90s. That fucking screenplay... goddammit... that's a whole 'nother post. I get pissed off every time I think about it. I won't get into it now, but suffice it to say, our screenplay was stolen by Alan Ball and made into "Six Feet Under." I shit you not. I have a chart of all the crap those shitfucks ripped off and everything. We wrote our movie a good four years before that show hit the air -- ours was about two brothers who inherit the family mortuary from their freshly deceased dad. There's so much shit that's the same. Fuck, even the mom's name was the same.

Boy, this vein on my neck is really starting to throb. Okay... breathe... that's it. Don't think about the mean man who stole your story. So, yeah, we had this little "Goodfellas" tribute moment in our script. The mom, named "Ruth"... EXACTLY like in "Six Feet Under" by the way, was hosting a dinner for the two estranged brothers, hoping she could get them back together and she says:

RUTH
Oh, by the way, I invited Barry and Beth over for dinner tonight. I want us to have a meal together, just like we used to with Daddy. I'm making my ziti with the meat gravy and I'm planning to roast some peppers over the flames and I was gonna put on some string beans with some olive oil and garlic... oh, and I have some beautiful cutlets that were cut just right that I'm going to fry up before dinner just as an appetizer. Would you stir this while I get something from the fridge?

So, yeah, that was straight out of "Goodfellas." Does this story have a point? No. But now I'm pissed about that goddamn script again. Motherfucker.

I'm going to sleep.

AAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!

So, I'm cooking dinner after finally getting the spawn to bed, and the turkey sausage I'm turning into spaghetti sauce is sizzling away, and the stove fan is whirring away, and I hear what I think is one of the kids calling down to me.

So I ignored it. I figured it was Miss O, and she's been driving us fucking crazy, of late, with her post go-to-bed filibustering. She either wanted some "fresh" water, which she could get by herself, or she wanted some lotion on some obscure body part, like the webbing between her big and second toe, which is bullshit, or she was "too hot" and wanted her hair in a pony-tail, which I made sure it already was before I left her room.

Then the faint voice grew louder and louder until I heard her screaming, "DAD! DAD! DAD! DAD! DAD!DAAAAAAAAD!!!!!!" Shit... maybe it was something serious! Maybe she was trying to get something from her dresser and it fell on top of her! Maybe her night-light exploded and her face was on fire! Maybe she had somehow tumbled through the screen on her window and was hanging onto the roof by one finger!!!!

I bolted up the stairs and into her room:

ME: [out-of-breath] WHAT IS IT, MISS O?!?!

MISS O: [calmly] Oh, hey Dad. Um... (10 second pause] what's seven plus seven?

Dough!

I got this letter in the mail today:



Boy, did these fuckers seriously fuck shit up. How many thousands of pissed off hippies must've written to these guys to get them to ditch their brand new product, a product they probably spent millions of dollars on researching and testing and advertising, for the boring old, rock-hard loaf they so quickly booted out the back door. I fucking love it.

According to this "personalized" letter I received from Ms. Jennifer Hartley, they ditched the recipe that put their goddamn company on the yeasty map because a bunch of doughy, chowder-headed Midwesterners in a focus-group told them they liked "the softer Natural Wheat recipe" better. Of course they liked the softer loaf better, you fuckshits -- they're from the fucking Midwest. These are the people who put on their fucking pleated Dockers and Tommy Bahama shirts for a fancy night out at the "Olive Garden" and "Ruby Tuesday" and "TGI McAsssquirters" and the goddamn "Cracker Barrel." You think you're gonna hand them a slice of the old recipe, with its nuts and flax and spelt and husks and shit and expect them to choke that fucker down and give you a fat, bloated "Thumbs Up"?! You're fucking insane!

So now you've gotta piss away millions more to do damage control and calm all the constipated hippies down and fire up Catherine Clark's old hippie stoves up there in Oconomowoc, Wisconsin to start pumping out the exact same loaves you would've already been pumping out if you hadn't fucked with everything in the first place. It's really a fuck-up of monumental proportions. Nice work.

I don't know why I'm enjoying this whole Brownberry bread fuck-up so much. I think it's diverting my attention away from the fact that I'm a bird murderer... a birderer.

Bye Bye Birdie...

Blood has been spilled at the crabbyhome, and said blood is on my hands. Well, hand, actually. My right hand -- the one that drew the pouch of the wrist-rocket back and then let go, sending the tiny, silver bb of death hurtling through the air, and then ripping through the flesh and feathers of the tiny avian adversary that has been ingesting the siding of my house, board by board. This is not a proud moment for me -- I confess to this deed with heavy heart. But the deed is done.



I was awakened by the pecking this morning at about 8 a.m. I turned to the Old Lady and she to me, and we realized that the last couple of months of peck-free slumber had finally come to an end. We knew this day would come again, and I almost pulled my pillow up over my head and raised the white flag, but for some reason, I got up, got dressed and walked downstairs.

The spawn were already awake, engaged in a rousing, early-morning game of Mario Kart. I said good morning and declared, "I've gotta go outside for a couple of minutes... I'll be right back." I paused and watched them play their game, realizing that it would be the last thing I'd ever say to them as a non-murderer. I grabbed my weapon, dropped a handful of ammo in my pocket, and walked outside.

I snuck around to the side of the house and there it was, brazenly perched on the siding, pecking away at a brand new hole. In fact, it had broken completely through the siding and was sticking its head a good three inches into the hole, pulling out yellow insulation. I knew what I had to do. I loaded the first shot into the leather pouch, pulled back and released. I was low -- the pellet ricocheted off the siding, sending my feathery foe fleeing.

There was also some potential collateral damage from this first shot. After it ricocheted off the house, I heard a metal "ting" in my neighbor's driveway. I did my best Moe Howard slow-burn and saw their SUV sitting right in the "ting"'s vicinity. Now it was personal.

I crouched down behind the fence and waited. The early morning dew seeped in through my converse and chilled my sockless feet. I knew at that moment what it must have felt like to be in 'Nam. Hunkered down in a fox-hole, chilled to the bone, waiting for the enemy to reveal their pointy beak. I opened a tin of c-rations, rolled a fatty, and waited as "Purple Haze" echoed through the banyan trees.

And then there he was. It was like a dream. Everything seemed to be in slow-motion. I could distinguish each individual wing-flap, as the bird flew back to its perch and resumed pecking. I listened to the rhythm of the taps: dit-dit-dash-dit... dit-dit-dash... dash-dit-dash-dit... dit-dit-dit-dit... It was morse code! I transcribed the dits and dashes until I had the complete message. It was, "F-U-C-K-Y-O-U-C-R-A-B-B-Y-D-A-D."

That did it.

I pouched the payload, drew it back to my ear and, this time, aimed. It was as if my right eye were a telephoto lens. My field of sight was black, but for a red cross-hair on the tiny neck of the bird. Everything went silent... I let go, and I watched the trail of the steel shot as it homed in on its target. Then, as quickly as it had disappeared, the sound came flooding back. A sickening thud -- the sound of metal meeting flesh... the sound of mortality.

As I watched the limp body fall to the ground, I felt sick. Of course, this is what I wanted when I bought the wrist-rocket -- an end to the destruction of my house. But now, looking at the tiny corpse on my lawn, I only felt like a huge dick. I killed a bird, just like Opie did on that one episode of "Andy Griffith." And I felt the glare of Opie's Pa burning into the back of my neck. I'm sorry Pa... really I am.

But Pa wasn't there to reassure me, and Aunt Bee wasn't there with a warm slice of apple pie to make me feel better. So, I grabbed a grocery bag, put on a glove, placed the wee corpse in the bag and gave it a respectful burial, in the garbage can.

For that bird, the war is over. For me, whether I like it or not, the battle rages on.

I just sure as shit hope my neighbor never figures out who the asshole is who dinged his Durango.

What a Crappy Drummer...

Tomorrow night, Mr. Z is performing a song on piano for his school's talent show. It's great, we didn't even ask him if he wanted to do it. He said, "I'm going to play a song in the talent show" and that was it. He doesn't seem to be nervous at all and can't wait to perform. He sure as shit didn't inherit that trait from me.

I don't know if I've mentioned this before, but I never really got used to playing on stage. It was easier for me, being a drummer and all, 'cuz I was sitting in the back and didn't really have to interact with the crowd. But my stomach was always twisted in knots before a show - which didn't always mix well with my highly "irritable bowel syndrome."

That, and the fact that I used to drink shitloads of beer before, during and after the show made for a heady fecal stew coursing through my quavering poop-tubes. I remember shows where I literally had to stop, IN THE MIDDLE OF THE SONG, MIND YOU, and bolt to the crapper. I'd start sweating and then get these waves of cramps, and I'd know that ol' Crack-atoa was gonna blow in a matter of seconds. And you know, it sure didn't fucking help that I was already sitting down -- that's like giving your heinous a license to crap.

Looking back, I guess it would've been more "rock-n-roll" to just sit there and shit my pants. The thing is, it's pretty fucking hardcore to choke on your own vomit, but soaking in a pantload of butt-mud for an hour or so just didn't seem all that romantic. (I guess instead of groupies, I'd have poupies.)

Anywhich, I hope Mr. Z has a good experience with his first performance and never has to deal with opening-night shitters. I'll be sure to give him a nice bland dinner beforehand. And no Schlitz tall-boys until after the gig.

Ahoy, Good Buddy!

Just as I'm about to shovel yet another heapin' helpin' of dreariness over my head, a faint glimmer of hope shines through in this bogus burg. See, if you want to get fresh fish in this town you need to, well... you need to go to another town... that's far away from here. Their idea of fresh fish 'round here is grabbing the can of tuna just as the stock-boy is placing it on the shelf over at the Meijer.

So imagine my surprise when a neighbor mentioned "the fish truck." What the shit, neighbor?! Tell me more! Well, apparently there's some dude who drives into town in a truck, once a month, and parks in some gravel parking lot, selling fresh fish out the ass of said truck. And you know, I've been here so long now that this whole scenario doesn't even make me blink. Buncha fucking loonies.

So I headed on over to the lot, over near the big red barn, and there he was:



As you can see, I had to fight the crowds to get to the dude. But, five minutes later, I walked away with a coupla pounds of sushi-grade tuna steaks and a bag-o-mahi-mahi:



This is either gonna be the greatest discovery of the last three miserable years here, or the Crabby family's in for some serious ptomaine poisoning. Either way, we'll at least be eating something from the sea that I didn't need a can opener to prepare.

Now, if I can just figure out where the doobage truck, the stylish-clothes-truck, the live music truck, and the culture truck are parked, I'll be fucking set.

Japaneasy Does It, Miss O!

Well, it only took 5 1/2 years, but we've finally figured out what Miss O likes to eat. We took the Old Lady out for sushi on Mother's Day, which can be a dangerous venture in the "Land of Dough & Ham," but the place is actually not too horrible, so what the shit. When I mentioned where we were going, Miss O said, "Ooh! I looooove sushi!" which would be great, but she's basically never had it before, so she was just talking out of her ass. Okay, once I attempted to make sushi at home, but she didn't like any of the ingrediments that I was putting in it, so she basically ate a ball of rice... ergo, she loves sushi.

So we get there and order -- the Old Lady and I got a few rolls, Mr. Z got a teriyaki chicken bento box thing, and Miss O got the salmon bento box. They bring these boxes out, and Miss O's had 1) a pretty good-sized hunk o' salmon, B) three California rolls, iii) some veggie/shrimp tempura, 4) some broccoli and carrots, and E) some salad.

She ate about half the soup, didn't really like the salad, and then proceeded to eat every fucking morsel within a three-foot radius of her pie-hole. Fucking inhaled the shit. Salmon: gone. Tempura: gone. She sucked down the California rolls and THEN, when she noticed Mr. Z wasn't eating his, ate the three on his plate. At one point, she had a piece of sushi around her finger like a ring and was sucking the avocado out with her nostrils.

And after she obliterated her meal, she started in on mine. She saw the tobiko roll (red & orange flying fish roe) and asked if she could try it. I said, "You know, those are fish eggs." She said, "Mmmmm!" She vacuumed those fuckers up like an aquatic-reverse-easter-bunny.

It was insanity. The girl has never eaten like that before in her life. In the back of my head, I was waiting for the whole scene from "Alien" to start playing out, with Miss O collapsing on the table and a baby alien exploding out of her abdomen, but it never did. She eventually ran out of food and then we ordered some of those awesome ice-cream-balls-encased-in-dusty-sugary-scrotum-esque things (moji?) and she scarfed down one of those fuckers, as well.

Needless to say, we may be going back there for every meal. Mr. Z, of course, is not a fan. Zeus forbid, the two of them like the same goddamn restaurant. And I don't know if it has anything to do with her increased caloric intake, but Miss O's drawings have exploded and gotten much more intense, since that meal. This one's my favorite:



I'm pretty sure it's a picture of her eyeing an errant piece of food on the floor, under a table at the opposite end of the restaurant. It's called, "Hey Lady, You Gonna Eat Yer Fatty Tuna?!"

Bonin' up on Sex Ed...

Mr. Z and the other boys in his class have apparently been having a couple of classes a week with one of the male teachers in his school, to learn about pee-pees and wee-wees and the vay-vay. (Which is great, by the way, 'cuz I still can't say the word "penis" without tittering like a school girl.) Tonight, before bed, I was feeling brave, and I asked him if he had any questions about anything he was learning.

MR. Z: Yeah... so why do people call it a vagina when it's really called a vulva.

ME: Well, a lot of people don't really understand that the vagina is really the inside part and the vulva is the part that's on the outside.

MR. Z: Even Mr. H calls the whole thing a vagina.

ME: Really? Did you say anything about that?

MR. Z: Well, I raised my hand and told him that I thought the vulva and the vagina were two different things.

ME: And what did he say?

MR. Z: He said the vulva is part of the vagina.

ME: Well, see, even some grownups don't know what they're talking about.

MR. Z: And we saw this movie that was about the penis and everything, and I was trying to listen and all the other guys in the class were laughing and calling it a "weenie" and stuff.

ME: Well, a lot of times people laugh when they're nervous or uncomfortable. They were probably just nervous.

MR. Z: Well, I told them that they should call it a penis.

ME: That's telling 'em.

So I guess I don't really have to worry about him being the youngest in his class and learning about all this stuff too soon. Actually, it kinda seems like he should be teaching the fucking class.

I'm just glad he doesn't make his penis sing opera at school, like he does in the shower.

Wanna See My Stump?

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You Stink Purty...

Another smell-related post, though this one has nothing to do with flatulence/defecation -- I can tell by the response that last night's post was one of your faves. I promise I'll refrain from self-doo-sclosing for awhile.

So, all day today I kept catching a whiff of this phantom smell -- a kind of sweet, powdery, springtime-fresh lady kind of smell that was quite nasally-titillatious. It was, however, strangely out of place, as my subterranean dungeony office hole usually smells like more of a cross between damp-spidery-beef-dust and musty-swampgas-egg-socks.

I kept sniffing around, trying to locate the elusive emanation, but to no avail. I smelled my shirt, my hair, the garbage can, my pen, my nose-breath -- zilch, zally, nada, bupkus. This went on for the entire day and I was unable to track down the phantom fragrance.

Finally, at the end of the workday, I walked upstairs and, I guess, the fresh above-ground air jogged my plaque-riddled gray matter. I remembered that I had run out of my deodorant and decided to borrow a coupla swipes of the Old Lady's pit-stick. So instead of my usual co-op bought Queen Helene Aloe deodorant, that makes me smell like a sour, aloe-y me:



I smelled all purty with my Mitchum for Women Spring Fresh scent:



I found out later that the Old Lady didn't even like that deodorant and had already moved on to some other flavor. She was getting ready to the throw the thing out, and I contemplated taking it over and making it my new trademark stink. But I realized it would be just too distracting, having that swiped on me every day. It was like working next to some sweet-smelling co-worker, and I had a hard time focusing. Besides, my basement's a cold, harsh solitary nether-world -- it's no place for a high-class woman like Lady Mitchum.

So, farewell sweet lady... and thank you for spreading a little bit of your springy freshness to my cold, wintry world. This one's for you:

I'm Farty McFly!

First off, five separate people were directed to this blog after Googling "Barry Gibb teeth." I can't tell you how strangely satisfying that is to me. I loves me the innernecks.

Anywhich, as a youth, my friends and I had a term for when you farted and it smelled like someone's house. We called it "housitosis" and it always fascinated me. Strangely enough, my housitosis flatus usually smelled like my grandparents' laundry room. Don't know why... maybe I needed to clean my lint-trap more often.

So, today, I was taking my midday dumpage and I had the most crystal clear, unambiguous housitosis episode ever. It was as if my cloud of stink had mystical, time-traveling qualities, as it whisked me back through a time chunnel to the outdoor bathrooms of Camp Mishawaka, circa 1975. As I closed my eyes (partly to visualize my time-traveling and partly because they were burning from the egginess of it all) it all came flooding back. The bathroom (known as "The Whitey"), the cabins we stayed in, the lake, the sauna, the dining hall -- it was literally like I was there. Of course, this was the camp I cried at every day because I was homesick due to the fact that I WAS ONLY 10 YEARS OLD AND AWAY FROM HOME FOR FOUR WEEKS, so my memories were tinged with an eggy sadness, but it was really fucking trippy.

I sat there for a few minutes, reminiscing, until I could take no more. It wasn't that the memories were too much... again, it was the egginess. So I bid a-doo to Camp Mishawaka and set the flux-capacitor for 2007, once again. Once safely back in present time, I wiped a single tear from my eye, then did some other wiping, and left my past... behind.

Thank you, housitosis, for a truly memorable flush-back.

Gibb Me the Willies...

I'm too disturbed by Barry Gibb's teeth/philtrum combo to post tonight.

Electile Disfunction...

Well, I did the goddamn phone-tree thing today. It was so fucking painful. You know that whole idea of flooding your phobias is such ass-shit. For example -- you'd think that all my trips 20 feet up the ladder to attach irri-tape to the side of the house to scare those fuckass woodpeckers would've assuaged my height phobia, but, of course, you'd be wrong. My fear of heights is way worse now. And so it is with the phone. After cold-calling 21 people to inform them that their vote can make a difference, my phonophobia is as strong as ever. It's like it was getting stronger from each call I made... feeding off my fear and sucking any residual confidence straight outtta my ear-hole.

Oh, and I thought I was so fucking clever, calling all these people around lunchtime, thinking I'd get their machines. One machine. Out of 21. Doesn't anyone have a fucking job in this town?! Bastards. And that poor woman who spoke Spanish. I would've attempted to read my spiel in Spanish, but I didn't know the words for "vote," "election," or "non-homestead millage." That didn't leave me with much -- I could've said "Mañana... uh, a la escuela... um, necesitas a vote-o para el board-o de la escuela... y... el renewal del Non-Homestead millage, por favor." I just couldn't pull it off, so I panicked and said "Lo siento" and hung up. What a dick I be. Un "pene," if you will. Even if you won't.

But it's done. Thanks to me, democracy is safe for another miserable day.

You're welcome.

A Pre-Dairy Error...

So, I learned tonight that, as a parent, one has to be just a little careful about what one blurts out in front of the spawn after a glass and a half of vino at dinner. We all piled into the car and headed out to get some ice cream, afterwards. As we were heading down the street, the old lady looked out at a well-manicured garden and said, "I should really plant some tulips." Well, I couldn't let that fucking lob fall to the ground, so I replied, "Well, I've got a suggestion where you can plant your tulips...." Yep, an oldie but a goodie... unless, of course, your kids are sitting right behind you.

The spawn didn't respond, so they either didn't hear me or they didn't get it. And judging by the Old Lady's response to my comment, I don't think I'm gonna get it either.

Phone Sux...

I got so pwned today, it's not even teh funny. I was two minutes away from corralling the spawn inside for dinner, when a mom from down the street strolled by with her daughter. I said hi and she said, "Oh, hey, can I ask you something?" I knew I was fucked right there. The question was, "how fucked." Did she want me to bake something for school? That wouldn't be too bad, I reckon. Did she want me to supervise some class art project. Been there -- shitty but not the end of the world. But no, she had a special request.

She asked if I would do some fucking phone-tree thing next week before the voting for the school board. PHONES! ME! I hate talking on the fucking phone -- especially to people I don't know about shit I don't understand. Sure, it's a good cause -- there's this bond thing that people need to vote for so the school can buy a bunch of new computers and shit. Great... I totally support it. But godfuckingshitcock, now I'm gonna have to cold-call all the parents in Miss O's kindergarten class and tell them why they need to get their asses to the polls and vote. Oh, and did I mention that I couldn't say "No, sorry I can't help you" to this mom because she's nine months pregnant and the thing's about to drop any goddamn day?

I know it doesn't sound like a big deal, but I have this phone issue that I've had since fucking forever. Hell, I literally used to pay my sister, when we were kids, to call and make haircut appointments for me... in high school. The Old Lady's constantly getting on my ass, and rightly so, for making her call for all the kids' appointments and shit. I mean, I'm getting better at it, but I practically dump in my drawers every time I need to make an orthodontist appointment for Mr. Z.

I'm not sure when it all started. Its genesis may have occurred once, when I was trying to order Chinese food for my family back in junior high. I think my parents were out, or something, and my brother and sister made me call. As I was straining to understand the broken English of the (most-likely multi-lingual) order-taker on the phone, my asshole (and apparently racist) siblings were pulling a Rosie O'Donnell and mimicking the likely conversation with some "Would you like egglorr"s and "How 'bout some flied lice"s. I remember laughing so hard that I was unable to finish the order, handing the phone to my sister and running out of the room. Of course, my laughter stemmed from nervousness and the inappropriateness of the situation, and not from me finding any humor whatsoever in their callous mockery of a hard-working immigrant. Those heartless bastards... no wonder my parents love me the most.

Anyfuck, now I have to relive this adolescent nightmare once again, and cold-call a buncha strangers, begging them to "get out the vote." I'll probably just call while naked in the bathtub, so when someone asks a question I'm unprepared for and I inevitably shit myself, I'll at least be able to hose-off quickly when I'm done.

Hey, maybe if I were to get Mr. Z a new video game, he'd make the calls for me. Never too early to teach the boy about participatory democracy!

My Hard Drive's a Tad Floppy...

My goddamn 300GB external hard drive 'sploded the other day at the worst possible time ever. I've gotta record a song by the spawnage for my dad's birthday that's in a week, I've gotta record some music for work AND the entire Crabbydad family just wrote our first song together that I'm dying to record before I fucking forget it, which I will because my mind's turning to malt-o-meal and I can't... I, uh... can't... wait, what was I just saying?

(But I still remember the stereotaxic instrument, so all's not lost just yet.)

So, yeah, the drive blew up. It was the drive that had all my awesome samples on it: the symphonic shit and all the drum shit. Motherfucker. I just shipped it off to Texas -- like those fucking mouth-breathers are gonna know what to do with it. That's the last time I buy an external hard drive based solely on the fact that the company name sounded like a transformer-robot/Rush song (Maxtor).

There was a great article in the NY Times today about crafting the ultimate martini, and guess what -- I already drink their number one choice for gin: Plymouth. Best gin ever. I celebrated by whipping up a little drinky-poo to go along with my din-din. Made me feel all buttery inside. And by the way, the Times agrees with me that a martini made with vodka ain't no goddamn martini. It's a marti-no-siree-bob. It's funny -- I actually don't drink very often, and when I do pour myself the odd cocktail, I always feel like I'm doing something sneaky. Like my parents are going to walk in at any moment and bust my ass. That, and I feel a little like Darren Stevens. The first Darren, not the second one. The second one was a cock.

Oh, and one thing they didn't mention in that article -- martinis don't go very well with a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios and soy milk.

I'm going to lie down now.

Norma Rye

So, I've eaten this one brand of bread for as long as I can fucking remember. It's dense, it's dry and it's chock-fulla nuts and spelt and toenails and staples and husks and other undigestible crap that just loofahs (loaf-ahs?) out my colon until I'm shiny and glisten-y, from the inside on out. I'm not even sure I have enjoyed eating this bread for, lo, these twenty-plus years, but it's the bread I eat, godammit, so lay the fuck off. This is my fiber-y friend:



Anywhich, a couple of months ago, the Old Lady and I noticed (yes, she cleans her colon with the same loafah) that we couldn't find our bread anywhere. Not at Kroger, not at Meijer, hell, we couldn't even find it at the Co-op, where the stinky, hairy people live. I could feel my rectum tightening as I searched far and wide for my yeasty colon-cleanser, but no matter where I looked, I ended up loafless.

Then I notice this bullfuck staring at me from the shelf where my old Brownberry used to perch:



What the shit?! They're fucking with my loaf! Then I thought, "Hold yer ass there, Crabbydad. Maybe they just changed the packaging. Sure, it's called 'Arnold' instead of 'Brownberry' now, but at least give it a shot." So I bought the imposter bag and guess what -- THEY FUCKED WITH MY LOAF! It was all wrong. Doughy and soft, no nuts or toenails, and to top it off, it was sweet! Motherfuckers!

My whole world turned upside-down. Left was right, stop was go... it was like someone telling me that, suddenly, I was supposed to wear my underwear on the outside of my pants. I could just feel the log-jam forming in my small intestine. I might never shit again! I'd be... crabstipated!

So, I wrote an e-mail to the Arnold Bread Company and gave them the ol' what-for. I don't remember what I actually typed, in my fiber-deprived stupor, but it was something to the effect of, "If you don't immediately switch back to the original Brownberry Natural Wheat bread recipe, I'm gonna drive on over to Horsham, Pennsylvania and take a 36-foot-long, steaming, petrified dump on your goddamn doorstep. Sincerely, Crabbydad."

Well, I don't know if I was the turd that broke the camel's ass, but this morning, I received an e-mail from a Ms. Victoria Petrakis from GW Bakeries saying, and I quote:

"A decision has been made to bring back the original Natural Wheat Bread. You should find it on the shelves by the end of June."

Ms. Victoria Petrakis: I'd drive to Horsham, Pennsylvania and hug you, but I can't move because of the 36-foot-long, petrified dump that's stuck in my dessicated colon. I'll hug you sometime in the beginning of July. I thank you from the bottom of my sealed-shut bung.

Boy, it'll sure be nice to get the Brownberries a-flowin' again.