The Perfect End to a Perfect Week...

Miss O was home for the third day in a row, today, and instead of my crab-o-meter going all haywire and shit, I just resigned myself to the fact that my week was officially douched and I should just fucking accept it. Which I did, for the most part. The Old Lady and I split the day, so I was able to get some work done, but the rest of the time I spent with Miss O creating a new habitat for her fairy dolls. She was coveting this massive woodland treehouse thing in some hippie catalog she dug up, but I said, "Ah, that thing blows -- we could make one WAY better than that!" Unfortunately, she said "Okay!"

So, I dredged up the "bag-o-crafty-shit" from the basement and we just started slapping crap together -- popsicle sticks, fabric scraps, clay, sticks, yarn, fake fur, boogersnots, earwigs, blood. When the dust cleared, this is what we had wrought:







And finally, a shot with the new homeowners enjoying their digs:



Get a load of me -- I'm a regular Frank Lloyd Wrong. Miss O digs it, though, and it saved me about 100 bucks, so what the shit. And it burned up the afternoon, so bonus.

Tomorrow a.m. I leave for Gearfest 2008. Unfortunately, like Miss O, I got re-sick and this time, the plague juice has taken up residence in my chest. I'm quite the wheezy chap, of late, and it feels like I have a pair of wet pantyhose lodged in my alveoli. Nothing 48 hours of drinking and not sleeping won't fix, right? As long as I don't die in Fort Wayne, the trip will have been a success.

So yeah, if anyone's heading to Fort Wayne this weekend, look me up. I'll be the tall dorky guy sucking on an oxygen tank while trying to bum free shit at the Digital Performer booth.

Rock [coff, coff] on!

Miss O No... Not Again!

The crabbiness has all become clear to me now -- Miss O was up with a fever last night and she's officially re-sick... again. No school today (and most likely none tomorrow) and I had to spend the day making her comfy, playing marathon Uno games with her, forcing the fluids and trying to find something that she'd fucking eat, all while trying to shoehorn some work into the minutes in between. It was snot fun.

Before the fever, we actually had this grand plan for today. Miss O was supposed to have an eye doc appointment in Brighton, which is about 45 minutes away, and we were going to rent a van, pick the kids up from school, stop at the doc's office, and then continue on to IKEA, which is about another half an hour from there. We were going have dinner there, load up on bungloads of cheap Swedish kräppë (we especially wanted to pick up some deck furniture so we could start eating outside) and it would've been hunky-fucking-dory.

But she didn't go to school, I canceled the van rental, canceled the eye doc appointment, got zero Swedish kräppë, and I got my ass fucking schooled all day in Uno. Which was almost as fun.

I just hope her phlegmishness clears up by Saturday morning, 'cuz I'm actually shakin' the dust of this crummy little town off my feet and heading on an overnight geek-scursion to Fort Wayne, Indiana for Gearfest 2008! That's right, beeyotches, 10 hours of complete nerdarinos drooling over recording gear they can't afford in beautiful downtown Fort Wayne -- home of... uh... Gearfest 2008? And Frank Burns.

You can begin envying my life right about... now.

The Return of Miss Woe...

Well, Miss O's two-wheeler good mood officially lasted "a" second, and then she was on the express train right back to crabbyville. In all fairness, she has been battling this never-ending, bottomless-phlegm-pit of a cold that has seemingly been dragging on since, oh I don't know, the twelfth? Of never? All shit broke loose yesterday afternoon, and there has been a steady stream of whining, tears, boogers and/or snotballs ever since.

We've tried to cheer her up, distract her, indulge her, but she has set the mood dial to "fuck off" and that sucker ain't budging anytime soon. At one point, in the midst of a particularly blubbery weepisode, she stomped upstairs to her room and slammed her door. Then, about two minutes later, she stomped back down, tears still a-streamin', and thrust this into my hands:



I think the fact that I laughed at its sheer adorableness didn't really help matters much.

Alas, knowone nose the troubles she nose.

A Cool Pair of Wheels Is All I Need...

Miss O finally decided that it was time to ditch the training wheels on her bike and learn to ride two-wheeler-style. You can't force Miss O to do shit -- and if she senses that you want her to do something, she'll completely polarize and refuse to fucking do it -- but once she makes up her mind to conquer something, she fucking kicks its ass. Which is what she did with her bike. I ran along side her a coupla times and then, boom, she nailed it.

Today, we went on our first all-family bike ride around the subdivision and she really was amazing -- keeping up with Mr. Z, riding up hills, stopping at stop signs -- the works. I spied her writing this later on this afternoon:



Our baby's done growed up, mother.

Whose Death Is It Anyway?

Well, thanks to a 1/4 of a Xanax, I made it to the funeral, and I'm glad I went. I was a little fucking creeped out for the first 20 minutes or so, but the meds kicked in soon after and the terror level dropped significantly.

But I have to tell ya, and my apologies to the faithful out there, but cheezin' rice, I REALLY don't get this whole religion thing. It was a Catholic service (but really, it could've been any denomination), and I swear to crap, they were making the shit up as they went along. (And seriously, no disrespect to any believers out there. Do not take my heathenous musings as anything but that.) The sprinkling of the holy water on the casket, the metal incense ball thing the dude was waving around (which smelled strangely like burnt pencil), the whole Eucharist thing with the eating of the body and the drinking of the wine/blood (?!), the weird-ass kneeling bar that I had to pull out from under the bench in front of me, the fanciful vestments of the pastor (tastefully traditional but with inlaid fabric from what seemed to be a Red Roof Inn bedspread), the hymns, the many gilded tomes that were brought forth, the lady who kept leaving her seat to go to the bathroom and each time she did it, she would bow to the giant Jesus hanging from the ceiling who, by the way, seemed to have been sculpted out of honey-butter.

Seriously. It really seems like some insane person just made a bunch of shit up, packaged it, and said, "There you go -- I give you religion. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go meet a giant badger on Mars -- we're having a picnic and then we're going to wash our hair with potatoes!"

Don't get me wrong -- the organist rocked the hizzy! I could sit around and listen to that dude play all day long. And I actually sang along with some of the hymns, adding in some 7ths and 9ths and going all Bohemian Rhapsody on their ass. When the dude really cranked the big, fat chords out, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. He had a total Deep Purple thing going on, for sure. That part was awesome.

I think the thing that bummed me out the most was that, of the nearly two hours I sat there, the pastor talked about Jesus or God or a buncha other bearded and robed dudes for about an hour and forty minutes. But I only heard about Bob, the guy WHOSE FUNERAL IT WAS, for like 20 minutes... if that! I wanted to hear about his life and who he was and all the things he did and why the church was packed to the fucking rafters with people who thought he was the nicest guy ever. But all I got was a 3 minute speech from a friend of his from the Masons or the Knights of Cydonia, or whatever, and a seriously heart-rending speech by Bob's son and his SIX other siblings.

I mean, face it, the paster TOTALLY BOGARTED THE SERVICE!

I guess I can see why they do it that way -- if, instead of fixating on this horrible, unexplainable individual death, you couch it in this grand master plan laid out by this all-knowing and all-loving supreme being, it's way easier to handle the randomness and awfulness of it all and you can actually get through your life without your head going all "Scanners" on you. But I'm telling ya, I think everyone would've gotten a hell of a lot more out of it if they had just sat in a big circle on the floor of someone's living room and told stories about the dude and passed around some photos and gotten fucking soused.

That's a religion I could get behind.

But, like I said, I'm glad that I went. I think Kim said it best when she said, "It's only fitting [I] remember him, since he always remembered [me]." And that was the subject of my dinnertime Mike Brady sermon to the spawnage when I told them that the best way to live on after you die is to live an interesting life, have as much fun as you can, and be really nice to people and make lots and lots of friends who will continue to talk and write and blog about you, long after you're gone.

Then Miss O plugged her ears and told me to stop talking about death or she's gonna have nightmares.

Scared Stiff...

So, I think I'm gonna go to Bob's funeral tomorrow. Is that weird? I don't really go to funerals... yet. I'm sure they'll start rolling in soon enough. I remember a funeral I went to back in college where the open casket was right inside the front door of the church -- you basically had to walk up to and then around the body to go inside. I'm pretty sure that was the moment that put me off funerals for good.

And that open casket shit is so fucking creepy. It's like some kind of horror movie -- you're just waiting for the body to sit up and do some Phantom of the Opera face at the crowd. I know some people need to see the person one last time for closure, but I don't know, I think looking at photos and sharing stories is a little more respectful and a little less terrifying. Anywhich, apparently there was a viewing today, so hopefully tomorrow, at the service, things are all sealed up nice and tight, and it's just people talking about what an awesome guy he was.

I also have a really hard time sitting quietly in big spaces without moving, like in churches and lecture halls and shit. I've got my pointy ass-bones poking into the goddamn wooden benches, and I'm not moving, and it's really fucking quiet, and then I can feel my heart beating, which always freaks me out, and there's usually someone sitting right next to me, and I'm all hot and boxed in and shit, and then I start getting sweaty and panicky, and I try to just breathe slowly and deeply, but then I get too fixated on my breathing, and then I get all itchy, and by that time my ass and taint have gone completely numb and my mouth's all dry and I have to take a steamy camel piss and I look up to try to find something to calm me down and boom, I look right at the dead body lying there in the goddamn open casket.

Holy crap, I think I better take a half a Xanax before I go. And I'll sit on the aisle... in the back. And maybe I'll bring a cushion. And a diaper.

Only I could make someone else's funeral all about me.

I am such a dick.

Testing the Waters...

Even though my crabonic plague is still a-lingerin', I decided to go swimming this morning, just to see if the act of physical exertion might help me hork up some of the more weighty oysters lodged in the deepest recesses of my alveoli.

When I pulled up to the Y, I noticed that the sign out front read, "We Will Miss You, Bob!" The Old Lady had mentioned the sign yesterday, and said that she saw something inside suggesting that Bob was retiring, which is a huge bummer because Bob is probably the nicest guy on the fucking planet. Seriously. I mean, the dude knew my fucking name by my second visit to the Y -- he knew everybody's goddamn name. Not like those other desk workers who would try to sneak a look at your card before saying hello... "Oh... uh, hi there...[glance/panic/scan] Shirley?" Bob just knew everybody -- every single morning, he'd be there at the desk with a cheery, "Mornin' Crabbydad!"

So, I was a little bummed when I saw the sign. Then I walk inside and head toward the lockerroom, and I see this big sheet of paper on the wall where shitloads of people had written little goodbyes to Bob -- "I'll miss your smile, Bob!" and "The Y will be a little less cheerful without you, Bob!" and "Our prayers are with your family at this sad time, Bob."

Wait, what?!

I looked up and there, in the center of the sheet, was a reprint of Bob's obituary. Bob didn't fucking retire, he died. What the shit?! The dude was only 60. Goddammit.

So, I walked into the lockerroom, which was silent, got my suit on and managed to do about half the laps I normally do before I started wheezing and horking up lung. I said "fuck it" at that point, and went back in to get dressed and go home.

I don't have a snappy ending to this story. I'm just shocked and bummed that one of the only people I see on a daily basis, and the only one who knew me from a turd on the ground, is dead. I mean, I didn't really know the guy, but when I think about it, I probably knew him as well as I know anybody in this town... which is depressing. I guess it's just another reminder to get out of this house and do shit and meet people and fucking live a little... if for no other reason than to ensure that when I drop dead, maybe there'll be more than two or three people to sign my sheet of paper on the wall at the Y.

Rock on, Bob.

Whoa, Black Lung-y, Phlegm-a-legm...

Still sick. Why is it that when the spawnage contracted this bug, they got a little cough and some sniffles, when the Old Lady got it, she had a sore throat and she felt tired and "dizzy," and when I get it, I'm wheezy, coughing gray slugs outta my lungs, can't hear out of either ear, and the never ending raging rapids of boogersnotz that flows out of my face is glo-stick green? I'm not complaining... just askin'.

I've got the fucking immune system of a goddamn dung beetle, that's why. Actually, the dung beetle probably has a pretty powerful immune system, given that the thing basically rolls shit-balls all day for a living. Maybe I could be the first human recipient of a dung-beetle immune system. I'd roll shit-balls all day if it would mean I could stay healthy while doing it. And I'll bet I'd be good at it too -- I have an eye for detail. I'd have the biggest, smoothest shit-balls in town, by gum! "Hey, have you seen the fucking shit-balls that crabbydad rolled today?! Holy crap, those things are turd-riffic!" Yep, that would be the scuttlebutt amongst all the other dung-beetle-immune-system-recipient patients 'round the shitfarm.

Ah, a fella can dream, can't he?

HOCK! Who Blows There?

Well, after weeks of the spawnage coughing lung-oysters in my general direction and tossing their snot-sodden, un-Kleenexes at me every three minutes, I have finally surrendered my immune system to their plague. I am a sputum-producing machine and my throat feels like it's lined in pink fiberglass insulation and napalm. Needless to say, my basal crab level has skyrocketed.

I don't know what the fuck to type about tonight... I'm not necessarily in the most reflective of moods this eve'n. Oh, Mr. Z did mention that in his "Reproductive Health" class yesterday, he learned all about the dreaded "nocturnal emission." Of course, the Old Lady responded with a "Oh, that's neat," while I did my usual -- sprayed whatever liquid I was drinking out through my nose and turned my head away so he didn't see me tittering like a schoolboy. I'm sorry, I can't help it -- I cannot discuss sex or any sex-related particulars without giggling, stammering and/or homina-homina-homina-ing. The Old Lady, on the other hand, can orate on the topic for hours with nary a smirk, hence, she handles most of the dirty work.

I did somehow manage to ask Mr. Z if he understood what the the "N.E." was all about, and he paused before he said, "So... what comes out? Is it pee?" Pee?! I think they're teaching you about the wrong kinda wet dream at school, dude. Then the Old Lady gets ready to start in on the ins and outs, if you will, of the said emission when I pointed out to her that we were all eating dinner at the time, and Miss O was sitting RIGHT IN FRONT OF HER and perhaps there was a better, more private venue for discussing the matter. A sticky situation, indeed.

So, instead of going to the other room, the Old Lady whispers all the sordid particulars in the boy's ear. He seemed satisfied and left the room. Then I pointed out to Old Lady that she had just described the process of involuntary nighttime ejaculation, in her hushed, dulcet tones, into the youthful, impressionable ear of her son. I then drove to the bank to open a savings account for the years and years of therapy he'll be needing to undo the Freudian scarring she had just thrust upon him.

Alas, whatever happened to the days when she used to whisper the mechanics of the nocturnal emission in my ear?

I Smell Bug Smoke...

Miss O's friend Miss A came over after school today, and the two of them were loitering around in the front yard, trying to come up with something to do. Miss O finally asked...

MISS O: Dad, where's my magnifying glass?

ME: Uh, I think it's in your room... why?

MISS O: Oh, nothing. [under breath] We're just gonna burn some ants...

ME: What?! No. You can't burn ants with your magnifying glass.

MISS A: My brother and I do it.

ME: Okay... but I don't think you two should do it here. It's not nice to the ants.

MISS O: They're just carpenter ants!

ME: Oh sure, today it's carpenter ants... then tomorrow it's small dogs and then, before you know it, you'll be burning manatees.

MISS O & MISS A: [silence + looking at me like I'm a huge ass-head]

MISS O: Hey! We'd never burn dogs!

Ah! Notice how she didn't say anything about the manatees? I may have just saved those fucking sea cows from an early extinction.

By the way, I burned the shit out of bugs with my big-ass magnifying glass when I was a kid -- ants, beetles, worms, centipedes, my thumbnail. Caterpillars were the best to fry -- as they'd get hotter, they'd start inching really fast and then that big ol' greenish plume of burning caterpillar flesh would waft up into my fucking nostrils and I'd have some sort of 10 year old fucked up larval mind-fuck acid trip. It was cool as shit.

Unfortunately, I'm crabbydad now and I'm a goddamn hypocrite, so Miss O will experience no such smoky joy.

Okay, at least not until she's seven.

Pepto-Abysmal...

Well, the Old Lady and I managed to extricate ourselves from the Crabshack for our bi-yearly night-on-the-town -- unfortunately, that town was Lansing, Michigan. We decided to hit he streets and see if we could add another restaurant to our Gustatory Greats: 2008s list. Last night's entry -- Trōppo, in Lansing.

Now, I don't know if you've ever been to downtown Lansing -- and if you have, let me be the first to apologize. Fucking depressing as shit. The Old Lady said that it reminded her of downtown Indianola, Iowa, and frankly, I think she's being a bit generous. Lots of boarded up store-fronts, liquor stores and, most notably, no sign of humans anywhere. I guess that's what happens to a capital city when you perform an auto industry hysterectomy on it.

Anywhich, the look of the restaurant seemed nice enough -- it was pretty full, fancy enough and fairly bustling. We were led to a little private room, with only a few tables, and after the other diners cleared out, about 20 minutes later, we basically had the place to ourselves. Which seems nice, but when you go out once or twice a year, hoping to actually interact with other people and feel like you're not completely isolated in the fucking world, you don't always want the place to yourselves, ya know?

Okay, enough fucking exposition, let's get down to bidness...

Appetizers:

Portabella Tempura -- Sounds lame but it was kinda good, actually. But there was too much of it. Too much of a fucking gutpack for an appetizer. If you're gonna be serving appetizers that big, Trōppo, at least have the common decency to provide a vomit receptacle into which one can purge before the entree is served.

Cheese Platter -- The cheeses were pretty good, but we didn't ever really figure out what they were, 'cuz the waiter described them, and I shit you not, as, "Cow's milk, cow's milk, cow's milk, cow's milk and goat's milk." Thanks, Johnny Descripto -- very illuminating. And what's the fucking deal with the six crackers on the plate?! What is up with the fucking restaurant bread/cracker rationing?! Was there a bad cracker crop this season? Are crackers up to like $150 a barrel now? Did the Duke brothers corner the cracker futures market? Load the fucking plate with crackers, goddammit, and don't stop loading until they're spilling onto the fucking floor! I want so many fucking crackers on the plate, I shouldn't even be able to see any goddamn cheese. THEY'RE CRACKERS, MOTHERFUCKERS! STOP HOLDING THE CRACKERS HOSTAGE AND HAND 'EM THE SHIT OVER!!!!

Vino:
I actually had a coupla glasses of a suprisingly tasty blended red by the Magnificent Wine Company called "House Red." It was definitely the highlight of my meal, which really isn't saying much. The old lady had a wine flight that kinda sucked. She said the first wine tasted like rubbing alcohol. I say, never trust a wine from Purell Vineyards.

Entrees:
The Old Lady got lucky with a scallops/mashed potatoes/eggplant thing -- it wasn't bad, but the scallops were gritty, which is kinda nasty. Clean the sand out, people. If I want to eat sand, I'll have a hunk of halvah. (Four people will get that reference.)

I ordered "the special," which I now realize meant "special" as in "rides the short bus to school" instead of "special" as in, "the chef just added this to the menu tonight because it tastes really, really good." It was trout with a shrimp/saffron risotto and snap peas. Here's the exact conversation that followed my first bite...

[I put a big forkful of "the special" into my face-hole]

ME: [chew, chew, chew, stop.] Meh.

OLD LADY: What?

ME: I know this taste...

OLD LADY: What does it taste like?

ME: [pause, pause, pause, pause...] Ah! Mattress.

Which is exactly what it tasted like. Mattress that had been soaking in dead alewives for about a week, that was then piled atop a sticky, overcooked heap of sea-monkey scented Cream-of-Wheat. With greasy, overcooked snap peas whipped at it.

It officially sucked badger balls. Actually, I would rather suck badger balls than have to eat that "special" again. (Note to Trōppo chef -- consider adding badger balls to "specials" menu.)

And, basically, that was pretty much it. I'm getting kinda nauseous just thinking about it, so I don't really want to spend much more time recounting the meal. Bottom line, Trōppo ain't gonna make it onto the Gustatory Greats: 2008s list. Actually, looking at the other dining options around here, I have a feeling that the Fleetwood Diner is going to remain the only fucking entry on the Gustatory Greats: 2008s list. Which is fine with me -- I'll take good old-fashioned diner grub over poorly prepared mattress any day of the fucking week.

My one-word review of Trōppo?

Nope-o.

Check That Doodle, It's a Dandy...

I know I've been featuring a lot of Mr. Z's drawings, of late, but holy carp, the boy's on fire. He's like a mini-man possessed -- some sort of VanGoghtlet.

Well, apparently, every day in class, Mr. Z's teacher reads aloud a chapter of a book -- lately he's been reading A Wrinkle in Time. The class is supposed to listen, of course, but they're also allowed to draw, read, and/or pick their asses while he reads. Mr. Z has been taking the time to crank out shitloads of awesome doodlage. This latest one was apparently cranked out during one single reading period -- I don't know how the boy could've listened to any of the fucking story while he was furiously dashing this off, and frankly, I don't give a shit. He can stop listening in school forever if he keeps producing this kinda quality.

Anywhich, without further doo, here's Mr. Z's The 12 Labors of Hercules...













I think Mr. Z puts CliffsNotes to fucking shame. The story of Hercules in six mini pages?! What's next, War and Peace in pamphlet form?

Hey, that's not a bad idea.

I Hear You Guanaco-ing...

Well, as promised, Mr. Guanaco, THE DOLL, arrived the other day and I must say, he is truly ORANGUTASTIC!



Okay, let me back up for a sec. Mr. Z created Mr. Guanaco years ago, probably around age three, and he has been a recurring character in the boy's ever-evolving, bizarre and unsettling cast of thousands. Mr. Guanaco is an orangutan who is married to a llama and they have two children: Anteater Guanaco, who is a goldfish, and Ankylie Guanaco, who is a dinosaur (an Ankylosaurus, to be exact). Perhaps you remember Mr. Z's song:


"Guanaco Land Theme Song" by MR. Z & KICKSOME


You may also recall the t-shirt I made for Mr. Z featuring one of his early renderings:



Well, apparently it was this drawing that inspired Mr. Jon H, doll-maker-to-the-stars, to birth the above Mr. G Action Figure from his visionary loins. (Actually, I've never seen his loins but, judging by the sheer inspiration it must have taken to produce such a piece, I can only assume that said loinage has vision.)

I was alerted that the birthing of the figure was underway, but it had been a while since I had heard anything, so I kinda forgot about it. Then blammo, Mr. G shows up on the doorstep and Mr. Z, along with the rest of us, flipped his fucking lid. I mean, check out the craftsmanship:



Did I mention that Mr. Guanaco works at a costume shop? Hence the mini-Dracula capelet/suitlet accessory. Then there's the fur and the bowtie (a nice artistic improv on Jon's part) and the pieces-of-resistence -- the nipple cutouts! Genius! I just hope I haven't damaged the figure by taking it out of its hermetically-sealed display-tube.

Oh, and I forgot to mention that the Mr. Guanaco action figure HAS MOTHERFUCKIN' THUMBS UP ACTION!!!! Jon sacrificed a Fonzie doll to make this thing! Thumbs up, indeed, sir. Thumbs up, inDEED.

I could go on and on, but my blathering cannot do this doll and its maker justice. Go check out some of Jon's other handiwork at Cosmodollitans. You'll laugh, you'll cry, and then you'll say to yourself, "I've gotta get this dude to make me one of those fucking things, goddammit!"

Mr. Guanaco, I give you the last word:

Oh, the Flocculence of It All...

I don't know if I've blathered about this before, but in order to make it through the goddamn day with my sanity, and a manageable amount of crabbiness intact, I must be swaddled, at all times, in the softest of fabrics. I may not have the most expansive wardrobe, and it may not be the most stylish, but it is, without a doubt, the most skin-mollifying collection of duds and dud-accessories known to personkind.

That's why I've decided to introduce you to a few of my most prized pieces from the 2008 CrabbyDuds Collection. Tonight, I am featuring the latest addition to the footwear category, and, in fact, the final piece in the GREATEST-MOST-SOFTEST OUTFIT EVER ASSEMBLED.

I give you, the Sanuk "Donnie":



What's that, you say? It looks like a slipper? A dirty hippie slipper? A dirty slippie? Well, then I, sir or madame, am a dirty slippie. I challenge you to slip your weary footies into the buttery orifice of this appendage pouch. Well, not this pouch -- get your own fucking pouch.

Seriously, though, get a pair of these fuckers -- you will be rewarded with 10 instant toe-rections. And, yes, I've worn them out in public and, no, I am not ashamed to admit that and, perhaps, people think I'm a fucking scumbag... but it's all in the service of softitude.

Here, I'll make it easy on you:

For the fellas (order a 1/2 to full size larger!)

For the Fridas

And hey, maybe next time, if you're lucky, I'll give you the inside scoop on my underwear.

(Wait... that didn't come out right.)

Diner, Don't Ya Blow!

After four years of bemoaning the lack of non-repulsive food sources in this ridiculous town, I think the Old Lady and I have finally decided that it's time to stop bitching and moaning and start seeking out the hidden gems that have to be tucked away somewhere in this victual void. I mean, it can't all be T.G.I McDingleberry's... can it?!

I'm happy to report that the first gustatory gem that we've unearthed rocks the fucking hizzy. Tonight, for dinner, we took the spawnage to a small boite in Lansing called the Fleetwood Diner, and holy fuckshit, it was awesome!



I mean, this place is a real fucking diner, right down to its silver airstream exterior, tin signs on the wall and the 500 page menu. Oh, and it's open 24 hours... IN A ROW! The minute I walked in to the place and inhaled, my nipples shot out like a coupla greasy tater-tots just waiting to be smothered in sausage gravy and washed down with a cup of coal-black mocha java. Okay, that simile just made me ralph into my throat a little, but you know what I mean.

It reminded me a lot of the diners back in Chicago, like the Diner Grill, one of my all-time faves. You can literally order anything you could possibly want out of the phonebook of a menu. Por ejemplo, Miss O got pancakes and turkey sausage patties. Mr. Z got a triple-decker grilled cheese and cheese fries. (I know... we're making him sleep with his ass out the window tonight.) The Old Lady, get this, got the Spanakopita Pie, that came with a cup of Tomato Florentine soup and a salad. This is the woman who fucking hates breakfast foods and diners and she found something she liked. (She'll be sleeping in the tub tonight.)

I was having a fuck of a time trying to decide between going the breakfast route or the sandwich route. It happens every goddamn time. I love the hobo-skillet-style breakfasts -- at the Fleetwood, they call it "Hippie Hash" -- but I'm also a huge fan of the club/reuben/Monte Cristo sammy. My ideal fucking diner meal, as a matter of fact, would be a pile of hash browns with a coupla fried eggs on top, with a pile of cheddar fries and a turkey reuben sandwich on top of that, and then the whole thing would be smothered in sausage gravy. With a side of coleslaw. And a chocolate malt. Man, now my tater-tot nipples are getting even tottier!

Anywhich, I ended up getting the Turkey Reuben and a side of fries and it was stellar. I also had some of Mr. Z's cheddar fries, half of Miss O's pancakes and sausages, some of the spanakopita and a few of the community onion rings we ordered. My colon is like an engorged, 20 foot long chorizo right now, and I've got Crisco coming out of my tear ducts. I probably shaved a good six months off my life tonight and I don't even give a shit.

Oh, and did I mention that we went to Tasty Twist afterwards and shoved some soft-serve ice cream treats into our grease-smeared face-anuses?



Long story short, we will be adding the Fleetwood Diner to the top of our new "Gustatory Greats: 2008s!" list. It's located at 2211 S Cedar St. in Lansing and it better not fucking close, like every other goddamn place we actually like. We've got a coupla other mystery eateries we discovered on the innernecks that we're going to check out next weekend. Who knows... if I manage to rustle up another good restaurant or three, I might someday learn to l-l-l-l... l-l-l-li... l-l-li-lik... tolerate this fucking town.

All RIght, Everybody Outside!

Through much finagling, badgering and bit of mild threatening, I was able to flush the spawnage from the musty inner-sanctum that is the crabshack and air them out in the "out-of-doors." I even managed to capture a picture or two of them actually "exerting." Here's Miss O engaging in a game she likes to call "One... darnit! One... aw c'mon! One... Man!"



And here's Mr. Z floating on his prototype Maglev hippity-hop.


Looks painful. I'm thinking we're just gonna throw that underwear away.

I'm telling ya, though, the never-ending, frozen-tundra shitfuck that is a Michigan winter almost seems bearable during these three or four days of what we mid-westerners like to call "Spring." Of course, in a few days it'll shoot up to 98 degrees, with 130% humidity, and my sack'll once again be blanketing the parched ground like a deflated zeppelin, but for now, I'm gonna take Miss O's lead and run around the dead lawn like I'm in the original Broadway cast production of "Hair."



Happy Spring, fuckers.