It's No Cracker Barrel, But...

Have I mentioned recently that I'd gladly trade my ball-sack to move to Ann Arbor? Well, I would. Any takers? Like-new condition... original owner... lightly scuffed?

The Old Lady and I left the spawnage with a baby-sitter and high-tailed it to the "city with all the excellent shit that our city doesn't have" last night for dinner. Holy dungballs, what a great town. We got there around 8:00 and the whole downtown was hustling and/or a-bustling. People supping outside, open-air bars with attractive young-folk milling about, smelly hippies playing stupid songs, poorly, on shitty guitars. 'Twas to be a magical eve'n, indeed.

We went to a restaurant called "Logan," right off Main street, and they had a few tables set up on the sidewalk, so we decided to eat outside, or as the French call it, dining "al molinaro." I knew it was going to be a special evening when a bird flew by and shit on the Old Lady's head. I told her to make a wish, 'cuz that's good luck (somewhere), and apparently she wished for a fucking awesome meal, 'cuz that's what we got.

And I'm not just talking "Michigan-awesome" -- this meal was tits, even by Chicago standards. They even had a real-live sommelier who, after telling us the history of the Chianti region in Italy (in real time), helped us find a very tasty bottle of 2001 Fontalloro, which we proceeded to fucking inhale.

Now I don't feel like typing out the whole fucking night, so here's a recap of our delectables:

Appetizer -- A gruyere custard with a tomato/onion sofritto that was so rich and tasty, it was as if a cow teat had just fucking exploded in our mouths. It was cus-turd-tastic.

Salads -- I had a mixed green number that was fine, but the Old Lady had a fennel salad with balsamic that was fenneltastic.

Entrees -- I had monkfish that, had it not been dead and de-headed, would have really enjoyed swimming in a crunchy, tomato-y ratatouille. In fact, I'm pretty sure the monkfish would've given up its vow of celibacy to actually fuck the ratatouille -- it was that good.

The Old Lady had the special, which was gnocchi with black truffles, and it was rich and gooey and creamy -- basically, it was like having God shoot his load in your mouth. But in a good way.

And the desserts didn't disappoint, either. The old lady had a chocolate truffle with a birthday candle in it -- apparently our waiter, Larry, had overheard me mention that it was her birthday -- nice touch, Larr. That, my friend, solidified your 10% tip! I had the six, count-'em, six home-baked cookies (baked to order, no less) -- 2 chocolate chip, 2 peanut butter and 2 fucking snickerdoodles. With a bowl of ho'-made banilla ice cream. It was totally worth the ass-splosion that awaited me at home.

Just a stellar meal. Hell, I'm pretty sure even the birdshit that hit the Old Lady was in a heavy cream-reduction sauce. Logan restaurant, Ann Arbor. Go there. It rocks.

After dinner we walked around the town, pretending we lived there and trying not to shit our pants from the 8 or so sticks of butter we had probably consumed in our meals. Then, when we finally convinced ourselves that we were no longer drunk from the bottle of wine we had chugged just moments earlier, we drove back home.

And, if you'll remember, the meal was also a birthday present for the Old Lady, so I pretty much batted a thousand this year, gift-wise. We made a vow to try to go back to Ann Arbor once a month for dinner. It probably won't happen, but the promise of it definitely keeps me from completely giving in to my Okemos-induced downward-spiral of depression.

There's no place like Ann Arbor... there's no place like Ann Arbor...

Well, I Must've Done SOMETHING Wrong...

Quick update -- didn't think it was possible, but I'm pretty sure the Old Lady really liked everything I got her for her birthday. I know, what the shit?!

1. Muse CD -- loved it

B. New cap for iPod shuffle that has a clip to use while working out instead of using that narsty, yellowing neck-lanyard thing -- poifect

III. New headphones for said shuffle -- eh, maybe, maybe not. They're not the in-your-ear-hole kind, so she's not sure if they'll block enough noise. If she doesn't like them, it's Gabe's fault from work. Gabe, you're a fucking dick.

Fore. Gift certificate for 1 1/2 hour long massage at Hempy McGranolachick's massage-o-rama -- no brainer

E. Combo Laptop desk stand dock thing/USB hub for her new laptop she's getting -- not the most romantic gift in the world, but she seemed to dig it and she'll thank me when her neck doesn't hurt anymore and she realizes it fucking ROCKS!

9. Locket with a picture of Miss O on one side and Mr. Z on t'other -- perfecto! It's a pretty hip one -- from this place called Uncommon Goods. Most lockets are of the Jan-Brady-Secret-Admirer-type, gold hearts and cherubs and shit -- the kind that only look right on one of these sweaters:



By the way, look at the attitude on those fuckers. They must've ruled 1981. And look how she's checking me out. She totally wants me! Too bad she's hanging out with that douche, Bobby Sherman. Eh, they're probably both dead now.

Anywhich, the locket I got her is very hip, and it's silver and she digs it. So I could view this birthday as a total success. Unfortunately, I'll actually view it as an utter failure, because now she's going to expect me to keep this level of giftage up for Xmas, and her next birthday, so I'm basically fucked.

Oh well, at least I can relax now... for NINE DAYS until Mr. Z's birthday. Son of a...

Many Happy Returns!

Well, I just finished wrapping the last of the gifts I got for the Old Lady's birthday tomorrow. Once again, I have no idea if she'll secretly hate everything I got her, or if I'll get lucky on one or two items. I didn't go out on any major clothing or jewelry limbs this year, as I'm usually WAY THE FUCK OFF whenever I attempt that moron's errand. Except for last year's ring, and the ring I got her in the late 90s. The ring she lost... which, I don't think I ever mentioned, she found again. 'Tis true. It had been lost for like eight months and then she found it in the storage thingy under Mr. Z's bed. Fuck, I wish I had found it. Then I could've given it to her for her birthday and it wouldn't have mattered if the rest of the crap I got her was shitty. Which it is. I think.

Or not. Sure wish I knew.

One thing I know I did right -- I made reservations for dinner in Ann Arbor on Saturday night at some place called "Logan: An American Restaurant." I'm pretty sure it's the sequel to "Fievel: An American Tail." I even called a babysitter and everything... ALL BY MYSELF! Get me, I'm making phone calls! I think tomorrow I'm going to try to wipe my own ass.

This afternoon I had the spawnage make cards for their mom while I cranked the new "Wolfmother" cd I just got. Holy fuckstain, those dudes rock the schnizzy. And the spawnage dug it, too. Miss O was doing this hippie dance to that song "Woman" that they do. It was very "Laugh-In" meets Lancelot Link's "Evolution Revolution." Sure wish I videoed it. But I didn't. Alas.

Here, in its stead, is the video of the song. It'll blow your ass clean off. Buy the disk, it'll make you shit... out of your newly assless back-hole.

How Do You Work This Thing?

What the fuck's the point of a vacation? You go far away from your nice, comfy home, to sleep on some shitty other person's bed, you eat colon-loads of rich foods and drink all kinds of wine and pop and shit, you stay up way too late every night, get up way too early, completely fuck up your workout schedule, then you're all surprised when you get home and you're sick and you can't sleep and you're out of shape and your dump schedule is completely outta whack. Motherfucker. No wonder I've taken like four vacations in twelve years.

So, yeah, I'm still trying to bounce back, and it ain't happening. I also forgot that, while vacationing, I didn't work or watch any TV or write any blog posts, so I was under the illusion that I had all this free time to just sit around with my hangnaily thumb up my crapper and play board games and assemble puzzles with pictures of multi-colored beach stones on them. And that was great for, like, four days, but I'm telling you, I'm going to have to work until they start shoveling dirt over me, 'cuz after that fourth day, my mind was turning to Maypo. And trying to get back into the writing groove has been like pulling teeth from a... whatever that expression is... what is it, a donkey? Pulling teeth from a mule? A badger? SEE?! WHAT'S HAPPENING TO ME?!?!

Putty, my brain is. Putty!

So, I heard Mr. Z and Miss O talking at dinner tonight, and they overheard the Old Lady and me talking about this guy she used to know who OD'd, or something, and then Mr. Z said:

MR. Z: Hey Miss O. Do you know what marijuana is?

MISS O: No, what?

MR. Z: Well, you'll learn about it in 3rd grade, but it's like cigarettes but you chew it, and it's totally nasty--

ME: What?! You don't chew it. You smoke it. [pause] And hey, I don't think you should be talking about marijuana with your sister... during dinner... so, eat your soup.

MR. Z: What if they had marijuana-flavored candy?

MISS O: Oh, nasty!

ME: Actually, I think they do have marijuana-flavored lollipops... [pause] but hey, that's not the point. Look, let's just stop with the marijuana talk, okay?

MR. Z: Okay... Hey Miss O, what if they had poop-flavored candy?

ME: That's better.

Full of Sheet...

Too tired to think, so here's a brief bedtime chat with Miss O...


MISS O: Hey, who put my comforter on me last night?!

ME: I don't know. You probably pulled it up yourself.

MISS O: NO! Both of my arms were under my sheet, so I couldn't have done it.

ME: Well, you probably did it in your sleep.

MISS O: NO! I would never do that. I don't like my comforter on me!

ME: Well, then, your mom probably did it.

MISS O: Humph!


(Psssst... I did it.)

Talk about ExSTINKtion...

So, it's been a while since Mr. Z had one of his "I-don't-wanna-die" pre-bedtime lid-flips, but there was a brief flare-up during our vacation up Nort'. It was in the middle of the afternoon and I was sitting around with my family, bickering most likely, when I heard some commotion upstairs, where Mr. Z, Miss O and Miss W were playing. All of a sudden, Mr. Z comes running down the stairs kind of cry-wailing "Dad! I don't want to die!!!!" And we're talking like 2:00 in the afternoon, here.

I took him aside, calmed him down, and asked him what the shit was up? At the time, he couldn't really explain what had triggered his sudden mortality-meltdown, but after we talked for a bit, he seemed to be fine. That night he had a bit of a reprise at bedtime, but it was somewhat half-hearted and he chilled out.

I don't know if it was yesterday or the day before, but I decided to ask him if he could recall why he freaked out that one day. He paused for a minute, but finally admitted, "Well, we were playing this game, and Miss O said that there was going to be a huge diarrhea flood and then she said that we were all going to die from it, and that's when I realized that we ARE all going to die."

Diarrhea flood. THAT'S what set him off. So, we had another talk about how he probably won't die for another 90 years or so, and how we need to live in the moment and really enjoy every minute as much as we can.

And then he said, "And maybe in like 50 years, someone will invent an immortality pill that will make you live forever." And I said "Well, maybe," but I also said that I didn't know if I really wanted to live forever. Especially after the diarrhea flood. And we agreed that living as long as we possible can, pre-diarrhea flood, is really the way to go.

Now that that's settled, I need to talk to Miss O about this end-of-days-craptastrophe idea of hers. There's got to be a song in there somewhere.

Traversed City...

Holy fuckdick, what a week. The spawn and I rolled into town mid-afternoon today and my ass is ready for a three day hiber-coma. Of course, because it wasn't the Old Lady's family we were forced to cohabitate with all week, she got to come back on Thursday -- thus she appeared all fresh and dewy by the time we stumbled home. She said she had to come home early so she could get some "work" done, but we all know what that means -- she had to rush back to meet with her dealer so she could score some fresh Vitamin Potter to mainline up her jonesin'Ass-kaban. What a Hor... crux.

I don't really know what to highlight from the trip... never has so much, and so little, happened over the course of a week. I won't go into all the details because A) it would be a huge bore for you and 2) I don't know if I'm ready to relive it again so soon. Let's see...

On the second day, Mr. Z puked his guts out... again. I don't think it was stomach flu this time, though. I think it was a combination of inhaling an entire meal in about six seconds, chugging four glasses of milk, and being a pretty major spazmo, on top of it all. The Old Lady was dealing with him in the bathroom when I walked in. She was holding a clear garbage bag that was weighted down with a day's worth of the digestables found in an eight-year-old's colon. It was truly impressive -- kinda looked like a bag of minestrone and cheez whiz soup. Con carne.

Miss O had a great time with her cousin, Miss W. I think the highlight of the trip for her was during a picnic we had, where she discovered a hunk of moss on a tree, stuck half an acorn onto it, and christened it her new brother, Jill. She and Miss W spent a good chunk of the vacay with young Jill, and I think Mr. Z spent a good deal of his time trying to break out from 'neath Jill's acorny shadow. But you can't blame the girls... who can deny a face like this:



What else? The song for my dad was a huge hit -- it made my dad laugh until he did that silently-turning-red-and-looking-like-he's-crying-he's-laughing-so-hard thing, and for some reason it made my mom cry. I think they were either "this is so sweet but we really are getting older" tears or "how I ever ended up in a family that thinks farts are so goddamn funny is fucking beyond me" tears. Either way, I think we achieved our goal.

And the rest is kinda just vacationy shit. Yes, we climbed some bigass dunes and I had one or two minor infarctions along the way:



Yes, we went swimming in the lake -- a lake so fucking cold that, since my swim, my balls have permanently relocated up to my neck, or what I now refer to as my "throatum."

Yes, it was great to spend time with my family, but I realized that we all live in different states so we don't end up bickering each other to death. And, while I held my tongue at the breakfast table yesterday, I must take this moment to say to my parents (who thankfully do not read this blog), "I'm sorry, but David Brooks is a complete and utter shit-gargler, and no, I do not think he's smart, or thoughtful, and he does not occasionally provide an interesting point of view from the other side and, frankly, I don't know how you can both call yourselves democrats and still read his column without taking a steaming dump on his fucking byline." Ah, that feels much better.

It was a great trip, though, and while I ended up with a cold and I'm way the fuck more tired now than I was when I left, it felt good to do nothing for a week and "just be." ("I always take a meat sandwich with me.") I don't feel recharged, or any bullshit like that, but the trip did manage to shake me out of my day to day zombie-walk a little bit and remind me that I like to be "outside," and hang out with my family and "talk" and have fun with the spawn and the Old Lady and remember how cool and funny and wacky they are and just "do" shit.

And I also realized that no matter how much fun I may have doing all those great things, at the end of it all, I'm still going to end up in the goddamn basement.

Checkin' in from Hoserville...

Brief greetings from the dunes. I don't have time to say much as the anemic wi-fi connection here on the front porch of the registration building at "The Homestead" in Glen Arbor, Michigan is threatening to blow away at any second. We've been having a lot of fun hiking up really fucking huge-ass dunes, swimming, stuffing our face-holes and burning blood-engorged ticks off of each other.

We're planning on playing the song for my dad tomorrow night when my brother gets into town. And yes, he came through with his verse for the song about 15 minutes before we hit the road, allowing me to complete the song in time, but not before the stress of the last-minute mixdown caused a blast of stomach acid to burn yet another hole in my swiss cheese of a colon.

Anyway, here's a lo-fi version of the tune. Again, there's a lot of inside family jokes and shit, but I think the song came out pretty cool, regardless. Whatever... here you go:



"The Legend of Jersey Mal" by RUMBLIN' BUM ROGERS & THE CREPITUNES



Talk to ya later. Gotta go drink some vino and play Syzygy.

Where's That Confounded Bridge?!

Well, the song for my dad is basically done, save for the verse reserved for my goddamn brother who, although he promised to phone me tonight with something to stick in there, hasn't called as of 1:27 a.m. and we're leaving tomorrow at noon, and I know I'm gonna be mixing this fucker at 11:45 and I knew he wouldn't call so why am I so pissed off, but fuck, man, is it too much to ask to fucking let me finish the song so I can wash my hands of it and post it on my blog and then get some goddamn sleep so I can start my first fucking vacation in over a year?!

So, the song. Well, we started out thinking it was going to be a rock-opera kinda vibe, but that was getting no place fast, so I tried a strummy bluegrass thing. Then I realized that the last three songs I've recorded were strummy bluegrass things, so, fuck. Then I started dicking around with these strange renaissance bladder instruments that I had samples for, and I was going to do this honk-y bassoon meets crumhorn number, but it was a little too Medieval Times for me. Eventually, I stumbled on a Ennio Morricone "Good, Bad & the Ugly" idea that seemed to complement the stuff that Mr. Z and Miss O had already recorded, and whattyaknow, there it was.

I don't know if the final tune will be too "my family" for any non-relatives to really appreciate, but I'll try to post it up here tomorrow before we leave, if my fucking selfish-ass brother gets his shit together, goddammit.

First-born motherfuckers, I'm telling ya.

And... Unclench!

The Old Lady has returned, along with our house guests, and I can feel the tide of crabbitude ebbing ever-so-slightly out to the Sea of Crabquility. The house was officially clean-as-a-goddamn whistle for about one second and then everyone showed up and fucked it all up again. Bastards. And that's why I only clean once every three years.

So now, with stasis restored at Casa de Cangrejo, I can start worrying about more pressing matters -- like how the fuck I'm going to craft/record the perfect song for my dad's 75th birthday, with about 10 different people singing their own verses, and burn the fucker to disk before we leave for Traverse City on Saturday morning. This thing's gonna rival "We Are the World" in its colossalness. Someone get me Quincy Jones on the horn.

Mr. Z and Miss O have come up with a framework for the tune -- kind of a "Bohemian Rhapsody"-esque number, with strings and chanting and soaring melodies. I might as well rip my own ass out right now and save myself the pain of having it done for me later. Although it's a challenge, and I dig me a musical challenge. I'll just channel my muses -- the ghosts of Freddie Mercury, Joey Ramone and Burl Ives -- to guide me.

Wait... wait... I think I feel something...

Uh-oh. Gotta take a dump. Think I channeled the ghost of G.G. Allin by mistake.

Not Dead Yet...

So, my internecks was borked for the last day and a half -- hence the no posting last night. In case you're bummed that you missed any sage words I would've dropped on you, here's an approximation of the post:

Waaah, waaah, I'm all alone with the spawn and I'm tired and crabby. Motherfucker shit-ass-cockdick-chunting-turdballs. Oh, life's so hard -- boo-hoo. Why me... why me?!

Something like that. Actually, it hasn't been that bad. The spawnage have been quite not-pains-in-the-asses, for some odd reason, and we've been able to squeeze something akin to "fun" in between my mad cleaning dashes around the house like a dick with its head cut off. Frankly, I think some inadvertant (and some 'advertant') huffing of cleaning fluids has really taken the edge off my tenure as a temporary single-parent. While inhaling Comet dust puts a little pep in my step, I'm kind of partial to the surprising brown study brought on by a few deep whiffs of Tilex. Really goes to town on that stubborn 'brain mildew.'

The thing that really sucks when the Old Lady is away is the whole sleeping thing. A) well... it's lonely. Two, it's creepy. And you know who makes it even creepier? Mr. Z. Last night at about 1:30, the SECOND I fell asleep, I heard Mr. Z yelling something in his room. I ran in there and he was sitting up, pointing at his wall, yelling, "HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY!" At first I thought he was doing the world's worst Fat Albert impression ever, but then I realized that he was indeed asleep and most likely having a nightmare... involving either Fat Albert or Dwayne from "What's Happening!!"

I managed to calm him down and get him back to sleep, but I was up for another hour, just kind of rattled. Then tonight, about 10 minutes ago, I heard some talking coming out of his room -- very matter of fact kind of talking. I went up to his door to listen and he was talking all right, but in some bizarre cross between Ubbi-Dubbi and some Bantu click language. Once again... creeeepy. I'm convinced that the next time I go in there, I'll find this:



Why the shit did I just search for that picture? Well, it's official -- no sleep for crabbydad tonight.

Where's that Tilex?

Mt. Krabatoa Is About to Blow...

Well, the C.T.A.C. (Crabby Terror Alert Color) has been upgraded to "orange/lid-flippingly-crabby," as the Old Lady boarded a plane for New Hampshire this morning for a supposed "conference" and won't be returning until Wednesday afternoon. The dials have been all set to "Maximum Crabberdrive," and we're all just waiting around for that inevitable rendezvous of shit and fan.

Actually, today wasn't so horrendous, aside from the fact that it was about 900 degrees outside, according to the scrotal-sack-index level of "much like a thin, leathery tarp dragging behind me along the sidewalk." We mostly stayed inside, in the air-conditioning, with a brief jaunt to the library for some books and dvds. One of the disks I got was a reissue of the old "Little Rascals" movies with Spanky and Chubbsy Ubbsy, and all those other exploited, old-fashioned ragamuffins. We'll watch a little of it tomorrow, when I'll find out if they're still as hilarious as I used to think they were, or if they're just classic examples of child abuse and racism, which I'm guessing they probably are. I'm pretty sure Mr. Z and Miss O are gonna watch two minutes of it and look at me like, "What the shit, Dad?! You thought this was funny? Mom was right -- you are a moron."

Let's see, what else. Well, Miss O has a cold, of course, which doesn't really seem to be slowing her down, and I've decided to not stress out about it, so fuck it. Mr. Z is still bouncing back from his overnight camping trip thing. He says he's glad he went through with it, but I'm guessing he's not going to spend another night away from home until he's at least 37.

Tomorrow, the spawn are off to their day camp again, which would be great for all involved, were it not for Mr. Z's dentist appointment that I have to take him to in the middle of the fucking day. So I'll get a good two hours or so of work in before I have to drive him to that, and then it'll be too late to take him back to camp, so I'll have to bring him home and do the stick-him-in-front-of-the-gamecube while I try to get some work done routine, which I hate to do but, hey, my hands, they are tied.

Oh, and I have to clean the shit-hole of a house we live in by Wednesday, before my sister and her family show up, which they are doing. We're all heading up to Traverse City to meet my parents for a weeklong 75th birthday celebration thing for my dad. And seeing as how we really haven't let an outsider into our abode since, well, since we moved in three years ago, I've got me an assload of cleaning to do. I'm thinking of renting a power-washer, turning it on inside the house, and just blasting the shit out of all the cobwebs, dustballs, booger-snots and dingle-doodies. Either that, or I'm going to wrap Mr. Z and Miss O in Swiffer sheets and just chase them all over the goddamn house.

AND, I've got to record the spawns' birthday song for my dad, buy all the birthday presents for the Old Lady's birthday that's at the end of the month (and, as usual, I have not fucking idea what I'm going to get her), AND buy all the presents for Mr. Z's birthday that's at the beginning of August -- all things that I could normally do over the course of a few weeks, but have to do this week, since we're going to be in Northern Michigan for a WEEK AND A HALF.

Shit, man. That does it -- I'm moving the C.T.A.C level up to "purple/holy-fuckstain."

Campus Interruptus...

[1:45 a.m.]

telephone rings

ME: [hock/phlegm/hork] grm.... huh--hello?

MR. Z: Hello? Dad?

ME: Mr. Z?! Wh--what's going on?!

MR. Z: Yeah... um, I'm ready to come home now.

ME: What time is it? 1:45? Mr. Z, where are you?

MR. Z: In the barn.

ME: Where's everyone else?

MR. Z: Back in the pine forest. Can you please come get me?

And so went my wee-hours-of-the-morning conversation with the boy from his first overnight adventure. Just about an hour earlier, I had said to the Old Lady, "I can't believe Mr. Z! We haven't heard anything from him since 9 this morning -- I'm so proud of that boy!"

Of course, I'm still proud of him, especially since I was able to talk him down and get him to stumble back to his tent to finish out the night. I'm sure he fell asleep and then woke up a few hours later -- disoriented, outside, in a fucking pine forest, and he flipped his lid. Who wouldn't?

Part of me was ready to hop in the car and drive out there to get the poor kid, but the other, more responsible part of me, figured he'd be really stoked if he could actually make it through the whole night, and then be able to tell his friends and his grandparents about the night he spent "outside." So, against every still-damaged-from-my-childhood-exile-to-overnight-camp bone in my body, I calmed him down, and he went back to sleep.

Eh, he can bitch about it 34 years from now in his space-blog, while wearing a jet-pack and eating pills for food.

Oh, and as many of you saw last night, "Intervention" did a follow-up on Gabe, the insane-child-prodigy-screechy-voiced-bio-rapper-gambler. You know what? You can have your limo-riding-millionaire-cat-ladies, you can have your feral-homegirl-sans-eyebrows -- give me a good coddled-Vegas-man-child any day of the fucking week. I could watch that train-wreck for days!

And apparently, so could you -- last night I had nine different people hit my blog after doing a search for "gabe gambler intervention." (To be fair, one person found it by searching for "clitoris what rhymes?" and one for "fart sounds.")

I can only hope that Gabe himself found his way here last night, after googling himself. If you're reading this, Gabe, all I have to say is, hang in there, lil' buckaroo. No one understands you -- not your ungrateful, heavy-eyebrowed, overacting "friend," not Jeff VanVinderVonderVindaloo, and certainly not your selfish, selfish parents. Sure, they mortgaged their house to feed your addiction, but yeah? So? I saw your Mom wearing a pretty expensive looking watch?! Hello?! And have they been selling their blood plasma for you? Probably not! Thoughtless pricks. And they're only covering 75% of your living expenses?! Are you kidding me?! How are you expected to cover the other 25% when you're so busy with your mouthwash research and your songwriting?!

How much did you love that song, by the way? I don't know if that was a Gabe original, or what, but that was some quality televiZHUN! I was so ready for a horrendous screechy ear-fucking, but his voice was pretty good and the song, while dripping in melted cheesiness, wasn't awful. If nothing else, he should just sing to people from now on, and get rid of that mynah-bird--after-gargling-with-cinnamon-flavored-lye speaking voice of his.

That kid needs his own show -- maybe a variety show kinda format. A little rapping, a little dance, some mouthwash-testing skits, and he can end it with that song. And we can all call in and pledge money for him, so he can continue his valuable research.

Hmm... I wonder if Gabe's parents forced him to stay at overnight camp?

The Foundering Father...

Yeah, so Ann Arbor was pretty enjoyable, even though we were only there for about 24 hours. Got to the luxurious Hawthorne Suites at around 5:00, dumped the shit in the room and did an all-family-swim-a-thon for a good hour and a half, or so. Had the pool to ourselves, so it was nice to know I was only swimming in my own kids' pee. Then, we ordered a pizza from Cottage Inn and watched "Night in the Museum" on Spanktravision. (Actually, if it were truly Spanktravision, we would've been watching "Right in the Spoogie-Bum," starring Ben Fill-her and Ro-bone Fill-bums.)

The parade was pretty much exactly the same as it was last year -- a shitload of floats from unshorn Co-ops and daycares, the wacky olde-tymee-giant-front-wheel-puny-back-wheel bike riders, a handful of Shriners on go-carts, a smattering of saggy yet enthusiastic jazzercisers, and a huge anti-war float with a giant poster of a Dracula George Bush biting into the bloodied neck of the Statue of Liberty. I have some great photos, but the cable for my camera, she be broke, so they'll have to be posted later.

The shitty thing is that since we got back yesterday, I've felt like total carp. For some reason, I'm all dehydrated, my puny brain is pounding, and my fucking colon is being a total cock. I knew something was up yesterday, when I lied down on the bed for a second and woke up an hour later. I think that was my first nap since I was two. I soiled my nappies just to commemorate it.

Tomorrow is a huge fucking day for Mr. Z -- he's going on an overnight at camp. The boy is definitely conflicted. Part of him really wants to go, 'cuz it's his first overnight and I think he just wants to get the fuck away from all of us for a while. The other part of him is pretty much terrified of leaving. I'm not sure which side is going to win. He's devised a plan to stow away his Pooh Bear in the bottom of his sleeping bag, only to retrieve him when everyone else has gone to sleep. It's all very sweet, and if any of his fucking tent-mates give him shit about it, their most-likely-crew-cutted-heads will roll. We'll see how he feels in the morning.

And that's about it -- I've gotta go take 15 more Advil so my brain'll stop bleeding. Oh yeah, Miss O has started taking these GIANT shits over the last couple of days -- like total Ernest Borgnine girth. I don't know what she's been secretly eating, but I've called the folks over at Guinness and they're bringing out an official measuring tape and a caliper. Keep your fingers crossed!

G'nite.

After the Last Chunk Has Been Blown...

The spewing has stopped at Casa de Crab -- Mr. Z's stomach schpilkes is no longer. 'Twas a literal ass-ripper for him and a figurative one for the rest of us. It'll be a fucking miracle if Miss O avoids it -- though I was in serious Howard Hughes mode all weekend, wiping everything down with anti-bacterial wipes and boiling all the furniture in a giant bleach cauldron in the backyard. I've either killed the offending bacteria off, or created the most powerful, antibiotic-resistant superbug imaginable. Only time will tell.

We've decided to skip town tomorrow after work for an overnight 4th of July stay in Ann Arbor. We did the same thing last year because Independence day in the Lansing area is akin to spending Passover in Mobile, Alabama -- not a whole lot going on, and there's a good chance you'll end up dead. The first year we moved here, we went to see the parade in Lansing, which basically consisted of a dwarf in a convertible, a shirtless clown and a three-legged dog wearing a top hat. So we're high-tailin' it to the Austin, TX of Michigan for an acceptable celebration, some liberal camaraderie and some food from places without initials or a day of the week in their names.

I really don't have much else to say tonight -- this weekend just fucking sucked out my soul and I'm just too tired to purge my inner crab. Nope... nothing to say.

I go nigh-night.

Dad, Have You Met My Friend RALPH!

Well, Mr. Z's has a nasty stomach virus and today was all about puke, explosive diarrhea, and keeping Miss O away from said puke and diarrhea. It's amazing though -- I'm pretty sure this is the first time Mr. Z has ralphed since age two. I'm not going to jinx it by saying that the boy never gets sick, but he sure as fuck didn't inherit my enfeebled gene pool.

Poor dude, though. He started yookin' after breakfast, this morning, and didn't stop until mid-afternoon, when he decided to start blowing chunks out his ass instead. I really freaked out at one point, after he had a particularly heinous ass-pulsion episode on the crapper. He was starting to look really pale and I asked him how he was feeling. He said, "Perfect!" and then stood up to wash his hands. He literally turned white and passed out -- luckily, I was right there and I caught him as he fell into the hallway. He was only out for a couple seconds and then he opened his eyes and said, "What am I doing on the floor?"

We got him back into bed and, over the course of a very long afternoon, he started bouncing back. By tonight, he managed to choke down some popsicle, banana, toast and some saltines, so hopefully, he's on the mend. I hope. My nerves are fucking shot.

He and I did manage to have a little fun this afternoon, in between ice-chips and head-in-the-trashcan moments. We played a buncha games of Hangman ("pooh bear," "diarrhea," "constipated," "Uranus," and "Kerplunk) and he came up with this game where he would come up with a definition of a word, and together, we had to think of a word for the definition. Here are a couple of the better ones:

"kerplisten" -- to poop while someone is talking to you

"nintentoot" -- farting while playing a video game

"bookie woogie" -- to read a book while listening to jazz

"Bearger King" -- a bear who frequents fast-food restaurants

"bone voyage" -- a skeleton who's going on a trip

"chow mane" -- feeding dog food to a lion

"poobsly" -- a slang term for a Teddy Bear

"noobsly" -- playing a computer game you've never played before with you poobsly

"boobsly" -- breast-feeding your poobsly

I don't know... they were funny at the time. I do know that I need some fucking sleep. Who knows what fluids await me tomorrow morning.

You're My (old) LAAADDYYYYY!!!

I don't write about the Old Lady very much... mostly because she reads this from time to time and I don't need to give her any more reasons to be fucking annoyed with me. She's a very interesting lady, the Old Lady, and the stories I could tell you... shoo-doggies! Let's take a peek into the life of this fascinating woman, this brilliant she-goddess, my... LOVUH!

Now, she's a professor so she works within the "theatre of the mind." Granted, she only teaches, like, one class a semester, but her main focus is on doing research and getting articles published and scoring grants and shit, so it's pretty high-pressure stuff. And she's not the kind of person who kind of dabbles in one thing here, and then works on a little something over there -- she dives into shit whole-hog and bangs it out until she's finished -- which is what made her so popular with the fellas in college. Hello!

What the shit am I talking about?! Sorry... I had a big ol' martini before dinner tonight, so take all of this with a grain of alcohol.

Let's see... she works hard, kind of obsessive about getting things done... Oh yeah! So, when she's steeped in some sort of big project -- an article or a grant proposal -- she oftentimes looks for something kind of mindless to take her mind off all the stressful shit, so she can relax. Like the time she bought a Sudoku book, and then obsessively worked on those fucking puzzles every goddamn night for, I don't know, like four months. It was like, get the kids to bed, eat something and then MAINLINE SOME GODDAMN SUDOKU UNTIL 1:00 IN THE MORNING!!!!

The funny thing was, she didn't even know what Sudoku was a few months earlier, and if she did, she thought it was fucking ridiculous. It was like, puzzles?! Who has time for fucking puzzles. And then it's "I JUST NEED A COUPLE OF BUCKS FOR A NEW SUDOKU BOOK, BABY!!! C'MON... MAMA NEEDS A TASTE OF VITAMIN S!!!! PLEEEEASE!!!!"

Her latest addiction is Harry Fucking Potter. Now, I read the first couple of books a couple of years ago (which is big, mind you -- I'm the kind of guy who reads a book over the course of, say, 8 months, and then brags about it for two years -- "Hey, I read Harry Potter! Did you read Harry Potter? I did! All by myself!!! All the pages and everything!!!"). I'm pretty sure she mildly mocked me when I read them, by the way. Cut to a few weeks ago, and she decides to pick up the first book, because Mr. Z is a huge Harry Potter fan and she wanted to see what all the hubbub was about.

Of course, she's instantly hooked and proceeds to plow through all six books in, like three weeks. It was insane! She'd be up until three in the morning trying to finish a book, and then she'd be sitting there at breakfast grilling Mr. Z about the characters. "Do you think Snape is working undercover for Dumbledore?! I'll be he is! There's this Harry Potter forum I was reading online, last night, and they said they think Dumbledore WANTED Snape to kill him, so Snape could get closer to Voldemort and eventually kill him!!! What do you think, Mr. Z?!?!?!?!"

It's actually very cute, and she and the boy have definitely bonded over their mutual love for the bespectacled wizard man-child, so that's great. Tonight, though, there was a classic moment when the Old Lady was telling Mr. Z what she had learned about J.K. Rowling from her website:

THE OLD LADY: Mr. Z, do you know what the "J.K." stands for?

MR. Z: Well, the "J" is for Joanne, and I think the "K" is for Kathleen--

And here's where the Old lady exposed her true obsession with the young H.P.

THE OLD LADY: Actually, she told me that the "K" doesn't stand for anything.

And I had to jump in and say, "Wait... she TOLD YOU?! J.K. Rowling TOLD YOU that the 'K' didn't stand for anything?" Of course, she kind of hemmed and hawed and said that she MEANT that she READ it on J.K. Rowling's WEBSITE. I saw through it all, though, and was forced to call Jeff VanVondenvoondenven over at A&E's "Intervention," and set up a meeting.

Long story short, the Old Lady's off to the Hogwart's Center for Behavioral Health and Recovery, in Tarzana, California, where she'll deal with her inner Boggarts and hopefully return to us in a few months, clean and sober.

That is, of course, until her next obsession... Speed Stacking.

Camptown Erases...

Apparently, the spawn are really diggin' their summer camp, which is good, 'cuz now I feel like less of a turdfuck for sending them away every day of the summer. This week, Mr. Z attends the "Literary Academy" in the mornings, where he says he's been reading poems by Edgar Allen Poe, writing his own poems and crafting stories with the other eggheads there. Friday, they're having a little get-together where he'll read some of his works, which should be most excellent.

At around ll, though, he's dumped in with all the mouth-breathers for regular fun-time-Charlie camp stuff, which he also really seems to dig. At least some of his afternoon has been spent basically undoing everything he's learning in the morning, as evidenced by this Mad Libs I found in his backpack:



There it is, my friends -- the mind of an eight-year-old, in black-and-white. Which, coincidentally, is mighty close to the mind of a 42 year old. If I were to fill that page out, I think I'd only change one word. I would've changed "balls" to "nutsack."

Miss O, meanwhile, is having a jolly old time at camp, making new friends every day, making crafty shit and continuing her goal of bringing every scrap of paper in the world into our home. One cool thing she's doing, though, is writing things out phonetically, like she did in kindergarten. She's stopped asking us to spell everything for her and she's just trying to figure shit out on her own, which rocks.

Lately, she's just bringing home little, crumpled scraps of paper with mysterious sentences scrawled on them, like this:



I think that's my favorite droing she's ever mad.

Once... Twice... Three Times a-Crampy...

A new restaurant just opened up in the little Payless Shoe Shoppe/Freddie's Golf-o-Ramalamadingdong strip-mall down the road. I drive by it every time I go to the Y, and I thought that today, for some moronic reason, I'd give 'er a go for lunch. Now trying new restaurants in this town is not something that should be entered into lightly -- one's likely to get hisself kill-ted if'n he takes an ill-advised bite into the wrong gristle-ball.

So, I drive over there at around 2, because I often "forget to eat" while working in the basement -- remember, it's always dusk down there, and radon is a natural hunger suppressant. The place is called "3 Times Cafe," and it has a banner over the door proclaiming, "Grand Opening!" I tried to do a little drive-by first, to see if I could peer in the door and see what was cookin', but they had shitloads of posters for smoothies and coffee concoctions, so I was denied.

I parked and did the slow "potentially-soon-to-be-dead-man-walking" march toward the front door, and entered. Inside, it looked a lot like the last place that was there -- the place whose name escapes me at the moment, but that I'll choose to call "Johnny Pony-Tail's Week-Old-Soup Palace." There was a very nice Asian couple behind the counter who welcomed me as if I were the first, and probably last, customer to ever enter their establishment.

The menu was written on a blackboard that covered one wall -- lots of regular sandwiches and salads and coffee drinks, and a special circled area that said "Teriyaki." The woman, who seemed very eager not to blow the only potential sale she'd ever see in the place blurted out, "Do you like Teriyaki? It's very good!" I thought and responded, "Why yes... Yes, I DO like Teriyaki! I'll have the Chicken Teriyaki, as a matter of fact, nice lady! And make it to go!"

I guess that was the right answer, for she and her little man-friend started whipping together my order faster than you can say "Hold the ptomaine!" She asked if I'd like a smoothie to go along with it, and feeling like the one guy who could save their American Dream, I said, "Sure! Why not! Make it a mango!" They bundled up my grub, I paid for it, we smiled the shit out of each other, and I left, feeling like the nicest guy in the world.

Now, I'm not going to condemn this place just yet. It is, after all, the "3 Times Cafe." The first time... eh... not so hot. The special teriyaki chicken was basically a styrofoam container filled with plain white rice and about a pound-and-a-half of all-dark-meat (extra gristle!) laid atop said rice, with a tinkle-squirt's worth of teriyaki sauce dribbled over the top. I was able to choke my way through about half of it, but kinda felt like, if I ate any more, my bung-hole would stretch to "3 Times" its normal diameter just to expel the teri-yucky mess.

So, I guess I've gotta go two more times, just to be fair. I'm not completely thrilled about that. I do really want them to succeed though - they were very cute. Even their menu was cute:



If you'll notice, they're only open "Monday thru Sunday," which is a bummer, because I really like to go out for lunch on Sunday-and-a-half. Oh well. I do have to say that the mango smoothie was most excellent, however. Not an ounce of gristle! So, if all else fails, they can be my go-to bevvie shop.

I think my #2 Time there will be for breakfast. I'll try the #7 -- Omelet Plate (hold the beaks).

Aye, Tunes!

So, I'm trying to find the right songs to load onto my SwiMP3 player, and it ain't that fucking easy. When I tried it out on Sunday, I just had a random smattering of shit that I dumped on there, just to see if the thing would work. Some songs were great and some made me want to drown.

For example, Olivia Newton John and ELO doing "Xanadu," perfect. Black Sabbath's "Neon Lights," surprisingly, not so great while swimming laps. Bjork's "Isobel," ideal. "Bad Reputation," by Thin Lizzy? Actually gave me a mild case of "the bends."

So I iTunes-ed some shit tonight that I thought would perfectly soundtrack my watery workout tomorrow morning, at way-the-fuck-too-early-in-the-a.m. Here are the first 10 songs I loaded up:

1. "You Just May Be the One" -- The Monkees
2. "Twilight" -- ELO
3. "Awoo" -- The Hidden Cameras
4. Feelin' So Good (S.K.O.O.B.Y. D.O.O.) -- The Archies
5. "Knights of Cydonia" -- Muse
6. "The Golden State" -- John Doe
7. "Mrs. Brown, You've Got an Ugly Daughter" -- The Queers
8. "New Slang" -- The Shins
9. "Back of My Hand" -- The Jags
10. "Little Red Light" -- Fountains of Wayne

Holy fuckstain, looking at it now, that's the most random list of songs I could've possibly picked. It'll either be the greatest workout ever, or they'll be fishing a bloated me from the deep-end with the giant hook.

It's kind of exciting...