New York

I like to have things to look forward to. Scratch that. I need to have things to look forward to. If I don’t have something to look forward to, I get out of whack, lose my balance, misplace my mojo, bump my head on more things than usual, get cranky, and/or feel depressed. I don’t like routine. I need to know a break in the routine is around the corner.

The level of excitement attached to whatever I am looking forward to vary. This affects how much I am able to stave off those feelings I get when I don’t have anything special planned. For example, plans to see a sporting event with friends could be enough. Or looking forward to a Vegas weekend can get me by for a few weeks.

This is a weird phenomenon because at the same time, I like to live in the moment. I prefer to roll with things and see what happens. I have serious interest in doing what I WANT to do rather than what I’m SUPPOSED to do. Of course, this is all within reason. I don’t want to get arrested (again – heh heh) or be harmful. So, although I’d love to kick a lot of people in the pants, and even give a few folks a smart punch to the throat, I’m not SUPPOSED to do those things, so I won’t.

There is one more factor to consider in relation to needing things to look forward to. Everybody craves things, right? This is a little different than having something to look forward to. I may crave cookie dough ice cream, but planning a visit to Ben & Jerry’s after work doesn’t really constitute as something exciting to look forward to. I may crave the smells, sights and sounds of the mountains and satisfy that craving with a one hour drive west. But that craving and ways to satisfy the craving are a little different than looking forward to seeing old friends in Chicago, hosting a New Year’s party, or going to Napa Valley for a weekend.

Combine having things to look forward to, living for the moment and craving.

I had a really vivid dream the other day. I was in New York City. I must have been looking forward to going to New York because I got off the train and was filled with both anxiety and exhilaration. I had been planning the trip for weeks, but it never felt real. I walked into the streets surrounded by tall dark buildings and masses of rushing people. I kept looking over my shoulder, not sure where I was or where I should be going.

Denver is a decent sized city and I am originally from Chicago. I really am a city boy at heart. New York City blows away both of my home towns. I stopped in the middle of the crowded sidewalk and took a deep breath. I inhaled the vibe of the big city. In a sudden rush, I felt light-headed and the buildings were no longer foreboding. The people were in a hurry, but they made eye contact and actually smiled.

The reality of it all hit me at once. I knew exactly why I was there and I felt like a kid on Christmas Eve. I stretched my arms up in the air and took in the wide open blue sky. I was ready to embrace the city’s offerings and have the city take me in. I smiled at the thought of becoming one with the night ahead.

I picked up my step, craving the sight and sounds of the city. The faster I walked the nosier and more exhilarating it all became. My craving was intense. I knew my purpose; my goal. All I could think about was getting to where I was going. The tide of people parted before me as I surged ahead. I felt like the luckiest guy in Manhattan. Hell, I felt like the luckiest guy in the world.

I didn’t notice the homicidal cab drivers, the honking and cussing of angry drivers, the shitting pigeons, the sewer rats the size of the midget that works out at my gym, the stench of the alleys, the pickpockets, the homeless, the depressed stock brokers, the views of Jersey, the tourists smiling and taking pictures in front of Ground Zero, the gangs, or the smell of urine in the subways.

Instead, nothing mattered but the moment. This moment I had been craving and looking forward to for what seemed like ages.

I woke up excited. Really excited.

Perhaps I had this dream because I am going to New York for work in the morning. I’ll be there Monday to Thursday. Maybe the work stuff I need to do is the smelly subway part that I will barely even notice. Because I will take in the city. I will forget everything else and embrace this vibe. I will take it all in and give as much back. It is a short trip, but it is sure to stay with me for a lifetime.

Self Destruction at 10am

I was up until 2:30a last night working on a proposal for a business pitch. We are the incumbents and have had this client for eight years. It is a state funded dealio that focuses on initiatives like seatbelt usage, drinking and driving, and other things involving safety in transportation. It has to go up for renewal every few years.

I have had this RFP (request for proposal) for about a month, but of course put most of the work off to the last second. I wasn’t quite done at 2:30a and realized that although my eyes were open and I was pounding the keyboard, my brain was fast asleep. So I caught some brief zees and got in the office by 7:30a. The proposal was due by 10a, no exceptions. And it could not be emailed. So I had to account for fifteen minutes driving time from my office to theirs.

I got my groove on and cranked out some pretty darn good ideas if I may say so myself. I was done around 9a, but then had to print out a bunch of copies and fill out all kinds of forms covered in red tape. I left around 9:35a praying for no traffic jams, cops, midget sightings, or anything else to distract me from arriving in the procurement office by 9:59a.

As I weaved wildly in and out of traffic exceeding the speed limit by quite enough to get pulled over and lose this client for being late, I chuckled at the fact that I was doing anything but being a safe driver. While my sealed envelope with five copies of why we are the best agency for safe driving marketing flew around the passenger seat like a rag doll.

Luckily there were no traffic jams, cops, midgets, shiny objects, velocipedes, or nubby banjo playing hand model magicians to slow me down. I screeched tires turning into the safety department parking lot and burned rubber as I accelerated to a small parking spot that worked when I had two wheels up on the curb. Okay, not really. I suddenly obeyed all traffic laws and meandered in to the procurement office like I was taking a weekend stroll through the woods. I turned in our response and got my time stamped receipt. 9:49a baby!! I could have stopped for a chai! Whew-weeeeeeeeeeee am I a fucking idiot for pushing it that close.

Speaking of the word fucking, every time I try to text that word, the predictive texting feature turns it into ducking. I go too fast to catch it and my phone thinks that ducking is right. So then I have to go back and change the D to an F. I am amazed at how frequently I text the word fucking.

Ducking ridiculous.

Yes, I am an Ass. But This Shit is Funny.

I found myself enjoying a weekend of total political incorrectness. If I didn’t offend anyone directly, I did it indirectly, behind their back, subconsciously or even unintentionally. Yes I did. And it is still the weekend, so I may as well continue my amble down the road of obnoxiousness by possibly offending anyone wasting their time reading this blog.

It started on Friday. A friend of mine’s brother is suing Martha Stewart and K-Mart. His lawsuit is making national news. He apparently lost part of his finger by a faulty deck chair. The finger was reattached but he has problems with it. Not to mention the trauma. If you were a musician, hand model and magician, you’d need your fingers at full capacity as well. He lives in Iowa. I got stuck on that for awhile. I’m trying to imagine the workload a hand model has in Iowa. When I read that one of his biggest concerns is his ability to play the banjo again, I had to take a moment. And then, all I could think about is that funny little move dads always teach their kids where they put their hands together and make it look like their thumb is cut off? You know that move, don’t you? Plus, if this guy is a magician, doesn’t he cut off and put back body parts all the time? My friend is a good sport and I don’t think she minds me laughing at her brother.

I ran an errand Friday afternoon and came upon this character.



It took me about four blocks to finally get that picture. I kept pulling up with my iphone pointed at him only to miss the shot due to nearly crashing, poor aiming or trying to avoid running him over at the same time. This wasn’t really a non-PC moment, but my fascination with odd people and situations seems to make it appropriate for this blog. Plus, it happened over the non-PC weekend. I was trying to imagine what he was thinking as I kept pulling up next to him and falling back while pointing my phone at him.

I left work early to meet a plumber at my house. He looks like a plumber. He got under the kitchen sink and I confess I felt like I was watching car racing. Pretty boring stuff unless there is a crash. I’m not talking about a bursting pipe either. I’m talking plumber butt. You don’t really want there to be a crash, because you don’t want anyone to get hurt. Same thing as a plumber butt. You don’t really want to see one because you don’t want to throw up in your mouth. I mean, some ass cracks aren’t all that unpleasant. But I have yet to see a plumber’s plumber butt worth seeing. So of course, I stood there with my phone cam aimed and ready. No luck though. This plumber never did sport a plumber butt.

Saturday evening’s big plans were to attend to a White Trash party. Neighbors in the hood were throwing the happy hour gala where we were to show up in costume toting our finest trailer trash food and bevies. Oh, and the kids were invited too. Instructions were to tell the kiddies it was a costume party. I picked up a 12 pack of Bush beer, cut the sleeves off a flannel, bought a wife beater from wal-mart, and was good to go.




My kids went in their Halloween costumes and didn’t question why all the guys looked like me and all the women had curlers in their hair, robes, black eyes, and appeared to be pregnant. Sunday hurt, but not because of the beer. It wasn’t pleasant from the corn dogs, cheese whiz, pigs in a blanket, fritos, and twinkees.

I did recover though (stomach of steel – on the inside) and made it to the Nuggets-Bulls game tonight. It was fun, but win or lose, I always enjoy the conversation and people watching. Tonight was no exception. I have this ridiculous infatuation with little people. No, not kids. I was trying to be PC. Midgets! I can’t really explain it. I have written about the midget that works out at my club and the midget I saw riding a bike downtown. Also, I once dated a gal that was 4’-11”, but I had to break up with her. She was just too damn short (I am about 6’-3”). I think I wrote about her too. When we were in the sack, I couldn’t stop thinking of circus performers. That, my friends, doesn’t bode well for fun sex.

So anyway, apparently the Nuggets have hired a little fellah to work on their promotions staff. It took about ten tries to finally get a mostly unimpeded shot of him. I was trying to be discreet. I think the people behind me knew what I was doing though. Especially when I kept saying “shit” under my breath every time I got yet another shot of the profile of the girl in front of me. Amazingly, this promotions midget is the exact same size as the woman’s head sitting in front of me. If that isn’t fascinating, I don’t know what is.



There you have it. I am not better than any of these people. They are all human beings and should be respected. And I do respect them. I just can’t help laughing at them. I am easily amused and quite twisted. My bad.

I Don't Remember It All

Holy Vegas, I’m tired! The madness began on Southwest Airlines on Friday morning. My buddy Tom had free drink coupons. We had a couple rum and cokes each. And in the spirit of doubling down, we made our drinks doubles too. We took a cab to the Mirage and met up by the roulette table after checking in.

Our lovely waitress Athena had Vegas boobs. Huge, fake and spectacular. She went out of her way to lean over us to take our orders. I asked for a vodka tonic. Athena scoffed at me and asked if I was an amateur. I didn’t really hear her because her boobs were so loudly saying, “Hey, look at us.” She leaned in a little closer and it was everything I could do to not give her a motorboat as she said, “You mean you will have a Grey Goose and tonic and I’m making it a double.” Good old Athena. Yes, I did say old. She was about 50 years old and a cougariffic drink slinging low cut outfit of double trouble.

For some reason I play 32 on the roulette wheel. I don’t know why. It’s not like I’m a big fan of OJ Simpson or anything (he was #32 for you non-footballers). I always stack a few chips on there and surround it on the corners with a chip each. Luckily it hit a couple times. Between drinking the doubles, hitting 32 twice and eyeballing Athena’s bursting twins, I was off to a great start.

Sometime around 5p, I realized I was pretty buzzed. My wife flew in on a later flight so I went back to meet up with her. I figured we’d have a little Welcome To Vegas Holy Shit We Don’t Have Any Kids To Deal With party. Turns out I wasn’t buzzed. I was hammered! The party went down but I was accused of making a 2am booty call at happy hour. Not good manners.

There were six couples on this adventure. We had a nice dinner and mostly hung out together gambling. I lasted out until 2am. I retired solo to the room, put the bathroom garbage can by the bed and crashed. I didn’t wake up when my wife got in around 5:30am. Not surprisingly, she made zero attempt to wake me for another round of Vegas luvin.’

We woke up starving around 10am. We went down to the breakfast place and watched each other’s throbbing headaches over eggs and bacon. Vegas is so surreal. You tend to recognize celebrities even if they are C or D list. As I scarfed down my western omelet, I realized Howie fucking Mandel was sitting next to us. I think he was wearing a NASCAR hat. It had flames on it anyway. Unless maybe that was my burning retinas.

After breakfast, my wife decided to crash in the room while I chose poolside. I managed to do nothing, and I mean absolutely nothing, for about five hours. I jammed tunes on my ipod shuffle and rotated between dozing off and people watching. I haven’t had five hours that good in a long time. Just when I decided to start in again on the drinking, I got a text from my wife. I thought, booty call!! Nope. It was instructions to bring up a pizza for a little pre-dinner munchies. I have to admit, that was a fabulous idea.

While I was waiting for the pizza, I talked to a gal eating at the bar. She was in town celebrating her 28th birthday. She was in from LA. We talked about Hollywood a bit because I will be there for my third time in March (for a conference). I asked her for recommendations for fun restaurants and/or bars. She noticed my wedding ring and asked if I am married.

I said, “No, I wear a wedding ring because I heard married guys get hit on all the time. I also rent puppies for long walks in the park. I’m a fireman, have abs of steel and volunteer my time at the hospital tending to sick children.”

She said, “I can’t give you advice on cool places in Hollywood.”

I think she was saying I’m too dorky. I fired back with, “You are sitting alone at a California Pizza Kitchen in Las Vegas and you don’t think I’m cool enough for the hip places in Hollywood?”

She laughed and claimed she can’t be responsible for corrupting a married guy. My pizza came and I told her I just wanted to know of a good sushi place or somewhere fun for a cocktail. Sheesh.

The rest of the night was more of the same. Eating, drinking, and gambling with everyone. I made it in around 5am on night two. I woke up in time to place some bets on football and then I watched the games from the restaurant bar where I scarfed down a cheeseburger and fries for about $19. Gotta love Vegas prices. I’m thinking geez, do I get to eat bacon with Howie fucking Mandel for that price?

I spent the afternoon at the pool again. There was an unfortunate incident afterwards. I had a beer about the size of a Big Gulp. I was back in the room changing. I dropped my cash, room key and book on the desk, next to my beer. I dropped my shuffle on the desk, INTO my beer. I’d say it was in there for three seconds. The ear phones made it like a tea bag dipped in New Castle and I surprised myself with my reflexes as I yanked that baby out. Three seconds. Busted shuffle. Apparently Steve Jobs and the Apple folks aren’t all that innovative after all. They can’t even make a product that withstands three seconds of beer dunking.

One of the other interesting snippets from the trip was late on the last night. I was sitting at a slot machine by myself doing some drunk texting. All the sudden a very beautiful woman saddled up next to me and said hello.

I said, “Oh, hi.”

She asked me, “Do you want to party?”

I thought it was quite obvious I was pretty drunk already. But it wasn’t that kind of partying she was asking me about. If you are male and have been alone in Vegas in the wee hours of the morning, chances are you have been propositioned by a professional. For the record, I have never hired a prostitute. Not that there is anything wrong with hiring prostitutes. Except for possibly going to jail, catching a disease and pissing off your wife. But otherwise, I’m sure it’s a wonderful experience.

I replied, “Oh, I like to party, but my wife wouldn’t be happy if I brought you upstairs.”

She said, “We can rent a limo. It will drive us all around the city while we have our own party in the back.”

I think she thought I was mulling it over when I responded, “Wow, that could be fun. My previous limo rides haven’t been anything like what you are saying. How much would that cost me?”

She smiled coyly and said, “$600.”

I said, “Well then we are off by $1200 bucks.” She looked at me with utter confusion. I clarified, “I charge $600 myself.” And then she turned and walked away. I thought, darn hooker doesn’t have a sense of humor. I guess if someone totally belittled the way I earn a living, I’d be pissy too.

There were other fun parts of the trip, but some are foggy and some are more of the same. Besides, I don’t believe the motto is What Happens in Vegas Goes in the Blog. I came home out about $400 in cash which isn’t bad considering that includes all the food, cabs, drinks and gambling.

It is now Wednesday morning, closing in on 1am. I think the booze may have finally left my system earlier tonight (I got home Monday evening). As I acclimate to reality, I’m trying not to stare at everyone’s boobs at work nor drink beer at lunchtime. So far so good, but then again, the weekend is nearing.

Anybody have a good Vegas story?

Candy

Candy. Still so much of it from Halloween. Yum. I like me some Candy. Reminds me of a story.

Back in college and shortly thereafter, I was a real Goober. I dated a bunch of Dum Dums. But also some real Lollies. I’ll never forget the lessons Big Red taught me, despite catching the Razzles after that wild Spree. Oh, and I remember that Bit-O-Honey from a certain Chicklet that still gives me the Zotz when I think about her and her Juicy Fruit.

I dated all kinds of Honees. Some were real Milk Duds. Like that Black Taffy that left me with Atomic Fire Balls after seducing me with her Red Hots and Peach Buds. I once met quite a Whistle Pop at the Kit Kat club. She whispered things about my Nut Goodie and her Cherry Drops that had me stuttering Runts.

I’ll never forget that night out at Chuckles bar. This Mint Julep caught my eye so I bought her Lemon Drops. She had nice Mounds with her Dots poking through her double D Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. As she walked over to me, I sucked in my Jelly Belly and tried not to show any nervous Twix.

She said, “Hi ya Cracker Jack. You look Good and Plenty.”

“Why thank you Tootsie Roll, you are a real Jawbreaker yourself!”

She arched her back slightly, Mallo Cups straining out of her Licorice Laces. My Bottle Caps nearly burst out of my head and I think my Jujubes tremored. She got right to the point. “How’d you like to Rolo in the hay and make my Starburst?”

I thought I heard the bartender Snicker when I said, “A Long Boys Slo Poke does sound good, but I don’t want to end up with any Baby Ruths or Sour Patch Kids.”

“No worries,” she said. “I always carry Life Savers and for extra protection, Saf-T-Pops.”

“Well Hubba Bubba, that makes me a Jolly Rancher.”

She said she had an idea that she wanted to run by me. “I have these buddies named Mike & Ike. How do you feel about a couple extra Goodbars playing with my Chupa Chups?”

My Wonka Bar suddenly went limp. “Um, that is too much Milky Way for my liking. I’m no Three Musketeer. Next thing you know, a Sugar Baby and Sugar Daddy will join in for some group M&M and I’ll find myself just another Zagnut in a Sixlet.”

She said, “Don’t be an Airhead you Nerd. You don’t have to touch their Grape Sticks. Just focus on my Almond Joy.”

“Sorry Butter Mint, but you can get your Coconut Haystacks out of my Wax Lips face and go find some other Gumball to fall for you and your Horehound Drops. No Pay Day is big enough for me to want to see a bunch of Cinnamon Sticks, P-Nuttles and Pixy Stix doing the Abba-Zaba with your Bun Bar.”

Luckily, I did find a totally Bubblicious Hot Tamales that made my Whatchamacalit rise. She was classier than a 100 Grand Bar that shopped on 5th Avenue. She made Animal Crackers out of most men. But she fell for my Hershey’s Kisses and was quite happy that I am no Hershey’s Miniatures. She was always in my Squirrel Nut Zippers looking for my Mamba Fruit Chew. We’d have Marathon Bar sessions of fun as I made her Cup-O-Gold tingle from earth to Mars. She was into Blow Pops and Rain-Blo which made my Clark Bar Pop Rocks!

Afterwards, our bodies would be like Gummi Worms and we’d end up in a Goo Goo Cluster til we woke up to Freshen-Up Gum.

These memories give me the Fizzies. Time to Banana Splits.

Swift Kick in the Pants

Tam reminded me of the best comic strip ever done. Calvin & Hobbes! Hard to believe I enjoyed the antics of a smartass whack-job kid that constructed snowman horror scenes and ran around naked all the time.

Here is one of my favorite strips:




Everybody I know needs a kick in the ass too. It sure seems like there is a big market for this type of service. And considering I have big feet and I have enthusiasm for most everything I do, the service would be much more than satisfactory. At least for the buyer of said services. And for me.

In fact, out of the kindness of my big sappy heart, I will give away a free trial of kicks in the pants. For a limited time, I will kick the pants of anyone you choose, except small children or animals. Although most animals don’t wear pants. Strike that, if the animal has pants on, I will kick it cuz that just isn’t right.

If you act now, I will allow you to choose what shoe for me to wear. I prefer it to be one I already own, which eliminates anything with spiky heels, by the way. I have an array of choices such as my ginormous gortex winter boots. These would be perfect for anyone with a particularly large ass. Or anyone wearing snow pants.

I have a pair of blue Chucks which would be good for any punk teenagers that need a swift kick of reality if they think they are too cool. These also will work well for anyone retro, hippies, or people who like 80s music.

I have hiking boots that would be good for just about anyone, particularly the outdoorsy types that bore you with tales of climbing mountains and doing their own composting. These are also good for environmentalists, obsessive recyclers, and owners of electric cars. Scooter riders get a free bonus kick.

My basketball shoes (Nike high-tops) would be great for any particularly tall targets of ass-kicking. The three inch vertical leap they provide my nearly 6’3” frame is usually enough to karate kick even the tallest of offenders. These are also perfect for white guys with dreadlocks, white guys with afros, white guys that rap, and white guys that bite their lower lip.

I have a scuffed up pair of black ecco loafers; perfect for a pointy kick in the bulls-eye of anyone a little too full of themselves. I’d also use them on anyone wearing pleats or people who tuck in any kind of shirt that does not have buttons. These would also be useful for men in bowties, women dressed like Mormons, clients, co-workers and the Fed-Ex guy if he comes one more time while everyone is out to lunch.

My flip flops would be good for those Californians (especially the ones invading Colorado) and people that start every sentence with “Dude.” And my sandals will make the granola tree-hugger grungies (like in Boulder and Seattle) feel right at home. For Moi, I’ll put on socks first.

I’ve got a rarely used pair of shiny black shoes reserved for weddings and funerals that I’d be happy to use for special occasions. These would also be good for particularly great dancers AND particularly horrible dancers, in-laws, family members and neighbors you tend to run into at church.

Oh, and my slip-on marmot lounging shoes are good for unexpected kicks to any of your couch potato targets. I’ve got my New Balance running shoes for ass-kicking anyone sporting an iPod, jogging, or wearing sweats. Hell, I even have an old pair of Wilson tennis shoes that I haven’t worn in years. We can use those on washed up athletes, anyone wearing whites, and country clubbers.

I’ve got some golf shoes that I wish I used more often. I will wear those for anyone wearing plaid pants and funny hats.

Oh, I do have spikes after all. I forgot about my cleats I used to wear playing softball and flag football. Those would really hurt if I do a Jackie Chan with the underside of my foot. Let’s use those on all softball players that think they are playing a sport and not really just partaking in a social drinking activity. Let’s also use them on short guys that lift weights, people in better shape than us, and for anyone doing any bullying.

Wow, I’ve got me lots-o-shoes.

Since everyone I know needs a kick in the pants, my list is too long to print here. Let me stick to my free trial offer. Who do you want me to kick in the pants, what shoes, and why?

Hold Your Reindeer, Santa

I am sitting here at home waiting for Comcast to come over to fix our Internet connection. It has been spotty for a couple weeks. I’m tired of going up to the guest bedroom above the garage to sit next to the window with the computer tilted skyward; refreshing the wireless network list to find an unsecured signal to pirate (yo steph – how did you like that sentence?).

When not trying to get online, I am attempting to work from the little-used front room of our house. This would be the equivalent to your living room. You know; that second space in your house that nobody ever sits in. My parents had a living room that we literally weren’t allowed in when we were kids. It had white couches. Enough said.

Since my kids are home, they are of course in here every five minutes. They never come in here! I keep telling them to go partake in some Veterans Day activities – after all, that is why they have a school holiday today. They seem to think showing me every little playing card from Candy Land is important to my day.

Other than some teachers and actual veterans and their families, not a lot of people care much about Veterans Day. The kids have no idea why they are off school. The parents of said kids are just pissed off their weekday routine is compromised. What constitutes decorating for Veterans Day? An American flag hung outside? I think Veterans Day is getting the shaft.

Remember when Christmas was the only holiday that received massive amounts of decorating? Yes, that was the good old days. Now we decorate our houses for Halloween. At least we do in my Pleasantville Truman Show Bubble of a neighborhood. Carved pumpkins on the doorstep are not enough anymore. You need to have that stretchy cotton mess to make spider webs. We also arrange orange lights, giant spiders, ghosts, skeletons, and turn our front yards into graveyards.

Apparently the ancillary holiday decorating skips over Veterans Day. What about Thanksgiving? How come people don’t install giant air turkeys in their front yards? Or arrange an installation feast between Pilgrim and Indian statues like the religious folks do for Mary and baby Jesus? What about a Pilgrim hat affixed to rooftops? Glow in the dark turkey legs aligning sidewalks?

Nope. The day after Halloween when everyone is stuffing their pie-holes with candy, the Christmas hawkers make their first appearances. Starbucks is already using their holiday cups. I saw somebody order an eggnog concoction of some kind. The Christmas tree guy is already setting up his marketplace at the corner of the empty lot by our town center. The grocery stores are loading up on Xmas shit. The Targets are displaying holiday goods. What the hey!!!

I’ve got some Vets to respect. And some turkey to eat! Hell, it was seventy degrees in Denver the other day. I was in Breckenridge this past weekend and they have to make their own snow. Put away the damn yuletide décor and let’s enjoy Fall!!

Math Camp

Who is this Obama guy everyone is talking about? Haha. Obama, Oprah, the big O, O’Brien’s hurricanes, Yoko Ono, Olsen twins, oh snap, OMG, Opie, Oompa Loompa, the O show at the Cirque. I’m thinking about going by O’Bretthead. My last name already ends with an O. Seems like the O is the shit. Other than OJ Simpson and Osama Bin Laden of course. Most people named O’Something are a jolly folk, often a lil tipsy too. That sounds like a good state of being.

O all by itself is often confused with a zero. Which reminds me I have math camp tonight with my boys. I don’t really know what it is, other than that I’m taking them back to school around 6p for math camp. I’m really looking forward to it for many reasons. First of all, I will spend the rest of the next few weeks telling stories that begin with, “One time, at math camp…”

I’m hoping there is a six year old John Nash or Good Will Hunting kid to whom I can bombard with questions. Like, if a circus train is going 75 miles per hour to the north at high noon and a freight train is going 50 miles per hour to the south, from 60 miles away, what time will they crash? My answer is who the hell knows but those clowns are fucked.

My three year old is pretty good with his numbers. Just this morning he was using his fingers to show us what different numbers look like. He’d hold up three fingers for three or flash all ten fingers twice for twenty. The six year old asked him what 100 is and the little fellah put both his hands behind his back and said, “This!” The big kid laughed and started to correct him by flashing ten fingers ten times. The little guy freaked out for some reason.

He started yelling, “No Wull Wull, a hundred is this!” Wull Wull is Drew-ism for Will. He put his hand back behind his back, bit his lower lip and stood tall and defiantly.

Will said, “No Drew Drew, that is zero! This is 100.” We have a tendency to double up their names in our family. Will started flashing fingers again and Drew totally flipped.

“NO WULL WULL, NO. Don’t say THAT! It’s THIS!” A big math fight almost broke out.

Tonight is gonna be awesome. I’ll probably ask some questions about odds. Like for the craps table and for football parlays. I am going to Vegas in less than two weeks and could use some tips.

If I had time, I’d manufacture some shirts. They’d say, “My kids went to Math Camp and all I got was this lousy t-shirt.”

Time for me to jet. I’ve got my Texas Instruments calculator and lucky underwear. This is gonna schoolhouse rock!! O’Bretthead out!

My Costume

Halloween was fun. It always is when you have little kids. My dragon and witch/wizard/sorcerer dudes looked fantastic. But I thought I had the best costume. I posted a picture since I happen to be wearing the costume again today. Fresh from the camera phone (albeit not showered):



Note the hat. Cross that with today's tough economic times and you've got it. Yep, I was the Great Depression.