It Was Dark, Stormy and I Lost My Serial Comma

What I Really Want to Say

2012-01-24T15:50:00.000-07:00

Parenting is like a yoyo. Ups and downs. And sometimes you just want to chuck the yoyo through the window. Don’t get me wrong, my little boys are angels and I love them more than anything, even sex, although sometimes the latter is necessary to be able to handle the former.

As a single parent with in-person kid responsibilities half my life, there are times when I’ll have my little guys for days on end, without a ton of adult interaction. In those circumstances my vocabulary is shortened as I need to leave out plenty of key words and phrases that I normally dish out like soup at the soup kitchen.

For example, I eliminate the f-bomb when I have my kids. This is not always easy. Many times they seem to be purposely doing things to get me to say it. But I refrain and then when I drop the boys off with their mom, I inevitably find somebody over 17 to swear at.

17+ year old: “Welcome to Jimmy Johns, what can I make for you?”

Me: “Yeah, give me a fucking number ten with cheese.”

Or a random stranger will make eye contact, probably because I’m smiling ear to ear being free of the rugrats after four straight days and they will say hello. I will respond, “Fuck yeah hello.”

I might not have this problem if I could say what I want to say around my kids all the time without regard to them repeating any of it, being scarred for life, taking offense, or telling their mother.

Take a typical situation around the house. Will and Drew are being normal brothers and pushing each other’s buttons. They engage in the world famous banter that results in non stop harassment such as Will saying “DrewPoo” and Drew saying “stop” and Will saying “DrewPoo” and Drew saying “stop” and Will saying “DrewPoo” and Drew saying “stop” and this goes on about a dozen times with increasingly louder cadence before I say in a calm voice, “kids, please knock it off.”

Ideally, I could say what I was thinking which was a bellowing, “Would you two shut the fuck up? Geezus, you can be such irritating little assholes!”

Another good example. “Hey guys, go get ready for bed.” They are supposed to get in jammies, brush teeth, feed the fish and get in bed. This should take five minutes or so. Fifteen minutes later, one kid is running around in his underwear, the other is fully clothed and nobody has brushed his teeth. I remind them to please settle down and just get ready for bed. Then there is a loud thump in the bathroom with one kid laughing and one kid whining while they wrestle for sink space. I say, “Can one of you feed the fish and put on jammies while the other brushes instead of both trying to brush at the exact same time?”

If only I could say what I want.

“Hey guys, get ready for bed.” Fifteen minutes later one kid is running around in his underwear, the other is fully clothed and nobody has brushed his teeth. I remind them to settle down and get ready for bed by saying “Settle the fuck down, do your shit and get in the fucking bed!” Then there is a loud thump with one kid laughing and one kid whining while they battle for sink space. I say, “I am going to kick your little asses if you don’t get your act together! Leave each other the fuck alone and one of you brush while the other feeds the fish before I decide to have late night sushi.”

And then of course I’d tuck them in and tell them how much I love them. Little fuckers.

Advertising is Important

2012-01-19T14:51:00.000-07:00

Advertising executives are very important. With out ad men (and ad women), consumers would have no idea what products to buy. They’d have to make decisions based on their own uninfluenced minds. The horror!

I thank the Baby Jesus, Buddha and Yer Mama for the advertising industry’s affect on packaging. Clients and agencies spend hours and huge dollars perfecting colors, copy, layouts, sizes and every single detail of all packaging. Without some of this valuable information, consumers would be utterly clueless.

Case in point comes from the fine folks of Ozeki Corporation in Japan. They make the sake I enjoyed last night while out for sushi. By the miracle of modern technology, magic and pure bullshit, I was able to obtain transcripts of what went down in the Ozeki offices as they were designing the label on their “Hana-Awaka” Sake (say that ten times fast), particularly the copy that was meant to, well, I don’t know what it was meant to do. But here are the translated transcripts nonetheless:

Ozeki Product Manager: We are shipping a thousand cases of Hana Awaka Sake to the stupid Americans. We need some copy on our label telling them about our shit.

Ozeki Marketing Director: Sex sells in America. We will call our sake Sparkling Flower, like the stripper’s hoo-ha.

Ad Executive: We will test that name in ten focus groups and have our research results done in three months. We will charge you a dragon boatload of money only to confirm Sparkling Flower is the perfect name.

Ozeki Marketing Director: Great!

Copywriter: We need to bullet point the Hana Awaka Sake strengths so the Americanos will know how to enjoy our beverage. How about this:

You are drinking our sake. You will love long long time. Your tongue will lap up the Sparkling Flower of bursting sweetness. Bubbles will give you happy ending.

Ad Executive: I love it. It says Hana Awaka.

Ozeki Marketing Director: Let’s go thru a few dozen rounds before we settle on something.

Ozeki Product Manager: We must tell the Gringos when to drink our sake. We don’t want them to drink our product during work!

Now imagine round after round of writing and editing. Until finally the executives at Ozeki knew they hit paydirt. Copy on the label that is useful and enticing. I’m sure the agency was paid handsomely for this.

The Date

2012-01-15T14:22:00.001-07:00

I don’t blog about dating. I know, it seems stupid that I’ll plaster pictures of my kids all over the World Wide Web and write about my balls but I won’t write about girlfriends or dating. I’m funny like that.

A few months ago I went on a first date over a late breakfast. Oh wait, I mean a friend went on a first date over breakfast. To make this flow better, I will pretend I am actually the friend, even though I’m not cuz I never write about dating. Anyway, breakfast - I don’t know why I agreed to this other than the fact I love bacon and everybody knows that bacon is worse than alcohol when it comes to making poor decisions in conjunction with consumption. Of course I made this decision without having had the bacon yet, but the simple thought of it made me instantly say yes.

I got to the diner first and busied myself with a few games of Words With Friends while I inhaled the sweet smell of bacon. The date showed up and we had to wait five minutes for our table.

I talk a lot. And I’d like to believe when I talk a lot that I actually say interesting things. During the five minute wait for our table, I didn’t speak a word, other than a few guttural acknowledgements and a periodic “okay” or “right” with accompanying head nods while the date rambled on and on and on about her ex and his drug problems. Yep, the first five minutes leapt right into his usage and possible manufacturing of various illegal substances. I suppose all that is interesting.

I eyeballed the front doors and thought about a fake limp I could add to a hectic escape while I held my kidney and frantically told the date how sorry I was that I had to leave and have an emergency appendectomy. But then a waitress walked by with a plate of bacon and the hostess said our table was ready.

We sat down and her conversation moved on to her many talents. Yes, it was her conversation. I spoke more to the waitress than to the date. Apparently the date was at one time awesome at everything. She used to model, she was a top cadet in the police academy, she saved the Bank of America account when she was an intern writing copy for an ad agency and she apparently was on the road to being a professional soccer player as she played with Mia Hamm all the time and was just as good or really probably much much better.

She quite effortlessly shifted her conversation to her vehicle and actually said, “I’m a very good driver.” Under normal circumstances, I would have Rain Manned her ass but A) she would have never gotten it and 2) she didn’t deserve my cleverness and III) I couldn’t get a word in anyway.

I hoped the deer in the headlights look I was giving her wasn’t misconstrued as gazing deeply into her eyes. I was so stunned, I couldn’t decide how to intercede so I mostly didn’t, other than those head nods, raised eyebrows and questionable sounds of bewilderment. She finally asked me a question. I think it was about my playing basketball. I think I said, “Yes, I play,” and then was interrupted by her saying, “I play basketball. I’m really good actually. I play at the park, shooting around with my daughter. People would even stop to comment and tell me how good I am.”

After she gushed on and on about herself she actually asked me a second question. I think it was about what else I like to do. I told her I like to write. This is how it went down:

“I like to write.”

She interrupted and said, “I write. I have written books and articles and have had lots of things published. I’m a great writer.” Then she talked for a few minutes about her copywriting for an ad agency again and somehow the modeling, top cadet, and soccer came up again. And then she told me how crafty she is. She makes things all the time and her friends buy them from her for lots of money.

My plate was empty and all the bacon was gone. I ate fast. Really fast. It helped that I wasn’t able to talk, nor did I want to. She managed to shovel a lot of food into her pie hole while she told me how she was the smartest person in her school, she is a really good bowler and she loves to rock climb and that she is awesome at it. She’s apparently a really good eater too and I can’t fathom how many years ago she modeled much less that she broke a sweat doing anything other than walking up stairs.

I asked for the check and the date asked what I do. I said I run a small business and she said, “I ran a small business. It was really successful. I’m a great business owner.”

I wanted to tell her I’m a robot to see how she’d respond. I’m sure it would have been something like, “I’m a robot. I’m the best robot in the world. I have bionic arms and legs. People stop me all the time and tell me what a great robot I am.”

I limped to the cashier holding my kidney. The date said something about being an awesome limper and how she was in the Olympic Limping Trials while I quickly paid the bill in cash. We went outside and I said, “Well, that bacon was good. I’ve got to get going now.” I think she said she makes the best bacon in the world as I limp-ran to my car while doubled over.

I got in and saw her waving to me. She said something I couldn’t quite hear, but I’m sure it was “I’m better than bacon.”

32! And I'm not talking about her boob size.

2012-01-09T16:50:00.000-07:00

Colorado has a few old mining towns that have gambling. Recent laws have disallowed smoking while finally bringing in craps and roulette along with all the other traditional games so now it’s pretty fun to hit Blackhawk and Central City for an evening of entertainment.

I was in Blackhawk with some friends on Saturday night. We decided to stay the night so I decided I’d increase my gambling budget since we literally had all night if we wanted it. I lost my entire budget of $400 on the craps table in about two hours spread over three casinos. As I contemplated what the hell to do for the next five hours, one of my buddies was doing well on the craps table and I decided to tap into the last amount of cash I had out of sheer boredom and stupidity. $67.

I took my $67 over to the roulette table and loudly announced to everyone I wanted one-dollar chips for my entire nest egg. There were three other people at the table and two of my friends joined me. Yes, the infamous $67 buy-in.

I was given my chips and loaded up the number 32 and surrounded it on the corners as well. I had six bucks on 32 and one dollar on each of the four corners.

As other people made their bets, I checked out the three strangers at the table. They were together. One person was an incredibly gorgeous woman, probably about thirty years old. She had on an extremely short and tight low cut dress that showed off a spectacular set of fake boobs. She was tan, had a nose ring, long hair and a sparkling smile.

The dealer called out no more bets and we watched as the ball bounced around and around, and into number 32. Woot! It paid me $242. The hottie was excited too because she had put a chip on one of the corners which paid her $8. The hottie’s friend was about the same age, overweight, average looking and dressed conservatively, but she was loud and gregarious.

We started placing bets again and the hottie’s friend decided to stack a few chips on the 32 with me. As I tried not to stare too long (I was definitely staring) at the hottie’s rack, I also watched the ball spin around and noticed the third person in the group of strangers.

The ball bounced around and hit one of the numbers surrounding the 32 of which I had two corners so I won $16. The hottie’s friend was mad 32 didn’t hit but I told her to be patient. The third person whispered something in the hottie’s ear and she gave an over-exuberant laugh in response. It was as fake as her boobs. Although it was still pleasant; like her boobs. The ball spun a few more rounds with random small wins for someone most of the time.

I stacked up the 32 yet again, surrounded it and also played 27 and the zeros. As the ball spun, I watched the third person that had whispered in the hottie’s ear. He was probably 70 years old. Tall, skinny and white hair. He had grandpa skin and wore tan trousers pulled up over his belly button and a cheap looking flannel shirt. He had on bifocals and I spied a pen tucked in his front shirt pocket.

The ball bounced around and landed in 32! I was paid $242 again. The hottie’s friend had three bucks on there and was paid $105. The hottie was mad she didn’t have a chip on 32 and the old man consoled her by rubbing her back lightly.

We hooted and hollered and I looked at the hottie’s hooters while the ball spun again. And landed in 32 for the second time in a row and third time since I was playing. Good thing I added some chips to it while still surrounding it on the corners. I was paid $347 this time. Even the hottie got in on the action this time.

I pocketed most of my winnings and decided to up my bets on 27 and the zeros to four or five bucks. I watched the old guy and the hottie interact. It was clear they were comfortable with each other, indicating maybe this wasn’t their first time hanging out. The old guy would shuttle back and forth between the roulette table and the bar to bring the hottie drinks to circumvent the slow waitress. There were never more than slight touches; although more than what a father does to his daughter (or granddaughter) but less than what one does with a woman he loves.

The ball bounced around and hit the zero. I forget what I won because I had split them and frankly I had a lot of chips tucked away in my pocket so I wouldn’t spend them again. I whispered back and forth to my friends wondering what they thought was going on there with the unlikely threesome.

The ball spun again and the hottie and old guy did some sort of pinky promise that her number would hit. The old guy assured her and she smiled with her chest jutting out in eager anticipation while still looking slightly uncomfortable. Her number didn’t hit, but 27 did. $175 more for me – right into my pocket.

We quietly suggested scenarios to each other. Father with his hot daughter and her best friend? Stripper with a regular and she informed him he’d have to take care of her friend too? Escort? But who hires a working woman and drives her an hour and a half to a casino to play roulette with her friend?

The ball spun and I placed much smaller bets – a few bucks on 32 and one each on 27 and the zeros. Something else hit and I kept to this same bet for a few more rounds. The old guy seemed to be getting more physical with the hottie, touching her for longer periods and leaning in closer. She kept throwing chips all over the table while being bouncy.

27 hit again. I let the dealer keep the payout of $35 on top of the tips I had already left her. I cashed out. My $67 turned into $840. Add on the $60 of tips and it was nearly $900. I was happier than the old man’s pants. Assuming he could be happy. All we could do was wonder.

So we wondered for the next hour after we left. I suggested we are all being judgmental and that perhaps the hottie and the grandpa are in love, have adopted orphans and work in philanthropy. Yeah, we laughed about that for quite a bit. Then I suggested that perhaps the old man is a stallion and she is using him for sex. Miracles happen.

We couldn’t agree for sure what the dealio was there at the roulette table, other than it wasn’t natural. And I’m not talking about the tits. I just wonder what he paid her, what he got for it, and how her friend was involved. And whose money were the girls playing at roulette?

All I know for sure is the hottie’s friend is going to play 32 the rest of her life and apparently Blackhawk is a mini Vegas with nothing mini about the boobage.

Get Ready to Rumble

2012-01-06T16:47:00.000-07:00

Is this a new blog post in my pocket or am I just happy to see you?

I’ll tell you who isn’t happy with me. Yer mama. No wait, she loves me. She says hi by the way, and I am aghast at your childhood antics.

It is my downstairs condo neighbor that isn’t happy with me. Speaking of mamas, he is a total mother fucker, no censoring or softening the blow. Apparently me and the boys periodically make too much noise and the mother fucker pounds on his ceiling in protest. Our noise would be a sporadic thump, perhaps when the boys tackle me or a spaz kid running for two seconds on the kitchen hardwood floor. All between 5:30p and 8p on one of my days I have my kids which is about 50% of the time.

We do not make incessant loud and long running noises. Nor do we ever realize we are being too loud. In fact, since the mother fucker has pounded on his ceiling about four times in the last three months, I’ve had to tell my boys to stop having fun. Luckily we are moving in late March and this guy can go fuck himself.

It’s all fine though really, at least until last Tuesday evening. We thumped and he pounded. We stopped and lamented on how impatient he is and why the fuck does he live in shared walls space when he is so sensitive at 6pm noises? And then, this mother fucker that doesn’t want to be disturbed by noise; cranked up his stereo with a heavy base instrumental that was turned up way past 11. We laughed. But then he went to his garage which is under my bedroom and started up either a motorcycle or some sort of race car. He revved it for about five minutes. The floors were shaking.

The boys were so confused. Will said, “If the mean neighbor (he doesn’t call him a mother fucker like I do) doesn’t like loud noise, why does he make himself put up with loud music and revving?” I hugged Will and told him how proud I am of him being so smart.

Then I told Will that the guy is a fucking mother fucker. No, I said I had no idea but he just learned the meaning of irony. Will then asked if we should go jump on the floor. So we grabbed our pogo sticks and had a party! No, we didn’t. I told him we wouldn’t stoop to the mother fucker’s level. If we were staying past March, I’d go confront him whether in person or via a note at some point. But we get to get out soon and he isn’t worth our energy.

So we laughed again about his behavior and how he is less mature than a first and third grader. And then we put together our guest list for our moving out party. We have narrowed it down to everyone and anyone. Bring pogo sticks, marbles, golf balls, bouncing balls and drum sets. We look forward to doing the jumping jacks marathon with you.

Eavesdropping

2011-12-19T17:57:00.000-07:00

“Hey, how are you?”

“Eh, you know.”

“That’s true, I do, but I’m just trying to make conversation.”

“Yeah, you don’t really ever shut up do you?”

“You shut your mouth when you are talking to me!”

“Hahaha, I love that line. You always know how to make me laugh.”

“Of course I do! Who knows better?”

“Good point. When other people get involved with us, they can get overwhelmed.”

“We are a lot to handle.”

“And we like to be handled, if she’s hot.”

“Hahahahaha, high five me brutha.”

“So that was a good movie last night, right?”

“Yeah, it made me think about Will and Drew and raising them as a single father.”

“Of course their mother isn’t dead.”

“Right, thank goodness for that!”

“Amen.”

“Hallelujah!”

“Heh heh. We sound like we actually go to church.”

“Phhhbbbbt. As Will would say, what is church?”

“Church is Wrigley Field, isn’t it?

“Hell to the yeah home-skillet!”

“You are doing a great job with the kids, by the way.”

“Aw thanks, they seem to operate in a mostly friendly manner. And they are happy. So it must be going fine.”

“It’s okay to worry. But stop worrying.”

“I usually don’t. But I can’t control everything, nor do I want to. It’s scary out there.”

“You are way more involved than your own parents and you turned out okay.”

“Except for that incident in high school when I came home and pissed on the end table.”

“Oh yeah, that wasn’t good. That is when we found out about the sleepwalking.”

“Drunk sleepwalking.”

“Right. Well, good thing you don’t get drunk.”

“On Mondays. Hahahahahahahaha.”

“End tables look a little bit like toilets. You really shouldn’t be so hard on yourself.”

“I thought so too, but man, the parents felt otherwise.”

“It was high school. Let it go.”

“What if my boys piss on somebody’s end table?”

“The apple doesn’t fall from the tree.”

“Fuhhhh.”

“Listen to me. Your boys are great.”

“Then why do I feel weird?”

“Because it’s the holidays man. They’ve never been the same since you divorced.”

“I know. The holidays are better than ever because the boys are prime ages for the fun. It’s all about them and they love this time of year more than I love sex.”

“What is the matter with you? How can you talk about your boys like that and throw in sex at the same time?“

“You know we think about sex pretty much all the time. Hi client, how are you (sex). I’ll have the cobb salad (sex). When are these TPS Reports due (sex)?”

“You have never ordered a cobb salad.”

“I love sex.”

“So think about sex when you feel weird over the holidays.”

“Yeah but then I will want to have sex.”

“So have it!”

“I don’t really have holiday worthy sex partners. I feel like holidays are meant for family and close friends. Besides, this isn’t about me getting laid. It’s about me worrying about my boys and feeling weird around the holidays.”

“The holidays are hard on single parents.”

“There you go again. Yes, I’d like to be hard on a single parent, but this isn’t about sex, damn it!”

“Stop it. And stop worrying about your boys. They are fine. And you fucking know it.”

“I know it. You had to say fucking didn’t you.”

“High five me.”

“So why do I feel this way?”

“Because you slept in your old house’s basement last year on Xmas Eve so you would be there when your kids woke up to find the presents Santa brought them? Because this year you will sleep at home alone on Xmas Eve but be able to drive five minutes to see the kids wake up Xmas morning?”

“I guess that is part of it. It’s all fine, really. I’m just not used to it, you know? I can see why a lot of people get depressed around the holidays. I am a very happy man who is very sure of himself. I have never been so sure of myself my entire life.”

“But yet you don’t know what is ahead.”

“I do and I don’t. And I like that. Why is that scary?”

“You see your sweet beautiful little boys with unbridled joy and not a care in the world because you are taking care of them, with your ex wife, and you are doing a phenomenal job. You aren’t afraid of their future at all. They are safe.”

“But?”

“No buts. They are good. This is about you, friend.”

“I know where you are going with this. I don’t need anybody to take care of me.”

“But it would be nice if someone did.”

“Like late on a Saturday night with a little buzz going on and some sexy times music…”

“Those are short term needs being taken care of you horndog.”

“Takes one to know one.”

“Seriously, I don’t need anyone to take care of me. I don’t even want anyone to take care of me. I am in a good spot. My boys are in a good spot. Everything is going great.”

“You don’t need it. But you know what it’s like to have and you miss it.”

“Shuddup.”

Try This for Guaranteed Fun

2011-12-15T11:39:00.002-07:00

I have acquired a new skill. I know it’s hard to believe I can become even more talented than I already am. I amaze myself all the time. And this time it doesn’t even involve taking down my pants, although it does involve my nether regions.

I can shove a quarter in my butt, penguin walk toward a glass on the floor, straddle it and drop the quarter right into the cup. I know! I’d expect a call from Letterman however I have to admit this skill isn’t all that difficult to achieve, although it does take lots of practice.

Now before you try this yourself, you need more information. Don’t forget, I said this does not involve taking down your pants. I’m sorry! You know nobody loves taking their pants off more than me, but in this case the pants are necessary for making the game harder and to protect the innocent from an unpleasant scene, much less the next holder of the defiled quarter.

The first step is location, location, location. Sure you could try this at home, but what fun is that? Do this in bar with lots of people around. It’s about a 50/50 split as to others that can’t wait to take a try versus those that will not under any circumstances walk like a constipated penguin to drop stuff from their ass.

Next, if you are using a glass cup, you might want to put in a tiny bit of water. I still call total bullshit but the first time I was able to drop my quarter from my ass crack into the cup, it bounced out and the chicks that taught us the trick claimed my feat was invalid. I had to do it again. Plastic cups don’t seem to promote bouncing, but a little water will guarantee success.

Now you are ready. Stand a foot behind the cup (you are not allowed to start while hovering over the cup). I recommend you hitch up your pants quite a bit. Bagginess makes clenching more difficult. Simply insert the quarter into your butt crack (while wearing pants) and clench like a vice grip.

You need the quarter buried in your ass to line up directly over the cup. This requires maneuvering over the cup; which you will find can only be done with an extremely humorous waddle. Once you think you are in correct drop mode, unclench your butt cheeks and let the quarter fly. This is a surprisingly exciting moment for the participant and viewers.

If you miss, there will be collective sighs of disappointment and you will have to try again. Once you start this game, you are not allowed to quit until you make one. Although you may take turns with others to get refocused and perhaps to learn some new strategies.

If you make it, the whole bar will erupt in cheer and merriment. It is amazing how happy everyone gets when somebody successfully drops a quarter from his or her ass crack into a cup on the floor.

I look forward to your comments detailing your experience because I know you all are going to try it. Vapid Vixen, I want video of your attempts.

Zippy, Lemonhead and all the Other Little Rascals

2011-12-09T14:49:00.000-07:00

I’m on an airplane right now. And by right now, I mean right now, not your right now. By the time you read this, I am no longer on a plane on the way to Chicago. Rather, I am probably helping old ladies cross busy streets or serving food to the homeless. Or maybe I’m taking a dump. I don’t know what I’ll be doing while you read this – lay off already! Anyway, right now, my right now; I’m on a plane to Chicago. Don’t worry; I’m not flying it. I’d never blog and pilot at the same time. Heck, I’m not even a pilot. Nor do I play one on TV. Haha, that joke never gets old does it?

This is quite the boondoggle of a trip. I’m going to see my sister for a couple hours this afternoon before she commutes home to the suburbs. Then I’ll hook up with my buddy Lemonhead. I met him and my other best friend Zippy while building a castle out of wooden blocks in Kindergarten. Best friends ever since.

Lemonhead lives in downtown Chicago and is in the know for cool places to eat, drink and be merry. Lemonhead is my age – 44 biologically, 12 humor wise. And yet he lives like a 25 year old. Get this; he goes to concerts on Tuesday nights for fucks sake! Last time I was in Chicago, Lemonhead took me to an Italian restaurant in the Ukrainian Village, which is primarily populated with Hispanics. The neighborhood is populated with Hispanics, not the Italian restaurant. Give me a break, I’m not a writer! That sentence still doesn’t seem right, but I can’t harp on it, especially while I’m flying. Somebody has to keep an eye on the ominous clouds and watch out for flying unicorns.

Lemonhead and his girlfriend are taking me to Hopleaf for dinner tonight. I was there this past summer but we just had beers last time and I was distracted by some random girl that I had met earlier in the day at a street festival. Good old Chicago.

On Saturday evening, we are driving out to the burbs to see Zippy and about ten other guys from my childhood. Zippy invited the old gang and their significant others to his house for a holiday party. It’s really because we haven’t all been together for ages and the last few months were rough for some of my homeys. Zippy’s brother died a couple months ago and then another buddy from junior high lost his dad a few weeks later. I couldn’t make it out here at the time and when Zippy said he was getting the band back together, I said I was in no matter what.

I am way more excited than I thought I’d be. I see Lemonhead a couple times a year, but I haven’t seen Zippy in over two years now. And longer for some of the other guys. I come from a very small family and have just the one sister. These guys I grew up with are my brothers. And even if we don’t talk much and see each other even less, it takes about three minutes and twelve seconds to catch up (kids, family, work) before we revert right back to when we were kids.

We harass each other and are sure to bring up some of the finer moments from our past. The wives and girlfriends don’t get many words in but they don’t retreat to the kitchen like most women do at parties. We are laughing too much and are too damn entertaining for anyone to miss out.

I’m sure we will make fun of Hammer for chewing straws while shirtless driving around in his ’67 Mustang. And I’m sure we’ll talk about the time Wally broke his hand punching that moron in the parking lot at the movies. And I bet JD hasn’t been called a Red Headed Fool by anyone lately after getting it daily from me when we lived together in college. And the Stantonian Device; my goodness there is so much fodder with him. We might talk about the time we threw him over a hedge of bushes in Lincoln Park or perhaps his cassette tape collection of heavily incorrectly named bands (i.e. Hauling Oats for Hall & Oates). I understand getting lyrics wrong, but how do you screw up an entire band name? Wolfey will get blasted for always begging us to go to Cock Robin for lunch. Who names a restaurant Cock Robin?

Zippy and Lemonhead are fair game too. I’m sure Lemon’s bulging neck veins when his angry Italian temper erupts will come up in the first ten minutes of laughs. And I just cracked up out loud here on the plane as I thought about that time Zippy fell through the sliding screen door to the patio at a party. I still remember it like it was this morning. His face and one of his hands made 3-dimensional imprints in the screen and it all happened in super slow motion. The music stopped as he was falling and all 127 people at the party turned to watch. He made a deep groaning gurgling wail that was drowned out by the erupting laughter of everyone else. I swear I pulled a stomach muscle laughing so hard.

Oh my, I’m smiling ear to ear right now. What’s that? You want to know what they’ll tease me about? Please. I was a boring kid that never did anything stupid, funny or interesting.

Words in a blog, this blog anyway, don’t do justice to the power of healing, nurturing and feel goodness that comes along with hanging out with best friends. The holidays tend to turn into stressful and hectic moments of gift buying, logistics, hosting, excess and simply too much.

What do we really need? Family. Comfort. Laughs. Health. Love. Idiots like my friends. That’s all I need. And this lamp…

For You Eileen

2011-11-25T17:23:00.000-07:00

I fell in love with Eileen on Thanksgiving. She had a smile on her face the entire night and I told her it was impossible to look at her without smiling back. She told me life is good so why shouldn’t she be smiling. Why shouldn’t everybody be smiling?

She told me she lives in Boston and that she travels often between Denver and home. I told her about my recent visits to Boston, including watching the Cubs play the Redsox earlier this year. Her eyes lit up and she told me there is no better place to watch a game than Fenway Park. I practically swooned as I countered that she must never have been to Wrigley Field. She lit up the room with an even brighter smile and a twinkle in her eye as she said no, she hadn’t but she can’t imagine a place with more electricity and anticipation than her home team’s park.

And then Eileen told me a story.

It was at her old job where she worked in admin at a factory. This company had been around forever and was the epitome of the blue-collar old boys network. She was one of only three women on the ‘suit-side’ of the business and she was the newest employee at that. Her job was to make sure inventory and AR/AP all matched to the penny. Every two weeks she was audited and if everything didn’t zero out, it would be her head on a platter.

As the new gal, she kept her head down (better than on a platter) and worked hard. One day the big boss-man strode up to her and requested she meet him in his office. The room went quiet as Eileen tentatively walked in, trying to think what she must have done to cause her impending firing.

Eileen entered his office and the boss-man told her to shut door. As she closed it, she saw her co-workers straining to watch as they hunched over their desks seemingly already in mourning. The boss said, “Eileen, this conversation has to be between just you and me. You cannot speak of this to anyone.”

She timidly said, “Of course,” and waited to find out what she did wrong.

He said, “I know you are a big Redsox fan and you have done a great job as the new gal here so I want you to take your husband to the game tonight.” He pulled two Redsox tickets out of his desk drawer.

Eileen nearly peed with nervous excitement. “I thought you were gong to fire me! Of course I won’t tell anyone. And thank you thank you thank you so much!”

The boss admonished her for thinking she was doing poorly when in fact it was the opposite which is why he was rewarding her with tickets. Eileen beamed as she walked out of the office and then remembered to look somber as she neared her co-workers.

She sat down and one of her co-workers whispered, “What happened Eileen?”

She tried to contain her excitement and mumbled something about how the boss-man just wanted to give her a performance review and make sure they were on the same page with her job responsibilities.

The game was that night and Eileen and her husband were giddy with anticipation. They arrived early and watched batting practice. Typical of Redsox games, the fans paid attention to every pitch. The Redsox took the lead and as the game went on, there was a nervous buzz running throughout the ballpark. Redsox pitcher Mel Parnell had not given up a hit.

Eileen knew that it was bad luck for other players and coaches in the dugout to acknowledge to the pitcher that he was throwing a no-hitter. All the fans knew this superstition and they carried it over to the stands. They rooted with muted excitement as Parnell induced out after out. Another inning would end and the crowd would clap loudly but then collectively cut it short so as to act casual and not show too much emotion.

Finally the last inning came and sure enough Mel Parnell did it. He pitched a no-hitter. The players and crowd went crazy. It was a standing ovation and Parnell could be seen weeping on the field. Somehow the Redsox management had gotten a new convertible to enter the field so Parnell could ride atop the backseat and wave to the crowd. Eileen said nobody wanted to leave. She was getting teary-eyed just telling me the story.

She returned to the office the next day and wondered how long it would take the boss-man to call her into his office. Less than five minutes after her arrival, she noticed him stand up to peer out his half glassed-in office used to watch over the floor. He beckoned Eileen with a stern look on his face.

She walked in and he told Eileen how angry his wife was with him. She couldn’t believe he gave the tickets to Eileen instead of taking her to the game. The boss-man warned Eileen that she better lay low next time the wife comes in to the plant. He smiled as Eileen thanked him for a day she would never forget.

55 years later, even with the onset of Alzheimer’s, Eileen spoke to me with passion and great detail about the day she and her husband saw Mel Parnell throw a no-hitter for the Boston Redsox.

Eileen told me she is eighty and although her husband died fifteen years ago, she stays busy and still cheers on her Redsox. She seemed very alert for a woman that didn’t really know, or want to admit, that she lives in assisted living here in Denver.

Many people ask why I love baseball and why so many other people around the world love it the same or more. It is difficult to explain and yet an 80-year-old woman with Alzheimer’s said it just right.

Eileen’s story was so sweet and special. Her fond memories of that one game could have been from it being a unique moment shared with her husband. Perhaps it was the special treatment she got from a generous new boss. Maybe it was the feeling of being part of something rare with 35,000 other fans collectively rooting and willing for the same thing to happen. Maybe it was joy for Mel Parnell whose career culminated with that no-hitter and then derailed with an arm injury that proved to cause his retirement.

Very likely it was all those things and more. It was what makes baseball magic. It is why the movie Field of Dreams makes so many grown men cry. Baseball may just be a game played by overpaid prima donna athletes for ownerships that are billionaire empires on the outside. But on the inside, baseball is hope, anticipation, excitement, agony, joy and love.

Baseball is something even Alzheimer’s can’t take away.

Here’s to you Eileen. Happy Thanksgiving. I am thankful for many things and on this holiday, I am particularly thankful to have met you.

Just Another Manic Monday

2011-11-21T17:22:00.000-07:00

You know how people ask canned questions and don’t care about the answers much less really listen to them? And the person being asked something is answering before they even hear the question because we are all so used to random meaningless greetings. You know what I'm talking about. Like this:

“Hey, how are you?”

“Not much.”

Or the other way around:

“What’s going on?”

“Good, thanks.”

And the person who said ‘good’ may have just had the worst day of their life but who wants to explain that in passing small talk? I’m a social guy and certainly seem to like to be heard. Sometimes I can’t shut the fuck up. I’m voicemail’s worst nightmare. If you have a time limit, I’ll max it out even if I don’t have much to say.

If I haven’t seen someone or talked to them in a week and they ask, “What’s new,” I have to decide on the spot if I want to be honest. If you asked me today what has been going on lately and I chose to be honest, here’s what I’d say:

Well, my kids’ school was on lockdown today because some guy supposedly barricaded himself in a house across the street and may or may not have had a hostage. The police had the house surrounded and the kids on the side of the school with windows in sightline of the house were moved to the other end of the school. They were about to be evacuated by bus to another school to be picked up when the lockdown ended. I don’t know any more details yet, but the kids were never in danger and I guess the worst part for Will was that he had to eat tacos instead of his regularly packed lunch. He doesn’t like tacos.

I guess I don’t live in the Truman Show Pleasantville Bubble after all. Wow, right? Now I have to figure out what details to tell the kids while knowing other kids will probably get more information than they need. And I already have a huge dilemma with Will and his curiosity. Check out the note he wrote last night.

I asked him if it could wait until a tooth fell out and he said he wants to know now. Luckily he forgot to put it under his pillow and I sure didn’t want to remind him so I dodged that one for the time being.

I did some volunteer work at the homeless shelter. Getting up at 5am sucks donkey balls. Getting up at 5am and having some guy on the staff at the shelter call me a fucking asshole sucks giant donkey balls.

I’m buying a house. I’m excited but not happy about the hidden extra costs disguised as upgrades. Like the detached garage and the accompanying $8,500 surcharge. Um, the model was detached and the lot I chose is already zoned for detached – I have to pay this extra fee? Can I have it attached then? No? Donkey balls!

In other news, I’m going to run the Turkey Trot on Thanksgiving morning. Work is rockin’. My kids are awesome. I’m reading a great book that centers on what would happen if there were a cure for aging – basically nobody dies naturally. Very good so far. Speaking of aging, my parents just got back from a cruise. They are so old that they repeat trips now. I might go to Chicago for a quick boondoggle in December. I’ve been watching the Bears win week after week and even though I still hate Jay Cutler, I’m bummed he broke his thumb. I’m not sure how he will be able to shove it up his own ass anymore. Which reminds me I need tix for da Bears-Donkeys I mean Broncos game that is here on December 11^th. I’ll fly back in time to go to it if I can score tickets. Can you help a brutha out?

So yeah, not much is going on. How about you?

Stimulating Conversation

2011-11-09T08:42:00.000-07:00

A typical morning conversation at the House of Stud Boys:

Drew: Daddy, what is your favorite color?

Me: Drew.

Laughing Drew: Daddy, what is your favorite color?

Me: Ummm, Drew!

Angry Laughing Drew: DADDY! What is your favorite color?

Me: Your underwear.

Laughing Drew: Daddy, just answer. What is your favorite color?

Me: Poopy brown.

Laughing Drew: What is your favorite animal?

Me: You.

Frustrated Drew: No, an animal!

Will: You ARE an animal Drew!

Pissed Off Drew: No I’m not!

Excited Smarty Pants Will: Yes you are Drew. Drew, you don’t know anything because you are only in first grade. People are animals Drew. You are an animal.

Stubborn Mad Drew: No!

Me: Okay, okay, my favorite animal is a smelly dog!

Laughing Drew: What is your favorite sport?

Me: Sleeping.

Barely Able To Talk Because He Is Laughing So Hard Drew: Have you ever seen a poopy brown smelly dog sleeping?

Me: Yes. On your face!

Both boys laughed like hyenas which became a contest to see who could be the loudest and longest without taking a breath. They suck at it because they kept stopping to breathe and then started up again pretending like there was never a break. Neither will be an opera singer, that’s for sure.

I have the boys on Tuesdays, Thursdays and every other weekend. They have been begging me to let them be in charge this coming Thursday. You see, this past weekend was officially deemed the Will and Drew Plan the Whole Weekend Weekend. They got to do this one other time in their short and luxurious lives and they love it more than sugar.

It started on Friday evening when we had a breakfast dinner (waffles and poptarts). And then we watched a movie and stayed up late. Saturday, we went to Dave & Busters where they played countless games and won sick amounts of tickets so that the $25 each worth of game-cards was converted to junk worth maybe $2.50. Then we saw a movie (Puss N Boots) and finally went home to play board games. Dinner was, wait for it, wait for it… McDonalds Happy Meals! Guess what the toys were? Puss N Boots figurines. How appropriate.

Figurine. That is a gay word. Gayer than guys that own cats. Please try to use ‘figurine’ in conversation today without sounding gay. Let me know how it goes.

The boys stayed up late again Saturday night. Sunday was breakfast out at Einstein’s followed by a couple hours at the indoor pool. Then there was a massive bubble bath in the jet tub. Then there was a deluxe version of The Tackle Daddy Game that lasted for an hour. We usually quit when somebody cries and for some reason both boys were particularly tough and resilient. We made dinner together at home and then I had to interrupt the Will and Drew Plan the Whole Weekend Weekend schedule to force some homework and reading. By then it was bedtime and I got out the vodka.

Will: Where is the milk.

Me: Reallly?

Will: Where is it?

Me: In the stove.

Will opens up the stove.

Me: No, it’s in the fridge.

Will opens the fridge and looks for two seconds: I don’t see it?

Me: Are you blind?

Will: I don’t see the note.

Me: Note?

Will: Yeah, where is that note that was on the counter.

Me: Ohhhhh, I thought you said milk.

Drew: Daddy, what is your favorite color?

Me: No! Time for school. Let’s roll…

Things That Delight Me

2011-11-01T16:50:00.001-06:00

I saw this sign on the way home.

What’s the matter; you can’t read it? It shouldn’t matter. Neither can the audience it is welcoming. Under the DoubleTree by Hilton part it says, “WELCOMES NATIONAL FEDERATION OF THE BLIND.” This amuses me to no end. I wonder if in their amenity packages they offer free pay per view movies while highlighting that the foreign films are all subtitled for their viewing pleasure. If the DoubleTree hosted the National Federation of the Deaf, I’m sure the entertainment would be live music in the lobby. Yeah yeah, I know deaf people can feel the vibe and see the action, but still! The fact that the DoubleTree put up a sign welcoming blind people to their facility is delightful.

I was also delighted by my Rain Man of a son.

He guessed that there were 328 pieces of candy in the jar. 327 was the correct answer and he won the whole loot. My sweet little idiot savant!! How nice that days before Halloween he acquired 327 pieces of candy, because he needs it. After all, when I moved in July, I finally threw out a jar full of last year’s Halloween candy.

Further delight was provided by the name of this place.

This place is located in Salem, MA, rich in history with witch-hunts and colonists. The average joe may assume that ‘bunghole’ refers to the hole bored in a vessel such as a keg, barrel or cask through which liquid is poured in and out. However, we all know a bunghole is an anus. Beavis and Butthead utilized ‘bunghole’ quite often in everyday conversation, like I’m sure you do on Monday mornings around the water cooler. I wonder if Cornholio will be part of the reemergence of Beavis that I’ve heard is coming soon.

Another delightful time in my world is having dinner with my boys. We usually just have stimulating conversation about school, books, friends and life. But sometimes Drew gets all Shaun White on me with his threads and decides to play on the Mac instead.

And sometimes Will decides to go all Zombie on me and talk about eating brains for dinner.

And sometimes I just like to eat pumpkin brains.

Delightful things can make my day. What has delighted you lately?

Magic Powder Mon

2011-10-20T23:48:00.001-06:00

Drew thinks Santa Claus is a Colombian drug lord. I shouldn’t have let him watch Scarface and The Doors movies back to back. This morning he announced that he is asking Santa for magic powder that makes his stuffed animals come alive. If Christmas is too far out, I’m pretty sure you can buy that stuff on East Colfax from a local dealer.

The funny thing is, Drew doesn’t realize his stuffed animals are already alive. I know! First graders are so stupid! They can’t even multiply double-digit numbers. Nor can they vote or drive. How embarrassing. I’m sitting here with Blue Dog right now having a beer. He likes Red Stripe which makes perfect sense since he was made in China where reggae got its start.

“Hey Blue Dog, what up dawg?”

“Ay mon. Can I have another Red Stripe?”

“No way. You are supposed to be in bed with Drew. What if he wakes up and wants to cuddle with you.”

“I’ve got the Puffles on high alert.”

“I thought those guys play Texas Hold ‘Em every night.”

“No mon. That is the Angry Birds. Those assholes don’t let anyone else play.”

“Oh, right. Well get back in there anyway and don’t hump Fluffy. Dogs and pandas shouldn’t behave that way together.”

“Good friends we have, oh, good friends we have lost,”

“Stop it Blue Dog.”

“Along the way, yeah! In this great future, you can’t forget your past,”

“You aren’t a Rasta dog. How many times do I have to say you weren’t born in the ghetto of Kingston? You were made in fucking China! And are you implying Fluffy lives in a slum?”

“So dry your tears, I seh. Yeah! No, woman, no cry; no woman no cry. Eh yeah!”

“It is one of my favorite Bob Marley tunes…”

Together we sing, “A little darlin’, don’t shed no tears; no woman no cry. Eh!”

That crazy Blue Dog. He knows I’m a sucker for good music. He finally went back to bed to snuggle with the Drew-boo. I’m sure Fluffy got violated along the way.

I’ve had my kids and their eleventythousand animals all week. We finally sold our old house. The we is me and my ex. The old house is the one I used to live in before I moved out two years ago. The kids spent half their time there with their mom and the other half with me. The ex is homeless for a week until her new pad is ready for her to move in. So I have had the boys and the zoo they sleep with all week and until Monday morning.

The timing works out well because I have to go to Boston next week for work. It just came up and will actually be a fun business trip. My work obligations will be Wednesday to Friday. Instead of flying back, I’ll stay for the weekend. I’m the King of Adding a Day (or two) to Business Trips. Many people are unaware of that particular kingdom. Those same people probably can’t multiply big numbers.

So yeah, I’ll have the whole weekend to play in Boston. It seems I’ve been there a bunch the past few years. If anyone has any recommendations, please let me know. Blue Dog has recommended a few reggae bars/restaurants, but I’d rather eat seafood than Chinese, so I’m going to blow off his advice.

I think the Angry Birds are harassing the Puffles. I better get in there before they wake up the Drew-boo. Everything’s gonna be alright. Everything’s gonna be alright, yeah.

Little Men in Ties, Torture and the Woman's Trifecta Makes for Angry Bears

2011-10-14T14:55:00.000-06:00

The Grim Reaper has been a total dick lately. Four of my friends have had a parent or sibling die in the last month. Two more friends are waiting bedside for their respective moms to go next. Death sucks donkey balls.

Torture on the other hand, is awesome. Will went to court on Monday to help defend Goldilocks from being prosecuted for breaking into a house supposedly occupied by three bears. Goldilocks claims she was cold (hence the need for shelter), hungry (therefore she ate some porridge) and tired (so she took a nap). As a male, I have no clear understanding of women whatsoever, but I do know when the trifecta hits a woman (cold, hungry and tired), any male in the vicinity better either run away or find a way to help that woman warm up, eat and get some rest!

Left to her own devices, Goldilocks did what she had to do to combat the trifecta. I think Goldilocks is lucky to have escaped the house without being eaten by the three bears. A friend just told me some bear horror stories and apparently regardless of being a small bear or big bear, they don’t like humans and have been known to feast on the skulls of the likes of Goldilocks.

So Goldilocks was tried in court by a bunch of third graders. Will did his best to defend the damsel in distress and I guess you can say he succeeded because it ended up being a hung jury. Upon further discussion, the judge asked the kids what they think might be fair punishment if Goldilocks were found guilty of partial charges, such as for eating the food that wasn’t hers.

Will and one of his girlfriends came up with what they thought was a good idea. They suggested Goldilocks be left unfed for 24 hours and locked up outside so people could throw food at her with the caveat that she is not allowed to eat any of the food, even if something splatters all over her face.

My ex wife was slightly horrified by this idea. I thought it was funny. The judge explained that torture is not punishment and the kids would need to re-think their idea. Some judges are lacking creativity.

I thought the only torture involved was that Will wore a tie. He didn’t have to wear one but he wanted to look official, plus he knows the chicks like a sharp dressed man. So I dug through the back of my closet to find my ties. Owning an advertising agency in a laid-back market such as Denver has enabled me to avoid wearing a choker/food-catching-device pretty much year round.

I found my old stash and Will chose a fish tie. I stood behind my little man and showed him how to tie it around his neck. Drew watched and declared he wanted to wear a tie to school since it was also picture day. I told them both they were crazy to want to wear a tie when they weren’t going to a wedding or funeral. Why would they want to torture themselves? They said they like ties and think it’s nice to dress up. Will said nobody has to die to wear a tie!

That reminded me of the Grim Reaper being such a dick again. So I put on a tie too. Nobody has to die to wear a tie, asshole. Of course this was just Sunday night and I wasn’t going to torture myself by wearing a tie Monday too. But my boys did it and they looked very handsome. Fuck you Grim Reaper.

Has Anyone Seen My Mind in the Lost and Found Box

2011-10-06T12:48:00.000-06:00

I just moved back to my old neighborhood in July. I am renting a townhome for the time being. There are six units in my building and we all have our own garages that open to the alley. When I go running, I go in and out through the garage so I don’t have to bring keys. I just use the keypad.

This past weekend, I went for a run. Fine, it was more of a jog than a run. Geez, okay, it was something between a brisk walk and a slow motion awkward canter. I don’t like to run. Unless it’s my mouth. I can’t canter my mouth. If there were a canter club, I’d totally join it. It might be called Polo but I don’t own any colorful shirts with alligators on them. Although I like the idea of whacking balls (easy Beavis) with a mallet. I think that is called croquet. But croquet isn’t a very good workout and that, my friend, is why I’m not in a running club – because running isn’t cantering and playing croquet won’t help my efforts to be in good shape.

Anyway, I did my 5K route and arrived back home at the alley to my garage. My garage door is in the middle of the bunch. I walked up to it and immediately saw that my keypad had been ripped off the wall. All that was left was some blue tape. Why in the world would someone rip off my garage door keypad? I didn’t have a key or phone and I began thinking about how’d I get in my house.

My unit is on the second floor and there are balconies on the front and back. I knew if I could climb up to the balcony I could bust through a screen since I leave my windows open in the front. Or the back has a sliding door and that would be easier to get in if I left it open, which I couldn’t remember.

I looked to the neighbor’s unit to see about a way to climb up the building using their patio chairs and holy shit, all their stuff was gone!! Their patio had been cleaned out!! I was still flabbergasted as to how all this could happen in a half hour and then wondered if someone broke in my house. I don’t lock the door within the garage that leads inside my love shack. Should I call the cops? But I didn’t have a phone. And I don’t even know my neighbors.

Screw it, I’ll bust out my Spiderman moves to scale the building and then karate chop any bad guys in the neck if they are in the midst of stealing my grill. I stepped back to the other side of the alley to size up the building and look for my path up. Something didn’t seem right, besides my ripped off keypad and the naked patio next door.

I looked to my left down the alley. To the next block. And saw my building. And my alley. One block away to the west. I was in the wrong alley at the wrong garage door next to the wrong neighbor’s patio.

I am losing my mind. Thank goodness I didn’t break in, right?

The Old Man and his Great Challenge

2011-09-26T13:08:00.000-06:00

The old man shuffled toward me in the dim morning light. The years creasing the skin of his face couldn’t quite mask the look of utter bewilderment and fear in his eyes. His brow was furrowed as a shaky arm reached out toward me, slowly and unsteadily.

I took a half step back and to the side of the large garbage can and noticed he was holding something in his quivering arthritic fingers. His feet never left the floor as his raggedy slippers moved him along at a snail’s pace that somehow also displayed a great sense of urgency.

I wondered if he had an important revelation to share with me from all his meditating he had been doing in the dark. His focus and yet glassy eyed look of a madman made me worry about what kind of morbidity was terrorizing his mind.

And then as his arm reached higher, all the way to his waist level, I could see he was straining with the weight of the world on his hunched over shoulders. His hand reached out impossibly closer toward me on his painful quest.

I looked from his doomed grey eyes to his hand and felt the carcass of a lost soul envelope the room. The ancient man had something to say of great importance. I braced myself for what I already knew as I saw the banana peel in his grasp.

“Son, what should I do with this?”

I looked from the banana peel to the large garbage can standing between me and my father. I so badly wanted to tell my daddy exactly what he could do with his old banana peel. As I looked him in the eye and he held the trash closer to me yet, I coolly stepped on the lever of the garbage can that lifts the lid.

Like a standoff in the old West, neither of us moved nor was a word spoken. Then the old man’s arm lowered along with his head and he continued his shuffle for the extra three and half feet to the garbage pail. He resignedly dropped the banana peel in the can.

“Good job, Dad.” I rolled my eyes and continued to make my kids lunch for school while being sure they were fed for breakfast, getting dressed, brushing their teeth, getting their homework in order not to mention getting myself ready for work for after I dropped them off in the next ten minutes.

As I toiled in the rising sun, I saw my dad slowly making his was back to his dark bedroom, like an old gunslinger without a sidekick to take care of him. My mom was in the shower and therefore was unavailable to throw out his banana peel for him.

I gave the old man an old West whistle and herded my kids off to school, banana peel deposited in the garbage can and father back in bed for a nap. He had an exhausting morning.

Ignite

2011-09-20T10:53:00.000-06:00

My friend Jolene invited me to a cool event last month. It is called Ignite Boulder and you should check it out at Ignite Boulder. The concept is that twelve people give five-minute presentations on a variety of subjects. Each presenter uses 20 slides that automatically transition every 15 seconds. That’s it.

Presenters are chosen based on a combination of popular vote and panel choice. I believe last time, six speakers were voted in and six were chosen by the Ignite people (of whom all are volunteers, by the way). Most of the presenters looked like they have never done anything like this before, which contributed to the fun. And the audience (there were 750+ in attendance) doesn’t heckle, but there are regular shouts of color commentary that can really throw off the speaker if they aren’t careful. The slides change automatically and there is no slowing down or speeding up. Plus, booze is served so there isn’t much inhibition by the audience to be part of the show.

If you got to the link, you can scroll down and see the topics at the last event. Some of the highlights for me were:

The Indian guy that barely spoke English did a presentation on ‘Everything you Need to Know About Cricket.’
A woman did ‘The History of Contraception.’ I didn’t even have to see her presentation to love her – she was nine months pregnant.
Another woman did something on how to survive the apocalypse of 2012 with a musket and bonnet. It was inspired by her parents and their love for participating in civil war reenactments.
An IT guy did a presentation on DNS and it was oddly fascinating.

There is another Ignite coming up next week in Denver. It sounds a bit different, since it is tied in to the Great American Beer Festival, but the format is the same. Click here for the scoop on this one: Ignite Denver. One of my buddies is organizing a guys’ night out to attend the event. He and I both want to do a presentation in the future, so this will be a scouting event in addition to just enjoying the show. If we decide to apply, I’ll be hitting you up to vote me in the field.

I have a topic idea that I feel good about, but I want to consider others before getting to work. So far, I’m thinking about doing a presentation called, “Why Chicks Should Dig Baseball.” There is a lot I can do with it. Everything from starting off with a serious effort to show why baseball is a game to be loved to ending up with fool-proof ways to interest women: sun, drinks, mound ball, dipping dots and chatting with their girlfriends while the guys watch the game.

Other presentation ideas I’m tossing around include:

How Everything in the World Can Circle Back to a Conversation About My Balls
The Pursuit of Happiness and Getting Laid – What is the Difference?
Things That Confuse Me (this one would be about women every other slide)
How to Make Your Home an Amusement Park for Your Kids
Topics I Considered for this Presentation but Rejected for the Following Reasons

Clearly I could use some help on this. Please give me some topic ideas. Or better yet, think of your own presentation and apply for the same event I do – we can have a competition like a dance off! Without the dancing. Cuz I’d lose for sure.

I keep coming up with more ideas Maybe I should do:

Craziest Fricking Bloggers I Read and What I Have Learned From Them
Internet Friends: Are They Real or Silicone
Dating Sites, Bars, Strip Clubs, Blogs, Grocery Stores, Funerals, Rehab, Target, Self Help Section of Book Stores, Coffee Shops, Waiting Room at Therapist's Office and Other Ideal Places to Pick Up Women

C'mon people, help a brutha out. Every comment must include at least one idea. Multiple entries are encouraged.

The Following Go Into Effect Immediately

2011-09-12T17:01:00.000-06:00

If you are one of my closest 136 friends, it means we must be Facebook buddies and you may have already heard about some of the new rules at the dinner table in my house. Yes, even though I mock rules and disregard them faster than lima beans, I have to have some structure when it comes to a six-year old and eight-year old boy.

Let me admit upfront that my own infantile behavior is very likely a major cause of the situation. After all, I believe kiddies are a reflection of their parents. Which must explain why I finally had to censor the dinnertime conversation. For some reason this one particular topic kept coming up, over and over. Now I know what it must be like to read my blog regularly considering I had to make Rule #1. Hear ye, hear ye:

Dinner Table Rules

No talking about your balls (I really don’t know why they think balls are a good topic of conversation during dinner – we don’t even eat brussels sprouts)
No throwing food over the balcony railing (even though it would be fun to see who can hit the townhome across the street)
No throwing Drew over the railing (this has been threatened by me and therefore made into a rule – fair enough)
No touching each other (or your own balls – this one is difficult when you are used to constantly touching yourself – we are men)
No burping on purpose (this one is very difficult to enforce since it is highly debatable what is natural and forced – I have noticed a direct proportion to the younger you are, the more likely you are to be full of shit and totally faking burps for fun)
Don’t eat vegetables (this was Will’s contribution and was instantly eliminated like Commandments 11-20 that disappeared when Moses dropped that tablet into shattered bits of rubble)
No loud noises (unless they are funny and only repeated a dozen times or so)
No licking napkins (for some reason this has been a big problem)
No farting noises (or actual farting)
No spitting or drooling like a slobbery gross dog (this one gets violated a surprising number of times)

The good news is that everything is legal again once we are done eating dinner. Violating dinner table rules is easy to sanction – no dessert. It amazes me how threatened they are by the thought of no dessert versus some of my other warnings.

For example, they boys like to play on the MacBook and iPad. I let them carry them over to the couch to get comfy. I admit I get a little nervous when I watch them walk with these expensive and fragile entertainment devices. After all, Drew is my spiller/dropper (he spills milk all the time – which I never cry over – and/or drops large portions of food on the floor) and Will is my bumper (he hits his feet, legs and head on inanimate objects all the time – a chip off the old block). So I keep imagining Drew simply dropping the iPad and Will tripping over something and the laptop flying against a wall.

My warning to them is always along the lines of: “Don’t drop that or I will cut off your head and put it on a big stake on the balcony for all the neighbors to see while crows eat your eyeballs.”

They look at me with big tasty birdfeed eyeballs and say, “Really Daddy? Will you do that?”

I nod my head up and down affirmatively while smiling and say, “Noooooo, I would never do that,” and then I wink at them. Dad of the Year is all mine this year. Etiquette awards may take some work before we qualify.

Speaking of Painful

2011-09-07T14:22:00.000-06:00

I don’t like leaving that last post up, but some wiser being advised me to leave it which means I’ll just sweep it under the rug and cover it up with this nonsense. You think death is painful; wait til I tell you what happened this morning.

I was driving and noticed something frightening in the rearview mirror. Yes, it was my face!! Specifically, it was my nose. More specifically, it was what was protruding from my nose. There was a giant nose hair hanging straight out, clear as day. It was silvery gray in all it’s glory with sunlight flickering off its snot polished shine.

I nearly swerved off the road. I don’t have a ton of hair in the first place, so anything noticeable is usually a super swell thing. Not this time, unless Guinness has a world record for longest nose hair.

The next thing I thought of was my dad. It seems like only old men have nose hairs poking out their ginormous nostrils. Usually they accentuate the fuzzy ear holes and unruly eyebrows thereby getting away with the lack of manscaping above the neck. I’m only 44 and for some reason hot chicks still dig me, so I can’t have hair coming out of unauthorized holes!

The second thing I thought of was everywhere I had been this morning. In other words, how many people saw me hiding behind my enormous nose hair? Is that why the barista looked so startled when I ordered my chai with vanilla? And did I notice her touch her nose? You know, like when you see a fat guy eating cake (and diet coke) and he has icing on his cheek. You don’t tell him he has icing on his cheek. You just rub your own cheek to make sure you don’t have anything there.

Same thing when the acquaintance you don’t know very well has lettuce wedged in their teeth. You don’t tell them. You just obsess over whether you have something stuck in your own teeth. You root around with your tongue and then swoosh some water. Then you remember that one spot that always captures poppy seeds, so you crush the tip of the soda straw with your mouth to make it a sliver for sliding into your teeth like dental floss. All while nodding with feigned interest at your ridiculous looking lunch mate that has a spinach leaf capping their front teeth while they look at you wondering what’s up with the party going on in your mouth.

I pulled up to a red light and knew what I had to do. I had to yank that fucker right out of my nose. I knew it would hurt. Have you ever been hit in the nose? Your eyes water like a crying baby. I had no choice though. I had to grab it and pull.

This nose hair was so incredibly long, it seemed to be tickling my upper lip which made for an easy pinch between my thumb and index finger. I know this is a sexy story. Take a moment if you need it. God knows I took a few moments before I had the guts to pull. I gripped it, closed my eyes and pulled. I didn’t realize I had been holding my breath. I exhaled deeply as I disappointingly hadn’t succeeded. I let it slip right through my fingers.

The light was about to turn, so I knew I had to take action. I gripped the monster hair tighter and yelled out, “One, two, THREE!” I yanked and screamed like a schoolgirl in a slasher movie. My eyes instantly stung and dripped tears.

As I rubbed my eyes and said, “fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck,” I flicked the offending mammoth nose hair out the open window. The open window next to the open window of the car next to me with the little old horrified lady sitting in the passenger seat staring at me with her mouth open in a little ‘oh’ shape. One eye was still teary so I had it scrunched up tight while I rubbed it. Luckily there was no chance my nose hair carried in the wind to the little old lady, but nonetheless it all must have been a sight to see for the granny.

I eyeballed her with my one open orb and said, “Whew! It is a wonderful day isn’t it?” Then I shook my head like a wet dog and smiled. Her little eyebrows furrowed and before she could answer, I buried my foot on the accelerator as the light turned green.

Two painful posts in a row. Time to move on and keep my manscaped head up.

Follow Your Heart, Live in the Moment, Love Unconditionally

2011-09-06T22:14:00.000-06:00

I had a blog almost ready to post but then my best friend’s brother decided to die. Age 46. Don’t be sad for me. People die. My friend and his family are mourning. Be sad for them for a moment and then you can move on.

I’m going to hang back though just a little. My buddy lives in Chicago so I can’t do much other than tell him I love him. Which I did. He thanked me and said he’d stay gold. That’s my homey.

They are doing a small and private service. I’ll go out there soon. Maybe in a few weeks. My other best bud and I will grab our gold friend and go out together, maybe just the three of us or maybe with some of the other guys too. I’ve known my two best friends since Kindergarten and they are my brothers. I can’t imagine losing either one of them, so I can’t come close to imagining what my buddy is going through.

Unfortunately many other people do know what it’s like to lose a loved one. I’ve been sheltered. I’m from a small family and any relatives that have died did so when I was very young.

I volunteered at a long-term care facility a couple years ago. My role was to hang out with a bunch of old and disabled (mentally and/or physically) men for an hour once a week. I did it because I knew they were lonely and wanted attention from someone that would treat them like the men they remember themselves being. I didn’t look at them with sorrowful eyes. Nor did I ignore their maladies, but I certainly didn’t let them pout behind their disabilities. Instead we talked about anything and everything, telling stories, making fun of each other and having free will with colorful embellishments – who could possibly do fact checking on fifty-year old stories?

I volunteered for these men, but also for myself. I felt good helping them. It brought me great happiness because it was meaningful. But it also brought me great sadness when one of the guys died. I knew him the least of my regular group and it was still painful. He was lonely but not alone. I still think about him a lot and thank him for letting me in his life, if only for a cup of tea.

But I also had to quit because of him. I couldn’t bare to continue to build relationships with these guys and then lose them. And to think I only knew them for a short while.

My best friend’s big brother died. The big brother had some issues and seemed to lose himself years and years ago. But he was always there until this past weekend. My friend worried about his big brother, particularly at the thought of what would happen when their parents weren’t around to provide him a safe place to live. He was always afraid his big brother would show up on his doorstep with a suitcase some day.

We never thought the big brother would just go away. Nobody saw this coming. He didn’t take his own life, if that is what you are wondering. But in a way he did, years and years ago. His family did what they could. And his parents loved him as all parents love their children – unconditionally.

Amazingly, my friend hadn’t seen his brother in quite awhile and had this overwhelming urge to visit him prior to the weekend. So he and his wife drove the 45 minutes to see his brother and his parents. They had a nice visit. Just like normal, really. He was even happy to learn his brother quit drinking in June and was trying to take better care of himself. They talked about sports. His brother asked about the girls. I can picture them sitting around the kitchen table like families do. They laughed. They had a nice time together. They said goodnight.

The very next day his brother collapsed. He was taken to the hospital. A couple days later he was gone. My friend got to see his brother that one last time that counted. How he knew, he doesn’t have any idea. He didn’t know beforehand. But afterwards, his urge was explained the hard way.

You may have lost one or more loved ones. Everyone has and/or everyone will. It isn’t healthy to live in fear. But it is healthy to live in the moment and be present. How quickly things can turn.

I thought about my best friend’s brother all night last night when I found out he was in the hospital and all day today when I found out he died this morning. I remember playing football and baseball with him. I remember him sticking up for me and my buddies when an older kid was trying to bully us. I remember him being really good at hockey. I remember him being a really nice guy.

My boys are the same age difference as my best friend and his big brother. I was watching the little guy attack the big guy with a pillow tonight. The big guy let the little guy lay on top of him; pretending that he was helpless in order to give the little guy a false sense of power and victory. The tide quickly changed and the big guy was on top, torturing the little guy. Their laughter was genuine. And damn loud. The nonsense continued for quite awhile as I stared at them and thought of my friend and his brother.

My buddy’s brother may have been gone well before this past weekend. But he has a little brother, three sisters and parents that loved him unconditionally. I hope he knew that. I think he did. I think it is why he tried to work on himself in June.

It was too late. He died at 46. But maybe it wasn’t too late for him to know that he was loved. Which is why his little brother somehow knew to visit. How his parents knew to help him, still after all these years, not giving up. Maybe it wasn’t too late, but rather just a shame it got cut short. I don’t know.

I don’t want to get cut short. I live my life by following my heart. Sometimes I feel like something crazy just happened because I didn’t use my head. I have to stop feeling that way. My heart always knows.

Be sad for my buddy’s brother and his family for just a moment. Can you feel your heart beating? Mine isn’t going fast as much as it is feeling large. Because my sadness is love. Love for my buddy, his brother and their family. Love for my family and friends. Love for life.

Float on.

Opt Out

2011-08-31T16:27:00.000-06:00

I was talking to the Buddha yesterday about all the extra shit that is out there everywhere. Even on my desk, since he hangs out there.

If it weren’t for Maria de los The Cleaner (I’m not telling you her last name – I’m not sure she is legal), I probably wouldn’t have seen the Buddha to talk to him about all this crap. The Buddha was partially buried under a pile of mail and a manila folder labeled “Shit to File.” How rih-tarded is it to have a file of things to file on a desk full of clutter and unfiled papers?

Maria cleans every Saturday and Buddha bless her soul; she tidies up everything, including stacking random change that I end up knocking down every week.

She declutters and makes piles for me to unpile and reclutter every week. I can’t believe those three words aren’t words (declutter, unpile, reclutter)! Hold on while I call Danny Webster and give him some whatfor while I pound my fist and knock over more change.

Maria is an angel. Or illegal alien. Anyway, The Buddha Man was eyeballing me so I said, “Yo yo yo, what up dawg? Looks like you have lost some weight homey!” He just sat there grinning at me while holding a gobstopper in one hand and a sack full of monkeys in the other (what do you think he is holding?). “Okay home skillet, you don’t have to answer. I know I have to simplify. This is ridiculous.”

Just then five new email messages popped in. All newsletters I don’t ever read or some sort of spam. I haven’t unsubscribed from any of this shit forever. The Buddha and I made eye contact (after I positioned him to face me at eye level). I said, “I know what you are thinking jolly man. I want a jelly donut too, but that isn’t important right now. I have to get rid of this fucking spam and extra email clutter. It is time to opt out!” The Buddha nodded at me. Or maybe I just dropped him and he rolled on my desk in a head-noddy way.

I started going through my inbox and deleted folder to unsubscribe and opt out of everything I could. In 24 hours I have already noticed a difference! It is awesome!! So I did some more. Opt out. Opt out. Unsubscribe to all. No, I’m not filling out a short a survey to tell you why. I’m just sick of you and The Buddha said to opt out!!

This worked so well, I decided to carry over the opt out strategy to other facets of my life. I brought the Buddha along for inspiration. If you are wondering if that is the Buddha on my shoulder or am I just happy to see you, the answer is a resounding yes!

A co-worker reminded me about a group lunch we had scheduled for today. I said, “Sorry, but I’m opting out of that one,” and I looked down at my laptop and pretended to be typing something important while I held my breath. My super power peripheral vision revealed a slightly stunned employee that proceeded to walk away. Yes!!

My phone rang and it was one of those fucking ‘mergers and acquisitions’ people claiming they had interested buyers for my business and blah blah blah they’d sure like to bend me over and have their way with me if only I’d listen to their shit and sign up for an expensive valuation service. I said, “Hold on. I opt out. I’m unsubscribing to this nonsense. I’m out. Delete!” And I hung up. The Buddha sighed.

I went out to lunch since my lunch hour became unexpectedly free and upon walking down a crowded sidewalk a complete stranger made eye contact with me. I tried to avert but it was too late. She said, “Hi.” I said, “I opt out,” and picked up my pace without glancing over my shoulder because I was afraid I’d knock the Buddha Man over.

I got to the lunch place and ordered an ahi tuna sandwich. They asked if I wanted chips or some sort of cold potato salad or slaw garbage with it. I said, “No, I’m unsubscribing to your lame side dishes.”

My mom called my cell on the way back from lunch. I picked up and said, “Mom, how are you doing, is everything okay? Is Dad good?” As she said “fine” and began to ramble on about happy hour parties with people nearing dementia, early bird dinners, the obscene cost of fresh produce, bingo at the clubhouse and the new lanai they had put in four months ago; I interrupted and said, “Mom. Listen Mom. I hate to do this, but the Buddha and I agreed it’s necessary. I’m going to have to opt out of this call right now. Don’t worry, I won’t completely unsubscribe, but you need to stop pushing these calls on me. I’d rather pull what I need from you. Can you update your contact management database to reflect these changes to my profile please?”

She laughed like I was kidding and I said, “Damn it I hate when I go to the opt-out link and it just spools. Mom, are you spooling with me right now? Not cool Mom, not cool at all!”

She pretended like she was calling from India and didn’t speak my language well with her feigning understanding of my wishes. The number three is often the delete button on voicemail so I tried that. After four beeps, I could still hear my mom.

“What is all that beeping?”

“I don’t hear any beeping Mom. Maybe you are finally going crazy. I know the time has been nearing. You seem to be losing it lately Mom.” I pressed three again. And again.

“There is that beeping again. Is your father on the phone? BEEEEEL, are you on the phone?!”

“Mom, I have to opt out. I don’t want any of this. Can you just contact me at the regularly scheduled times about once a week? I need to simplify and declutter even though declutter isn’t a word. The Buddha agrees.”

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

“We must have a bad connection. It keeps beeping and your father is asleep on the couch so it can’t be him.”

“I don’t hear any beeping. Isn’t it 1p there? Dad is sleeping?”

I pressed the three button two more times.

“Okay honey, it was nice talking to you. I’ll let you go. This beeping is too much”

Beep.

“Alright Mom. I love you. “

I am kid free and in town all holiday weekend long. I got a little carried away and mostly opted out of all the plans I had. So now I’m free as a bird with nothing to do and it feels great.

The Buddha man seems content just sitting there. He must be meditating again.

It’s really quiet.

I like it.

My phone just rang three times. I just got five new email messages. Three are things I need to opt out of. Two are for making plans over the weekend. Two of my peeps just walked up to talk about stuff I missed during their lunch meeting.

I knocked over my change and put the Buddha back under the “Shit to File” file. Back to reality.

Weak Understanding of Women

2011-08-28T14:51:00.000-06:00

Recently, I was told that I have a weak understanding of women. The accuser is not someone I know and came to me from online. I have tons of female friends and always seem to have great and in-depth relationships with the women I have known. Says the divorced guy. Hey, I was married for a long time and think I understood that woman pretty well too. I just finally understood that we shouldn’t be together as husband and wife.

I also work with practically all women and rarely have inappropriate thoughts about any of them. My employees have all been with me for a long time and I think it is in part because of how I get along with them and how I just do whatever they say and stay out of their way. I’m only somewhat kidding (because I understand them!).

I have and/or had lots of women buddies, female friends with benefits, online friendships (not just the kind where my pants are down), women work associates, acquaintances, girlfriends, casual dates and pretty much all kinds of relationships you can think of between a man and a woman. Chicks dig me. And I dig chicks.

I said to the accuser “You don’t know what you are talking about. Who put you in charge of determining my understanding of women?” She said she is a woman which makes her qualified. Well played. I knew already that I was in trouble. See? I do know women!!

So I fired back and said that although women are more confounding than an M.C. Escher staircase, I think the reason I get along so well with them is why I have so many great relationships with them.

She said I shouldn’t confuse my jovial nature and witty charm with understanding women just because they respond well to my banter.

I said I had no idea if she just complimented me or insulted me and who are you to judge me anyway – you don’t even know me?

She then said she is a psychiatrist. I asked her if she got her degree from an online school based out of Pretendville. She threw some sort of Ivy League bullshit at me.

So I retorted with an oh yeah well just because you are a female quack, it doesn’t mean you can analyze me based on a short email conversation and some blog comments – I rarely even write about women. I mean how can I write about something I barely understand?

Shit.

I mean; my understanding of women is not perfect. That would be impossible. Women don’t even understand why they do things sometimes, they just expect us men to shut the fuck up and accept it. Our problem is when we open our mouths and begin to speak. See, I totally understand women.

There are a lot of whackadoodles on the internet and I think this woman may have a gold membership to the loony committee, so I had to end the conversation before she asked how long I breast fed (what guy ever really stops).

I started asking women I know if they think I understand them. Before they could answer, I’d say, “Wait. I’ll prove it. Right now, you are tired, hungry and cold.” The ultimate female trifecta. There isn’t a woman alive that usually isn’t all three at once unless she is basking in the sun in hundred-degree weather.

A common response was that I was good at noticing physical attributes. With a look of surprise and mild denial I’d say, “You could see me looking down your shirt?” The answer was always yes, but they meant I was good at telling they were hungry, tired and cold. And supposedly those three things are not related to how women think and how their emotions work.

I’d then say, “Clearly you are on the rag.”

This always gets women angry even if they laugh. Inside they are saying, “You dick.” See, I totally understand women.

Listen to me. Some things shouldn’t be solved. That is what makes them special. Women are art. Every woman I have ever met is different and has beauty inside and out that I will interpret in a way that relates to our connection at the time. There is no final answer Regis. I am not trying to understand women. I am trying to understand the people I connect with, good and bad to the degree that we can communicate well.

And I’m not trying to understand everything. I am comfortable living in the moment and speculating about the future knowing changes can happen faster than a woman can eat chocolate.

If you are a woman, I just want to know if I should feed you, offer you a warm hug or let you get some rest. I thought I knew the answer, but sometimes I’m too busy staring at your tits.

Do I have a weak understanding of women? I don’t think so. But then that is like saying I have a weak understanding of quantum physics isn’t it?

Do the Jackknife

2011-08-22T17:24:00.000-06:00

I have lived in my new pad for 53 days now. I may or may not have cleaned my place at least once so far. I am having a cleaning service start this week. Unlike every woman I know, I will NOT clean up for the cleaning people. I have never understood why women do this. It’s like cutting the grass before the lawn boy shows up. Ridiculous.

I also don’t understand why women won’t walk three blocks in the chilly late night air past two perfectly good restaurant bars to cross a six lane road and go into the seedy DoubleTree hotel bar with three drunk guys and me, the only sober person in a five mile radius.

It was Tom’s birthday this weekend. He and a bunch of other people started celebrating early at a giant beer festival being held in our Truman Show Pleasantville Bubble of a neighborhood. The post festival party moved to the local restaurant and then for some reason all the women dropped liked flies on the way to the DoubleTree dive bar.

In addition to Tom, Jerry and Jeffery were the other two guys at this point. Jeffery is a nice guy, but the real entertainment comes from the other two chumps. First off, I love going out with them and introducing them to as many people as possible. “These are my friends Tom and Jerry,” just never gets old for me. A surprisingly large amount of people don’t see the humor in that in which case they fail the litmus test for getting to further enjoy the pleasure of our company.

For some reason Tom was polling us on our favorite sexual positions. My answer was “Yes.” Jerry answered, “Normal.” Tom thought this was hilarious but also wanted a more specific description. Jerry was too drunk to remember how to say “missionary” and none of us would help him. Finally a bar-fly woman sitting near us helped him out. I think we were being a little bit loud.

Of course we asked what her favorite position is and as she was contemplating between “Doggy” and “Jackknife,” the guy she was with returned from the bathroom. He didn’t take kindly to us talking about sex with his girl. I did not introduce him to Tom and Jerry.

I huddled the guys in close and said, “What the hell is Jackknife?” None of us knew. So we asked the waitress.

“Hey, when you have sex, do you like to do the Jackknife?” I shook my head and apologized on behalf of Tom and said, “He meant to ask you if you know what the Jackknife is, in terms of sex positions.”

She cocked her head and I did too. When in Rome. She corrected her head position and put her hand on her chin. I did the same. She put her other hand on her hip. So did I. Suddenly there was a twinkle in her eye (my eyes are always twinkling so I didn’t get to copy her) and she said, “Google it.”

So we did and all said, “Ohhhhhhhhhhh, yeah, sure. Done that. Just didn’t know it was called the Jackknife.” We collectively looked at the bar-fly woman and nodded while mouthing, “jackknife” with a little winkie wink. Her dude still seemed angry with us.

Just then, two more friends walked in. They ordered a round and scoffed at me and my Diet Coke. Tell you what, if you ever get scoffed at by a dude wearing his wife’s straw cowboy hat, an open flannel shirt over a big beer belly covered by a yellowish white undershirt, and a necklace made out of mardis gras beads and beer cans, then perhaps you have sunk to lower than low. But I’m fine with that.

We finished up and were excited to hear our friends had shown up in a golf cart. For some reason, lots of people own them in our neighborhood. The owner of this one had his loaded down with a tent and props from being a sponsor at the beer festival so there wasn’t much room on it but he said we could all climb aboard. We walked out the front lobby doors of the hotel and I was laughing because the morons had pulled up and parked right there in front where cars and shuttles drop off passengers. It reminded me of The Hangover when valet brought them a police car.

Four guys piled in front and me and another guy stood on the back bumper. We took a slight detour through Park Hill and found out it is possible to get one of those things to make sharp turns and end up on two wheels despite going only ten miles per hour.

And then I remembered why the women left us. They know we are idiots.

Words of Great Wisdom

2011-08-17T12:20:00.000-06:00

My eight year old son used air quotes on me last night. Where the hell did he learn that? I hate air quotes and never use them, but have to admit he made me laugh when he did them. I am always amazed when kids incorporate sarcasm into their humor.

I tend to write down funny things people say. Often times the humor in them is the idea of what they said being out of context. But other times it is just plain funny. My kids are often the source of the Quote Notes I keep on my phone. I may have mentioned some of these in previous blogs, but I think it’s time to put some out there all in one post:

Me: How was school?
Drew: Good. I mean bad. First I fell off the swing at lunch. Then I was bleeding at nap. And I’m bleeding now.

Will: Is there really a sub atomic universe in every part of our body?

Drew: For some reason I forget things very quickly.

Drew: This festival only has porty parties.

Me: I’ve got two sweet boys.
Drew: Just like you wanted.

Drew: I saw an ant carrying a dead ant to the graveyard.

Will: I’m bringing the Live Girl in to Einstein’s.
Drew: And I’m bringing the Buddha.

Will: I wanted to cross breed but we don’t have enough coins.

Me (noticing Will spacing out – this was in June): How are you doing?
Will: Good. I thought of a great trap for leprechaun day. St. Patrick’s Day.

Me: Are you walking funny cuz your bottom hurts?
Drew: Yeah, it happens a lot.

Will: One time at micro science camp…

Will: Are you really going to cut off my head if I drop your MacBook?
Me: Yes.

Will: Are you going to do the Stairs of Terror or the Hallway of Horrors?

Will: Grandpa is 100% Bohemian. Daddy is 50% Bohemian. And I am 25% Bohemian.
Drew: And I’m 100% Jedi!

Will: I love you.
Me: I love you more.
Will: I love you most.

Me: I love you.
Drew: Ok

I have accomplished a lot of great things in my life. But nothing has come close to what I’ve got with my two little angels. And who knew they would be such great actors. Here they are being (insert air quotes) injured.

Chicago Adventures

2011-08-14T18:08:00.000-06:00

I have been vacationing in Chicago for the last eight weeks. Okay, it’s only been eight days, but it sure feels like eight weeks. There isn’t a pullout couch in the world that can comfortably accommodate eight nights of my temple (of doom) of a 210 pound body (of pure steel). My vertebrae have turned into cheap bed springs.

I’m not complaining at all. I love sleeping on what amounts to a blanket covering two dozen broken Slinkys in a den with doors covered in little window panes without any curtains. I like that everyone can see into my room 24/7, including the fish in the giant tank that is the size of a small automobile and makes a gurgling whirl of a noise all night long. And I love that this den has so many bookshelves and random shit in it that any ventilation is covered and basically non-existent which means I get to bake in my sleep, despite an oscillating fan that is powered on high and frozen on my head all night long. Bed head is one thing; wind blown face is another.

I’m with my boys at my sister’s house in a suburb of Chicago. We’ve been here for the second half of the trip. It has been all family all the time which is particularly nice for my boys to play with their cousins and all the neighborhood kids. Activities have included jumping on a trampoline, playing cops and robbers (reminds me of Kick the Can), baseball in the yard, playing in the park and countless games. It really has been great, despite the sleeping arrangements.

But I am ready to go home. It is all so exhausting to hang with family. And today is going to get crazier. It’s our last night and my parents are coming in from Flar-da. I think I’m getting downgraded to the family room couch.

The first half of the trip was quite different, other than sleeping on another pullout, this one owned by my buddy Dave. I was without the kids for the first four nights of the trip and I stayed with my homie that I’ve known since Kindergarten. He lives in Lincoln Park and still does things like go to concerts on Tuesday nights. Yes, he is a crazy man.

We had a fabulous time. We met up with his girlfriend the first night and ate in Bucktown at the Handlebar, a primarily vegan place that was surprisingly good for a dive-looking place. On day two, Dave and I had a huge breakfast at Toast and then made our way to Wrigley for a Cubs game. Another nice surprise – the Cubs won and we didn’t get rained on! Post game was at a street festival and then a few other bars. We met up with some really great people along the way.

The next day we went on a bike ride along the lake which ended up being a people watching afternoon on the rooftop of the beach restaurant on North Ave Beach. That night, I had a very romantic dinner for three with Dave and his girlfriend at The Girl and the Goat – a restaurant Dave made reservations at over three months ago. It was fantastic and upheld all the hype. The next day was more bike riding along the lake with a long stop for an epic lazy afternoon of tossing the Frisbee. Then we went to Kuma’s for the best hamburger I’ve ever had. Google it. Two to three hour wait is normal, even on a Monday afternoon when we were there. Although we bellied up to the bar and got a seat in five minutes because we had all kinds of great Karma going for us all weekend. That night we caught a movie and the next day I met up with my kids to head to the burbs. There you have it – a spectacular trip.

You may have noticed that I was the third wheel for quite a bit of this trip. I want to talk about something I normally don’t blog about. I met someone while in Chicago. She was sexy, fun and sleek. She ended up staying the night with me. We had quite a ride together – literally (wink wink). We went to breakfast and spent most of the day glued to each other. I couldn’t stay off her.

We had a great time even though she was a bit costly. Yes, I admit it. I paid for her company. Dave was all set and I needed a companion. So I paid $60 to have Uma for 24 hours. She was a little bit old and used, but hey, I couldn’t be choosey with such an impulsive decision. And she really did look good. She was prepared for me and even offered protection. But I threw caution to the wind and went uncovered.

I brought her back to her corner and paid her keeper. Talk about customer service! He asked how my ride with Uma was and I told him she was spectacular. Next time you are in Chicago without a bike, be sure to rent from Bob by Diversey Harbor. He names every bike after a woman and in hindsight, she was worth every penny.

Dark Side of the Moooooooon River

2011-07-30T16:47:00.001-06:00

This is not about Pink Floyd. Snow White ruined them for me a long time ago. I used to love Pink Floyd until Snow White told me they are bad luck to listen to on the radio. Upon further inquiry, I found out that she had no real good reason for this declaration which makes me believe in it even more. She is a spiritual person and I’m into karma so I just couldn’t mess with that. Which sucks because anytime Pink Floyd comes on the radio I Pavlovianly (that is a sweet new word right there) change the station. I used to love to bellow out, “We’re just two lost souls, swimming in a fish bowl, year after year.” But no more.

The dark side of the moon I’m talking about is much more personal. Consider this fair warning that the following is not all rainbows and unicorns and although Fletch is one of the funniest movies ever (at least in terms of movie lines), I don’t find this story funny at all. In fact, I’d like to file a complaint with somebody or at least get a free toaster for my troubles.

I’ve written about my androgynous doctor before. I’ll lead with ‘she’ in the she/he because I’m 87% sure she/he is a ‘she.’ I don’t want to put her name here, but it is indeed one like ‘Pat,’ immortalized on Saturday Night Live ages ago – a name that works for both women and men. There is that sizable element of doubt that no matter how much I stare and look for signs of say, boobies or balls, it just isn’t possible to tell with the naked eye. She/he is a large person. Bigger than me which puts her/him at about 6’-3” and a little chunky making it impossible to tell if she/he has small woman boobs or big man-boobs. She/he has spiked short hair and wears male dress shirts with cheap jeans. She/he wears earrings and wire-framed glasses. She/he has a deep female voice or a feminine sounding male voice.

The more I analyze this; and clearly I’ve spent hours doing so, I realize this is the perfect doctor for me. I’m not all that comfortable with the idea of a male doctor handling my junk while I cough nor would I be too thrilled to lower my drawers in front of a female doctor. Unless we are role-playing and she is providing extra special services. So, I guess I’m happy to have Dr. WhoKnowsForSure.

I was happy. Not anymore. Dr. WhoKnowsForSure betrayed me. I went in there for a routine physical. I’m a pretty healthy dude. Although there is some prostate cancer in my family, I checked out well in the last blood-work I had done. Dr. WhoKnowsForSure did the whole gambit and it seemed like things were winding down. But then she/he pulled out a box of rubber gloves.

I eyed the rubber gloves cautiously and then realized she/he was probably just going to check how well I’m hanging. Sure enough, she/he said to lower my drawers and turn my head to the side. Cool, I can handle it if she/he can; haha. But then I noticed she/he put a box of tissues on the exam table. I knew this was a legit doctors’ office and that happy endings are not part of the physical so this couldn’t be for that kind of cleanup.

She/he then directed me to lean over the exam table on my elbows. Talk about getting caught with my pants down! “Uh, Doc,” I said in a Peter Brady voice-changing tone, “Didn’t we do the prostate check last time with the blood-work?”

“Yes, but we didn’t check for enlargement nor feel for soft and hard spots. This is the only way to do it.”

I leaned over and tried to remember the last time I pooped. Memory failing, I hoped that I smelled like skittles and roses down there. Dr. OverExploratory than probed into the dark side of the moon, supposedly with a rubber gloved single finger. All I could think of was Chevy Chase in Fletch asking if the Doc was using the whole fist and then singing Mooooooooon River.

Dr. WayTooThoroughAndLingeringWithTheFingering seemed to take a left turn and I thought okay, this totally bites, but it’s almost over. Suddenly Dr. SeemsToBeEnjoyingHer/Himself dove in deep and in the center. I literally gulped and said something but I can’t remember what. I think it was, “Whoa-ho uh excuse me,” or “What the fuh,” or some sort of quiet whimpering. I have never engaged in the receiving end of ass-play during sex and I can now confirm it is NOT going to become part of the package in the future. No thank you, do not pass go, do not collect $200 and do NOT stick your finger up my a-hole!!!!!

The good news is that Dr. Violator said everything checked out just fine. The bad news is that I needed to be held, but certainly not by Dr. BackMeAllUpForTheNext24Hours.

I put on my sunglasses while still in the building thinking everybody looking at me would know I just had somebody up my ass to their elbow. I didn’t even stop to ask for my free toaster. I limped out without my dignity, but at least I apparently have my health.

I got in the car and the radio popped on. Yep. Pink Floyd. Dark Side of the Moon.

Another Phone Call with the Parents

2011-07-25T11:30:00.000-06:00

Ring ring

“Hello?”

“Hi Dad!”

“Brett, how are you?”

“I’m…”

“ELLIE. BRETT’S ON THE PHONE. ELLLLLLLLLLIE!”

“fine, thanks. How are you?”

“ELLIE! IT’S BRETT. PICK UP THE PHONE.”

“I’m here. Hi Brett.”

“Hi Mom. What are you two doing?”

“Nothing today. Can you believe it?”

“Well, every day is a Sunday for you, so yeah.”

“Your sister is really excited to see you. Isn’t it great that we will overlap for a day? How are you getting to the airport? What time is your flight?”

“I booked my tickets a long time a go and I don’t remember the flight times. I haven’t even thought about that stuff yet. The trip isn’t for two more weeks. Hey, thanks for sending the check for Drew’s birthday.”

My parents haven’t sent actual gifts to their grandchildren in years. They send a check to me; I buy presents and tell them what they got them. They do send a card with barely legible handwriting.

“You got him a hex bug set. Also, um, thanks for sending the article on credit cards with the best rewards. I especially appreciated the areas that you underlined in pencil. “

“Don’t pay any fees though!”

“Okay Dad.”

“What is the price of gas out there?”

“I don’t know Dad. I run low on gas, I pull in to the nearest gas station and fill it up. I pay whatever it costs.”

“How can you not know what gas costs?”

“I thought I just explained that. Get this. I have no idea how much a gallon of milk is either.”

“Beeeel.”

When my mom gets mad at my dad, she acquires an accent from a completely unidentifiable origin. Bill becomes Beeeeeel.

“It doesn’t matter what gas costs in Colorado! So when we get to Chicago, we want to go see the Marilyn Monroe statue by the Tribune building. It is apparently quite the talk of the town.”

Beeeeeeeel piped in with, “It’s 26 feet tall.”

“You two really have run out of interesting things to do in your retirement, haven’t you?”

“It’s the famous pose of her with her skirt flying up.”

“Yeah, I figured Dad. I can’t wait to see where you stand for the photo.”

Click click

“Hold on hon, that’s another call. Bill, hang up the phone.”

Nothing happens. I can hear my dad breathing. Click click

“Beeeeeel! Hang up the phone so I can answer the call.”

“Okay.”

Click click

“Hello?”

“It’s still me, Mom.”

“Hold on.”

Click click

“Hello?”

“Hi Mom. Still me.”

“BEEEEEEL! DID YOU HANG UP THE PHONE?”

Click click

“I can let you go Mom. Sounds like you are expecting an important call.”

“No honey, hold on.”

Click click

“Hello?”

“Hola! Donde esta el banyo? I’d like a pepperoni pizza please. Hey, is your refrigerator running? If so, you better go catch it!”

“Brett!”

“Mom, you need to get rid of that call-waiting. You can never work it anyway and what in the world is so important that you can’t miss?”

“I can work it when your father isn’t on the other phone. I could hear him breathing!”

“Well, yeah, I heard him too. But that is a good thing he is still breathing, right?”

Ding dong

“Hold on. BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEL! ANSWER THE DOOR. Hold on.”

“Mom, I’ll let you go. I’m almost to the office anyway.”

I was nowhere near the office

“No hold on. BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEL!”

I hear a faint muffled discussion as I imagine my Dad shuffling to the door in his slippers

“Mom, I have to go. The boys are great. Work is fine. The new place is good. Life is good. Go help Dad answer the door.”

“Okay honey. We can’t wait to see you. Bye bye.”

I hear her yelling “BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEL” as I say goodbye and hang up

If I turn completely into my parents, please karate chop me in the neck.

A Cautionary Tale for All Women in My Vicinity

2011-07-14T10:52:00.000-06:00

I hate running. Unless it’s my mouth. I run my mouth all the time. I’m actually very good at running my mouth. If Major Awards were given for running mouths, I’d have an awesome leg lamp sitting in my front window right now. And I’m okay with running errands. I’m pretty good as long as instructions are clearly written down in detail. You need milk; I’m your man. Just be sure to specify a gallon or quart, white or chocolate, skim or a percent, organic or not and I’ll be happy to fetch you some goddamn milk. There was absolutely no reason to goddamn that milk, but it just flowed out of my mind and my fingers took over.

Maybe there is a reason. My therapist is taking a hiatus and I haven’t seen her in over two years anyway so I don’t get professional help anymore. Instead, I discuss things with the voices in my head and if there is a disagreement or confusion, I go to
The Google. Besides, I’m not sure how much that particular therapist can help me anymore. She was quite attractive and talked to me like a buddy at a bar. I found myself losing focus and instead of listening, I’d tilt my head with a crooked grin on my face and hope she would suddenly kneel down to give me a blowjob. The result of that mindset was that I extended those sessions an extra few weeks that I probably didn’t need just because I am forever optimistic and I thought she might want to give me head.

I seem to have a lot of pent up energy. I’ve been putting unnecessary blue words in front of nouns a lot lately. “Anybody want a fucking coffee from next door? Those are nice goddamn shoes. Please hand me that cock-sucking pen. “ I’m not saying these things with anger, but rather some sort of underlying antsy feeling.

And the running. It coincides with working out regularly again. Basketball, elliptical, some weights (I hate lifting more than running – those fucking weights are really heavy) and the running. Of course I am doing this to be healthier but also because I have to release this energy before I start cussing at the intern during idle conversation.

I didn’t even need The Google to figure it out. The voices inside my head told me. Actually, both heads told me. The issue is that I need to get laid. It has been over two months now. Snow White and I broke up after our Mexico trip, so I know exactly when the last time I had some serious action was. We had to end our fairytale romance. With her living in the forest and me in a kingdom far far away combined with us both having dwarfs to take care of and our own stalls at the market, we simply couldn’t keep going.

I’m one horny mofo. I really need to get laid because all this swearing and exercising is great, but not a good replacement for a little sumthin’ sumthin’. The voices inside my head have all taken construction jobs, but they never work. They sit around making crude comments about every skirt that walks by. The wind blows and I have to carry a newspaper in front of my package. The Google seems to deliver nothing but porn (no idea how that keeps happening).

People say things and I turn it into something sexual. Somebody says, “Our special today is roasted chicken…” I think – choke this chicken, baby

“Can you come to a meeting this afternoon…” – all over your face

“We have a big problem...” – in my pants

I’ve even turned the simplest and most innocent things into something inappropriate.

“Is it okay if I bring the puppy I’m watching into the office…” – oh yeah, doggy style

It gets worse.

“I have to go to a funeral…” – I’ll do your sister!

This is a serious problem. All the exercise, swearing and masturbation in the world isn’t gonna solve this issue.

In the meantime, I gotta jet now. I’m going for a goddamn fucking run and I hope I don’t stop to hump a cock-sucking tree.

Do I Need to Wear Protective Headgear to Concerts?

2011-07-11T17:32:00.000-06:00

Grace Potter is a wildly talented freak! I saw half of her opening act at Red Rocks on Saturday night. We were way too far up to really enjoy it and feel the vibe. So on a whim, I crashed my friend’s night out on Sunday at the Ogden. Grace was the headliner and the Ogden is a very small venue. To be exact, the Ogden has a capacity of 1300.

For some reason, I was asked twice in like twenty minutes how many people the place holds. I may be an idiot, but I’m no savant. Apparently the nearly two hours of standing around waiting for the show to start leads to small talk and recognizing the inner Rainman of others.

I suggested since all five of us have smartphones, why don’t we ask The Google? So me and the step sister that I’ve been assured is not dating her step brother even though they looked like a cute couple and apparently she is broken up with a very large man (not her stepbrother) that showed up and stood in our group taking up the space of at least four teenage Grace Potter groupies in order to stand next to said stepsister and holy shit I just read this sentence four times and I’m not sure I am following myself so let me try again by saying there was a couple that looked like they really dug each other but apparently they are stepbrother and stepsister and then the stepsister’s humongous ex boyfriend showed up and it was all around an interesting dynamic. What? I dunno, let’s move on.

So this gal and me had a Google race to find out how many people the Ogden holds. I put in “Ogden Denver capacity.” A couple seconds later I got a list with the second one showing 1300 in the summary. The other gal had just finished typing her inquiry and had just hit send. I wondered what took so long so I asked to see what she put in the search. It was something along the lines of, “I would like to know how many people can attend a concert at the Ogden Theater in Denver Colorado, United States of America.” I thought that was damn funny how thorough she was trying to be.

Finally the concert started and I’ll tell you what, Grace Potter and The Nocturnals know how to jam. Listening to their music on the ipod and/or radio is great, but does not do justice to the long and building riffs that eventually end up being a mad fast paced loud symphony of freaking awesome rock. There is even one song where Grace and the other three guitar players grab sticks and all play the drums at once with the drummer. It is really cool. I highly recommend anyone see these guys in concert at a small venue. I’m betting they won’t be so accessible much longer.

At the end of the concert, they threw some picks out and a couple sets of drumsticks. One of the sticks was tossed our way and bounced off of at least two pairs of hands and grazed the head of the large large large man that used to date the stepsister that is allegedly not dating her stepbrother, and ended up right in my hands. All those years of catching flies with chopsticks paid off for me.

I don’t know why rock stars keep throwing all their shit at me. I saw Sheryl Crow in Vegas about a year ago and she threw two guitar picks at me. I may have been a little buzzed and too busy making sexy times eye contact with her to actually catch either pick, but they both bounced right off me. And now a drumstick. The shit is getting bigger. Kind of reminds me of the St. Patty’s Day parade in New Orleans last year when they threw cabbages off buses at people, hitting some in the side of the head. It was painfully funny. I gotta keep my head up at concerts.

I think Sheryl Crow and Grace Potter are vying for my attention. They seem to think I’ll just come back stage and let them have their way with me.

They are totally right.

July Isn't What You Think

2011-07-08T12:11:00.000-06:00

July is a big month for me. Many of you know that July 4th is a national holiday to celebrate the independence of our great nation. Most of you don’t know that about 44 years ago, the purpose of the fireworks switched from celebrating the nation’s birthday to celebrating my life.

Yep, July is all about me. They thought about changing the name of the month from July to Wowtember but you wouldn’t believe how powerful Hallmark is out of their calendar division. They are so clever, they know what days of the week fall on which dates years in advance so they mass produce calendars ten years at a time to save on photography and copywriting fees. Yep, little known fact. So they balked at Wowtember because they’d have to trash eleventy billion calendars.

July 4th kicks off Wowtember every year. July 5th became relevant in 1997 when I got married. July 5th became a lot less relevant in 2010 when my divorce became final, but hey, plenty of good things came out of that union; primarily a couple of blonde haired blue eyed two legged monsters called my sons. Now on July 5th I kind of lay low and walk around with a shrug and ‘who knew’ look on my face.

July 7th is the anniversary of my company. I put up my own shingle fifteen years ago. I didn’t do a lot of planning, nor was it a lifelong dream to start my own business. But things happened, I did it, and I’ve never looked back. Smartest and best professional decision of my life. There have been ups and downs, particularly in the last few years with the tanking economy – difficult times to be in advertising. But we persevered while many of our competitors did not. I hate to see anyone go down, but I admit it gave me more pride that we had a solid business. We are still recovering, but the future is bright; like the fireworks that are all about me.

July 9th is my birthday. I turn 44 this time. Yikes, right? I don’t feel 44. I feel more like 34 and often act 24. Or maybe even 14 when you consider pinning my children down and farting on their respective heads. This fourth decade of my life has been the most challenging. I already mentioned the tough times with running a business. I also figured out some big things about myself that resulted in a major life change –getting divorced. And then effects of that change have been tremendous and I still live them every single day. But I am happy. I feel like every decade is better than the last.

So although my birthday isn’t a big deal anymore (I’ve had so many of them), it still represents a time for self reflection, gratitude for the life I am privileged to live, awe and wonder at the two little boys I am raising with my most excellent ex-wife that is a fabulous mother.

That is plenty, right? Well, nearly six years ago, a new important date was added to Wowtember. The 20th is Drew’s birthday. The little squirt has been talking about it for months. The big brother is kind enough to remind everyone regularly that he is still 2-1/2 years older than Drew and therefore way smarter. You have to love older siblings.

More good news just came in, making Wowtember 2011 even more fun. I just got eliminated from the Blogger Idol contest. My post about being the opposite sex for a day was eleventh best out of eleven. It’s all good though because I saw it coming the way it is set up. I think sweet Heather who has worked her ass off to put together a comprehensive site (with a sister contestant site) and spent countless hours on the project is unwittingly running a popularity contest. Candice you warned me! Sour grapes? Mmm, no not really. The good news is that I don’t have to pimp myself anymore (which I hated doing), and if I ever try anything like this again, I have learned to make sure it is about the writing. With that said, I mean no disrespect to any participants, judges or voters. The contest is what it is and I lost fair and square. I’m cool with that. Good luck to the survivors.

As great as Wowtember is, there are still challenges and obstacles to overcome. Some linger and some are blips on the radar screen. I still have plenty of shit to deal with, but who doesn’t?

So I watch those fireworks every year and I silently thank my lucky stars for my life. I am thankful for my family, friends and co-workers. I am thankful for frosted cookies, the Cubs, beaches, books, music, traveling, basketball, mountains, chai and penguins. I am thankful for so much more, but Thanksgiving is in November, not Wowtember, so I’ll stop at all this.

Happy Wowtember everyone. Be sure to appreciate everyone and everything around you, including yourself.

Moving, Hairy Cow Lips and Box Rides

2011-07-06T11:45:00.001-06:00

Ahhh moving. It is right up there on the fun factor scale with going to the DMV and eating hairy cow lips. I have never actually eaten hairy cow lips, but I’ve seen people do it on television which means I need to get out more. Over two hundred channels and I find myself stuck on hairy cow lips for lunch?

I hired movers. I figured at nearly age 44 (my birthday is in three days – you still have time to shop and overnight gifts to my new addy) that I am too old to recruit friends in exchange for pizza and beer. I am now back in the community where I lived as a married man amongst the Pleasantville Truman Show Neighborhood of Everybody is in Your Bidness and Is There Really Life Outside the Bubble?

There are some great advantages to The Bubble. First and foremost, I’m a two -minute drive to the kids’ house with their mom. No more half hour shuttles back and forth.

B, I have a ton of friends in the hood that will create endless opportunities to fill my social calendar.

III, I will be exercising regularly again. I’ve got my old four mile running route, a new rec center that has a basketball court, I’m in close proximity to where I already play hoops once a week, also close to the racquetball courts and I have a slew of people to call to feel obligated to actually follow through on a workout.

Fourthly, I can walk or ride my bike to just about anything – coffee shop, liquor store, restaurants, ice cream, parks, neighbor’s man-cave of a basement where there is always sports and beer, bank, grocery store, cleaners, etc.

E, it’s only a ten-minute drive to work during non-rush hour, twenty minutes max. Which means the same thing for going downtown when I need to escape The Bubble.

VI, the kids have a billion friends in the neighborhood. I no longer will have to be their sole source of entertainment when they are with me (we were pretty isolated in Boulder).

Seventhly, the kids have their own rooms. They like bunking together, but they are both much happier to have separate bedrooms. I took them to Target so they could stock up on stuff to decorate. They both got stickers for the walls (supposedly they are easily removable – Will got owls, Drew got some action hero dude). Will got a big mushroom chair, Drew a bean bag. Will got a princess nightlight, Drew a Toy Story rocket.

Lastly, this really has nothing to do with The Bubble, but moving has created endless hours of entertainment via The Box Ride. Why spend money on games, toys, Wii and all that other shit when you can give your kids empty boxes? The boys decorated their boxes with Sharpies and pretty much non-stop requested rides. One of the boxes is really tall and sturdy, just right for holding a little boy. I close up the top and proceed to spin them, tip them over, roll them, shake them, wobble them and even turn them upside down. It is the kind of stuff that makes moms cringe. Good thing their mom doesn’t live with us! Injuries have been minimal. An inadvertent self punch to the face, a few bruises and even an upset stomach, but no blood or concussions!!

So anyway, between the move, having my kids over the entire holiday weekend, work, no internet access for five days and everything else, I feel like I’ve been off the grid. I had to rush yesterday to do my Blogger Idol contest post. It’s a great topic. Our assignment was, “If you could be a member of the opposite sex for a day…” I’m excited to read everybody else’s post. You should be too. Please go over here and vote!! I had fun with mine and think you will enjoy it.

Don't Be A Booger - Vote For Brett

2011-06-30T12:41:00.000-06:00

Hi again,

The downside of a blogging contest is that I have strayed from my primary purpose of writing for myself while hoping I entertain others along the way; in favor of blatantly soliciting for votes. My last post is still wet for goodness sakes! Bad Awkward! I suggested to the blogger contest gods that they change the voting methodology to be one that kicks people out rather than picking your favorite. I believe many people, including some of my peeps, will vote for their buds no matter what. Which is nice. But I think if someone writes the least impressive post then they should be at risk regardless of how many friends they have out there (me included).

With that said, the voting method likely won't change. Which means I need votes to stay in the contest. I really want to write to next week's assignment - it's a really good one! But I gotta stay in to play. So if you don't mind, go read all twelve blogs and if mine isn't the worst, then please vote for me (even if it's not the best).

Here is where to go: Blogger Idol Contest - Vote Here for Brett

Speaking of picking favorites, if you don't vote at all, much less for me, then you are a big fat booger. Like any of the wide and nasty assorted ones you can see on my son's wall, previously hidden by his bed mattress, surprisingly revealed just minutes ago while I am in the middle of moving.

I nearly dry heaved once. Pick a booger, any booger.

I May Act Twelve Sometimes, But I'm Really Not

2011-06-29T11:17:00.000-06:00

So you may know I'm in this Blogger Idol Contest (PLEASE GO HERE AND VOTE FOR ME). The first round is up and live. In preparation for the first assignment, I thought I'd get some advice from my parents. After all they know me fairly well.

*ring ring ring*

“Hello?”

“Hi Dad! It’s me.”

“Hello?”

“Dad, it’s me!”

“Hello?”

“HEY DAD! IT’S BRETT!!”

“Brett!”

“Hi Dad.”

“Hi. I’ll get mom.”

“No, hold on. How are you.”

*Muffled phone* “Ellie. Elllllllllllllllie.” *long pause*

“Dad, are you there?”

“Here comes your mother. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m great. How are you? What is going on?

“Here’s your mother. “

“Hi Brett!”

“Hi mom.”

“How are you, honey?”

“I’m great. How is Dad doing? He wouldn’t tell me anything.”

“Oh he’s fine. Are you ready for your move? You know you should go to the alley behind the grocery store and get boxes from the dumpsters. Don’t pay for boxes. You can also go to a liquor store to get smaller boxes. You should label everything on the top and three sides of the boxes so the movers know where to put everything. Use a big black marker and think about numbering your boxes too. And you can use your sheets, blankets and towels to wrap up fragile things.”

“Mom, I’m 44 in two weeks. I’ve got the move thing figured out.”

“Listen to your mother. Don’t pay for boxes.”

“Grocery stores don’t leave boxes in the back anymore. Everybody recycles. How are you?”

“Oh fine, just trying to get your father to take a walk. Maybe you can go in the grocery store and ask them for boxes before they recycle them. You can ask for a manager or a stock boy.”

“Okay mom, I’ll go in there tomorrow and ask for the stock boy.”

“Don’t let the movers take your valuables. Pack those yourself and take them in your own car.”

“Oh you don’t think I should trust them with my Rembrandt collection and rare Egyptian vases? Okay, thanks for the advice. I’m good. Listen if you want to help me, can you tell me what to write about myself for a blog I’m working on? How would you describe me?”

“What is a blog? Is that that thing they made a movie about with the boy from Harvard?”

“No, that is Facebook mom. A blog is just a place to write online. “

“That reminds me. Did you get that email about our visit to you and the boys? Is that going to work for you? Should we plan on renting a car? Do you have instant coffee? You father will want to get maple frosted donuts. Don’t buy them yourself. He likes to have a project. And don’t buy expensive instant coffee. You can find a coupon in the newspaper. Do you get the Sunday newspaper? Use a coupon. Actually, just look for a coupon but don’t do anything else. We will pick up some instant coffee.”

“Mom, that trip isn’t for like six months. I’m just trying to get thru next week. There are about ten packages of instant coffee from the last ten times you visited. And getting maple donuts is not a project. That is a random errand and I know he looks forward to making that an entire day’s adventure so don’t worry, I won’t buy any maple frosted donuts. I can pick you up. Don’t rent a car.”

Since my mom didn’t help me at all on the blog about myself, I had to wing it. Please go see the results here, on Blogger Idol, where I’m competing for heavy weight champion of the world and ensuing world domination. Please vote for me if you like what I wrote over there. I’d appreciate it and good things will happen to you if you support me (wink wink, nudge nudge).

Blogger Idol 2011

2011-06-24T10:43:00.001-06:00

I'm not a big fan of reality television. But I've heard of some show called American Idol. I think it's about the band Green Day and their hit song American Idol. Oh wait that would be Idiot. Huh. American Idol is a show about a bachelor dude that has to race around the world doing various tasks while avoiding getting voted off the island by giving Regis his 'final answer' and picking the suitcases with lowest dollar values in under one minute while eating cow lips in your newly renovated kitchen during a cook-off, all without getting fired by a billionaire with bad hair. That is just too much for me.

So instead, I like to roll with the gang at Blogger Idol 2011. I have never entered any blogging contests before, but this one sounded fun. And a bunch of really good bloggers are judges. I looked at the audition requirements and thought even I could do that!! So I entered. I had to tell the judges why I should be one of the twelve finalists, why people like my blog and background on my self.

The judges must be nutjobs because they put me in the top twelve. So now I'll be competing in the Blogger Idol 2011 each week. We will be given assignments and then the readers will vote for their favorites. Each week, one contestant gets knocked out. Hopefully you will play along and vote for who you like best once the first week's posts are submitted. I'll remind you!

Here is the audition (500 words or less) I submitted to get myself into this mess:

Hi there. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die. Oh wait, that is a movie line from Princess Bride. My name is Brett, although my handle on Blogger is WowThatWasAwkward. That’s right, I have uttered those words so many times in my life; I decided it would be a good blogging name.

My blog can be found at http://darkstormyloopy.blogspot.com/. You will see it is pretty simple; like me (haha)! I have always wanted my blog to be about the writing, both by me and from the comments rather than filled with lots of graphics, award badges, neon signs, flying Elvises, wrestling midgets and other distractions.

I’m a single father of two awesome little boys. I was still married when I started writing on Blogger a few years ago. But even with a pretty major life change, my blog writing style and choice of topics hasn’t changed much. I like going with humor and rarely write an overly serious post. I write a lot about my kids because they are non-stop blog fodder, but I don’t consider myself a daddy-blogger. I write about anything and everything and often start with something in mind, but end up somewhere completely different.

It must be working because over the last couple years I have been getting quite a bit of traffic to my blog. Based on the comments, I don’t completely suck. So I have that going for me. Which is nice (another classic movie…)

I have never entered any contests or submitted anything to be published. I stumbled across your contest and was intrigued. And then I saw something shiny and went on to eat a burrito. A few days later, I wrote something new for my blog. And then I shuffled a ton of papers around my desk and decided I didn’t feel like working and I remembered your contest. So, I am auditioning for your contest because my tummy is full, there is nothing shiny to look at, and I think it will be fun to see if anyone really does like my shit in a competitive environment. Don’t crush me, friends.

I think I appeal to the general public based on variety of questionably sane people I have found visiting my blog. Who doesn’t like funny? But I also probably appeal to the whackadoodle because I have a little bit of crazy in me. The good kind.

Am I worthy? I don’t honestly know. Your mom thinks so. What’s more worthy than that? So here I am. Happy to be in your contest and no, that is not a banana in my pocket!

You are busy reading auditions. Remember this one since I’m going to win this thing. Someday, after we have fun storming the castle (seriously, Princess Bride rocks), we will reminisce about the great Blogger Idol contest and I will be thankful that you are nutty enough to have picked me, but not your nose (in public).

Cheers.

My Sister Measures Success Against Truck Drivers

2011-06-21T18:07:00.000-06:00

My sister was in town for business. We didn’t have much time together, just Monday night, but it was fun to catch up in person. We don’t talk as much as we should. We are both tied up in our own lives – her in Chicago, me here in my land of distorted reality.

My sister works like crazy. She is also in advertising. She is a bigwig VP of Account Services for a large national healthcare ad agency. Her life is spent hanging at home with her family (yay), commuting about three hours round trip every day (boo) and working way more than forty hours a week (boo). I think she was pretty jealous that I work way less than forty hours a week (yay). I don’t really have to commute but if I do its 45 minutes round trip and soon to be twenty when I move (yay). I also spend lots of time with my family (yay). And I go on adventures, travel, hang with friends and try to live a very diverse and interesting life (yay yay yay).

My sister is happy. She is choosing her lifestyle, so that is cool. I am happy and consistently trying to be happier by worrying less, loving myself more (insert obligatory pleasuring oneself jokes here) and making sure I’m living the life I want to live. So it’s all good.

Based on our different approach to life, I sometimes wonder how my sister and I are from the same parents. But then we talk and I’m sure we are indeed related. She is smarter than me (and I’m no dummy), but I have way more street smarts than her. She is much more serious than me, but able to laugh at the most inane things like I can. And especially, she can laugh at herself, which is great because I was laughing at her all night long.

She had to make a big work phone call right after she arrived and all I heard was her side of the conversation. I couldn’t believe all the marketing buzzwords and seemingly nonsensical doubletalk and, well, bullshit I heard. Those bigwig agency folk from big markets sure like to show off. Here is one nugget:

“How is the Brand Plan going? Do we need to revise anything? Let’s define the problem and then address it.”

If that isn’t big time management decision making going on right there, I don’t know what is. And then I heard her say, “quick efficacy.” Now that is impressive. If one of my employees said “quick efficacy” on a conference call, I‘d give them an instant raise.

After a couple glasses of wine we were talking about her crazy schedule. She was telling me about her awful commute:

“I got a parking pass for the train. I used to have to park in a remote lot and walk on the side of a busy road. Now I park steps from the train. It’s changed my life.”

Wine shot from my nose. Here I am reading motivational books, seeing inspirational speakers, attending conferences, learning from other people and doing things like getting divorced in order to better my life. For my sister, all it took was a parking pass.

We continued chatting about our lives and the convo turned to money. She gets paid well for what she does and she is admittedly money driven.

I said, “You are making a shitload of money, right?”

She said, “Oh I don’t know. Compared to a truck driver, I guess.”

I have to stop drinking wine while she speaks.

We also had some pretty deep conversations. She was hurt with how news of my divorce went down. I was upset with her for lack of support and for acting like a victim. There is still some tension there, but we fixed things a little bit last night. This has been sitting for two years, so it was good to talk in person.

I admit that I relayed the news to my sister and my parents in a very poor matter. Before I tell how that happened, I have to say that I dreaded telling them. Almost as much as I dreaded telling my wife that I didn’t want to be married to her anymore. I had a way easier time talking about it with strangers and more distant friends. Then I worked my way up to closer friends and then my closest friends from growing up. It gets exhausting to make all those calls and have the same conversation over and over again.

I chose to confide in many other people along the way as the decision to divorce was made final. My sister and I just aren’t that close. We talk maybe once a month and its always very top line. I just don’t choose her to vent or tell my shit. I have others for that. She was upset because she has chosen to turn to me in the past about her biggest problems. I admit I didn’t consider that at the time we got angry with each other when I told her about the divorce. I shocked her and she was upset about that, but in hindsight more so that I didn’t choose her to confide in during the tough times. Understandable I guess. But I have way more friends and support vehicles than she does. She gets that now.

So when I had to tell my sister and parents, I struggled with how. I didn’t want to call them and shock them live. And what if they weren’t there? The buildup to call and then get voicemail would be painful. And having to do it twice to tell my sister and then my parents seemed like hell. What was I supposed to do – organize a conference call?

So I tweeted it to them. Kidding! I texted. No!! Kidding again. I emailed them. Not kidding.

And then the calls came in. My mom freaked. But she recovered by the next day and was supportive. My sister still hasn’t come fully around, but we made progress and improved it last night.

But now we have to worry about the truck drivers.

This Delighted Me So Much

2011-06-14T12:57:00.000-06:00

Thank you young lady with the bike. I saw you yesterday as I was getting in my car. You were walking your ride on the sidewalk, looking for a place to lock it up. You passed by a few trees (thank you for that too). You walked by three street lamps. You ignored two wrought iron fences. And then you stopped at a cement post.

This cement post was waist high on you, making it about three-feet tall. No, I don’t know why this random cement post was there, sticking straight out of the ground with no grommets, extensions or loops of any kind. But I do know that I love the fact you carefully wound your cable through the spokes and frame of your bicycle and then around that three-foot high post. You secured the lock and even gave it a firm tug; just in case. And then you went off on your merry way.

I was in a hurry or I would have totally gotten back out of my car, walked over to your bike and lifted it up and over the three foot post. Then I would have followed you while carrying your bike on my shoulder. You were probably going to the coffee shop or maybe the café – either would have been great. Because I would have gone to the same place, carrying your bike and standing in line behind you, waiting to place an order.

I would not have shielded the bike from you while ordering, knowing that your previously displayed cluelessness was a good indication that you wouldn’t notice your own bike residing on a stranger’s shoulder.

I would have hoped you went to sit outside on the patio and that there was an empty table next to you. Because then I would have sat down next to you, noisily placing your bike between our tables. I would have made a bit of a scene trying to get the bike to balance well and rest out of the way against my table. I would have looked at the you, young silly lady, and given you a knowing head nod and smile while saying, “Stupid bike. I never know a good spot to lock it up so I just carry it around with me everywhere.”

And then I would have looked at my watch with a furrowed brow and exclaimed, “Holy dumbshit, I’m late!” And I would have scurried out of there, leaving your bike next to you, hoping you recognized it as your own.

But alas, I really was late, so I had to simply revel in the pleasure of watching you lock your bike up to a short post. Frankly, that was good enough for me.

Thanks Kimmie for Helping Me Get Postcards From Random Strangers Around the World

2011-06-08T11:56:00.000-06:00

It looks like my days of living in Boulder are coming to an end. I am going to rent my condo to a sweet Japanese couple so I can move back to Denver to live closer to the kids’ mom’s house. Sweet Japanese are much better than bitter Japanese, by the way.

Speaking of non-bitter Japanese, I sent a postcard to somebody named Yasuyo in Japan. My nutjob of a friend Kimmie keeps posting pictures of postcards she has received from random people around the world on her Facebook page. Every now and then that darn Facebook thing is interesting because of stuff like this. If you have never heard of the Facebook, you should go check it out. I believe Al Gore invented it. Or Charlie Sheen maybe; I can’t remember. They even made a movie about it called The Hangover Two.

So anyway, I said, “Yo Kimmie、何が全部で世界中でのランダムな人からのはがきを上げますか？” That roughly translates to “Yo Kimmie, what up with all the postcards from random people around the world?” She directed me to PostCrossing on the World Wide Web (per Sarah Palin, invented by Paul Revere as he warned the British that their comrades were coming via a simple click of a mass email that included a banner ad for his copper bell making services).

Postcrossing is a site that coordinates people all over the world sending each other postcards. It’s really cool and makes mail fun. I have sent out nine postcards so far, including the one to my pal Yasuyo. I’ll have to ask my sweet Japanese renters if they know Yasuyo. I have received three postcards so far – from Thailand, Russia and the Ukraine. I wonder if this is how the mail order bride business got started? That’s not my bag baby; I’m just saying. What? I can’t have Russian Mail Order Brides dot-com bookmarked on my laptop? I look at it for the articles. Whatev.

So yeah, now I get postcards from random people all over the world too. Thanks Kimmie! Good thing I put my work address on my profile now that I’m moving to the Stapleton Bubble Pleasantville Truman Show neighborhood. Yeah, it’s a bit of a freak-show of a neighborhood that is awesome for raising kids and not so awesome for doing anything without having eleventyhundred nosey moms in your bidness.

There are some great things about the hood that I am indeed looking forward to. Speaking of sweet Japanese, there is a yummy sushi place in the hood that I can walk to. And there is a pub next door with a bartender named Jack. You got to like a bar that hires a guy named Jack. I mean, I love sweet Japanese people, but I don’t think I’d want a guy named Yasuyo serving me Irish beer. Actually, I don’t even know if Yasuyo is a guy. He could be a girl. Which bathroom does he even use?

There is also a new rec center that has a basketball court. That is good because I hate running unless there is a ball involved, besides the two I carry with me at all times. I’ll be able to walk my kids to school (as opposed to the half hour drive we have now). I’ll be closer to everything such as my friends, my office, downtown and the Olive Garden that I refuse to ever set foot in based on the simple principle that I never want to go there. I’ll also be a block away from a pee infested pool full of short people also known as children – which is good for my kiddies. We didn’t make a ton of friends in Boulder so I was always their entertainment. Now we will be close to all their friends and I can chillax a little more when I get tired of being Dad of the Year.

So yeah, I’m leaving the People’s Republic of Boulder at the end of this month. I loved living there but it will be nice to be back on my old turf amongst friends and in proximity to everything in the kids’ and my world. And I’ll have to have a house warming party. You are invited! Hopefully Yasuyo will be there too. And maybe a few tall Russian women…

The I Like Book

2011-05-31T14:23:00.000-06:00

Divorce is a process, not an event. I get along well with my ex. And we are on the same page in terms of how we raise our kids and how everything we do must take the little rascals into consideration first and foremost. Just as our kids grow and our lives evolve, divorce is right there along the way, no matter what. Going through a divorce is not fun. Brussels sprouts taste like candy compared to divorce. But it gets better – after all, the divorce is to get your life on track. And time really does heal wounds. However, there are scars. Those scars are reminders.

Last summer, I stumbled across a vendor at a festival that was selling a cool idea they had with their own children. It’s called the I Like Book. Every day, you write something down you like about your kids. We made it a nightly ritual and the kids really enjoy it. I’d do our I Like Book once they were in bed. Sometimes I’d do an I Like that applied to both of them, but usually I’d figure something out that was individual so they could both have their own for the night. There are no rules. Examples have been:

• “I like how well you two played together today.”
• “I like watching you do art.”
• “I like how you wore that funny hat all day.”
• “I like snuggling with you while we watch movies.”
• “I like how you invented a new game today.”

The boys really enjoy it. They can be critical though. Sometimes they will rip me for being too predictable. Other times they will just say it was an okay one. Others they really like. Of course they lean to the little boy humor, which I happen to be an expert at.

• “I like how you sneezed a giant snotty right onto your leg.”
• “I like how I had to take a plunger to the bathroom after your smelly work.”
• “I like how you surprised me by jumping on my back while I was folding your laundry on the floor.”
• “I like how you burped six times during dinner.”
• “I like how you save me money on napkins by constantly using your shirt sleeve instead.”

Those are real crowd pleasers to put in eternal writing.

So the I Like Book has been a real hit with the boys and me. I thought with the ex too. But I recently found out that isn’t the case. Lately, she hadn’t been giving me the book on my nights and I noticed she wasn’t filling hers out every day. She’d have to go back and make a blanket entry for the weekend.

She finally emailed me and told me she was going to start up a new routine that was project oriented with the kids and that I should just do the I Like Book with the boys myself. She said she loves the idea but increasingly she was struggling with it. She said I’m the writer in the family and that sometimes she’d read my entries and just get sad. It was a daily reminder of a split family. One of her scars.

Ouch.

I admit I never thought of that. Sure, I guess we are a split family by dictionary terms. But I think we are a stronger family than we ever were before because we are no longer in a marriage that wasn’t working. And the kids seem to be doing great.

I get sad now and then. Like when I watch the Cubs play baseball. Or when there is no hot fudge for the ice cream. Or if Starbucks give me a coffee instead of a chai and I find out the hard way and end up spitting the drink out like a cartoon character. But with the kids I worry more than I feel sad. It’s not an outward constant worry. Just a tinge buried inside me that every parent has with their children; hoping they are continuously healthy, happy and living a wonderful life.

I do worry how the divorce affects them. But I also have confidence that my ex and I are great parents and that our awesome kids will continue to thrive. I hope my ex has a good way to cope with her sadness and worry. It seems to me that she is doing just fine.

Little things help me. As long as I have regular signs of happiness from my kids (and lack of signs of sadness), I’m good. And I don’t think they know it, but they have an amazing power to make me happy.

I admit lots of things make me happy. Like when the Cubs win or when my ice cream is slathered in hot fudge. Or when I’m enjoying a hot vanilla chai. But my happiest moments tend to be with my kids.

With Will, it occurs while we are walking somewhere and I put my arm around his shoulders. He will grab my arm and pull it down over his whole upper body and hold it tight to his chest. It’s like he is nestled under my giant wing. And we will walk that way while we continue to chat about whatever we are chatting about. He has no idea how much I love that.

With Drew, it occurs while we are chilling out on the couch. I will pretend like I’m not looking at him while my hand will slowly creep toward him, fingers doing the walking. He will giggle and then try to smash my hand like it’s a spider. This is fun, but not the part I love the most. The best part is that soon the creeping and smashing will end and Drew will grab my hand. He will intertwine my fingers within his and alternately squeeze and release my hand. Drew doesn’t seem conscious of his hand squeezing, and I can’t help but swoon every time he does it. Someday his hands will be larger than mine and I’m sure that will be long past the time he is comfortable holding hands with his daddy.

Clearly the commonality is the intimacy and contact. I love how natural it is. My boys are so innocent, sweet and caring. Makes me wonder how they are able to be assholes quite a bit too. The asshole stuff is just kids being kids though.

Happiness can be a lot of things. It can be a crazy hat and funny monkey that you wear absolutely everywhere all weekend long. Happiness can be those moments of contact with my boys that I cherish so much. Those moments are love. Love is happiness. I guess I must be the happiest man on earth.

Not That There Is Anything Wrong With That

2011-05-26T13:51:00.002-06:00

There were a bunch of fun side stories from the Boston weekend. One of them centered on Jeff and how much action he could have scored. From other guys. Jeff is not gay. He is happily married. To a woman. And I don’t know how to say this without sounding like an ass, so I won’t try to sugarcoat it. Jeff isn’t going to be invited to do any modeling any time soon. He has a face made for radio and he’s not a tiny guy. But he is a great guy with a friendly personality and he shows genuine interest in everyone he is around. That is appealing to men and women, right?

It all started before the Cubs game on Saturday. We were at the Baseball Tavern near Fenway Park. We were pre-gaming on the rooftop which was filled with people – over half of which were also Cubs fans. There were a bunch of us in our group, so I didn’t think much of it when I noticed Jeff talking to a guy we didn’t know. I chatted with my buddies some more and Jeff was still talking to his guy about a half hour later. The waitress came by and I ordered another round. When she came back, she dropped off a beer for each of our gang.

Jeff rejoined us to get his beer and he gave us an uncomfortable look that said “I just farted and drew mud,” or “I just imagined someone scratching a chalkboard” or “I think that guy is gay and that he wants me.” Of course we all instantly looked at the guy because we have zero tact but luckily he didn’t notice the group stare. We turned back and agreed that he didn’t look gay. Except for the neon green sunglasses. Those were pretty gay.

I said, “Who cares man. Be flattered. That is a pretty good looking guy. And look at you. When is the last time anybody hit on you? Plus, I don’t think he is gay.” Just then, the waitress came back and handed Jeff a beer.

Jeff asked, “What is this for?”

The waitress replied, “That guy over there wanted to buy you a beer.” It was the neon sunglasses guy. We all laughed as Jeff gave him a frightened head nod while raising his glass.

“Okay, maybe he is gay. You should go for it Jeff. Would your wife consider that cheating?”

Jeff looked scared and repulsed at the same time. “Shut up. And I knew he was gay when he started talking about civil unions.”

“Dude, I don’t think you can do any better than him anyway. I mean, I know that bulldog nearly humped your leg on the walk over, but I think this guy is a better match for you. Plus, the dog can’t buy you drinks.” Jeff swore at me a few times while he nervously fiddled with his beer.

Jeff is a paranoid guy. He worries about silly things. One time in Chicago; Jeff, Dave and I were starving after a late night party so we took a cab over to a true blue authentic Mexican dive in a crappy neighborhood. Dave and I weren’t concerned – it was a busy place on a busy road and we’d have door to door cab service in and out. But the whole time Jeff was looking over his shoulder and muttering something about getting a shiv in his back.

Based on Jeff’s paranoia, it wasn’t surprising to see him struggle with his beer. He saw his future gay lover looking at him so he took a little sip. I said, “What the hell are you doing? Drink your beer.”

“I’m afraid he put a ruffie in it.”

We were laughing so hard because he was serious. But yet he eventually still drank the whole thing. We had a good time teasing him as we walked over to the game. Just when we got a little tired of making fun of him, he threw fuel on the fire.

Earlier on, Jeff said he wanted a very specific kind of baseball jersey that was button-down and made out of cotton, but all he could find was polyester. I lost interest in his quest pretty much the instant he told me the goal. But we did wait on him a few times to run into the souvenir shops without any luck.

The fuel to the fire came at our seats during the game. We were front row in center field. There is an aisle between the wall and our seats so people would walk by throughout the game, mostly between innings. In the middle of the game, a guy walked by in a button down jersey that didn’t look like polyester.

Jeff practically jumped out of his chair. “Excuse me! Can I touch your shirt?”

Apparently this is an effective pickup line because the guy stopped and said, “Yeah sure.”

“Wow, that is nice. Is that cotton?” The guy enthusiastically replied and they chit chatted like a couple of girls about fabric while we were laughing at them and trying to watch the game. We told Jeff to get a room and to invite the neon sunglasses guy over too.

The next day; Ed, Jeff and I were walking out of the market by Faneuil Hall and a street performer was setting up for his gig. He was already miked and was making humorous conversation in order to draw in a crowd. He saw us walk by and broadcasted through his sound system, “They say one in three men is gay. Which one of you is it?” Without pause, Ed and I both pointed right at Jeff. Everyone laughed and Jeff just put his arms out and shrugged.

Poor paranoid and friendly Jeff. He is so happily married and admittedly a little homophobic. And yet we teased him all weekend about all the guys he could have had. That is what friends are for.

Walk, Eat, Walk, Eat, Drink, Walk, Eat, Drink, Walk, Eat

2011-05-24T13:52:00.004-06:00

The weekend in Bah-stahn was quite the pah-tee. We Forest Gumped that place. We must have walked ten thousand miles and I may or may not be exaggerating just a tiny bit. I wanted to rent a horse and do it Paul Revere style screaming through the streets, “The Cubs fans are coming, the Cubs fans are coming!” But I’ve only ridden a horse twice in my life and my ass didn’t like that ride at all. Plus, I don’t think you can just rent a horse in a big city like that. I’m not even sure if you can rent a donkey. Speaking of which, guess which one is Ed and which one is the ass:

Ed is an ass.

There were Cubs fans everywhere. The Bostonians were quite nice to us. I think they feel sorry for losers. When we went to the game on Saturday, the Baseball Tavern near Fenway was two-thirds Cubs fans.

The weather was chilly, but held out for us rain wise. I kept thinking a football game between the Pats and Bears might break out at any moment, but instead we had baseball, albeit Bad News Bears style. My five year old’s slow pitch / tee ball team plays better than the Red Sox that day. The Cubs won courtesy of three errors, a bunch of walks and hit batsmen. We’ll take it though. And Fenway Park comes close to being as cool as Wrigley Field. Close. Green Monstah behind the monstah:

We spent one afternoon walking most of the Freedom Trail. Some of the guys were reading all the plaques and peeking inside historical buildings. I had trouble focusing. Dave would take a picture of the site of the Boston Massacre and I’d take one of him here:

Dave is a fruit.

Ed would shoot Faneuil Hall and I did the ass photo. Jeff would photograph Paul Revere’s house and I took one of him here.

Jeff is a weenie.

The guys were walking along the trail saying we should go see the U.S.S. Constitution and Bunker Hill. I made them stop to take my picture here:

I'm a nut.

We could have learned more about the Boston Tea Party, but instead we spent quite a bit of time investigating local business practices:

We ate. A lot. I had to order a cardiologist on the side with this meal.

Southie Burger, fries and a fried a pickle at Remy’s. I don’t even like pickles but for some reason I at ate that monstrosity.

We also ate at the Barking Crab, Temple Bar (Jess is the best bartender evah), Antico something in the North End, Atlantic Fish Company, a late night pizza slice place, Harvard Gardens for more late night grub, snacks at Tavern on the Hill, breakfast at Paramount and breakfast at our hotel.

We met Orel Hershiser at a hotel sports bar (former All-Star pitcher for a few teams and now an announcer for ESPN). Orel and his wife invited us to hang with them and their posse, but Bobby Valentine (former player and manager now announcing as well) was back there and we figured he’d talk our respective ears off, so we bailed. We met countless Cubs fans from all over the country. We had a drink at an old jail turned into a hotel. We were at the oldest pub in the nation (Bell in Hand). We wandered around Hahvahd and hoped that we’d get smarter through osmosis.

It was a great trip. It will take me weeks to work off all the indulgences. But I’d do it again in a Southie Burger clogged heartbeat.

Boston and the B.S. I Tell My Kids

2011-05-18T11:41:00.004-06:00

I’m heading to Boston in the morning. That’s right. I’m hitting the road again because Mexico and Las Vegas in the last thirty days isn’t enough. I’m not actually hitting the road, except to get to the airport. I’ll be flying. I sure hope my arms don’t get tired. Ba-dum-dum. My boys are tired of that joke. Almost as sick of it as when I ask them if I should call a tow truck when they stub their toes. They actually look angry when I say that now. Which only encourages me to say it even more. Stupid little kids. Did I just call my own little boys stupid? Yes I did.

Actually, my kids are pretty smart. Smart asses. And brainy smart. I had a long conversation with Will about the Boston Tea Party, Paul Revere, The Declaration of Independences and the Redcoats. Now when I go to Boston I will have to try learn everything and see how much of what I told him was total bullshit. I’m guessing I got about 85% of it right. But that other 15% was quite imaginative. I mean, how would I really know if Paul Revere was in dirty undies when he jumped on his horse but luckily he realized it and was able to change before he became legendary (which is why boys should always wear clean underwear). I mean, that kind of info isn’t in the history books. And how would I know if his horse’s name was Mr. Ed and was famous because he could talk? And why I giggle whenever I say John Hancock is really not pertinent to American history.

At least Will wasn’t going back to his earlier line of questioning about where exactly he was fertilized. Yeah, he wants to know where I boned his mom nine months before he was born. That conversation came up when I told him to stop harassing Drew and do something more constructive. He asked what he should do. I said anything except hiding Drew’s shoes and throwing Puffles (stuffed furry balls of weirdness from Club Penguin) at him. I told him he has to stop picking on Drew all the time. And then Drew piped in with another violation:

“And he gave me two wedgies too!”

That just made me laugh thereby ruining any effective level of discipline I was trying to accomplish. So I told Will to read a book and instead he asked me about sex. I distracted him with some Gushers, which is an ironic name for fruity little chewy things with juice inside when your kid wants to know when you and your ex wife fucked 8-1/2 years plus nine months ago.

So yeah, I’m meeting six other guys in Boston. I know four of them well. They are my homeys from Chicago. We are going to see the Cubs play the Redsox on Saturday night but otherwise don’t have any firm plans. If anyone is from Boston, email me suggestions! A few years ago, I was in Bah-stan on business and one of the events was held at a hotel bar that used to be a jail. That was cool because I prefer to frequent jails that are now bars as opposed to jails that are still jails. I’m quirky like that.

Somebody else told me that the famous cemetery right downtown, which I’ve been dying to go to (ba-dum-dum), is all mixed up. The groundskeeper was having trouble mowing the grass around all the headstones scattered about. So on his own accord, he move the headstones around into a straight lines so he’d have an easier go of it. It is unclear if the markers are in correct or even close proximity to the proper graves. Of course, my friend could just be bullshitting me like the 15% of my bullshit with the kids; I don’t really know. But he bought me a chai at the coffee shop so I’m going to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Which reminds me that I’m an asshole. I just can’t help it sometimes. I was at two different coffee shops the previous two days. And both times, there was a person there with a speech impediment. The first one was at the Laughing Goat in Boulder. I was trying to get some work done when all the sudden a poetry jam broke out. It was quite distracting having a bunch of hippy-wannabes reading their strange words. Nothing even rhymed. Yeah yeah, Will told me poems don’t have to rhyme but I think that’s bullshit, man. I was at least hoping for something familiar like Humpty Dumpty but I guess this was all original work. I was going to stick it out but then one of the guys waiting to read started barking. For real. There was a quiet rumbling windup followed by a very loud and high pitched “Aaaaarp!” He did it every couple minutes. He obviously had some sort of Tourettes but I couldn’t stop watching him with pent up excitement waiting for his next yelp. That fucker kept me there at least another twenty minutes.

The next day I was at a Starbucks where two college kids were discussing a project. One of them had a pretty sweet stuttering problem. It got pretty amusing because she was excited about the project which made her talk louder and faster which meant more entertainment for me. Yep, I’m an asshole, but not a complete asshole. Believe it or not, I had a DVD of the King’s Speech in my bag. Yes I did. I so wanted to get it out and engross myself in reading the back of the case as I very slowly walked by the stutter girl’s table being sure to hold it up so the front cover was slowly panning by. I even had my hand on the DVD in my bag for at least three seconds before I thought better of it.

So yeah. Boston tomorrow for a long weekend. North End. Freedom Trail so I can wow Will with my newfound expertise. Dunkin Donuts on every corner. Drinks at the old jail. Chowdah. Crazy drivers. Fast talkers that forget the Rs. Cambridge. Beacon Hill. Southie. Fenway Park (Go Cubs).

Blog fodder. And confirmation for Will that the Boston Tea Party did not include tiny finger sandwiches and women in pretty dresses.

Talk To Me Like A Human

2011-05-13T16:12:00.002-06:00

What if people behaved like Social Media? Like right now, while I type this, what if something poked me in the ribcage and then a voice from the seemingly empty chair next to me said, “El oh el.”

“What the hell? I can’t see you!”

“Yes, I know. I want to be invisible because I need to avoid about half of my closest friends. I don’t want any of them to start a conversation with me.”

“So, why are you bothering me then? Do you need something?”

“No, I just thought I’d poke you because I’m irritating. But now that you mention it, did you see what Six Fingered Monkey spray-painted on my living room wall?”

“Six Fingered Monkey is not his real name you know. Why can’t you just use his real name? It’s...”

*BUZZZZZ* “Sorry to buzz you in the middle of your point, but you can’t say his real name!! Then people will know who he really is!!”

“Okay, whatever. Why did Six Fingered Monkey write on your wall? Were you re-painting? And how in the world would I have seen it? I haven’t ever been inside your house.”

“Bee ef ef, you know you have access to all my personal information!!! I’d tell you what he wrote, but it’s more than 140 characters and I think I’ll run out of breath before I can complete it.”

“That is stupid.”

“You know what is even more stoopid? Minxy was…”

“Her name isn’t Minxy! It’s…”

*BUZZZZZZZZZ* “Don’t say her name!!! Anyway, she gave out the Sexy Yellow Snowball Creative Under 30 Zombie Chicken Award to five people that follow her everywhere she goes and I wasn’t one of them!”

“You are right. That is even more stupid.”

“Double you tee ef, right? I’m totally going to run for mayor against her and whip her ass, right after I finish answering a question for each of ten of my closest friends.”

“I didn’t know either of you are in politics.”

“Oh, well perhaps you need a refresher on me. Here are 100 interesting facts about me. Number one, I like to laugh. Number two, I’ve ridden a camel. Number three, I don’t like spiders. Number four, I’m writing a book. Number five, I love kittens. Number six…”

“I really need to get back to work.”

“But there are 95 more things you must know!”

“Yes, well, um, weird. I don’t understand you. Your words are jumbled. We must be losing our connection.”

“Oh no! Hang on. Let me re-start.” *Poke*

“What? No!! That’s okay. Please stop poking me. I don’t have any idea how to respond to that.”

*Flash*

“Why did you just take my picture?”

“So I can remember this meaningless moment forever and share it with 975 of my closest friends.”

“I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

*Tag*

“What are you doing? I asked you to stop poking me. Now what? Why are you on the floor tossing around like a hyena?”

“You are sooooooooo funny! I am rolling on the floor laughing my ass off at you! Of course I didn’t poke you again. I was just tagging you so 1,362 of my closest friends will know it’s you.”

“I think it’s time to wrap up. I could use a drink.”

“I like that.”

“Why are you holding your thumb up in my face? I get it. You like the idea of a drink. I was going to go meet some friends.”

“Can I be their friend too? Will you introduce me to them? How many Kevin Bacons away am I from knowing them directly? I can show them some of my professional recommendations.”

“These are my old school friends. You probably won’t like them. One of them doesn’t even use text messaging.”

“Oh man, I’d drop them as friends nearly as fast as I just stole your identity using my smart phone.”

“Why did my bank and three credit card companies just send me an urgent email?”

“Nice. You gotta like these travel apps.”

“Did you just book a trip using my credit cards?”

“No dumb-ass. I used your PayPal account. You really should change your password to something other than 1234.”

“What kind of friend are you?”

“The one who loves to buy stuff from eBay!”

“Why did you just drop a pile of worms on my keyboard? What the hell? The presentation I’ve been working on all day just disappeared and you are robbing me?”

“Looks like you have a virus. Better call your IT guy or surf over to WebMD.”

“Thanks for handing me your surfboard. Colorado is landlocked you know and you certainly aren’t my friend anymore.”

“Well then let me be friends with all your friends!!”

“Will you give me my identity back?”

“Of course. You will always be WowThatWasAwkward.”

“Goodbye.”

“IM me! Or text! Or Facebook me! Follow me on Twitter if you are wondering when I have to pee. You know how to find me on FourSquare. Check out the pics on Flickr. Signing out.”

*note to self – call some friends and write some letters this weekend*

Off The Grid

2011-05-09T15:14:00.001-06:00

Imagine a week with no phone calls, no texting, no computers, no television and no underwear. Or socks or pants for that matter. Okay, there was a peek at the laptop here and there because I had email access, but I only did that once a day and I really didn’t participate. I just watched so I wouldn’t be so far behind when I got back to the land of phone calls, texting, computing and clothing.

I was in Mexico with Snow White for a week. The dwarves were not invited. Considering how much I love midgets; that is kind of a big deal. Every day was in the high eighties with a sunny blue sky. The water was clear and warm. The sand was white and soft. The days were lazy and lazy.

Some vacations are meant for seeing ancient cathedrals, climbing mountains, going on treks, entering museums, visiting points of interest and snapping lots of pictures. Some vacations are meant to be lazy and lazy. This trip was tour free and filled with doing a whole lot of nothing. Unless you count about twenty games of Scrabble as something.

I’m getting really good at vacations of nothing, especially with Snow White. Think Paris without going up the Eiffel Tower. Napa Valley without going to a winery. Philadelphia without seeing the Liberty Bell. I can roll like that. Playa del Carmen without going to any Mayan ruins, no snorkeling, no diving, no parasailing, no jet skiing and no tours of any kind.

The only thing I learned is that ‘wo’ is a legitimate word in Scrabble, ten or eleven pesos make a dollar, a ‘snark’ is an imaginary animal and that the mango man comes by in the afternoons around 4pm. The only sweat I broke out in was from the hot sun in which case I’d take a dip in the sea.

I lived in a bathing suit. I drank beer like it was water, ate shrimp like it was potato chips and consumed guacamole like it was a daily dose of vitamins. My toughest decision every day, multiple times per day, was to decide if I should pee in the condo (required walking off the beach, around the pool and up four flights of stairs to the condo bathroom) or pee in the Caribbean Sea (required walking twenty yards). I chose condo whenever it was time to restock drinks. Which means I utilized the condo head quite a few times. But more often than not, Mother Nature was a man’s bathroom.

What? It’s like SCUBA divers. There are two kinds: Those that pee in their wetsuits and those who lie about it saying they don’t. Same thing with beachcombers: If you ever see some dude (or chick) standing alone in the water, fairly equidistant from all others ‘swimmers’, seemingly staring intently at something interesting far in the distance; then I recommend you not be directly between that person and the shore because you are bound to feel a sudden stream of warm current. Unless you were stung by a jellyfish; this is not something you want to experience.

The trip was relaxing and refreshing. A week was a long time without my kids though. So I bought them a bunch of Mexican crap for slightly negotiated prices and made sure I saw them on the way home from the airport since my next day with them isn’t until tomorrow. The boys pretended like they were happy to see me when in reality they were just anxious to see what I brought them. But that was fine. They were a good welcome back to reality.

So reality it is. For eleven days. And then I’ll need a vacation for sure. So I’ll be going to Boston for a guy’s weekend. More than a weekend, really. Thursday to Monday sounds good. I’ll be sure to pee in Fenway Park and plenty of local watering holes so I have something good to blog about when I get back.

Crazy and Hmmm, I Think I'll Go to Vegas Tonight

2011-04-22T11:42:00.005-06:00

Crazy things happen.

Like me raving about Page 73 of a stupid book and possibly losing credibility with the people that couldn’t contain their curiosity so they had to go to the store to see what the hell is on the page.

*****

I like the crazy conversations with my boys.

Will: Drew, do you ever poo at school?

Drew: I did once.

Will: Me too. Just one day I mean. When I was in a lower grade, I poo’d four times in one day.

Drew: Wow, I only poo’d one time.

Will: Do you pull your pants all the way off when you poo, or just part way down?

Drew: Part way down.

Will: I like to pull mine all the way off.

Daddy: Why are you having a long conversation about poo?

Will: Because I have to go poop.

Daddy: Well then go!

Will: I am.

Daddy: Do you want something to read?

Will: I’m not ready for that.

Drew: I’m starving because I just pooped and got all the food out. When can we eat?

*****

I like Crazy Hair Day at school. I have spray painting skeelz.

*****
I like to play Crazy Eights.

*****

I love crazy as long as it’s the good kind. Psycho and/or irrational crazy drives me, well, crazy. I have a crazy thing going on that isn’t all that fun and falls into the irrational category. If I ever decide to write about it (or post what I have already written), it will make for a quite a few blogs. In the meantime, the point is that it’s been weighing on me since November. There is a bright shiny light at the end of the tunnel – it’s just been a fucking way too long tunnel.

I was feeling a little sorry for myself yesterday because of the latest with the bad crazy. And then a buddy called with a crazy idea. He said he last-second decided to join his brother-in-law in Vegas and that I should come too. He is leaving Saturday afternoon and coming back Monday morning. My first reaction was “no.” I had big plans Saturday, the rates are probably huge so last-second, I’d rather go for a longer weekend, I have other shit to do, I normally have my kids this weekend but the ex wanted them for Easter and I was thinking about stopping by, blah blah blah. He said the flights out are $60. And suggested using an award ticket to get back. I was pretty sure I didn’t have an award ticket although I do charge a lot of clients’ advertising on my Southwest card so I can get the miles. The ex said Easter won’t be a big deal; just a basket hunt at sunrise. My initial lame ass response of ‘no’ seemed stupid. Why not?

I decided to look into it for kicks. I found a flight out tonight at 10p for $60. I literally just accrued a free ticket yesterday when my bean counter paid the company credit card. So I got a flight back on Monday for free. I cancelled my plans for Saturday with great support and understanding from the friend I was standing up (plus giving away my Nuggets playoffs tickets for free made it better). I figured I’d just stay out all night tonight and get a room for Saturday and Sunday. Done deal for $140 total.

I’ll take care of my bad crazy this afternoon. Then I will look forward to the good crazy - a carefree escape for the weekend in Vegas. Spontaneity at it’s best.

Page 73

2011-04-19T15:13:00.004-06:00

I just read a book that didn’t make sense. I got through the whole thing because it had a cool cover, good title, interesting fonts and most of all because it was short.

It was metaphoric and allegedly clever, but I’m not so sure the author pleased as many people as himself. Although kudos to him for that – I think it’s great to write for yourself. I just don’t know how he got that sucker published.

Light Boxes by Shane Jones

But I’m glad he did just for page 73. Without giving anything away, a big part of the book is how a town is being punished by having it be February for hundreds and hundreds of days. The town tries to rebel and fight back. Page 73 gives a list of things people can do to make it all better.

I’m not going to tell you what is on the list on page 73. It delights me a sick tiny bit that some of you (Steph and Jolene for sure) will have no choice but to go to a book store to see the list on page 73. I will tell you why I liked the list. Because you can take any bad situation and choose many things from the list on page 73 to do something about it and feel better about it. I like that a lot.

And I like knowing that page 73 was cool enough that it will likely be permanently engrained in my cluttered brain. I may forget some of the things actually written on page 73 (I already have), however I will never forget that page 73 had a great list of ways to deal with turmoil.

For those of you that read the book, we can chit chat at cocktail parties and mention page 73 with a knowing snicker while others wish they were in on page 73. When in reality I don’t really know what the hell the book was about and if you do read it, I hope you will explain it to me in a way that makes me think the other 159 pages were any good.

In the meantime, if you are having a bad day, week, month, series of hundreds of days, or are simply frustrated with this post, then just choose something from page 73 and get over it!

The Big Question

2011-04-15T14:07:00.002-06:00

“Daddy, how are babies made?”

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuh, I knew this day was coming. Why does it happen when I have the boys and not when they are with their mother? Will is only eight so I feel like this is a little early for him to ask, isn’t it? We were driving but that didn’t stop me from texting the ex wife to tell her about the fun ride we were about to have.

She said he asked her one time and all she had to say was it starts with kissing. Will stopped her and said that’s all he needed to know so far. I have to tell you what; I’m no doctor nor am I an expert on anatomy, but I’m pretty sure you can make a baby without kissing. I think the ex may have been trying for a quick subject change.

“That is a really good question Will. Have you talked to anyone about this yet?”

“No Daddy; that is why I’m asking you. How are babies made?”

“Well, you know how men and women have different body parts?”

“Yes?”

“Well, when a man and a woman want to make a baby, they put those parts together.”

*crickets*

“But how do they MAKE the baby?”

“Women have eggs in their body. And the man can fertilize the egg. Sometimes it takes, sometimes it doesn’t. If it takes, then the egg turns into a baby.”

“So the man fertilizes the egg and it turns into a baby? Do all girls have eggs? Does Zoe have eggs?”

“Zoe doesn’t have eggs yet. You have to be an adult to have a baby.”

“When will Zoe have eggs?

“It is different for everyone, but usually girls start having eggs every month sometime in their early teenage years. But that is way too early to have a baby. Adults have babies. So Zoe won’t be making babies anytime soon.”

“And how does the man fertilize the egg?”

*crickets*

“Daddy! How does the man fertilize the egg?!”

“That is a really good question Will. Umm. Well, a man can fertilize a woman’s egg by um…”

*crickets*

“Daddy! You stopped talking.”

“Right. What? Oh right. Drew, how are you doing?”

“Fine.”

I looked in the rear view mirror at Will and he sternly said, “Daddy.”

“Okay Will. The best way to make a baby is for the guy to get the girl really drunk so she will fuck him all night long…”

Of course I didn’t say that!

“Okay Will, look, these are really good questions and it is important that you learn this stuff. I want to be able to explain it all really well to you and focus on the conversation. I think it will also help (us both) to get a book. They have lots of books about these things that we can look at together. Can we do that? Can you wait until I can get a book and not be driving?”

“Okay Daddy.”

Now I have to run to the bookstore this weekend to learn how to tell an eight year old how babies are made in a way that will make him not want to experiment for around twenty years or so.

I’d also like to get him to stop thinking about Zoe’s eggs.

Broken Down Car Frees the Willy

2011-04-13T14:50:00.002-06:00

“Will, look! My penis is blue!”

That is all I heard from the other room in the condo. Normally I’d run over and investigate, but the wowing and laughter afterward made me think it was no big deal. The boys were changing out of their bathing suits. Plus I was busy making dinner. I was in the kitchen slaving over a hot stove. Putting a frozen pizza in the oven requires my full attention.

It was a white pizza with cheese and spinach. I tried to redistribute as much of the cheese as possible to cover up all the spinach so that my boys would actually eat said pizza. As it cooked, the condo began to smell like white pizza.

The next thing I heard Drew say was, “Ewww, I smell throw up.”

Will corrected him and said, “No, Daddy is making dinner.”

Is it needless to say that I had trouble getting them to eat the pizza? Sometimes the simple things are difficult. It’s important to keep it all in perspective though. It has been a crazy few months around here with many stressful things going on that were a lot worse than a chilly willy and smelly dinner.

I’ve been really digging listening to Florence and the Machine and in particular The Dog Days are Over. I keep telling myself the dog days are over and I mostly believe it. I just need to try not to sweat the small stuff. Usually I have no problem with this – I’m irritatingly optimistic all the time.

But little things that pile up can be trying. Like Monday evening for example. I drove to basketball which is always a huge physical and mental pick-me-up. Well, for whatever reason, I couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn with a basketball that night. It became comical how poorly I was playing (at least on offense). It got to the point where I psyched myself out and knew that every shot I took would rattle out of the rim. And so it did. Luckily my satisfaction with playing isn’t really based on my performance because I still love it. But it sure was frustrating!

It was 9p and I had to boogie home to get some work done for a big meeting Tuesday morning. I got in the car, turned the ignition and nothing happened. The battery is brand new and I had power to the radio, lights, windows, etc, so I knew that wasn’t the problem.

I suck at car stuff so I did what I’m capable of doing which was kick the tires, try the key eleventeen times, pop the gas cap door mistakenly twice as I tried to find the latch that pops the hood, look under the hood for who knows what cuz I’d have no idea what was out of place even if it were something obvious, bang the steering wheel three times with the palm of my hand, turn off the radio (because it seems like that would make the car start), rifle around the glove compartment and wonder why it is still called a glove compartment when nobody ever stores gloves in there, try the key three more times and hit the steering wheel eleventeen more times, close my eyes and visualize the car starting through osmosis and then cursing because even that didn’t work. I even thought about checking the flux capacitor and kanuten valve. And then I gave up.

It was late so I didn’t want to deal with a tow truck without knowing where I’d have them take my dead car. So I called some friends to rescue me. This all took place in Denver by the way. I live in Boulder, about a half hour away so I knew I’d have to crash somewhere in Denver. I put on my jeans over my sweaty boxers and still had on my stinky t-shirt and pullover along with my high tops from playing basketball. For some reason I’d later regret, I left my nice shoes, dry socks and the shirt I wore that day in my dead car.

Since it was 10p now and I still had a ton of work to do, I just had my friends drop me off at a buddy’s office that is in a converted town home. It is my Denver safe-house and I have free reign to get in there anytime I want.

By the time I got all my work done and wound down from the frustrating evening, it was 2:15am. I crashed on the couch and stared at the moon through the blindless window of which the bright blazing sun would be waking me up at the crack of dawn (not the canyonesque crack of The Med chick’s ass from the last post). I spent a good half hour trying to sleep. This always helps:

I see the moon and the moon sees me.
The moon sees someone I want to see.
God bless the moon and God bless me.
God bless the someone I want to see.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

I borrowed a friend’s car in the morning and got to work by 7am. I showered there and luckily I keep a clean dress shirt in the office. It has been hanging there for five years. Um, I must have been a bit thinner five years ago. It was a snug fit, but still better than my smelly t-shirt. I had to go commando since I didn’t have spare underwear at the office – who would do that? I couldn’t put back on those nasty socks, so I pulled my high tops back on over my bare feet. This was as good as it was going to get for the meeting.

The meeting was a success and I had Florence singing in my head. The dog days are over, I tell you. Of course I still had to get my car towed and fixed, which I did. And I had more work to do and shit to deal with, but that never ends. The good news (besides the great meeting) was that I had a full day of free willy. Commando was awesome.

Something good comes out of everything.

I Didn't See That Coming But Then I Couldn't Stop Looking

2011-04-09T11:58:00.004-06:00

The Grand Canyon is quite spectacular. The last time I was there was about eight years ago. I think it has been argued as one of the seven natural wonders of the world. Upon checking The Google and The Wikipedia, it seems there is some debate over the wonders of the world depending on if we are talking ancient times, engineering, modern era, underwater or clueless blondes – all are considered quite the wonder. Regardless, imagine my surprise when I encountered one of the great wonders of the world right here in my home town of Boulder, Colorado.

I was at The Med. I was trying to focus on the conversation with my party. But how does one ignore the grand canyon in all her glory(hole)? Colorado certainly does have vast wide open spaces, butt this was unexpected in what is considered a modern hip place in an urban environment. With such a large and exposed crevice gaping at the clientele, I couldn’t believe there weren’t ropes or some kind of protective fencing barricading the fluctuating crack. The surface area shifted often which caused the large expanse to widen and lengthen to startling degrees.

Although I am native to Boulder, I fell into tourist mode and had to snap a picture. I would have posed in front of the amazing wonder but I didn’t want to disturb the wildlife. Plus I was afraid I might accidentally fall in. It would take hours to find me down there.

The nice thing about it was that the bar area got pretty crowded and people were able to nestle their pint glasses in the wide crevice in lieu of table space. Of course now and then a cocktail would slide all the way down and be lost forever, butt my guess is that’s the point of the whole thing anyway.

The Med is a real crack up.

Charities With Color and Karate Kicks

2011-04-06T15:37:00.003-06:00

The boys and I were driving by a big open field next to a highway ramp and shopping center yesterday.

Will: I’m going to build a charity right there. It will be for the homeless because they are always on these corners and there is so much open space.

Drew: What’s a charity?

Will: It can be anything Drew. Mine will be a shelter for the homeless where they can get food, sleep and checkups. And it will be free for them in case they don’t have any money.

Drew: What color is it?

Will: What color is what?

Drew: The charity! What color is it?

Will: Um, I guess I don’t know what a charity is. But my shelter is a building and it can be any color I want it to be. I’d talk to the builders about it.

Drew: If I were a builder I’d build charities, houses, buildings and pools.

Will: I’m also going to build a grocery store with all healthy stuff in it. No junk food at all. And it is only for the homeless and everything is free.

Drew: What color is it?

Will: The grocery store?

Drew: No! The charity!

Will: Drew!!!

Daddy: A charity is the name for a good cause. It is a category to describe what can be a not-for-profit business, a fund raising campaign, or any number of other things that people do to generally help other people. So a charity doesn’t really have a color. Does that make sense?

Drew: I can karate kick really good.

Will: My charity will help the homeless so they don't have to ask us for money.

Drew: High-ya! *he kicks the back of my seat*

Daddy: Drew, don't kick me. Will, that is really cool. I'm glad you want to help the homeless.

Drew: But what color is it!!!!!

Breaking Up

2011-04-02T19:23:00.004-06:00

I wish I could say it’s not you; it’s me. But I’m tired of hiding my true feelings for you. It’s all you. And we are done. I can’t take it anymore. You are a pain in my ass. And yes, there is someone else. But let’s keep talking about you because I need to get some things off my chest.

I never said anything about your weight. But seriously, figure it out. It makes you even clumsier than you already are. And I don’t know if your heaviness is related to it, but you are so fricking slow. I am ALWAYS waiting on you. You move so slowly and are never ready when I need you.

You are not reliable at all. I guess you are consistent in that I know I can never count on you to do what I think you are going to do. But that isn’t the kind of spontaneity I like. The fact that I need you for one thing and you basically freeze up is a cop out. Or if you make an attempt to participate in something with me, why are you always plodding along like you don’t care about me?

Okay, I know this next area is a sensitive topic, but besides your weight and bulky appearance, we have to talk health. Your memory sucks. I don’t understand how one second I think you are good to go and the next you act like you are overwhelmed and can’t absorb any more information. Secondly, I think you have a serious problem considering the number of viruses you have contracted from unknown sources. You never have an explanation for any of them and I’m tired of taking you to the clinic and paying ridiculous fees to get you fixed up.

Want to talk personality? BORING! I have to admit that I’ve been embarrassed to be seen with you in coffee shops. Think about it – strangers never take any interest in you and I’m tired of giving you lame praise like how you are good at work (not really true anyway) to justify our relationship.

We don’t even get along when we do things I love, such as traveling. Remember that last trip to Florida when you completely shut down and were worthless? Even after a few cocktails I couldn’t get you going. I tried to turn you on and all you did was lay there; dead.

I deserve better than you. So long bitch. Meet my new lover:

Balls

2011-03-21T17:25:00.001-06:00

I’ve been known to write about my balls a lot. It’s totally normal. Many a child’s first words includes ‘ball.’ Many baby toys are balls. As the babies get older, little boys get curious about their junk and ask lots of questions. My eight and five year old boys are dancing around the topic – naked usually. It’s nearly impossible to get them dressed after a bath. They are all wound up and like to run around yelling, “Shake your booty,” while flashing a bright white full moon that compares well to Saturday’s Super Moon. How frightening that I have two little exhibitionists.

I keep hoping that they will ask any serious questions when their mom has them on one of her nights. Of course she will probably play the gender card in which case the inquiries will come back to me. So I need to be ready to talk about ball sacks with them at any time. Which means I probably need to brush up on anatomy so I can handle tough questions such as ‘why do men have nipples?’

It is a weird thing the way men are built, isn’t it? I mean, if I can generalize for a sec, I think it’s fairly safe to say that guys like seeing naked chicks. There really isn’t a body part, region or zone that guys don’t like to see on a woman. If a woman sends a guy a nekked pic, it’s like winning a little lottery.

On the other hand, it seems that most chicks would not necessarily appreciate a photo of some guys’ package. Is it fair to say the cock is not all that attractive a body part, at least out of context? It’s sort of just shoved on there in the middle almost as an after thought with no regard to design. It gets in the way all the time and totally betrays our sexy-time emotions if we aren’t able to stand behind something or have easy access to a large book. I’m sure Apple would design the cock much differently if they had a shot at it.

And then what woman wants to see a close up of a man’s ball sack? Again, I’m generalizing and simply stating a suspicion. I mean, I’m sure the desire is directly related to the relationship, from the woman’s point of view. I would hope that a gal would be interested in nudies of her guy, although I still question if there is ever a time she would be making ball sack requests, especially if the sack is hairy! Whereas on the flipside, a guy would probably be happy to get a nekked shot of a gal he knew regardless of his relationship with her. Or regardless if he knows her. Right?

I’m not sure how I got on the ball sack slant. I think I’ve written about my little brother (from the Big Brother / Big Sister program) and the medical procedure that left him in a situation that I couldn’t help but nickname him One Nut. And then I have no shame and have written in detail about getting snipped. I’m sure I’ve referred to the great Saturday Night Live skit with Alec Baldwin and his Schweaty Balls on the NPR show. And I know I wrote a slight misdirection that turned out to be about basketball.

That is how this all started. I am going to play basketball in a few minutes. I go nearly every Monday. I was asked to go to the Nuggets game tonight, but I’d much rather play than watch. So I was sitting here at my desk at the end of the day, scratching my balls, and decided to write about whatever was on my mind. Basketball. Which turned into balls. Weird.

Italian Sauce

2011-03-14T16:23:00.005-06:00

I went to lunch at a place called Pasta Pasta Pasta. My lunch date seriously asked me what they have there. I assume she meant what kind of pasta, but I can’t be totally sure. So that made me want to order Mexican food to see how’d they respond. But everyone that works there has a heavy Italian accent and I don’t need the mafia coming after me again. Yes, I said again. There was that noodle incident at Gaetano’s back in ’97 that I still don’t think was my fault, but what good does it do to argue with a punk and his two hookers working for a man named Clyde (Gaetano is Italian for Clyde) with a nickname of Flip Flop (gangstah for Clyde I guess). Considering they still have bulletproof glass on the front of their restaurant I think it wise of me to let it go.

So I’m eating my chile rellenos at Pasta Pasta Pasta when I got a text from my office about the stink. Yes, my office is its own entity and has full texting abilities. I met my office at the circus and I rescued it, especially after it saved Little Johnny from the well. How he got stuck in there, I have no idea but Little Johnny ought to be more careful and also lay off the pasta because he is one plump little fellah and is going to have to change his name to Big John if this behavior continues.

Speaking of Big Johns, I went to school at Eastern Illinois University. If you confuse it with any of the other directional schools in Midwestern corn fields, don’t feel bad because I do the same thing.

“Where did you go to college Mr. Bretthead?”

“Ummmmm, it was in a big corn field. I think it was Northern Illinois in Macomb. No wait; it was Western Illinois in Edwardsville. Shit, no I went to Southern Illinois in Bloomington-Normal. Or was it in DeKalb? I don’t know for sure, but I can tell you I had the #2 (Big John) about once a week from Jimmy Johns.”

Now Jimmy Johns is all over the place. The first one was in Charleston, IL, where I ate lots of roast beef sammies, refined my drinking skills and learned the back roads to Champaign-Urbana where I’d crash my friend’s frat parties and tell his lame brothers to get me beer because I was alumni.

The only fraternity I’ve ever been in was the wise-ass one with just about anyone that could hold a witty and stimulating conversation. Hazing was all verbal, constant and often carried over to the people around us. Unless they were Italian and had shifty eyes with slicked back hair and worked for a Gambino or Gaetano named Clyde.

One time at band camp, or rather Hard Rock Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas (not that there are mafia folks there at all), I was playing roulette with my buddies. We were all trying to make $40 last long enough to score a few drinks which amazingly seemed to be happening. The table was hotter than the tamales at Pasta Pasta Pasta. Until a young Italian guy with slicked back hair and a suit that cost eleventy-seven times more than my net worth walked up and pulled a wad of hundies out of his crispy white shirt pocket. He put it all on the top third of the wheel (he wins if the ball falls in numbers 1-12). The dealer counted out ten Ben Franklins. $1,000 on numbers one through twelve.

Normally when people walk up to the table and throw, say, a measly hundred dollar bill on red, we’d all put our five bucks on red too. But we were too stunned with this guy and watched as the ball spun. And it didn’t hit his numbers. So he pulled out another wad of Ben Franklins. It was another $1,000 on 1-12. More stunned onlookers and a spin and a miss. He did it a third time ladies and gentlemen. And lost again. And then he walked away. He lost $3,000 in less than five minutes. I think that was double my entire trip budget which included gambling, food, drinks, cabs, airfare, hookers, hotel room, bail and souvenir fuzzy dice that said “Viva Las Vegas” with a silhouette of a pole dancer for my kids. Okay, I’m kidding about the hookers. And the fuzzy dice. And even the bail.

Crazy Italian. Mmm, the Italian combo #2 at Carbones is awesome. Now that is a crazy good sammie! Carbones is a local Italian deli that has been around for years. Rose is about 150 years old and works behind the counter. She rocks the world. But she is a feisty one. I’m not sure if it is worse to get in a pickle with Rose or with Flip Flop’s henchmen.

Speaking of stinky flip flops, the problem in my office is about a flood from a frozen pipe and the resulting soaked carpet, wood, tile, brick and mortar. So we've had musty and moldy smells for a couple weeks and people have literally gotten ill. Insurance companies are involved now, so it is going to take awhile to get things rectified. I wonder if I should have paid Flip Flop for his insurance?

The moral of this story? I haven’t written much in the last few weeks and I don’t know why. My mind is all over the place and I can’t seem to rein it in. So I’m just going to live in the moment and probably order sushi at the new H-Burger tomorrow for lunch. Capisce?

Mildly Amusing

2011-03-01T14:50:00.001-07:00

I am very busy today. I have been shuffling papers around my desk all day. I had an impromptu book club with Mel on IM. I looked at travel options for getting to Boston in May for a guys trip (Cubs are playing in Fenway Park). I scratched myself at least twenty times. I drank three Diet Cokes. I made a few crotch adjustments. I traded vulgar insults via email with one of my homeys. I surfed the world wide web. All in all, I have looked extremely buried in work when in reality I am having one of those days where I don’t want to do anything and I can’t focus.

So I started looking at the books and knickknacks on my shelves by my desk. I found a pack of “50 of the best excuses and lies for every occasion.” Somebody who doesn’t know me very well gave them to me a few years back. I don’t think I ever looked at them – I’m really good at double talk, tap dancing and turning tables so I don’t have to make excuses or lie.

I went through all fifty cards and found just three that were any good. I decided to use them in response to the next three things anyone said to me, no matter what. I got all giddy and sat here wishing someone would talk to me. I’m holed up in the back and keep to myself so as to not generate any extra work therefore I wasn’t sure when I’d get to use my lines.

Finally.

Instance #1:

Co-worker: “Hey Brett, do you have Molly’s email address?”

Me (playing the excuse/lie card): “I’m too cool to care.”

I giggled like a teenage school girl while my co-worker tilted her head to the side with a half smirk, half look of astonishment and half look of disgust. I know. That is three halves, but she said a lot without saying anything at all. I tossed her the card and told her to carry on.

Instance #2:

Co-worker: “Brett, we are all going to a rep lunch. Do you want to come along?”

Me (playing the excuse/lie card): “I will if I can get permission from my psychiatrist.”

I never go on the rep lunches so they took that as my sarcastic way of saying “no thanks.” I was about to hand over my excuse/lie card but they were already heading out the door. I didn’t get as much satisfaction as I did the first time, so I held out high hopes for the last card.

Instance #3:

My phone rang.

Me: “Hello.”

Caller: “Hey Brett, what’s going on?”

Me: “Hey, not much. Just scratching myself.”

Caller: “What?”

Me (playing the excuse/lie card): “Your sister didn’t seem to mind.”

Darn Mayor. He is always calling me with inane conversation.

What else? Well, I’m out of good excuses and lies so I think I will just have to eat this giant red-hot candy and see how it tastes while swirling Diet Dr. Pepper in my mouth. Your sister didn’t seem to mind.

Witchy Woman

2011-02-23T11:23:00.004-07:00

Imagine if you were casting a movie and you needed to fill the role of a witch. This is my vision, so let me qualify the parameters. I’m not talking about a green faced Wizard of Oz witch, nor is she a hot and sexy Witches of Eastwick witch. No, this is a true blue Hansel & Gretel witch. She is old and wrinkly with a big nose and scowling face. Her hair is a scraggy grey and covered by a dirty hooded cloak. She looks like a hag in her layers of clothes.

Got it?

I found her. On a bus of course.

Try to ignore my finger. I didn’t want the witch to see me taking her picture in fear of being turned into a frog. I somewhat stealthily and clumsily took a few quick snapshots under the guise of straining to read something very important on my screen. This photo was the best of the bunch.

The most wonderful part of this isn’t that she is wearing Crocs. No, the best part of this discovery on the bus that delighted me to no end is the book she is reading. You can’t see from the picture, but I kid you not; the witch is reading Wicked. I squirmed with excitement when I noticed the title and think I made an audible squeal. That was when I knew I had to take her picture.

Although I was tempted to stand up and point at her while shouting, “Burn her! She is made of wood,” I refrained because I have witch blood in my family (my mom is a descendant of Rebecca Nurse of the famed Salem witchcraft trials) and I really really didn’t want to get turned into a frog. That shit can happen you know.

So I just watched her, smiling ear to ear and elbowing my buddy while raising eyebrows at the witch and grunting "ehh, ehhh?" He sat there with a clueless look on his face (although he always looks that way) wondering why I was taking pictures of somebody’s grandma.

I hope this makes you as happy as it made me. I need to hop on out to lunch now. I’m hoping to meet a fair princess down by the pond. Rrrribbit.

Bitch on PMS

2011-02-11T14:31:00.002-07:00

My eight year old son Will loves playing Dance Party on the Wii. It is tied for his favorite game with Dance Party II. He has played so often that he knows the words to all kinds of pop/dance songs. So now he will randomly sing songs all over the place. Today, we were walking down the hallway of my condo and he started singing Kate Perry’s Hot & Cold which is one of his favorites. He usually gets lyrics right because he is very particular about details. But like anyone, sometimes he is mistaken about the words and has adopted his own version as the real thing.

This Hot & Cold song is an odd one to hear him sing because it has a line in there about a girl and PMS. Will always sings along during the Wii game and then during his random outbursts like in the car or on the street, it is unsettling to hear him singing PMS. Especially since he has no idea what it means and surprisingly hasn’t asked.

But there is more. Here is what he sings: “You, PMS, like a bitch…” Yep, my innocent little angel smiles ear to ear and does a little kid jig while he bellows out lines about PMS and a bitch. The real line is chick and not bitch. So Drew likes to correct him and yell, “No, it’s CHICK.” Neither of them have asked what a bitch is, which is nice.

Luckily, Will isn’t quite the outgoing singer around lots of people so I’m not sure if anyone has ever heard his joyous tribute to bitches and PMS.

Drew has his verbal moments as well. I can’t remember the exact context, but he recently said, “Daddy can have business with himself.” Oh if he only knew. It’s been a cold winter.

Not everything they say is inappropriate. Some is just damn funny and brilliant. Will takes after me and bumps into shit all the time. I tend to hit my noggin, whereas he does that too, but more often bangs his elbows or most of all, stubs his toes. My couch is kind of horse shoe shaped with tiny metal legs that really do attract a bevy of jammed feet and stubbed toes – to the point where I often put the throw pillows on the ground in front of the couch legs.

A few days ago, the kids’ mom texted to tell me that Will banged a body part for the eleventeenth time and he screamed out:

“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh, why can’t the world be made out of pillows?!”

And then last night Will stubbed his toes on the evil couch yet again and he shouted:

“When will the couch legs be made out of pillows!”

I was laughing and he got pissed at me and said, “Daddy! I. Am. Not. Kidding!!!”

It is fun when your own kids yell at you. I know I was laughing, but geez, he was like a bitch on PMS.

Business Advice

2011-02-04T10:14:00.002-07:00

I have a buddy whose best and only business advice is to hire young tail. It is correct to assume my pal is male and obnoxious. And damn funny. Good thing I rarely listen to him. That lawsuit wouldn’t be fun and my friend is not a lawyer.

I am not hiring right now, but over the fourteen years I have been running my business, I have had to do quite a bit of hiring. And unfortunately some firing too. I think finding good people is hard to do and once you have them, do everything you can to keep them. On the flip side, it doesn’t take long to realize somebody isn’t a good fit. Sometimes it can be salvaged with hard work, training or maybe changing the job role. But usually it makes the most sense to cut that bad investment off quickly.

There are tons of really talented people out there. I get well qualified resumes coming across my desk every week. A lot of creative people in the advertising business team up their services. An art director will partner with a copy writer and often come as a package whether as freelancers or even full time hires. My company doesn’t do any creative in-house, so I don’t ever interview art directors or copy writers.

With that said, there are two young creative talents out there that I’m keeping an eye on. I have to admit they are extremely good looking. Blonde hair, blue eyes, great shape. They have boundless energy and are really fucking funny. They blend verbal humor with pratfalls to make themselves quite the entertaining pair. Kind of like Chevy Chase without the swearing. They prefer bathroom humor over dropping f-bombs.

Oh, and these are guys. My friend definitely had females in mind with his ‘young tail’ advice. But hey, curb appeal in advertising works with women and men, so maybe his strategy still applies here. The main catch with these two isn’t that they are stupid, because I think they are quite smart. However, they are really immature. Often times with creative talent you put up with some sort of personality flaw in order to get to the end result – great work.

So I’ve been keeping a very close eye on these two dudes. They never cease to amaze me which makes it easier to accept that they often dress alike and sometimes act like they hate each others’ guts. They have produced awesome designs and artwork. They have both written copy that would make you fall off your chair. I actually have put some of their work up in my office.

Maybe someday I’ll expand our services and see if I can hire these guys. On the other hand, do I want to deal with nepotism, countless spills, fighting and random throw-ups? All I know is these little dudes rock.

You Were Awesome Last Night

2011-01-30T14:59:00.001-07:00

I can’t stop thinking about last night. We spent the entire evening together and then kept it going throughout the night. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any better, you’d surprise me with something new that made me want more. And you gave it to me. So much so that I was buried inside you all night.

I have to be honest; there have been others. Some have smelled like you and even felt like you. Some started at dinner time and continued on the couch under dim light with soft music playing in the background. What can I say; I like cuddling up. Eventually we end up in my bed, tossing and turning together, my hands all over, giving my undivided attention.

I’ve spent an entire weekend and longer with others. Sometimes I need a break but it doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about continuing where we left off in bed or even at the kitchen table. I always care for you and treat you well when we are together. But I am not loyal.

I am guilty of cheating. I have been with more than one numerous times. I can’t help myself. It’s like an addiction. I have to have it and I like it in a variety of ways. Even if I’m really into one, I won’t hesitate to pick up another to bring home with me. There are so many interesting adventures to be had and I am open to trying just about anything.

So I juggle. I spread my time and attention out, sometimes forgetting where we left off. Has that story been told yet? Who is this person again? What was happening last time we were together? Sometimes I have to tactfully cover old ground before we can move forward again. But we almost always have a good run together and end up with some sort of closure.

I am not perfect. Stop it; I’m not! Sometimes I am enchanted with how you look on the outside but then once I learn more about you and really see you from the inside, I have to let you go. You sit there lonely, beckoning me with your external appeal, but it doesn’t matter. Once I’m not interested in your words or your ability to hold my attention, we are finished. Having heard we were together, my friends will eagerly ask about you and I will sadly tell them the truth – you were simply no good.

Nights like last night are rare. Not only were you good, you were fucking awesome. I had no idea what to expect when we met. I had heard of you but never bothered to find out more about you. So when I saw you yesterday, I think it was boredom more than anything else that caused me to wonder about you.

So we got started at dinner, just like with some of the others. But within only a few bites, I could already tell you were special. You made me smile and laugh. And then you made my heart swell with compassion and fear. You had me on the edge of my seat. I could not get enough of you.

We spent all night together. I had my way with you on the table, the furniture and in my bedroom. I even took you in the bathroom. There were no breaks. It was emotional and trying at times, but worth every minute. Finally, it was over. As quickly as we started, we were finished and I slept.

I awoke this morning and you were still there. I looked at you and smiled. I thought about how awesome you were as I got out of bed and got dressed. I am an open minded person. So I will not keep you to myself. I will tell anyone who will listen. Blogger is a good place to start. And to that lucky person that I so choose, I will let him or her (I’m really open minded) try you for themselves. Yes, I will pass you on and share you with friends. I am that kind of guy.

Little Bee by Chris Cleave. It has been a long time since I started a book and didn’t stop until it was finished. Enjoy.

Somebody in Seattle is Getting Lucky

2011-01-25T17:09:00.003-07:00

You know what’s fun? Besides roller coasters, monkeys dressed as bellhops, dropping melons from the balcony, happy endings, midget watching, sharing a great book, licking icing off the cake, eating cookie dough, giving my boys wet willies, playing basketball, pillow fights, giving, seeing live music, freak shows, scrabble, leaping tall buildings, quoting movie lines from the 80s, impulsive and unexpected things, talking animals, watching the moon, people watching, Vegas, jokes involving anybody walking into a bar, islands, turbulence, making up stories, being in Wrigley Field, outfoxing clever people, asking people with heavy British or Australian accents if they are from Texas, cleaning (not really; I’m just trying to have a positive attitude), sushi, playing hooky, burping contests, bantering, and lots lots lots more of course?

Those are all shits and giggles, but you know what else is fun? Finding amusement in unexpected places. Earlier today, I sat down in a comfy chair at Borders to have a chai. The comfy chair area is always packed as people tend to treat Borders as their own personal library and take reading materials to peruse while they sip their café beverages. And then they leave their stack of books on the table for some minimum wage college kid worker to reshelf throughout the day.

I don’t sit up there very often, but when I do, I like to see what kind of books are in the abandoned stacks. I especially like to do this when I see the person get up and leave. So then I can guess what I think they were reading based only on their appearance and demeanor. Like was the scholarly person reading about philosophy; was the teenage girl reading lame vampire books; was the psycho reading self-help books; etc?

Today, I didn’t see who left the stack of books next to my comfy chair. But here they are:

Somebody in Seattle is totally gonna get laid. Sex must be on the list of 25 best things to do in any city, really. On the other hand, maybe this person is consulting the other two books because things aren’t all that sensational or fulfilling.

All I know is that I didn’t want some other joker like me to be watching me walk away so they could see what I was reading and wonder when I’m going to Seattle and who is either the lucky or unlucky recipient of my newfound sensational and fulfilling knowledge. So I took a picture of the books and moved over two chairs.

See? Fun! Perhaps not as fun as juggling eggs, tickling my boys, asking a friend about their mysterious skin rashes and cold sores in a crowded elevator, answering everyone’s questions with questions, sunsets, people falling into fountains while they text, stealing glances, inside jokes, stimulating conversation, food fights, bums talking politics, sparklers, mud wrestling, clever fortune cookies, angry nuns, and lots lot lots more; but fun nonetheless!

There Was No Point But the Soundtrack Was Great

2011-01-16T01:10:00.003-07:00

All this bus riding has made me want to have my own bus persona. I’ve thought about Angry Drunk Man, but that wouldn’t really separate me from my fellow passengers. Full Body Twitch Guy could be cool, but I bump my head on a lot of stuff already and I’m afraid I’d hurt myself. With all these happiness books I’ve been reading, I could go with Happy Lollipop Dude and hand out suckers and smiles but then people may want to talk to me.

I think I’ll stick with No Eye Contact While Listening to Music Guy for now. I’ll keep the volume down though so I can overhear conversations like the one the other day between four bums. They were talking politics and religion and then moved to interracial marriage and Greek mythology before a crazy man outside the bus doors started screaming the f-bomb at everybody to the point where the panel of bums told the bus driver not to let the f-bomb bum on the bus. That doesn’t seem right. I mean, would a fat baker refuse to serve an obese man a slice of cake?

I buried my nose in my book and turned up the volume of Grace Potter. She has some great pipes. Plus, how can you not dig a band called Grace Potter and the Nocturnals? I was reading The Year of the Hare by Arto Passilinna. It was an appropriate bus read because it’s basically a series of short stories loosely linked by geography uniting the main character (and his hare) with a variety of interesting people and situations. Kind of like the variety of people on the bus, momentarily united by a common goal until they pulled the ‘next stop’ cable and moved on with their own lives while Grace Potter belted out another song.

I don’t really know what the point of the book was, but it was certainly an entertaining and quick read. Plus, how can you not like the name Arto? If only I would have thought of that before my boys were born. “Arto! Get off your brother! Do not sit on his head Arto. Arto! Arto, your brother does not want you to fart on his face! Arto, why is your underwear on the kitchen floor?”

No really, why would a kid leave his undies on the middle of the kitchen floor? I stepped on a pair of Will’s and asked him what the fuck they were doing there. Okay, I didn’t say “fuck” but that is exactly what I thought when I stepped on them. He said he had to change them. When I inquired as to why he needed to change his undies, he looked at me like I’m the biggest idiot on the bus. “Because they got wet Daddy.” And then he rolled his eyes. Since when do eight year olds know how to do facial expressions that say “you fucking moron?”

I said, “Listen asshole,” (not really, but I admit that is what I thought), “I’m not even going to ask why an eight year old apparently wet himself but I am going to ask why the allegedly wet underwear was left in the middle of the kitchen?”

Arto, I mean Will, ignored me as he was busy yelling at Drew to get him a blue belt on Club Penguin. Drew ignored Will which made Will yell louder and tell you what, Grace Potter’s pipes have nothing on Will. I picked up Will’s undies with the end of a pencil like they do at crime scenes because I wasn’t sure what exactly they were wet with and even though I’ve cleaned up gallons of my children’s bodily fluids, it doesn’t mean I enjoy doing it. I didn’t see any mud or even any tread marks. Nor did there appear to be any pee spots on the front. Will can be very particular about things and I assumed he just didn’t shake well enough. But I still couldn’t figure out why he deposited his dirty laundry in the kitchen.

“Will, I’m talking to you. Stop yelling at Drew and tell me why I’m holding these nasty things in the kitchen. I think I may pass out any second and we are going to have to throw away this pencil.” Drew started laughing like a hyena so I approached him with Will’s underwear dangling from the end of the pencil. The kids screamed like little girls and scattered. Luckily there aren’t a lot of places to go in a two bedroom condo and I was able to toss the undies aside in order to corral both rug-rats with a bear hug take-down just as Grace Potter shuffled on to the stereo belting out “You’ve got me down on the floor,” from Paris (Ooh La La). Shit like that happens all the time. I love having a soundtrack to our lazy Saturday of nonsense. I tickled them both until I got the official surrender of “I’m a monkey’s bottom.”

I heard a bus drive by outside. I wondered what random people were on that route and what they’d think about Arto’s book about a seemingly meaningless series of characters and incidents as my boys climbed all over me seeking revenge for the tickle-pummeling I gave them over soiled underwear in the kitchen.

And then UB40’s Rat in Mi Kitchen started up. I warned my little rats they better not leave any more dirty undies in the kitchen and the soundtrack of our day continued. Sometimes you don’t need a moral to the story or a fabulous conclusion. I never did find out if it’s okay for Zeus to marry an Asian, nor did I find out why Will left his underwear in the kitchen. I don’t know what Arto’s point was in The Year of the Hare. I don’t know who all these people are on my bus ride.

It doesn’t matter. Let the soundtrack of life change every day. It keeps things interesting even if there doesn’t seem to be a point. I’m going to enjoy the moment.

Happy

2011-01-11T17:00:00.002-07:00

I closed my eyes and felt like I was floating in space. Of course I was on an airplane at an altitude of 30,000 feet at which the movement of the plane would make anyone float in space.

Thoughts were flying through my mind. Skin and bones, baby. Yes, you are my star. I swear I love you just the way you are. Of course I was jamming my iPod and Jet’s Skin and Bones was helping me tune out the rest of the world.

I had just finished another book. In the last week I’ve read The Four Agreements, The Dragonfly Effect and Zen and the Art of Happiness. The agreements book is about living a life of freedom with love and joy. The dragonfly one is actually a business book about utilizing social media to create social change that is meaningful. And the Zen one is about changing your personal philosophies so that you believe everything that happens to you is the best possible thing that can happen to you.

In other words, all three of them are about the same thing - happiness. I’ve been seeking happiness my whole life. From when I was a kid trying to overcome being called uncoordinated by my own parents to writing blogs and hoping somebody smiles after they read my words. Who am I trying to make happy? My parents or a blog reader?

No.

Good things tend to happen to me. Many people say I’m lucky. So I have that going for me. Which is nice. But I don’t let it just happen. I often seek it out. And I don’t currently think everything that happens to me is the best possible thing that can happen to me, no matter how happy-go-lucky I supposedly am. Because I have beliefs, just like everyone else, that are rooted within my brain, heart and soul. Some of these have been there since birth. Others have been refined along the way. Some of these beliefs don’t enable me to see the good, much less understand it.

It is time to change those beliefs. I need to create new agreements with myself. And I’d like to do more things that are truly meaningful.

The authors of Dragonfly Effect said it well when they talked about the difference between what really makes people happy versus what they think makes them happy. It is when people stop chasing happiness that great things can happen. They go on to say that the happiest people search for meaningfulness, a change in direction that leads to more sustainable happiness, the kind that enriches their lives, provides purpose, and creates impact.

Of course, sometimes I get happy just eating a hot fudge volcanic chocolate cake. There is nothing wrong with that. But that is the shortest type of happiness. I saw Tony Hsieh (CEO of Zappos.com) speak about happiness at a conference. He likens my dessert example as Rock Star happiness – chasing the next high. He has written a book on the subject and has become a happiness expert. He is smart. High five, Tony.

Doing things that have great meaning will result in the longest type of happiness. So I want it all. I want short term Rock Star happiness because I am so easily amused, but I also want the long term meaningful happiness. I am opening my brain, heart and soul to live in the moment and with meaning.

I am going to continue to see the bright side of everything and try believing that watching loved ones battle illnesses, my company losing business, dealing with idiots and fucking up my own affairs now and then are all for the best. After all, I have faith my loved ones will overcome their medical issues, we are winning new biz too, the idiots will never go away so I may as well learn something from them (or at least find entertainment from them), and my inner happiness can overcome my own fuck-ups; especially as I accept them and understand how they are good for me.

I’m in.

Feel the music float through my mind as my body floats through space. Embrace the turbulence. People pay to go on roller coasters, after all. Don’t push it baby. Please don’t go too far. I swear I love you just the way you are. It’s all going to be okay. No, strike that. It’s all going to be fucking great.

Bus

2011-01-04T14:55:00.002-07:00

I used to live in Chicago and traveled everywhere by public transportation. I often lost my car because I’d park it in a one mile radius of where I lived and then forget where the hell it was because I’d go weeks between needing to drive anywhere.

Denver/Boulder is not a big transit city. Everybody drives solo everywhere they go. And for an active city, people are lazy. Nobody walks four blocks if there is a big parking lot at the destination.

I didn’t realize that as part of my condo ownership, I get a free bus pass for the year. I just got mine yesterday and have put it to use already. If things go well during my test run, I am going to leave my wheels in the garage and do public transit every Wednesday. I don’t have my kiddies that day and think I can make it work. That means at least 52 days a year I don’t get into my car. That must be good, right?

During my first day of the test, I was pleased to already have three derelicts on board. It was 12:30pm and I was taking the regional bus from Boulder to Denver. I’m not sure if they were rih-tards, drunk, crazy or all three. I had tunes jamming so I couldn’t really hear people talking. But there was no missing the lady in front of me yell, “Watch your language,” when apparently the derelicts starting arguing. I turned up my music.

All told, I had to take three buses to get to work. That was kind of inconvenient. But if the weather is nice, I can eliminate one of those legs and take a nice walk. I have become an expert on all bus routes from my condo to the Boulder Transit Center and from Boulder to Denver and from the Market Street Station to my office and to the kids’ Denver house. It reminds me of the good old Chicago days.

I went to the Nuggets game last night, so I had to take the regional bus back to Boulder around 10p. I waited at the Market Street Station and thoroughly enjoyed peeing in what seemed like the private bathroom of two homeless guys. They had all their stuff piled on the counter and were hanging out chatting about injustice, booze, injustice, booze and booze. They smelled about as good as the toilets so when they asked for change I left them a buck. It was just like being at a fancy nightclub with bathroom service except much dirtier, smellier, and even a little nauseating. Oh and they didn’t offer mints, gum or cologne. Just the wafting aroma of Eau de Piss and access to the hand dryers that didn’t work.

It was time to board the bus. I took a window seat hoping that from my side I’d be able to see the Grand Canyon. I wondered if my seat could also be used as a floatation device. I was pretty hungry and was hoping since it was a 45 minute drive that they’d serve something more than a bag of peanuts. Alas, it was too dark to see anything out the window and there wasn’t any sort of flight crew at all. I guess you get what you pay for and my pass was free.

I took my bus to my other bus and walked the last few blocks home. I’d give the first day a thumbs up. I listened to tunes, read a little and mostly just cheesed out doing nothing. At this point in my life, being forced to do nothing was fricking awesome. And with any luck, I’ll have derelicts on all my rides.

Fight

2010-12-29T13:01:00.001-07:00

I’m a lover, not a fighter. I punched Ryan Lawson in the face twice during a pickup football game in sixth grade. He went down and the fight was over.

Thirty-some years later and there was no avoiding this fight. I looked at my nemesis straight in his beady blue eyes. He had the smirk of an eight year old as he taunted me. “C’mon big daddy, show me what you’ve got. You are going down anyway.” His friend laughed and egged him on with shouts of “Beat him bad!!” They both wanted blood.

Big daddy? I’ll show the punk. The other guy will be next. My age doesn’t translate to wussiness. I raised my balled up right hand and leaned in toward the jerk. He crouched into a fighting stance. All it took was one more little taunt and we went at it.

Fists were pounding. I took a couple jabs that were hurtful rocks. I was losing the fight. But then I threw a few rocks of my own. He tried to cover up like wrapping paper but I countered with scissoring vengeance. Three times in a row and it was over.

I stood over the little trash talker and celebrated my victory. Nobody beats Daddy in Rock-Paper-Scissors, nobody! Will sulked away and Drew stepped up for a new battle.

One, two, three, four; I declare a Thumb War!

Masterpiece or Monsterpiece

2010-12-21T16:45:00.004-07:00

I bought the boys an art set that comes with a bunch of colored pencils, pastel crayons and some water paint. We were inspired by a neat book called Drawing Lab by Carla Sonheim. I tried to steal Snow White’s copy since I’m a book thief, but she wouldn’t let me so I had to actually pay for my own. Although Snow White did buy me The Book Thief by Markus Zusak because she thinks she is clever. So I did score a free book out of that whole deal after all.

Anyway, the labs in the drawing book are really cool. They give you 52 different projects to help you advance your drawing skills and get you to experiment with a variety of methodologies and mixed-media. It is fun for adults and kids.

One of the first exercises is to draw a person’s face. You are supposed to mostly look at the person (over 60% of the time) and draw with your non-dominant hand. By using the ‘wrong’ hand, it forces you not to worry about clean lines or perceived mistakes. And you are supposed to do it quickly.

I have lots and lots of room to improve with my drawing. So I must say I was quite pleased with how my left-handed sketch of Will came out. I’ve never drawn anything this decent with my right hand.

Of course, until I drew him, I never knew my son looks just like Alfred E. Neuman. But not bad, right?

So then it was Will’s turn to draw me. He is a pretty good drawer for an eight year old so I was excited to see how he would do. I was thinking maybe he’d be a great illustrator for Disney or Pixar. His work would be in all the blockbuster kid movies. I smiled as Will focused on my face. He started drawing and although the head was quite lopsided and potato-ish, I regained confidence when Will announced, “Wow, that is pretty good. It’s just like your head.”

I tried to look even more charming in a less lumpy-head kind of way while Will worked on my ears. They seemed a little more protruding than I remembered, but I had just gotten a haircut, so perhaps the little Picasso was interpreting my Dumbo wings right after all.

I tried to pose in a nicely shaped nogginal way while I made my ears less prominent by relaxing my mind in effort to hear nothing. I figured less work for my ear holes would make my ears less perky. I watched as Will stared intently at my face while his left hand sketched my nose; my big upside down shield of Sir Lancelot nose. Wow, that is some schnoz. Well, I laughed nervously and reminded Will (and myself) that noses are often the hardest thing to draw. I mean, some artists just go with a circle or a dot.

So then I cocked my head to place it in a beautifully smooth and oval position thereby also reducing one side of my eardom to a tiny pinned back flap of goodness. I then discreetly pushed my upper lip down in order to stretch my nose more vertically resulting in a more portrait friendly vertical and skinny look as opposed to the ginormous reverse police badge of a honker Will’s shaky left hand had produced.

Will was on my eyes now. I have been complimented on the merry twinkle in my engaging brown eyes and I figured Will would kind of make up for some of his mistakes, I mean previous work, by nailing my knee wobbling gaze. Therefore I was a little surprised to see the beady googly eyes with the accompanying stress/worry/age lines below them. Well, heh heh, yeah, it was late and I was tired. I think it was around 7pm already that evening! We had been busy all day, um playing and drawing, and doing other really worrisome and stressful activities, like uh, Hide & Seek! I couldn’t find Drew anywhere in my two bedroom condo! It took like one and a half minutes! So maybe my eyes were a little off from the rough day.

I pushed my ears back with my hands and sucked in my nose while I held my head in a very pleasant orb-ish shape and gave Will a sparkling and deep gaze that I tried to maintain as in a staring contest which in turn may have made me twitch a little bit which might explain the crooked grin with intensely gritted teeth.

At this point, Will was laughing and said, “Daddy, I’m sorry I’m making you so sad!” I looked at the picture and noted that I was smiling and clearly happy, but then Will clarified saying he meant sad as in what a nasty and ugly fellow I was. Awwww, the little charmer.

At this point I was having a lot of trouble posing in a way that highlighted my best features, or rather minimized my worst; and was relieved to find out all that was left was my hair and three day old five o’clock shadow. Will’s left hand furiously made single strokes around the perimeter of my goober head and proudly said, “Ta-dah!”

Are you ready for this?

Since I made Will look like the Mad Magazine guy, I guess it’s fitting that he can make me look like Shrek. It’s funny because my college roommates used to call me an ogre. I always thought it was because I slept in a lot. Oh well. At least when Will works for DreamWorks, he can show them how great he is at drawing cartoon ogres. Plus, Shrek ended up with Cameron Diaz. So I got that going for me. Which is nice.

I'm Too Sexy For My Shirt

2010-12-14T14:00:00.002-07:00

I stopped in Einstein’s this morning to get an egg sandwich, diet coke and frosted cookie, also known as the ‘breakfast of champions.’ People seemed really friendly. I saw lots of smiles. And while I was waiting in line to pay, I noticed a hot chick checking me out. Who cares that she looked like a college student, she was totally giving me the once-over with a big grin. I paid the cashier and she was also Miss Smiley Pants. Why were all these people so happy in the morning while I was still trying to wake up?

I sat down and began to eat while I read the paper. Being the large and sloppy consumer I am, a large bagel chunk broke off and rolled along my shirt to the floor. I looked down at my shirt to assess the damage. The good news was there was no egg bagel trail at all. The bad news was that there were a million little black fuzzies stuck all over my white shirt from the right shoulder and then diagonally down across my chest and to my left hip. It looked ridiculous.

I realized what happened right away. I played basketball last night and afterwards put on a black fleece pull-over. I had forgotten that when I wear that particular pullover and then drive; for some reason the seatbelt is like a fleece adhesive. I end up leaving tons of black fuzzies all over the shoulder harness portion of the seatbelt. If I have on my jacket the next time I drive, the fuzzies usually just get pushed off and don’t stick to anything.

But if I don’t have a jacket on and am just wearing a regular cotton shirt, it is like a fuzzy magnet and they end up transfering off the seatbelt and all over me. I’m not a morning guy at all and of course I did not notice that a gazillion black fuzzies made a big stripe on my white shirt. Hence all the smiles and chicks checking me out – laughing at me.

Oh well, I made some people happy today.

Shrinky Dink This

2010-12-06T18:00:00.001-07:00

People ask how we will know if Drew outgrows some of his allergies. Short of taking him to the doctor to get poked and tested for everything, how do you really find out? Well, it helps to have a Daddy that keeps poisoning him by mistake. I didn’t know three chewy sweet-tarts the size of beebees had egg in them, much less enough egg to make my little angel throw up his slushy and a good portion of lunch during a matinee viewing of the movie Tangled.

Tell you what, Tangled is a great movie! Best Disney movie; strike that - best kids movie I’ve seen in ages. I’m man enough to admit it. All the monsters, cars, superheroes and toys movies can take a backseat to Tangled. And I missed fifteen minutes helping my son hover over the lovely movie theater toilet. Now I know there is egg in chewy sweet tarts and a red and blue slushy comes back gray.

Speaking of Shrinky Dinks, we had a Shrinky Dink festival on Saturday. It was a Christmas edition. I have permanent indentations on my right hand. I must grip the scissors too tightly. All those twist and turns create many challenges especially when a minor slip-up causes the plastic to turn into shards of mass destruction. I have cuts by the dents. And this is a kids’ craft? My ass!

The best part of Shrinky Dinking is when it’s over. The second best part of Shrinking Dinking is watching them cook. I put everything with a heartbeat in the first batch so I could make screaming sound effects. The kids loved it. Poor Santa, the angels, a reindeer, even a gingerbread man! They screamed like the wicked witch of the west. They curled up as they fried but then miraculously unfolded again and became flat little Christmas ornaments. See, they weren’t burning – just getting cancer causing tans that made all their body parts shrink. I have to admit, it was pretty cool.

We also did a ton of Christmas drawings and taped them to the walls. My condo looks like an art-house displaying the collective works of the mentally disabled. Little kid art looks like rih-tard art.

In other kid news, I think I finally taught the boys how to blow their noses. They have trouble blowing air out the nose so they just sniffle incessantly to the point where you can imagine sniffling being a more effective interrogation tactic than sleep deprivation. I mean, sniffling can cause sleep deprivation so it’s a torture on top of a torture.

So the boys and I were at a restaurant and the three of us were trying to push scraps of papers across the table by blowing air through our respective noses. It worked so well that the three of us needed to wipe our noses and in Will’s case, it worked so well that a disgusting giant brownish-green booger flew out and landed on the kids’ menu; appropriately next to the offering for chicken nuggets.

Is it clear to you or not clear to you that I have been with my kids pretty much nonstop since Thursday night? Vomit, Disney movie, Shrinky Dinks, rih-tard drawings, boogers. My mostly young and single co-workers asked me how my weekend was. I was about to recap the highlights and then I paused and said, “It was fine.”

Wild Wild West

2010-11-30T15:34:00.004-07:00

I live in the Wild Wild West. Yes, that’s right – two 'wilds' are absolutely necessary. Take this guy, for example.

I drive by him just about every day on the way to work. I’ve been meaning to stop and take his picture but he resides in the barrio on a busy road and I’m super lazy in the morning when I tend to drive by him. And then I got the bright idea of checking The Google and hot diggity dawg, someone from The Denver Eye already snapped his photo. I imagine his name is Slim or Tex but I call him Cowboy. My kids’ stuffed animal naming has rubbed off on me (Blue Dog, Brown Dog, Buggy, Fishy, etc.).

Cowboy guards the entrance to a trailer park. Times are tough and the market is weak for wranglers and cattle drivers. There aren’t even any good posses for Cowboy to join. So he stands there towering over traffic on Federal Boulevard watching stagecoaches zip by at fifty miles per hour. I’m sure he reminisces about the good old days when his primary responsibilities were to play poker at the saloon and drink whiskey.

Upon closer inspection, I noticed Cowboy looks quite a bit like Abraham Lincoln. And he wears an ascot like Fred in Scooby Doo. And he doesn’t carry a gun, just like Andy Griffith. And he wears a yellow shirt that reminds me of the man in the yellow hat from Curious George. And he has his hands awfully close to his crotch like he is checking for change, or about to play pocket pinball, or perhaps he has some sort of cheerleading routine that he is anxious to begin.

Based on that whole combo platter, what in the world does it mean to “cowboy up?” Be an honest gay authoritative figure that has a thing for monkeys and playing with his pom poms? I don’t know man; John Wayne and Clint Eastwood sure played it out differently.

I’m going to give Cowboy the benefit of the doubt. It is the right thing to do. Think positively, be kind and be respectful. Good things will happen. I think Cowboy probably saved many a damsels in distress. I think he was friends with the Indians and I don’t think he ever cheated at cards. I bet he even does minor repairs for free around the trailer park.

Tell you what cowpoke; if I ever need to form a posse, I’m heading over to that trailer park first. Based on this past weekend, it might happen sooner than later. I own the commercial space next door to my office. We are in a mixed use building with sixteen residential lofts upstairs and six commercial spaces on the street level. I signed a cooking school to a lease for the space next door. They have been in build-out stage for a few months and are finally ready to open in the next week or so.

The process has been a bit of nightmare. There are a few people in the HOA that flat out suck the yellow hat man’s balls. I expected some hurdles and the cooking school owner has been awesome to adhere to all HOA bylaws and go above and beyond in terms of trying to accommodate residents and the other commercial owners. But how do you deal with crazy people?

One of the commercial owners wrongly thought Xcel was going to cut the power to our entire building in the middle of his operating hours. He was talking to the General Contractor of the cooking school space and went on a tirade. More than once, he told the GC if he cut power to his business, he would get his shotgun and put it on him. After a few more threats to get his shotgun, he wrote an angry email to the property management company copying me with another fun threat to engage in “all out war.”

I had never heard of the power outage thing and knew it couldn’t be true. Sure enough, it wasn’t. At some point in the future there will be a new transformer put in which will require power to be cut, but that will be scheduled through the property management company with prior approval from the HOA. Look at that. Business being taken care of in a civil respectful manner. In the Wild Wild West.

Cowboy; hopefully I won’t need you to fend off my fellow commercial space owner’s threats to blow away the GC with his shotgun which apparently is a perfectly standard way to go about business here in the Wild Wild West. But please be ready to have Curious George hold down the trailer park fort and tell Barney he can put one bullet in his gun as long as he promises not to shoot anyone other than himself in the foot. And please recruit your fellow Mount Rushmore-ians and the whole gang from Mystery Inc., including Scrappy Doo. And let’s grab Will Ferrell in his SNL cheerleading skit just to make sure our posse is strong.

Giving people the benefit of the doubt, playing nice, being kind and respectful. Or shotgun threats. It's the Wild Wild West baby.