Musings from the Big Pink

To The Salt Mines!

2012-01-19T21:30:00.000-08:00

I approach 2012 not trembling from the weight of Mayan prophesies. Nor do I bow to the inevitability of the slow descent into an American Dark Age brought on by Baby Boomers and their parents living past a hundred, a culture of corporatism, an education system that teaches only how to fill in little oblong bubbles with a number 2 pencil, politicians who give roughly the same amount of a fuck about their constituents as alligators do about toads, and a mainstream media made up mostly of JC Penny underwear models and "pundits" who get their info from rain sticks and the bones of a crow cast upon the ground just so.

Why do I not fear? Why do I not bow? Mostly because I'm filled with hubris and stiff joints. But also because I have procured a job. My first such in 2 plus years. And for this one I had to go on not one, but two interviews. I can't say the name because while PIPA and SOPA seem to have been defeated, there by saving the internet from censorship, a person can still lose their job by blogging about how the lunch room in their building always smells like bad fish.

If you really want to know, the establishment at which I will be gainfully employed is a purveyor of Foods that are not broken. Wink.

It's a part time job. Nights. 2 interviews for the thing. Still waiting for the 2nd background check to be completed. But I was offered the job at a slightly higher rate of pay than they usually offer newbies. And I accepted. And I believe the background check will come out clean. There are a couple of blackouts in my past so I'm not 100% on that, but I'm pretty close.

We decided to do it so that we could dig out of a little of our debt while still being able to provide stuff for the kids like ballet class and gymnastics class and swim classes--a mostly potty trained* Pman started his first swim class two weeks ago--and a pop up camper and an Iphone. For the Children.

We'll see how this goes. The last job I had--driving the zamboni--went ok, but it was less of a commitment. Very close to home, less hours, and my family could come in and hang around sometimes. Sure, they got checked against the fucking boards if they even thought about chasing the puck, but hey, that's family time.

So please, any readers that might be left out there, wish me luck as I ride back out into the fluorescent lit darkness of the work-a-day world. I'm nervous. It's been a while and I can't wear my sweatpants.

HM

*I'm pretty content with "mostly potty trained" at the moment. That's all any of us truly become, after all.

Also, being from the Boston area, I just have to mention: Fahckin Marky-Mark! What the Fahk dude? Just the thought of him trying to whip out some hollywood movie star martial arts moves on trained, desperate, terrorists makes me grin like a loon. "Oh Yah? You wanna fuck with America? Well c'mon you Bahstads. lets see what you got?" And then dead.

Zumbastic

2012-01-03T21:17:00.000-08:00

First of all, the Peanut and The Pumpkin Man were in the playroom at the Y and the pman had to go to the bathroom. He wouldn't go with the woman there. Only mommy or daddy. Or, his sister. Despite her diminutive stature, she lifted him up--they weigh about the same--onto the toilet seat, and then helped him get down and get dressed. I am so proud of both of them. This show of sibling love and independence can only mean one thing: it's a matter of time now until my wife and I can leave them alone long enough for a date night. Tomorrow maybe? Next week? We'll see.

Second, I tried Zumba tonight. Me and My wife. The Latin based dancercise craze that has swept all of America except for the fat parts. I won't say I was great at it, I will only say that if you can picture a short, bewhiskered, uncoordinated Jew, still pudgy with holiday overindulgence, trying his damndest to mimic merengue flavored exercise moves while shvitzing like Brett Ratner at a Pflag meeting well, you're picturing Heaven.

I was the only guy in the entire class. So I was obviously able to keep a low profile. With the fluidity of a stone golem and the audible grunting of a young Jerry Lewis, I embodied the term "smooth."

For her part, my wife did much better that she thinks she did. as is usually the way. We're going to try it again this week. It was fun, if only because we got the chance to say "Zumba." I'm confident going forward. I'm sure if I keep at it, in no time I'll be moving like Fred Astaire. The current version. But still.

HM

Spectacular Spectacular

2011-12-18T21:25:00.000-08:00

We took the kids to the Radio City Music Hall Spectacular starring the World famous Rockettes. I wasn't sure about it at first. That's a lot of sparkly, conformist feminine sexuality. Felt like it might be inappropriate for the kids with the unnecessary revealing holiday themed outfits. "Kids look! Christmas Tits!"

But it was really much tamer than that. There was a lot of sparkly, conformist, femininity about, but the Peanut didn't seem that interested.

The show was pretty enjoyable. It was sort of like MGM musical porn. Like an old fashioned MGM movie musical, but with all the bothersome plot and talking mostly removed. The dancing was very good and the Rockettes were so in sync I asked my wife if she thought they used an electric cattle prod on'em during rehearsal. She replied, "they probably make them digest their food." Love my wife.

The kids' favorite part was a kind of cartoonish snippet of The Nutcracker done with one young ballerina and then a bunch of dancers in cartoon bear costumes. They must have been sweating off whatever genitalia they possessed under those costumes. The Peanut was very taken with the ballet. As some of you night know, we take that stuff pretty seriously around here.

There was this odd scene where everyone in the show dressed up in silver sparkly stuff and walked up and down a lighted glass staircase toward a shimmering computer animated background. We think it was supposed to be like heaven. Which makes sense because everyone knows heaven is a filled with Christmas and white people and sparkles and leggy 1950's sex symbols.

There was a large number of old people at the show. People who remembered what it was like when the Rockettes counted as serious masturbation material. It kind of creeps me out, now that I think about it.

The big finale was the Nativity scene, with real animals. Two sheep, a donkey, and a camel who managed to communicate gravitas. Not what you get from a camel up close. If you've met one you know they exude disdain and stench. Maybe the stench is heavy with gravitas, but that's about it.

There were real animals and a disembodied voice reading bible passages and a manger and Inn and all the wise men and everything. These people were serious about it being a Christmas show. No "happy holidays" here. I got pretty swept up in it. Never felt more gentile. Odd, considering that myself and the baby Jesus were most likely the only two Jews in the entire theatre. Not including the agents.

Anyway, bible passages, animals, wise men, manger, Inn, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, a searingly bright projection of the Star of Wonder, and then the big finish. You can't have a finale at a Rockettes show without showing off those famous moves. This was my favorite part. The last big number: The dancing virgin Marys. Naked legged, pregnant, virgins dancing in perfect time. Robes coming a couple inches short of their knees so we could all get a glimpse of that oh so immaculate thigh. Kicks high, heels pointed toward the Lord. Merry Christmas Everyone!

That last part didn't happen, but I truly wish--prayed even--it had. Would've been the best show ever.

As it was, it was pretty enjoyable. Especially considering the tickets were free through a friend. I'll never forget those smiling, white-toothed, long legged dancing wonders. Made me want to sing Christmas carols while rushing right out to buy a box of Crest white strips. Psshh. Gentiles

HM

Also, I've got a new piece up over at Insert Eyeroll wherein I reveal the dream every modern father has for his daughter.

Polar Excess

2011-12-14T21:00:00.000-08:00

So this friday, at the Peanut's school, everyone gets to show up at school in their PJ's, drink hot chocolate, and watch Polar Express. What a pant load.

This is such a creepy, lousy movie. Cold, soulless, and commercial. Tom Hanks should get kicked right in his Forrest Gumps for making that piece of shit. And the Peanut is about to watch it. Again. See, they do this every year. Show this sneakily cynical mall Christmas suckfest. Which incidentally is the title of my new Christmas album. Look for it on Spotify.

There are so many other Christmas movies I'd rather the Peanut watch. I'd rather she watch Bad Santa than watch this movie. I'd rather she watch Ernest Saves Christmas. Jingle All The Way. Die Hard. The Bad Lieutenant. Which technically isn't a Christmas movie but does include a scene with a nun and and a crucifix that is particularly of the Christmas spirit.

This is her school though. They try to something nice for the kids, but in the worst way possible. They have school spirit days where in they send notes home encouraging the kids to dress in the colors of either the Bruins, Patriots, or Red Sox.

I've got nothing (or at least very little) against sports or sports fandom, but what does that have to do with school spirit? This is why I don't follow those teams as much as I might. The cult-like level of sports indoctrination in this region kind of turns me off to the whole thing. Then again, it might just be because I'm a Celtics fan.

It's a microcosm of our city. This is the kind of place that'll start a revolutionary new recycling program, concurrently purchase a bunch of those solar powered trash compacting trash cans, then place those cans two to a corner, leaving chunks of the city a half mile long with no trash cans. Jesus, I sound fucking old.

It's the kind of place that advertises a big tree lighting ceremony and has carolers that can't sing, runs out of the promised--Promised!-- hot chocolate a twenty minutes in, and is generally run with all the organization and professionalism of a cheap bachelor party strip show.

They mean well. the citizens of my city, but they're morons. Big, well-meaning, puddin'-headed, Lennys cuddling the city to jelly while losing their credibility. Which incidentally is why they should vote for me I as I make my run for city council. That's my campaign slogan. "Big, well-meaning, puddin-headed Lennys cuddling the city to jelly: Vote Homemaker Man! There'll be cake! And puppies! Easy on those puppies." Look for it, Nov. 2012.

HM

P.S. I don't actually think anyone under the age of 25 should see the Bad Lieutenant. I feel the same way about Polar Express. Also, a blurb written about Polar Express by inter-friend and Babble top 50 Dadblogger, TwoBusy, you can find here.

Digital Peter Pan

2011-12-06T05:52:00.000-08:00

Sunday night we went to a play. Peter Pan. But not just any Peter Pan. We went to J.M. Barre's Peter Pan by 360 productions. Clever stage craft, deft and loyal-to-the-original-story-telling, and crazy CGI animation sets. This show . . .

First off, the kids actually sat and watched the whole thing. That's how fantastic it was. Sure, the Pman tried several times to talk to anyone around him at a level that while for him might be conversational, for everyone else was probably "a little to fucking loud."

When the stage cleared: "WHERE'D THEY ALL GO?"

When there was ever any slight lull in the action (of which there were few): "WHERE'S THE CROCODILE? I WANT TO SEE THE CROCODILE!"

And my favorite one during a scene when the pirates were capturing the Lost Boys: "ARE THE PIRATES GONNA EAT THOSE PEOPLE?"

He's got a dark vision, the Pumpkin Man.

In the interest of integrity and whatnot, you should know that 360 productions comped us the tickets as part of a contingent of mommy bloggers. I hope you folks know me well enough by now to know that if I didn't like the show, you'd know it.

The think was held in a huge tent like structure that had been set up in the middle of Boston's City Hall Plaza. Looked like a huge soft serve vanilla icecream or a turret on the Kremlin or as the Peanut put it, "A giant sand castle."

The production was an amazing combination of minimalist setting, clever stagecraft--mad trap doors and hidey holes, y'all--and crazy cgi animation projected onto a 360 degree screen that was about 25 feet above the stage. So that when the characters flew, it seemed as if they were flying over 19th century London. They fought on Hook's ship. There were mermaids performing aerial ballet high over the stage while simultaneously being deep under the computer generated sea.

Both kids loved the show. They sat rapt. When the stars shone overhead and Peter beseeched us to tell TinkerBell we believed, you could see the starlight in the Peanut's eyes. She believed.

The actress who played TinkerBell was terrific. A growling, angry, feisty steam punk TinkerBell with lights in her hair and menace in her heart. A fierce, jealous. loving, chaotic, magical id in a puffy pink skirt and little brown boots.

We also got a special treat. At the end we got to go back stage and meet the puppeteer who controlled Nana the dog and who was part of controlling the great Crocodile puppet. The Crocodile was ten feet long, took two people to drive it, and was made mostly of materials one might find in a closet. Wooden hangar ribs and spine, clothespin teeth etc. Just great. Felt really lucky to be able to go. I did share a magnanimous wink with my wife when our guide, the puppeteer, thanked all of "you mommy bloggers for coming to the show and blogging about it."

Great show. I'l put all the info down at the bottom.

The story of Peter Pan itself, that was a little surprising if by surprising you mean chocker block full of oedipal issues and not so latent sexuality. Basically, every girl in the play was looking to get a serving from Peter's Pan, if you get my drift.

Right away, Wendy wants to kiss him. She asks him if he knows what a kiss is and he replies, "I'll know what a kiss is if you give me one." Pretty fucking slick, right there.

The whole thing pivots on the fact that Wendy wants to "be with him" and Peter sees her more as a mother type. The Indian character Tiger Lilly rewards him for saving her life with a dance so sensual I thought about covering the kids' eyes, and TinkerBell is practically a clitoris. I mean, the whole thing is basically saying "pubery will ruin you." Which, you know, I can't argue with that.

I can sum it up like this: In the final scene--which was the only downer for the Peanut, because Peter cried--Peter comes to Wendy again, but she's grown. She can't go with him anymore. She leaves him in her sleeping daughter's room, and Peter slumps to the floor sobbing. That's when her daughter wakes up and echoes the words her mother had uttered so many years ago. "Boy, why are you crying?" And Peter rises, does the same little dance he did for Wendy, and offers her daughter his hand. That's when my wife leaned over to me and whispered, "I'll tell you, if I were Wendy, I sure as hell wouldn't be leaving him alone with my daughter."

The End

Great show. Whole-heartedly recommend it. There is some light violence and talk of death, but nothing graphic. You really should go and take your little ones, if you have the chance.

The website for the show is here. You can follow them on twitter @PeterPanTheShow.

Truly a terrific experience for the whole family. Thanks again to 360 Productions for sending us.

HM

Also, I've got a new post up over at DadCentric. wherein I beat my breast and rend my flesh over the conundrum of my kids' education. It's light-hearted, like.

The Pumpkin Man Illuminates

2011-12-02T21:05:00.000-08:00

It was just before bedtime. I was carrying the Pumpkin Man, his head on my chest, and we were heading into the book room to do our reading and I said something that ended with, "my son. Maybe it was, "do two Hail Marys and three Our Fathers." Probably not though.

He said back, "You're my son."

I said, "No. You're my son."

He said, "You're my son."

I said "No. I'm you're daddy, you're my son."

He said, "No. You're my son."

I said, "Do you mean son like son and daddy or sun like the sun that shines outside."

He leaned back and looked at me and said, "The sun goes up. The sun goes down. You're my sun."

I can't even express in words how much that makes me the winner. Big winner. Right Here.

3.14 = Fear

2011-11-23T21:22:00.000-08:00

The pie is cooked. If I had exchanged "The" for "Your" there, it would sound kind of noirish. "Your pie is cooked kid, see? You gotta scram and scram fast!"

The pie is cooked and now the waiting begins. And I question myself. Will it be good? Did I use too much sugar? Not enough? More spices, maybe? Why aren't I a better parent? What's this thing on my nipple? Why do we own so many fucking cats? I've had difficulty with pies in the past.

I'm hopeful for this one. Apple, of course. I was hopeful for the last two as well though, and those ended up pie tragedies. There were angry, jonesing, diabetics picketing the house to ask us how we could do such a thing to pie.

But still I hope because as the Torah says, "Every ThanksGiving is a new chance to eat pie." Except, in Hebrew. Which I would lay on you cats here, but our keyboard doesn't have Hebrew keys. Anti-semetic keyboard.

Happy Thanksgiving bloggy people. Gorge well.

HM

My Love Done Gone Away

2011-11-15T22:08:00.000-08:00

A glass of Skinny Girl Sangria by Bethany Frankel. An old Celtics game on tv. Next stop, the cover of Classy Dad magazine.

Can anyone tell me what the above combination signifies?

A. I am relaxing after finishing my set at the local female impersonator club. I do Imogene Coca.

B. I just love thinking about Larry Bird and Bethany Frankel together. It just makes me happy, you know?

C. My wife isn't here tonight.

If you picked A and C, you left out B.

My woman up and gone to St. Louis. She heard that big river calling'. And also a teacher conference type thing. And also she wants to be known as The Queen of BBQ Ribs. She'll be back Friday.

I miss her. So do the kids. There was crying that could only be staunched by a parent's love applied through ice cream. The kids cried too. Then they made me pretend to be her while they pretended to be the ones going to St. Louis. They made sure I/she felt it. "I'm going to St. Louis for fifty days!" exclaimed the Peanut at one point. That doesn't sound fun to me.

The house feels empty without her. I'm a little lonely even with the kids. It's too quiet. And I can't even watch the Wire. That just wouldn't be right. Hence, I'm hanging with the Frankel. "Got cankles? Drink Frankel!" is what her slogan should be.

I'm going to try to keep us all out of the house and busy while My wife is gone. Lots of park trips, a little shopping, library, tax attorney's office, a showing of Paranormal 3, MMA match.

I know it's best for all of us, a little time apart. Time to miss each other. A chance for the kids to see their mother travel and understand it's a common, attainable thing. And it's something she needs to do for work.

Still, all in all, I'd rather be watching the Wire.

Miss you my love.

Catmandu and other Cat Puns

2011-11-10T21:25:00.000-08:00

There are a lot of cats here in my little city. Feral cats. I was going to say that there are cats everywhere, I mean EVERYWHERE, but that kind of hyperbole . . . one could be lead to believe that I as I type this, I have a feral cat in my pants. Which I don't right now.

There are many feral cats here. In the city, I mean. Not my pants. More than the average amount of obviously feral cats for a small city. This winter there was a gang of them trolling near our block. I saw them appear through a crevasse in a giant snowbank, seven of them, in single file. As I watched from my car I opined, "What the fuck is this?" They followed the leader right through a path in the snowbank across the street. Filthy, bedraggled, feral, cats.

Remember the Disney movie "The Aristocats?" These cats would've showed up, beat, murdered, and intimidated the Aristocats out of their own territory, moved in, and set up shop selling drugs. Coke and heroin mostly, with a healthy side business in "the 'Nip."

They are dirty, disheveled, disdainful looking animals, But they're still cats so when I see them a little part pf me still goes "Awwwww. So cute!"

It can't be a positive sign of wellbeing for the city."Roving gangs of murderous drug dealing cats," doesn't exactly say "cosmopolitan" right? You never talk to people who go on and on about how they, "visited Madrid and it was sooo amaaaazing. The Royal Palace was beautiful. And all those feral cats! Breathtaking."

That ends this presentation of, "The Wonders of Everett." Tune in next week for, "What's up with the lack of trashcans?"

-------------------------------

Just want to take a moment here to mention Movember. I participated last year, and I wanted to this year, but I just couldn't come up with a good idea for the plate. Haven't mentioned it before because the guilt. Oy, the guilt.

What I will do in this space is push the hell out of the page all the Dads over at Dadcentric, as well as Dad 2.0, Man Of The House, NYC Dads Group, and Dadlabs... ... have ready for your donations.

Movember. Grow a mustache, fight Cancer.

Wired

2011-11-07T20:52:00.000-08:00

We're finished. Screwed. A friend from my wife's workplace brought over the first season of The Wire Saturday night. We're now 8 shows in. I've moved The Pman's potty into the living room so we don't have to leave the tv and at 2pm in the afternoon in my house you can hear conversations between myself and the kids like, "Well sweetie, they had to kill him because he was a fucking rat. You gotta kill a fucking rat." I think the kids are handling it well. The Pman keeps telling us his name is Omar and the Peanut has us all using beepers.

We've been watching The Wire, and we're fans of Walking Dead. And, after one and a quarter seasons of the latter and 8 episodes of the former, I can safely say I'd much rather face a Zombie apocalypse than live in the projects of Baltimore. You know the difference between a junky and a zombie? Junkies don't crave brains.

Speaking of The Walking Dead, if anyone out there watches it, please explain to me how the farm girl who rode into the forest on a horse and exploded a zombie's melon with a baseball bat could suddenly get all squeamish while watching one get bashed in the face with a crowbar? Does not make sense. Show shit the bed on that one.

Too much tv around here right now, I guess.

HM

Hard Lessons

2011-11-03T21:09:00.000-07:00

Today in my house we learned a lesson. If you don't want to cleant that shit up, don't do that shit.

We have a set of plastic bins from Target. Don't mean to brag. We have a set of colorful plastic bins from Target in which a lot of the kids' smaller toys are stored. Blocks, dolls, fake food and plates, old pay as you go cell phones, poker chips, empty cigarette boxes, bottle caps, 3 penny nails, mercury. You know.

I heard the sound of thousands of tiny plastic pieces hitting a hardwood floor. "Are you dumping out the bins?" I asked rhetorically. "Complete Silence!" They answered. I asked again. "Yeah but, we're using them for some lunatic pre-schooler made-up game reason!"

"OK," I said,. "But if you empty out all the bins, that means you are going to be doing a lot of cleaning up later. Ok?"

"Ok," they replied with confidence.

I drove my point home annoying parent style. I went around the corner, got them looking at me, and repeated myself in a voice that was still at the same volume it had been when I was a room away. With an added threat, "You guys will have to clean it up all yourselves."

"Ok," They answered brusquely. They were a little annoyed now because some loud moron kept moving closer and closer to them, repeating himself as he went. I don't blame them.

"Alright," I answered with all the arrogance of someone who knows he's about to be right and can't wait to get there. Parents really do suck.

And so it happened. I gave them a 15 minute warning. Ten. Five. 2. One and a half minutes. 47 seconds. 31. 19. 11. You can tell I'm getting mad when I slip into prime numbers

They were shocked when I started yelling. Shocked. But to their credit they dug in and tried not to get the job done.

I helped, of course. I put the bins back in the rack. put a few toys in each so they would have an idea of what went there. Had their hands replaced with rakes. To little avail.

When it's time to clean up around here, you have two choices. Clean-up and win first prize. 15 minutes of tv or a treat, maybe both on a good day. Second prize is, your fired. There are no steak knives.

So clean up or go to time-out and if you continue to fuck around, you go to bed.

The P-Man never had a chance. There was a carpet of foot hurting, over-priced, beloved pieces of plastic from one end of the room to the other. Probably thousands of pieces. He tried for a little while. He failed. Time-out, back up from the time-out, five minutes of cleaning, bedtime. He cried for about 5 minutes and then passed out. Couldn't. Handle. The Clean-up.

The Peanut continued. Alone against a sea of junk. I let her go for a bit by herself. Then I pitched in. We finished up and went off to collect her prizes. She was so proud of herself. "I did it all by myself. daddy!"

"Bullshit!" I did not reply. But I could've. I was well within my rights. It was cool how proud of herself she was for cleaning up her own mess. It was a gargantuan task. I just hope that feeling of pride doesn't backfire when she gets older.

"Yeah daddy, I was shitfaced and I hit this guy dead on. But instead of driving away, I stopped, collected the body and took it home. A skil saw and some lime later, and boom, no more body! I cleaned it up all by myself!"

Of course, I'd still be proud of her.

HM

Things That have happened

2011-10-31T21:29:00.000-07:00

"Things that have happened since my last post:

We went apple-picking. I am from the "Aww, why do I have to go and pay extra money to pick apples when I can just get'em at the supermarket grumblegrumblegrousegrouse fun-sucks-I'm-a-cranky-old-fuck-with-no-sense-of-wonder" school of apple picking. Turns out it was really fun. The kids loved it. We ate apples, apple crisp with ice cream, and warm apple cider donuts that were soft and pillowy like good gnocchi. I'm leaving my wife for a bag of'em. She doesn't know.

This, this, this, and this guy all made Babble's top 50 dadbloggers list. I eknow all of them so you know, that pretty much makes me a name dropping douche.

I got an email telling me that I can now "check flawless skin off my wishlist." Which is ridiculous. I checked that off my list years ago. Maybe I'm born with it.*

Halloween happened tonight. The Peanut was a witch. Made me happy. Much better than "princess" or "fairy" or "fairy princess". She looked great. Mommy did her make-up. The Pumpkin Man had a choice between dinosaur and giraffe and he went with giraffe. He kept saying he was a "Scary giraffe," though. "I'ma Scary Giraffe. I'm Gonna Eat yo Leeaaves!"

To prove it, we were in the kitchen and he told me I was a tree and then bit me on the ass. Fucking giraffes.

I went as a pirate. My wife also went as a witch. It was pretty much the only costume she could find that didn't come with the word slutty or sexy attached to it.

We went to a halloween outlet for the costume shopping. In a addition to the slutty outfits there were Priest costumes and Rabbi costumes, which I found vaguely inappropriate. They're clerics, not super heroes or monsters. Now slutty priest, that would've been appropriate.

We saw a good racist one. Slutty Indian. Costume consisted of a headband with a feather in it and an extremely short dress decorated stereotypically Native American style. Did give me a costume idea for next year though: Slutty Auschwitz Survivor.

The world's 7 billionth person was born. I think they won a free shopping spree.

Finally, I am now an official staff writer over at Insert Eyeroll. I'm like the Jimmy Olson of the place, except with coffee breath and more body hair. Right here is my latest.

And that be that. Happy Halloween everyone.

*Maybe it's Maybelline

Oy, My Son's a Chochem

2011-10-18T20:35:00.000-07:00

We own the book pictured above. It has pictures of typical stuff (mom, dad, house, book) and then the word in English and Yiddish. The Pumpkin Man had me read it to him today.

I read the whole thing. The English words and then the Yiddish ones. Cover to cover. We got to the end and I closed it and the Pman looked at me and said, "That's not my favorite book."

Son of a jackal.

Also, "glitshke" means "slide."

Religious Interpretation

2011-10-12T20:41:00.000-07:00

Hi all! How have you been? Good, good. Me, I've been just so busy with those things, and uh, the other stuff. And also a ton of errands. Just a ton.

I did spend Yom Kippur at the Fryberg fair. For those of you unfamiliar with Yom Kippur, it's the Jewish day of atonement. I know. I know. You're thinking, "I thought everyday was the Jewish day of atonement." The difference is, on Yom Kippur. we don't eat. We fast and repent and that we get our names written in the Book of Life for the year. Big deal to Jewish kids, making an appearance in a book.

Nor do we usually attend huge state fairs. But it was the only weekend we could go, the kids love it, my wife loves it, I love it, our family up in Maine loves it, and what the hell was Yaweh thinking scheduling Yom Kippur for the same week as the Fair anyway. Nice omniscience, God. Here's a tip: try a calendar next time.

But, because I'm Jewish, I made a deal with the big Y. I will honor Yom Kippur not by fasting, but by eating every kind of deadly, disgusting, greasy, absolutely delicious morsel of Fair food I could get my mouth on. Here's the list, in chronological order: Falafel (surprisingly good considering we ate it at a Fair. In Maine.),Vegetable Samosas (ditto), Cotton candy, Ice cream, a shingle sized slice of black olive and garlic sicilian pizza, deep fried pickles cut in big wedges with a creamy dipping sauce, deep fried corn-on-the cob, kettle corn, fried dough.

Do you see what I did for you, G_d? What I put in my body? Deep fried pickles. And, O G_d Almighty, they were half-sours! Now write my name in the Book of Life and next to it in the margin put down "cholesterol poisoning."

Fair was great. We saw all kinds prize winning cows and chickens and horses and sheep and rabbits. I'm pretty sure we're going into Angora Rabbit farming. Only takes two rabbits to yield enough wool for a sweater. And the rabbit wool is 7 times as warm as sheep's wool. I read a pamphlet, so I'm pretty much an expert. The name of our farm will be the Bunny Ranch. Is that taken?

Goodnight!

HM

UPDATE!

I forgot the G_damn chicken fingers and french fries.

The Warden

2011-10-01T22:18:00.000-07:00

Saw my friends tonight. One it was his birthday. One, I hadn't seen in years. Both, I don't see enough. We're going to try to remedy that. The Peanut wasn't happy about my going out tonight. She got rather upset. I bargained with her. Told her I'd bring her a surprise in the morning. She cried, " I want Daddy for a surprise!"

Right? I know. Manipulative son of a jackal*. I told her I'd be home before the morning, when it was still dark out. She replied with a pouty face and a determined grimace, "Just go and say hi and come right back."

"Okay," I said. You've gotta hop on a good deal when you get it.

HM

*We use son of a jackal around here because time was I said son of a bitch way too much and the kids picked it up. Ironically, the Peanut said son of a jackal at school last year and she got in trouble for it anyway. Because the Man is always trying to keep you down. That son of a jackal.

The Elusive Beach Jew

2011-09-30T22:23:00.000-07:00

We finished celebrating Rosh Hashanah today. We're a little slow. We went to the beach. Big part of celebrating Jewish Holidays, the beach. Jews have always been big surfers.

As part of the RH tradition, you're supposed to cast bread upon flowing waters, symbolizing the casting away of your sins for the year. I brought a lot of bread. And we cast that shit. And lo, 30 seagulls did swoop in aggressively and they did eat each one of our sins. Yeah, dirty birds. Eat those sins. It was weird; to watch a seagull gluttonously eat the sin of gluttony.

Then we played in the sand and the rocks and tide pools. It was perfect beyond reason. There was literally a lone bagpiper standing on a tall rock near the surf, the mournful tones of the bagpipes carrying over the entire beach and out into the sea. I think he was playing Single Ladies (all the Single Ladies).

It was a good way to close the Rosh Hashanah ceremonies.

I write this again after coming home from a run. friday night running is fun. The sights and sounds included a man and a woman holding hands and crossing the street against the light. I believe the woman was worried about it because I heard the man, who had a blond sort of Hulk Hogan style haircut stuffed partially under his cap say, "I'm in the crosswalk, so if they hit me I have a fahckin' law suit, numbah one."

I didn't get to hear number 2, but I'm assuming it was something like, "And numbah two, my internal organs have been completely useless for the last eleven years." Or maybe, " And numbah two, I'll fahckin blast a car right in the face." Probably it was simply, "And . . . what comes after numbah one?"

There were also two more drunk fans cheering me on at the park, "How many times around is a mile? Is that dog a pitbull? You have feet!"

Then there were kids smoking clove cigarettes, I swear. More kids rapping badly into an eyefone, ("I'm spittin' mad rhymes, I like limes, they used swords in olden times, muthafuckas drop dimes, etc."), one paunchy middle aged dude running around with his big ass dog. Definitely Motley.

HM

100% fool-proof potty training techniques

2011-09-29T20:03:00.000-07:00

The Pumpkin man is Potty trained. Completely and reliably using the potty every (97% of the) time. As long as he is naked. I'll revise that. As long as he is naked from the waist down. Which is a charming look, the tshirt with wangle/testicle accessories. The dad of a childhood friend used to rock that look late at night or very early in the morning and let me tell you, the Pman pulls it off better. Slightly.

He loves being naked. Who doesn't? And his lack of self-consciousness is wonderful until I'm on my hands and knees on the floor cleaning up a mess and I feel his toddler bulk slam into my back. Then he gets good handfuls of my shirt, digs in his heels, and climbs right up to my head. Hello, my son's junk. How are you? Have you ever heard of a little thing called personal space? No? Well, this isn't it.

On the bright side. that view is at least equaled by the sight of my naked boy joining in with his mother and sister as they go through their yoga routine. Wow, that's an eye full. I feel like we should be putting quarters or flowers in or something in there. Maybe some spackle. Or a sparkler.

We do encourage nakedness around here to a degree. We read somewhere that it's good for little ones, so we try not to stifle their natural inclinations. We have a dance where whoever is naked--or almost naked except for their underwear--rubs their own belly and does a little hula swivel and chants "naaaked Baaybeh, naaked baaybeh." But they're definitely getting a little old for that. Or I am.

He's having trouble with telling us when he needs to go while he's wearing a diaper. But obviously I can't take him out naked. Our climate is too cold. Discomfort and shrinkage.

We're training him through a reward system similar to what we used on the Peanut. He gets candy every time he goes. 2 M&Ms for urination, 4 for defecation, 6 for both, 11 if we see him reading a newspaper while he does it.

This works, but it also leads him to stretching one piss into three or four different potty sessions. The devious bastard.

I can't wait for him to be done, but at the same time, it'll signify that we have no more babies. Just little kids.

Which is ok, really. I'm ready for them to be little kids. One more year and they'll be able to fend for themselves. Unlike their father.

HM

Bits and pieces

2011-09-26T20:35:00.000-07:00

And chunks and slime strings. The Pumpkin man was at it again today. We were in the car. On our way home this time. He told us his belly hurt. We made it home with no incident. I dragged him out of the car and carried him into the yard.. I asked him if he needed to throw up. He shook his head no. Then puked. A little at first. A splash on my shoulder, a spritz on my neck. "That wasn't so bad." I thought before he let loose like a broken sewage line at a fashion show.

He got us both real good. In a way, it was nice. He hasn't puked on me like that since he was a baby. Awww. At the same time, you could see how big he's getting because of all the colorful, little, singular bits. Yellows and reds and greens. Like stinky confetti. Surprise!

We had just come home from dinner out. A rarity for us but we were kind of forced to. We were stuck in the city due to an impromptu doctor's visit for the Peanut.

Both kids have colds. Slight fevers and snot rockets. The Peanut began complaining of some slight burning and irritation in her tiny nether regions ("My vagina hurts." She said this flatly. Matter of factly. Which is kind of when you know there's trouble. Isn't this a lovely post?) The Peanut's nether regions are of some concern to us.

Last night, on the advice of our on-call ped, we went to our local er to get a urine sample. The doctors and nurses at our local hospital--which for the purposes of this post we'll call Whidden Memorial Hospital in Everett Ma--have been hand-picked from the finest online universities and mail order degree mills. Long story short, we went in to find out about a u.t.i., and came out with a diagnosis of a yeast infection based solely on a visual inspection that uncovered some residual Desitin we had applied early in the day. That shit stayed on through a bath, by the way. Stuff is amazing. Little known fact, Desitin is what the Eskimos use to waterproof their sea kayaks.

When I told a nurse of my reservations about the diagnosis and resulting prescription, I was told " don't worry about it. It won't hurt her. Go ahead and use it." Which was always my mother's philosophy when it comes to medications, so you know, no judgements.

We went to our regular pediatrician today, and everything is fine and good. So that's good.

I'm typing this after getting back from my run. I'm not exactly sure how far I ran, as the drunk lying on the grass near where I run was taking care of counting the laps for me. It was great on one hand because he was really enthusiastic. "Yaaah! SEVEN!" he bellowed as he held up four fingers. Still, I trusted him until we got near the end and instead of yelling out nine or ten he just sobbed out the lyrics to King of The Road.

Finally (thank god for fucks sake), I have a new post up over at Insert Eyeroll. Please check it out if you have a moment. I 100% promise it has nothing to do with vaginas.

P.S. One more thing. The Peanut started yelling gibberish in this loud, raspy, angry kind of starting out low and ending high voice. She told me that's what I sound like when I yell. Which explains a lot. I should probably try some real words. even better though I asked her what mommy sounds like when she yells. The peanut peanut pitched her voice higher and yelled, "BLAHGERRAHHLWORLGARGLFUCKINGYAARGLE!"
I said, smiling, "How does mommy yell again?" And she replied, "BLERRRGLEGROWLRAAHHERGLEFUCKINGRAWWWR!

I enjoyed telling my wife that this evening.

Alright. Thats it now.

HM

Running is stupid

2011-09-21T20:43:00.000-07:00

I've been running. Not fast. And not too far. And not well. Often by the end there is drool and always by the end there are gross torrents of sweat and legs filled with wet sand and owies, and a breathing sound like an asthmatic pig. But I'm doing it. About half an hour 5 times a week. I'm up to approximately 3 and 1/3 miles.

I should preface this by saying that I hate running. Really, it sucks and it's stupid and hurts my muscles and sometimes I get unpleasant chafing and I rarely did it before now, and also douche bags often do it. But now I do it.

I started out doing it because I had lost some weight, I was feeling good, and I had to get the goddamn dog some exercise. The goddamn dog needs a lot of exercise. The goddamn dog is athletic like Jim Thorpe or Bruce Jenner or Serena Williams or Wolverine.

The best part about running with the goddamn dog is that when I'm running my hardest, when I'm in that last lap and I'm pushing myself near to the point of puking, I can look down at that goddamn dog and see that she's laughing at me. Laughing her dumb ass off. Gallivanting along, panting just to be charitable, big moron doggy smile on her big moron doggy face.

And the more we exercise, the more stamina she gets. The more exercise she needs. I should probably just tie her to the back of the car and go.

But still, I'm proud of myself. For a 38 year old paunchy dude with bad achilles tendons who hates running, 3 1/3 miles (and counting) ain't half bad.

Of course, my eating habits have suffered somewhat. After you've run a few miles, it becomes mighty easy to rationalize that snack of chocolate covered butter pats washed down with a cold cheese smoothie. Mmmm mmm!

Other things . . .
The peanut has started ballet, the next session of swimming lessons (she's an eel now. I think the next level is level The Incredible Mr. Limpet.) and school. We're hoping to over schedule her young so that she can get her nervous breakdown out of the way before middle school.

HM

P.S. Troy Davis's execution is on my brain. Just needed to mention it.

Can you see this?

2011-09-13T15:46:00.000-07:00

Post a first trip to the eye doctor. The whole family is together, having a picnic at the arboretum.

Her: "Daddy. I'm the eye doctor. Look in here and let me check your eyes.

Me: "ok"
I look in to an imaginary eye machine.

Her: "Daddy. Look into the machine."

Me: "I am."

Her: "Ok. You're all set."

Me: "Ok. I like the eye machine. I'm a machine. I---am--a--robot." I press my forehead into hers, peer into her eyes and say in perfect robot monotone," I am a robot eye doctor. You have a slight astigmatism. My calculations are always correct."

Her: She wanders away, comes back, presses her forehead to mine, peers into my eyes and says in perfect robot monotone," I am a robot. Your eyeballs are nipples."

That can not be a good diagnosis. Unfortunately, she's a robot. Her calculations are always correct. Her ppor mommy received the same diagnosis. Must be contagious. Ol' Nipple eyes.

It turns out she does have a slight astigmatism. Glasses not (yet) necessary. An affliction from her mother's side of the family. Apparently, there is a price that comes with being beautiful, and it's mediocre eyesight.

Enter The Dragons

2011-09-07T20:07:00.000-07:00

I'm teaching my kids mixed martial arts. I don't like to talk about it much, but I am proficient in Kung Fu, Karate, Capoeira, and I am a master of the world MMA champion spawning Gracie family method of Jujitsu. She was always able to get George's goat (Old Guy Alert*).

I want the children to become deadly killing machines. Tiny harbingers of doom. Renders of flesh and tendon. Bone splintering, blood splattering, human threshers. Dark ninjas with eyes like black granite and souls like murky ponds. Beings capable of ending lives. Murdering mutha fuckas by the dozens.

Life long denizens of the Octagon. Knowing mercy as a disease and victories as common as breaths. Fists like steel pistons, kicks like sonic booms, fast and strong and smart like angry movie apes.

They will be Destroyers, Eaters of The Earth, The last thing scores of men will ever see.

They will free many souls from the bonds of the flesh.

They will learn how to be all these things. Then, when they're ready, I will lock them out in the backyard and finally let them work out their own bullshit. Kill or be killed, the winner gets the top bunk. Loser gets oblivion. Just stop screeching already.

I'm taking bets. Peanut's favored, but only 3:2. I think the Pman has a good chance of coming out on top. He' s younger and less coordinated, but he's not much smaller and he bites.

Really, they're pretty good kids, and they don't fight that much, but when they do, I just feel like wandering out into traffic. They're like two unreasonable, Machiavellian*, Howler monkeys.

If I had a fire hose at those moments, I'd stick it in my ear.

But those are the breaks I guess. Like I said, mostly, they're pretty good. And very loving. If only they could fight by telepathy. Or in someone else's house.

And, when I said I was proficient in martial arts, by proficient I meant "not proficient."

And it would be cool if the Peanut had crazy ninja skills, if only to see a 3 ft tall, 28.5 lb 4 year old girl with the ability to take out a grown man. If I saw that actually happen, I'd laugh about it the whole time I was in the hospital.

Also, I'd turn them into a deadly assassination team called "Strike Force Fuzzy Bunny."

HM

*Machiavellian refers to this: We'll be in the car and they'll both be yelling for something completely unreasonable at that time. Like, "Daddy, we want to be be home right now!" Or "Daddy! We want ice cream topped with gold leaf ans served in the Ark of the Covenant!"

And I'll say something to the effect of, "That enough! We are done talking about this. The next time someone mentions wanting ice cream with gold leaf served in the Ark of the Covenant, I am pulling over and giving that person a timeout right on the sidewalk!"

Then there will be a beat. Then after that beat you will hear the Pnut whisper, "Pumpkin man, ask daddy for the ice cream with gold leaf served in the ark of the covenant again." And if I don't catch it right away, the poor sucker'll do it. It's a goddamn shame, really.

The Labors of Hercules

2011-09-05T17:59:00.000-07:00

Today we celebrated Labor Day not with a respire but with it's name sake. Labor. Not having more babies. The other kind of labor.

We drove treacherous highways. Rented unwieldy aluminum canoes and paddled strenuously for miles against a fast moving current before dragging said canoe up a steep river bank where we partook of a repast we ourselves had made only hours before. Then we plunged our fragile bodies into the powerful current, swimming against being swept downstream, only to emerge, dry ourselves, have another light gnosh, dip our tootsies in again and then make our way upstream even further before turning and making the long trek back to the rental place.

You must say to yourselves "Oh, now here is when they rested. Surely they could suffer to go no farther. Further? Further . . . farther?

But NO! We made once again for those treacherous roads, traveling them until we came to a crowd of people 100 strong. There we waded into the milling throng, pushed against them as we had pushed against the current that had moments before threatened to sweep us away, and arrived finally at the window. A window where we ordered ice creams so large it took the strength of 10 laborers to lift them to our waiting mouths.

Then we made our way back onto the road of death only to find ourselves--funneled there by forces beyond our control--at the beach. The windswept sand and stark, ocean scrubbed rocks were not enough to turn us from the task at hand. We plunged into water as cold as the Arctic seas, as the sun sank below the horizon. We built sandy monuments to Gods and princesses that will stand forever against waves both tidal and not so tidal.

And that's how we squeezed the last few drops of summer from the bottom of the tube. My wife goes back to work tomorrow and she goes back happy.

Also, I wrote a little humor piece for Insert Eyeroll, that they were kind enough to publish. Please, check it out if you have the time. Happy Labor Day

HM

Keeping Busy

2011-09-02T22:48:00.000-07:00

My wife dropped a 3 foot cement bird bath on her foot yesterday. I don't know why. Maybe she thought her foot was a thirsty bird. Maybe she was going for a gardening disability pension. Either way, it was ineffective and for me, painful. The Pnut came to the kitchen door to tell me "mommy hurt herself," and I think I strained a muscle sprinting out to where she was sitting. Then, after she spit on it, rubbed some dirt on it, shook it off, walked it off, dug deep, employed mind over matter, gritted it out, and put some frozen peas on it, we had to get ready to go out. We had a lunch of tuna--on pita chips for the kids, like little trashy hor d'oeuvres--and then we all piled in to the car to take the Pnut to an eye doctor appointment.

We had to drive into Boston to get there. All the way to the other side of the city. We know a lot of shortcuts through the city. Most of them go through the lousy parts. We took one such short cut. The Pumpkin man started complaining that his "stomache hurt. Can you rub it?" We told him to hold on and we'd rub it when we got to the Doctor's office. He replied by vomiting all over himself, his shoes, his car seat, the car, a passing bicyclist, and four unsuspecting pigeons.

We pulled over to clean him up. On a busy city street. We had no choice. The car was filled with puke. Tuna puke. I offered to do the cleaning, but my wife has such a strong phobia of telephonic bureaucracy that she let me call the doctor's office while she took a screaming, vomit coated Pman on to the sidewalk. So score there.

As she undressed and cleaned him on a busy urban sidewalk, she kept telling him. "It's ok buddy, it's no big deal, it's alright," while people passed by giving them a wide berth and holding their hands palms out and close to their bodies as if to say, "Ah no lady, that smells like a pretty big fucking deal."

We ended up rescheduling the appointment and coming home. With a mostly naked boy in the backseat. Like we took a pukey little joy ride. Like we planned it that way.

"What'd you do today? Oh, yeah, that's nice. Us? We just dropped a 3 foot cement birdbath on my wife's foot and then drove into Boston so our kid could puk all over the place, You know, that's just what we do."

Or it was like . . . the rough parts of Boston are predominantly black. They know how to segregate in Boston. So because of that, it was kind of like we were some kind of weird sect of crazy, passive aggressive racists who decided, "Hey, I know. Let's drive our white baby into the ghetto, have it puke all over the place, then get the fuck back in the car and go! Real white people puke too, like tuna and mayo."

All in all, we laughed about it on the way home. When we got there, the Pman was starving. We gave him toast. Lots of toast.

We still don't know what caused the throwing up. Toddler throw-up is like that sometimes. Mysterious like the outer reachings of the Universe or the appeal of Ke$ha.

HM

Peanut Definitions

2011-08-29T08:31:00.000-07:00

Operator- One who sings opera. Example: "Pumpkin man, I'm an operator. Are you singing opera? You're an operator too!"

We put on a little PBS to get through the rain today. Il Trovatore (which is italian for "Sick Trovatore") was on. I heard the movie version will star Vin Diesel. Shortly after that, one of those freakish, eleven year old girl opera singing phenoms came on. You know, the ones that took all the jobs from honest, hard working castrato.

That's when the Peanut really got interested. After getting over her jealousy ("no, I don't want to watch it!" she lied as as she stared, transfixed and mildly drooly).

For the rest of the evening, opera held sway. From the Pman's faux Italian bellow (Meemaaabeebipmeeemooo!) to the Peanut's high pitched keening. Her's was a lot like the form of Chinese opera known as Dan (Danny, to it's close friends). Only not so tuneful.

Ah well, there's always dance. Which I wrote about here for Dadcentric, not coincidentally.

Hope everyone else on the east coast rode out the hurricane as well as we did.

HM

Bad Juju/Beso.com winner announcement.

2011-08-24T21:05:00.000-07:00

This connects back to this post. To sum up, the Peanut loves to hear stories starring herself as an amazing, magical, beautiful, and modest princess and her sidekick brother, the prince. They always battle a character named Witch Sasha. Witch Sasha's crimes always--al. ways.-- consist of the stealing of a dress, a tiara, or in the Pman's case, a shirt or a pair of pants. Then Sasha is tracked down and usually fooled and defeated by a plan that includes some variation of the "Look. Over there!" gambit. Over and over and over again, ad infinitum. It's enough to make you day dream about driving the car into a nice, soft telephone pole.

One day we were in the car and she asked me for the 3rd or 4th time that hour to tell her about how this bumbling and inveterate kleptomaniac witch stole her goddamn tiara or dress and I couldn't take it anymore. I whined at my daughter. I moaned, "oh Peanut, I'm so tired of that story, all Witch Sasha ever does is steal your dress and your tiara and your tiara and your dress. Can't we talk about something else?

And silence. Nothing. I would've felt a little bad if not for the relief.

Then, "Daddy, can you tell a story about Witch Sash stealing . . .? This time with flying horses!"

It's so relentless that sometimes my mind wanders. Even as I tell the Peanut one story my mind wanders into other stories, dark and horrible, and the story of Witch Sasha changes. She's no longer a low-powered, fashion poor practitioner of weak black magic. She becomes something else.

"And then, Witch Sasha pushes the needle through her skin. She pulls back the plunger and a dark plume of ichor blooms into the syringe to mix with the Witchbane before the plunger forces it back into Sasha's arm. Alight with the fire of her potion the witch attacks the children. Her eyes spin with the red black faces of a thousand tormented souls. Her breath reeks of carrion. She drives the the Prince and Princess in to the depths of the twisted, angry trees that make up Witch forest. Wolves howl and children in the neighboring village awake with tears on their cheeks."

But wait. Don't forget the flying horses. "Just as Witch Sasha is about to deliver the blow that will spell the end of the House Of Peanut, a sound like the flight of a fallen angel fills the air. The flying horses return. Foam drips from their muzzles, sweat coats their silver skin, their eyes wide and round and white in the night, their lips peeled back to show teeth curved and sharp like scimitars. They whinny a high pitched banshee scream and steam billows into the cold. Their dingy wings beat the air, buffeting the witch with the smell of heat and rotten paper and shit. Horse b.o. Their hooves tear clods from the sky. And then from the Witch herself. They land on her bloodied body and begin to feed."

Now get this: I'm thinking things like this, not quite but sort of. Thinking but absolutely not saying. Instead, I drone on in a distracted monotone"and while Princess Peanut flew in front of Sasha to distract her, Prince Pman flew in from behind and grabbed the shirt."

Then the Peanut peeps up from the back seat with this contribution. "And then Pumpkin man hits the witch in the head with a rock, and she was bleeding."

Is that my fault? Was there some kind of parent child mind meld, energy exchange happening? I don't know, but it's at least a creepy coincidence.

In the end I said, "Ohhkayee." Then I said that Prince Pumpkin was sad for hurting the witch and got off his horse and put medicine and bandaids on her head til she felt better and said, I'm so so sorry Witch Sasha, it was bad to hurt you. Please keep the shirt and I hope you can forgive me. And then they spent the day with her and they became friends with Witch Sasha.

A friendship that took a turn the next day when she stole the Pman's pants. Ungrateful Witch.

*************************

And the winner of the Beso gift card, chosen at random, is Bobbi. Bobbi please shoot me an email and I will put you in touch with the person who will fix you up with the gift card. Congrats and thanks for playing!

Notes From Maine and NH

2011-08-19T21:27:00.000-07:00

We spent about two and a half weeks in those locals this summer. As the title says, these are just some notes:

Today we walked around a pond where beavers broke the water with loud warning waps of their tails on the surface. A Great Blue Heron swayed with the reeds and Mountains watched, their tops rounded with time and experience like old men's bellies.

Yellow and purple wildflowers grow reckless. My kids do the same. Rocks are picked up and dropped and traded for new ones and traded again for flowers.

They put on the most amazing magic show. A show where one magician saws herself in half, and the other transforms into a shark, a monster, an orange fish.

We applaud wildly. Appropriately.
*********************************
Backwater homes in Vacationland. Grey shacks with window glass made of plywood and rusted tin roofs look out over rolling meadows of yellow wildflowers. Where whole families of broken people who eat squirrels hunted in the trees and bread trapped at the food pantry make room for smug summer citizens with straight teeth and chubby kids. Families who manage even to swim with entitlement.

*****************************************

She looks so strong in the water. Tiny, wispy body transformed. it suddenly has gravity, authority, lean muscle, confidence. She's a water sprite. Fast and strong. Ethereal and beautiful.

The sky is the blue of dreams and a cloud low and gray like smoke sinks behind the hills, chasing the sun.

******************************

They went skinny dipping this morning. It wasn't planned. We couldn't keep them out of the water and at that point, the clothes were just in the way. I went in fully clothed. The sky was light blue scraped over indigo. Joy Joy Joy.

The water felt like summer and the sky smiled down.

We talk about moving here a lot.

I don't know that I could take this much happiness.

*******************************************

I know this is random and discombobulated and a departure, but this is what I got tonight. You want coherent and intelligent, go read the New Yorker.

HM

You Lucky bastard (s)

2011-08-16T19:00:00.000-07:00

When the good (purely conjecture) people (assumption) at Beso.com approached me with a giveaway I said "Beso, eh? Spanish for Bassoon. I'm in." When I was informed that Beso was not Spanish for bassoon--or my second guess: peso.-- but rather that it meant kiss, I waggled my eyebrows suggestively and then checked with my wife. She rolled her eyes hard enough to cause a class 3 multi-vortex tornado.

Turns out Beso.com is not a kissing website either. So, after dropping the lawsuit I had filed for false advertising,I went and checked out the website. Place has mad good deals on fashionable clothing. I (again) assume. Last time I bought fashionable clothing for myself, "fashionable" meant "flannel." What I do know a little about though, is what looks good on babies. A subject that Beso has covered in spades. Tons of cute stuff for reasonable prices. Tons of cute stuff for reasonable prices that you can buy with the 25$ gift card to the store of your choice that you can win right here. Well, down there in the comments and over there on the website, really. For disclosure purposes, yours truly will be receiving a 25$ gift card for doing this giveaway on the ol blogarooni. I'm gonna spend it all on Swedish fish. Or baby pajamas.

Here is what you have to do to win:

1. Create a Beso account, if you haven't already {takes 3 seconds}

2. Enter the Beso “How many cute things can $1000 buy?” sweepstakes.

3. Then leave me a comment below with your Beso username

I must say, it took me nearly 6 seconds to create an account, but I type slowly. And after perusing (Spanish for using) the site, the answer to question #2 could very well be "a shit ton."

Beso informed me I could require of youse (youse guys? I never get that right. Youse' all, maybe?) any extra entry tactic that I choose. I will take it on the honor the system (no proof necessary. I believe in youse.) that those of you that enter will for a period of one (1) week day, wear a reasonable facsimile of my paper plate mug over your own face as you go about your daily business. I know I can trust youses. es.

Good luck and God bless the United Plates of America.

HM

Hello? Hi.

2011-08-10T23:08:00.000-07:00

So where were we? Last we spoke, we had taken the kids to Storyland. It was a fantastic time. The Peanut rode every ride. She loved the scary ones. They had a really decent little one ring circus. The re-creations of the fairy tales were great and the lines were never too bad. We got there two hours before closing time the first day, which was perfect because if you arrive to the park late in the day they give you tickets to get back in the next day. So you can check a couple rides out and case the joint for tomorrow. We spent a total of ten hours in the park and saw about 97 % of it. All in all, except for the racism, it was really an excellent time.

Storyland is a little racist. A smidge of racsim. A shmear if you will. A splash, a dollop, a pinch, a half-teaspoon of good ol' all -American caricature style racism.

Case in point, they had a log flume type ride. It was asian themed. Going with an asian theme for a log flume ride when you're located in the heart of the White Mountains is in itself a little suspect. The ride was entitled Bamboo Shoots (get it?) and the "bamboo" shaped car was adorned with the head of a screaming panda on the front. The cheesy chinese restaurant music, the giant chopsticks, etc. etc. All things that would've been at least mildly offensive to a family that was not quite as focused on the fun.

Then we went on the Pirate ship. That took us out on the water and pass a land entitled "African Safari." Picture little plaster renderings of "African Children." Renderings that more than likely were old lawn jockeys outfitted with dreadlocks and colorful but worn clothing. They played on nets, among trees, and outside a broken down jungle shack.

Good times.

The kids really did love it. And the mountains were amazing. If we ever get it together to bug out of the rat race, that may be where we're headed.

We were only home for a short time before we left for another week in Maine on Lake Sebago with the amazing, the wonderful, the lovely and loving Aunties. We swam almost every day, hiked through the forest primeval, and ate copious amounts of corn on the cob and frozen custard. Life is good.

I would've posted before we left for that trip, but there may or may not have been an accident involving the computer and some vicious gangbangers. And a rioting London teenager. Whatever happened to the computer, it had absolutely nothing to do with my spilling a cup of hot tea all over the keyboard. Why would I do that?

Anyway, how are things with you?

Salad Days

2011-07-23T13:13:00.000-07:00

Vines Entwine the World

Scented leaves like soft green hands
stroke my legs, my stomache, my face
Dirt and lemon, greens and sweet
herbed Gardens where sage does
not have to wait for thyme

Lo, how the fruit of long waits
and slow suns grows ripe and plump on
careful waters during carefree days

Life is breathed into the Earth and the Earth
breathes life back into me and it sustains me.

In other words, look at this big fucking zucchini!

We grew that shit. In our garden. Organically.*

Here are some pics for perspective:


Next to an actual tomato


Compared to an actual ear of corn**

Won't fit in this Frying pan.


Next to the cat.

And a couple of before and afters of the vegetable garden.


Ayuh. Might be a haad season heah.

And Demeter doth smile upon us and provide us with stuffed zucchini boats.

We especially did something right with this box.


This one probably got splashed with the lion's share of the virgin blood.

Along with the zucchini and summer squash, we've done multiple pea harvests, the herbs have been giving all summer, and it looks like the broccoli is getting close. The kids have been eating everything as fast as we can harvest it. It is so cool (and such a relief) to be able to type the word harvest without having to add the words "illegal" and "organs" next to it.

Bonus Pic:

The PMan escapes back into the forest from whence he came.

That's it for now. Tomorrow, we're off for Storyland. It's our first trip there. It's a small but vital city located halfway between Dictionopolis and Digitopolis. Everyone is hella excited. And by hella I mean wicked.

*As far as we know. No telling what was added from the local environment. These gardens could be purely the result of a mix of diesel fuel and the smoke from a tire fire.

**Not an actual ear of corn.

HM

Where I'm From

2011-07-17T13:26:00.000-07:00

I am from a 3ft tall Godzilla with a fist that shoots and a tongue painted in fire. I am from losing that fist early on. I am from A Chorus Line and West Side Story. I am from jazz clubs and dinner theaters. I am from Dungeons and Dragons, Buddy Rich Drumsticks, the flicker of a television screen, and the back of another friend's truck.

I am from a Beverly Hills flop house where old ladies who may once have been actresses reinvent themselves as grand dames with grand gestures and grand accents I just now realize were fake. I am from a store around the corner that sold three scoops of Mint Chocolate chip for 75 cents. I am from rocky New England beaches below old wooden bridges where the game of chance was to dare to stick your finger into the snapping, clattering, cream colored undulations of the shell of an angry scallop.

I am from Ireland and Wales. I am from Mic Mac Indians, and French Canadians, and all manner of Taciturn stony faced New England Stock.

I am from Moses and Elie Wiesel. I am from 6000 years of culture, pride, struggle, and humor. I am from the funniest People on the planet.

I am from opportunities lost and found luck. I am from smoking too soon and drinking too late. I am from 30 towns and 3 states. I am from bad decisions and murky intentions. I am from fingers on strings and lines in a mirror.

I am from just arriving and always wanting to go home. I am from the new guy, the first time, and learning my away around. I am from never quite figuring it out.

I am from too loud, no self-control, and inappropriate laughter. I am from trouble. I am from fun. I am from making you squirt the liquid of your choice out of your nose.

I am from A Wrinkle in Time. I am from Miles Davis, The Beatles, Stevie Wonder and Dizzy Gillespie. I am from Bugs Bunny and Eddie Murphy. Judy Blume and JRR Tolkien. I am from Fighting For Your Right to Party.

I am from rhythm's tattoo. I am from crashing cymbals, the sizzling pop of the snare, and the thump of hands on a conga.

I am from a twisting turning maelstrom of memories half glimpsed and partially guessed at. I am from my heart in the city and my soul in the country. I am from new friends and old patterns.

I am from change is good. I am from pillars of happiness built upon the bottomless green eyes of a woman who has yet to realize her mistake. I am from tiny hands and belly laughs and the meaning of life. I am from normal sucks.

This is a meme I first discovered over at SeattleDad's place and then again at Two Busy's. Each of them puts my attempt to shame, but it was still fun. There is a template for it. Much like my assignments in school, I mostly ignored it.

Face-On! And off. And On!

2011-07-01T20:53:00.000-07:00

Face-Off. A movie from the nineties starring John Travolta and Nick Cage. Long story short, they have a medical procedure that allows them to switch faces. Then they fight each other. As well as starring Travolta and Cage, this flick was pretty much the end of John Woo's U.S. invasion.

It was dumb. Impossible. Just plain bad sci-fi. Until recently.

Recently at Brigham and Women's hospital, right down the street from here, a man who had lost his face in an accident--that's right, his face-- was given an entire new face. The first full face transplant ** in history. Said the man, "I just can't wait to kiss my [3 year old] daughter."

A great story and a great reason to go through a difficult operation.

More importantly, a great step forward for me. Why, when the technology exists, should my wife and kids be forced to continue kissing this odd mug:

Endearing in an "awww, he tries so hard" kind of way.

They shouldn't. I'm not being vain or selfish here. I'm just using common sense. We have the technology. We can make me more handsome, more kissable.

And so we did. It took a lot of cajoling on my part. I had to promise the surgeon a shout out on the blog (Thanks Doc Pomahac!) but you are about to feast your eyes on the first ever cosmetic full face transplant recipient.

Behold, the New Homemaker Man:

If you look into my eyes, you can still see it's me. Right . . . there!

The original operation took 15 hours and 30 medical professionals. But with my easily manipulated features, in and out in 45 minutes. Glue had to dry.

Here's a sideways view:

Ciao, baby.

Even better, as the technology improves, so do my options.

For days when I'm feeling weird:

Notice the little arrows. That's where they put in his crazy.

For sunny days:

All I can see in these things are my own eyes

For days when I don't feel like being found until I'm almost dead:

Our favorite kid's game for years: Where's Whitey? Where's Whitey? Where is he?
Whoops! There he is!

So there it is everyone. God Bless Science.

That concludes our Independence Weekend programming. Have a great holiday and remember, if you happen to hold that Roman candle to close to your face this year, no biggee!

*Not including that scene from Silence Of The Lambs when Hopkins scrapes off that dude's face and wears it as a disguise. Which doesn't count because the face wasn't actually attached. According to Doc Pomahac.

*Creepy note: After completing the surgery succesfully, the hospital was awarded a grant of 3.4 million dollars by the Dept. of Defense in order to perform 5 more transplants. They claimed it was because they wanted better techniques to help injured soldiers, but you know someone high up caught Face-Off on cable and was like, "A-Ha! The perfect spies!" There's probably 5 soldiers running around right now looking vaguely like Al-Zawahiri. Which could've been accomplished by simply growing a beard and tanning.

Author's even creepier Note: Had these pics prepared for a week. The kids would get into them and then you could here me wandering around the house wailing, "Where's my Brad Pitt face? WHERE'S MY BRAD PITT FAAACE?!"

HM

Somebody Grease My Pecs

2011-06-25T16:39:00.000-07:00

We joined the Young Men's Christian Association this week. I like to type it out like that. Sounds like we joined a cult.

My wife and I have both lost a lot of weight recently. I myself have lost 27 pounds. I know. Thank you. It's just like a story about a heroic fireman except for the part where there is no fireman or heroism. We joined because my wife wants to tone up and I'm starting to plateau (i.e. eat secret pizza). The workout itself was pretty routine. I did lots of squatting and sweating and jerking and grunting and then I left the locker room and went to workout.

The exciting news is that the Peanut is taking her first swim class. There she is with her bubble, swim noodle, spastic dog paddle, and teacher right by her side and all I can hear in my head is, "Holy shit, she's swimming! She's is swimming! Call Michael Phelps and get me a dime bag! We're going to the fucking Olympics!"

Or words to that effect.

I also took my first swimming lesson. Adult intermediate, thank you very much. I'm ok in the water, but I have the swimming stroke of an injured bird. That's not quite right. An injured Jew. Better.

My wife is a very strong swimmer, the kids are probably going to be as well, and I don't want to be the one left behind guarding the shoes while they swim away to go play King of The Raft. Too much pain, man. Too much pain.

The other exciting thing about the Y is that they provide up to 2 hrs of free baby sitting while you workout. This past week has seen me become remarkably committed to excercising. It's a first for all of us, this leaving kids with strangers thing. I was nervous. Turns out I kind of like it. I've heard some extra "I miss you/love you Daddies" the last few days and I didn't even have to withhold food.

It's all been such a positive experience (Even the yoga class, which was surprisingly stereotypically yoga odd. At one point the instructor actually told us to "breathe out of the left side of your neck." So, I'm pretty excited to get flexible enough to grow gills. Right now I've got the flexibility of an obsessive compulsive accountant. Experiencing rigor mortis. In a freezer.) it's made me very grateful to the Young Men's Christian Association. Eternally grateful. Indebted. You might even say, I've seen the light. So thank you, Young Christian Men's Assoc. Thank you for letting this old Jewish Man inside you.

Wait . . .

HM

Poetry Effluviatic

2011-06-18T22:16:00.000-07:00

We're in the car the other day and I'm listening to the kids in the back. They are doing copious amounts of wet, sloppy, phlegmy raspberries into thin air. Over and over again. Little spit bombs exploding all over the backseat of the car. Then I hear the Peanut say "Pumpkin Man. Catch them! Catch them !"

I manage a glance over my shoulder, something I'm loathe to do as I really don't like to get involved back there. I hazard a glance and I see fine, fine sprays of saliva in the air, the kids hands clapping madly through it, trying to make a catch. Awesome.

"What are you doing?" I accuse.

And the Peanut says, "Daddy, we're catching stars!" I can't argue with that.

Also, this is why I'm an atheist. Childhood turns spit into stars, and I'm supposed to be impressed by some half-assed water into wine trick? Please.

-------------------

For Father's day, my wife helped the kids bake me those hand prints and foot prints that you can harden in the oven and then paint. They tasted awful. I ate three of them. Because when my kids bake me something, I eat it, even when it's not really edible. Because that is the kind of father I am.

This is why I deserve a Father's Day. I know it's bullshit. I know it's a holiday invented by an unholy triumvirate of Hallmark, Faberge, and super intelligent werewolves to get us all to buy cards and Brut. It's well known that werewolves love the taste of Brut. It's science.

I don't even need a card or much of a gift, really. I'm not asking for anything fancy. Like that ad for a Sprint Phone where the dad buys himself one on behalf of his baby daughter because he rationalizes that she'd want him to have it. Disgusting. And wasteful. The last thing I need is a new smartphone so I can ignore my kids. I can ignore my kids just fine with this laptop right here. Or a book. Or even just by curling up on the couch in the fetal position and closing my eyes until they go away.

My point being, I am an excellent dad. I'v earned a day in celebration of my fatherhood. As contrived as it might be. I just want to go out for breakfast, that's all. Just go out for breakfast, come home, see them clean the house maybe. That's all. Breakfast, a clean house, and a pedicure. And a sixer of Newcastle. They can use the fake id's--that I got them for their birthdays, by the way--to buy it.

Because whether it's a contrived holiday or not (and by the way, what constitutes a contrived holiday? Christmas and Easter are bizarre soups of pagan and christian traditions, Halloween is from Celtic pagans, Presidents' day falls on no day belonging to any President, and Groundhog day . . . actually, that one is pretty legit) we dads deserve a day.

A day to celebrate those of us who are up to our elbows in the shit, literal or otherwise, everyday.

Deadbeat Dad's day can be in August. Then when they show up to get their baked footprints, we nab'em!

Happy Fathers Day

Homemaker Man

Yah so, There's this.

2011-06-14T20:28:00.001-07:00

Inertia. Inertia is defined as "the lack or absence of nertia." According to the Oxford to English dictionary. Without which I totally would've flunked my Freshman Oxford class.

Lack of nertia is one good reason I've been a bad bad blogger. I've also had limited computer access. Also there was a bird attack and I'm hungry.

We were in Maine over the weekend. It was quite lovely despite the rain. We stayed with the Aunties and had a wonderful time and we were informed by the Peanut that she likes them "the best" this weekend. So now the Peanut lives is Maine. We'll all miss her very much. Except for the Pman because he got her much larger bedroom.

Speaking of my daughter . . . I've mentioned more than once that she's tiny and she's had some eating issues. She eats much better these days especially at dinner. For those with problem eaters we can finally dispense some advice. 1st: Bribery. We usually use a small Entermann's chocolate covered donut. She gets it if she clears her plate. Tiny kid would eat a 24 oz steak stuffed in an angry warthog for one of those things.

The other method is a game of shark or misdirection. The Peanut will have who(m)ever is sitting next to her hold the fork as if they're the one eating the meal. Then she'll tell us "You watch the news/baskeball/tv/look over there. Then when we look away, she takes the bite and we are to act as if we have no idea what happened to the food. Or we say she's a shark and she's eating somebody we know. Creepy, but effective.

I like these methods. They're fun. However, I worry about what will happen when she gets older. I picture her in college, her college roommate eating a steaming bowl of ramen.

Peanut: Hey. You watch the news

Roommate: What? No.

Peanut: You watch the tv

Roommate: I am watching the t--What the fuck are you doing? Don't eat my food!

Peanut: I'm a shark!

Heh. College.

And you are pretty much all caught up.

As far as being a bad blogger goes, mostly I'm sorry I haven't been commenting on all the blogs I follow. I am reading most of you, I'm just doing it on the Nook, which is not the most writing friendly device.

I will stay up late tomorrow and try to catch up. All right. That's it. I'm going to bed.

PS. Most of you know, my wife's a teacher, so go Wisconsin workers, Scott Walker is a dinkleberry.

Of The Earth

2011-05-18T20:21:00.000-07:00

This is the Earth.

A billion years of death and life and death again.

Under my fingernails and in the creases of my hands.

My family works the Earth.

As did our Ancestors.

Ancestors who toiled in The Earth and were rewarded.

Ancestors who worked The Earth and had their efforts rebuffed. Rebuked firmly by barren land.

Ancestors long entombed in that very same capricious Earth.

We take now from The Earth our bounty.

A bounty that feeds us body and soul.

As we, in the end, will feed the Earth's insatiable hunger.

The Earth should have it's cholesterol checked.

Fat bastard. Fatty.

Hey Earth, what's your pants size, Jupiter? Earth's so fat it has to borrow belts from Saturn.

So uh yeah, did I mention we built vegetable garden boxes? Was that a little too dramatic? It's because it's our first vegetable garden, and I'm excited. You can tell I'm when I'm excited because everything comes out sounding like a poetry slam (makes sex-time fun). I call it my Def Homemaker Man Def Poetry Def Jam Slam

But yeah, a little melodramatic. Certainly, snipping some thyme for my roast chicken does not a bounty make. It does make good roast chicken, however.

We built 3 4X4 garden boxes giving us 48 sq. ft of gardening space. We planted, lessee, yuh gotcher squarsh, tomaters, letturce, spinach, onions, cabbage, peas, celery, cauliflower, broccoli, bell peppers, chili peppers, and some other stuff I'm sure I'm forgetting. Rice maybe? Durian fruit? And also various herbs in little pots.

It was pretty enjoyable to do. The third box was a bit of a hassle considering we decided to do it last minute and ended up finishing it around 11 oclock at night. Lotta things go on in my city around 11 oclock at night. Farming, not usually one of them.

The kids really love it. They love the dirt and the idea of the growing veggies and the ownership of it all. It's very exciting and I'm really looking forward to pulling that first ripe tomato off the vine, taking a juicy, messy bite, handing it to the P-Man, and then watching as he whips it at his sister.

"We made that possible together. As a family." I'll say as I spread my arms and rest my hands lightly on my children's backs. "Now go to time-out."

We're poor but proud New England dirt farmers now. I can feel the dour wisdom flooding my veins as I write.

Wait, nope. That's just the cholesterol.

So that's one of the reasons I've been a bad blogger lately. We've been busy with some other things and I've also had limited computer access. Will try harder. Will probably fail. Will not mind that much because will be too busy fending off the local wildlife. Shoo feral kitty. Shoo!

Garden pics:

Lo, We made multiple trips to Home Depot, and Mother Earth saw that is was good.
Or you know, pretty decent.

Remember what I said about critters? Behold, physical evidence of . . . El Chupacabra!
Or a kitty.

Bipedalism: Is it a choice, or are we just born that way?

2011-05-01T16:12:00.000-07:00

I once destroyed an ambulance. A 1980 Ford Econoline. I was driving it. Rear ended the shit out of the people in front of me. Ruined the front end and bent the axles. We bought it when we moved one time, my mom and I. I was 16 when I bought it and 17 when I wrecked it. It was the first car I ever owned. I wish I had escalated my car purchases since then. I'd be driving an aircraft carrier by now.

The ambulance still had a lot of the original markings and working lights. Which was totally not a problem for a 17 year old boy with a history of impulse control problems. And car accidents.

We bought it because we were suddenly moving again (which is how we always moved. Suddenly and again.) and we needed something big enough to fit everything into it. Bought it with my money. Destroyed it with my driving skills.

One night, before I killed it for good, I was leaving the restaurant where I was bussing tables at the time and backed in to a Lincoln Continental. Just wiped the smug smile of its silver grill right the fuck off its face. Fluids leaking and spraying from wherever fluids leak and spray. I went inside, told my boss and found the owner at the bar. Short, bald, paunchy, cigar smoking dude wearing a brown leather jacket. A guy like that drove a Lincoln. Crazy, right? I know.

I was freaked. He was pissed. His car was 7 months old.

The kid I had been giving a ride to that night suddenly decided to find another way home which struck me as strange because the damage to the ambulance was minimal. A couple of scratches. Maybe a small dent. The front of the Lincoln was bashed in good. I mean, I think I pretty much demonstrated the fact that no matter what we hit in that ambulance, we were going to be safe. Dude couldn't take it. Shit was too real I guess, man. Too real.

It kind of hurt my feelings, if you want to know the truth. Felt like it was a direct criticism of my driving ability. What's one little accident in an almost completely empty parking lot where I probably totaled the other car between friends? Work acquaintances really, but still. I was going to let him work the lights and everything.

The ambulance's death crash came about 2 months later. Afterwards, a friend of my mother's was nice enough to give me rides for a while, but that couldn't last. I lived ten miles from work (now cooking at a seafood joint), and even further from her house. She was doing it out of the kindness of her heart and for a little gas money.

I had to figure something else out. So, I decided to buy a bike. I picked a nice, little, silver Raleigh ten speed for about 400 bucks.

Rode that thing 20 miles almost every day for 7 months. Along route 6 just outside of Cape Cod. Lost some weight. Sometimes one of the guys who worked there would throw the bike in the back of his pick-up and drive me about halfway home. Rode in bad weather and through popped tires. Went head first off the thing once and scraped the front of my helmet along the asphalt for a good five feet. Big fan of helmets.

When I moved to Boston, I eventually lost touch with my bike. Ended up selling it for pretty cheap. Haven't ridden a bike for more than 30 seconds or so in at least 15 years. That is, until this past week.

Witness the new rig:

Pretty sweet, right? Big. Pimpin'. I'm going to get the trailer windows heavily tinted and add a purple light to the undercarriage.

The kids love it and I had completely forgotten how much fun bicycling is. Makes me feel like a ten year old girl again. I can't wait to get my pastel streamers for the handle bars.

While my new ride is mad tight, y'all need to feast your peepers on this:

This one is my wife's new whip. So slick. I am filled with admiration and jealousy. Thing is the coolest bike on the block.

This summer is gonna be off da chain.

Pedaling like mad,

I Take On a Retail Giant.

2011-04-19T22:10:00.000-07:00

You ever been on the wrong end of retail arrogance?

We're at Target yesterday. We made a return. I know. That's not even the exciting part. We got store credit. Still, not the exciting part.

Kid takes my id, scans it, prints out a receipt, hands me my id, which I carefully replace, hands me a receipt, says it's a gift card return, then wanders away. I ask if I'm done, he says yes.

We make our way through the store, grab the shit we came for-- gardening gloves and a graphic T that reads "No Problemo!"-- plus a couple extra things (potato ricer, chicken scented candle) and go to pay. I hand the cashier the return receipt, and he says I need a gift card. I tell him that this was what I was given. He can't take it.

We pay for our things and go back to the return counter. I give a young woman the receipt. She stops what I assume to be a manager on his way in to the back room. I can only assume he was the manager because he was not wearing any identifiable Target clothing ( with the exception of a t-shirt that read "No Problemo!")

He disappears. Comes back out after about 8 minutes and mumbles, without even really stopping to look at me "I've reviewed the tapes, and you received the gift card." Turns and walks back toward the back room without pausing. I'm standing there with the Pman on my shoulders, we've all waited in line, and this guy--this . . . accusatory guy-- can't even be polite? Never mind the fact that I didn't receive a gift card. Fuck that.

I step out and project, "What? I did not receive a gift card."

He turns wearily, his whole body a sigh that says "another day, another douche" and repeats the eloquent speech from a minute before.

"That's bullshit." I boom. The other customers are getting a show. Good. I want witnesses.
"I didn't get a gift card. Look at the tapes again."

"Sir," he says sir like it's a synonym for moron, "I reviewed the tapes, I saw you get a card; you can't get another one."

At this point I pull out my wallet and slap it on the counter. "Check my wallet." I snap. " Let me see the tapes!" I thunder.

He makes no move to pick-up my wallet. I grab it and start for the back room. The P-man still astride my shoulders, which are now straight with righteousness.

"You can't see the tapes sir. Those tapes can be seen by my eyes only. No one else can view them." He says like he's been saving the line for just this kind of moment. Mother Fucker.

"I did not get the gift card." I spit. My voice going up an octave in to the familiar "I've been wronged" range.

As I say this I lift the wallet up so the crowd can get a good look. I am going to show this asshole and we are going to get our $9.25(It's the principle of the thing, ok?)

Like a magician with a particularly clever card trick, I slide my id from my wallet and the gift card is right fucking behind it.

And the crowd gets a good look.

"Whoops sorry there it is." The words tumble brightly from my mouth like a mentally deficient stream over douche' baggy pebbles. I give the palms up, wide-eyed, my bad shrug that is the international symbol for "let's get the fuck out of here."

He gives me a tight little smile back but I barely see it as we are already making our way toward the exit with the kind of speed only a chagrined dick head can muster.

In my defense, the guy was a bit of an arrogant prick. In his defense, I was a complete asshole. I'd say that makes us even.

Eh, what can I say? I get worked up sometimes.

Lordy.

HM

My Cat Puked My Cable Box to Death and other Letters.

2011-04-15T20:44:00.000-07:00

True story. I came home today and the cable box was dead. After wandering around for 15 minutes tearing my hair out and screaming "get me the president!" into the phone, I took a look at it. As far as I can tell, everything is plugged in. As far as I can tell. The back of our tv cabinet looks like the wiring in a meth lab's exhaust system.

I'm pretty sure the cat puked it to death. She's been sleeping on and puking in the thing for two years. How do you clean cat puke out of the tiny vent holes of a cable box? You don't. I'm going to write an angry letter to the company.

Dear Cable people. You send a cable box into an American home and it's not able to with stand two years of cat puke? You should be ashamed, sirs. Ashamed. 'Twas once a time when cat puke was a lubricant for the engine of economic growth in our country and not a hindrance. Cat puke is the very foundation upon which the electronics industry was built, would not a cat puke catchall be a common sense feature to add etc etc.

Speaking of letters written . . .

A couple of days ago, I wrote a letter to a venerable local news television magazine because they hate dads.* That sounds harsh. They hate fathers*. Better.

They ignored fathers anyway. On a half hour show with "parenting" in the title, they spent approx. 5 minutes doing empty dad talk. So I wrote them a testy, snippy letter which absolutely screamed "shred me" to the bored faceless intern who first read it.

However, I received two responses. One was faceless yet gracious. And one was from one of the two broadcasters who appear on the show. Mr. Ted Reinstein. His partner--and lead anchor-- Anthony Everett has yet to reply. I'm guessing because of Anti-Semitism.* Or maybe because who the hell has the time to read some shitty letter that the fucking faceless intern who is now fired should've shredded in the first place. Whatever it was, it definitely wasn't Anti-Semitism (had my fingers crossed!)

Mr. Ted Reinstein was pretty amicable. For the most part. I myself think I detect a note of defensiveness in the letter (not being sarcastic) but I will let you judge. Also, I've yet to write back to Mr. Ted Reinstein, so any suggestions are welcome. If anyone wants to read it, I'll post the letter I wrote at the end to dispense with the bothersome clicking. Faceless intern letter first:

Good Evening Mr. ________,
We want to thank you for your insightful comments. Chronicle is always interested in the thoughts of its viewers. We are sorry to hear your displeasure with the "What Kind of Parent are you?" program. We fully understand that there are many fathers out there who are just like you, who work just as hard and maybe even harder to create a nurturing home for your family. For this episode we chose perhaps a more traditional path. It was never our intention to cause offense to you as a viewer. Your comments have been forwarded to the producers.

We hope you continue your loyal viewer-ship and thank you for watching,
Chronicle
WCVB-TV781-433-4422
To receive Chronicle's newsletter, sign up herehttp://www.thebostonchannel.com/emailnewsletters/index.html

Now, Mr. Ted Reinstein:

Mr. _______-

Thanks for your thoughts on our "Parenting" show last week.

I can well understand your frustration with the emphasis on "mom

types," but please understand, that premise grew largely out of our

choice to use Amy Chua's book, "Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother" as

our jumping off point. I think another show might well add in more of

a dads element; although dads were certainly represented in some of

last week's show as well (boomerang kids, etc.). But again, the "mom

types" segments were, just that--about moms this time.

For the record, while I may not be a stay-at-home dad, I am integrally

involved and engaged in all aspects of my childrens' lives, and don't relate

at all to some outdated "Father Knows Best"/50's notion of fatherhood.

Just sayin'.........

Nonetheless, I will personally pitch for doing a follow-up show that focuses

more, or at least equally, on dads.

Again, thanks for taking the time to write.

Best,

Ted

Ted ReinsteinReporter
WCVB-TV
5 TV Place
Needham, Ma 02494
TheBostonChannel.com781-433-4035 office781-433-4427 faxtreinstein@hearst.com

Is it me, or does it seem like a struck a nerve? In my original letter, I was careful to point out that I was talking about how their opinions came across on the show, and not who they actually are as fathers. I would never assume to know that.

What can you expect from someone who neglects his kids though,* am I right?

HM

*Not intended to be a factual statement.

*Neither was that

* Or that one, for G_d's sake.

*Duh, obviously.

Letter I originally wrote:

Chronicle:

I am a fan. I have been for some time. I usually find your show well researched and thoughtful.

However . . . the episode on April 6th entitled "What kind of parent are you?" was an abject failure in that the part of parenting known as fatherhood was largely overlooked.

In a half hour show, you spent 20 minutes on mothers. You asked "What kind of parent are you?" and you answered that question by interviewing mothers. There were helicopter moms, best friend moms, and dolphin moms. There was a Tiger Mom. Psychiatrists, sociologists, and writers were interviewed about parenting but the word parenting was placed squarely in the context of motherhood.

The other ten minutes of the show--and I'm not counting commercial breaks--were split between a discussion of the trend of adult children moving back home and fatherhood talk.

The fatherhood talk consisted purely of your two broadcasters, Ted Reinstein and Anthony Everett, spending 3 minutes at the end of the show chatting about what fatherhood means to them. No experts, no filmed segments, no research. Just two guys tossing around cliches and platitudes like "(paraphrasing) sometimes you've got to be their best friend and other times a disciplinarian. I'd call it a benign dictatorship."

I'm sure the gentlemen in question are nice men and fine fathers, but their opinions as presented on the show were banal echoes of 1950's parenting archetypes. The segment came across as what it was: an empty, half-hearted, pandering attempt at "equal time." I looked at my wife at about the 15 minute mark of your show and I said, "You see this? It's going to be all moms." You did not disappoint me.

I am a stay at home dad. It was a choice my wife and I made while she was pregnant with our first child and it is a choice we're very proud of. There are millions like me now. If not stay at home dads, then dads that are just as committed to and involved in the parenting of their children as their wives are. We make decisions about food, education, safety, morals, religion, money and all the other infinite responsibilities that come with the title parent.

You attempted a discussion about parenting and instead gave us a 30 minute long reinforcement of parenting stereotypes.

Chronicle, you owe us an apology.

Sincerely,

_________________, Father and Homemaker

The Greatest F*cking Giveaway in the History Of Forever is All Over!

2011-04-14T07:50:00.000-07:00

The winner:

Cheryl at Deckside Thoughts.

Thank you to all the other entrants. Rest assured, you were part of something beautiful.

Also, please rejoice for the luck that befell Cheryl today. She is a really nice woman whose house currently smells like the inside of a boot. The inside of a boot that has been worn for 55 days straight. So, you know, she could use the prize.

Thanks again folks.

HM

Old Peanuts

2011-04-12T21:25:00.000-07:00

The Peanut has always been up against it. When My wife was pregnant, a blood test came back that said the Peanut (At that time, the size of an actual peanut) had a 1-in-3 chance of being born with a birth defect so severe it would render her non-viable.

We had to wait a month and a half--until my wife and the Peanut were ready for an amnio--until we found out for sure. That was a wicked fun 45 days.

After she was born, she wouldn't eat. Would not latch. Not good on the bottle. We had a lactation consultant in the hospital who helped to really fuck the situation up good. We fed her with a pump and a tube and a syringe and our fingers for a month before a friend who happened to be an ex-nicu nurse was able to help.

She's got a kidney condition known as urinary reflux. Which for a time meant way too many catheters.

That's probably an understatement as "too many catheters" can be mathematically expressed as 1.

As she's grown, barely, we've had to go to dietitians, keep a wary eye on the scale, and beseech her to "eat Peanut, eat. You gotta eat if you want to be strooong."

Now, she eats ok. Not great, but at least enough to sustain life and growth. She's the smallest girl in her class, but not the weakest.

Despite, or more likely because of ( the Peanut is a contrarian delight. If her classmates are excited by some new Barbies in the play area, the Peanut can probably be found wandering around the pretend kitchen making pretend calls and cooking and eating pretend cookies. She won't eat real food, but she puts away enough pretend food to be pretend morbidly obese. Frustrating.) my efforts at disparaging little girl Princess stereotypes, she is all pinks and ruffles and sparkles and fairy wings. Which suits her. She's so small and fine. So light on her feet. We were so worried about her for the first few years. She seems other-wordly. Like a changeling, my wife says. A changeling who could just slip through our fingers and disappear.

She's also all poop jokes, and fart noises. Puke sound effects and fake burps. A fluttering, sparkling, twisting, spinning, leaping, farting, puking, burping, laughing, pink will-o-the wisp. If you've never seen an elf-fairy-changeling princess crack itself up by making a fart noise and then retching because it's so "smelly and disgusting," you should.

She's can be bossy as hell with her little brother. Which would really suck if she wasn't the same way at times with her mother and me. Bossy's not great, but it's way better than being a bully.

She's careful and smart. She's monkey -agile. She's sly. She's got bad moods like sudden downpours in the spring.

She is also Four years old. I can't believe it. Happy Birthday, little girl. We love you very, very much.

Mommy
Daddy
Pumpkin Man.

P.S. Meant to get this up on the twelfth because that's her bday, but I didn't quite make it. Just wanted to make sure everyone knew the correct date. So you can back date those gift checks.

Wherein I send testy emails to a bored TV intern

2011-04-10T07:41:00.000-07:00

There is this local tv news magazine we watch called Chronicle. It's been on for nearly thirty years which I think qualifies it for venerable status. Th unique thing about the show is that they devote entire shows--it's a half hour long-- to the investigation and discussion of one topic. A pretty rare thing these days. It's a show that becomes really interesting when you hit middle age and find yourself going, "Hey, I suddenly give a shit about what happens on the main streets and back roads of Grundle NH. Where can I get well organized and thoughtful info about it?"

So, we're fans around here. Last week they did a show about parenting. "Hey," I said to myself, I'm a parent."

I eagerly sat my middle aged ass in my creaky easy chair and prepared myself for a half hour of thoughtful in-depth programming about modern parenting. What I got was pretty much the same old bullshit. So I wrote them an angry email:

Chronicle:

I am a fan. I have been for some time. I usually find your show well researched and thoughtful.

However . . . the episode on April 6th entitled "What kind of parent are you?" was an abject failure in that the part of parenting known as Fatherhood was largely overlooked.

In a half hour show, you spent 20 minutes on mothers. You asked "What kind of parent are you?" and you answered that question by interviewing mothers. There were helicopter moms, best friend moms, and dolphin moms. There was a Tiger Mom. Psychiatrists, sociologists, and writers were interviewed about parenting but the word parenting was placed squarely in the context of motherhood.

The other ten minutes of the show--and I'm not counting commercial breaks--were split between a discussion of the trend of adult children moving back home and fatherhood talk.

The fatherhood talk consisted purely of your two broadcasters, Ted Reinstein and Anthony Everett, spending 3 minutes at the end of the show chatting about what fatherhood means to them. No experts, no filmed segments, no research. Just two guys tossing around cliches and platitudes like "(paraphrasing) sometimes you've got to be their best friend and other times a disciplinarian. I'd call it a benign dictatorship."

I'm sure the gentlemen in question are nice men and fine fathers, but their opinions as presented on the show were banal echoes of 1950's parenting archetypes. The segment came across as what it was: an empty, half-hearted, pandering attempt at "equal time." I looked at my wife at about the 15 minute mark of your show and I said, "You see this? It's going to be all moms." You did not disappoint me.

I am a stay at home dad. It was a choice my wife and I made while she was pregnant with our first child and it is a choice we're very proud of. There are millions like me now. If not stay at home dads, then dads that are just as committed to and involved in the parenting of their children as their wives are. We make decisions about food, education, safety, morals, religion, money and all the other infinite responsibilities that come with the title parent.

You attempted a discussion about parenting and instead gave us a 30 minute long reinforcement of parenting stereotypes.

Chronicle, you owe us an apology.

Did anyone see this show? Do you think I'm out of line here? Thoughts, questions, comments? You can watch the show here.

I'll keep folks updated if I hear anything. Also, don't forget about the GREAT AWESOME I CAN"T FUCKING BELIEVE ANYTHING THIS GOOD COULD EVER HAPPEN ANYWHERE SCENTSY GIVEAWAY!!

There is still time to enter!

That Light Bulb Smells Awesome

2011-04-06T20:20:00.000-07:00

Here is the deal: It's giveaway time. My first ever. And likely my last.

One of The Aunties from Maine has made available to the readers of this here online wordification depository (fancy!) one beautiful Scentsy Scents flame free Warmer and one grab bag of delectable wax Scents. I cannot tell you what is in the grab bag of scents. I will tell you that the kibosh was put on my own homemade contributions. The Ki. Bosh. They were gasoline and maple-garlic. Put it in the comments if you're interested.

I can tell you that we here in the Big Pink own the very version that one of you lucky folks is about to receive. I can tell you that yours will not be the one we own, but will actually be new. I can tell you that the warmer works via incandescent light bulb and black magic. I can tell you that the scents are very very pleasant. I can tell you that they last much longer and seem to cover much more ground than other warmers or candles or incense (hippies). We used ours 2 days ago and the house still smells like a Citgo.

Probably it's good my homemade scents weren't included.

And I can tell you that the warmer looks like this:

The background and scent bar holder are not included but a sense of well being and oneness with Mother Earth definitely is. Or probably. Whatever you freaks are into.

Here's what Scentsy says about the product:

"Awash with pastel tones of pale green, yellow and fawn, handpainted finches poised on budding branches add a cheerful, spring-like feel to any room."

The shit is Awash, people.

Let me say, I would not do this giveaway if not for the fact that a.) The thing works and b.) in the interest of full disclosure, the Auntie in question is a Lead Consultant for Scentsy. Which is a naming trend I like. Gonna open an eyeglass store called Looky.

So anyway, comments please. Tell me why your house smells boring and the Scentsy Warmer is just what you need to inject some spring zing (marketing!) into your otherwise drab olfactory life. Or just tell me you want it. Drawing will be random. Like my writing.

Good Luck and Godspeed.

HM

P.S.

Tweet the giveaway and link the tweet in your comment and get another entry.

Also, if any of you already has a warmer and is just in need of more scents, click the one of links and help the poor girl pay off her college loans.

Or get her own apartment. Or have extra money to spend on my kids. Any way you look at it, rest assured you'll be buying from a young woman of integrity and awesomeness. Ok. Post over. Comment to enter.

Ok.

Hi Everyone

2011-04-02T21:26:00.000-07:00

Sorry I've been reticent in my posting. It's been busy here and frankly, I haven't had shit to report. Until now.

We had a date night! It's been a very long time since our last one. We even got dressed up a little. I ironed for Chreezy's sake. My shirt. Not my hair. Ironing is not something I'm into, but I did it for date night.

My wife was feeling better after surgery (still not at liberty to say what the surgery was, but here's a hint: Snikt Snikt.) and we got a friend to baby sit and out we went.

Of course, destination for romance was a wake, but still . . . pretty'd up wife, no kids, out with other adults, didn't have to cook dinner; sounds like date night to me.

The wake was for the uncle of my wife's oldest friend. It went how those things go. It was sad. He was a very warm and kind and funny man who cared deeply for my wife and always seemed genuinely interested in and cheered by our kids and our life.

It was awkward. We knew only the family of the deceased while most of the people who attended seem to know each other on some level. And at one point I found myself thinking about the pizza I had ordered for the kids and the babysitter and if there would be some left when we got home. There was so, score there.

We got home before the kids got to bed, which was nice for our babysitting friend. Then we watched the movie Kick-Ass, which was entertaining enough that I'm hoping to find a Hit Girl costume for the Peanut for Halloween.

Hit Girl, kicking ass and not even bothering with names

As I type this, the date has changed from the 2nd to the 3rd and so:

Happy 4th Anniversary my love. Four years done and all rest of them left to go. Lucky for me. I love you forever and forever and forever.

Princess Peanut and the Fairy Tale Loop

2011-03-24T20:46:00.000-07:00

At our house we tell stories. Everyday. We spin yarns. Our kids sit rapt as my wife and I take turns telling tales to thrill and to pacify. They stop us to add their own details our even to pick up the thread of the story and weave some of it themselves.

Sounds pretty cool, doesn't it? And it is. It is. Except . . .

Here's a synopsis of virtually every story: There is (or was, once upon a time) a Princess named Peanut and a Prince named Pumpkin Man and a King named Daddy and a Queen named Mommy. They live in a big pink castle.

There is an evil witch named Witch Sasha (the Peanut came up with the name). She lives in a dank cave in the dark and menacing (and appropriately named) Witch Forest.

Witch Sasha is evil and jealous; black-hearted and cruel. All she wants to do is steal Princess Peanut's crown. Or dress. That's it. That is every story. Over and over and over again. Stories of a of a morally bereft, fashion obsessed, cave dweller with faltering magic powers and a secret hideout the location of which is neither secret nor hidden. Versus the beloved and fabulously dressed Princess Peanut. We are allowed variation only in the methods the Princess uses to regain her stolen outfits.

Sometimes the princess sneaks up on the witch and steals it back. Sometimes it's magic wand vs. magic wand in a battle to the owie. Sometimes it's a daring midnight raid or a spell cast from afar. One time it was a car/flying broom chase scene and ensuing vehicle-to-vehicle struggle. That was a good one.

Sometimes it's a battle of wits.

"Look, Witch Sasha, just give me back the crown and we can all--hey! What's that?"

Witch Sasha turns to look.

"Yoink! See ya, sucker!" And Princess Peanut flies off on her magic horse.

"Unicorn, Daddy!"

"Unicorn."

Whatever happens, we try to make sure it's the Princess who does the dirty work, with occasional assists from her adoring royal family. Around here, our princesses don't get saved. They do the saving, bitch.

And the Princess always prevails. With little blood shed or outright violence. Though the mental anguish our royal family visits upon a homeless 2nd rate sorceress would probably count against us in civil court.

One time-- on a day when "sharing with her brother" meant "taking the toy he was already playing with" --I deviated from the Peanut approved script. I told a story about how the princess' anger at having her clothes stolen made her just as witchy as the witch and how the only way to solve it was to be nice to the witch, let her have the dress, and then brave the dangers of Witch Forest sans flying horse (I mean unicorn) or magically turbo charged Subaru.

Lesson delivered. Take that to the learning bank and deposit it under Kick-Ass parenting.

The next day we were in the car and she turned to me and said, "Daddy can you tell me the story of how Witch Sasha stole Princess Peanut's dress?"

Son-Of A Bitch.

Stay tuned for part 2. Things get violent.

Children's Literature: Evil? Or Really Evil?

2011-03-15T09:30:00.000-07:00

Reading to the kids is great, right? Read, read, read. We learn together and snuggle together. Build closeness, vocabulary, conversation skills, and critical thinking. Not to mention literacy.

I was so happy, so excited to introduce them to my favorites from childhood, reintroduce myself to the same, and to discover--as a family-- authors and books I'd never read before. I was a naive ponce.

These books have the darkest of dark sides. I wish someone had warned me. For example:.

Curious George: Up until recently, I'd only read modern Curious George sequels. Curious George and The Genetically Modified Banana. Curious George Goes to Yoga. That kind of thing. Or I watched the cartoon with my kids (William H. Macy is the narrator, making it the only thing he's ever been involved with where he doesn't play the most depressing guy ever).

I read the original Curious George to the kids the other day. Here's what happens in that book: The Man In The Yellow Hat captures George by taking advantage of his natural curiosity. On a whim he does this, by the way. He's visiting the jungles of Africa and he decides, "Fuck it. I'll take home a wild monkey." Yeah, that's called poaching.

George takes off up a tree when he sees this strange yellow-white man. So the Man puts his hat on the ground. He figures that George will be so curious he won't be able to help himself, and he'll come down to investigate. Which he does. Which is why the book isn't titled Intelligent George.

So, he grabs the monkey and lets him run free on the ship he's taking back to New York. The "sad" monkey then attempts to kill himself by throwing himself off of the ship and into the ocean. They say that George jumped because he was just so "curious"about seagulls and their power of flight, he wanted to fly too. C'mon. He'd never seen a bird before? In the Jungle? Plus, we're talking about a fast moving steam ship and an age when psychiatrists recommended electric shock for a bad case of the mondays. The monkey was suicidal.

They get him back to NY, and he escapes. The Man With The Yellow Hat being incredibly responsible.

They finally catch him and throw him in maximum security prison. He escapes. Again. By taking out a prison guard. They finally catch him once for all after he's been on the streets for a while, gets mugged twice, and starts self-medicating with heroin (Subtext). The book ends with him "happily" being locked up in a zoo. And of course by "happily" they mean "on lithium."

Maybe I'm mistaken. Maybe the zoo is a much better option than the jungle where he spent his entire life before the Man With The Yellow Hat kidnapped him and sold him into captivity. Dance monkey. The people paid good money.*

I believe the second Curious George book is called, "Curious George and the Cancer Experiment," but that's from memory.

George seen here being led to his fate by some sort of quasi-military police unit.
Apparently after being beaten with a phone.

Green Eggs and Ham:Let's just sum it up like this: Sam-I-Am is presented as a charitable, suffering being who follows his friend all over the country trying to force feed him in all manner of odd and creepy places. Sam-I-Am is definitely a stalker and probably a rapist. I'm all for trying new things, but even at breakfast, no means no.

"Could you would you with a goat?" indeed. Pervert.

Could you would you tied to a chair in my basement?

While we're mentioning Dr. Seuss, let's mention The Lorax: We're led to believe this book may be the first conservationist children's book. A person hiding in a defunct factory tells a traveler the story of how he and his family came to the area, deforested it, polluted it, and then left. The Lorax was the character who kept trying to warn them. In the end, the traveler is offered the one seed that was saved in order that he might replant. Is this not the story of how the logging industry fucked things up? Clear cut a forest and then plant new saplings and tell everyone they've got it under control. Nice try. It's all about old growth forests. You can't support an eco-system on saplings, you son of a bitch. And hey Lorax, thanks for the series of sad-sacky warnings, but how about filing an injunction and going to the press next time? You blew it. And your mustache looks like shit.

I apologize for that last line. I shouldn't have let it get personal.

Awww, what an adorable little corporate propagandist

Alexander and The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad day: I got this one off of a top 100 books for kids list. Let me understand this, please. The kid wakes up in a foul, shitty mood, goes through his day in a foul, shitty mood, and goes to bed in a foul, shitty mood. So this book is either about rampant parental permissiveness or ignored and undiagnosed childhood depression. Awesome. We read this book at the library. We didn't take it home. Why? Because my daughter said to me, "Daddy, I don't want that crabby book." Amen to that, swee'pea.

Depressed child or spoiled little prick?
Your guess is as good as mine.

There are others I'm not mentioning and many many more that I have yet to read. I will continue to read these twisted tombs and to report my findings in this space. We parents have got to stick together against the forces of darkness. Not to mention literacy.

Homemaker Man

*You read that right. He was kidnapped in Africa. Put on a ship. Taken to America. He escapes, does a stint in prison and ends up set "free" in a zoo. I am not making any of this up. It's all in the book.

Here's where I got the pics:

http://mhpbooks.com/mobylives/

http://hsbapost.com/

http://4.bp.blogspot.com/

http://2.bp.blogspot.com

Thursday's Random Bull$h!t

2011-03-10T20:38:00.000-08:00

Have I ever done a weekly wrap-up? No. Can one post a weekly wrap up on a thursday? Depends. Back in my early 20's, my week wrapped up around tuesday, so yes.

I have lost 19 lbs. 19! Had a doctor appointment the other day and I weighed in 19 lbs. less than I did 3 short months ago. That's a whole bra size. How'd I do it? Green tea and positive thinking. And incredible amounts of amphetamines.

I kid of course. That positive thinking crap is ridiculous.

(Recumbent bike and so, SO many low-carb, low-fat veggie wraps. So many. I'l kick a lavash bread in the nuts. But it's working, so I'll continue.)

Also, getting ready for My Wife to have surgery next week. Not to worry. Nothing life threatening. Except for the fucking surgery. Do I seem nervous? Bah.

Once it's all done and she's home safe and sound, I'l let you folks in on the nature of it. Here's a hint: The 6 Million Dollar Man.

Who in this day and age would've cost 450 million dollars and then would've fallen pray to a virus in week 2. Steve Austin, crashing your hard drive.

Finally:

Oy, the yelling. Loud frustrated bursts. Raw throated exhaultations to "pleeease stop!" Red faced, chest-heaving exclamations at triple digit decibel levels. I don't know how the kids stand me.

I've been yelling too much lately. Way too much.

Read more over at DadCentric, if you please.

HM

More talk about Gender/Really Great Moments in Parenting

2011-02-28T17:02:00.000-08:00

Some facts:

The Fresh Beat band is a show.

A horrible, horrible show. The leads are two boys named Twist and Shout, and 2 girls named Kiki and Marina.

Benny the Bull and Swiper are characters on Dora.

The Peanut can be bossy.

Scene: Tonight in the Car

Peanut: I'm Dora and you're Swiper

Pman: I'm swiper

Me: I'm Twist

Peanut: You're Benny

Me: You be Benny. I'm Twist

Pnut: You can't be Twist.

Me: I'm Kiki

Pnut: You can't be Kiki. You're a boy.

Me: I want to be Kiki.

Pnut: No, Kiki's a girl!

My wife: You told him he couldn't be Twist

Pnut: You can't be Kiki.

Me: I'm Mrs. Garret

Pnut: No, you can't be Mrs. Garret, you're not a girl!

Me: You don't even know Mrs. Garret. I'm Mrs. Garret, you're Jo, Pman is Blair, aaand Mommy is Tootie.

Pnut: No!

Me: I'm Ralph Furley, you're Larry, Mommy is Jack, and Pman is Crissy.

Pnut: No!

My Wife: I want to be Janet. I'm a girl

Me: I'm Captain Stubing, Mommy is Isaac, you're Julie, and Pman is Doc.

We also went through Fantasy Island. (I'm Mr Rourke, You're Tatoo, mommy is the person who faces their absolute worst nightmare, the Pumpkin man is the one who's there just to get laid.)

And then . . . .

Me: I'm Hannibal, Mommy is Face, you're B.A. Baracas, and Pman is Murdock, the crazy one.

Pnut: B.A. Baracus?

Me: You say, " (Mr. T impression) I pity da fool !

Pumpkin Man; (Tiny Mr T Rasp) Ahm BA Ahracus, I pity Da Fool!

Pnut: (Also doing her best impression) I pity da fool!

Pman: Ahm Ba Brracus, I pity da fool

Pnut Can I pity Da Fool?

Pman: (Matter of factly) No. You listen, I pity Da fool.

Pnut: I don't want to listen. I want to pity da fool!

Pman: I pity da fool!

Pnut: No. I pity da fool!

Pman: I pity da fool!

Pnut: I pity da fool!

Me: There are plenty of fools to go around.

Top 5 parenting moment. I will be expecting my dad of the year nomination phone call.

Princesses

2011-02-25T19:58:00.000-08:00

The Peanut is a princess. Ask her, she'll tell you. Don't ask her and she'll tell you. And if you try to tell her she's not a princess, well, I hope you're prepared for the cutest little "go fuck yourself" face you've ever seen. My little perfect princess, face twisted in rage. Awwww.

She loves to wear dresses and tiaras and throw semi- benevolent tea parties for her subjects. Sometimes she's Princess Peanut; other times she's Cinderella. She's never seen the movie or heard the story, mind you.

She is the only princess in the house, too. The. Only. Princess. She's the Princess. Mommy is the Queen, I'm the King, and the Pman is the Prince. Any attempt to violate these rules is met with extreme prejudice. She practically morphs into a vampire. Fangs dripping with sparkly pink fury. The air awash with consternation and glitter

"Daddy, I'm the Princess and you're the King."

"Let's both be princesses."

"No daddy, you're the King, I'm the Princess."

"Can't I be a princess too?"

"No daddy! You can't! You're the King. I'm the Princess."

"Ok, I'm the King. I'll be the King of Princesses."

"NO DADDY! You can't! You're a boy and I. AM. PRINCESS!" (Princess of the Kingdom of Uptightville, apparently.)

At this point, her cheeks are pink with frustration and her voice has taken on the timber of a highly agitated wild cat. Princess Peanut: Gender Cop.

Until recently. Recently, their has been a small change of heart where one member of our household is concerned. Recently, the Pman has managed to schmooz his charming ass into the princess game. He looks lovely in her dresses. And shoes. And tiaras. Resplendent in gauzy pinks, royal purples, and flashy greens.

He copies everything she does. Spins to show us the dress. Calls himself Princess Pumpkin Man. He is a pretty little thing, too. Although, there is still something about him that says "boy." Little big-headed, round-bellied spark plug that he is.

After some initial violence, the Peanut is loving it. I walked into the playroom the other day to find her frustrated and him crying. Not because she was trying to rip the dress from his body or pummel him with the plastic tiara that is her royal birthright. No. The melee was due to the fact that for five minutes she had been trying to jam her white sandals with the flowers on top on to the Pman's feet. So he could have pretty princess shoes.

Now, my kingdom has not one, but two princesses to call it's own. The traditional gender roles have been torn asunder. Let the commoners rejoice!

It's good to be the King.

Valentine's Day Paper Tiger

2011-02-14T13:48:00.000-08:00

Last year for Valentine's Day, I sent her a dozen long-stemmed beauties at work. Not only that, they were NPR pledge drive roses. Romantic and douche-y. Double threat. And I cooked her a lovely dinner and made her a chocolate cake from scratch, sang to her over the phone, etc., etc, etc.

This year, we're broke. I've been on the phone all day today trying to get last year's pledge money back because those flowers went and died on us. Commie lib-lab roses.

And the sumptuous dinner is out because we are smack dab in the middle of a major "lifestyle change(don'tsaydiet don'tsaydiet don'tsaydiet).

And I'd write her a love poem but words fail me where she's concerned.

Yeah, her skin is snow and raspberries.

And sure, her eyes are jungle foliage overlaid with sea glass.

And it's true that her lips are full, sweet plums.

But her. She. The beauty of her. Her soul. The description of that is what eludes me. The best I can do is: you ever see a scene in a movie when someone opens a suitcase or treasure chest and they are bathed in the glow of that treasure? Or maybe it's more like turning your face to the sun after a long cold winter? Or bathing in a warm, clean, steaming, pond fed by hot springs.

No, that last one is how I feel when she touches me, but it's not her.

Maybe it's like that feeling you get when you've been gone a long time and you finally come home.

Anyway, I don't know how to put it. All I know is that I love her and that I am obscenely lucky.

So, I still had to do something for her for Valentine's Day. We don't have any money, words fail me, as does my waistline. What's left?

Construction paper. There is always construction paper.

Happy Valentine's Day, my love. I love you from the tips of my clumsy-but-well-meaning-fingers to the bottom of my clumsy-but-well-meaning-heart.

Love,

Phew

2011-02-10T06:02:00.000-08:00

It's over. The Knucklehead Blog-off is over. And, I won. I think we can all agree, how the fuck did that happen?

Thank you to the competitors:

Quirkyloon

Candy's Daily Dandy

The Fred Effect

If I were God

Wrestling With Retirement

Too Many Mornings

Glitter Frog

and especially to my fellow finalist, CardioGirl.

All bloggers with unique voices and perspectives. I had a great time competing/working with all of you.

Thanks to Knucklehead for actually including me in the contest this year. I had a lot of fun both times I participated, although maybe more so when I wasn't actually a participant. The pressure this year. Oy.

Thanks to my bloggy/twitter/facebook friends

the gentlemen at Dadcentric

Cheryl at Deckside Thoughts

Monica at And I'll Raise You 5

A Vapid Blond

And to anyone else who I missed for all the retweeting and liking and tagging etc they did last night

And Life According To Candice. She was a finalist last year, and it's her hilarious blog through which I originally got involved with the contest. And by involved I mean totally crashed.

And thanks to anyone else who I missed for all the retweeting and liking and tagging etc they did last night

Thanks to the wonderful Aunties up in Maine, who stumped hard for the rural teacher/college student vote.

Thanks to sexy my wife and her (not quite as sexy) teacher cronies.

And thanks to everyone else who voted, read, and otherwise participated. All the new followers/readers that have come my way is definitely the best part.

With that, I am officially retired from the Knucklehead humor blog-off competition circuit. I'm exhausted and the kids haven't had a bath in 3 rounds.

Ain't gonna be no rematch.

Knucklehead Blog-off: The Finals

2011-02-06T09:33:00.000-08:00

We've made it to the final round of the Knucklehead Blog-off. Thanks so much to everyone who has voted. I am very surprised to be here in the finals. My noble competitor, CardioGirl. Voting begins at 1pm eastern and ends Wednesday at 9pm eastern. Please read and vote based on merit. And based on the fact that I've been praying and lighting candles for each and every one of your souls. And small children and puppies love me. And a hug from me cures glaucoma and restless leg syndrome. And Tuberculosis. And please vote.

The final round here is writing dialogue via an assigned writing exercise: Pick three figures with whom you would like to dine. The catch -- they have to be a cartoon, an american historical figure, and a villain/scoundrel type

I had trouble deciding. I lobbied to be able to pick Captain Caveman as my cartoon and Fred Flintstone as my historical figure. Imagine the shit those two could talk about. The villain in that scenario, the T-rex from Land of The Lost.

Or I thought I'd pick the Wonder twins, Jerry Lee Lewis and the Catholic church and then I'd spend the evening watching them chase each other around around the table while simultaneously trying to dial 911.

Instead, I went in a different direction. Three separate dinner parties for your perusal. Three because I eat fast, and I'm hungry a lot. Please note: these were written in fugue state brought on by shoveling, the ingestion of 1 bag of Doritos, 19 Bagel Bites, and also some post-coital languidness. Oh. Yeah. Dead. Sexy.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Setting: Italian Restaurant

The invitees: Hitler, Lincoln, and the car from the Hanna Barbera Laffalympics.

Lincoln: "What the fuck did you invite Hitler for? You know that guys' an asshole, right?"

Car: "Achickkaaahh achikkachugahchuguh bbpbpbpbp *wheeeeze*" (in obvious agreement.)

Hitler: (Day dreaming)

Me: Whatcha thinking about, Hitler?

Hitler (dreamily): Jews.

Lincoln: Makes hand gestures and waggle his huge eyebrows as if to say, "See? See?"

Laff olympics car: "Vroom vroom! Boing. Zzzzzippt. I-ee-i-ee-i-ee. Beepbeep."

End Scene

Setting: Italian Restaurant

The Diners: Abe Lincoln (Again, yes. Why? He absolutely loved manicotti. That's a fact.), a Shmoo, and John Wilkes Booth.

Lincoln: Are you shitting me? Last time you invited me to dinner it was with Hitler and a car with a speech impediment and now th *BANG*.

Shmoo: (Horrified as the bullet passes harmlessly through it's blood spattered body) ghGHHGghghgghgGHGghghgh!

Boothe: Sic Semper Tyrannis!

Me: (To Booth) I am not picking up this che *BANG*.

Booth (to the bloody Shmoo): Dine and Dash?

Shmoo: You bet your ass, looney cakes.

Setting: Italian restaurant

The three. Ted Bundy, Pepe Le Pew, John Kennedy.

We sit at the table.

Something passes between the three of them. They nod in agreement.

Kennedy: Fuck this-ah fucking lame fucking writing exercise and lets go get some fucking pussaaahhhhh!"

(They stand and depart in formation. Three heat seeking whoremongers whose unsuspecting public awaits.)

End Scene.

Fini.

Shmoo Courtesy of: http://sharetv.org/images/the_herculoids/gleep-char.jpg via Hanna Barbera

Laffalympics Dune Buggy courtesy of: http://www.skooldays.com/images/sa1205.jpg via Hanna Barbera

Pepe Le Pew courtesy of: http://roflrazzi.files.wordpress.com/2009/02/celebrity-pictures-pepe-le-pew-sexual-harrasment.jpg via Warner Bros.

Knucklehead Blog-Off Rd 4: Seussified

2011-01-30T09:56:00.000-08:00

This is the semifinals of the big knucklhead blog-off. This week's challenge: Write something in the style of Dr. Seuss. As I said last year, I am deeply apologetic to the good Dr. for the following piece.
Please, read everyone's entry, and then vote here. Voting starts today and continue's through wednesday evening. I promise, if I win, I will share my trophy with all of you. We can take turns like they do with the Stanley Cup. Ok, here we go.

Drawn from the Cat in the Hat, among others.

Our mother was leaving. She had work, then a date.
"You'll see," she chirped brightly, "you'll get along great."

We'd met him before, this new beau of our mother's
I'd give him a 4 when compared to the others
There was Clarence with candy, the dentist name Joel
Fat sweaty Ned and Alex the Mole

Bruno the butcher, Cedric the Chemist
Mom loved'em and left'em, her record unblemished
Her latest distraction, this newest toy boy
was the rigid and beady-eyed Officer Roy

He'd worked very hard to get date number second
With flowers and candy, he'd pleaded and beckoned
So off Mommy went, racked with hungorous pangs
"Five thirty," she'd told him, "At P.F. Changs."

She kissed us goodbye, her pace started to quicken
as she left she was mumbling "ooh, Kung Pao chicken"
We didn't mind, we were used to the drill
We rarely got bored but still,

Still

Still

This particular day was much harder to fill

So we invented a game called "what did you find?"
Closets, cabinets and toy chests were mined
We went in to Mom's room and went through her drawers
Found things we won't speak of; unspeakable horrors

As we retreated, wretching and spastic
Sally's hand slid across a bag made of plastic
She grabbed it on instinct, we ran from our doom
When we looked in the bag, it was full of mushrooms

These mushrooms were strange, twisted, and dried
dusty ol' fungi that looked mummified.
But mushrooms they were, we felt certain and sure
we'd seen porcinis like that at Trader Joe's #4
(It was mom's favorite shoppingest grocery store)

Sally said, "Let's make pizza or stuff them with cheese,
brew them in water to make a fine tea?"
"Jesus." I grumbled and snatched them right quick
pulled one out of the bag and gave it a lick.

"Musty" I thought then said, "what the heck?"
through the teeth, down the hatch inside of my neck.
I ate one, then another, then two dozen more.
Then my brain introduced us, my face and the floor.

I doubled over and slouched to my knees
put my face on the floor, it was cool as the breeze.
I manage to glance a glance that was glancing;
Sally was doing some floor-facing prancing.

We were writhing and moaning, the shrooms made us sick.
The sunlight flashed wierdly, my saliva was thick.
Then the sickness was gone, quick as it came
And I knew that I'd never see things the same.

Sally, I smiled, do you see what I hear?
Songs of red over here, vivid music from there.
No, she grinned back, I'm busy with meeting
this loquacious young ficus whose sir name is Keating.

Our goldfish was exquisite, the colors entrancing
fiery golds, rippling silvers, his scales were dancing.
He peered into the black of my frisbee sized peepers
"Stop staring" he blooped, "you give me the creepers."

The room came alive, shadows shifted, congealed.
"This couch feels so good," my prone sister squealed.
"Look at me," she continued, "look at me now.
The couch is a ship and I'm up on the bow."

"From this bow I can see the garden outside.
Oh, the flowers are singing!" my drugged sister cried
(I can confirm with sanguinity that she hadn't lied)

The roses were crooning a good tune for hoofin'
As a mum honked along on a saxamagroofin'
The lily smashed cymbals as big as my noggin
The carnation strummed notes from a banjamagoggin

The sunflower, towering high into the air
blew on a BassooneTrumpaphoneClaronare.
The notes that they played on their odd instruments
were perfumed with the odor of each of their scents

There was no way around it, we were higher than birds
We spent fifteen minutes eating our words
Sally then thunk a thought, one that I thought was great
"I'll be Mom and pretend that I'm out on her date."

I ran to the kitchen and grabbed our old mop,
"This mop can stand in for her friend, Roy the Cop."
That's when the fun suddenly screeched to a stop.

We knew we were screwed, dead, fucked and in trouble.
"Clean up this mess," we both screamed, "On the double."
It was no use of course, our trips were still tripping
You can't clean when the fabric of time is a'ripping

My sister ran by at a panicky scamper
as I carefully placed the lamp in the hamper
We grabbed armfulls of everything, pots, games, and clothes
Most of this stuff we stuffed into the stove

We were attempting to kennel the cat with the fish
when we heard from the driveway a wet tire-y swish
they were home, we were done, it was up with the jig
We'd have to face up to Mom and her Pig.

Mom came in first, Roy was carring the park
She turned on the light (we could see in the dark).
She looked at the house, and then looked in our eyes
She made not a sound, her mouth gaped with surprise.

She recovered quite quickly, and said with a bite
"To your rooms, in your beds, you're done for the night.
Don't whimp a whimper, I'll deal with Roy
And when he has left, We'll talk, girl and boy.

We heard her say "sorry" and "my head is quite sore."
You could tell Roy had visions of an evening of more
But he finally left, we heard his car start and depart
And Mom yelled, "I'm coming to get you, that's your head start!"

She ranted and raved, talked of grounding and smacking
She'd get a lock for her door, and a lead pipe for whacking
She said and she said and she spoke and she clamored
Our asses were "anvils " her hands were "the hammers."

"Get out of my sight," she yelled with great force
and we scrambled to do so, gladly of course.
We decided as one, to never again
speak of the time we ate psilocybin.

Many thanks/ Don't f*ck with the BTU/Naptime

2011-01-26T19:27:00.000-08:00

This post will be all over the place. First, I got a lot of votes this round over on Knucklehead's blog-off. Thank you very much to everyone who has been voting so far. I'm having a blast. A good chunk of those votes are due to one group I must single out. Thanks to the Best Teacher's Union.

A certain contestant made a disparaging remark about teachers--he has since apologized; he was having a bad day--my wife saw it, and that was that. She rallied her union chums to do some reading and voting and made sure to keep me in the contest. The lesson, as always, don't fuck with the BTU. Or my wife. Especially the latter.

Speaking of which, the venerable The Holmes (is that right?) wrote this over at DadCentric today. A very good post that has to do due with the difficulties of finding your kid a reliable public school education these days. Mostly, you can't, if you believe the press. I'm hoping my kids get into the School of Rock.

On that theme, two other items: this post I wrote last year about Arne Duncan, our Sec'y of Education. Upshot: he sucks. And then this article from the Washington Post that deals with the pile of celluloid bullshit that is "Waiting For Superman," the movie that was supposed to inspire the resurrection of the American Education system. That movie was so full of shit, it seems, that the Academy of Arts and Sciences refused to nominate it for an Oscar for best documentary. They said it wasn't accurate enough. Do you know how inaccurate a documentary has to be before they notice in Hollywood? This year's front runner for the award: Hot Tub Time Machine.

More fun with Superman here, from the NY Times Review Of Books. I didn't even know it was a book first. Go figure.

Then, there is this little piece of business:

We lay down together on the couch. My arm is tucked just so, between his hips and his rib cage, at the small of his small back, buried slightly in the couch cushions. This is the best way to get him to nap. Lucky for me.

My rough, worn, time-scarred face presses lightly up against his soft, smooth, cool cheek.

Read more at DadCentric:

HM

Knucklehead Blog-off Rd 3: Pot-n-Kettle

2011-01-23T06:15:00.000-08:00

Welcome to round three of the Knucklehead Blog-off. Phew. We made it. Thank you very much to everyone who voted to get this blog this far. The others competing in this competition are well established blogs with much larger follower counts than my own. Your votes are needed and much appreciated. This week's genre: Satirize a current event. You can vote here, here, or here. Voting begins today and goes through wednesday evening. The following opinions expressed in this post are not necessarily those of the management. Although mostly, they are.

Italian Premier Silvio Berlusconi. For those of you who aren't familiar with the Italian premier, he is very popular with the ladies. If by popular you mean willing to pay for sex, and by ladies you mean teenage hookers. Mr. Berlusconi is a well known dipper of the linguini, but recently he's gone too far, even by European standards.

Italian prosecutors-Il Prosecutorios--have recorded conversations of parties who were lucky enough to have spent a weekend or two at the Premier's Milan estate--Il EuroPlayboy Mansionini. The parties describe the villa as a brothel with topless girls, who on one occasion were offered nurse and police uniforms. Because when you're the leader of a country, no matter how illegal you like your sex, safety comes first. A local police union formally protested the wearing of their uniforms to perform sexual acts. Apparently, there was no overtime pay offered.

Prosecutors also placed Berlusconi--henceforth know as "the Dripping Cannoli," under investigation for allegations that he paid for sex with a 17 year old hooker nicknamed Ruby. Hey, that's my dog's name! No shit. Small world.

There is one organization that has decided to take The Dripping Cannoli to task for his indiscretions. One organization with the moral gumption to stand up against criminal sex acts. That organization--The Catholic Church -- Il Panini del Boyo.* Talk about the pedophile calling the whoremonger black.

While not mentioning the Dripping Cannoli by name, Pope Benedict said that public officials must set moral examples and furthermore that public officials must “rediscover their spiritual and moral roots.’’
Oooh, Silvio, you're in troubllleee.

Pope B went on to say that, "The singular vocation that the city of Rome requires today of you, who are public officials, is to offer a good example of the positive and useful interaction between a healthy lay status and the Christian faith."

Let me translate. I think what the Pope is trying to say here, is "hey, Dripping Cannoli, we got enough trouble with all the boy fucking. We don't exactly need the Italian government slathered in teen hookers." Now picture that being said with a German accent. There you go.

Partners in Pimpin'

Berlusconi (Il Douche') has got to give this some consideration. If I were a car thief, and an official told me I should stop stealing cars, and that official was the head of the largest human organ black market ring on the planet, I'd stop to think about it.

The Catholic Church might be on to something here. A systematic "don't piss in my pond' system of moral thought. Utter homophobic slurs -- receive an indignant letter from Fred Phelps of the Westboro Baptist church. Murder someone -- find yourself on the wrong end of a stern (and ghostly) lecture from Pol Pot. Sell crack to kids -- get an angry phone call from the CIA.

This could be just what we need as a society to put us back on the straight and narrow. It might've made a difference in my own life. I may have spent a lot less time by myself in the dark as a kid if only I'd had a single, tough, heart-to-heart with PeeWee Herman.

All information in this post gleaned from this Boston Globe article.

*Rough translation: The Sandwich of Boys

Homemaker Man

Knucklehead Blog-Off Rd 2: Science-y is Everywhere.

2011-01-16T06:57:00.000-08:00

Welcome to Rd 2 of the Knucklehead Blog-Off. This week's category is observational humor. You can vote here. The voting begins today at 10 am Pacific time and goes through Wednesday evening. Please read all of the entries and vote based on merit and not on the fact that I would give each and everyone of you a kidney. Based on my regular stats, that's a total of nearly one dozen kidneys. Thanks everyone. As always, your readership is much appreciated.

Science-y is everywhere. As I type this, all over the world actors are posing as scientists to deliver us the latest in vaguely scientific sounding bullshit. It's like pseudoscience without the effort. If pseudoscience is like astrology or economics, then science-y is like Shape-Up Shoes.

Shape-Ups show us a dramatization of someone wearing the shoe and we can see the flexing calf muscle. The advertisers toss out the word "kinetic," and Joe Montana tells us it works. Suddenly, it's a billion dollar a year market -- for Frankenstein shoes. We had a name for those when I was a kid. We called them orthopedic shoes and the people who wore them had bad feet.

There is this Wisk commercial out now. The claim -- Wisk doesn't just clean dirt; it cleans "particulates." Then a fake microscopic "reveal" shows the offending particulates, and little hexagons start bouncing all over the screen. The hexagons have two letter abbreviations in the center: Pt for particulate, Oi for oil. Clearly, we're supposed to be reminded of molecules and more specifically, the periodic table of elements.

"Oooh" we'll gasp, "That stuff has to work. It's like . . . science and shit."

The thing is, last I checked, "Oil" is not on the periodic table. Neither is "Particulate." The periodic table has stuff like gold (Au) and, uh, other things.You can't just make shit up and pretend it's on the periodic table. I wish you could. I'd have done much better in high school chemistry. And there would be an element called Cakeium. (Ck)

Oh and a particulate can otherwise be defined as soot or dust particles suspended in the air. It's dirt. That's not science, Wisk. Not even a little. That's Science-y.

We had a personal experience with science-y sales when we bought our mattress at a store called Sleepy's. Before they would show us the mattresses, they made us each lie down on another mattress connected to a big computer-esque machine. This was supposed to tell us what our perfect mattress would be. It whirled and chirped and lights flashed and I'm pretty sure I saw an Oompa-Loompa. I asked what the science behind the machine was because I'm a douche bag like that. The salesman said, "Well, it's from the Sleep Institute."

Whoa, the Sleep Institute. Really? Well then. I'll never forget when Dr. Von Snoozenburg won the Nobel Prize for Sleepology for his work on pillow drool.

Science-y is very useful for selling us shit. Show us an x-ray of the human body or a drawing of a pulsing red quadricep and we're convinced your product is the one for us. It's gotta work, it's science.

.

Decisions decisions, and Leave a Comment, you.

2011-01-14T09:22:00.000-08:00

Over on DadCentric, I posted the story of how we told the Pnut about the passing of our oldest cat Xiu Xiu The Eldest.

The cat took the big catnap a few days before xmas.

Yesterday, we went out to a shelter to look at cats. Kittens and young cats. We didn't go to pick out a new cat and bring it home, just to look.

I think I can best explain what happened next by letting you in on this conversation between My Wife and the Pnut.

"I want on of those little kittens."

"I know honey, but those kittens are too small to bring home because your brother is still a little too rough."

"But I want one. We can leave Pumpkin Man here and take the kitten."

So . . .

This is Matilda. She's 5 months old. She practically threw herself at us. At the shelter, the kids were on her like fire ants on a wounded wildebeest, and she did nothing but purr. The decision was out of our hands, really.

Praise Jesus and Pass The Catnip

Cute Pics Ahead:

The Pman made it home too. They work together to find the guard's blind spot.

2 Peanuts

Bonus Snow Pic:

The shoveling involved here, well, just, fuck. It is pretty though.

Finally, today is national de-lurking day. So for any readers of this blog who usually read it like this:

Please, come on out. Leave a comment. It will be very much appreciated.

Thanks

Busy Busy Busy

2011-01-11T16:23:00.000-08:00

Hey folks. 1st order, thank you very much to those of you that have read and/or voted for me in the Knucklehead Blog-Off Rd 1. Voting for round one ends tomorrow. I am very grateful. You, on the other hand, are now obligated to continue voting for the rest of the competition. It's in the by-laws or something.

Second, There is this about cats, death, and truth:

Well, the cat's dead. Was she the best cat ever? That is a childish question. And yes. Empirically. If you want, leave a comment and I'll email you the documentation. I'm not here to eulogize the cat though. That's over on Cat Fancy's dead cat of the month page.

The P-Nut turns 4 in April. She's getting pretty hip to what's going on. Including the fact that the cat--Xiu Xiu (zhu-zhu) the Eldest--had disappeared.

We had to have The Conversation.

Read more at DadCentric . . .

The Knucklehead Blog-Off Rd1

2011-01-09T07:16:00.000-08:00

Welcome to Rd1 of Knucklehead's Blog-off 2011. It goes like this: There are nine competitors. In the 1st two rounds, the 2 competitors with the least amount of votes will be out. So, I hate to ask this stuff, but please, please, venerable readers, if you would go and vote your hearts out, it would be much appreciated. Of course, please give the other competitor's equal time and only vote based on merit. And remember, that I love you all. A lot. Bordering on inappropriate. On to the show...

Tea Time

It happened at my house after school.

Most days at that time, the house was empty except for me, a classic latch key kid kickin' back and soaking up life lessons from Mother Television.

Either that, or I was experimenting.

The places I put my penis in those formative years; well, don't eat that bagel, is all I'm saying.

This specific time though--the time of The Tea-- I had a friend over.

Two hormone cocktails with under developed cerebral cortexes and time to burn. Nothing was on tv. We were bored like only 12 year old boys can be -- "Wanna go see a dead body?" bored.

When you're a pubescent boy with a friend and boredom overcomes you, unless he's a really good friend the bagel route is out.

What's left? Boyish cruelty--"let's hit each other/your sister/the cat with these nunchucks" -- or intoxication.

I don't know how we ended up in the kitchen. I'm sure one of us mentioned having tried pot or wanting to smoke some (probably me) and the other said, "yeah, me too." One or both of us was lying, but by then it didn't matter. 'Course, we knew no one who could get actual marijuana.

So, we ended up in the kitchen and I'm pretty sure it was my idea. I'm pretty sure (almost positive) I'm the one who said, "Dude . . . you can get high from smoking tea!" Probably after banana peels had been discussed and discarded as "stupid" and "we don't have any." And tea, my mother had in abundance.

My poor fool friend didn't even blink.

"Yeah." He said. "Awesome! Let's do it!" like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Because when you're a teenage boy, everything is the most natural thing in the world. The same lack of working synapses that allows a teenage boy to jump into the window of a moving car (did it) is the same phenomenon that convinces him the he "totally heard, for sure, that smoking tea will get you wicked baked." Despite all logical arguments otherwise. Like, "they sell it in the supermarket" and "nothing happens when you drink it."

So we ended up in my little kitchen, and we got that shit on.

"First, we have to roll it." I announced. The Professional.

Rolling it consisted of breaking open a couple of English Breakfast tea bags (known in the tea smoking world as"commercial") pouring them into a paper towel, and loosely rolling said towel into a sort of tea scented flattened taquito shape. Then, we lit it on the stove and inhaled. Mmmm, tasty.

We sucked bitter smoke and hundreds of tiny tea embers past our young palates and into our young lungs.

We coughed. We coughed and we stumbled around my kitchen half blind with tears from laughing and coughing. At least, he did. I kept it totally together.

Then, we lied.

"You feeling it dude?"

"Are you?

"Totally. You're not?"

"No, I am, I mean, I totally feel high."

Of course I'm sure we felt a little woozy. Smoke and lack of oxygen and the constant background hum of dumb boy-puberty hormones will do that.

From there, we decided the English Breakfast didn't taste good. We moved on to the good stuff.

We found the Chamomile ("Dude, Herbal!"). Chamomile, Lemon Zinger, and finally the dankest of the dank, Sleepytime.

By this point, we weren't even bothering with the rolling anymore. We would just set one side of the tea bag on fire and inhale straight through the other side. The smell of singed eyelashes mingled with the tea smoke.

The kitchen was a swirling firestorm of tiny burning leaves, a miniature tea forest firebombed by tweenage stupidity.

The whole thing lasted maybe half an hour.

The kitchen was a smoky ruin. Junkies don't do clean-up. Torn, blackened tea bags and burnt paper and ashes and tea leaves on every surface. It looked vaguely like some sort of a half-assed drug den. A pleasant, lemony-tea smelling one, but still, I imagined a couple of people driving by would treat us like a crack house:

Driver: "Hey, you see that place? That's a tea house."

Passenger: "You mean, like scones and shit?"

Driver: "No. Like drugs!"

There were very few ill-effects from the Tea Incident. I never found myself wandering the streets, offering to perform sex acts for cash so I could score a bag of Constant Comment. "C'mon Mister. I'll suck ya dick for some Oolong."

My mother and stepfather came home and found the mess of course. They just laughed and my mother said something to the effect of, "You tried to get high of off smoking tea? You idiot."

Imagine if it had worked though? My drug kingpin name would've been Earl Grey.

Parent Teacher Conference

2011-01-06T20:48:00.000-08:00

I went to the Parent teacher conference last night. Just the Pnut's teacher and me, locked in a room prepared to battle to the death over who knows what's best for my little girl. She had brass knuckles. I brought a halberd to the party. As the saying goes, "Never bring brass knuckles to a halberd fight."

It went well, actually. She opened with the line, "I feel like we don't even need to have this conference."

I didn't let her off that easy, but it was a good way to start. Apparently, the Pnut is doing very well. Her class work is great, her homework is great, she's polite, and so forth. She is still shy, but it's improving.

For my part, I asked lots of questions, including "is there anything else we need to be working on at home?" and "You know she's a genius right? A delicate genius. Say it!"

I'm a mess.

In other news, I am participating in the 2nd annual Knucklehead's blog-off 2011. It's sort of a bloggy American Idol. I'm obligated to participate this year as last year, I crashed the contest without an invitation. Mr. Knucklehead was very gracious.

This year's (felllow) competitors:

The Fred Effect

Candy’s Daily Dandy

Wrestling with Retirement

There will be voting involved in this contest. I will post all the necessary links. Posts will be on Sundays starting Jan. 9th. If you have time, scroll around, do some reading and voting. These are all fine bloggers and I am happy to be associated with them.

This Image, well, now you're stuck with it too.

2011-01-04T21:05:00.000-08:00

We got a little potty training going on here. Just the first yellow trickles in what promises to be the thawing of the Great Diaper Winter that has been our lives for 3 + years.

The Pumpkin Man is on his way, pee-pee style. Lawdy dawdy, we likes to potty.

I mention this only to give context to the brief scene I'm about to portray, one in which the Pman spends the entire time sans diaper. And also because I'm proud of him. Ok

So, after spending some time on the potty, doing the deed, and being lauded for it like he just saved a life, he pops off and toddles over to where the Dora rug rests nearby on the playroom floor. As I've mentioned before, he's got a pretty sick thing for Dora.

He walks on to the rug, plops his naked nude parts on Dora's face and lays down on his back. He has positioned himself--incidentally, one hopes fruitlessly-- so that his dingle is dangling just millimeters above Dora's smiling face.

He then starts opening and closing his legs so that her face dis and re-appears every half second or so and to his movement he adds a cheery "Hello! Goodbye. Hello! Goodbye. Hello . . . "

I think maybe the worst part about it is that he still had his shirt on.

Dora says "he's harmless" I told her to get a restraining order, fast. I'll testify against him.

HM

This is a second hand story. I was in the kitchen while my was witnessing this. I am lucky.

Chaos

2010-12-28T07:11:00.000-08:00

I am the Lord Of Chaos. Fear me. Or be entertained by me. Little kids are drawn to it like white guys to indie-pop. Some adults, too. It's made me fun and laid back and pretty non-judgmental.

I try hard to control it's effects. Mitigation is the watch word. I do pretty ok most times. I can make up for it with a lack of laziness, compassion and love for my family, and a coping mechanism I've developed. When things seem out of control and unmanageable to most, I calmly glide through the situation, blithely unaware that that thing over there is about to explode. And who knew you could bathe a baby in a crock pot set to low?

The negative side of my superpowers tends to manifest itself around times like now. The holidays. On the one hand, I am relatively unaffected by the stress that settles over most people's lives. I'm in good spirits, unworried about getting the shopping done, pretty sure that everything is going to work out. And it does, most times.

However, now the house is in a state that can best be described as I can't find the cat. For 2 days. I thought I heard her mewling under a pile of ornament boxes, but that was the Pumpkin Man.

So, I will be spending my time cleaning, organizing, tossing things out, and finding domesticated animals. How will you guys enter the New Year?

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Speaking of Chaos, I've got a post up at dadcentric concerning the big northeast snow storm.

Here's an excerpt: snow

Give it a read, if you get the chance, won't you?

Post Christmas Post

2010-12-26T20:32:00.000-08:00

I'm sitting here trying to decide which horrible basic cable movie I'm going to watch. It came down to Crocodile Dundee 2 and The Grudge 3. I settled on The Grudge 3 but my wife is in bed and the music is too scary, so you get a post.

I did almost watch the Little Ceasar's Bowl on ESPN, but it turns out it's NOT an all little people re-enactment of the gladiatorial battles of Ancient Rome, so eff that.

Christmas was fun fun fun this year. Both kids were old enough to appreciate it. The Pumpkin man doesn't get the whole Santa thing, but about 2 days after his bday he was apparently suffering some serious withdrawal as he went into the play room, looked at the Christmas tree, threw back his head and bellowed "I WANT PRESEEENTS!"

So he enjoyed himself.

The Peanut is totally into the whole Santa scene. On Christmas eve she made sure I called him to tell him how nice she was being. I did. We talked. I was lucky to get through.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

For parents with both tv's and young kids, DVR's are the way to go to combat Christmas commerce and commercialism. I have completely convinced the kids that commercials are "yucky, stupid, and disgusting." They beg me to fast forward them.

Hence, when we asked the Peanut what she wanted Santa to bring her for Christmas, she replied, "A teddy bear." That's it. That's all.

Love that kid.

I made homemade cookies for Santa this year. We put three of them out for him. He ate those and then proceeded to go into our kitchen and decimate half a platter of them. Fucker.

Ok. I just found All The Right Moves on the tv. Now I'm busy. Tom Cruise pre-Scientology (and Lea Thompson pre-whatever happened to Lea Thompson). He looks so sane. My spell check only recognizes Scientology if it's capitalized. Stupid brainwashed spell check.

Goodnight, happy holidays, and thank you thank you all for reading and commenting and whatnot.

That is my sentiment for the year.

Homemaker Man

P.S. Microwave Popcorn goes surprisingly well with a 6$ Trader Joe's Sauvignon Blanc. A little wine/food pairing tip for ya,

Danger: Pumpkin Man Approaching

2010-12-20T10:18:00.000-08:00

The Pumpkin Man is trouble.

The Pumpkin man is a rolling, tumbling, rock slide of bruises and consequences.

The Pumpkin Man is a screaming, crying, pulsing head wound

The Pumpkin Man is a sentient avalanche, the Bulls when they Run, an imploding building.

The Pumpkin Man is the word "No" screeched into the Grand Canyon a thousand times.

The Pumpkin Man is an insidious whine that often implicates his sister in a crime she didn't commit.

The Pumpkin man is an armful of dark, rich, forest earth. The kind you can taste on the air.

The Pumpkin Man is a little stinky.

The Pumpkin Man is a drum beat you can feel in your gut.

The Pumpkin man is a bear cub with no knowledge of the winter.

The Pumpkin Man is a grinning Eric Carle sunrise.

The Pumpkin man is some of the hardest laughs I've ever had.

The Pumpkin Man loves the ladies. And it is so reciprocal.

The Pumpkin man has the charisma of joy.

The Pumpkin Man is a surprisingly strong hug from the universe that says "You are loved."

The Pumpkin Man is 2 years old today.

Happy Birthday, my loving, crazy, hilarious, sweet, intelligent, clumsy, moon headed boy. We love you.

Homemaker Man
Mrs Homemaker Man
The Peanut

Catcher In The Rye 2: The Movie

2010-12-08T20:27:00.000-08:00

Here’s the pitch:

Holden gets out of the sanitarium, convinces everyone he’s fine, moves out to the country. But he’s not fine. He’s pissed off and he’s not gonna take it anymore. Meanwhile, we see a montage of him chopping wood and running in the snow and shooting guns and doing karate on tree trunks.

Finally, he’s ready. We know that because he shoots a bug on a leaf at 500 yards and karate chops a tree in half.

He goes back into the city to get his revenge on the pimp that punched him in the stomach and all the pimps and drug dealers and scum in the city are next. Think Rocky 4 meets Taxi driver meets Commando.

At some point we find out Stradlater is a successful CEO and humanitarian who just happens to be up to his handsome neck in organized crime.

Now the movie really takes off.

Holden’s going to put that phony bastard and his entire organization on ice.

Catch phrase scene:

Just as Holden’s about to blow away an unsuspecting mid-level scumbag he turns and puts something on his head. The scumbag--trying to buy time--asks, “What the fuck is that?”

“This is a people shooting hat." Holden replies. "I shoot people in this hat. Motherfucker. (Kaplow Kaplow. Zap. Ping.)”

That’s totally from the original book. Except the “Mother Fucker” which I added. It’s more cinematic.

Watch for Catcher In The Rye 3: The Phonies’ Revenge in 2013 and Catcher In The Rye 4: The Phoebe Effect in 2015.

Any of the movie studio execs that regularly read this blog and want to option this idea, please email me. We’ll talk.

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Cute naked story alert:

Bath time. Undressing the kids. The Pman is facing the Peanut as I take off his diaper.

The Peanut pipes, "There's his penis! Penis penis bo-benis bananafan fo fenis me my mo menis, penis."

I am a lucky dad.

99 luft balloons would be a massacre

2010-12-07T19:14:00.000-08:00

Why are balloons always so tragic? They always leave or die.

We got a couple free mylar balloons about 4 days ago. Usually, I have a strict no balloon policy. Balloons are like the West Bank of our household. It doesn't matter whose it is, there is going to be fighting.

And crying. And screaming and wailing and fit throwing and temper tantruming and one time I got shivved in the calf with a sharpened plastic chicken.

But we were Chanukah shopping and were feeling the holiday spirit and they were free so we altered our policy.

Tonight, a balloon died. As they always do. The Peanut's mourning process was less than dignified.

Coming off her sickness and a nice day back at school, she threw a record breaking tantrum. Had to have been at least 45 minutes. A lot of it in her room.

I'm pretty sure she called me the c word.

I shouldn't keep letting her watch Train Spotting.

Due to the fabulous festivities of the evening, I am finishing the bottle of sauvignon blanc that I used on tonight's haddock. It's a vintage 2009 Robert Mondavi Private Selection. I believe it's named this because it tastes like Robert Mondavi's privates.

That is of course conjecture on my part. His privates may very well taste better than this wine.

H to the M.

The 4 Horsemen of the Chanukahppocalypse: The Conclusion

2010-12-06T20:32:00.000-08:00

When we last left our hero, he had his hands full. Of puke.

Will our hero's daughter ever have a normal human digestion process ever again?

Will our hero's son please stop climbing that right now? And don't spill water. Don't spill water!

Ahh fuck it. Spill water.

Will someone come and take the aforementioned son off of our hero's hands for just like, an hour or 2 weeks?

The Chanukah miracle lasted eight days and was declared a holiday. It seems as though this stomach bug the Peanut has wants it's own holiday too.

Until today.

Today, it broke.

Judah Macabee himself came down from Mount Olympus and put the kibosh on the virus.

Tomorrow, she goes back to school.

Today, as I predicted, I wailed on both kids in a dreidel session. I spun gimel, after gimel, after gimel.
Raked in I don't know how many Cherrios.

It got so bad the Peanut started cheating. Instead of spinning the dreidel by its stem, she'd pick it up in her fist, fix it so the gimel was showing, and drop it on the floor.

Her first attempt to cheat at gambling. I'm very proud. My little grifter.

HM

The Four Horsemen of the Chanukahppocalypse

2010-12-06T12:56:00.000-08:00

We're doing all the good Hanukkah customs. We've been lighting the menorah candles and dancing to Hava Nagila and giving presents and eating human flesh and hoarding gold and being the world's greatest entertainers. The usual.

In the midst of all this, we've been receiving our own nightly Chanukah present from the peanut in the form of multiple orifice spewage.

I caught some vomit in my hand last night. L'Chaim!

(In the Jewish tradition, that predicts much wealth and a happy marriage. Or a mass exodus. 6 of one . . .)

This morning we kept her home from school.

There I was, trapped like a Catholic in a bad marriage*. One sick 3 year-old girl.

Another toddler that has the basic speed and impulse control of a howler monkey. The business acumen, too.

No car.

I have to post 2 posts today, so this is to be continued . . .

HM

*Fun Fact: Jewish law gives a number of reasons why Jews can get divorced. Including when someone won't put out. Go figure.

Oh Chanukah Oh Chanukah . . . What's that smell?

2010-12-04T15:45:00.000-08:00

So I mentioned something about 8 posts in 8 days. I'll get there. The start of our Chanukah has been a little meshuga. The Peanut has contracted an intestinal illness that has left the entire house in a stinky fog. A fetid fecal haze that clouds the nostrils and feeds the soul. Fecal Haze, all in my brain, as the song should never, ever go.

Tonight, you'll be getting my traditional Chanukah posting. It's my best traditional Chanukah post, if I do say so myself.
And we will be doing exactly as the post says we're doing. Except the Peanut. She's feeling better, but you don't give a sick toddler Thai food unless you're doing an experiment on fecal velocity. Or viscosity.

Ok, Let's get all Jewish up in here, Chosen peoples: A Chomemaker Chanukah
*****************************************************************************

Tonight, on Chanukah eve, we celebrated with our Chanukah tradition. We watched Fiddler on The Roof and ate Thai food. That shit is straight from the Torah. Chapter 11 page 436:

And G_D said, " Thai Food? Sure, why not?"

Maybe that is not exactly what it says in the Torah. I don't know. As I've said before , I didn't get a whole lot of formal religious book learnin'. I got my Judaism from the streets. Back alley games of high stakes dreidel and red yarmulkes proudly displaying my gang colors. I was a Bloodberg.

Love that movie, Fiddler On the Roof. My family knows that if there is ever a community theatre within driving distance of our house auditioning for the part of Tevye, I'm there. And I'm getting that part. The theatre calls.

And for those who know the movie, you might wonder; did I get all misty-eyed at the part where Tevye denies his daughter Chava because she has decided to take up with a Polish gentile (Lord knows we've all been there. The ol' Polish gentile trick.)? Well, crying is for women and babies. And I am a baby woman.

In closing, I am excited for Chanukah to start tomorrow. I will light the candles and read the prayers from the Chanukah book I have which was written for 1st graders. Then, the gambling will begin. I am gonna spin that dreidel so good. My wife and kids won't know what hit'em. My pockets will be filled with chocolatey gelt by 4 pm tomorrow. Don't cry, my little babies. You come to spin the dreidel with me,biatches, you best come correct.

Challah!

Chomemaker Mensch

The gentile could be Russian. I just know they went to Krakow. That is all.

Education Is For Losers

2010-12-02T20:23:00.000-08:00

Here's something interesting:* Arne Duncan, the Sec'y of Education, doesn't hold any degree higher than a bachelor's. In sociology. It's true.

He's only got a bachelor's. In sociology. Which means there are a lot of jobs for which he is not qualified.

Like sociologist.

Another one? Teacher. They have to get their master's*

I don't mean to demean his education. Lord knows he made it further through school that I did. A little. I'm just saying that you'd think the Sec'y of Education would have an advanced degree. Or at least a bachelor's in education.

I don't mean to debase a bachelor's in sociology, either. It's just that a bachelor's in sociology is the educational equivalent of a bachelor's in sociology.

I was going to list all the things you would not be able to do for a living with a bachelor's in soc. but I ran out of internet.

Instead here's a list of jobs you can do with that degree:

Social worker. I think.

Research assistant.

I googled "bachelor's in sociology jobs" and was told to "get an advanced degree."

Just to be fair, I know Duncan is not completely without experience in the education field. There are two instances:

1.) When he was a young teenager he tutored underprivileged kids.

2.) After college, he played pro-basketball in Australia.

I guess that's technically one instance, although I'm sure he schooled some Aussie suckas on the basketball court, y'all. Of course, half the time he would've been playing them "at home." Which would've been home schooling.

It's one of the great American beliefs that someone without a proper education can "make it." Dave Thomas and Wendy's, Bill Gates and Microsoft, me and Homemaking.

But this is different. He's never taught. He was never a principal or headmaster. His time as the CEO (blech) of the Chicago public schools was not what you could call wildly successful.* And yet not only was he handpicked by the President, he's been called one of the most powerful Secretaries of Education in history.

Inventor, entertainer, entrepeneur, artist. These are jobs that don't necessarily require an advanced degree.

Person in charge of the education of everyone; some sort of education related degree would be nice. I'd take an associates in daycare, at this point.

I'm posting because people don't seem to mind this, and I don't understand. No one would be cool with it if the Surgeon General had a degree in Film Studies. Though at least that person would be fun on trivia night.

In the end, what do I know? I'm just a guy with young kids who are just entering a public school system that does not seem healthy.

On the bright side, at least Duncan wasn't an art history major. He'd make a horrible Sec'y of Defense.

*In the interest of full disclosure, my wife is a high school English teacher.

*They have to obtain it within a certain number of years from when they start teaching. Some states have relaxed that requirement due to teacher shortages.

*support materials, here, here , and here. And Arne's wikipedia page.

8 Days of Posting.

2010-12-01T18:53:00.000-08:00

The first night of Chanukah was very successful. Wholesome family fun. Presents, candles, singing dancing, latkes. I absolutely destroyed the kids with the dreidel. Won all of this year's candy and they took out advances on the next 4 Chanukahs. Fools.

All very, very normal. Until we found Shalom Sesame. It's kind of like Russian heavy metal is to American Heavy metal. Almost, but then again, totally not. Also, it's educational. Here's a preview.

"Menorah Shmenorah, I want my Latke!"
"Latke Shmatke, I want my Menorah!"

HM

No Mo Movember

2010-11-30T19:13:00.000-08:00

That's it it's all over. The days of wine and Mustaches are behind us. Thanks to all who participated or gave during Movember. My prostate thanks you. You can still donate here or here, by the way.

So, how'd the Stache turn out? Pretty Jewey, actually:

As you can see, on my blog,we all come up Gimel (kind of like getting dealt a straight flush).

Now how do I shave this thing off?

Happy early Chanukah!

Movember Musings and Tryptophan Dreams

2010-11-26T22:10:00.000-08:00

Did everyone who celebrates out there have a good ThanksGiving? Good. Ours went well. I cooked a 13 pound bird for two adults and two toddlers. It's about the spectacle, really.

This will probably be our 2nd to last Movember update. As a reminder, Movember is November Mustaches against prostate cancer, you can donate here at the DadCentric team page, or at my very own Movember page. Thank you.

I really like the Movement the Mustache has shown over the past couple of days. It seems to respond to it's environment quite readily. Perhaps it's becoming sentient? We can only hope.

Without further jibber-jabber, Thanksgiving Stache:

Mustache, you've outdone yourself this time. Pumpkin Pie. Festive and stylish. And let me tell you, sitting here right under my nose, it smells delicious. I mean, really good.

I wonder if . . . no, I shouldn't. But if I can just get my tongue . . . mMmm, Err, oh yeah that's Mmmph, (smack) so good (smack).

Oops. I think I shouldn't have done that.

Yep. It's Pumpkin Hitler. Of course, if his mustache had been anywhere near that delicious, I think we can all agree things would've gone much, much differently.

And yes, those are pie crumbs on my cheek. Sometimes, it pays to have a paper plate for a face.

Have a good weekend folks.

Homemaker Man

Open House

2010-11-20T19:28:00.000-08:00

The Peanut's school had Open House this week. Our family's first. How did it go? Let me put it this way:

They are studying the five senses this week in class. Hearing, touch, taste, smell, and spidey.

The teacher, who is very good, had a little spray canister of scent that she sprayed in to the air. Then she asked the kids what they though it was. "Candy," said Sophia. "Cake," said Gabe, "Apples," said Mia.

The teacher asked, "Peanut what about you, what do you think?"

"Pie," the Peanut said softly.

"Did you say pie?" asked the teacher. The Peanut nodded her head yes. The teacher smiled and said, "Yes, that's right, it's pie. Pumpkin pie."

She actually got that shit right. That is MY daughter. I'd like to tell you here and now that I did not stand up and start screaming, "Yeah, you like that Sophia? What about you, Gabe, ya little bitch? Taste it Mia, yeah eat it up! That is the flavor of being intellectually bested! It tastes soooo good."

I'd like to tell you that I didn't do that, but I can't. I've been banned from Open House forever.

It was worth it.

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Movember Update

Time for another Movember update. Movember is a movement where men grow mustache's to raise awareness for Prostate Cancer.

The Holiday season is upon us. Donate now at either my page the DadCentric team page so that prostates everywhere can have a merry holiday of their choice.

To help you open up your purse strings--and your heart strings (Slap! manipulation high five)--here is the latest incarnation of my glorious lip fur.

That's right. It's Disco Stache! Shield your eyes and shake your booties against it's majestic glare.

I woke up this morning with glitter all over my pillow. I think there are fairies living in it.

Homemaker Man

P.S. Got a new post up over at DadCentric as well. On the subject of playdates and why I can't get one. It's high school all over again.

Seeee Yoouuu . . . in Moveehhmmmberrr

2010-11-17T12:09:00.000-08:00

So here we are, Day 17, more than half way through Movember and I've updated but once. I'm sorry. Not the most effective way to fight prostate cancer, I know. I had to wait until this grew in a little before I posted more pics. I do have some pride.

Especially since I contacted the AMI--that's the American Mustache Institute--about admission into their whiskery ranks. I'm still waiting to hear (fingers crossed!) but I think with my mustache's latest developments, I'm a shoe in. Plus, on the entrance exam where they ask "Why do you love your mustache?" I answered, "because it fights cancer."

With a little luck, I think I may even be in the running for The Robert Goulet Memorial Mustached American Of the Year. Though between you, me, and the mustache wax, that award should be named after Sam Elliot. I mean, really now.

And I know the name a few of you are thinking. Fuck Rollie Fingers. Sounds like an arch pedophile.

Ok. The afore mentioned mustache developments. I know you're curious out there. Without further folderol, The Stache':

That's right. I've grown the Chewie.

Here's a better look:

Yes Chewie, you had a question?

Totally baddass, I know. I didn't think I had it in me. This is post a good trim, too. When I first woke up this morning, the thing was way intimidating:

Killer Stache'

So there you go folks. I gotta think this level of mustache is worth at least a small donation at either the DadCentric team Movember page, my own page, or just at the Movember website in general.

Chewbacca Stache' vs. Prostate Cancer. Cancer doesn't have a chance.

--------------------------------------------------

In other news, my wife has been working awfully long days lately (for those of you who think teacher's hours are easy, you are wicked wrong.). Sometimes she checks this space to see what's up at home.
Honey, we love you and we miss you like crazy. We can't wait until you get home. We've all misplaced our pants.

Love,

Us

HM

P.S here's a pic to get your pulse raising, my darling:

Sun kissed Stache'

Bleffluvia/Movember update.

2010-11-09T16:15:00.000-08:00

Hey everyone. Sorry I've been a cruddy blogger. We've been busy. To sum up:

About a month and a half ago, we're in the car, my daughter starts this:

"Hey daddy, do we poop in our pants?"

"No! (I am sporting a firmly lecturial, anti-pants pooping tone. And demeanor. Mostly.) We do NOT poop in our pants."

"Daddy, do we poop on the floor?

"Peanut, NO we . . . wait a second? Are you laughing?"

And she was. She was cracking up. We went on to talk about whether or not one defecates on the cat(sometimes), the dog, the car, and her brother (not when he's awake.). We just laughed and laughed.

To my memory, these are some kindergarten level jokes.

Of course this comes up again and again intermittently. She starts joking about chocolate poop and eating chocolate poop cookies and pooping chocolate (which would be the best/most tragic thing ever if she could really do that). I role with all of it until she starts threatening to poop on her mother and me. I tell her she can't be joking like that. Nobody poops on my woman with the exception of both children when they were infants. I've got to draw a line somewhere. A line in the poop. Unfortunately, it's a dotted line.

Cut to this weekend.

She's in the bathroom. I go in to help her finish up.

She gleefully informs me that there is "poop and pee, all mixed up in there. It's all mixed up."

I'm tired. I forget myself. I tell her, "I know. That's what you're having for dinner."

I'm not proud. At least, I'm not until she replies:

"I'm gonna put frosting on it!"

With frosting-a-cake hand motions.

She one-upped me. The student becomes the teacher. I am fit to burst. With pride, I mean.

I ran downstairs and related the incident to my wife. She laughed out loud.

Tell me people with older kids, am I wrong in thinking this is some 1st-2nd grade level poop humor? She's like the Joan Rivers of Pre-school. "Can we talk? About poop?"

I know I should not be proud of this, but I am. My chest is puffed way out. With pride, I mean.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------

On to our Movember update. For those of you who are not aware, Movember is a movement in which those of us who can grow moustaches do so in hopes of raising money for prostate cancer research(You donate at my Movember page or at the DadCentric Team Page or just go to the website.).

Then those of us who have blogs post pics of our pelt-y progress. Thusly:

As you can see, it's not going well. It screams "pubescent lack of authority." Or maybe "French-Canadian douche-bag." Or Wendy's asst. manager. And despite this horrific look, I still seem to have that dumb fuck grin plastered on my goofy mug.

I will keep trying though, Because it is for a great cause.

I do have an idea for next year. I've been doing a little research. Allow me to direct you to this article from BBC News. It suggests that a highly effective method of preventing prostate cancer is frequent ejaculation. It goes on to say that the primary method recommended is masturbation due to the risk of STD's.

This is not a risk with which I need concern myself. I'm married. And she's monogamous. With me. I'm pretty sure. But still, either way it's pretty much a win win.,

So, prostate having people, coming in 20ll to a private moment near you:

Jackuary!

Who's with me?

Please, no pics.

Movember: Mustaches Against Cancer

2010-11-02T19:26:00.000-07:00

I know. From the title, you're like, "Why bother? Cancer will kick a mustache's ass." And most times, you'd be correct. But not this month. This month the mustache has a chance to be a hero. For this . . is Movember.

Movember is a Movement. A Movement to raise awareness of--and money for--men's health. Specifically for the prevention of Prostate Cancer.

Grow a 'Stache and raise some cash.

Prostate cancer does not get the same press that breast cancer receives. This may well be because most people can see breasts, and many people enjoy the sight. Not so true with a prostate. Though, a healthy prostate is a beautiful thing. And now we're full circle.

Whatever the case, the original MoBros decided to try and do something about the lack of prostate press. Via mustaches.

(This is not to set up a competition between prostate and breast cancer, mind you. I'm a pretty big fan of both . . . all? . . . of the aforementioned organs. For varying reasons. And I think we all agree that cancer of the anything is not good.)

Participation in Movember requires that I shave clean and then grow a mustache for the month while posting public photos of the process. I'd love to participate. The guys over at DadCentric are already all over it.

So, without further ado, clean shaven me:

I know, I still have some stubble showing. I apologize, I have a heavy beard. It's the best I could do.

Please, check back for updated pics. I will grow a mustache of some sort, I'm almost positive. And please, DONATE at either my page or any of the participating DadCentrician's pages or just go to the website and donate directly. However you do it, my shiny new mustache will thank you. As will my shiny ol' prostate.

One last thing. For those women who can't grow a mustache--and you know who you are--you can participate either by donating (duh) or by becoming a Mo Sister. So there you go.

One more last thing. The money raised will benefit the Prostate Cancer Foundation and LIVESTRONG. So there you go again.

HM

Creepy Halloween Post. I promise.

2010-10-27T07:29:00.000-07:00

The following is something I whipped up in my cauldron for the All-Hallows Eve celebration. A few creepy, crawly, Halloween verses to get things off to s spooky start, ya pagan bastards:

Waiting

He’s a creepy, crabby, craggy old man

Got rings on his fingers, a tattoo on his hand.

He’s got spiders astride him, in his hair, on his clothes

Which are dingy and dirty, threadbare old robes.

He eats all he eats with his mouth open wide,

Unspeakable rottenness churning inside.

The sludge tumbles out in great glops from his maw

And the stink would leave dung beetles choking in awe.

His teeth are worn down, greasy, gray nubs

And his plump lips they squirm, like swollen pink grubs.

The voice, when it speaks, speaks in gurgles and creaks

It screeches and bubbles and the words seem to leak.

His eyes are corrupted, milky and white.

Still, this glutinous gaze cuts through the night.

The sights that he sees are the best and the worst.

He scoffs at your fortune, savors your hurt.

He’s come here for you; he’s been here forever.

As old as the stars, as rash as the weather.

Immutable, inconceivable, impossible, ordained,

Welcome him now like the wind welcomes rain.

P. S. The title is not solid. I'm open to suggestions.

It Is NOT time for that

2010-10-25T11:31:00.000-07:00

During drop-off and pick-up for the Peanut the past week, there has been a particular subject that I've been able to pick out from the usual parental chit-chat ("He hates getting dressed . . . She bullies her brother . . . Me? Amyl nitrate, usually . . .").

Disney.

Who's siblings have been, who's going next, how many times, when's the best time of year, etc.

The past week a little boy from the Peanut's class--who we'll refer to as "Jack" because that's his first name--has been absent. He's been at Disney World. He's three years old and it's his first trip to the Enchanted Multinational Corporation. His 6 year old sister made the Disney hat trick this time.

He came back to school today and we found out two things: He talked a lot about going back to school, and he seemed overwhelmed.

Color me surprised.

It just seems, mmm, not savvy, to take a kid that young to Disney World and expect him to have a really good time.

Also, to me it smacks a little of indoctrination. Get'em started young so when they're eleven they can rat me out to the Disney Secret Police when they catch me laughing at Bugs Bunny.

In the interest of full disclosure I have two admissions: 1.) I myself did go to Disney Land when I was seven. We were living in santa Monica. The guy my mother was dating at the time, a Hebrew school teacher brimming with mustache and lustrous Jew-Fro, took us for the day. I can't say exactly what I was thinking during the day, but it wasn't exclusively "wheeeee! I'm at Disney!"

There was also a good helping of, "Hey. You trying to bang my mommy there, Rabbi?" Or words to that effect.

2.) I am dreading the day when it will be our turn to do the Diz. I hope to hold it off as long as I can. The only Disney related movie we've partially watched here is Finding Nemo. And that's only because the Peanut loves fish and Finding Nemo kicks ass.

Otherwise the whole Princess motif really bugs me and The Peanut already thinks of herself in those terms, to some degree.

I think the best way for the kids to do Disney is to wait until they're in college. Then they get their two best friends (three best if the third one is the one who has a car), a big bag of weed, gather up their Xmas/ leftover loan money, and drive.

I know we're most likely going to have to do the Diz eventually. And the Peanut does love her rides. And I can't say that I don't sing a heartfelt version of "Part Of Your World" from The Little Mermaid.

I'd just like to hold off long enough that, when the trip is over, and we're home safe and sound, and we've checked for listening devices, I can turn to the kids and say, "Ok, just so we're clear, any princess worth her salt can fight her own battles, Bugs Bunny is so much funnier it's not even a contest, Donald duck is a douche' bag, and here's the thing about gigantic media companies."

Then again, maybe I'm just being an asshole. Which is always a possibility.

The Festival of Blight

2010-10-18T09:38:00.000-07:00

The Fall Festival at the Peanut’s school was this past Saturday. “Games, Prizes, Pumpkin Decorating, Face Painting, donuts and cider!” read the 10$ family ticket we had to purchase in advance.

First off, I had to get all dressed up to go to this thing. By “dressed up,” I mean “wear pants.” It felt so good to take off that monkey suit when I got home. I’m the guy who’ll run out to his car in his boxer shorts if it’s dark enough outside.

The festival . . .

We leave the house and it is a brilliant fall day. The white bright sunshine and biting autumn breeze have conspired to clean all the corners of the world. Chasing out grime and shadows alike. Leaving good spirits in their wake.

Then we got to the festival.

They held it in the school’s quad. Quad is being used loosely here. Very loosely. As in parking lot.

They had a choose-your-own pumpkin area. There were 4 dozen or so small pumpkins resting on some sparsely scattered hay made dirty by the combination of the pumpkins, asphalt, and toddler hands.

There was a table with popcorn, about 5 dozen plain donuts, and 4 gallons of “cider.” As the label put it:

“Rudy’s! Apple cider drink. There were apples near it!”

Eh, the cider was real-ish. The popcorn was fake.

We picked our pumpkins, grabbed a donut and a cup of cider-aide, and went inside for the face-painting, pumpkin decorating, and games.

The classroom they set aside for this was decorated in the style of the neo-minimalist Apathetic movement.

My daughter wanted a lion face from the face-painter. The face-painter was a fourth grader who couldn’t attempt to give my daughter a lion face because she had been instructed to not use too much face paint on any one person.

She painted a crude butterfly on my daughter’s cheek and an even cruder elephant on the Pumpkin man. Looked like a mouse with a hard-on.

The games consisted of a raffle for a gift basket that was probably put together at a a Family Dollar ( Contents: a fall-themed, vinyl tablecloth, Ritzo’s peanut butter kupz, and creamed candy corn) and a bean bag toss through a cardboard jack-o-lantern. In that game, everyone won: a tiny container of playdoh and an amorphous silly-bandz. I think The Peanut won a Shmoo.

The decorating table for the pumpkins consisted of: 1) stickers and 2) markers that I’m positive were not washable and I suspect were toxic. I’m not totally sure about the latter as I only ate one.

That might be enough to make a lesser man ill, but I’m a fat drink of water.

Just to show I’m not the only one griping, here are some quotes from other festival goers”

“A sad little fall festival.”

--My Wife

“

“Two bit tinhorn bullshit.”

--Me

So . . . people are got their pre-schoolers up and out of the house by 9 on a Saturday in 46 degree weather with wind gusting at 40 mph to stand around in a parking lot near some dirty hay.

It wouldn’t have taken much to make it a fun festival. The high school has a pretty good art department (I know. In this day and age. That’s my city though. A quilt of a scant few sunny bright ideas surrounded by dull brown dumbness.). Why not have a couple of art students come down and help each class make decorations?

Or one to do the face-painting, at least?

Maybe for the Winter Carnival they’ll whip snowballs at the kids while we dig madly in an attempt to find 6 special prizes (individual strands of tinsel maybe? Coal?) hidden in the snow.

Maybe I'll volunteer to make decorations. I do have mad construction paper skillz . . .

Hasta Maine-ana

2010-10-10T21:57:00.000-07:00

I went to the lake to say goodbye.

The autumn breeze cleaned my lungs. Dragged playful fingers over the lake’s surface, rippling the water.

The sun had begun the decent that would soon hide it behind the foothills along the Sebago. It painted a gold streak from one side to the other. It hurt my eyes to look, but I had to.

A single sailboat rode across the sunbeam, the illumination making its white sail translucent.

The fall foliage was exploding fireworks in the background

I mean, are you shitting me? You cannot make this stuff up.

Beautiful. Ridiculous. Nature is so cliché.

Thank goodness.

We went to Maine to visit the amazing, hilarious, and beloved Aunties. They always exceed the hype we lay on the kids leading up to the trip. They rock.

We also went to the Fryeburg Fair. There were cows and rides and fair foods and all manner of fair-y goodness. There were fat people engaging in unseemly acts of self-indulgence. I sadly shook my head at them but they couldn't see it behind the two story double-scoop waffle cone and roof shingle sized slice of sicilian pizza I was eating. Poor fools.

While there the Peanut made two requests. After visiting the steers: "I wish I could have a cow like that."

After riding a kiddie ride that consisted of little metallic cars: " I wish I had a car like that."

That's when I told her to get a job.

Had a great time. Glad to be home.

Jew . . . ish 2: Moses Never Sleeps/

2010-10-04T09:51:00.000-07:00

For those interested, read part one here:

Now comes the other side of the coin.

In the midst of this religious uncertainty, as I am striving discover a side of myself that was, up until now, explored in large part through the ingestion of latkes (so crispy) and the freedom to make Jew jokes while condemning virtual strangers as anti-Semites, I also became godfather to my niece.

I had to go from Judaism to Christianity faster than Mel Gibson’s agent. (Jew jibe and Anti-Semite slam all in one. Thank you)

I was a little unsure of how that was going to turn out too.

We got to the temple church.

The pastor greeted us upon entering. He was youngish and White and southern and silver-haired and friendly like a politician.

The church was more of a chapel/office/classroom/religious compound (nervous chuckle). The building had an up-to-date elementary school vibe. The chaple was blond wood beams and pews, polished wood cross, big windows letting in lots of natural light, colorful cloth banners, almost like quilts (Jesus Quilts. Patent Pending). There were large flat screen tv’s showing the words to the prayers and hymns. It was all very Fellowship of the Sun.

The service mostly went off without a hitch. It was done lovingly and no vampires were exploded. My favorite part was when the Peanut Man got swept up in one of the hymns. “Paaays Jeeezis!” He bellowed as the rapture overtook him. Dude loves to sing.

So far, the best part of being the godfather is that, with the exception of the parents, I get to take the baby from anyone whenever I want. God says they have to give her up. I march over to whoever is holding her, “Give me the child.” I command. If they refuse, I up the anti.

“The Power Of Christ compels you!” I roar as my eyes glow, alight with my new godfather superpowers. You can do that. It’s totally in the bible. Or maybe the Constitution.

Either way, people are usually startled enough that it works.

He second best part is that I do a more than passable Brando imitation. Most annoying godfather ever.

It’s pretty cool.

*From part one: We got a call from the president of the temple. She told us that she hated hearing we couldn’t come because of money and that there was a misunderstanding because the family service was supposed to be free anyway.

She invited us to a Tot Shabbat (yes) service. For Sukkot. Sukkot is the harvest holiday and it’s pretty kid friendly. Tot Shabbat was . . .ok. The person who usually ran it wasn’t there, so we’ll have to give them a second chance. Everyone was pretty nice and we got to go outside and hangout in the Sukkah. The Sukkah is a temporary hut that we are supposed to build and then we’re traditionally supposed to eat all our meals in it for the whole week of Sukkot. Jews know how to party.

Jew . . .ish

2010-10-01T06:55:00.000-07:00

We’re looking for a religion. There, I said it now. It’s out there.

We’re doing it so the kids have a religious identity. And a cultural one. And, when they reach teen hood, something to rebel against other than their parents. Sic’em on God.

We’re looking for a religion, and we’ve decided to look in the direction of Judaism. I think we have to face toward New York.

I’m Jewish. Via genetics/ Jewish law. My mother is Jewish so I’m Jewish. My wife grew up Methodist and went to Catholic High School and then minored in religious studies. Studied her way right out of a faith. Now though, she’s rethinking things. She may be ready to accept Jesus Christ into her heart as a nice Jewish boy. Who wouldn’t?

God and I don’t hang out either, as a rule. Different social circles. I don’t believe in him, he doesn’t believe in me, and we’re comfortable with that.

I’d like to note here, I’m not a strident, angry atheist. I’ve made peace with my lack of faith. I don’t want to demean religion. There is nothing worse than a proselytizing atheist.

“You must not believe or nothing will happen to you!” Settle down, heathen.

And, I’m open to the possibility of faith. It could happen. I’m not open in a “so I went to a psychic and she told me I recently underwent an important change and I was like OMG you’re totally right, I just got these pants!” way. But I’m open.

Like if Moses suddenly showed up on a tortilla, I might believe. Probably not though, since he didn’t even eat Mexican food. “Oy, with the spicy,” he used to say.

I joke because the Jews have always been funny. That’s why God chose us.

I’m also pretty uncomfortable with the subject. I have never before had to really face up to my lack of religious training or knowledge about my own culture. My formal religious training consists of one month of Hebrew school when I was 7. My mother was dating the teacher.

Most of what I know about Judaism, I learned on the streets. Late night games of spin the dreidel in the back of all night delis with tough looking boys named Schlomo and even tougher girls named Sylvia.

I’m finding some aspects of the Jewish faith fascinating. Yom Kippur is our day of atonement. We fast and pray and ask for forgiveness for the year. The neat thing is, while you’re asking for forgiveness and promising to try harder in the coming year, you’re supposed to be asking the same thing of God. Imagine that.

“So . . . sorry about the sloth, drinking, and internet porn this year there God. I’ll do better, I promise. But while we’re at it, let’s talk about what you need to work on. Specifically: Everything else bad in the entire universe. Those who live in glass houses . . .” God’s way into solar energy. Of course.

(Open dialogue with God. And so begat the Jewish Lawyer Paradigm.)

It’s a big leap, especially for my wife. Converting to Judaism means months of classes and rituals and examinations.

If we’re going to do this we need to do it right. Shop around. Take a few temples for a spin.

That part has been a little bumpy.

For Rosh Hashanah, we were invited to a temple about ten minutes away. It was the Pumpkin man’s first time in a yarmulke and he looked handsome. I wore the traditional Schettleverth. What’s a Schettleverth? About 2 dollars. Zing (to my knowledge, there is no such thing).

We went to temple. This particular temple, not our scene. The temple was 2/3 full—tops-- on one of the holiest of holy days in all Jewdom. And that 2/3 consisted mostly of people who remember the feeling of wet sand against the bottoms of their feet from when they crossed the Red Sea. Much more Jackie Mason than John Stewart.

My daughter hated temple. Hated it. Why? No yarmulke for her. As she put it, she couldn’t “wear a fancy hat like daddy and the Pumpkin man.”

She went on to say that she “hated going into temple naked.”

Who can blame her?

The Pumpkin man spent the entire time we were there yelling “Wha’ Dat? Who’dat? Wha’dat sound?” Like a Cajun fire alarm.

Then Yom Kippur came. I fasted. I reflected. We did not go to temple. We looked for one. Found a website for one nearby that promised a short family service for families with young kids.

Seats had to be reserved because it’s the high holidays and popular temples get banged out pretty quick for these shows. The seats cost 95$ per for the adults.* So, we didn’t go. If we’re gonna spend 95$ for tickets, it better be because a terrific revival of West Side Story is in town.

That’s a temple with which we’re familiar.

To Be Continued . . .

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