Episode 130: Snow storms, fire alarms and car sex... Ahoy!

The snowbanks are higher than the baby's head and the snow is seeping through the hallway ceiling. Christmas break is off to a pretty rough start and we are once again trapped inside and left to our vices. For me it is trying not to drink all of the PBR I bought yesterday until the sun goes down. For the baby it is being weened off of glazed munchkins and the kitty store. And I am pretty sure all of us are going to overdose on Blues Clues before the end of the storm.



Christmas was a great time for everyone, especially Av, who was apparently the best behaved child in the world because I now have everything from a mini piano to a rocking unicorn with real life noises taking up space in our tiny apartment. The most rewarding thing, though, is that she won't stop playing with the retro wooden play kitchen that Monica and I bought her. This is only rewarding because it took me four and a half hours to put together. I had to put the hinges on the door. Let me repeat that: I had to put the hinges on the door... of a child's play kitchen. It was literally like building an actual kitchen. So, seeing her tossing around plastic vegetables and pretending that her pot of soup is hot makes that lonely Saturday spent sifting through a pile of screws and efficiently labeled parts a few weeks ago well worth it. And it is much less annoying than the unicorn or the piano.

After Christmas, though, things have started to go downhill. Prior to the storm that hit yesterday Monica and I were treated to a sleepless Christmas night thanks to a very, very motivated and dexterous couple who managed to have sex- and very loud sex at that- in a green Honda Civic for two and a half hours outside of our bedroom window. The unfortunate part is that those two and a half hours were from about 3 -5:30 a.m.

Being woken up by the erotic, lustful screams of what turned out to be a rather large woman, along with the struggled cries of an at least 10-year-old, reclined passenger side seat, is as you can imagine very confusing. The sexcapade woke me up first, and I discovered the scene when I looked out the living room window and saw a big, hairy man ass pressed against the windshield. It was not long after that Monica emerged from the bedroom groggy and pissed off. I would later find out it was because she thought I had for some reason woken up at 3 a.m., gone to the living room and started loudly watching porn. Luckily for me, they kept banging, rather aggressively, for quite some time, proving my innocence. The incident, while both annoying and uncomfortable, raises many questions. First, for one to have sex for multiple hours you have to assume that there was either a lot of blow or a lot of Viagra involved, maybe both. Probably both. Second, I get that maybe you had no place to go, and I get that it was 3 a.m. when you started, but these two were as naked as naked gets. Not even any socks. Just parked in plain sight on a side street in front of about six densely settled apartments where any number of people could see through the windshield and the passenger side window from the second floor. Oh, and did I mention that it was like, 22 degrees? Hardly worth it. Then again, when you're all hopped up on Viagra and blow, you gotta blow off some steam somehow, right? The best part was when I left in the morning to find a frozen pair of boxer shorts stuck to the street where the car was parked. Gross.

The incident was so loud and disturbing that I didn't get back to sleep at all that night. I woke up with the baby, went to Walmart and the grocery store before 9 a.m. and settled in for a relaxing storm day. I went through my entire day watching the snow and looking forward to sleep. Had some tacos, a couple of beers, a little Playstation Jeopardy and tucked in. I was excited. You know how some days going to bed is the best thing in the world? You can't wait. You are like a kid on Christmas Eve. Surely the two feet of snow that was in the process of beating the shit out of our neighborhood would prevent any crazy car sex parties from ruining my sleep again.

Everything was going well until around 2 a.m. when the fire alarms started to go off. Like, all of them. I sprang in to action, throwing on a mismatched set of clothing and running to the basement. I couldn't get the alarms to stop. I ran to the front hallway, I couldn't get them to stop there, either. At no point did I think the house was on fire. Long story short, some water leaked in to the ceiling and shorted out the alarms. No way to turn them off.

Anti-social upstairs neighbor was freaking out, pacing through the basement trying to find this mystery master switch. The downstairs deadbeats barricaded themselves in the apartment, probably smoked some opium and drowned out the beeps with Radiohead. I called the fire department. From what I can remember, this was my first experience with the fire department. Before my only knowledge was that most of them were sex perverts who lure women in to their firehouses with their red trucks and bravery and then take advantage of them. Coming out to Roslyn Street at 3 a.m. in the middle of a blizzard was not on their list of things to do, and they made that apparent. Irritated from the start, the three of them sauntered around and essentially solved nothing. One younger gentleman disconnected one of the alarms and the older man said we needed to call an electrician. Good night. Thanks Mr. Fireman, sorry to pull you from your warm firehouse stocked with women. Neighbor and I disconnected everything and he said he would call an electrician. Another sleepless night. The best thing that came of this, though, is that Nugget was so nervous about the noise and the people in the house that she peed on Monica's hand. Awesome and hilarious.

I'm not really complaining, it isn't like I have anything else to do. I should be happy that the snow came early and I won't have to miss a day of work. Hopefully tonight we can make it through without any sex perverts of any kind. Whether it is party animals in a Civic or a trio of firefighters. God Bless America. Christmas pictures and video to follow later this week.

Obligitory traditions abound

Merry Christmas everyone. I'll be back with videos of an exited child tearing open presents in 2011. Until then, be safe and watch out for Christmas streakers. Maker's Mark begins flowing in 5, 4, 3, 2....

Episode 129: Story corner

I am writing this from inside of a poorly constructed couch fort. Av has a small cold and a little bit of a fever, so she is in the midst of a required sick day today. It is about 20 degrees and there is snow everywhere, so we are going to get this one before it becomes a full blown holiday sick fest. So, today we are trapped inside and looking for fun in the form of forts, stuffed guy piles and Ellio's pizza. Oh, and a variety of kid's cable programming, of course.

Right now the baby has piled all of her stuffed friends on top of Nugget, who has essentially just given in to the abuse, and the cat is pathetically whimpering as Av makes a hard, plastic horse dance on her fat, furry, lumpy back. Nugget's back fat is so prominent that the other day Av pointed to it and said 'Nunnie boobs?" Yes, the baby knows what boobs are, sort of. This is not because of me.

We are all very excited about seeing Av go nuts on the first Christmas that she is going to be able to understand and as the day grows closer she has become increasingly exited by lights and flamboyant lawn decorations. That said, there is not much going on that is blog worthy, unless you want to hear a little bit more about kid's shows, and I'm willing to bet you don't. So, today I'll dig in to the archives and pull out another story from my life as a roving community newspaper reporter.

One of the more challenging things about being a newspaper reporter is trying to explain to people the difference between something that is newsworthy and something that is simply just happening. It seemed like every time that I would cover something for a local organization or school I would inevitably spend the next three months hearing about every little thing that they did or were doing, even if it was something as simple as 'we had a few kids go out in to the school yard today to pick up trash, you should come take some pictures.' No, no I shouldn't. They are kids picking up trash, probably their own trash, that isn't exactly news. Most of the time I didn't mind the emails because they worked in helping me fill out the days that I didn't have anything to do and every few weeks I was able to get some good stories out of them. Problems only arose when the people on the other end of the emails began to get upset with me when I would turn them down, thinking that it was their right to have me at the ready to cover any and everything that was happening that particular day.

One such organization was KIPP Academy Lynn, a local charter school that literally, by the end, had become the bane of my existence. KIPP (Knowledge Is Power Program) is part of a national charter school chain and is extremely controversial as most charter schools are. The majority of their student body consists of children with behavioral problems, immigrants or kids who just didn't do well in school. They take the kids and enter them in to their 10-hour-a-day curriculum and essentially make them do well with discipline and incentives. All of that is fine, except for the part where, since most of these kids were poor, non English speaking or dealing with issues at home, the school seemed to think that it was really, really important every time any of them did anything remotely related to school. Like the time they wanted me to write about a math program that teaches the kids life skills like counting money and paying bills. Oh, so you guys are a school? Neat. I'll get right on that.

So, I don't think that I was out of line when I deleted an email from KIPP asking me to attend a program in the gymnasium two days before Christmas a few years ago. Knowing the school's annoying reputation for forcing me to watch stupid kids do every day things I simply skimmed the email, saw nothing of note and deleted it. Screw you, KIPP, I get three days off starting tomorrow. Later that afternoon my phone rang- which is rarely a good thing when you aren't expecting a phone call, and sure enough, it was Nancy from KIPP.
"Are you coming up tomorrow??! Dan, I think you should. It is a great program. There is going to be a Celtics player there!'

Now you have piqued my interest. Among things in the world that I love, the Boston Celtics are near the top of the list. Right after beer and right before my TV. Surely whatever mundane, idiotic pre holiday assembly you're holding will be made more tolerable if I am able to interview a Celtics player.

"Cool, who is it?" I asked.

"It is a surprise." She said.

Intrigued I decided that this time I would go. By no means did I expect to see Paul Pierce or anyone else from the current team, but maybe it was some recently retired player who I can at least get some amusement out of meeting. Whatever the case, it was going to be better than meeting some half retarded kid from Africa who just passed in his science project like usual.

To be perfectly honest, I have no recollection of what the event was actually for, but I was handed a pamphlet when I walked in the door. On the front was a picture of this old-ass looking dude with a whistle around his neck and a Providence College jersey on. His name was Ernie DiGregorio. I said the same thing you are thinking right now. Who the hell is Ernie DiGregorio? Well, at the time I was not exactly at liberty to look it up, but you can be sure that I did when I got back to the office. A Rhode Island native, DiGregorio was the 1975 NBA Rookie of the Year with the Buffalo Braves. He had a mediocre to terrible career, which ended with the Celtics in 1978, for whom he played exactly 27 games. It is tough to imagine a less relevant "Celtics player." Thanks, Nancy, I should have known.
Like I said, I have no idea what the purpose of the event was, I think it was like, do your homework or something, it doesn't really matter. The point is that the humble looking old man above is some sort of raging lunatic, and his actions that December afternoon salvaged what I thought was going to be a miserable afternoon, and gave me a great story to tell in the process.

Almost immediately it became apparent that DiGregorio's ego could barely fit in the old church basement that the school used for an auditorium. The man who played just four years in the NBA, mostly with the Buffalo Braves, was dressed head to toe in Celtics gear, and constantly spun a basketball on his finger like a Harlem Globetrotter the entire time that he spoke. His young, attractive assistant was very outwardly 'picked on' in that way that old men pick on women that they want to have creepy old man sex with. Most importantly, at no point during his entire speech did he mention why he was there, or anything about the program that he was supposed to be promoting for the school. No, he simply told the story of his stupid, short NBA career, bragged about being rookie of the year and setting the record for most assists in a game by a rookie. Then he made some excuses for why his career was so short and it was over.

The speech sucked. But that isn't the good part. Afterward Ernie decided that
he would indulge the kids in a game of basketball on a tiny, eight-foot hoop that happened to be in the room, probably for some foreign kid lunchtime team building. The premise of the game was a 3-on-1 contest to see how many points middle school kids could score on a former NBA player. Apparently Ernie forgot that he was an NBA player 35 years ago because these little kids were schooling him. He did OK against the girls and uncoordinated kids who suck at sports, but about every third kid was an athletic middle school boy who would just run past his old ass and score. This began to piss old Ernie off.

If I remember correctly, there was some sort of lame prize for the team that won and there was one particular kid that was running circles around everyone else. He had scored on Ernie every time he went to the hoop. Now, it is important to mention that Ernie was not trying so hard, considering he was playing against kids on a tiny hoop, but the kids were getting a lot of confidence, especially this one guy who kept scoring. I was standing next to the photographer the next time the kid came up and he leaned in and said ' I think this guy is getting pissed.' Sure enough, the kid went to the basket and scored on Ernie again, this time celebrating wildly with his friends. So, the adult, former basketball player who was supposed to be there to be a positive influence on the students walked over to the kid and handed him the ball. "Try again." he said.

The kid, boasting a smile, went at Ernie like he had four times before, only this time instead of letting him score, Ernie blocked his shot. Tossed it Shaq style across the room with anger and authority. The room went silent, the teachers all looked at each other and the kid put his head down in shame. Then Ernie said something about how it was harder to score when someone is playing defense. It was at this point that the assembly ended and the principal awkwardly thanked Ernie and sent him on his way. Then he came up to me, apologized, and asked that I please not mention how angry Ernie was in my article. I obliged.

So maybe that story wasn't as good as it was to actually watch, but I hope that the vision of an old man talking trash to a 12-year-old brought you some joy today.

Episode 128: Is this man your worst nightmare?

He probably should be. This is Mr. Noodle. He has to be the most unsettling character on children's television today. I don't even know where he came from, he just showed up one day outside of Elmo's window on Sesame Street and never left. Now he is a reoccurring character and I can't for the life of me understand why. I mean, the guy is just creepy. Look at him. Creep. He doesn't even talk, he is like a mime without face paint. And he can never figure anything out. He's always putting hats on his feet and shoes on his head and trying to throw baseballs with his mouth. Idiot. Anyway, this post isn't really about Mr. Noodle, he is just a jumping off point.

Today I finally convinced the baby to watch Sesame Street. After months of Barney and Zaboo and Blues Clues, all shows that came on after my childhood prime, I got her to give in and give it a try. Up until this point she has completely shunned it, but today it happened and it was a success. She finally realized that the characters on that show are entertaining and strange, and she learned what most kids learn early on. Sesame Street is just nothing but educational fun all of the time. This is another step in my efforts to relive all of the things that I liked from my own childhood, something I have been subconsciously doing for a long time, but just realized. I am not sure why this is. Perhaps it is because I just want her to enjoy all of the things that I enjoyed, or maybe I am just trying desperately to relive the simple, carefree days of my youth. Whatever the case, I am definitely turning this kid in to a mini me, and in the process, making her kind of a weirdo.

I was recently visiting my dad and I found myself in his attic looking at a bunch of old crap from when I was a kid. Most of it was stuff I didn't have any attachment to, like old books and trinkets, and the worst record collection I have ever seen ( I went through the whole thing and came out only with Don McLean, Chicago's Greatest Hits and Huey Lewis and the News), but I did find a few things that took me right back. The biggest one was this old cookie jar that we used to have. It was a wrinkly-faced old monk who is holding a scroll that says 'Thou shalt not steal (cookies)." Awesome. He was a fixture on my counter tops for my entire childhood until my parents got divorced and both moved about seven years ago. I loved that guy. Well, I found Mr. Monk and much to my delight he was in perfect condition. Needless to say he is now living in between our coffee maker and dish rack in the kitchen. This, by the way, does not make Monica happy. I don't care, that guy is awesome and he is now always stocked with fudge striped cookies. It wasn't until I found the monk that I realized how much being home with Av has made me kind of inadvertently cling to my own childhood.

As a kid I had two things that I did almost exclusively when I was home. First, I played with matchbox cars. A lot. Second, I had a ton of stuffed animals. These were my interests as a young child. I created little worlds with all of them and I obsessively kept track of everything, making sure that I knew where everyone was at all times. With the Matchbox cars I would collect them in a giant bin and take them out each morning to transport the imaginary people in my imaginary world. Accuracy was key, the more it looked like an existing street-legal vehicle the better. Probably about 8-9 months ago I realized that Av had taken and was enjoying playing with some toy cars at Monica's parent's house. I saw this as a fantastic opportunity to share my own enthusiasm for that particular toy and I began picking up a few toy cars here and there. The good thing about that is they only cost a dollar, so it is a fun and easy thing to just pick up when you are at Target. At the time I don't think I realized how much I was tapping in to my own childhood love for the cars, but now it is becoming apparent. As was the case 20 years ago, accuracy is key. At first, I would get service vehicles, like a garbage truck and a school bus, but soon that expanded in to whatever I felt were the coolest cars at the store that particular day. Now that we once again have an organized bin, I realize that my obsession has returned and I have reverted back to my youth. As long as I don't go back to standing in the toy car aisle at the store for an hour trying to pick out which one I want we should be ok.

The thing is, though, Av loves playing with them, too. We will devote entire segments of play time to cars and she is constantly carrying them around with her and in to the bathtub. It isn't like I am making it up, they are fun to play with. She thinks it is most hilarious when you drive the car around on someone's leg or arm. Funny stuff.

As for the stuffed animals, I am pretty sure every kid loves those. I mean, what is cooler when you are a kid than a whole collection of soft, lifelike animals. However, I don't remember having as much of a variety when I was little. The baby has everything from sheep to elephants to monkeys. And we have about 600 stuffed dogs. The favorite game with these guys, other than me creating voices for them and putting them in to strange relationships and imaginary social situations, is when she piles them all up on the ground and leaps in to them. Something that I also always did when I was a kid. Although, I was kind of an aggressive spaz so I would usually tackle one of them and things would get out of hand. I had this huge Yogi Bear rip off guy for a while. I used to kick the shit out of him. Girls appear to be more loving.

Speaking of making up odd relationships and social situation, I have really gotten in to it during bath time lately, too. Bath time at one point was the most boring part of the day. She literally spends hours in there sometimes. But ever since the cars have been added and some more non traditional bath items have turned up in the water I have started having a bit of fun with it. I, again, have created a whole world where anything is possible. There is Grandpa Turtle and his magical powers, the frog barbers who make sure that everyone's hair gets washed and, of course, Mayor Hippo. Oh, and Dora the Explorer is dating Ralph Wiggam from the Simpsons. She got him a job at her dad's tow truck company. This kid has no shot.

Revisiting Barney

A few weeks ago I mentioned that the baby has decided to love Barney and it is slowly sending me on the path to mass murder. Well, it hasn't gotten any better, especially since Comcast still has the same damn four episodes on demand, so I pretty much have every song and dance memorized. Including the rock rap, which I inexplicably can't find a Youtube video of, but features such gem lines as 'If we had instruments I guess you could say that we were in a rock band hey hey hey' and 'I wonder if a rock could grow some hair, that's a silly question, but we love rocks, hey hey hey.' That sound you here is my soul slowly blackening.

Anyway, one character that is not involved with the camp episode is Derek, our slow, 'can't read so good' friend from such classic episodes like 'all about bugs.' Derek is typically a silent character, but when he does talk he sounds like that kid that had to leave your regular class around lunch time to go spend some time with the 'resource teacher' in that tiny classroom next to the bathroom.


This is a man who calls himself 'Gifted That Go- Gitta.'

Look familiar? Take a look at the previous picture again. Yes, this Dallas-area rapper is none other than slow, silent Derek himself, all grown up, chasin' hoes. I actually don't know what sort of rapper he is. He looks like the 50-cent gangsta all of my songs are about sex and shooting people type but let's not type cast him right away. He could just be dropping knowledge like Talib Qwali. Although, I doubt it. Here is a Youtube video I found. Just in case the full body of this information hasn't set in, I remind you of two things. 1. He has named himself 'Gifted That Go-Gitta.' 2. He once wore fake butterfly wings and danced slow kid ballet in the classroom in which Barney and his friends trespass. Have a nice day everyone.

Episode 126: Are children's laughter and holiday spirit making me soft?

It is December, which means that most of you are probably stressed. Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Winter Solstice and whatever made up science fiction holiday that Scientologists celebrate are all stressful in their own way- unless, of course, you are a child. This is typically the time of year where my seasonal depression kicks in and my anxiety rises. Buying gifts for people and visiting family is a lot of pressure. When you are a kid you don't have to worry about any of that. You get a week off from school, people give you stuff and changes to your routine are widely accepted as a good thing because you get gifts, you can sleep in and you don't have homework. Not when you are an adult. Adults not only have to worry about gift giving, which for some reason is an incredibly hard thing to do, but also appeasing all of their family members and creating the illusion that they still closely follow the traditions of whatever religion they choose to believe- at least while their grandparents are around. Don't even get me started on this whole 'including everyone from other cultures and beliefs' crap, either. I don't ask Jews to put up a Christmas tree, don't make me put up a menorah. Also, don't make me put the 'Christ' back in
Christmas. Abbreviating doesn't make me an atheist. It means I don't have enough room or energy to write out a nine letter word. Sorry for ruining your birthday, Jesus. I'll get larger Post-it notes sometimes.

As a child, Christmas was always a time when it seemed like the entire world stopped, but as an adult you realize that, despite all of your obligations for the month, life does not, in fact, stop in any way. You still have to go to work, you still have to pay all of your bills and no one gives you any extra money to buy all of these gifts you are supposed to buy. Unless of course you have a 'good' job that gives you a 'bonus' every year in which case, screw you, I don't want to talk to you.

The point is that typically I dread this season, except for the copious amounts of whiskey drinking, but this year I am feeling a bit different. I am still experiencing the seasonal depression, mostly because I hate, hate, hate cold weather, but I am starting to enjoy the holiday festivities simply because I get to see Av get excited. I don't think that she really gets what is going on or why, but she knows that Christmas is fun and there is a lot of decorating and a lot of symbols that she is supposed to care about. I am also pretty sure that she knows she is going to get gifts at some point, too. I can honestly say for the first time since I was like, 13, I actually looked forward to getting a Christmas tree this year. Usually Christmas tree day is the worst day of the season. Trees are outrageously expensive, then you have to carry them upstairs and in to your house, leaving a trail of pine needles every where you go, and not just for that day, there are pine needles everywhere for like, three months. Once you get the tree inside there is the pleasurable task of having it fall on your head 56 times while you try to get it to stay in the stand, and the inevitable trip to Family Dollar to get yet another strand of lights because the ones from last year are either missing or broken. I hate Christmas tree day.

That said, this year I was actually kind of looking forward to it. The baby talks about Christmas trees every time we see one, and we really hyped it up for her enjoyment. I even let us get the tree like three weeks earlier than I normally would, just because she was excited. See, I am getting soft.
Here is a shot of her helping to pick out the tree. She really had a good time with the whole thing and it completely eliminated any stress that I may have had seeing how excited she was. I think what makes it funnier for me is that she acts like a little adult all of the time. Like, she was walking around, checking out the trees, talking nonsense like she was trying to imitate me. Then she cried because she didn't want to leave the tree yard, even though it was about six degrees out. Even putting up the tree went a bit more smoothly this year. That is not to say that it didn't fall on my head, because it did, like three times. But I only dropped a few f-bombs and managed not to throw anything against the wall, even after I randomly opened the fridge to grab a beer after one particular head-falling incident and found soy sauce spilled all over everything. In most cases I would have probably had to take a walk to calm down, but I held it together. Even Family Dollar was pretty empty when I had to go in and buy this year's string of lights. Good deal.

Decorating the tree has gone on for about three days, as she is pretty much just taking everything off and throwing them around like they are balls. I don't really care about this, although I am pretty sure that she has ingested an unhealthy amount of glitter and artificial ornament paint. It's cool, her body has to be immune to her eating foreign objects at this point, especially after I caught her chewing on the brush end of a paint brush the other day. My life is a constant uphill battle against crap like that.

Now that the tree is up I even find myself looking forward to Christmas morning, just so I can see her get excited at finally getting all of the toys she has been yelling about for months. Yes, I think fatherhood has made me some sort of softy. I don't even get annoyed when she sings, and I hate the sound of children singing. I guess I shouldn't complain, anything that makes the Christmas season more enjoyable is welcomed. I just hope she is always cute and excited on Christmas and doesn't become one of those snotty, pretentious little jerks who complain about their gifts and ask for outrageous things every year. I don't shop at whole foods or drive an Acura, so this should be avoidable, but you never know.

...

My late year resolutions are coming along well. I have already had one cooking excursion, which I will share with you later this week once I upload the photos to my computer, and I have been making an effort with the ukulele. The problem that I am having is that I am finding it difficult to keep my high quality, $8 instrument in tune, which according to Pineapple Pete's ukulele instruction website is damning to any potential ukulele master. I think I may need to tighten a few screws.

This song is badass

Episode 125: Rekindling my adolecent hatred of Barney, and what it means for humanity going forward

Barney is a dinosaur from the imagination of a crazy woman from the Greater Dallas area. It is largely recognized as the single worst program of any format since the birth of television. It is currently ruining my mornings and on the verge of destroying the relative balance of my home life while simultaneously crushing my spirit and will to live.


If by some extremely fortunate fluke anyone out there doesn't know who this prehistoric school-yard predator is, I can pretty much sum up the situation like this: Barney is a lifeless purple dinosaur who, when excited by the sound of children laughing, magically comes alive. Once on the scene, he lead said children, usually no more than five in number, but no less than three, in to an empty school. There he apparently teaches them some sort of lesson amidst a lot of really, really gay dancing and serious over acting. Then everyone says 'I love you' and hugs. The end.

If for any reason what I just described above sounds even remotely appealing in some delusional reality that you have somehow slipped in to, please, please take my word for it and don't try it. Please. Consider it publicly televised angel dust.

I remember hating Barney when I was a kid. It was the show that we all made fun of other kids for watching (although, I suspect there were more than one of those little meat heads I used to roll with in first grade who were watching it on the side). Barney was a creep. He played shitty games and sang songs that your grandmother used to sing when school was still in the apartment building at the end of the street. He was also purple. On the surface, a dinosaur is a pretty decent character for a kids show. Dinosaurs are cool, ferocious, and a little bit mysterious. Not Barney. Barney is purple. He dances around and flaps his tiny arms like an idiot and his voice is insufferably high. He sings all of the songs off key so that you can distinguish his voice. His stupid dinosaur eyes don't friggin close (this drives me INSANE) and he wears dentures.

When the baby first started to watch the show I thought to myself 'this can't be as bad as I remember. I was probably just being a dick because I was a teenager.' Not so. Ohhh, no. Not so at all. Watch this clip below and we'll talk.



I'd like to start by pointing out that this clip was from the early-2000's. Now, I know that I may not have an exact concept of how long ago 2002 really was, but it wasn't so long ago that I forgot how people dressed, and no one dressed like that- especially kids. Look at #12, and those unshapely girls. Cool Keds and tube socks. What the hell kind of crab/beetle walk was he doing anyway? That doesn't seem accurate at all. And then there is the white kid, Michael. He is the absolute WORST.
Here is a closer look. What is up with that hair?
His pants in this shot are slightly less acid washed than normal, but you get the idea. In one episode he is wearing a long-sleeved, teal shirt, purple corduroy shorts, tube socks and boat shoes. Nice look, dweeb. Behind him is Lucy, the older sister of the other Spanish girl, who is so loathed and outcast at her high school that she has to go to a vacant middle school and spend her afternoons frolicking around with her sister's lame, pre-teen friends and an imaginary dinosaur. Good luck getting a date to prom, weirdo. Even my lanky, wind-pants-wearing 9th grade self wouldn't have asked you. I actually despise Lucy. I feel a little bad for Michael, because he might be a little bit retarded, but Lucy just sucks. The faces she makes are unbearable, and that pony tail. Oh, that pony tail. Open up a magazine, lady. You look like a middle-aged doctor's office secretary with a Chips Ahoy addiction.

How are these kids allowed in this school by the way? And where are the teachers? The janitors? The principal? Surely they do not leave before the children in the afternoon. Apparently in Barney land (which, according to Wikipedia, is Dallas) the school day ends when the school day ends and children are free to trespass as they please. The classrooms aren't locked and are treated like some sort of public play space. I would go as far as to say that Barney is a bit disrespectful of the facilities funded with our taxpayer dollars, and the public servents who use them. I'm going to need to see your childcare license, Barney, oh and your social security number for a CORI check, too. Thanks.

Also according to Wikipedia, this show is still in production after 18 years, although the original creator has left due to a dispute with the studio. Of course she has. What is the lifespan of a dinosaur anyway? Supposedly these shitty little kids who hang out with Barney are just local students from the Dallas/ Fort Worth area. What does the casting poster say about the roll? Wanted: Child between the ages of 7-12. Must have no friends, an awful wardrobe and a vast knowledge of nonsensical, outdated children's music. This is quite the talent pool, which makes it slightly impressive that this lame ass show has produced such, um, 'stars?' as Selena Gomez and Demi Lovato. I have absolutely no idea who either one of those people are, but Youtube says they are famous so I am going to believe it.

One final thought on this awful, awful waste of TV airtime. Barney's entire gimmick is based on magic. He just waves his big, creepy dinosaur hand and things happen. People appear, things move, problems are solved and broken things are fixed. This is not educational. This teaches you to solve your problems with magic. Sure, most kids shows are entirely unrealistic and based in some way on magic and myth, but Barney flat out uses it as his out for everything. This is no way to get through life. This is probably why he spends his days lurking around middle schools instead of going to work. Lazy dinosaur. He is like that weirdo who goes to the bar by himself, lurks in the corner and never buys a drink.

As much as I hate this show, Av loves it. I guess it makes sense, there is singing and dancing and friendly people, and she is way too young to understand just how lame it really is. She does all of these adorable dances in the living room and she swings her arms and sings along. The problem is that I don't think I am emotionally prepared to handle watching Barney every day. Sometimes it is so lame that it activates my rage trigger. I can feel it in my chest. It is literally the lamest show ever. Lamer than the Wiggles or Mad About You. I can never go see Barney live because there is a strong possibility that I will storm the stage and tackle his giant purple ass.

Let's be honest, kids love Barney, but there are plenty of other shows out there to get attached to. Like Blues Clues. Kids will never know the difference if Barney disappears, and the world will be a better place for it. Let's put our heads together and come up with something better before all of our children start wearing elastic-waste denim shorts and hallucinating prehistoric creatures at school.

Episode 124: Late year resolutions

You know that your life has become way too routine when you can't differentiate dreams from reality. This is where I am at right now. Essentially, every week is the same for me. I wake up, spend my day with the baby, go to work. Weekends are the same, with a little more sleep mixed in. The problem is, that I am often so tired when that sleep comes that I start having vivid, lucid dreams that completely overtake my mind. It is kind of like watching a movie instead of going to sleep. Then, as if nothing happened, I shoot awake and start to ask myself what is real. Was I just asleep? Was that a dream? I am in my underwear, it has to be a dream. Far out, right? Trippy, man.

What sucks about this, other than the fact that I am slowly becoming a delusional lunatic, is that my dreams are extremely routine and bland. Nothing cool ever happens. I am usually just stressed out because they are based on my every day life if my every day life were like a sitcom about a guy with bad luck. Last night I got home from the bar and went to bed around 2, exhausted. I woke up 5 hours later having no idea that I fell asleep and asking myself if I really had to forcibly remove someone from the bar or if I really had a pet lemur with a violent streak who attacked me over some twigs and leaves. Way too much work and way too much Zaboomafoo.

"Ahhh I'm freakin' out man! I need twigs, dude. I NEED TWIGS!"

Because of this I have decided that I am going to make a few lifestyle changes. A few resolutions, if you will. Yes, it is not yet December let alone the new year, but I fear if I wait until the Jan. 1 to institute these resolutions I will lose motivation and abandon the effort. Plus, I tend to be hung over from about Dec. 23- Jan 10, so I am in no position to make decisions.

Resolution #1: Join a bowling league. I need something routine to hold on to, an activity that I am known for other than sporadic, mediocre writing, parenting and sleeping. I also need a little bit of non-homosexual male camaraderie in my life since I hate poker and fantasy sports. So, why not get a few pals together and join a bowling league? Bowling is good fun and it is one of the few sports that you are allowed to participate in while drinking. There are cool shirts and plenty of competition. Plus, with a little bit of practice, I know that I can be pretty good. Besides, who doesn't love feeling like they are in The Big Lebowski? I'm humming Bob Dylan's 'The Man in me' as I type this. Walter would dominate candle pin.

Resolution #2: Perform all scheduled maintenance on my car myself. I drive a Chevy Impala. You can find parts for those down the street in front of the Lafayette Market for like, $6. I am sick of paying some gear head to change my oil and flush my fluids and check my breaks. I am a warm blooded American male. I should know how to do this myself. Enough with this city-guy lifestyle that I have been forced in to. I am ready to get my hands dirty. If I can't have a lawn to mow or a driveway to plow I am at least going to break a finger tinkering with my car. I am going to make a trip to Auto Zone, get one of those manuals and I am going to become one with the Impala. Besides, this will be good practice for when I buy all of that land in Vermont and begin using my free time to restore a Plymouth Superbird. Big dreams. Big dreams. Resolution #3: Cooking. The key to every interesting, eclectic man is his ability to cook. I feel like this is a necessary talent to obtain if I want to legitimately eliminate my uselessness. Right now my cooking repertoire includes mac and cheese, anything you can make on a Foreman Grill and birthday cake. That's it. If I am left home alone for more than a day my diet consists primarily of chips and salsa, queso dip and freeze pops. Unacceptable. I have decided that cooking will be a good way to kill time with the baby during the day, and an activity we can both handle together most of the time. I don't care much for baked goods, I'm good for about one cupcake or one cookie then I am all set with the batch, so I have decided that I am going to specialize in cooking actual meals. What these meals are is yet to be determined, but there will be meals. Most of them at some point will likely involve cheese.

Resolution #4: Learn to play an instrument. Also important to being well rounded. And for driving my family nuts, which I feel is part of my duty as the dad. I bought an $8 ukulele at the Christmas Tree Shops yesterday. We're going to start there and see what that does for my confidence. Maybe there will be a larger stringed instrument in my future if it works out. I have already found a surprisingly detailed and in depth 'how to' website. On a separate note, ukulele may be the hardest word in the English language to spell.

Now, you will notice that none of these resolutions involve getting in better shape or making more money. Somehow I just don't see that getting much better next year, so why bother getting all worked up over it? I probably should find a better job, though. I do hate this apartment. As for getting in shape- exercise hurts and it goes against my natural instinct to do things that hurt. Life is hard enough without having to go to the gym and get sweat on by some meat head or having to look at some old man's balls. I drink tea now. The Buddhists say drinking tea helps you live longer, so I am going to replace the gym with that. I actually just made that up, I have no idea if that's true, but I choose to think it is. Just like how I chose to believe that drinking every day is good for you. It has to be, the Internet told me so.

Happy hangover Monday. Going back to work after a long weekend is on the same level as root canals and paying your taxes. You should all strive to be less employed like me. C'mon. Do it. It will make me feel better.

RIP Frank Drebin.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone. As you may know, this is far from my favorite holiday. But Stove Top and gravy sounds pretty f-ing good right now. And the Patriots are poised to blow an easy win against the Lions early in the day, too, so I can't complain. Here's wishing you a happy and DUI-free Thanksgiving.

TO celebrate the occasion here is my favorite Queens of the Stone Age song for no reason.

Episode 123: Travel blog and other things of note

Now that Av is just a couple of months away from her second birthday, her personality is really starting to come out. She is full of energy, dancing all the time, bouncing around from one place to another and generally leaving a complete path of destruction everywhere she goes. Just moments ago I had to clean water color off of the TV screen, only to turn around and find that she had taken an un capped bottle of water and spilled it down her chest. And we have only been up for a half hour.

I think my favorite thing that is happening right now is the evolution of her vocabulary. She is in all out repeat mode, and she can say all sorts of things that babies should not be able to say. The funny thing to me is that there is no rhyme or reason to things that she can and cant say. For example, she can't say pumpkin or Christmas Tree, but she can say armadillo and robot. That makes no sense. She also likes to sing songs, like the 'everyone goes doo doo song' or the 'night night cow' song. Both are originals and destined to be hits.

Here is a video of her dancing rather provocatively in the kitchen.

Why is is everyone here so nice?

Although I don't have much of an opportunity to do it very much any more, I like to consider myself fairly well traveled, at least in the northeastern portion of the country. In my younger days I have driven to a variety of places, including an epic 17 hour drive to my grandparent's house in North Carolina. There have been trips to Canada, New York, California and Virginia. And who can forget the horrible, horrible trip to Mexico. The most backward, disgusting, useless, underdeveloped, smelly, piece of shit place that I have ever been to in my entire life. I hate Mexico. If the tectonic plates shift and the entire country split in half and collapsed in on itself I would not only feel joy and relief, but I would not donate to whatever Red Cross fund has been set up. Again, I reiterate, Mexico sucks with a capitol SUCK. Sorry, Sammy Hagar.

Anyway, after a summer of jet setting around New England with the baby, going to various zoos, Monica and I decided to hit the road together baggage free last weekend when we headed up to Burlington, VT to celebrate her birthday. I had been to Vermont before, mostly as a teenager when I had to travel up there to play with my high school basketball team, but I had never really paid much attention to it. I think that it is a beautiful place and I like their whole relaxed attitude so I thought it would be nice to go.

I am not sure if I have mentioned this here before but I fancy myself an outdoorsman. As a child I grew up in an area that was heavily wooded and spent a lot of time exploring. My afternoons after school were filled with mountain bike adventures and ill-advised nature stunts. My favorite job ever was working outside, cutting grass and battling nature with a weed whacker. I am not exactly city folk. Because of this I have always enjoyed places like Vermont, where so much of the land is still uncompromised and every day can bring along a new outdoor adventure. Yes, if it hasn't become apparent to any of you regular readers, I am pretty much a hick stuck in the developed world. The point is that I have been bugging Monica about moving somewhere with a lot of land so I can spend my time working outdoors, chopping wood and various other activities. You know, when I get that figurative high paying job that I don't have. Anyway, to make a long, rambling story a bit shorter, I thought a nice weekend trip to Vermont would be an enjoyable birthday weekend for both parties, so I did a little bit of research and decided to head to Burlington. This way we can have the whole outdoors aspect and still have a bit of shopping and nightlife to keep that city vibe that she is in to.

Despite a fairly long drive (four hours) the trip up to Lake Champlain was pretty nice. New Hampshire is a shithole of a state, (most of you already knew that) but Vermont was lovely to drive through with lots of trees, farms, lakes and bridges as well as cows, sheep and horses with coats on. Once in Burlington we realized that we had made the right decision. The town was well populated and there were a ton of restaurants and bars. That is all you really need when you are on vacation. The city itself is beautiful and we experienced all of the food offerings there were to experience, toured a brewery and did some shopping. It was all very nice. Kind of like Salem only done correctly. As in it doesn't just cater to tourists and idiots who think they still hang witches downtown, and in place of hokey magnet and bumper sticker shops there were lots and lots of bars. If Salem had a few cool places to go see live music, a few cool restaurants that weren't pretentious and over priced and didn't place a white trash carnival on a vacant lot next to a gas station once a year it could be nice like Burlington, too. But, it does not and therefore it is not. Screw you, Mayor Kim Driscoll.

One thing that really stuck out to me was the fact that everyone was super, super nice. Maybe it is because Vermont is so close to Canada, or maybe it is all of the weed they smoke up there, but it was a pleasant change from the 'Masshole' lifestyle that we lead down here. It did take some getting used to, though. The first few times someone in a bar came up and started talking to us we were very guarded. In Massachusetts if someone is talking to you at a bar and you don't know who they are they are either A. extremely wasted and have no idea what they are saying B. looking for either sex, drugs or at the very least a free drink or C. think you are someone else. The fact of the matter is that down here we just don't care to talk to other people. We are introverted, grouchy and frankly don't give a shit what you have to say. Not so in Vermont. Everyone up there is friendly, helpful, talkative and genuinely good-natured. Even the guys begging for change downtown were nice. It was a nice change but I have to be honest. I am kind of a dick. I don't really want to talk to anyone that much. Especially if I am drinking. I'm not sure I could keep up the act if I lived there.

While the trip itself was very nice I do have a bone to pick with our hotel room. We stayed at a bed and breakfast called the Willard Street Inn. It is supposedly some sort of old, colonial mansion set downtown. Very historic. Keeping in mind that all I had to go with was information on the website and a few online reviews, I chose the inn based on this description of the room: 'A rich leather headboard on the queen-size bed with a cozy comforter of green, cranberry and gold make this room warm and inviting. Two large windows provide views of the Inn's gardens, Lake Champlain and the Adirondacks. Private bathroom with tub/shower directly across the hall.'

Sounds nice, right? Well, not to say that it wasn't, but that description was a bit exaggerated. For example, the 'view' of Lake Champlain and the Adirondacks was a bit of a stretch. Sure, you could see them, but only because none of the trees had any leaves and there were a few sight gaps in between all of the houses between the inn and the lake. The hotel was also nestled in between an entire street of residential homes and dorm rooms for Champlain College, not exactly the 'convenient downtown location' that the website suggested. Still, the room was very nice, albeit very small, as is to be expected in a colonial mansion. The closest thing I can liken it to is taking a vacation at your grandmother's house. It smelled a little like old people, the room was small and the bed decorated very clearly by an old person. The bathroom was across the hall and was set up exactly like the one in my grandmother's house. the layout was the same right down to the voyeuristic window that allowed the folks across the street to watch you pee.

The inn itself was very nice on the inside, but was decorated in a very creepy way. Upon walking in to our room we were greeted by this woman on our wall.


Who the hell is that? Probably your worst nightmare, that's who. Upon further investigation we began to learn the history of the inn. It was a private mansion at one point and then turned in to a nursing home in the 70's. As if this picture wasn't creepy enough, I had to then worry about being haunted by all of the spiteful old grandparents that called it quits in that room still bitter that their families had not let them die at home. Cool. To make matters worse, I could not find a Bible in the room. I am not an overly religious person and I have no desire to actually read the Bible, but I feel as though Bibles in hotel rooms are the one fixture in life that creates sanity where there often is none. The room not having one just made me uneasy. Something was amiss. This made it difficult for me to feel comfortable. I don't care what your opinion on Christianity is, hotel rooms need Bibles. It is like not having soap or a TV.

Once I got over the no Bible thing I went exploring a little bit and found that every corner of the inn was creepier than the one before it. Then I stumbled upon this.

That is a couch that directly faces a mirror. Why? I have no idea. Just in case you want to stare at yourself while you read? Or perhaps taunt spirits in to haunting you over your shoulder. Upon returning to the room I found another friend on the wall. It was former president Teddy Roosevelt. That is one thing that I learned on my trip. People in Vermont LOVE Teddy Roosevelt. I still have no idea why, either. I tried to do some research but after at least 6-8 minutes on the Internet it appears that he just visited Lake Champlain once, before he was president, and he really liked it so now he is all over the place. They even named a highway after him. We forgot to take a picture of his portrait on the wall, but just to remind you, Teddy Roosevelt looks like this:


Between his mustache, monocle and judgmental stare, as well as his creepy friend on the other side of the room, it made it very difficult to have a 'romantic' weekend in the hotel room. I don't need Teddy seeing any of that.

All in all the trip was very nice and I do hope to some day retire to Vermont and own land that I can conserve, work on and, of course, enjoy in a relaxing, potentially herbally- aided manor. Unfortunately, Monica suggested that this will be a chance for me to get to know my second wife, as she will not be partaking in the move with me. So, you know, maybe consider this a personal ad for the future. Looking for a woman who wants to move to Vermont, will still be hot in like, 25-30 years and potentially may earn enough money to buy lots of land in Vermont because I am probably not going to do that myself. Inquire within when my current spouse has decided that she has had enough. Must love cheese.

Episode 122: An afternoon in the seventh layer of Hell

Despite being both a father and an adult male, I feel like I do not normally fit in with the cliche' societal male stereotypes. I do not play fantasy football, trade stocks, golf or go to strip clubs. I don't typically speak to my spouse in a condescending voice, spend my holidays talking up in laws about my career or my business (probably because I don't have either one of those things), and I don't have much desire to listen to bands such as Pearl Jam or Van Halen. I have never played a game of poker in my life and I don't think Eastbound and Down is funny. I also thought the Hangover was a terrible movie. I am apparently just not your 'average' male. Therefore, when I see commercials, movies or TV shows that portray people like me as boob-driven and inconsiderate, wanting to leave family dinner to watch the college football game I get kind of offended. Especially the ones that insinuate that all men hate spending time with their families outside the house and must have some sort of smart phone at the ready to follow any number of sporting events.

Ok, now that I think about it I do like boobs. But none of that other crap.

That said, last Thursday I felt just like a typical Bud Light commercial dad. You see, last Thursday was Veterans Day. This meant that Monica was home for the day and expected to spend it as a family. This was all fine and good, except for the part where she thought it would be a good idea to spend it as a family at the mall- specifically the photo studio called 'The Picture Place' or 'The Picture People' or something like that- just a few weeks before Christmas. I almost immediately found myself wishing I had some sort of device where I could sneakily watch Internet videos and analyze football stats, and I couldn't help but to start subconsciously speaking to my family in a short tone.

As soon as she told me that we had an appointment to get the baby's pictures taken I knew I did not want to go, but I said I would because I am a nice guy and, let's face it, any enjoyment I would have taken out of having a few hours at home by myself would have been shattered when Monica came home with her hair all messed up, looking all stressed out and pissed off because she had to wrangle the baby through the mall by herself. So, I agreed to go and pretended that I cared what the baby wore in the picture and who we were going to send them to when they were done. Personally, I hate professionally done photos. I don't get it. If you were a grandmother wouldn't you rather have a cute photo of your grand kids in their natural habitat than some artificial shot created in front of a white screen? I think most of the time the kids in the pictures don't even look like they do in real life. But that is just me.

We got to the Picture Place to find about 6 million kids and their stressed out, bitchy moms lining the walls of the store and meandering about outside with scowls on their faces and Starbucks in their hands. Apparently, the mid-week off day provided a perfect opportunity for awkward holiday family photos for all. This was, in my world, the equivalent of toiling in Hell for an afternoon. The photo place pissed me off just about immediately when it became apparent that the appointment we had made pretty much meant nothing. We gave the lady our name, we checked in and we still ended up sitting among the masses for over a half hour before any action was taken. This is fine if you are getting your oil changed or waiting for a table at a nice restaurant with a bar. Not when you are sitting next to some lady with 5 kids dressed in Christmas pajamas all bitching because the are hungry. While Monica chased the baby through the crowds and tried to get her to play with toys I sat. I listened to children being scolded because of their attitudes. I listened to moms gossip about their caddy friends and quietly complain about how busy it was at the photo place. I watched the efficient Picture Place manager direct her employees and keep order, and I watched as a group of shopping mall photographers tried, usually in vain, to pose children in all sorts of unnatural, awkward positions, usually with shitty holiday props.

As if the room was not crowded enough, a man dressed as Santa soon showed up and started meandering around like he just walked in to a high school reunion. He was leaning against the wall shooting the shit with employees, standing around with his hands in his pockets and doing a mediocre job of interacting with children, which garnered a wide variety of reactions. Some kids ran up to him and gave him hugs, others made snotty comments like 'That's not really Santa.' Yeah, you little douchebag, obviously that isn't really Santa. You think Santa came all the way here just so you could ask him for a Nintendo DS? Fat chance. At this point I was so angry at this little snot that I just wanted to yell in his face that there was no Santa. I did not. Impressive restraint by me. The baby was pretty shy when he was around, but in the end she liked him and even gave him a high five at one point. Weird. For the rest of the day she kept saying 'Santa is a nice guy.' His interactions with the children were fleeting, he wasn't set up anywhere, he was just wandering around the store. He asked them all what they wanted and then offered commentary on their choices, like 'I am hearing a lot about those this year' or 'Those are pretty expensive, you know.' The sad thing is that most of those 7-year-olds are going to probably get cell phones for Christmas, and they are all going to be nicer than mine. Children should not be allowed to have electronic gadgets. It was at this point that I was really pondering walking over to the Apple store next door and just pretending that I had interest in buying a fantasy football avoid my family phone. Just to get the hell out.

Finally, after what felt like six hours, but was really just like 45 minutes, we got called over to our little photo area. Surprisingly, the baby had no apprehension about getting her pictures taken at all. I thought for sure that she would do the whole stranger danger thing and freak out, but she was all set to go. Maybe it was because she had a lot of time to watch the other kids doing it. Whatever the case, she was having a great time, rolling around on the floor, posing in weird ways and laughing her ass off. As for me, I had just about had it by the time it was our turn to go. It had been a long time, I was hot and sweaty and had just spent the last ten minutes holding about 8 bags and sitting on a stool next to a mother who was having an argument with her spoiled daughter about going to Pretzel Time. I was ready to take the damn shots and get out.

The baby's antics were amusing enough and were kind of keeping me going, but as soon as the photographer opened her mouth that all went away. Photographers at the Picture People establishment have a certain way of dealing with children, and it is obnoxious. They make loud noises to get their attention and they try to make them laugh. This is fine. I get why it works and I get why they do it. However, our particular photographer was a bit too much for me to handle. Her voice was very, very loud and she kept making the noise that crazy old women make when they are trying to get the attention of a house cat. The most irritating thing, though, was the fact that she kept yelling 'Say stinky feet! Do you have stinky feet?' Ugh. Shut UP lady! Anyway, the baby kind of liked her so it was fine, but in all of her noise making and distraction she seemed to forget to actually take pictures. She was so concerned about getting the right professional pose that she missed a ton of good faces. Of course, I am again of the mind that a 'good picture face' is a natural, funny, cute, smiling one, and apparently everyone else seems to think that she needs to look like a store mannequin. So, along we went with this charade for about 20 minutes or so, mixing in a stool that she never sat on, a ball that she kept throwing at the photographer and a lot of spastic dancing. It was all hysterical, if it weren't for the 600 other people around me, the 107 degree temperature inside the mall and the continuous, obnoxious, loud old lady cat noises.

Once the shots are taken you are summoned to a computer where someone sits down and shows you the shots that you want to pick out to buy. I was in charge of the baby who decided that this was the point in time where she wanted to pull out all of her baby wipes and pretend to clean the inside of the photo store, which given all of the children prancing through there, was probably a pretty decent idea. My favorite part of the day was when she ran behind the counter where the tyrannical manager was working. I was a little disappointed that the manager wasn't there to freak out and yell at us, but then I realized that some snot mom spilled her coffee all over the floor and had sprung the staff in to action to help her clean it up. She, in fact, showed no remorse for the spill, either, despite the very clear 'no food or drinks' sign on the wall. She came over to the counter with this entitled look on her face and said 'I spilled my coffee, we're going to need some paper towels.' She is lucky I didn't work there, because I would have not have been as nice.

The pictures came out fine. They look professional, like picture day at school with a touch more whimsy. I would still prefer a shot of Av in her sweats dancing in the living room, but, hey, at least we have some Christmas shopping taken care of. In retrospect, it would have been a pretty funny day if we had just gone and been able to have her picture taken without the super long wait and the hoards upon hoards of families in seasonal sweaters, but that is the way it goes, I guess.

We still had to hang around the mall for another half hour or so after waiting for the pictures to be developed, and that was when I really thought I was going to lose it. Again with the cranking heat- sure it is November, but it was like 45 degrees out, no need to bake all of us- and the stupid amount of people everywhere, I was in full out 'dad is missing his football game' mode. I was ready to split. But first we had to wait, and while Monica was waiting in line at Picture Hell Av took her cup of water from Pretzel Time and hurled it across the mall. It was like slow motion as I watched it explode on the ground in front of the hand cream kiosk. I didn't even ask for paper towels, I just went the other way. Maybe I was a bit too harsh on that other mom with the coffee.

Here are a few pics. Many of you may find these gift wrapped and in your mailbox around a month or so from now, because I sure as Hell am not going to buy you anything from the mall. That is a promise.


This one is nice, but it looks like she is haunting some old hotel somewhere. Also, I promise you that she took off running toward something a split second after this was taken. Below, you will find a photo of her flailing on the ground. She had some pretty sweet poses in this sequence and some goofy ass faces. Unfortunately, as I mentioned, most of them were missed because the photographer was too concerned with yelling 'STINKY FEET!' and trying to get her to lay a certain way. C'mon lady.

Monica taught the baby how to say Sex Robot today, and accompanied it with a dance. Now every ten minutes she says 'Sex Robot?' and expects one of us to dance. I have never heard her laugh so hard.

Episode 120: You go doo doo... A lot. Don't deny it.

We're almost there. So... Close... Of course, I am talking about what else? The day we finally unhinge ourselves from the oppression of diapers and start going doo doo's in the toilet. Or at least a smaller receptacle that reasonably resembles a toilet and may or may not play princess music as you eject all of your body's toxins out in a convenient little log. We haven't set up the potty training equipment yet, but we are at least at a point now where she understands what happens when she, or anyone else, goes doo doo's.

This is so promising. You have no idea. I hate, hate, hate diapers. I hate the way they smell, the way they feel, the way they sound when you crinkle them. Hate. Changing them is worse. No one should ever be that close to human poop. No one. And they are expensive, half the time the sides snap off (even on the really good ones) and then they make the baby's ass look huge. They look hard to walk in, and did I mention they smell funny? Even before the poop. I can't wait. Of course, this will open up plenty of awkward 'cover her eyes' moments as I have to take her in to the men's room to go doo doo's, but that is a different topic for a different day.

I think my favorite part of the whole process is that she likes to reinforce the fact that she is not the only one who goes doo doo's. For example, whenever anyone goes in to the bathroom, or whenever you are changing her diaper, she will recite the fact that everyone she knows goes doo doo's. 'Mommy doo doo, Daddy doo doo, Papa doo doo, Little Cat doo doo, Nuggie doo doo, Uncle John doo doo,' and so on. This is, of course, very educational and very effective in convincing her that doo doo's are very normal and it is more fun to go on the toilet than it is to go in your pants. Don't laugh, she will do it to you, too if she see's you. Because you go doo doo's. A lot. And you know it. The problem is that she has started to tell strangers how much everyone goes doo doo's, and she has a bad habit of exaggerating, too.

She already has a tendency to tell random people, like checkout clerks at stores, that I am her daddy. "That's my daddy," she will say as she pats me on the chest or the shoulder. Now, she has expanded it to "That's my daddy. Daddy doo doo." Cool, thanks for telling everyone what I did before we left. Even funnier, though, is the fact that whenever someone goes in to the bathroom she just assumes we're going doo doo's, even though they may be just brushing their teeth. This makes for a lot of joking and making fun around our house.

'Mommy doo doo's!'

'I'm not going doo doo's I'm cleaning up the tub!'

'Mommy doo doo's!'

'Yeah, your mommy goes doo doo's all the time. I think she is sick.'

'Hey! That's not true!'

And so on...

There you go. A short glimpse in to my life. Poop jokes. Classic. I give her three months before she is going on the toilet. Longer post tomorrow, as soon as I get my grand kids to show me how to upload the photos I need for it on to my new fangled Internet machine. I am pathetic.

Episode 119: Weeeeeen!

This is a picture of Av and her friend Leah on Halloween. As you can see, Leah has an adorable dinosaur costume on. My daughter, however, is dressed like a hooker. I was opposed to this costume from day one and I feel that it is slightly inappropriate and embarrassing. That said, if you are not jaded and do not have a mind in the gutter like myself, she looks kind of cute. She needs cat ears and would have still been funnier in the dinosaur suit, but I'll take it.

I was not there for the trick or treat extravaganza, as I was still working my college job as a bartender that night, but the days leading up to the evening were pretty funny. Especially since Av started calling Halloween 'ween,' which in Monica and I's crazy, kind of juvenile world has always been slang for 'wiener.' Av has an uncanny ability to repeat just about any word, like 'yellow' 'hippo' or 'mac and cheese' but for some reason she can't get certain words down. Like pumpkin. She just kept saying 'Mama.' As you can imagine, this was very confusing. She is also yet to mimic any swears that she hears, which is remarkable, because Monica and I are pretty bad a censoring ourselves.

From what I hear, trick or treating went fairly well with no incidents. The baby learned how to say 'Baby Ruth' and chowed down on Crunch Bars and M&M's all night. Cool. Meanwhile, I was bar tending at a restaurant directly in the center of the busiest Halloween city in the country. The night was, in a word, miserable. Most of the month of October is pretty hectic, and most Saturday nights are as busy, if not busier than Halloween was this year, but it is just something about that day specifically that makes the job that much harder. Aside from having to deal with crazy business levels, i have to wait on people that seemingly only go out to a bar once a year as well as having to listen to freaked out managers asking me to make sure that no one gets drunk. It is a bar, guys, people are going to get drunk. My goal is to just make sure no one falls asleep or gets in to a fight. That said, there were a few humorous drunk guy incidents that took place Sunday night.

First, I always think it is funny when another bartender asks me if they should cut someone off and then serves them anyway. It epitomizes how we all think when it is busy. 'This guy is obviously drunk. He isn't causing any trouble, though, and I don't have the energy to fight with him after I cut him off, so let's just give him one.' I do it all of the time. Just make sure you call them a cab, Dan, and everything will be cool. Well, my friend, Pat, was waiting on this guy and came up to ask me the question. A rule of thumb as a bartender is that if you A. have to ask if someone is too drunk to serve or B. if you are wondering if you should ID someone, the answer is always 'yes.' Always. So Pat comes up and says 'I think I should cut this guy off, what do you think?' I looked over to see a man with one eye open, smashing tortilla chips in to his face. Before I could answer, Pat had poured the beer. Classic 'I don't want to deal with it' mentality. The funny part is that this particular gentleman never drank the beer, because he fell asleep on the bar. This is one of my favorite things. I love waking drunk people up. I have been known to throw coasters at them, hit the bar top with broom handles and pulling their chairs out from under them. Don't sleep at my bar. Grow up and go home. The only exception to this is an old, fat man named Peter, who I have nicknamed 'Sleepy Pete.' Pete is fat and miserable, but deep down he is a nice guy. Also, most of the time he falls asleep at the bar it is because he has been driving back and forth from Connecticut taking care of his dying mother and just wants a beer and some turkey tips before he goes home. A 4-hour drive, plus beer plus triptophan equals sleepy time at 11 p.m. That said, I don't let him sleep, I am just nicer about waking him up. Anyway, I chose to wake up Pat's friend by simply pounding the bartop and yelling 'no sleeping!' as I walked by. This not only woke him up, but apparently marked the last straw for his girlfriend, who got up and left, leaving Drunky McSLeeperson there to find his own way home. He stood next to the bar, wobbly calling his girl for at least 45 minutes before I finally got some mercy and handed him a business card for a cab company, forgetting, of course, that the roads downtown were closed. I'm not sure what happened to that guy, but he left the bar and we never saw him again.

Someone asked me the other day if I liked to kick people out. That is a tough question, if I am in a bad mood and someone is pissing me off, absolutely I like to kick them out. I take pleasure in it. I once made a guy follow me in to the bathroom and explain to me every single thing that he was complaining about, right down to the paper towel on the floor, before I took his beer out of his hand and told him never to come back. That was cool because I was pissed at him anyway, having a crappy night and was ready to give him the boot. Other times, though, kicking people out sucks. I just don't have the energy or the passion to fight.

One particular incident took place late Halloween night. A group of fairly young (21-22) kids were at the bar and they were drunk. They weren't making a lot of noise or causing any problems, they were just drunk, kind of rude and didn't need any more beer. Another bartender cut them off and one of them proceeded to ask all of us for a beer at one point or another, hoping to catch one of us who hadn't heard the news. A member of his group asked me for a shot of Jack Daniels, and I calmly explained that we don't have liquor because we are a micro brewery that brews beers on site and it is a different license, a conversation I have about 600 times a night. His friend's response was 'That is fucking gay.' To which i did not respond. Almost immediately after, the cut off kid asked me for a refill, nicely. I said, 'Sorry man, but you're done tonight.' He looked at me, surprised, as if this was the first he heard of it and he said 'Ok, they take your fucking glass back, asshole.' Now, most nights I would have just given him the shark eyes and not said anything, but tonight I was tired and ready to go so I said 'You know what, man? Now you and your crew can leave.' He ignored me and I went about my cleaning without addressing it again, figuring he got the point and would stop talking back. Unfortunately, another bartender heard this and got the manager who gave him the boot. The kid told me he would be waiting for me when I left and I told him that he may want to think twice about how he talks to people who control whether or not he stays in a bar. Inside, though, I felt kind of bad. I even pulled the manager aside and admitted that I had a little bit of a quick hook with him, but it was to no avail. He was removed, yelling and threatening me, really just because he was a little drunk and was mad that we wouldn't get him more drunk. That is when I don't like kicking people out.

So, there is some insight in to what it is like to bar tend on Halloween. Hectic, tiring, confrontational. Sometimes I wish that I was a kid again so that I could look forward to it. As for my kid, she had a decent time in her hooker costume, but she brought home a disappointing amount of candy. Good thing Walgreens has Halloween candy on sale.

Episode 119: Weeeeee

Episode 118: Putting the 'fun' in funeral

So, I must apologize. I promised I would post this on Friday and I thought I had, but upon logging in to the site today I realized that it still said 'draft' next to this. So, sorry it is a couple of days late.

As I mentioned on Thursday, I spent a good amount of time last week at my grandmother's funeral in Western Massachusetts. This not only marked the first time I have spent any significant amount of time at home in a few years, but also the first time in much longer that I was able to spend time with family beyond my parents and sister, for better or worse. This, obviously, left me very much outside my comfort zone and we all know, as tiny as that zone is, it makes for a much more functional experience if I am calm and relaxed.

Although my grandmother lived well in to her 90's, I feel like the entire family has been waiting for this day since 1987. That was when my grandfather died and it wasn't too long after that my grandmother started experiencing health problems of her own. Not that anyone wanted her to die, I think everyone just expected it. Literally every single year, starting with my preschool graduation, my mother at some point would remind me of how important it was to do something because 'This could be the last time Gram gets to celebrate (insert event here).' One of my least favorite things to do as a kid was go to the annual family picnic, I hated being forced in to spending time with every kid in the family that was in the same age range as myself and having my face pinched by smelly old aunts, but every year my mother would say 'You have to go because it is important to Gram and this could be her last picnic.' Needless to say, it was never Gram's last picnic. In fact, much to everyone's surprise, the picnics ended before she did. This pessimistic attitude that our family displayed, along with the obvious rapid decline of Gram's health over the past two years, really went a long way in preparing everyone for last Friday when she actually died- 23 years after my grandfather.

Because of the inevitability of the situation, I think everyone, or at least myself, kind of looked at Gram's funeral- whenever it was going to happen- as kind of the next, last big family event. While most everyone from Gram's immediate family, children, grandchildren, cousins, aunts, and the like all live fairly close to her, there were many of us that did not and only made it home for sporadic special occasions. This stressed me out. Going home and seeing all of those people, as well as having to deal with my own feelings and those who are close to me feeling sad all combined to give me a relatively pessimistic attitude going in to the week's events.

Monica and I managed to get the trip started off on the right foot, though, meeting my cousins from Rhode Island, who I rarely see but actually enjoy being around, at an Irish Pub just as you enter town. Much like the Irish, Italians like to get a little buzz on before they do, well, just about anything, and especially before they go to any sort of formal event like a wedding or a funeral. The main difference being that Irish people drink whiskey and cry and Italians drink beer or wine and bury their emotions somewhere deep inside their gut. Both are effective ways of mourning.

The wake pre-game was good at easing a lot of the tension and bringing us cousins together in a kind of 'fuck 'em all, we're here for Gram' defiance.' It was also the first indication that, despite the circumstance, we may actually have a little bit of fun. The second indication of that was the fact that each of us showed up to the wake with a 12 pack in our trunks, which we combined in to a tiny cooler in the back of my cousin Patrick's Youkon, which he had backed in to a parking space at the funeral home in case things got too overwhelming for any of us. Which it did, about twice an hour. I think one of my fondest memories of the entire occasion was myself and my two cousins huddling in back of the truck, pounding beers and saying 'Who is this piece of shit?' every time someone pulled in to the parking lot, nine times out of ten realizing that it was either someone we didn't recognize or a family member that we hadn't seen in decades, but we remembered liking. The piece of shit ratio was actually like 1-10, so I guess we were way off on that. It could also have been all of the beer.

So I'm not going to give a play by play of the two days, there are just a few things that stand out to me. First, I had a lot of crazy, interesting interaction with the funeral home staff. A bit of background. Ever since I can remember, we have had a family funeral director. One thing you should know about the family is that we have a person for everything. I am the 'writer of the family' my cousins are the 'cops of the family,' etc... Well, along the same lines, Roger is the family funeral director. He has done everyone's. Aunt's, uncles, cousins... everyone. I have no idea how this came to be, he isn't even related to us. he was friends with my mom's cousin Kathy and somehow he cornered all of our business, even after he and Kathy stopped speaking when she married a rival funeral director- or something. Yes, only in my family does this happen. Scandal at the funeral home.

One of the things I took the most enjoyment out of at the wake was seeing all of the people who still remember me as an 11-year-old and watching the looks on their faces when they figure out who this tall, bearded, gray haired man was standing in front of them. Roger was one of those people. As was typically the case, he did the 'Oh my goodness, I'm so old' thing, and then called me in to another room to 'catch up' with him. Roger is a strange fellow. That is the best way I can describe him. And not just because he is a funeral director. No, it is something else. He is older, very tan, very eccentric and very, very serious about organization. Oh, and he wears personalized socks. In the process of speaking with Roger, I was introduced to the funeral home's owner, Mr. Dwyer, who looked exactly like the crypt keeper, appropriately enough. He was about 11 feet tall, his head looked like it was made out of wax and he had no expression in his eyes. He was about 100 years old, he had all sorts of wires coming out of his ears and his teeth were all perfectly the same size. He was the most terrifying man I have ever seen. Nice enough when we talked, though, even though I was pulled away for something mid conversation. He managed to find me though, and made sure to track me down and finish his story about a man from Romania who walked 10 miles to his in-law's house to ask for his wife's hand in marriage, even though he had never met them before. Cool. Completely irrelevant, but cool.

I was also thrust in to the position of Pallbearer for the event, something that I was both proud and nervous to do. They literally give you no instructions, they just hand you a pair of gloves and put you in a limo. Myself, along with three of my cousins and two of my grandmother's nephews were asked to do the job. Both nephews, well in to their 50's, asked to be in the middle so they didn't have to work as hard, leaving my two cop cousins, liver-transplant Tommy and myself to work the four corners. I ended up in the front, exactly where I didn't want to be. Too much pressure. Although, my suit looked pretty friggin nice. The first observation I had was that casket is pretty friggin heavy. I know that it has a person inside, but my grandmother was tiny, and I am pretty sure that the box itself outweighed her by like 300 pounds. The funeral directors make it easy for you, wheeling the casket most of the way and only making us carry it up stairs and on to platforms and such, but it was still a strenuous act. So, as the face of the funeral, I guess, I carried that thing up the stairs and in to the church, confused the entire time about what my role was going to be during the funeral, and hoping against hope that none of us screwed up and dropped our end. The Crypt Keeper must have had to correct me three or four times on where my hands were and what I was supposed to do next, and that was before we were in the church. Once inside, we didn't have to do any heavy lifting, just place our hands on the casket and guide it as it was pushed down the aisle. This would have been cool if the aisle wasn't so narrow, or if maybe I was a little bit stronger or something, because I kept getting run in to all of the pews on the way by. This was cool because I had to walk sideways and try to avoid every obstacle, creating a fantastic visual effect for all involved. It was the same thing on the way out, too, bouncing off of pews, wondering what I was doing wrong. I am still not sure that I actually did anything wrong at all, but I have been to a few funerals in my day and never seen anyone run in to anything, so I was obviously messing something up, right?

TO make matters worse, I was forced to sit in the passenger seat of the limo, meaning that I had to ride in awkward silence next to the Crypt Kepper's son/ assistant as he drove us to the cemetery. As nice as it was to not be crammed in the back of the car, it was very uncomfortable riding up front in complete silence. And a little terrifying to have a bird's eye view of the limo barreling through red lights and cutting off traffic.

Finally, it was the trip to the cemetery, where we were blessed with the task of lifting Gram out of the hearse and over another headstone on to the platform above the grave. At first, my morbid curiosity wanted to see in the hole so I peeked over. It was just concrete, kind of boring. Once again, though, I was put in the front, which meant that I had to be the brawn of the operation, lifting the casket up over the headstone, which is like three feet off of the ground. Yeah, that didn't go well. Aside from almost dropping that heavy-ass thing, I realized the plywood I was standing on was in no way supportive of a man my size and nearly caused me to fall in to the hole, putting a damper on an otherwise lovely ceremony.

In the end, the trip home was a pretty successful one and I feel like we all did a good job of honoring Gram. I will, however, forever have the thoughts of Roger's personalized socks, slamming my hip in to church pews and almost falling in to an empty grave tattooed on my brain. I am decidedly glad that it is over and I hope I don't have to bury anyone else any time soon..