Episode 160: The world has lost its damn mind

I have been sitting on my couch staring at this blank screen for about 15 minutes. Av is watching the Thomas the Tank Engine "Day of the Diesels" movie for the 400th time, reciting every line as it is spoken. I remember when I was a kid I had a friend that would do the same thing whenever Wayne's World was on. I am pretty sure I hate Wayne's World for that reason and that reason only. I haven't got to that point with Thomas yet, though.

In any event, it has been five weeks since my last blog post. Sometimes I find myself with little to do and try and convince myself that I should be on this site pleasing you all with my words. Then I find other things to do, like read Internet articles, nap, have a snack or pick up one of the 25,ooo messes that surround me on a daily basis. Today I logged on and looked at the other blogs that I follow. As far as I can tell exactly two have been updated in the past six months, and the most recent one was over two weeks ago. This led me to wonder. Is blogging dead? Has this made up phase of Internet culture surpassed us? Has the age of Twitter (which I still struggle to understand as well as resent as it has become a 'legitimate' news source in our society) risen above long form writing? I don't know. But given that the world is going to end today - if you believe conspiracy theorists and lunatics- I figured I might as well limit my self-loathing for the day and give the aliens aboard the asteroid that is tumbling toward Earth something to read.

Oh, you haven't heard of this yet? Well, I hope it isn't too late for you. Apparently, according to astronomers, there is some sort of air craft carrier sized piece of space junk passing by Earth today. By all accounts it will not hit Earth, or the Moon, but it will come closer than any asteroid has come to the planet in some time. It is important to note here that astronomers and scientists are in no way concerned about this being a threat to humanity, rather, most of them are looking at it as an excellent research opportunity. There is decidedly no danger to our existence. Unless, off course, you are a lunatic that thinks they are all lying.

In my Internet perusing, I have stumbled upon many an article (see: blog) that suggest this space junk will hit Earth, or the Moon, or both and just spiral us in to a hellish apocalypse. Depending on who you believe in this amateur doomsday religious fanaticism, some of you may be spared if you are A. Christian. B. In the government or C. living in the state of New Hampshire. Seriously. One guy seems to think that New Hampshire will be some sort of peninsula in a lake off fire spared from God, or the alien's wrath. However, I would contend that a world where the only people left are people from New Hampshire is the equivalent to Hell on Earth. That is, unless you like rednecks, republican racism, personalized license plates and sloppy, drunk, slutty women. And, let's be honest, who doesn't love those things?

Much of the reasoning behind this doomsday theory is centered around a nationwide test of the Emergency Alert System (EAS), which most of you are familiar with as that horrifying noise that shocks you awake after you fall asleep with your TV on, or that thing that messes up your cable box so you have to reset it and loose your channel guide and features for an hour. Well, apparently, they now have the ability to send out alerts on this on a nationwide basis from the White House control room, among other places, in the event of, I don't know, attack or pandemic or any other variety of terrifying events- like asteroid threats. This, for some reason, does not make people happy. Because, obviously, our evil black president is planning some sort of attack on us today, because in the Bible it says something about the Mark of the Beast and not being gay and the collapse of the world financial system. Or something. Sorry, it's hard to keep track of on account of all of my sinning.

In any event, these idiots seem to think that because in a press release the government said it would be up to individual broadcast networks to add the 'this is only a test' audio to the production that it must not actually be a test. Some have gone as far as to speculate that they are hesitant to call it a test because they think this asteroid is going to hit Earth. Ignoring, of course, that the EAS test is scheduled for 2 p.m. and the asteroid isn't expected to pass Earth until nearly 7 p.m. But let's not let the facts get in the way of our conspiracy theory. Head to your bomb shelters. Wait, you don't have a bomb shelter?! Obama does. That's what you get for shopping at Target and listening to gangsta rap.

There, now that we have covered that, and we are all ready to burn in hell a few hours from now, you know, because there is porn on the Internet or something, let's look at some other events that have taken place since we last met here on this blog, shall we?

1. Occupy Everywhere. In case you missed it, some angry folks decided that they could somehow solve the world's financial nightmares by continuously camping out on Wall Street and protesting American capitalism. Somewhere along the line, hippies and unemployed college students decided it would be a good idea to do this in other cities. Things didn't go so well in Oakland, where there were riots (honestly, what did they expect) and there were spattered amounts of other incidents across the country. Here in Boston it seems that most of these smelly rich kids with a cause did little more than play acoustic guitar and bitch about student loans, accomplishing nothing. For all I know they could still be there. I'm not sure, though, because I have a job, and things to do with my life. On a hilarious side note, there was a brief Occupy Salem movement, which resulted in exactly four people standing outside the post office holding one sign that said 'End the War.' Great job guys.

I'm not necessarily against protest and rebellion. All I'm saying is that these kids would make more of a difference if they just went to class and learned something. Then maybe they can use their brains to change things. Instead of smoking weed in a tent and getting mad at the police.

2. Penn State sex scandal. This story is disgusting and infuriating. In case you missed it, an assistant football coach at Penn State is accused of raping and molesting young boys over a 15-year span, many times in the facilities of the university. He met these boys through a charity that he established specifically to help underprivileged young boys. Now two members of the university have been brought up on perjury charges for lying to the grand jury during an investigation, and several others have been scrutinized for not informing authorities after another coach walked in on the suspect and a young boy doing it in the shower. It is widely speculated that the university, as well as university police, kept the incidents quiet to avoid scandal. If this is true, they should throw all of them in jail.

Here is my thing. I have read a lot about this and it fascinates me. All of these former players and coaches and community members are saying how shocked they are that someone they knew and loved could do this. They had no idea. Despite at least two documented occasions where this man was caught in the shower with a young boy. According to the indictment, this man would take young boys on vacation with him, he would let them stay over night at his house, he would bring them on campus and seemingly everywhere that he went. Now, I get that he ran a charity for these boys, but c'mon. How does your wife not know you are raping these kids in your basement? 'Oh, hey honey, I'm gonna go check on little Billy and make sure he is ok, I'll be back in a half hour." Is she blind? Mute? Paraplegic? How does no one that you work with get suspicious when you are bringing an 11-year-old to lift waits and practice wrestling moves? I don't know any pedophiles, but I like to think that if I did I would be able to identify them based solely on behavior. People who rape kids can't act normal in every day social situations, right? And if I worked with them every day I might ask myself a few questions if there is always an 8-year-old boy in tow. Right? Maybe I'm off base here, but it seems like even the slightest suspicion of child rape should be handled better than this.

3. The Justin Bieber pregnancy scandal. I can't decide if I want the baby to be his or not. On one hand, if it is, he will have disappointed legions of fans and followers who thought he was wholesome, he will have to pay millions in child support and his squeaky clean image will be shattered. All of these things are good. However, I can see all of this backfiring. I can see him becoming a 'bad boy' and gaining more fans, as well as the sympathy of others for the gold-digging baby mama. Then he will turn 19 or 20 and just get to nail all of the hot actresses. Honestly, I kind of always hoped he was gay. Not like, regular gay. Like, creepy, I can't let go of my childhood because fame robbed it from me, child molester, Michael Jackson gay. I don't even know if that is classified as being gay. I think it is more ambiguous, disgusting sexual deviance. Yeah, that's what I want. I want Bieber to be hated and shunned by society because he is a creep.

4. The Michael Jackson trial. Speaking of the King of Creep himself, MJ's doctor was convicted of involuntary manslaughter, or something like that, this week. I guess he's guilty but for Christ sake, was Michael Jackson really the picture of health? How much longer was he going to live? Oh, and let me remind you, he was also a pedophile. Which means that the only thing he deserves more than death is eternal prison beatings. I say let this guy off with a fine and some probation. One less pervert off the streets.

5. Andy Rooney is dead. I totally thought this happened five years ago.

I am sure there are more stories we could discuss, most that are probably more important to society and involve fewer pedophiles, but I am largely out of touch and I don't much care for politics and world news. I am a simple man. The EAS will tell me if I should be concerned. Unless you want to discuss what happened on Thomas and Friends or Curious George today. On an interesting side note, Av calls Curious George 'Monkeyous George' which is just hilarious.

Av is doing well. She is an almost-three-year-old, which means she is largely a dick. She is usually pretty funny, especially when she says things like 'I told you 100 times I don't want to get dressed" or "You always tell me to be careful. Don't tell me again or you are going to go in to a time out." The NBA is in a lockout, the Patriots suck, I'm tired of my job and I have had three bad weeks of bowling in a row. Everything is falling apart. Just in time for the annual winter mental meltdown. Nice.

See, it is a good thing that I have Av as a distraction, because the world has lost it's damn mind and I can't handle it. I don't need to be getting fired up over pedophile celebrities and asteroids every day. I have enough internal conflict to deal with.

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Episode 159: She's asleep, quick it's my alotted internet time!

You know it has been a long time since you have written a blog when you sign on to the website and it forces a bunch of software updates on to your computer. Sorry. In the words of Peter Gibbons in Office Space, It's a problem of motivation.

Well, it isn't just a problem of motivation, it is also a problem of living an entire day with an almost-3-year old who has already developed the attitude of a 16-year-old. She rarely allows me time to myself, usually just to take a shower if I put on a really interesting show for her. Otherwise, she is right there. Grabbing on to the back pockets of my jeans while I clean the kitchen, turning the light on and off while I go to the bathroom, stealing food off of my plate even though she rejected what I was making for myself and forced me to make her something completely different for lunch. All of this, coupled with the fact that 85 percent of the time I am on my computer she will walk over and slam it shut, make for a difficult time when trying to craft a well-written account of the recent events of our lives. Come to think of it, this sounds more like spending your day with an old, grouchy hermit than a 16-year-old. Still equally as challenging.

Another issue I have come across is that of our beloved, cherished, much anticipated afternoon nap has all but disappeared. It was bordering on extinction to begin with, but up until last week I at least had the luxury of putting her in her crib and fooling myself in to thinking she would fall asleep. In reality, she just would play for an hour and then scream until I came and got her. Still, that was an hour of relative sanity. All of this came to a crashing (literally) end about two weeks ago when she decided that she was going to attempt the inevitable and try to climb out of her crib. She escaped the incident unharmed, aside from a bit of soreness and a lot of tears, which is a shock considering the completely idiotic method she apparently used to do the deed. According to her own reenactment of the events, rather than put her leg up and climb over, or stand on the rails and try to climb down the other side, she leaned over the railing face first on her stomach and swan dove on to the floor. Idiot.

All of this means that she now has a toddler bed that she can get out of whenever she dam well pleases. And trust me, she pleases. The only reason that I have even been allowed to try and write today is because she fell asleep in the car on the way home from the store. Because she woke up at 5:30 in the morning. Because she is a psychopath. I was able to type the bulk of this on the porch while she slept in the car in the driveway, but about halfway through she woke up and I had to convince her to start painting on her easel so that I could finish up. The clock is ticking. She is already snooping around asking what I am doing.

In any event, that is about the entirety of my day. Playing trains, cars, painting, putting together a variety of snacks, and arguing. Lots and lots of arguing. On Sunday we are going to 'take a ride on Thomas.' I can only imagine what that will actually entail, but for $18/ ticket it had better be awesome.

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Av's song choice of the week. "I want the White Jack one"

Back to it

Summer vacation has come to an end for just about everyone, including this guy, so it is time to get back to work. Back to trying to keep a 2-year-old alive and out of trouble. Back to waking up before the sun. Back to narrating my life on an Internet forum that literally tens of people may or may not check on a bi-monthly basis.

A quick recap of the summer's events. The usual zoo trips and park days were slightly reduced thanks to much of our time being taken up by our long-anticipated move off of Roslyn Street. The move went slightly more smoothly than the last one, but it did still entirely suck, as all moves do. More on that in a moment.

We also took a family vacation to Sesame Place, a small, Sesame Street-themed water park buried in the doldrums of Eastern Pennsylvania. The park was a lovely time if you were between the ages of 2-6 and Av got to meet all of her idols, including Bert and Ernie and Count, who was by far the most personable.

On a personal note, I continue to question why Sesame Street ignores the popularity of Grover, who was not available for any meet and greets or picture taking. The same goes for Telly Monster, who, along with the previously mentioned adorable blue monster, is one of my favorites. I enjoy Telly for two reasons. First, he looks like the actor Craig T. Nelson, better known to many of you as 'Coach.' Second, much like myself, Telly is paranoid, neurotic, slightly bi-polar and obsessed with random things such as triangles and tubas.

Both of these characters were featured only in the Sesame Place parade, held at 2:30 each day, in which the characters danced and sang down the middle of the theme park. Pictures and meet and greets were designated only for Cookie Monster, Count, Zoe and Bert and Ernie.

You may be asking yourself the question, 'What about Elmo?' Well, I'll tell you something about that over-hyped little red punk. He has star disease and he needs to be taken down a notch. Elmo has his own area of the park. His own studio where you have to go if you want to watch him perform. If you want your picture taken you have to go to a separate area and pay to have it done. Even worse, we paid for the 'lunch with the characters' in which characters join you in a cafeteria and sit at your table for photo opportunities. Count, Cookie Monster and Big Bird were readily available for everyone to love while Elmo was placed in the corner, on a chair, and there was a charge for pictures. This is unreal to me. Elmo sucks. This is all because of that stupid 'Tickle me Elmo' doll from the 90's. Elmo is the worst. Can't even talk right, ambiguous voice, gold fish having little pansy.

Like I said, the theme park was great for the kids. The location of the theme park was dreadful for adults. I don't know if any of you have even been to Pennsylvania, but it is a miserable state. There is nothing there but retail and Wa Wa convenience stores. And don't even get me started on beer. I had to go to a pizza shop to ask where I could buy beer. The kid tells me that in the state liquor stores can only sell beer, wine OR booze. One of the three. Not both. Not all three. He gave me directions to the nearest store, which was like trying to track down pirate booty. When I finally found a place, the only place around that even mentioned alcohol sales, it was an empty garage with a neon sign that says 'our beer is cold. Yeah, if you have to advertise that the beer is cold, you have a problem. Anyway, I go in to the store and realize that all they sell are cases. No 6-packs, no 12- packs. Cases. So, I got a case of Yuingling, the beer that everyone who doesn't live in Pennsylvania or New Jersey says is the greatest beer of all time. It is not. It tastes like vanilla Budweiser.

All-in-all the trip was fine. Av had a fantastic time and that is all that matters. But if anyone ever asks you to go to Pennsylvania, I suggest you say no. Just some advice.

The move

Leave it to us to be the only people who have ever moved out of the ghetto, to the suburbs, on a tree-lined street, two houses down from a cop, across the street from a firefighter, and find ourselves in a worse situation than we were in before. Allow me to explain.

As I have mentioned a million times here, Roslyn Street was the armpit of Massachusetts. It was loud, it was ghetto, we lived above a bunch of crazies and we absolutely had to move. Buried among the 7, 000 equally as shitty apartments we looked at on equally as shitty streets, was one gem. Located one town over in the suburbs. Beautiful, big, bright, air conditioned. Lovely. We hustled and fought and paid and did everything we could to get it, and we did. Great.

One thing the landlords failed to mention was that there is a family of 11 Spanish, or Portuguese or whatever people living up stairs. Of those 11 people, 6 of them are children. Children between the ages of 2-8. Needles to say, it is like living above a bowling alley. To make matters worse, they have a boat. A boat that is constantly parked in front of our house. Blocking half of the street, making it impossible to back out of the driveway safely. One of the adults that lives upstairs is a 450 lb woman who does nothing, NOTHING but scream at the kids. ALL DAY LONG. And for some reason every day between the hours of noon and 3 p.m. all they do is move furniture around. Their kids look in our windows. They throw trash in the back yard. Oh, and the father, Angel, is a carpenter. Of course he is. So the two days a week he isn't cleaning his boat or gutting fish on the sidewalk he is in the driveway sawing wood. Now, I don't even want to begin to speculate how a family of 11 can fit in a 4-bedroom apartment. But I don't care.

Our moron landlord, you know, the one that didn't check to see if any of the appliances worked before we moved in (three out of five of them didn't) says he has evicted them. Well, he obviously doesn't understand the eviction process because they are still here. And their court date keeps getting pushed back. Great. Perhaps the most infuriating part of all of this is that everyone in the neighborhood seems to be supporting the giant family. They love them. Well, they haven't had to live beneath them.

So, that's that. That is where we stand right now. Monica want's to move again but I'm not doing it. I'm just gonna take my kid to Petsmart during the day and avoid the noise. I'll keep you all updated on that progress.

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These are the baby's two current favorite songs. No, I can't make sense of it, either.



http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x9pqFMYERbk

Episode 158: FINALLY

Good news everyone, I did not go out to get a gallon of milk or a pack of smokes and never come home. I know you were all concerned that I had gone out on the lamb with some tattoo-covered, short-short-wearing chick in a wood-paneled mini van, dusting up the country side and breaking various local blue laws with my rebel-rambling ways. No, instead I was just toiling away in the purgatory that is Monica's Acer laptop with the 6-inch screen while I waited for this beast to be repaired after a screen-rocking tumble off of the arm of the couch a few weeks back. Note to self: buzzed vacuuming is detrimental to the health of small household electronics. Call off the search party, Joey Greco.

So, here we are. It has been about three weeks, it is 96 degrees outside, I have just downed a Red Bull and I am ready to write. Let's do it. Where to begin... Oh, ok. Yeah, Avelyn.

A few months ago I was talking to someone about how I thought the 'terrible two's' were a bit exaggerated. Av must have heard me have that conversation because she is seriously making up for lost time. There have been at least four times this week alone where I contemplated just handing her to the first police officer I saw and saying 'here, you deal with it.'

It isn't that she is a bad kid. It is just the whiny, bratty behavior that comes along with being two. She can pretty much say anything and put together complete sentences now, but instead of just not being a dick about things she is demanding, bossy and mean. For example. A few months ago mornings would go something like this.

Wake up around 7-7:30. Play in the crib, yell for mommy or daddy. Get up, change diaper. "What do you want for breakfast?"

"Ummmm. Cereal."

Done.

Now it goes like this:

Wake up at 6:15. Whine, yell, throw things until one of us gives in. Stand in the crib and f with us until finally we lift her out and change the diaper.

"What do you want for breakfast?"

"NO! NO BREAKFAST! CARS AND BLOCKS!!!"

(Just a side note, cars and blocks used to be a game where we would build tunnels and towns and buildings and then drive the Matchbox cars through them and knock them over and laugh. Now all it is is her playing with her Thomas the Tank Engine train set with missing parts that we bought off of Craig's list, breaking the track and yelling at me to put it back together. No fun).

At some point during cars and blocks she will yell/whine something along the lines of "I NEED CEREAL!" And then there will be a whole fight about how she isn't asking nicely and she can't have it until she does, at which point she will cry and scream until you threaten to put her back to bed, which brings more screaming.

There are also similar fights throughout the day that involve taking tubbies, eating lunch, brushing hair and cleaning up messes. So. Many. Messes. Seriously. I feel like we are in that weird transition where she is way to big for baby things, and she wants to use adult things, but she isn't coordinated enough to do it without spilling juice everywhere, knocking something over or just generally destroying everything that she touches.

I hate to say it, but since Monica has been home for the summer it has been more miserable than not. It isn't anyone's fault, it is just the terrible twos. Someone is always yelling or screaming or fighting or spilling or throwing or pooping. Av will piss one of us off and we will snap at the other and it is a whole thing. Some days I can't wait to go to work... Still, though. I always bring the milk home.

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Perhaps the most positive thing going on right now is the fact that we are finally, FINALLY getting the hell off of Roslyn Street. Finally getting away from 2 a.m. fireworks in June, crazy neighbors fighting over stolen cigarettes, college kids drunkinly playing football in the middle of the road at 6 a.m., people hitting my car from all angles, getting contact high at 8 a.m. because my shower is over the crazy stoner bitch's bedroom downstairs, broken appliances, absentee landlords, clogged drains, convicted felons, half-way houses, dudes walking down the street pushing mattresses on top of shopping carts, stupid friggin taxi cabs beeping at all hours of the night, dog shit all over the sidewalk and W.H. Goodwin and his loud-ass, always working on his own house general contracting company. FINALLY.

I am willing to bet that most times when I am standing in front of the Walgreen's cooler, holding the milk, wondering where I can get a mini van, it is because of Roslyn Street. Now we have found a nice apartment on a tree-lined street in a duplex. It has a dishwasher and a washer and dryer on the same floor that we live on so I no longer have to swear and kick things because I can't get the overflowing laundry basket past the stupid damn baby gate that has to be up because we live on the second floor of an about-to-collapse building. FINALLY.

Perhaps the two most important things to me will be be the fact that I can purchase both a real grill and a real chair. These are really the only two things in life that I want (realistic things, I should say). I am a dad. I need a grill to cook meat on and a chair to drink beer and watch sports in. FINALLY.

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All of this has inspired me to take a new outlook on life. An outlook that has landed me a surprising amount of ridicule. But my thing now is I am just going to try not to care. I am going to wake up, go with the day and try to do the things that make me happy, whatever those things may be. I will meditate, maybe try to be a bit more active. I have been trying to walk more to places and listen to more music. Both for physical and mental health. It is good to clear the mind. This is the new zen Dan. So far it is working 50/50. I still have a few kinks to work out. Life is confusing sometimes when you let your instincts take over. That is all for now.

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You knew I wasn't going to come back from a three week break without at least one BLack Keys song. If this song doesn't make you want to get it on you either have no soul or no sex drive.

Episode 157: Father's Day edition

Good morning all and welcome to the Father's Day edition of the blog. I have a little extra time as Monica has taken Av to visit her grandfather for the first half of the day, a wonderful gift of solidarity and peace leading up to what I am sure will be a lovely family dinner.

I'm going to watch NASCAR today. I'm also going to drink beer. Good beer. Like, $14 for a 6-pack beer. I am probably going to fall asleep about 10 minutes in to the race broadcast. No, I do not feel bad about any of this. Yes, I am an old man. As I have heard multiple times by multiple people over the past, say, 27 years.

I would also like to take this opportunity to thank my own father for not going out to get milk and never coming home, not drinking scotch and beating any of us up and resisting the urge to beat me to death with a tire iron and bury my body in the back yard when I was a complete asshole between the ages of 12-17.

That said, I am a pretty good son. I did go to college (however counterproductive that ended up being) where I was only arrested once, by campus police, and he never had to bail me out of jail. I also managed to avoid knocking up my girlfriend until I was 25, an accomplishment indeed for someone as charismatic and good looking as myself.

All of this just means that he did a pretty good job.

As for myself it is still pretty weird celebrating Father's Day, even though today will be my third one. I honestly didn't even remember that it was today until midway through the week. I guess I should be celebrated? It just feels strange. It is tough, I don't really picture myself as a dad. I mean, I am. I have a kid. I drink beer, eat meat, go to work, bitch about the house being filthy, drive a 4-door sedan with a car seat. I am definitely a dad. But somehow it feels weird celebrating Father's Day. I'm also not quite sure why dads don't get as much hoopla as moms do. Must be the whole physically squeezing the baby out of the womb thing. I like being a dad, don't get me wrong. Av is the best. She is hysterical and bizarre and infuriating and adorable, and she has taught me pretty much everything I know about life. But it still feels weird celebrating Father's Day as a father, not just a son.

Another dad thing that I have managed to accomplish is my recent entry in to a bowling league. Yes, a bowling league. Just like Al Bundy. It has long been my dream to be in a bowling league. I love bowling, and I feel like I need a hobby or activity, and I hate golf, so here we are. Every Monday at the Lynnway Sports Center. Bowling and $2.50 PBR. Can't go wrong. I even bought a vintage polyester bowling shirt from EBAY. $12. Would have been $8, but Monica thought it would be funny to bid against me to see how worked up I got when I thought I was going to lose. She was right. I got worked up. Then I had to pay an extra $4. Dammit. Oh well, I'm the best looking dude there.

Unfortunately, most of the people that I tell about the bowling league just mock me, don't take it seriously and think I am some sort of tool. Story of my life. Who cares? I like bowling and race cars and Norm Macdonald. At least I don't fucking like dolphins. Or politics. Imagine how much this blog would suck if I liked politics?

I had to work a party of republican pink polo-shirt wearing aristocrats at the bar the other night. Turns out rich people are so rich because they save all of their money not tipping.

Quote of the night, after an hour-long, off and on, back and forth debate with the groom over whether or not I would hook up his iPod to our music system (I refused).

"Man, I just wanted to hear this one LFO song."

TOOL.

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Taxi-cabs, the sharks of streets, with fins of fire they troll for fares

I have long hated taxi drivers. In part, because of my experience as a drunkard, in part because of my experience as a motorist, and in part because of my brief experience as a tourist. No matter your reason for taking a cab, it always sucks. The drivers are awkward and foreign, or worse, not foreign and chatty in your language, they drive like shit, they get lost, they smell etc... This story is not about any of those things.

Last night my friend Mike and I were leaving work. It was about 2 a.m. We noticed some commotion across the street with fire trucks and ambulances and police cars near the water. We investigated and it became clear that they were trying to extract a vehicle from the water behind the parking garage. Someone had apparently either drunkenly driven off of the ledge, had a medical emergency and drove off the ledge or was trying to commit insurance fraud. Now, if I were more enterprising, and less miserable, jaded and bitter toward the newspaper industry, I would have walked down there, used my reporter skills to interview some people on the scene, talked to the cops and snapped some cell phone videos or photos.

It would have been great. I could have gone home, written a story, emailed my pictures to the lady at the place I freelance for who covers Salem, AND I would have known what was going on. Instead, Mike and I leaned on a railing and watched some divers until some clearly disappointed spectator walked by and said "The car has South Carolina plates and they say they can't see anyone in the driver's seat, but there is a key." Somehow, that was enough for both of us and we went home. Today, as of 11:30 a.m., there is no media coverage anywhere. Do I feel bad about dropping the ball pretty much for the entire community? Nope.

That, too, isn't what this story is about. This story is about a cab driver. This cab driver arrived at the same time as Mike and I and stood on the same railing and talking to us. He was either drunk or on some sort of awesome prescription meds because he was making no sense and slurring his words. He was also clearly a crazy person. He spoke multiple times about how "You know, sometimes you get depressed and want to drive the cab in to the water. But you snap out of it."

He told tragic stories of other people he knew who have driven in to water and died. Whole families. Too many for one man to realistically know. The entire time his cab is parked on the side of the road with the keys inside, running. Eventually, after a few more suicide references and a few more stories, he asked Mike and I to watch his cab while he went and investigated. We did not. We did, for a brief time, discuss stealing it out of principle, if for no other purpose than to move it around the block just to scare the crap out of him. We decided against this for two reasons. One, there were cops everywhere. Two, we really didn't want this guy to kill himself when he found out we stole his cab.

Now, imagine yourself at 2 a.m. You have been drinking and you need a ride home. Or maybe you were at a house party and your buddy stole your car. Or maybe some crazy person stole your car and drove it in to a harbor. Whatever the case, you need a ride. You call a cab company and this man shows up. This depressed man, fucked up on something, to give you a ride. Nine times out of ten I bet you don't even notice, because he just drives your drunk, beat-ass home. But how many late-night cab drivers are like this guy? How many afternoon cab drivers are like this guy? Think about it.

...

All the suicide talk got me thinking. Some of my favorite songs are about suicide. And on this Father's Day it is nice to remind all of the republican aristocrat Bruce Springstein listening-to dads out there that just because your kid listens to a song about suicide, or murder, or sex or smoking weed, they probably aren't going to do any of those things because of that song. If they do those things it will probably be because you were kind of a shitty dad. Except for the smoking weed thing. They will probably do that either way.

This is a great suicide song. Unfortunately, the first and last 30 seconds are ruined by some chooch within earshot of the video camera saying things like 'Bro I love this song!'

Episode 156: Kids like this crap?

I feel like I've been pretty lucky when it comes to kid shows. Av is pretty much in to Sesame Street, Yo Gabba Gabba and Blues Clues. All very, very tolerable when you consider all of the garbage there is out there for kids. Does anyone remember Lamb Chop's Play Along? I am willing to bet that show was responsible for more than one 80's dad heading out for cigarettes and never coming home.

I suppose, like anything, there is a good side and a bad side. Mr. Rogers, Sesame Street and the like were all entertaining in some way, even for parents or older kids. Then you have crap like Barney and Lamb Chop and the dreadful and, thankfully, short-lived Telletubbies. More recently, Yo Gabba Gabba has emerged as a tolerable show, if for no other reason than it will give me the occasional flashback, and even Zaboomafoo (or Chris and Martin's Gay Animal Adventure) interests me based on my lifelong desire to be a zoo keeper.

Other than the well-documented three-week Barney phase, Av has spared me from most of the mind-numbing excretion that most kids subject themselves to. She avoids pen-in-the-eye shows like The Wiggles and she only likes the idea of Dora the Explorer, she doesn't actually watch the show. (Can we all agree that Dora doesn't rhyme with 'explorer'? Not in English, not in Spanish. We are sending our kids the wrong message. Also, Diego is not as cool as he is advertised to be. He is an 8-year-old Ricky Martin.)

Lately, though, she has been in to Thomas and Friends. If you aren't familiar with Thomas, God Bless You. If you are, you know that Thomas is a toy train with a face who travels around some weird, 40-year-old pedophile's basement train set playing out dull, outdated scenarios, such as lackluster debates over whether helicopters deliver mail faster than trains.

This is Thomas.

These are his 'Friends' who appear to be more like co-workers with terrifying faces who spend most of the day trying to fuck Thomas over. Again, no conflict is ever greater than 'ooohhh the train cars played a trick on Thomas an now he is late!" Ohhh geeze. Maybe Thomas should get a job leading the commuter rail from Salem to Boston. His lack of punctuality would be spot on.
All of this is inexplicably narrated by George Carlin (RIP), who apparently ate vanilla ice cream, stared at a blank wall and took a handful of downers before going to work because he has about as much expression in his voice as I do when someone asks me the question 'How's the baby?'

The episodes are so dull that they only have about enough material to fill eight minutes until they mercifully end with Carlin saying something like 'And Thomas went back to the station and smiled all day.' Great ending.

I think the root of the problem is that this stupid train concept originated in England. Stupid, humorless bores. I mean, who still has a monarchy? People whose TV shows revolve around toys who don't move.

Anyway, I suppose it could be worse. The thing that gets me- that really gets me- is that Thomas memorabilia costs about as much as fine jewelery. A Sesame Street toy, a small one, is like, $6 bucks. A toy airplane, car, ambulance, fire truck, monster truck, race car, tractor, police car, drag racer, Prius etc... are anywhere from 99 cents to $5. A toy Thomas, which is the same size as a Matchbox car, is $11.99. At Walmart! Imagine what it must be at a real toy store?!

Today at art class Av, her crush Vincent and myself played with the dirty YMCA second-hand Thomas train set for like a half hour. I told her we could go get a Thomas. I love her to death, but if she thinks I'm paying $12 for a stupid, ugly-faced train she is insane. Damn Brits. What I did find was a Thomas bubble-blowing set that came with a larger Thomas toy which doubles as a train-whistle blowing bubble wand. Exponentially cooler, $3. The world as a whole is just completely fucked up. That is today's moral.

...

Episode 155: Life is confusing when you're two

Time continues to tick away in this cruel, permanent experiment called fatherhood and as each day passes Av seems to acquire a stronger and stronger grasp on her freakish, alien intelligence that will someday defeat me. With that said, she also remains an idiot.

Let's discuss. Av has an uncanny ability to identify her whereabouts. Like yesterday when she knew we were around the corner from a pizza place that she probably hasn't been to in months or when she can point out the street before the street that takes us to the park. On the other hand, she frequently walks face-first in to door knobs and trips over her own feet in the living room. Genius or moron? Both? Neither? No. The answer is E., 2-year-old. They are like moron geniuses. I can't explain it in any way that will do it justice so I'll just stop trying.

One of the more difficult things to deal with recently has been the combination of her endless curiosity and her relative inability to wrap her head around most things that are explained to her. I suppose this is how you enter the 'why' phase, something I am finding out is not a myth like I had originally suspected.

We have a lot of conversations like this one, which began the other day after the, uh, 'special' man who wrangles the carts at Stop and Shop started randomly yelling at the sky in the middle of the parking lot.

"Why he do dat?"

"Ahhh, I don't know, he is upset."

"Why he upset?"

"Because something made him mad."

"Who made him mad? Why?"

"Ahhh, I don't know, maybe his boss."

"Why?"

"Maybe he doesn't want to bring the carts in."

"Why?"

"Because it is hot out."

"Why it hot out?"

"Because the sun is out today and there aren't any clouds."

"Why no clouds?"

"Because there aren't any in the sky."

"Why?""

(Insert on the fly, made up scientific 'fact' here.)

... and on and on until I distract her with crackers or grapes.

She also likes to ask what people are doing. All day. Not just us, either, random strangers are not spared. Thursday we were at the zoo and she walked over to some volunteer watering the pond side flower garden and just started asking questions. The only problem is that she doesn't process the information she is given correctly so the conversation just goes around in circles.

"What you doin'?"

"Oh, I'm watering these flowers so they grow."

"You have a hat on?"

"I do have a hat on."

"Why?"

"To keep the sun out of my eyes and my face."

"Why?"

"So I don't get a sunburn."

"Why, sunburn?"

"Yes."

"What are you doin? Waterin' flowers?"

"Yes."

"You have a hat on?"

-At this point I interject to spare the lady.

"Hey, buddy, come back over and finish your lunch."

"Hey... What you doin' waterin' flowers with a hat on?"

"Yes. I am watering flowers with my hat on."

"Why?"

You get the idea.

I suppose life can be pretty confusing when you are two, also evidenced by her inability to accurately understand titles and relationships.

A few weeks back we went to lunch and hung out with my boss, Joe, and his granddaughter, Mia. I am refusing to call it a playdate. Playdates are for cupcake-making PTO moms, not cool, stylish dads like myself. Now, Av calls Monica's parents Mia (or Mima) and Papa. Mia called Joe 'Papa.' This, as you can imagine, created several confusing moments throughout the day.

"Who 'dat guy?"

"That's Joe."

"Joe? Who Joe?"

"Joe is my friend. He is Mia's papa."

"Mima here?!?! Where is Papa? He workin'? Dat Joe."

...and so on.

Today we were watching Yo Gabba Gabba and there happened to be a segment involving skate board star (?) Tony Hawk. In her world, Tony, or 'Pony' as she says it, is the nice Italian man who does auto body work on my car. She knows Tony well, as well as Frank from Hertz Rental Car, because my car has been driven in to twice already this year. She associates skateboards with the man who lives downstairs, Steve, who I told her worked at the skateboard factory. (Steve is actually unemployed to the best of my knowledge, but as I have documented here many times, loves to skateboard in front of the house and paint skateboards in our basement. Saying he works at a skateboard factory is easier than explaining laziness as it pertains to the American welfare system). She also thinks that he is just like Steve from Blues Clues because he is always with his dog. In a way she is right. I mean, they are both unemployed. The only difference is downstairs Steve lives with a woman and two children and Blues Clues Steve lives alone and hallucinates a world where everything in his house talks to him.

Anyway, all of this means that seeing Tony Hawk skateboarding on TV created a paradox in her brain that left her confused and speechless. Was that car repair Tony skateboarding on TV? Or Steve from downstairs? Questions ensued. As you can imagine, there was no resolution to the problem. Thank God for short attention spans.

...

...

Episode 154: Its 2 a.m. and at least 4 people within 100 yards of me are puking. What else am I supposed to do?

I am writing this from my couch at a very early- or late, depending on your lifestyle- hour. I am the only person in this house that has not vomited in the last two hours. I came home from work to find Monica cleaning vomit up off of the floor in the baby's room and later off of a variety of stuffed friends. She then went in the bathroom to vomit herself. My house smells like someone drank an entire gallon of sour milk, ate a dozen deviled eggs and then threw it up all over the walls. Sorry if that is disgusting. Just be thankful you aren't here.

I have relegated myself to the couch in a desperate, and likely futile, attempt to thwart off the evil bacteria that is no doubt right now mobilizing an airborne effort to assassinate my immune system. I have little hope for myself.

In addition, and I am not even kidding about this, there are two teenagers- coming home from prom- vomiting in the street outside my living room window as they stumble home. Who goes to prom on a Tuesday?

I literally live here right now:



The origin of the vomit is likely as follows. Avelyn, with her young, easily manipulated stomach and less-than experienced immune system, has acquired some sort of bug. This, combined with the recent hot weather and her high dairy intake, has caused her to become very nauseous and have large, peanut butter-like dumps. The nighttime milk has no doubt started a fight with the stomach bug's goon counterparts and the mac and cheese from earlier has hopped in to make it a brawl. The stomach's bouncers have tossed everyone from the party- with force. Monica, likely suffering from the same nasty stomach bug, and with a much lower dairy intake, is now suffering a similar consequence, minus, to the best of my knowledge, the peanut butter dumps. The teenagers have just ruined their first regrettable sexual experience by sneaking way too many 20-ounce rum and Pepsi's in to the after prom party. What does all of this mean for your faithful hero? At least the next 48 hours will be spent with two very sick, impatient women and my sidewalk will be covered in drunk teenager prom vomit tomorrow morning. It also all but guarantees that taco night is cancelled tomorrow night. Tragic consequences, all.

So, here I sit. Tired, but afraid to sleep. Hungry, but afraid to eat. Wondering if the stomach bug may be a welcomed relief to the nausea and headache that follow spraying your entire house with Lysol disinfectant spray. On top of the world once again.

...

The last movie that I watched, not counting stupid yet hilarious comedies, like 'Dirty Work,' that I watch when no one is home, was Black Swan. Following that experience I lived the next three days in a mentally terrifying state, often times expecting myself to be existing in an alternate reality in which I am haunted by ballerinas that may or may not exist. In short, I didn't handle it well upstairs. Today I watched Horton Hears a Who, twice, and while there was no shuttering and cold sweats, I can honestly say that the concept of that movie was so disturbingly deep that I think I have changed my entire outlook on existence.

I will explain this as simply as I can. In the movie Horton Hears a Who, based on the Dr. Seuss book of the same name, an elephant accidentally discovers a town of people living within a spec of dust. This is because of his giant elephant ears. He is determined to help them find a permanent place in the universe, but is thought to be crazy by the other jungle creatures who eventually try to wrangle him and subject him to a variety of PG-rated, CGI-animated forms of torture. As a result he speaks to the mayor of this spec town from above through a twisty funnel and warns him of his crazy jungle friends who want to destroy his people. The townspeople, who are experiencing drastic climate change and natural disaster, don't believe and vocally doubt the proud, yet tragically innocent (see: dumb) mayor. The townspeople are proven wrong and eventually saved from a fiery apocalyptic death by a baby kangaroo whose evil mother had led a rebellion against the God-figure elephant. I know, right? Somehow I don't remember ANY of that from the book. It is like my brain just got gang raped by the Bible, the National Enquirer and Highlight's all at the same time. And somehow it is OK because there was a lot of rhyming and Steve Carrell. I'm done with movies.

...

Episode 153: Apparently I am a 'Goddamn idiot.'

This blog was designed to discuss my experience in parenting. During this time I have had many ups and downs, trials and tribulations and all other sorts of cliche phrases that describe good and bad. Such as highs and lows, losses and victories etc.. Yesterday, apparently, was a total failure. So much so that I didn't even really want to blog about it, but I promised myself I would share the crappy stories, too.

Let's jump right in. Yesterday Av and I had a lot of fun. It was raining for the 737th straight day and she was just not in to going anywhere. I can't say I blame her, either. Instead of leaving the house we participated in a variety of activities that included chasing around the cats, arts and crafts, cars and blocks and plenty of Sesame Street. Early on in the day she managed to lodge some Play Doh in her hair, just above her right eye. I did not see her do this, I was sitting across the table writing an article on the computer and letting her play by herself, something we have been trying to encourage lately. I noticed the large, yellow clump of Play Doh and went over to try and pick it out. Like each of her parents, Av does not particularly like being touched and she shooed me away, yelled at me and wouldn't let me pick it out. That's fine. I know the feeling. Don't f-ing touch me right now. I get it. We will take a bath later.

Maybe about a half hour later the activity had shifted from Play Doh to arts and crafts. Same seat, same activity bucket, different substance. At first, she was just using some old watercolors, but soon started to smear some glitter paint, contained in a tube, on to the paper. She smeared it around with her fingers and told me she was drawing Little Cat. Now, I don't know if she had an itch on her head or what, but it was about this time that she managed to get a huge clump of that paint in her hair in the exact same spot as the Play Doh.

I saw this happen, sighed a defeated sigh and watched as she smushed it all together.

"We're going to have to take a tubby, you know."

"No tubby. NO TUBBY! NO TUBBY! Eat?"

"Ok, eat then tubby."

"Ok, mac and cheese?"

"Ok, please don't get it in your hair."

What do you think ended up in the hair?

I don't even know how. Like, the Play Doh and the paint I get. The mac and cheese? That is abnormal. The issue was, I think, that he bangs are very long, in here eyes, so when she leaned down to eat the already protruding clump of hair was sticking out and was repeatedly dipped in the cheese sauce. This created a kind of gross, dairy coating over the paint and Play Doh. She was, by all accounts, a disgusting mess.

We got in the tub and I told her we had to, HAD to wash her hair. Aside from the obvious mess her hair was gross. Nappy, dirty, smelly. Gross. The problem is that she hates having her hair washed. Like, HATES it. She will scream bloody murder, flail, hit, punch, kick and generally carry on just so she doesn't have to have water dumped on her head. This occurred again. I let her play for a while and then tried to sneak in to clean it. She let me shampoo her entire head. I scrubbed the spot as much as I could before she made me stop. I cleaned out the soap with all of the carrying on and the screaming and the only thing I managed to get off was the cheese. The paint had worked with the Play Doh to create a mold of crusty, dry grossness.

My second attempt to remove the substance monster in her hair was to brush it out. Av also hates having her hair brushed, but I had to do it any way to get out the tangles and the dreads. I got everything our and her hair looked beautiful and clean. I started to attack the affected area and was met with resistance. She screamed and flailed and yelled again and I got nowhere. The brush just got caught in the gunk and it wasn't coming out. You see where this is going.

Now, let me tell you what my thought process was. I pictured Monica coming home, seeing the gunk and just endlessly yelling at me. Asking me how I let this happen, why I didn't get it out etc... I said to the baby. "Hey, what if we cut your bangs, they are kind of long. Do you want a pretty hair cut?"

Excitedly, the baby said "Baby pretty!" and for the first time that day, let me touch her hair without resistance. Now, my plan was to just cut out the clump and get the bangs out of her eyes. Unfortunately, the area was too big and it looked like someone attacked her with a razor. So, I evened it out. In all honestly. I am being dead serious when I say this. I thought it looked good. her bangs were a little short, but they were too long any way. She looks normal to me. Like a kid who got a hair cut. Was it as even as it could have been? No. But I truly thought that Monica would come home, see it, asked what happened and maybe maybe give me a little bit of shit because it wasn't quite even. Boy, did I misjudge that one.

Let me proceed this by explaining how Monica and I coexist. We are both very caustic people, that is the best way I can describe it. I mentioned the touching thing. Outward affection is minimal. We are both 'leave me alone' type people. We don't care much for society or their rules. We like being left alone most of the time. We are cynical on every front. We spend much of the day picking on one another, poking fun, busting balls. Much in the same way you may with your friends. Our arguments are frequent, yet brief and usually not serious. We irritate the crap out of each other and we both know it. For some reason, this keeps us honest. We love each other. Some times we also like each other. Not all the time though. I like her more than she likes me. We are very much alike yet share few interests. Somehow, this has all worked for a very, very long time. Our relationship is a mystery to most people. People don't get us one bit. How we operate, our sense of humor, our outlook. That is fine. It works and we are both happy.

In the time we have been together I can only recall a few times when Monica has been violently furious with me. Once was the time I walked out of Not Your Average Joe's because the hostess was skipping over us to seat her friends and then she sassed me when I confronted her. Don't sass me, ever. Especially if you are a hostess.

Yesterday was one of those times. By the time Monica had returned home from work I had already forgotten about the hair cut. When Monica said 'WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO TO MY DAUGHTER!!??!" I had to think for a minute. Then I said softly to myself. 'Shit.'

I was yelled at, threatened with violence and generally scolded for some time. I see now why she is upset. I don't think it looks that bad, but whatever. I am not supposed to touch the hair. There is no rule book. It seems I just find out the rules as I break them. Here I was thinking I did something nice. Even now as I look at her it doesn't look that bad to me. But I will never say that again. I will also never touch her hair again. Clump or no clump. Lesson learned. Apparently, I am a 'Goddam Idiot.'

...

Episode 152:

So, it has been a little while. haven't felt too motivated lately, not a whole hell of a lot going on that seems blog worthy. It is spring time, very rainy and cold around these parts and the world in general seems to be in the usual 'get shit done before summer time' mode. People are getting ready to graduate, teenagers and various wild animals are in heat and all of the out of town idiots are slowly starting to trickle back in to Salem. "We aint got none uh dem dere crosswalks in Wyomin'. I reckon aint too many us got to worry 'bout dem traffics.'

The Bruins are still playing which means I am enjoying busier shifts at work, serving nachos and light beer to a collection of men between the ages of 20-50 about three times a week, and in many cases, their supportive, yet slightly confused girlfriends or wives who deck themselves out in black and gold because the Bruins are the trendy sports team to root for right now. Unofficial survey indicates that the most frequently used words by male Bruins fans are, in order, 'faggot,' 'homo,' and 'pussy.' This is, of course, inappropriate, but as long as they keep drinking and tipping I will hope every game goes in to overtime and every series goes seven games until those pussy faggot homos finally win. Or, more likely, lose in heartbreaking fashion. I wonder, if the Bruins win the Cup this year, what will be the new trendy team for bandwagon fans and their uneducated girlfriends to root for? It has to be the Patriots, I guess, they would be the least removed from a championship at that point.

The Celtics, who many of you know rank #3 on my list of things that I love the most in the world, effectively screwed themselves out of one last chance at a championship by trading their toughest and most liked player at the trade deadline because they were paranoid about not having enough offense. Well, it turns out trading away one of your key players for offensive potential is not the right plan when you are chasing a championship with an aging team whose number one weapon is experience and continuity. The starting five from 2008 has still never lost a playoff series when all of them are on the floor together. The sad part about that is they couldn't seem to stay healthy long enough to make that work. After the 2008 championship they were decimated by untimely injuries that cost them at least one more banner. They were a buzz saw of a team in 2009 before Kevin Garnett got hurt- he's never been the same after- and they no doubt would have won game 7 of the finals last year if Kendrick Perkins hadn't blown out his knee in game 6. Instead they gave up 17 offensive rebounds to the Lakers and took a shit on my heart. That night ranks among the most depressing nights of my life. Without exaggeration, after that loss I sat in the rain on my deck for three and a half hours, drank and entire bottle of champagne and smoked three quarters of a pack of cigarettes until I passed out. Alone. I hate champagne and I don't smoke...

This year was supposed to exorcize that demon but instead they made 'the trade' and now Kendrick Perkins is in Oklahoma playing for the Western Conference title while the Celtics and, more importantly, myself, wonder what could have been if they just stuck to their guns.

Enough about basketball. Sorry about that. I haven't really been able to talk about any of that since they were eliminated by the soulless Miami LeBrons last week.

As for Av, she is now very much a 2-year-old. Fresh, adorable, infuriating, hilarious and annoying all at the same time. She is extremely talkative lately, bringing up things that happened days ago like Rain Man. Yesterday I stepped in dog poop because the inconsiderate losers downstairs don't pick up after their dog. She has been recounting the story ever since.

We went to a barbecue at our friend's house on Saturday. Likewise, she has been recounting that day over and over. Most of the conversation topic revolves around their dog and my friend's future wife, Meg, who she took a liking to. She, for some strange reason, is called Bob. There were others there who are referred to as 'dat lady' and 'dat man,' as if I was not at the party and needed a recap of what she did.

Perhaps the most hilarious thing that she has been saying recently is "dat jam is kickin'" which she says when she hears a song that she likes. I taught her how to say this, rather unintentionally, yesterday. The song 'Garden Grove' by Sublime came on my iPod while we were car dancing and I said 'ooohhh; this jam is kickin' for no other reason than to humor myself. She repeated it and it was on. The funniest part is that she actually deciphers which songs are 'kickin' and which ones aren't. "Dis one not kickin.'"

She also says 'honkey' instead of hungry, which is great, and will not let anyone, including herself, get away with farting. She thinks farts are hysterical and, let's be honest, they kind of are.

So, that's that. Not a whole hell of a lot going on. No fun stories. Today at art class Ms. Berta told me a sex offender lives next door. How are sex offenders allowed to live next door to the YMCA? I'm not sure, but it seems to me that maybe we aught to relax a little on towing cars with expired tags and focus on keeping perverts in jail. I think there should be a 'Pervert Island' where all of the sex offenders can just rape each other all day and leave the rest of us alone. Ms. Berta also routinely bags her, apparently very stupid, teenaged son skipping school.

"Oh, Jesus, that's my teenager walking down the street,"

I mean, you know where your mom works, why would you walk by? One day he came in and asked her for a cigarette. That sparked this conversation between she and I.

"Were you a good teenager? Or did you skip school and smoke with your friends."

"Ahh, I mean, I was pretty good. Here and there, we all do, right?"

"Exactly. He's normal. He hates school and he likes to smoke pot. My other son is the opposite. I think it's normal."

Sweet. I like Ms. Berta. She is just the coarse, raspy friend that toddlers need. Didn't do the best job with that second son, though.

So, there you have it. I have just effectively emptied my brain on to this computer screen. Take it for what it is worth.

...

Here are some jams that were deemed 'kickin.' And, no, I have no problem exposing my 2-year-old to profanity-laced hip hop at this stage. She's never repeated any of it. She just likes the beats. And, be honest, who doesn't like the beats? It is no different than you or I being raised on Clapton or the Rolling Stones. 85 percent of those songs were about cocaine... Anyway, I'll police her music better when she is older.





This jam was deemed 'not kickin.' I disagree.

Episode 151: I'm gonna try really hard not to offend anyone with this one...

... Buuut, I'm not sure I can do it. Let's start with a disclaimer: Retarded people, er... developmentally disabled, or mentally handicapped or whatever it is that they are supposed to be called, are not to be mocked. It isn't their fault that they have (insert disorder here) and most of their actions, movements and speech are beyond control. Life is difficult for both them and their families and I am not trying to make fun of anyone with anything here. This is not intended to be a mockery... That said, I can't go on without telling you about our day at the park with the slow teenagers.

Today was absolutely beautiful. 75, sunny, not a cloud in the sky. The perfect day to be out at a park on the ocean. We were doing the usual. Swinging, sliding, climbing. There was a nice Spanish grandmother with a 2-year-old and some chick with another kid.

*Off topic, there was a movie made in the early 2000's called Primer. It is pretty much impossible to follow unless you were a physics major, but the basic premise is these physicists, while trying to create a better refrigerator to market in their garage, stumble upon time travel. In the most non-hokey way possible these two dudes figure out how to use a public storage box to travel back in time. Not to, like, 1792, or 1956, but more like yesterday, or last week. Essentially, they have the power to correct mistakes or win the lottery or pick the correct stock. They, obviously, start to abuse it and at some point start encountering themselves in the past/future, effectively screwing up the human matrix. I am pretty sure at one point one of the guys suffocates himself from the past. Anyway, I was both terrified and intrigued by this movie and spent many a night when I was in college taking mind-altering drugs and trying to follow exactly what happened. This movie messes me up to this day. I still think about it. I don't know the specifics, but the plot seemed so plausible.

Anyway, sometimes there are times in the day where I feel like I am in Primer. I see my car, or someone who looks like me, or the baby, or Monica, and I wonder if I am seeing myself from the future. The point is, there was a lady at the park who from a distance looked and dressed exactly like Monica. Even as we were approaching the park she was looking at me the whole way with a smile on her face. I got there and she gave me a friendly 'hello.' Even facially, they were similar. They had the the same body type, the same mannerisms. The same flip flops. I kind of went the other direction because it freaked me out. If I had never seen Primer it would have been fine. But that shit messed me up, man. Yet another reason I can only watch dumb comedies now. I'm still reeling from Black Swan, too.*

After Monica from the future left and the Spanish lady went for a walk we were left alone. From a distance I saw about 10 teenagers or young adults approaching the park. I assumed they would be the usual trouble makers who tag the slides and occupy the swings, but as they got closer it became apparent that they were a little on the slow side. In my experience I have found that many times in these situations there is a leader. Still slow, but less slow than everyone else. This group appeared to be led by one such leader. (Later an adult man arrived with another kid, who must have been having an issue, and that man appeared to be the councilor or what have you, but they were left to their devices for the first five minutes or so).

I watched them come to the park with no opinion on their presence, other than the fact that it is a little sad for a 19-year-old to be on the same mental level- or lower- than my 2-year-old daughter. After watching them for about 20 minutes or so, I can't not describe the scene.

First off, they were all between the ages of 15-20. They were all grossly overdressed in South Pole jackets and hooded sweatshirts and sweaters. The first woman to arrive walked immediately over to the slide, stared at it for 30-45 seconds and then dropped, face first, on to the base of the slide where she remained, no lie, for the rest of the time. Every once in a while someone would try to get her up and she would refuse. Face down. legs hanging off the end of the slide cut off at about the waist. She made no noise. She rarely looked up.

Another woman, wearing a teal sweat suit, too small for her heavy frame, sat down in the mulch, grabbed a handful, held it in front of her face and just yelled at it. Just yelled. "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh." In to the mulch. This, too, went on, with brief lapses in the yelling, for the entirety of our visit. Like, what's up? Why are you so mad at that mulch?

Another gentleman, with a well-groomed neu-metal goatee, was very clearly upset about something, and he very clearly had a recent physical confrontation, because he was being isolated from every one else and he was just wearing a t-shirt but still had mittens on both hands. He was not allowed to take the mittens off. He sat, the entire time, on a picnic table- not the bench, the table- scowling. At one point, the adult man leader came over and gave him a cell phone which he used to turn on some music. I am not sure what he was listening to, but it was in the Destiny's Child, Jennifer Hudson genre.

Two of the folks that I actually envied a bit were a male and female who fell in love with the see saw. After kites and puzzles, see saws are potentially the shittiest thing ever to ask a kid to play with. Puzzles are definitely the worst, so boring, pointless and unrewarding, and kites are a scam, but see saws are right up there. Pain in the ass simple machine. Who wants to do that when there are slides and swings and a rock wall? Anyway, special people, is the answer to that. Those two loved it. Laughing, bouncing, smiling. It probably helped that they had the perfect weight differential, too. It just seemed so pure and innocent and fun.

So, here I was, Jennifer Hudson (maybe) playing in the background, failing to drown out the woman yelling at mulch, standing motionless next to my incredibly, incredibly confused, speechless child, trying to find the words to explain the face down slide girl, see saw pals and, most disturbing to her, the mulch yeller. It was at this time that Av looked at me and said 'Um, home? Mac and cheese?' 'Ahhhh, yeah. Let's go ahead and just have some mac and cheese and forget about this whole scene.

I guess the point is that there is no real good way to explain the mentally challenged to a 2-year-old, and for some reason today the group that we saw was so zombie-like and bizarre that it was a scene out of some sort of horror movie. I feel bad for them, and I know that they need to get out on a nice day, but I wished that they had chosen another park.

...
This is the most beautiful song ever written. That is not up for debate.

Episode 150: I yike monters

First, I would like to start off by saying that today is a good day. I managed to pull myself out of bed and get myself and the baby dressed before 8:30 a.m. and I didn't contemplate killing myself out of pure lack of energy one time. I had to drop my car off at the auto body shop, as it was once again hit while parked in front of my house, and the transition to the rental was smooth. I got an early morning text from one of my best friends living in LA (clearly he has not gone to bed yet) who I had not heard from in months. Later we spent time at the beach because it is, like, 70 degrees out. I got home to an email from Bob asking me to write a story for him today. Both sources picked up on the first ring. I got the whole thing done in a half hour. Un heard of. Today was a good day. I didn't even have to use my AK.

Anyway, this post has nothing to do with any of that. I was just sharing. At some point when you are a parent you realize that a certain percentage of things that happen to you are payback for something you did as a kid. Some of it is karma, some of it is just payback from your own parents, like when my dad mailed Av a Sesame Street disco dance hits CD for Easter. At first I figured it was payback for being an annoying kid, but the more I think about it it was probably more because of all those times I made him listen to the Deftones on long car rides as a teenager. Dads decidedly do NOT like the Deftones. Not even sort of cool ones like mine.

Yesterday I got some payback of the karma sort. We spent the day visiting my mother who lives three hours away. It is a miserable three hours, too. The first half spent navigating slow, nonsensical Boston suburban traffic, the second breezing through miles upon miles of nothing but depressing Western Mass landscape and highway side advertisements for such regionally exclusive businesses as the Big Y Supermarket and Gary Rome Hyundai, who once sold me the worst piece of shit car I have ever owned, a yellow Hyundai Tiburon that literally fell apart like old Play Doh every time I drove it. That guy is a crook. Almost as much of a crook as the dude who sold me my last car at Commonwealth Motors. I swear they gave me a fraudulent Car Fax report, but I'm too lazy to prove it. I digress.

The ride to Pittsfield is rarely good and yesterday was no exception. By the time we got out of the car at the Hot Dog Ranch where I was meeting my Mom for lunch Monica and I were just about ready to find separate apartments. As is always the case the frustration was nothing a few Western Mass mini hot dogs with chili sauce and a hug from my mom didn't ease, but the ride still sucked.

We spent the day petting farm animals and hanging out and then it was the three hour drive back. Somehow the drive home always seems smoother. Until we hit 95 and that Boston suburban traffic again. Anyway, we got home and I went to Salem House of Pizza while Monica put Av to bed. We got the usual greasy special, chicken fingers and a pizza. Awesome on every level. It is like those Greeks channeled whichever one of their mythical gods was in charge of sub shops and put him right to work.

We were just diving in and watching America's Next Great Restaurant when Av started to make a fuss. Monica went in there to do the kind motherly equivalent of telling her to shut the hell up and go to bed and the following took place, according to Monica's account.

She went in to the room and leaned in to the crib. The baby grabbed her face, looked in her mouth and said 'What's that? A chicken nuggie? I'm huuuuuuungry.' Monica emerged from the bedroom laughing, holding the baby, and Av saw the food on the table and said "OOOOHHHHHH.' She proceeded to sit with us through the entire meal, watching the show and mooching french fries, pizza and chicken fingers. Yes, it was 8:30 and she is 2. Not the healthiest bedtime snack. Who cares? Not me.

I promise you that she smelled the food from her crib and wanted some so she made a fuss. This is where the payback comes in. I used to do the same thing to my parents when I was a kid. Every time the delivery guy knocked on the door, I heard chips open or I smelled food I was getting up to go to the bathroom and trying to bag them eating something awesome. After a while my parents started ordering pizza with toppings I hated as a counter strike.

The funny part was she started to just lay on the cute as heavy as she could so she didn't have to go to sleep. First it was Monica. "Mommy, I love you." Followed by a hug. Repeat. Then she moved over to me and did the same thing. I think at one point she actually told Monica that she was 'cute' and that it was 'nice to see ya.'

In the process she was also watching the show. She usually just watches a few kid shows a day and the occasional baseball or basketball game, but lately she has been wanting to watch what we do. American Idol (I looooove me some J-Lo), America's Funniest Home Videos ('Fallin' show!) and the restaurant show last night ('Dat man make a restahonk?'). At one point I realized that when you are 2 the commercials are just like little mini TV shows. She watches every one with intent and vigor and excitement.

At one point, as a last ditch effort realizing it was almost bedtime and the party was over, she turned around and said 'Mommy, I yike monters.' Despite knowing it was all entirely bullshit to stay awake, it was still the most adorable 45 minutes of her life so far.

Somewhat related, today we found two awesome stuffed monsters at Walmart. They were .75 cents. Easter discount. Look at these guys and tell me what they have to do with Easter.

This is Av in the back of my rented Honda Civic (its like fuchsia colored, or violet red, c'mon Hertz) asking 'green one' where his shoes are. These guys rule and she loves them. Almost as much as pizza and commercials.

...

This is how I feel today. Damn summer is great.

I recall my dad particularly hating this song... So now I have Elmo singing Mambo #5 to remind me.

Episode 149: Goin' against my mind

A year and a half ago I started this blog based on two fundamental concepts. First, I had recently become a father and was going to take a plunge in to becoming a stay at home dad. Second, I hated being a newspaper reporter. The mere thought of the job made me want to repeatedly stab myself in the face with a screw.

I was reflecting a few days ago and I came to the following conclusions. First, the stay at home dad thing has worked out well. My kid is still alive and she seems to like me, and I have been supporting my family reasonably well with my bar tending job. My days are leisurely at times, although still stressful, tiring and infuriating as they are for all parents.

Second, the blog has been a relative, regional success. I am not making any money off of it or publishing to thousands every morning, but the 8-15 of you who read it seem to really enjoy it and that is all I need.

So, I stopped and asked myself a question. Why on EARTH are you still a newspaper reporter, Dan? About three or four months ago I was offered a job as a regional editor at a local online news site. I turned it down but, for some reason, decided that I was going to agree to freelance for this same organization. Great. Now, not only was I going back to a job I hated, I was doing it for, like, $150 a week. Think of your least favorite job ever. You were probably a teenager working at McDonalds, or babysitting for some crappy family, or, in my case, stocking the salad bar at Bonanza Steakhouse, learning the ins and outs of sex, cigarettes and the general shadiness of the restaurant industry at a much too young age. Now picture waking up tomorrow with a job offer to return to that job for a quarter of the money. Now take that job. That is essentially what I have done. Idiot.
I started out by doing 4-5 stories a week, stashing away $4-$500 a month in my PayPal account and I was burnt out within three weeks. Now I am down to reluctantly writing 1-2 stories a week and coming up with every excuse in the book not to accept the others.

Before I continue let me describe to you the situation that I am dealing with. I was reluctant to do this before in the case that my editor discovered this blog, but it doesn't appear that he has time to surf the net (Ha) so here goes.

I work for a man named Bob. Bob is a stereotypical newspaper reporter. Lets examine newspaper reporters, editors, desk guys and the like for the moment. The second-best reporter I have ever worked with is a man by the name of Thor Jourgensen. Enterprising, dedicated, energetic, old school. Not the best writer in the world, but it doesn't matter. One day Thor uttered a bit of knowledge that described newspaper employees to a tee: "The newspaper industry," he said. " Is the last haven for the insane and the malcontent." I looked around the room and I realized he was 100 percent correct. There is something wrong with every newspaper reporter. Something embedded in our personalities that has led us down this path to destruction. To a dying industry that offers no reward for a hard day's work other than the opportunity to put our name on the story we just wrote so everyone in a 6-city region knows precisely who to bitch at. Every reporter thinks they are better than every other reporter. None of us like each other, even the ones we work with. But we tolerate each other and operate under, usually, some semblance of respect. I'm better at this job than you and I should be doing that story but, you know what, you're part of the club. We are essentially a clan of trolls living under the figurative bridge of society.

Bob is as trollish as a troll can get. Socially awkward, long winded to a fault, poorly dressed and ugly. One day he came in to the bar to watch a game and have a burger. I told my friend and eternal bartending colleague, Mike who he was. A few minutes later Mike came back from talking to him and asked 'Is he retarded?' "No,' I said. 'He's a newspaper reporter."

I have a tremendous amount of respect for Bob. In his mid-40's with a wife and young son he found himself, like we all eventually do, unemployed. He picked up and moved himself from Maine to the North Shore to take this job as regional editor, leaving his family behind. He calls his wife every night and sneaks off to visit whenever he can. He doesn't want to. But he has to.

Bob is also a hard working so of a bitch. He is entirely Internet based so he has no office. His only employees are freelancers, most of whom do not have anywhere near the experience or writing ability that I do, and he is only allowed to spend so much money on us. He maintains all of the content on the site, some days working 16-18 hours just to keep it current. One Saturday he drove from Maine to Peabody to cover a trailer park fire at 11 p.m., sacrificing valuable time with his family.

I am an asshole. Bob routinely praises my ability as a reporter and my writing. He tells me how he wishes he could give me more work and he is constantly bouncing ideas off of me that he doesn't have time to get to. I don't care. I hate this job. I don't even want to do it anymore, but I don't have the heart to tell him. I just make up excuses, or avoid his phone calls. In reality, most of my excuses are legit. I do work 5 nights a week already and I have Av all day. My options are limited. I told him from the beginning that I needed to work from home on the phone, so I can't be dragging my 2-year-old to City Hall to interview the Mayor.

Still, there are some days where I wake up and say 'not today, Bob' and I turn down any and every story offered. My Pay Pal account is weak. Perhaps if it paid more than $30-$40 a story I would rethink. But, for now, that isn't happening.

One last thing on Bob. I mentioned earlier how infuriatingly long winded he is. Here is an example. He called me the other day and left me a voice mail. He wanted to check up on a story I was working on that involved me interviewing the fire chief. I hadn't heard back from the chief and Bob was angry. Not at me, but at the fact that, as always, he felt his tiny, unknown news site was getting disrespected in favor of the more well established print media. This, of course, is not the case. People hate us equally, the chief was simply busy, as one will find himself with such an important job as fire chief.

So Bob calls and I don't answer because I am tired, a little irritated at the baby and I know that if I answer and have to hear about how the chief was dodging me I was going to be short with him. So, I let it go to voice mail. It is never a good sign when more than three minutes goes by before your cell phone gives you a message notification. I listened to the voice mail and it was absurd. I got the story of his entire day. I got a speech about him getting no respect. He talked on my phone like he would if we were sitting across the table from one another at Starbucks. "Hey Dan, its Bob, wanted to talk to you about that fire budget story. I'm headed to a meeting, I'll be out around 2. Give me a call." That's a voice mail. To make it that much more annoying, he ends it with. "Ok, Dan. Call me back. Ok, bye now." WTF.

So I call him back and he proceeds to again recite the entire voice mail to me in person. I was on the phone for 20 minutes. I don't want to be on the phone with anyone for 20 minutes. Not Bob, not my mom, not Jesus, not Ken Griffey Jr. No one. Anyway, after that conversation mercifully ended I had to, unfortunately call him back. Knowing he was in the meeting I got a little bit of payback and left him an equally as long voice mail. About an hour later he calls me back. I don't answer. In his voice mail he makes it abundantly clear that he doesn't know why I called. Seriously, dude? He never even listened to it. So, I now have to call him AGAIN and recite my whole story. It is at this point that I snapped. I was done. Right then and there. I decided immediately that I'm going back to school. Grad school. I am going to become a master of something. Right now I need to become a master of convincing the government to give me more student loans.

Let's face it. I hate being a reporter and, at 27, I am too old to bar tend much longer. Too many 22-year-old co-workers living the college life. Not my bag. Stay tuned for updates. My plan is to go back to school and write a book about the process. 'Stay at home dad journalist goes back to school, chooses new career, struggles, triumphs etc...' Coming to Amazon.com in, like, five years. Or not. Probably not. I'm really going to school though. I might even buy a back pack. I will not be Bob in 18 years. Three hours from my family and leaving long winded voice mails because I am a lonely, sad, broke journalist.

Being a reporter again is the easy way out. It is the easy way to go when Av goes to school and I have to go back to work. My mind tells me to just suck it up, do it. You're good at it. You have a degree. It will be easy to find a hob. Not this time, lazy brain. This time I'm taking over. I will not be insane. I will not be malcontent.

If journalism is my last haven, consider me beyond savior.

...

Episode 148:

Today we have a guest entry. Monica spent most of last week with the baby as she was on vacation. Thus, I have little material and she is ready to go. So, you get a break from my cynicism, hyperbole and random analogies today. Enjoy.

...

I decided that I would like to contribute to the blog since home last week on April vacation. I was really looking forward to spending time with Av since I am perpetually plagued with working mom guilt and have often reduced myself into thinking I am fun weekend mom. The child is at an age that I would like to bottle and save. Her hilarity is unrelenting. She is infuriating, annoying, spastic and adorable…sometimes all within the same action. With the weather forecast being less than promising my initial plan of a road trip to a Peace Pagoda and the zoo, didn’t pan out, so I had to get creative.

The family decided on a rainy Tuesday to take advantage of the free admission for Salem residents at the Peabody Essex Museum. I had heard there was a hands-on nature room for kids, so off we went. The room was full of taxidermy creatures and optical illusions. The museum smell was combined with other children’s diapers and petrified animal skins. I opened one discovery drawer to find old dried snake skins, one with ‘guess that animal hide’, and even a tiny stiff star nosed mole, my animal arch nemesis. Despite being all equally disguising, none of these compared the wall of stuffed birds. One thing immediately jumped out to the whole family…a grouping of three eyed owls. What the hell. These do not exist in nature, there was no literature to match up and explain why they had three eyes, and they were just there. All perched and gawking out of their three eyes. It was almost as if the curator was fucking with the patrons. Like, ‘who’s paying attention to this absurd wall of taxidermy birds?’ Like an animal abnormalities version of “Where’s Waldo?” Needless to say, I took a picture and the concept has tortured me ever since. Google it, it isn’t possible.

We had also collected the inevitable wayward child. It happens almost every time we take a trip anywhere. A child who seemingly belongs to no one latches onto me and before long I find myself correcting a stranger child’s behavior, tying it’s shoe, zipping it’s coat, pushing it on the swing, reading it a story, all but wiping it’s ass and putting it to bed. This one we collected at the museum appeared to have a limited language capacity and not realize its own strength. It was a child sized Lenny from “Of Mice and Men.” The child first grunted and joined up for a game of blocks. Av was intrigued and intimidated and I was just annoyed. I looked around hoping it belonged to some super serious museum going mom who would swiftly remove her from the likes of us and we could all commence playing. No such luck. The child continued to play with a box of stuffed chameleons and Av was giving me the ‘wtf who is this?’ look and I had to shrug and play it cool. Eventually it wandered away and we came to the conclusion that it belonged to the over-weight woman behind us loudly talking on a cell phone who occasionally swore while yelling about her dysfunctional drug addicted son or nephew. Go fig.

...

The slated day for the zoo was Friday. The forecast was again cold and shitty, like the rest of the week. I decided we would go to the movies. With Dan home “sick,” I was looking forward to a girls’ day at the movie theatre and mall. We arrived a little early for our 10:05 (am!) showing of the Easter film “Hop.” Av seemed so down with the concept. My brother’s fist movie was Ghost Dad staring Bill Cosby. Best. Mine was Flowers in the Attic. (My parents thought I wouldn’t remember/wouldn’t get it. They were wrong.) Anyway, I paid the $6 a ticket and fulfilled my promise for movie popcorn. It has been years since I have gone to the movies and paid myself…so I was kind of surprised by the kid’s popcorn at $5.50. I was not surprised however, by the clientele the movies contains on a weekday morning. Moms with unruly children, buying armfuls of candy and ice-junkies at 10:05 in the morning….good luck with that. Sad looking women with sweatsuits and perma-scowls.

I often feel conflicted about not being a stay-at-home mom…the weekday world intrigues me. We headed down to theatre number one, pricey popcorn and baby in tow, all the while Av is repeating, “don’t spill it mummy, don’t spill it…” I set her up, the chair folding up onto her tiny body, busted out Bert and Ernie and put them in each cup holder, strawed a juicebox and thought this was going to be awesome.


The lights dimmed and the most epic preview for a children’s movie commenced, sending the $5.50 popcorn flying and a clinging two year old onto my lap. “buh-byes! Buh -byes!” literal panic had set in. Did you know the fucking Smurfs were back? Like, 1980s can be both a noun and verb (yeah, I smurfed that) Smurfs are back. Terrifying. They are now in CGI animation. The preview consisted of a human (who WASN’T Brandon Frasier!) opening the box of Smurfs who screamed, then the human screamed, then the baby screamed, dug in her dirty unkempt nails, and demanded to be removed. Awful. In the lobby, the elderly usher and I tried to explain to her that the Smurfs were nice guys and the bunny movie was worth it. She wasn’t buying it. Smurf you, Smurfs. I liked the Snorks way better. Or Thundercats. Or She-Ra, or Jem. Assholes.

...

Ok, I'm back. Didn't she do a nice job? I think so. We are back in to the full swing of things this week, for better or worse. The baby clearly has more fun with Monica, but she deals with me because she has to. My week 'off' was nice, even though I was sick for a bit (and I was). It all just reinforces the fact that life would be exponentially better if neither one of us worked. Crackheads have it all figured out. Well, except for the crack part.