Greetings from the end of the world

Somewhere deep in the Appalachia or buried among the rolling mountains of Northern Canada there are families soundly sleeping in the safety of their survivalist bunkers. The children are not in school today. The men are gathering iodine capsules and freeze dried meals. They are loading their guns, sharpening their blades and taking inventory of materials as their devoted wives quietly mutter Bible passages or REM lyrics, slowly coming to peace with The End. 

They will be the ones to rebuild Earth. They will be the new forefathers. They will craft the first passages of our new history, burying the mistakes of the past. Our existence only a memory. Will they lead the weaker masses to safety through the flames? Will they play the hero roll to better the chances of repopulation? Or will they shoot their way out of danger, simply collecting our soulless corpses for consumption and further survival?

This is all assuming, of course, that the 'apocalypse' does not come in the form of a massive comet strike that spirals our planet out of orbit and in to a black hole. These survivalists seem to be banking on a sort of 'apocalypse lite' scenario where a nuclear misstep causes a massive tidal wave that wipes out half of humanity, or some sort of super volcano opens up a hole to the center of the Earth, swallowing millions of lost souls and leaving nothing more than a field of fire in its wake.  

Only time will tell. My only hope is that in 3 million years, well after all of our electronic devices are rendered useless and the world's financial institutions have collapsed and we have all started anew with only the most well prepared, incestual and cannibalistic leading the way toward a new society, when the radio waves of that thing we once knew as the 'Internet' somehow reach the intergalactic colonies beyond our galaxy that this blog will move to the forefront and serve both as a lesson in cynicism and a sort of primitive, genius manual for the way parenting used to be.

Today is the day, folks. The skies look gray. The ocean looks angry. LET'S GET READY TO RAPTURE!!!!!

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The one where I once again find myself feeling totally out of place in a room full of mothers

Happy Suicide Tuesday everyone.

I am attempting to update today among a myriad of distractions, not the least of which is Avelyn's insistence that I perform the voices for the various characters from Thomas and Friends as she plays on her train table. So as you read this picture me sitting on the floor, telling engines to be 'very useful' in the booming Sir Topham Hatt voice or channeling my best John Leguizamo voice for Victor the Latino repair engine. Victor confuses me in that his job on the Island of Sodor is to offer maintenance services to all of the steam engines but he is a steam engine himself thus, no hands. How does a train with no hands repair another train? The short answer is: he doesn't. He just idles in the shop and bosses the humans around. Seems like his position could easily be trimmed from the budget. I guess anything is possible on an island where the trains rule the humans who operate them. The human-machine dynamic on Sodor is very confusing. Very. I could probably write a fairly in depth commentary on this, but I will not bore you. Perhaps I could get it published. If only I had the time. If only.

I have been thinking an awful lot lately about new ways in which to make money and become significant in the community, thus avoiding Suicide Tuesdays which are mostly spent thinking about how useless to society I am. A friend of mine from work has been tossing around the idea of opening his own pizza shop. I don't think I have what it takes to be a savvy business man (numbers are not my specialty) but his talking about the subject alone got me thinking.

 *** Another distraction emerges as Avelyn decides to press the power button on my computer and run away***

Whatever the case, I have come to the conclusion that I need to get the hell out of the snooty suburban community in which I am living so I am going to need to find some sort of cash flow significant enough to get me a mortgage. I can't rent anymore, I spend way too much time worrying about carpet stains and broken refrigerator parts. And I can't live where I live any more. The members of this community are outrageous and I want nothing to do with them.

Today I took Av to her 'gymnastics' lessons at the new rich person YMCA down the street. Here is the dynamic. There are about 5-6 kids in the class, all between the ages of 3-6. They do tumbles and other gymnastics related activities, most of them very poorly and clumsily as the are just children. While she is in the class I am forced to sit in a chair outside of the room, watching through the window while all of the other moms sit and squawk about their stressful lives being rich trophy wife mothers or PTO representatives. Here are a few of the characters that I deal with.

There is the Spanish woman who does not work because her husband is very wealthy. I know this because she often says things like "My husband is very wealthy." They are taking their son and daughter to Spain for three weeks to celebrate her birthday. This, of course, is after they get back from celebrating Christmas in some tropical destination that I didn't quite hear. Yup. Tropical Christmas.

"Oh, my husband is very wealthy so we are lucky to be able to take the time off."

And all the other moms eat it up. Evidently if your husband is 'very wealthy' your children are allowed to spend significant time away from school.

Over time Spanish mom has made friends with many of the regular white lady suburban women as they sit around watching poorly executed gymnastics and gossip about school or playdates. Today, one especially talkative woman was going on and on and on about a conflict her daughter, who is in first grade, was having with another girl who she used to be friends with but isn't friends with any more. The other moms sat and listened in horror as she described how her daughter didn't want to be the other girl's friend because she was mean and gets in trouble at school (GASP!) and that the other day they were pushing and shoving on the playground (SHOCK AND DISAPPOINTMENT!) This, of course, was followed up with many a question such as "Who is the teacher? Where was she this whole time?" or "What do the other girl's parents do?" as if no first grader has ever pushed another first grader on the playground. Oh, the teacher must have stepped away from her surveillance cameras that she constantly has focused on your kid to make sure that everything goes perfect for her all the time. SOMEONE MUST BE HELD ACCOUNTABLE FOR THIS!

Do these women not remember school? For Christ sake your kid got in to a tiff with another girl, probably because she was being a complete bitch about something, and there was pushing. Grow up. Wait until she is 15 and come talk to me. But, no, this conversation went on for some time bashing everyone involved (excluding her own perfect child, of course) and eventually spiraled in to outrage over how the principal of the school took too long to return an email questioning whether or not they would be telling the children about the Connecticut school shooting.

"I just, you know, she comes home from school at 3 and I don't get the email until 8 that night. I mean, what am I supposed to tell her if she asks? How do I know if they even talked about it at school? How do I know if I should bring it up? She could have been more proactive about this, I mean, what am I expected to do?"

Oh, I don't know- stop worrying so damn much? First of all, I'm going to go out on a limb and say that if your child is in first grade the principal isn't coming over the intercom and spitting out the horrible details of a school massacre that happened to victimize children the exact same age as they are. Just a hunch. At most, they carefully and delicately go over school lock down procedure or what to do if something bad happens without offering any specifics. The teacher isn't saying "If anyone comes in here trying to murder you do this." No. Not how it works.

But you should totally stress yourself out completely over an email you sent to the principal instead of just deciding how to deal with it if your kid asks because, you know, there is a much better chance of hearing about it from an older kid in the hallway or from TV or the radio or 9,000 other places that aren't her totally irresponsible teachers and principal. But don't worry, you'll bring it up at tomorrow's PTO meeting just to be sure. Good plan. I mean, good God, someone get this woman a job. Or a landscaper to sleep with while her husband is at work. Or something to do besides try to perfect parenting all day long.

As bad as these mothers are the absolute worst are the Russians. There are two Russian children in gymnastics class who appear to be training for the Olympics, or at the very least for some sort of qualifying competition. While my clumsy kid is running around not paying attention and struggling to do somersaults these two are mean-mugging all the other kids and trying to perfect dismounts.

While they are in there doing this the mothers are video taping them and cheering them on from outside. Give me a break. These kids are 4-years-old. Mine dressed herself today. She is wearing a kitty shirt, polka dot pants and a green skirt. One boy is laying on his stomach and spinning around like a helicopter rotor. Take it down a notch. If you want your kids to be that serious take them to a class that is that serious. Don't stand over my shoulder with your video camera and yell in my ear while I am trying to play Fruit Ninja.

That is another thing. All of these parents are very focused on what their children do in this class. Maybe I am a bad father but I pay attention to probably 10 percent of the time Avelyn is in there, and that is usually just to make sure she isn't causing any trouble. I just don't care. She isn't doing anything competitive, or out of the ordinary for that matter. She is running and jumping and tumbling. She does most of this crap in the living room. She is having fun. Big deal. No need to hone in on every movement and analyze why this gymnastics class is better for this skill set or why the teachers mannerisms will help them adapt when they move up to the next skill level. Leave your kids alone. Let them have fun. They are toddlers.

That's another thing, these moms are sitting there complaining that their kids aren't paying attention at dance class and aren't working hard enough at gymnastics. For Christ sake they are children! Maybe this is why I am not 'very wealthy' or taking my family on tropical vacations. Maybe this is why I suffer through Suicide Tuesday. Maybe this is why my daughter is uncoordinated and refuses to acknowledge that the number 15 exists no matter how many times you teach it to her. Maybe my parents didn't push me enough as a child. I don't know, it all seems just totally over the top to me.

Kids are kids. Be nice to them, teach them stuff. When they go to school let the teachers deal with them. That is a perk, not something to be overly concerned about. I could see if you were living in the ghetto or some community with horribly funded schools but even then, the teachers tend to be pretty well educated and dedicated even if the facilities are lacking or the kids are a little more rough and tumble. If you want one on one constant supervision for your kid home school the little bastard. Then it can grow up to have no social skills or concept of actual reality and live in a gated community and send panicked email's to your grand children's school and get totally upset that the teacher has a life outside of work and wasn't able to respond until 8 p.m. Teachers should get CEO money.

Anyway, after sitting and listening to 'push gate' and the outrage over the lack of timely response to the school shooting email I reached the end of my usable life, which is good because that was right when class ended, otherwise I probably would have ended up saying something to one of them. It isn't just like that at gymnastics, it is everywhere in this rich little suburban seaside town. Sure, our apartment is pretty nice and the streets are quiet and the schools are safe, but these are just the worst kind of people. I live with the 1 percent. I live with the people who don't think poor people deserve help because they don't work hard. I live with the people who leave the raising of their children to nannies and the walking of their dogs to "dog walking professionals" but it is fine because they take their children skiing every weekend.

So, this guy right here needs a cash cow of some kind so he can get his family out of this environment before his daughter becomes snooty and exclusive. Maybe I will try and make money from the blog. Today I started a blog Twitter page. I am still not quite sure how I am going to utilize that. Stay tuned. My hope is that it will somehow generate page hits and eventually someone will offer me a book deal based on this incredibly famous blog. It seems to happen to people with a lot less talent than me, so it is worth a shot, right? So, if anyone knows a publisher or two, tell them to tweet me. (Not really, though, because I probably won't get it or understand how to respond).

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Good grief, it's time for Zoo Lights

Zoo Lights is a concept that has been incarnated in many a zoo across the nation. The idea is very simple: Bring people, and therefore more money, in to your zoo during the off season by covering the place in Christmas lights and a holiday decorations. Add a Christmas village or holiday wonderland of sorts and charge some money to sit on Santa's lap all the while giving folks a chance to see some of the more nocturnal animals in action. It is a solid business plan, indeed.

I have mentioned here many times how much I personally enjoy zoos and how I have passed that enjoyment on to Av by traveling to every zoo within driving distance over the past three years. The best, by far, has been Lupa Zoo in Ludlow, Ma. Privately-owned, it has a crazy variety of animals that are let to roam much more freely than a regular zoo. How can they do this? They actually give the animals room to live in very large habitats so they aren't totally suicidal and ready to tear apart a 6-year-old for their own freedom. I also fed a giraffe and saw a monkey masturbate. True story.

The closest zoo to us geographically is Stone Zoo which, conveniently, offers a zoo lights event every year after Thanksgiving. Last night we made the short pilgrimage to cap off the ever popular 'family day,' or as Av calls it 'fam-iwy-daaay.' This takes place just about any Sunday in which the Patriots do not play and usually involves lunch, errand running and one kid-friendly activity.

Let's go ahead and set the scene. Zoo Lights, in a nutshell, is about 800-1,000 families cramming in to an already small zoo that is half to three quarters closed off because most of the animals have been locked away in whatever depressing area they store animals when it is too cold for them to be outside due to the fact that they are no longer living in their natural habitat. Animals available for viewing are a bald eagle, arctic fox, porcupine, barn owl, river otter and a reindeer. We'll get to the reindeer. 

We decided that it would be a smart idea to arrive right when they opened at 5 p.m. and as it turned out we managed to make it close, pulling in the gate by 5:22 p.m. In our family that is right on schedule. Evidently our plan was a popular one. We were directed to an overflow parking lot across the street that had both no lighting and a series of giant, car-swallowing mud puddles littering its landscape.

It was at this point that a man in a mini van tried to pass me on the left hand side (in a parking lot) to get to a parking spot, of which there were several available, and I declared that I was going to "beat the shit out of someone" at Zoo Lights. It isn't family day if I don't threaten to beat the shit out of at least one person. Monica, to her credit, just laughed. It was also at this point that I began to ask myself why I had not packed a flask and asked Monica to drive, to which she said " I don't know why you didn't. You usually just get covertly drunk on Sundays anyway." Dammit. Not only did I blow my chance to enjoy Zoo Lights, I realized I am not as sneaky as I thought I was.

So, sober and already teetering on holiday melt down we headed toward the zoo. Not before crossing a two-lane state highway with only the aid of a zoo employee risking his own life to slow cars down by waving a flash light. Apparently the police were busy. (Insert donut joke here).

One positive to the evening was that, as zoo members, we were able to avoid the line that literally stretched to the end of the parking lot and cut right to the entrance gate. That zoo membership paid for itself right then. Once inside the Zoo Lights extravaganza we immediately sought out the event's main attraction: an "encounter" with a real life reindeer. At first, "encounter" seemed like a strange term to use. Once I had the "encounter" it made perfect sense.

The line for the reindeer encounter was essentially a giant cluster fuck of people losing their children. People randomly and periodically searching for one or more of their kids in a concentrated area, yelling their names, arguing with their significant others about whose responsibility it was to keep an eye on them etc..  The average conversation went something like this:

"Do you have Brian? Oh my God where is Brian!?"

"I don't know, I thought you had him by the otter."

"Well, where is he, Steven?! He was just right here!"

"I DON'T KNOW! I"M STANDING IN LINE!"

"Well he was just right next to you! I have Cassie, WHERE IS BRIAN?!"

"Lois, I"M STANDING IN LINE, YOU GO FIND HIM!"

And so on.

 Usually the kids were no further away than a nearby bush, but it is dark out, so parents tend to panic a bit more. The couple in front of us, who appeared to have entered in to the loveless, no longer attracted to one another era of marriage, lost their son Eric for about 3-7 minutes. He was literally standing about 4 feet away from them the entire time. In the mother's defense, the kid could have spoken up one of the 65 times she belted out his name, and I probably could have helped, too since he was standing right next to me, but it was more fun not to.

Another highlight of the line was a man, a zoo employee who I am kicking myself for not taking a picture of, who was walking around in a red sweater wielding some sort of staff or walking stick adorned with a red bow. At first he used this stick to back people up as wide strollers came past the line of people, and later he would stand at the front of the line and regulate who got to see the reindeer, all the while spouting random facts about the animal like "She is 8-months-old. If that were you you would still be a baby, but she is a reindeer, so she is a teenager." This man, while soft spoken and mustache-clad, was also stern.

We were in line for probably 15-20 minutes before we actually caught a glimpse of the reindeer which was standing between two handlers. These two handlers were included in every family photo taken. One man smiled, the woman did not. She was taking her job a bit too seriously. Around this time the reindeer began to give up. It was about the saddest thing I've seen. The thing kept looking at the handler like "are you kidding me?" and eventually just walked away, had some water and decided to lay down. This is where the 'encounter' part of the deal became clear. "Look, you guys, we have a reindeer but there is no guarantee it is going to care enough to stand up or go near the picture taking area so we are promising nothing more than an encounter."

Here is what the goth teenager reindeer looked like before totally giving up on life. Can't say I blame it.

 We were going to bail at this point but Av insisted that she wanted to have her picture taken with the animal so we hung around in line. A few minutes later some kids, a bit older, uncovered a loophole. If you cut through the bushes next to the line you could sneak in and see the reindeer without waiting. I was going to let this slide until one of them pulled out a phone and started taking pictures. Oh, no, no, no, no, my friend. Not today, little boy, not today. That is when I decided to intervene.

"Hey, I'm not sure if you brought any parents with you today but there is a line to see the reindeer and it doesn't start here."

Monica's response? "Congratulations, you just intimidated three 8-year-olds."

Where was the man with the staff for that one?

Shortly after this we finally were given our chance to encounter the reindeer, and here are the faces Avelyn decided to make during her precious, coveted picture time: You can see the man's staff just to the bottom left.

Notice how far away the barely visible reindeer we encountered is laying. There were several more pictures taken, many after Monica pleaded for a smile, all with very similar results. Av thinks she is hilarious.

Immediately after the final picture was taken and we contributed $3 toward the suggested donation of $5 for the reindeer photo, I scooped Av up and proceeded to walk face first in to the only goddamn branch in the entire zoo without a string of lights on it.

So, with an eye full of pine needles we ventured over to Santa's Village at which point I had to explain to Av why I would not be spending anywhere between $14-$30 to wait in another long line to have her picture taken with the third fake Santa we had seen that day. Instead we toured the "Village" which was an indescribably creepy collection of dirty, kind of broken Christmas-like renditions of fairy tales and Christmas stories. Once again, I am kicking myself for not taking pictures, especially of the filthy 12-foot teddy bear that looks like something out of an abandoned, haunted amusement park.

Finally, before the merciful ending of the evening, we stopped to let Av take a train ride. The ride was uneventful except for this fake elephant that appeared to be urinating on a bush.

In short, Zoo Lights is probably fun if you go on a Tuesday night. My advice? Spend the $50-$75 on a membership. Skip the lines and you can go to the Stone and Franklin Park Zoo for free whenever you want. Your kid will probably have a good time, but not a great time. Av was apathetic. She wanted to pet the reindeer so I think when it became apparent that it wasn't allowed she stopped caring.  Also, river otters kick ass.

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Just a disclaimer, as there has been some confusion. The musical selection at the bottom of each post is not necessarily related to the theme. Unless it is. Usually, it is just a song I like that I think people should listen to.  

Hating your neighbors, lying to your kids- HAPPY HOLIDAYS

I'll get to that Mexico story soon, turns out I don't have a whole lot of free time these days. A lot of this is due to being totally wrapped up in the center of the holiday season. I am, like, two steps away from Santa Claus at this point. At the very least I am Clark Griswold. I used to totally despise the holidays. I don't care for Thanksgiving at all, I am not particularly religious and usually Christmas just means having to stress out about finding, and affording, a gift that people won't make fun of you or resent you for giving them. Then there is family. Lots and lots and lots of family. Sure, there are people that I enjoy seeing and frolicking with every year, but there are a lot more people that I don't have any use for- especially when you start getting in to the dark depths of a relationship and there are two families to visit every year. Shitty relatives are so much worse when they aren't actually related to you. So much worse.

Since I have decided to partake in fatherhood, however, the Christmas season has begun to be enjoyable again. Instead of just stressing out about the obligatory crap that I don't want to do I am now beginning to enjoy showing Av all of the Christmas preparations and I am feeding off of her excitement. I think the other day I may have felt actual joy. I am not doing nearly as much grumbling as I normally would about buying gifts because I know what I am buying is going to make her happy (and will also be fun for me to play with- there is a certain feeling that you are buying gifts for yourself as a child). And the best part? When you have kids you can slowly weed out all of those people you don't want to see around the holidays. Easy excuses make for fewer obligations.

Unfortunately, having children does not excuse me from hanging Christmas lights, so all of my neighbors still get to hear me yell things like "fucking cocksuckers" or "piece of shit douchebag" as I string lights on the porch. It only took me about three and a half hours this year to finish up the job, which is about an hour less than last year. Something that the childless, yuppie piece of shit that lives across the street seemed to think was funny. So funny, in fact, that he continued to comment on it while he loaded up his Mazda for a snowboarding trip along with his sweater vest, turtleneck, loafer-wearing bro dude best friend.

"Still at it, huh?"

Yeah. I'm still fucking at it. You know why? Because hanging Christmas lights is a pain in the ass. I'm standing on a freaking patio chair with strings of icicle lights draped over my shoulders. I have dropped a staple gun on my foot FOUR TIMES and NONE OF THE LIGHT STRINGS ARE THE RIGHT LENGTH! Once I got all the lights up I had to take two strings back down because the plugs on the strands of lights didn't match up. Oh, and I have a three year old nipping at my ankles and trying to sabotage me the entire time.

"Those lights look like they are winning."

Oh, do they? Do they look like they are winning, Gavin? Well you know who isn't going to be wining? You, Gavin. You. You know why? Because while you are on your snowboard trip I am going to break in to your condo and put my balls on your pillow. That's what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna steal your dog. I'm gonna fix your girlfriend up with one of my friends. You are going to come home to no dog, no girlfriend and a pillow that smells like balls. WHO IS WINNING NOW, GAVIN? By the way, Gavin? Awful name.

If it wasn't apparent already, I don't care for Gavin. I haven't ever formally met him or his girlfriend. I have only said hello as he gets in to his car that is always unnecessarily parked in front of my house, but I'll tell you why I don't like him. He is young, in shape, does not have any children, appears to have plenty of money and is constantly walking around with a smile on his face. This man faces no adversity. He wears sandals. He plays golf during the week. He walks his dog in a bubble jacket. He goes on snowboarding trips. Judging by his recycling, he drinks Corona Light. His life is too good. Too easy. It is unfair and I don't like him. We have nothing in common. I bet he listens to Coldplay. His name is also Gavin. Let's not overlook that, either.

I also don't care for my Jewish next door neighbors to the right. I do not dislike them because they are Jewish, but when looking at the entire package, their religious snobbyness is responsible for many of their awful personality traits. I have always said that I don't care what religion someone is as long as they leave me alone about it. For the most part, the neighbors have left me alone about it, but you should have seen the death stare I got while I was hanging up the Christmas lights.

There are four main reasons that I don't care for these people.

First, they came on way too strong when they moved in. Knocking on our door and asking if we wanted to come over. Whoa whoa whoa. This isn't a fraternity. We aren't 17. Slow down. I'm not here to make friends. I have friends. You bought a house next to where I live. Enjoy. We aren't having a block party.

Second, the first thing they did upon moving in was cut down all off the trees in their back yard, most of which hung over our yard and provided shade, privacy and a home for many of the birds and small creatures I enjoy. Now the squirrels just wander around and eat trash. It is like a third world country after a national disaster back there. Dicks.

Third, and this is where the religion part comes in, about once every few months they have some sort of temple gathering at their home where throngs of old Jewish women aimlessly and cluelessly drive their high priced vehicles up and down the street looking for the house, turning around in the drive way, taking up all the spots on the street and generally causing a suburban traffic and parking nightmare. They stay for two hours or so and then the 'we are all leaving at the same time' puzzle begins. I swear sometimes they just stop in the middle of the road out of pure stress.

The fourth and final reason that I do not care for these people is that the wife listens to Jimmy Buffett. You know who else I bet likes Jimmy Buffett? Gavin. You guys should be friends with Gavin. And then you can all move. Or maybe I'll move. Hey, Gavin, can I borrow some money?

Moral of the story? Don't move near me. I am a psychopath.

Anyway, I got the lights up. I have not broken in to Gavin's apartment. The Christmas tree has been put together, it is in the window facing the Jewish neighbor's house. Yes, I do kind of hope it bothers them. Happy holidays. Now, all that is left is lying to Avelyn about Santa, elves and the like which makes for a magnificent excuse to threaten her when she is acting like a shit head. Which, like most children, and most human beings in general is all the time. We have an 'Elf on the Shelf' who reports back to Santa on whether or not she was good each day. This is funny because deep down I think she knows it's bullshit, she always asks why he doesn't talk or move or blink, but when it comes down to it she is going to go with it because if she is wrong she would be totally fucked. Kind of like being Catholic. Makes no sense when you really think about it, but people still follow the rules just in case. 

All in all it should be a nice holiday season. Unless people keep knocking on my door at dinner time asking me about my energy bill. That happened last night. It did not go well for the husky young woman wearing khakis and a 'Next Energy' polo shirt. First of all, don't knock on my door ever unless you have a delivery or you are selling Girl Scout cookies. Second, don't knock on my door at 6:49 p.m. Third, don't argue with me when I tell you I am not interested. This will land you a door slam in the face and a strongly worded email to your company's CEO. Why do I have this vision of me eventually living in one of those compounds like the guys on 'American Pickers' always roll up on? You know, one with three buildings filled with junk I've hoarded and a fence with a bunch of 'Keep Away' signs? I hope no one ever allows me to purchase a firearm.

...

Monica and I have been doing some arguing over the naming of our upcoming child lately. She is in to the usual Sam, Peter, Jimmy, Timmy, etc... that everyone always names their kids. I am looking for something a little more distinguished. I have already been shot down on Roosevelt, Filmore, Elmore and Leroy. Even when I tried to go more traditional with Lewis or Leo I was hit with a resounding 'no'. This is frustrating. About the only hope I still have is Calvin. I don't know why, but I really feel like his name should be somewhat presidential. Roosevelt seems best, but apparently that ship has totally sailed, so I am going to have to compromise. We could always go with Gavin, I suppose. 

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Three minutes of Mr. Rogers struggling with a cat? Three minutes of Mr. Rogers struggling with a cat.

Happy Cyber Monday everyone. (I just found out that's a thing. Kind of like 'Gangnam Style,' which I had to Google last Wednesday. Apparently I'm late.) It seems to me that society would better benefit from keeping all of the insane shopping deals together on the same day. It could make for a 'SUPER SHOPPING EVENT OF THE CENTURY!' Day. Cyber Black Friday. Think of the Sears commercials we could make. Order your Craftsman tools online and then come to the store to get 60 percent off Lee Jeans and reversible belts! Starring Paula Abdul. Is Paula Abdul still relevant? Wait... (Googling)...The Internet says no. Hmmm, how about Kesha. Yes, the Internet says she is popular. I do not know who that is. But I don't need to. I don't shop at Sears.

Anyway, the point is that with smart phones and iPads and all of that other crap Steve Jobs was planning to overtake the world with it seems like you could get 40 percent off a four slice toaster on Amazon while you were waiting in line at Bed Bath and Beyond for the $20 throw pillows- or whatever the Hell it is people wrestle each other for in Black Friday lines. It would be the ultimate Christmas shopping modern technology multitask event! But, if the Internet wants its own special door buster deals day the Internet can have it. Because the Internet can do whatever it wants. Case and point: This.


Or this.

Or this.


And, if you fast forward to 2:12 of this episode of Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood you can watch about three straight minutes of Fred Rogers struggling with a cat. Do it, television friend. Trust me, it's totally worth it.


This discovery was made as I was attempting to educate Avelyn on exactly how unnecessarily convenient modern technology has made her life. These days when some little puke wants to watch his or her favorite TV show they can just pester mom and dad until they find it on Youtube or log in to their depressing, little-used, child-centric Netflix account to play it instantly. When I was a kid I had to wait until the show came on at its scheduled time, and if I wanted to watch TV right then I was stuck with the nightly news, or David the Gnome, or Northern Exposure. (That's how I always knew I was up really late, when I would sneak downstairs and my mom would be watching Northern Exposure. I think it came on at 10.)

One day, a little bit annoyed and bitter after a morning full of arguing with Avelyn over watching TV on my computer, I decided I would teach her a lesson of what it was like when I was a boy. Way back in the grainy, discolored late 80's and early 90's when all we had were Fred Rogers and Sesame Street and we had to walk to school up hill both ways and pick berries on the side of the road and sell them for the five cents it took to buy dinner at the local market and, well, you know the rest. You know what? We were damn happy with that, too.

So as she was begging me to On Demand an episode of 'Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood,' which is an absolutely unwatchable spinoff starring a totally inaccurate depiction of one of the characters from the Land of Make Believe on Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood, I decided to take her back to her roots. I sat down and forced her to watch a full 26 minute episode of Mr. Rogers, which you can see above. By the time it was over I was asleep and she had closed the computer and gone off to watch paint dry or stare at the floor or pile up mounds of dirt for stimulation. Seriously, Fred Rogers was a sweet man who seemed wonderful when he was the only show in town but, DAMN was that shit boring.

Luckily for me she does not care for Daniel Tiger, either. In the old show, when he was a puppet, he was a misbehaving, ferocious lion who caused trouble and lived in a tree. In the new show, the computer animated Daniel is a gigantic pansy. He walks around with a back pack all day long and sings lame little songs about turning things that make you sad in to things that make you happy. Totally unrealistic. Like, kids get sad. Let it happen. That's life. Kids that don't have sadness and disappointment grow up to have their hopes and dreams immediately crushed by adulthood. (Then again, most of us grow up to have our hopes and dreams crushed by adulthood, but that is beside the point.)  Also, the plot lines are totally unrealistic, most real kids don't get sad about getting their favorite shirt dirty or messing up an art project. They get sad because their cat dies or they run full speed in to a door knob and bump their heads. What do you want them to do? Take a Vicodin and enjoy the day? Cook the dead cat and make 'chicken' fried rice? Shut up, Daniel. The songs aren't even good. He always talks about how he feels "disappointed" and then has to hug and talk it out with his parents. Whatever. I don't know why any of this matters. Don't watch that show. It sucks.

"Hey, kids! Wanna get beat up in school every day for the next 15 years? Act like me!"


I'm not really sure where that rant came from, but there it is. In other, more relevant news, we celebrated our last peaceful Thanksgiving ever this year. From now on we will be dragging around two children, one of which will be guaranteed to be throwing some sort of fit every year. The day was lovely, although I am not a huge fan of Thanksgiving as a holiday. The turkey and fixins are not any of my favorite foods and I usually just end up really tired and bloated by the end of the day. But, I'll take the mid-week vacation. I do like the feeling that the whole world stops for a day. Although, IHOP is open, and that is a tradition I will be instituting every Thanksgiving going forward. Banana bread french toast? Yes, please. 

Av is also now in a very tolerable age when it comes to Christmas. She is very excited about the season but she is still too young to ask for anything of substance as a gift, so we end up saving a lot of money and she isn't too much of a dick about wanting things yet. Among her requests this year are: A tiny doll-house-sized tuba, a doll that eats and poops, stuffed animal friends and crafts. She loves crafts.

It is also nice this year that she can pretty much do everything on her own. Eat, sleep, poop, talk, get dressed, play- these are all things that, when she wants to, she can do independently, which makes holiday shopping, travel and gift giving much easier. My absolute biggest anxiety over having another child is that when he comes I am once again going to have a human being that can do nothing for itself. I do not miss changing diapers, manual feeding or having to pick up and carry a child everywhere. Monica is the exact opposite. She cannot wait to do all of these things. This should make for some pretty easy doling out of responsibility when the little guy gets here.

Still struggling for blog topics, my goal for the remainder of this week, by request, will be to craft the memories of the nightmare trip to Mexico Monica and I took in the summer of 2008, the details of which seem to bring great joy to everyone but us, in to words. More to come.

...

 

What is this Internet thing and how does it work?

Turns out they haven't yet developed the technology that instantly transforms my thoughts in to sparkling, witty online content without any manual effort. Apparently I still need to type it and post it. Sorry about that.

Since we last touched base in April many things have changed. Monica and I have made it official and gotten married. So far we have made it two months and she has not filed for divorce yet. It must be my movie star good looks. I have also continued to pad my hall of fame child fathering stats and planted another successful seed. Which means I will soon have two children under the age of five running amok every moment for the rest of my life. Thrashing around my apartment, spilling sticky foods in the back seat of my car and generally never shutting the fuck up. This is a thought that is so terrifying that I think I have mentally blocked out the reality that I am going to have to start this entire process over again in March. Even more terrifying, this time it will be a boy. So I now have to make double the effort to ensure that he does not end up a quirky, grouchy, drunk, manic depressive lunatic like his father.

That said, it is also very exciting. At the advice of Field of Dreams, Harry Chapin and every late-90's Neu Metal rock ballad I will play catch with him often. This will be a start. I will also place the baseball in his left hand and force him to throw southpaw so he can someday get a contract with the Cincinnati Reds and pay for my liver transplant and nursing home bills.

Av has started preschool and I am pretty sure she is down to only crying 65 percent of the time that she is there. She says that it is because she misses me. What she really misses is the ability to watch Wild Kratts and eat cheese curls whenever she feels like it. I'm also pretty sure that she sometimes pees her pants on purpose because she thinks she is going to get to go home. Most days she lives somewhere in the middle of enjoying school and not wanting us to know that she enjoys school. So she invents things like how she doesn't like her teacher or how she is afraid the kids are going to steal the stuff she brings in for show and tell. She is also in complete denial that she is going to have a little brother. I am pretty sure she thinks he is just going to live in her "secret house" with the rest of her stuffed friends and only come out for games of Dog Pound*.

*Dog Pound is an Avelyn original that involves making a gigantic pile of all of her stuffed animals on the couch, burying herself in them and making me give them all individual voices as they "search" for her in a multi-species game of hide and seek. The chances of me falling asleep at some point during this game are 1,000 percent. Every time. Again, hall of fame average. Similarly, I have invented a game titled "ghost kitty" in which I cover myself in a white fleece blanket and lay on the ground "meowing" while Av climbs on me, brushes my hair and pets me. I also fall asleep every time we play this game, and I don't get caught as often as I do when we play dog pound.

I am still fat. I am still a bartender. I still celebrate 'Suicide Tuesday' every week at which point I convince myself that my life is going nowhere and that I am useless to society. During this time I also develop deep disdain for virtually every human between the ages of 18-25 who is not homeless or in jail. This usually ends with me starting- but not finishing- my resume online and begrudgingly going back off to work at the bar where I fill my pockets with more cash than I would probably make at any useless office job I was thinking of applying for. That will usually carry me in to the weekend on a high note. These are the mental issues I am talking about. Suicide Tuesday needs to be cleared up.

I have all but abandoned the journalism industry, as I despise almost every element involved with it, most of all the last editor I had at the PATCH site. Fed up with essentially doing the one or two articles he didn't want to deal with each week for $40 a pop I started ignoring his emails. He didn't seem too broken up about it and neither am I. It's not that I want to abandon writing, it is that I want to abandon giving two shits about some new hire at the local library because some snobby, Catholic college stiff is dangling two $20 bills in front of my face. I have also become totally disenchanted with most of the Internet, mainly because it gives a voice to every person in the world to become totally hypocritical and pretentious with no repercussions. No I don't care about the issues in foreign countries. I don't care that professional sports teams use racist Native American imagery. I don't care if you think I should eat this or not eat that. What I care about is the score of the late basketball games last night. Or how to get this stupid freeze pop (or is it highlighter!) stain off of my carpet without calling Stanley Steamer. That is what the Internet is for. See, somehow this is why I can no longer be a journalist. It makes sense to me.

We won the summer league bowling championship this year, a surprising rise for a team just one season in to its career. Unfortunately, we are now currently flirting with last place and I have lost all ability to bowl, battling the old women and that one guy who is like, 6'8, 300lbs, bowls off the wrong foot and can't bend over for the worst average in the league. I think I need to see a sports psychologist. Or maybe just a  regular psychologist. Maybe I should just be a psychologist.

In any event, as things in my life appear to be on the verge of being turned upside down again, the blog is back. I hope all of you can experience the journey with me. Every day is a gift. I am off to probably have my child attempt to gauge out my eyes and spit in my face as I have distracted her with a Tom and Jerry DVD so I could write this. Tom and Jerry have got to be responsible for influencing multiple psychopathic murderers over the past 75 years. If we had anvils she would drop them on my head. Fact.

...

Now listen to Jack White. 

Episode 168: The Man with the Yellow Hat is a danger to society

Curious George. I am sure you are all familiar with the adorable, trouble making monkey from the classic book series we all read as children. Most of you also probably know that he has been brought to life over the past 10 or so years in various movies and a cartoon TV series that runs multiple times a day on PBS and their pay cable network, Sprout. Yes, I pay more for cable because I added the children's television package. I was raised on TV and I turned out fine, right? I mean, a bartender with a blog and thousands of dollars in student loan debt. What else could a mother ask for?

Anyway, because I am a father and sometimes you just have to distract your kid so you can mop the damn floor or do some work for your bullshit freelance writing gig, Av has been watching a lot of the TV series. And by a lot I mean at least three episodes a day. Which is really six episodes because they pack two stories in to every half hour. Inevitably, I end up watching at least two of these episodes. By all accounts, the show is extremely tolerable in comparison to crap like Cyberchase, Wild Kratts and Super Why. Also, it is fairly educational. Teaching math and problem solving skills that my kid actually occasionally picks up on. But the more I watch the show, the more I am beginning to have a problem with The Man with the Yellow Hat.

The Man is George's, um, keeper? I think in the show they refer to him as his 'human.' He is the dapper yellow fella you see above. Whatever the case, he is credited with saving George from Africa- or something like that- and the two of them now live together. Basically, he is George's father. He's like a single dad with a monkey instead of a kid. They live together- alone- in some sort of fancy high-rise penthouse apartment with a door man. The show, as the books did, make it out to seem like George is a curious child and The Man is there to teach him about the world. It is a lovely friendship.

Here's the thing, though. The more I watch the show- and I get that it is totally fictional and exaggerated- but the more I watch the show, the more apparent it is that The Man with the Yellow Hat is an irresponsible nuisance who is a danger to society. George is essentially a child. He has the same mental capacity, it appears, as a five-year-old. This makes him a very smart monkey. It also means that he should not be left alone. Which he is. All the time.

A few examples. One episode begins with George and The Man walking to the subway. The Man is headed to work, George is walking him there. This means that once The Man gets on the train George is left standing in the middle of the city alone. Unsupervised. What is an unsupervised monkey to do in the middle of a city alone? Oh, that's right, go to the local Asian grocery store and 'volunteer' his services- without telling the owner. Instead he just eats all the bananas, leaves all the freezer doors open, knocks over the stack of paper towels and somehow manages to set up a Christmas in July scene in the front window without anyone else who works there noticing. For some reason he gets paid at the end of the day.

In fact, The Man is always leaving. Saying things like "I have to go help out at the museum," or "I have to go to the store." Meanwhile George is left with assignments like taking care of a cat (that gets stuck in the wall) or going to pick up donuts at the bakery which, now that I think about it, is one of my least favorite episodes. He orders 1,000 dozen donuts because he thinks it's fun to add zeroes to the end of numbers, and the dumb bakery lady just accepts it as if it were logical for a monkey to order 12,000 donuts. Then he tries to run away and the lady and her workers chase him to his house with a wheelbarrow filled with donuts and drop them off. Oh, no up front payment needed for your 12,000 donuts, we'll bill you. In the end, after The Man returns home and DOESN'T GET MAD, they give all the donuts to the fire department, where they proceed to eat all of them on the sidewalk in front of the fire station. Great. Just what I want when my garage sets fire, a bunch of fat fireman who just ate 4,000 donuts a piece.

The only episode I hate more than this is the one where George goes to see Hansel and Gretel and acts it out afterwards for his friend who missed it because of the chicken pox. I mostly just hate that one because I find musicals intolerable and that story seems dumb to me.

Right now we are watching an episode where George is left alone in the city to wander by himself. Not only has he managed to wander on to a construction site, he has also knocked over an entire f-ing building! And you know what? No one is pissed. No one. George is credited with finding a structural deficiency that would have made the building dangerous. In the second segment in this episode George- a monkey who can't read- is left in charge of the children's section of the library. Seriously? What is wrong with you people?

Again, I get that it is a cartoon and that regular monkeys don't have the ability George does. But can you imagine the repercussions of a man just letting a monkey wander around society alone on a daily basis? First of all, the thing would have been captured by animal control in a matter of minutes and either put down or taken to a zoo, and once they found out that this weird yellow man with a stupid hat was the owner, he would probably be facing some sort of charges.

I think we should all consider ourselves lucky that this is a fictional story intended for children, because if The Man with the Yellow Hat actually existed society would crumble.

...

Episode 167: Potty training SUCKS and the mystery of the dead frog

Since becoming a father there have been certain landmark events that I have been anticipating, expecting and in some cases, dreading. The terrible-twos, for example, was something I felt like I was going to be ready for. But it seems that the terrible-twos is just a myth. In reality, it is the terrible-threes that come up and bite you in the ass. Two-year-olds are still sweet and naive, but when they are three they are smart enough to manipulate you, they can communicate much better and it is a lot harder to pull a fast one on them. Also, they still think the universe revolves around them so the second things don't go their way they freak out. Not much fun some days.

Worse than the occasional attitude and melt down, though, is potty training. I knew potty training wasn't going to be fun but, shit, it is worse than I ever expected. We have been well in to it for 3-4 months now, so it is getting a lot better, but for a while there I was contemplating the pros and cons of sending her to kindergarten in diapers. There was a period of time in the first few weeks where I was covered in some sort of fecal matter at least once every single day. Some days you have to scrub pee out of the carpet. Other days there are screaming, cryinf fits on the bathroom floor. I've had to plunge dozens of baby wipes out of the toilet and fill countless grocery bags with poop-covered paper towels, underwear, pull up diapers and clothing. The only positive to that is if you don't have a paper shredder you can hide all of your personal documents inside a bag of baby shit and no one will pick them out of the trash and steal your identity.

Since we have started the potty training we have received all sorts of advice from 'don't force it' to 'stick her in the car seat with no underwear on.' We came in somewhere in the middle. We got pull ups and Thomas the Tank Engine underwear, bribed her with gifts and candy and eventually she has gotten better about using the toilet. The thinking behind the underwear was that she would not want to pee on Thomas' face. That was a bit ambitious, as she didn't really seem to care at first. The best is when she just comes up and says "Daddy, I just peed in my Thomas underwear." Well, at least you owned up to it.

I think the worst part about it at this point, now that she is pretty consistent about going, is that a three-year-old going to the bathroom is not like an adult or a teenager going to the bathroom. If you are eating dinner or doing some work or cleaning up you can't just let her go alone. At first we would be reading book after book after book on the toilet. It has gotten a bit better in that sense, she can pull down her pants and go by herself, but you still have to drop what you are doing and wipe her ass and make sure she washes her hands when she is done. You have to examine the poop and pretend it is so great. Empty the pee out of the musical princess potty in to the regular toilet and constantly try and stop her from sticking her finger in her ass. It is just a lot of time spent in the bathroom with other people's excretion. That is what it comes down to.

Also, I have found that I no longer get any privacy when I have to go to the bathroom, either. She is always busting in like the Kool-Aid man, telling me that it stinks in there or making references to my 'dinky.' Before you have kids you think about a lot of things. One of them is not what term you will be referring to genitals as during potty training. We have come up with 'dinky' and 'crotch.' Sweet.

...

About six months ago Monica came home with a few of those tiny aquarium frogs they sell for a few dollars at Pet Smart. Thinking they would live a week or two she got a cheap tank and gave them to Av as pets. Well, all this time later, they are remarkably still alive. Or at least one of them is anyway. But the second one did not die of natural causes or weird frog tank disease. The details of its death are, in fact, shrouded in mystery.

A few weeks ago I was doing some picking up around Av's train table and glanced over at what I thought was a little plastic frog. Av has a lot of those toxic Dollar Tree plastic creatures. Lizards, farm animals, dinosaurs, etc... but the more I thought about it, the more I started to question if I had ever seen a frog in any of those bags. I took a closer look and realized, to my horror, that it appeared to be a petrified aquarium frog. Immediately, I jumped to the conclusion that it must have been Little Cat. That stupid dickhead probably got the top of the tank open and caught one. But upon further inspection- I picked it up with tweezers and examined the corpse in the bathroom like I was on CSI or something- there were no signs of trauma. No gashes, tooth marks, missing limbs. It was, in fact, a perfect, in tact frog corpse.

My next thought was that it must have been Av. Maybe she tried to catch one and took it out and the poor little guy just died. But Av is a squawker. She rats on everyone for everything, including herself. She would have said something about it at some point. Plus, I was afraid to ask her because I did not want to draw attention to the dead frog and have to have that conversation with her, either.

My only other theory is that the guy jumped out of the tank at a time when one off us had the lid off and was refilling the water. He jumped out, found himself lost and disoriented and made it as far as that corner of the living room before he finally died. One thing is for sure, he was there for a while. Which makes it even more strange that Av didn't notice him.

One final theory is that one of the snot-nosed kids from Av's birthday party did it. Maybe the one that threw up all over our living room carpet. I hate kids.

...
Saw the Black Keys at the Garden a few weeks back. Disappointing set list and a whole lot of new fans who have never heard the real Black Keys, but otherwise they brought the freakin' house down. Very pleasantly surprised at how good they sounded in an arena. Dan Auerbach is still the man. These are arguably the best two songs of the night. Followed by some Gary Clark Jr. just because.

Episode 166: Man, when you threw that bag of chips at her you just, just, you just crossed the line, man

Thought I'd share a work story today, just because. I have a few posts in the works this week so, time willing, you will have some new material to enjoy.

When you see three dudes walk in to a bar dressed in sombreros, ponchos and fake mustaches a half hour before last call on a cold night in February as a bartender it is only natural to look at them and wonder which one you will be kicking out first, if any of the three are still sober enough to serve at all. I was presented with this exact scenario on Saturday night. The answer is "the fat one in the middle."

Now, I wouldn't say that I like to throw people out. Usually if I do it means they have done something to piss me off, but a lot of times I look at it as an opportunity to let off a little steam and usually see something hilarious ensue. People who get kicked out of bars rarely take it well, but where I work the anger never gets physical. Most of the time people just swear at you and say funny drunken things. We have one particular neighborhood crackhead who is permanently banned from the premises. I like seeing him, because that always results in a hilarious crackhead confrontation. Last time he took a header down the front stairs. Fun fact: For the first two years I worked there I thought he was a woman. Until one night he told me to "suck his dick" and I said "Wait, are you a dude?" And then he swore at me and called me all sorts of names, accusing me of wanting to have sex with him and this and that as I laughed him out the door.

Depending on my mood and the type of shift I am having, adversity such as seeing sombrero kids stumble in can be dealt with in a variety of ways. Bad mood nights I am apt to just go over there with no intention of entertaining their antics, rush them to the point and most likely determine that they are shitfaced and tell them I am not serving them. Other days I will engage them a little bit, give them the benefit of the doubt and maybe end up getting them a beer if they seem like they won't cause trouble.

Now- I should say that I do this with most guests, sombreros or no sombreros. I guess I should probably not think of it this way, but I do. I see someone come in and immediately jump to conclusions about what type of person they are and what type of service they are going to get from me- and usually I am right on. Quickest way to piss me off? Answer the question "Hi, how are you tonight?" with "Let me get a menu," or "What kind of beer do you have?" Last time I checked, neither one of those are greetings. I am not a robot, nor am I your servant. I do not like to be spoken to like an asshole.

Anyway, on this particular day, we had been having a few bad money nights in a row and we were starting to get a late-night push that we hadn't experienced for a while. So, when the other bartender, Rachael, and I saw the Three Amigos come in we were ready to at least entertain them and see if there was some way we could take some of their money. I had had a bit of an angry episode earlier in the evening due to an incident involving a trash-talking coworker, so I think Rachael was keeping the health and safety of others in mind when she volunteered to go wait on the three poncho hombres. By that point in the night I was no longer pissed off, but it is always nice to play it safe when dealing with my fragile psyche. This is one of the large reasons why Rachael and I are a successful team- personality evaluation and an understanding of one another's emotional limits.

So, she headed over and talked to them and I kind of just lingered behind to make sure that they didn't try and anything stupid, as many drunk men tend to do when dealing with a woman bartender. In retrospect, serving the three "Mexican" kids was probably not the best idea but, like I said, we needed money and they ordered a few of our most expensive beers and said they wanted to try and order some food before our kitchen closed. I went over and joked around with them a little bit and as it turns out they had been asked to leave another bar down the street. Good move not mentioning that until after we gave you beer. They were probably on the cusp of 'do not serve' territory, but no one was slurring or getting loud and they were respectful, so I let it slide.

We actually had a lot of people come in from that other bar down the street around that time. One woman described the scene as being a bunch of "wide-assed college sluts assuming the position on the dance floor." I never really understood the appeal in that. Even when I was 21-22 I never really enjoyed the whole 'club' scene. I mean, once in a while there would be some good looking girls there, but most of them are just rubbing up all over each other while their muscle head dude friends pumped their fists and let the black lights take them to drunk land. But- I digress.

At this point, I have three drunk kids dressed as Mexicans, eating $60 worth of food sitting at the bar and they are cracking me up. Specifically, the fat guy in the middle was giving me a good laugh because his fake Mexican mustache kept falling off and he kept trying to"sneak" Cheetos from his pocket. Now, there is absolutely no rule against eating Cheetos at the bar. I can't think of very many situations where I would see someone whip out a bag of Cheetos and not be ok with it. "Ok, buddy, no orange fingers at the bar. Company policy."

Still, guy was looking around and fishing Cheetos out of his pocket like Napoleon Dynamite eating tater tots in class. A few minutes later I was doing something else and looked over to see that fat sombrero kid had dozed off. This is a no-no. Sleeping at a bar is one of the quickest ways to get tossed out, and I have a pretty quick hook, especially of I don't know you.

We do have one guy I'll tell you about real quick, we call him 'Sleepy Pete.' Sleepy Pete is your average bar regular. He usually hits somewhere else first and comes in to our place late night. He is old, fat and super tall- like, 6'7. He is loud, animated and most likely a huge liar. He always has some story about fighting off thugs or picking up hot blondes or punching out transvestites. The female employees hate him because he usually makes offensive comments. You know, "do the curtains match the rug" type stuff. He also tends to doze off at the bar. Hence the name. Now, he usually gets sort of a pass because I know who he is and he very rarely causes trouble. Still, if I see him sleeping, I wake him up. And I'm not nice about it. I throw shit at him, spray him with water, hit the bar with a broom handle- whatever it takes. Many a night it has become a game among other patrons to try and wake him up. Sleepy Pete.

I did not know the sleepy Mexican kid, though, so I went over to his friend and said, very nicely, "Listen man, you gotta wake your buddy up or I'm gonna have to toss him. I can't have him sleeping here, you know?"

The friend understood and apologized, saying "he had a few too many shots tonight, I think." So, I took his beer and replaced it with a water. I told Rachael he was cut off and went about my business. Now, fat, sleepy kid didn't notice right away because he was dazed, drunk and sleepy, but a few minutes later I heard him ask Rachael something like "Wait- so I can't have any beer at all?" I came over and was going to explain to him what the deal was, but before I even could his buddy told him he got cut off. His response was probably funnier if you actually saw how drunk and in space he was, but I'll describe it anyway.

First, you have to understand how slow this guy was moving. He was at the end of the line drunk. The final stage before sleep or, if he was with a woman, disappointing sex- then sleep. Like, every movement was deliberate and slow because he literally had no energy left. He was by far the most drunk of the three kids. Think of your drunk uncle- everyone has one- on Christmas eve after ripping shots for three and a half hours telling some story about why he got fired from the post office or how the electric company screwed over his father 45 years ago. Fading in and out of the conversation, looking at his hands and spacing out. That was this kid.

So, he gets the bad news from his friend, looks up at Rachael and myself who are both in front of him, slowly slurs something along the lines of "Well, fuck you. See if I ever come back here again," reaches in to his pocket, fumbles around for a few seconds, pulls out a three-quarters full bag of Cheetos- one of the 99 cent big grabs- and slowly lobs it in Rachel's direction. Now, when I think back I remember the bag as if it was traveling in slow motion because it seems like it took 45 seconds to get to her, but it had to be pretty quick because she never even raised her arms. She just kind of looked down as it softly bounced off of her chest and landed on the ground. It made the weakest bag crinkle sound when it hit her too. It was like when you get really upset and storm out of a room, but when you try to slam the door it is spring loaded and doesn't close. I think only three Cheetos fell out of the bag.

After the toss he got caught up in his chair and fumbled around while he looked for his coat. I probably would have burst out laughing if his friends weren't immediately apologetic and afraid I was going to toss all of them. In reality, I wasn't even going to throw him out at the moment. I was just going to laugh at him a little bit. I think Rachael was a little pissed at first, because she did tell him she should "punch him in the face" but even then, she was laughing a little bit, too.

What ensued from there was, in my mind, some of the most hysterical drunk friend lecturing that I have ever heard. At first, the fat kid tried to prove a point and leave. He walked outside like three or four times an came back in, probably afraid that I was going to yell at him. I wasn't. At this point, I just needed to make sure that he wasn't about to drive a car or that he wasn't going to take a header in to the water across the street. His pals told me there was another group of them at another bar and he was probably going to meet them. Clearly, he was not allowed in to that bar because he came back. I eventually told him he could stay, he just couldn't drink, and he settled back in. At this point, his friends started to lecture him on his behavior. Among the highlights"

"Dude, you have to apologize to them, that was just, I dunno, man, we're all just trying to have fun and you have to go throwing chips around."

"Man, when you threw that bag of chips at her you just, just, you just crossed the line, man."

"Listen, man, if you don't apologize, I don't, I don't think we can chill next Friday."

"Who do you think has to clean that up? Hey, man, he'll clean it. Do you have a broom? Dude, he's gonna get you a broom, just clean it up." (Again, three Cheetos hit the floor. Not exactly a mess.)

"It's just disrespectful, dude. You don't throw stuff at people, especially women."

"Don't let it end like this, man. We've had a good night. But you had to throw those chips."

And so on. Eventually, they convinced him and he actually apologized to both of us, individually. He blamed it on Tequila and Dr. McGillicuddy which, if you think about it, is actually a pretty good excuse.

Now, I admit, if he had been in that bar three hours earlier when I was pissed off, none of this would have gone so smoothly. But at that point I was in a good mood, and it didn't hurt that his friends were cool. Maybe that story doesn't translate to this medium, or maybe you just had to be there. But I kind of can't stop laughing every time I see those Cheetos hit Rachael's chest in my head. I never want to forget that.

...

Episode 165: Nothing happens outside my window. Except for silent racism and elitist spying.

We have lived in the suburbs for about six months now, and I am still undecided as to how I feel about the whole situation. As a kid I grew up in a middle class, middle of nowhere town that featured a ghetto, regular houses and little else. When I moved out to the coast after high school, we lived in a place with similar demographics, renting apartments on the outskirts of the ghetto for years. Now we have moved to the 'modest' part of an affluent suburb, which is still nicer than any other neighborhood I have ever lived in, minus the short time I rented a beach side house with a few of my friends after college. Even then, that neighborhood had a good amount of apartments and small housing complexes.

Where we are living now can best be described as a Dennis the Menace neighborhood. Big houses, big families, a lot of neighborly waiving, kids playing in their yards behind fences, people walking their dogs and landscapers blocking the roads. Sounds nice, right? Ehhhhh, I'm not so sure.

Let's look at the differences between living in the sort of ghetto and living in the legit suburbs.

Neighbors: In the ghetto, our neighbors were families, mostly ethnic, some college kids, a few single people and a rooming house down the street. This meant there was a variety of experiences on a daily basis. It was loud. Really loud. There were lots of parties. College parties, ethnic celebrations. There were bagpipes and fireworks and, every once in a while, something that could be gunshots. There were a lot of domestic disturbances, kids playing in the streets and stray animals. One time, we heard passionate sex coming from a Honda Civic outside of our bedroom window. For hours. On Christmas. My favorite activity was to sit in front of my window and just watch the weirdos walking back and forth down the street.

In the suburbs, neighbors are friendly. Too friendly. Accusingly friendly, even. In the ghetto, aside from the people downstairs and the girl across the street who I work with, I never spoke to anyone. I didn't know most people's names. Every once in a while I would talk about the weather with the old man who stole our recycling every Thursday, but that was it. In the new place I am forced to talk to someone every single time I go outside. There is Kim and Tom next door or Bobby across the street or super fit cop man a few houses down, or Bob the retired guy behind us. Someone ALWAYS has something to say. And it is never just 'Hello'. Remember the clan of 15 Portuguese Hell Freaks that lived upstairs from us when we first moved in? They have been replaced by a small yuppie, Christian, home school family. They are very nice and very quiet, but they talk to me. A lot. I'm sorry, I don't want to talk to you. Leave me alone.

The day that I moved in across the street Bobby asked me 1,000 questions about myself. I know it was because he wanted to do a background check. Every single person in this neighborhood is white. There are some Hasidic Jews across the street, but that is about all the culture that we get. Sitting in the window and people watching is boring. Every once in a while I'll see a MILF walking a dog, but even that is rare. Usually it is just some professional white guy walking to the train station with a briefcase or one of the old people on the street waiting for a ride. Great. Reeeeal interesting.

This is also one of those neighborhoods where people knock on your door and try to sell you Girl Scout Cookies and magazine drives. Kim and one of her suburban soccer playing, Girl Scout daughters came over yesterday to deliver the boxes that I awkwardly ordered a few months back. How do you say no? "Hi, neighbor, do you want to buy some cookies?" "No, next door neighbor that I see every day, I don't. I'll pass. I'll disappoint your Old Navy kid and make sure you go home and tell Tom how much of a dick I am." No. You have to buy the damn cookies. So, I bought the damn cookies and they got delivered yesterday. I opened the door and realized that the front hallway was covered in laundry and shoes and old mail. Great. Now the community newsletter will mention our messy hallway. And let's not forget how awkward and socially inept I am. I am not good at making friendly neighbor conversation so we just look at each other in awkward silence until one of us says something about the weather. About the only good thing that came of it was that I was able to learn their last name so I could Facebook stalk them. Yes, I LOVE to Facebook stalk. Make your pages private, people, because I WILL find out what TV shows you like and what music you think is awesome. Sometimes I go on epic Facebook journeys that take me from page to page to page until I am looking at Jane Smith from Nowhere, Arkansas who works at Dr. Jones dental as a receptionist and loves to watch Hell's Kitchen and listen to contemporary Christian music. Wait- I think that lady may have just moved upstairs. Looks like I need to find out her last name. I digress.

Let's talk about the police. Police activity in the ghetto is high. Cruisers drive down the street hourly. They patrol, they scope out, they keep watch. About twice a day they are called somewhere for some reason. Domestics, street fights, illegal fireworks, warrants etc... On fun days, detectives show up and raid houses or arrest serial home invaders. This may seem frightening to some, but the way I look at it is these people live in my neighborhood, they are not going to rob anyone in my neighborhood. You don't break in to your neighbor's house, you drive to the rich part of town and steal TV's and diamond rings from people who don't recognize you. The best part about living in a high crime area is that the police largely leave people like you and I alone. They aren't concerned with me unless I do something to warrant them showing up at my house, or forget to move my car on street cleaning day.

In the suburbs police have absolutely nothing better to do than try to bust people driving through town for trivial, irrelevant traffic violations. I have documented my experiences well and they have not gotten any better. I still get tailed home twice a week. I still see endless amounts of poor souls pulled over all over town, probably just trying to get to work and not realizing that the speed limit on every street is negative four miles per hour. But- don't worry, no matter how fast you were going they will just say it was over 45 mph so they can jack up your ticket another $200. Oh, and don't appeal because no one wants to hear it.

This is one of those communities where people go on vacation and ask the police to 'watch their houses' while they are gone. You know, just in case a black person might wander by or a teenager decides to cut through their yard while he is skipping school. You know, important stuff. Gotta have a police presence. Your tax dollars at work, folks. Police hang out at the Dunkin Donuts inside Stop and Shop and gossip about town issues. About once every seven years something happens that gives the department a few days of notoriety. It is usually something that happens in other communities every day. Like one of their ball-busting traffic stops turns up 25 guns and a kilo of cocaine in the trunk or somebody gets caught diddling his balls at the library. Then they go on the news and justify pulling every third person over because, hey, that one guy had guns and coke in his trunk that one time. Thus, we pull over everyone who runs a yellow light. GOTTA KEEP THE OLD PEOPLE SAFE, FOLKS!

I think there was a murder-suicide a few years ago. That doesn't count. That is a completely unpreventable and unsolvable crime. No one has ever pulled someone over, or checked a neighbor's house and said "Phew, good thing I did that. That guy was about to go home, shoot his wife and then blow his brains out." Case closed on that one.

Honestly, when I lived in the ghetto I never worried about much. But now that I am in the suburbs, I keep a crowbar under my bed. This is where people go to break in to houses. Don't break in to mine. I have a plan. And it involves you not leaving. I've always wanted to make a citizen's arrest. I will crowbar you, put a knee in your neck and yell "THIS IS A CITIZEN'S ARREST" Then I will call super fit Robo Cop from down the street off of his routine traffic stop and he will read in his police manual what to do when arresting someone for something not traffic related and take your bloody head to jail.

Next, utility vehicles. In the ghetto, it was not uncommon to see one or many of the following work trucks on our street. Verizon, Comcast, Dish Network, Roto Rooter, appliance repair, exterminators and delivery vehicles. Also, about three days a week, every week, someone had a UHaul moving in or out of an apartment somewhere. In the suburbs this is an area of great improvement. Here, the majority of street blocking vehicles are landscapers which, while loud, are largely harmless and always leave the house smelling like fresh cut grass. If a utility guy comes, he typically parks in someone's driveway or out of the way. Also, I am pretty sure everyone on our street has a cleaning person but us. Either that or we have a large population of old Spanish women selling vacuum cleaners door to door.

Finally, there is cost of living. Yes, apartments in the ghetto are similar in cost and not nearly as nice. However, utility costs in the suburbs are ABSURD. Like 40-50 percent higher. Even stupid shit like on street parking passes. In the ghetto they were free. In the suburbs they are $30 and you have to give the police the registration number of, not just your car, but that of every single car in your household as well as anyone else who uses the driveway to prove to them that you really "need" the parking pass. I actually risk a ticket by parking on the street just because I don't want any of those bastards knowing that much information about me. And why is it
$30? That makes no sense. It should not cost money to park in front of your own house. For some reason, everything in this town costs money. I am half expecting to get a bill next month charging me for my family's air consumption.

Don't get me wrong, there are some nice things about living on this street. It is pretty quiet, my apartment is very nice, we have a very friendly mailman. We are around the corner from the ocean and, if the neighbors cooperate, I don't have to park on the street. I have a grill and a bird feeder, both things that I have always wanted. I just think I am one of those people that needs to live in a secluded area with a big yard and lots of woods. And no neighbors. I REALLY don't like having neighbors. Like, at all.

What this all comes down to is me needing about $2 million. I won't even quit my job. Just enough to buy a modest house- I don't even need to build one, just buy one that is secluded. Use the rest to go back to school, put my kid through school and teach myself how to restore muscle cars. There are plenty of billionaires out there that spend their money on garbage. You won't miss $2 million. Don't buy a gold-plated lion statue this week. Tell your girlfriend that you can't afford a new Mercedes for her and your wife this year. She'll understand. I'll even work for you. Shit, I'll get your name tattooed on the back of my neck like an advertisement. Just, please, make it so I don't have to talk to my neighbors anymore. Is that too much to ask? I don't think so. I mean, I don't have cancer. My house didn't burn down. But I do have a job. And a college degree. And I pay taxes and I'm not on welfare. At some point someone should be rewarded for living life the right way and getting screwed out of an honest living by society.

How was that? Convincing?

Stalker update

Rock teeth is still stalking me. He texts me several times a week and frequently shows up at work to 'check in' with me even though he never orders anything. In speaking to others, it appears that he does this to other people as well and is known around town for loitering in bars. Loitering. That's the word I'm going to use to kick him out next time I see him. It is getting to the point where I might have to murder him before he murders me. I'll probably get away with it. I'll just have to obey all traffic laws on the way to bury his body.

...

Episode 164: A case of mistaken identity and the Old Spot stalker

Sometimes I think that shit like this only happens to me.

Thursday nights are usually my early night at work. Sometimes I'll end up leaving around 10-10:30. When this happens, more often than not, I make my way around the corner and up the street to my favorite bar, the Old Spot. I like this bar for a lot of reasons. I have been going there for years, it is small, usually relaxed, not a lot happening. Couple TV's, some good beers on tap, solid food and I know the bartender. Most of all, almost no one I know goes there. That is the biggest challenge. Working in a restaurant, I am not one of those people who wants to go see 12 people I work with or used to work with or just served drinks to at another bar. I want to go out, have a few pops and keep to myself.

Occasionally, when drinking alone after work, you can end up with what we call the 'unlucky bar seat.' That is to say you are sitting at a bar with an empty seat next to you and someone terrible sits down. This is usually someone who talks a lot and who you do not know. This happened to me over the summer.

I was sitting at the bar minding my own business. The kid next to me makes a comment about something to me and it sparks a small, unimportant conversation. This is always how it starts. Next thing you know you are hearing stories about God knows what and he is asking you what you do and where you're from. On this particular night I was in an especially bad mood and probably a little bit more drunk than I would typically be in a regular post-work circumstance. This led to me engaging this individual, a 30-something male with one really, really wide nostril, in conversation. Eventually he left and I went on with my night, stumbled home and forgot he existed.

About two months later it is the same scene. I am at Old Spot after work, eating a burger, waiting for another friend to get out of work and meet me at the bar. I'm talking to the bartender when someone slaps me on the back. "Hey, Dan, how's it going?"

Now, it takes me a minute, but I am able to eventually identify this gentleman, mainly because of his nostril, as the dude who I talked to over the summer. I am not nearly as grouchy or drunk this time, so I am in no mood to talk to him. I'm eating. Leave me alone. He starts asking me questions. "Is this person still pissing you off at work?" "Is your daughter still doing whatever random thing your daughter was doing the last time I talked to you two months ago?" I had not only forgotten everything we talked about the first time we met, but I had forgotten who this dude even was and here he was reciting every bullshit drunk story I told him. It was so bad that once my friend arrived, I immediately asked for my tab and said, "Let's go do some karaoke." We got outside and my friend says "Ummm, are we really gonna do karaoke, because I am NOT drunk enough for that." "No way," I said. "I just needed to say we were going somewhere that I knew that dude wouldn't follow us to."

To fully understand this man, you first need a physical description. The Old Spot Stalker has Coke-bottle glasses, is cross eyed behind them, is balding in the back of his head, has a receding hairline and deplorable skin for a 30-year-old. His right nostril is the size of a large jelly bean. Not a Jelly Belly, not even a standard jelly bean, like, one of those dime-sized Easter jelly beans from when you were a kid that were like chewing gum because they had so much mystery confection in the middle. I am pretty sure that if you had a small miner's helmet light you could see all they way in to his brain. 99.9 percent of the time I can actually bring myself to look at his awful, awful face (which isn't often) this is what I am focused on. This is only his second worst physical trait. The worst is his teeth. As my friend, Pat, put it "His favorite snack as a kid was rocks." They are broken, crooked, rotted and pointing in all different directions. His breath is the closest thing to dog shit I have ever smelled that wasn't actually dog shit. He knows it, too, he keeps a pocket full of mints. It doesn't help.

The Old Spot stalker is a classic nudge. A loaner. Lives with his parents in to his 30's, minus a few awkward years going to college in New York City. Single and falling in love with crazy girls online, he is broke as a joke and, for some reason, can't seem to land a real job doing anything. Every time I see him his 'temp job' has just ended and he is in search of another one. I get that the job market sucks, but when all you do is look for temp work it is your own fault if you fail.

He has two common discussion themes, other than his pathetic job search. First and foremost, he talks about some girl he is 'seeing' that lives 'up north.' Second, he likes to take every opportunity to remind you that he supposedly worked on movie sets when he was in New York.

"Oh, Adam Sandler, I met him on the set of such and such. He's OK" or (and this is a real comment) " I met Will Farrel on the set once, he was in the bathroom, he had a really small wiener." Yeah. Will Farrell was taking a piss and saw your ugly, misshapen nostril face and had a small wiener. Cool.

The stories about the girl are the worst. From my sporadic listening, here is what I can conclude is going on. Dude meets girl online, they meet up, go on a few dates, have sex. Dude gets a little crazy and thinks they are dating. Girl realizes his stalker like tendencies and backs off, only letting him in when she is drunk or she really, really needs to get laid. This unhealthy relationship goes on for a few months until she finally realizes how overbearing he is and calls it off. He gets confused because he is an idiot.

As of now, here is where we stand. Around Christmas he texted her constantly to see if she wanted to hang out/ spend the holidays with his family. She did not. After that, she avoided him pretty much constantly until one day last week he called her in desperation as his car had broken down and he needed to get to a job interview. Girl, against her better judgement, agrees to come pick him up, let him drop her off at work and go to his job interview. Dude proceeds to crash girl's car. Girl gets pissed, makes him pay insurance deductible, tells him he is crazy, she never really liked him and not to text her anymore. She sends him text messages because she needs his money for the car. He mistakes this as her messing with him.

Actual quote: "She keeps telling me not to text her, she doesn't want to talk to me, she hates me, leaver her alone. Then I get a message today about her car. Like, which one is it?"

Which one is it? WHICH ONE IS IT???!?!?!?!!?!?!?! SHE FUCKING HATES YOU DUDE!!! But you OWE HER MONEY! She isn't messing with you. She isn't "playing games." You crashed her car and she needs to get it fixed. Bottom Line. WHAT an IDIOT.

The mere fact that I can share this story with you should prove that I have been dragged in to way to many conversations with this kid, but this situation reached a head this week.

Let's rewind a few weeks. It is two weekends ago, on a Saturday, the night of the Patriots- Broncos playoff game. I am walking in to work and I get a text from a mysterious number.

"Hey, Dan, will you be working tonight?"

"Sure will, all night. Who are you?"

"This is Sean."

"Oh, Hey, Sean. I didn't have your number, sorry."

"It is ok, I am thinking of coming in for a beer tonight, I might see you later."

"Cool."

Sean. Hmmm. Sean? I don't know many Seans, and the ones I do know I am not exactly close friends with. Not close enough to have shared my phone number. I thought for a little bit and decided that it must be this guy Sean that I used to work for at the newspaper. He lives fairly close to the bar and he is in there every now and then. He was the only person I could think of. Maybe he wanted to make sure he could get a seat for the game. Who knows.

The night goes by, no Sean. I did see the Old Spot Stalker that night, though, and I was super mean to him. Told him I was way too busy to listen to his depressing stories. I forget this text message exists, but I do store the number in my phone under the name of the Sean that I think it is.

Fast forward to last Thursday. Walking in to work again I get a text from Sean.

"Hey, Dan, are you working tonight? Any plans on going out after?"

"Depends on if I am here late, if not I was going to go meet my buddy at Old Spot."

"Ok, great. I wanted to see if we could have a beer tonight. I wanted to talk to you about something."

Now, keep in mind, I have saved this number in my phone under the name of someone I used to work for. I am a little surprised, but enthusiastic about this meeting. I like work Sean, he is a good guy. Maybe he has a job opportunity for me. It is strange that he would want to get a beer, what could it be?

About an hour later I am still thinking about this meeting. My mind is racing. This is so weird. What could Sean want out of the blue? Are they really hurting that much at the newspaper? Is he going to try and get me back? Then, like a wrecking ball on the end of a crane, it hits me. Old Spot stalker is probably named Sean. I have never asked him my name, but I know he must have said it. It is probably Sean. You know what? It is Sean. Fuuuuuucccccccccckkkkkkk. How on Earth did he get my number? Now it hits me again. One night, while I was trying to avoid him, he tried to give me his number. Instead of writing it down, he told me to put it in my phone and call him so he had mine. Unable to avoid the situation, I did, and immediately deleted it, thinking I would never need it. Well, bad move. Old Spot Stalker had texted me. This was not a job opportunity, I would not be meeting up with an old work friend. I had just been so nice, so welcoming, so open to having a beer with this nostril, rock-tooth freak and I didn't even realize. Talk about a shitty feeling.

Now, I have already made plans with my friend Pat to go to Old Spot. This is literally the only bar we go to. The Celtics are on, I'm hungry, my friend John is bartending. We are going. Screw the stalker. I purposely choose a two-top table off to the side in front of a TV. Even if the stalker comes in, I know that there will be nowhere for him to sit and I will be enthralled by some regular season basketball. Besides, back when I thought he was work Sean, I told him I'd text him when I was getting out of work. I never sent that text, so he won't show up, right? Ha.

Pat and I are in the middle of eating our food and watching basketball when I heard the door open behind me. I felt the draft on my back and, without turning around, I just knew who it was. I closed my eyes, looked at Pat and said "Please tell me there isn't an ugly man walking towards us."

Too late. There he was. In all his hideous glory, the Old Spot Stalker. He introduced himself to Pat. We continued to look at the TV. We did not offer to move to a bigger table. We did not engage him in conversation. He. Just. Talked. The whole time. About the girl. And the car. And the insurance. And his no job. And his shitty life. And Will Farrel's penis. Again. Then, he walked around the corner to go talk to the manager of the bar, this girl Kelly. "Yeah. I am here with my friend, Dan," we heard him say. I look over at John the bartender, he is laughing at me. He catches my eye, shakes his head, turns around and grabs a beer out of the cooler and brings it over. "Sorry, dude," he says. "Just keep drinking these. It can't hurt."

At one point, the stalker went to the bathroom. I stopped Kelly as she walked by and said " I just want you to know that weirdo is NOT my friend."

"Oh, I know," she said. " But I have to say, it is nice to know he is going to leave me alone as long as you're here."

Now, normally, this would be enough for me to ditch the Old Spot and find another bar. I have done the same to other bars for much less. But no. Not this time. This is my friggin bar. I go there. I go there on Thursday. I like it, and no rock-tooth dweeb is going to ruin it for me. I will win. I only wish this kid understood social cues so he could realize that I don't give two shits about his awful life, his breath smells and he should either get a job stocking shelves at Wal Mart or drive off a bridge, because he isn't getting my ear anymore.

...

FINALLY a live version of this song hits Youtube. I don't care if it sounds a little bit like Stairway to Heaven. Screw Led Zeppelin. This song is a triumph.