Memo for Music Execs

We need a new music movement. I know grunge was written off as noise but there was a lot more to it than Kurt Cobain having a breakdown. There was a lot of range between Pearl Jam and Alice in Chains. Most of all, these guys weren't out to create an image. Showing up for an interview in an ugly prom dress and homemade t-shirts was testament of that. Flannel shirts are just how people dress in Seattle. That was all heaven compared to today's music.

All of those bands: Fallout Boy, Yellowcard, Jimmy Eat World, All American Rejects are white noise. They are what make the radio dial a wasteland. It is obvious that there is a "sound" that is IN and being force fed to the public. If you took all the best songs from these clone bands you would end up with ONE good album. I am tired of seeing bands led by style-consultants and people who fake singing by talking. In a Deep Voice. Tell me. How. Does it Feel. ?. I'm talking about you Killers, Panic!At the disco and you other deep talkers.

I'm even disappointed in Thom York from Radiohead. Letely, Keane does a better job of sounding like Radiohead than Radiohead. Why do you need to do a solo album, Thom? With guest appearances by who? The rest of Radiohead? The way I see it you are just jipping the world out of the important talent offered by the rest of your band. Am I right, Gwen Stefani? Hey Fergie, I like getting retarded more than I like going down like London Bridge. And stop stealing Mary J. Blige beats and style. It is probably your producer's fault. Nelly Furtado. It's all the same.

I think it should be required of all music executives to read Jello Biafra's "Chickenshit Conformist" lyrics EVERY MONTH. The guy can't sing but he makes a good point and pulls all aspects of life into the music. That is how life works:

Punk's not dead
It just deserves to die
When it becomes another stale cartoon
A close-minded, self-centered social club
Ideas don't matter
It's who you know
If the music's gotten boring
It's because of the people who want everyone to sound the same
Who drive the bright people out of our so-called scene
Till all that's left is just a meaningless fad
Hardcore formulas are dogshit
Change and caring are what's real
Is this a state of mind
Or just another label
The joy and hope of an alternative
Have become its own cliche
A hairstyle's not a lifestyle
Imagine Sid Vicious at 35
Who needs a scene
Scared to love and to feel
Judging everythng
By loud fast rules appeal
Who played last night?
"I don't know, I forgot.
But diving off the stage Was a lot of fun."
So eager to please
Peer pressure decrees
So eager to please
Peer pressure decrees
Make the same old mistakes
Again and again,
Chickenshit conformist like your parents
What's ripped us apart even more than drugs
Are the thieves and the goddamn liars
Flipping people off when they share their stuff
When someone falls are there any friends?
Harder core than thou for a year or two
Then it's time to get a real job
Others stay home; it's no fun to go out
When the gigs are wrecked by gangs and thugs
When the thugs form bands, look who gets record deals
From New York metal labels looking to scam
Who sign the most racist queer-bashing bands they can find
To make a buck revving kids up for war
Walk tall, act small
Only as tough as gang approval
Unity is bullshit
When it's under someone's fat boot
Where's the common cause
Too many factions
Safely sulk in their shells
Agree with us on everything
Or we won't help with anything
That kind of attitude
Just makes a split grow wider
Guess who's laughing while the world explodes
When we're all crybabies
Who fight best among ourselves
So eager to please
Peer pressure decrees
So eager to please
Peer pressure decrees
That farty old rock and roll attitude's back
"It's competition, man, we wanna break big."
Who needs friends when the money's good
That's right, the '70s are back.
Cock-rock metal's like a bad laxative
It just don't move me, ya know?
The music's OK when there's more ideas than solos
Do we rally need the attitude too?
Shedding thin skin too quickly
As a fan it disappoints me
Same old stupid sexist lyrics
Or is Satan all you can think of?
Crossover is just another word
For lack of ideas
Maybe what we need
Are more trolls under the bridge
Will the metalheads finally learn something-
Or will the punks throw away their education?
No one's ever the best
Once they believe their own press
"Maturing" don't mean rehashing
Mistakes of the past
So eager to please
Peer pressure decrees
So eager to please
Peer pressure decrees
The more things change
The more they stay the same
We can't grow
When we won't criticize ourselves
The '60s weren't all failure
It's the '70s that stunk
As the clock ticks we dig the same hole
Music scenes ain't real life
They won't get rid of the bomb
Won't eliminate rape
Or bring down the banks
Any kind of real change
Takes more time and work
Than changing channels on a TV set
So eager to please
Peer pressure decrees
So eager to please
Peer pressure decrees

Chickenshit conformist like your parents!

Conversations I wouldn't expect to have with a six year old or any others

Me: "Why did you do that?"

Ethan: "The ghost inside of me did it."

Me: "The ghost inside of you? Do you mean your soul?"

Ethan: Nods.

Me: "YOU ARE the ghost inside of you. Knock it off."

Tragic: Instant Winner In Waiting

I have been neglecting the blog and now this stuff is building up. I have several characters to add to this wonderful game. Today's installment is "The Instant Winner In Waiting." He is that guy at work who is all hung up on winning the lottery. He can't believe that anyone would not give him their hard-earned dollars so he can take it on his monthly trip to Idaho to buy those glorious tickets.

Can you picture it. You and your co-workers huddled at a podium on CNN talking about how you have 11 freckles on your nose and how there are 9 people in your family (counting the pet fish) and on and on until you couldn't even open your eyes without those winning numbers bombarding you and bombarding you? The Instant Winner can picture that. He dreams about it every night. He has already decided what to buy and where to travel, now he need only do one more thing: WIN.

Hey! You're not getting paid to daydream, Instant Winner In Waiting! Get that dolly moving! Load those trucks!

The Instant Winner actually holds a lot of sway with people because he talks about what all people like to talk about: What are we going to do with all of that money once it is given to us? We're in it to win it.

The saddest part of all is that I have so many bouts of outragously BAD luck that a small voice tells me I'm due for something like a lottery win. Either that or cancer.

Transcending by Bike

I gave the kids advice about bike racing today:

Anyone who wins all the time is a coward because he is too scared to give anyone else a fair chance.

Please keep that in mind during YOUR next bike race, strange internet people.

Tragic: Invizo-kid

I should be on the payroll at my son's elementary school. I break up fights like these at least a couple times a week and I'm only there for about five minutes per day before the teacher allows my first grader into his classroom.

The backpack seems to be the weapon of choice, but it isn't uncommon for a board with a nail in it to make it's way onto the playground. I am astounded at how many parents will look the other way as children are mauled by bullies an arm's length away. I try to intervene in as many scuffles as I can but it is tough with a baby and two little girls in tow.

But the school is on lock-down until the teachers open the classroom doors. One day we were late so I told my nephew to run in through the front door to get to class faster. They stopped him and told him to get outside with the rest of the rabble. Would it kill the school system to provide a playground monitor?

Until then, Invizo-kid is just screwed. See you at the next school shooting.

I'm also surprised that there are at least ten guys that tend the yard around the school and yet there has been a broken beer bottle on the sidewalk (inches from the grass) since the first day of school. I also think some smoker across the street from the school leaves cigarettes on the ground for the kiddies. I usually stomp them to pieces as I walk by in the mornings.

Get involved parents. The odds are already against them.

Letter From the Family Dog

Dear Emmett,

In answer to your question, it's alright for a dawg to call a dawg a dawg but that doesn't mean dawgs like people to call them dawgs. Especially if they say it like dog, ya know?

I'm sorry about all of the poop. I poop a lot. And I step in it when I walk around. And smear it around. There was a time in my life when I worried about the mess like you do. I tried to be a neat freak. You must trust me, though: My life is so much better since I just stopped caring.

It makes me feel proud when you tell people that I am nice and that I get along with everyone. But that pride makes me feel like I owe you an explanation regarding all the barking I do at the mailman. I just REALLY don't like that person. Really.

Oh, man. Do you ever get an itch that makes you want to gnaw your leg down to the bone? I've got that right now.

Anytime you want to go for a walk or play a game of tug-of-war just let me know. And, um, I'm not sorry about the poop. I just said that to be polite.

Your faithful companion,

Chloe

Dead Reckoning

I'm busy as always. I've had a lot of things to write about but now it's Columbus Day so now I will have to flick my acid tongue at that instead.

Does Christopher Columbus deserve a holiday? If, by "holiday," you mean "a swift kick in the kiwis," then I say ABSOLUTELY. Google is known for adding graphics to their homepage to mark events dear to us all and yet there is nothing there about Columbus. I'm sure they do it to avoid bickering but I don't need some snooty search engine telling me when to keep my trap shut. Here we go:

One lofty argument as to why Columbus need not be celebrated is... HE DID NOT DISCOVER AMERICA.

I do not consider myself an overly-sensitive person but I do get annoyed at key moments like when I was visiting my sister in Jacksonville, Florida and we voyaged to the fort at St. Augustine. The highway signs said, "St. Augustine. The first (or oldest) city in America." It wasn't just any sign. It was one of those official green highway signs.

As an "Indian" of North America I know that this statement of St. Augustine just isn't true. But let's move on. Even if we accept that THINGS DONE BY BROWN PEOPLE DON'T COUNT and that people living on the North American continent for 13,000 years doesn't count for anything... there is still the matter of that thousand-year-old man, Leif Ericson. Today is actually Leif Ericson Day as well as Columbus Day but who will celebrate that? A viking who does nothing but enjoy the weather and eat grapes? There is no marketability there.

But I think a name like VIKING DAY would be more appropriate than Columbus Day. The idea of murderous plunderers gives a more straight forward idea of what the DISCOVERY of America was all about.

I know that people calling themselves "Capitalists" or some other retarded name will defend the holiday tooth and nail because they like the go-getter business attitude of Columbus's achievements and they think of all Indians as blood-drinking cavemen who are all better off dead. It would be an injustice NOT to take the land they live on, destroy their means of feeding themselves and give them all those diseases. IT'S TIME TO MAKE THIS CONTINENT "CIVILIZED."

When Ben Franklin and Thomas Jefferson were doing a long study of the Iroquois Indians to borrow all those radical "new" ideas in democracy for the Declaration of Independence they were writing, they invited their friend Tom Paine to come along. After many visits with the Indians Tom Paine noticed the tribes had no equivalent of the impoverished bums lying in the gutters like whites had in all of their cities and made this comment:

"Civilization, or that which is so called, has operated in two ways: to make one part of society more affluent, and the other more wretched, than would ever have been the lot of either in a natural state."

Jefferson said, "I am convinced that those societies [as the Indians] which live without government enjoy in their general mass an infinitely greater degree of happiness than those who live under European governments."

Which is not to say that any of these political figures did anything to prevent the future mistreatment of Indians in North America. They wrote the Declaration of Independence BEFORE the Revolutionary War was fought. I believe they used pathos wording just in case they lost. Maybe they wouldn't hang for fighting against the crown if their cause was noble enough. There is something underlying the Declaration of Independence that suggests their message was, "We are English but the people of England are treating us the way WE treat our African slaves and we just can't stand for that." They may have omitted "From one white guy to another white guy..." (These truths, self evident, all men created equal). Jefferson died poor. When he died he released SOME of his slaves. The ones he is rumored to have fathered.

Now back to Columbus:

Spain was locked out of the best trade routes around Africa. Columbus was bad at geography and the stars were mysterious petroglyphs to him, but he promised that he could circumscribe the globe for faster access to those wonderful spices. They didn't want to be stuck drowning everything in Tobasco, afterall. He took a big, fat cargo boat as his flagship, Santa Maria. Probably not the best choice for exploration, but things never got to the point where the crew had to eat eachother or anything. When he reached America, it was kind of like today, in that there was nothing readily available in America to trade with other nations. First he thought, GOLD! There must be gold around here and Spaniards love gold. But he couldn't find it. Next he looked at the "Indians" and thought SLAVES! but that must not have worked out either and, much like today, America ended up importing their slaves.

Stupid history. Why do you always have to suck. Why can't you be flattering and wonderful with tales of one true blue hero after another? Okay, let's forget the history. We will all say this dude "discovered" America. We'll wave some flags. We'll teach our kids the names of the boats like one day they will need to know them to get their lockers open or something and everyone will have a good time with chips and soda and all that.

It is a holiday. That means I have to work extra hours this week.

Motherf***ing Work

You don't have to move fast or give a rat's ass
the living freakshow helps the time pass
People need California Kings and plasma screens
To you it's crap but they're somebody's dreams
Throw it where it goes, drop it from the top rack
if the glass is broken they can bring it back
Don't lose any sleep when the boss calls you Dumbshit
grab a sharpie, draw a penis, where ever it may fit
They don't pay you enough that you give a lick damn
Nothing has changed...

Chad still wants to jam.



I'm back moving furniture at the forklift job now.

Judging By the Cover

Here is yet another Mormon movie recently released by Halestorm Entertainment. Entitled "Money or Mission?"

The plot revolves around a young man who is trying to decide between accepting a high-paying job or serving a mission for his church. I have not seen the movie but I am willing to bet that people will be biting their nails on the edge of their seats until the very moment they look at the DVD cover/movie poster.

Hmmm. I wonder what he chose. Is there a DVD inside or does the box tell the whole story? I'm just glad I can finally exhale.

Roses. Take 50.

My wife and I have not had a good history with the roses we have planted together. That may not be entirely our fault.

At our previous house the dirt was like sand except for the mysterious spots where it looked like someone may have dumped the used motor oil from their oil changing business directly onto the ground in our backyard. We bought at least ten rose bushes. For one summer, neighbors would come by and tell us that our yard looked amazing and that the yard had never looked that good for as long as they could remember. By the end of that summer, all of the roses were dead.

Another lovely aspect of working the soil at that house was how every shovel full of dirt had at least one piece of broken glass in it. No matter how many times you tilled it or raked it or turned it over and walked every broken shard to the garbage can, the glass was always there.

So it is now my hope that that particular yard was our gardening jinx. This is a new house with a new yard. I haven't found a single piece of broken glass. This house has several fruit trees but not a single flower on the place.

We don't want to start from scratch next year so we planted a couple hundred tulip bulbs. But then we had nice patches of soft, clean and raked dirt that the neighborhood cats have taken as an invitation to pop in and poop for a bit so we bought a couple of flats of pansies and four rose bushes. All the flowers are on sale but gardeners seem to agree that this is a fine time to plant and let things get established so they can take off in spring.

We have always done well with snapdragons and bleeding hearts but I'll keep my fingers crossed that everything will soon be coming up roses.

When everything I'll ever do I'll do for you

Our 3-yr-old daughter had the first haircut of her life today. She cut it herself. And just in time for school picture day tomorrow. The funny thing is, she didn't do that bad a job. The Jennifer Aniston look is still in, isn't it?

But this will make my ponytail routine a little tougher.

Communication Breakdown

Is it just me or does the News get harder to watch everyday? I mean, even the pope is picking fights. And not just with gays and single mothers as you might expect. So of course, the most hot tempered of Islam and Muslim followers are going to have to burn a few effigies. And let's not forget to condemn the Jews while we're at it. It's all the rage in Hollywood.

Suddenly, the president of Iran seems like the one person who is being diplomatic and requesting a peaceful debate. And believe me, your odds of looking like the level-headed one increase dramatically once you are standing next to George W. Bush. And yet, where do you begin to find common ground with a ruler who teaches his nation that the holocaust in Germany never happened? That it was all a hoax aimed at gathering support for Jews who should all be destroyed in the name of God? Sorry, Ahmadinejad, you are disqualified.

Turn on the News for the latest from Iraq. The last I heard, there were concerns about torture on the streets, even as far as someone sewing the severed head of a dog to the body of a decapitated woman. But I heard not too long ago that these are the last throws of the insurgency so maybe we should all just stop worrying about Iraq like we did with Afghanistan. And that Bin Laden guy.

I'm also pissed at the President of Venezuela. Damn him for making me defend George Bush. It's not something I like to do. Even when I agree with GWB about what we should be doing as a nation, I still think, "Now I just wish someone competent could carry out that plan for us." GWB does make a lot of bad, deadly or at least selfish decisions for which he suffers none of the consequences. But I say, let the downtrodden citizens point the fingers and call names. I'm sure the citizens of Venezeula who have anything of value on their person confiscated by the police probably have a few choice names for their presidente. Let ME call Bush names, you stay in your country lest a coup overthrow you in your absence. Bush is fanning the flames by trying to choose which international laws he would like to follow. Now every other nutjob leader is going to want to do the same.

I am always amazed at the retards we follow all around the world. What makes these losers better than me? Oh, right. The money. We like families with money and a legacy of putting tards in public office. For some reason it always slips my mind how they are great and how I am scum. And don't forget that October is right around the corner: Time for British royalty to don their Nazi uniforms.

And let's have a moment of silence for our American Way of life. For so many decades Americans have stood up in a huff saying, "As long as our soda cans are red, white, and blue, I can drive an SUV as big as a house. That is what our grandfathers died for and I'ma gonna do it." Now that attitude will leave you on the streets without any car at all. But oil is dropping to $60 a barrel till the next election. I know $40 used to seem outraguous but by today's standards $60 is reason to get in the car and spin a few donuts.

There is so much going on that we won't have time to discuss North Korea and the counterfeit missiles they buy from China. Wake me up when it's time to be hacked to pieces with a machete and God bless the children.

Driving Force

The other day I was driving in the car with my family. I was thirsty but to grab my drink, twist off the lid and take a big swig would require the use of both of my hands. So I did what all cool guys would do and steered the car with my knees for a stretch.

After I returned my drink to the cupholder and my hands to the wheel I noticed my wife was staring at me. I prepared myself for an earful of how I was foolish to put the lives of my family members at risk just so I could get a little refreshment. To my surprise my wife just said, "I've never been able to do that."

And I felt better about life.

What's So Super?

Do you notice how many rock songs have been written about Superman? Just off the very top of my head I can think of Superman songs by The Flaming Lips, Crash Test Dummies, Better Than Ezra, Three Doors Down, Spin Doctors and on and on.

But to be honest, Superman is kind of a boring superhero. He's too perfect and too impervious. He is to males what Barbie is to girls. By far, Spiderman is the coolest superhero ever created, but how many songs do you hear about him? Just the theme song to his TV shows. Can Batman get a little love? No, no, no. It's all about the blue tights and red cape when it comes to singing and philosophy.

I'm still waiting for the day when a piece of your destroyed home planet or a bite from a radioactive spider does not sap your strength or recombine your DNA. Where are the superheros that get around these things and break out in blisters or have their hair fall out?

Goin' Clubbin'... Bookworm Style

I read childrens books for numerous reasons:

1. It's best for my schedule to read books I can finish in a day or two.

2. I sometimes like that delusional, benevolent filter that children's writers put on their stories. Aside from making me laugh, it makes me feel like I don't have to worry about the next mortgage payment and stuff like that. Everything works out in the end.

3. I get this strange guilty conscience that all the books I was supposed to read in school but never did will one day come back to haunt me. Like I will be in a job interview and the manager will ask me, "Yes, it's great that you can handle a soldering iron but how would you compare the themes surrounding Frankenstein's monster to the current presidential administration?"

So for this installment I wanted to talk about the book "Bridge to Terabithia." It was the first book I was ever assigned to read in school (3rd or 4th grade). But I was in the hospital at the time and returned to school just in time to hear the teacher discuss the book with the class and ruin the ending for me.

I have always meant to go back and read that book and, a couple of weeks ago, I finally did.

First, I will say that it was probably the best KID'S book I've ever read. It was amazing in several ways. Part of what made the book so amazing was the honest and bizarre life situations stuffed into these 128 pages (hardback).

The book's most-used adjectives are "dumb" and "stupid." The word "Christmas" is taken in vain and the boy describes his kitchen as a "Hellhole." The most distinguishing characteristic of the star of the book is his stinky body odor. The main girl in the book is easily mistaken as a boy and implications are that she may be a Dick-Cheney's-daughter.

When the boy tells his father he is thinking about being an artist when he grows up, the dad responds, "What are they teaching in that damn school? Bunch of old ladies turning my only son into some kind of a---"

The book deals with bullies, exacting revenge, sympathy and humanity, elementary students that smoke, child abuse (the code of protecting your parents from getting in trouble for smacking you around) and superficial and homophobic behavior. I'm also guessing that the author was a hippie of sorts as there are many references in the book regarding the persecution against them. To me the magic of the book kicked in when the boy describes his hippie music teacher and their budding statutory relationship.

This book takes place in the South and is exactly the sort of book to freak out the religious hardshells in those red states. Aside from the points I just outlined, the kids create their own magical kingdom, Terabithia, modeled after C.S. Lewis's Narnia. But they didn't call it Narnia and the book isn't a clear endorsement of Mere Christianity so you know they hate it. I read a review of that book "Eragon" on Amazon.com where a reader warned potential buyers that the book talked about a mythical race who didn't believe in ONE god. The race believed in several gods and therefore this fantasy book was a threat to christian values.

In fact, in the Terabithia book, the butch girl asks to attend church with smelly-boy's family and they engage in a lengthy conversation about under which circumstances God will "damn you to Hell."

The girl tells her she doesn't have to believe in the Bible but she thinks it's beautiful just the same. They tell her, "...If you don't believe in the Bible, God'll damn you to Hell when you die." When she says she still doesn't believe that, they tell her, "What if you die? What's going to happen if you die?"

Can you guess what happens next?

I don't know why schools have taken it upon themselves to prepare children for the imminent death of their friends and close family:

Bridge to Terabithia
A Separate Peace
On My Honor (That may have only been in MY school-bout a boy that drowns in a river and his friend)
Where the Red Fern Grows (dogs is family, right?)
Wasn't there one about a boy who died from a bee-sting allergy while picking berries?

But Terabithia is a good book. Ramona Quimby seems like a cardboard cutout in comparison to the fully developed farm kids. Despite colorful lines like "What he wouldn't give for a set of those marking pens...not like those stubby crayons you had to press down on till somebody bitched about your breaking them," Terabithia WON the Newberry Award. That is what I respect: Not only did this content get into a kid's book and passed by teachers to 3-4th grade students... it also won the highest kid's award available.

"Ramona and Her Father" received a "Newberry Honor" (like an honorable mention). But there is nothing touching nor magical in the story. Basically, her father loses his job, quits smoking, and finds another job by the end of the book. There are uncomfortable, and rather pointless, references to the older sister Beezus starting her period. And worse, flat-out endorsments to eat fast food---

Ramona: "Maybe Daddy will take us to the Whopperburger for supper for payday," she said. A soft, juicy hamburger spiced with relish, French fries crisp on the outside and mealy on the inside, a little paper cup of cole slaw at the Whopperburger Restaurant were Ramona's favorite payday treat. Eating close together in a booth made Ramona feel snug and cozy. She and Beezus never quarreled at the Whopperburger.

Mrs. Quimby: "Good idea... I'll see what I can do."

In the book, Halloween is kind of glossed over. Instead we get a detailed account of how Ramona comes up with the idea for all the kids to dress up as sheep for the Christmas nativity play. Add that to the books opening of Ramona trying to "make a joyful noise until the lord" and it seems clear the audience the author is trying to please.

I think that it is funny that Beverly Cleary writes a Jesus-pandering book from the liberal stronghold of Oregon while Terabithia presents all the things that drive conservatives crazy from some southern location (the book takes place in Virginia). Maybe it's just easier to write against the grain. But it seems like the Quimby family just sort of "gets by" while, in Terabithia, they learn what it is to love someone because they make you a better person.

Stay tuned for the next book I was supposed to read as a kid.

Nonconsensual Tickling

When I worked as an internet investigator I discovered there is a fetish group of people who enjoy seeing other people tickled against their will. It's a funny idea.

You can sum it up as people in their underwear laughing. It is hard to say that it's a dirty concept but it's hard to say that it isn't. The Sunday paper is full of ads featuring people in their underwear. And laughter makes everything better right?

But maybe my inability to say, quickly and firmly, that it is a dirty business stems from a childhood of watching cartoons like this:

Daily Parenting Tip

A good parent never forgets:

To a 3 year old, there is nothing in the world more terrifying than an escalator.

To give you a visual, picture me boarding the escalator taking care to balance the baby stroller just right and my 3-year-old daughter standing at the top of the moving stairs, watching me drop into the depths of the marketplace with her liquid eyes, holding out her hand, screaming, "Daddy! Don't leave me!"

It's better to take the elevator.

Hooked on an 8 second ride

It is late in the game to act against America's dependency on foreign energy as well as global warming and the nation's debt. In this country where the majority of people can be categorized as "redneck" or at least "redneck sympathizer" I am astounded that no attention has been given to the future of Demolition Derbies by the scientific community or our leading cultural groups.

The Demolition Derby is the bright jewel in the Burger King crown of redneck culture. Thousands upon thousands of derbies are held every year and up until this point there has been a rich supply of boat-cars with big engines and chromed bumpers from the golden age of carmaking; the 60's and 70's. But the energy crisis of the late seventies required automakers to change their designs. For example, this boss Chevy Nova from the early 70's blasted tasty licks from Zepellin and Floyd through the stereo in its heyday. But after the oil crisis the Nova was transformed into this late 80's gas-sipper that played bands like Men Without Hats and Wham! at a reasonable volume.



It can be assumed that our supply of cars from the 60's and 70's will soon dwindle, leaving the wiener-mobiles from the 80's as the prime contenders for our precious derbies. What options do we have? Fill the ring with SUV's from the 90's? That just doesn't seem right and I'm sure it would be a violation of the Derby rules as they have stood for the past 30 years... and we must not disturb the integrity of the game.

Automakers finally seem to be making some larger cars again such as the Chrysler 300C.


But how many years must we wait before these cars enter the derby-worthy rotation? Not to mention, I cannot think of a CAR that has been produced in the past ten years with an actual bumper. They are all designed to crumple into a ball with the driver nestled safely inside every time you drive over a curb.

Obviously, something must be done and I believe I have a solution that rednecks will embrace:

WELDING

Have you ever been to a small, rural town like Mountain View, Wyoming and seen a Franken-car or -truck; the product of two cars being cut up and then combined into one super-car through the magic of welding?

I think, if no other solution can be found, welding will be the hope of the American people. Bringing us the mud-caked, unmuffled, roaring destruction we crave to go with our 64 ounce Mountain Dews.

Throwing back the blankets, hanging down the withered legs

I mentioned in my last post that Ethan just started first grade. It causes me to remember my own experiences during first grade. Mostly being bored and losing my front teeth. It's kind of a trick because you get your kids excited to go to school when you know very well they are bound to hate it. But too late; they are stuck in the cycle.

Seeing my son in first grade has irked me. It was the year of my life that I made my first of many trips to the hospital. Yes, it's been one of those lives. But from the perspective of a parent, I look back actually glad that I was the one getting IVs and stomach pumps and being gutted like a fish. It was painful but I knew it wouldn't be forever. I never thought my life was in danger. I know that, as a dad, I have a hard time just when one of my kids gets a fever. I have new respect for my mother who had to stand by helplessly seeing the six-year-old body of her little boy doped up, cut up and stitched up. Over and over. I dread that I should ever have that experience with any of my kids and it's not just because I don't have health insurance.

It's also funny how I miss the hospital. There were nosy, annoying roommates and involuntary hunger strikes, but there were also nice nurses and no expectations on you but to lie in bed and get well soon. I became the champion on the Space Invaders game that someone had donated to the hospital. I watched Mary Poppins about a hundred times on a VCR they wheeled from room to room. I even miss the faces of the zombie kids, all pale and lifeless as they hobbled around the halls in their ghostly gowns. I was one, too. You would never expect that people would be so proud of you for shuffling your way out into the hall way and back into your bed after a surgery, leaning on your IV pole.

Here are some "firsts" I had in the hospital:

The power of laughter - I shared a room on more than one occassion with some chubby kid who loved to stuff his face in front of me. I was on a steady diet of nothing, soon to be upgraded to one tiny cup of ice per day. Would I eat it right away or drink it when it got slushier? I had hours and hours and days and days to think about it. Soon I would reach the paradise of Jello and popsicles. Just hang in there.

Anyhow, the chubby kid was loud. He and his father would freak out every time a Micheal Jackson Pepsi commercial would come on TV. He made several requests a day for a Micheal Jackson poster to hang on the wall. He would also poke his head through the curtain at those key moments like when you were getting your temperature taken AbuGraib-style. After he had his surgery, I realized anytime he bugged me I could do a Mr. T impersonation and he would laugh for a second, then grab at the zipper the doctors had attached to his skin and cry. I pity the fool who doesn't stay on his side of the curtain!

Drug addiction - After the surgeries the nurses would come in a couple times a day with a needle full of "Medicine for pain." I liked that stuff. I planned my day around it. It didn't really make you feel good. It actually burned as it crawled up your arm through your IV and then it made you fall asleep. A good way to get through those crappy soap operas, I found. Boy did I get angry the day I asked for pain medicine and the nurse handed me some Tylenol instead of producing the syringe. No lady, give me the good stuff! "THE GOOD STUFF!" I would yell, throwing my cup of ice against the wall and wishing for the satisfying sound of shattering glass instead of crumpling paper. Okay... there was no way I would waste a day's ration of ice like that but that was how I felt for a split second when I found out my friend Morphine was being taken away. It was my first and last brush with drugs. Okay for sleeping through Days of our Lives but not worth throwing away your life for.

Asshole doctors - If you were between the ages of six and nine and you had a rubber tube punched through your abdomen and connected to your intestine and your doctor just strolled in one day and said, "Let's get that thing out of you" and continued to grab the tube and pull it out of your guts like a chain of colorful handkerchiefs, wouldn't you feel justified in squirting a couple of tears, even if just from fear and unknowing? And if the doctor saw your tears and used his angry voice to say, "Oh be quiet, it doesn't hurt" wouldn't you feel justified in thinking that doctor was a prick? Me too.

First grade was also the year my parents got divorced. My mother told me that upon splitting up, my father told her he put an Indian curse on her and that my health issues may have been related. She also reminds me that my father didn't visit me in the hospital until my third or fourth stay. But I remember waking up one day and there was my dad. He had flown across two states to see me. I woke up and before I said anything else, I asked, "Did you bring me a present?" It seemed reasonable as everyone else had showered me with Legos and stuffed animals and coloring books. But I like it the way my mom tells it where it's dad who was the thoughtless and selfish one. He said his trip to Colorado was my present. I asked him for $5. He asked why. I told him, "To help mom buy food." A couple of weeks later he sent me $5 dollars in the mail. I spent the rest of my hospital stay trying to decide what food to buy with the money. I looked forward to TV commercials for inspiration. I decided on Saltine crackers. I can't remember if I bought them or not but I will blog about being poor another day.

So if boredom is the worst my son has to deal with this year then we can both consider ourselves lucky.

Recent Moments in WTF

Recent moments that boggled my mind:

We moved our stuff to the new house. A week later I went to the old house to clean up. Soon my leg looked like this and worse. Analyze it, armchair doctorbs. First I thought it was mosquito bites, then I thought it was a crazy rash. It turns out it was fleas. I don't know why I should be surprised given the way life comes at me week after week.

Crocodile Hunter... DEAD? Live by the barb, die by the barb, I guess, but he seemed so resilient and practically immortal. I will feel better when it is announced that he actually just overplayed the extent of the injury and is alive and well. Otherwise, enjoy those happy hunting grounds, Steve.

We were at the arts and crafts store and my wife said, "Hey, they have those Thanksgiving figurines I like. Should we buy them?"

I looked at one of the figurines and said, "Not if they are $35 each."

She said, "They are only $7.95 each."

I said, "The pricetag around the neck of this pilgrim says $35."

She said, "These Indians are only $7.95."

I asked, "Are you telling me the white figures are selling at $35 each and the Indians are only worth $8?"

A saleswoman overheard us and quickly explained that, despite the striking similarities between the figures, they were manufactured by two different companies who had set two different prices for their products. Still... the bottomline is $35 for whitey and $8 for the redskins. What a world.

I grew up in a lifestyle conducive to an attitude of "making do" with what I have. For all the talk I do of my love of playing music, I have only owned one electric guitar for my whole life; bought when I was 13. The other day I was at the mall with my niece and daughter and something long and sharp struck me right in my heart as I realized the model of guitar I own can be purchased at the "Hello Kitty" store. That's just not right. I will make changes.

On break at work a little while ago, one of my bosses was giggling uncontrollably. Finally, he turned to the group and said, "Did you guys hear that Lance Bass is gay?"

"Who?"

"Lance Bass." *grin* "From NSYNC. He's GAY... tee hee tee hee tee hee."

And on and on the giggling went for a good ten minutes. I sat and stared thinking, "This man makes more money than me?" Now I can add, "This man has a job and I don't?"

N do I need APOSTROPHE T need this torture?

The other day I was about to walk to the school to pick up my son (who started 1st grade). Before I could gather the girls, the door came opened and my son walked in. I asked, "Did school get out early today?"

He said, "Yes."

I said, "Did all of the kids in your class leave early or was it just you?"

He said, "It was me and Destiny. The other kids were still cleaning up."

I asked, "Who is Destiny?"

He said, "A girl at school. She kisses me."

I asked, "On the cheek or on the lips?"

He said, "On the lips. I try to use my karate blocks. They don't work."

I took him back to the school to see why his teacher would allow him to leave school early and walk home alone and possibly find out more about the kissing. When I saw his teacher she just said, "You know what? Ethan just got up and left today. I need to talk to him."

I wanted to tear into her: "Why didn't you tell him to come back or go to look for him? Why didn't you call me to tell me he was loose out in the world?" Apparently she didn't even think to make any phone calls in effort to cover her ass. I guess if he showed up for school the next day, that would show that he was not dead in a ditch somewhere. You don't have to over-complicate these things. I decided not to waste my breath on the teacher. Instead I will cut her out of my life like a tumor.

Instrument of Fear

You probably thought I was dead but no such luck. I have just been in transition. I like that I can live without the neo-necessities like internet, cell phones and cable TV without making a big impact on my quality of life. Those things are over-rated.

Anyway, I was just let go from my job and I recently got a highspeed connection at my house so the blogging outlook is strong, my friends.

It was the first time I have ever been let go from a job and I was dissappointed at how peaceful the experience was. There was no "from the depths of Hell I stab at thee and spit at thee with my last dying breath" from the bosses. For all of the threats and humiliation they always dished out in the past, they were surprisingly spineless when they told me "you no longer have a job with the company" and "your temporary term has expired."

It was my fault, of course. I knew the rules and I got sick anyway. That was the end. I made jokes at my own expense during the final signing of papers but nobody was in the mood. They were nervous and formal. They even repeatedly said, "Thank you for all of your hard work" and "you can apply for the position again in 60 days." What a bunch of wusses. I am sure they just wanted to get me out of the door before I made a scene.

It was not a great job. If I said to them, "The priviledge of working my ass off for you is right up there with winning the Powerball lottery," then they would fear me for my ability to read their minds. They were fond of telling people that their best would never be good enough. They played a game that I dubbed "The Horrible Human Being." The game started when a boss would approach you on a Friday night and asked, "Would you like to work tomorrow." The customary response is, "No. I would hate that." Then the boss would disappear for about ten minutes only to return with this:

"I checked the records and YOU have the least amount of hours this week... only 43."

Bam! You are The Horrible Human Being. How dare you? How dare you not be the guy with 45 or 50 hours this week? You sicken me. Come back tomorrow or dont come back at all.

And even as the bosses sat doe-eyed and calm during the firing, you can rest assured that they had images of returning to your peers with your severed head. Holding it high and saying, "Do you see? We are not afraid to drop the axe on someone even as handsome and witty and (assumably) good in bed as our wonderful Emmett! Work harder or pay the consequences!"

I was not sad to go. I will not lose sleep wondering who will move all of those chips. I will go to the furniture store on Monday and ask them if their Motherf*cker position is still open. I know it will be. And life will be back on track.

For now I am enjoying the unlogged break and leave without pay. See you all in the ratrace.

Star Strangled Banner

The first time we went house hunting, it was in a "historic" part of the city (Historic, meaning "run down") because that was the only type of house we had a chance at affording. One of the very first houses we made an offer on had four doors leading into an 800 sq ft dwelling. None of the doors could said with any amount of certainty to be the FRONT door. Apparently, the rooms in the house had been rented to miners who worked all kinds of crazy shifts so they each had their own door. I know this because the city has affixed a plaque to the exterior of the house telling the surprisingly dull story.

But ever since we looked into buying that house, a new question rushes to the foreground of my mind when considering purchasing a house: Does the house come with a plaque? Not many houses do come with a plaque. I think more should.

We finally bought a house and we are slowing making it ours. We've painted all of the bedrooms and yesterday we re-did the hardwood floors in the master bedroom. The house did not come with a plaque but it did come with a flag pole. While we were making our offer on the house, the guys who lived in the house had a "skull and crossbones" flag flying overhead. Our kids were very excited about the flag. My wife said the flag would be the first thing to go when the house became ours.

When the house sold, the guys kept the flag. I told my wife we should have written into the contract that inclusions were: The range, dishwasher and Jolly Roger. We let them take the fridges for crying out loud. They could at least have left us the flag. But I jumped on eBay and bought a couple of flags. My wife says the Jolly Roger can fly until Holloween but she says the larger, brighter Gadsden flag (from colonial times- a rattlesnake on a yellow background that reads Don't Tread On Me) that I bought will NEVER be raised.

We'll see. I have four screeching, whining voices on my side as opposed to my wife's one.

Ultra-clumsy or World of Crap?

My wife calls me a "breaker." As in, I break everything I touch. I think I am actually quite careful in most everything I do. But I also have expectations. If there is a hair-clip on the counter I expect that I can open and close it three times in succession without the plastic snapping in half. If there is a refrigerator magnet, I expect that the ornamental portion will not come unglued the first time I try to pull the magnet from the metal surface. And I did not feel like it was my fault when I ripped my pillow case in half when I tried to put it on a new pillow my wife bought me. (Plus, I sleep with the half-covered pillow with dangling frayed threads and all.)

We live in a cheap, cheap world. That is all. My expectations are not unreasonable.

Besides, my wife is a "bender." If you have a picture you like then don't let her hold it. A mint condition baseball card or a freshly printed resume? Keep them out of her hands. I describe to her that it is a bad method to hold a thing on two fingers and then clamp your thumb down between those fingers: you bend and crease things everytime. She doesn't care. That's how she holds things, she says.

Just something to be aware of.

Movie Reviews

The Descent

We saw the movie "The Descent" the weekend it opened. It's what "scary" movies should be. The story about six Scottish women going down into a cave is enough to carry the movie. My wife became claustrophobic as images of women squeezing through tight crevices were flashed on the giant screen. But then throw in some blood-thirsty cave monsters and it gets even better. The movie was about one minute into the "action" and my wife turned to me and said, "I'm going to throw up."

This movie isn't about the prom king and queen being hacked to pieces at inspiration point by a maniac. It is well-thought-out with a minimum of cheesiness. When the film ended, leaving the theater was like stepping off a roller coaster. Nobody had the slightest inclination to say, "That was dumb." So it won't change your life but if you like GOOD scary movies then go see it. See it in the cold dark theater rather than cozied up in your living room. It's worth it.

The Door in the Floor

I borrowed this movie from the library. It's strange and I can't say that I recommend it. On the surface it appears to be about a woman who becomes an empty shell after her sons die in a car crash. Her husband loses interest in her and pursues other women. Then she spends a summer getting it on with an 18 yr old boy. Then she leaves.

The movie is about a writer who brings a budding writer under his wing, but nothing about this movie pertains to writing. The characters are not likable, there doesn't seem to be much of a point. If you pay close attention, it seems to be a man-bashing movie of sorts. "Random" events all point to the fact that men are jerks and that women are disrespected, degraded and treated poorly in life:

A six year old girl telling her father that his penis looks funny.
An unfunny joke about a ship captain who has to tell a sailor that his mother has died.
Listening to hip hop songs with some lady singing about hos and "lick my back, lick my crack."
A buck naked Mimi Rogers? One of the prettiest OLDER women in Hollywood poses nude for sketches in the film, but just because Tom Cruise used to be on that like stains on your undies doesn't necessarily make it a good career move for her. I think that scene can best be described as "couragous." She is sketched as a heavily-lined face with a prominent graphic vagina.

"The Door in the Floor" is a kids' book written by the main character about a baby in the womb who can't decide if he wants to enter the evil world through the door in the floor. Because he is destined to become a jerk, I guess. I watched the movie at 3 am and the symbols and metaphors of the movie were not clear to me. When it was over, I felt like I had all of the pieces but still had no idea what picture the puzzle meant me to see. See it if you want.

Charly

I saw this Mormon movie on late night television. Go K-Jazz! I missed the beginning. Do you know what? The movie was sort of cute. Kind of like Narnia, except, in this case Narnia is a land where guys drive trucks and spend their days at gun/hunting/boat shows and women spend their time scrapbooking and everyone lives in a cookie-cutter house with a white vinyl fence.

I'm sure Mormons like the movie. It portrays the world as being confined to Mormon rules. Life is simple. Do as is taught in the Book of Mormon and everything will be good. That is the cute part. It would be nice if the world WAS that simple.

The basis of the movie, however, is unrealistic and full of those goofy things Mormons often think and do. For some reason, some outgoing, skinny blond lady comes to Utah from New York and spends every moment she can with some boring, dorky mormon dude. Of course, he hates it. He hates having this stereo-typically hot blond following him everywhere he goes, being spontaneous and fun. He comes right out and tells her she's ruining his life and that she is one of the most annoying people to ever live.

But along the way, she picks up the Book of Mormon and it instantly brainwas... I mean transforms her. While they are sitting in a boat fishing, she hesitantly admits that against her better judgment she has found the Book of Mormon to be indisputably flawless and a document of "truth" in it's purest form. She doesn't want to tell him because that means that he is right and that he has all the answers and that he is a golden god, or he will be someday, as he seems to be bound for God's highest kingdom of heaven. The moment she tells him she is going to be baptised, she is transformed in his mind from the-most-annoying-woman-in-the-world to instant-soulmate.

That was when I laughed outloud. When she said she read the BOM and it was just SO true that she had no choice but to obey what it told her to do. She had no questions, it was just perfect. If it was me, that is when I would toss her in the "crazy" bin. No questions, huh? Nothing like:

So the JEWS sailed to America and procreated to produce all of the Incas and Aztecs and Mayans and Indians? Why do history books all say they came from Asia? If America unpopulated until 600 B.C. than why do we find bodies in America that over 10,000 years old? What is with all of the horses and swords and chariots in America before the Europeans arrived? Why don't any of these enormous battlegrounds that exist in the book ever surface in real life? Polygamy was never denounced by God, Mormons just stopped doing it because they didn't want to be disbanded by the United States government?

Believe anything you want, but ASK QUESTIONS people.

Anyhow, she had no questions and she stopped wearing tanktops and she stopped drinking coffee and her character was suddenly quiet and humble. And boring. She marries the dud, er, dude. It is funny how these movies seem to depict Mormons as the-same-as-everyone-else except they don't drink coffee. I think the film makers should embrace what makes Mormons different and emphasize that. But no.

The guy gets jealous about the girls shady past and the mother gives her son a talk: So long as she is playing by Mormon rules, she is perfect and all is forgiven. If she were to suddenly be un-Mormon again, then she would just cease to be worth noticing in the world.

After they get married and have a baby, she dies of cancer. The dude is mad because he followed all of the rules and he feels like he is being punished. He forgot the tagline that God wrote for the movie: Real Love Stories Have No Ending. Ahhhhhhh. Okay then.

This, I assume, is a reference to being together forever in heaven. Earlier in the movie, he tells her of his generic Mormon belief that families stay together forever in heaven and that is the greatest priority in life. Of course that pat line gets her all hot and bothered. She tells him he is a romantic. He's happy cause Mormon responses have been drilled into his head his whole life, "All things happen for a reason," "tampons and shorts come from Satan's pantry," and "we'll worry about inconsistencies later."

It also seems that many Mormons argue that they are one of the only churches that believes in families being together forever. It's a very big selling point to them. It's not true. In fact, Mormons are one of the only religions I have ever seen to depict a heaven where families ARE NOT together. Mormon heaven has three levels and you have to plan accordingly which level you will go to, depending on which level your favorite friends and family members will be going to.

Ask anyone from anywhere what heaven is like and pretty much the only thing they can agree on is that heaven is where you will be reunited with those who have already past.

It's crap but cute crap.

Re: Alicia's Condo Burning Down...

Hi Debbie,

I am surprised and sorry to hear that the Giggle-girl's condo burned down. It's one of those things that you think will never happen to someone you know. I saw footage on the News but didn't think anyone I knew was affected by it.

I did enjoy that article you included. Mainly the words of the witness describing the people jumping from the balconies, "She kind of jumped and kind of fell and a lady kind of caught her. It was freaky."

Nothing says "don't-quote-me-on-that" like a sentence full of "kind ofs." But "freaky" you can take to the bank. Good journalism.

I don't know what Alicia is doing now. I imagine she's probably getting the runaround from some insurance company. I was in a car accident over a month ago and, after weekly phone calls and voicemail messages, I have yet to even hear the voice of the insurance representative responsible for filing my claim.

Here is what I can offer Alicia:

I have an old 6-man tent she can have.

I just bought two refrigerators for our new house. If she likes the "urban" feel, she may have the cardboard boxes. One for entertaining and one for getting-away-from-it-all. I'll even throw in a roof (a tarp).

Beyond that, she would need to settle for living in the shed behind my house.

We actually have some old furniture we have to dispose of before we move to the new place. We can offer her a bed, a table, and some old couches. Some people might think of them as "junk" but when all you have to your name is a pile of soot and ashes they probably start to look "livable." She can have first dibs before we give the stuff away at a yard sale.

I can even post her PayPal address on my blog and ask my millions of readers to send her money. It IS a strange coincidence that someone who devotes so much time to Habitat for Humanity and The Redcross would end up in need of help. It would be stranger if nobody helped her.

So the message that "no act of kindness shall escape God's wrath" is not lost on me, but I'm willing to help anyhow.

Tell her I said "hello." I hope nothing was lost that can't be replaced. And I'm glad she wasn't home at the time to take a header off the balcony and break her pelvis. Let me know what I can do to help.

Emmett

Mad Mel

He let the contents of the bottle do the thinking
You can't shake the devil's hand and say you're only kidding
This is where the party ends
I just sit here wondering how you
Can stand by your racist friend

The Giants didn't write that song about Mel but the words seem to fit. For the record, that family that we visit in Denver is Jewish and in my experience with them I have never known them to be people who plot or provoke war. In fact, the last time we saw them they gave us a present. One may go so far as to call it a "Christmas present." Either that or they jipped us out of 7 Hannukah gifts.

I almost used a slur there instead of saying "jipped," but I didn't. See how easy it is to step up and be the bigger man and not say mean-spirited things? Huh? Do you? Drunkee?

16.9.7.19/12.9.11.5/3.15.4.5

jol-esbz psf-nbz wbmujof-pbz

No One Can Hear You Scream

And just for the record: I do not cry while my wife is in labor and my children are being born. That is not to say it is not a moving experience. It's exciting.

It's kind of like that scene from the movie "Alien" where the baby pops out of that androids chest. Except instead of screaming in terror and running for your life, you pick the thing up and cradle it in the crook of your arm and tell it you will love it without condition forever, forever, forever...

Dedicated to My One True Love: The Ladies

And what do girls like? Big tough men who still cry every once in a while. I'm not afraid to talk about it. My rule for quitting my desk job was that I would certainly quit before the job flustered me enough to make me cry. When I punched a hole in the wall I figured that was close enough and stopped going to work.

I have met a few girls that like to cry. They encourage crying for cleansing and recreation and say that at the very least any normal person should cry on a regular basis. I don't agree with that. It sounds annoying.

I will tell you about things that I like. One of my most favorite things in the world is to drive across the Rocky Mountains in Colorado. I have done it quite a few times and every time it makes me want to win the lottery and become a professional ski bum, spending my life in exotic resort settings and letting it all sink in.

My mother went to college in Colorado and still has friends in the area and we visit them every few years or so. One Thanksgiving my mother, stepfather, brother and I drove out to Denver. My brother and I followed my mom's truck in her convertible Mustang. We drove through high mountain roads, the less traveled ones with hidden fields and apple orchards. It was sunny and we listened to one of my favorite CDs: The Meat Puppets, Too High Too Die. The only thing that was missing was some awesome girl to share the experience with. In that regard, I felt especially slighted, since my fiance had only recently dumped me.

It wasn't the worst but it definitely wasn't the best dumping. She said, "I can't marry you." I said, "We don't have to get married, we can keep dating." She said, "No. I can never be with you again." And she offered that alpha and omega of explanations, "I don't know why." Of course, it would have been nice if I didn't have to dwell on it and if the rejection wouldn't have burned in my chest for months and months, but that is what happened.

So we went to Denver for Thanksgiving and the drive was nice but not quite perfect. My mother's friend was divorced and had a daughter about six or seven years old. She had been married to a lawyer from a wealthy family and they had a lot of material things but they lived under the thumb of the in-laws. Nothing they had in their lives actually belonged to them. She didn't like living that way and divorced the man. But he always lived in close proximity so the daughter could have both of her parents and they still had a strong friendship.

During this Thanksgiving, other relatives and friends of the family were all gathering together. There was another small girl who was about twelve years old. I spent most of my time hanging around with the little girls, taking them to the park and stuff. It was evident that the twelve year old liked me. It was flattering, so much as you can be flattered by a prepubescent girl who knows nothing about you but likes you anyway. Maybe love is always like having your wishes granted by the devil, like that Simpson's episode where Homer wishes for a turkey sandwich but worries it will be made with zombie turkey meat (it turns out the turkey was dry).

I liked challenging that little girl though. I laughed at her description of school. How she was in A-club. Therefore, she could only date guys who were in A-club. To be in A-club you had to get straight-A's, you couldn't do drugs and you could NOT wear the same article of clothing twice in a two week period. When she told me that, I told her I did not get straight A's and I asked her what she thought about the way I only wore homemade t-shirts or just plain white t-shirts and shorts that were usually made from cutting off Dockers bought at a second-hand store. I think she fought for a way to continue thinking of me as A-club material.

This little girl had an awesome father. He was probably nearing 40. A single dad. He kind of reminds me of Ferris Bueller's best friend. He had a good sense of humor. When I ran out of clean clothes, he loaned me a t-shirt. He laughed about my noodle arms and we had a long conversation about making t-shirts. He was the one who suggested that I make a t-shirt that read "Body by Ramen." If I lived in Colorado today I would be friends with that guy.

Everyone wanted to drive into the mountains and visit that hotel where Stephen King wrote his book, "The Shining." I got to ride with the guys, including the dad, and we had a good time.

At one point on this trip to Denver, my mother mentioned to me, "You know... that twelve year old is pretty cute..." like I should totally bust a move. When she said it, I thought, please be kidding, please be kidding, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, mother, please be kidding. Oh, but mother wasn't kidding. It brought another aspect of loneliness to the trip.

We all went to the hotel and looked around for awhile and then we watched the small town holiday parade from the sidewalk of their modest Main Street. I was able to laugh whole-heartedly when the father of the twelve-year-old mentioned in casual conversation that he planned to indiscriminately shoot and kill the first boy his little girl ever brought home. The comment had nothing to do with mom's suggestion.

Given my emotional state, it was as good a Thanksgiving as could be hoped for.

Closer to Christmas and New Years, my father and stepmother asked if my brother and I would like to go to Denver for a ski weekend. They had a friend in Denver who was flying to the midwest for a rendezvous with some guy so the friend said we could use her house while she was away.

I still wasn't trying hard not to be in a rotten mood. I think my mother-in-law was trying to help me. When my dad went into a shop and we waited in the car she started some small talk. She noticed I was carrying around a book called "Nine Stories" by J.D. Salinger and she told me how she had met the writer's grand-daughter a few times when she was in college (I should have held out to be a Bruin or a Hoya so I could meet interesting people like that). When my step-mother decided to confront the issue directly, she said, "You have to kiss a lot of frogettes before you find a princess." My stepmother is an accomplished doctor and holds a very high rank in the military but it is still little nuggets of wisdom about frogettes that impresses me the most about her. My parents remarried well.

Anyhow, we went and spent a day on the snowy slopes of Breckenridge. Then we were starving so we stopped at a Denny's for some food. Surprisingly, we bumped into the man that my stepmother's friend had just flown across the country to visit. I don't know anything else about that story. But we shrugged it off and returned to the lady's house to sleep. I can't recall why we were sleeping on the floor of the den instead of in the beds but it was still pleasant and their was a fireplace nearby when we laid out our sleeping bags. It was a nice day made horrible because I had to lay there and try to sleep a few feet away from my brother and his messed-up crazy girlfriend while they made out. I thought about what a wonderful day and wonderful experience and wonderful opportunity it was to be there and that it should be ME making out with my awesome girlfriend on that floor and that my brother's girlfriend didn't deserve to lick his spit off the sidewalk let alone get an all-expenses-paid vacation to one of my favorite places.

I tried to block it all out by lying face down with my hands over my head and that is when I heard drops of water spattering on my pillow. Really it just made me even angrier. Everything that's right was wrong again.

The last time I went to Denver was five years ago. When we showed up my mother's friend told me that her daughter was apprehensive about seeing me because she had always had a crush on me. She said that when I walked in, her daughter turned to her and said. "Do you see how good he looks?" I've known that little girl for her whole life and I do love her. When I showed up with my wife and one year old son it was not my intention to shake up her teenage world. She was hardly around so I didn't get to talk to her but it made me sad to see her hanging out with 14 year old retards and smell her reeking of cigarettes.

My wife and I had spent the day snowboarding at Breckenridge and when we came home I was getting shivery and lathergic and feverish. Slimysculpin and his family came over to see us, as he hails from that area, but I'm sure I wasn't good company that New Years night.

The last I heard, that girl was having problems. Her father (the lawyer) suddenly ran off with some stripper and everything started falling apart. I feel bad that I can't really play any part as a friend in what is probably the hardest time of her life. As always, I'm just some old married dude.

Now you know a little more about the women I love in my life and the places I like to go.

If I went 'round saying I was an Emperor, just because some moistened bint had lobbed a scimitar at me, they'd put me away!

Who needs Poptarts when it's easier to grab a leftover steak in a paper towel and eat it while you drive to work? If I can figure out the packaging for grab-and-go steaks I'm going to put those pastry pushers out of business.

You Snooze You Lose, Well I Have Snost and Lost

Just an update:

We made an unofficial offer on that house in Saratoga Springs, which the seller accepted. When we put it in writing the next day, the house had already been sold for $10K more than our bid. We've got things in the works to get another house here in our current neighborhood.

As I guessed, the car accident I was in almost cost me my job. I missed one day of work due to diarrhea and received another two "occurrences" for the accident. That is enough for termination as a temporary hire. Rumors were flying around my workplace that I was no longer employed. They were started by my back-up boss (the coordinator who was disappointed that I wasn't poverty stricken rez fodder).

My real boss came to me and told me the company would make an exception to their own crappy rules and let me stay on. He said it was the fault of an inexperienced coordinator. Other employees laughed and even were upset by the threat that I may be fired as it would mean they would have to work the extra hours not covered by myself. Anyway, my boss made me sign a paper saying we had talked about it and made it clear that if I am even late one more time this month then my employment will still be terminated. I tried to laugh it off by saying, "I'll try really hard not to get into any more car accidents." He nodded like it was a really good idea.

Push out the jive. Bring in the love.

The Blogpost

When Eleanor had a week or two off between the regular school year and summer school we watched a couple of episodes of Matlock while we ate lunch. We are not fans of the show but in comparison to the rest of the daytime lineup it seemed like a good choice.

At the beginning of one episode, we looked at eachother and laughed. The title of the episode was "The Suspect."

Man, do they even try to make these interesting? We threw out some guesses that the show's writers were all locked in a room talking:

"Come on you guys. We are one title away from heading home to our families for a long holiday weekend. Let's hit it and get out of here."

"Um... how about 'The Suspect'?"

"The Suspect? That's brilliant."

Only to be followed up with titles like The Victim, The Jury and The Legal Process. They showed up for one idea and ended up naming every episode for the following season. I imagine the same scenario, with serious consideration being given to a title like "What the stenographer heard", when someone finally said, "Maybe it's time to end the whole series?" and everyone just breathed a sigh of relief and thanked him.

The incredible tactic they seem to use in every episode is Matlock figuring out who the real perp is and then nailing him with a line like "I've got your shoe shine boy ready to testify that he saw you the day of the murder fleeing into the woods behind the crime scene" and then the guy spills out a complete confession; often when culprit is not even the one on trial.

I like Don Knotts but it really gives the show a "Mayberry is all grown up" vibe when you see the stars reunited. The only thing missing is a cameo by Opie.

I guess it's good as far as daytime tv goes.

I was bent metal, you were a flaming wreck when we kissed at the overpass

A lot of unusual and bad things things have been happening to us lately. Just out-of-the-ordinary things and it's really starting to bother me. Like a couple of weeks ago when I accidently bumped the door to our medicine cabinet with my elbow and the whole thing crashed down into the sink and then rolled into the bathtub, throwing toothpaste and Tylenol and other bathroom stuff in every direction. And a couple of days ago, a five gallon bucket of paint spilled in our car.

Last night I spent several hours watching day turn into night, sitting on the grass in front of a gas station, soaked in Dr. Pepper, waiting for the police to arrive.

Closet-gay Brad and I went to get some fastfood on our lunchbreak. Our light turned green and we started crossing a busy intersection. I looked over and noticed that one car was not heeding their red light and was coming right at us at about 40 mph. I yelled, "Hey!" as a warning to Brad but couldn't think of any useful instructions to give him. Then the car was only a foot or two away from my door. My life didn't flash before my eyes or anything. I guess I didn't expect to die but I was thinking, "Here come the broken bones." I figured a broken arm a possibly a few broken ribs was a reasonable guess.

I think I swore when the car hit us but I can't remember for sure. I said something. Brad and I were both holding our fountain drinks during the collision and they seemed to explode. We were drenched and sticky. I later found the safety glasses, that I had up on my head during the wreck, down on the floor by the brake pedal. When the crash was over, I just said, "That kind of hurt." I was thinking that using "it was like being hit by an NFL linebacker" may be an over dramatization, but an NFL player is probably in the neighborhood of 400 pounds whereas the car that hit us is about 3000. So that could possibly be an understatement.

We were able to move our car into a gas station parking lot and we were surprised when another car pulled in behind us. When the old lady hit us, she pushed our car over into the next lane and we smashed in one of the doors on the car next to us. There were three kids under the age of three involved in the accident. I must of had the worst jolt of anyone, as the car hit my door. Afterward, I looked in the car and saw that my seat had absorbed most of the shock (the door had been pushed against the seat all along its edge). I was very proud of the 1988 Honda Accord for not tearing open like a wet paper towel.

The accident occurred about 7:40pm. The police finally showed up just before 10:00pm. At the time, I thought, "I'll bounce back. I feel bad for that lady. She probably feels guilty and just made a mistake." But when I came home and tried to go to sleep, I started changing my tune. It hurts to lie on either of my sides and to lay on my back is still pretty uncomfortable. Every time I try to sit up or lay down, there is a point where I get shooting pains and it does not feel like my neck can support my head. It hurts to turn my neck and to lift my arms. Upon realizing that, I thought, "She's old. She's had her run. She needs to park it in front of the TV. Guys like me have kids to support and I can't be jeapordizing my job by being hurt and missing work because some old lady gets behind the wheel when she's-not-all-there anymore." I will try to see an orthopedic specialist today or tomorrow, which I'm hesitant to do because I have no health insurance. I'm sure you will all say, "Her insurance will pay for it!" but it's still a pain because I will be getting the bills and her insurance company will still be talking to their lawyers trying to find a way out of it.

Here is my optomism:

No broken bones. I'm still grateful for that.

Hey, 3.5 day weekend.

The paint spilled in our crappy car, rather than our good one.

I put the medicine cabinet back together and rehung it. It was a miracle that the mirror didn't break.

We found a house and had our offer accepted on it. We just have to make sure the loan goes through.

Another funny thing is that the lady who caused the crash could give a very clear description of how her daughter was reaching into the back seat to help the grandkids moments before the accident, but here is what she wrote on her statement about the crash:

"The light turned red. They were making a left turn. I couldn't stop and hit them."

Aside from the fact that she drew a sketch of us driving in the opposite direction as the reality, I think she was also trying to imply that we ran a red light to make a lefthand turn in front of her. To be honest, I think she was staring at her daughter the whole time and probably didn't even realize she was in an intersection.

And while we were waiting for hours on the grass, there were a lot of rubbernecks trying to see what the party was for. A car full of boys drove by and they yelled, "Hahaha, bitch!"

Yes, we all know the world is full of insensitive retards. That doesn't even make a good story:

"Guys, do you remember that time we saw that unimpressive car accident and I yelled, hahaha bitch! at a random group of people standing in a parking lot? That must have been the funniest thing I've ever done."

If someone had plowed into that car, just as he yelled it, THAT would have been interesting.

Not Far From the Tree

The other day, Ethan approached his mother and asked, "Do we have an umbrella?"

Eleanor said, "Yes."

Ethan asked, "Is it big?" The answer was yes.

Ethan asked, "Can I use it?"

Eleanor asked, "For what?"

Instead of answering, Ethan did a pantomime act of clutching to an umbrella, swinging from side to side and falling gently out of the sky and down to earth.

Eleanor asked, "Are you going to jump off of your bunk bed with the umbrella?"

Ethan nodded.

Eleanor told him, "Using an umbrella as a parachute is just pretend. It only works on TV."

Ethan seemed to accept that response and ran off without further request to use the umbrella. A few moments later, Eleanor heard a loud thump and a sharp cry of pain from Ethan's bedroom. When Eleanor looked into his room she saw our son lying partially on his pillow on the floor next to the bunk bed.

Eleanor smiled and asked him, "What happened, Ethan?"

He said, "I fell on my pillow. It was slippery."

Apparently, Ethan had given up on the umbrella idea but had continued with Plan B which entailed tossing himself over the bedrail and landing delicately on his cumulus nimbus pillow. He found the reality to be that his pillow is little more than a glorified door mat and offers little in the ways of being a safety device.

When I put Ethan to bed that night, I jokingly piled up three pillows on the floor near the bed and said, "Hey, do you want to jump on these?"

Ethan looked at the pile and said, "No. I think it will make my stomach hurt."

Alright then.

One of my favorite things in the world is when we ask Ethan a question and he answers with a game of charades. The other day we asked him what he wants for his birthday and he just answered "Waaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!" as he acted out cutting down a tree with a chainsaw. He was nice enough to finish off the act by specifying that he wanted a TOY chainsaw.

I guess kids are just cute. I woke up yesterday when Ethan was trying to get into our bedroom. Eleanor was getting dressed and was blocking the door with her body, "Who's there?" she asked. Ethan responds, "Your son." He gets so formal. He calls me father a lot. Jonah, on the other hand, calls me da-doo. After Ethan woke me up, I got up to use the bathroom. When I got the hallway I was met by my daughter, Olivia, who held up her hand in the "hang loose" sign and zealously told me to rock on.

There's a dead hobo on the patio and an old barbed wire on the funeral fire

We sold our house. It was easy. We set our "lowest acceptable price" about $20,000 higher than what is reasonable and our broker offered the house to an investor as is. It sold right away without even being listed for sale.

We could have done a few days worth of work and asked for another $5000 but it really isn't worth it. Having the house sold AS IS takes a lot of pressure off of us to do the myriad repairs and improvements that we've been avoiding. Now we get the pleasure of trying to BUY a house in a market gone mad. Most likely down in Saratoga Springs.

If we sold to a family I would have sold for less. The upside to selling to the investor is that they will let us rent the house until we find a new place to live.

I'll keep you posted. Sorry, I've been too busy to write.

Finding He-mo

Today, I hope you showed up to my blog thinking that guys are awesome and girls aren't because that's what we are talking about. I wanted to take a snap at another movie that everyone loves: Finding Nemo.

Would it surprise you to learn that the story was written by a man for men? There hasn't been a proclamation to this effect by the author that I know of, but take another look at the movie. Are there ANY strong female role models? Let's review:

CORAL (Marlin's Soon-to-be-eaten Wife)

I think Coral came across as insincere and unappreciative of her wonderful husband's accomplishments in providing her with an oversized home with a fantastic view of the drop-off. Can you believe she had the nerve to speak against Marlin's desire to name ALL of their children Marlin JUNIOR or Coral JUNIOR by suggesting they name one Nemo? Me neither. Women are impossible, but at least she chose a boy's name and got eaten in a timely manner.

DORY

She's so lovably forgetful and absent-minded. But still, every man has his limits and even Marlin must confront her about being a "delay-causer" and basically tell her that she is a detrimental obstical to everything he is trying to accomplish in life. Then Marlin turns into a total douche and let's her tag along just because she's dumb and can't keep from hurting herself. She's good for a laugh.

DEB/FLO

Remember? That crazy fish from the dentist tank who thinks her reflection is alive?

PEACH (the starfish)

She's just as loud as any over-bearing mother. Luckily, like any self-respecting girl would do, she muffles practically everything she has to say behind an air-tight seal against the wall.

DARLA

The pint-sized, brace-faced, fish-killing nightmare. Pure evil backed by the "Psycho" stab-music.


PEARL

Even that adolescent octopus points out her own physical imperfections and the methods by which she decieves others (especially men) from noticing her stubby nub.

Shall we compare these losers with their assumed cartoon internal reproductive organs to the MALE role models in the movie? Let's see... who were the strong, nurturing, good-hearted MALE figures of the film? Oh yeah, ALL OF THEM. From the thoughtful uncle/dentist, to the intrigued pelican, to Gill (a second father), to the school of Moonfish (who come to Dory's aide when Marlin points out how annoying she is), to a surfer turtle and his favorite son, to sharks that want to better themselves, to a ray who is passionate about teaching, to Marlin, himself, whose only crime is loving-too-much... there are only good things to say about the male figures in this movie.

Like Dre said, bitches can't hang with the streets. Move over Bacon, here comes something meatier!

Both Have Feathers, Except for the Desk?

But why is a raven like a writing desk?

A Severed Crab Leg?

What lies on the bottom of the ocean and twitches?

Take a Hint

I was filling up the van with gas the other day when some speakers overhead started playing that song "Do You Love Me? (Now that I can dance)."

What a goofy song. I wish so bad that a girl answered the question at the end of the song...

"You broke my heart because I couldn't dance but now I can really move... Do you love me...?"

Then the girl says something like:

"Well, I tried to let you down easy by saying I already had a boyfriend and you just kept bothering me even when I said I was washing my hair, or doing homework or hanging out with my REAL friends, so I just made up a stupid reason like, 'you can't dance.'

You are definitely clumsy and socially inept, but I couldn't care less about your dancing. You're pudgy and pasty and you live with your mom. You're Instant Message ID is "Shortcircuitjohnny5."

No way in Hell! I was trying to be nice but look what you made me do. Now Mash Potato your way out of my face."

Last Work Rant

It's no good blogging about work anymore; everyone there is normal and boring. I don't know quite how to handle it. They just show up and work hard. The management likes to say "We work hard, we play hard." I know the first part is true. I don't know what they mean by the second part.

The best and worst parts about my job:

Worst--- THE DRESS CODE

I come home all damp with sweat and covered in a moderate amount of grime, but heaven forbid if my company t-shirt comes untucked from my khaki pants.

Best--- DAILY ALARMIST AND PARANOID WARNINGS ABOUT MAN'S MOST ANCIENT ENEMY

Everyday at the start of our shift we receive stern and all-too-serious warnings about racoons and their sinful, devious plans to get their rat-hands on our precious food products. Keep the doors and windows closed! You can't see them... but they're out there! Plotting. Scheming. Biding their time.

When the warnings are extra-serious they will also include squirrels and foxes in that woe-begotten grouping. I asked what our response would be if such a tragedy was ever to occur...

When I attended "orientation," they sent people in from every department to talk about the company. The only fat guy in the place showed up and said, "I work in the quality department. I bet you think my job is to hang out in the back and taste chips all day. It is!" He certainly is a jolly fat man.

Apparently, one of his job duties includes roaming the aisles of the warehouse with a bb-gun to smite our many enemies.

Another thing I enjoy about work is when we move the delivery trucks. You get to go outside at the top of a grassy green hill, under the mountains and over the city. The trucks are a cross between a U-Haul and a city bus. If they would let me borrow one of the trucks when I move, it would be one of the coolest job perks ever. Not likely.

Sometimes we move the trucks in the day but mostly it's at night. You sit staring at the city lights out of the giant windows with the door wide open and the night air rushing in. It's peaceful.

Some things about my coworkers:

Paula (from Cambodia) is the nicest one. A lot of the people get mad and blame all of the problems on "the new people." (Is it MY fault we're behind or is it because the conveyor belt broke down ten times in the last hour? jerks.) When I don't understand and do something silly, Paula just smiles, involuntarily, like she's watching a four-year-old trying to tie their shoe.

Doris. Man is she bossy. She would step over her dying mother if she thought it would improve her numbers. She's been working here for 5 years. She was all excited tonight about being at 103% of "company expectations." Not a good sign. She is hard to understand and vague. The first time she spoke to me, I had to wonder if she was hitting on me. She said, "You don't speak spanish? You look like you do. I thought we could stay up late and speak spanish to each other."

How many times has someone said THAT to you? Sounds like a pick-up line to me. Even when she says things like "crunchy cheetos," it sounds like she's speaking spanish: Crun-chichitos. She gets frustrated with me.

There are some huge polynesian dudes working there, too. One of them talks like my three-year-old in a Rocky Balboa, slurred baritone. He doesn't speak in complete sentences. He'll say, "Seh-tu? Seh-fo?" And you're supposed to know to respond, "Yes, I loaded truck 72 and 74." He's huge and looks like a steriod monster with solid black eyes and dirty dreadlocks, but he's actually one of the nicest and most helpful guys there.

Dave is another huge polynesian. He speaks louder and clearer than anyone I have ever met. He speaks like he's trying to lecture 500 people without a microphone. He'll ask you where you went to high school and when you finish your answer he will describe his own high school experience, like you asked him the same question back. He's interesting.

Chris is a "Return Missionary (Mormon, of course)". He came home after six months, instead of the usual two years. He said he just didn't want to do it. After all those years of growing up, he didn't feel like going right from high school to a strange land (South Carolina) and working 24 hours a day at studying scriptures and changing people's religion.

I said, "Well, you gave it a shot." I told him how I knew one guy who served a full mission but came home disappointed that the entire process kind of boiled down to manipulation. He said he worked it out to a complicated script and pattern of reasoning and it worked nearly every time. He said he was disappointed because it was more like selling a used car and less like connecting with people or even helping them. Chris said that was probably true, but that the manipulative part of it was the part he liked.

He said coming home from his mission was probably as much work as just staying on the full two years. He said the leaders in his mission would sit him down over and over and give him talks about how he wasn't just failing his mission, he was also failing as a role model for all his little brothers and sisters. When Chris continued to insist that his heart was simply not in it, his mission president pulled out the big guns and told him, "If I hadn't finished MY mission, I never would have met the people and made the connections I needed to make millions and millions of dollars." Luckily, the church had always taught Chris to value salvation over worldly wealth and the threat bounced off of him like sinners bounced off the bouyant belly of Naoh's Ark.

Chris still feels guilty. I really like him, though. I told him I would set him up on a date with my sister-in-law, except he didn't finish his mission and that just doesn't seem like it would go with the ideal fantasy that she is trying achieve with her life. No dice, Chris.

The Texan: one of my bosses. I don't think he means to be a jerk, he just sort of has a knack for it. When I can't duplicate the speed he has attained in 3 years of work within a few hours, he encourages me to work harder with key phrases such as: "You suck, again, Emmett."

He asked me about being Indian. He said, "Are you a reservation baby, Emmett?" I said no. I said I lived near the reservation for about 7 years but not on it. I told him that my father and little sisters live on the reservation. He asked, "Why?Because it's cheap?" in a jerk-tone. I said, "To make a difference, I guess. He's the first medical doctor in the tribe's history. He's managing the hospital the tribe built." And after so many questions that led up to that moment, that answer seemed to kill his curiousity. He just said "oh" and completely stopped talking to me. Maybe he just didn't like that the conversation didn't go where he thought it was. It is a little annoying to me that the conversation probably would have continued if I had answered something like, "Yeah. Dad just drinks all day in front of the television, waiting for his unemployment checks to show up in the mail."

I don't the Texan realizes how he comes across. I sense he's got some problems going on in his personal life that he doesn't talk about. He told me his wife graduated from the high school where my wife works a few years back, because she was having his baby. Sounds like a good starting point for a stressful marraige.

I notice all the girls and the old man do the crappy job that nobody likes almost everyday. So does the closet-gay guy. All the able-bodied men do the jobs that require fast-walking, heavy-lifting and high-reaching. I also notice that, despite the high percentage of polynesian and mexican workers, there are none that I know of in middle-management positions. The Texan was promoted from our team. He was one of the only white guys on our team before us new-hires arrived. The brown guys that trained him have two years experience over him but no promotion. The Texan also likes to encourage us to work hard by repeating over and over that it took him a year to be made a permanent employee. Another coworker clued me in that he leaves out a significant detail: The Texan accidentally crushed somebody's Mitsubishi Eclipse with a company delivery truck not long after he was hired on.

Maybe I just have a gloomy outlook, but I'm not expecting this job to take me places. The last thing I expect when I go to ANY job is justice or equality, all I want is money to pay for my basic needs and time to spend with my friends and family. It will do for now.

Friends Forever

My sister got out of the Navy and, by some lapse of judgment, has decided to move to Utah. I'm glad. My brother flew to Florida last week and drove across the country with her and the kids. My sister is staying with us in our little cottage until we can buy a larger house. My blogging will not be as frequent as people are sleeping in the room with our computer (I came to realize that this room is where I do nearly all of my writing, drawing and music stuff).

We are excited for our kids, as they will now have lifelong friends closeby. No more hanging out with the wild boys. Ethan told me the other day that one of them had been choking him with his legs while the other one threatened to pee on him. Ethan wasn't tattling, just describing his day. He said he yelled at the boy not to pee on him, so the boy peed on his bedroom floor instead. It's anywhere, anytime with that kid.

I've been watching all of the kids all week. I took them into the mountains so they could walk on the snow and throw rocks in the raging creeks. I did have one difficult day:

We want to sell our house very soon, so we hired a company to come refinish our peeling bathtub. We checked with Re-Bath and their salesman was rude. He told me our bathroom was "NOT inviting" and that I basically couldn't afford NOT to pay him $4000. No sale, Re-Bath.

The company we did hire sent a guy over promptly at 9:30am. A few minutes after he arrived, my nephew Aaron went running into the bathroom and threw up down the back of the guy's legs. My wife chased him into the bathroom and started apologizing and trying to help Aaron as he spewed over and over. The bathtub man was very non-chalant. He said, "Don't worry about it. It didn't get on my clothes. Just my legs."

With no concern for the puke he went on to make chit chat with Eleanor, "So how long have you lived here? Where are you from?"

To me it sounded like: "Yeah, I just got puked on. It happens more often than you might think. What's your sign, baby? My horoscope told me this would happen."

But he went on working with the tub and Aaron kept throwing up. Eventually, the bathtub guy told us we should leave because of the fumes. We packed up all of the kids and went to get some lunch. When we got home the bathtub guy was finished and gone and we opened all the windows and doors and hung out in the yard.

By then, Aaron's sickness was coming out of both ends. Of course, all of this would happen on the ONE DAY where our bathroom was out of commission (I never put our downstairs bathroom back together). Aaron had to hose off in the back yard and I got him some clean clothes. Then he went downstairs and laid down.

Soon enough, Aaron came running upstairs to use the bathroom. I said, "Just try really hard not to touch the bathtub." The guy said we couldn't use it for a day and a half. Aaron tried but failed. He closed the door and all the sounds that issued forth were bad. I opened the door and the scene was the very definition of "explosive diarrhea." All over the room, including the tub. And that was just round one.

I felt really bad that the tub wasn't working and I just kept handing him sopping wet towels and telling him to clean up his legs as best he could. He was worried about what would become of the tub and I told him just to worry about getting himself cleaned up. Worse yet, I was supposed to drop off all of the kids with Eleanor at her school. It was the last day so she HAD to get in grades and credits for all of her students. Then I was supposed to drop my brother, Joel, off at the airport and then head to work myself.

At this point, I called Eleanor and told her what had happened. She laughed at the story but said, "I'm coming home. I'll finish grades tomorrow."

Needless to say, work was the relaxing part of my day. The bathtub cleaned up fine and looks better than ever.