Conversation with my son just now:

"There's a man in my sack with the corn." He says this while holding a corn-filled heating bag.

"The man in the sack said 'everyone attack' and he's sitting in the sack with your corn?" I ask. The kid does not get the Ballroom Blitz reference and moves on.

"Yeah, there's a man in the sack. I cut him up. His head and his feet. They're in the sack with the corn." The kid looks as angelic as the day he was born. On neither that day nor this one did I hear Ave Satani in the background.

"Well, that's sort of strange," I say.

The kid doesn't blink. "Yeah, it's strange." And he goes walking off with his sack, which may or may not have a dismembered guy in it.

***

Conversation with the media

Last week, the TV station I used to work for ran this story in the first block of news at 11pm. If you don't have time to click through, it's about a car vs. deer wreck.

Yeah. Complete with repeated images of the dead deer hanging out of the windshield of the car.

This is quote from the story is about the lady who was injured in the wreck. It pretty much sums up how classy my old haunt has become.

Cardell Lindsay, said, "They were saying she was real bloody, but they think most of that blood came off that deer because that deer came through the windshield. He's dead. I seen him."

Five years ago, the deer story never would've made it to a photographer's tape, let alone on the air...let alone on the air for a full minute and half with "Exclusive" stamped on it.

Exclusive? Really?

For most people who read across the country, this may seem par for the course. This particular station, though, was long considered to be protected from and above the FOXification of America. It was a bastion of real news. Now, it's running "Exclusive" stories about something that happens every day. And they are showing pictures of dead animals on TV.

What sucks is, I know the guy who had to produce the story. He came along after I left, but I've met him since and I think he's a helluva good reporter and a nice guy. I can only guess he was forced to do the story. I can only hope, anyway. The station used to be managed by people who respected their viewership as much as they respected the profession of journalism. Now, it is the same station that recently ran a series titled, "Are You Too Fat For Your Car?" and has semi-regular reports on the status of Britney Spears' collapse.

Hell, it's like watching someone you love die in the hospital. It's sad, sick, and painful. I still have many friends there who I'm sure wish they were able to do the kind of work they did a few years ago. My hope for them is the station's ownership realizes what they've done to what was once one of the most respected local news stations in the country.

Or, if I need to speak a langauge that might be understood...

"Journalism at that station is dying. I seen it."

***

A conversation with security

I hate the fucking circus. I really do. I only go because I don't want my kid killing some guy and putting him in a sack full of corn because I didn't take him to see the elephants.

The only good thing about the circus, as far as I'm concerned, is it is great fodder for my Flickr account. My buddy CC bought me a Flickr PRO account recently and I was looking for more good material. So, as I have for the past three years, I walked up to our local arena with one of my Nikons hanging from my shoulder.

At the door, several security guys were half-heartedly wanding the crowd. Had I wanted, I could've smuggled a kilo of blow, a machete, and a howitzer in my pants.

"Is that a detachable lens?" the security guy asked.

I was already a little cranky anyway. I've been on the wagon for a week and work is a little stressful. All I wanted was to have a nice afternoon with my family and maybe get one or two good pictures.

"Yeah, it is."

I knew what was coming at that moment. I remembered the same conversation playing out at the World Series of Poker. There, the exclusive media provider (read: we pay money to be the only people allowed to properly cover this event) established a rule that forbade cameras with detachable lenses.

"I've never had a problem with this before," I told the security guy.

"Every circus is different," the guy shrugged. "You can walk it back to your car or we can have someone escort you guest services."

My car was less than five minutes away, but I couldn't resist actually being escorted by security to make sure I didn't get my 18-70mm lens in any clown's face.

To his credit, my escort was a really nice guy who tried to make me feel better about the entire thing. "It's a copyright thing," he said while steam rose off my forehead.

I wanted badly to launch into a PETA rant about abused elephants and how the tigers should eat the ringmaster. Instead, I took a valet ticket that read "#285" and watched the show without taking any pictures.

I hate the fucking circus. More.

***

A conversation with you

About fifteen months ago, for lack of something better to do--and because I was very excited about the day--I live blogged the whole of election day. At first it was just a way to keep myself occupied. Eventually, it became a conversation with you. After more than 14 hours of live blogging, the post had 113 comments and was a great conversation to boot.

Super Tuesday is going to be another one of those days. I'm going to be fabulously preoccupied with the goings-on around America and I'm planning to live blog the day. If any of you folks would like to join me, the comments will be open.

See you then.

Labels: Elections, Parenting, Photography, Politics

I was a good daddy. I only drank three beers while assembling the Thomas the Tank Engine Trundle Table. I was in bed by 11:30 and asleep by 12:30. Still, the boy's early rising meant I was a stumbly mess come Santa time.

Before we let the kid out of his room, I staggered downstairs, grabbed a Diet Coke, and found the video camera. As an afterthought, I decided to turn on the Christmas tree lights. We got a bigger tree than usual this year and getting behind it to plug in the lights is a challenge. What's more, we have child-proof (and sometimes adult-proof) electrical outlets in the house. Without impediment, the process of inserting plug is rather simple. When a giant evergreen is poking me in the belly and jingle-jangling with all its holiday might, the process is decidedly more difficult. When I'm barely awake and trying to hurry, there is bound to be more than a couple four-letter words. When an ornament fell off and hit me in the head, I uttered a couple of words that, if had Santa heard, would've landed me on the naughty list for the next couple of years.

Finally, though, the tree was alight and I was on my way back upstairs to retrieve the boy and his mom. Once there, we spent a few minutes looking at the note Santa had left for the boy on a magnadoodle and looking at the mostly empty plate of cookies. Just as we were getting ready to go downstairs, it happened. My fat body ramming into the tree had loosened the hold of a ball-shaped bell. Further, this ball-bell had decided this was the very moment to fall and make noise all the way to the floor.

After several weeks of preparing for the perfect day, my fatigued mind saw this as the first sign we were headed on the road to disaster. This feeling lasted for all of one second. Then, the boy's eyes lit up and he exclaimed, "Santa!"

My loving wife looked at me as if it to say, "How did you do that?"

I shrugged and gave her a look back that said, "That's just how Santa rolls."

By the time we made it downstairs, Santa had made it outside. We just missed him.

Despite all my cussing, beer-drinking, and tree-abuse, I guess I never made it to the naughty list this year. I got the best gift of all.

I got to see my kid's eyes light up on Christmas morning.

Labels: Family, Parenting

The boy is loud.

Give him a guitar and he will rock out with his blocks out. He's currently working on a Ramones-style version of Billy Jonas' "What Kind of Cat Are You?" It's sure to be a hit with the under-five set. Drum sticks? Yeah, he has a pair, and when he's not threatening the dog with great canine injury, he's turning any of about a dozen home decorations into his own personal snare.

All of this is an ad for Tylenol Parent and makes me only mildly insane. Most of the time I am more proud than I am wishing to stuff my ears with my own brains. There are times, however, that are so sweet and endearing that I'd cut off my arm if it mean my son could drum a few more minutes before bedtime.

As the holidays approach, Mt. Otis is taking on a distinctly cheerful aura. A wreath went up on the front door, other decorations are waiting in the wings, and my boy is requesting I play Jingle Bells instead of "I Gotta Get Drunk." Merry Christmas, one and all.

Last night, we went for a drive and "Little Drummer Boy" came on one of the five XM stations playing holiday music. The boy stopped his mindful screaming and settled into a quiet, make-you-wanna-cry "Rum-pah-pum-pum." I almost had to pull over.

I really don't like Christmas music, and I certainly don't like it for 30 straight days. Most of the time the music comes across like a Sweeny Sisters orgy if Bing Crosby and Johnny Wadd showed up. In fact, about the only time I really enjoy holiday music is on the actual holiday. I have a couple of cousins who have angelic voices and occasionally treat us to perfect-pitch harmony on Christmas Eve. Then, I can listen to it. Otherwise, it feels like I'm main-lining simple syrup laced with shut-the-hell-up.

The dilemma is pretty clear. The kid loves him some Rudolph, Frosty, and Santa songs and notices when I switch it over to "Daddy's on Parole This Christmas." I don't want to discourage the boy from enjoying traditional holiday fare, but waiting around for Frosty to come on the radio and listening to a scat version of Jingle Bell Rock is quickly going to turn me into Ebenezer Scrooge on meth.

I haven't quite figured out the solution, yet, but I think I'm getting close. I just bought a $4 Willie Nelson Christmas disc off Amazon that might be a happy compromise. I'll be able to stomach hearing Christmas music for another four weeks and, if I'm lucky, I might be able to slip "Bloody Mary Morning" into the rotation. It's either that or I'm going to have a lot of those mornings myself between now and the time Christmas rolls around.

Labels: Music, Parenting

I'm a fescue man, matured from youth as a fescue boy, a time where I spent summer nights with my bare feet buried in dewy three-inch blades of it. During July days, I'd pick dandelion blossoms from the fescue carpet on Yulan Drive. At night, when the Dukes of Hazzard was coming on, I'd run in with pieces of grass stuck to my feet, the product of youthful carelessness and my mom's afternoon mowing. My parents' grass had roots in the southwest Missouri soil and they somehow wormed their way into how I look at suburban landscapes.

Where I come from, fescue was the thing. If anyone mentioned Bermuda, we thought shorts before grass. It wasn't until I ventured out from the city limit neighborhood that I started discovering that there was a world outside fescue. If it wasn't a shock, it was at least a real kick in the seat of the shorts.

Bermuda. Who would've thought there was a grass that greened only a few months out of the year, barely grew above its roots, and looked like it had always been freshly mowed? It was like a homeowner's dream. Instead of mowing once a week, it seemed Bermuda owners lived a life that began and ended on the 18th green.

I bought my house in 2000, and, no surprise, its lawn was fescue. It was comfortable, if almost impossible to maintain. Once the contract was signed, weeds raised their flags and bare spots spread like red clay oil slicks. The grass was its own thing, and I couldn't control it on my own.

It was then that I looked across the street and saw the neighbor with the Bermuda grass. He was a closet wife beater and wore a walkman and headphones when he trimmed his grass. He sang out loud and off key. For the summer months, when my grass was either sand-brown or uneven with weeds, the neighbor's yard looked like it was maintained by the greenskeepers from Augusta National. I couldn't decide if I pitied him more for how bad he sang or how little effort he really had to put into his lawn.

I developed a theory over time about Bermuda grass owners. I watched them as they tended to their lawns. They did it far more often than necessary, some even clipping small pieces of it with house scissors. They were the people who needed their lives to look perfect on the outside and needed to be seen tending to the perfection. I considered my lawn, misshapen and brown, a proud admission of my relaxed life outlook. And if anyone asked why I didn't have the perfect lawn, I had the perfect excuse: Hey, what can I do? Forget it, Jake. It's fescue.

That's when the Corner Bastard came in and turned my life upside down.

Corner Bastard lives up the street and around the corner of my little cookie cutter neighborhood. He drives perfect little cars, has perfect little bushes, and has a lawn of green fescue that not only is the pride of the neighborhood, but has managed to emasculate me in such a way that I can barely drive by without reminding my wife that I was "man enough to give her a baby, so stop looking at the damned grass like you want to have sex on it."

Corner Bastard blew my Bermuda theory right out of the Caribbean. Never in history has a lawn of fescue been so well maintained, perfectly groomed, and artfully crafted. It's as if God himself came down with a golden John Deere and rode around for seven days and nights.

It didn't matter when I drove by or what the weather was like. The lawn was perfect. I eventually lost my mind. In early 2006, I was on a quest to become an evil-doer and this guy entered into my plan. At the time, when I was feeling a little more rage, I called him PC. You can read about that time in Becoming An Evil-Doer Step 2.

In short, I had long believed I could leave a relaxed life of disorder because that's just the was fescue was. Corner Bastard proved me wrong.

Tonight after dinner, the wife chose a walk over a trip for ice cream. We four, a husband, wife, child, and dog headed up to the park. Along the way we were forced to walk by the house on the corner. I heard my wife before I saw it.

"Woah," she said.

I looked at Corner Bastard's grass. It was long and uneven.

"He must be dead," I said out loud, not bothering to conceal my hope.

We walked on, not saying anything more. I started playing out scenarios in which the guy had become an alcoholic, porn-addict, foot fetishist who got caught doing body shots off his nanny's feet. You can't very well mow the lawn when you're in rehab.

It was a perfect night. The near-waning gibbous moon was still waiting to come over the horizon. The local Hispanic population was playing soccer. My kid was pretending he was a super hero. I was the perfect father and breathing with the breeze.

After a stroll around the walking path, we wandered into the little playground to let the kid climb for a while. I was hidden under a cap and behind sunglasses, so my wife couldn't see my eyes turn to slits.

"We may have to leave," I said.

"Huh?"

I nodded across the mulch.

"Oh," she said, and nodded.

There he stood with a soccer ball in his hand and chatting with another fit, well-groomed neighbor. Me? My hat was frayed, my shirt was wrinkled, and I hadn't shaved in almost two weeks. He? He was the picture of the perfect damned father. Like J.C. Penney catalog perfect. Why was his grass long? Because he was taking time out of his life to be a better father. Suddenly, I hated myself for hiring a lawn service this year.

A gangly kid walked in our direction. There was little doubt he was the guy's son. My boy ran up to him.

"Hi! What's you name?" L'il Otis asked. The kid answered.

"I'm Mr. Incredible," my boy said in response and assumed a super hero pose.

The kid didn't know what to say. He stared for a second and then ran away.

"Looks like he has his dad's social skills," my wife mused.

I'm not sure what it was, but I felt better. I hated the guy less and liked myself more. He didn't have to be an adulterer with a drinking problem and I didn't have to have a green thumb. In our heart of hearts, we were both fescue men.

I do not feel any other kinship with this guy. I still think he spends too much time on his lawn, but, I'm done hating him and hating myself for it. He has his own problems, like teaching his son not to run away from potential friendship.

I have a lawn service, a wife who still goes to bed with me, and a super hero for a kid.

I am a fescue man.

Labels: Family, Mt. Otis, Parenting

Three years ago at this time, I was unshaven, stinky, and collapsed on a faux bed in St. Francis women's. However, as I hadn't just shoved a seven pound eleven ounce bundle out of my crotch and I wasn't the cutest thing in the room, I kept my mouth shut.



Now, the boy known here as L'il Otis is a mischievous little monster with enough love to go around for all his toys and all the people who love him.

Happy birthday, buddy. Thanks for putting up with the adults.

Labels: Family, Parenting

A quickie...

The wife and I have been thinking about cutting certain things out of our lives. The first was bottled water. The second more ambitious project was the elimination of fast food. The latest trip to the grocery store resulted in the usual case of water staying on the shelf. It did not stop the bag of Wendy's coming home for lunch, though.

And so, the boy is too caught up in being the comedian at the kitchen table to eat his burger and I'm getting frustrated.

"I'm just eating the bread," he said.

"I need you to eat the burger, too. You know," I said. "Back when I was younger, there was an old lady on TV who screamed WHERE'S THE BEEF? in Wendy's commercials"

The kid thought this was exceptionally funny and laughed in the right places. I thought he got the joke.

"Hamburger isn't beef, Daddy!"

While he might have had a point about the Wendy's burger, I felt like I should set him straight, just in case he ever ended up inside a real burger joint.

"Hamburger is beef, D. And beef comes from cows."

The kid laughed like I'd just ripped my nose off.

"Beef doesn't come from cows, Daddy. Milk comes from cows!"

"Well, so does beef, buddy."

The kid just said, "Noooooo..."

"Alright then," I said. "Where do hamburgers come from?"

Now L'il Otis got serious and looked at me like I was about to turn three instead of him.

"From the kitchen where they cook them, Daddy."

The kid makes a lot of sense sometimes.

Labels: Food, Parenting

I guess it first hit me when Curious George wandered into the park, climbed into a dump truck, and unloaded a couple tons of fill dirt into a duck pond.

I was sitting next to my kid. He was uncharacteristically quiet, his eyes characteristically wide, and his mouth set into his daddy's thinking, open-lipped pause. I stole a look to gauge my kid's reaction. He blinked, but that was about it.

If I hadn't become so effin' good at controlling my effin' mouth, I would've muttered, "What the fuck? This monkey is a fucking menace to society."

Li'l Otis grandparents were good enough to buy him two full volumes of Curious George stories. There's a red one and a blue one and they are the boy's first pick nearly every night before bed.

"How about the red one?" he says. "That'd be a great idea!"

I never fail to accommodate him, because it's either that or read about the soft little lamb and watch my boy lovingly fondle the soft felt laid into the pages. You know, a daddy's gotta watch out for felt fondling.

Over time, I've gotten to the point to where I know the stories almost as well as the kid. Some of them are okay. When Curious George laments his small size and dreams he is big, he learns that being big is sometimes as bad or worse than being little. However, most of the time, Curious George is engaging in high stakes, high risk, highly anti-social behavior.

Take, for instance, the time Curious George went to the train station, escaped from the Man in the Yellow Hat (as is his little monkey-assed wont), climbed up on the train schedule board and started re-arranging track numbers and times. In 2007, that's terrorist activity and if caught, George would've ended up in a monkey version of Gitmo. Of course, in the story, George ends up saving a kid from running onto the tracks and his indiscretions on the Big Board are forgiven.

If that doesn't do it for you, the list goes on and on. From jumping irresponsibly on the bed so he can see himself in a mirror, to running amok in a toy store, to ruining a major city's parade, George does it all. And, of course, at the end of it all, George is always forgiven. In a lot of cases, if he were a man, he would at the very least have his ass kicked and at the worse would be hung in town square.

I guess George's wide-eyed curiosity can be a little endearing. There's no evil in his heart. He's not fucking everything up in an effort to hurt, spite, or otherwise piss off his fellow primates. He's simply curious. His atavistic mind gets the better of him.

At the same time, I think there are people in the head-shrinking world who would say The Man in the Yellow Hat, Mrs. Gray, and and the whole lot of saps in George's little fantasy town are no more than a flock of enablers. The more they forgive George, the more he fails to understand how his reckless, feckless attitude toward life tends to screw up the lives of people around him.

Now, as a guy who tends to lead a reckless life and is often forced to ask for forgiveness more than he asks permission, I can relate to the little monkey. I've been promising to grow up for...eh...about ten years now. Every time I think I'm out, well, I pull myself back in. To this point, I've been pretty lucky to have parents, a sibling, friends, and a wife who have been willing to forgive my indiscretions. Maybe someday I'll find a way to stop being a monkey.

This, however, is not about me. It's about my kid. While I've been a little glib here, I actually wonder if Curious George is a good every-night read. Sure, they are good stories to teach forgiveness and they have stood the test of time (if you didn't know, the authors were Jews who fled Germany at just the right time). However, I feel like I'm justified in being a little concerned that I'm teaching my kid that it's okay to give in to boredom's advances and expect forgiveness when it's all said and done.

I can't say I've seen any hard evidence that George is rubbing off on the boy any more than Handy Manny or Bob the Builder are. However, my kid is about as curious as they come and tends to find a way to get in trouble in what most parents would consider a trouble vacuum. I am not as quick to forgive as the Man in the Yellow Hat, but, I have to admit to being a little soft sometimes.

Tonight, as I laid on the floor, watched TV, and made an effort to stay out of trouble, my wife heard the kid still rustling around in his bed.

"He's still awake," she said, the frustration in her voice more than a hint.

I thought about my countless nights, awake in bed, tossing back and forth under the covers. "He's his father's son," I muttered and turned my head back to the re-run.

In Curious George and the Dump Truck, the dump truck drivers run back and prepare to tear George a new one for dropping their landscaping dirt into the pond. However, when some kid notices the ducks are using the dirt as their own personal sunbathing island, the dump truck drivers say (and I'm paraphrasing a little here), "Well, hell yeah. That's right. I'll be damned. That little monkey deserves a medal for climbing into the cab of our truck, fucking around with machinery he doesn't know shit about, and potentially ruining the ecosystem of an entire park!"

Of course, I believe in forgiveness. What's more, I like to believe in the old "all's well that ends well." However, it's a fine line between being a nice dad and being the Man in the Yellow Hat. In short, I'm raising a kid, not a monkey, and I think I owe it to him to teach him early on that most dump truck drivers aren't as nice as the guys in the park.

And most of the ducks aren't going to see the spilled dirt as an island.

Labels: Parenting

The title will be better explained in the coming days. For now, a few pictures from an extended trip to the Show-Me State.


My mom prepared a big meal for us Saturday night. Twenty minutes before we sat down to eat, a typical Missouri storm blew through and knocked out the power. We ate by the remaining sunlight and flickering candles.


The power was out for several hours. With no TV, no computers, no music, and no light, we did what few extended families do anymore. We sat around talked and laughed for a long time. We bet on what time the power would come back on (my wife won) and when it did, we all turned off the lights and went to bed.


For a kid who never stops moving, I find it pretty amazing that I'm learning a lot from him about when to stop and smell the flowers.


And what he knows about concentration, I'm not sure I'll ever learn.


This is the face of a woman displaying incredible patience.


Looking out from the inside of a small Missouri cave. We debated while here whether Missouri is known as the cave state and whether anyone outside this state would recognize it as such if it were. Turns out, Missouri is The Cave State, but I'd guess my friends in California just don't care.


A good uncle who would make a great father, if he should ever so choose.


A father who is about to endure an annual departure that hurts worse every time he does it.

Labels: Family, Parenting, Photography, Travel

Life is exceptionally busy right now. I think I could write 2000 words on this subject. Sadly, I just don't have the time for it right now.

My kid is an unabashed disciple of Billy Jonas. Jonas is a self-described re-percussionist and a fun songwriter. Most of his work is done for kids. What my boy doesn't know is that Jonas also does some PG-13 work for folks like me.

One hit my kid hasn't heard is one of my favorites: Jonas' "Pissin' Outside."

Although my kid is not yet old enough to hear the unrated Jonas, he's, as I said, clearly a disciple.



'Nuff said.

Labels: Music, Parenting

I was such a tragically bad baseball player when I was in first grade. My team, if I recall correctly, had a Bass Pro Shops sponsorship (this was back in the day before Bass Pro was any more than a sporting goods store in Springfield, Missouri). My ability on the field did not go beyond being able to wear the baseball cap properly. After that, I have to think I was a source of endless frustration and embarrassment for my father. That said, being the guy he was, my dad continued to encourage me through all sporting endeavors all the way through high school. I don't think he ever missed a baseball, basketball, or football game. The first time I ever caught a pass in the end zone (button hook from the right side, hard missile into my chest against Ozark High School), I looked in the stands and there was my dad losing his damned mind he was so happy. It's still a memory that makes me tear up a bit.

The good thing was, my brother turned out to be a pretty good athlete who could hit dingers, plow nosetackles, and eagle the par fives at Deer Lake. My dad got to see a son play well in the sporting arenas, and that always made me happy. Oh, and lest you think I'm harboring some age-old resentment, my dad taught me to play guitar and poker, which happen to be my two favorite recreational activities to this day.

Last night, I went back to the baseball fields for the first time in a while.



I've recently been wondering if I have any ability with the camera outside of shooting seated poker players and my kid. As it happened, my friend BadBlood's son is playing ball this summer and his parents wanted some pictures. What's more, my kid adores the miniBloods and is taking an early liking to baseball. It sounded like a good family evening.

I recall a particular joy as a kid. Whether it was my dad going to play softball with his Roark-sponsored team (followed by pizza at Shotgun Sams), or any of my or Dr. Jeff's games, there were so many constants. The dust was omnipresent. The concession stands all looked the same. The bubblegum on the sidewalks formed a path to each field. The bleachers all felt the same and the people in them all shared the same look--we're tired, but there are few places we'd rather be right now.

Last night, my kid was one of the kids who didn't maintain attention for more than couple innings. In fact, after miniBlood knocked one to right field and made it all the way home, my kid decided he was going to practice his homeruns. Into the dust he ran, making tracks for an invisible homeplate. "I made homerun, Dad!" he yelled from across the field.

I spent my time looking through a lens at a kid who didn't seem like he could be more at ease. I occasionally stole a look at his proud dad and thought, "I'm going to be there in a few years." My job was made easier by the fact that miniBlood was pretty damned good, and much better than most, if not all, of the kids on the field.





It was a little after seven when I looked down at my kid's dirty feet and up at my wife's sun-drenched face. Both looked like they were ready for bed.

I could only think, "Just wait. In a few years, L'il Otis will be tending to the hot corner while mommy wonders how she's going to get the grass stains out of his pants."

Whether the kid gets his dad's or his uncle Jeff's athletic skills, I can't wait.

Labels: Family, Parenting, Photography

I am usually an open book. This makes it hard to be a poker player in a live setting. With emotions and sleeves and all, I'm often tempted to wear sleeveless shirts. However, those who know me know I don't necessarily pack a lot of heat in the guns department, so anything that shows off my arms is usually more embarrassing than whatever part of my fragile emotional base I'm giving away.

A big part of this has to do with impulse control. I only bring this up because I just had to take my kid's train set away from him. He is developing a nasty habit of pushing down his preschool classmates and, in lieu of smacking him around a bit, I took away his most prized possessions. His teacher--who also happens to be a very understanding good friend--suggests the kid's impulse control isn't necessarily keeping up with the rest of rapidly advancing brain. I worry sometimes that might be my fault.

That's not actually not why I sat down to write. In fact, I sat down to tell you I'm not going to give much away today. Instead of an open book, I'm going to be more like the fluttering pages of a book when you're flipping through it looking for a picture, or money, or a note from an old girlfriend. I'm not being coy, nor do I have any big secret. I'm just feeling a bit like a camel right now.

So, a bit of an early week mental massage for you.

Massage #1: After some good research and a weigh-in from Brother Otis MD, it appears that trying to measure the volume of a giraffe's vagina as compared to a cow's vagina is a futile activity. Apparently, a better way to measure is to consider the size of of their male counterparts' junk. Some quick research shows a bull has about a three-foot penis (one-inch in diameter). I don't have the exact measurements of a male giraffe's penis, but a picture provided in the comments of the last post indicate the giraffe ain't as well hung. So, thereya go? Oh, and why did I want to know?

Well, some of the places I play poker aren't necessarily frequented by gentlemen. As such, I actually heard the phrase, "Tighter than a giraffe's pussy" at a game last week. That spawned a long discussion about the relative tightness and, eventually, how it compared to a cow. I argued that despite the relative height, that a giraffe would have a smaller vagina. So, thereyago.

Massage #2: I love the theme songs from 1970s and 1980s TV. These days, people don't write many show-opens or show-closers that are worth much. Jerry Bruckheimer users music to open a lot of his shows, but he is such a big fan of The Who that we don't get any original material. Think back to the 1970s and 1980s and you'll remember a ton of good theme songs. From "Cheers" to "Moonlighting" to "Barney Miller," the music was about as good as you could want for the era.

I have long argued that the two best theme songs ever on television actually came from the same TV show. Which was that? Well, "WKRP" of course. Now, everybody knows the opening song. The outro is the lesser-appreciated tune. I spent years trying to figure out the lyrics. As it turns out, according to IMDB, while there is singing in the song, there are no lyrics. Apparently the exit song was the work of a bunch of studio musicians in Atlanta. While recording, they needed a vocal track to help them keep time with the music. So, somebody recorded a bunch of gibberish (which I'm sure contains the word "bartender" at least twice), and laid it down. When the producers heard the tune with the gibberish vocal track, they said, "We'll take it!" And that was that. What I'd really like to know is where those studio musicians ended up and whether they ever recorded anything else I like.

Massage #3: As you might have read elsewhere, my wife's car was burgled over the weekend. Lost in the crime was one of my most prized technological possessions: my Bose QC3s. At first I was like, "Ah, well. Them's the breaks." However, upon further thought, the Bose QC3s completed my technological circle. Without them I feel empty and leaking. And that makes me sad.

And that's all, except for a picture of the resident therapy mutt--a great thinker on the subject unconditional love, provided that unconditionality doesn't involve a fight for food or the new neighbors' dog.

Labels: Mental Massage, Music, Parenting, TV

If my dad had died in 2003 like he was supposed to, I would've remembered him as a caring, hardworking man. It would not have been a bad memory. Still, I also would've remembered him as a man who never stopped, who didn't know a life existed outside of Type A personalities, and who planned to relax only upon his death.

Dad didn't die in 2003, and for that I'm still pretty damned amazed and thankful. What's more amazing, though, is the effect a near-death experience can have on a guy. Dad is still cantankerous, impatient, and curmudgeony. But, sometimes, when he is alone, he stops. Today, when he thought the rest of us had walked on to look at a potbellied pig, he stepped off into a little grove. I was watching, but he didn't know it. I knocked off a couple quick shots as Dad proved there is time to stop and to...well, do what you're supposed to when you stop.



Sure, it's cliche, but it didn't take away from what it felt like to see my dad, alive and looking every bit of it.

My folks are in town for the weekend. My kid gives me a lot of joy, but there's not very much that makes me smile more than seeing how happy the boy makes his grandparents and vice versa. Here ends the sap. Well, after a couple of pictures.

Labels: Aneurysms, Family, Parenting, Photography

It was midnight when my phone rang. I had just put in a live straddle and was leaned back in my chair waiting for the action to get to me. For those not familiar with the straddle, it is a blind bet you make in a poker game to induce more action and up the stakes a little bit. When putting this kind of bet in, it's usually a good idea the stick around for a while. Otherwise, you've wasted the bet.

I looked at the caller ID. It read, "Home."

It had only been a couple hours since my wife had told me to play without guilt, to have a good time, to not worry about her and the kid. It was the first guilt-free poker session I'd had in a long time. I was losing, but still had several hours to get even and win some money for the night. Hence, the straddle bet.

"Home," it read.

Fuck.

I answered quickly. Before I could say much, the wife said, "I need you to come home now." Apparently the kid was sick.

I looked down at my straddle bet and bid it goodbye. I was wearing my jacket and standing before the wife was done talking.

I calculated the time it would take me to get home. It would be about ten minutes.

"I'll be home in--" I started.

"Now!" the wife said.

Rather than belabor the subject and let her know I was leaving NOW, I cashed out and headed for the house.

***

The surest way to test one's immune system is to become a parent. I spent most of Saturday night serving as a human buffer between various comforters and my son's projectile vomiting. Obviously, it wouldn't be long before the germs worked their way in.

Despite what some people may have you believe, I have a pretty solid immune system. However, becoming a father has introduced me to entirely new strains of bugs and viruses to which I apparently have little to no immunity.

I will not describe the last 48 hours. It's best left to your imagination, a place that--no matter how creative--could not possibly grasp how bad it's actually been. How bad was it?

Well, I'll put it this way. After being pulled away from the game prematurely on Saturday, I was looking forward to playing poker on Monday night. That particular game didn't happen, and so it would be Tuesday night. I had grand plans. It would be drinks and appetizers with the boys at 5pm and to the card room by 7pm. The first round of ugliness started at 12:30pm. I told myself I would be fine. One little nap, I said, and I'd be ready to go.

By 4:30pm, my cell phone was ringing and I couldn't get up to answer it. I moaned from my bed, "Just tell them I'm not going to make it." I didn't know if I meant I wasn't going to make it to the game or that I just wasn't...going...to...make it.

***

No amount of Gatorade, Gingerale, Pepto, or even water can fix this. Even now, almost 24 hours since I last thought I might be dying (or, in the alternative, that my wife had slipped me some hemlock), I am not sure I'm fit for public view. I managed to shower, take a conference call, and finish up some third quarter budgeting. Beyond that, I'm functioning just well enough to watch an interview with Wes Craven. I might watch something else, but I don't have the strength to lift the remote.

Update: At the end of Craven interview, he talked about trying to break into the film business. He said...

"You have to believe in yourself. Usually if you have a passion for something, it will happen. You have to be willing take great risks and put everything else at stake. It's like one big poker game. You have to put it all on the table."

I can't help but wonder whether Craven knew I'd be watching and writing about poker at the same time, or whether poker has become such a popular part of our culture that it was just inevitable that someone would mention poker while I was writing.

Labels: Parenting, Poker

Li'l Otis enjoys the yearly $100,000 toy allowance made possible through a deal worked out by the grandparents, a couple of small foreign governments, and a sweatshop in Juarez. We're having a hard time finding space for all the sports equipment, books, and heavy equipment replicas. There's also the variety of blocks, the likes of which have inspired me with some regularity to throw the goat and scream, "Rock out with your blocks out, buddy!" He humors me, throws his version of the goat, and goes back to doing something a little more mature.

If the compact with Antigua and Figi ever goes south--or the the Juarez sweatshop ever runs out of yeyo--you might think my kid would get bored. Methinks not. If the constant infusion of new entertainment options were to dry up, I'd simply need to live in a place...well, much like I live now. That is, a place where I can go outside pretty much all year without fear of hypothermia or the Minnesota Vikings.

The past few days here have made me a little more grumpy about going to Monte Carlo. That's because it's 50 degrees on the Cote D'Azur and it's 80 degrees on the slopes of Mt. Otis. Under the new Spring sun, my son can find toys in just about anything. Rocks are his favorite, likely because of their multi-use functionality. He's a utilitarian kid. We spent most of yesterday outside in various parks.











It was 8:30 this morning when I let the dog out for her morning constitutional. I stepped out on the back deck in my bare feet. The kid followed me out in his socks. We stood and waited for the mutt to finish up. The air was warm. The moment was short but perfect.

"I have to go work for a while," I said. "You and mommy are going to take me to the airport, okay?"

"Where are you going?" the kid asked.

"A place called Monte Carlo," I said. "Can you say Monte Carlo?"

"Look! A bee!"

And that was that.

With any luck, the toy cartel will keep my kid in good spirits while I'm gone. I assume the sun will still be shining up my return.

Wheels up, cowboy.

Labels: Family, Parenting, Travel, Weather

My wife and I haven't been sleeping together.

For the past few nights, I've slept on the couch or in my office, curled up under an old blanket or with some random pillow that just doesn't feel right. At the moment, my relationship with the wife is such that if I see her, I walk in the other direction. If she dares enter a room with me, she knows she'll get nothing more than a finger pointed in the other direction. I barely have to speak to her anymore. She knows to get the hell away from me. And, try as she may, she can't bring herself to speak to me either.

Strep throat will do that to you.

I don't think I'm breaking any martial vows by telling you my wife's tolerance for pain is equivalent to a three year-old who knows doting adults are watching. She'd rather suffer years of water boarding than stub her toe. Of course, she is also the only member of this family to drop a seven pound weight out of her crotch, so I can't say too much. However, if I were going to say too much, I might say that she handles the pain of strep throat...well, I guess about like anybody else handles the pain of strep throat. I, for one, can't remember ever having been afflicted with the illness. My mom, ever the champion of the Mother Class, insists I did have strep as a kid and likely handled it pretty badly. She also tells me that it feels like someone took a heavy grade sandpaper and snaked out your esophagus. My wife just says it hurts worse than any sore throat she's ever had.

Yesterday her doctor, in spite of a "false negative" strep test, diagnosed my wife with a "nasty throat" and sent her home with some antibiotics. Where normally I might be a bit intrigued by the concept of a spousal nasty throat, in this case, I was willing the believe that the doctor--again, in spite of a negative test--was likely right. And even if she wasn't right, I still wasn't going to go anywhere near my wife.

Now, in normal cases, I'd be a real fucking hero about all of this. If it meant I had to lick said "nasty throat" to prove my love for my wife, I'd do it. I have a fairly decent immune system and only get sick once or twice a year. This time though, I can't afford to take any chances. I'm getting ready to go on an eleven day international trip, during which I figure to be working 16 hours a day or so and traveling on every mode of uncomfortable transport you can imagine (aside: there should be a law that coach must be described as "coach" and not "tourist class" or some other "class." Coach is coach and it means it will suck, no matter how you look at it).

Before the "nasty" diagnosis, I was avoiding close contact and deep high-school-style kissing with my wife. Now, she gets me in thirty-second shots (that's enough snickering from the peanut gallery). That is, I pop into the bedroom to bring her water or broth and noodle soup. She takes it, rasps something that sounds like "I love you" or "I wish you were dead" and crawls back under the covers. And me? Well, I'm Mr. Mom for a while. See, my kid's pain tolerance is better than my wife's, but he's still only two. And with me getting ready to hit the road, the wife can't really afford to give the kid Nasty Throat.

And so now, as the kid naps and I pound through my work-work, I realize I'm unshowered, unshaven, and generally disgusting. I've slept about 12 hours out of the last 72. I actually feel okay so far. However, if this continues for much longer, I'm going to have to see about finding some home remedy for the Nasty.

More on the upcoming trip to come. The kid is stirring and I need to wash myself.

Labels: Family, Health, Marriage, Mt. Otis, Parenting, Physical, Travel

Greenville, South Carolina is one of those places you'd never go on a whim. Ten years ago, if you'd asked me to find it on a map, I maybe could've pointed within 400 miles of the Greenville dot. When I describe it to friends from London or Amsterdam or Madrid, I say, "You've heard of Atlanta and Charlotte? It's halfway between those two cities."

Greenville is more than that, though. I always tell people who ask, "I ended up in Greenville by accident and never left." That's basically true. In TV news, when some one offers you a decent job that is better than the one you have, you take it. If that job is in Anchorage, Glendive, or Greenville, you take it. That was what happened with my wife and I. She was offered a job. Then, by virtue of her talent and her employer's desire to prevent me from working for the competition, I was offered a job. We moved, married, bought a house, had a kid, and called Greenville home.

A few of you have been here, either for the wedding or for Bradoween. You've seen bits and pieces of why we stay here. The city is vibrant, the climate is comfortable, and the people are slightly more forward-thinking than the rest of the South.

It was in this environment that we packed up our new family-mover and went to the downtown park along the Reedy River. It is probably the most beautiful place in the city. It's green, flowered, waterfally, and generally among the most comfortable places to spend an afternoon. Yesterday was a pre-St. Pats day Irish festival. Thousands of people were out, drinking Guinness, listening to Irish music, and eating Irishy food. I had the kid, the wife, and this laptop in tow. Sunday is a rough day for me work-wise and I couldn't afford to be without the 'puter. The park has wireless access, so, well, it worked out. As the band played and my kid danced, I climbed about 80 feet up a hill and got online. Where everybody else was holding a beer or their child, I was sitting on a rock with a laptop on my knees.

If you're a frequent laptop user, you know it's uncomfortable to wear a watch and type at the same time. My watch is not an overly expensive one, but I love it just the same. It was a gift from my wife. One night, I'd stuck one of my kid's stickers on the back of it. I do things like that to make me feel closer to my kid when I'm away.

I slipped off my watch and put it at my side while I finished up ten minutes of work that couldn't wait. As I completed the task, the band started playing a good song and I looked down to see my wife. Eighty feet below me, she held my son in the air and spun around in the sunshine. I slapped my laptop shut and ran down the hill.

I dodged my way through the crowd, ignoring the jokes from a poker player I know about whether I was playing poker online in the middle of the park. I threw my laptop in the kid's stroller, grabbed him, and danced like we were in our living room and the whole city couldn't see me acting like the idiot I loved to be. The song ended and I walked my son down to a small tributary of the river so he could get dirty.

Daylight Saving Time had come early and I marveled at how beautiful it was outside at 5pm. Wait, was it really 5pm? I pulled up my left arm to check my watch...the watch I'd left sitting on the hill.

I handed the kid to my wife and ran back up the hill. As I suspected, my watch was gone. I spent ten minutes vainly searching to see if the watch had rolled down the decline or gotten buried in some dirt. Nope. Gone.

For reasons I couldn't fully understand, I got mad, then sad, then generally surly. I wondered how long it took for one of the people on the hill to pick up my watch and put it in their pocket. I wondered what they would think when they looked on the back of it and saw the tiny Christmas tree sticker.

My arm has felt lighter ever since, and my heart conversely heavier. I could go out and buy the same watch today, but it wouldn't mean anything. It was a gift. It was a private symbol of my child's innocence. It meant something to me.

I remember a time in the north of France a couple of years ago when I was sitting beside an exceedingly wealthy man. We were both on laptops and both removed our watches to type. Later, we went to a bar and he realized he'd left his watch behind. He sprinted back to where he'd left it, likely because the watch cost more than I would make in four months. People value watches for different reason, I guess.

The past three months have marked some pretty odd changes in my behavior and personality. Perhaps the most evident change is the length of time it takes me to lose patience for something. For as long as I can remember, I have been the most patient person I know. It took a lot to rattle me. It took a great deal more to make me mad. Recently, the smallest of things have sent me down a path to such insane tilt, I barely know myself. If I'm being honest, it's pretty fucking scary.

I've worked pretty hard to attribute the personality change to something specific. I've looked at my lifestyle, my family, my job, my finances...everything that can affect one's personality. While every one of those areas has seen need for improvement in one way or another, I can't really lay the blame on any one of those things. Even putting them all together leaves me wanting for that one vital missing link to explain what's messing with my head.

Yesterday, as I steamed about the lost/stolen watch and elbowed my way through downtown to our favorite little Mexican joint, I couldn't put my finger on it. It took until just a few minutes ago for me to finally admit it to myself.

I'm scared.

I've spent the past decade putting my all into my job. Although I've had better jobs than most people I know, living a life that is defined by your profession has its drawbacks. What's more, I think a great deal of my purported passion for my jobs has been a way to hide my fear of actually trying to...well, okay...be what my friend Wil calls a capital "W" Writer. There. I said it. Again.

I think I have determined that I'm letting time fly by as fast as I can because I'm afraid if I slow down, I'll realize how little I am actually doing. This afternoon, I watched my kid (just two and half years old) put on an entire play with a couple of dump trucks. There was a plot and everything. It was improv. The kid breaks my heart and I can barely write about him without tearing up.

My wife and I have occasional discussions about how we're becoming more summer than spring chickens. Ten years ago, we had our lives ahead of us and could afford to be bohemian and lazy. Now, it feels like each month slips away a little bit faster. We've managed to succeed on a lot of fronts. We're financially comfortable. We have a beautiful son, a home, a dog, two cars, and very little debt. It is the American Dream...which we managed to accomplish in spite of ourselves.

As much as I want to be mad at whoever is wearing my watch today, I can't help but accept the blame for leaving it sitting there to be stolen. I was trying to balance my obligations to work and family and failing miserably at both. Sometimes I get so caught up in trying to make sure I am doing what I am supposed to do that I leave some of the important things behind.

Acceptance, I'm told, is the first step.

Labels: Aging, Marriage, Parenting

Of life's two certainties, I faced one head-on this week.

"You had a good year," Billie said to me from across her desk.

"I'm not going to complain," I said. "Of course, this year likely won't be nearly so good."

She looked at me with a look akin to how a dog looks at a squirrel wearing a marching band outfit. The look said, unequivocally, "Huh?"

I started trying to explain the ups and downs of life and finances in my world. About two sentences in, I could see she drifted off to how much work she had to do before the March 15 corporate filing deadline. I shut up and wondered if I had time to get my hair cut.

As we finished up, I asked her about a couple of itemized places on my personal return.

"That's the child tax credit," she said. "I wonder why it's only $50?"

I wondered the same. Fifty bucks? I feed, clothe, pre-school, and provide healthy play experiences for my son, and the government is only crediting me fifty dollars for my efforts and money spent? Has the IRS ever purchased diapers? Better yet, has the IRS ever changed a diaper? I should get a $1000 credit just for that.

"Ah, yes," she said. "You don't qualify for the full amount."

She pointed in eight different directions, at some flow charts, pictographs, and some sort of Nordic runes to explain how I wasn't eligible for the $1,000 child tax credit.

"Well," I said. I composed myself. "Well, at least I'll have the deduction for my health insurance."

A little more than a year ago, when the wife came home to play police woman to my kid's Babyface Nelson, we lost our Big Time Corporate Health Insurance. While never great insurance, it was always there.

"Well, sure," Billie said. She sounded like I did the other night when I tried to convince my son that one green blanket was as good as the other and that he could go to sleep while his favorite was in the dryer. [Note to Cincinnati Sara: Your gift to my boy is one of his most prized possessions.]

A few clicks on the keyboard and Billie looked at me and shook her head. Despite the fact I spend $600 a month on health insurance for my family, I don't meet the minimum threshold for deducting the cost.

So, I'm not allowed to take the tax credit for my kid and I don't get the deduction for having insurance to keep my him in doctor's visits and cough medicine.

Remind me to find a candidate who is in favor of tax reform.

***

In other news, I got my hair cut on the same day. As I sat under the scissors, I occupied myself by looking at the posters on the wall (anything to avoid looking in the mirror at the stylist's bulging crotch on my shoulder). One of the marketing posters was of a blonde woman in what was surely anticipatory glee. You could see behind her, out of focus, a man with a sly look on his face. My eyes were drawn to the woman's unique belt. It was orange and didn't go through the belt loops of her tight jeans. I looked closer. Then I looked at her hands. She was holding two large alligator clamps.

Jumper cables. The woman was tied up in jumper cables.

"That woman is tied up in jumper cables," I said, eyes in line with the crotch.

"Hmmm," my stylist said. "Most people just say they like her hair."

I come from the Midwest, where the vernacular usually calls for a person with a dead battery to inquire, "Can you give me a jump?" Growing up, that never seemed dirty. However, when I moved to the South ten years ago, I started hearing a new phrase.

"Can you jump me off?"

Now, sitting in a franchise hair cuttery populated by crotch-shoulder massagers, I felt like this message was less than subliminal. And I swear on all that's holy, the caption on the jumper cable S&M poster read: Lifestyles.

***

I was up late last night. From 8pm until around 3am, I had one of those periods in which everything...just...worked. Every decision I made was the right one. Every risk I took paid off. I didn't use luck when I didn't need it. In return, luck rewarded me by showing up when I was, indeed, in need. The result was being able to go to bed with a foreign sense of calm and accomplishment. I feel asleep much faster than normal.

***

Finally, some pimping:

My wife is on a roll over at her blog.

A good friend of mine recently started blogging. One of his recent posts touched me. Check it out.

Absinthe, my boy in the 'wood (did I just type that?), is in the final stages of baby-waiting. He's also enduring one of the ugliest realities of baby-prep. Check him out at Absinthetics.

Pauly publishes a monthly online literary mag based largely on people's travels, either around the world or around life. The March issue of Truckin' features some hella writers.

The Friday Mental Massage is a brain dump. Herein, you'll find no attempt at what some people call "writing." Of course, some people would say they don't normally find capital "W" writing here, anyway.

Labels: Advertising, Mental Massage, Parenting, Pimping, Taxes

Childproofing your home to protect your kid from the dangers of normal life is a lot like buying insurance. You spend a lot of money and a lot of worry to protect yourself against something that stands a pretty small chance of causing problems. In the first two years of my kid's life, we covered up all the electrical outlets, covered the sharp corners of tables with ugly foam product, blocked entryways with high-dollar baby gates, and attached hard-to-manage plastic contraptions to every cabinet. This was all before my kid could move more than two feet without benefit of an adult.

These days, now a full 30 months into his life, the babyproofing is actually now a little more useful. The kid likes to explore. The babyproofing does a little bit of good, because he's pretty smart and can get into about whatever he wants unless we've locked it. That noted, we had not yet babyproofed the fridge. And the kid loves him some cold stuff.

A couple of weeks ago, I picked up a babyproofing device for the fridge. It's a smart little device that is easy to attach to any fridge. Earlier tonight, I heard the kid grunting as he struggled to get what he wanted. Mission accomplished.

The byproduct of this mission is probably going to make me a much healthier person. As many of you might, I keep my cold ones in a cold place. Tonight, after a couple, I went back for a third and found myself struggling to open the door. It was only after ten seconds that I realized I had to undo the alcohol-proofing device.

Mission accomplished, apparently.

Labels: Parenting

It took fighting brain-splitting traffic, holiday shoppers, a tree salesman with a remedial knowledge of simple machinery, and a new-fangled Christmas tree stand, but by the end of the day, it was, of course, quite worth it.

Because, the kid says, "Oh, wow, Dad. Look."

Labels: Family, Parenting