Save the Empire

The Dog Ate It

2010-12-01T19:37:00.000-08:00

So Molly has homework. By which I mean, of course, that *I* have homework. A sorry state of affairs for a man so recently freed from the shackles of grad school, but a situation utterly and completely of my own devising, I regret to say.

How, you may ask, does a 2-year-old have homework? What possible purpose could that serve? Ah, there's the rub- the correct answer is "probably zero." And yet, fool that I am, I got caught up in the excitement of parent-teacher night at preschool. I believed my toddler's teachers when they said that this homework program (one assignment per week) was strongly believed to aid in child development.

Okay, that's not fair. It may actually help them when done properly; I certainly don't think it's a huge game changer, but fair enough, it might have some impact on overall development. What I completely failed to take into account was that Molly and I are not together at any times of the day conducive to us doing homework "together." I get her ready in the morning, when we're scrambling to get her (and occasionally me) fed, as well as dressed and out the door. Not exactly prime homework time. Then I work late hours and don't get home until less than an hour before Molly's bedtime, at which point she's either mid-bath or snuggling with mommy on the couch. And it's not like Ann's going to take on the responsibility of doing it with Molly during the early evenings when I'm not there, nor should she have to. She finds the whole thing ridiculous and made it clear that if homework is being done, it's my responsibility. I can't say I blame her, and she didn't sign up for it, I did, so it's not fair to pass the buck. Nonetheless, this means that Molly and I have essentially no homework time together, so usually the first time she sees the construction paper house or turkey or whatever the heck we were supposed to work on together that week is the morning when we're turning it in. Probably not what they had in mind.

Is that my lot in life? Am I going to be the parent who writes his kid's papers for her because dammit, it'll be better and sound more professional if daddy just does it himself, why don't you go help your mother? Is that my destiny? I say thee nay! Preschool is one thing -- I signed up for this weirdness, so I have to see it through. But once the homework is real and mandatory? That kid is on her own. Sink or swim, honey.

Vast Tracts of Land

2010-10-13T05:10:00.000-07:00

[I'd like to warn everyone in advance that today's entry will cover slightly different ground than our usual subject matter. We here at Save the Empire have no desire to titillate, but all the same, our readers of more delicate sensibilities may wish to skip this entry and come back next month when I make another post.]

So it's come to my attention recently that Katy Perry has grown powerful in the ways of the boob. I realize that for most of you this will not be a revelation, but I don't often listen to modern music and, you know, I'm not some creeper who goes around leering at up-and-coming young celebrities. Unlike some people I could name.

Monster.

That being said, the phenomenon has reached the point where even I can no longer ignore it. It began with the infamous Sesame Street banning, followed soon after by that hilarious SNL skit:

(Apologies, the unedited segment has been yanked from YouTube.)

But the true danger, my friends, is that Katy Perry has mastered the art of misdirection. Sun Tzu himself would be impressed by her ability to sucker in a potentially hostile force and, siryn like, lure them to their doom. Case in point: a recent Entertainment Weekly cover where Ms. Perry is featured prominently. What initially captures the eye is her neon blue razzleberry smurf wig, bright enough to draw one's gaze from across the room. But once attention has been acquired, the boobs function as a powerful tractor beam, drawing in the hapless victim until the next thing he knows it's 1 AM and his wife is yelling at him to stop standing in the middle of the kitchen and go to sleep, dammit. This is powerful stuff, people, not to be wielded by the immature or uninitiated. The U.S. government knew enough to seal the Ark of the Covenant away at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark, but does the blooming young star possess similar wisdom and restraint? I have my doubts. Yet arguably both weapons are equally dangerous when stared directly at without protection.

Powerful enough to melt Nazis' faces off

Ultimately, avoidance seems like the best policy. I'd turn the magazine over or move it to a less central area of the house, but I can't risk passing within that pulchritudinous gorgon's sphere of influence for fear of turning to stone. (Er, metaphorically speaking.) The best option may simply be to avoid setting foot in the kitchen for a while until the Entertainment Weekly gets covered by a layer of newer mail, then disposing of it when its arsenal is veiled. Not a pretty victory, but it'll get the job done.

Hopefully it's not rough and bumpy

2010-09-19T19:40:00.000-07:00

So my in-laws came over yesterday. While to some people this would be cause for concern, my in-laws are genuinely great and we love having them over. This particular visit, they brought boxes full of old toys. My mother-in-law used to teach young children, I think kindergarteners, so she has lots of old supplies that she's now passing on to us for Molly and second kid. I go to the back of their SUV, grab a box, take a step toward the house... do a double take, and look back inside the trunk at the box labeled, exactly as written, "ASS WOOD BLOCKS". I ask my father-in-law if there's something I should know; he looks, chuckles and tells me I'll have to ask his wife. So we bring the box inside, I set it down and turn to my mother-in-law and say, "Do you mind my asking what that first word means?" She looks at me blankly and replies, "'Assorted.' Why?"

Oh, to be that innocent. So if anyone needs blocks made of rare wood taken from the fabled ass tree, we've got you covered.

#%*$&!

2010-09-06T19:07:00.000-07:00

I'm sure this is something most parents encounter when their kids are just learning to speak, but it seems like Molly has really been working blue lately with an excessive number of accidental swears. Some of it's fairly subtle -- when she says "sit," she adds a bit of an "h" sound after the "s" -- but others are just front and center, like her fascination with clocks combined with her tendency to leave out one of the letters that is not "c," "o" or "k." Yyyyeeeaaahhh... try not getting embarrassed over that one when you're out in public and the child sees a clock on the wall. Then just the other day, we were driving to my parents' house when out of the backseat comes this tiny, exuberant little "fuka!", repeated at length. We still can't even guess what Molly's trying to say there (I know what you're thinking, but we're pretty careful about not swearing in front of her), but if you'd been driving alongside us at that moment, you would have seen two adults shaking uncontrollably while trying to bite back laughter, because you can't reinforce that exclamation. At the same time, though... fuka!

Put me in, coach, I'm ready to play

2010-09-01T21:14:00.000-07:00

I never used to follow baseball -- I've always liked playing baseball, I just never had much use for watching other people play it -- but I started to get into it when the Phils almost won the World Series on the day Molly was born. Ann and I were in her recovery room and the initial adrenaline rush of "holy balls we're parents now, in two days this thing is entirely dependent on us" had worn off, leaving us tired but not wanting to sleep just yet. We turned on the TV and the Series happened to be on, so we watched while Molly slept in Ann's arms. That was Game 5, the one that would have clinched the Series for the Phils if not for the snow/sleet conditions leading to the game being postponed. The Phils would go on to win 2 days later, and that started a slow-burning increase in interest with me. It wasn't until almost a year later, when the Phils were again in the NLCS playoffs, that I would really starting watching, but this season I've watched almost every game. I'm a newbie, but I'm getting there.

Regardless, because I've been following the Phils and baseball in general closely this year, I heard a lot about the Roy Oswalt trade when it happened. And what I kept hearing from every news source was that on the surface, it seemed like an absolute coup for the Phils, who were getting a great pitcher for almost nothing. But the lone holdouts brought up how Oswalt wasn't young anymore, how he was getting on toward the end of his career, and how it was unclear how long he'd be able to remain competitive. Thankfully so far that hasn't proven to be the case, but those comments stuck with me...

...all the way up until 2 days ago, when I learned that Roy Oswalt just celebrated his 33rd birthday. I don't know why, but I think I had assumed he was in his late 30s/early 40s, almost a Jamie Moyer-type who gets credit just for still being in the game. But no: Roy Oswalt is almost 3 years to the day older than me, and the big question on everyone's mind was how long he could last before his body basically fell apart on him.

I realize professional sports are different and they tax a body something fierce, I know how gymnasts are considered washed-up by the time they're 19 or so, but that was NOT a good realization to have, let me tell you. And Roy Oswalt, let me tell you something too: you are NOT old, my friend, and you are going to prove it by continuing to kick ass through September and (hopefully) into the postseason. And once the playoffs are finally over, if you decide you want to do an Ironman, that will be fine too. You get 'em, man. Welcome to Philly.

Kid Korner

2010-08-26T16:49:00.000-07:00

A few random Molly notes, just in case anyone was worried I traded her for a handful of magic beans:

-She has learned to give raspberries. Never proactively; but if I give her one while carrying her, she'll giggle, then contort her little body in a way I would snap my spine if I tried, lift up my shirt like we're coeds at spring break, put her little lips on daddy's belly, and give the tiniest little "pffft." I realize words can't adequately convey the massive degrees of cuteness this entails, but just picture the most adorable thing you've ever seen, then double it. Not even close.

-Molly knows almost all of her colors, in the sense that she can say and repeat their names. But I'm a little worried she's color blind, because every color you point to is "pink." Observe:

"Molly, what color is this?"
"Pink!"
"No, silly, that's red! Can you say 'red'?"
"Reh!"
"Very good! And what color is this?"
"Pink!"
"Noooo, it's blue! Can you say 'blue'?"
"Boo!"
"Good! And this color?"
"Pink!"
"Yes. Yes it is. Thank God. And what's this color over here?"
"Pink!"
"....."

Then again, before pink every color was yellow, so maybe she's just working her way through the spectrum. One can hope.

-On a related note, Molly is also learning her shapes. Thus far she knows circle, oval, diamond, and... octagon. Or occagon, as the case may be. She's also getting "trapezoid." Oh, that's right. My child does not know "triangle" or "square," but she knows "octagon" and almost "trapezoid." We breed 'em advanced in this family.

-Not that her appearance left any doubt -- the child looks identical to myself and my sister from old baby pictures -- but a paternity test will not be required at any point. The reason is that Molly is a born reader. Most of the time she'll bring a book over, plop herself down in your lap, and settle in for story time. But every so often she'll just take a book off by herself, sit down, and start quietly leafing through it. And when she was starting to get clingy at bedtime whenever we left the room, what was the solution? Put a few books in her crib. Problem solved. In another couple of years she'll be sneaking a flashlight to bed so she can read after bedtime. She is her daddy's daughter all right.

"Whosoever twists this cap, if he be worthy..."

2010-08-17T22:16:00.000-07:00

Ann's been drinking a lot of G2 lately, and we've both noticed an interesting phenomenon: some of the bottles are pretty hard to open. I'm no weakling, but it definitely takes me more than the usual amount of effort to twist off the cap so that Ann can enjoy her artificial fruity goodness. (Did I mention we're expecting our second child and Ann can't drink anything with caffeine in it? No? Uh, well, we are and she can't.) We've decided it's kind of a Sword in the Stone-esque challenge on Gatorade's part to weed out people who really don't deserve to drink it. Can't get the top off? Clearly you're not athletic enough to be drinking our product in the first place... kindly replace the bottle immediately and go find some chocolate milk or something, fatass. I guess it's kind of working -- if nothing else, it's convinced me that it's time to start exercising regularly again. I refuse to bend my will to that of any non-carbonated electrolyte-laden beverage.

Little Orphan Annie

2010-06-27T22:01:00.000-07:00

So if you weren't aware, and odds are you weren't, the comic strip Little Orphan Annie finally came to a halt last month. The strip dates back to 1924 and was apparently limping along in fewer than 20 newspapers when it was finally put out of its misery. (20 newspapers? There are personal ads that appear in more than 20 newspapers.) Ordinarily I wouldn't care -- while I'm a fan in general of classic comics like Popeye, Dick Tracy, Peanuts, Pogo, etc., I've never read any of Annie's adventures. But I decided to read the very last installment just for the heck of it, to see how the writer (a newer guy, the creator having died decades ago) went about ending an 86-year-old strip. And the answer is... he didn't. Literally, the strip just stops mid-storyline. From what I can tell, Annie's gotten herself kidnapped by some terrorist who can't decide what to do with her, and Daddy Warbucks' servants are whispering that he's resigned himself to never seeing Annie again. After that, there's a single panel of text telling readers "And this is where we leave our Annie. For now--"

Which, what?! "For now"? You can get away with that crap if there's a decent chance the story actually WILL be continued somewhere. 24 didn't give us any real closure in its series finale, but that's because they were pretty sure they were going to get a movie deal. Veronica Mars did gave us an ending -- not a cheery one, but an ending -- because they knew it wasn't likely they were coming back. But Little Orphan Annie? From what I can tell, there is zero talk of bringing it back as a comic strip anytime soon. Why would there be? -- it's already shown it can't sustain profitability, and it's not like it was a critical darling that had a short but memorable run... this is a strip that ran for the better part of a century and whose best days are long, long behind it. Yes, there's talk of reviving the musical, but that's going to be its own story, its own continuity. If, IF they ever revived the comic strip (which probably wouldn't happen for years), it's pretty unlikely they'd give it back to the guy who -- fair or unfair -- showed he couldn't keep it going the first time around. And if IF they DID ask him to write it again, they'd want him to start fresh with a brand new storyline, not continue an old one that a grand total of 18 people were reading when it ended. (Yes, I know it was in 20 newspapers, but I assume many of those were just used for lining birdcages and making paper mache hats and so on.)

So, seriously -- what the hell, man? Don't tell me he didn't have time to wrap up the story. No. One, when your strip is that unpopular near the end, you have to see the writing on the wall. And two, even if they only gave him a couple of weeks' notice (which I doubt), that's still enough time to wrap up a storyline. Do you have to cut some corners? Sure. Will you get to include everything you wanted? No. Tough shit, it's your job. You're the sole designated writer of a once beloved character who, recent obscurity notwithstanding, has earned a place in the history books. You owe it to the few remaining readers to give the story, and the character, some closure. You want to go traditional, have a deus ex machina rescue and return Annie home just in time to hug Daddy Warbucks and Sandy, look at the readers, and thank them for a wonderful 86 years. Too cheesy? You want to go all St. Elsewhere? Fine- Annie wakes up and realizes her entire 86 years of adventures were all a dream, she's still stuck in an orphanage. Dark, but it's an ending. Y'know what's not an ending? "And this is where we leave our Annie. For now--"

Is this a stupid thing to complain about? Sure. But that doesn't change the fact that this guy seriously dropped the ball. Maybe he was just pissed at the strip ending, and this was a last little "eff you" to the people who made the decision to pull the plug. But if so, he drastically missed his target. Those guys, whoever they are, don't care. The only people this hurt were the fans, few though they may number. I'm not one of them, but on their behalf, I'm a little peeved. So screw you, Annie guy. I wouldn't hire you to write Marmaduke. (Maybe Family Circus.) Let's hope you never have to write a will, you'll end it, "I, being of sound mind and body, do hereby bequeath all of my worldly possessions to... no one. For now."

And if I'm wrong and there are definitive plans to revive Annie and continue this story in the near future? Well, I'll be astonished, but I'll take it all back. You'll forgive me if I don't hold my breath.

This and that

2010-06-22T18:55:00.000-07:00

I know, it's been less than a month since my last entry... what *am* I thinking? Not much, as usual, just wanted to share two quick tidbits:

1) A couple days before Father's Day, I went to Best Buy to look for the new Lewis Black DVD for my dad. Lewis Black is my dad's reigning favorite comedian, a fact I take no small amount of pride in since I was the one to first introduce him to the curmudgeonly comic. Not finding it on the shelf, I track down a random store monkey and ask if he can check their computer system for it. As we walk, he asks what I'm looking for, so I tell him it's the new Lewis Black DVD. He replies, "Oh, yeah... I don't think he's very funny." At my noncommittal grunt, he goes on to say, "I saw one of his specials on TV once, and yeah, I don't know, just didn't think much of it." To which I didn't say anything but thought, really dude? I know you don't work on commission and thus don't care if I buy anything or not, but still... really? I hadn't told him it was for my father, so for all he knew he was badmouthing something I planned to buy for myself. You don't have to lie and say you love Lewis Black, just don't say anything. I actually walked away glad they didn't have it, even though it meant another trip, because after that I didn't want to buy it there anyway. I'm probably overreacting, but come on, man. There's a reason your immediate supervisor is five years younger than you and eats his own skin.

2) My own service-related anecdote: the other day I was speaking with a client, giving him feedback on why he shouldn't hire a candidate for a sales job. When I explained that the guy wouldn't have a lot of follow-through after making an initial pitch, you could practically hear the nod through the phone as he said, "I get ya. You're saying he's the guy who, if his wife says she has a headache, will just shrug his shoulders and give up instead of crackin' open a bottle of wine and trying to get somethin' going anyway."

I tell you, sometimes my customers annoy the piss out of me, but God help me, there are times I really love 'em. ;)

D-Day

2010-06-01T19:34:00.000-07:00

I know. I can't believe it's been 2 1/2 months since my last post either. Honest to God, I looked at the date and thought, "No, that's wrong... my last post was at the end of April, not March." I actually kind of still think that (March?), but in the interest of not arguing with a computer program, let's not force the issue. Unfortunately, this isn't going to be much of an entry either. Shh, shh... it's okay. Let it all out. Tissues?

That's a dear. Right, I won't offer any false promises because clearly I cannot be trusted, but I will say that we're officially moved into the new house, I only have ten weeks left of grad school forever, and as soon as I get caught back up at MRFH, well, let's not get ahead of ourselves, but hopefully there will be more free time to be had. I know, empty words, but we'll see. But that's not why I've blown the dust off my keyboard to regale you tonight. No, this is actually a serious occasion. You see, today marks the one-year anniversary of the day I was laid off.

I won't go into any great detail, one because that's not what I feel like writing about, and two because thankfully that's all in the past and had a happy ending. I was incredibly lucky enough to be rehired very soon after, being out of work for under a month, so I have far, far less to complain about than many. Without my reemployment we certainly wouldn't have bought this house, so that short period of fear and uncertainty notwithstanding, our family has been very fortunate indeed. No tears or gnashing of teeth needed on my behalf, thanks.

However... that said, it was still something that came completely out of the blue (we were on vacation for God's sake, they actually called my cell on my last day of vacation to tell me the bad news), and for that brief period of time, it was incredibly scary. I'm not bitter and I've never been good at holding grudges, and Lord knows there are many people who were laid off before me and are still out of work now, so this is neither a complaint nor a plea for sympathy. If all I walked away with was a slightly bruised ego, well, that's a hell of a lot better than most, y'know? I guess I just needed someplace to mark the occasion, and since a lot of my coworkers are on Facebook, that wasn't exactly an option. (That'd be a fun entry though, wouldn't it? Status: ...turned off his cell phone all day and is afraid to check his voicemail. Or: ...is doing a lot better than this time last year, thanks for asking!) So instead, I forced you all to sit through an incoherent musing about something that only affected three people, didn't affect them for long, and is entirely in the past. Sorry about that.

Anyway, that's enough for now; back to the books, don't ya know. Because that's the joy of being a former proofreader in a group with one other native-born English speaker, three nice but only marginally fluent in English Chinese exchange students, and one Hungarian transplant- your editing services are always in demand. Hey, maybe that's a fall-back career...

Movin' Out

2010-03-17T05:08:00.001-07:00

Yet again, gentle readers, I come before you with hat humbly in hand, begging your forgiveness for the month-long drought between posts. If nothing else, take comfort that for once there's a good reason for my absence, beyond just Resident Evil 5 really needing to get beat or whatever. Ann and I recently had our bid accepted on a house, to which we will be moving at the beginning of next month. It's a source of great excitement for us, as you might imagine, but also more than a little stress due to the need to pack up, you know, every damn thing we own. As you might expect if you know us, we have entirely different styles of going about this packing. It will shock you to learn that I have a tendency to procrastinate on packing -- more than once in college my parents and sister found themselves helping me box stuff up on move-out day because I assumed I'd have enough time to put everything I owned into boxes in the two hours between waking up and when they got there. Not... so much. Fortunately I largely learned my lesson those first two years and have gotten much better about it since.

However, Ann comes down on the opposite end of the spectrum- we're still three weeks away from closing and it'll be even longer than that before we start moving most of the stuff, but she's already stressed that we've fallen behind. (We have not, I'm happy to report.) This has led to some, er, fun exchanges. My favorite is the most recent one, wherein she asked me when I would finish packing the last books from my bookshelves. Now, the shelves were about 98% empty at that time; the only things not packed were those books I thought I might conceivably want to read between now and then. Which I explained to Ann, prompting her to exasperatedly ask, "Can't you just go for three weeks without reading something?"

Now, perhaps you are not like me, friends. Perhaps that seems like a reasonable request to you. Perhaps right now you're thinking, "Yeah, Drew, geez... three weeks, big deal. You owe her that much. Slacker." If so, we are very different people. I'm a voracious reader (and trust me, that's as much a liability as a point of pride), and the thought of going three days without having something to read is enough to instill a sense of nigh panic in me. Three weeks? Is she serious? It turns out she was, at which point I formulated the compromise of packing my last few books in an open box and not taping it closed, that I might access them at will in the days to come. I think that solution met with Ann's approval -- the shelves are clear, after all -- but seriously, three weeks? You people only know me through the internet and you knew that wasn't going to fly. It's like she forgets who she married sometimes.

As one final addendum to my last post, allow me to offer that my quandary is over: from now on it's just a $2 tip, no guilt felt. Why, you may ask? For the simple reason that the Hair Cuttery raised their rates yet again, only a couple of years after the last time I recall them doing so. Cuts are now $15, and if you think I'm paying $18 just for someone to run a set of clippers over my head, you are crap-your-pants crazy, my friend. I do feel bad for the actual hair cutters -- I know it's not their fault their employer decided to up the price, and I sincerely hope at least some of that money is reflected in their salaries -- but if the price is going up by two bucks, my tip is not increasing to match it. Sorry, them's the breaks.

Gimme a head with hair

2010-03-12T19:56:00.001-08:00

If I can take a step back from the weighty topics we usually cover here at Save the Empire, there's a completely minor issue that nonetheless has been niggling at me for the better part of a decade. It's a question, really: how much should I tip the person who cuts my hair?

Perhaps some background is in order. Through grade school, middle school, and early high school I wore my hair in the style classically known as "dork short." Being who I am, naturally I had short hair in the one stage of life where you can really get away with long hair. Nonetheless, sophomore year came and for reasons I can't remember, I decided to grow it longer. Even that wasn't especially long, being what most people would probably consider normal, at least until senior year. But oh, senior year I let it get even longer, and then in the summer before college I committed the cardinal sin of continuing to let it grow.

Now, I know some people look good with long hair. Some people look great with long hair. I am not one of those people. My hair is blond and thin, and the back always seems to grow faster than the front so I invariably wind up with a mullet. Which is exactly what I rocked for three of my four years in college: a mini-mullet. It wasn't a full, Billy Ray Cyrus-esque rat tail in all its glory, but still... it didn't look good. I thought it did, of course, because I was in my introspective, soul-searching phase where I was spending entirely too many walks to class mulling over my place in the universe. I think my naive belief was that girls would subconsciously pick up on the tragic, romantic soul hidden behind my deep blue eyes and want to reach out to the long-haired loner they sensed within. And maybe that kind of Twilight crap works for philosophy majors reading poetry in coffee shops all day, but what I idiotically failed to consider was that I was an athlete, and I hung around with my fellow athletes almost exclusively. Now, this was a swim team, not a football team, and these were among the most intelligent, non-meathead athletes you've ever met -- very much not the insensitive jock stereotype -- but they still were about as far removed from the introspective loner mentality as it was possible to be. Who had time to hang out in coffee shops when you had practice in an hour? Despite all that, I kept my hair long until senior year, when I finally shaved my head for a major swim meet. Purely coincidentally, I'm sure, the second half of senior year was also when I started dating my only real college girlfriend and kicked off my longest sustained dating streak (defined for our purposes as not going longer than a month or two without a date/girlfriend) until meeting Ann.

But it was also early senior year when a friend asked me how much I tipped the person who had just cut my hair, and when I answered two dollars, he replied "Ah, you cheaped out." That gave me pause, and in retrospect he was right- I should've given three, since that was a time when cutting my hair still required some effort. But pretty much ever since the end of senior year, I've kept my hair short. Ann prefers it that way and it's easier for me, and I finally made the hockey haircut/you look unappealing connection, so it's just best for everyone. However, it's also led me to give serious thought to the tipping issue again, for the simple reason that my hair is now the easiest thing in the world to cut. They just use the electric clippers, setting "3" on the top and back of my head and "2" on the sides. I don't have them wash my hair, so they just run the clippers over my dome a few times, trim up the sideburns, and that's it. I have literally had haircuts that took less than five minutes, and going much over ten is a rare occurrence. (Except for that one woman who insisted on trimming my eyebrows, but she was weird.) In most ways this is good for everyone: I don't have to waste much time or make idle small talk for very long, and the haircutter certainly doesn't have to work very hard. But I go to the Hair Cuttery, whose price is $13 a cut. That makes it really tempting for me to just fork over $15, say "Keep the change," and go on my merry way. And I guess technically, that is a pretty crappy tip... $2 out of $13 is, I think, less than 15%. But on the other hand, am I really obligated to tip extravagantly on the easiest haircut they've ever given? When I go out to a fancy restaurant, I tip and tip well, but I don't give a little something extra to the guy who hands me my food at Wendy's, y'know?

So that's my situation. Some visits I tip $2, sometimes $3 if I danced the night before and have singles to spare, but I've never really come to a consensus. If anyone wants to weigh in on this admittedly pathetic dilemma, phone lines are open, call now.

Chocotastic

2010-01-27T19:10:00.000-08:00

Molly had her 15-month checkup at the pediatrician today. Aside from the usual (tensing up as soon as she got in the exam room, crying hysterically when she got her shots, forgetting it all when she saw the funhouse mirror at the front desk), we expressed concern to the doctor that she's the same weight she was at 12 months even though she's grown half an inch. The doctor wasn't overly concerned but suggested that we try sneaking extra calories into all of her meals in any way possible; meaning, in essence, we have to do the exact opposite for Molly of what we try to do with all of our own meals. To accomplish this, the doc advised us to "get creative." Naturally, like all good-hearted people, I immediately thought of the immortal words of Dr. Nick:

Dr. Nick: "Now there are many options available for dangerously underweighted individuals like yourself. I recommend a slow, steady gorging process combined with assal horizontology."
Homer: "Of course."
Nick: "You'll want to focus on the neglected food groups such as the whipped group, the congealed group and the chocotastic!"
Homer: "What can I do to speed the whole thing up, Doctor?"
Nick: "Well, be creative. Instead of making sandwiches with bread, use pop tarts. Instead of chewing gum, chew bacon."
Bart: "You could brush your teeth with milkshakes!"
Nick: "Hey, did you go to Hollywood Upstairs Medical College too? And remember, if you're not sure about something, rub it against a piece of paper. If the paper turns clear, it's your window to weight gain!"

Bye, everybody!

Tradition

2010-01-21T17:20:00.000-08:00

So instead of me making some longwinded apology, can we just taken it as given that I meant to post a lot sooner, got caught up in a video game, and would still in fact be playing if my Xbox 360 hadn't broken? Yes? Good.

With that out of the way, I have to tell you all (both?) about perhaps the most cherished Christmas tradition in our family. It's relatively new... in fact, it's only been going on for two years, but I have every confidence that it will grow into the hallowed observance it deserves to be. Every year Ann and I wake up, get Molly up and fed, exchange our gifts, then drive over to my parents' house, where we open gifts with them and my sister. Afterward we have brunch, and then in our pancake-induced food comas, we lounge around on couches the rest of the day, watching whatever movies people got for Christmas. Now that my sister and I are older, our parents no longer feel obligated to buy us only G- and PG-rated movies, and thus every year you can count on either my sister or my father to receive at least one of the Farrelly/Apatow/Frat Pack gross-out comedies from the preceding year. All well and good, but where any normal family would have the good sense to save those films to watch when they're alone or with friends, my family does not possess this capacity for self-regulation. So it came to pass that last year, my darling sister suggested we all watch her new DVD Forgetting Sarah Marshall; and when Ann and I, neither of whom had seen it (see: new parents) quietly asked whether it would be awkward to watch with Mom and Dad, were assured that no, it really wasn't that bad. And thus we were treated to Jason Segal's penis, Mila Kunis' bewbs (not complaining, but hard to properly appreciate in front of Mom), lots of sex moaning, and a pretty darn realistic simulation of a BJ. I think Ann got off a little easier, since at least they were just her in-laws rather than her actual parents, but oh, how reminiscent it was of an episode of The Office.

Naturally, this year Ann and I were on red alert, not least because in addition to my parents and sister, we also had my grandfather and great-uncle visiting for the holidays. So when BOTH my sister and Dad opened copies of The Hangover, my heart sank. This time even my sister seemed hesitant, but Dad was committed to watching it (with his dad sitting in the room... go figure), so my sis assured us that as long as we stopped right before the end credits, it would be okay. And that's how we saw Heather Graham's bewb (singular), bare-ass male buttcheeks, and arguably even more swearing and sex talk than last year. I know I'm not in grade school anymore, but if you think you'd be comfortable sitting in a living room with your Grandpa, a great-grandfather, and hearing about how someone's girlfriend got fucked by a waiter on a cruise ship but it's okay because he didn't come inside her, well... you have less shame than I, my friend.

So that's apparently our new family tradition! I'm super stoked, as you might expect. I literally can't wait until next year, when I can only imagine someone will get a copy of 9 1/2 Weeks or Zack and Miri Make A Porno or something, assuming Jenna Jameson hasn't come out with anything new. If I'm really lucky, maybe someone will leak a sex tape of Lindsay Lohan or the like in the next eleven months and we can gather around the fire to watch that as a family. Some folks carol, others attend services... we watch really inappropriate, awkward movies together. It's the spirit of the season!

Auld Lang Syne

2009-12-31T21:33:00.000-08:00

Proper new post coming soon, I promise, but in the meantime: if I may bring out an old cliche, it's funny how quickly life changes, isn't it? Two years ago right now Ann and I were outside a bar in Washington D.C., trying to hail a cab after going out with one of Ann's college friends and her new boyfriend (now fiancee), on our last "young couple" vacation before trying to get pregnant. Tonight? I gave my 14-month-old daughter a bath, put her in her crib, watched "Julie & Julia" with Ann (don't revoke my man card), and sat quietly on the couch in front of my TV watching Dick Clark count down to the New Year. (And wincing when he missed a number. Poor guy.) That is... quite a change, but not one I regret in the slightest.

It's been a long, tough year, folks, but thanks for sticking with me. Here's to a brighter 2010!

Remember

2009-12-12T19:19:00.000-08:00

Let me first apologize in advance for going back on what I said last time; this won't be a funny post either, but I promise the next one will be appropriately immature. Before that, I just wanted to add a short addendum to my last entry. First, many many thank yous to everyone who offered their condolences to Ann and myself on Facebook. It was an extremely tough experience- I said on Facebook that we lost a good friend, but that undervalues Gizmo's status... for the last six years she was a member of our family, before Ann and I even knew we were going to end up a family. Despite myriad other things contributing to make this a bad week, chief among them painful ear infections for Molly and Ann, we are doing somewhat better now, thank you. I think what's surprised me most about the aftermath is how many little things remind me of Gizmo, even when I'm not consciously thinking of her. It's hard to walk into my den or in that general vicinity of the house, because while I rarely thought of it before, my ears subconsciously tune in, expecting to hear the clanging of metal as Giz scampers to the front of her cage to see if I'm coming to feed her. Now, the silence speaks volumes. The other day I noticed that I hadn't opened the front window shades on my way out in the morning, then realized with a pang that I didn't need to... there's no one to let natural light in for during the day. At class on Tuesday, I saw a stack of the student newspaper and resisted grabbing a handful, because there's no litter tray to line anymore. And that first night, Monday night, was the first time in the years we've lived in this house when I've been home but haven't fed her a handful of hay as my final action before going to bed. So many unexpected reminders. But in a way, I'm glad. Not for the pain... that I could live without. But for the memories. I mentioned last time that I wouldn't think of trading away all the joy Gizmo brought us if it meant we'd be spared the sorrow of the last few days. That remains the case, and the last thing I want to do is forget our bunny. True, the memories are still raw and difficult, and they may stay that way for a while. But I know that in the long term, what we'll remember will be the good times with her, and that's worth a little momentary sadness any day.

In Memory of Gizmo

2009-12-07T18:42:00.001-08:00

Hi, everyone. I apologize for the length of time since my last post, and I'll warn you right now that this is not going to be a light, cheery entry. If you'd like, feel free to skip it and wait until next time, when we'll go back to talking about bathrooms or whatever. I won't be offended, I promise. If you're still here, please bear with me, as it's been a very rough day and you'll have to forgive me if I'm not up to my usual standards. The thing is that we had to put our bunny Gizmo to sleep today.

Sorry. It was tough just writing that, and I'm sure it'll get easier over time, but right now it's still so raw. I don't have much experience with pets -- beyond some fish, we didn't have any through most of my childhood. My parents had gotten a cocker spaniel years before I was born, so I remember being seven or eight and having to say goodbye to him when he needed to be put down... I recall being sad, but I was also so young, and kids are pretty resilient. But since then, Gizmo is the first real pet I've had in my adult life, and my wife and I got her very early in our relationship; in many ways it feels like she's always been with us, an integral part of our life together. Now she's gone, and I'm finding it harder to deal with than I expected.

Ironically, we first got Gizmo in reaction to another death: Bender, the bunny I had purchased for Ann as a holiday present the first year we were dating. She was living in her own apartment and lonely, and I thought a companion would be good for her. Within just a few weeks, we learned the hard lesson of why it's a bad idea to purchase a very young rabbit from a pet store, as Bender died of an unknown illness. That in and of itself was very hard, and I remember Ann and I seriously discussing whether we wanted to try again. Eventually she decided that she was willing to try just once more, and so we contacted a rabbit breeder, who offered to sell us what we were assured was a friendly, outgoing mini lop. And that's how we met Gizmo.

From the very beginning, Giz made it clear that she was both eccentric and strong willed. On the ride back to Ann's apartment from the breeder's, I held her in a cat carrier in my lap, and every time Ann would turn the car, either to the right or the left, Gizmo would rotate a full 360 degrees clockwise. It never failed, it was like she was trying to reorient herself every single time. Cutest thing you ever saw. When we actually got the beast back to the apartment and let her settle in over the next few days, it became evident that "friendly" is all a matter of opinion. Like most rabbits, Gizmo hated to be held or picked up, and while she was never aggressive and didn't bite, she made it quite clear that she was in charge: you would either pet her and groom her and feed her treats on her terms, or you wouldn't do it at all. She liked to chew things as much as any rabbit who ever lived, a trait that led to a few gnawed DVD cases and at least one ruined phone charger before I wised up and started keeping a closer eye on her while she was out. This behavior earned her the affectionate nickname "The Monster," but thankfully Ann and I quickly learned our place in the relationship and everything was fine from then on. As long as you respected her need for personal space, gave her a chair or table to curl up under, and petted her when she was feeling sociable, she'd be happy to scamper along at your feet, make purring noises, and even occasionally do the "happy bunny jumps" that are the hallmark of a truly content rabbit.

And so the years went on: we moved into a townhouse together, giving her lots of room to run around, and eventually welcomed a new addition to our family. I'm sad to admit that over the last year, Giz did not get out of her cage quite as much as in the past. When you have a baby, there's so much random stuff on the floor to pick up before you can let a rabbit out because she'll chew on it all, and once Molly became mobile, the floor had to be scoured after every time Gizmo was out for stray poop pellets, lest Molly do what comes naturally to babies and make an immediate beeline toward anything gross she could put in her mouth. Still, I like to think she remained happy- she still liked to be petted and fed treats, although she was getting older and didn't run around quite as much as before. (She was a little over 6.5 years old; rabbits typically live 8-10 years.)

And then just over a week ago, Ann and I realized that Giz was leaving hay and pellets uneaten in her bowl after feedings, an unheard-of phenomenon. As we learned to our regret with Bender, the natural instinct of rabbits is to hide any signs of illness, because visibly sick animals in the wild are natural targets for predators. What Gizmo couldn't hide was the fact that on the right side of her face, her mouth was drawn up like she was having a permanent muscle spasm. Naturally we took her to the vet, who said he'd never seen that kind of spasming before; he confirmed that it wasn't a problem with her teeth or mouth and suggested that a tumor was a possibility, though he also thought the lack of eating might be due to a respiratory infection. He prescribed some antibiotics and told us to feed her a special critical care food through a syringe inserted into her mouth several times a day, to keep her weight up and hopefully kickstart her digestive system again. So we spent the better part of a week doing that, with several visits to the vet along the way. And at the end of that week, it became clear that the facial spasm wasn't lessening, she was still just barely eating (a couple of carrots, a little applesauce, pretty much none of her normal hay and pellets), and she absolutely couldn't stand the forced feedings, which necessitated wrapping her firmly in a towel (which she hates), holding her off the ground (which she hates), and essentially injecting food into her mouth, much of which she let drop out or didn't seem interested in eating. So Ann and I had to ask ourselves the tough question: was it worth it to continue force-feeding her multiple times every day, a process she loathed and that was not unstressful for us, in hopes of prolonging her life a little longer; or stop doing it, keep making food available and watch as she slowly starves to death; or listen to what she was telling us and let her move on.

So today we brought her to our scheduled vet appointment, knowing we were going to tell the vet that she'd shown no signs of renewed appetite over the weekend, and knowing what he was probably going to say. And indeed, after consulting with two other vets to be certain, he informed us that a tumor pressing on Gizmo's brain had moved to the top of his list in terms of what he thought was wrong with her, suppressing her appetite and causing her facial spasm. He was very kind and gentle in telling us that he thought putting her down was the best option, which I think is what we both expected and had planned for. But planning for it and living through it are two different things, and God, was it difficult. I'm so glad that we let her out of her cage so much this weekend, and that I took as many pictures and shot as much video as I could of her. I'm glad that, as Molly and I were leaving to go to daycare this morning, I impulsively encouraged her to wave "bye-bye" to her big sister Gizmo. (While we expected what the vet was going to say, Ann and I both kind of thought the actual process would take place a day or two later. In retrospect, I'm glad we didn't wait, because it would have made our remaining time with Giz seem like a countdown. As horrible as the whole ordeal was, it's better we got it over with today.) And as rough as it was, I'm glad that Ann and I stayed in the room, petting Giz and whispering to her while the vet put her to sleep for the last time. We both agree that we would have felt even worse if we weren't there with her at the end, reminding her of how much she was loved.

But oh, people, it was hard. Tears flowed freely, only some of which I can blame on my allergies. And while I can't really put it into words, Ann and I both independently felt that as soon as her poor little heart stopped beating, she actually ceased looking like Gizmo. All the little facial movements you don't even consciously notice, and her eyes... immediately after the end came, her eyes just stopped being her. It was clear that Gizmo wasn't in there anymore. And that was tough. We went home, moved her cage to the garage and cleaned her general area because it was painful to look at, and then took her unused food, litter, and toys to a nearby humane shelter, which helped a little. And now, several hours later, here I sit reflecting. I have so many mixed emotions about the whole thing. I'm sorry Molly won't have any real memories of Gizmo, but at the same time a part of me is glad that she's too young to really understand what happened, so she won't have to mourn. One of the things that makes it hard is that Gizmo was still undeniably herself, right up until the end. With the exception of not eating, her behavior was the same as always. I think if she had been clearly in pain or miserable (and I've seen her that way, like when she ate tissue paper once and got really, really constipated), it would have made our ultimate decision much easier; but as it was, even though my conscious mind knows it was the right thing to do, I can't help feeling like I failed her somehow. I know many people believe that animals kind of tell you when it's their time to go, and I do believe that that's what Gizmo was doing with her little hunger strike, but it doesn't make it any easier after the fact. This evening alone I've looked over at where her cage used to be several times, subconsciously expecting to see her there, and even while writing this I caught myself thinking, just for a split second in the back of my mind, that I should pause and let her out of her cage so she can run around while I'm writing. That was a harsh comeback to reality.

I've always said that I believe the death of Gizmo's predecessor Bender served a higher purpose, as the sheer depth of how horrible I felt for Ann made me realize how much I loved her. It's my fervent hope that Gizmo's passing serves a similarly lofty goal that's unknown to us right now. But even if it doesn't, I think her life most certainly did- she made Ann and I, neither of whom ever had a real pet growing up, realize how rewarding and loving they could be. And while Giz's death hurts terribly, and I expect will for some time to come, I still wouldn't trade it away if it meant I'd never have had the chance to spend six terrific years with her.

Goodbye, Gizmo. You were a stubborn, obstinate, wonderful, amazing rabbit whose impact on our lives was greater than I probably even know. We'll miss you more than we can say, and I'm sorry things ended the way they did. But thank you for being the best pet we could ever have asked for. We love you.

The Roads Not Taken

2009-11-22T19:01:00.000-08:00

Every so often I'm reminded of why I could never have ended up with any woman but my wife. And before I get any sidelong glances or angry emails, allow me to clarify: I never, ever forget how much I love my wife, or why she's the perfect woman for me. I can say with absolute honesty that I always remember why I married her. But occasionally it goes a step further, and I'm given a reminder of why it wouldn't have worked with any other woman I've ever known or dated. Of the latter category, some I'm ambivalent toward, but the majority I still like as friends and wish nothing but the best; but boy, would we not have had a future together. Whether they weren't bright enough (I'm not the smartest man alive, but if I have to continually dumb down the conversation, that's a problem), or we were just killing time till graduation, or the only reason they went out with me is because they were amused by my story about accidentally walking in on two Princeton alumni having sex in an empty office during Reunions... well, there's always a reason. I guess it's probably that way for everyone.

I'll give an example of what I mean. There's this woman at work, probably in her late 20's or so. I obviously have eyes for no one but my wife, but I have it on good authority from other men in the office that she could perhaps be described as quite attractive. I don't see it myself, but I suppose if tall, thin blondes with exotic accents, exceedingly... prominent attributes, and who teach aerobics classes at local gyms and colleges are your type, well, you just might be interested. (No lie, this is 100% true- I once happened to be in the break room with another male coworker when she walked through. Once she'd passed, he turned to me and said, "God, she's got an ass that won't quit." I think I gave an eyebrow raise and mumbled something noncommittal, then retreated to my desk trying to remember where I'd parked the DeLorean so I could return home from 1959. You may be pleased to hear that he no longer works at the company.) She's in sales, which is the exact right job for her, because all she has to do is walk into a heterosexual male's office and he'll pull out his checkbook and ask what she happens to be selling and what's the maximum number he can buy. And yet, I can't STAND working on accounts with her. It's entirely possible that she's a very smart person who's simply hamstrung by the fact that English is clearly not her first language, but she comes across as not particularly bright. She never enters any information about new clients in our computer system, forcing you to research them on your own or hope that she's at her desk when you call so you can find something out about this company you're supposed to be calling. She either doesn't know or doesn't explain the products we sell well at all, so invariably new customers don't know exactly what they signed up for or should be receiving. And I just think to myself, she's perfectly friendly and I like her fine as a colleague, but if I get this frustrated working on things she's tangentially touched for only a few hours a week, what would it be like living with her? I'm sure there are those who can make a relationship work based on nothing but looks, but for my part I need the whole package: looks, brains, humor, and compatibility.

Another example: in high school, I had a massive crush on one of my fellow students. I'm quite positive she had no idea and I never did anything about it, but if you'd asked my hopelessly naive 16-year-old self, he would have sworn she was the most beautiful woman in the world. (Needless to say that was before I ever laid eyes on my wife. Or Elisha Cuthbert.) A little over a year ago they started organizing our 10-year reunion, primarily through Facebook, with the end result being that I ended up friending or being friended by a lot of my old classmates, including her. She still looks good, although I'm glad to be able to truthfully say that there is no comparison between her and my wife. But like all my other classmates, I see her status updates from time to time, and I was both surprised and gladdened recently to note that she's apparently super into the whole Twilight phenomenon, particularly the movie sequel that just came out. Surprised because, well, we're late 20/early 30-year-olds rather than preteen schoolgirls, and gladdened because it confirms to me that, even if I'd gotten up the balls to actually ask her out back in high school, it still wouldn't have worked out. To be fair, I haven't read any of the Twilight books or seen the movies, so I can't fairly critique them; I can offer that they don't sound like anything I'd be interested in and I haven't heard good things from people whose opinions I trust, but who knows, they might be great. Nevertheless, I still can't see myself feigning much interest in them, so I think it's best that I ended up with the woman who rolls her eyes at my own Harry Potter nerdery, rather than one who would drag me along to watch vampires sparkle and write poetry rather than attacking people.

So yeah- while I never forget why I married my wife, I'm also sometimes reminded of exactly why I didn't marry anyone else. Still, whether it be the ones I still like as friends, the ones I don't care for, or the ones who never knew I existed, all of them help me to realize exactly how lucky I am in who I eventually ended up with. For that, ladies, I thank you one and all. Cheers.

Still Alive

2009-10-12T19:21:00.000-07:00

Hey, all. Apologies for my complete absence lately. It's been a busy month or so... Ann, Molly and I are all fine, but it feels like we've been playing catch-up for a while. I won't bore anyone with details, but the most recent time-suck came in the form of acute bronchitis on my part. I don't recommend it -- it wasn't so bad the first day or so when I was just coughing and breathing a little heavier, but when it got to the point where I couldn't climb a flight of stairs without getting winded and sleeping became nearly impossible because I just couldn't draw enough air into my lungs lying down, I probably should've taken a hint and hauled ass to the hospital. Thankfully, CVS' minute clinic took one look at me and sent me there anyway, so now I'm back on the mend and once again able to oxygenate my red blood cells. The only really interesting part of it that's worth talking about came when I was examined in triage at the ER. The examining nurse or doctor asked if I'd been running a fever, and when I replied that I didn't know, he -- and this is key -- grabbed what looked like an electronic wand and ran it over my forehead. Just one swipe, it beeped, he looked at it and said, "99 degrees" and went about his checkup.

Now, possibly I'm just a poor ignorant bumpkin unaccustomed to you all's fancy sci-ehn-tific ways, but holy balls, why didn't someone tell me we were officially living in the future? Seriously, what kind of crazy Star Trek crap is that? The man read my forehead like it was a bar code and he was checking the price of a can of tuna. It was simultaneously awesome and frustrating, because if we have that technology, why the hell am I still sticking a thermometer under my tongue at home like a pathetic savage? To say nothing of, not to get too graphic, the fact that you can't take an infant's temperature orally, necessitating a different type of thermometer that strikes me as unbelievably inferior to this apparent receptacle of black magic. If I'd known I could have treated my baby's head like a Scantron to find out if she was feverish, well, let's just say that's the kind of thing I'd be willing to shell out an extra few bucks for.

So there you have it: the future is now, acute bronchitis sucks, and I promise not to let a month and a half lapse between posts again. Because really, even if I told you classes were just kicking my butt and I was doing homework every night, you'd know I was lying. The umpteenth unnecessary Crow sequel isn't going to review itself, y'know.

No heroes today

2009-09-02T19:25:00.000-07:00

Today marked a momentous occasion that I think all should be made aware of. You ready for this? Here goes: I did not buy a single comic book today.

"That's nice," I hear you saying, "But most days I don't buy comics either." Ah, so it is with me as well, grasshopper, but Wednesday is new comics day. Ergo, every Wednesday I head over to my local comic shop at lunchtime and pick up the week's books. For the longest time every week's haul was a substantial pile. In recent months that's dwindled, as I've lost interest in some books and just figured I should save my money, especially with the price of comics going up again. (Remember when they were 75 cents? And how it was a huge deal when they made the jump to a buck? God, how cheap that sounds now. And how old I sound.) So over the last year I've had a few trips where I only picked up two comics on a Wednesday, and once or twice only one. But today... oh, today, my friends. Not. A. Single. One. Walked in, browsed the shelves, walked back out. It felt a little strange -- like a junkie who walks up to his neighborhood dealer, inspects the crack carefully, and then puts it back -- but it was a good feeling. And even if next week brings a stack of 10 must-buy comics to make up for it, I'll still have that one week.

He's a cold-hearted snake

2009-08-10T21:04:00.000-07:00

So this was fun. The other night I go out to drop some clothes off at a Salvation Army deposit dumpster. This I fail spectacularly to do, as it used to be located behind our vet's office but they recently moved, and searches of both the old and new buildings reveal: no dumpster. (Well, they had a regular dumpster, but I thought that would sort of defeat the purpose.) Undaunted, I decide to stop at Rita's italian Ice on my way home to pick up a treat for my adoring wife.

So I get there, jockey for a parking space with the infinite restaurant goers, and eventually make my way to the counter, where I place my order. I know, dullest blog entry ever. Hold on, we're getting there. As I'm making my order I see a middle-aged woman approach the window next to mine and start talking to the teenager located therein. I finish my order and glance idly over, not particularly interested. However, out of the corner of my eye I notice that she's got something in her hands with kind of a mottled brown and black pattern. Huh, I think to myself. Wonder if she's got a snakeskin wallet? Still only half paying attention, some deep recess of my mind brings up the fact that the corner of my eye may be wrong, but is reporting that the object is rather too long and thin to be a wallet. Hmm, my conscious mind reassesses, becoming just a tad more engaged. Probably a beanie baby or some other stuffed animal. Is the carnival in town? It's at about this point that my brain becomes alert enough to tune in, just in time to hear the counter idiot ask, "How old is it?" As I've never before heard of someone asking the age of a stuffed animal, my just-getting-there mind crashes to a halt upon collision with one now irrefutable fact: it is a real snake.

Now, I'm a peaceful man. I bear no ill will toward my animal brethren, and even though I will gladly eat the tastier ones, I generally go out of my way to do no harm to animalkind beyond killing the occasional bug in our house. But I also feel the same way about snakes as Indiana Jones does, and that is not good when one is literally three feet away. My neck snaps back toward the counter window at approximately Mach 3, saved from debilitating injury solely by an unconscious slowdown to keep from seeming quite so obvious about being a wimp. I decide to collect napkins from the counter, because we'll certainly need those with our water ice, yes, and spoons besides. Other than vision, I'm unable to block out the blithering from next to me, which is how I find out that he's a bull python (because when I think of ideal snakes for pets, the word "python" is always the first one that comes to mind), he's only a foot and a half long now but he'll get up to at least five feet, and larger if she lets him, and that he eats mice that she buys at the pet store and keeps in her freezer. Oh yes, and his name is Murgatroid, because when I think of snakes, I think of effeminate pink cartoon cats. Doesn't everyone?

Still looking straight ahead, I bear witness to the poor girl who took my order bring it to us and putting it on the counter fearfully, shooting an apprehensive glance to the left, and then practically shooting back into the inner sanctum of the Rita's booth, never taking her eyes off the beast. I toss her a sympathetic look because hey, we're all in this together, me and teenage girls. None of this sinks in to Crazy Snake Lady, who continues blithering on about how you can't feed them mice from the garage because they might be carrying disease that could be spread to the snake, heaven forbid. Interestingly, I had her pegged as a slightly more goth version of Crazy Cat Lady, but she mentions how her daughter loves the creature too (I'll bet), so clearly she found someone willing to brave the viper's nest at least once. As quickly as possible without actually running, I scoot past her and make my way to my car, appetite thoroughly gone. And that was the end of my adventure, except now I know my town plays host to at least one person who is completely out of her damn mind, which is not a comforting thought. Still, I suppose there's always one.

I really shouldn't be surprised, I know. I mean, when you think of the best pets to bring along with you on family walks or drives, the list goes dog, cat, then snake. And it's a close third. But I'll admit I wasn't expecting to see my nemesis appear so suddenly, and it startled me. That won't happen again. And if the Rita's workers don't like it when I show up next time with a sword and a blowtorch, well, too damn bad.

R.I.P. John Hughes

2009-08-08T21:15:00.000-07:00

Dear Mr. Vernon,

We accept the fact that we had to sacrifice a whole Saturday in detention for whatever it was we did wrong. But we think you're crazy to make us write an essay telling you who we think we are. You see us as you want to see us- in the simplest terms, and the most convenient definitions. But what we found out is that each one of us is a brain, and an athlete, and a basket case, a princess, and a criminal. Does that answer your question?

Sincerely yours,

The Breakfast Club

Hey hey hey!

2009-08-04T18:52:00.001-07:00

The other night Ann and I happened to catch an episode of The Cosby Show. We see bits and pieces periodically, but I don't think I'd watched a full episode since it went off the air. It was quaintly nostalgic and quite funny, but what really struck me was how little actually happened in the episode. The entire plot was: Claire is feeling stressed by kids and work. Cliff makes reservations at a hotel owned by a patient, they put Denise in charge, they go to dinner, then hang out in their room and eventually, as Cliff puts it, "get it on." They come home the next day and are glad to see the kids. The end. Oh, and Theo takes a call from a patient looking for Cliff and refers her to the on-call doctor. That's literally all that happens in the episode. It wasn't bad -- far from it -- but I was taken by just how little plot was involved. On any other show in the world, particularly these days, Claire and Cliff's dinner would have been interrupted by a rude couple at the next table, or the food would have been undercooked, or a robbery would have broken out. Or they would have come home to find the house flooded and Rudy missing. Nope - stress, hotel for the night, home, done. There's your half hour. Even the intro felt simplistic... I think it must've been from the first season or so, because there was none of this smooth jazz while Bill does some soft-shoe skat or booming grandiose island rhythms. Just some grainy pictures of the cast having a picnic in the park while their pictures blur out of focus. Frankly, it looked like a Kodak cross-promotion or something. "Was your family picnic ruined by a camera that took nothing but blurry photographs? Y'see, you need to get yourself one of the Kodak cameras, see, with the zoom lenses and the fast shutter speed and the oooooh, and then you can have some Jello pudding pops."

The only other thing of note was the hilarious mid-'80s "what lengths will we go to to protect the children even though both on-screen characters are talking about 'getting it on'?" In this case, that would be "Cliff has changed out of his clothes into full-length pajamas, even though he's clearly intent on romancing his wife." If any of you have ever (successfully) staged a seduction wearing matching pajama pants and shirt, kindly let me know.

Lawyer Jokes

2009-07-25T18:30:00.000-07:00

This blog is usually a pretty one-sided affair -- I rant about the most recent thought to cross my primitive mind, you chuckle sadly and comment on how impressive it is that I can occasionally complete sentence together a string -- but today we're mixing things up a bit. I have a question and I want to hear from you, dear readers. The question is this: do you know of any professions where the practitioners are driven to talk about their work constantly, any time two or more of them are occupying the same general space?

Yes, there is something that prompted this query, thank you for asking. I'm going to preface it by saying that the two people I'm about to describe are among the best, most principled, all-around nicest people you could ever hope to meet in your life, so this stems purely from amusement, not any kind of genuine complaint. With that out of the way...

My father-in-law is an attorney, by all accounts a very well-respected and successful one. My brother-in-law just graduated law school a little over a year ago. (First in his class, I might add... he went to night classes, beat out the #1 day classes guy by like .01% in their GPAs; somehow that guy ended up the class valedictorian anyway. It's all politics.) Immediately afterward he was hired by a very well-regarded law firm and has apparently met with success so far, probably because my brother-in-law is maybe the hardest-working man on the eastern seaboard. He's great and always makes time for his family, but anytime he comes down to my wife's parents' house for a visit, it's with the laptop and cellphone, and he's guaranteed to spend at least half of Saturday or Sunday holed up in the basement working on a case. Totally understandable given his job, he's always cool about making time for the family afterward, so no biggie. But what cracks me up is that anytime -- anytime -- he and my father-in-law are together for longer than 5 minutes, they will discuss law. Guaranteed. They're both pretty good at turning it off when the rest of us are around and clearly bored, but anytime it's just the two of them or the rest of us are engaged in another conversation: law. This will go on for hours if you let it. It surprised me because you would think, back when he was working full time, attending classes at night with a newborn baby at home, and desperately cramming for finals while maintaining the highest GPA in his class (did I mention that?), my brother-in-law would want to get away from law for a weekend. Certainly now that he's working 60 hours a week and is guaranteed to at least be on call one day a weekend, bare minimum, you'd think he'd want to escape "shop talk" on those rare weekends when he can get away. I know I would in his shoes. Again, I say this all with affection; it doesn't bother me, I just find it fascinating. They literally cannot stop discussing law. I wondered if it was just them, but my mother-in-law, who has been around lawyers pretty much her entire adult life, told me that in her experience anytime you get two lawyers together, talk will invariably turn to law. Apparently this is a profession-wide thing, rather than being unique to my relatives.

So I'm just curious... does anyone else know of other professions where this is the case? I don't mean standard shop talk -- sure, whenever you hang out with people from your office it's likely you'll spend at least some time talking about work. That's a given. I mean whenever you get anyone from that profession together, they're guaranteed to start talking about it and keep talking about it for hours until their spouses force them to stop, usually for dinner. Don't leave me hanging, I want to hear your thoughts.

Cabinet Opening FAIL

2009-07-13T19:10:00.001-07:00

I usually don't post videos, but I'm making an exception this once because, hey- babies hurting themselves are always funny. Enjoy!

Don't worry... I'm 90% sure that if Molly were really injured, Ann wouldn't be laughing as hard.

Edited for your approval

2009-07-03T20:15:00.000-07:00

Just a quick one today- I'm sure we're all familiar with the practice of network and family-friendly cable channels editing content out of the movies they show. We've all seen TBS's cut of The Breakfast Club (since it's the only movie they show), where Vernon leaves the room and suddenly the music cranks up really loudly for about a second, followed by Bender saying "-you!" I wonder what that first word was? Some of you may even be familiar with some of the more esoteric dubs, like the infamous "I have had it with these monkey-fightin' snakes on this Monday-to-Friday plane!", or "Yippee-ki-yay, Mr. Falcon." Ergo, while watching National Lampoon's Vacation tonight, I was not at all surprised that they cut out the part where Chevy Chase flirts with Christie Brinkley by miming, er, oral ministrations on his baloney sandwich. Frankly, no one needs to see that, including Chevy's wife.

What I was NOT expecting was an edit that occurred soon after, in the scene where Ellen's luggage falls off the back of the car and gets lost. Oh, I suspected they might take out the part where Chevy says, "And those bags didn't have anything else important... except your diaphragm." Well, they didn't... not exactly. Imagine my surprise when I instead heard the line, "And those bags didn't have anything else important... except your birth control pills." Now, I understand that many younger viewers may not remember what a diaphragm was; but that is the craziest dub I've ever heard, hands down. I want to have been in that meeting where the TBS censors determined that sandwich mouth party = no go, but we can keep the joke about contraception... ah, but we'd better update it for the times. Wouldn't want anyone to get confused.

Personally, I cannot wait until the day when all references to discontinued products in movies are replaced by their modern equivalents. If only because I would like to see the scene where Michael J. Fox goes into a 1955 diner and orders a Coke Zero, only to be told that if he wants a Coke, he'll have to pay a lot more than zero.

Behind the curve

2009-07-01T20:31:00.000-07:00

Sorry again for the dry spell, everyone. The good news is, I am officially re-employed!, ergo I should have more time to update the blog. In an odd-but-welcome turn of events, my old company called me literally three weeks to the day from the date I'd been laid off, informed me that another person from the department had resigned, and asked if I would come back. My negative feelings about being laid off in the first place wrestled with my pride at being the #1 person they wanted to bring back, but ultimately it came down to one simple truth: Molly and Ann need to eat, and I'm fond of it on occasion myself. I started exactly one week later, meaning my one week vacation essentially became a five week vacation (if you call sitting on the couch searching want ads a vacation, I suppose), and so far so good. Thanks to everyone for your good thoughts and prayers on my behalf!

The second item on our agenda is my growing suspicion about Ann. As I think I've mentioned before, we've had numerous... let's call them discussions, both long before and after Molly was born, on the subject of athletics. Ann grew up with parents who didn't push her toward organized sports, which is good because she hated them. (The sports, not her parents.) She doesn't dislike sports on principle, but would much prefer that Molly remain at the casual, intramural level if she does them, and would be fine if she chooses not to. I grew up with extremely athletic parents who raised my sister and I to be athletic as well. I did organized sports from the time I was 6 until I graduated college, spent literally thousands upon thousands of hours in the pool training, and sacrificed partying, drinking, and much of the usual college bacchanalia to commit to swimming. (I say that neither with regret nor self-aggrandizement, just as a matter of fact. It's not for everyone.) Because of this, Ann has voiced the opinion numerous times that I won't know what to do with Molly if she doesn't like sports, and her concern that I won't be able to accept it and will push Molly into athletics against her will. I won't (she'll do something to stay in shape, but it doesn't strictly have to be organized sports), but that's Ann's fear.

So you can imagine my amusement the other day when Ann called me to complain about another girl in Molly's day care class. This little girl is three days younger than Molly, but is already able to grab onto people and pull herself up to a standing position, as well as to cruise around by grabbing onto couches, chairs, etc. Oh, and she has two teeth already, to Molly's none. Ann was irate about this kid -- I believe the term "freak of nature" was used more than once -- and I came home that night to find Molly having just learned to grab Ann's arms and pull herself up to stand. God knows how long they'd been practicing... I checked Molly's back for switch marks and didn't find any, but it's entirely possible she didn't get any formula until she learned how to do it. (I kid, Ann would never deprive our child of necessary meals as a learning incentive. Dessert maybe, but not a main course.) Now, I happen to find the whole thing amusing -- mostly because Molly's not actually behind the curve, this other kid just happens to be extremely far ahead of it -- but you can't tell me you don't see the irony of stage mom over here warning me off of overathleticizing our child while simultaneously losing her cool over the fact that Molly can't quite keep up with superbaby just yet. I tell you, moms are funny creatures.

Dad be not proud

2009-06-11T06:28:00.000-07:00

Ann made mashed potatoes a couple nights ago, mostly for the two of us but also because they're one of the few "adult" foods that Molly can eat too. Ann's mashed potatoes happen to be really, really good, with garlic and butter mixed into the recipe and... mmmm. Good stuff. Anyway, last night she put a small amount of it in one of Molly's baby bowls and tried feeding it to her. The munchkin ate some of it, but she's being a bit finicky about foods lately (we think she's teething), so after she'd turned her nose up at the rest of it, Ann started feeding her finger foods instead. At that point, I took the bowl off the high chair tray, brought it into the kitchen, and -- this is not my finest moment -- stood there eating mashed potatoes out of a baby bowl. Yes, I used an adult fork, but still- baby bowl. My daughter's leftovers.

Hey, don't judge me until you've tried Ann's mashed potatoes.

Will blog for food

2009-06-06T19:18:00.001-07:00

Apologies for the lack of updates, everyone. I know I promised that once finals were over I'd be posting more often, but first Ann and I took a week's vacation -- went to Beantown for a wedding, where Molly made a great impression, and the rest of the time I was just busy relaxing -- and then when we got back, we learned on our last day of vacation that my position had been eliminated. Yep, I am currently not a contributing member of the workforce. Now, never fear... something will turn up, and if all else fails I've still got my sugar mama working to keep me in the lifestyle to which I'm accustomed. But for the last week my priority has been hitting the job search hard, and that probably won't change until I actually secure one. (So if you hear about anyone willing to pay big bucks for someone to blog about Spider-Man... I'm just sayin'.) Don't worry, though- once I'm back on my feet, regular updates will resume. I know I've said that before, but baby, I can change.

One humorous addendum to an otherwise fairly crappy situation: tonight Ann was folding our laundry and asked without thinking, "Where are all your work pants?" I think I just gawked at her speechless for a few seconds until she realized what she'd said, at which point she blanched and couldn't apologize fast enough. She didn't mean anything by it, obviously, and it's funny in retrospect, but man, it's a good thing I'm not thin skinned.

Oh, and a message to my daughter: sweetie, I love you. You make me happier than I've ever been, and I'm immensely flattered that for the last two weeks you haven't stopped saying "Da da da da da da da." That's why I'm telling you this now, for your own good... learn "Ma ma ma ma ma ma." The woman grew your cells, gave up alcohol for you, and carted you around for nine months, and then an extra week on top of that because you weren't in any rush to come out. If you don't give her her due props soon in the form of learning the "M" consonant, I can't be responsible for what she might do. Let's just say they do make lima bean baby food, and leave it at that.

The Worst Concert I Ever Attended

2009-05-20T11:53:00.000-07:00

Ann and I don't get to concerts much anymore, what with the spawn and dear God the economy and just generally being old as dirt, but up until a couple of years ago we used to go to one every few months, often as birthday gifts to each other. For quite some time I'd been telling Ann that there were two bands I hadn't seen in concert that I'd really like to, Green Day and Counting Crows. (Shut it, you listened to August and Everything After just as much as the rest of us.) Anyway, one year Ann told me she'd gotten tickets for us to a Goo Goo Dolls/Counting Crows show. Man, I was stoked. I can take or leave the Dolls and I'm not a fan of CC's entire repetoire, but I really like their fast songs, "Einstein on a Beach" and "A Murder of One" and like that, and pretty much anything from August is money. Ergo, excitement.

So the day of the concert finally arrived and we settled into our seats, ready to rock like it's 1995. And I give them a lot of credit- like I said, I wasn't as excited for the Goo Goo Dolls, but they really put on a great show. Lots of energy, they genuinely seemed to want to be there and did a nice job of pumping up the audience, and they played a lot of their greatest hits. No complaints there. In fact, after they finished, I was even more excited for what was undoubtedly going to be a Counting Crows set that would blow my Generation Y mind.

And finally, finally the Crows walked out onto the stage. Adam Duritz picked up the microphone and promptly informed all us concertgoers that they were sorry for being late, but a very good friend of theirs died yesterday. Well. That sucks. I remember feeling sympathetic and wondering if they were going to cancel the show. No, in fact; what Adam went on to slur in a 110% stoned voice was that, in their friend's memory, they were going to have a night of beautiful, beautiful music, to honor him, man.

Well, damn. Now I know Counting Crows are kind of a hippie band; I know that songs like "December" and "Perfect Blue Buildings" could double as funeral dirges in some countries. I was kind of hoping we'd get more of the upbeat peppy songs than emo ones, or at least an even split, but okay, fine... I can deal with some of their slower songs. That could work.

Uh-uh. Nope. Believe me when I tell you that what followed was the most mournful, depressing, slit-your-wrists-at-the-snack-bar music you've ever heard in your life. If you can imagine the Smiths, stoned and in mourning for murdered kittens, you've just about got it. Every single song began low and got lower, and even the short ones were so long it felt like a Phish concert. How on earth do you turn "Mrs. Potter's Lullaby" into a requiem? Somehow they managed it. After about 30 minutes (read: four songs), Ann looked at me and hesitantly asked, "Uh, do you... do you want to stay? I mean, we can if you want to, I know you were looking forward to this..." I remember answering back, just as uncertainly, "Well, let's... let's give it another couple of songs, maybe they'll pick up energy as they go and play some faster stuff." You will not necessarily be shocked when I tell you that this spectacularly failed to happen. We walked out of there when their set couldn't have been more than half over, and I've never regretted that decision for an instant. I'm sure there was someone sitting in that stadium who really dug it, who couldn't get enough of that music to cut yourself by, but brother, he wasn't me.

So that's the story of the worst concert I ever attended. I've been to concerts where I've had beer spilled on me, I've been to concerts where I've seen people thrown out by security, I've been to a concert where I couldn't stop sneezing because I'm allergic to horses and my girlfriend forgot she'd last worn her jacket while working in a stable. (Really.) Shit, I've even been to a Kelly Clarkson concert (not my idea), and at least there the opening act was a band I liked. But I tell you now, not one of them was as disappointing as that Counting Crows set. I'm sorry their friend died, I really am... but if you're not able to temporarily put your grief aside -- and I don't blame you if you aren't -- then you've gotta cancel the show and refund everyone's money. Don't subject people to... that. It's not like we killed him.

It came out HOW long ago?

2009-05-11T07:56:00.000-07:00

If you want to feel old (and who doesn't?), I have some advice for you: get satellite radio. Just recently, at about the same time they merged with Sirius, my XM radio's display screen changed so that it scrolls the song title across, same as it always did, but now with the year the song was released right after it. That's simultaneously very informative and extremely depressing, because if you think too hard about it, it reminds you of just how long ago the song was released. As an example: a few weeks ago Ann and I were driving home from work when a song came on the 90s station. I think it was "The Sign" by Ace of Base, but it's not important; what is important is that the year listed was 1993. And actually, even that didn't bother us because, you know, 1993 wasn't that long ago, right? Right, except... then one of us, I forget which, happened to mention that in fact it was sixteen years ago. And that was sobering.

Why's that, you ask? Well, because "The Sign" came out a while back, sure, but it wasn't TOO long ago. I remember listening to it on the radio when it first came out, for God's sake. Whereas if that lying bastard radio were to be believed, it would suggest that for our daughter Molly, "The Sign" and any other song from 1993 will be as much an oldie as songs released in 1964 were for me. Nineteen sixty-effing-four! The Beatles made their first appearance on Ed Sullivan in 1964! (Yes, I had to look that up.) The Rolling Stones released their very first album in 1964! Sixteen years is bleeping forever ago, whereas "The Sign" is, you know, just a shade on the dated side. I absolutely refuse to believe that the time between the Beatles' debut and my birth is the same as the amount of time between songs from 1993 and my daughter's birth. No way.

So that's why satellite radio is evil. And the next time someone tells you "Cherub Rock" came out sixteen years ago, remember that what they actually meant to say is that it came out in 1993, which really wasn't that long ago. Trust me, you'll feel a lot better.

Busyness school

2009-04-30T07:03:00.001-07:00

Whew. Sorry for the lack of updates lately, everyone. All I'll say is, if someone ever corners you in a dark alley and tries to convince you to enroll in business school, Just Say No, understand? Anyone who doesn't respect your desire not to be simultaneously stressed out and bored to tears isn't really your friend. Luckily(?) finals are next week, so after that I should have a little more time for frivolities like blogging and eating. Till then, you stay classy, San Diego!

Boys and Girls - Action

2009-04-23T19:56:00.000-07:00

In our relationship, Ann and I each endure periodic moments of despair over the other person's ignorance of 90s pop culture that we both lived through, and thus should theoretically know something about. For her they're nearly always music related because I spent the 90s listening to 80s music, and thus am liable at any given time to confuse a Pearl Jam song for one by Soundgarden. Shameful, I know. On the other side of the scale, she apparently only watched two channels and saw three movies through the whole of the decade, making a good 80% of my pop culture references fly completely over her head. If not for us both being so damn attractive, I just don't know what would keep us together.

Case in point: this morning we were putting our lunches in the work fridge and Ann mentioned she was surprised I hadn't been eating any of the nutella we have at home. I answered that I just hadn't thought of it, to which she replied, "Mmm, not me, I'm looking forward to having some for lunch. I wanna dip these bananas in it." As you'd expect, I snickered and said, "Hey, that reminds me, did I tell you The State is finally coming to DVD?" She gave me this funny look and asked what on earth made me suddenly think of that.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I'm afraid she just Doesn't Get It.

A Brief Digression

2009-04-14T19:17:00.000-07:00

Hey, everyone. I had an entry planned out for today about an exchange Ann and I had earlier that redefined "backhanded compliment." In brief, I made a funny comment, she laughed and asked, "Where is that from?" When I explained that it wasn't from anywhere, I made it up myself, she looked surprised and remarked that she just assumed I got it from somewhere because it was really funny. Yes, she's a keeper, ladies and gentlemen.

That's what I had planned to write about. Instead, I came home from class tonight to have Ann ask me to watch a very sad but moving video by a woman whose blog Ann reads, about her daughter who was born prematurely at 29 weeks but who managed to hang on and even thrive in spite of everything. This little girl, Madeline, died suddenly last week after 17 months of life. Her parents are understandably devastated, but have managed to both create the video I mentioned above, and to establish a March of Dimes donation page in their daughter's name to help children born prematurely. The initial goal for the page to raise was $3000; as of this posting, the total amount raised is approaching $27,000.

This is a little girl I'd never heard of until Ann mentioned her passing to me two days ago. I have no more connection to her than the natural empathy any human being would feel upon hearing of a child's death. But I don't mind telling you, I was emotional after watching the video. No doubt a lot of that is due to being a new father myself; I can't watch it without seeing Molly in a lot of the pictures. But I also can't imagine anyone watching this video and not being affected in some way, parent or otherwise. So in lieu of a funny (in theory) post by me today, I would simply ask that if you're so inclined, set aside 10 minutes or so and watch this movie. Don't do it if you've got a birthday party or a blind date to attend right afterward, obviously; but if you have a chance, give it a viewing and celebrate the life of this little girl who clearly brought so much joy to her family. And if you're of the spiritual bent, please offer a prayer of comfort and solace for the parents of Madeline and all other children who die unexpectedly or at an early age. May their brief but meaningful lives remind us to make the most of the time we have together.

The video can be viewed here. More information about Madeline may be found here.

I love you, Molly. Please don't ever leave us.

Let's All Go To The Movies...

2009-04-08T10:21:00.001-07:00

As I've mentioned in the past, I have a real love/hate relationship with the cardio cinema room at the gym. Some days it is my good and loyal friend who makes twenty minutes on the elliptical fly by in no time; other days it maliciously casts me down into a sea of six-month-old economic and motherhood magazines. Just the other day I was privileged enough to watch the closing credits of Swing Kids, followed by eight minutes of the main menu screen for Swing Kids (magnificent in its juxtaposition of imagery), then five minutes of the scene selection screen for Swing Kids (overrated, not a satisfying ending), and finally three minutes of Swing Kids. So it's a real crapshoot. Today I ascended the stairs to find waiting for me... The Shaggy Dog, remade Tim Allen version. Ugh. I almost took a pass, but reasoned that in a couple of years Molly's going to be forcing this kind of movie on me anyway, so I may as well build up a tolerance. So in I went.

Fortunately the movie was just beginning, so I didn't have to worry about missing any of the subtle nuances that provide context to the rest of the film. The stars appear to be Tim "The Tool, Man" Allen, Rob Lowe slumming it in pre-Iron Man days, and as Tim's wife, I'm mostly but not 100% certain one of the chicks from Sex and the City. No, not her, the hot one. I won't embarrass myself by clumsily trying to explain all of the film's layers (some things you just have to experience for yourself), but in the final stages of my workout we came to the part of the movie where Tim Allen does, in fact, begin showing signs of becoming a dog. Thus I was treated to a quick montage of Tim waking up curled at his wife's feet; shaking his body to dry off after a shower; lapping up his cup of coffee; and finally sticking his face into his bowl of cereal to eat. At this point I had to leave because my uproarious laughter was disturbing the other patrons, but with some regret, because Tim had just started getting affectionate with his wife and I was wondering if they would actually show him sniffing her ass. My disappointment at missing out on learning about the finer points of human woman/man turning into a dog relations is tangible, though I imagine it as something in the vein of: "Oh honey, where is this coming from? Mmm, that's good, I love when you lick my neck. Oooh, yes, that feels... wait, what are you doing back- hey! HEY! It is NOT our anniversary, mister!" But such is life.

So in hindsight, not my best move. And also a bit inexplicable, because it's not like Wednesdays are Family Day at Golds Gym, right? I looked around in that darkened room and didn't see a single elementary schooler, so what was with the movie choice? I can understand if they don't want to show Basic Instinct (dark room + Sharon Stone's bajingo = too much temptation for some people), but I think we can eschew Hotel For Dogs and Hannah Montana: The Movie in the future, thanks. Although not Labyrinth, because that would be boss.

Why I'm not allowed to do chores anymore

2009-04-02T19:04:00.001-07:00

It should come as no surprise to anyone that Ann's and my already busy lives became infinitely more harried upon the arrival of Molly. Not that either of us resents her because of it for an instant- Ann absolutely adores the little squirt, as do I. But she has made our lives quite a bit busier, and Ann, an anxious person at the best of times, has been feeling stressed out for months now. This is not entirely her fault -- I'm a much more low-key, mellow person who figures stuff will work itself out and am in my element when handling things on the fly. Translated, this means that I have no organizational skills... if I were in charge of our vacations I'd be trying to book our flight online a week ahead of time while yelling on the phone at some poor hotel clerk about why there aren't any rooms available. As a result, by default Ann ends up handling anything in our lives that needs to be scheduled in advance, like doctor's appointments, family get-togethers, ritual sacrifices, etc. (Just kidding, the cult we belong to is totally non-violent, blessed be the Leader.) One notable exception- I do pay the rent every month. And I'm pretty good about getting it out on time, but I'd be lying if I said I'm not occasionally lucky our landlord doesn't assess late fees for a couple of days over.

Anyway, the long and the short of it is that the poor girl is stressed out. So the other night she went out for drinks with a friend on a night when I didn't have class, leaving me to watch Molly. Which I did, but I thought it would be a nice way to ease Ann's burden a bit by also handling some chores that she usually does. She almost always cooks, but I made dinner based on the instructions she gave me to use the hamburger before it went bad; once I was done I washed all of the dishes; and I threw Molly's dirty clothes in the washing machine, then after they were finished threw in a load of Ann's and my clothes, and finally put them in the dryer and tossed in the last batch of clothes. Once that was all done I sat down on the couch, feeling moderately proud of myself. When Ann came home she was similarly pleased and thanked me several times before going to bed.

Cut to the next morning, where in the course of an hour Ann discovered three things:
-The hamburger she had wanted me to use, in the fridge, I had not used; instead I thought she said the freezer and used some hamburger we had frozen in there. The upshot of this is that we don't have the frozen hamburger for whatever we were going to use it for, and the fridge hamburger has now gone bad.
-Comparatively minor, but when washing the lid of the pan I used, I focused solely on the bottom of the lid, the part that actually touched the meat. You'd think that'd be enough, but apparently grease splattered on the top, which I didn't wash. Oops.
And most importantly...
-I forgot about the laundry after throwing in the last load. Which means in the morning we had a dryer full of wrinkled clothes that had to be re-dried, and a washing machine full of wet, possibly mildewy clothes.

And that's why I'm going to run away and join the circus.

No-Longer-Teenage Mutants

2009-03-31T19:07:00.000-07:00

This will mean nothing to 99% of you, but whatever, I'm stoked so just roll with it- in May my favorite superhero team of all time, the New Mutants, is returning. (Young Justice is a close second, but Young Justice never had any shapeshifting techno-organic aliens on the team. Instant fail.) This group was the balls back in the day, and even though I only discovered them in college, I've been waiting eight long years for them to reunite. My excitement is hovering somewhere around 110%, partially on the strength of these two sweet-ass covers:

Not much has been revealed about the first storyline, save that it's supposed to involve the return of old friend/enemy Legion (for he is many), but one thing's for certain: it will be awesome. Oh yes, it will.

The definition of mixed emotions:

2009-03-26T20:52:00.000-07:00

Being really psyched that you finally got off your lazy butt and got HR to give you a new keycard to the building... and then noticing the heavy wear on it and wondering which of your recently laid-off colleagues it used to belong to. That is what we call "bittersweet" right there.

Different strokes

2009-03-24T18:59:00.000-07:00

More grad school travails- after scoring a 75.5 on my Operations Management midterm (higher than the class average, believe it or not), we got a take-home exam today in Finance 2 ("The Bloodening"). It's a case study with pages upon pages of a conversation between two business people about whether to invest in somesuch or another based on projected zzzzzzzzzzz. I called Ann at the class break to tell her we'd gotten it and that the professor had told us to take 20 minutes to look it over. She asked what my initial impressions were, to which I replied that the plot was weak, the characters one dimensional, and the dialogue needed some serious work. Then she had the nerve to ask if I'd spent the entire time since we received the exam thinking of that one, and I mean come on, give me a little credit, it was only like a minute or something. God. She still has a lot to learn about comedy, I'm afraid. However, I'm once again faced with the sad truth that in an English class (see: things I'm actually good at), my noticing of the fact that one of the characters starts three consecutive sentences (and then two more later on) with the phrase "No problem." would be grounds for my immediately passing the exam, or at least win me some points with the professor. Here, I have the sickening feeling it would earn me nothing more than a blank look and a query about whether I had a question.

Sigh. These people may know how to predict financial models when working with a very defined set of data you'd never actually be able to get in real life, but they could stand a few more lessons about creative expression and writing interesting scenarios. Not once have I seen one where the company's stock suddenly plummets because the founder and CEO has a massive coronary while in bed with his mistress, forcing his long-suffering and inexperienced wife to take the reins of the company. And that's just sad.

Exhuming McCarthy

2009-03-13T19:20:00.000-07:00

This week we had to fill out self-assessments at work, probably to justify the huge raises we'll no doubt be getting. It was an automated thing, broken up into various different categories. And I started to wonder: do you think the fact that, upon reaching the "Business Acumen" section I immediately thought not of anything work-related, but rather the following lyrics:

Sharpening stones, walking on coals
To improve your business acumen
Enemy sighted, enemy met
I'm addressing the realpolitik
Look who bought the myth
By jingo, buy American

...means I'm really not cut out for business?

Creative nursery rhymes

2009-03-07T18:23:00.001-08:00

Of all the new experiences I've encountered since Molly was born four months ago, by far the most amusing has been Ann's ignorance of -- and steadfast refusal to learn -- the correct words to "Hush Little Baby." She can handle the first three and a half verses just fine, but anything after that, forget it... she's totally off the reservation. Where the humor comes in is that instead of just stopping the song there, she'll actually make up lyrics on the fly, like some kind of freestyling rapper trying to lull his daughter to sleep before the crowd boos him off stage. The following is a completely unedited transcription of what I heard her singing to Molly tonight after the squirt woke up crying from a bad dream:

Ann: And if that diamond ring turns brass,
Mama's gonna buy you a looking glass.

And if that looking glass should break,
Mama's gonna buy you a... garden rake.

And if that garden rake don't work,
Mama's gonna buy you a loin of pork.

Me: What the f-?!

Ann: And if that loin of pork's no good,
Mama's gonna bring you Little Red Riding Hood

And if Red Riding Hood runs away,
Mama will have to save it for another day.

Me: Okay, you need to stop now.

Give her credit, though- girl can improvise. I mean, "loin of pork"?

If you're gonna spew, spew into this

2009-03-02T18:15:00.000-08:00

Lately I've found myself wearing a wife beater around the house at all hours. This has less to do with us becoming a white trash family (hell, just today I got mad when NASCAR ran late and caused The Simpsons to not record), and more to do with Molly's astounding proclivity to spit up at any and all available opportunities. The only real rule she abides by when determining when to let loose with a torrent of vomit is that it must always be when you have just gotten her into a new outfit literally ten seconds ago, and when you yourself are also fully dressed. I believe she also awards herself bonus points if she manages to get some on the carpet as well (double for the couch), and she has a special addendum to the rule that when visiting grandparents or other relations, she absolutely, positively cannot show up there wearing an outfit they have bought her, no matter how many clothes she has to spit up on within five minutes of when you need to leave to run through them all. I swear to you, this child is gifted, and that's not a compliment. As the son of a health teacher, I'm well aware of the dangers of bulimia, but I foolishly assumed that wasn't anything I'd need to be on the lookout for for at least another decade. Nope. If she could fly, it would be exactly like living in an aviary, and I think you know what I mean.

The worst part is that I can't even complain too much because everything else is great: she's incredibly cute (unbiased opinion, of course), generally good-tempered, loves to smile and laugh, has recently taken to sleeping through the night again, and is in general quite healthy. On the list of things that could go wrong it's small potatoes... but dammit, I really didn't want to get that steam cleaner back out again.

Who Am I?

2009-02-19T19:13:00.001-08:00

I'm having a bit of an identity crisis over something that happened to me earlier today. As it stands, I'm just going to explain what went down and you all can judge for yourselves.

The Circuit City near work is going out of business. Well, all Circuit City's are going out of business, obviously, but the one on the way to work is the only one I notice on a day-to-day basis. Over the last couple of weeks I've watched as the numbers on the signs visible from the highway showing "up to XX% off!" have gradually risen. I was vaguely offended by 30 -- you're going out of business, and the best you can offer me is 30% off? Seriously? -- gained some interest when it changed to 50, and as I drove by today and saw it was now 60, decided to stop in just to see if there were any deals. I wasn't looking for anything in particular, but as you're probably aware if you're reading this blog, I'm a man who likes his DVDs and video games, so why not take a look, right? So at lunchtime I headed over, anticipating that by now, most of the store would already have been picked over. And it was, but still, there were a few lonely video games, a pretty random smattering of CDs, and a whole bunch of DVDs left, including quite a few TV season sets, all of them at 50% off the normal price.

And here's where it gets weird, because as I browsed among the shelves, it gradually dawned on me that I didn't want anything. You have to understand, TV box sets have traditionally been my crack. I need them. When I get into a show, I have to watch ALL of that show, not whatever haphazard smattering of episodes the networks care to show in syndication that week. So you can imagine my surprise, almost bordering on horror, that I simply couldn't be bothered to bring any of them up to the register and shell out. Granted, the economy sucks, but I wasn't thinking (at least not consciously) of the unnecessary expense factor. Nor is it that there weren't any good ones... I like Seinfeld quite a bit, and they had both seasons 1+2 and 4. And I loved Ren & Stimpy as a kid, but even when confronted with the chance to own seasons 1 and 2 for $15, I just couldn't get worked up. This is a DVD that, four years ago, I had been absolutely positive I would need to own someday. Who could resist all that Powdered Toast Man goodness? And surely when Molly gets older, I'll want a visual aid to warn her against the dangers of whizzing on the electric fence. And yet, when confronted with a prime opportunity to own the set at half price, my mind just could not have been less interested. I know there are still some things that, if they'd had them, I would have snatched up... if there'd been any copies left of Guitar Hero World Tour for 40% off, that bad boy would be sitting in my family room right now. But honestly, at present I'm focused more on the things I know I should have wanted, but just... didn't.

So there's my story, gentle readers. I don't know if it was a subconscious acknowledgement of the shitty financial situation in this country that triggered my apathy, or just the gloomy weather reflected in my mood, but I'm still having a hard time believing I didn't buy a single thing. I mean, good on me, I guess, but it's so out of character. And before you hasten to reply with, "Well, Drew, perhaps you're just maturing"... no, that's not it. Remember, I'm the guy who couldn't help snickering recently when one of his clients' middle and last names were "Gaye Gay." Your witness.

"Leapfrog"

2009-02-03T19:34:00.000-08:00

This one's a little different than the norm, but it's too weird not to share. Ann and I worked from home today, and she finished her work before I was done with mine, so she started watching TV. When I finally wrapped things up, I wandered into the living room and found the TV tuned to the ABC Family channel while Ann surfed the internet. I couldn't tell you what show it was, beyond that it had Amanda Bynes, but clearly a teen sitcom type of deal. Anyway, at the time I walked in there were two adult characters lamenting the fact that the woman had had to cancel their planned date from the night before, no doubt due to the shenanigans of those wacky kids. But she planned to make it up to the dude tonight, and had even created a little handmade invitation requesting his presence at a date tonight for just the two of them. At that point the guy looks at the invitation and says, "Is that drawing of us? Why are we playing leapfrog?" To which the woman replies, "Uh, that's not leapfrog."

As you might expect, my reaction was hilarity tempered with amazement. Don't get me wrong, it was pretty funny, and props to fictional dude for getting some, but that's the kind of joke I wouldn't have expected to air on regular ABC in primetime. This was ABC Family in the middle of the afternoon, for crying out loud. It doesn't bother me any, but I'll admit to being pretty damn surprised. Who knew family channels had it in 'em?

Important lessons

2009-02-02T20:36:00.001-08:00

While I certainly won't claim to be an expert, I do feel like I'm starting to get slightly more of a handle on being a parent. A lot of that comes down to trial-and-error, of course, making your mistakes and learning from them. For instance, if I could do it over again, I would refrain from buying the model of car seat with the invisible knives and razor wire that apparently pop out at the passenger every time the car slows down or comes to a complete stop. Damn inconvenient, that, and Molly's not shy about sharing her distaste for it either. I also would have invested in a nice gas mask for when she entered day care, as well as a flamethrower to incinerate her clothes at the end of every day. As is, we neglected to take these precautions and she picked up a lovely cold that she managed to pass on to her mother and me, making our trip to Boston last weekend a sniffly, coughing experience for all three of us. Personally, I blame those chubby twins in the infant room. It's always the fat kid's fault. It also helps explain why I haven't updated recently, so apologies for the delay. And finally, I've learned that with my new work schedule and still occasionally having to get up before the alarm rings to feed the little monster, I'm just not able to fight off sleep and stay awake late at night the way I utdssdafffasdfasdasklasdjfasodfkaljfdslslakjnsdafjja.

New York, New York

2009-01-17T21:44:00.001-08:00

Two friends and I took the train into New York today. We had lunch at Carnegie Deli (bacon & egg sandwich = mmmm!), got some drinks at the Ginger Man, and then took another train out to Long Island to see an Islanders/Devils game. I don't follow hockey at all, but as always I'll support New Jersey in any sport they care to field a team for, so naturally I was rooting for the Devils. That aside, I can say with complete neutrality that "Let's go, Is-lan-ders!" just doesn't sound right. Sorry, Long Islanders, but that'll never work no matter how much you want it to. Leave that cheer to the Devils and other teams with two syllables in their name and find a different one. They also had a squad of girls in miniskirts and belly shirts who would skate out onto the rink to mop the ice, give away t-shirts, and basically look hot during timeouts and between periods. I asked my friends, "Do you think these are the women who got turned down by Hooters?" They're apparently known as the Icebreakers, though I'd imagine their most-used actual icebreaker amounts to something along the lines of "No, sir, the fact that you are wearing an Islanders jersey does not mean that I will sleep with you."

I also saw some dude in a full Elmo costume on a street corner as our taxi drove by. Man, do I hate the fuzzy red bastard. (Elmo, not the guy.) Largely because he totally bogarted Grover's place on the Street. I read something recently that perfectly mirrors my own feelings on the subject, but phrased much better than I ever could. It referred to Elmo as "An extremely adorable and uncomplicated Sesame Street character who talks like a baby and is infinitely less interesting than old-school Sesame Streeters like manic Grover, filthy Oscar the Grouch, gay Bert and Ernie, or imaginary Mister Snuffleupagus." That about sums it up right there.

I don't want to get off on a rant here, but...

2009-01-11T19:10:00.000-08:00

I was born and raised in New Jersey, and damn proud of it, but for the last 4 years I've made my home in Pennsylvania. In general I think PA is pretty groovy, even if nobody knows how to drive, but there's one thing I need to talk with my fellow residents about, because it's making them seem... well, a little dim. Sorry. It's these gas prices- what's the story? As in, why are they so much higher than in New Jersey? My friends, you are being taken. The basic message, as near as I can tell, is that you're willing to pay an extra 20-30 cents a gallon, minimum, for the privilege of getting out of your nice warm vehicle and pumping your own gas in the wind and the rain and the snow. If you're a postal worker in training, I guess I can understand that, but the rest of you? You know that scant miles to the east, literally just a drive down the road, lies a magical land where it's actually illegal to pump your own gas, right? There are people who do it for you (thus creating jobs, which let's face it, in this economy is a real boon), you aren't expected to tip them, and -- here's the part that'll blow your mind -- when it's all said and done you'll end up paying less money, not more. How, how have you not gotten on board with this? It boggles the mind. And I say this with great affection, because whether through Jersey osmosis or just being awesome in its own right, I truly believe that Pennsylvania is a great place to live... but man, you've gotta get on the ball. What, are we living in Russia? Don't let them turn you into chumps- demand cheaper gas and mandatory full service. It's what William Penn would have wanted.

Oh noes, r u kidding?!!!!!1!

2009-01-08T21:02:00.000-08:00

Someone has taught my mother textspeak. I'm not sure who, though I suspect my sister. Whoever it was, I'm appropriately thrown off, as you might expect. A few weeks ago I got a text message reading "Hows ur lil angel 2 da y cant wait 2 c her again r u getting any sleep". Seriously, that's a direct transcription.

This is concerning for two reasons, the first being that my mother is a middle-aged woman of the Baby Boomer generation, and now a grandmother, not a leet haxx0r ready to show her mad FPS skillz in a game of Halo. I don't think Mom even knows what Halo is, and if she ever did play, I'm pretty sure she would immediately be pwned, as the kids say. And second, this woman was an English major, one who even taught English for a year after college before moving out here to marry my dad. This is the woman who taught me to write, for crying out loud, who proofread and edited all of my papers for middle school and high school, who helped me write my resume after graduation. And now she's asking how my lil angel is 2 da y. I mean, there's nothing technically wrong with it, it's just kind of weird, y'know? Like if your great-grandmother, who only ever watches Lawrence Welk on TV and plays euchre and gin rummy down at the rec room, suddenly asks if you read the most recent Harry Potter. It's like... yes, grandma, I did, but why did you?

So that's where we stand right now. My mother hasn't demonstrated any other anachronistic behavior lately that I'm aware of, so hopefully it's just limited to textspeak, but who knows? Maybe next time we talk she'll tell me about how those bitches down at the mall need to check theyselves, because who died and made them boss anyway? They ain't all that.

Tidings of comfort and joy

2008-12-26T21:41:00.000-08:00

Happy holidays, everyone! Just had to take time away from our seasonal celebrations to share two quick anecdotes:

1) Being that Ann's family is Jewish, we went to the in-laws' house last weekend for Hanukkah... lunch, to gorge ourselves on latkes and that most Judaic of foods, meatloaf. (Which was delicious, by the way.) Ann's parents also gave us our gifts, and Molly's was a kind of "My First Hanukkah" set for kids. Darn thing is pretty in depth, with a menorah complete with wooden candles and even detachable wooden flames so you can "light" them, as well as a pan and wooden latkes. It's sort of a bizarre hybrid of a child's cooking set and Hebrew school, but whatever, it's pretty cool. Also included with the set were 6 pieces of gelt and a dreidel, so that very night Ann decided to educate this ignorant gentile on the ways of the Jew through an epic dreidel smackdown the likes of which the world has never seen. Things got pretty heated, to be honest; I don't think gangbangers throwing dice in South Central are as aggressive as Ann was when her non-Jewish husband started winning. All I'll say is this: you haven't lived until you've heard the mother of your child yelling "Gimel, mother[bleep]er!"

2) On Christmas Day we fed Molly and then brought her over to the Christmas tree, where I helped her open her present (several Dr. Seuss books and The 12 Days of Christmas in New Jersey... keeping it real, Garden State) while Ann snapped plenty of pictures. What neither of us realized until Ann started uploading the photos to our computer is that my choice of attire would require a little skillful PhotoShopping. Let me explain: back in college a friend of mine went home to India over winter break, and when she returned she brought Christmas presents for a few of her closer friends. I received a t-shirt with a picture of an Arabian-style palace and the words "Via Agra (Man's greatest erection for a woman)." Juvenile, for sure, and not really acceptable for me to wear in public, but it's super comfy and I sleep in it all the time, to the point where I barely remember what it says anymore. However... not necessarily the shirt you want immortalized in cherished family photos that your daughter may well be looking at 5 or 6 years down the line. There are certain questions you just don't want to have to answer unless absolutely necessary, y'know?

A perfectly cromulent word

2008-12-17T21:03:00.001-08:00

As an addendum to my last post, I feel obligated to note that a friend of Ann's read it and emailed me to say that she couldn't understand why anyone wouldn't know all three of those words/phrases. She did admit, however, to not knowing whether that was the result of growing up in the same county as Ann, attending the same college, or just hanging around Ann long enough to have absorbed them through osmosis and become subconsciously (though quite erroneously) convinced that they are, in fact, real sayings. Personally my money's on the latter, but it's anyone's guess. Either way, I thank her for embiggening my previous post with her contribution.

On Beyond Zebra

2008-12-12T21:32:00.000-08:00

One of the things I love most about my wife is the fact that she makes up new words. Much like Italian director Sergio Leone, who named one of his movies "Duck, You Sucker!" because he somehow got it in his head that this was a common phrase in English and wouldn't be told otherwise; much like this, Ann not only invents words and phrases, but also has learned how to convince herself that they've always existed and you're the weirdo for not knowing them. A small sampling, just to give you an idea of what we're dealing with here:

-"Housing." That's as a verb, not a noun, and it has nothing to do with where you live. To house one's food means to consume it very quickly, as in "Wow, you totally housed that taco!" I have no idea if it's meant to imply that you quickly made a home for the food in your stomach or what.

-"Rammy." To be rammy is to be restless, not satisfied with what you're doing. If we're sitting on the couch watching TV and I keep suggesting that maybe we should go out and run some errands or take a walk, I'm being rammy. I've often wondered if it's a bastardized form of rambunctious, but if Ann knows she isn't telling.

-Then there's my personal favorite. If you asked "What do you want to do for dinner?" and I replied "Let's just pick something up," your reaction would be "Okay, he's saying we should grab a pizza or some Chinese food on the way home, bring it back to the house, and eat it." And that's why it never would have worked between us, baby, because I hate Chinese food. You know that. Nonetheless, that's what any normal person would think, right? Nope. Uh-uh. Because if your wife is Ann and she says "Let's pick up dinner," what she means is let's just eat whatever leftovers or ready-made food we have lying around the house rather than cooking a big main course. The "pick up" dinner is a thing unto chaos, a casual meal wherein one eats whenever and whatever he wants, independent of what or when the other person is eating.

So where did this stuff come from? I honestly have no idea. I know it's not a regional thing, because Ann and I grew up within 30 miles of each other. So unless these are language tropes commonly employed at Penn State, I have no choice but to conclude that she just made them up herself. In which case, major props for the creativity, but whenever Molly starts talking, you'd best believe I'm going to be keeping an ear open for any sign of new words. I'm already the only male in the household, I don't need them developing their own language too.

Potty humor

2008-12-06T19:56:00.000-08:00

Hey, everyone. Apologies for the lack of recent updates... beyond Molly keeping us busy, I've been under the weather and exams are coming up next week. More updates to come in the near future, but in the meantime, I thought last night merited a quick mention. Ann and I decided Molly could stand to be cleaned, so Ann got in the tub to administer said bath while I undressed the squirming little demon. Off came the sleeper, off came the diaper, I brought her over to the tub and lifted her up... and that's when I felt the warmth. Yep, our darling little girl had decided to mark her territory on my arm approximately two seconds before entering a place where no one would have even noticed if she peed. Awesome.

Naturally, Ann couldn't stop laughing. Once I passed Molly off to her and cleaned off my arm (and the floor, and the edge of the toilet), we got down to the business of cleaning her royal urinator. Molly actually doesn't mind the warm water as long as we cover her with a washcloth to keep her warm (and also, I hope for my sanity in, say, sixteen years, for modesty's sake), so everything was going fine. Fine, that is, until... yeah. Need I say more? Let's leave it at the fact that suddenly the tables were turned and I was the one laughing uproariously while Ann cried out in disgust. And no, it wasn't pee.

Who says there's no such thing as karma?

Back to school

2008-11-26T18:25:00.000-08:00

My high school reunion is taking place this week, the day after Thanksgiving. I know the standard thing to say is that I can't believe it's been 10 years, but actually, high school does feel like a LONG time ago. Now college, that I can't believe was 6 years ago, but then again I enjoyed college a lot more than high school too. Also, had more friends. Also, made jokes and drank more. [Note to self: investigate possible drinking/jokes/friends/enjoyment correlation. Also, check Nobel committee deadline.]

But anyway, I don't really know what to expect going into it. It's a cash bar, so right away we're starting off at a deficit. Plus, to make a personal confession, I was a bit of a nerd in high school. No, no, I know, but suspend your disbelief. Not at all what you'd expect to hear from a 28-year-old who blogs about comics and bad movies, of course, but the world is a strange place sometimes. To give my alma mater credit, there wasn't a ton of bullying or ostracization of smart kids, possibly because it was an academically competitive school where the cool kids were the smart kids, and our football team blew. Nonetheless, there were still nerds, and my specific dilemma was always that most of my friends were nerds, but I spent most of my non-school time doing sports. An outgoing person would have used that unique situation to become Ferris Bueller, but sadly I, sir, am no Ferris Bueller. The long and the short of it all became that while there were plenty of people I was friendly with and who were friendly to me, I didn't stay in touch with any of them past graduation. With the exception of three old classmates I reconnected with last year and met for drinks once, I'm going into this sucker completely cold.

However! That does give me the advantage that I'm actually much the better for wear a decade later. Obviously I don't wish misfortune on anyone, and I hope everyone's just as attractive as they were back then, if not more so. But candidly speaking, you and I both know that some of these people reached their physical peak in 1998 and it's been all downhill from there. Some of the guys are going to be fatter, some of the girls won't be as cute as I remember. Whereas I can honestly say that I've gone nowhere but up since then, and before you roll your eyes at my shameless self-flattery, allow me to clarify: there was a lot of room for improvement. I cannot fault a single one of my female classmates for never having dragged me under the bleachers or gotten lightheaded upon seeing me at swim practice. Acne + no muscles + an inexplicable attachment to long hair was not a good combination. Plus I didn't learn until college that if you say jokes out loud instead of just in your head, other people can enjoy them too. Funny, that.

Anyway, the long and the short of it is that in college I gained a few muscles, lost the acne, and finally (finally, finally, finally) in my senior year, ditched the quasi-mullet. THAT was a long time coming. So I'm looking forward to seeing what's what this weekend. I still don't expect any of the women to drag me into the coat closet, but at least now I can pretend that they're stopped from doing so solely by my wedding band and the incredibly cute pictures of my daughter that I'll be showing to everyone within reach. Other than that, we'll just hope no one remembers any embarrassing stories about me that I've managed to block out of my memory.

Oh, and my money's on "Glory Days" getting played within the first hour. Mark it down.

Isn't the preferred term "ladies of the night"?

2008-11-23T15:44:00.000-08:00

Tonight, while talking about the baby weight she still has to lose, my wife complained that her bellybutton is "like a hooker's vagina."

God help me, that's why I love her.

The ways of the ninja

2008-11-17T20:43:00.000-08:00

First, two quick things. Last night I come home from work, and because the little scream machine has been fraying Ann's nerves all day, I take her upstairs to change her so that Ann can mainline some tequila or something. Anyway, I get the squirt on the changing table and say "You remember Daddy, don't you? Are you happy to see Daddy?"... and no sooner have the words left my mouth when the little angel scrunches up her face and lets out a mighty fart. Yep, she's my daughter.

Second, later that night I was feeding her when she suddenly, with no prompting whatsoever, let loose with a literal geyser of spit-up. Oh, she's puked plenty of times and gotten our carpets and couch more than once, but in the past it's always been (relatively) constrained... a bit of distance, sure, but no world records. But I kid you not that for a brief moment, it looked like Old Faithful. A fountain of spew erupted out of this tiny creature, soaking my shirt and pants but also hitting Ann, who was sitting a good three feet away and probably thought she was in the safe zone. Nope, apparently my daughter is like those dolphin shows at Sea World: first three rows may get wet.

Anyway, I've always been a night owl. As a kid I used to stay up past my bedtime reading books by flashlight (yes, I was a nerd); these days it more often takes the form of playing video games or working on reviews far past the time more sensible people have gone to bed. It's not at all uncommon for 1:00 AM to find me just getting changed and taking out my contacts for bed. This has taught me to be fairly silent over the years, to avoid waking up parents, roommates, and Ann with my nocturnal ways. But I tell you, now that there's a baby in the house, it's an entirely different level of stealth. Creaking floors, bumping into furniture, squeaky hinges... these are my sworn enemies, to be avoided at all costs. I was always quiet, but forget about it- in the old days, the worst that could happen would be I'd awaken Ann crawling into bed and have a slightly grumpy wife to contend with. Now there's a gently slumbering infant ready to awaken and cry her head off at the slightest noise, and unlike Ann, she doesn't roll over and go back to sleep after complaining to me for a minute. It's like living in a library filled with land mines. But I'm learning quickly, and soon I'll be confident in my ability to infiltrate high level government buildings and art galleries with nary a sound. So if you've been looking for someone to enter the home of your rival crime lord and leave him a message while he sleeps, hey... got you covered.

I'm... lovin' it?

2008-11-12T06:20:00.000-08:00

You know how I can tell McDonalds' goal has finally shifted from "Maximize profits at all cost" to "Fuck it, just make everyone in America as fat as possible"? I was driving in to work today and heard an ad on the radio for their newest deal. The announcer could barely contain her glee as she spread the word about the latest promotion: two triple cheeseburgers for $3.

I'm going to repeat that just to make sure it sinks in: two triple cheeseburgers. For $3. Although at that point, it might as well be $2.50 for the first and 50 cents for each additional one, because who in their right mind is going to eat a fucking triple cheeseburger, burp, and immediately think, "Yeah, that was pretty filling, but you know what would really hit the spot? Another triple cheeseburger." Are you kidding me? Wouldn't it be quicker to grab a letter opener and repeatedly stab your heart while drinking a gallon of liposuctioned fat?

Look, I'm about the farthest thing in the world from a healthy eater. I like fast food, and I'm not going to begrudge anyone indulging in flame-broiled goodness every so often... hey, it tastes good. But this? This is literally McDonalds saying to your face, "Yeah, you're a fat pig, and you're never going to be thin again. Now open wide, porky, while we cram another Egg McMuffin down your throat- that'll be eight dollars and three months off your life. Ronald McDonald will be over there molesting your kids."

My daughter is losing pieces

2008-11-06T20:46:00.000-08:00

Well, Molly's umbilical stump fell off yesterday. No big deal; I was running errands at the time, but apparently it happened during a diaper change and she didn't even notice. Still, it is kind of a milestone, albeit a minor and really pretty icky one. I guess now it's official, though- we can't return her. Once you cut off that tag or umbilical stump or what have you, man, it's yours.

Not-so-wee one

2008-11-05T21:07:00.000-08:00

On Monday we took Molly to the doctor for her first check-up. All in all a pretty painless experience - with the exception of a brush with one of those annoying people who feel justified in coming up to your child and sticking her face right in the car seat without asking permission (and letting her grandson do same), the rest went remarkably well. The kiddo apparently checks out to the doctor's standards and Ann and I were not detained at the door while child services was called, so I guess we managed not to completely eff up the first week, anyway. It's a nice feeling.

We also learned that Molly is in the 50th percentile for weight, but only the 25th for head size. This doesn't worry me, as once she gains some self-awareness she'll realize what breeding stock she comes from, at which point her head will swell to massive proportions and never come back down. I was pretty shocked to hear that she's in the 90th percentile for length, however- I'm only 5'9" and Ann is 5'3" or thereabouts, so I don't know where this prodigious height is coming from. But hell, if she can be the first member of either of our families to crack the "above average" height barrier when she's fully grown, more power to her. The rest of us will be over here hanging out with the leprechauns.

I'm so proud

2008-11-05T10:06:00.001-08:00

Today Ann decided to wake the baby up for her feeding by unzippering her sleeper, exposing Molly's bare chest to the open air, and yelling "Babies gone wild! Woooo!!!" to the world at large.

So wrong, yet so very, very hilarious. That's why I married her.

The baby has landed

2008-11-03T07:57:00.000-08:00

Well, as you might have guessed, the reason I haven't updated in forever is that the little ~~poop machine~~ angel finally made her appearance. And... yeah. Wow. It's cliched and trite as anything, but still true- you can read all the books and watch all the movies you want, but nothing really prepares you for what it's like to actually have a child. As an example, the day after my wife gave birth, I downloaded "That's My Daughter" off of iTunes. You know the song, it's the one that played over the end credits of Knocked Up. Yeah, I'm that lame.

I know that every parent thinks their child is the cutest one who's ever existed, but let's be honest- more than once you've told a parent their baby was adorable, then on the car ride home made with the "Oh my God, did you see the kid on that nose?" We've all done it, no shame in that. I was worried that might happen with our baby, but fortunately the wee one is quantifiably cute, no questions asked. (Feel free to disagree, of course. It's just that you'll be wrong.) I am amused that both sets of new grandparents have commented on how she looks exactly like Ann and I respectively when we were babies. Only time will tell who she ends up taking after most in terms of looks and personality, but one thing's for sure- I can't wait to find out.

Seriously, baby...

2008-10-25T08:22:00.001-07:00

It's not funny anymore. GET OUT.

Love,
Dad

Bathroom amenities

2008-10-21T20:15:00.000-07:00

Since I know you've all been waiting with bated breath for me to talk about toilets some more, I won't disappoint. Here goes: tonight I was at grad school, heading to the bathroom again at the break, when I noticed my professor just ahead of me on his way there. Having no desire for us to become pee buddies (thank you, Scrubs), I decided to go to the second floor to search out alternate facilities. I found one pretty quickly, but as soon as I walked in I noticed something odd: the side wall had a small shelf with four hooks on it to hang coats off of.

Now, you may be thinking this is not so very strange. You may even be wishing more bathrooms would offer a place to hang your jacket while you're otherwise occupied. I couldn't agree with you more. Except for one tiny detail: it was a single bathroom. One toilet, one sink... that's it. So would someone please explain the logic to me of providing for four entirely different coats at once? Are they holding private faculty functions in there, or is it just in case of really, really, really cold weather?

Sometimes the mind boggles. Yes it does.

Crofting dialogue

2008-10-20T10:40:00.001-07:00

(I know, that was terrible.)

One of the things I really like about the gym Ann and I go to is the Cardio Cinema. If your gym doesn't have one of these (poor, poor bastard), it's basically a dark room with a bunch of machines -- exercise bikes, elliptical machines, treadmills -- all facing a theater-sized screen, where a movie plays on continuous loop all day. They show a different movie every day, which does lead to the CC's biggest drawback, namely that it's a total crapshoot. One day you might stumble onto Die Hard and exercise until your legs fall off just to watch the whole thing, but then it'll be three straight days of chick flicks and Tim Allen movies, exiling you to the magazine rack for alternate entertainment.

But today the rack held nothing but muscle magazines and Vibe, sending me up to the Cardio Cinema to discover that the film du jour was Tomb Raider: The Cradle of Life. Hmmm... tough call, but the lure of possibly seeing Angelina Jolie in a fitted aqua green tanktop was enough to tip the scales slightly in that direction, and I reasoned I could always block out the dialogue with my iPod if it got bad enough.

Now, I only caught 20 minutes of the film, but two scenes stuck out at me. The first finds Angelina Jolie pensively staring off into space, probably wondering how much a hit on Jennifer Aniston would cost and whether it's tax deductible. She's clad in some kind of daishiki thing, the kind that shows exactly enough cleavage to make teenage boys think maybe they're about to see a glimpse of nipple that somehow eluded the team of 82 censors who pre-screened the movie. Sadly, this does not happen. (Although it would have made the movie five hundred times better.) Instead, her love interest, played by Gerard Butler, decides a bright idea would be to sneak up on this extremely angry, trigger-happy woman, as characters in movies so often think. So he steals up and touches her shoulder, whereupon Lara busts out some hardcore ninjitsu move that ends with her clamping his wrist and Gerard Butler on his knees in front of her, a situation I'm fairly certain is not the most unpleasant one Ms. Jolie has ever found herself in. He then says -- and this is true, I'm not making it up -- "You can break my wrist if you want to, I'm still going to kiss you."

At this point, naturally, I and the rest of the rational world get excited by the fact that she's clearly going to forcefeed him his testicles. But instead, she lets him up and kisses him passionately, like he didn't just utter the single most asinine seduction line in the history of seduction, or lines. And then it occurs to me that if this is the kind of crap repartee that flies with rich, attractive adventurers with British accents, well, I just might be willing to take that hit. Can anyone confirm this?

Anyway, the second stupid moment occurs a couple of scenes after that. Angelina has recruited the help of a native African tribe, as one does in such situations, to help recover the special treasure. To help lead her to it, she's got a special glowing orb thingie that doubles as a bowling ball on Thursday nights. She and the primitive African tribe who still think spears are a pretty good weapon are hiking toward the location of the treasure, and apropos of nothing, Angelina busts out with "We're getting closer." The Wise Old Black Man (WOBM) feels compelled to ask how she knows that. I feel that his sarcasm is implicit, but Angelina apparently doesn't pick up on it, because she responds quite matter-of-factly "I can feel it." Instead of laughing in her face, the WOBM just kind of nods sagely, but you can tell he's thinking, Uh, I think the reason you know we're getting closer is because we told you we're taking you to it, and we have, in fact, traveled some distance since we started. Ergo, yes, we are getting closer. Dumb bitch. However, since she's Angelina and him saying so would minimize the chances that she'll ever adopt him, he just remains silent.

So that was my experience with Tomb Raider. I doubt that I'll ever see the rest of it, unless someone can confirm that it ends with her coming across an empty cavern and a guardian who tells her that a rugged, stubbly archaeologist absconded with it over half a century ago, complaining about being too old all the while. That, I will pay good money to go rent.

Potty talk

2008-10-15T20:08:00.000-07:00

Last night I was in class, and at the 8:00 break I headed to the bathroom. Nothing out of the ordinary there, except no sooner had I gotten into position when the professor of the class came in and stood at the next urinal over. (In his defense, there were only two.) Thankfully he obeyed the Code of Silence throughout, but the entire time my mind kept frantically wondering: what if he doesn't? If he starts talking, am I obliged to try to make conversation? That's weird enough with friends, let alone someone who's going to be grading me. (On my classwork, perv. Mind out of the gutter.) So the question I pose to you, dear readers, is this: what would you say to your professor while standing at the urinal/sitting in a stall next to them?

I'll get you started:

-Whew... good thing this divider's here, huh? I hate accidental sightings.
-Well, I THOUGHT I had to go.
-So speaking of finance, did I mention how glad I am these aren't pay toilets?
-NARF! [See what he does.]
-Have you accepted Jesus Christ as your personal savior?
-For extra credit, I will never speak a word of this to the class.
Etc.

Shine yer [bleep]in' shoes, guvnor?

2008-10-13T19:14:00.000-07:00

I went over to a friend's house to watch the Phillies game tonight, and while I was there, he insisted on playing for me this new Ashlee Simpson song he's got stuck in his head. (Yes, he's kind of a girl.) Anyway, the main hook of the song consists of Ashlee singing "L-O-L-O-L-O-L-O-Love" eight gazillion times. But it's the way she said it that intrigued me, like the word "'ello" spoken in a Cockney accent. To test my theory, I mentioned Lily Allen's song "Smile" to my friend, how sultry she sounds throughout the entire song but especially when describing what her boyfriend did to the girl next door. He agreed, and came back with a comment about his trip to Brazil last year. Apparently one of the numerous people he met down there was an English girl who smoked and had an unimaginably filthy mouth, so even though she was only moderately attractive, she became the most desirable person there in his mind. (I have to assume he was also drinking heavily, but still.) Anyway, we both arrived at the conclusion that while we don't exactly know why, there is something about that type of accent that makes swear words unbelievably hot.

So if there are any English chicks... sorry, "birds" out there who'd like to record themselves cursing randomly into a microphone for an hour and send it along, well, that would just be swell.

A letter to my daughter

2008-10-11T17:41:00.000-07:00

Baby - we need to talk. Or rather, since you're still in the womb, I'll do all the talking and you can just listen. But as your father, I do expect you to listen closely, even if it sounds a bit burbly.

See, that's the problem: you're still in the womb. This is not ideal. Your mother and I have gone to great pains to get everything ready for you ahead of time. In fact, not to brag, but I'm pretty sure we've had everything prepared for over two months. Now, that may come naturally to your mother, but for me it's a feat of nigh biblical proportions. I'm not looking for accolades, but it would be nice if you could recognize the lengths to which we've gone and cooperate by, you know, vacating the premises.

And yes, I know what your response would be if your lungs weren't full of amniotic fluid- that it's not time yet, it's not technically forty weeks until October 20th. This is true. And maybe that excuse would fly if you were just my child, since I'm constantly late. But you and I both know your mother is perennially early to everything, gets mildly peevish if it looks like we'll be a full 30 seconds late to work, and eats lunch and dinner at times normally reserved for blue-haired Florida retirees. So you can't tell me you don't have any early genes in you, and while God knows I'm glad to know you have some of my traits too, this is one instance where I'd really be happy to have you take more after your mother.

Understand, I'm not asking this purely out of impatience. I mean of course we're eager to meet you, but there are some important logistical factors involved too. For instance, your grandfather is being honored for his contributions and years of service to the high school as a track coach by being inducted into the hall of fame. This is a big deal, with a ceremony and everything. Daddy is attending, along with your aunt and grandma and even your great-grandfather, but Daddy would really like to have Mommy there too, and maybe even you if you're old enough. But see, the ceremony is taking place in early November, so if there's even going to be a chance of that, you really need to get on the ball and get born as soon as possible.

And then there's Mommy's friend who's getting married in early November. This friend has been extremely accommodating and is letting Mommy wait until the very last minute before RSVPing, but the sooner you're born, the greater the chance Mommy might feel comfortable attending. Otherwise Daddy may have to attend alone, and while he's always a fan of an open bar and no one around to make him be reasonable, it would not be in anyone's best interest for Daddy to be at a wedding where he only knows 3 people and spends the entire night drinking alone. This is how episodes of COPS start.

So you see, baby, it really would be better for everyone if you could arrive sooner rather than later. Your mother and I are ready, no thanks to Daddy, your nursery is set up, the bags are packed, Daddy has practiced with his video camera and is pretty sure he can keep from accidentally recording 30 minutes of his shoes... everything's taken care of. And let's face it, your living space isn't getting any larger; things have to be pretty cramped in there. So let's get a move on, huh? I promise, there's a great big, wonderful world out here that's full of people waiting to meet you.

And only some of them are Jehovah's Witnesses.

I want my XMR

2008-09-30T19:36:00.000-07:00

I bought Ann a satellite radio for her birthday last week. She had gotten me one a couple of years back, and I really like it a lot, use it all the time. So when she expressed interest in having one of her own, I jumped at the chance to get her one. In addition to making her happy, though, I'm also hoping that having one of her own will put into context two behaviors I've observed over the last two years in relation to mine. Namely:

1) She turns the radio off when we're still a half mile from wherever we're going. Don't ask me why, but invariably we'll be pulling up to the road that leads to our neighborhood -- not even IN our neighborhood yet -- and she'll hit the power button, then put the radio back in the glove compartment. This is problematic because, woman, Jon Bon Jovi has not finished telling me what kind of horse he rides... what are you doing? But it never fails. Is she worried the music will distract me from the final stages of a route I've driven every day for the last 3 years, and we'll wind up in Scranton? It defies comprehension.

2) She turns the radio off, period. Much like a normal car radio, the way the satellite radio works is that when you turn off the car, it automatically powers down. Then, even if you remove the unit from the cradle to store in your glove compartment and then plug it back in later, it will automatically turn back on when you start the car. Nice, right? Right. Except even on those rare occasions when Ann lets us get all the way to our destination before cutting the music off, she'll still hit the power button before I can turn the car off. Why? Why not just let the radio shut down when I turn off the car so it will automatically start back up next time? Yes, you may very well be thinking "It's two steps, you lazy bitch... suck it up." My counterpoint is, it's two completely unnecessary steps. Why bother turning the radio off at all? You don't turn your regular radio off before you get out of the car, do you? (Please note, that's a rhetorical question. If you do, you're a freak and I don't want to hear about it.) It just doesn't make sense.

So there you have it. We're just going to monitor the situation for a little while and see if Ann continues this inexplicable behavior with her own satellite radio. Check back in for regular updates.

In which I turn into a girl

2008-09-28T19:03:00.000-07:00

No entry today, just pictures of random cuteness. Never fear, the usual trenchant, biting commentary on how they're messing up Spider-Man or whatever will resume next time.

Looking at this photo, you would think she's a well-behaved rabbit who loves having her picture taken. You would be dead wrong.

Laundry is soft, but not as soft as meeee!

Coveting thy neighbor's newly hot wife

2008-09-23T22:07:00.001-07:00

Let me set the stage for you: Ann and I are chilling out in the living room... I'm studying for a quiz tomorrow, she's watching TV. The show she's watching is called What Not To Wear -- if you've never seen it, the premise is that a gay guy and a fashionista woman find some poor, misguided girl who dresses... well, like me, really, that is to say like a homeless person who went completely blind in 1987, and then they point out her fashion sins in minute detail in front of full length mirrors. Afterward they make up for completely dismantling her self esteem by giving her money to buy better clothes and throwing in a badly needed makeover. So, whatever... at the end of the show they always have the victim return home to a party thrown by her friends and family so they can gawk over how tragic she no longer is. Like I said, I'm studying, but I happen to look up and notice that in this episode, one of the people being interviewed, right after the woman's husband, is the pastor of the church she attends. He comments -- to be fair, in a nice rather than a creepy way -- that now they'll have no problem filling the pews every Sunday, thanks to how good she looks.

So my question is, do you think this man ever looks at the nine commandments and thinks, You know, it just feels like something's missing? Or is he good?

Important safety tip, Egon

2008-09-19T18:50:00.000-07:00

If you and your extremely pregnant wife are out on a walk and she starts complaining about all her aches and asking why you made her take a walk in the first place, and you point out that your mother kept jogging throughout her entire pregnancy, up to and including the day she gave birth to you...

Well, let's just say that's very much The Wrong Answer, okay?

Was it ever?

2008-09-16T04:58:00.001-07:00

There's this commercial that's been on lately, maybe you've seen it; I think it's for investment banking or guns, something like that. Anyway, this young guy stands in a darkened hospital room cradling a baby in his arms. From a nearby bed, his wife looks on adoringly, all "Hey, I know I just shoved a 7-pound person out my vagina, but I couldn't have done it without your moral support, honey." An expression of awe on his face, perhaps because the baby is actually sleeping for the first time in 37 hours, the dude looks at the camera and says something like, "You know that place where 'I can't be such a douchebag' meets 'It's not just about me anymore'? I'm there." Then we pan out from this tender scene and learn we should invest in mutual funds or whatever.

Normally I mock commercials like this, mock them with all my snarky little heart and soul. But as I opened my mouth to do just that, it suddenly dawned on me that, hey... in two to five weeks, this was me. Now I'm the guy who can't be such an ass anymore. That dude looked pretty young, a year ago he was probably just like me- kicking back on the couch, making fun of cheesy commercials. Now he's in one, and he totally couldn't care less.

So I guess I need to buy their life insurance or whatever it was. I hate bowing to popular demand, but apparently it's the only way to prove I love my soon-to-be-here daughter. Because, hey- it's not just about me anymore.

Who'll crack first?

2008-09-11T10:14:00.000-07:00

Ann and I are currently embroiled in a Mexican standoff over who's going to clean the cage of Gizmo, our bunny. This is serious stuff, really. For those of you who've never had the pleasure of owning a rabbit, let me elaborate. In many way, they're pretty convenient pets. They never need to be walked or to go outside at all, really. The only noises they make are happy grunts, occasional sneezing fits (cutest thing ever), and apparently a high-pitched screaming noise when they're terrified or dying... we've been fortunate enough never to hear that last one. When they poop it's in little pellets that they usually eat the first time around (more than once Ann has said "Hey, wasn't there a poop over... oh, GROSS!"), and then the second time around are dried-up little things that look exactly like Cocoa Puffs (a ringing endorsement, I'm sure) and, if you're not squeamish, can just be picked up and flicked in the garbage or at your wife as the situation requires. Easy, right?

BUT. With this simplicity comes one chore that no one wants to handle, and that is cleaning the cage. Rabbits are pretty good about getting toilet trained to pee only in their cage, but let me tell you, bunny urine is rank, and all the litter and newspapers in the world won't disguise that stench for long. It's also a pain to clean the cage, and neither Ann nor I likes doing it, so inevitably it becomes a game of who can outlast who before one of us breaks down and cleans it. My advantage is that, as a man, I have a much higher tolerance for foul odors and general filth in my living area; Ann's is that I'm a big softie and she knows if she asks the right way, I'll probably sigh mightily and then do it. But at the current moment we've left the cage dirty and smelling for longer than usual, locked in an unspoken contest of wills to see who'll crack first. It doesn't hurt Gizmo any, but the two of us can now barely sit on the couch to watch a half-hour TV show without passing out from the visible fumes of rabbit pee pervading the family room. It's not a pretty scene. Tuesday and Wednesday I had grad school classes and returned home each night convinced that, during the three hours when she was sitting home alone with nothing to do, she would have taken care of it. Her position seems to be that, hey asshole, I'm 8 months pregnant -- you do it. The question is, how long can this epic battle of stubborness continue before we both die of asphyxiation? Only time will tell...

On a related note, I'm just now realizing that I haven't posted any pictures of Gizmo yet. This is inexcusable, because even I, with my heart of stone, cannot help but admit that she is possibly the cutest animal ever, or at least cracking the top five. However, be not deceived, because the beast uses this overwhelming cuteness to mask the fact that she is Pure Evil. It's true. Anytime you get up to walk anywhere, she'll scamper exactly underfoot, forcing you to either accidentally kick her and hate yourself forever or to wrench your body violently sideways. At first you think this is cute, like "Aw, she just wants to be close to me!", but gradually you come to realize that she is in fact hoping you will fall and break your neck so that she can eat your eyelids. Another of her favorite activities is gnawing at the mesh baby gate that keeps her confined to the family room and away from the freeeedom! of the kitchen. She will do this incessantly until you finally look up from American Gladiators (shut up, you watch it too) and bark "Gizmo!", at which point she will jump two feet in the air, bolt away from the gate, and then fix you with a look of feigned nonchalance, mixed with just a hint of wounded indignation, as if to say "What? I wasn't anywhere near that baby gate, in fact I don't think I've ever even seen it before. Say, whose teeth marks are those?" And while she's doing this she will inch closer and closer to the gate, watching you the entire time, until you finally get bored and go back to watching TV. And .003 seconds later, she will start chewing again. Repeat ad infinitum.

You wound me, sir, with your accusations.

So there she is, in all her fuzzy glory. Just don't let the adorable floppy ears fool you; if that rabbit ever got the chance, she'd kill you and everyone you cared about. Or at least poop in your lap.

EDIT: As an addendum, I won the standoff. Ann read this post and thought it was funny, so as a reward she cleaned the cage. Score! Stay tuned for future entries about cleaning the gutters and taking out the garbage.

Way #139 I can tell I'm getting old...

2008-09-07T17:09:00.000-07:00

When I heard there was a new song getting a lot of airplay called "I Kissed A Girl," I immediately thought, "Huh... I wonder if it's a cover of that mid 90s song that caused all the controversy." Then I found out that no, it isn't. And that nobody else remembers there was a mid 90s song called "I Kissed A Girl."

Yeah. I'm old.

Lazy Saturday

2008-09-06T20:35:00.000-07:00

After spending most of the day watching Michigan win (barely) and Penn State win (handily), the wife and I rode out the rest of the terrible weather by getting a pizza and idly flipping through channels. Eventually, God knows how, we landed on some show that seemed devoted to depicting the lives of hypothetical animals that might exist in the far future, after humans have all died off. The particular segment concerned these hamster-like creatures (descended from birds, though... pay attention, there will be a quiz later) that were trying to have their mating season, except they had to do it while these other bat-type things tried to swoop down and eat them. And it suddenly dawned on me that I was spending my Saturday night watching one kind of fictional animal hump while hoping it wouldn't get scarfed by another fictional animal.

I know people say that when you have a kid, all your free time just goes away; but honestly, what am I really giving up?

Like The Biggest Loser in reverse

2008-09-04T21:38:00.001-07:00

Well, my wife is making me gain weight. And you may be rolling your eyes skyward and thinking, "Ah yes, the old 'I'm only fat because my wife made me do it' bit," but honestly, it's true. I didn't know this, but apparently there comes a point where the pregnant mind puts aside all prior rational notions of "I know I'm thin in real life and I'm only gaining this tiny, miniscule amount of weight because of the baby, I'm not actually getting fat" and reaches a breaking point. And when this point is reached, the pregnant person's spouse becomes the number one basis of comparison/resentment, particularly if he (not to flatter himself or anything) happens to be, if not Michael Phelps-ian, at least in reasonably good shape. This typically leads to a situation in which the pregnant party issues an ultimatum that if he doesn't stop going to the gym and drinking Coke Zero and losing that bleeping weight, he is going to be sorry, mister.

So now you know why I had to have four beers tonight. It's a tough life, but no sacrifice is too great for the mental wellbeing of a man's wife.

Words, words, words

2008-08-28T19:35:00.000-07:00

Time for a word game! The other day Ann and I were playing Scrabble -- the game she always wins when we're playing alone, and I always win whenever there's a third person playing -- when she brought to the table not one, but two sexually themed words. We've all been there, right? You're just cruising along, playing a friendly round with your in-laws, and the next thing you know you're faced with a dilemma: lose the game or put down "boobs" on a triple word score in front of your father-in-law. Tough call.

In the interest of keeping it classy, I'll just give a couple of hints, and you can work out on your own what words that trollop used to beat my ass. (By 3 points. 3. Points.)

-One of the words, if you add "up" to it, describes what a student might have done regarding his subject matter the day before an exam.

-The other rhymes with the past tense of what you might do with a match if the power suddenly went out.

And just in case you were thinking it was one of these situations... yeah, no. (Trust me, I checked.)

The Scarlet Letter

2008-08-26T20:36:00.000-07:00

Yesterday my wife went to the women's center for her monthly pregnancy checkup. The problem was that she forgot her engagement and wedding rings at home. (At the risk of sounding smug, if she'd just had them welded on like I suggested...) That in and of itself would not be a major issue, except that as she told me later, this visit she happened to get a doctor she'd never met before. At which point, given her lack of digital accoutrements of any kind, she started worrying that he would think she was an unwed mother or Satan or something.

As you can guess, she got back to the house without being stoned in the street, but it was a near thing. And I had to ask, given the circumstances, whether the doctor made her lay on the "hussy table" or not.

Goodbye, expertise

2008-08-25T19:18:00.000-07:00

Well, the Olympics are over. I'm always sad to see the Olympics end, partially for the same reason most people are: the end for another four years of watching history being made and legends being born. The end of watching the greatest athletes in the world competing and imagining yourself in their shoes, if only stupid Mr. Crandall in 6th grade had given you just a bit more of a chance in track, I mean come on, you'd think the old bastard was paying for the cleats himself. And the end, of course, of Morgan Freeman voiceovers.

Those are all valid reasons for being sorry the Olympics are over, but my more personal disappointment is that it marks the end, for another four long years, of me being a sports expert. See, I'm not one of those guys who follows professional sports closely or memorizes statistics. Oh, I'm a pretty athletic person, and I'm always happy to go see a football or baseball game a couple of times a season. (They have beer there. Sudsy, watered down, $9 beer.) But I've never been the guy to closely follow trades, lineups, and win/loss records. Maybe I'm worried it will push other knowledge out of my brain, like the secret identities of Earth's five Green Lanterns (Alan Scott, Hal Jordan, Guy Gardner, John Stewart, Kyle Rayner), because God knows I'm going to need that someday. But the fact is I'd just usually rather be playing sports than watching them. No one ever calls me to find out the outcome of the Phillies game last night, or whether the Eagles covered the spread. I'm happy when Michigan wins, I'm happier when OSU loses, and that's about as far as it goes.

But. The one exception to this phenomenon is swimming, because listen: I know my swimming. It's not that I follow the stats any closer than I do other sports, but I can answer most any question someone raises about the differences between strokes, why they're using the butterfly kick off the wall, whether that was a good start or not, etc. If it's within reason, I probably know it, and if I don't I'm at least knowledgeable enough to fake it. So for a glorious week and a half, I get to feel incredibly manly while my wife, who knows more about college football than I ever will, sits beside me and asks questions about how realistic it is that Phelps might conceivably win gold in all 8 events, and how on earth he managed to win the fly even though it really looked like Cavic touched him out. (A: who knows, but while those electronic touch pads are pretty sensitive, just brushing one lightly won't always set it off; you really have to push them. Phelps slammed into his, while Cavic was reaching at the end of his stroke, so Phelps' weight would have registered first even if they technically touched at the exact same time.) And that is just... awesome. If someone at work asks how in the world people don't go crazy during the 1500 free, I can answer them. (You sing songs in your head, preferably something from the AC/DC or Green Day catalogs.)

But now it's over. Back to another 4 years of listening to my friends talk about Detroit's chances this year while I sit there and vainly hope someone asks what happened to Captain America after World War II. So please, everyone- if you're ever out at a bar and you see a group of guys having a heated argument over their fantasy football teams, with one lone dude sitting there quietly nursing his beer... go over and ask him the Vegas odds on the X-Men beating Magneto next Wednesday. Trust me, he'll appreciate it.

Pop quiz, hotshot...

2008-08-19T20:16:00.000-07:00

It's the day of your wife's baby shower, so while she's being fawned over by friends and relatives at her mother's house, her father and brother take you out to the movies. The three of you see Pineapple Express (decent, no Knocked Up), then afterward they take you to a bar for a drink, because none of you are particularly enthused about going back to the house and beginning the process of loading 8 thousand boxes of Baby Bjorn accessories into your car. As you sit down at the bar, you can't help but notice the two large screen TVs located straight across from you, directly in your line of sight. More specifically, the reason you can't help but notice them is because one is tuned to the Spanish Channel. As it turns out, the Spanish Channel is a bizarre network filled with shows wherein bikini-clad girls and Abercrombie douchebags spend an hour gyrating to music on a fake beach. Ten seconds of careful study reveals to you that the total cost of surgical enhancements among the women is approximately equal to the annual gross national product of Finland, and that none of them have apparently kept down a meal in the last five months. This is, as it turns out, the entire program: fifteen seconds of stripper trainees jiggling in the general direction of the camera, interspersed with two seconds of gelled-up 'roidheads scowling. Repeat as necessary. Being as your brother- and father-in-law are seated directly beside you, and the TV being located, as aforementioned, straight ahead, this presents an obvious dilemma. Do you:

A) Studiously ignore the TV, pretending you haven't even noticed it's there while suddenly finding the inside of your beer glass to be the most intensely fascinating thing you've ever seen;

B) Wait till the bartender is out of earshot, then make several calculated snide remarks about the choice of programming, and is there anything else to this show, I mean it's like spring break in Cancun meets a Budweiser commercial, for God's sake;

C) Go wait in the car, where the summer sun basting down on the nearby dumpster creates a pungent odor only too reminiscent of the soiled diapers you'll soon be encountering firsthand; or

D) Whoop and holler, chug your beer, then flag down a passing (skanky) (read: all of them) waitress and ask if she'd care to make an extra five bucks by trying to shake it like the chicas on TV.

If you know the correct answer, feel free to hop in your DeLorean, head on back to last Saturday and let me know. I'm still trying to figure it out.

It's harder to be elitist when you're drinking. And yet, also easier.

2008-08-16T23:11:00.000-07:00

You know how you can tell I'm an English nerd? As if there was ever any doubt. The other day I'm out at a bar with my friend watching the Olympics, and a commercial comes on for that new Christian Slater show -- the one where he's a boring family man by day and some kind of bad-ass secret agent by night, I guess, but each identity is unaware the other exists. Anyway, the ad happens to mention the names of the two alter egos: Henry and Edward. At that point I turn to my friend and say (probably snidely... being pretentious is standard homework for English majors), "I suppose they think they're being sooo clever with those names. You know, what with the whole dual identity thing... like, Dr. Henry Jekyll and Edward Hyde?" My friend (an extremely smart guy, mind you) just looks back at me and replies, "Wow, uh, yeah. I never would have made that connection."

And doctor, that's when I knew I wasn't like all the other children.

That could be difficult...

2008-08-14T21:55:00.000-07:00

Today at work we got an email stating that "due to a lack of participation, there will be no Bring Your Kids to Work Day this year."

I asked Ann if she thinks that means she's just not allowed to come in to the office. I mean, right?

Mucus Plug: great name for a band

2008-08-11T20:02:00.000-07:00

One of my personal heroes, Dave Barry, began his career as a humorist by writing a column about his wife's pregnancy and the eventual birth of his son. Even though it's his first ever column, it still reads like vintage Barry- witty, self-deprecating, deceptively insightful. In one of the funnier segments he describes the childbirth class he and his wife attended, specifically the graphic videos of women actually giving birth that they were forced to watch. He hastens to add that he can't give many specific details about the videos, since during them he had to go out to the hall twenty or thirty times to get a drink of water.

Well, Ann and I attended our first childbirth class tonight. And yes, they showed videos of actual women actually giving birth to actual babies. (So much for starting slow and ramping up to that.) But I, unlike Mr. Barry, decided to remain strong and support my wife by watching the entire thing without getting up once. That's just the kind of guy I am. So I did.

You may notice that one of us is a famous, highly respected and almost universally beloved journalist and author whose work has spawned a television show and a movie, with more on the way; and that one of us is stuck in corporate America writing movie reviews and blog posts on the side to keep his brain from atrophying. I'll leave it to you as to who makes better choices.

It's not the years, honey...

2008-08-05T19:04:00.000-07:00

One of my best friends turned 30 yesterday. In fact, he's the first of my really close friends to hit that milestone; I have other friends who reached that age long ago, of course, but none that I grew up with. And even though he's two years and some odd weeks older than me, it's still a rather sobering reminder that the big three decade mark is closer than I like to think. It's not even that big a deal... I mean, just an arbitrary number, right? I could have a heart attack tomorrow (but please, Lord, do me a solid and forget about all those bacon cheeseburgers, 'kay?), whereas there are 70-year-old grandparents out there who've never been sick a day in their lives. I think it's just the change in attitude that goes along with it, y'know? It brings the whole aging/maturity thing home in a way that going to your 10-year high school reunion or, oh, having a child somehow don't. Maybe it's the comforting mindset of "Sure, I've been out of college for 6 years and I have a job and I'm married, but I'm still young. I never would, but technically I could start over from scratch if I wanted to. Nobody calls me 'sir' yet." But once you hit 30 you're no longer a promising anything (statement void for doctors), you're not a youngster whose mistakes can be forgiven, nobody expects you to show up for work bleary-eyed because they just assume you were out drinking last night. Now you have to face the horrible, gut-wrenching realization that the interns you're giving instructions to don't remember where they were when Kurt Cobain died because it probably involved apple juice and Duck Duck Goose. Oh, and those Playboy centerfolds? Remember when their dates of birth were, like, in the '70s and that was pretty cool because they were older women? Well, now they would look at your younger siblings and say, "Ew, way too ancient for me. No thanks, LOL!" Enjoy.

It's still a couple years down the line, so I'll continue to enjoy my late 20s secure in the knowledge that no way, my hairline is definitely not receding, uh-uh. But I swear, the next time I don't get carded at the liquor store, I'm reaching over the counter and grabbing that smug punk who doesn't even know who He-Man is for God's sake, and giving him a piece of my mind. As long as I don't trip over my walker.

If you ain't first, you're last

2008-07-27T09:10:00.000-07:00

A couple more random thoughts on Mario Kart Wii:

-One of the vehicles you can unlock in the game is a motorcycle shaped like a dolphin. It happens to be the type of bike one leans forward to drive, commonly known as a "crotch rocket." The game also features numerous characters to play as, some of them prominent members of the animal kingdom. Perhaps you see where this is going.

All I'll say is, if you can't appreciate the simple pleasure of watching a monkey humping a dolphin, it's possible you and I are very different people.

-Ann and I enjoy racing against each other, but we've recently decided that the game's team mode, in which you compete as a team with five other computer-controlled players, is definitely the way to go. That way if you lose, you have someone else to blame it on.

Me: Eff you, computer! I would have won the whole damn cup if not for these losers dragging me down!
Ann: You, uh... personally finished eighth in every race.
Me: Stupid team!

-Ann has a tendency to get especially frustrated when her computer teammates aren't performing to their fullest potential.

Ann: Look at that! Your guys got, like, five of the top six spots! What the hell, team?!
Me: Maybe it's a morale problem. They might have moral issues with their leader engaging in bestiality during races.
Ann: Learn to appreciate interspecies erotica and get your heads in the game!

Judgey McJudgeypants

2008-07-21T20:17:00.000-07:00

If nothing else, impending parenthood is great for triggering every judgmental bone in your body with regard to other people's children. Frankly, my wife and I were critical of other people's parenting at the best of times, long before we decided to spawn one ourselves... sorry, but if you let your 5-year-old run around with a pair of toy binoculars staring at the crotches of everyone seated around the deck while your 13-year-old walks around in a bikini top and microskirt because Moooom, geez, don't be so uncool, then am I as a reasonable human being expected to heartily endorse your candidacy for Parent of the Year? Exactly. Only if I've been drinking.

But forget all that, because having one on the way yourself takes it to a whole different level. Ann and I attended a birthday party this weekend for the 1-year-old daughter of one of Ann's friends. (As an aside: 85-100% of Ann's close friends are married or in a long-term relationship. 25% of mine are, which makes me feel like the Weird Old Guy when we all get together. It also virtually guarantees that at future gatherings, my teenager will get stuck babysitting between 3-5 youngsters while the adults go get drinks. Sorry, kid.) The party was about what you'd expect, a number of children ranging from 6 months to 5 years motoring around while a bunch of adults talked with each other about parenting and gave Ann and I advice. It was enjoyable, and even though I was convinced I'd hate the stuff, damned if that gluten-free cake wasn't really good. Who knew? But my point (I had one originally, didn't I?) is that a couple of the older kids were, shall we say, less than well behaved. Now, I mean, they're kids... you can't rule them with an iron fist or anything (around strangers). They're going to run around and be rambunctious, that's a given. But I think I draw the line at letting them open the gifts. Sure, the baby has no idea what presents are, she's more interested in the paper, but it's the principle of the thing. You can't totally blame the kids... I mean, they're 4- or 5-year-olds at a baby's birthday party, of course they're going to get bored. But as the parent, you've got to be involved enough to hold them in your lap or something; whatever, just keep them out of the camera angle so I can get pictures of my kid's first birthday party without having to add "...and her cousins/our neighbor's progeny/our friend's kids" to every shot. The birthday girl's mother was extremely graceful about the whole thing, which I give her a ton of credit for, because I'm not sure I could have resisted the urge to say something.

Anyway, Ann and I couldn't stop talking about it afterward, clearly demonstrating that our judgmental meter has migrated from "pretty damn," right on past "uh, you're not perfect either, you know" and all the way to "hyper sensitive, you realize your child won't have ANY friends, right?" Here's hoping we can get it in check before I start administering 6-part written questionnaires to other parents wanting to schedule play dates with our little girl.

Really, I'm thinking just the urine sample should be enough.

More casual comic racism

2008-07-15T21:34:00.001-07:00

Just a short post today... frankly, I'm not sure what I could add to this one. To set the stage for you, Pat has been captured by (who else?) pirates who will shoot any whiteys they see, so Terry decides to go undercover by -- you ready for this? -- painting his body with iodine and using adhesive tape to make his eyes slant. Oh, and pinning some hair to his turban that they cut off an actual Chinese guy while he slept. The worst part is that Connie encourages this bullshit with the following ultra-progressive remark: "As one darn clever Chinee to 'nother - you pooty smart feller!" You're a credit to your people, Connie.

Words fail me.

You can picture Jeffy from Family Circus doing the same thing, right? That little scamp.

Always the place you least expect...

2008-07-03T22:13:00.001-07:00

My wife and I are the proud owners of a Nintendo Wii. Neither of us much cares that it's not the most powerful system on the market, or that hardcore, "leet" gamers roll their eyes at it... it's the most accessible and overall fun system out there, and if Nintendo can get our parents to tentatively play a game, they're certainly doing something right. In particular, we're both huge fans of the ability to download games from past Nintendo systems- it lets my wife play Wario's Woods and Dr. Mario and all the other puzzle games she holds so dear, and for my part, I can finally beat Castlevania without my mom telling me to shut that damn thing off, it's time for dinner.

But we also like some of the games actually designed for the Wii itself, and the one we've been pining for lately is Mario Kart Wii. The N64 version is far and away the most popular video game I've ever introduced my wife to, and since she's currently pregnant, if it's the Wii version she wants, the Wii version she shall have. Simple, right? You'd think, except Mario Kart Wii is currently sold out everywhere. Ev-ery-where. Over the last week I've visited every Target, Best Buy, Circuit City, Toys R' Us, and even (*shudder*) Wal-Mart near our house and work, trying to find the frickin' thing. Nada. Zilch. A helpful employee of EB Games informed me that there's a huge shortage right now, but that Nintendo is expected to ship more out by late July. That's "late July" as in a month from now. Of course, eBay is teeming with copies, as long as you're willing to pay an extra $20 for the game plus shipping. I'm not, which has left me up the proverbial creek sans visible means of propulsion.

So in the midst of my utter failure to appease my wife's Mario Kart cravings, the other day I visited the campus bookstore to pick up materials for my latest MBA class. And what do you suppose I happened to run across, brazenly sitting there on a shelf? It just stared out at me as if to say, "Well, duh... I don't know why you didn't just come to this repository of textbooks, pencils, and notepads first, instead of visiting all those electronics stores. Fool." I don't know either, but you'd best believe I snatched that bitch up and brought it triumphantly home to my wife, and was rewarded with the biggest, most heartwarming smile you've ever seen in your life. Granted, it lasted exactly 7 minutes, at which point she placed fifth overall and angrily declared she didn't want to play anymore; but mister, that was 7 minutes well worth it. And that's the truth.

Dodging the issue

2008-06-23T21:08:00.001-07:00

Here's a question for the class: have you ever been in the position of having to pretend you didn't hear something, just so you could get out of responding to it?

Surprisingly, there's a story behind that question. A few weeks back my sister and I were talking, and she happened to mention that she liked John Cho, who I guess is appearing on Ugly Betty now. Anyway, I nodded and said, "Oh yeah, I remember him... the 'MILF' guy from American Pie." My sister didn't know what I was talking about (youth), but the problem was my mother, who overheard the conversation and asked point blank, "The 'milf' guy? What's a milf?"

So I ask you, friends- what would you have done? I did the only thing I could think of: pretended I hadn't heard her and hastily changed the subject. Thank God she didn't press the issue.

"Well, Mom, y'see, it's when a lady of a certain age..."

Betrayal

2008-06-14T20:39:00.000-07:00

I think it's quite unfortunate that my daughter will now never know her father. I mean, God knows I want to be there at the birth of my baby girl, and to be involved in raising her. What father wouldn't? But then last night Ann and I were playing Mario Kart on the Wii, I was in first place and literally about five feet from the finish line... and she nailed me with a blue turtle shell, letting both her and a computer player cross the finish line first. I got third. Third.

Like I said, I'd really like to see my little daughter grow up, but I just don't see how I could be expected to stay with a woman who would do something like that to her husband. I mean, really.

Songs to rock out/rock your baby by

2008-06-01T21:12:00.000-07:00

Don't have a lot of time today, so just 2 quick thoughts:

1) As of last Tuesday, it's official: we're having a girl! Ann and I are both thrilled, but of course this brings new complications into the picture, namely my impending need for a gun license. I feel sort of bad for my unborn daughter, because I'm going to be the most overprotective father ever. It'll be a real pain for her when all her high school friends are wearing cute miniskirts and she's stuck in snowpants and a trenchcoat, but c'est la vie.

2) Ann clued me in to this while composing the baby shower registry: they now have "Rockabye!" CDs containing soft, orchestral renditions of songs by classic pop/rock artists. Each one is devoted to a particular artist, and apparently they consist of "soothing instrumental lullaby" versions of that artist's songs. I'll admit it's a cool idea (though I never quite associated Nirvana with calming happy feelings, myself), a way for parents to get their kids to sleep while gleaning a smidgen of enjoyment out of the songs as well. There's a lot of the big names you'd expect: U2, the Beatles, the Stones, Led Zeppelin, even Green Day. My one quibble? No R.E.M.

Hey, I see you rolling your eyes. Yes, I'm a wee bit obsessed. Guilty. And I know, it's been almost two decades since R.E.M. was as popular as U2. It's just that a couple of the bands are ones I wouldn't consider either massively popular or as musically influential. I mean, Coldplay? Bjork? Nothing against those guys, but you'll never convince me they've made as significant a contribution to modern music. Or that the first band you think of when you hear "lullaby" is Radiohead. (If you do, email me, we should get some drinks.) True, there are a ton of other deserving bands that, as of yet, have no lullaby CD either -- Gn'R? Bruce and the E Street Band? -- I just won't count my life as complete if I never get to hear a lullaby version of "It's The End Of The World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine)." And that will be sad.

Oh well. At the very least, my little girl will now be able to nod off to sleep to the strains of "Inbetween Days." That's worth the price of admission right there.

The Ass-Tilt

2008-05-25T11:41:00.001-07:00

So as long as we're on the subject and everything, here's what's been bugging me: why is it that in movies and TV shows, guys invariably cock their head to the side when looking at a woman's rear? Have you ever noticed that? It never fails - if you need to signify that your male lead is entranced by the hard-to-get love interest's derriere while she sassily struts away, he's invariably gonna do the head tilt. Who determined that was going to be the universal signal for ass gazing? It's reached the point where we don't even think about, we just automatically accept it; I've even found myself (back in my single days, of course, dear) doing the tilt while appreciating, in a completely respectful and non-sexist manner, the keister of a passing girl. I mean woman. I mean womyn. Damn!

Anyway, my point is, I've done the same thing, but then I stop and think: What am I doing? Is a 37 degree neck pivot going to help me more fully appreciate the majesty of these hindquarters? If I get the angle just right, will I spontaneously manifest the ability to see up her skirt, as if by magic? (No.) Or am I just doing it because it's what we always see people doing on TV?

And, of course, the answer is yes. Seriously, why do we do that?

The Law of Inverse Attractiveness

2008-05-24T22:49:00.000-07:00

Just recently, a bunch of my former high school classmates have started friending me (and you know we're living in the Internet age when "friend" becomes a perfectly acceptable verb) on Facebook. The reason is obvious: we're coming up on the tenth anniversary of our graduation, so our reunion is being organized and people start getting nostalgic. Perfectly understandable... I'm not sure I'll personally be attending, since it's in November and I'll have a newborn and a barely postpartum wife to contend with, but we'll see. Nevertheless, all this friending has brought to light an interesting phenomenon: almost across the board, those people who were a bit, ah, less than supermodels back in high school have gotten significantly more attractive, while those who were the greatest eye candy back then have generally gotten... well, a bit homelier. Not everyone, of course, but more often than not, and across both genders. Funny how that works, isn't it? Some people who you remember being not exactly knockouts, you now look at their Facebook photos and squint to see whether they've somehow been digitally altered; whereas others you think, "Wow, I used to have a crush on you? I'm embarrassed for both of us." Maybe there's such a thing as karma after all.

(And in case you were wondering, yes, I count myself among those who have improved since high school. Not to say I was completely hideous back then [I hope], but I was deluded into thinking long hair = cool. In reality, long hair might have been, but a quasi-mullet most certainly was not, and adding acne, braces, and oversized clothing into the mix didn't exactly add up to a ladykiller. Now, of course, I'm regularly mistaken for Brad Pitt's younger brother, but it was a rough couple of years there for a while.)

Oh, and if you happen to be one of the people I went to school with, don't worry- you're totally one of the people who've improved since then. Go you!

Guitar Hero: [insert band here]

2008-05-21T19:58:00.000-07:00

I just found out a few days ago that they're coming out with Guitar Hero: Aerosmith. That's right, an entire game devoted to Steven Tyler and co. teaching us how to walk this way on our little plastic guitars. (Okay, technically it's 60% Aerosmith, 40% bands who have covered, opened for, or are friends of Aerosmith, like Cheap Trick, Joan Jett, and Run DMC.) That sounds pretty sweet, and the article I read said Aerosmith was one of the top 5 bands that fans said they'd want to see a Guitar Hero game devoted to. Which immediately begs the question, who were the other 4? The article didn't say, but it got me thinking about the wisdom of devoting GH games to other famous bands.

Guitar Hero: The Beatles
The kooky quartet from Liverpool, comprised of two unquestionable creative geniuses and two... other guys who could play their instruments pretty well.
Pros: Hard to argue merit -- with the exception of the King, no one was more instrumental in bringing the sweet rhythms of rock 'n roll to whitey. Probably the most famous band in the world, decades after their break-up.
Cons: Brilliant innovaters though they were, it's difficult to associate the Fab Four with hard rock. No one ever smashed a guitar or flipped off fans during a raw performance of "Yellow Submarine" or "Paperback Writer."
Conclusion: Let it be.

Guitar Hero: The Rolling Stones
The original hard-partying, groupie-groping, substance-abusing rockers in whose footsteps all others must follow. (No, Elvis doesn't count.) Also wrote a few songs here and there.
Pros: A career spanning decades, with a catalog unmatched for pure number of great songs and hits. Also, the respect and admiration of nearly every musician and rock fan in the world.
Cons: Mick Jagger still thinks video games involve eating ghosts while saying "wakka wakka," and Keith Richards might try to smoke the motion capture camera.
Conclusion: Give Mick some satisfaction, this one's a no brainer.

Guitar Hero: Jefferson Starship
They built this city.
Pros: ...
Cons: Entire game consists of one song.
Conclusion: Uh, no.

Guitar Hero: U2
Some nice blokes from Ireland who do a couple songs you might have heard of. Apparently they're starting to get a bit of press outside their native country. Good for them.
Pros: Have been cranking out hits since the early '80s, and every single person on Earth can hum a good 70% of their catalog. Old enough that baby boomers know who they are, yet young people still like their music. Nice combination.
Cons: Save the preaching for Sunday, Churchy LaFemme.
Conclusion: Even people who don't own a video game system would buy a copy. They're just that damn popular.

Guitar Hero: R.E.M.
The band who could make you laugh and make you cry, all while not understanding a single verse. Consistently vie with U2 for "most influential band of the last 25 years" status among serious music fans. Inserted political messages into music when it wasn't the thing to do.
Pros: Not lacking in recognizable tunes, and early albums have plenty of deep but lesser-known songs and B-sides to round out the setlists. Also, they rule.
Cons: Despite plethora of hits, not really mainstream friendly in the way U2 is, which could drive away casual players. Bono = sunglassed and messianic, Michael Stipe = bald and bisexual. Checkmate.
Conclusion: The one I'd love.

Guitar Hero: Automatic Baby
In 1993, members of R.E.M. and U2 joined forces to create Automatic Baby (Automatic For The People + Achtung Baby), performing an acoustic version of "One" at an MTV concert for President Clinton.
Pros: Uh... the indisputable two greatest bands of the '80s teaming up for the purpose of one legendary video game?
Cons: Only ever played one song together. Also, gamers' heads might explode from sheer awesomeness.
Conclusion: Drew's on drugs.

Synchronicity

2008-05-12T21:28:00.000-07:00

It's a funny world, isn't it? Not to get faux philosophical or anything (and believe me, faux is the best one semester of Comparative Philosophy allows me to do), but it's strange how random events in your life can intersect in meaningful ways. Last post I talked about how I've been reading Terry and the Pirates lately. To give you slightly more background: Terry is considered one of the seminal comic strips of all time, THE adventure comic in whose path all others follow. In a medium known for cheap one-liners, simplistic artwork, and sanitized romances, creator Milton Caniff changed all that with epic, continuing narratives, incredibly lush, detailed backgrounds, and racy female figures in sexually charged scenarios. Culturally insensitive he might have been (at least early on), but there's a reason Caniff is known as "the Rembrandt of the comic strip"; and while comics may still strive vainly for acceptance by mainstream society, it's impossible to deny the man's talent.

All of which is leading up to what, you ask? Good question. This past weekend Ann and I attended my sister's college graduation. A good time was had by all (followed by a not-quite-so-good time helping her move out of her dorm), and on Sunday night we ended up at the home of one of her friends for dinner. At one point I happened to overhear this friend's father mention the name "Milt Caniff," so I tuned in to hear what he was saying. And, well... what he was saying was that his uncle had been a close friend of Caniff's, to the point where Caniff had done original artwork of some of his Terry and the Pirates characters and given them to the uncle; and he in turn had, upon his passing, bequeathed them to the man in whose house I was standing.

I was floored. What kind of a coincidence is that? Even so, I'll admit I thought, "Well, odds are he's either mistaken, his uncle just TOLD him it was Caniff, or else they're a few quick pencil sketches, barely recognizable as much of anything." Nonetheless, I followed along as he led us into his dining room, the very place where not 20 minutes earlier I'd loaded up my plate with lasagna and breadsticks without once glancing at the walls. And. Oh, my God. Hanging there were 3 of the most beautiful pieces of comic art I've ever seen in my life. Fully colored, amazingly preserved, undoubtedly genuine. I mean, I'm no expert and I certainly couldn't swear on my life, but Caniff has a pretty distinctive style and these definitely looked the part. (One looked quite similar to the image shown below, which I scanned out of the Terry book I'm reading. In fact, I might have thought it was the same if not for the personal message written on this one.) Once I picked my jaw up off the floor, I complimented my amused host about a thousand times on each of the pieces. He seemed to really get a kick out of it, as it sounded like (understandably) most guests to their home didn't recognize just how exceptional the art was or the artist's importance in the history of comics.

But geez, it just goes to show you. Next time you think clunky "coincidences" like that only happen in sitcoms and bad movies, take a look around the room where you're deciding between brownies or cake. You just might be surprised by what you find.

Those wacky, racist '30s

2008-05-07T20:56:00.000-07:00

In case the last post didn't make it obvious, I'm kind of a comic nerd. Traditionally that's been comic books (no, I don't think there's anything hopelessly adolescent about misunderstood outcasts gaining superpowers, beating people up, and dating women with gravity-defying chests... why?), but lately I've been drifting more toward classic comic strips -- Peanuts, Popeye and the like. Just recently I started reading Terry and the Pirates, and holy Lord -- would you like to talk about incredibly demeaning stereotypes in popular entertainment?

You would? Great! How about a comic strip -- one that ran in hundreds of newspapers and was read by millions of people, remember -- set in China and in which all the villains are Chinese, as well as Connie, the sidekick of (need I say... white?) heroes Terry and Pat. Every single Chinese character talks with a horribly stereotypical accent, calling Americans "Melicans" and crap like that. Terry and Pat both casually refer to Chinese people as "chinks," and even Connie himself - a Chinese man - calls the villains "dumb chinks." To say nothing of Terry taunting a Chinese thug as a "rice burner" in one strip... I guess racism is okay if it's only directed at bad guys, right? And even though they hire him as their translator, Terry and Pat both treat Connie like their manservant -- at one point they send him to check on an explosion they heard, telling him to fire his gun three times if there's trouble. (Because as everyone knows, two shots of a pistol is nothing to worry about, but three shots... well, that means shit is on.) When Terry dares to voice that maybe they shouldn't have sent Connie alone, Pat offers the ultra-sensitive rationale of "Maybe it's a trap! If we are to be attacked we'll need full strength - and we can spare him better than any of us!"

Oh, can you, Pat? I wonder how Connie feels that his friend would rather have a woman and a prepubescent kid along in a fight instead of him. +10 points for chivalry and gender equality, -500 for casual racism. Of course, the stereotyping isn't limited to the Chinese, thank God, as at one point Terry and Connie spill soot on a criminal, then joke with Pat that he's practicing for his blackface routine. Terry, take a lesson from Ted Danson- not cool, man. Not cool.

In fairness to Milt Caniff, I know that stereotypes were widely accepted back then, and I'm told Connie evolves into a less demeaning stereotype in later strips. But man, that is some funny, incredibly sad shit right there. Hell, it's almost as bad as giving your superhero an Eskimo sidekick and giving him the nickname "Pieface."

Oh, wait...

FCBD '08

2008-05-02T06:11:00.000-07:00

Just a quick reminder to everyone that this Saturday, May 3rd is Free Comic Book Day. For those unaware (as in, non-nerds), every year a number of publishers send copies of one or more comic offerings to stores around the country to be given away for free. The goal is to attract new readers, and in that interest the issues are always new reader friendly, not part 5 of a 19 part crossover or whatever. But the real benefit is to you, Young Adult With Nothing Better To Do or Mr. or Mrs. Harried Parent. Need something to keep little Johnny occupied while you get groceries and (it's okay, we won't tell) hit the liquor store? Hey, the price is right!

Now, I know what you're thinking. "Drew," you say, "aren't comic books just adolescent power fantasies about juiced-up steroid freaks invariably solving problems through swift, unflinching violence? Why would I want to/want my kids reading that?" To which I reply: ha! Because come on now, that's really... absolutely correct in 75% of the cases, actually. Maybe 80%. BUT! There are also plenty of age-appropriate offerings for youngsters, and for older audiences a variety of independent comics that have nothing to do with crossdressers hitting each other. I mean, if you're into that. For the kids there'll be offerings of the Simpsons, Archie (which: come on, man. It's Betty, dammit! Screw Veronica, she's only slumming with you to make daddy mad), and Uncle Scrooge, among others. For adults there'll be a bitchin' Hellboy story, some more standard superhero offerings (but good; as you'd expect, the companies try to showcase their best stuff for this), and if I've been really extra nice this year, maybe even something to do with Scott Pilgrim. Probably not, but you never know.

So anyway, that's the scoop. If you're out on Saturday, whether it's with the kids or on your own, stop by your local comic book store: they'll give you at least one free comic, and if you buy something, often more than one. Hard to beat that deal, and you just might find something you end up really liking.

No Time For Love, Dr. Jones

2008-04-26T20:36:00.000-07:00

Ann got mad at me the other day for buying an issue of Maxim. Not mad mad, just the quirked eyebrow, "You are NOT dumb enough to buy this right in front of me... are you?" exasperation. It isn't that she minds me buying Maxim -- I get it every month and I honestly think she reads it more than I do -- it's just that this particular issue had Elisha Cuthbert on the cover. To clarify: the possibly attractive, I've never really noticed Miss Cuthbert holds the position of the one movie star I'm allowed to, er, date when I become famous. (So if you want to go ahead and recommend this blog to your friends, you know. Just saying.) When I pointed out that, honestly, I barely even noticed she was on the cover, and really that bedsheet is awfully conservative after all, the only response was a truly epic eyeroll.

Yes, those jealous pregnancy hormones have well and truly taken over her mind, I'm afraid. Sad.

Dryly Demented Drew

2008-04-26T13:30:00.000-07:00

So apparently I'm going to be a father. I know, I didn't believe it either, but there was this blog with my wife's name on it and I know the internet would never lie to me, so... yeah. Evidently babies are one of those side effects of sex, much like the urge to do a victory dance and then fall asleep, that they fail to tell you about in high school. I blame my father most of all. I mean, the man's a health teacher, you'd think that might have come up. "Drew, I want you to mow the lawn this afternoon, don't forget to lock the door if you go out, oh, and sex leads to babies. I'm late for work, have a good one." Way to drop the ball, Dad.

I'm just kidding, we were definitely trying to get pregnant. (Some of us might have been trying harder than others, but I'm not here to cast judgment.) I do feel slightly misled about the time frame... Ann said all the articles she read indicated it can take up to a year to get pregnant the first time. Apparently I am far more studly than anyone would have suspected, because the second month rolled around and bam! -- there was that pink, urine-covered stick with two lines on it. I blame myself more than anything. Myself, and also milk. It does a body too good, if you ask me.

But anyway, that's where we stand: excited and happy and wondering if it's possible to develop self-esteem issues in utero by constantly being referred to as "Sea Monkey." Hopefully not. Fortunately for Ann, I'm not as cool or attractive as Jason Bateman in Juno, and thus won't be running off to pursue my music dreams and score groupies anytime soon. That's okay, I understand Guitar Hero is pretty much the same thing.