Why Not a Thursday Round-Up?

The only thing worse than a sore loser is a bad winner. That said, I won. More importantly, the Yankees won and they are now tied for the wild card and they are that much closer to catching the Sox. It could happen.

View my winnings, and the complete and utter shame of Daddy Daze here. Good game, guys.

________________________

I'm rather proud of some of the snark I've been dishing over at FameCrawler. These in particular:

*Tom Cruise Campfire Song
*Easy Reading, Baby
*Where I Justify Jenny McCarthy in a Bikini
*Cisco Adler is all Balls (seriously, search for them)
*Heather Mills Knows how to Tanqueray

There's more, but I won't bore you.

_________________________

Zane is rash-free. Thank you for your prayers and cash donations.

_________________________

I realized recently that the best bar and sandwich shop in the world is now expanding to open new locations. Seriously, this place rules. They seem to target college towns, so if you live in one start your petition now. Bloody Marys and soup bowls, man, they rule.


That's it. This quick post took much longer than it should have. Figures.

Score One for the Boner

Bush face. Make your jokes, I'll wait.

Artist Jonathan Yeo was mad at the Bush administration (who isn't?) and decided to do something about it. Something artistic.

He took a bunch of porn and made a literal 'Bush Face.' I think that's Tommy Lee on his right ear.

Score One for the Loner

You would think the guys at Daddy Daze would be writing me letters begging for mercy, after losing game 1 yesterday. What are they, Spartans?

(Jason, one of them, made this cool image- thanks!)

The End of Daze

Daddy Daze that is. Dave over at Daddy Daze seems like a nice guy. I can't imagine he would punch Mickey Rooney like Pedro did. He would, however, say a bunch of crazy, certifiable crazy, stuff about the Red Sox taking 2 games against the Yanks in the upcoming series. Crazy, I know.

I playfully threw down the gauntlet. Then they teamed up on me. Daddy Daze are bullies! You would never see DadCentric teaming up on someone as innocent as myself.

A wager is now on the virtual table. The losers will place a video on the top of their blog for a week. If the Yankees win they have to show one of many sad Red Sox clips. If the Yankees lose, I have to show some fake video of Big Papi going yard. I'm pretty sure the clip was made in the same studio as the moon landings.

Something tells me I'll have to decorate their site in the fall as well, when my Steelers knock the Patriots out of the playoffs (assuming NE makes it that far).

This concludes this edition of Shit Talk.

Ring Around the Roseola

As any of you that comment on these pages can attest, I usually respond to each comment personally via e-mail. I say 'personally' because I used to have a secretary for that, but she wanted to be called my "assistant" which was a bunch of bull, so I let her go. I bring this up because a) I was NOT sleeping with my secretary, no matter what the guy working the drive-thru at Tommy's tells you. Besides, what the hell was he doing looking into the parking-lot anyway, didn't he have chili to make? And b) I didn't respond to any emails from the past post (that I recall) because they were all along the same lines of much appreciated empathy and concern for me, my son and even more so, for the chickens. I figured I would address them all here, collectively.

Zane doesn't have Chicken Pox. He doesn't have Scarlet Fever either, but thanks for scaring the shit out of me Kyra. He has baby measles, the Roseola virus, which sounds so much worse than it is.

We went to the doctor today and they checked him and sent him packing. No medicine, no lotion, just a $20 co-pay and some memories.

They said that it would be very unlikely that Atticus would get it, being a big ol' 4, and now that the fever was gone the contagion period was pretty much over. Nothing to do but watch the rash fade.

I guess this is best-case scenario, as far as baby illnesses go. Thank you for your concern though, it's nice to be loved, or at least the father of someone that is.

A Pox Upon Our House

Don't worry, no chickens were hurt in the writing of this post.

Remember when I told you that Zane had a bout of the stomach flu? Well, he started feeling better, i.e., he quit puking on me. Everyone was happy.

Then he started to develop little red bumps on his neck and back. Now he has little red bumps on his entire body. He doesn't appear to be itchy, and while he isn't acting like he feels as bad as he did, he does appear much more clingy than usual. He's a fighter not a lover, and all he wants right now is to be held. Would almost make his being sick worthwhile, if not for the him being sick part.

We haven't fully accepted that he has chicken pox, as we are still entertaining a possible allergic reaction. We just don't know what he could be allergic to. His diet hasn't changed in some time.

I guess I'll just keep watching him and his bumps and see what happens. If it is chicken pox you can expect to see this post copied and pasted in a week or so with Atticus' version.

Stupid chickens.

Blogroll Update

Okay, forever and a day has passed, and I've finally made my blogroll and my feed reader consist of the same blogs.

I'm positive that I have left people out. This was not on purpose. This was most likely due to my being an idiot. If you are one that was left out, I apologize. Please let me know and I'll fix it. Do it quick while I've got the bug. This bus only runs about once every 3 months.

Speaking of blogs, there were a few that I deleted due to their having disappeared, such as Jay, aka "The Zero Boss," who most of you know had personal matters that far outweighed his blogging obligations, heavy as they were; and another blogger, as recently as today, seems to have made a run for the rabbit-proof fence. Does anyone know where she jogged off to (other than Iceland that is)?

You may have noticed that I have two other blogs that I have neglected. I started the three of them at the beginning, each covering different distinct topics which have managed to blend over here in the middle. I would like to combine the three into this one blog, but don't know if that is possible. Anyone?

Bueller?

Look Out iPod!

Thanks, Hilly!

Crossing Nogales: How I Came to Be in America, Again

The town of Nogales has a fence running through it. One side is in the United States, the other, Mexico.

The drinking age in Mexico is 18. It is not enforced. At any given time you will likely find the bars and clubs filled with 17-year-old Americans. There isn't a lot to do between high school and turning 21. Driving an hour on a dark highway to drink heavily was always a popular decision. Driving back home, at some ungodly, drunken hour was stupid and constant. If ever there was a poster for lowering the drinking age in the states, that stretch of I-19 is it.

We had been in Mexico for a few hours. There may have been a bar fight, complete with thrown chairs and bottles to the head, or that may have been a different night. There may have been a dozen Federales with automatic weapons pointed at us, suggesting we return to the border, or that too may have been a blur of cheap beer and reckless abandonment.

I do recall standing on a street corner with a group of five guitar players, with me on lead vocals for such hits as Hotel California and I Want to Hold Your Hand. I sang in English and they did the back-up vocals in Spanish. I wish I had a tape of that. I was drunk, they were sober. A crowd gathered and threw coins in their open guitar cases. I bought them each a pack of smokes from some 6-year-old with a tray of cigarettes and gum slung around his neck. I believe this is the right night.

My friends showed up at some point, from somewhere, and someone suggested we find the proverbial "Donkey Show." You know what I'm talking about.

We wandered on foot deep into the city, further than we ever had before. We stumbled past the traps of tourism and into neighborhoods that were not accustomed to packs of drunk American idiots.

We were placed at a booth in the corner. There were only four of us now, despite our entire party numbering about 10. The others had melted into their own doorways and neon-lit promises.

More than the nudity I remember the faces. The bar was filled with faces of hardworking people, men and women, and their expressions were blank as they never pretended not to stare at us.

The announcer on stage, I believe it was Tony Orlando, spotted us. "How many fucking gringos in the house?" he yelled with a thick accent that didn't hide his amusement.

We all answered in typical fashion, "4! Four fucking gringos in the house!"

We were given a table next to the stage.

I heard a familiar voice over the microphone and looked up to see one of my friends standing on the catwalk. "I'm originally from Cleveland, Ohio," he said. "Who knows where that is? Show of hands."

He continued talking as a nude woman walked back and forth, eying him with the seduction of a girl that would break a boy in half. He was mid-soliloquy, the crowd over the initial excitement he brought to the table and once again engaged in their own fantasies and conversations.

"Where's the fucking donkey?" he yelled.

We were escorted out.

Suddenly, as the neighboring bars claimed our companions, it was just us two. My friend was drunk enough to make me look sober. I was shit-faced.

We walked into a random well-lit lobby, past security guards, through a metal detector, and up clean, white stairs of marble. We had just become wedding crashers.

Who knows how long we abused the open bar and danced with their dates. We did it, and I had to peel my friend off of a lovely young thing when my inner-clock started to ring its alarm.

We went out the way we had come in, down the clean, white stairs of marble, past the station where once there was security, and through the metal detector, knocking it over in the process.

The streets were empty. Our friends were gone. The lights were off. We were alone. I turned to my friend and realized that it was me that was alone. He was gone.

I turned to return to the party, assuming he had run back in. In doing so I tripped over a large object on the ground. It was my friend, passed out and looking amazingly comfortable.

It must have been 4 in the morning. There wasn't a light in any direction. There were no signs, no markers, no sounds. I stood in the middle of a street in Mexico, holding my drunken friend in my arms, and I was lost.

I walked for quite some time. Occasionally my friend would stir, open his eyes and demand I put him down. Moments later he would fall flat on his face and back into my arms.

There was an old man sleeping in a doorway. The sound of me, breathing heavily and cursing my burden, must have startled him. I asked him, in terrible Spanish, how to find the border. At some point he pointed, and with nothing else to do I walked in that direction.

It could have been twenty minutes, it could have been an hour. The darkness grew darker and the street grew rougher. Soon I was walking on dirt, through brush and undergrowth.

I walked straight into the fence. The fence, 10' tall and topped with barbed wire, was the only thing between us and America. It was overwhelming. I turned and walked along it.

Finally I saw it. The glow of the pending sunrise had provided me with a ticket home, and it was a hole. A hole in the fence between two lands.

I shoved my friend through it. I climbed after him. I stood in the middle of a desert in America, holding my drunken friend in my arms, and I was lost.

At some point I put him down for the last time and we walked together across the top of a hill. Below us we would find people, and among them, our friends, sleeping soundly in their cars.

How To Steal Things

That was a search that brought people to my site tonight. Weird. I try not to steal anything but glances. No, this isn't a search post. Relax.

I'm sitting here drinking Nimbus Oatmeal Stout (from Tucson, damn good) and waiting for a Riesen to dissolve away from the spaces that apparently exist between my teeth. I feel like I'm having a plaster cast done of my mouth. Is that how she did it?

Zane, after two days of fever and vomit, went to see the doctor today. He has the stomach flu. It's been a long fucking day. As a matter of fact, Tricia called from work feeling ill and Zane is crying for Da-da right now. Guess I'm done posting.


Goodnight.

I Also Guesthost

I may or may not show up over here again today. I went straight from puppy puke to barfing baby. I'm tired, and Nicole Richie ain't gonna write about herself. Hell, I don't even know if she can write.

In the meantime, please check out Hilly's blog. She is one day removed from returning to Snackie's World, and she let me come in and feed the plants and water the cat. I also took crude pictures of myself on her webcam, but she'll find those later.

BTW, I saw Superbad tonight and it reminded me of a story (what doesn't?), so next I return I will tell you how I came to live in America illegally.

A Quick Q&A

Q: When have I never been happier to see our new puppy puke all over my 4-year-old son and the entire couch?

A: The day after I just spent a lot of money to get the carpet cleaned.

Seven Things I Dig About Jesus

Last week I thought of tons of things to write about. I can't remember any of them. However, I do have this meme that has been sitting in my junk-drawer for a while. Figured I could dust it off and see if it still works.

Island Girl tagged me with this years ago. It's been so long that the flowers that came with it have already been pressed in my bible, and the chocolates, well, they didn't last a week. I had to check Wikipedia to make sure Jesus was still prevalent, and seeing that some Central American countries believe that he is, I'll go ahead and do it.

This meme is for Belize.

Seven Things I Dig About Jesus

1. The dude turned water into wine. From what I understand it was just salty seawater, that stuff is abundant. I would so make that one of my superpowers. I'm guessing the wine was a decent vintage, probably a Pinot Noir, although he may have gone balls out and knocked out something with more legs. I guess it really depends what kind of fish they were having.

2. He wore sandals ALL THE TIME. Jesus and I are a lot alike on this one. Chances are if you've seen me without sandals you've seen me barefoot.

3. I dig dressing him up like Elvis.

4. The guy was hit by a bus and only had to stay in the hospital for 3 days. That's good genes.

5. I like to picture my Jesus in one of them tuxedo t-shirts, because it says 'formal, but I still like to party.'

6. He did a duet with Mazzy Star, who is damn sexy. It's kind of weird that he brought his mom though (and her chain?).

7. He Shaves.

I'm sure there is more to dig about Jesus, but rules are rules, so 7 it is.

I'm not going to tag anyone. At least not now. Maybe I'll hit up someone when I get to Hell. I hope they have a decent Happy Hour.

And He Calls The Puppy Love

Yesterday was a good day. No, I didn't fool around and get a triple-double, but I had some of those father and son moments that after-school specials and Hallmark would sell their souls for, respectively.

Atticus has wanted a puppy for some time. He almost got one for Christmas, but I forgot to put holes in the box and he just wound up with a very stinky stuffed animal.

We went to the county animal shelter earlier in the week. We walked through the smells of sadness, playing god, and saw one that fit our criteria, that being a puppy that would grow into a good-sized dog.

Tangent Warning. We wanted to get a puppy for many reasons, not the least of which being puppy breath. We already have two dogs, the oldest, Harley, being 14, and while she still has some spunk in her step, I know she won't be around much longer. The youngest dog, Valentine, 5, is so attached to Harley that I'm afraid of what might happen should she find herself alone. For this reason we wanted to introduce a third-wheel now, so that bonds could be formed and so on. Plus, with young children and cats, we thought a puppy would be easier to conform to our system of live and let live than say a 4-year-old Pit Bull. /Tangent.

We went to the shelter, picked a dog we were interested in and then stood in line for an hour while the 3 women working the counter, in a very hot and fly infested office, talked on the phone, ate Del Taco and generally took their sweet-ass time.

I looked at the people in front of me, Ving Rhames and Mike Vick, no doubt they were going to take a while. I took Atticus by the hand and told him we'd come back later, when the shelter employees actually cared about the lives of their animals. We drove by puppy mills that weren't even on the way home.

Yesterday we went to the local PetSmart, where they have independent shelters providing dogs for adoption. We took the first puppy we met.

Atticus and I wandered the aisles and bought the puppy more treats and toys than most spoiled children have. We also bought stuff for the other dogs, so as not to piss them off straight away.

"What do you want to name the puppy?" I asked him.

"Dog Food," he replied.

"We're not naming the dog, Dog Food."

"How about Kitty Cat?" he asked.

"No," I said.

"How about Kitty Cat Food?" he continued.

"How about Smokey?" I asked him, not really liking the name, but that was the one the shelter had given her for the few days they had her, and frankly, it had a better ring to it than Kitty Cat Food.

By now we were in the car and the puppy was curled up, sleeping with her head in his lap. "I'm going to call her Love."

I spent the ride home trying to convince him that, while a nice name, it was going to be embarrassing to yell out in public. People might think him a sissy. He didn't care. His mind was made up. The puppy is Love.


We took Love home, and Tricia and Zane ran out to meet her. The puppy played with Harley and Valentine, ate some treats, jumped on the couch and went to sleep.

"I'll call her Luvly," Tricia said.

"Yeah, that's a lot better."

The puppy's name is love, and Love is all you need.

Of Pubs & Neighbors

There is a bar in the distance. There always has been. I suppose there always will be. It's a place of dreams and nightmares. It's the crossroads of lust and loneliness, with Steve Vai on guitar and the devil on the jukebox. People go there to drown their memories or make new ones. They go there to get fucked, up and over. They hope for drunk women, rich men, and any stereotype that can fit in a bottle. It's something for everyone, glory days and glory holes. It's nothing to all of them, cigarettes and regrets.

There is a bar in the distance and it haunts me. I have kissed its whisky and held its microphone to my warm, numb lips, breathing the ghosts of Eric Clapton and Young MC into the blank, screaming face of its masses. I have stumbled from it's doors and busted through them like gangbusters.

There is a bar in the distance and it haunts me with late night voices and screams in the dark. 2am no longer finds me in this place or that, but home, wishing I could shut the sounds out- the carrying of motorcycles and mufflers stretched the size of Richard Gere's gerbil cage. They wake me with the cries I no longer cry and the fights I never started.

I have been a thrower of caution to the wind, and now, in the corners of the night, it returns softly upon me, and I am the one that breaks the fall.

The Things They Say: Penis Edition

Oh, out of the mouths of babes. Babes being children, not hot chicks.

I'm sitting here, hard at work on posting and drinking coffee, and Atticus walks through the house with a handful of directions, that is, the instruction pamphlets to his V-Smile game.

"Who wants erections?" he yelled.

My wife and I just looked at each other and tried not to laugh.

He took it up an octave and put on his best vending pitch, "Erections, I have erections here. Daddy, do you want erections?" I glanced again to my wife, she assured me that I did not.

"Um, no thanks," I answered. "Men don't need directions."

"Oh, just girls need erections," he said with an understanding nod, and he took his wares elsewhere.

I'm never going to let him carry a map in public.

Put your hands down, old man.

If I Ran FameCrawler I Would Live Every Week Like It's Shark Week

FameCrawler wouldn't let me run this exclusive story unless I gave up my sources. I can't do that. You don't win Pulitzers by giving up Deep Throat. Although, if you are one that does give up deep throat, I don't consider that a character flaw.

Anyway, it's late and I'm freaking tired. Here's the story they were too scared to print:

NICOLE RICHIE EATEN BY SHARK!

BTW, I also review films.

News of the Unreal and Highly Unlikely

As you know, I generally spend my days sitting around in my underwear, drinking coffee, listening to jazz and skimming through my feeder on a constant loop in search of celebrity goodness.

Well, today, thanks to the trainwreck that is Britney Spears and the fluff that is the High School Musical 2 premiere, I'm able to step away early. That stuff writes itself. I'm taking a daytime date with my wife to grab some lunch and check out some Bourne (that's still playing, right?). I suppose I'll need to put on pants.

I just wanted to leave you with something that I found this morning, and it's a bit earth-shattering. You may want to sit down. I know, most people sit down while on the computer, but some readers might be on the bridge of a spaceship or have hemorrhoids or something, you gotta think of everyone.

So here it is, hope it doesn't send too big of a shock. Look at the story about on the bottom.


Christ, I never saw it coming. No, that's not because I was the catcher. Can I say that?

In other news, I'm divorcing Oprah. Where's my money, bitch?

The Heat Causes Crazy: A Companion Piece

It's freaking hot here. I can't stand it. It hasn't rained, a real rain, in so long I can't even remember it. All I remember is heat.

My wife has some vacation right now, and being broke, as we are, she is spending it on the couch. Don't get me wrong, it's nice having her home, but her constant presence is throwing off the very delicate balance that I've just spent two months building.

My kids are driving me fucking crazy. Atticus has come closer today, than he ever has before, to growing a prominent third foot in his ass. For dinner tonight I think I'll feed him a bar of soap. Me, I just need the bar.

Actually, the only sane one is the Zane one, which happens about as often as Haley's Comet or this.

Pray for us.

The Rain Doesn't Call, It Doesn't Write

About three weeks ago I awoke from a light sleep to the gentle sound of memories against my windowpane. It was rain, a sprinkle really, but it may as well have been a ghost floating by in the night.

The ground was dry by morning.

Now, other than that briefest of wet dreams, I cannot for the life of me recall what a raindrop tastes like, or how the cold streams feel against the roof of my mouth as I stand beneath it and call its name.

I await the rain like a child prays for snow. I am hot and I am tired.

The Blogger Whit: Post II of the Blogger Chronicles

Long before Dan interviewed me, I was supposed to be grilled by Matthew from Childs Play X 2, (whom I've drank many beers next to) but he was busy and/or forgot about me. He contacted me today with my questions, and said that he understood should I want to wait a while, fresh as I was off the first. However, since this whole meme involves me interviewing others, I'm going to piggyback the last post so as to hopefully avoid extra work for myself. Asking questions is hard.

Here's the second round, courtesy of Matthew:

1. Since you went with the bald look, are you more Vin Diesel or more Bruce Willis?

I'm definitely more of a Bruce Willis, back from the days of crackin' wise on Moonlighting. I'm a thinking man's action hero.

2. How DO you get your wife to stay with you? I mean, really. It's like she has THREE boys.

I am EXCELLENT in the sack. That's what it comes down to.

3. Describe your perfect day.

First we would drink sangria in the park, and then later, when it gets dark, we'll go home.
We would feed animals in the zoo, then later a movie too, and then home.

4. As a bartender, what was your favorite drink to make and what would you make me if I sauntered up to the bar?

Most bartenders worth their mud will tell you that their favorite drink to make is a Bloody Mary. I would have to agree. The trick is to grind black pepper on the ice, then add two ounces of a decent vodka- Absolute Peppar is made for this drink. There are plenty of good mixes on the market, but I like to use spicy V-8, that way you've just justified having a second (or third). Season to taste. I've had to use what we've got on many occasions, but my favorite additions are splashes of chipotle sauce, fajita spice and a dash of garlic A-1. Don't go crazy on the garnishes, celery is for old ladies, just a lime and an olive (stuffed with garlic or jalepenos is always nice). Sometimes I'll go crazy and substitute a pickled green bean.

If you sauntered up to the bar I'd make you a white wine spritzer.


5. Atticus? Zane? Explain.



We didn't know the gender of our children until the minute they popped out, ala Alien, from their momma's belly. We figured there are only so many good surprises left, why rush it. That said we had a boy and girl name picked out each time.

Atticus: Like most American's I was forced to read To Kill a Mockingbird in high school. I couldn't put it down. That was in English.

My junior year we had a History teacher show us the movie version. I decided then that should I ever have a son, his name would be Atticus.

Oddly enough I went on to get a degree in English with a minor in History. Coincidence?

Luckily, Tricia was cool with the name. At first she was the only one. Even the nurses in the delivery room gave us a double-take.

Interestingly enough, the week before his birth the American Film Institute named the character of Atticus the number one screen hero of all time. Gregory Peck, that played him, died a few days later. Tricia's father called her and told her that the world needed a new Atticus, two days later they got him.


Zane: The story behind his name is much shorter. Whereas I had Atticus picked out for over 15 years, we didn't consider the name Zane until Tricia was 5 months pregnant. We had just spent a great 3 days on Catalina Island, which is heavily influence by the author Zane Grey.

At the time we were still bouncing around a number of ideas, which escape me now, and maybe it was the fact that our trip was one of our most relaxing ever, or that Tricia was knee-deep in the copy of Riders of the Purple Sage that she bought in an island bookstore, but the name Zane was offered up and it stuck.


People have had lots of fun with the fact that our boys are A-Z, or the abbreviation for Arizona, where I'm from and where Tricia and I met, but we never even gave it a thought until it was too late, not that we cared.

On a side note, both boys have surnames from Beatles as their middle name. I'm a Beatles guy, what can I say?


I'm not going to put the rules again. If you want to be interviewed just let me know.

Interview With a Blogger

Dan, of All That Comes With It, was kind enough to take 5 seconds out of his day and ask me some questions. He apologized profusely for the "low quality" of the questions, but they don't seem of any lower quality than anything else Dan sends me. Oh wait, the stuff he normally sends is lowbrow, but of exceptionally high quality. My bad, Dan.

So here are the questions, which for the record, I am very happy with:

1. What's the best photo you've ever taken?

I don't have a favorite per se, but I like these:











2. Daffy or Donald?

I wouldn't be representing my Disneyness very well if I chose anyone other than Donald, now would I. However, in all fairness, I do enjoy the antics of both.

3. What was your favorite childhood possession?

Does a pet count as a possession? If so, does a chicken count as a pet? I used to have a huge rooster named Gilligan that went everywhere with me. He stood on my head. The dog across the street ate him. He said he tasted like chicken.

I was also partial to my baseball mitt.

4. Was your Prague trip part of a grand tour or was it a one off?

My trip to Prague was actually a stop in the middle of an 8 country trek. A friend was attending a semester abroad in the Netherlands, so my roommate and I took our student loan checks and bought round trip tickets to Paris and train tickets to tour us through a chunk of Europe.

We met up with our friend in Amsterdam and spent quality time in Dresden and Barcelona before meeting other longtime friends at the base of the Eiffel Tower. There are many more stories from that trip, but that was the only one I'll tell in these pages.

5. What book needs to be made into a film?

A lot of books I like are either movies already, To Kill a Mockingbird, Lord of the Rings, a bunch of the classics, and other, more recent books that I like, such as A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius and The Ha-Ha are supposedly being made into films.

I can't believe that A Catcher in the Rye hasn't ever made it to the screen. Also, I think that something by David Sedaris could make for a pretty funny film.

Of course, any book I write should be made into a huge blockbuster as soon as possible.


That's it. According to the rules, which I am a stickler for, I am to post this information:

Interview rules:
1. Leave me a comment saying “Interview me.”
2. I will respond by emailing you five questions. I get to pick the
questions.
3. You will update your blog with a post containing your the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

Hope that wasn't too boring for everyone. Thanks Dan!

Quit Giving Me Fucking Popsicles

This story is for Anthony

Back when I worked at the Place That Must Not Be Named, I had many buttons ripe for pushing, and that is just what happened. My buttons were tweaked, twisted, and pinched like the Braille on a sow's underbelly. I was angry, and my buttons were red and tender.

I tended bar, usually, but there were other shifts that I handled as well. For instance, every Saturday night I took over the front of the kitchen. I was responsible for ensuring quality of product and service. I was the liaison between the cooks and the servers.

Your server, that was running around like a chicken with it's yada, yada, yada, well they only had 4 tables. I had every table in the restaurant. Basically, so as not to make it sound more important than it actually was, I was the captain on a ship of fools- rising up to hear the bells and bugle trills that were the demands of your order and frankly, the bane of my existence. Tempers ran high.

There was a cook there, briefly in the big picture, but forever when you stood there waiting for a new batch of gravy, that, on a good day, could be the poster child for meth. He barely had a hold on his surroundings, and his teeth had a grasp even lighter. You could see the nerves stretching like bungee cords between tooth and gum. His tongue paced behind the sparse teeth, looking like a prisoner in a jail of slack jawed mumblings. He was terrible at his job.

I walked a line roughly 20 feet wide, with this cook being on the far end, separated from me by heated shelves and 14 years of education. Of course, who was I to point fingers? I was way too old to be doing what I was doing, still, the cook was older.

One night, like every night, he was bringing the restaurant to it's knees by doubling the time and texture of every item he was responsible for, the least of which being corn dogs. My four-year-old could heat up a corn dog (but I don't let him). This night, with the time for food to be served dragging over 30 minutes, I could feel my frustration rising. I had been running in place for nearly six hours, and more pressure than anyone in a kitchen should ever feel was upon me.

I must have had him make five or six new corn dogs in a 10 minute period. Servers were yelling, other cooks were yelling, this cook, this dipshit that couldn't cook a damn corn dog, was screaming obscenities and threats. His tooth was mocking me.

To this point I had remained stoic. I was the captain after all, and I needed my people to feed off the calm I carried. Yet, inside I was boiling. The tooth, that damn tooth, I swear it winked at me just as I was handed, literally, another frozen corn dog with the tiniest of childlike attempts engraved in the rock-hard batter. I broke.

I hurled that frozen corn dog twenty feet, past trays and heads and glasses of beer. I threw it long and I threw it hard. My aim was true. Time stopped as every face turned to watch this weapon of frustration fly cleanly between shelves and straight at the cook, surely clutching in it's frozen batter his very doom.

"Quit giving me fucking popsicles!" I yelled. I yelled louder than the dipshit and the fools, louder than the cooks and the servers, and still louder than the throngs of the unhappy that filled the restaurant.

The cook fell backwards towards the fryer. His tooth held on for dear life. I turned and walked out of the kitchen, past the sad kids and cold plates, straight out the door and to my car. I had been working the job for six years and hated most of them. I got in my car, told myself that I was through and prepared to drive away, forever.

My car wouldn't start. I got out of it, cursed the wind, put on my hat and apron and walked back inside to right the ship. I stayed there until we closed that night, and I stayed there for two years after.

B*NDS

✱

Words of Women & Whiskey: The Collection That Wasn't

There was a time in my life when I considered myself a writer and poet. I had forgotten about that until I read ImPerceptibility's take on me (a-ha).

I spent too many years in college sitting up late drinking wine and listening to Chet Baker while trying to use my words to woo women. Eh, it was hit and miss.

The best part about majoring in writing was that it was filled with workshops and poetry readings. They were the only classes where the excuses of sex and drinking were accepted as valid reasons for being late or absent.

"But did you write, Mr. Honea?" they would say, eager for my answer.

"Yes. Yes, I did. I wrote my sexy, drunk ass off." I would reply.

They would clasp their hands, smile, and motion for me to be seated. Sometimes I would wink at a fellow student as I made my way to my seat. The next week they would wink at me.

The thing is, I still consider myself a writer, but the poet has been buried. Granted, I did go speak to a group of high schoolers just this past February in the guise of a poet, but what the hell, I was still making my living slinging drinks at that point. However, I've got to admit, it went well.

I guess what it comes down to, is that aside from a few bits that I have written for the boys, I haven't done much in this vein in too long. It's time to break out the needle.

I want to feel that again- to live life as a poet. Society cuts the crazies a lot of slack, and there is no one crazier than a man that writes poetry and flaunts it.

Cut me some slack.

There is a collection of poems that I put together, back in those days of innocence and ignorance that covered the winding road of the heart, (hey, it's poetry, what do you want?) and they ranged from the highest high to the lowest low. If you've read any of my fiction then you have an idea of the darkness I played in. The following is the title piece from the collection, although I don't believe it to be the best, it's decent enough that I'll share it and not fear it's judgment.

If you made it this far you may as well read the damn thing:

Words of Women and Whiskey

How many sirens
do you hear at night
(against the echoes
of distant trains
and the constant
barking of alley dogs)?
going somewhere
where someone lost,
maybe not the war,
but the battle,
and I can't help but wonder
if they were fighting the words
of women and whiskey.

Monday Morning Fireside Chat: Now With More Cream Filling

I've seen lots of coolish stuff on Gore's highway this weekend:

• Disney will be making a movie of The Dangerous Book for Boys- I'm hoping they stick to the feel of the book and tie-in the likes of Frontierland with a Mark Twain vibe.
• Speaking of Disney and Frontierland, there is rumor of an upcoming movie by Jerry Bruckheimer, and subsequent park stuff, for one Lone Ranger. I'm not sure why I find this so exciting, but I do.
• The Scorpions are releasing a new album, and some of it was recorded at my old manager's house. Her husband is a musician with his own in-home studio and the band stayed at her house for awhile. They came into Chili's and acted like crackheads.
• Anthony said nice stuff about me. UPDATE: So did ImPerceptibility. I think once this runs it's course in a few years, I'll put together a "best of" post.
  
• The NFL is back, and so are the Steelers! Thank whatever God you're into.

See, cool stuff!

Everything is Spanish for Something

"Snowing," said Atticus while staring absently out the window at an endless view of warmth and sunshine, "is Spanish for Christmas."

I looked towards him. "Is it?" I asked.

"Yes, and snowmans are blanco."

"True," I answered, wondering where this was going.

"I can't wait to play in the snow. Maybe Santa will bring some."

"It may snow this year," it has in the past I thought, so why not. "Do you want to make a snowman with Zane?"

"I want a baby sister."

"Um, what?"

"That way the babies can hang out, and I can hang out with my mommy and daddy."

"What would we do?" I asked him.

"We would play in the snow," he replied, somewhat annoyed that I wasn't following. "We'll play in the snow because you love me."

"That is the best reason I've ever heard to play in the snow." I answered.

"Well," he paused to look out the window at the far-away shadows of fall, "what about Christmas? That's a good reason too."

"This is true." I could feel the tingles of tenderness growing upon me. We were having a moment, father and son, and as is the case with such things, I was cherishing it already- committing it to memory even as I lived it.

"You know what else I want Daddy?" he started. It could be anything and it would be his.

"Yo quiero leche choc-o-lot-a."

"Si," I replied as I stood to follow him anywhere. "Because I love you."

Who Are 3 People That Have Never Been in my Kitchen?

A demon rocker, an ex-con talkshow host, and a golden girl walk into a bar... stop me if you've heard this one.

Really? This is what we're forcing on our children? As if the likes of hooker-chasing deadbeat dads like Eddie Murphy voicing dragons and donkeys wasn't enough, now we're, well, actually that's probably the worst of it, but still, Gene Simmons and Larry King?

Just seems odd to me.


Anyone know the quote from the title?

The Madness of Our House

Our house, in the middle of our street, was looking like it had been run-through with a city bus. It was showing the sings of a man alone, but for two small children, for way too long.

It reflected upon my biggest struggle since staying home- trying to balance my time between the boys, my work, and the runnings of said home.

I put in about 7 hours a day for FameCrawler. Sometimes more. It should, and would, be only 4ish, except that my hours are seldom without interruption. There are the cries of boys, either for food or relief, always for attention. There is a yard to be tilled and pets to attend. There is housework.

I am a tidy guy, but I am also easily distracted, often lazy and quick to retreat when it comes to the keeping of the house. It will sit for days, buried under piles of clean clothes left unfolded, dirty dishes left unwashed and a layer of fur lining the stain-covered carpet. It overwhelms me.

The last couple of days I've been able to stay on top of it. Tricia helped by knocking the piles down to their foundations. I would like to say that nothing ever slows her down and a mess is not allowed, but she's as guilty as I am- only she's not here enough to fear it's presence.

Since then I have been running a little something that I like to call preventive maintenance. When I use a dish, I wash it. When I launder clothes, I fold them. When the dogs go outside, I vacuum. The stains are beyond repair.

There is a lot to this working from home. The least of which, it seems, is actually working.

The boys need more from me and this house, and that is why I need to keep it in check. That is why I need to balance my work with their play. Years from now, I want them to:

remember way back then, when everything was true and when-
we would have such a very good time,
such a fine time, such a happy time-
and remember how we'd play, simply waste the day away,
then they'd say nothing would come
between us two dreamers...

Is that so wrong?

Our house, it's our castle and our keep.