A Sad Excuse for a Post

Bear with me. I know I haven't put up anything groundbreaking since, um, ever, and for that I apologize. In response to my bio post, the one with all of the handsome guys, I do write for a lot of blogs and the fact is that the list didn't even include DadCentric or FameCrawler, mainly due to their not wanting to scare away readers by publishing a photo of me. It's understandable.

I write 300 posts a month. No shit. I said it out loud. That felt good. I also oversee the writing of roughly 700 more posts by my collective team (about 25 bloggers) . It's a living. That's why I haven't been writing anything of noticeable quality on this blog- I'm too busy writing noticeable quantity elsewhere.

It takes its toll. I don't get a lot of sleep and my porn time is greatly compromised. The real victims here are you, my readers that I cherish, and my reads that I haven't visited in weeks. It makes me feel like an ass. Shame on me.

Just know that it isn't personal. I'm just freaking busy.

In the meantime, Sweetney published a private conversation that we had and now Al Gore is out to get me. Again.

Also, Matthew is hosting an auction for the YMCA and some of your favorite bloggers have donated items (bloggers much cooler than me with items much cooler than mine). I volunteered to paint your blog. Yes, yours. Basically, if you win the auction I'll paint what your blog means to me. If you don't have a blog you're getting "Bloggers Playing Poker" (thanks, CIII).

And in closing (did I ever open anything?), I'm going to start including links, occasionally, at the bottom of my posts that go to stories nearing traffic bonuses. It's tacky, sure, but damn, I need the money. I won't do it often, and I won't even acknowledge them after today. Click on them if you want, or don't. I'll still love you but I'll just be all the hungrier doing it.

On that note, I'm going to Disneyland (again). My family needs some Daddy time and they like it with a slice of mouse. It's like a vacation.
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NON-RELATED LINKS (a lot more than I'll usually have, just a good month- hopefully, and some are the wife's): Naomi Watts is Baby Crazy / Angelina Jolie Spends Time in Her PJ's? / Jade Goody - Her Story / Jade Goody's Wedding Photo / Nadya Suleman's Sperm Donor - Tricked! / What's Wrong With This Picture? -13 Year Old Alfie is a Father /First Pictures of Nadya Suleman's Octuplets / Is Nadya Suleman in Hiding? /Jade Goody's Wedding Dream is Coming True /Jade Goody in Her Wedding Dress - Photo

This is How We Work It

The Origin of My Species

The other day I was asked by the drunk nice folks at MamaPop to join their staff to provide official coverage of the popular show Chuck "Heroes." I accepted because I have LOTS of free time. Plus, I wanted a reason to claim my satellite and DVR on my taxes. Done and done.

When my bio went live I realized that Jean Baptiste Alphonse Karr was right, as was Huey Lewis, Avant (not Jason, though he's probably been right about something), Kenny Chesney and possibly Hoobastank- the more something changes the more it stays the same.

Over my years of blogging and writing I have had a few published bios. Some are long forgotten and some are just outdated. Others were never true to begin with.

Here are some of them, in the order they were created. Am I evolving or devolving?

The Disney Blog:

StyleList:

Green Daily:


Urban Molecule:

Divine Caroline:


UpTake:


MamaPop:


No, none of the links within the bios will work because they're just screen shots. If you really want to click on one (and why wouldn't you?) please feel free to click on the link provided for each bio.

So what do you think? Granted, I'm busier and greyer, but have four years changed me, or have I stayed the same?

No Cats Up In This Cradle

Chances are you've read the last few posts and thought that I was pretty much the best dad ever, and you'd be right. Chances are even better that you didn't read the last few posts. Your loss, seeing as people think I'm pretty much the best dad ever.

The thing is my status as best dad ever, pretty much, is based upon a criteria of relativity and supply and demand. If you're a dad there's a decent chance someone thinks the same of you, although, to be honest, some of you are fairly suspect.

I've spent two days with my hand in a butt crack that isn't mine. I'm just throwing that out there.

Zane woke up sick on his birthday. He woke up about 5 minutes after his ass did. Fast forward a few hours later and my hand is silky smooth and will never know the likes of diaper rash. His butt, however, is tender as the night, assuming the night is raw, chaffed and burning. I've known nights like that.

This morning he finally seems better. I'm sure it's not over, but the healing has begun. I feel a sense of hope that the only crack my hand will be in is my own, albeit briefly.

He's been dancing all morning to the Flobots and singing about riding his bike with no handlebars, which, just between us, is bullshit because he can barely handle his tricycle, but who am I to mess with creative license?

I only hope I don't have to hear my son cry today, and not in an earplugs sort of way, but in the sweet kind of way that you've come to expect from pretty much the best dad ever.

This is the part where my mom cries.

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For some reason the good folks at MamaPop asked me to write on their site today, which means they are either extremely desperate or gluttons for punishment. Whatevs. I did a recap of "Heroes." I'm the poor man's TiVo and so can you!

3 Years Down

Three years is nothing. It is a blink, a blur, a nap. It is an eternity.

There are lessons in love, exercises in futility and moments fleeting. Limits are pushed, met and exceeded. Regret sits in one cup of the scale and happiness the other. You can only hope that the former proves all the lighter.

Three inscribed on a birthday card is milestone and melancholy. It is doors shut and others opened. It is a smile on a little boy's face and a promise of many more to come.

It is bittersweet to behold and sweet to embrace.

My little boy is one step closer to big. Today we reflect, and today we brace for adventure.

Happy Birthday, Zane.

From last year:

We Prefer the Mornings After
We Partied Like It Was His Birthday

In Which I Shower With Redneck Mommy

There is a new Redneck in the blog park, and as custom done dictates a shower is being thrown. I know, it sounds like a waste of water, but don't worry, we already flushed the toilet this week. If I'm wasting anything, it's commas, and possibly away (in Margaritaville. Again.).

The lovely Tanis, aka Redneck Mommy, has welcomed a new child to the clan. That's clan with a 'c.' She's a redneck, but she ain't no idjit.

Tanis loves her family and her country, her beer, her boobs and her blog. Not necessarily in that order. I can't help but feel a connection there. A tingly one. That's not to say I wouldn't have to pay for it, but I'm betting she'd give me a decent discount- especially when you consider the exchange rate. But I digress.

In light of her family's happy addition I have been invited (by people with questionable judgment) to share what it is that makes me a redneck parent. I immediately thought of this post. I didn't think about this one or this one at all but saw them while I was digging around in the archives and figured they fit, kind of, so what the hell, right? Love me.

The thing is, I'm one of those very handsome elite types that you always see on the moving picture box, and as such I tend to think of redneck parenting as letting my kids read any book by John Grisham or doing sudoku with only six numbers. Super-sizing their Happy Meals and taking their cousin(s) to prom also come to mind (void if she's hot).

Now don't get me wrong, I don't believe that Tanis falls into this mold. We all know her "redneck" is a thinly masked euphemism for something a bit more...

Oh wait, this is a kid thing.

A sweet, new, welcome to the blog park kid thing, and that is just good ol' awesome no matter how many teeth you say it through.

Congratulations, Rednecks. You done good.

Brothers on a Hotel Bed

Quick on the UpTake and Why I Can't Wear Business Socks

As most of you know I am the Lead Editor of Vacations over at UpTake. It's okay to be impressed. Today UpTake has launched its official press release which is more or less a tribute to me and some fine print. At least that's the way my mom will read it.

Here is the press release.

Here is the official About Us page for the team of bloggers currently writing for UpTake Vacations. Many of your favorites are there and probably a few you don't care for. I'm the handsome one.

Please check it out, and if you haven't done so add us to your RSS. Yes, it's a travel blog, but I think you'll be pleasantly surprised with the tales we weave- especially in the next few weeks. There will be action, sex and adventure! Imagine if Indiana Jones had a blog instead of a hat. Yes, it's that good.

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Are you a man? Do you do stupid stuff on Valentine's Day just like in the movies, but instead of being an offensive stereotype it's actaully true? Did you laugh at that commercial during the Super Bowl where the flowers in the box made fun of the lady in the office and now you're wondering why the internettes can't take a freaking joke? Then do I have the link for you!

Visit DadCentric and win some nice flowers that don't have mouths and may actually increase your odds of getting lucky.

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Here's why I can't wear business socks- or any socks for that matter. I just thought business socks was funny since I was talking business and I love "Flight of the Conchords."

I just broke my toe. And by "just" I mean less than an hour ago and yet I am able to blog like a freaking champ. Take that (insert more popular blogger's name) .

Thing 2 was trying to get a jar of jam out of the refrigerator and dropped it. As I was standing behind him and the jar was going to hit him in the head I thought it my paternal duty to prevent said collision. I reached for the jar, tripped on the kid and in no time at all that big Costco jar full of jam was landing just right on my toe- the freakishly long second toe, which I understand means I'm a great lover.

I spent the next few minutes looking up "wuss" in the dictionary and wincing in pain. The toe is split open with part of it hanging loose, but not like Matthew McConaughey. More like I now have two toes where once was one. This is really going to confuse the little pigs.

I actually don't know if it's really broken, but I do know that it hurts like someone dropped a heavy object from a great height on a small bone and shredded it into pulled pork. It hurts like that (which is more than this).

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In closing I would like to thank everyone for their responses on my last two posts. Normally I would address people in the comments, but what with the toe and the press and the stuff.

I'm especially grateful to those that commented on the post about my grandmother and those that emailed me with personal messages. I know posts like that may be uncomfortable to read, but I needed to write it. In four years of blogging I can count on one hand the number of posts that were as hard to share as that one. My sincere thanks.

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Does This Mean No Surprise Party?

February 1st marked four years of Honea Express. I understand if you forgot.

You learn a lot by blogging for four years in one place. You see the world go by. You watch people come and go and sometimes come again. You see yourself reach new heights and lose yourself in awkward lows. Sometimes people laugh, sometimes they cry, and sometimes they get angry and call you names. It's all par for the course. Sometimes it's rough and sometimes you land on the green, and sometimes that damn windmill hits your ball back all the way to the beginning. Stupid golf.

I've covered everything and nothing. I've nearly quit this thing more times than I can count. I've met people I consider friends, even though we've never shared a beer or an embrace. I've been lucky enough to have friendships fall off the page and into my living room and see memories reappear in my comments.

I've learned a bit about myself: I'm sarcastic to a fault and passionate without apology. These are things I've always suspected, but finally learned to accept when aired before the masses. I'm okay with it.

My family has been supportive and often confused. My wife has been patient and my boys have been boys.

I don't know where this thing is going or how long the journey will take, but from the bottom of my heart I thank each and every one of you that has been along for the ride.

I'm registered at Crate and Barrel and iTunes.

The Night Kitchen

The man leaned against the counter, almost sitting on it. His view was of the kitchen. To his left sat a boy in a diaper and a Steelers jersey. It was midnight and the boy had been sleeping in his bed for hours before crying in the night for his mother. It had been the man that answered.

The man leaned against the counter and to his left sat a boy in a big red chair that reminded the man of kitchens from his youth and reminded the boy of nothing but the only kitchen he had known. The boy ate cold, calculated bites of macaroni and cheese and an entire garlic roll. He sat silently and sipped water from a Mickey Mouse cup. His view was in the toaster.

There had been visitors earlier in the evening. There had been football and cheering and too much to eat, but the boy had been hard at play and had ignored everything but the potato chips and onion dip. Hence his cries in the night and his midnight snack. Hence the man beside him leaning on the counter and staring into the kitchen.

The house was quiet. Somewhere slept a woman and another boy and random pets of various size. None of them made a sound.

The only noise was that of the boy lifting his cup and setting it down. His chewing was muted whisper.

The man looked at the kitchen, surprised by surreal clarity and unexpected sobriety. He looked at the kitchen and his thoughts went to his grandmother in another state in a strange bed in a lonely hospital who had been told just hours before that she was dying.

The man thought of her and how the news was broken to him in that same kitchen just hours before and how he had talked on the phone and sounded strong and sure, something slightly less than stoic, and how once he hung up he was unable to speak one word to his wife without breaking down and crying as she wrapped her arms around him, groceries at their feet and the refrigerator door slightly open.

The boy sat in the big red chair and silently chewed his cold macaroni while staring under heavy eyelids at little square tiles and a dull metal toaster. The man watched him for a moment while they both listened to the nothing, and then he proceeded to run his hands slowly through the boy's hair, because frankly, he just had to.