HONEA EXPRESS

Honea Express Has Left the Station

2010-02-23T15:01:00.000-08:00

If you've come to the site you probably see that really annoying box that already broke the news. It's what we in the biz call a "spoiler". In fact, you may have lingered 6 seconds too long and moved on already. It happens.

However, you might be reading this in your feed reader and to that I say, a) thank you, and b) the blog has moved. After 5 years of flirting with Blogger I figured it was time to buy a domain and settle down. So I did. The New Honea Express can be found at www.whithonea -- yes, I'm somebody. Thank you for making it happen.

I hope you've enjoyed yourself enough to consider an update to your feed reader and continue the journey. I'd love to have you.

Anything can happen.

Riding the Rails

2010-02-17T13:06:00.000-08:00

Beyond the steam there are trees and through them hills and over them lakes and across them mountains and then the vast stretches of forever are all we have left. Behind me are children laughing loudly. They are the passengers of this train and our ride is full of obstacles and metaphors. Tracks are long, lost and out. The view from the window is full of things that float like stars and for every breath taken a new turn awaits to take it away.

There is light at this end of this tunnel and it trips fantastic.

Fantastic Four

2010-02-15T01:48:00.000-08:00

The night is long and restless. Bones grow, the body rests and all kinds of other things I've learned and long since forgotten. Tonight is different. The change in the air isn't winter fighting with spring or the rotating anthems from podiums just across the border, but something bigger and yet, much more personal. It is the gentle turn in the night from one age to the next -- a parade of years that has just started and is already moving much too fast. Memories blow on the wind like so much confetti.

This would be my scrapbook.

The sun will be up in a few hours and with it the son. He rises with the world and immediately starts to conquer it. There are a lot of fart jokes along the way.

And dimples.

He is my fearless one. He runs head first into the day only looking back to make sure we follow. He explores every nook, cranny and the musical offerings of legendary rock bands. His world is filled with games and things to throw. His creative process is fueled by equal parts curiosity and mud puddle. His imagination is only limited by my ability to comprehend it.

"I'm not a big boy," he said. "I'm your baby."

And then he went to bed a three-year-old for the last time, ever.

Zane is turning four and I'm the one getting older.

Happy birthday, Son.

Five Curious Years and Cat-Like Reflexes

2010-02-04T14:58:00.000-08:00

I can see the cat, white and quick, through the bare, gray trees. The cat runs in sudden bursts and stops on a dime, or whatever passes for currency amongst the wild. He stops and he stares.

There is a pattern here, for I too am stopped. I too am staring. I am watching him watch something else and that thing may be watching yet another something and so forth and so on and I can't help but wonder who is watching me.

I live in a glass house. I like to throw stones.

This past Monday my little blog turned five. That's like 80 in blog years. We didn't have a party. We didn't decorate. You didn't get me anything.

It's okay.

I take solace in the thought that you are there. Each post is a piece of me and together they blur like the trees for the forest. Sometimes I run. Sometimes I sit. Sometimes I stare at something else.

And always you've been there for me. Thank you for watching.

__________

UPDATED: Life is Like Winning a Box of Chocolates - Share Your Sweetest Love Story

2010-02-01T10:52:00.000-08:00

Winner, winner, chicken dinner!

I rolled the virtual dice and three came up. Everybody drink.

Three was assigned to the third comment, meaning the winner is Laughing Mouse, soon to be Full Mouse and possibly Sugar Buzz Mouse.

I need to hear from you by noon (PST) on Monday (2/8)!

Thanks to all of the romantics that entered the contest. Your love makes my notebook pale by comparison.

Also, thank you to See's Candy and Clever Girls Collective for making the chocolate happen.

__________

Where does one start a love story? Does it begin across a crowded room on an enchanted evening beneath a layer of warm whiskey and the sudden knowing that nothing will ever be the same again? Or did it begin years ago in a field overgrown with wildflowers and hands swaying in singsong fashion as the meadow gave way to memories and the most beautiful thing you have ever seen was the way the sun glowed upon her skin?

Where does it start and where does it go and how many pages need turn before one is living in the happily ever after?

Me? My story is your classic boy meets girl, boy loses girl, girl marries some soldier, boy fixes up old house, boy gets picture in paper, girl comes back, girl leaves soldier, boy reads to girl, flock of birds fly away type of thing. It was pretty romantic. They made it into a movie.

And it goes great with chocolate.

This is where you come in. The good people at See's Candies and Clever Girls Collective want to help you out with the pinnacle of romance: Valentine's Day. Yes, you can win some chocolate -- a See's Candies Red Signature Box -- that's two pounds of delicious chocolate, which the winner, that could be you, will receive in time for Valentine's Day! We want to hear your sweetest love story, hence the "Share Your Sweetest Love Story" contest. Leave your story - or a link to it, in the comments below and a winner will be picked at random after the contest ends - 11:59 PM on the night of Feb. 5th. It needs to end before midnight due to the whole pumpkin thing - but that's another love story.

Wait, that's not all!

Extra Ways to Enter

Do you really, really want to win? Here are some opportunities for
extra entries, in addition to your comment with your Sweetest Love Story:

1) Visit the See's homepage and sign up for the newsletter

2) Tweet about this contest using the #seescandy tag (you can Tweet daily and post the link in the comments below!)

3) Blog about why you want to win the Share Your Sweetest Love Story with links back to this post, as well as to See's and post the link it in the comments below.

Enter Now! Deadline for entries is midnight, PST, Friday, February 5th and we will notify you by email.

Did you get all that? Enter on my blog and one winner will be chosen. Also, enter via the ways outlined above for additional chances!

__________

Behind the curtain:
Compensation received for post - $50 Visa gift card & a Red Signature Box of See's Candies (Yum!)

__________

Stuff I Write and Things I Review

2010-01-29T15:27:00.000-08:00

I try to maintain a pretty constant flow of quality posts here at Honea Express. Constant being relative and quality being stuff my mom marks as liked on Facebook. This post isn't either of those things.

It may appear to the naked eye that I've been MIA, but that is not the case. I've been wandering the internets and dropping knowledge into whatever web will catch it. Also, non-knowledge.

If you have the time I'd love to share some of it with you. Seriously, it's either humor me or go back to work, and we all know how that will end.

At DadCentric I've been waxing poetic about stuff that is centric to dads, namely this dad and the raising of two boys. A Tale of Two Mornings is a little slice of life piece where one day sort of represents the whole pie - à la mode .

Also at DadCentric I pay my respects to J.D. Salinger in The Day was Mixed with Foul and Rye. It's funny, I always knew that Catcher in the Rye played a big part in helping me find my voice as a writer, but it wasn't until yesterday - nearly 20 years after I read the book that I realized just how much it had influenced me. Holden Caulfield is a classic unreliable narrator, something I later embraced with open arms in the Pushcart-nominated Madness and Bubblegum. I just tooted my own horn, excuse me.

Over at UpTake I've been talking about how I came to be in this country illegally and a little place down the street that may very well be the BEST. DOG. PARK. EVER.

It ~~pays the bills~~ passes the time.

I've also been using my children as guinea pigs by having them consume their body weight in Pom and Funky Monkey snacks. They also went to a very cool warehouse event for bloggers that changed their life forever, give or take an hour.

Pom sent me some of their wonderful 100% pomegranate juice and it was delicious. It was a bit tart for the kids so I took the liberty of making them some pomegranate lemonade - which was also pretty tart, but they loved it.

Here's why I agreed to try Pom: A) It's healthy. It was right before New Years and I thought some healthy stuff in the fridge would be a great way to get on track in 2010. B) When I was a kid my neighbor had a pomegranate tree (bush?) in her backyard and we used to pick the fruit and throw them as hard as we could against the back of her garage. They smashed against that white brick like Jackson Pollock's lunch. Or possibly his head. Yes, we were hooligans but we made up for it by staying off drugs. Occasionally. My point is that pomegranates and I have a history.

I used most of the Pom making pomegranate martinis. They were fantastic.

The Funky Monkey treats were hit and miss. I liked all of the flavors but the kids didn't care for them - not until I opened the MANGOJ (see what they did there?), which went over pretty well with the oldest. He loves him some mango.

For the record, the cat also liked them, which is kind of weird, but so are cats.

What is a Funky Monkey? It's dried fruit THAT CRUNCHES! Basically it a freeze-dried snack that manages to maintain nearly all of the flavor and nutrients found in the fresh fruit version. Again, I was going with the healthy angle. Funky Monkey is gluten free, which is cool (my neighbor has a gluten allergy and it appears to suck).

Speaking of neighbors, did I tell you that we had a huge bonfire last weekend and burned 6 Christmas trees and drank too much? Well, we did. See:

While we were standing around the fire my gluten-less neighbor, a carpenter by trade (the profession not the musical group), turned to me and said, "this should be easy to write about," to which I replied, "you know what else is easy? remodeling a fucking kitchen," which is not something I know for a fact, but it can't be any harder than writing this damn post.

Where was I?

Oh right, the warehouse event. Stacey from Because I Must Blog was kind enough to set up an event with Lance, the owner of Clowns Unlimited and Games2U. Lance invited a group of us to his warehouse outside of Seattle where he and his staff had set up a handful of inflatable slides and mazes, some cool games, an assortment of cotton candy and THE TRAILER.

What is THE TRAILER? Well, as the name implies it is a trailer, and it is filled with pure awesome - the name may not have implied that part, hence my mentioning it. The trailer is all tricked out with cool lighting, comfortable seating for 12 adults (16-18 kids), and six 52" HD flat screen televisions (4 inside, 2 on the outside). Everyone can play the same game- if the game can handle it, or each TV can have its own game from over 51 choices on the latest XBOX, Wii and PlayStation systems. They can also play actual television if that's your thing.

It's as cool as you hope it is.

The trailer will come to you. Yes, you. A very knowledgeable game coach is included. I'm thinking about getting the neighbors to chip in so we can rent it one of these weekends- after we run out of Christmas trees.

In closing, I've been doing stuff. And now it is the weekend. I hope you have a good one.

__________

Behind the curtain:
Compensation: No
Products Received: 3 small bottles of Pom juice, 3 small bags of Funky Monkey

How to Breathe While Dreaming

2010-01-19T14:35:00.000-08:00

I tend to float and dance around the things that I must do. Deadlines are stones in my pockets, paperwork is an anchor around my neck and writing because I need to write is a pair of cement shoes weighing me forever downward.

And yet, writing because I need to write pays the bills. Deadlines are, obviously, necessary and important. Editing without paperwork is like breathing without air. I am living my dream and I lay awake at night.

Perhaps the grass is always greener. Perhaps I am never satisfied. Perhaps these are the glory days and someday I will remember them fondly.

I'm inclined to embrace the latter.

Still, I have never been further from the literary accomplishments for which I strive, and therein lies the rub. Such things require a firm stance and not the spin and dip of a drive-by tango. My lips have grown bloody from a mouthful of roses. Whiskey stings and lingers longer.

I need to spend less time writing because I need to and more time writing out of want. I need to want. It requires a tether and some discipline and a great deal of sacrifice.

It requires me to stay afloat even as I drop stone upon stone against the lining of my pocket.

It requires me to keep dreaming and to look forever upward. One breath at a time.

__________

Amazing Grace

2010-01-12T16:44:00.000-08:00

Everybody falls from grace sometime. Athletes, politicians and actors tend to fall the farthest due to their pedestals being placed so high. And yet, fame bounces. The minute they hit bottom they start clawing their way back up.

Grace rains all around us. We know nothing but the space between dreams and the trampoline and the slight change of view that each direction brings.

Some find solace in having the grace to fall from. Some find hope in the promise of a net.

Some climb steps just to jump from the highest one. They dive deeper than where they started. We score them on their splash.

Some trip and slide over misplaced trust and misguided confidence. They are pulled down by others and some grasp for the ankles above them.

Most of us take two steps forward for every step back. More or less. We face each day and await our spin, not seeing the chutes for the ladders.

It isn't the fall from grace that need define you but how you stick the landing. Remember to bend your knees.

__________

The Settling of Seattle

2010-01-06T16:55:00.000-08:00

It is winter. It falls. It is not yet spring.

Twilight dances from dawn to dusk. It is morning. It is evening. It is mid-afternoon.

There is sunshine on my window. There is a lamp shining softly through and out of the day. It was raining. It will rain again. It may be raining now.

There is coffee in a mug to the left of me. It is always there from the moment I rise until the moment I sleep. Sometimes it tastes like whiskey.

There is something of soul and strings on the stereo and it drives me to work and to play and to sit and do nothing but stare at clouds caressing the mountain.

These words fall like so many other melancholy ramblings that have come before them, but they are deeper than that. They are the edge of my contentment and the threat of pending comfort. They are fresh water over old grounds and a cup that never empties.

It is a safe place within these walls. There is love, peace and lingering laughter. There is warmth and a view and a fire always burning. It feels very much like a thing called home.

__________

All is Quiet on New Year's Day

2009-12-31T12:13:00.000-08:00

And nothing changes but the calendar.

I will most likely begin the new decade in the exact same spot that I end the old one, undoubtedly doing in the new year what it was I did in the the last - the safe money is on drinking something with the aftertaste of regret.

The year changes. The decade rolls over. Those that left us are still gone and those that are leaving will still leave. Debts will still haunt us and life will still taunt us and the laugh of my children will still make me melt.

The aughts are for naught and all is for the better - or so we are told to believe. They brought me my highest highs and my lowest lows and all of the life in between. I owe everything to them and they have taken enough in return. I can only hope that we are even.

The decade was a moveable feast and 2009 was the dropping of the bill - gratuity included.

2010 is a tease for the now. It promises promise and good things to come. I want to believe. I want to let the theory of a fresh start heal old wounds and move me, my family, my friends, my country and this mad, mad world towards new heights and clean slates. We've fallen divided for long enough. I want us to stand.

And nothing changes but the calendar, unless we want it bad enough.

_________

Go Cuckoo for Christmas

2009-12-24T13:18:00.000-08:00

Of X-mas and X-wings

2009-12-15T10:07:00.000-08:00

I had every damn light in the room on and I bought QuickTime Pro just to make it brighter, but this video is still incredibly dark and grainy - like an Everclear and Coke. However, unlike said beverage this video won't find you waking in your own sick on your ex-girlfriend's lawn. Or jail.

This is kind of a messed up intro for a cute video of my kids, isn't it? I'm not right.

Put this on loop and welcome to my world:

__________

Daddy Needs a New Pair of Shoes: The Gift Guide

2009-12-14T12:00:00.000-08:00

When Birkenstock contacted me about trying a pair of their Boston Suede Clogs (Mocha) I figured one of the following had to be true: a) they'd seen the pictures of me and Tricia on the Ben & Jerry's tour, b) they had read that I attended a Dave Matthews concert by choice, or c) they've seen my toes and felt that they should be covered. All of the above was also considered.

Turns out that none of those likely possibilities were the actual reason, rather they pegged me, and rightly so, as an international man about town who loves a good pair of kicks. This, the understanding of people, is why Birkenstock has been around since 1774 ( I bet George Washington had a pair just like mine. There's a Boston tie-in there). Of course, their understanding of feet doesn't hurt.

Here's the info on the shoe: it's not the prettiest thing in the world, although some of the other color/fabric options are pretty stylish, but it's comfortable as all get out. George Washington knew this. The Indigo Girls know this. Now you know this. Birkenstock makes a damn comfy shoe.

The footbed consists of layered foam and cork, the latter implying that someone has to drink a lot of wine to make these shoes and that may very well be the BEST. JOB. EVER. There are also a few microscopic air bubbles that cushion and provide arch support. A few MILLION. Do the math and the sum is comfort wins.

Please note, although Birkenstock clogs are made in Germany, socks remain optional.

Compensation: No
Products Received: 1 pair of Birkenstock Boston Suede Clogs (size 12) for review.

__________

Between the Woods and Frozen Lake

2009-12-08T10:52:00.000-08:00

The Christmas lights weren't going to hang themselves. The box of lights, staples and some plastic clips designed to adhere electrical wires to the overflowing gutters had been working as a doorstop for days. It was time they earned their keep. Besides, it wasn't getting any warmer.

The overnight low had been in the single digits. The high wasn't even old enough to drink. I finished my second pot of coffee and like Griswald before me I plugged into the season.

I stood on a ladder made of ice. Visions of sugarplums breaking their necks danced in my head. I was, for a moment, glad that my children were not there to see it. But I lived and I am lit and I never even touch the stuff.

Today I woke to another sunny, frozen morning. Yellow-breasted robins appeared outside my window. A number of blue jays bounced from branch to branch and perched upon the rail in front of me - their colors vibrant and brisk.

They put the lights to shame.

If I stand on my rooftop I can see a lake and hills and then another lake and hills again. Beyond that, blocked from view, is a skyline that falls into the sea and a coast that leads south to a place where my family can't see the ocean but for the mountains between them.

It's mostly side streets from there.

The boys play loudly on a floor with the toys that they packed themselves. There are no holiday lights or signs of the season. There are no stockings or carols or television specials, just the gift that they don't know they are giving.

In the corner of the room there is a bed with their grandfather in it, watching them play and whispering their names and every new goodnight is their last goodbye.

____________

For Tomorrow May Rain

2009-12-03T13:55:00.000-08:00

Waking in the cold dawn it all turned to ash instantly. - Cormac McCarthy

When we left the sunrise was at our back. We drove through dark and ice and the sound of boys falling in and out of sleep. The tundra was frozen and redundant. The sky was lost and forgotten.

The airport was alive with the non-dead. Sleepy travelers boarded dreams. Weary passengers stumbled through gates like so many sheep. I stood there and tried not to count them.

My wife kissed my cheek and peeled the children from me. It took a little skin. I watched them walk away until they turned from sight and then I walked to the car and into the darkness. It was exactly like I had left it but slightly more so.

When I returned the sunrise was my horizon. I drove through twilight and ice and the sound of emptiness traveling just over the posted speed limit. The mountains glowed gold and bright. The sky stretched and yawned and rubbed sleep from its eye. I started to say something but there was no one there to hear me.

All that was left was time and an eastbound highway. I thought of a plane somewhere behind me, turned on the radio and like a moth to the flame I followed the sun until it engulfed everything but the shadows.

__________

Star Wars: Draw the Clone Wars and the Winners

2009-12-02T14:15:00.001-08:00

Here it is, a day late but not a dollar short. Maybe 80¢. In the video below you will find your winners. It may be you, but maybe not. Probably not.

If you are a winner please contact me via the "Contact Whit" link in the sidebar with your full name and mailing info. All winners must report by Monday or I will pick an alternative to those that don't. That seems fair, unlike life.

Congrats to all and to all a good night.

Yes, that's Darth Vader's theme on the ukulele. And yes, that's my wife's bathrobe.

Raccoons at the Door

2009-11-30T10:45:00.001-08:00

It ain't the Fantastic Mr. Fox, but it's a wild animal(s) for a neighbor.

Please note, on the other side of that door are two very loud and anxious dogs (owners of the food bowls, pictured). Raccoons. Do. Not. Care.

And scene:

Remember kids, if a raccoon knocks on your door and it isn't wearing clothing it is most likely REAL and therefore DANGEROUS. If it is wearing pants you can let it in. Enjoy your absinthe.

The Traditional Thanksgiving Post. Again.

2009-11-24T12:26:00.000-08:00

We woke up early to watch the parade. It started at 7am, which seemed to me a fairly unreasonable time to get out of bed, especially for Al Roker. New York City was buzzing with people doing something as simple as watching a parade and as brave as leaving their homes. It was two months after the terrorists attacked and we sat in our living room drinking butter-rum coffee and feeling as safe as ever and guilty about it. It was the first Thanksgiving morning since we lost so much, and it was bittersweet. We had much to be thankful for.

The parade announcers, including Mr. Roker, were dressed smartly in their free Macy's wardrobe, and the song numbers were lip-synced to near perfection. It was how Thanksgiving was supposed to start; family, coffee, the parade, and then football, turkey, and six bottles of wine. We had much to be thankful for.

About midway through the parade Katie Couric said something that I will never forget. They were cutting to commercial and she was telling us which balloons were making their way up the street, and she said, quite casually, to stay tuned for Jesusauros Rex. Yes, Jesusauros Rex.

"What did she say?" we asked each other even though we all knew the answer. There was a balloon coming, somewhere between the high school band from Alabama and the 27th boy-band float of the morning, that encompassed everything that we wanted, that we needed. That America needed. It was a monster, a dinosaur of the Rex variety, the kind that devoured its enemies. And America has enemies.

Yet, it was Jesus. Jesus is kind and understanding. He turns cheeks. He forgives. He makes a mean Merlot. Jesusauros Rex was everything we were feeling. Everything we wanted. Revenge and understanding. War and peace. Rage and reflection. Not to mention the endless bottles of wine. We looked at each other and waited his arrival like it was the Second Coming.

He never came. There is no such thing as a Jesusauros Rex. There is, however, a Cheesasauros Rex, a giant dinosaur that encompasses something else America needs- pasta and cheese powder in a nice blue box. Kraft had a balloon and it wasn't a giant smiling cigarette. We had much to be thankful for.

So Cheesasauros Rex came and went, followed by the two oldest men alive, Tony Bennett and Santa Claus. It was really a nice parade. Al Roker was great. Katie Couric was cute and perky. Yes Katie, there is a Cheesasauros Rex.

The funny thing is that when the parade was over I couldn't shake the message it had sent, even if I had imagined it. Love and mercy. Revenge and redemption. These were things that I needed too, and so, as I always do in times of trouble, I turned to the Beatles. After all, they were spiritual and blasphemous, revolutionaries and pacifists. They were eggmen, fragile (fra-gee-lay) and hard-boiled.

I am the walrus. Koo Koo Kachoo.

But football was on, so I forgot it all. Again. As if it hadn't happened, and I had never known the kind of pain that I had. The pain that was but a pinprick to the pain they had felt. Still. They lost their wives, husbands, children and friends, and they kept their cool.

Those people gave new meaning to the word hero, and the old guard, like our professional athletes for example, could do nothing but say thank you, salute, and dry their tears. Sure, the Lions can't remember the last season they had that wasn't filled with pain, but it doesn't matter. It is a game, football, like so many other things we elevate onto pedestals it may not deserve, but it's okay. It keeps us sane and entertained. Football is a great game. An American game.

The Beatles, however, are not American, yet they are as much a part of our culture as any force in entertainment could possibly be. And then some. They are Beatlemania. They were bigger than Jesus for God's sake! John Lennon said that, not me, but he had a point. They were selling out much bigger stadiums than God.

On September 11, 2001, Paul McCartney sat in an airplane on a runway in New York City and watched the world burn down. He saw through a first-class tinted window what we saw on our TV sets. He saw hate.

But for us it was Thanksgiving. We had each other. There was wine in my glass, football on the TV, and in the next room my wife and my sister sang A Hard Day's Night on the karaoke machine. We had much to be thankful for. And it was bittersweet.

It came and it went, tethered heavily upon our heartstrings, floating like a giant balloon. Yes, Katie, there is a Jesusauros Rex, and he loves you.

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours,
Whit

Draw Star Wars: The Clone Wars, Then Win It

2009-11-13T18:23:00.000-08:00

Seriously? Drawing? Star Wars? The video with the noise and the force and the I. WANT. THAT. Well, you got it, kid. Also, you're all clear.

It's Draw Star Wars: The Clone Wars and Atticus is beside himself. Zane would also enjoy it if his brother let him anywhere near it. This is something that will never happen. Ever.

Here's a rundown of what's inside (via Klutz) - ... filled with tips, techniques, practice space, and translucent overlays to make you a master of drawing. Start with stick figures, move onto basic shapes, and finish up with the details. Use the included double-tipped metallic-colored pencils and black marker to make 20 Clone Wars characters come to life.

Here's the part where you come in. I'm giving away five (5) of these bad boys. Just in time for whatever you do in December! Also, birthdays!

The contest is open to anyone in the United States with a mailbox. Everyone knows that only the dark side uses P.O. Boxes or lives outside of America. These rules are set by the PR company that is supplying the prize. If you live in a galaxy far, far away you can always have the prize sent to an American friend and work out the shipping from there. I know, it's not easy, but do you think blowing up the Death Star, twice, was easy? There is no try. Do. And all that.

To enter: Leave a comment with your favorite Star Wars story. It can be something from the movies, books, comics, rides or your life. Keep it short, people. On December 1st I will announce the winners, which will be picked at random.

May the force be with you. Always.

__________________________

Behind the curtain of the great and powerful Whit:

Compensation: No
Products Received: 1copy of "Draw Star Wars: The Clone Wars" for review. Prize copies will be sent from PR contact.

A Band of Brothers

2009-11-07T12:17:00.000-08:00

A lack of sleep and a bottle of something teamed up to make my morning a series of echoes and drumbeats. The drummers stood bedside and they beat their drums slowly.

"Can we play the Wii?" they asked.

"Will you make breakfast?" they hounded.

"I have to go potty," they threatened.

They were up too early, because it was Saturday. If it were a school day I would be the one standing over them as they lay warm and oblivious. But it wasn't a school day. It was the weekend and they were up early and I had been up late.

I got up. I wiped a butt. I made some breakfast. I drank some coffee. I took some aspirin.

The boys traded drumsticks for forks and beats for bites. I stood in the open doorway and felt the cold air on my face. The fog rolled off the hills and the rain splashed against my bare feet.

Behind me teams were being picked, the two of them dividing and competing and planning ways to best their opponent.

"I'm on your team," one brother said to the other.

I stood at the door as they charged the day and I pitied any foe that made its way past me.

There's a Sad Sort of Clanging From the Clock in the Hall

2009-11-05T00:01:00.000-08:00

And he found them not where they were supposed to be and doing the things they shouldn't. He had left them alone among the molehills and found them perched upon the mountains.

They were laughing and full of fun and getting away with being young. They were silent and drained of joy and by all means busted.

He was tired. There were long days behind him and long nights ahead. His back, it burned with exhausted muscle and it erupted with spasms of stress and it resorted to a door frame to keep it remotely upward.

Ropes wind and they twirl and they roll nicely off the spool and one minute you're tying knots and making swings from trees and old tires and the next your hands are empty and your metaphor is at its end.

Then they are sorry and they cry and they've said it all before, for instance, last night when he stood propped against the same tired door frame grown weak and weary beneath the burden of his weight. And the waiting still grows heavy.

Words were said louder than they needed to be. Threats were made that were never meant. Little feet scurried to where they should have been and behind them they left a trail of guilt like so many bread crumbs. Sweet, innocent, beautiful guilt, and they cried loudly as he closed the door in hopes that doing so will save them all.

The hallway is long and lonely and it only need be examined a dozen or so times before it is ingrained firmly upon his brain. Every footstep has purpose. Every crack is considered. Life is bends that do not break and behind the door there is only the sound of their heavy slumber.

Their bread crumbs are soft and smooth and shaped like plush piles of imagination. He picks them up one by one, carefully, quietly, and he carries them into the room and places them where they are supposed to be, in the arms of his affections. And his whispers are for forgiveness

No Tricks, Just Treats

2009-11-02T16:12:00.001-08:00

I would be remiss if I didn't share our Halloween memories with you. And I do not care to be remiss. No, not at all.

The last one was a neighbor that had Muppet music blaring from his home. There was another neighbor, an attractive young mom, whose costume could best be described as SpongeBoob NoPants, but I was so appalled that I forgot to take a picture and then when I went back and banged on her door at 3am the cops said I had to go home. The nerve of some people.

And now for a few favorites from Halloweens past:

Here's hoping that you and yours had a good time and that your teeth don't rot out. Also, Merry Christmas. Apparently.

Ten Days Gone

2009-10-20T11:43:00.000-07:00

From my office I can watch the leaves fall upon the deck and melt in pools of red and yellow. They do not fight it. They have served their purpose. They have accepted their fate. Theirs is to fall beneath a constant drizzle and breaths of mist and theirs is to mock me in their peacefulness.

From my office I can see a grave sixteen years deep. My gaze tends to wander there. It lingers from time to time.

The boys have been sick and sad and they are making messes and mischief of one kind and another. Theirs is in the now. Pain and joy are deep and fleeting. Mornings are met with smiles and dreams are embraced with hugs and sugars and the seesaw tones of love and a patience lost.

Miles away my wife drifts in a pool of memories. It ebbs and it flows and it ripples from countless teardrops. She is at the bedside of her father. Hers is a distance measured in sadness.

Her father fades slowly. Her hopes come and go. His breath, it ebbs and it flows and it ripples. His is the fountain of their tears. His is the pool of memories in which they wade with pants rolled high and thick, hard skin slowly finding softness. Theirs is old wounds unhealing and new cuts soaked in salt.

Mine is to be alone, tired and slightly unkempt. Mine is to stare far too long at leaves through windows. Mine is to care for my children and give them strength when they need it and to take theirs when it is offered.

Ours is to make the most of making do.

Old Dogs and Falling Leaves

2009-10-11T09:10:00.000-07:00

I opened the door and she was sitting there. She was young and full of mischief and energy. She ran strong and loud and I named her Harley. Harley Anne.

Harley was the worst puppy I ever had. She ate shoes and toothbrushes, hoses and the wires inside the lawnmower. She dug holes and escaped yards. She was a whirlwind of destruction. Sweet, loving destruction.

Harley was the best dog I ever had. She was a gentle giant and stood by me through the growing pains that got me here. Her love was constant and unflinching, even when it should not have been.

She made me a better man. She taught me responsibility when I thought I already knew it. She taught me that it was almost always better to forgive than to fight. She calmed me when I was angry and soothed me when I was sad. I am a man of many edges and she kept me from growing too sharp.

She cared for my sons like some fictional dog from a storybook. She showed them patience when I had none. She was both their protector and their pillow. My boys have never known a day without her.

She was sixteen. She couldn't run or whirl or destroy anything more than the carpet beneath her. She was too frail to protect and too tender to rest a head upon. She was tired.

Despite the loss of muscle and the growing amount of lumps upon her chest she never showed signs of pain, only sighs of frustration at a body that quit before she did.

Yesterday she whimpered non-stop.

Neighbors stopped by to check on her. Dogs stood at the gate and gazed upon her. I sent the boys out to play and I sat with my old dog. Her breathing grew labored, her eyes distant. She died in my arms, no longer young or strong, but old and tired and leaving a life well-lived. A life well-loved.

And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make.

Her legacy is a tribute to her. Everyone that met her left a little happier than they came. My sadness is tempered in this solace. My loneliness finds comfort there.

Today I will stand beneath a grove of trees surrounded by friends and neighbors. I will place my dog in a hole in the ground - one that she would be proud of, and I will say goodbye. She will rest there forever, beneath falling leaves and drops of rain, and the occasional tear when memories lead me there.

Rest well, Harley Anne.

Always Home & Always Cool

2009-10-02T00:01:00.000-07:00

Kevin of Always Home and Uncool has asked me to post this as part of his effort to raise awareness in the blogosphere of juvenile myositis, a rare autoimmune disease his daughter was diagnosed with on this day seven years ago. The day also happens to be his wife's birthday.

Thanks for sharing, Kevin.

________________________

Our pediatrician admitted it early on.

The rash on our 2-year-old daughter's cheeks, joints and legs was something he'd never seen before.

The next doctor wouldn't admit to not knowing.

He rattled off the names of several skins conditions -- none of them seemingly worth his time or bedside manner -- then quickly prescribed antibiotics and showed us the door.

The third doctor admitted she didn't know much.

The biopsy of the chunk of skin she had removed from our daughter's knee showed signs of an "allergic reaction" even though we had ruled out every allergy source -- obvious and otherwise -- that we could.

The fourth doctor had barely closed the door behind her when, looking at the limp blond cherub in my lap, she admitted she had seen this before. At least one too many times before.

She brought in a gaggle of med students. She pointed out each of the physical symptoms in our daughter:

The rash across her face and temples resembling the silhouette of a butterfly.

The purple-brown spots and smears, called heliotrope, on her eyelids.

The reddish alligator-like skin, known as Gottron papules, covering the knuckles of her hands.

The onset of crippling muscle weakness in her legs and upper body.

She then had an assistant bring in a handful of pages photocopied from an old medical textbook. She handed them to my wife, whose birthday it happened to be that day.

This was her gift -- a diagnosis for her little girl.

That was seven years ago -- Oct. 2, 2002 -- the day our daughter was found to have juvenile dermatomyositis, one of a family of rare autoimmune diseases that can have debilitating and even fatal consequences when not treated quickly and effectively.

Our daughter's first year with the disease consisted of surgical procedures, intravenous infusions, staph infections, pulmonary treatments and worry. Her muscles were too weak for her to walk or swallow solid food for several months. When not in the hospital, she sat on our living room couch, propped up by pillows so she wouldn't tip over, as medicine or nourishment dripped from a bag into her body.

Our daughter, Thing 1, Megan, now age 9, remembers little of that today when she dances or sings or plays soccer. All that remain with her are scars, six to be exact, and the array of pills she takes twice a day to help keep the disease at bay.

What would have happened if it took us more than two months and four doctors before we lucked into someone who could piece all the symptoms together? I don't know.

I do know that the fourth doctor, the one who brought in others to see our daughter's condition so they could easily recognize it if they ever had the misfortune to be presented with it again, was a step toward making sure other parents also never have to find out.

That, too, is my purpose today.

It is also my birthday gift to my wife, My Love, Rhonda, for all you have done these past seven years to make others aware of juvenile myositis diseases and help find a cure for them once and for all.

To read more about children and families affected by juvenile myositis diseases, visit Cure JM Foundation at www.curejm.org.

To make a tax-deductible donation toward JM research, go to www.firstgiving.com/rhondaandkevinmckeever or www.curejm.com/team/donations.htm.

A Dog Day Afternoon and Into the Night

2009-09-22T10:11:00.000-07:00

Daddy worked its way down the hall. It was a tiny voice from a tiny bed in the darkest corner of a dark room. The cry came like smoke, swirling and tickling my senses before slapping me awake with what it was. I followed it expecting fire.

I found two boys in two beds. One, the one that never sleeps, was sleeping. The other, the one that sleeps sound was awake with thoughts on his mind and scars on his face.

The walk home is 19 steps for little feet. I can do it in ten - less, it turns out, when running.

The dog had been tethered in its own yard, a small patch of grass, unfenced and inviting. The dog was step twelve.

"Daddy," he said from under his covers. "On Saturday at 4:00 at night I want to go to the fair."

I stood in the doorway, one shoulder against the frame and the other weighed down with the demons of the day. He talked and I stood slightly taller.

"My teacher is going to be there then," he continued.

"And you want to see her?" I asked in his general direction.

"Yes. She said if she sees us there she'll give us a big hug, and I want to go get a big hug from her."

He hadn't tried to hug the dog. He had only stopped to pet it as it stood there, watching him. Wagging.

The blood was both above and below the eye. The nose also trickled. The red lines of violent scratches covered both cheeks. The scratches were from teeth.

A little boy came into the neighbor's house. I was on the couch. There was a beer in my hand and football on the TV. His words sent me running.

I ran past concerned children and the blurs of twilight. I ran as fast as I could. My fears ran faster.

I found them in the living room. Blood. Tears. Pain on my son's face. Concern on my wife's.

I walked out to a growing crowd of neighbors. Their gazes were knowing.

My son, his flesh raw and hot, was behind me. Neighbors have kids and kids have chalk and opportunities such as that should never be squandered. They drew their circles on the asphalt. We drew our circles around them.

"Yes," he said, his voice as small as it had ever been. "I want a big hug."

And I gave him one.

Friday Flashback - A Post That Once Was

2009-09-18T00:15:00.000-07:00

In July of 2007 I wrote 3 posts about a trip I took to Europe when I was 25. That was a lifetime ago. Over the years I've had the posts brought up to me by various people - some of which still actually read me. Go figure. I've toyed often with the idea of reprinting it, which is what this is, but without the cliffhangers. Needless to say, it's fairly long and probably not worth your time, but hey, it's better than working, or sleeping or whatever you should be doing.

I hope you enjoy it.

Whit

*************

The train ride out of Dresden was pleasant enough. The scenery was green and lush. Prague waited at the end of the line- a line wrought with the romance and tragedy of history. So much had happened on those tracks, blood and love and metamorphosis.

In contrast to the old that engulfed us was the bright youth of the day. It was young, and so were we. We were full of promise and laughter, our heads heavy with lust and liquor. We carried them high.

We met some American girls on the train and found comfort in their kinship while drinking lazily and entertaining thoughts that started at their smiles and drifted gently downward.

There were two stops in Prague and ours was the second. That appeared to be the case with all of the tourists, as they all started to straighten backpacks, check their reflections in the window and polish off whatever traces of open liquor that had got them this far.

A man appeared. Many men actually. They boarded at the stop, and it was easy to see that this was their livelihood, the constant commute between two stations, rubbing against the wanderers of the world and selling their wares. In the case of our visitor, it was lodging.

It startled us, to have someone offer us a room in a private flat. We had an unspoken plan that was basically get off the train and track down one of the many hostels that filled our traveling books and then woo women. The American girls, as women are prone to do, were already prepared and had a hotel room booked in advance. They were much more organized than we ever considered being.

The apartment in question belonged to a jazz musician that was currently on tour. The room had three cots, one for each of us, and access to the kitchen, which we used as a place to sit and drink beer out of old jelly jars.

The three of us, D, M, and myself, decided to get something to eat. We stepped outside, took the first right and ran into the American girls stepping from their hotel. They smiled again.

Together we ate some bland food, drank heavily, and made our way to the main square in old Prague. It breathed deeply and it felt old, not much different than what Kafka would have walked through, but with more neon.

There is a clock there, in the square, that is the most beautiful timepiece I have ever seen. In fact, the story goes that upon its completion, the monarch that had sanctioned it had taken the artist and cut his eyes out so that he could never create another clock too surpass its grandeur.

I can't help but think that the artist thought it worth it.

There was a club there, downstairs and through a dark, damp hallway. It was once a dungeon, and now it was a bar filled with cheap beer and topless women. We went in and found a table.

The place echoed with a lifetime of screams and sweat. Only now, they were accompanied by a house beat rather than the shadow of a looming noose. Hang the DJ. Chalk one up for progress.

By the time we got to Prague we had already spent time in Paris and Amsterdam, not to mention one confusing night in Germany, it wasn't our first bar, and it wouldn't be the last, however, it was the best.

We found ourselves sitting at a community table with an assortment of young men from all over Europe that were visibly interested in the girls that had entered with us. Your women, how much for the women? Someone bought beer, and it, as they say, was on.

The bonding must have happened sometime after midnight. My companions and I had long been traveling under the single purpose of not becoming a stereotype, the "ugly American," which of course, has nothing to do with our appearance (because we're handsome). One of the things that we had not mentioned throughout our trip was politics. Why would we?

That night, drunk in a dungeon, it was brought out for us. Young men from a handful of different countries went on... and on, about our military and our might. They wanted to know about California and the streets of gold. They were curious and excited about America, which frankly, was the last response we had been prepared for. It was before George W., and, apparently, the world loved us. They did not, however, care for Germany.

If there was anything that ran as a common theme it was a united distrust and blatant dislike of all things German. We, as we thought was prudent, stayed quiet on the matter. At one point, someone started singing a song that was anti-Germany, and the whole bar finished it in unison. Apparently, having Europe's strongest economy and the worst recent history did not make them popular neighbors. I sipped my beer and watched the girls on the dance floor.

They were topless in the European sense, meaning that breasts bared in public were not taboo, but accepted. I tended to fall along those lines. I still do.

The American girls, rather than drinking free beer and having their egos stroked, had long been swept away by men with dangerous accents and possible facial scars. We had plans to attend a show with them the next afternoon, Rage Against the Machine, and the last words I heard from them involved breakfast.

In the meantime, we had become celebrities of sorts, based on nothing else than perception and passports. I found myself the focus of attention by throngs of beautiful women. Either this was the greatest night ever or we were being set up for a huge rolling in the alley. We didn't care.

At one point, the girl that I had been dancing with said that she wanted me to teach her how to two-step, which I knew to be some sort of cowboy dance and she knew to be undeniably American. I figured I could wing it. Hell, I would do the jitterbug if I thought it was foreplay.

The DJ was more than happy to oblige with a nod and a country music staple. I got ready to dazzle them with my boot-scoot boogie, and I may have. I honestly don't recall if I danced or not. I was drunk and being seduced by a 6' Czech beauty. I remember I was prepared, but when the music started, which set-off the second all bar sing-along of the night, I may have been too busy laughing to dance. It happens.

By the time the chorus came around I felt like I was in a Coors Light commercial. We all raised our beers, and we sang our hearts out:

... the Colorado rocky mountain high
Ive seen it rainin fire in the sky
The shadow from the starlight is softer than a lullabye
Rocky mountain high (high Colorado) rocky mountain high (high Colorado)

It was awesome.

It was also 5 in the morning.

We didn't have our guidebook with us. In fact, we had lost our map earlier and had been led through the city by the well-prepared girls from Florida. What we had was the tray liner from an earlier stop at Kentucky Fried Chicken. It showed the city and the various KFC locations in it, one of which was located a short walk from where we were staying. Everything was a short walk. Some longer than others.

Before the Colonel had a chance to guide us home we were being whisked away by the Czech girl and her friend. They had another bar they wanted to take us to. Who were we to argue?

Jon Voight fell from The Charles Bridge and it was ours to drink upon it, for that is where the bar was, on our end of that bridge, cloaked as it was in fog and intrigue.

We went inside. M, as he was prone to do, soon found himself sitting in a chair with a girl's face in his lap. In the lobby. They had no shame. I was extremely jealous.

The girl that had guided me through the streets on a string of kiss-covered whispers had suddenly become a ball of the unfun emotions. She had man issues, and my resemblance to said man was the reason that she had attached herself to me. He sounded handsome. Very handsome.

It was late. Or early. I was too drunk to care. D, however, who had made his stake by being the understanding type, took an interest. I sat at the bar and drank whiskey. The sun started to shine on the deep, brown waters of the Vltava.

A man that seemed old at the time, probably about sixty, was talking to the girl at this point, and whatever he said - it pushed her buttons. She took upset to a whole new level, and as M and his new acquaintance were standing by the door, I suggested we get the hell out of there.

We were walking in the cool morning light, M leading the way, following the trail of chicken, and the rest of us a few steps back. The girls were crying, D was soothing, and I was looking at the rapids of the river.

Suddenly it became clear that I was now the object of her anger. The girl was upset that I had not stuck up for her in the bar. I had no idea what she was talking about. Didn't she know chivalry was dead in America?

It seems that the guy that had approached her had called her a whore. A fucking whore to be exact, because she was in the company of Americans. He had offered her money and promised her a better time. Oddly, he had no words for her friend that was obviously the easy one.

"What did you want me to do?" I asked.

"Hit him," she cried. "Defend me."

I looked at the river and I turned around. I walked into the bar with a beautiful crying woman on my arm, which was usually how I left them, and came face to face with the accused as he was preparing to leave.

"Did you call her a whore?" I asked.

He looked shocked. "N-n-no!" he said, waving his hands in front of me and backing down the stairs.

The girl was behind me, screaming things like "liar!" and "hit him!"

"Did you call her a fucking whore?" I continued.

"I called her what she is," he laughed.

I punched him in the face and he fell over backwards, down a few more stairs and crashed into a table on the barroom floor. I kept walking towards him, stepping over chairs and feeling her arms grow tight around me.

When I reached him he was cowering. I bent down to grab his collar and could hear the cries of the girl behind me and the heated accusations that D was now throwing at the drunk. I paused when I heard the voice of the bartender rise above the others, and suddenly I realized where I was and what I was doing. I didn't care to test the limits of my visit.

I glanced up and my eyes met those of the man behind the bar.

"Hit him," he said in a thick accent. He mimed his best uppercut. "That guy is an asshole!"

Apparently I was still within the good graces of the city. I decided to stay there. I pulled the man up to what would have been his height, if he had let his feet touch the ground, looked him in the eyes and whispered, "fuck you," before dropping him back to the floor. I walked up the stairs.

I turned to watch as the girl and D lingered. My best friend, D, standing at 5'7, next to the beautiful crying girl, who was 6' easy, and the drunk, still on his ass with his hands waving in the air in front of his face.

D yelled a few more times, demanding an apology from the man. I don't know if he got it. He was kicking him in the stomach when I turned and walked back into the sun.

M was nowhere to be seen, and I figured he had kept walking towards the flat, or was possibly in a doorway somewhere letting the friend finish what she had started. I walked to the corner, where street meets bridge, and watched as D and the crying girl stumbled into the morning.

They stopped. She was still in a bad way and D was still sensitive. I was drunk and tired. I started up the street and found M, alone, standing in the middle of an empty intersection, slowly turning the KFC map in his hands and looking at his surroundings with the blank stare of a man that had no clue.

Minutes passed. We hadn't moved and D had not caught up. I mumbled to myself as I retraced my steps to retrieve him. He wasn't there.

What the fuck? I looked around and decided they must have gone back in the bar. I had no intention of following and walked to the edge of the bridge to pass my time watching water and dreaming of sleep.

They were in the river. She was a good distance ahead of him and they were both swimming strongly towards the middle of the river and the heavy current of old world water that flowed there.

I yelled. D stopped and looked up at me, only the top of his head visible against the shadows of city.

"She's killing herself!" he shouted, and turned to swim again.

My mind raced. This, I thought, is some crazy shit. I stripped down to my boxers and called for M, who came running around the corner and froze, tray liner in both hands. He was about forty feet away.

"Call 911!" I shouted.

He started to turn, then stopped, and waved the paper in front of him. "They don't have 911!"

I couldn't let someone die. I couldn't go home without my best friend. I saw his mother's face and me, stumbling, trying to explain how he had drown and I had stood there, arguing in my underwear in the middle of a slowly stirring city.

"Call somebody." I said, and I dove in.

D had reached her and was swimming back towards me. I met them halfway. She was unconscious, and he was slipping repeatedly beneath her weight into the embracing arms of the river.

I took her and placed her arms around me, as they had been just an hour ago. Only now there was no warmth. There was no tightness. She was cold and unresponsive.

It no longer mattered that someone had called her a whore. I no longer cared that she had chosen to spend the night crying instead of fucking. She grew heavy on my back as we swam in the water and I never took my eyes off of D's face.

If there was a way out of the river we couldn't find it. Its banks had centuries ago been grown over with bricks and cobblestones, and we found a patch against the wall beneath the street that we could place her on.

She had a pulse and the slightest of breaths. Water poured out of her mouth and ran back to the depths from which it came. She was trembling with shock and cold. We removed everything but her undergarments and rubbed our hands across her body, trying desperately to alleviate the effects of the chill she battled. We were freezing.

Sirens grew from the distance. Eventually there were voices above us. Everyone from the bar was there, even the drunk. M was looking down at us with relief and amusement. Firemen and police, all with mustaches and cigarettes, started calling to us in every language but one we understood.

Finally, a gurney of sorts was lowered. We placed the girl that cried upon it and watched as she disappeared from our lives forever.

A rope ladder was thrown down and we climbed up to a hundred faces and more questions. I remember M handing me my clothes as I watched the drunk talk to the police. He kept pointing at me.

I woke up with my head lying on a heater. It was the old kind that looked like a radiator sticking out of the wall. It was on. I only moved my head enough to turn it over and warm the other side.

I was freezing and I was in jail. M and D were sitting beside me on a bench.

The drunk walked by us. "You," he said to me. "You learn how to dive in the English Navy?"

I wasn't sure if he had already forgotten that I was American, or if the fact that my dive was closer to a belly flop was some sort of crack against the English. I ignored him.

I had assumed, as I usually did when finding myself in a police station, that we were in some sort of trouble. Thankfully that wasn't the case.

"You boys are heroes," is what they told us. They had taken us to the station to speak with an interpreter, and sometime during my sleep the entire story had come out.

Two policemen that could have passed for 14 if not for the thickness of their mustaches picked us up out front. Their squad car was at least 10 years old. There was duct tape on the door joints and a handful of air fresheners hanging from the rear-view mirror, which was also covered in duct tape.

They both turned to look at us as we sat in the backseat, smiling through the smoke of their cigarettes.

"Hey," said one. "You Americans, you like to swim, no?" They both laughed. M handed them the KFC sheet, with our location circled. They looked at it like it was the most natural thing in the world, started the car, turned on the siren, and cranked the techno. They drove us home fast, smoking and laughing, talking to us the entire time. I couldn't hear a word they said.

**Epilogue**

It had been raining most of the night. We had started the day with a boat tour around Lake Lucerne, nestled softly in the grace of the Swiss Alps. We had only been in Switzerland two days and the price of Guinness alone was enough to ensure that this day would be our last.

We needed to cut time anyway, as we had spent extra days in Prague being molested in phone booths and gently kissing girls in the open doorways of slow-moving trains as they crawled from platforms headed in the wrong direction.

Just before we left Switzerland we stood in the ruins of an old castle, trying to stay dry as the showers returned. There was a group of Canadians there, and as was oft the practice when traveling as we were, everyone started to trade stories from their respective journeys.

One of them offered up a tale he had heard. He had met some American girls in Austria who had told him about some guys they had met in Prague- three American guys, and how those guys, those three guys drunk with lust and liquor, had spent an hour defending a girl's honor, and a morning, saving her life.

We caught our train, and we slept the entire way to Barcelona.

.
.

A Poor Excuse for a Post

2009-09-17T09:54:00.000-07:00

I'm filling in for Jason today over at ManTime. If you like your cursing to be filled with Zanger and dad-talk, come check it out! The show is on at 11am (PT) and will be available on podcast shortly thereafter.

And since this a poor excuse for a post, here are some things I've been doing on these here internets:

DadCentric:

"Amazing Tales for Making Men Out of Boys" a Book Review by My Wife With a Running Commentary by Me, a Man That Used to be a Boy

Dan Zanes and the Fine Friends DVD - The DadCentric Review

A Pot to Potion

The Art of Pointing Fingers

A bunch of stuff at UpTake.

My part at Polite Fictions.

MamaPop:

The Beatles and Disney - It's On!

Twitter Fail Starring Jon Gosselin

And I Know God Because of KRS-One

FameCrawler can always use your clicks. That's how the kids eat.

Then there was Twitter...

And here are some pictures Atticus took:

A September Day

2009-09-11T09:28:00.000-07:00

On a September day

when school bells rang,
and leaves entertained thoughts
0f leaving-
things went wrong in a world
that was much more right
than we ever thought it was.
On a September day
when bells rang,
for the dying.

.
.

An Open Letter to Zane

2009-09-08T22:57:00.000-07:00

At this moment you are sleeping in my bed. You have the company of two dogs, two cats and dreams that only know innocence. You fell asleep crying and there is a smile upon your lips.

You will wake up in your own bed - perhaps with a pet. It will be the crack of dawn or the hour before it. You will wake with an energy that I envy and you will do things I wish you wouldn't. Like getting up.

You will try to be quiet with whispers at a roar and you will wake your brother with the same 'accident' you did yesterday morning. And the day before that. The day is new and you dare not face it without him.

It is easy for you to pick up where your brother left off. It is also unfair. You spent a year walking him to school and a year counting down the hours until he returned. You spent a year planting kisses upon his cheek and a year making him cry. And vice versa. A year is a long time when you have only known three.

You look up to your brother and rightfully so. His footsteps are deep upon us all, but as inviting as you may find them they are not for you to follow. Your path is yours to make. I trust you will go the right direction. I trust there will be many turns along the way. I trust.

And tomorrow you start your walk. It starts with a few hours here, a few hours there. It starts with a circle and a song. It snakes and it winds past pretty flowers sharp with thorns and pockets of warm sunshine through darkened trees. This is the metaphor where adventures are made and yours is in the taking them. It is a baby step of epic proportion. There is no turning back now.

Perhaps we take preschool too lightly. Perhaps we take it for granted. But the truth is that it is new to you and it is new to us. There are unchartered waters before your feet and tomorrow you get wet.

Dry is dull and overrated.

Enjoy your day and the start of it all. Your mother and I will be waiting in the silence that you left us - it is solace with a bitter streak.

When in doubt, flash your dimples.

An Open Letter to Atticus

2009-09-01T21:34:00.000-07:00

You are in your bed right now. You are finally asleep after a wild tale of wild things, a glass of water, several threats and one last hug and sugar. Your little brother is still awake in the bed across from you. I can hear him singing into the flashlight that he thinks I don't know about.

I know.

There are lights turned low. Your mother is watching television. I am sipping a beer by candlelight and listening to music that makes people cry.

You should know that I'm a melancholy fool and I always have been. You've probably figured this out by now, even if you don't know what melancholy means.

A year ago was a milestone and suddenly you've leaped to another one. Life is funny like that. Milestones happen.

We are in a new town. A new state. You were born here and so you've returned. The school is new, too. It's your old school turned inside out to protect you from the rain. The bricks are the same color as those you remember. The bathrooms all smell the same.

You seemed so little then. You seem too big now. You have outgrown everything except hugs and sugars. You are sweet like that.

You are smart and kind and so funny it's dangerous. You are going to find yourself in a lot of trouble and it will be your mouth that gets you there. You got that from me. Also, my eyes. Your smile you got from your mother.

Tomorrow is the first day of first grade. Tomorrow is a new chapter and the adventure is yours for the choosing. Don't always take the easy way.

Tonight is full of wind in the trees and dogs in the distance and piano keys bouncing off the living room walls. Tonight is the quiet before your storm.

But it's not really that quiet. We have hatches to batten down, strong and deep, and milestones to go before we sleep.

Milestones to go before we sleep.

Give them hell, Kid.
___________________________________

In case you missed my grown-man crying about kindergarten:
All He'll Ever Need to Know He'll Learn in Kindergarten
The Boys of Summer are Gone
In Other Words, Hold My Hand
Me and Atticus Down by the Schoolyard

September Showers

2009-08-31T21:45:00.000-07:00

The water is hot. It would burn if I cared. There is steam rising from me like the ghost of a phoenix.

I open my eyes and I am on a plane. I am flying to a place that I don't know and I am leaving a place that I have already forgotten. I am circling all around the sun. It is a beautiful dream. I am over the sea.

The water is hot. I close my eyes beneath its fury. My face is upright and I see nothing. I am blinded with eyes sealed shut. All I know is the feel of sweat as it runs from my brow and lingers lazily across my lips like so many saltwater kisses.

They leave the taste of tears.

I open my eyes and I am standing in a city. I lived here once or I live here now. There are faces in the distance and street signs that I cannot read. They are memories and things yet to come and their dance is sweet and awkward and the tune is Gershwin or something catchy that I find myself humming.

I am humming it now, backed by the sound of water on flesh. It is like a drum left alone in a rainstorm. I am alone in a rainstorm. My song swirls at my feet, dips the girl and is gone.

All drains lead to the sea.

I open my eyes and I am older than I care to be. My children are walking away from me on a concrete treadmill. In the snow. Uphill, both ways. They are fast forward. They have bags and children of their own and they have chains heavy upon them. I trust they make merry all the year.

I am slow motion.

The lights fade. The curtain falls. I catch myself falling upon the shower wall. I am holding it up. It is keeping me in. It is a portal to possibility. It is a door to hide behind. It is a lone tree in open fields that stretch forever. It is dark and the water is hot.

I open my eyes and I am home. My skin is raw and pink as I step from the steam. I am so fresh. I am so clean. Each breath is better than the last and I am as young as I will ever be.

The Road Also Rises

2009-08-25T01:48:00.000-07:00

The man stood in his front yard. He was barefoot and it was late. The grass was cool and wet beneath his feet and the sky above him was clear and filled with stars.

In one hand he held a glass of wine and with the other he stroked the ear of a dog too old to stand.

The dog could no longer feel the cool, wet grass beneath her feet. She felt nothing where grass should be, but she could feel the man and she leaned against him accordingly. They stood there beneath the stars saying nothing in the night and being loved by one another.

And there was a song in the distance where a train should be.

The man stood in his front yard with the old dog against his side and he watched each passing car, willing it to turn down his street. The old dog could no longer see the cars but she could see the road and she knew how it could leave her lonesome.

The old dog stood against the man where her boy used to be and she felt the scratch of his fingers against her ear grown quiet. The man thought that the old dog was due for a bath.

Headlights turned onto the street and the old dog whimpered as the man lifted her up the stairs and placed her on her bed.

The man ran to the car now parked in the drive and his eyes met the woman's as they each lifted a sleeping child and carried them from the night. The old dog wagged her tail beneath a clear sky filled with stars as ankles passed her by. She fell asleep accordingly.

And there was a quiet in the distance where a song should be.

Never Thought I'd be on a Boat

2009-08-24T12:50:00.000-07:00

I've had a song in my head for days. This happens. Sometimes I'm stuck on a Waits tune or I hang my hat on the perfect pitch of Miles 'round midnight. Other times it's the haunting chords of Jeff Buckley or the lonesome road beneath David Gray. I get lost in both kinds of music, country and western.

And sometimes I'm on a motherfucking boat. Yes, this boat is real.

The boat song, not to be confused with that Banana Boat Song or the theme to Love Boat, was floating on my deck for days. I couldn't get it out of my head. It's docked there now, just off a memory.

I'm riding on a dolphin, doing flips and shit
This dolphin's splashing, getting everybody all wet

It's like poetry.

And then I sunk my battleship.

It was gone, out with the tide.

Straight flowing on a boat on the deep blue sea.

That song had sailed.

Hours passed on dry land.

Then an unknown phone in an unknown pocket in an unknown part of town rang, and its melody was like the Siren's:

I'm on a boat, I'm on a boat
Everybody look at me
'Cause I'm sailing on a boat
I'm on a boat, I'm on a boat
Take a good hard look
At the motherfucking boat

Seriously? There are kids on this bus, man.

But it was back and there I was, sans flotation device, and I slowly felt myself drown.

I looked at the guy who had unknowingly relaunched the ringing of my soul, and he was all, "What?"

And I was like, "What?"

I wanted to tell him. I wanted to tell him that with one unanswered booty call he had undone minutes of therapy. With one ignored debt collection he had thrown me to the sharks. I wanted him to hold me.

I wanted to cut him with my iPhone app for cutting a bitch.

Instead I just gave him some stink-eye.

"Boat." I said.

And I meant it.

He backed the fuck up at that point. I let him drift. Bon voyage, motherfucker.

T-Pain carried me home.

My phone rang a few days later. It didn't play anything by The Lonely Island, but it did play something by Islands, because that's my ringer, and that was close enough to feel suddenly landlocked. My waters run deep.

It was the wife in another state in our other yard, and parked where it shouldn't be was an unknown boat. A boat.

"Take a good hard look at the motherfucking boat," I said.

"The boat is real," is how she should have replied. She didn't, but she knew what I was talking about so I forgave her.

"There's a boat," she continued, "in our yard."

"Tow that shit!" I yelled. My neighbors stopped pretending not to listen to me and gave me their full attention.

I put my hand over the phone and whispered into the street, "I've got a boat!"

"We'll get our towels ready!" they screamed as one WITHOUT EVEN MOVING THEIR LIPS!

"I think I'm hearing things," I said into the phone.

"Are you drunk already?" she asked.

"Already? Woman, it's Sunday and I'm sans family. There is no already, there's just is ready. And, still." I nodded at the neighbors. Someone in the back raised a fist into the sky. There may have been a beer in it.

"Whatever," she said. "What should I do about the boat?"

I was quiet for a moment. It was too much and my mind was doing a montage. I let it play. I owed it that much. In hindsight, the ascot may have been overkill.

"Hey," I whispered. "Is T-Pain there?"

"Um, no."

"Just checking."

"I think the boat is the neighbors," she added.

"Bastard."

I was reaching for my app without even realizing it.

"Did you at least get our water slide?" I asked.

"Yes, it's in the car," she replied. And then she said other stuff about something else(s).

I hung up the phone and looked past my sea of neighbors and their constant waves that crash until heeded. They could have been smooth as glass.

I almost had a boat. Then I didn't. Easy come? Yes. Easy go? Not so much. Still, I do have a water slide- a huge, awesome, double slide with a rock wall, tipping bucket, wadding pool and this thing which tells time. Also, it's inflatable.

Hey ma, if you could see me now
Arms spread wide on the starboard bow
Gonna fly this boat to the moon somehow
Like Kevin Garnett, anything is possible

Except it's not really a boat.

The water slide is real. And I'm on it.

Motherfucker.

Madness, Bubblegum and What It is I Do

2009-08-17T22:06:00.000-07:00

For years people have been asking me what it is I do. The easy answer is what I don't do: Windows.

I'm a Mac.

Everything else? I'm on it.

Years ago I was fortunate enough to have a story published in a new magazine called Diagram. That same year the story was nominated for the prestigious Pushcart Prize. It didn't win, but nominated, honor, all that.

Over the past two years my partner at Limey/Yank Productions and I have been adapting the story into a screenplay. We've had some extremely favorable responses to it (and it's not even done). It's all networking.

At some point in the conversation about what it is that I do I find myself explaining this story. I try to tell people how it is narrated by someone of questionable morals, judgment and overall lack of trustworthiness. People assume it is based on me. It is not.

It is based on fiction. And to a lesser extent, me.

See, that's the lack of trustworthiness that I was talking about.

If you are so inclined, here is the intro from the story. For the record, the movie will be totally different.

If you are not so inclined then this post is pretty much over for you.

From Madness and Bubblegum:

I was seventeen the first time I saw a man die. It was Mrs. Banana's husband. Her name of course wasn't Mrs. Banana, but something else that I could never remember. It wasn't the same as her husband's, which was Franklin, Dr. Franklin, the dead guy. No, she was more independent than that and had kept her own name, or maybe she just made one up. I don't know really. So I called her Mrs. Banana due to her favorite outfit that she would wear at least twice a week. It was all yellow; cowboy hat, boots, belt, and jumpsuit. At first I thought it hilarious, then I started to think it rather sad, but by the time her husband died I just accepted it as the defining attribute of Mrs. Banana.

Of course she had other things, I guess you would call them quirks, that set her apart. She always wore a Walkman. It was red and white with a yellow cord that blended away on jumpsuit day. One day she came up behind me when I was talking to a guest and put the headphones on me. It was a tape of whales singing, or maybe they were screaming. I don't know really. That was what she listened to at all times, whales, not fish or waves, or foreign drumbeats, just whales. I told one of the other bellboys, Todd, about it and he said that I should call her Shamu instead of Mrs. Banana, so I tried, but it wasn't the same.

Now before I go any further on the nuances of Mrs. Banana let me say that she is not an important part of this story. She just happened to be married to Dr. Franklin, who was the first person I ever saw die, and since I know nothing of him I described her instead. It's all relative. I suppose that could make her a very important part of this story. I don't know really.

I should also tell you that my name is Lyle, this may or not be important to the story, but it is important to me. When Dr. Franklin died I was a bellboy at the nicest resort and golf club in Arizona. Now I am an ex-bellboy, recently fired from the nicest resort and golf club in Arizona. The resort and golf club is actually two entities, which of course are the resort, which is just a fancy hotel, and the golf club, which is just a fancy golf course, or maybe it is a fancy club, I don't know really. The point is that we had to deal with two types of people: rich hotel guests, and rich club members. Actually that's one type of person, rich. I should say that we dealt with two types of people, those we did know, and those that we didn't. Everybody knew Dr. Franklin.

I should say that Dr. Franklin knew everybody. I didn't know anything about him except that he was a plastic surgeon and his wife had a face as tight as a fist. Some said that he had actually created his wife out of plastic. Dr. Franklin on the other hand knew everything about me. He knew that I was a college man, that I enjoyed tennis and cricket, that I had lost my virginity to a whore in Mexico, and that my name was Larry. None of these things were true of course, but Dr. Franklin knew them, and he knew them about me. He knew similar things about Todd too.

The best Dr. Franklin ever looked was at his funeral. His hair was perfect. I don't know how they did it. He always had the worst hair due to the fact that he let his wife cut it. He told me once that there was nothing sexier than having your lover cut your hair. Those were the truest words he ever said to me. Of course when I was young I didn't have a lover, and now that I do I don't have any hair, but damn if it didn't sound nice.

Todd and I were able to go to the funeral by a stroke of luck. The entire resort and golf club staff had been invited to the private ceremony, but seeing as how we were just bellboys we lay pretty low in the pecking order of company fringes. About an hour before the service a guy came in for a job and we told him that he was hired. When we got back later in the day he was still there so I had him talk to the general manager about getting paid for it. The next morning when I got to work he was there again, except this time he was my boss. Seems he really was a college man, although I'm fairly sure he was still a virgin.

We needed a new boss, whose official title is that of concierge, due to the firing of our original one. It seems that he and Mrs. Banana were having an affair. I first became suspicious when the concierge, the first one, came in with the worst haircut that I had ever seen. He was a dandy , that guy, almost queer in fact, and his hair had never been out of place. Actually, I don't know that I ever saw it move at all.

So he comes in with this terrible haircut, which can happen to the best of us, but he was happy. I had never seen someone with such bad hair be so full of happiness, except Don King, but he's rich. Of course I would be that happy now if I had any hair, bad cut or not, but that's different. Anyway, the concierge, Franz, comes in and asks me what I think about whales. I told him that they had lovely voices, causing him to just stare at me in wonder. That was when I put it all together. He was in love with Mrs. Banana.

When I told Todd he said that he had known it all along. He said that the summer prior he had caught Franz masturbating in the pool-house while Mrs. Banana lay out in her yellow bikini. She had a great body, still does in fact. Franz begged Todd not to tell, and he didn't, which explained why Todd hadn't worked a bad shift in months. The thing was that Todd was positive that Mrs. Banana could see Franz the whole time as she lay there sipping piña coladas and listing to whales.

It had never occurred to me that she was the cheating type, but apparently she was. Shortly after the haircut word spread through the resort and golf club, and before long it got to the doctor.

Now remember, all of this happened in one day, starting with the haircut and ending with a possessed Dr. Franklin coming through the door. He confronted Franz, who cowered into near disappearance as only a concierge can do. This was not good enough for Dr. Franklin who decided to take the situation up a notch by grabbing the computer monitor off of the desk and hoisting it over his head while yelling at Franz and stumbling over its cord for balance. Before anyone knew what was happening he caught his foot on the edge of the lobby fountain and fell back into it with the monitor in his lap.

They say that he was electrocuted at the exact same time that his skull cracked against the marble statue of a golf ball that sat atop the water. They say he died instantly, but it looked like it took a long time to me.

It was that day, the day that he died, that Mrs. Banana became Mrs. Black. She started wearing it all the time, not just once or twice a week like the jumpsuit, but every day. Even her Walkman was black now. So I never referred to her as Mrs. Banana again, or Shamu for that matter. The funny thing is that Mrs. Black is her real name. I think they call that irony, but I don't know really.

I also don't know why I started with this story, other than I just wanted you to be aware that I know things about death and madness.

The entire story can be found at Diagram and soon in a theater near you.

And Scene

2009-08-10T19:31:00.000-07:00

This is where I stand at the window and watch the rain against the twilight. There is a cup of coffee in my hand and a world in my reflection. There are layers involved.

This is where I'm standing in the kitchen and the loneliness echoes against the silence. I'm standing at the stove, eating leftovers from a frying pan.

Cut. I'm at the sink and I'm rinsing the mug and setting it aside for my next cup of coffee.

I go with a beer instead.

About here you start to sense that this a montage. You should read it in slow motion.

This is where I'm standing in the street, about an hour before the sun started to set and the rain was but a drizzle. I'm playing with the order of things. See me hugging my children and putting them in a car that is driving away for what feels like forever. Pan out as the car fades along long and winding roads. I am the small movement in the bottom corner, walking away and looking like an ant from here. My back is heavy with memories. My fingers are running through my hair. The moment is fairly dramatic. There is talk of an Oscar.

Flip to the other side of the car left running and see a boy peeing into the street just moments before a long road trip without his father. This is put in to balance the previous scene. Even melancholy enjoys a good laugh.

See time pass. This is done mostly with lighting and shadows. Also, a clock with the hands moving quickly. There are long hours and little sleep and the chilling confines of unlimited possibility. The TV is on. It is off. The mug is full. It is empty. It is resting against the bottom of my lip and steam is rising from it.

The rain goes on and it comforts me. Maybe I spin in it with my head back, laughing madly and smiling skyward. Maybe I walk through it with a face unshaven and eyes heavy with whiskey. Maybe walk is a strong word.

The last scene is a bed covered in dogs and a man sleeping on the edge as is his custom. The ceiling fan is slowly turning. It is the dance of the wallflower, but it is a dance nonetheless.

This is where you jump out of your seat and try to beat the traffic.

A Promise Kept - Poems for Kids

2009-08-06T11:28:00.000-07:00

Some time ago, back before I didn't post FOREVER I made a promise. Granted that promise was to this blog in general and none of the readers seemed very interested. Or not interested at all, actually, but hey, it's my blog and I'm a man of my word.

If you don't like bad poetry you should leave now.

I give you my poems for kids (as promised):

THE BELLY HOLE

On my belly
just left of the mole,
where other kids have buttons
I only have a hole.

I tried hiding it with scotch tape,
it tore off all my skin.
I stuffed it full of cotton,
but the swabs would not stay in.

I planted a flower in it
to see if it would grow,
I filled it up with catnip,
and Fluffy's front right toe.

I asked my mom to sew on
a button from my jacket,
I tried to stitch it shut
with some string from my racket.

I plugged it with a cork
my stomach got real numb,
so I poked it with a fork
I poked it with my thumb.

Of all the things I tried,
none could be hipper,
than my solid-steel, gold plated
new belly zipper.

HICCUP STYLE

Daddy says I’ve got hiccup style,
says I’ve been burpin’ for quite a while.
He could pat me on the back,
or I could breathe into a sack,
but he says the beat is good,
and if I practice it I could
be a professional hiccupee
as long as no one’s scaring me.

SNOWBALLS AND UNDERPANTS

Ice and cold
Between the fold
Of my cotton undies.
Throwing snow
I did not know
Could be so not so fundies.

When I was just the arm
Then I thought there was no harm
In practicing my aim.
Until someone shouted “fire”
Then I decided to retire
And the target I became.

If only I did duck
Instead of being struck
My bottom would be dry.
As it is my rear is wet
I can only imagine the playground bet
If I’m a briefs or boxers guy.

ROCK YOU

In still and quiet night,
Your eyes are shutting tight
Soon your lips will smile
I will rock you for a while

Hold me in embrace,
Feel my cheek upon your face
The wet is only tears
I will rock away your fears

Through stars, sun or rain
By buggy, boat or distant train
It is as peaceful as it seems
I am rocking you to dreams

Meet the ones you missed,
Remember those you kissed
Through clouds and rivers deep
I am rocking you to sleep.

THE SECOND COMING

I’m going to be a dad...again
and still. Still I am a dad.
It will be new because it is you
and you have undeserved
shadows already cast over you
and boots to fill
but I have faith in you
though we haven’t
been properly introduced.

You are number two.
That is just a matter of chance.
It is chronological.
It is not a ranking.
Although your big brother
is about the coolest,
and you are luckier at this point
because you have things
that he never did-
like him for instance.

Come out smiling
and be welcomed.
Come out knowing
how fortune feels
and know that love
is the most important
currency that I carry.

HOTFOOT

My sister got a blister
on the bottom of her foot,
it's there cuz'a my fault
I pushed her in the soot.
I thought it might be funny,
'til she started cryin',
she screamed about them hot coals,
I swore that she was lyin'.
And so with my bare foot
I stepped into that soot,
and sure enough, them coals were hot,
and on my foot I also got
a big raw burnin' blister . . . .
a lot like the one I got for my sister.

DINOSAUR SONG

If dinosaurs sang a song
I wonder how it'd sound.
It would probably be like thunder
over rain that's pouring down.
Or maybe like a choo-choo train
rolling fast along the tracks,
or like a dozen snoring grandpas
asleep upon their backs.

Could it be like a drummer's beat
that leads an army of marching feet?
Or like a pack of howling wolves?
Stampeding cattle with a thousand hooves?
I suppose it could be any of these,
but what if dinosaurs were quiet as bees?

What if they sang like the evening wind
blowing softly, cool, and nice?
Or like a tiny mouse with friends?
Oh, I guess that would be mice.

About the only way I'll ever know
is to buy a dinosaur radio...
but I'm broke.

Promise kept.

I Brood and I'm Dangerous

2009-08-04T12:29:00.000-07:00

There's a new picture of me over at MamaPop. It was taken by my DadCentric partner in crime Ryan of the Pacing the Panic Room Ryans - Florida chapter. I've been told that this is a good photo of me.

For instance, here's a conversation I had about it with Bossman Bing just last night. Note, most of this didn't actually happen.

Sweetney: It's a good photo of you.

Me: I'm smiling. I don't smile.

Sweetney: You're grinning. It's devilish.

Me: Grinning like I'll cut a bitch?

Sweetney: Don't you have work to do?

Me: Tell me a story.

Sweetney: Goodbye.

Me: Follow me on Twitter!

Sweetney:

See? She thought the picture of me was the greatest picture ever. That may be true, because the picture itself is good. Great even. It's the goofy bastard in it that is messing it up. The fact that Ryan was able to salvage anything out of that shoot just goes to show that Leibovitz can suck it.

Basically, Ryan is the shit.

The thing is, I've got an image and as such I felt that I needed to post pictures of me to support it. I don't smile. I don't have fun. I'm deep and drink whiskey and I stare into the night sky while pondering deep stuff, mostly about whiskey.

Look, this is how I really look when I'm being all artsy and occasionally fartsy:

I don't smile. Unless Ryan asks nicely. Don't make me cut you.

Damn Kids and the Light of Day

2009-08-03T07:01:00.000-07:00

One had an accident. One had on purpose. The old dog craps on the floor before she even knows what happened. My eyes are sinking into dark, black bags.

There is madness in the rhythm and a rhythm to the madness. I wouldn't recommend dancing to it. It will cut a bitch. But it has a good beat.

Such is life that is lived around me.

Sometimes the truest photos are those you throw away.

Sometimes I drop nonsense and pass it as knowledge.

Days are filled with screams and laughter and the running where running is not allowed but really, who the fuck cares? Run, rabbits, run. Don't listen to your old man that has forgotten what makes you perfect. Every morning I am one more day away from remembering what you feel. You are wiser than I will ever be.

Today is Monday and that means nothing to you. The same games and mischief that you left in the hallway will greet you there. Sunday was just the day with the paper. Monday is an extra cup of coffee raised in the distance - a machine that you recognize by the back of my head.

Play your games and tip-toe past me. I'll call you on your shit. I am a stereotype. Smile when you are up to something, I'll likely go easy on you.

Monday is but a second of screen time, but that doesn't make it any less important.

Be yourself. Act. Don't let the credits stop you. Sometimes there are out-takes at the end and that just might be the part that really hits home.

And the Stars Look Very Different Today

2009-08-02T17:35:00.000-07:00

If you were to float in space with your head tilted back and your arms spread wide you would spin somewhat slowly. And stars would rain down upon you.

The stars would slice right through you and your body would be filled with burning bourn after bourn of life that like liquid lingers . Then you would heal and you would turn again. Always turning. Of course this would take time.

I think of this body covered in deep tunnels from stars burning bright and paths slightly unwavering and I can see through it to those that have gone before and in a moment again at those still to come.

These stars are the people that impact upon you. Why their bodies aren't floating in this analogy I don't know, but they are stars here and they spark like fire and they shoot through your life within indeterminate distances of your heart. Somewhere else you are burning likewise through them.

They enter you and they leave you and if you're lucky some small part of them stays with you. Always.

My uncle died today. His path burned straight through my chest and his star has gone to places that he believed in. I am turning slowly and I am watching him go.

****************

Uncle Dunc was 91 and he had the handshake of an honest man. He leaves more than family behind. He will be missed.

They Shoot Raccoons, Don't They?

2009-08-01T14:15:00.000-07:00

This past week was the hottest of my life- and I'm from Tucson. I suppose the main difference is that in Tucson we had some sort of cooling system, whereas in Seattle we have a faucet and a ceiling fan. Hence me spending my nights on the back deck alone in my underwear but for a bottle of something, some gaudy lighting and the whispered sounds of Lady Holiday. Also, Chet Baker. Jazz sounds good in the dark and the heat. It compliments the whiskey.

I sat there and felt inspired. I wasn't sure what I took with me from BlogHer other than a deeper knowledge of social dramas and a pocketful of drink tickets, but apparently it gave me my second wind, which at this point is technically my 57th. I've been doing this a long time, and sometimes not at all. Point? The creative juices were flowing. Again. Finally.

So I would sit and write and sweat and drink until it was time for my neighbor to get up and then I'd gather the tools of my trade and head off to bed. My neighbor has no desire to see me in my underwear. This has been made clear again and again. His loss.

Yet, there is an audience around me. My deck is a stage built within an amphitheater of cherry trees and blackberry bushes. I am on display. I am nature's peepshow. I am naked and vulnerable. And my stage is nightly rushed.

The sounds always give them away. Against the smokey sound of trumpets there is a step out of rhythm. Against the soft knock of ice on ice there comes a scratch against wooden planks. Against the sighs of my heated breath lie the sniffs of danger in the air.

The masks don't hide their identity. In fact, they give them away. They are bigger than I am comfortable with and they have no fear of me. Men drinking whiskey in the dark against a background of jazz are far less dangerous than you would think. We are committed to the written word and matters of the heart. Ours is not the shooing of beasts or conquests over them. However, ours will smack said beast across its little masked face with a MacBook Pro should necessity dictate. Poets are not pussies.

They enter one at a time, but anyone can tell that they are together. It is obvious in the way he looks at her. It is obvious in the way she looks through the night and into his heart. Masks cannot mask passion. Theirs is a dance beneath steamy jazz and the give and take of cherry trees. They do not fear me. They only fear smells that carry upon the air and the sounds that neither of us make. We are together on this. It could be a deer or a fox or a cougar or a bear. I have no patience for predators and I watch my guests carefully. If they run I stand ready. If they sit and ponder the moon I sip my drink and follow suit. If they walk around the cats of indifference for their nightly snack of biscuits flavored with liver and tuna then I turn my gaze back upon the words beneath me- the words that will never be done and the memories constantly growing.

There are prizes dangling before us all. There are trophies and carrots on string and the idea of a book finally finished or food left unattended by finicky cats. There are obstacles all around. There is danger in the cherry trees and creative juices no longer flowing. Perhaps your El Guapo happens to be the actual El Guapo. We all die like dogs.

A few weeks ago the boys found a dead raccoon on a shady sidewalk. They did not fear it or poke it with stick. They paid their respects and pondered the possibilities. They accepted death as part of the journey and kept moving forward, making my book all the longer and the night that much quieter. They smiled softly and they walked slowly.

And somewhere beneath a swaying cherry tree there is a mask wet from tears and the haunting echoes of a trumpet shouting memories across the universe. The day may be for seizing, but the night is for nothing, just blank pages and empty dance cards. Nothing is ours for the making.

The Middle of the Moon

2009-07-28T23:48:00.000-07:00

Heat. Melted chocolate on the kitchen counter. Hand prints fading silently down the hall. Heat. Bare skin clinging to furniture warmed needy and soft. The release holding pools of sweat that feel cool but for a second against the hot, hot air. Heat.

A long ride brings comfort. A long ride lets your body ease and your mind breathe. A long ride forgives the heat and hums along to songs best played in the car. There is more road than traffic. There is more horizon than conversation. There is a sunset and you find yourself driving towards it.

The neighborhood twists like it did last summer. It turns around bright-eyed. There is a clinic on the corner with a woman being wheeled in a chair by an orderly. Her neck is bent at an unnatural angle. Her view of the sunset is unlike any I'll ever know.

There is a father and a daughter picking flowers in the shade. She is laughing and he is soaking up every note with the sponges inside him. The flowers are slightly wilted and their job is forgotten.

A trunk is open and three people stand around it. Perhaps they are fresh from the market. Perhaps there is a body hidden inside. Perhaps they have a thing for trunks. I try to look as we pass them by but their backs are a wall and their expressions are blank.

I like to think they all saw something different.

Then there is an opening and green grass and children playing. We add ours to them. The sun sinks into the ocean and we don't miss it.

The moon is torn down the middle. The long ride reflects this upon bodies of water and now dark windshields. A small voice says that half the moon is in his pocket. A small voice says that the cloud stretched lightly across the sky is a blanket.

Goodnight, Moon.

Goodnight, two small voices and a man saying hush.

Goodnight to the woman driving them home.

The road keeps humming and the moon sleeps sound. The heat hides, waiting.

Leaving on a Jet Plane

2009-07-26T11:50:00.000-07:00

There are bloggers in the lobby 29 stories beneath me. They are wearing pajamas, boas or bags on their heads. They are exhausted and sober and loud and drunk. They are hugging out their goodbyes.

Meeting people you have known for years but never met in person is an interesting experience. Some are exactly how you thought they would be while others are what you hoped they wouldn't. Some are a little of both.

Good. Bad. Facts. Life.

The majority of the weekend was filled with fun and laughter and the knotted pangs of homesick in my stomach. Knotted pangs covered in layers of whiskey.

I am exhausted and sober. I am loud and drunk. I have danced away the night and watched the sun rise from a hotel window.

I have made friendships from friends and thrust the virtual into reality.

There are bloggers in the hallway. They are stretching the moment to its thinnest point. They are not ready to walk away.

But I am. I am in my room. I am tired and lonely and I miss my family. There is an unopened bottle of whiskey on the table. It will have to stay that way.

It Was Twenty Years Ago Today

2009-07-20T11:09:00.000-07:00

I have found that when seeing those again that you never thought you would see again that it is best to do so with a smile on your face and a drink in your hand. Pleasantries are nice, awkward moments are few and name tags are suggested.

The key here is the drink.

20 years ago we parted ways as a brain, an athlete, a basket case, a princess and a criminal. Simple terms and convenient definitions. Today we embrace each other with memories and photos of our children. Today we look fantastic.

That may be the biggest surprise of them all. I never expected twenty years to polish my peers with the fountain of youth. Granted, I knew that I hadn't changed much, other than some grey in the beard, less hair and more stomach, but hell, I still get carded.

My classmates were fit and beautiful and bald. Lots of bald. People were happy. And it was good.

What we found was that each one of us is a brain, an athlete, a basket case, a princess and a criminal. Hey, hey, hey, hey, don't you forget about us.

There weren't endless hours of glory days revisited, though they were mentioned, usually with a shake of the head and a stare into the distance. Rather, there was the filling in and the catching up and the where is so and so and the passing of people that you once rode a bus with.

It was an ode to technology and our nights were displayed upon the internet instantly and endlessly. There were friend requests an hour after a handshake. There were status updates built upon sips of whisky.

Blanks were filled in like a breathing mad lib. Everything was (adjective).

Sunday morning found me arm in arm with a friend I haven't seen in too long, walking the streets of a desert resort in the shadow of a security guard and the heat of the rising sun. We were happy. And it was good.

And it had been too long.

I have found that when saying goodbye again to those that you never thought you would see again that it is best to do so with a smile on your face and a suitcase in your hand. Pleasantries are nice, awkward moments are few and name tags aren't needed.

The key here is the moment and in the knowing that those that once meant so much still do, even if you forgot, and even if you'll never see them again.

Days of Zane and Roses

2009-07-16T01:08:00.000-07:00

He is only three. I treat him like he's older. Like he is the same age as his brother. I suppose this might be a good thing when it is all said and done, but it hardly seems fair now.

I hold him accountable with expectations that are probably hard enough for a six-year-old, let alone a child half that age.

He doesn't make it any easier. He is smart and talkative and funny. He spends his day with children twice his age and rather than standing out he blends in. His height is the lone giveaway.

But in the night when I kiss him goodnight and he covers himself with an army of stuffed animals, a flashlight and a large bouncy ball, just to ward off the dark, he becomes my little boy- the way he is meant to be. I stand there between him and his fears, adding to his wall even as it tears at mine.

He is only three and I need to stop to smell his roses.

A Summer on the Hill

2009-07-08T06:32:00.000-07:00

When I get to the bottom I go back to the top of the slide.

Where I stop and turn and I go for a ride.

Till I get to the bottom and I see you again.

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

Do you don't you want me to love you?

I'm coming down fast but I'm miles above you.

Tell me, tell me, come on tell me the answer, and you may be a lover but you ain't no dancer.

Personally, I thought that crack about the dancer was uncalled for.

To the Dogs or Whoever

2009-07-07T17:57:00.000-07:00

The door was open and my hands were full. I was walking out when they came in. It was the kid next door and she had her arms wrapped around her friend. She was looking at me. He was looking at nothing. I was looking at the blood.

"Can you help us?" she asked.

My hands were empty already.

He had been bit by a dog. The same neighborhood dog that attacked someone's pet last week. The same neighborhood dog that killed a grown deer against the chain-link fence of the playground on the corner.

Or maybe it was the other one. There are two peas in this pod. They are pack mentality and they roam freely. Their pee is everywhere.

It had been an accident. It wasn't an attack. It was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. It doesn't matter.

It is only a matter of time until it happens again.

They lick my children and bark at my mailman. They are tethered to rocks and they are happy to see me. I do not fear them. I do not hate them. I do not trust them.

My children, who have been around dogs their whole life, have been instructed that they are not to go near the two without an adult present. They are not to run when the dogs are loose. I encourage them to smell their toys before playing with them.

The dogs need more supervision and training. They need to be neutered.

People that worry themselves over the rocketing population of unwanted pets are only telling you part of the reason- the dead deer on the playground? That's the rest of the equation.

Testosterone can make a guy do funny stuff, even bite the hand that feeds him. Apparently.

We cleaned his wounds and dressed them accordingly. He slept in our living room and she sat next to him, rubbing his feet between bites of pizza.

The dogs were in the distance, which was too close for me.

The Last Hurrah

2009-06-24T20:45:00.000-07:00

We had been living the life transient and the pending move was wearing upon us all like the light at a tunnel's end that still required days of digging. We were sore and exhausted and our patience had long been packed.

Atticus worried, he fretted and he frowned. His was not a world to be upturned for the sake of flight or fancy. His was a world created by him and was lived to the extent that he found happiness in it. The move loomed upon him and rested heavily across his brow. His light lay at the entrance of said tunnel.

So it was that we decided to have his birthday party a couple of weeks early- before we left California. He needed to have his friends gather around him and wish him well. He needed the fun of a party filled with children he knew and not fear the possibility of empty chairs or faceless strangers.

He wanted all of this with a Star Wars theme.

And I added a little something that would have his name become the stuff of legend in classrooms and playgrounds:

We gave him a party and we created a memory nearly tangible. He shared it with his friends like so much cake.

There was a moment when I gathered the children around to weave them a tale of suspense and intrigue. I usually do this at parties.

I explained that due to our Star Wars theme there had been reports of Empire activity in the outer-limits of our drive. I nodded to their dry, beer-drinking parents and informed their little ears that all of the adults had pooled their money and hired a bounty hunter (when in truth none of those cheap bastards chipped in), one Jengo Fett to be exact, to hunt down the threat in our midst. To hunt down Darth Vader.

The kids ate that shit up.

I had them chanting, "Jengo! Jengo! Jengo..." when suddenly- he appeared!

Jango Fett emerged from the deepest reaches of ~~my garage~~ space and he walked stoically among the stupefied masses, one hand on his weapon and the other behind his back.

A hush fell over the children, a relative hush, and Jengo took his hand from behind him and he raised it over their frozen faces and they screamed as they realized that within his clutch was the head of Darth Vader.

Really. We did that. The kids loved it. The screams were joy and squeals and the promise of candy, which is something I didn't know about Darth Vader. His head is apparently stuffed with Laffy Taffy. That's probably the good within him that Luke was always whining about.

The party was a success and the children were happy and the parents were content that theirs was not an afternoon wasted, but rather an opportunity to drink free beer in the shade while their kids got sunburned and had the snot scared out of them. And it was good.

The only unfortunate aspect of the whole afternoon was that my good friend Joe missed Jango Fett, of whom he is a big fan. It was uncanny, really. Joe had just gone to the bodega to grab some salt and pencils when Jango arrived and then returned only moments after Jango left. Apparently it wasn't meant to be. The force works in mysterious ways.

There was a week left in California between the party and the move and it was filled with stress, long nights and backs that were tender to the touch, but the light grew all the closer and the tunnel? It echoed with the laughter of happy children.

And the Days You Can't Miss

2009-06-16T23:43:00.000-07:00

I landed in Seattle at 10:30 on Sunday morning. It was Atticus' 6th birthday. I had been up since 4:30 and slept little on the plane. I hadn't had any coffee.

24 hours earlier I had been holding the hand of my aunt on one side and my sister on the other. I stared at crosses and through a window and into the eyes of my father at the podium, alone and crying. His pain was loss and loneliness.

My grandfather was behind me. I couldn't look at him. I couldn't look at anyone, but especially not him. Swimming in a sea of heartache is for country songs and bad poetry. There is no comfort there.

My grandfather was behind me and his pain was loss and loneliness.

24 hours earlier I had been drinking terrible coffee on a plane somewhere over someone else drinking coffee, hopefully better. I had been up since 4:30 and slept little the night before. I hadn't eaten anything.

Arizona in June is helpless and hopeless. It is hell with less trees. The earth peels in every direction and the wind slaps you with lies and hot air. There is no comfort there.

It is hotter in the sadness.

I landed in Seattle at 10:30 on Sunday morning. It was Atticus' 6th birthday. I hugged him and his brother and asked if he was ready to celebrate.

He was.

Happy Birthday, Son.

A Lifetime and a Loss

2009-06-11T06:30:00.000-07:00

We arrived 3 hours early for a three hour flight. My mother would be proud. We ate oatmeal and pastries in a room that was equal parts Starbucks, pizza place and bar. It was almost early enough to drink. It would be his first flight. The kid was excited.

Somewhere in a car on a mountain my wife was driving with a sleeping boy and every pet we have. She was making good time.

My thoughts were lost in the day before. My father had called on Friday morning, the day before our move. He said she had about 24 hours left. That was what the doctor had said. The day before the doctor had said about 3 weeks.

40 minutes later she was dead.

She had only been sick a few months.

Cancer is cruel and heartless and someone should punch it in the mouth.

When she was first admitted to the hospital I had flown down to see her. She hadn't expected me. My presence in the doorway made her cry. She held my hand for a good hour. It felt like a time machine.

I haven't been that young in a long time.

Tomorrow I'll arrive at the airport about 45 minutes before my three hour flight. I will take a seat at the bar and I will drink a Bloody Mary minutes after I have eaten my breakfast. I will arrive in the place I left some 10 years ago. Again. I will sit with family and people I've never met and I will hear stories about my grandmother and I will nod at strangers and hug people that haven't seen me since I was this tall.

I will be a little boy without a grandma and I will cry accordingly.

____________________________________

If you've been reading this blog over the past several months you know about my grandmother and her battle with cancer. Thank you for reading and for your thoughts and support. Wynema Honea was 80-years-old and I have loved her for nearly half of them.

Chick Chat - Now With Penis!

2009-06-02T23:57:00.000-07:00

So a long time ago I told the good people at Chick Chat that I would participate in a video segment featuring the dads of teh internetz (is that how they write that?), and then I forgot about it.

Then I loaded up all of my belongings into a shipping container and sent them to another state. My belongings include my video camera and lamps.

Then I had the week from hell. There is much stress in me. We're moving in a few days. We decided to sell the house rather than rent it sometime last week. Today we met with the Realtor. We've got a lot of shit to do.

Then my grandmother started the painful, downhill slide into losing her battle with cancer. She's not expected to survive the week.

That's why my video sucks. It's dark and grainy and I'm guessing a little cruder than the people at Chick Chat were hoping for. Sorry about that.

You'll also notice that my video does not have any fancy edits or credits or a soundtrack of any kind. That is because I suddenly had an hour less than I thought, thanks to someone explaining to me that there really is a Central time zone. Also, there's a really goofy-looking guy blocking the nice blue wall.

Who knew?

That said, here's my contribution, and despite the fact that you'll surely hate it, I had fun.

Please visit the other dads and their obviously better videos: Kevin at Always Home and Uncool, Tyler and Kacey at Three Bay B Chicks, and Husband of The Scattered Mind of a Tattooed Minivan Mama. Also, my condolences to Jason that couldn't make the video due to his own grandmother passing. He's at DadCentric and you should be, too.

Holy crap, I just realized that this thing is over 9 minutes long - and apparently the sound was dubbed later. That's the kind of awesome I bring to the table.

The Trouble With Ashes to Ashes

2009-05-26T23:49:00.000-07:00

Once again the state of California has proven that its label of liberal is nothing more than window-dressing and urban legend.

or

It's the damn Mormons, don't you watch South Park?

There are fingers and there are pointers, and excuses are thrown against walls and heads are smashed in alleys lined with blood and bottles sharp with anger and stupidity.

It's not about politics. It's not about religion. It's about doing the right thing. You'll hear people say otherwise and they are wrong. There are few things in life less grey. This is black and white. This is right versus something far from it.

Freedom for all should not be contingent upon the fears of the some. Glass ceilings are meant to be shattered. Dreams are meant to inspire and mountain tops only remain unreachable to those without the will to see beyond the rocks that fill their mind.

Love is not unconstitutional. Civil rights are not wrong. Families are not supposed to be broken. Nobody gets left behind.

Isn't there enough hate in this world?

Will my children grow up in a world where love grows hungry, left to starve in open closets while government rations are thrown into the masses, kept straight and narrow by the sight-line of their blinders?

Do we need to paste the words of Gibran and Lennon on every street corner? Should the ebb and flow of Neruda's heartstrings be our ringtone? Must a Browning be tattooed upon every shoulder to whisper a constant song of poetry across the stream of our conscience?

Even Foreigner must know what love is by now, and it is not what passes for law in the state of California.

There will be those that disagree, which is their right. They will fill comments and message boards trying to justify the unjustifiable and their every word will prove us right. They will waste both time and space with letters to the editor, pungent with blunt ignorance and the pocketed scent of posies.

We all fall down, but only some of us will have rings on our fingers.

Of Mice, Men and Murder as a Lullaby

2009-05-22T12:47:00.000-07:00

Driving through Salinas, CA is like driving through a memory - assuming your memories include the collected works of John Steinbeck, which mine do. It is a trip through prose and the scenery springs to life from so many paragraphs.

So it was that Tricia and I stopped at the Steinbeck museum and upon leaving I purchased the classic Of Mice and Men. Tricia had never read it. It became our narrative - an audio book without the tape and an aroma reminiscent of a French Dip sandwich and a couple of beers.

I read as she drove that lonely highway with the sun burning bright and the pages dancing all around.

I told her about the rabbits.

There is a murder in my yard. A murder of crows. Alfred Hitchcock is sitting on the bench under the mulberry tree and he is tossing them bread crumbs and forgotten lines.

They are loud and they have us surrounded. They talk and gargle and sing and yell and the sound of their wings echoes through our now empty home like the pending arrival of helicopters promising napalm in the morning. They are black birds and they sing in the dead of night.

Our house is bare but for the random can in the cupboard and assorted condiments in the icebox. We have two weeks left before we walk away forever and it will be spent on hardwood floors covered in quilts and children.

Our beds are gone. Our TV is packed. Our chairs are broken laundry baskets and forgotten boxes. Our clothes are on repeat.

We have been working hard. We get up early and stay up late. There is heavy lifting and dirt and sweat. We work until our backs cannot and then we lie upon a pallet of discarded blankets and the give of oak.

It is Salinas in a memory. It is broken wings and all my life.

It is only waiting for the moment to arise.

Two Ear Infections and a Microphone

2009-05-14T13:36:00.001-07:00

That was a good drum break.

If you've ever read this blog, or any blog written by a parent, you would know that some things are understood- things like sleep is a myth and all restrooms are public.

We didn't sleep last night. Granted, we never sleep. Our bed is too small for the ark that Jacob said to build upon it (see below) and a good rest is seldom had.

Yes, we co-sleep. I don't care what you think. Unless you're okay with it, then by all means think away. Our decision to do so is based loosely on the fact that we sold the kids' beds on Craigslist. It's a recession, people.

Plus, the move and all that. They'll have beds soon, put the phone down.

Anyway, last night there was little sleep had by anyone with a pillow (see above). It was a night of cries, screams and whimpering. Yes, whimpering. And whining.

Thing Two (top center) has been sickish for a few days. We assumed it to be allergies. The air here is disgusting and everyone is coughing, itching and feeling like crap. We figured that was the case with Thing Two, or possibly Swine Flu.

About, oh, 4am, he declared that his ears hurt. Not one ear, but ears. Then he continued to cry, scream and whimper, without even missing a beat. The kid has talent. Eat that Susan Boyle.

Six in the morning found me and the boy in Urgent Care. Double ear infections. Antibiotics. A donut. A nap.

Now he's sitting at my feet eating ice cream and whimpering noticeably softer. And I am more tired for it.

Of Memes and Public Relations

2009-05-06T08:20:00.000-07:00

This post is a hybrid. Perhaps it is the first of its kind. Perhaps it is an epic fail or the beginning of a beautiful friendship. We'll play it by ear.

My inbox runneth over with opportunity. It used to be that I would receive the occasional offer for male enhancement and perhaps a letter or two from my dearest, lord bless their soul, Nigerians who wish the weather in my atmosphere well and please to help with teh money, but that was about it. I rarely heard from anyone in the world of public relations. When I did it was a moment of zenish "I'm somebody!" But like Navin R. Johnson before me, I have found that success carries with it a price. That price is my soul. Also, your time.

In other news, I was tagged for a meme. So there's that.

Everybody's favorite messiah on ice, Mr. Black Hockey Jesus, was kind enough to tag me with a meme. Sure, we'll go with kind. The meme is below. The PR stuff is integrated. Don't worry, you won't notice it AT ALL.

WHAT ARE YOUR CURRENT OBSESSIONS?

I'm currently obsessed with breathing. Seriously. I cannot get enough of it. I'm even breathing in my sleep.

Speaking of obsession, that's still my favorite Calvin Klein stink. It smells like summer and lust. Reminds me of my teenage years when my biggest problems were acne and the wooing of women, but mostly neither of those.

WHO GAVE YOU THE BEST ORAL SEX OF YOUR LIFE?

This is something that James T. Kirk and I have in common, although I thought it was great and he thought it was tribble. I met her at Wanderlust during the Spoon set. She's from Canada. You don't know her.

WHAT'S FOR DINNER?

I'm on a strict whatever my wife makes diet. Wednesday night is Fillet Mignon or sometimes cereal. The dogs are having Dogswell brand dog food as part of a the bow-wow bailout and a nutritional breakfast. The cats are having whatever they catch.

In other news, anyone want a cat? Seriously. I'll ship.

WHAT IS YOUR GREATEST FEAR AT THE MOMENT?

I'm a little nervous that we'll lose the Battle for Terra. And swine flu.

WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO RIGHT NOW?

Gipsy Kings and sighs of discontent. Some kid rock is on deck, that's rock for kids not the country/rap redneck.

IF YOU WERE A GOD/GODDESS, WHAT WOULD YOU BE?

Is this a trick question? I'd be a god. Duh. Probably the one you worship. Sacrifice or big, hot mountain go boom, bitches.

And if the false gods of science are more your thing...

WHAT ARE YOUR FAVORITE HOLIDAY SPOTS?

Directly under the mistletoe. I spend every Easter there. At Christmas I go to Easter Island of Misfit Toys.

My favorite Mother's Day spot is Jackman's Flowers who are currently celebrating 100 years in the biz. Enter the code "honea15" and save 15% - nobody loves a deal like Mom!

WHAT ARE YOU READING RIGHT NOW?

Funny timing on this one as the next group of PR emails are all publishers and authors wanting me to give away and/or review books. I might read some of them. I'll keep you posted.

In the meantime, I'm not reading anything - despite the 10+ books on my nightstand in various stages of completion. I'm too busy writing (IOUs and bad checks).

WHAT ARE FOUR WORDS THAT DESCRIBE YOU?

Tall. Scented. Sell-out.

WHAT IS YOUR GUILTY PLEASURE?

I live guilt-free. Also, oblivious. For the record, I've never been convicted.

WHO OR WHAT MAKES YOU LAUGH?

Usually something pretty funny, like comedians or the misfortune of others. NOT DANE COOK.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE SPRING THING TO DO?

Spending hours of my valuable time on memes, taking long walks on the beach and collecting memories like so many ladybugs.

WHERE ARE YOU PLANNING TO TRAVEL NEXT?

I've got a full itinerary this summer: Tucson, Chicago, L.A. (I'll live elsewhere by then), and possibly Africa. I use UpTake for all my travel needs and so can you!

WHAT IS THE BEST THING YOU ATE OR DRANK LATELY?

My wife made some tasty enchiladas the other night. The beer was good, too.

Yes, I'm out of links.

WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU WERE TIPSY?

At Gatsby's party. It was great.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE EVER MOVIE?

Man, I can't pick just one. My favorites include: Star Wars, Cool Hand Luke, Princess Bride, Iron Giant, Il Postino, Pale Rider, Shawshank Redemption, When Harry Met Sally, Peter Pan, and anything with porn.

WHAT IS THE BIGGEST LIFE LESSON YOU'VE LEARNED FROM YOUR KIDS?

This should cover it.

WHAT SONG CAN'T YOU GET OUT OF YOUR HEAD?

I really love this one. What can I say, I'm a softy.

Thanks for playing!

And The New York Times Said Blog Is Dead

2009-05-02T16:10:00.000-07:00

"I see you wrote a post," said my wife as I entered the bedroom.

"Finally," I said. "It's been over a month and I finally felt enough of something to put it out there. I doubt anyone will get it. I don't think I get it."

"It's good to practice," she said.

Practice? What the hell, woman. I'm a professional writer. I don't practice.

But I should.

I hear it makes perfect.

She spent a few minutes trying to explain what she meant, but I was already playing the ancient game of sudoku on my iPhone - that might be irony, and I didn't really care.

And I didn't care about the post. That's not to say that I didn't care when I wrote it- I needed that release. I had tangents in my head, and then they were published and my mind could rest a little. They needed to get out, random as they were, and it felt good to do it. I don't miss them at all.

But I'm over blogging. You may have realized this by the fact that I haven't been doing it.

Sure, I've been blogging professionally - it pays the bills and it allows me opportunities I would never have in a more traditional occupation. I'm far from over that.

But it's a job now. I work long, long hours doing what I used to do for fun and now when I want a break the last place I want to turn to is blogging. I play with the kids. I stare into space. I sleep on my floor.

That is why I walked away. This is why I returned: I need a place to clear my head and you're standing in it.

No Rhyme. No Reason.

2009-05-01T23:06:00.000-07:00

I turned my cell phone off for a matinee movie and turned it back on nearly 12 hours later. The world went on without me. There were unread text messages that implied debauchery and missed calls that promised salvation. I answered none.

I have missed some things and I've been gone too long to care. Everything will come around again, especially if we wish it wouldn't. And it's easy to get lost while standing still. Clichés. Fortune cookies. The scripted wooing of reality TV. The view never changes and damn, your eyes are beautiful.

There are riddles beneath my fingertips and a warm, neglected beer on my bedside table. There are children sleeping sound and safe in the room across the hall and there are troubles wide awake in the fold and pinch where brow meets bridge. My face grows deeper beneath scars and memories. I am unshaven and I laugh too much. I spend the day in constant squint just trying to figure out what the fuck I'm looking at.

There is a soundtrack behind me and the words have been lost and forgotten. Tonight I decided to hum a few bars.

Perhaps tomorrow we'll dance.

Moose Out Front Should Have Told You

2009-04-05T22:30:00.000-07:00

When We've First Begun

2009-03-22T20:55:00.000-07:00

"He's nobody," he said.

"And who are you?" I asked him.

"I'm yesbody," he replied.

Fair enough.

____________________________________

We sat and discussed the matters that must be discussed and listened to things that we didn't want to hear.

I was standing in the kitchen and I watched the nurse across the counter as she waited for my grandmother to sign the papers that would start the hospice care.

I didn't want to be there, but there is where I belonged. I was surrounded by family and boxes of memories- the breathing was labored.

My grandmother spoke of faith and acceptance. I peeled an orange and felt the pulp as it stuck to my fingers.

____________________________________

They were the second car in the parade. They rode high on the backseat of a convertible Cadillac with their grandpa the mayor and they threw handfuls of candy to the children that lined the street.

We yelled their names and they looked at us and smiled. They were waving at faceless crowds and they found us in the blur. One of them threw candy in our general direction while the other looked ahead at the children on the sidewalk, cheering, clapping and eying the sweets with palatable anticipation.

____________________________________

A stool fell beside me. The bar was loud and vulgar. The six of us took a table by the door and I ordered two pitchers from the bartender that didn't remember me.

I had just paid when someone got the phone call. Then they were out the door and I was standing amid spent locals and wasted paychecks with a jug of beer in each hand.

"She fell," someone had said. "He thinks this is it."

I turned to the loud and the vulgar and handed them a round of free beer. They begged me not to leave.
____________________________________

Tomorrow the boys will visit their grammy and they will be excited by the bells they can reach and the dogs that they can fit into their pockets. They will see places to run and play- possibilities where I only see what used to be.

Grammy will love them more than anything and she will wish that they could just be still.

Then they will laugh as we drive away, and they will see things out the window that we have missed. It will be another long ride in another hot car and they'll nap lazily in the afternoon sun, never knowing if they will see her again.

Poetry by Popular Request

2009-03-15T08:00:00.000-07:00

Popular is such a strong word, but it came up in passing that I haven't posted any poetry lately and...

Um, where are you going?

It's Sunday morning and I've got coffee in my cup, Joe Williams on the stereo and plans to replace the laptop with the Times. After that I'll play it by ear.

For you, my friends:

URBAN BEACHES

Taste the sea when you lay against me
And not the sweat of a long day’s work-
For I always said we would go there
Every time you brought it up,
But the ocean does not pay the bills,
And the waves of passing traffic
Outside our bedroom window
May never be surfed or waded through,
But there is sand and sunshine
In the park around the swings.

If we were to go there in the morning
With a basket of food and bottle of wine
I could put a towel down for you
To sun yourself while you read
Whatever it is women read on beaches
While the men try not to look
At so much exposed flesh,
Instead wandering out to pee in the sea
And pretend that sharks are coming
To keep their erections down,
But I’ll have no water to hide in
And I will come up with other ways
To watch your skin as it gathers sun.
For example, I may get on the swing
Since it would just be hanging there,
And while watching your breasts
I might say, "Push me. Push me."

THE RAINDANCER

I dance upon the breath of a thousand lies
To unknown breasts
And forgotten lips
Aloof with the pride of man
And the loneliness of one night stands
Wondering . . .
How many drinks to the bottom of a soul?
And how does a heart burn so cold?
But there is warmth in the whiskey,
And a song on the jukebox,
So I shall drink
And I shall dance,
Until the music stops.

I dance upon the breath of a thousand lies
To unknown breasts
And forgotten lips
Aloof with the pride of man
And the loneliness of one night stands
Wondering . . .
How many drinks to the bottom of a soul?
And how does a heart burn so cold?
But there is warmth in the whiskey,
And a song on the jukebox,
So I shall drink
And I shall dance,
Until the music stops.

DREAMING OF DECEMBER

The long ride leaves me dreaming of December.
The shadows of heavy clouds,
The echo of melancholy piano keys
Lead me onward and away.
Hills once caressed by smooth sunlight
Turn inward under their icy coats
With their backs against frost
covered canvas of still warm fields
Left alone for now,Stoic and forgotten,
depressing the uninspired.
I was told it should be spring,
Yet I am blind to the budding and blooming
lost between bouts of mists of rain.
What might I lose but you
If I forget the words to your song
Or the colors of your sky
Even the fruits that fall against the ground
Beneath your tree taste sour when you leave.
Remember my face when you look at his,
And know how poor I will always be.

LIFE ON THE DULL SIDE: A POEM - or 34 ON A TUESDAY: AN ESSAY

My stomach ain’t what it used to be
Iron lining and flat as a board
Now eaten away by glasses of Beam
And expanded by bottles of Bass.
My hair is retreating
And my bones depleting.
I get older and I get along.
One more shell of broken dreams.

Tune in tomorrow for poems for kids!

Slow Motion Weekdays Stare Me Down

2009-03-09T16:04:00.000-07:00

"Oh, blood. Somebody must have died there."

He is five-years-old and I'm standing outside the bathroom on the campus of his elementary school. The door is propped open and the floor is covered with paper towels and urine. There is blood on the sidewalk between me and the tile.

"I doubt anyone died there," I tell him. "Today," I keep to myself.

Maybe it is spit heavy with dye and candy.

He is unfazed by the possibility of death or by its looming presence. He is running in the cloudy haze of springtime, fresh from finding a favorite sweater among the memories of the lost and found. He is jumping cracks and lines drawn from chalk.

I am walking a growing distance behind him. My sweatshirt is pulled tight. The springtime wind is sharp and cold.

My head is full of medicine and mucus. The image is unpleasant and the reality is worse. It is a day after my 38th birthday and I am tired and my Facebook wall is full. It is a good feeling to be thought of, but even the warmth of sentiment is lost in the breeze. I pull my sweatshirt tighter.

We are home and the boys are not listening. My wife is listening to the J. Geils Band and everything is a freeze frame.

There are cards in the mailbox full of checks and signatures. I read every line, even the words written by a company that has never met me. I put the money in my wallet and throw the cards away. They've served their purpose and theirs is to be forgotten and recycled. Perhaps they will come back as a love note or parking ticket, a poem or a receipt. Maybe a birthday card is all there is.

I'm behind in my work. I'm behind in my bills. The daylight lasts an hour longer and it is not enough.

There is cold coffee and leftover spaghetti on my desk- a temporary stop before they are a part of me, like the spring and the wind, life and death, my boys, my wife, a wall written on and mailboxes filled. Like work and bills and walks of growing distance, everything is medicine and everything is mucus. It is heavy with dye and candy.

Everything is a freeze frame and for some reason I find comfort there.

Tender is the Night

2009-03-04T19:30:00.000-08:00

My children are getting the better of me. They are my everything and then some. Nothing makes me happier than their happiness. Nothing fills me with more love than their love. And yet, they drive me crazy.

They are pushing it.

I hide in my office, in my work and behind fingers of bourbon. I hide from their screams and their need and the non-stop trips from bed for things that never mattered during their waking hours.

I hide from the demons that stir when their voices become fingernails across my blackboard.

My anger is a reflection. I am angrier at myself for being angry than I am with them. It is complicated in its simplicity.

Time is too valuable to waste on moments such as this. Theirs is but a moment against minutes. Theirs is a haiku pulled from the heart of a sonnet.

Mine is gruff and coarse and grown over with callous.

Each scream unheeded rolls into the next and they become one, sharpened upon the stone of my heart and tempered within the sea of their tears.

It is a battle that they wage and they are as unrelenting as I am unarmed.

Tomorrow the sun will rise and their smiles will pale the sunshine. I am ready for this, in fact I crave it. But I need this time. I need this night of solitude and a constant stream of thought uninterrupted. I need to hide, and just for a night I need to not be found.

The Force is Slow in This One

2009-03-03T17:38:00.000-08:00

A Sad Excuse for a Post

2009-02-26T11:39:00.000-08:00

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.
__________________________________________________________________

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

2009-02-25T11:49:00.000-08:00

The Origin of My Species

2009-02-20T14:25:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-17T09:15:00.000-08:00

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.

_____________________________________________________________

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

2009-02-15T09:26:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-13T17:03:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-09T09:41:00.001-08:00

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

2009-02-04T08:44:00.000-08:00

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.

______________________________________

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.

______________________________________

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).

______________________________________

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.

.

Does This Mean No Surprise Party?

2009-02-02T16:26:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-02T00:12:00.000-08:00

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.

Bye-Bye, Miss Lego Troublemaker(s)

2009-01-25T09:53:00.000-08:00

This video has no purpose or reason. It just is. It's like life that way. Funny word, "life," it means forever and that's a mighty long time. And to be clear, when I say "life" I'm not talking about the TV show that my wife likes but I think is kind of eh. Also not talking about the cereal, which, if we're honest, only Mikey likes, nor the board game which is much more bored than game if you ask me. No, I'm talking about life. So get busy living or get busy dying.

This video isn't about any of that shit. It just is.

The Proverbial Search Results Post

2009-01-24T07:47:00.000-08:00

I've got a list of search results and I'm not afraid to use it. I am, however, reluctant to use it because I fear that it's a lame excuse for a post, but having looked at the actual lame excuses for post that I've already put into play I've decided to move forward with it. That's caution on the wind. It'll blow away.

The thing about these posts, where you list a group of search terms that brought people to your blog and make witty attempts to respond to them, is that while I feel lazy doing it I always enjoy reading it on other blogs. It's like the gift card of blogging. Nobody likes to buy a gift card as a gift, less it make the buyer look like less than zero effort was put into the purchase, but everyone likes to receive a gift card. And most people liked Less Than Zero, or at least Robert Downey, Jr.'s performance. I could have done without the Poison cover of "Rock and Roll All Night."

And now, with nothing further ado, is the list. There appears to be a theme.

condoms that don't smell
if they're on your nose you're doing it wrong

how to steal stuff
more importantly, how to not get caught

her fist in his ass
and they said romance was dead

hotel work sucks
can you bring me more towels?

my wife jerk me
she does that to everyone- right after you go to work

smart
this is the only search item that makes cents

nogales donkey
the second show is different than the first

lonely but pretty girls
good luck, and have your credit card ready

sex c
now that's a vitamin

candy sex
it gets sticky

prague single women bars
trust me, they're not that into you

I hate lakers
I also hate oceaners, rivers and the Knicks.

where can I buy condoms that don't smell
condoms don't even have noses

why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free
word

anal sex whit bloom
in Orlando?

I'm in lucerne find girl for fucking in answer in english please
for fucking in? search in english please

example of a rambling paragraph
You've come to the right place, my friend. This entire blog is filled, dare I say, overfilled with examples that fit your query. If you were to take any post on any page of any month since this blog was created nearly four (4) years ago you would most likely find at least one example of a rambling paragraph in each- or at least a paragraph about the Allman Brothers. They were born as rambling men and I tend to write as one, lost as I am along paths of thought and the easy lure of tangents and sarcasm. I hope that your search wields you fruit, figuratively, of course- unless you're hungry, in which case I invite you, please, to sit at my table and eat your fill.

14th street blow jobs
It took me thirteen streets to find them. Their condoms smelled.

And that, dear reader, concludes my search results post. See you next time when we'll discuss lesbians, Obama, lol cats and where to find name brand shoes for free. I'm just guessing.

Hit a Guy With Glasses

2009-01-20T20:11:00.000-08:00

In one hand was a glass of whisky. It had been there but minutes. It had been needed much longer.

The other hand was marked with streaks of black. It was soot. It was nothing. It hadn't come from fighting forest fires or confusing arson for acts of passion. It had come from lighting candles and placing them at random around the room. The soot was stubborn and refused to leave, insisting instead that it be smeared across knuckles and up finger thick rivers to where they became a confluence- a mighty stream only to disappear beneath the tunnel of an unflattering shirt-sleeve.

It felt good to be dirty and sipping whisky. It made it feel like the fight was over. There is a clarity there, between harsh words and smooth bourbon, that few ever know. It is a moment and as moments go it is one of the better.

But the fight had not yet begun and the harsh words were unsure if they would ever escape, but waited anxious and uncomfortable as waves of whisky flowed past on heated screams, taunting and angry for having been caught.

The candles had curfews and places to be. They left the room suddenly and without regret. The words grew drunk and drowsy and the clarity began to fall into question.

One hand poured more moments from the bottle while the other held still the glass.

A New Hope

2009-01-20T00:00:00.000-08:00

The Words of a King

2009-01-19T12:21:00.001-08:00

"Change does not roll in on the wheels of inevitability, but comes through continuous struggle. And so we must straighten our backs and work for our freedom. A man can't ride you unless your back is bent."

"It may be true that the law cannot make a man love me, but it can keep him from lynching me, and I think that's pretty important."

"Nothing in all the world is more dangerous than sincere ignorance and conscientious stupidity."

"In the End, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends."

"The function of education is to teach one to think intensively and to think critically. Intelligence plus character - that is the goal of true education."

"When you are right you cannot be too radical; when you are wrong, you cannot be too conservative."

"The hottest place in Hell is reserved for those who remain neutral in times of great moral conflict."

"The moral arc of the universe bends at the elbow of justice."

"The time is always right to do what is right."

"Wars are poor chisels for carving out peaceful tomorrows."

"We are not makers of history. We are made by history."

"We may have all come on different ships, but we're in the same boat now."

"We have guided missiles and misguided men."

"We must learn to live together as brothers or perish together as fools."

"We must use time creatively."

I've Got Blisters on My Fingers

2009-01-16T23:12:00.000-08:00

I've been working my ass off. Seriously. The area that used to be my ass is now a concave valley. If you dropped some change on my ass it would look like this:

Hell, at this rate I may be able to quit the day job. Of course I couldn't sit down or everyone in the room would think they were in Vegas. I'm a walking jackpot- and between you and me, I always pay out. Just don't drop a silver dollar. It would get wedged in there like a manhole cover. Fitting.

So, that's just a graphic tangent of an answer to the million dollar question of where I've been. A question so pressing that almost none of you asked it, and by almost I mean exactly.

It's nice to be loved.

Then there's the Lego Star Wars on our Wii. The oldest is addicted. The first thing he asks for in the morning is Lego Star Wars. After school the first words out of his mouth are about Lego Star Wars. He's a junkie and he's pulling me in.

It started innocently enough. I would just play to help him on certain levels, which is to say I didn't know what the hell I was doing but he thought I did. The kid looks up to me, what can I say?

Now he says things like, "I love my family. And the Wii. The Wii and my family are very important." I'm just glad we're in the mix.

He's hardcore. I have to dress him in long-sleeved shirts to cover the tracks, or I would if video games left tracks. As it is I put him in long-sleeved shirts because it's fucking cold outside.

He's also sweet. He just talked himself into a round of Wii long after he should have been in bed. He said he needed to unwind, so I let a 5-year-old stay up until eleven o'clock to fight the Clone Wars. I'm not even pretending to be embarrassed.

Thing Two was... somewhere. The force isn't as strong in him so he has found other pursuits, like playing with actual Legos and walking around the house singing. He knows the lyrics to two songs, American Pie and something by Weezer, which is to say he knows one song with some very interesting chord changes.

Sometimes he watches us play and sometimes he stands in front of me crying over frivolous matters like hunger. The kid eats non-stop every waking moment. Don't feed him for half an hour and Sally Struthers is on my lawn with 26¢ and a bag of flour. It adds up.

You may be asking yourself, ~~how did I get here~~ what exactly is this post about? You may be looking out the window at your sundial and wondering if you really just spent 8 minutes reading this post (12 if you stutter), and the answer is yes. Yes, you did.

Thanks for your concern, it's noted and appreciated, even if it's completely fabricated. The fact is I'm fine. The family is fine. I'm just freaking busy, and it won't be over until the fat Ewok sings- or does that dance thing where they poke the spear in your face.

Scares the coins right out of you.

Have Fun Storming the Castle

2009-01-11T22:51:00.000-08:00

Capes courtesy of the friendly folks at Bodemi who remind you that a "Z" is just an "N" turned sideways!

A Day on the Rock

2009-01-05T20:28:00.000-08:00

We took a quick drive out to Vasquez Rocks for some fun in the sun(ish).

The boys did some climbing.

That's a guy on a unicycle riding down a huge piece of rock. He comes into play later.

Fetching a pail of water.

The 10-second break.

A hole in the Earth.

They filmed Blazing Saddles here.

Jim kept screwing around with the lizards.

The edge of the world.

Remember the guy on the unicycle?

I have no idea what happened, but a lot of rescue people showed up. Hope the guy was okay. We left before the boys saw something to change the memories they were making.

No lizards were harmed in the making of this post. Read more on Vasquez Rock Park and help support my family at UpTake. That's big of you.

Between the Buttons and the Curious Case Thereof

2008-12-30T21:42:00.000-08:00

The waitress was cute enough. She smiled when she brought me my Bloody Mary and again with each Black and Tan. It was the kind of smile that men with receding hairlines who are sitting next to their wives get from women who are used to being ogled and only know what it is to be young.

The game was good. The company was better. Her tip was bigger than it should have been.

We went to the movies. It wasn't that we were all that curious about Benjamin Buttons and whatever his case may be, but my sister's boyfriend had been an extra in the film while he was living in New Orleans and seeing it with him meant I had a sporting chance of selling his ticket stub on eBay. Possibly signed. Benjamin Buttons, in this case, was an investment.

The movie was long. It was about a lifetime and it felt like it. That's not to say we didn't enjoy it. We did. It just left us tired. Tired from laughing. Tired from crying. Tired from living. It left us tired like we had been drinking all day and then sat in a bag of butter and popcorn for 3 hours. It made us tired like that.

The boyfriend-in-law had his moment on the silver screen. We never saw his face, but his back was in clear view for some time. He swore it was him and we had no reason to doubt it. His ticket stub is in auction for 17 more hours. Buy it now for $100!

The movie made Tricia cry which is something she never does- except at movies or in the car while listening to Puff the Magic Dragon. The effect on me was far worse than the loss of a few tears- it made me think.

For the first time that day I missed my children. I'm aware of how awful that sounds. I've said worse.

There had been football and drinks and waitresses that I would have taken home ten years ago when I had more hair and less ring. I had thought about the boys often, but I had enjoyed my time away. I had enjoyed being me, or what passes for it these days.

At one point I almost got up. I wanted to walk out of the movie and go straight to my sons and tell them everything I've ever wanted to. I wanted to comfort their fears about life and the living of it. I wanted to comfort myself. I could see what I needed to do and in my vision they actually listened and it was tender and melancholy and bittersweet. My vision was a movie and it was about a lifetime.

We drove home in silence. There was music playing and streets heavy with traffic and the festive lighting of a day gone by. I watched the road with one eye and Tricia's reflection with the other. Her mind was far away and I was too selfish to reach for it.

The boys ran to me when I entered the room. I fell to one knee and accepted them and their bounty of hugs and kisses. Three days past and they were still high from Christmas and the sugar that coated it. I held them and tried to recall my vision. They smelled like peppermint and sugarplums. They danced in my head. I opened my mouth to tell them words and secrets and what I sell as wisdom but the only sound that escaped me was a rumbling of laughter, and it made their own roar all the louder.

Posts of Christmas Past

2008-12-21T09:42:00.000-08:00

Come in and know me better, man:

Heedless of the Wind and Weather

A Tree Grows in Our Living Room

Everything is Spanish for Something

Santa Interview: Travel, Coffee and Holiday Music

Dreaming of December (Poem)

Another Christmas Poem: Beatnik Version

Glad Tidings of the Season

It's Been One Week

Featuring Bling Crosby

Keep It All The Year

2008-12-20T08:52:00.000-08:00

This is my Christmas card to you. Or Hanukkah. Or Kwanzaa. Or whatever fills your winter nights and the holes in your soul. Perhaps this is your whisky, your kiss, your sweet embrace. Perhaps it is nothing. It is memories and promise and hope wet with tears. It is stress, joy, loneliness and love.

And so this is Christmas. And what have we done?

There are questions unanswered and answers we question. There is hunger and hate and war and disease. There is panic.

There is nothing funny about peace, love and understanding.

There are smiles upon the faces of my two little boys that started sometime around Thanksgiving and have yet to wear out their welcome. There is innocence and innate kindness. There is a want to believe and warmth and happiness in places I now harbor doubts.

Outside my window there is snow and a world that stretches on forever. Forever sneaks up behind me and laps me and goes forward again.

My son was crying the other night, out of the blue and for reasons unknown. He didn't want to grow up he said. He didn't want his mother and me to grow old. He never wanted to live without us. We comforted him as was our duty and all the while our hearts were breaking.

One day, far too soon, he will find himself looking into small eyes filled with wonder and he'll wish things for his children that I wish for mine and it will be but a small step in the world moving forward. It will be the biggest moment he will ever know.

The snow will melt, but it will come again and with it this season and what it means, meant and might some day be. It is what we make it.

And so happy Christmas. I hope you have fun. The near and the dear one. The old and the young.

Holiday Mood

2008-12-18T15:10:00.000-08:00

It snowed ten inches here yesterday. Really. At our house. I measured it myself.

That sounds like a penis joke.

I know that Santa is used to stuff like this (snow, not Apatow humor), but living in Southern California, it is a rarity. Although the fact that it is still all over the yard is making it less rare by the minute.

Here's how we spent our snow day:

Who knew festive was so cold?

Cup of Random: Regifting Ted Edition

2008-12-17T12:12:00.000-08:00

It is snowing. It has been snowing steadily for over 4 6 9 12 hours at the time of this writing (I had video issues). There is at least ~~three~~ five inches of snow on the ground. For the record, I live in a desert about 45 minutes from Hollywood.

Hey, we'll take it.

Perhaps you've been wondering where I've been. Or perhaps you've been equally busy and haven't noticed that I haven't posted in a week, which is actually a month in blog years. The truth is, I've been here at home, but I've been working 15 hour days to allow myself some quality time around Christmas. And then there's the drinking...

Plus, Atticus has been home from school for winter break and the two boys are driving me out of my mind. They're dangerously close to getting lumps of coal in their stockings- or worse.

We did go to Disneyland for a couple of days to take in the holiday sights. It was crazy cold and incredibly packed. Sardines have elbow room compared to the crowds we swam against. Our paths crossed one night with that of the PetCobra family and together we drank some beers and watched our children bond over unhealthy amounts of sugar and excitement. It was like this, but louder and with bees. Good fun.

We've also been doing stuff like this:

Can you guess which one I made?

What?

You may recall that there is drawing of sorts going on today. I am giving away five copies each of the books listed in the previous post. For some reason nobody wanted the Ted Turner book, but five of you won it. Letterman said it was a good read, so there's that.

If you are one of the lucky winners please email me your mailing address (no P.O. boxes per the publisher) and I'll get your book sent to you. Hopefully they'll arrive before Christmas if you're regifting Ted.

(BTW, I have spent literally all day trying to upload a damn video with the snow and the kids and the tree and the drawing of the names and the boys making fun of the names, but it isn't working. I refuse to let this ruin my Christmas.)

Outliers: Apathy Lounge, Bridge, Father Muskrat, Moe Berg and VegasDad!

Ted: Flutter, Hygiene Dad, Mocha Dad, Rattling the Kettle and Willie G!

Those of you that didn't win, don't worry. I'll be giving away some other books soon! I've also been asked to review adult films and products. How do you think that would go over? It takes me a week of 15 minute increments to watch a porno.

On another note, if you haven't done so please visit UpTake. Add us to your RSS if you're feeling it. That would be downright decent of you.

Until next time...

I Give and I Give and I Give

2008-12-10T23:06:00.000-08:00

Do you like books? Sure you do. Obviously you are extremely intelligent and literate or you wouldn't be here. You're probably good-looking, too. Then again you could be here for the nude Hugh Jackmans- that's been a Google goldmine.

I have two more books to give away. These are the real deal, not some crap you find in the dollar bin, but brand new, best-selling books by important people you've heard of- assuming you're as intelligent and literate as you claim to be (see paragraph 1).

Yes, I am a kind and caring blogger. However, I'm also spiteful and will be limiting winners to U.S. and Canadian entries (no P.O. boxes) only. Sorry, it isn't personal. It's the publishers. Apparently they don't think the rest of the world can read so good.

Here's how you can win: Enter. Leave a comment that says which book you are interested in, say why if you have time. Butter me up if you're feeling it. I'm easy.

On the 17th I will draw 5 winners per book at random- or less than random if your butter spreads right.

________________________________

Need gift ideas? Check out these great holiday gift guides and giveaways. Yes, more giving:

Babble

Savvy Source

The Father Life

Divine Caroline

Too Many Cooks

2008-12-09T08:08:00.000-08:00

When he reached for the chocolate syrup I knew the food was wasted. In a bold, unapproved and non-sanctioned act of independence and innovation he was creating his own sandwich. He was also unsupervised.

It had started as a peanut butter and jelly. A classic. Or maybe it was a turkey and Havarti on wheat. Very seasonal. It's hard to know which came first. One was the chicken and one the egg and between them lay mystery and hope. The hope was for chocolate syrup.

I nixed it. Cue the tears.

I'm sure if he had given it any thought he would have realized that I was saving him. Then again, could chocolate really hurt a peanut butter, jelly, turkey and cheese sandwich? Could anything?

It turned into a full-blown breakdown. Maybe I was too harsh. Maybe he was too ambitious. We both said things we regretted. Things get ugly in the kitchen.

He ate his Spagettios with a frown and a spoon- each tiny 'o' short for oppression. It tasted of tyranny, from a can.

Later that day he sat at the table decorating a small cake that he had baked with his mother. It was a beautiful mess. A masterpiece. Frosting is his medium.

He looked up as he felt my presence, his face still stained orange from his meal of resentment, but in the corner of his smile there was a twinkle. A hope. It was the shadow of chocolate remembered and the promise of more to come.

"Do you want some cake, Daddy?" he asked.

I shook my head, kissed him on his and went into the kitchen to make myself a sandwich. It left much to be desired.

Angels in the Drive-Thru

2008-12-06T00:40:00.000-08:00

I'm not a religious man. Far from it, really. For instance, I was going to do a little bit about the commandments and I actually typed "God's Top Ten" in the search box. Letterman loves that.

Still, I can get behind the commandments, except for the part about coveting my neighbors wife. I'm big on the coveting. I also enjoy being coveted, but apparently it's okay to covet thy neighbor's husband. Not that there is anything wrong with that.

We took the boys to McDonald's tonight because they love it and there is a recession going on. The place was standing room only. Literally. I actually ate standing up. It turns out there was some sort of Christian fundraiser being held.

Old pious women tried to sell us apple pies at the door. We passed. I'll take my chances on the afterlife without a McDonald's pastry stuck to my ribs, thank you.

The kids were all well-dressed and surprisingly ill-mannered. My kids crammed into their table for two and ate silently in sin. Or what passes for it nowadays.

I kept thinking back to a night in high school. A group of us went to the local skating rink for some wholesome teenage fun. I hoped it was foreplay. It wasn't.

That place, too, was packed. We put on our skates and commented on the fact that none of us recognized the very loud, and apparently popular, music that was playing. We were halfway around the rink before everyone, everyone but us, threw their hands up in the air and started chanting.

I didn't even finish the lap. I just cut straight across the rink and went to the heathen window for my refund.

I felt like a caveman at a Geico party.

I think it was Milton, or perhaps Cake, that said, "sheep go to Heaven, goats go to Hell." And I can't help but wonder if I had lived just that.

Someday, when all is said and done and you find yourself standing in a long line outside the Pearly Gates, don't be surprised to see some Golden Arches in the distance.

However, if you are one to skirt old ladies hawking pie, or you turn your skates in before the Hokey Pokey- if you want things your way, you're getting flame-broiled, and that's a whopper.

I wonder what Jack in the Box is bringing to the table.

Prop 8: The Musical

2008-12-03T22:43:00.000-08:00

It's West Side Story all over again, but not quite as gay. Yes, it's Prop 8: The Musical and it has everything you could want in a song and dance number. There's hate and ignorance for the haters and the ignorant. There are celebrities and causes for celebrities that cause stuff. There is even a cameo by Jesus.

It's Prop 8: The Musical and it's hilarious:

Black Friday: A Gift Guide

2008-11-28T15:41:00.000-08:00

I was going to do a whole thing with the lyrics from Steely Dan's song Black Friday, but frankly it came out a bit morbid. That being the case I decided to just do a straight review of some cool toys.

Some of these products were submitted to me for review and some I am just wishing for. In regard to the products I've received please note that if I write about it I like it. If I don't like a product I either send it back and/or make it clear why I don't like it (unless it's for trivial reasons).

* Sizzle & Serve Kitchen - Once the boys mastered the faux hawk I knew that Top Chef couldn't be far behind. We started letting them help in the kitchen, but their kind of help is more along the lines of making huge messes and putting our entire family in mortal danger rather than creating gourmet chow. What we needed was a middleman, and what we got is the Sizzle & Serve Kitchen.
The boys love it. They pretend to cook and we pretend to eat. You would think that all of this fake eating might mean we'd lose weight, but apparently the diet is fake, too. Go figure.

The kitchen has a "working" grill and ice machine and a "Contemporary Colonial Archway" which seems like an oxymoron to me, but what the hell do I know?

As an added bonus, while searching for a photo of the Sizzle & Serve I got to check out numerous photos of my girl Sizzle. Little Tikes might want to talk to her about page ranks.

BTW, the chance of finding porn while searching for "Sizzle & Serve" is 100%.

*Giddyup N' Go Pony - I was a bit skeptical of this, namely because it isn't this, but as soon as the race started it was mint juleps for everyone.

I'm getting Tricia a big, flowery hat for Christmas.

The best part about this pony is that it doesn't eat and it doesn't poop, two of the reasons I no longer own a horse. The downside is that it is the cause of much fighting and little sharing.

The porn to pony ratio is surprisingly low.

*Spike the Ultra Dinosaur is on the very top of Atticus' Christmas list. His true loves in this world (besides Jack Skellington and SpongeBob) are robots and dinosaurs. I don't know if we're going to get this for him or not, manly because we're broke and he's spoiled, but you've got to admit that it's pretty darn cool.

*My Real Digital Video Camera is waterproof to 3 feet which is really neat, but I'm afraid to submerge it. I like to think of it as more of a safety feature than an envelope to push.

The camera is real. It takes real video. Look at this list and tell me this is for children 3 and up:

Editing features add graphics and sounds to videos and pictures.
Easily plugs into TV or PC for video picture playback.
64 MB of built-in memory.
1.7" LCD screen.
Built-in microphone, speaker, light/flash.
1.3 mega pixel resolution.
SD card expansion slot for additional memory storage capacity.
4X digital zoom.

It's for children ages 3 and up.

When I was 3 and up our idea of making a movie involved a stick, some dirt and a big dose of imagination. This camera is way better.

This is what I want:
Dear Canon (or Nikon for that matter), if you want me to review one of your products I will gladly plaster your information all over all of my blogs for the entire month of January (that was a collective 50 million page views in November- really, 50 million!).

So I'm a sell-out. Did you think this was Neil Young's blog?

Here's the wife's list: and maybe some new pajamas.

There you go, some hopefully helpful reviews, some blatant and distasteful pleading and some gratuitous nude photos of Hugh Jackman. If that doesn't say Christmas I don't know what does.

The Traditional Thanksgiving Post

2008-11-26T13:08:00.000-08:00

Those people gave new meaning to the word "hero," and the old guard, like our professional athletes for example, could do nothing but say "thank you," salute, and dry their tears. Sure, the Lions can't remember the last season they had that wasn't filled with pain, but it doesn't matter. It is a game, football, like so many other things we elevate onto pedestals it may not deserve, but it's okay. It keeps us sane and entertained. Football is a great game. An American game.

The Beatles, however, are not American, yet they are as much a part of our culture as any force in entertainment could possibly be. And then some. They are Beatlemania. They were bigger than Jesus for God's sake! John Lennon said that, not me, but he had a point. They were selling out much bigger stadiums than God.

On September 11, 2001, Paul McCartney sat in an airplane on a runway in New York City and watched the world burn down. He saw through a first-class tinted window what we saw on our TV sets. He saw hate.

But for us it was Thanksgiving. We had each other. There was wine in my glass, football on the TV, and in the next room my wife and my sister sang A Hard Day's Night on the karaoke machine. We had much to be thankful for. And it was bittersweet.

It came and it went, tethered heavily upon our heartstrings, floating like a giant balloon. Yes, Katie, there is a Jesusauros Rex, and he loves you.

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours,
Whit

It's the Thought That Counts

2008-11-22T22:06:00.000-08:00

"Is my birthday at Christmas?" he asked. His puppy dog eyes and the head that held them were centered perfectly between me and the game that I was watching.

"No," I said.

He didn't move.

"I want my birthday to be at Christmas," he continued, or at least I think he was continuing. I had been ignoring him and had just noticed the noise from his mouth when a commercial came on. He could have been talking for ten minutes or silently mouthing, "I hate you." I didn't give it much thought.

"Why do you want your birthday to be at Christmas?" I asked.

"Because I want to go to the Santa Store," he said, as if such a thing was the most natural reason in the world. The tarnish on my all-knowing dad status continued to spread.

"You already went to the Santa Store," I told him in a classic case of one-upsmanship.

The Santa Store is a room at his school that the PTA managed to fill with truckloads of crap so that children can shop for their parents, siblings, teachers or anyone else they feel deserving of combs and plastic bottles of perfume for a dollar. I had taken him shopping one day after school earlier in the week and between us we managed to cover everyone on his list for $9.25.

Everyone except me, of course, but I was okay with it. We also didn't buy anything for him, which was more of a sore spot.

We gave him some change so he could visit the Santa Store during the allotted time the next school day. He bought crap for his brother and three classmates. He bought nothing for himself.

"I want birthday presents from the Santa Store," he said.

"You know it's all junk, right?"

"Then why did we buy presents there for Mommy and Nana?" he asked. Luckily we were alone at the time.

"Because we're cheap and you don't have a job." I told him. I call it like I see it.

"Why can't my birthday be at Christmas?" The kid wasn't getting it.

"You were born in the summer," I said. "You'll get much better gifts then. Kids with birthdays at Christmas get a raw deal. People get them one gift and say it's for both Christmas and their birthday. That's the rub."

"Is the one gift from the Santa Store?"

"You're freakin' killing me, Smalls. Fine, I'll buy you presents at the Santa Store for your birthday. How's that?" The game had been back on for a few minutes now and it was time to wrap this up.

"Okay, that's good," he said. "But don't buy my Christmas presents there. It's too junky."

With that he walked back to his playthings, content his point had been made. I watched him full of joy and what he was selling as reason and then I looked at the TV, the game and the score that had changed and I wondered what the hell had happened.