.

.

Monday, June 29, 2009

Jack will PUMP YOU UP!

This will have to be quick. Down at the Cinnabar Mines, people are succumbing to the toxic red ore in droves lately, and E.C. has to be there to pick up the increasing slack. And boy howdy there's a lotta slack.

I'll take '19th Century English' for $800
The crew sailed ourselves up to Fruitvale this weekend, and a great time was had by all (especially First Mate Belle, who's heart almost exploded from running around like a fool in 102 degree heat*). The more sensible part of the crew hung out inside drinking lemonade and watching this dude from the Angels end up going all the way 'round off a bunt.

It was great to get up there to see the fam and hear again just how incredibly loud 'quiet' can be. Feeling the serrated edges of corn leaves and walking under the herby-smelling chinaberry trees really took me back. Popping off my new 9mm pistola didn't hurt, either.

I have an arcane reference from the Old South for you! My Dad was telling me that his Dad had all these crazy colloquialisms that came from northern Alabama (they blew town in 1888 and ended up in Van Zandt County, TX).

So they were farmers, right? They would lay their crops down, and would do all they could to ensure a good harvest. But of course, at some point you can't do anymore, and have to put the harvest in the LORD's hands. Anyway, at the end of the row, after you were finished working, what you would do is take your hat off and wave it at the row with a flourish. So my grandfather's phrase was that he was "waving his hat" at something, meaning I suppose that the situation was in the LORD's hands. I'm waving my hat at a LOT of stuff nowadays.

"I Like You. That's Why I'm Going to Kill You Last."
I was lashed severely last week for neglecting to report this:

Jack's got a great new trick, if you can get him to do it. "Show us your muscles" gets Jack's arms extended out front, flexing, and this pained look on his (very red) face. We're also teaching him how to smoke a cigar, fire a 50-cal, say "Kali-FORN-ee-ah" and run a massive budget deficit.

*Mental note: Sprinting during a heatwave wearing a fur coat isn't smart.

Wednesday, June 24, 2009

MIDWEEKER: All Cropped Out

We had the ever-so-salty crew's picture made! We had to stand motionless for about 30 seconds while the Daguerreotype set up. What a beating.

But we got some GREAT shots of the Captain and Her Majesty. E.C.'s face is mercifully being cropped out and replaced with a reasonable facsimile: Elmo's face. Trust me, that was a better option than preserving my hypertoothiness for posterity.

The Skipper had himself some crazy hair. There was talk of some revolutionaries acting up in the remote provinces near Jack's whorl. Majesty had washed his hair. Dunked it in the sink. Combed it. Brushed it. Re-dunked it. Daubed product on it. Threatened it with an air strike. She filed a civil suit. You name it.

Things got so crazy in fact that H.M. actually broke out the 2008 RNC Piper Palin move. If you didn't catch that, Piper Palin, daughter of the much loved/maligned Sarah, sees the new baby's hair sticking up. On national TV, she licks her hand from palm to fingertip, and plasters down the baby's hair with it. It worked then, ladies and gentlemen, and it worked today. OK, supplemented with a little hairspray.

Highlights:
I. The photog picked up Jack to move him off of a sofa. The SOFA that the kid was clinging to lifted off the floor with him. The sofa wasn't light. We're checking his baby food for HGH.
II. Our crazy bonnet-wearing tattooed photogs were great. We loves us some unique people.
III. I tried to house-swap with the studio folks. Didn't go for it.
IV. You know it's bad when you're the one that has to be "repositioned" like 9 times. Ouch. It's the photographical equivalent of saying, "You look funny. And you're screwing up my picture."

Next time I'm hiring a stunt dad.

Saturday, June 20, 2009

"Call, we'll talk, no big whoop."

I have no idea why this week I'm writing in the pitch dark, with Jack snoozing about 25 feet from me, and Ryan Adams rocking the ship's little laptop speakers.

Oh, now I remember. The stupid wi-fi is busted. That's why I'm up here in the ship's office on my CAT-5 leash. Whatever. I just don't care anymore.

And I understand and condone Elvis shooting the TV. And I could strangle that brat at Best Buy.

Maybe the solution is letting go; caring by not caring. Zen IT help?

*Lifts eyelid 1/4 inch to see if the wireless light is on*

Curses! Fie on it! How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable, seem to me all the uses of this world! Fie on't! ah fie!

I do so dearly hate stuff that doesn't work. Discuss amongst yourselves.

So if you're unlucky enough to interact with this particular member of the crew, and I'm not shaven, and shrug at your (very lucid) point, just go with it. I'm technologically stricken and it's nothing personal.

Mr. Jack's finer than fine this week. I have located boucoups of supercute, uberrad pictures! Which I will attempt to properly link up with this here blog. See the right sidebar to do some serious time wasting! As you can see above, Jack did some piloting of his own (with Mr. Uncle Jay's help) on Dog River.

I also had a great first-ever Father's Day. Sometimes the formal titles just blow my mind. Like when the nurses at the hospital call you Dad. Your name is Dad. Forever. And when someone announces something "for you fathers," they're actually talking about you. That, mis amigos, is awesome.

Dismissed.

Monday, June 15, 2009

Faux Men of Genius

Today we salute you, Mr. Unsupervised Dad.

Your dedication to career and cowardice towards your boss has driven your wife and kids to vacation without you. (Who needs those guuuuuuuuys?)

So they blew town. So what? Undeterred, you press forward with an array of home improvement projects that boggle the mind. (Hey I could put in a helipad!)

You've unclogged drains, dug a swimming pool, and built something called a pergola... All with only 6 trips to the emergency room. (You only need nine fingers...)

Just you and the dog, you're marooned in your underwear on your own Suburbian island. (I'm master of all I surveeeeey!) It's still unclear as to who's cooking tonight.

Salad? You don't need salad. You'll dine on real dinner. Hot wings, pizza, pot stickers and ice cream. (Ooooooh I feel siiiiiick!)

So crack open a cold one, Dad, because to us, you put the "Super" in "Unsupervised."

Thursday, June 11, 2009

MIDWEEKER: Penance and the Dead Weeds

I suck. As a loving, caring husband, I suck. But most of you knew that anyway after The Mother's Day Incident. Your Honor, at this time State will offer State's Exhibit No. 1.

So Her Majesty requested a low key, neither-cake-nor-party kind of birthday this year.

I thought, we'll, y'know, the flower bit will go a long way towards making nothing out of something... or something outta nothing. Whichever. Thus, I prance my idiot self down to my go-to florist in the bottom of One Shell downtown.

There's not a ton of selection this time of year, but I walk with a bunch of white daisies, getting odd looks from about every person that's not overly self absorbed. The womenlooks say, "Aww... that's sweet! Hey waitaminute, that's not many flowers, buddy. You're NOT sorry enough." The menlooks say, "I haven't bought flowers for my wife of 27 years in 28 years. I despise you, you young, good-marriage-having punk."

And holding flowers is always a problem for me. Do you hold them in the Beauty Queen Cradle? Do you hold them like a pastrami sandwich? Like you don't know they're flowers? I digress.

I drag my 3 flowers back to the cinnabar mine (pastrami sandwich-style), and finish the rest of the afternoon phone-phighting with every single inhabitant of Chicago, Illinois. I pack it up, wipe the toxic red dust off of my slacks, and zip down Allen Parkway (45s jammed). I get home to the Captain and H.M. and suddenly am gobsmacked: I forgot the flowers. I confess this. I announce that I'm going back for them. The crew talks me out of that.

Next morning, these poor, doomed flowers look like the wax museum's A/C went out. They stare at me all day. "Why did you let us melt, you moron? Murderer!"

Second try on evack-ing these suckers to Home Port 2.0 goes flawlessly until I have to pull off the walk of shame down to the parking garage. Maybe no one will see me. Nope. 4 of the 5 other dudes packed into the elevator look at me, their eyes saying, "Don't do it! Don't give her those! It's suicide!" The 5th guy cracks a tiny, tiny, pitying smile. My glance back says, "Listen pal, it's a long, long story, and if you don't want to be the first person in human history killed with a bouquet of daisies, you better unsmile. Now. Because I will find a storage closet down on P2 to stuff your body into, payaso."

Next, in a stroke of sheer genius, I park my nondescript black car in the sun on Westheimer for about 45 minutes (meet 'n greet). The melted flowers now don't look melted at all. They look like they were poorly freeze dried. At home, Majesty is not impressed. Her look says, "Thanks for the dead weeds, jerk! MEN!"

My self-imposed penance is to listen to this. I AM SO, SO SORRY, BABE. JUST MAKE THE VOLKSMUSIK STOP!

Note: After 2 days in flower ICU, the daisies look great. Very cheery. Too bad H.M. and the skipper have left town for a week. Can you eBay resurrected flowers?

Note 2: There are actually BUSINESSES that deliver dead flowers to people! Check this out! That's what makes America great, right there.

Note 3:
Y'know, now that I think about it, The Deadweeds would make a wicked cool band name, yo. I'll float that by the rest of the crew.

Sunday, June 7, 2009

An Evil Petting Zoo?

Let's talk cruising. Four days ago, cruising was what us 15 year old losers did in Canton, TX after our order at the Pizza Hut had been reduced to crumbs. Loud, tasteless songs and speakers ill-equipped to handle them annoyed everyone within earshot of our rolled-down windows. This was all carried out in 104 degree heat, mind you (it was 134 inside the white Chevy Corsica). You can't imagine the smell. I guess the idea was to pick up chicks, but um, we were somewhat less than successful. No idyllic, American Graffiti nostalgia or Beach Boys soundtrack for us.

Now, I've once again had to relearn the meaning of a perfectly good English word. There are what, 1,000,000 words in the language? So naturally we have to go co-opt already existing ones. Cruising, as defined on June 7th, 2009 by the illustrious and all powerful Her Majesty, is a standing, wobbly baby going from handhold to handhold, a bit like a kid on the edge of a skating rink. Hoodahthunkit?

So Jack is cruising. But not for chicks. The other one. (Okay, he cruises for chicks too.)

Oh, the pictures. So now that we've got teeth, Jack's learning how to care for them. I mean, in between chewing on wood, stone and metal. So when he's not using the toothbrush as a wand (see blurred image above), he's using it to rub the pureed nosh around his little chompers.

Hygienically pointless? Kinda. Cute? Absolutely. I'm giving him a sharp razor and a hairdryer next week! Those pics should be a laff riot!

On the developmental Eastern Front, our hero is repeating and imitating sounds, like "da," "oh," "no-no" and allegedly "choo-choo" when a train goes by. I haven't heard this one yet. Stay tuned.


And there was the petting zoo. An evil petting zoo, you ask? Nah, I don't think so. Lots of goats in there, but I don't think evil was involved. Various animals with various smells were reviewed by the Captain, and he finished things off with a pony ride. It was nice for Jack. For us, the animal watching wasn't quite as good as the people watching.

Have I told you about Paul? H.M. had told me about a dad n' son phenomenon a while back, but I had never seen it personally.

So this house husband and his son show up to the same story time Jack and Her Highness frequent. Fine. Nothing wrong with the old post-feminism house husband gig, if you can get it.

No big deal, until oddly dressed Dad whips out his knitting at story time. You heard me.

Then there's the feral kid (Paul). This little boy looks like he's being raised by a pack of dingos. I'm struggling to describe the kid. He's filthy. From his gray, muddy little fingernails to his 2 foot long greasy blond hair, he's as dirty as you can imagine. He's about 4, and isn't bothered by the whole potty training fad. Probably waiting for that whole thing to blow over. Like disco.

But Paul isn't the real show. Dad is sporting the following getup:
1. Large-brimmed hat of uncertain cultural origin
2. Homemade tie-dyed tee shirt
3. Leather patchwork vest of some sort
4. Footlong, pioneer style beard
5. Heavily acid-washed jeans containing extreme quantities of elastic
6. Braided (likely homemade) belt with this classy royal flush beltbuckle
7. Oversized leather workboots

The knitting bag was no doubt nearby. Y'know, I'm not sure if I'm ready for a turn as a house husband yet. The dresscode is tough. Very tough.