Thursday
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12/02/05
Maybe Howard Was Right.
Not unlike Midwestern ladies of a certain age who wear pantsuits, sensible shoes and embroidered sweaters, and keep the Franklin Mint in business by filling their tidy homes with ceramic figurines of creepy doe-eyed tots, I find that I too have been building a collection; only mine is comprised of many and varied personal foibles. Indeed, my emotional curio cabinet seems to be home to an ever-growing collection of dusty eccentricities, each seemingly more, well, eccentric than the last.
I have, for instance, noticed that I have begun to yell at the radio while I'm driving despite the fact that it seems unlikey that Limbaugh et al can hear me. Likewise, I've found lately that my personal space has become non-negotiable, which in practical terms means that when crowded by my fellow shoppers in a store, I have, on more than one occasion, dropped out of line and abandoned my would-be purchases. Needless to say my Lovely Bride, ever a bastion of patience and perspective, just assumes I'm a lunatic.
In any case, as anyone who has a hobby of collecting things will tell you, half the fun of having a collection is adding to it, and I'm no exception. To wit: I've recently added an intolerance of all things sticky, icky, and generally germy to my collection of eccentricities. Yes, it seems an odd choice of foibles for an at home dad whose two young charges are perhaps the pinnacle of all things sticky, icky and generally germy, but there you have it.
So why would this particular aversion come to mind today, you didn't ask? Well, this little bit of fluff appeared recently in our local Gannett rag, The Journal News. Great Nebuchadnezzar's ghost! A View-Master kiddie menu? For kiddies? Eeeewwww. What's that faint whirring sound you ask? Why, poor Howard spinning in his grave, of course!
Now, I'm not a complete weenie. I have, after all, been witness to my fair share of unspeakable hygienic abominations. Yes, that would be every drooling toddler I've watched in every McDonald's ball pit in the New York metropolitan area. And that would be you, old guy who was having a gastro-intestinal event and missed the toilet while I was managing the restaurant that night. And yeah, that would be you too, toddler kid who whipped off your pull-up so you could whiz in the splashy fountain when we trying to have a nice time at Sesame Street Place in Pennsylvania. Yes, that's right, I've bourn my share of indignities, but I've spent enough years in the trenches of food service to know that a restaurant View-Master full of toddler will never, ever, as Heaven is my witness, go on my kid's face.
Or is my Lovely Bride right and I'm just being a loon? Yeah probably. Oh well, I guess I'll just carry some Purell around and be quiet now. Don't mind me.
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12/02/05
Maybe Howard Was Right.
Not unlike Midwestern ladies of a certain age who wear pantsuits, sensible shoes and embroidered sweaters, and keep the Franklin Mint in business by filling their tidy homes with ceramic figurines of creepy doe-eyed tots, I find that I too have been building a collection; only mine is comprised of many and varied personal foibles. Indeed, my emotional curio cabinet seems to be home to an ever-growing collection of dusty eccentricities, each seemingly more, well, eccentric than the last.
I have, for instance, noticed that I have begun to yell at the radio while I'm driving despite the fact that it seems unlikey that Limbaugh et al can hear me. Likewise, I've found lately that my personal space has become non-negotiable, which in practical terms means that when crowded by my fellow shoppers in a store, I have, on more than one occasion, dropped out of line and abandoned my would-be purchases. Needless to say my Lovely Bride, ever a bastion of patience and perspective, just assumes I'm a lunatic.
In any case, as anyone who has a hobby of collecting things will tell you, half the fun of having a collection is adding to it, and I'm no exception. To wit: I've recently added an intolerance of all things sticky, icky, and generally germy to my collection of eccentricities. Yes, it seems an odd choice of foibles for an at home dad whose two young charges are perhaps the pinnacle of all things sticky, icky and generally germy, but there you have it.
So why would this particular aversion come to mind today, you didn't ask? Well, this little bit of fluff appeared recently in our local Gannett rag, The Journal News. Great Nebuchadnezzar's ghost! A View-Master kiddie menu? For kiddies? Eeeewwww. What's that faint whirring sound you ask? Why, poor Howard spinning in his grave, of course!
Now, I'm not a complete weenie. I have, after all, been witness to my fair share of unspeakable hygienic abominations. Yes, that would be every drooling toddler I've watched in every McDonald's ball pit in the New York metropolitan area. And that would be you, old guy who was having a gastro-intestinal event and missed the toilet while I was managing the restaurant that night. And yeah, that would be you too, toddler kid who whipped off your pull-up so you could whiz in the splashy fountain when we trying to have a nice time at Sesame Street Place in Pennsylvania. Yes, that's right, I've bourn my share of indignities, but I've spent enough years in the trenches of food service to know that a restaurant View-Master full of toddler will never, ever, as Heaven is my witness, go on my kid's face.
Or is my Lovely Bride right and I'm just being a loon? Yeah probably. Oh well, I guess I'll just carry some Purell around and be quiet now. Don't mind me.
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11/22/05
Forty Two.
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11/22/05
Forty Two.
Man: Hello, my boy. And what is your dog's name?
Boy: I don't know. We call him Rover.
-Stafford Beer
Boy: I don't know. We call him Rover.
-Stafford Beer
It seems to me that it's helpful to be reminded every so often that, in an existential way, it's very unlikely indeed that we really know what's going on. I mean, sure, we've got some big important things already worked out, like math, astrophysics and cable TV. At the same time though, we don't want to forget the lesson that Douglas Adams' pan-dimensional, hyper-intelligent race of beings who built Deep Thought learned the hard way: that in the end, having an answer isn't very useful if you never actually understood what the question was.
So what was the question in the first place? I dunno, something about a dog, I think. Or something like that. Just a thought. Whatever. :-)
So what was the question in the first place? I dunno, something about a dog, I think. Or something like that. Just a thought. Whatever. :-)
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11/14 /05
Nuff Said... Version 3.0
Or, A Brief But Fairly Grumpy Rant.
"Naturally, the common people don't want war; neither in Russia nor in England nor in America, nor for that matter in Germany. That is understood. But, after all, it is the leaders of the country who determine the policy and it is always a simple matter to drag the people along, whether it is a democracy or a fascist dictatorship or a Parliament or a Communist dictatorship. ...voice or no voice, the people can always be brought to the bidding of the leaders. That is easy. All you have to do is tell them they are being attacked and denounce the pacifists for lack of patriotism and exposing the country to danger.
It works the same way in any country."
-Hermann Goering, April 18, 1946
So hey, just a quick question for the fifty one percent of you geniuses who voted for that neo-con in the White House: ever hear of the White House Iraq Group? No? How about the Project for the New American Century? No, I didn't think so. So just for the fun of it, why not try connecting the dots with a little bit of independent, critical thinking and then stop screwing up the country for the rest of us.
Oh yeah, and as long as we're at it, engaging in willful ignorance of the sort that allows you to believe that faith and science are mutually exclusive is not only foolhardy, but ultimately self-defeating.
At the very least, if all else fails, just try to remember Dean Wormer's sage words of wisdom: "Fat drunk and stupid is no way to go through life, son." Yeah, I'm talking to you, Kansas.
(Whew, yes, I feel much better now thanks! Have a nice day!)
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11/14 /05
Nuff Said... Version 3.0
Or, A Brief But Fairly Grumpy Rant.
"Naturally, the common people don't want war; neither in Russia nor in England nor in America, nor for that matter in Germany. That is understood. But, after all, it is the leaders of the country who determine the policy and it is always a simple matter to drag the people along, whether it is a democracy or a fascist dictatorship or a Parliament or a Communist dictatorship. ...voice or no voice, the people can always be brought to the bidding of the leaders. That is easy. All you have to do is tell them they are being attacked and denounce the pacifists for lack of patriotism and exposing the country to danger.
It works the same way in any country."
-Hermann Goering, April 18, 1946
So hey, just a quick question for the fifty one percent of you geniuses who voted for that neo-con in the White House: ever hear of the White House Iraq Group? No? How about the Project for the New American Century? No, I didn't think so. So just for the fun of it, why not try connecting the dots with a little bit of independent, critical thinking and then stop screwing up the country for the rest of us.
Oh yeah, and as long as we're at it, engaging in willful ignorance of the sort that allows you to believe that faith and science are mutually exclusive is not only foolhardy, but ultimately self-defeating.
At the very least, if all else fails, just try to remember Dean Wormer's sage words of wisdom: "Fat drunk and stupid is no way to go through life, son." Yeah, I'm talking to you, Kansas.
(Whew, yes, I feel much better now thanks! Have a nice day!)
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11/11/05
A Blast. From The Past.
Or, A Brief Addendum To The 11/2 Entry
I find all too often that it's very easy indeed to lose sight of the numerous benefits of not only creating children, but then raising them properly. Sure, they are expensive to feed and they are forever bedeviling the staff by leaving fingerprints on the silver, but they do eventually become rather useful in practical ways. It won't be long, for instance, before our older lad will be cutting the grass as I watch from the shady comfort of the front porch, sipping a freshly squeezed lemonade. And who will be painting the deck next summer as I oversee the operation whilst settled 'neath the magnolias in my favorite rattan chair, mint julep in hand and gleaming white Panama hat protecting my alabaster skin? You guessed it, the fruit of my loins, that's who.
There are, of course, more prosaic benefits to raising a brace of lads, not the least of which is that they provide an excellent excuse to personally revisit your own childhood habits without appearing entirely oafish. To wit, I present my case:
So, what does any of this have to do with anything? Well, it was not too long ago that the boys and I were watching the Science Channel with the sort of glassy-eyed ennui that is unique to rainy afternoons when a program about model rockets suddenly came on. Really cool rockets. It wasn't long before I felt the rusty gears of childhood memory turning in the back of my head. I used to build and launch rockets when I was a kid. Really cool rockets. Hmmm, I mused, I'd really like to... I mean, I bet the boys would really love to build and launch rockets... and sure enough it was only a matter of weeks before each of us had built and flown a few different rockets. Really cool rockets.
So sure, in the end it really is great for them because they do love rockets as a hobby, but I know that I'm really the lucky one, if only because without the boys there is not a chance in the world that I would be standing out in the field behind the elementary school doing this. It really does make up for all the fingerprints on the silver.
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11/11/05
A Blast. From The Past.
Or, A Brief Addendum To The 11/2 Entry
I find all too often that it's very easy indeed to lose sight of the numerous benefits of not only creating children, but then raising them properly. Sure, they are expensive to feed and they are forever bedeviling the staff by leaving fingerprints on the silver, but they do eventually become rather useful in practical ways. It won't be long, for instance, before our older lad will be cutting the grass as I watch from the shady comfort of the front porch, sipping a freshly squeezed lemonade. And who will be painting the deck next summer as I oversee the operation whilst settled 'neath the magnolias in my favorite rattan chair, mint julep in hand and gleaming white Panama hat protecting my alabaster skin? You guessed it, the fruit of my loins, that's who.
There are, of course, more prosaic benefits to raising a brace of lads, not the least of which is that they provide an excellent excuse to personally revisit your own childhood habits without appearing entirely oafish. To wit, I present my case:
1: It is a Saturday night and you are a forty-year-old single guy sitting on the couch with a beer and you are playing Halo2. You are a loser.See? It couldn't be simpler. Narcissistic leisure activity + two cute kids = validation of said behavior. Voila!
2: It is a Saturday night and you are a forty-year-old father sitting on the couch with a beer and you are playing Halo2 with your kids. You are an upstanding, engaged parent who is bonding with his bright eyed, well-adjusted kids.
Or,
1: It is a Sunday afternoon and you are a forty-year-old single guy out shooting hoops in the driveway by yourself. Now you are not only a loser, but apparently a loser with no friends.
2: It is a Sunday afternoon and you are a forty-year-old father out shooting hoops in the driveway with your kids. You are still an upstanding, engaged parent who is bonding with his bright eyed, well-adjusted kids. Only now it involves healthy, physical activity. Hooray!
So, what does any of this have to do with anything? Well, it was not too long ago that the boys and I were watching the Science Channel with the sort of glassy-eyed ennui that is unique to rainy afternoons when a program about model rockets suddenly came on. Really cool rockets. It wasn't long before I felt the rusty gears of childhood memory turning in the back of my head. I used to build and launch rockets when I was a kid. Really cool rockets. Hmmm, I mused, I'd really like to... I mean, I bet the boys would really love to build and launch rockets... and sure enough it was only a matter of weeks before each of us had built and flown a few different rockets. Really cool rockets.
So sure, in the end it really is great for them because they do love rockets as a hobby, but I know that I'm really the lucky one, if only because without the boys there is not a chance in the world that I would be standing out in the field behind the elementary school doing this. It really does make up for all the fingerprints on the silver.
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10/20/05
My Favorite Mug Shots... Chapter One.
pompous
adj.
1. Characterized by excessive self-esteem or exaggerated dignity; pretentious: pompous officials who enjoy giving orders.
egoist
n.
1. One devoted to one's own interests and advancement; an egocentric person.
sociopath
n.
1. One who displays a personality disorder characterised by a continuous and persistent pattern of aggressive behaviour in which the rights of others are violated.
You know, it struck me today that it's sort of a shame that dictionaries don't have a separate, single listing for a "pompous, egotistical sociopath,"... if only because we now have the perfect picture to accompany such an entry.
* (Note: Originally there was a copy of Tom DeLay's mug shot here. That was the joke, see? Tee hee?)
Tee hee!
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10/20/05
My Favorite Mug Shots... Chapter One.
pompous
adj.
1. Characterized by excessive self-esteem or exaggerated dignity; pretentious: pompous officials who enjoy giving orders.
egoist
n.
1. One devoted to one's own interests and advancement; an egocentric person.
sociopath
n.
1. One who displays a personality disorder characterised by a continuous and persistent pattern of aggressive behaviour in which the rights of others are violated.
You know, it struck me today that it's sort of a shame that dictionaries don't have a separate, single listing for a "pompous, egotistical sociopath,"... if only because we now have the perfect picture to accompany such an entry.
* (Note: Originally there was a copy of Tom DeLay's mug shot here. That was the joke, see? Tee hee?)
Tee hee!
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10/26 /05
Couches and Belly Buttons: A Cautionary Tale.
The Belly Button Thief
The years that I affectionately remember as the 90s were, for me at least, a decade filled with guilty pleasures. Bacon cheeseburgers, pizza and beer were the cornerstone staples of my diet, and I was good for at least one, and sometimes two, boxes of Newports a day. Even better, when I wasn't staying out with friends until the wee hours there was plenty of slug time on the Couch playing Nofriendo and wallowing in the bone-jarring idiocy of network sit-coms. Ahh, good times... good times...
In any case, as is the way of things, the 90s was also a decade during which I wooed and won my Lovely Bride, who was then good enough to bear us two fine sons; sons who proved, of course, to be my final undoing health-wise. I was after all, a quasi-at-home-dad from the beginning; although I spent my nights and weekends in the ever-so-fulfilling trenches of food service management, I spent my days watching over the lads from my perch of choice: Couch. As time went on I quit work to finish school; much of the studying for which I did while sitting on Couch. And as the boys have grown there has been plenty of reading, snuggling and homework checking on the comfy expanse that is Couch.
The practical upshot of all this is that it was just this last February that I turned 40 and I realized that my belly button now spent most of its time hiding from me. Sure, I could move stuff around if I really felt the need to have a look at it, but what my belly button's coy behavior really meant was that over time I had become, in a nutshell, a big, wheezing bag of cheese. On a Couch.
So, to bring this little cautionary tale full circle, I've since spent the ensuing six or seven months on the long road back. During that time I overhauled my diet, I'm as active as possible throughout each day, and I'm in the gym five times a week; all of which means that I have, to date, lost 60 pounds and dropped to a respectable 185. It also means that I feel better than I have since I was a kid and that I'm not all hot and wheezy all the time. What's more, I don't always feel like I may have to stop what I'm doing at any given moment to lie down on the floor and take a nap.
The only down side to all this is that I was kind of sad when Couch and I had to break up, but I think it's better for both of us. And we are still friends.
In the end it's not a terrible road back really, but it's still a trip all you younger at-home-dads really don't want to have to make. So hey, get off Couch and push that stroller around the block a few times.
Oh yeah, and it's kind of nice that my belly button keeps me company again.
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10/26 /05
Couches and Belly Buttons: A Cautionary Tale.
The Belly Button Thief
(Half a year off the fags, and here's the result.)
I do believe, when young and naïve,or so the story goes.You would feel a bit thick,if you fell for the trick,where a grandparent stole your nose.
Why would family,your own kith and kin,take pleasure in causing such grief,with tales of Banshees, and Bogeymen,and the Belly-Button thief?
Scary tales or Fairy tales,the end result’s the same.A million kids will wet their beds,they don’t know it’s just a game.
But by far the most frightening,Of all these creatures,There’s one makes my blood run much colder.The Belly-Button thief doesn’t bother with kids,He waits until we are older.
I speak as a victim, of a recent assault.He came for me, just this passed year.Slowly, with stealth,No regard for my health,To make my wee navel, disappear.
He didn’t come in the middle of the night,As you’d think would be the norm.This rancid ghoul has wily tools,And comes in a more sinister form.
He hides in maxi bags of crisps,And even bacon fries.Dry-roasted and ready salted nuts,And chocolates, (surprise, surprise!)
And as your midrift escalates,To heights it never knew,Your belly’s horizon,(which the button relies on.)obscures the poor wee thing from view.
There is, I’m told, a remedy,Though as yet I’ve not bothered to try it.A nasty form of exorcism,Known as exercise and diet.
For now, I’m happy to stay as I am.Mr. BBT, you’re off the hook.And as for seeing my belly-button?I’ll use a mirror, if I really want to look.
-- Danny Reynolds
Dalton in Furness, England
2005
I do believe, when young and naïve,or so the story goes.You would feel a bit thick,if you fell for the trick,where a grandparent stole your nose.
Why would family,your own kith and kin,take pleasure in causing such grief,with tales of Banshees, and Bogeymen,and the Belly-Button thief?
Scary tales or Fairy tales,the end result’s the same.A million kids will wet their beds,they don’t know it’s just a game.
But by far the most frightening,Of all these creatures,There’s one makes my blood run much colder.The Belly-Button thief doesn’t bother with kids,He waits until we are older.
I speak as a victim, of a recent assault.He came for me, just this passed year.Slowly, with stealth,No regard for my health,To make my wee navel, disappear.
He didn’t come in the middle of the night,As you’d think would be the norm.This rancid ghoul has wily tools,And comes in a more sinister form.
He hides in maxi bags of crisps,And even bacon fries.Dry-roasted and ready salted nuts,And chocolates, (surprise, surprise!)
And as your midrift escalates,To heights it never knew,Your belly’s horizon,(which the button relies on.)obscures the poor wee thing from view.
There is, I’m told, a remedy,Though as yet I’ve not bothered to try it.A nasty form of exorcism,Known as exercise and diet.
For now, I’m happy to stay as I am.Mr. BBT, you’re off the hook.And as for seeing my belly-button?I’ll use a mirror, if I really want to look.
-- Danny Reynolds
Dalton in Furness, England
2005
The years that I affectionately remember as the 90s were, for me at least, a decade filled with guilty pleasures. Bacon cheeseburgers, pizza and beer were the cornerstone staples of my diet, and I was good for at least one, and sometimes two, boxes of Newports a day. Even better, when I wasn't staying out with friends until the wee hours there was plenty of slug time on the Couch playing Nofriendo and wallowing in the bone-jarring idiocy of network sit-coms. Ahh, good times... good times...
In any case, as is the way of things, the 90s was also a decade during which I wooed and won my Lovely Bride, who was then good enough to bear us two fine sons; sons who proved, of course, to be my final undoing health-wise. I was after all, a quasi-at-home-dad from the beginning; although I spent my nights and weekends in the ever-so-fulfilling trenches of food service management, I spent my days watching over the lads from my perch of choice: Couch. As time went on I quit work to finish school; much of the studying for which I did while sitting on Couch. And as the boys have grown there has been plenty of reading, snuggling and homework checking on the comfy expanse that is Couch.
The practical upshot of all this is that it was just this last February that I turned 40 and I realized that my belly button now spent most of its time hiding from me. Sure, I could move stuff around if I really felt the need to have a look at it, but what my belly button's coy behavior really meant was that over time I had become, in a nutshell, a big, wheezing bag of cheese. On a Couch.
So, to bring this little cautionary tale full circle, I've since spent the ensuing six or seven months on the long road back. During that time I overhauled my diet, I'm as active as possible throughout each day, and I'm in the gym five times a week; all of which means that I have, to date, lost 60 pounds and dropped to a respectable 185. It also means that I feel better than I have since I was a kid and that I'm not all hot and wheezy all the time. What's more, I don't always feel like I may have to stop what I'm doing at any given moment to lie down on the floor and take a nap.
The only down side to all this is that I was kind of sad when Couch and I had to break up, but I think it's better for both of us. And we are still friends.
In the end it's not a terrible road back really, but it's still a trip all you younger at-home-dads really don't want to have to make. So hey, get off Couch and push that stroller around the block a few times.
Oh yeah, and it's kind of nice that my belly button keeps me company again.
(Thanks to Danny Reynolds... and there's
