Diaries of the Professor

Disney Princess? Not in my house...

2012-01-21T14:03:00.004-05:00

All my daughter wanted for Christmas from Santa Claus was a purple teddy bear. That is, until she discovered the Smurfs. And Tangled. And, well...you get the point.

Despite her receiving all of the above, I have my skepticism about getting her Disney princess dolls.

Sure one day, it's a princess doll. But the next thing you know, I'm on an overpriced Disney Carnival cruise ship throwing down mai tais with a humanized mouse at Club Mulan, while my daughter plays canasta with Bambi's undead mom.

Now, I don't get too riled up over the various parenting "controversies" that seem to divide people and cause heated exchanges on parenting boards, daddy forums, or PTA conferences. I'm generally a "whatever floats your boat" kind of guy.

Want to home-school your kid, breastfeed him until he's six, and raise him as a vegan? Go right ahead, MoonUnit. Let me be the first to stand aside.

Think your toddler is the next Stephen Hawking and needs to learn four languages, play three instruments, and memorize the Fibonacci sequence so he can get into Harvard? Go for it, dude. I'll be over here teaching my daughter the finer points of how to properly fart on the cats.

So if I'm so nonplussed about what my buddy James likes to call "high-class problems," why did I find myself tormented about buying my daughter a Cinderella doll?

Because I discovered that giving your child anything Disney or Princess-related can be somewhat conflicting and surprisingly touches on our individual beliefs more than one might imagine.

Anyway, free-thinking father of the new millennium that I am, here were some of the concerns that rattled around in my pea-brained head while I debated whether to buy her a princess doll or not...

1. Disney Princesses are terrible role models.
This was, by far, my biggest issue with the princess dolls. Look, I know that it's absurd to think of a plastic piece of crap as being a role model for my daughter but the fact is that, in Disney's case, the doll is a representation of a character. So let's take a look at those characters.

Most of them spend half their time in captivity or in a coma, waking up only when a prince comes along and kisses them. The only ones who are exceptions to this are Mulan and Pocahontas. Hell, Mulan has to dress up as a boy to fight in the army and Pocahantas lacks full princess status.

Also, many of the princess tales celebrate the ugly duckling scenario of overnight transformation.

That, in and of itself, would not be that big of a deal. The problem is that none of the princesses actually "work" to achieve their transformations.

Sleeping Beauty is a victim. Snow White's greatest feat of courage was dusting. And as someone once said, Cinderella essentially gains all her power through the good will of a magical floating Angela Lansbury look-alike.

Now, I'm no feminist but it's pretty clear to me that Disney princesses tend to belittle the efforts that women have made in terms of achieving gender equality on their own terms and with their own efforts.

2. Girls shouldn't be forced to play with dolls. Boys shouldn't be forced to play with trucks.
We have never bought our Turkey a proper doll before, so I honestly don't know where she got the idea that she absolutely needed to have a Cinderella princess doll. I'm guessing that it came from one of her friends at school, probably the same one who taught her how to say "fuck," and whom I imagine will be approaching her in a few years, asking whether she wants to try stripping for crack money.

The reality is that we never know where or how our kids pick up their various influences. Just as we never bought the Peanut a doll, we also stubbornly refused to dress her in anything pink. Shit, she's a New Yorker! If she wants to fit in here, she's going to have to learn that, aside from black, the only acceptable wardrobe colors are grey and white. Besides, I didn't want my daughter walking around looking like a bowl of cotton candy.

Needless to say, despite my best efforts, my daughter can't get enough pink in her life.

3. Disney is an EVIL EMPIRE.
Despite the fact that we live in a free-market capitalist democracy, I dig the fact that people feel threatened by any massive consumer company with the power to dictate our social mores and limit our freedom of choices.

On the one hand, I like to think that we're all free to make our own decisions, right? Nobody's holding a gun to our head. You don't like Wal-Mart? Fine, don't shop there. Despise ExxonMobil? Ride your bike to work. Nobody's forcing anybody to do anything they don't want.

On the other hand, Disney's sheer size and the influence they exert over children today should be a concern. The business of princesses is a HUGE business. Sales at Disney Consumer Products, which started the princess craze six years ago by packaging its female characters under one royal rubric, have shot up to $3 billion this year, from $300 million in 2001. There are now more than 25,000 Disney Princess items. “Princess,” as some Disney execs call it, is not only the fastest-growing brand the company has ever created but also well on its way to becoming the largest girls’ franchise on the planet.

4. Disney is RACIST.
BossLady and I often cringe when we watch old Disney movies. The jive-talking crows from Dumbo? The gibberish-speaking monkeys from The Jungle Book? The Native-Americans in Peter-Pan? The Siamese twin cats from Chip N Dale Rescue Rangers?

Man, no matter how you look at it, that is some seriously straight-up racist stereotyping.

Now, I'm firmly opposed to political correctness. And there is a part of me that wishes that Disney's poor history on racial characterizations could be attributed to an earlier time in our nation's history that predated a sensitivity to dealing with various ethnic characters.

Sadly, I think Disney's modern characters are just as racist and insulting as they were in the past.
Did you know that the opening musical sequence in Aladdin had to be re-edited due to protest from Arab-American groups for implying that the Middle East was a barren wasteland where the justice system was based solely on limb-removal? A place where people get their "faces torn off?"

Meanwhile, in The Little Mermaid, a Jamaican crab teaches Ariel that life is better "Under the Sea," because underwater you don't have to get a job. (Up on the shore they work all day. Out in the sun they slave away. While we devotin' Full time to floatin' Under the sea!) Why the lazy man got to be Jamaican, mon?

And what about Mulan and Pocahontas? As I said earlier, Mulan has to dress up as a boy to fight in the army and Pocahantas lacks full princess status. Heck, I can barely watch Mulan because of all the ching-chong fortune cookie prose and revisionist history bullshit. Meanwhile, Pocahontas looks African-American and is dressed like a Disney-style sexpot.

Clearly, Disney still has far to go when it comes to being racially and ethnically sensitive.

Still...
It was clear that I was over-thinking the whole issue. After all, at the end of the day, it's just a fucking toy.

Look, we live in an age where a child can be left unsupervised in a trailer with "American Gladiators" on the TV and a book of matches within easy reach. I'm not saying that we shouldn't think about all the things that influence our kids. However, I am saying that maybe we don't need to get our panties (or boxers) in a twist over each and every single thing. Some battles are worth fighting. Some aren't.

My daughter is a wonderful kid. She's courteous, polite, empathetic, and treats everyone with a huge amount of respect. She doesn't beg me to buy her useless shit and few things in life make her happier than simply being with her friends and family.

BossLady and I promised ourselves that we would never spoil her and agreed that, for Christmas, we were only going to buy her a single gift from "Santa." Ultimately, after all that internal sturm und drang, we decided that if the Peanut wanted a Cinderella doll, that's what we were going to get her.

You should have seen her face light up when she unwrapped her Cinderella doll on Christmas morning. Hell, had I known she would have been so completely overwhelmed with happiness, I would have bought her a thousand Cinderella dolls. At that precise moment, all my yuppie concerns about giving her that doll disappeared in a nanosecond.

Oh well, at least she didn't ask for Barney.

The most enjoyable 4.7 minutes ever to appear on Xbox Live

2011-12-07T10:44:00.001-05:00

Yes, it actually happened. Much like the hunt for Sasquatch, Chupacabra, affordable healthcare, or a relevant Kardashian, finding an enjoyable discussion on Xbox Live is nearly impossible. But it happened.

It all started late one night this past week. After another 14-hour day staring at my computer screen, editing the world’s most illiterate marketers, I decided that the only way to blow off steam was to spend more hours in front of a bigger screen.

The medicine of choice? A family-friendly little game called Gears of War 3. Wifey was in bed. Beer was cold. Nothing could stop me.

I logged into Xbox Live and signed up for some Deathmatch with some strangers. For the uninitiated, Deathmatch is where a bunch of players get together in an action game, to call each other homophobic names, and occasionally shoot things. Note: when there are two teams, only half the room will be questioning your manhood. Plan accordingly.

Anyway, one of the guys in the room used the handle “MetsSuck99″ (name changed to protect the impaired). Sensing an opportunity to engage in some intelligent baseball discussion, I immediately started calling his name out over the headset.

-----------

Me: Hey MetsSuck99! What’s with the name?

MetsSuck99: What the f–k is your problem? Dammit! Who launched the grenade?

Me: Why would you waste a perfectly good Xbox name on making fun of a baseball team? You must be a Yankee fan.

MS99: Yankees suck too. I like the Phillies.

Me: There’s a shocker. Nice headshot.

MS99: You’re a Mets fan?

Me: Yup.

Random Xbox dude: Will you two homos stop eating each others’ asses?

(I still have no idea what that statement means.)

MS99: Why do you like the Mets? They suck!?

Me: I like the Mets because –

MS99: IT DOESN’T MATTER WHY YOU LIKE THE METS!

[RIOTOUS LAUGHTER FROM EVERYONE PLAYING]

Me: [Laughing] Do you have any other wrestling jokes from 1999, or do you keep them in a different part of your mom’s basement?

MS99: F–k you, p–sy.

Me: Did you know the Rock is a Phillies fan?

MS99: Ummm, yeah. Of course I knew that…

Me: I was lying, jackass.

MS99: F–K YOU, FAIRY!

Me: All I wanted to know is why you chose to waste a perfectly good Gamertag on saying the Mets suck. Seems like a waste of time.

MS99: The Mets are as gay as you.

Me: Okay, that’s fine. What time should me and your mom wake you up for breakfast?

["OOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHH" from across the room...]

MS99: You’re from Rhode Island? I’m gonna come up there and kick your fu–in’ ass!

Me: Alright, calm down, Chauncey. It’s just a game. How come you still haven’t answered my original question?

MS99: F–k your question!

Me: You don’t remember it, do you?

MS99: Ummm, no.

Me: I’m not surprised.

MS99: F–K YOU!!!

Me: Hey, guess what?

MS99: What?

[I launch a perfectly placed headshot with an assault rifle]

Me: You’re dead.

[CHEERING]

MS99: You’re all gay. F–k this game.

Me: Go Mets!

[ABRUPTLY QUITS]

-----------

Okay, so maybe I wasn’t entirely above the name calling and mom jokes, but man did it feel good to virtually cap this moron.

If any of you want to meet up on Xbox Live, my gamertag is ProfBrad12. I’m always up for shooters, and am still playing MLB 2K11. Drop me a message if you’re interested. Just keep the stupidity and homophobia at someone else’s place.

I am thankful for...

2011-11-24T08:20:00.000-05:00

You all...

...and beer.

Happy Thanksgiving, my patient friends.

And the punchline is...

2011-10-31T10:59:00.000-04:00

Okay, folks. Are you sitting down? Good. You're going to need the energy to:

1. Mercilessly mock me
2. Watch me eat so much crow, I'll fart feathers for six days

The other day, I mentioned that Wifey, Turkey, Mookie, Bogey and myself had decided to "return home." This is not entirely true.

While it IS true that we will be within the confines of the NYC metro area, familial logistics, cost-of-living, quality of schools, etc. have forced our hand into making a major decision.

Based on our families, friends, financials and the like, we are moving to...

... New Jersey.

Yes, the same New Jersey that I have lambasted for years. The same New Jersey that has been the butt of more of my jokes than Kate Gosselin. The same New Jersey that has been the subject of more than one of these very posts.

Because -- and this may be the only time you ever hear these words together -- New Jersey just makes sense for us.

Wifey's family is in Philly. Mine is on Long Island. Our friends are in the city. Our family needs a yard. Yes, despite looks into a lot of different areas, New Jersey is where my family will soon call *gulp* home.

Start taking potshots..........now.

Yeah, It's Time...

2011-10-28T13:02:00.000-04:00

Five years...

Three addresses...

One child...

Zero doubt that we had a good run...

In five years, a lot has happened, with no regrets. But we've come to realize that no matter how long we stay, how many friends we make, or how ingrained we become in the community, we will always be the "New Yorkers who moved to Rhode Island."

And that will never be home to us.

Yes, Rhode Island, it's been real. But we're coming home. New York is where the heart is, and always will be.

Can't wait to see you again, Big Apple. Because this time, it's permanent.

Ummm, yeah...

2011-10-17T11:07:00.002-04:00

And this is the answer to "How does Brad feel these days?"

But, we've got exciting news coming soon. Homecoming, anyone?

It's Happening Again!

2011-10-05T15:43:00.000-04:00

Someone give me a topic to write about...quickly.

I will NOT allow these lapses to take over again...

Looking Back (one last time)

2011-09-10T08:44:00.000-04:00

Four years ago, I first recapped my experience at the Mets' first post-9/11 home game, which turned out to be a night of pure emotion, in a city that desperately needed release. Though this piece has already run twice on these pages, in both 2007 and 2008, I feel it's appropriate to share it one last time, on the tenth anniversary of the tragedy.

--

The following is a recap of the Mets' first post-September 11 home game, played ten days following the events of that fateful morning.

At this point, the team had already played a number of road games since the tragedy, but baseball had yet to return to New York City. No one in the tri-state area was anywhere close to the point of healing, yet Mike Piazza and the Mets gave an appreciative home crowd something to take their minds off of reality.

And though the Mets were close to elimination from the division race, I made sure I procured a seat to what would surely be an emotional evening at Shea.

I had lived only a few miles from Ground Zero, and had first-hand visual knowledge of the day's events, but even a few weeks down the road, it just didn't seem real.

My trip to Shea on September 21, 2001 wasn't baseball fandom, it was catharsis.

The evening began with a nearly full Shea Stadium making as little noise as possible. A pre-game tribute to our lost heroes had been showing on the aging, but venerable DiamondVision in left center. By the time I stepped off an eerily solemn 7 train and made way to my seat, a gathering of New York's Finest and Bravest were already leaving the field to a warm, but not raucous ovation -- the likes of which were not typical of Shea fans.

Notables in the crowd included Diana Ross, Liza Minnelli, and lifelong Yankee fan, former NYC mayor Rudy Giuliani. However, despite Minnelli's rousing "New York, New York" later in the evening, the celebrity presence seemed awkward and unnecessary for a night that clearly had nothing to do with showmanship. Those in attendance seemed to disagree, as each time a celebrity's face appeared on the screen, riotous applause burst from the crowd.

The once-hated Braves also were greeted warmly by the faithful, with only Chipper Jones receiving any sort of verbal acrimony. And even those half-hearted chants of "Larry" seemed to die completely by his second trip to the plate. I remember getting considerably more choked up during these moments than during the actual tributes, solely because they reminded me that no matter how poorly the rest of the world perceives New York and its fans, we are well-aware of baseball's importance as escapism.

It's just a game - one we perhaps take too seriously at times - but in the end, just a game.

Once actual play was underway, things began to feel normal - a luxury most New Yorkers hadn't enjoyed in some time. We were quickly reminded that the Mets, despite a season of struggles, were only five games back of these very Atlanta Braves, thanks to a taut 10 of 11 winning streak. Mike Piazza was clearly absorbing the emotion of the evening, having already sent two doubles rattling around Shea's cavernous outfield.

With each moment things began to settle into the comforts of normalcy, there was evidence of just how different the world had become. The NYPD and FDNY had made their way from the field back to seats behind the home dugout, which prompted a standing ovation from nearly everyone in attendance. I am proud to say that to this day, police officers and firefighters receive very similar treatment at all NY team home games. And rightfully so.

But for every moment like that, there were also the more cruel reminders of the new society we lived in. I remember seeing someone being chastised for leaving a bag under a seat while walking to the restroom. Security guards were present at every entrance, and were very active in needling "questionable" fans in attendance. World news headlines replaced scoreboard highlights and kiss-cams between innings. And perhaps most frightening of all, each time a plane took off from nearby LaGuardia Airport, fans could simply not help themselves from looking skyward with nervous anticipation.

Yes, I was one of those fans.

For all the good that a night of baseball seemed to be doing, it was clear that the outside world wasn't going away, no matter how much we wanted it to do just that. Then Mike Piazza stepped up once last time.

In the eighth inning, with the Mets down 2-1, and fan enthusiasm rapidly waning, Piazza hit a defining shot of his career. A fastball by Steve Karsay, left right in Piazza's wheelhouse, promptly found its way over the center field fence, giving the Mets a 3-2 lead which would hold up till the end.

Piazza tried his damnedest to maintain composure as he rounded the bases, but the fans weren't as controlled. Despite the thinning attendance, the cheers were as loud as any I've experienced in my 31 years. It was as if 41,000 people, after two weeks of holding their breath, finally allowed themselves to exhale.

Having just witnessed one of the most dramatic sports moments in history, I high-tailed it back to the 7 train, awaiting a long ride back to Manhattan.

Entering the subway platform, I had my shoulder bag checked twice, and had to wait a considerable amount of time while security carefully filtered the revelers on to each car. But nothing was wiping the smile from my face that night. I had my moment of catharsis.

I exhaled.

What's ironic is that it took an amazing -- but ultimately superficial -- feat of sports heroics to make the actual heroics of the FDNY and NYPD seem real. Once the joy from the game finished washing over me, and the 7 train approached the Queensboro Plaza tunnel, I took one last look at the downtown New York City skyline, and noticed what was missing.

September 11 was all too real. I finally realized this. But for the first time in two weeks, I also realized that it was okay to smile. It was okay to cheer. It was perfectly okay to start living again.

On Friday, September 21, 2001, ESPN's John Anderson wrote the following:

"There's no telling how far Mike Piazza's eighth-inning game-winning home run against the Braves flew on Friday... because how do you measure the healing power of a swing?"

Amen.

Stay in School, Kids...

2011-09-07T14:44:00.004-04:00

This is good...

This is even better...

And this is effing fantastic...

To the Heavy Metal Community...

2011-08-12T11:57:00.009-04:00

...well done.

As most of you likely know by now, Jani Lane, former lead singer of hair metal stalwarts Warrant, was found dead in a California hotel room last night. No cause of death was given, but it would take the most blindly optimistic fan to think this was anything other than drug- and/or alcohol-related.

I'm a heavy metal fan. I don't particularly like these pop-metal dinosaurs anymore. But I respect them for what they did...which makes me a distinct minority in the fan base.

You see, as with any form of music that features numerous sub-sects and levels of "extremity," there is more metal "in-fighting" than on an average Tuesday at the UN. More often than not, the brain dead portion of the community visits sites like Blabbermouth.net or KNAC.com to read the latest non-news, then engage others in deft battles of wit, such as "Metallica sucks, you suck, your mom sucks, SLAYYYYERRRRR!!!!"

Before long, these arguments lose any semblance of order and become soapboxes for racist, homophobic, sexist and all around useless diatribes.

So, when Blabbermouth -- a site that rarely focuses on the "hairspray and spandex" sounds of the 1980s -- posted news of Lane's demise, I paid close attention to see just how many times I'd read the words "suck," "gay," "queer" and "faggot" in the discussion section.

Instead I saw two traits that rarely populate the metal forums -- honesty and sincerity.

Just look:

And a few more...

No, it's not exactly a poetic eulogy. And sure, there's always going to be a few rotten eggs that start to stink whenever given a platform on which to speak. But all in all, this was a surprising -- and refreshing -- response to the death of a man who's years of pop culture relevance had long since passed.

Jani Lane is another victim of rock excess. But most of the world felt it appropriate to label him based on his addictions, rather than his contributions. Once a rock star, more often a punchline. And a cautionary tale for us all.

Yet, when a walking tragedy suddenly stopped walking, a much-maligned metal fan base -- maligned by most pop culture mainstays, I might add -- chose the high road, opting to frankly discuss the man's talents and mourn another "too-soon" loss in the music community.

When reading the same story on Entertainment Weekly's popular website, I was shocked to see some of the comments that arose:

...and it continued...

Keep in mind that ew.com caters to the poppiest of popular culture. Miley Cyrus, not Metallica. Brad Pitt, not Black Sabbath. So, when readers were given the opportunity to express sadness toward the death of someone who once helped define a genre of pop music, I expected outpourings of grief and loss. Instead, I see ignorance and -- even more dangerous -- indifference.

Kinda makes you wonder...who are the "evil ones" after all?

I realize that the jackasses who spouted poorly timed jokes above don't represent all of pop music's fan base. There were certainly some nice comments interspersed with the hateful humor. And labeling them would be no better than the labels metal fans have endured for years.

I have no disillusions about the heavy metal community, either. While most are people like me, people who like the music, and treat it as what it is -- escapism and release -- there are others who become far too literal about evil, hate, anger and every kind of "-ism" known to man.

But today, when push came to shove, and a very easy target became newsworthy, the heavy metal community spoke out with honesty and genuine concern -- for Lane's fans, family and friends.

Again, I'm not a fan of Jani Lane, Warrant or that genre of music any longer. But I respect the role they all played in helping define my current musical tastes. And, I am proud to see that there are more like-minded folks out there...people who respect life and honor accomplishment...regardless of how many down-tuned odes to the devil they have on their iPods.

Horns up with respect.

Joe Bastianich is a Horrendous Douche...

2011-07-28T11:30:00.000-04:00

No, that's it. No rant. No rave. No comment about how he has his mother's hairline. Just the fact that this unspeakable, pretentious, untalented hump has no business sharing a screen with even the worst of the chefs he's judging.

Nope. He's just a douche. An insufferable, vinegar-based, waste of oxygen.

I wouldn't be surprised to see this man featured on a commercial with soft lighting, two women and a gaggle of seagulls following them down the beach.

Nope. No rant. That's it.

(...douche...)

Thanks to Potty Training...

2011-07-23T22:49:00.001-04:00

...I would never have had the chance to say the following:

"Nice work on that poop!"
"You're not leaving until I hear some loud toots."
"That's it - no more grapes for you."
"Eureka!"
"Melysa, get in here...you have GOT to see what she just did!"

I can't wait to get this over with...

The Heatwave Diaries 4 - Mercury's Revenge

2011-07-15T12:03:00.009-04:00

If you've read my archives, you'll remember that my first few weeks of blogging were highlighted by some of the worst heatwaves ever to hit New York City. Since then, we've moved 150 miles north in search of more temperate thermometer readings.

And up until this week, we had found them (well, mostly)...

Today, I come to you wearing a sweaty tank top, boxers and a strained grimace. No, I won't post pictures of this lovely ensemble.

Being that I work from home most of the week, I figured I'd be fine with a fan blowing on me while I wrote nonsensical marketing blogs for my company. But, I'm not fine. Here's why...

6:20 a.m.: Sophia -- still glowing from her first successful potty dump -- is surprisingly chipper for a Tuesday morning. Like most toddlers, she has no problem waking up early on a Sunday, but hits the snooze on daycare mornings.

6:21 a.m.: Chipperness ends. Sophia now throwing a fit about the outfits I selected for her. Getting her dressed each morning is like shopping with three Kardashians.

6:47 a.m.: Wifey emerges from the bedroom, dressed and ready. I accompany them to the car, and make Sophia promise to continue her celebratory BMs at school, where I don't have to smell them in 100 degree heat.

7:15 a.m.: There is nothing worse than taking five steps out of a shower, only to start sweating again. I need to stand in front of a fan to dry off the residual nastiness, despite using an all-day body wash. This fallacy in advertising bothers me for nearly 20 minutes.

7:58 a.m.: Time to work. My new laptop is awesome, but in an effort to keep itself functional, every ten minutes, it expunges a burst of hot air. It's like having a fat guy breathe on your inner thigh (No, I don't actually know what that feels like...) This would be annoying in normal weather. Today? It makes me want to beat up Bill Gates.

8:33 a.m.: I usually keep the TV on as background noise while working. However, it's now proven that no one can work effectively while listening to Dog the Bounty Hunter. On a related note, I'm not going to be satisfied until every menial job in this godforsaken country has its own reality show. Because if I produce "Brad the Comma Hunter," I would bet my salary that some lifeless drones tune in.

8:48 a.m.: My boss chimes in on Skype. He works in Jacksonville, Florida, so we have this daily Skype roundup to keep us on our toes. However, instead of asking me a pointed question about my daily tasks, he just types, "So, whatcha doin?" -- I twirl my hair, grab the Haagen Dazs and let him know all about my day.

8:49 a.m.: My boss just doesn't have the same sense of humor as me.

9:47 a.m.: I just got a promotion! Yet somehow, because someone else is leaving, I will have to handle both exciting new opportunities, and tasks that I gave to this certain someone ages ago. This is like winning front row tickets and sneaking into the upper deck.

10:00 a.m.: There is a sweat outline of my ass on the couch fabric. Still more attractive than my actual ass.

11:15 a.m.: Jesus, I'm hungry. And my only non-heated cooking option is a pile of red grapes. Maybe if I pretend they're "firm wine balls" it'll seem better.

Noon: My computer just farted. Either that, or I have heatstroke.

1:22 p.m.: My cat Mookie (who the old-timers remember from the archives) is wrestling my other cat Bogey (who no one here knows yet) despite the fact that it's hot enough to make flesh adhere to microfiber. Some of you may also remember that my cats were, are, and always will be lovably retarded.

1:23 p.m.: Mookie wins by pinfall, using the always effective, "Smother the smaller cat in the place where my balls used to be" technique. Somewhere, in the kitty afterlife, Meshach was smiling.

2:10 p.m.: I'm "in a meeting" which takes on a whole new meaning when wearing nothing but mesh boxers. I've never been happier to not have a webcam.

2:33 p.m.: My boss asked me how hot it was. When I told him, he just said, "Whoa"...which is funny for a man who chooses to live in a state where the elderly go to rot faster.

3:00 p.m.: Meeting over. I'm out of wine balls. Boss unaware of my whereabouts. It's time to go to the bar.

So, other than not using this heatwave as an excuse to go to the mall, not much has changed with me and extreme temperatures. It always ends up with me drinking profuse amounts of beer.

Amen to that...

Good God...

2011-07-08T11:01:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, my daughter turned three. It was an unassuming day ... a trip to the aquarium ... a longer trip to the aquarium gift shop ... a fine lunch of fish nuggets (assumed to be the least popular performer of the month).

But, while ducking crowds and water spray that originated inside a sea lion, I looked at my little lady and realized that as much as I struggled with being the parent of a baby girl, being the parent of a little girl is going to be much, much more difficult.

Already, we've started with the tea parties. And the marathon coloring sessions. And her asking for loose change. And, of course, we all know that no matter how busy you may be, when a pretend phone starts ringing, you answer it.

No questions asked.

Happy birthday, Turkey.

A Thought...

2011-07-05T15:24:00.000-04:00

If I ever want to commit justice-free, cold-blooded murder of a beautiful, innocent child, I will make like a Super Bowl champion and head to Disney World.

Disgusting.

My Worst Date Ever...

2011-07-01T11:58:00.002-04:00

I recently had a nightmare. It was about the worst date I've ever had. Come to think of it, reliving it in a nightmare was more than appropriate. Here’s why…

Okay, to start, you need to imagine the author 14 years younger. And 25 pounds skinnier. It was the mid-1990s, so I had my hair styled like an asshole. Because that was the law.

I was attempting to grow it long, but despite having straight hair, it didn't want to hang properly, so I decided to grow out the top and shave it bald underneath, making me look less like a badass, and more like Mr. Ed's ass. Yes, the hair hung better, but whenever I leaned over, I looked like the top of a radish.

Yeah, it was hot.

Anyway, I was coming off a bad breakup…well, bad for her, anyway. Kind of a relief for me, to be honest. She was an awesome girl, but there’s only so many times you can be blamed for a urinary tract infection before you start wondering if there’s more to the accusation.

I was rebounding…and looking forward to it.

At 20 years old, it’s difficult to stand out. Being 20 years old at a college with 35,000 undergraduates made it damn near impossible. So, I gave up on fashion altogether, and chose to embrace heavy metal chic. Every shirt I owned was black, and featured some band’s indecipherable logo. (For the uninitiated, many extreme metal bands thought it best for sales and marketing to make their logos illegible in any language. To this day, I have 14 CDs that I purchased without knowing the name of the artist.)

Coupled with jeans that may or may not have been washed that week, I slicked back my hair and headed out to meet my date – a nice girl that I had slighted a few years earlier (you know, because I was just that damn cool…) In fact, this girl was so nice that not only did she agree to go out with me, but also agreed to meet me for – a Big Mac.

That’s right folks. I not only brought her to McDonald’s for a date (the lavish Applebee’s wasn’t far from there, mind you), but I also MET HER THERE. Because it was apparently too difficult to walk over to her dorm and do the right thing.

Still, she agreed. And at 7:00 sharp, we arrived nearly in tandem. She looked amazing. I don’t recall exactly what she wore, but I know she looked more beautiful than she had ever looked before. And after she looked my ensemble up and down, I’m sure she was feeling the same way about her date for the evening.

We ate quietly, laughing about the fact that our first official date was at a McDonald’s. And, as we finished our nuggets, she seemed genuinely interested in me.

Immediately after emptying our fast food trays of blossoming love, she grabbed my hand and said, “Bar.” Based on how I looked that evening, I don’t blame her for wanting to drink. But I was excited about this new found assertiveness, so I made another joke about our meal, saying how I wanted to save money to get her drunk instead.

She laughed…sorta.

I won’t bore you with the details about our trip to Terrapin Station, but suffice it to say, the dark lighting and light beer made me more attractive. With each successive drink, we sidled closer, shared a few stolen kisses and a lot of laughs, and genuinely seemed to be hitting it off. In fact, the only area where I seemed to let her down was in the fact that I didn’t (and still don’t) dance, because she kept looking over to the crowded dance floor with longing eyes.

Three hours and countless drinks later, we walked back toward the dorms. Jack-frickin’-pot.

As we approached her dorm, she leaned forward and hugged me, saying, “Thank you for a nice night out.”
Fearing that the short walk and brisk fall air may have killed her mood, I countered with, “Well, it doesn’t have to end here, does it?”

“Yes…yes it does. But thank you for helping me through a tough time.”

I had no idea what she was talking about. That is, until her friends came walking around the bend and made it very clear what she meant.

“IT WORKED!” one of her friends screamed. “He’s totally jealous and nearly punched a wall at the Station!”

Ahhhhhh…

I was the bait. I was the flunky. I was being used. God, I needed a shower.

I was about to explode with unbridled ire, but before I could spit venom, I realized that my plans for the evening were no more wholesome and genuine than hers. I got played. But in my perfect plan, she would have too. Karmic blue balls, I tell ya.

She stared at me with embarrassed redness in her face, and was about to offer an explanation, but I cut her off. I extended my hand, shook it and said, “I hope it works out for you…”

I turned around, choosing to ignore her repeated apologies from across the courtyard, and walked home. No matter how angry I may have been, the date played out exactly as it should have. For both of us.

Though a campus of 35,000 people makes it hard to establish an identity, it also provides you the benefit of anonymity. I never saw her again. And thank god for that…

...because that would have been a nightmare.

Emotional Maturation

2011-06-27T22:08:00.003-04:00

Since the theme of the week seems to be "rebirth" and "starting over" I might as well post a throwback to one of my more emotional posts. In 2006, just before my wedding, Wifey went out of town on business. And, thanks to loneliness and far too many Coors Lights, I had what can only be described as a mental cleansing.

(Need proof of the breakdown? Read it here...)

Well, tonight, in 2011, Wifey is once again out of town on business. And since the rugrat is sleeping soundly, my only company is Gordon Ramsay and this laptop. Ahhhh, Scottish attitude and Windows 7 -- just the formula I need for a night of blogging.

Tonight, I'm not going to have a breakdown. I'm not depressed or even bummed out. Tonight, I'm angry. And damn it, the crickets in this room are going to hear about it.

Five years ago, I was set off after a conversation with a family member about my (then) current financial state of affairs. I was a teacher. I was planning a dream wedding (well, it was kind of our wedding, but I digress). In this conversation, I was questioned about our spending, our move to Rhode Island and basically, our general lack of judgment.

Five years later, I've finally come to terms.

A lot has happened since then. I've returned to my original career. We're in a house (a rental, but a yard is a yard, with or without a mortgage). And we're not AS impoverished as we once were. Yet, despite this, I still found myself often cornered like a frightened animal during phone calls. I was an asshole for moving to Rhode Island. I was an asshole for not having money. I was an asshole for not traveling back home every possible chance I had, because I was depriving family of face time with my child.

Now, the only reason I'll be considered an asshole is because I will hang up the phone in utter and complete disgust.

(Quote me on it...)

I work three jobs. Wifey just took an exciting new career option. We have a beautiful child and an open door for any and all family members who want to see her. We work ridiculously hard, and play frighteningly little.

We do the best we possibly can, but like most of this country, we live paycheck to paycheck. What little cash we have left after expenses goes toward a weekly dinner at Friendly's, a few beers with friends, or some retail therapy for Wifey. We never had a honeymoon. We own two painfully used cars. We simply can't just travel for the hell of it.

I shouldn't have to explain this to family. And I'm downright embarrassed that I still have to do so, just to fend off accusations of "not trying enough."

In short, we have NOTHING to apologize for. And from this point on, I vehemently refuse to do so. The idea that we should somehow feel guilty for moving a few states away to have a better life has haunted me for years. No longer. We live in Rhode Island, not Nova Scotia. But for this ongoing grief we've dealt with, I might have to reconsider the latter.

It took me 35 years, but I finally worked up the ability to nut up, man up, put up and shut (everyone else) up. This is our life, and I refuse to feel bad for living it our way. Because, at my age, I've just about had it.

Ten Random Thoughts for a Humid and Lazy Sunday Afternoon

2011-06-26T13:18:00.003-04:00

...just as the title promised:

I can no longer hang out past 10 p.m., no matter how much I think otherwise.
Wifey is leaving for Canada (for the second time this month) in a few hours, leaving me alone with Sophia. I am terrified, and not just of the fish sticks I'm planning to call "dinner."
Today's "Sesame Street" lacks the urban grit of the one we remember from the 70s.
My lawn resembles a homeless guy's beard.
Speaking of which, our little town has a homeless guy who is typically scruffy, except for an absolutely stellar pair of feet. Just epic.
I'm now convinced that everything in my life would be easier if I was a cattlehand from Wyoming.
I actually get sad thinking about the eventual demise of Facebook.
I'm somewhat of a Noah Wyle fan. Is that wrong?
I actually can't hang out past 9:30 p.m. Please ignore my earlier estimate.
It feels good to be back.

Why Now?

2011-06-24T12:39:00.003-04:00

For the past year, all I've done is lament the fact that I can't write more often. This past week, I somehow picked myself up, dusted myself off and decided, "Damn, dude - just go do it again."

Suddenly, I have a slew of new ideas, fresh thoughts on old ideas, and most importantly, a renewed sense of confidence about my role in this whole blogging shebang. Why? Because over the last two years, I lost the plot. I felt like I needed to make every post a monster -- chock full of laughs, tears and beers -- so epic, that you all would rave about them like lyrical manna from the digital gods.

Man, what an ass I was being...I mean, yeah, some of the posts were good. And they were still "me." But they all were missing something crucial -- sincerity.

I don't know if it's a revelation or a fluke, but I have simply stopped this ridiculous line of thinking. I'm not going to get famous doing this, nor do I need to. I'm not going to "wow" people all the time, nor do I want to. I'm just going to write. Ten words or ten pages, it doesn't matter. As long as it's coming from me, and from a sincere place, then I can return this blog to where it was was just a few short years ago -- a small, but amazing community of like-minded, but very individual people, sharing their lives through prose.

I realize I'm becoming the Brett Favre of blogging. I've said I was back before, so I understand your skepticism. But this time, it feels real. Mostly because I haven't wanted it to succeed this bad since I started it in 2006...before I was married...before I had a kid...before Wifey and I moved to Rhode Island. Back when this was an outlet, not a chore.

I look forward to sharing my life with you once more.

Pardon the Dust...

2011-06-22T14:29:00.002-04:00

When a place has been left unkempt for as long as this blog has, it takes time to tidy up. Everything here is subject to change...especially the Miyagi photo.

But I feel like this change in appearance may help me get back to where this blog was in 2006...you know, when it was sorta good. Or at least bad on a regular basis.

[Mindy and India -- if you're out there, drop me a line. We're getting the band back together!]

Late Spring Cleaning

2011-06-21T23:06:00.009-04:00

Yeah, it was time we cleaned up some of this dust, no?

More to come...

Ummm...Creepy

2011-03-15T10:27:00.006-04:00

And they say there's nothing good left on YouTube.

Materials manufacturer Corning put together the above video last month, which has spiraled into near-Bieber/midget humping success on YouTube. The premise of the video is that we're about to live in an era of ubiquitous touchscreens, windows, appliances and bathroom fixtures, all using Corning glass.
Yes, it's great to see a simplified, touch screen life. But there's also a very paranoia-inducing, Orwellian feeling to what we're seeing. As one person walks along, we see giant pictures of her leaping up the walls of buildings. Why? We may never know...

Big brother is watching...and soon the rest of us will be, too.

So, This is What Starting from Scratch Feels Like

2011-03-01T11:55:00.008-05:00

Yeah, I'd say two months is long enough.

One night recently, I was sitting in bed, anticipating Wifey's inevitable "big question." For those unfamiliar with the practice, it's a nightly event that occurs while married or in a long term relationship. The bedroom is dark, the house is silent, and just as one partner is about to succumb to the blissful release of sleep -- BAM -- the other partner unleashes a question that cannot be answered in 140 characters or less.

I do this every night.

Anyway, this time, her question was valid. She asked, "When are you going back to Diaries?"

Silence.

She followed this up with, "Have you abandoned the blog?"

Silence.

But since she couldn't hear my apnea, she knew I wasn't sleeping. So she rolled over and posed the same two questions again, with no regard for my comfort or lack of desire to talk. Knowing how this was going to end, I answered her.

"Soon."

She was satisfied, and let me spend another five minutes trying to reacquire that "perfect sleeping position" that only comes around once a night.

But the question was valid. Is there a point where we simply run out of things to write about? The truth is 95% of my current job requires me to blog regularly. I blog about marketing. I blog about baseball. I blog about the marketing of baseball. So, when the time comes to address my own personal thoughts, they're usually indistinguishable from work, mired in the afore-mentioned topics.

But I won't go out like that. I have too much to say. Too many people to bitch about. Too many blog friends with whom to reacquaint. It's time to write.

For me, writing is...

An escape from life's crappiness. I spent any number of hours in school writing essays that was about something completely different than anything I was experiencing. Or essays that let me feel sorry for myself. Or essays that let me stop feeling sorry for myself, until I was ready to feel sorry for myself again.
An addiction. If I don't write something (or if I just do my editing for a while), I get depressed. It's worse if I'm writing something, and it sucks. If I don't write something good, I'm a failure. I beat myself up about it.
Something to fiddle with. Life isn't perfect, and you can't control it. You shoot yourself in the foot when you try too hard. You can piss around with a piece of writing for the rest of your life, trying to perfect it. Failing, but trying. Beating your head against the wall can feel good. I swear.
A way to say something unacceptable. If you can't say it in real life, dress it up in characters and call it fiction. Everything from sex to old resentments you just refuse to put to bed. Pretty it up enough, and people will agree with you, whether you're right or not. Justification is sweet.
A way to feel good about yourself when nothing else works. On those days when I feel like the world's worst dad, friend, lover or accountant. On those days when you just look at yourself in the mirror and feel just about ready to hock a fat one in your own eye, at least you can say, "Hey, at least I'm a writer."
The world's most luxuriant, blissfully ecstatic way to show off my one skill of finessing the words and pushing the buttons. One of those "if you have to ask" things, I guess. Usually, I'm the magician's apprentice. But sometimes I'm the magician.

I could also drink to excess on a regular basis, but I don't. I just tell myself I'm pouring out as much negativity as I can into something constructive. Letting the demons out in a small hiss instead of self-destructing. And then, there's that moment that happens every once in a while where I catch something true, and I can say, "There it is. It's not pretty. But it's honest. And maybe it was fun."

For all my absence, the only way I'm going to stop doing this is when it's not fun anymore. And sorry, detractors, but this is still fun to me.

Happy Holidays to You All

2010-12-22T10:57:00.005-05:00

This past year represented a low point for this blog, with significantly fewer posts and ultimately, less focus.

Over the course of the year, I've debated ending this blog for so many reasons, but just when I think I'm done, I always seem to find my way back in for a few more rounds of babble.

And though my readership has dwindled (hi Mom!) I still appreciate all of you who check in from time to time to see how my adventures in fatherhood, marriage, work and life are going. I never claimed this was going to be a cerebral web destination, and sure enough, I was right.

This coming year, I'll continue to deal with growing work responsibilities, professional blogging, publishing a book of my own (more on that later) and ultimately, finding the kind of time and balance I had when I started Diaries all those years ago. Hopefully, this balance will allow me to return to the blog that opened all these doors to begin with.

Thanks to you all, and Happy Holidays.

2010-11-17T13:57:00.006-05:00

Anniversary Reflections

I'm approaching the anniversary of the week in which I met Wifey. Thinking back on our courtship, we followed pretty traditional lines of "feeling each other out." (That's "out" Mom -- not "up.") But, because love is blind, I made one mistake very early on -- inviting her to come to one of my softball games. To be clear, I harbored no illusion that I was poetry in motion, nor did I give her reason to expect that I would look like Fred Astaire in cleats when I was on the diamond. The word “grace” has never been used to describe me.

When the game was over, I hobbled over to where Wifey was sitting and said playfully, “How’d I do?”

Her response?

“You run like you're hurt, Brad.”

I won’t lie...it hurt. No man wants to hear that. She may as well have said my legs were too hairy or my voice was too deep or I called out for my mommy in my sleep. But I have been fortunate over the last nine years to discover a laundry list of things she looks funny doing, too...just to even the playing field.

THIS IS A LIST OF THE THINGS I LOOK FUNNY DOING
Running
Dancing
Sleeping
Trying to look normal
Trying to look sexy
Trying to look like I'm in control
Parenting
Engaging in God-sanctioned marital congress

THIS IS A LIST OF THINGS WIFEY LOOKS FUNNY DOING
Running
Singing
Driving
Rocking out/air guitar
Imitating me
Pretending I’m sexy
Pretending she’s not sexy
Pretending to enjoy televised sports

Though she needs no more ammo from me, I'm about to give her some...(anniversary gift, perhaps?)

I’ve discovered that I look like a moron when I write. This suspicion is confirmed each time I look up from the computer screen and survey the horrified faces of those around me at work, or the library or wherever it is I find myself. Their shudders brought to my consciousness the fact that I while I’m lost in my own head, throwing fire onto the screen through my fingertips, I might present the outward appearance of someone who could benefit from a very strong tranquilizer.

I wear an mp3 player while I write, and I make no effort to contain my musically-inspired giddiness. I lip-sync with the conviction of a savant – brows furrowed, mouth agape, head bobbing. The whole bit. My face reacts to my own words in real time. If I like something I’ve written, I grin and nod in time with the music. If I don’t, I snarl and hit the delete button in time with the drumbeat.

My knee never stops bouncing, music or no music. I do the St. Vitus dance like a meth fiend.

Manners are not part of my creative process. I burp audibly. If I have a tickle in my nose, I drive my index finger up there like a nail into a board.

I am as annoying as the day is long, and I have very little published writing to show for it. But it works for me, and I'll keep doing it.

Hey -- it's still better than looking bad while playing air guitar.

2010-10-21T08:15:00.001-04:00

Made Me Laugh

There’s no egg in eggplant nor ham in hamburger; neither apple nor pine in pineapple.

English muffins weren’t invented in England or French fries in France. Sweetmeats are candies while sweetbreads, which aren’t sweet, are meat.

We take English for granted. But if we explore its paradoxes, we find that quicksand can work slowly, boxing rings are square, and a guinea pig is neither from Guinea nor is it a pig.

And why is it that writers write but fingers don’t fing, grocers don’t groce and hammers don’t ham? If the plural of tooth is teeth, why isn’t the plural of booth beeth? One goose, two geese. So one moose, two meese? One index, two indices?

Doesn’t it seem crazy that you can make amends but not one amend, that you comb through the annals of history but not a single annal?

If you have a bunch of odds and ends and get rid of all but one of them, what do you call it?

If teachers taught, why didn’t preacher praught? If a vegetarian eats vegetables, what does a humanitarian eat? If you wrote a letter, perhaps you bote your tongue?

Sometimes I think all the English speakers should be committed to an asylum for the verbally insane. In what language do people recite at a play and play at a recital? Ship by truck and send cargo by ship? Have noses that run and feet that smell? Park on driveways and drive on parkways?

How can a slim chance and a fat chance be the same, while a wise man and a wise guy are opposites? How can overlook and oversee be opposites, while quite a lot and quite a few are alike? How can the weather be hot as hell one day and cold as hell another?

How you noticed that we talk about certain things only when they are absent? Have you ever seen a horseful carriage or a strapful gown? Met a sung hero or experienced requited love?

Have you ever run into someone who was dis-combobulated, grunted, ruly or peccable? And where are all those people who ARE spring chickens or who would ACTUALLY hurt a fly?

You have to marvel at the unique lunacy of a language in which your house can burn up as it burns down, in which you fill in a form by filling out and in which an alarm clock goes off by going on.

English was invented by people, not computers, and it reflects the creativity of the human race (which, of course, isn’t a race at all).

That is why, when the stars are out, they are visible, but when the lights are out, they are invisible. And why, when I wind up my watch, I start it, but when I wind up this essay, I end it!

2010-09-24T13:38:00.004-04:00

The Wrath of Grapes

What I have to say to you today is likely to expose my catastrophic lack of couth and culture and probably some other important stuff, too.

(Quiet, you in the back...)

I don’t understand wine.

Wifey and I have some friends who are, like, BIG into the whole wine thing. They were over here recently with a couple of bottles, one red, one white, talking about each one’s “body” in much the same way my college buddies and I used to talk about chicks. Except in this case the terms “blonde”, “brunette”, and “redhead” were replaced with “syrah” and “cab” and “Bordeaux.”

It occurs to me that my strong distaste for the wine culture has something to do with the simple fact that I’m usually broke, meaning I can’t afford $25 bottles of shiraz, so I hate it as a defense mechanism. But I have tested that hypothesis many times over the years, and there’s just no escaping that I just don’t fucking get it. I can’t tell the difference between a $2 bottle of Trader Joe’s merlot and a $5,000 bottle of something spectacular made from special golden grapes that fermented underneath the taints of French royalty.

But here’s the real problem I have with wine:

People sometimes spit it out. And that’s just plain dumb.

When our friends were over yesterday, drinking their wine, they were talking about some of the wine tastings they’ve been to and about how, despite their great enthusiasm for the stuff, they’d met a man who made them look like rank amateurs.

“He was telling us about this tasting he’d been to recently,” our friend recalled, “where he tasted something like 100 different wines.”

“Did he spit?” someone asked.

“Yeah,” she said. “He spits.”

Again. College flashbacks.

I suppose I can understand the practicality of spitting wine, especially if you’re drinking that many different kinds. But times are hard and good buzzes are hard to come by these days, and I simply cannot excuse the notion that THERE IS ALCOHOL IN YOUR MOUTH AND YOU ARE NOT SWALLOWING IT.

People have died for lesser shit...well, in Ireland, anyway.

Because I don’t care for wine, I reject the whole concept of spitting (as opposed to swallowing) (which…this isn’t that kind of site, you sick pigs). It’s like, “Yes, I want the rather humiliating experience of sipping tiny little birdie-sized helpings of wine and filtering it through my teeth and trying to find notes of oak and cherries and king scrotum in it, but I’m not at all interested in attaining the requisite level of drunkenness that would make this behavior seem less awkward.”

It’s absurd. And that’s why I prefer beer.

And I swallow.

2010-09-08T11:00:00.006-04:00

The Prof's Ode to Anger

When I fall into a funk, I usually search for a little anonymous support. And in doing so recently, I was inundated with suggestions exalting the efficacy of various healing behaviors. From clinically-trained professionals, there was advocacy of the usual suspects: eat right, exercise, spend time with friends, avoid drugs and alcohol (see: deal-breaker) and so forth.

From friends and acquaintances, there were claims about the healing powers of green tea, yoga, meditation, neti pots, marijuana, auto-asphyxiation, Oprah Winfrey and medicated foot powder.

I tried a lot of those remedies but none of them worked. You know what did?

A little band called Heaven Shall Burn.

(Holiday album coming soon...)

For me, there's something primal and cathartic about putting on some loud, angry music peppered with curse words and screaming it at the top of my lungs. It feels like healing.

What's especially effective about HSB is the subject matter of their music. They're German. They're rebels. Their lyrics reflect the angst and disenfranchisement of the oppressed people in this country. They mention polarizing freedom fighters and figureheads of various causes, and their music is based largely on social justice and equality. I don't always agree with their politics, but the power and passion in their music is indisputable.

I was reminded of this yesterday while sitting in traffic. The entire world was stopped, as it is every day at that hour, and all I wanted was to go home and see my family. I was pissed. So I hit play, and on came a song called "Endzeit." It's an ugly, hateful song -- but it draws my anger out every time I hear it. I play it loud, spraying spit into my windshield as I scream and drumming my index fingers against my steering wheel. I must look like a freak to the other drivers around me, especially when I shout these lyrics:

We are...we are...we are the violent RE-SIST-ANNNNNNNCCE!
We are...we are...we are the violent RE-SIST-ANNNNNNNCCE!
We are...we are...we are the violent RE-SIST-ANNNNNNNCCE!
We are...we are...we are the violent RE-SIST-ANNNNNNNCCE!
We are...we are...we are the violent RE-SIST-ANNNNNNNCCE!
We are...we are...we are the violent RE-SIST-ANNNNNNNCCE!

Like I said: ugly, hateful, mean. But it's more legal than pot, and likely much better than auto-asphyxiation.

Thoughts?

2010-08-09T14:10:00.003-04:00

Oh, HELL YEAH...

(Talk about expanding a social network...)

2010-07-29T14:38:00.008-04:00

Something About Wifey...

It's been a while since I devoted some bandwidth to Wifey -- the woman solely responsible for keeping me sane.

(And, it's been even longer since I let her hijack this blog -- I think we're long overdue, no?)

Anyway, Wifey, Rugrat and I just moved into our first house. It's a quiet little cape cod-style that needs a lot of love (and a new fridge). It's not fancy, but for the first time since I was in high school, we have our own walls, and for that I'm thankful.

Of course, now we have to figure out new rooms, new decorating and new schedules. Hence, this post.

I share a bathroom with a woman who has more beauty products than is necessary for someone as naturally beautiful as she. Despite my incessant reminders of this to her, there continues to exist an impressive collection of bottles and sponges and sundry ointments in our shower. Seriously, ladies, chime in. How many different ways can there be to moisturize woman skin? We need to know.

Furthermore, the naturally beautiful person with whom I share this overpopulated shower has developed a habit that worsens the overcrowding. When one of the aforementioned bottles nears the point of emptiness, she rests it upside down on one of the two disproportionate, poorly-balanced shelves inside the shower.

As you can guess, this makes for questionable physics. It makes the bottles unstable and far more likely to fall over, dragging with them untold numbers of other unstable bottles, all of which land on the exposed foot of some unsuspecting showerer.

For example, me.

Yesterday I found myself in a large home improvement warehouse store looking for something to store all the clothes Wifey had deemed unacceptable for the bedroom closet. On my way down the toilet repair aisle (don’t ask), I stumbled upon a rack of Things You Hang In The Shower To Keep All Of Your Wife’s Crap From Falling On Your Feet (patent pending).

I believe the official name for this device is “shower caddy”, but I associate the word “caddy” with golf, which I love, not broken toes, which I do not love. Bottom line: I bought one.

To put it mildly, the shower caddy emphasizes function, not form. It’s not a terribly attractive accessory, but it’s certainly a lot prettier than a foot capped with five (or possibly four) gnarled, broken and bruised toes. I assumed my naturally beautiful wife would agree.

I was incorrect.

When Wifey and the spawn (which, after the following exchange, may or may not also be MY spawn) returned from wherever they were (likely out buying more moisture-enhancing creams), I positioned my purchase as something wonderful.

“Guess what! I bought you a present!”

“You did?” she said. “Yessssss! I love presents.”

“Follow me to the bathroom,” I said (which is probably not the kind of thing anyone wants to hear after finding out there's a "present" waiting, but I digress...).

As we walked down the hallways of stately Prof Manor, I told her how excited I was to give this particular gift to her. I was selling it HARD – so much so that the spawn was following the parade to see what this wonderful gift could be.

“Well what IS it?” she exclaimed.

“It’s…”

“…YUCKY!” the spawn said as she entered the bathroom and looked into the shower.

(This part was especially hurtful. My purchase was deemed "yucky" by a child who's still determining if she enjoys the nuanced flavor of potting soil.)

Anyway, this was followed by a pause.

“Oh,” Wifey said. “I…um…I think I agree with you, honey.”

For the record, “honey” was a reference to the spawn, not me, the man who has put up with her falling toiletries for 6 effing years. This pushed me into an immediate defensive posture.

“I don’t care,” I said. “I don’t care if you think it’s ugly. We’re keeping it. I don’t care. We’re keeping it. Period.”

Nobody said anything. They just looked at me with crazy eyes and walked out of the bathroom. Getting these eyes from Wifey is one thing -- it's a regular occurrence. But getting these eyes from a 2-year old just plain sucked, especially coming from a toddler who regularly slaps herself in the head on purpose, then cries as if someone had caused her to do so.

I fought valiantly, but Wifey and Soil Mouth had already move on to the next item on their busy agenda. And after three or four even more valiant attempts to discuss my gift, Wifey finally had enough, snapped at me and told me how we should discuss any and all vanity-related purchases from that point on.

A smart man would have sucked it up, gotten the receipt and used the return money for flowers or more conditioners. But while pondering the best response, my mouth leaked out the following:

"Oh yeah? Yeah? Um...Why don't you go moisturize something?"

That night, I slept in that very shower, closely hugging my only friend in the house.

2010-07-16T15:54:00.002-04:00

Memories of Keith

I’ve been writing for my baseball blog Bugs & Cranks for four years. And for the duration, I’ve focused the lion’s share of my posts on my beloved Mets. Yet, despite the natural ebb and flow that comes with writing about a bipolar baseball team — and some serious creative droughts over the years — I’ve refrained from posting one particular story.

Until now.

It’s not that it isn’t a good story — it is. It’s simply because — celebrity or not — it’s one of the most embarrassing pieces of communication of my young-ish life.

Long Island – 1993

Working in a supermarket wasn’t an ideal job for a 17-year old, even for $16 an hour in Long Island’s tony Southampton beach community. But it was my job and for that, I was thankful. Stocking shelves with milk and cream cheese wasn’t exactly going to fill my social calendar with dates, but netting a c-note each day would certainly help the cause.

The Hamptons presented a nice little backdrop for a horny teenager. Every chance I had, I would head to the sundries aisle waiting for the next gaggle of bikini-topped girls to pick up extra suntan lotion — conveniently placed on the bottom shelf, presumably by a fellow male employee.

We also found a good amount of eye candy in the beer aisle, but more often than not, these visitors were accompanied by boyfriends — many of whom originated the “waxed-chest couture” so popular in the modern day Garden State. Our green aprons just weren’t as impressive…

Anyway, on this one particularly humid Friday morning the supermarket was absolutely packed with weekend beach-goers, semi-celebrities and the usual array of old money. I was doing my best to ensure that our customers only selected the finest, freshest butter substitutes when a colleague came running down the aisle.

“Brad, get the f–k over here! Hernandez is in produce!”

Now, even in the Hamptons, supermarkets employed at least 19 people named Hernandez, so I looked at him strangely while he caught his breath, then returned to my yogurt inventory.

“Brad! It’s Keith Hernandez!”

The YoPlait could wait. Yes, given the neighborhood, seeing celebrities wander in through the automatic doors wasn’t exactly newsworthy. Hell, just a week earlier, I had spent 20 minutes discussing a new setlist with local hero Billy Joel as he sorted through citrus. And though he didn’t agree with my idea to replace “Piano Man” with a metal version of “Uptown Girl,” I appreciated his attention.

But Keith Hernandez? This was unexpected. For a die-hard fan who grew up with the masterful mess of the 1980s Amazins, this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. The man had just become nationally-known for dating Elaine Benes on “Seinfeld” and — oh yeah — may have been the best damn first base glove in the game’s history.

I needed to find him.

Leaving an entire pallet of cottage cheese sitting mid-aisle, I followed my mulleted friend around to baking goods and peeked around the corner. Nothing.

Subsequent trips to snack foods, health and beauty and breakfast cereals also proved worthless. I was beginning to question my friend’s truthfulness when there — behind a pile of seasonal fruits — stood my childhood icon.

Score another victory for the produce aisle.

It was awesome. Just 20 or so feet away from me was arguably the greatest leader in Mets’ history. He was an athlete who smoked, allegedly one of the most arrogant people in the game, and may have actually snorted up the entire first base line earlier in his career. But none of it mattered when he led — nay, commanded — those teams.

Which is exactly what I was thinking about while I stalked him around a fluorescently-lit megamart, acting like a tween chasing Justin Bieber. Flawed as he was, Keith Hernandez was still a role model to me.

And now he was sampling seedless grapes in my supermarket.

But I couldn’t just go over to him. I needed a reason — hell, an excuse. Something, anything…

Do I offer my assistance? No-o-o-o-o — too obvious. No one in a supermarket offers assistance unless you’re in a wheelchair.

Perhaps I should bump into his arm, feign surprise and then — after a few minutes of casual discussion — let him invite me over for drinks and cigars…No, that won’t work, either.

Oh yeah! Let me put one of those “wet floor” signs right next to him, then — appreciative of my concern for his well-being — he’ll make sure I don’t miss his July 4 beach party.

Oh f–k it all. I didn’t even have the balls to approach him for an autograph. Like a pre-Red Ryder Ralphie Parker, I let my head drop and walked back to my now-curdled gallons of milk. My friend went the other direction, still in disbelief that I folded from a mere glance of celebrity, clearly not understanding this man’s importance to my childhood.

After a minute of lying to my supervisor about leaving the section unattended due to “digestive distress,” I went back to stacking dairy and breaking down cardboard. All the buttermilk in the world wasn’t going to make me forget about my missed opportunity, and how I had a long way to go before calling myself an adult.

Then, as if scripted, Keith turned the corner from frozen foods and began walking in my direction. And once again, I froze. I would bet that Johnny Depp regularly gets less blank stares from obsessed teen girls than I gave to a former first baseman on this day.

But Keith was less star-struck by me. Moving down the aisle at a casual clip (and still downing handfuls of unpaid grapes) he looked right at me and said, “Hey there. What’s good today?”

Oh shit. In my current state, ambiguous questions were baaaaaaddddd news. This question could mean any number of things:

What’s good in the Hamptons?
What’s good in the fascinating world of dairy products?
What’s good for a distended colon?
Whazzzzzz gooooood, mah bruthaaa-a-a-a-a-a?

Or maybe he was just being polite. No matter what the intention was, I had my window. This was my chance to speak 1:1 with my hero. But I needed to play it cool. So rather than reply, “Not much, Mr. Hernandez, what’s good by you?” I just grinned and pointed to our advertised specials.

Unfazed (and clearly unimpressed by half-off mozzarella) he kept moving down the aisle, stopping momentarily to eyeball some other products in the cooler. I had to act quickly if I was to make good on this moment and salvage my self-respect.

I dropped my price gun and made a beeline for Keith. These 15 steps took an eternity, as I played out the scene in my head one last time. All I planned to do was say, “Mr. Hernandez, I’m a big fan. Would you mind signing this for me before you leave the store?” Quick. Easy. Unoffensive.

Well, as many of us know, ideas that form in the brain often morph during their short trip south. But, to this day — despite 34 years of regularly putting foot to mouth — I have never mangled a thought as badly as what I’m about to type. I can’t explain it, nor do I really want to know why it happened.

My simple, safe autograph request ran through the ringers of my tongue, and just as I approached Hernandez’ left side, I was compelled to lean in, and with a raspy “playground pervert” voice, say to my hero:

“Heh heh heh. I know who you are.”

Yes. It was as bad as it sounds. Maybe worse. Just thinking about it, I’m ready to call store security all over again. Honestly, this was no better than saying…

“I know where you live.”
“I’ve [chuckle] followed you for years.”
“The police tell me I can be this close, as long as I don’t touch.”
“Your old jersey looks great hanging on the wall in the windowless sub-basement I use to store sides of beef and dead hookers.”

Keith, clearly stunned by such new levels of social retardation, made the same face as a puppy who hears a strange noise, then moved slowly away from me. He’s disturbed by me. He knows I make him uncomfortable. He keeps his eyes on me, while simultaneously looking for my conversion van in the parking lot out front.

A real adult would have called to him, apologized for the miscommunication, gotten his autograph and moved on with his life. But I was nowhere near being a real adult.

Instead, I just stood there staring right back at him, never once breaking gaze until he was out of my line of sight. It was as if my brain said, “Hey, you came across as a knife-wielding mouth-breather — now commit to the role!”

And then he was gone. Dashing out of the store, leaving behind a wake of stolen grapes, missed opportunity and a shattered childhood dream.

He never returned to the store that summer. Thankfully, neither did the police.

———————————–

EPILOGUE

In 2004, I was invited to a luxury suite at Shea Stadium. When I arrived, I grabbed a beer, a free bag of peanuts and a seat. Just as I sat down, a man came in from a side entrance. It was Keith Hernandez. Apparently my colleague had some ties to the 1986 team, and Keith wanted to come say hello before reporting to the booth.

Eleven years after the above story, I finally had my chance to make this right. Fueled by Coors and a touch of maturity, I went right over to the man, extended my hand and introduced myself.

We talked for 15 minutes straight, covering topics such as Cliff Floyd’s knees, the wasted use of Ty Wigginton and even touched on some Doc and Darryl stories. Just as he was about to politely end to conversation so he could work the room a little, I said, “Hey, I met you once 11 years ago in the Hamptons. I was working at a supermarket and…”

“Brad, I really should go…right now.”

Oh, I don’t think he remembered — it was just a coincidence. But I’ll be sure to confirm that the next time I run into my childhood hero, Keith Hernandez.

2010-06-30T15:15:00.015-04:00

Home Schooling

This morning, my daughter walked by as I left the bathroom and exclaimed some toddler babble (which roughly translated to “Geez, daddy! Light a match!"). It was then that I realized sometimes the things we teach our children come back to kick us square in the balls.

I’ve written before about the persistent struggle I’ve had balancing the role of father with my desire to have college-age, irresponsible fun. I openly admit that the line between the two has at times become blurred, if not completely obliterated.

But with increasing frequency, the little jokes and colloquialisms and attitudes I’ve handed down are repeated by Sophia out in the real world, and I come out of it looking like I’m raising a feral mole person.

That being said...

Recently, when trying to teach my daughter to burp her newly-acquired alphabet, she repeated it. In her daycare. During circle time. Her teacher sent home a note that said "Sophia had trouble behaving like a young lady today..." which I interpreted as, “Your daughter is a filth-ridden pig, borne from the loins of bigger swine. And she forgot J.”

Or something like that.

Likewise, when I sat with Sophia watching the Mets game the other night (a practice she's thankfully learned to enjoy), I forgot that she wasn't even two years old, and threw in an innocent-enough line about the Twins "killing us and selling our babies for steroids."

Or something like that.

Sure enough, when Wifey got home, Sophia rattled off a line about the "Mets killed twin babies..."

Or something like that.

When I whispered to my daughter that I was going to drive us to the mall because “Mommy drives like an newborn chimp with cataracts,” she repeated the line to Wifey, who in turn advised me that my only lover for the next two weeks would require a PayPal account.

Or someth-----no-----no, it was exactly like that.

What’s a dad to do? Why don’t these frickin' kids understand that sometimes the things I say are a secret? Why can’t I tell them to “keep it real” when I leave for work in the morning without them repeating that phrase to the teacher, the neighbors, the mailman, the grandparents and the day-laborers who come by to litter our porch with solicitations for landscapers and lube jobs and “discreet” massage parlors?

(Note: Sometimes, all those solicitations are for the same establishment.)

Maybe the problem is that I see too much of myself in her behavior and the obvious takeaway from it is loud and clear: I’m immature, if not just a few steps above "emotionally stunted."

I’m not TRYING to escort her into an extended childhood, but that seems to be the side effect of living with me -- offering up my behavior by osmosis. But when I ask her to say positive things like, "Great dinner, Mommy" or "Praise be Grandma" she usually just replies with a smirk, right before blowing through a diaper and running after the cat.

So, I'm giving up trying. If you see a short blonde running around the Fourth of July parade trying to pull fingers, you'll know who it is -- that's my little lady.

2010-06-09T12:33:00.006-04:00

More Daddy Crap from the Artist Formerly Known as "The Professor"

Over the last few months, I've written (sparingly, but intently) about my inevitable decline into familyhood, maturity and all around lameness.

And as you can see, I've conceded. Perhaps a name change is in order for this site -- although that would alienate the three or four readers I haven't chased away with my dearth of posting or general lack of focus.

Anyway, if you're still on board, here's another gem about my kid:

My daughter is not yet two years old, but I am beginning to see in her certain behaviors that I have witnessed in women many-times her age. Namely, unabashed rejection of me and the gleeful, long-term possession of grudges.

Recently, when we returned homefrom dinner at a really shitty family Italian joint, I told her it was time to get into the bathtub.

“Daddy, no,” she said in a tone that was more condescending and corrective than unhappy. “TV.”

“No, turkey,” I said, adopting the tone she’d taken with me. “It’s bath time. You can watch TV tomorrow.”

(Yes, we call her turkey, for reasons far too lame to explain here...)

When I reached out to take off her jacket, she pushed my hand away like it was nothing. I gave her my patented death look, spoke a few stern words and ultimately convinced her that getting into the bath was the only way to prevent me from killing Elmo and steaming him in a pot with two cans of Coors and a fistful of Johnsonville brats.

Sophia was NOT happy, but she acquiesced because, well, as we all know, I’m stronger than the average two-year-old girl and I CAN kill Elmo. Death by tickling, indeed.

Less than an hour later, it was bedtime. I scooped my baby girl up in my arms, carried her to crib and tucked her blanket up under her shoulders. I then leaned in to kiss her cheek, but she reached out her arm and stopped my chin with her little hand.

It was at this exact moment that she whispered her first grammatically-correct sentence...

“Go away."

I hope you don't mind a little red fur with your bratwurst.

2010-05-25T09:24:00.010-04:00

Goodbye, Old Friend

Last night, Law & Order journeyed into TV's undiscovered country after 20 seasons and 456 glorious episodes. I won't even get into why this sucks, but one only needs to look as far as NBC's renewal of Minute to Win It starring Guy Fieri for evidence.

This past season brought new characters and new life to the show, but according to producers, despite improved reviews and steady ratings, it just costs too damn much to make...a touch more than Minute to Win It, apparently.

Anyway, we have 456 reruns to tide us over while we mourn, but while we struggle with our loss, it's important to remember some of the lessons we've learned over the past 20 years...

Lessons such as:

* The murderer is always the guy (or gal) you vaguely recognize. Over the years, 5,934 actors appeared in speaking roles in Law & Order, and whenever you dimly knew a face from a commercial or a supporting role in an indie film, you knew he or she was guilty.

* The plea bargain is a great civilizational advance. Without the plea bargain, our legal system would be non-functional. By my unscientific count, barely half of the cases in Law & Order reached a jury verdict - as often as not, the prosecution and the defense struck a deal, many times before the trial even began. Those pleas saved the New York taxpayers scads of money and kept the courtrooms from being gridlocked. As district attorney Arthur Branch (played by Fred Dalton Thompson) remarked to a particularly disapproving ADA, "The plea bargain is the greatest advance in jurisprudence since the invention of the guillotine."

* A good deputy doesn't flatter the boss. That disapproving ADA Serena Southerlyn (played by Elisabeth Röhm) was the only character to be fired within the fictional confines of the show. Her boss axed her because she was constantly pushing back against her superiors, to the point of insubordination. But the best deputies in Law & Order weren't yes-women. On the contrary, the show's finest ADA, Abbie Carmichael (played by Angie Harmon), often challenged her boss - not out of petulance, but because her skill set and worldview complemented, rather than mirrored, his.

* Extremism in the defense of virtue can be a vice. The only times executive assistant district attorney Jack McCoy stepped over the line were when his passions got the better of his judgment. Waterston's predecessor, Michael Moriarty (who played EADA Ben Stone) ran into similar, real-life problems. Early in Law & Order's tenure, Attorney General Janet Reno criticized the show for being too violent -- a complaint which seems quaintly naïve today.

Moriarty became so concerned with censorship and government influence that he quit the show, moved to Canada, and declared himself a political exile. He was right to deplore Reno's silly criticism. But it was a shame to lose his excellent work.

* The rigidity of form can lead to artistic greatness. Law & Order adhered to a detailed formula: every show had five acts; information was parceled out in a pattern; detectives and district attorneys acted in certain ways. Even the "da-dummm" sound operated according to a rule - it was used only between scenes indicating a transition in the story line and no more than twice per act. Creator Dick Wolf was so obsessive about these strictures that he compiled the bylaws of Law & Order into a thousand-page bible, which guided the development of each episode. Instead of stifling creativity, this strict obedience to form fostered it, much as the restrictions of the sonnet allowed some of the most artful and beautiful poetry to emerge from language.

* Without a strong central idea, all character-driven drama eventually becomes a soap opera. The key to Law & Order's longevity is that the show's main character was actually New York City. (Wolf himself has acknowledged this.) The series regulars were always just reacting to her, which both made the lead characters replaceable and kept the show from devolving into a production of who-is-sleeping-with-whom - the tedious endgame of all hour-long TV dramas these days.

* You can subvert ideological biases by framing them cleverly. There was never much doubt that Law & Order was the product of Hollywood-Manhattan liberalism. Whenever an episode focused on a hot-button topic - environmental terrorism, Terri Schiavo, abortion, cop-killer bullets - you knew where the show's sympathies lay. But the narrative point of view was that of the state, seeking prosecution of (guilty) law-breakers-which is an inherently conservative perspective. By forcing its writers to come at their biases from off-angles, the show's forays into politics were lively and off-kilter, not hectoring and dull.

* No one in Hollywood knows anything. Between advertising, royalties, spin-offs, and DVD sales, you measure Law & Order's financial contribution to NBC and its various parent companies in the billions. That's with a "b." The show's income from foreign rights alone was well over $500 million. Law & Order was, easily, the most financially successful program NBC aired in the past 20 years. Yet the show was originally supposed to be on Fox.

* But the biggest lesson of Law & Order? Justice may not always prevail, but even when it doesn't, the good guys have a scotch, go home and come back to work the next morning. That's character.

We'll miss them.

2010-05-07T08:47:00.009-04:00

Brad's Manhood...1976-2010

I realize I spend a lot of time on here lamenting the loss of my youthful, beer-mongering freedom -- now replaced by fatherly concern and 10pm bedtimes. And being that I post only once every few weeks, I'm sure it's getting a little tired for the three of you that still read my stuff.

But this needs to be addressed - one last time.

I was at a minor league baseball game last night with a friend, enjoying many $7 Solo cups full of watery beer, when a girl in her early 20s walked up the aisle. She was wearing a pair of those huge Paris Hilton sunglasses and a white cotton item of clothing one might loosely call a tube top. The word “juicy” was written on it in fake rhinestones, straight from the Bedazzler hall-of-fame (located near Akron)...

Also, based on what could clearly be seen through her sparkly dignity barrier, she was either very cold, or smuggling almonds.

It was the kind of outfit that, if it could talk, would say, “Hey, world! Look at meeee! Aren’t I hot?” And yes, I was certainly looking – but not for the same reason that all of the other nut-scratching drunkards in our section were looking.

They were thinking, “Ho-lee-shit. (Burrrp!) I’d hit that...twice.”

I was thinking, “Christ on wheels, child. Don’t you have parents?”

Something about having a daughter has warped me. There were times when I would ogle a scantily clad young woman like that just like the other goons in our section (although I would have tried a little harder to keep the drool in my mouth). That’s just what men do.

But now that I have Elmo's Biggest Fan (no, really, it's official), who isn't yet two, but will one day be in her early 20s and may want to leave the house dressed a little too provocatively, I find myself projecting my own disdain for -- and disapproval of -- such promiscuity on every young ho-bag I see, as if they were all my daughters.

As the night wore on, I kept glancing over at the legume smuggler. She caught my eye a few times and I looked away quickly.

She was thinking, “Quit staring at me, you perv. What, like you’ve never seen tits before?”

In reality, I was thinking, “Here. Take my jacket and cover yourself up. And that’s enough Coors Light, young lady. It’s a school night.”

This whole inner struggle with Juicy was ruining my enjoyment of the game (despite the fact that the PawSox were decimating their opponents). Who gives a rip about baseball when this child, who might as well be my daughter, is broadcasting her junk to 10,000 people? It was like winning the lottery and being accidentally castrated in a tragic hand mixer accident at the same time.

During the seventh inning stretch, I begin to recognize that when a man starts thinking this way in the presence of a half-naked woman, his life is basically over. It's a watershed moment, not unlike the day one first considers the upside of buying a minivan.

I’m no longer a young man who allows his hormones to run free like frisky wildebeests in the grasslands of Zaire. I’m a mere shell of the man who used to objectify women, approaching them in bars and slinging suave pick-up lines like “Your outfit would look great on the floor next to my bed...”

(OK, I never did that. But it’s my blog and I’ll lie if I want to.)

I might as well donate my groin to science and have my testicles framed as an symbolic memorial to my departed manhood. There will be an engraving that says, “Here lies Brad’s twigs and giggleberries. 1976-2010. He wasn't always a puss...”

Or something like that, anyway.

2010-04-20T14:05:00.010-04:00

How to Not be a Douche

There is an epidemic running around the world. It hasn’t killed anyone, but is afflicting morons in mass amounts, even slightly penetrating the female gender to a limited extent.

It's started with the Ed Hardy thing...a few years ago, it was trendy for snobs. Then it became trendy for wannabe snobs. Now, thanks to JCPenney, it's just trendy in a way allows even the most penny-pinching jackass-in-training to look like an even bigger schmuck.

But, rather than mercilessly mock the the unfortunate, I’m here to help.

The following tips will help you avoid joining the Massenguild -- that's right, these words can help prevent you from becoming a true douche.

Learn how to spell
Whether it is just cool to do so or these kids really have issues forming words, douchebags tend to misspell words frequently, so I’m going to help out.

To clarify, in list form:

“Fuck” is spelled F-U-C-K, not F-C-U-K. FCUK is an acronym for “French Connection United Kingdom”, a London-based fashion company (ironically, also appropriate for douches).
End plural words with an “S”
Adding a repeating consonant to a word does not make you cooler, i.e. hott or chickks

Don’t have a stupid nickname
Not surprisingly, very few douches go by their actual first name. The calling card of the majority of these pit-waxers is their moniker, usually by combining their given nickname and mix it with something completely ridiculous, like Mikey T-Bone or Johnny Hott (see above for multiple consonant douchery).

So, Joseph, you’re not “Joey Gorgeous.” You’re 21, mediocre in all areas of life, and prey on 15-year old girls. And if your friends actually call you “Joey Gorgeous”, they are as closeted as you are.

Have some depth
Douches don’t seem to have much going on for them in terms of personality. Everything they gloat about is shallow, ranging from their laugh-inspiring dance moves to how many MySpace profile views they had last month.

Psychologists term this as compensation; when someone attempts to hide their weaknesses or inefficiencies by playing up other things. Douches tend to do this quite often.

To mask the fact they are uneducated and have hit their peak, douches brag any opportunity they get.

Try asking any douche about his accomplishments in life and I will bet he’ll mention something so minuscule and shallow that you will actually be tempted to throw loose change at the sorry loser.

Besides, the laughs will be worth the effort.

Dress like an adult
Getting back to what we opened with, the Christian Audigier line, based on the work of tattoo artist Don Ed Hardy, is the “fleece varsity jacket” of the douche species. If you see someone wearing an Ed Hardy tee with its McDonald's Playland color schemes dancing around skulls, lions, crosses, or birds on it, you know that person is a douche.

Yes, it's just that simple. Of course, other telltale signs are razor burns on the forearms, a loyalty card for a tanning salon and a repeat order of "rum and diet."

The clothing rules also apply to Affliction and TapOut -- because let's face it, none of the douches who wear it are even close to ultimate fighters.

I once thought it'd be fun to just point and laugh at these failures whenever I saw them on the street, but guess what -- they thought I was cheering them on. Shocking.

Actually get laid
Strangely enough, even though they might be seen with hot women in their photos, douches rarely actually have sex with these women... they aren’t very good at getting women in bed.

Women might like partying with this vermin and occasionally will fool around with one in a drunken stupor, but a slight few will be able to actually go all-the-way.

So don’t feel inferior to a douche because you think he’s getting more tail than a zookeeper -- he’s not.

Don’t look stupid in photos
MySpace and Facebook are the mission control of douchebags on the internet. Even if you aren’t a bag, your photos on this site might get you immortalized as such if you don’t look somewhat normal.

For starters: No kissy lips. I’m tired of seeing men try to fake facial features by doing a kiss face in their photos, especially the ones who wear lip gloss to boot.

Next: No stupid hand gestures. No shocker. No peace signs. Don’t point at anyone. No middle finger. No nothing. Just sit there and smile, douche. It works.

Keep your baseball cap straight
Whether it’s backwards or slanted sideways, neither looks right on any man who isn’t halfway into a bottle of vodka.

Why though?

The only cool person I’ve ever seen with a backwards cap was Ken Griffey Jr. back in the 1990s, so since then, it hasn’t been fashionable for anyone else.

Tilting your hat to the side makes you look like you’re 13 years old or the singer of Limp Bizkit -- neither of which will get you laid...but then again, I think you know that already.

Tan naturally
There is absolutely nothing wrong with having some color to your pale skin, just make sure it’s done properly.

Even if you abide by health reasoning and use liquid or spray tanner, odds are that orange tan won’t get you any action anytime soon. I doubt any reasonable woman is going to want your tan rubbing all over her.

Or your gel.
Or your cologne.
Or your citrus colored wardrobe.
Or your "Mom, I feel not-so-fresh" personality.

Eat a bullet.

2010-04-07T11:41:00.005-04:00

My Little Godmonster

This one time when I was a kid, my Abby Cadabby got stuck in an Abby Cadabby and I couldn’t get it out for, like, an entire Abby. I mean it was completely and totally Abby Cadabby. Talk about embarrassing.

Welcome to my world as a little girl's dad.

For the uninitiated, Abby Cadabby is the latest in a line of new school Muppets on Sesame Street -- a slew of unintelligible monsters that have reduced classic characters like Bert, Ernie and Big Bird to background roles, giving them barely enough screen time to qualify for SAG credits. Abby herself is a fairy godmonster by trade, and a hairy pink beast with a wand and freckles by nature.

She's cute enough, but so was Macauley Culkin at one point, and listening to her is like masturbating with a cheese grater. Still, Sophia adores her, so I digress...

(Personally, I miss Bert...)

This is the world I live in. This is the gibberish that spews from my daughter’s precious lips. When she can think of nothing to say or no appropriate answer to a question, the default response is “Abby.”

“Honey, what do you want for lunch today?”

“Abby.”

Given the very visceral negative reaction I have to the two-foot psychotically happy godmonster with the yellow toenails and the pervert porn prepubescent voice, I am not at all fond that this is the word my child has chosen to fill in the blanks in her speech development. But my efforts to correct the problem have been futile at best.

“Sweetheart, can you please stop sticking your fingers there when I’m trying to change your diaper?”

“Abby.”

Some may say my daughter’s tendency to summon the name of her beloved in this way is merely a harmless youthful game, a pattern she’ll soon outgrow. To those people I say this: mind your own effing business.

As the example at the beginning of this entry illustrates with resounding clarity, her failure to correct this shortcoming will no doubt affect her ability to communicate, which will inhibit her chances of finding a rich doctor to marry, which will compromise my chances of retiring early, which will doom me to a lifetime writing marketing copy.

“Has anyone seen the very sharp, dangerous implement that was just sitting here?”

“Elmo.”

2010-03-23T15:03:00.009-04:00

Nobody's Fool...

You don’t fool me, Dunkin Donuts.

I hear you when you say I should go to the web address on the bottom of my receipt and enter a drawing to win $100. And I know that when I get there you’ll ask for all sorts of personal demographic information, like my address and my shoe size and whether or not I like adult movies.

And then you’ll use that information against me, spamming my email and writing little messages with cream on the top of my latte, like “Buy a pound of dark roast or we’ll tell everyone about the time you cried at Lifetime's 'The Ron Clark Story.'”

You keep your $100 and I’ll keep what's left of my pride.

You don’t fool me, Mr. Guy Working At The Mysterious Lotion Kiosk In The Mall.

I know when you approach me with a tube of lotion and say, “Can I ask you a question, sir?”, the question in question will be, “Can I squirt some of this oily fluid on your hands?” The answer is most certainly no. Forever.

I don’t do kiosk goo. For all I know, that tube holds bull semen that will turn my hands green and make me believe in fantasy things, like unicorns or celibate priests.

You don’t fool me, Mr. Advertised Goods/Services That Claims To Have Won Some Moronic Award, As If That Alone Will Motivate Me To Buy You.

When you brag to me that you’ve been voted "Best Sports Bar on the East Coast," but you fail to tell me who gave you the award, I’m left to assume that you, your fry cook, your mom, and that homeless dude with the harelip were sitting around one night over some moonshine and decided, “Hey! I know! Let’s call ourselves ‘The Best Sports Bar on the East Coast!”

While you’re at it, why don’t you also crown yourselves “The Sports Bar With The Most Batter On Its Fish and Chips, The Least Carbonation In Its Beer, and Home Of The Waitresses With The Most Facial Hair This Side Of An Italian Family Reunion.”

You don't fool me at all...

2010-03-16T13:03:00.007-04:00

Your Local Celebrity

A good friend of mine emailed me today to tell me that one of my T-Shirt Hell designs from all those months ago managed to make its way onto national airwaves.

And I'll be cot-damned, he was right. If you look carefully at the main dude in the video, you'll see he's wearing my "This T-Shirt is 100% Organic" design.

Yes, folks, I have arrived.

Yup. Your professor -- clothing the unemployed video game addicts of the world since 2008.

2010-03-10T15:11:00.010-05:00

It's a Guy Thing...

One of my favorite things about professional sporting events is watching the athletes take the field to the eardrum-eviscerating sound of manic, anger-fueled music about thunder or fire or being the only thing standing between triumph and apocalypse. Professional sports are a serious part of my life, and I’m only slightly hesitant to tell you that hearing Metallica blasting from the rafters as the Rangers take the ice makes me happy in the pants.

Yes, I just said that.

I loaded my mp3 this weekend with some of the most testosterone-fueled 80's metal ever laid to vinyl -- the ones they play when the home team takes the field or when a new pitcher comes into the game or when a linebacker sacks a quarterback so violently that you can see three little animated birds flying around in circles above his head during replays.

Anyway, it was totally working. I was sitting at my desk this morning, writing, rocking out, totally oblivious to the tedium of my daily tasks. But at some point, I felt a little tickle that signaled it was time for a potty break. As I stood up and began to walk toward the bathroom, I decided to keep my mp3 with me.

Just as I began to walk, I heard the adrenaline-driven opening gongs from Metallica's "For Whom the Bell Tolls":

“BONG!...BONG!...BONG!...BONG!...”

Those sounds were like electricity in my veins. I began to walk faster, and with a little more pep in my step. As the opening riffs crushed my eardrums, I was no longer an editor for a marketing research company. Suddenly, in my imagination, I was a professional urinater on my way to the biggest leak of the season.

And the fans were eating it up.

When I got to the bathroom, James Hetfield began to wail:

“Make his fight, on the hill in the early day - Constant chill deep inside!”

The timing could not have been more perfect. I stood in the bathroom, smiling ear to ear, imagining that I was standing atop that hill -- or football field, or pitcher's mound -- junk in hand, ready to vanquish the opposition.

"Take a look, to the sky, just before you die -- it's the last time you will!"

Yes, I took my eyes off what I was doing for a second and did just as Mr. Hetfield instructed. My apologies to the office janitorial staff. It won't happen again...

When it was over, I came to the realization that this may have been the single best bathroom break of my young-ish life. I half expected my coworkers to cheer as I returned from the rest room area, acknowledging how I had saved the day for the home team.

I washed my hands during Kirk Hammett’s guitar solo and left the bathroom triumphantly. I was the Muhammed Ali of excretion. A champion at the top of his game. The final verse came as I flushed, but nothing was flushing away the sheer joy of the moment.

Then, as I walked back to my desk with a glow that outshined any orgasmic bliss I’ve ever experienced, my mp3 started to play Sheryl Crow. Immediately, I began planning my wife's demise, as there is only one way Sheryl Crow could have found her way onto my portable media player of doom.

And back to work I went...the moment now gone...unable to share this happiness with anyone...

Except you, of course.

2010-02-25T14:05:00.010-05:00

The Long Overdue, Highly Awaited Return of the Single Finger Salute.

The supermarket nearest Prof Central finally installed a self-checkout station, presumably to make the process of purchasing diapers or condoms more anonymous for those who choose not to discuss the proper application of such items with fellow shoppers.

For those of you who live on a windfarm, the concept of the station is remarkably simple – you scan your items, you bag them, you pay and you leave.

I needed four items: kitchen garbage bags, bananas, yogurt and the latest Food Network magazine. I gathered my goods and schlepped my basket to the self-checkout station. After a thorough once-over of the unit, I felt sufficiently familiar with it and pushed the button that said “Begin Checkout.” A very pleasant electronic female voice squirted out of the machine.

“Please scan your first item,” she said.

I grabbed the garbage bags from the basket, spun the box around four or five times until I located the little bar code, and then let it hover over the airspace of the scanner. I swiped it back and forth across the scanner a few times, waiting for the beep.

“Please scan your first item,” she said again.

“I’m trying!” I said, marginally panicked.

After another pass or two over the scanner, I finally heard the beep.

“Four dollars and ninety-nine cents,” she said. “Please scan your next item.”

I put the trash bags into their own plastic bag -- something we can discuss another time -- then grabbed the bananas from my shopping basket and ran it across the scanner. Once. Twice, Three times. Four times. No beep.

“Please scan your next item,” she said.

“Shut up, you frigid bitch. I’m trying,” I said.

Growing increasingly agitated and feeling as though my dreams of a career in supermarket checking were atrophying in front of me, I continued trying to scan the nanners. Still no beep.

“Please scan your next item,” she said.

“I heard you!” I said. “Zip it!”

I put the bananas down, hoping that perhaps there was a problem with the bar code instead of the more likely problem: user error. I grabbed the Rachael Ray-laden magazine and tried scanning it, but the same dismal failure ensued. I scanned and scanned and scanned, and nothing happened.

At this point, my blood was boiling. A line of weekend shoppers was forming behind me, waiting to be similarly embarrassed by this stupid fucking machine of death.

“Please scan your next item,” she said again.

“OK, you chatty hag,” I said, throwing the merch back into the basket. “Here comes my next item right now.”

With that I rolled up my sleeve, stretched for a second, and waved my best single finger salute, right to the scanner. I shook it back and forth to make sure the evil woman inside the machine got a good look at my angry knuckle hair.

"Please scan next item."

At this point, I was on the verge of kicking puppies and stealing from the Boy Scouts out front. I leaned over the machine, practically riding it, yelling like every failed junior high football coach south of Missouri.

“Here!” I said, riding the scanner, extending both middle fingers and screaming at the top of my lungs. “Here’s the next item! Right here! Is it on sale? Huh? Huh? Huh?”

Beep.

“One dollar and forty-nine cents,” she said. “Please scan your next item.”

Ohhhhh, I don't think so. Now go do what the finger tells you...

2010-02-02T10:40:00.012-05:00

The Rhode Island Driver's Test

For those of you who don't know, I live in Rhode Island. I spout off about my true home of New York every chance I get, but for the time being, I rest my head in a little fishing town called Bristol.

And it's nice...

Except for when my fellow Rhodies decide to get behind the wheel of a moving vehicle. This morning, while trying to think of an excuse why I took another three weeks off of blogging, I ran into a situation at a four-way stop sign.

While they all stayed and stared one another down, I just made my right and went to work. Since I wasn't there, I'll never quite know for certain what transpired with those other three cautious souls. But I can assume it bordered on moronic.

The following is my updated RI road test section, regarding four-way stops.

--------------------------------

Case I - One Car

You are the only one at the intersection. This is the simplest case. First you stop [complete stop (in or out of the crosswalk), rolling stop, 25 mph stop, etc.], then you have only five options:

1. Go.
2. Hesitate, then go.
3. Wait for 3 more cars to come along.
4. Wait for 2 more cars.
5. Wait for 1 more car.

A true Driver (with a capital "D", master of four-way stops) would choose option #3. After all, they do call this a "four-way stop." Most drivers modify option #3 by adding a time limit, like 30 seconds: "Wait for 3 cars or 30 seconds, whichever comes first." This 30-second wait has degenerated into option #2, "Hesitate, then go."

Case II - 2 cars

There are a few permutations here:

1. You got there first (see below, "Complication #3, who got there first?") In this situation, just go, unless you are a disgustingly polite driver (Complication #1).

2. He or she is on your right and you're turning right. Go.

3. He or she is on your right and you're not turning right. Wait.

4. He or she is straight ahead; and he or she is going straight or turning right; and you're going straight or turning right. Go.

5. He or she is straight ahead and he or she is turning left or you're turning left. Wait.

6. He or she is on your left and he or she is turning right. Go.

7. He or she is on your left and he or she is not turning right. Wait.

Case III - 3 cars

If it's your turn, go. If not, try to imagine what can go wrong if you do go, and then go if you didn't just imagine your own death. Actually, this case is a simplification of case IV - 4 cars.

Case IV - 4 cars

There are hundreds of permutations here. But, actually, it's pretty simple. Go if it's your turn, or if you're turning right and nobody else is headed for that lane.

Complication #1 - The disgustingly polite driver

A disgustingly polite driver will wait for you even though you both know that it is his or her turn to go. I can imagine him or her stopping for a child, and waving the child into the path of a speeding semi. Such politeness confuses any driving situation. It can hopelessly muddle a four-way stop situation, unless you follow this advice:

Flip him or her the appropriate salute, and go.

Complication #2 - Which way will they turn?

Cases II through IV depend upon which way the other drivers are turning. Their turn signals may offer a clue:

1. Some people do not signal
2. Some people will turn the same way that they are signaling
3. Some people will not turn the same way that they are signaling

There are six principles which will help you sort these out:

1. You can legally assume that people will turn the same way that they are signaling, or that they are not turning when they are not signaling.

2. You can legally ram them if they are lying.

3. No witness will stick around to back up your story about whether or not anybody signaled.

4. Drivers (capital "D") do not signal.

5. drivers (small "d") do not signal.

6. All other drivers signal.

Complication #3 - Who got there first?

"Who" got there first, "what" got there second, "I don't know" got there third. Sorry, that was merely an allusion. In theory, a four-way stop is simple. The cars stopped in a certain order, and they go in the same order. In reality:

1. Some people don't exactly stop. So, when did they arrive at the four-way stop?

2. Some people stop one or two car-lengths behind the stop sign. When did they arrive at the four-way stop?

3. Sometimes two cars really do stop simultaneously.

4. Driver A thinks that driver B got there first, and driver B thinks that driver A got there first. This is a simplification of the next situation.

5. Driver A thinks that driver B got there first. Driver B thinks that driver C got there first. And driver C thinks that driver A got there first. From experience, I would say that this, along with various 4-car permutations, is a very common situation.

6. At least one driver has no clue. This has probably happened before he reached the four-way stop.

So, when there's doubt about who got there first, who should go first? Here's a handy rule: "I go first, you go second, everyone else hesitates."

My car is the one with the dents in each door.

Complication #4 - Pedestrians

Any of the above situations can be further complicated by the intrusion of any number of pedestrians. You won't see them lining up and going one at a time. They just keep walking right on through the intersection, dodging cars.

While pedestrians slow down the normal clockwork of the four-way stop, they also introduce a logical puzzle to the situation. If you are about to go, and a pedestrian walks in front of you, how does that affect the order of who goes when? Do you get to go first once the pedestrian is out of your way? Should all the other cars wait for you? Or, have you lost your place and must wait for 3 more cars to go.

This guideline should help: "If you have to wait for a pedestrian, you are now a time-bomb waiting to go off. To minimize the loss of life, you should be allowed to go first."

Complication #5 - The four-way stop starburst maneuver

This is when all four cars go at once. All four cars stop, nearly touching, nose to fender. And, nobody can go forward. The driver who backs up loses all respect from his or her family. Besides, the next four cars have gone forward by now. So no one can back up, if he or she wanted to. The four-way stop has now achieved critical mass.

The only solution is for one car to be removed, sideways, by a forklift. I'm sorry to say that I've never seen this done. I understand this is very popular in Europe, at all kinds of intersections.

Four-way Stop Theory

Einstein's theory of Special Relativity says, among other things, that two observers, travelling at different speeds, cannot agree on when something happened. In fact observer A may say that event X occurred before event Y, while observer B may say that event Y happened first. And both observers are right. This leads to the "four-way stop paradox."

A theory that seems to have even more to say about four-way stops is Natural Selection.

Addendum #1:

I have finally figured out what is wrong with the four-way stop concept. It is not that the four-way stop is a drivers' IQ test that is too difficult for all of those drivers who have not yet mastered the green light concept. Instead, it is that the four-way stop is an IQ test that these drivers are encouraged to flunk over and over again, forever.

I recently was stopped behind a person who stopped at the four-way stop, let six cars go ahead of her, and then went. Also recently, I was the third car to a four-way stop, and the first car wouldn't go (waiting for a fourth?); we out-waited him, and he eventually went.

Addendum #2:

I received email saying that not all states have four-way stops. That sounded like heaven, until I read further about the four-way yield! I hope they give out drivers' manuals at the border.

I recently almost saw a three way accident at a four-way stop. A car was the first of three cars at the intersection. The driver hesitated, and then went. And all three cars nearly collided. The hesitation sent the wrong signal; it said "go ahead" to the other drivers. A more forceful approach would probably have been less dangerous.

Clearly, any driver who goes (whether he/she actually has the right of way or not) must be prepared to stop. But so many drivers seem to be trying to divine the other drivers' thoughts, when they should just go in the order in which they arrived.

I should also write about "Uncontrolled Intersections." These are intersections with no stop or yield signs. There are several amusing ramifications (ways in which cars can ram into each other), such as "I got there first," or "I'm on your right, buddy," or "I'm in the through street," or "I'm King of the Road," or "Honking is better than brakes."

Addendum #3:

I recently saw a new trick at a four-way stop. A driver held up his hand (in traffic cop fashion) to encourage me to stop. I was going about 2 mph, and was coming to a stop, which should have been obvious to him. So his gesture seemed stupid to me. But that might actually work.

I also saw a U-turn in a four-way stop intersection (read that again), with two cars waiting. Stupidity = Creativity!

It seems that many drivers are trying to make eye contact with each of the other drivers. This is a sort of validation: "Yes, we all acknowledge that you exist, and therefore you can go now." This is also why I wear dark glasses.

So, the lesson learned here is simple -- next time you come to visit me in RI, take the train. Or better yet, wait for me to go back to New York.

2010-01-06T13:09:00.008-05:00

Acceptance

Let me begin this post by saying that I am a born and bred New Yorker. I spent time in DC, and now live in Rhode Island, but there will always be a part of me that just buzzes like the Big Apple.

That being said...

...it has recently come to my attention that I am becoming white trash. I have tried extremely hard to compartmentalize the various actions that have led me to this self assessment and explain in turn, but there's really no point. You be the judge:

---------------

1) I store things in my hallway

On most Sundays, I can be found sitting on a local barstool, watching football and drinking beer. All this merriment goes down as scheduled, when I should be cleaning out our (shared) hallway.

Instead of using said hallway for more conventional practices, like "walking from one room to another," I use it as a storage space, filing cabinet, entertainment center, and -- on one steamy August night -- an -- um, nevermind.

(Oh, how I love Coors.)

In between the piles of boxes, bins and crates -- which hold stuff we don't want, need or use -- , I have debated hanging an old dartboard, some sports posters and a baseball jersey from my alma mater, the University of Maryland. Hell, I even have an old TV there. It’s at once a comforting oasis and a source of catastrophic embarrassment for Wifey.

The only things that could make it a more euphoric inbred haven are a calendar featuring naked women (holding power tools) and a bug zapper.

Dare to dream...

2) I sometimes let my daughter run around wearing just a diaper

I know this to be the cardinal sin of middle-class parenthood because I'm convinced that more than one of my neighbors has called Child Protective Services. They see my baby girl bopping down the hallway with one of the Velcro straps on her organic Huggies unfastened and they automatically assume I’m spending her wardrobe allowance on beer and Corn Nuts.

I think the child is just showing some independence. Anyone who has ever tried to put one-piece pajamas on a toddler knows it’s like trying to stuff a giddy ferret into a sandwich bag. By letting her run around in a diaper, I’m saving my own sanity and helping her to get a nice base tan for next summer.

At least that's what I tell the neighbors.

5) We own two cars, both of which are broken to some degree

My much-maligned Volvo has, in no particular order, a broken hood release, squeaky brakes (new ones, I might add), a homemade touch-up paint job, an overzealous exhaust pipe, weak struts, fender scratches and feline leukemia.

My Cherokee sounds like Kathleen Turner.

Normal people have these kinds of automotive issues corrected, either with some good glue, window tint or a trip to the mechanic. White Trash people do not. I rest my case.

I could go on, but I won’t.

Besides, I hurt my finger this morning while fixing the leafblower, and the masking tape keeps coming loose.

2009-12-29T15:54:00.003-05:00

So, How Were Your Holidays?

Chances are, they weren't as good as this kid's...

PS -- I kinda like my Xbox, too...

2009-12-23T20:12:00.003-05:00

Merry Christmas, Friends...

I'm on my way to NY for a quick family holiday, followed by a quicker turnaround. I'll be in touch soon.

Be safe, and spoil your better halves, kids. They deserve it.

Cheers,

2009-12-18T13:56:00.014-05:00

Editing the Yuletide

In my new job as an editorial director, I deal with a lot of people who think they know how to write. They can't, mind you...but god bless 'em, do they try.

Imagine my excitement this morning when opening my inbox and seeing a mere one email -- clearly labeled, "Re: Xmas Humor FUNNNNYYYY!" from one of my colleagues.

Though my normal reaction to such an original subject line would have been to drop that email directly in my "New Jersey" folder (formerly known as "The Recycle Bin"), I let my love of the holidays get the best of me.

The joke went as follows:

Q: What do you call Santa's Helpers?
A: Subordinate clauses.

Oh dear, could someone help me clean up all this milk? Of course, I had to reply. I hit the button and started typing,

Dear Bill,

What exactly is a subordinate clause?

Brad

Twenty minutes later, I get an email back...

Shut up.

Now, any decent human being would have accepted his "Shut up" as a concession and let him return to writing Oprah's next best seller. But I'm not one, so I pressed forward.

Bill,
After spending a few minutes pondering your reply, I determined that you may not actually know what a subordinate clause is. And since you're clearly too proud a man to take five minutes searching the internet to actually find out what a subordinate clause is, allow me to offer you a clear definition of the rule:

A subordinate clause—also called a dependent clause—will begin with a subordinate conjunction or a relative pronoun and will contain both a subject and a verb. This combination of words will not form a complete sentence. It will instead make a reader want additional information to finish the thought.

Hope this helps,
Brad

The next hour went by without any further mention of the subject. I went about my day, and actually started to feel guilty about punking the guy on grammar, especially since all he really did was try to give his editor a little holiday levity. Maybe I came across a little too heavy handed on the guy -- don't want him thinking I was being a schmuck to him in the name of syntax.

On the way back from Subway, I decided to write the guy an apology and say I was just busting some grammatical chops. But all of that goodwill left me when I got to my desk, and read the following:

Dear Brad,

Haha. Thanks for letting me know. Of course I know what a subordinate clause is. And I promise I will never end a sentence with one.

Bill

God, I hate firing people so close to the holidays.

2009-12-08T15:01:00.010-05:00

To the Beer Snobs of the World...

What the hell? There you were, in my house, eating my sandwiches and watching my TV when I offered to get you one of my beers -- which, by the way, were in my refrigerator. You could have simply taken it, offered up some gratitude and nursed it like you did your mom's left one till you were nine.

But nooooooo...you had to bring down the party with your patronizing, self-aggrandizing nonsense.

"What is that, Miller Lite? No, thank you. I don't drink beers that aren't imported."

Slap yourself in the carotid...twice.

Sure, I love a good pale ale or stout every now and then, and there's nothing better than some fine German ales. Beer, after all, is beautiful for its many flavors and styles. Frankly, it's one of the most beautiful things in the world.

Especially if it arrives in a 12-pack that costs eight bucks and comes with a free neoprene bottle koozie.

I like you, and somewhat value our friendship. But if you think I'm going to drive thirty miles to the one liquor store in the region that carries Mooseknuckle Cherry Wheat Lambic, you're sorely frickin' mistaken.

There's something inherently great about modestly-priced (as you'd call them, "cheap") beers. They have enough body and flavor to make any sporting event or reality show better. Likewise, I don't have time to focus all of my attention on the specific attributes of the particular beer I'm throwing back, especially when my attention's supposed to be on the effing game.

I'm sure your beer is adequately hoppy. And, per your suggestion, I'll be sure to try it with a hearty grilled trout. But until then, please excuse me while I rewind the DVR so I can attempt to see that important touchdown...again.

I know that you know a lot about beer. And yes, your taste buds are superior to mine in every way possible -- advanced enough to tell the difference between a beer brewed in Germany and a beer brewed in western Germany.

Very impressive. A pair of goosesteps and golf claps for you.

But today, you're at my house, not singing "Edelweiss" at some pretentious suds parlor with long tables and comically tall mugs. Therefore, you don't get a choice. And there's absolutely no excuse for looking down your nose at a free beer being offered to you, even if it wasn't handcrafted by Aryan chemists.

In short, expect silver cans and/or clear bottles whenever you attempt to take advantage of my hospitality.

Today, your beer snobbery has permanently ruined the football game we were watching. I suggest that you go grab something to eat, before this gets any worse. What's that? Something wrong with the sandwiches?

Oh, you don't eat Oscar Mayer, huh?

2009-11-30T13:35:00.001-05:00

If Only...

2009-11-24T08:17:00.004-05:00

The Holidays Revisited...Ummm...Revisited...

Today, as we are fast approaching a nationwide tryptophan coma, I've decided to reprint one of (what I think was) my better posts on this humble little slice of internet paradise.

For the old-timers, I hope you don't mind re-reading. For the newbies, this is a pretty good idea of what you can expect around here. Besides, I put some thought into this one and think it warrants another go-round.

For anyone who thinks this time of year is a little too hectic and overdone, this one's for you...

-----------------------

Kenny Rogers once said through the power of country-fried pop that "Christmas is for kids..." To that, I say, "Eat it, you facelift-scarred hick." Christmas is for everyone, and though it seems to start earlier and earlier each year, it still seems like it comes and goes too quickly.

By early January, gifts have been opened, Dick Clark watched another ball drop in Times Square (heir apparent Ryan Seacrest is still waiting for his balls to drop, but I digress...) and everyone seems to be getting back to the drudgery that is the upcoming long winter season.

The bad part about this is that even though the first thing people think about when they hear "winter" is "Christmas," the actual holiday only takes place a mere four days after the solstice. Snowmen, sleigh rides, cozy fires? Christmas, Christmas and Christmas. After the new year, the only things "winter" brings to mind are icy roads and numb feet.

Humbug, indeed.

It's over too quickly. Which is why I spent my (admittedly) long vacation trying to fix it. I've devised a plan to rethink and rearrange not just Christmas, but all the year's major holidays, to ensure that warmth and cheer never ends too soon, or outstays its welcome. By following my plan, each month will have a day to celebrate, gifts to receive, etc etc etc...

Join me, won't you?

---------

January - Since everyone already enjoys a relaxing, hungover New Year's Day, we'll leave that alone. But the other holiday of note this month is on the 19th, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. Though not a holiday in the traditional sense, this day of observance is routinely recognized by schools and public offices, but not celebrated by many others. This needs to change.

Dr. King was an advocate not just for the rights of African-Americans, but for all civil rights -- the rights that white people, black people, and Nia Peeples all enjoy each and every day. Because of this, we should celebrate the man, not just what he said. How? Through a a paid day off for all, and a large, communal meal amongst friends and family. We will incorporate the cuisines of at least three different cultures, celebrating our commonalities and our differences. The time honored tradition of breaking bread to bring people together would be an ideal celebration of the man and his ideals.

Alone? Fret not, my socially-awkward friends. If your refrigerator is anything like mine, it won't be hard to throw together a dinner of cheeseburgers, tacos and pork lo mein -- a low-cost, cross-cultural extravaganza for your senses and sensibilities.

Dr. King wouldn't have it any other way.

February - This is the big one. So big, that it needs to be broken down into two sections:

1) Valentine's Day - Alright, let's just clear the air. Valentine's Day is a fabricated crock of pablum. It means nothing to anyone. Men hate it. And if a holiday encourages feelings of hate, it should be eradicated. Think about it - if you're in a relationship and your significant other doesn't know you love them by now, a Whitman's Sampler certainly isn't going to change that.

Likewise, if you're currently (or habitually) alone and just use this day as an excuse to whine about your singlehood, wear black and pound a quart of Haagen Dazs, you don't deserve a holiday either. You'll still be alone tomorrow, just with more fat and less good cholesterol. Time to invest in a new personality or a nicer car, whichever is more convenient. V-Day is out...

...which adeptly leads to my big proposal...

2) Christmas - Yes, my friends, I'm (partly) sober. And I'm serious. Christmas needs to move to February, wiping away mid-winter depression and eliminating Valentine's Day, all in one gleeful shot.

In addition to being a better expression of love than a heart-shaped greeting card ever could, Christmas in February would create a nice stretch of breathing room after the gluttony of Thanksgiving and the debauchery of New Year's. It would also warm up a normally dreary winter season by spreading the jubilance of Christmas from New Year's Day forward, rather than by stealing the thunder of Halloween and Thanksgiving - two legit celebrations that seem to shrink under the weight of December yuletide.

If you think about it, Christmas is less about ending a year than it is about birth and rejoicing the times to come. By moving it to February 25, a cold gray winter would be thawed by lights and holiday colors, which would then give way to spring a few weeks later. Celebrations would ensue and wars would end. This needs to happen immediately.

March - If you read my stuff, then I'm going to assume you drink a lot. Good. Under my plan, your post (February) Christmas depression will be short-lived, because I'm combining the three best drinking holidays into one four-day bonanza of booze.

First off, St. Patrick's Day - long considered "amateur hour" by alcoholics everywhere - will be moved from March 17 to the second Friday of the month. By moving it to a set date, it not only kicks off a long weekend, but it also doesn't interfere with the mid-week drinking habits of lushes who also consider Friday to be "amateur day."

More exciting is that St. Pat's will actually be the new beginning of Mardi Gras, which has now expanded from New Orleans to every bar in America. From Friday until Monday at midnight, revelers across the nation will drink like freshmen, celebrating Ireland, Catholicism, crawfish and voodoo, in one extended weekend blowout.

All this revelry ends on the newly-named Cinco de Marcho. Though it's not going to actually fall on the fifth of the month, most people who celebrate this day don't even know what the significance is anyway. Mexicans, feel free to call in sick...

And if you don't drink? Stay home and enjoy a long, quiet weekend, since most everyone else will be out destroying a different part of town.

April - Once and for all, Easter is getting a permanent date. I think last year we celebrated in mid-July, which is largely prompting this change. From now on, Easter is the second Sunday in April. Period. No confusion, no fuss, no stale chocolate eggs.

And speaking of which, Easter will no longer be a diabetic nightmare. Say hasta la bye bye to your Peeps, because Easter baskets will now contain toys, games, cash or iPods, and EVERYONE will receive them - not just children. Enough time has passed since Christmas to justify another gift giving, big mealed holiday.

(Also, no more cellophane grass. Just because...)

May - Mother's Day is sufficient and appropriate. As is the day off for Memorial Day, the official beginning of summer fun. The idea of a month celebrating both the people who fought for freedom, and the people that fought through childbirth is perfect. Motherhood and patriotism...an ideal combo.

May is a model month for holidays. Other months, take note.

June - Ditto for Father's Day and Flag Day. Only this time, remove the term "through childbirth" and add the words "to impregnate."

July - The Fourth of July is a great holiday. Fireworks, barbecues -- a real slice of pyro-Americana. However, 2 1/2 months have passed since we all received gifts, therefore I propose we add an exchange of reasonably-priced, independence-themed items to the mix. American flag boxer shorts, U.S. map shower curtains and nail files baked into prison cakes are all acceptable for the occasion.

August - This is the only month of the year that currently has no major holidays. And if you've read this far, you know I'm not going to stand for it. Since we've already had two big barbecues on Memorial/Mother's Day and Independence Day, we're going to have to be more creative with August, possibly moving a lesser holiday into this slot.

After much thought (you don't know how long it took me to hit "enter"...) I've decided that as the hottest time of the year, the end of the summer is perfect to celebrate science AND prepare kids for the upcoming school year. How? By turning Earth Day into a fun-filled and educational Friday off.

Parents can teach their children about scientific anomalies, such as beach erosion (suntan lotion makes sand stick to flesh), gravity (aggressive volleyball makes breasts undulate), and so forth. Learning is fun, and now August is too.

September - Labor Day is an okay holiday. But for many, it's really just an indication that summer is over, school is starting and it's now necessary to warm up the car a little longer. Barbecues have been done to death, and once again, a few months have passed since last exchanging gifts, so let's welcome in Fall and celebrate labor by buying stuff.

To keep the meaning intact, while opening your new Wii, think about the hard working Americans who imported it from Japan to make the magic possible.

October - A big and busy month, to say the least. Since Columbus Day does nothing more than cause friction between Italians and the rest of the community, we're going to ixnay the celebration and just require everyone to try and eat some Ronzoni.

However, Halloween is another story. This is a great holiday that needs to revert back to the days of yore -- to a time before fear and soccer moms turned trick or treating into "let's chaperone a mid-afternoon party" Day. Is anyone even still putting razor blades into apples anymore? Yeah, I didn't think so.

The best way to make this fun again is to move Halloween to the last Friday of the month. Nothing spells "buzzkill" more than having to get home from candy-mongering because it's Tuesday and you have homework. This eliminates the issue entirely. Adults, of course you'll have the day off to prepare for the night ahead.

All households will now receive a candy ration from the government, broken down by neighborhood. Street names beginning with A-M will receive rations of candies that are either chocolate (Hershey's, Snickers, Reese's) or chocolatey (Charleston Chew, Tootsie Rolls). Streets from N-Z will offer pectin-based fruit candy (Starburst, Jolly Rancher, Skittles). Numbered streets and avenues will be provided with miscellaneous items, such as nuts, mints, gum, McDonald's gift certificates and whatever the hell a Mary Jane is supposed to be. This ensures that kids get to visit multiple neighborhoods and expand their bounty tenfold.

Any household that does not participate will be fined the full post-tax cost of the candy ration. Additional fines are levied for any house that hands out pennies, granola, toothbrushes or little Christian notecards explaining why Halloween is evil. Jesus would have loved to receive free Almond Joys, if someone would have just allowed him to do so.

Other rules of note:

1) If you are 5 or older, trick or treating begins at sundown, and not a second sooner. Exceptions are made for smaller children who may have trouble staying awake for the festivities. Everyone capable of controlling their bodily fluids must adhere.

2) All trick or treating must be done in costume. This includes parents, guardians or older siblings. Without costumes, Halloween is really just begging, and no one likes that. If you are the one handing out candy, being in costume when you answer the door will give you a 5% bonus return on your taxes.

3) If you are 15 or older, trick or treating must cease immediately. Get a job, support the economy and buy your own candy. If you simply can't give it up (and I know it's difficult) then make plans to chaperone sibs or younger friends, and pilfer their stash.

4) Under no circumstances are you to offer any candy that is "fun-sized." There is nothing fun about a Milky Way experience that ends in one bite. All government rations will be full-sized, and any additions you make must be as well.

5) On the Saturday following Halloween, all leftover candy is to be collected and returned to a local drop off site, where it will then be distributed to families in need, who were not able to have a holiday of their own.

So let it be written...

November - Getting back to the original point of this post, Thanksgiving is too often considered the official kick off of the Christmas season, instead of standing alone as its own celebration. Stores even open late on Thanksgiving night to get a jump on Christmas profits, catering to weak-willed people who should be home digesting, rather than fighting for the last Fondle-Me Elmo.

This is all especially ridiculous considering most malls actually begin Christmas season right after Halloween. By being sandwiched in between the two, Thanksgiving is seen as nothing more than a tryptophan speedbump, rather than a major holiday. This too, shall change.

Thanksgiving will remain on the last Thursday in November, but will now stretch to encompass the entire long weekend. Rather than everyone trying to cram a week's worth of food and travel into one Thursday afternoon, celebration dates will now be determined by the host's initials.

For example, if your cousin is hosting, and her last name begins within A-E, then you travel and celebrate on Thursday. Letters F-M celebrate on Friday, and so forth. This not only alleviates the endless Thanksgiving traffic and flight delays, but also affords you the opportunity to celebrate up to four times per holiday weekend without looking like a mooch.

Of course, everyone will be off for all four days of Thanksgiving, as well as the following Monday...just so we can all relax before returning to work.

December - And so it comes to this. First, if you've made it this far, I thank you. You're a true Diary-head (yes, I call you that) and your readership of these rambling diatribes is much appreciated. Happy new year to you all.

By now, we've managed to space out all of the year's holidays, and have already moved Christmas to a more reasonable month. But with the gingerbread on hold until February, how are we to properly celebrate the penultimate month of a calendar year?

By celebrating the calendar year, dumbass...

New Year's, to me, (and I'm sure I'm not alone) almost seems like an afterthought. Christmas is so big, expansive and exhausting that aside from a few knocks of champagne, New Year's really just signifies the end of a short vacation. Sure, we party with friends, wear funny hats and drink more than we should, but we all know that the goodwill and group hugs come to an abrupt end once we return to work two days later.

The year is long. Twelve months, 365 days, countless hours -- let's give it the sendoff it deserves. Nothing would allow us to better celebrate the end of a year, and the welcoming of a new one, than a full week's worth of celebration. Yes, I said a full week, and yes, it will culminate in a ball dropping in New York City. These elements are fine.

But the rest of the week leading up to it should reflect all of the holidays that preceded it -- and the caring and emotions that coincide with them. For seven straight days, all people, regardless of religion, color, ethnic background or favorite flavor of Kool-Aid should come together for a party.

We will exchange year ending gifts...like Christmas...
We will reflect on any and all good fortune...like Thanksgiving...
We will drink heavily...like March...
We will honor those we have lost, and raise a glass to those whom we'll gain...

And on Jan 1, we will relax and welcome in a new year, taking heed of everything we have, while looking forward to another festive, joy-filled year to come, full of holidays, memorials and celebrations.

...if everyone follows my plan.

----------

Thanks for hanging out. I'll talk to you soon...

2009-11-19T13:39:00.010-05:00

Classic Rock, My Ass

I'm 33. And on the wrong side of 33, at that.

Yet, for some strange reason, I still feel an inherent need to defend the youth of America, as if it was 1993, and I'm back behind a closed bedroom door, throwing metaphorical middle fingers to my parents, teachers and everyone else who was trying to "keep me down."

Every time I see my dad, he reminds me of how bad today's music is, and how much better things were when he was a spry young teen with smokes rolled in his t-shirt, listening to the alleged classics.

I call bullshit.

Yeah, most of today's music eats a bag, but let's be realistic about the lyrical prowess of our forefathers. Pop music was, is and always will be full of trite, meaningless prose that speaks to no one.

So, for everyone who thinks music died with Bachman-Turner Overdrive, I give you the following examples of why you're wrong.

Take that, grown-ups and the establishment.

-------------

"Suckin' on a chili dog, outside the Tasty Freeeheeeez..."
"Jack and Diane" John Cougar...Mellencamp...Cougar...Newton-John

This song is so bad, it makes me want to launch a brush fire at Farm Aid. If I ever write a song about how I met Wifey, it's certainly not going to include all the details about how I never spent much money taking her to dinner.

"Tonight there’s gonna be a jailbreak...Somewhere in this town"
"Jailbreak" - Thin Lizzy

There's gonna be a jailbreak? Somewhere in this town? You don't know where? Maybe we should start by checking out the jail, Magellan.

"And no one heard at all, not even the chair."
"I Am ...I Said," Neil Diamond

To be fair, though -- the chair has been oblivious for years.

"Having my baby, what a lovely way of saying how much you love me..."
"Havin' My Baby," Paul Anka

Featured on a recent episode of "Glee," this line makes about as much sense as a Stephen Hawking workout video. Having a baby takes a lot of things...courage...strength...commitment... but if love was a requirement, Maury Povich would still be doing traffic reports for AM radio.

"If you see me walking by and the tears are in your eyes, look away, baby just look away..."
"Look Away," Chicago

Let's be clear -- I could have done this entire post based on lyrics sung by Peter Cetera. But let's avoid the calculus involved with "25 or 6 to 4" and focus on the band's dark(er) period -- 1982-89. During this stretch, a band comprised of 15 guys and a horn section managed to write the same single 10 times. Every version they wrote covered the low points of love, romance and heartbreak, in ways that would make Celine Dion wince.

I'd discuss the specific lyric here, but do I really have to? Speaking of the Windy City...

"Coast to coast, L.A. to Chicago..."
"Smooth Operator," Sade

Forget that puddle to the right of the blue states. Everyone knows that the real eastern seaboard lies on the glistening shores of mighty Lake Michigan. I have no idea whatever happened to this lyrical wizard, but something tells me she now works for Mapquest.

"Only time will tell if we stand the test of time"
"Why Can't This Be Love," Van Ha/len/gar

Really?

"If I was a sculptor...But then again, no..."
"Your Song," Elton John

I'm touched that a man who was recently knighted by the queen of England, would dedicate a song to me -- little ol' me -- and then proceed to sing about all the professions he chose not to pursue.

"Someone left the cake out in the rain...And I don't think that I can take it...'cause it took so long to bake it...And I'll never have that recipe again...
Oh, no!"
"MacArthur Park," Richard Harris

Apparently, this is a metaphor about love. Much in the same way "Purple Rain" is about treating women properly.

Of course, the grown-ups have a point about some of our music...

"Young black and famous, with money hanging out the anus."
"Can't Nobody Hold Us Down," Diddy

2009-11-17T10:37:00.005-05:00

It's an Honor Just to be Nominated...

Normally, I try to avoid these little awards, but I like this one (not to mention the fact that the girl who gave it to me has done a nice job shilling my little "comeback"...)

I'm working on something new as we speak, so stay tuned. And for anyone who made their way over here from Red, Red Whine (or her extensive list of affiliates), welcome! I hope you'll enjoy some punch and cookies.

Until we speak again...

2009-11-13T09:40:00.008-05:00

Guilty Pleasures...

For those of you who don't know me so well, I kinda run this weekly Friday game on Facebook. It's nothing more than a "Top Ten" for the masses, but it's harmless fun and usually provokes some interesting side conversations.

(Oh -- by the way -- if you haven't already, we should totally connect on Facebook, homeslices. Email me for contact info so I don't post my vitals on here like a spam magnet.)

Anyway, today's Friday game brought about an old classic -- guilty pleasure songs. Within minutes of me changing my status update, I was flooded with throwbacks so guilty, they should be hidden in the basement next to old holiday decorations and that teenage runaway you found upstate last summer.

I'll shut up now, but for fun, here's my list, complete with explanations. Your comments are encouraged...

1) Phil Collins -- "Groovy Kind of Love" -- I was in the 6th grade, and falling madly in love with the girl who gave me my first real kiss, Cheryl K. No other song of the time captured the sheer heart-wrenching emotion that the former Genesis drummer evoked with this ballad.

2) Kajagoogoo -- "Too Shy" -- Show me a person who claims they've never sung this song to themselves, and I'll show you a liar.

3) Van Morrison -- "Brown Eyed Girl" -- One of the greatest Irish folk rockers of the modern day, and the only song he'll ever be known for is this trite piece of crap...but just TRY and stop humming it.

4) Queensryche -- "Silent Lucidity" -- The greatest Pink Floyd song that Pink Floyd never wrote.

5) RUN DMC -- "My Adidas" -- During a 'make or break' time for the development of rap music, the Kings of Queens wrote a song about their gym shoes. Brilliant (sarcasm is "on") business move that nearly spelled the end of the band.

6) The DiVinyls -- "I Touch Myself" -- One of three classic strip club anthems on this list that
remains burnt into my subconscious to this day.

7) Napalm Death -- "Twist the Knife Slowly" -- There is nothing better than a Napalm Death show...It usually goes like this: "GROWL-BLURGH-GROWLGROWL-BLURGH!!!!!!! (Chorus:) BLUUUUUUUURRRRRRGGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!...Thank you all....for our next song, we'd like to play......."

8) The WWF "Degeneration X" Theme Music -- No better music on earth for working out, getting ready for a fight, or having back alley hooker sex....with the sole exception of....

9) The "Rocky" Theme Music -- DUN-dun-dun-dun-dundun-DUN-DUN-DUN....Just try and not lose control of your man- or womanhood while gyrating your hips to a 70's synthesizer classic for the ages...

10) Motley Crue -- "Girls, Girls, Girls" -- Strip club anthem #2, and arguably the most testosterone driven piece of hair metal every to come down the Sunset Strip...In junior high school, more of my friends lost their virginity to this song than any other....Me? I was a big mush in the junior high bedroom (see song #1)

11) Joe "Bean" Esposito -- "You're the Best" (Montage music from the tournament scene in 'The Karate Kid') -- If I even have to explain this, then you're not worthy of seeing the rest of my list...(An honorable mention goes to Survivor, who, besides their obvious "Rocky" success, made the music for the end credits of both KK1 and KK2...Is there any band better at capturing the "underdog saves the day" moment better than Survivor? Me thinks not....)

12) Ministry -- "Jesus Built My Hotrod" -- For years, it was just fun to request this song based on its title alone. Ministry was a great band....this wasn't one of the reasons why.

13) Johnny Cash -- "Ring of Fire" -- A song that hacks like me can sing with ease, and still maintain a sense of cool. Back in the day, this must have sounded completely badass. Today? With a title like that, I'm just surprised the song hasn't been used in a Preparation H commercial.

14) GWAR -- "Phallus in Wonderland" -- Heavy metal + Costumed musicians + Sexual lyrics + Fairy tale about childhood hallucinogen abuse = Great song.

15) AC/DC -- "Big Balls" -- Duh

16) Cycle Sluts from Hell -- "I Wish You Were a Beer" -- Double duh

17) Drivin' and Cryin' -- "Fly Me Courageous" -- Pretending I liked this steaming pile of fertilizer got me lucky with this one girl in Maryland....a LOT...Memories...sweet memories...

18) RATT -- "Body Talk" -- As seen in the "breaking into the bikers' suburban split-level colonial lair" scene from the Eddie Murphy classic "The Golden Child". To this day, I don't know why they never toured with Poison, just to advertise the "Ratt/Poison" tour shirts. Come to think of it, Poison definitely should have toured with The Cure for similar reasons....but I digress...

19) New Kids on the Block -- "Funky Funky Christmas" -- I can just see your faces now...but it's true...I love Christmas, and it's all about bad, cheesy music...so--o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o..what band better encompasses that than NKOTB...Now let's all sing together.."Funky Xmas, and a funky new year, I SWEAR, we got ourselves a party here!!!!!"

20) Mr. Big -- "To Be With You" -- I kid you not, the first time I heard this song, I could swear he was singing "I'm the one who wants to be-e-e-e a Jew"...I thought the band partied all over the Gaza Strip.

21) Denis Leary -- "I'm an Asshole" -- I just like to chant "A-S-S-H-O-L-E" to a lively beat whenever possible...

22) Men Without Hats -- "The Safety Dance" -- Why? It's simple, really...because if you don't dance, and if you don't dance, then you're [musical pause] no friend of mine.....

23) Eminem -- "My Name Is..." -- I love rap songs where the rapper insists on telling you his name 39 times over the course of a 3 minute song. It's like a musical Ritalin commercial -- the ultimate display of short-term ADD. Guys like this are very similar to the jokers from the original 1-800-DENTIST commercials that hear the announcer say, "1-800-DENTIST" , then proceed to look it up in a conveniently placed Rolodex.

24) The Ramones -- "Beat on The Brat" -- Simply because of the frustrations stemming from my new job, and also because I get distinct pleasure from beating small children with sports equipment.

25) Cinderella -- "Nobody's Fool" -- The ULTIMATE bad ballad of 80's metal...and the only one that still sounds good today...I love this f--ing song, and I don't care WHO hears about it!!!!!!! (I'd still appreciate if you kept the New Kids selection to yourselves, though)

Your thoughts are welcome...

2009-11-10T08:33:00.003-05:00

The Greatest Day of My Facebook Life

I could explain why this matters, but something tells me I really don't have to.

Oh, hell yeah...

2009-11-03T08:24:00.011-05:00

All in a Day's Work

I'm back, kids. I'm not going to make excuses for time off anymore. Life is busy, as it is for all of us. When blogging becomes "work" I take a break. I never want this to become a chore, even if it means posting once an equinox.

Where have I been? Well, nowhere special, actually. Given the amount of time I've taken off, most of you probably figured I was dying, dead or simply not interested in spouting nonsense anymore.

Wrong.

A few months back, my baby daughter got sick. It started as a fever, then somehow steamrolled into something altogether more serious. Six hospital days later, she emerged much healthier and one nasty infection lighter. Since then, my time has (understandably) been spent smothering the munchkin a little more than usual.

While this was going on, I also left my former job and took an editing position with a marketing company near my house. It was a sudden, unexpected move, but one that will spell a lot of relief for a guy (and family) who were struggling with long hours and a lack of professional respect.

So here I am, more than two months later...clear of mind, sharp of tongue, ready to blog once more. Moving forward, I hope to post as much as possible, but will no longer use the terms "coming soon" or "see you tomorrow..." Life just isn't giving me that kind of creative freedom.

And I'm tired of lying to you all...

I thank you for your patience, and appreciate the kind (and not-so-kind) words and emails. Now, if you're done cursing my name, please enjoy the following from the recesses of my grey matter.

It's good to be back :)

-----------------------------------

College kids suck.

Think back to your college years. I sucked, you sucked, and G-Love and Special Sauce probably sucked more than he does now. These kids tell stories like the classic, “Duuuuuuude we got so wasted last night after we finished those eight Miller Lites that I stole from my dad!”

And, who could forget, “Oh man, I totally banged [awkwardly groped] this fine ass girl [the one with the multicolored braces].”

Yeah, I loved being a college kid, and look back fondly on those memories. But after seeing the gaggle of hormones that moved in next door to our humble abode, I've never been more appreciative of my status as an adult.

Why? Because after having to listen to some of the drunken conversations emanating from the formerly nice house next door, I love that I no longer require beer to be entertaining or honest.

(Well, not entirely)

This is the beauty of alcohol. It makes people honest. Here are some conversations that people would have in everyday life if daytime drinking wasn't so heavily looked down upon.

-----------------------------------

Interviewer: Tell me about yourself, Greg.
Greg: Well, I graduated from the school in my state with the highest ranking based off USNews.com. I cheated in every class that used bubble sheets and used my fraternity's test files for essays and midterms. I'd say in total I avoided more than 1,000 hours of studying.
Interviewer: Very impressive. Now, lie to my face about why you want to work here.
Greg: Happily. I feel that your company's mission statement is in line with my values and work experience, and I am excited about the product line.
Interviewer: And now the truth.
Greg: $80K + Bonus.
Interviewer: Word. Now, what can you bring to the company that others could not?
Greg: Well, since I graduated high school I have successfully robbed more than 15 girls of their innocence, talked my way into over 70 parties for which I was not on the guest list, and became a regular at three high-end bars...before I turned 21.
Interviewer: You're going to break our sales record...
Greg: ...and bang your secretary.

-----------------------------------

Cop: Do you know why I pulled you over?
Student: Because I have Greek letters on my window sticker?
Cop: And because you have license plate banner from a more prestigious university than mine.
Student: Oh yeah, how could I forget?!
Cop: So, I'm going to pretend I think that you're drunk and make you get out of the car and conduct embarrassing tests in hopes of getting you so frustrated that you verbally lash out and give me reason to arrest you.
Student: I have an incredible desire to make a sarcastic comment about how I'm glad my tax payer dollars are going to a good cause, but I will refrain because Ryan's having that sick house party tonight and I don't want to miss it.
Cop: Fine, but at least let me stare at you questionably so that you plead your innocence in a slightly demeaning way.
Student: Fair enough. Now, please get back to arresting 20-year-olds for drinking beer and disregarding the growing murder rate.
Cop: Happily!

-----------------------------------

Confused Girl: I do believe I am still drunk from last night.
Confused Guy: I do believe I am still wearing the condom from last night.
Confused Girl: Good thing I have a boyfriend and am therefore on birth control, because the condom obviously broke.
Confused Guy: I guess that's how I was able to do that on your chest.
Confused Girl: That would explain the recycled paper towels.
Confused Guy: I'm glad you're not ugly, like most of the girls I wake up with.
Confused Girl: I'm glad you're obviously not smart enough to go to the same school as me, so there's very little chance anyone will ever find out about this.
Confused Guy: I've never had to lie more about knowing what someone was talking about than last night.
Confused Girl: I was just glad to have a new canvas on which to splatter my radical idealism.
Confused Guy: You should leave now.
Confused Girl: You should fall back asleep and forget what I look like.
Confused Guy: Deal.

-----------------------------------

Barry: I had sex with a slutty girl last night without a condom when I was drunk and now my groin itches. Do you have any ambiguous advice you would like to offer based on your obviously minimal experience with sexually transmitted diseases?
Matt: Would you like me to be honest and rational or do you want to continue being sexually promiscuous while consistently blocking out the thought of unavoidable painful urination?
Barry: I like sex.
Matt: You're fine; stop being paranoid.

-----------------------------------

John: Hi, my name is Recently-Pressed Collared Button-Down with Silver Hoop Earrings.
Rachel: It's nice to meet you; I'm Overly Crimped Redhead With Incredible Cleavage. I hope you don't mind if I never turn my back to you.
John: Yes, the cleavage is actually what caught my eye. It's definitely a positive considering your lack of posterior voluptuousness.
Rachel: Your potential attractiveness has sparked my interest, but I'm going to need at least three more shots if you plan on taking me home. Also, I have a boyfriend, so if we could keep our conversation full of surface-level superficiality that'd be great.
John: Thank you for not informing me of the boyfriend you obviously have. I would like to now buy you enough alcohol to get you tipsy and comfortable, but not so drunk that I feel creepy for taking advantage of a drunk girl.
Rachel: I like tequila.

-----------------------------------

Joe: Hi Amanda, your ass looks exceptionally touchable today.
Amanda: I think you're a douchebag Joe, but your blunt honesty and obvious sexual prowess could definitely earn you some manual release.
Joe: No thanks, I'd rather utilize YouPorn.
Amanda: Suit yourself; give me a call though if you strike out at the bars.
Joe: Will do; now if you don't mind, I'm going to pretend to talk on the phone while I stare at your ass as you walk away.
Amanda: I wouldn't wear this tight of jeans if I didn't want you to.

-----------------------------------

...or something like that, anyway...

2009-09-29T13:40:00.003-04:00

Ummm...What's Up?

Okay, since you asked nicely...NO, I AM NOT ENDING THIS BLOG.

So much has happened in the last month, you would think I was making it up. Some good, some bad, all of it relevant. But in the next few days, I'll be able to explain why I've been gone so long, and why the things that have happened will make this blog shine once more...

...okay, maybe that last part was a little dramatic. Sue me.

For those of you who have checked in, I appreciate your concern, and your interest. I hope you'll be around for the announcement.

Stay tuned.

2009-08-25T11:58:00.001-04:00

Baseball Like it Oughta Be?

There are times when I wonder why I ever left New York. Sure, it’s loud, crowded, overpriced and always a little hotter than the rest of the surrounding world. But it’s also the most interesting, exciting, amazing place in the world.

And it’s home.

So, when I got Mets tickets to wrap up my latest homecoming weekend, I couldn’t help but waxing nostalgic. Beers, baseball and beers — just like the home I left behind nearly three years ago. Maybe the venues have changed, but this was going to be a throwback weekend, right?

Right?

My weekend started typically enough. A trip back to my old regular in midtown on Friday provided me with a lifetime’s worth of fuzzy memories and more man-hugs than I’m comfortable discussing here. But, thanks to the company of old friends and a surprisingly long visit from our own David Chalk (who makes a lot more sense when you’re drinking…trust me), it turned out to be a great night of liver abuse for all.

But the meat of the trip was based around my first real visit to Citi Field. It took me too long to get to a Mets game this season — so long, in fact, that this game actually meant nothing in terms of standings, wild cards, pride or power rankings. It was just going to be a baseball game…and therein lied the supposed beauty of the evening. Baseball, for the sake of baseball…nothing more.

Oh, if that was only the case…

As I mentioned in my previous post, Wifey bought me these tickets thinking that a mid-August matchup against the Phillies was going to be an epic battle for the ages. The tickets were purchased in December 2008, and we were still located a good ways up in the upper dec——sorry——Promenade. Meanwhile, a friend of ours from the afore-mentioned bar bought tickets in the same section that morning, and was actually ten rows closer.

So much for foresight — Nostradamus, your job is safe for now.

Instead, the main draw of the night was the pregame reunion of the still breathing 1969 Mets, and the first time Nolan Ryan had put on a Mets jersey in 38 years. It was quite a sight, given the career the man had wearing other uniforms. Speaking of sights — ominous clouds were forming on the horizon, but despite Hurricane Bill’s empty threats in the distance, it turned out to be a nice little ceremony for the original Amazins.

Not to mention, on the way to our seats, I ran into this guy:

Known to his mom as Eddie Boison, Mets fans know him as the inimitable Cow-Bell Man. I slipped him a Bugs business card and asked him to shoot me an email for an interview. Instead, the man seemed to trust my hangover-ridden face and gave me his home number. The interview will appear on these pages shortly.

Then the night took an even more unexpected twist.

Top of the first. Redding looking surprisingly professional against Rollins and Utley. Phone buzzes with a new text.

“Wht sect r u in?”

It was a brother of a friend of a friend — twice removed by marriage — who just happened to be a lead security guy at the Mets’ new digs. We sent him a text the night before, just on the off-chance that my friend’s friend wasn’t blowing smoke about his brother. Well, slap my ass and call me Rosie — it was legit, and more importantly, it looked like we’re movin’ on up…um…I mean down…

Within seconds, our new best friend Mikey E. arrived in our section and started the most frantic, all-encompassing stadium tour in the history of the medium. Wifey could barely keep up, huffing like a coke fiend as we did two laps around the ballpark, hitting every damn luxury club on the way. Now, let me say this — luxury boxes are nice, but they always seem to be missing one element — the actual game. This was no exception. As we made our way around the Caesar’s Club, I saw more than one guy hugging a bar while staring at the televised game in progress…a game that was actually happening less than 40 yards away.

I don’t get it…but anyway…

As we’re exiting this area it’s already midway through the third inning, and we haven’t seen more than 15 pitches. One notable occurence went down, though. While chasing our caffeinated tour guide through the hallways, someone yelled out, “Bugs and Cranks!” which made me stop in my tracks to see who it was. But Mikey wasn’t stopping for anything short of an open whiskey bar, so I was forced to miss an opportunity to feel famous for ten seconds. I hope this person doesn’t think I was ignoring her, because it’s always nice to meet a Bugs fan.

Anyway, while keeping pace with Mikey, making our way through our third luxury VIP club in as many minutes, I nearly walk headfirst into a tall, graying man in a sharp blazer…

…Omar Minaya…

Instinctively, I reach for my business cards and try to secure the blog interview of my young career, but then recall that my last few Omar-themed posts haven’t exactly been warm and fuzzy. I settle on a nod and a weak, “How ya doin’?” and keep walking. He smiles at me and does the same.

Missed opportunity? Yeah, but at least I got Cow-Bell Man, right?

Finally, after the most dizzying 25 minutes in recent memory, Mikey drops us off in the center field food area, right by Shake Shack. He tells us that he’s going to be at his section in 15 minutes, so we are to relax, get a bite to eat, and then casually make our way over there where he can then find us some seats behind third. At this point, the game is now in the fourth inning, and the only actual baseball we’ve seen has been on one of the 1,800 flat screens littered throughout the park. But it appears that the Mets are up 1-0, so I don’t mess with karma just yet.

Fifteen minutes later, Wifey and I think it’s time to actually sit and *gasp* watch some baseball. Mikey does as promised and finds us a few seats in prime foul ball territory. I think our row is designed for the handicapped, but I don’t argue with the leg room. By now, Tim Redding is having the best appearance of his Mets career, going five strong and only allowing one hit. So, now the Mets are going to find a way to blow this, right?

Of course they are. Manuel decides that Redding’s deal with Satan is about the expire, so he pulls him for the always reliable Pat “Squea-” Misch. Two pitches later, Utley is doing a slow trot while Misch investigates the mound for imperfections. Nice call, Jerry.

We were just getting comfortable when the sixth inning ended, and my phone buzzed again. This time, it was my friend from earlier:

“Meet shake shk now.”

I assume that’s an order, and Wifey and I reluctantly leave our prime real estate for the crowded confines of the food court. It didn’t bother me too much, since the score was now 3-1 Philly, and frankly I was getting tired of hearing some of their fans anyway.

Not all of them, mind you. Most are a lot of fun, and know the right way to do a rivalry. No, I’m talking about the ones that drove their limo-tinted Kias up 95, just to throw beer at kids and start fights. So, when the panty stain wearing the powder blue throwback caught a fat right to his inbred chin, we all laughed…a lot. Yeah, Philly’s in first place, but if you take any pride in beating these Mets, then you clearly don’t have a clue about the game. Now go back home to your cousin and ponder why your dad should have pulled out.

Anyway…

Now, we’re back in centerfield again, watching a very live game on a TV with a 5-second delay. I debate about getting a beer, but decide to hold off in case my previous night’s consumption decides to make an encore. Five minutes…ten minutes…no sign of my friend. Finally, my cargo pocket buzzes with the following news:

“Left game. See u next time in town.”

Wow. I’m so-o-o-o-o-o-o glad I left my primo seats for this revelation. Turns out my buddy and I need to get a refresher course in communications, to which we both agree. A few texted apologies later, we’re okay. Donald, if you’re reading this, many apologies. I owe you a few beverages when we get back to NYC.

But here’s the issue. On this night, the clock is reading 10:00, and is running out on the Mets. Our options at this point are to a) try and work our way back to those seats. b) start climbing to our original seats. or c) do two more laps around Citi, trying to soak in as much baseball Vegas as we can before we head back to the car.

Yup. The night was just about over. Wifey and I decide to split a box of frites (which are a lot like french fries, but more expensive) and then make our way back to the front. So, let’s review:

Free t-shirt — check
Pregame ceremony for old players — check
Interview/photo op with beloved bell-playing uberfan — check
Tour of luxury areas I’ll never be able to afford — check
Failed interview/photo op with Mets’ GM — check
Cardio workout — check
Actual baseball — FAIL

Now, I knew that my first Mets game at Citi was going to be as much about the experience as it was about the game, but I never expected to get so caught up in distractions that I’d miss a total of seven innings. And that’s my concern. Are there simply too many things to do at Citi Field for it to feel like a true ballpark?

Sure, the food, kids area, overpriced shops and main entrance are just ripe for exploration. But regardless of injuries or standings, my only regret about the game was that I never really watched it. And I’m sure I’m not alone.

Saturday night was supposed to be about a ballgame — a uneven matchup between a division leader and a wounded underachiever. Maybe we’d win, maybe we’d lose, but regardless of outcome, it would have just been fun to watch baseball without worrying about wins, losses, wild cards or percentage points. You know — the way it was intended.

Instead, my first Mets experience at the team’s new digs was chock full of Vegas with none of the Atlantic City that always made games fun in the past. Let’s hope that the glitz, glamour and novelty appeal wears off by the next time I go. Because, when asked, “How was the game?” (as I was when I got home), I never again want to answer…

“I have no idea…”

2009-08-10T09:24:00.010-04:00

A Vision of the Future

I had a nightmare last night...

Not your standard "stuck in the mud while being chased" nightmare, either. No, this was a vision of a surreal, yet wholly believable future. Not a bad vision, either -- just one that I'm clearly not ready for as of this writing.

The year was 2014, and though I looked the same (for the most part) everything around me was older and different. And I was surrounded by some of the strangest costumes I've ever seen. It was only then that I realized my worst fears were becoming reality...

I was at my daughter's dance recital.

It started out innocuously enough. A sea of taffeta and lace paraded around me while I hunted for my wife and child. I'm weighed down by one of those 25lb. film-eating Nikons hanging around my neck, even though no one outside of EPCOT Center has used those since 1988.

I find comfort in knowing that I'm not alone. No less than ten other camera-toting dads were doing their best to maintain dignity while gathering along the far wall. I wander over in their direction, and give them a knowing nod hello. They respond in kind -- wordlessly, but understanding. We're in this together -- words are extraneous.

Finally, through the pink huddled masses, I spot my wife chasing my daughter Sophia around the crowded lobby with a brush and a compact, never losing control of the recital program, bottled water and bouquet of roses expertly cradled under her left arm. Wifey apparently thinks two coats isn't enough blush to fight off those stage lights. As I get over to them, I pull Sophia away from the overzealous Estee Lauder, much to my wife's chagrin.

"Brad - she is going to look completely pasty up there unless I put more on!"

[Sidebar: I nearly woke up from the dream based on this line alone. For starters, anyone who knows Wifey can attest to the fact that she is simply not this kind of woman, wife or mom. Which is why I married her. This alone, is startling. But more jarring is the fact that no man -- father or otherwise -- wants to hear the word "pasty" in a dream about their daughters dancing on stage. Ever.]

I forgot to mention -- in my dream, Wifey is preggo-fabulous again. I have no idea if this is baby #2, or if I'm donating half my salary to child care. Either way, in the alleged safety of dreamland, I'm having very real palpitations. Here, I have no idea if I'm employed, dying from a Velveeta-sized tumor, or simply settled into middle-aged, middle class contentment.

Anyway, as if this little exchange wasn't enough to block an artery, my 8-year old daughter (who apparently is destined to sound like Dakota Fanning) comes up to me and brazenly asks, without so much as a courtesy pause:

“Doesn’t my ass look good in this costume?”

In real life, I would have introduced her palate to Irish Spring. But in this dream -- much like the one where you're falling off a tall, Wile-E-Coyote styled cliff -- I was rendered completely helpless. I nod a limp affirmation and continue surveying my surroundings, praying that my subconscious has provided an exit door.

Damn -- the only escape would set off the fire alarms. Even in this insane dream, I have no balls, or any interest in messing with the authorities.

Suddenly, I am transported to my seat in the cavernous high school auditorium, without even getting to nod a genial goodbye to my menfolk on the wall. At first glance, the room resembles every other school auditorium you remember, right down to the creepy, vacuous, pock-marked teenagers handling the lights and curtains. My wife mumbles something to me about one of the parents sitting a row ahead of us, but I don't hear her. Either this woman is the mother to one of Sophia's classmates, or she just picked her nose and flicked it toward stage left. I'll never know.

The lights dim. We are warned not to use flash photography, "under penalty of law." This dance school didn't mess around. I pack up my Smithsonian-quality zoom lens, silence my phone and wait for my baby girl to hit the stage.

We are then assaulted by grandiose pipe organ music -- the kind that wouldn't be out of place at midnight mass, or Dracula's bar mitzvah -- but certainly wasn't appropriate here. Sophia, alongside fourteen other pre-tween dancers, was clad in an orange spandex bodysuit that left little to the imagination, at least for the Sesame Street faithful in attendance. Looking back, my daughter's outfit looked more like a low cut, shiny road cone, but I digress.

Later that evening, she would take to the stage again, this time accompanied by a Jonas Brothers tune (which is now an ironic classic amongst the 7-14 set) during which the kids thrust out their pelvises, gyrated their hips, and beckoned with come-hither looks – moves that cost their parents over $500 this year in dance lessons, and $15,000 in extra therapy sessions.

“The only thing missing is a pole,” smiled Wifey without even a modicum of concern. Melysa just laughs as my daughter moves like seasoned jailbait -- a graduate of the Hooters Academy -- while a flood of deadbeat dads watch from the wings. And, I can't be sure, but I think she was mocking me while I was squirming beside her.

"Isn't she pretty?" asks Wifey while handing me a tissue to wipe my brow. I once again am rendered speechless, though I do manage to throw a baffled, "what the hell is your issue?" look in my wife's direction.

By now, my mind sorta "fast forwards" through the show. When the final curtain drops, we are giving a standing ovation to all the performers who now once again look and act their age. Melysa waddles her expecting body to the stage to hand our baby her flowers. This time, Sophia is wearing a more traditional tutu and tights ensemble, leading me to believe that I skipped past the always-riveting ballet performances.

(At least my brain got this right. Even though it's my only daughter on stage, I have zero interest in watching a bunch of second graders pretend to be swans.)

Skip ahead a few more frames, and now we're in the parking lot of the high school. My daughter runs over to us while yelling at her friends -- apparently, I'm taking them all for ice cream and a sleepover. I open the back door and she jumps in, excess blush wiping off on my sleeve as she passes by. As I turn to close the door, the dream got even weirder.

Sophia was suddenly just a year old again, and sitting quietly in her car seat. I look closer, wondering if this is maybe another baby of ours (one that we conveniently stowed in the car for two hours) and my 8-year old Sophia was just behind the seat.

Nope.

My baby was back to normal. I look up at Wifey, and she also has reverted back to the way I know her today. No pregnancy. No uber-mom trappings. Just the woman I share a couch with every night. I open my lips to finally say a word and -------------

Blackness.

That's when I wake up, startled but content...and strangely thirsty. I quickly close my eyes to try and "recapture" the dream I just had, but to no avail. It was gone -- vaporized before I even had a chance to have a meaningful discussion with my baby, circa 2014.

And hours later, my head is still spinning. No more beer on Sundays, kids. Let this be a lesson to you all...

2009-07-30T10:27:00.007-04:00

Twelve Things I Learned This Morning...

1. It’s better to sing off key than not to sing at all. Unless you're my neighbors, who think Portuguese techno sounds great acapella.

2. Promptness shows respect. Extreme promptness shows that I don't have much else to do with my mornings.

3. You can’t avoid offending people from time to time. You can avoid making a sport out of it when working on your fifth daiquiri.

4. If you say, “Get a life!” in any dispute, you've already lost the argument. Now go get my coffee.

5. Don’t be bothered when people don’t share your tastes in music, sports, literature, food and fashion. Be glad, because otherwise you’d never get tickets to anything.

6. Cough syrup tastes amazing -- something you should remember to say when the cop pulls you over.

7. Wounds heal faster under bandages than they do in the open air. Plus then you'll never have to hear, "Jesus - cover that nasty sh-t up! What exactly do you DO when you're not at work?"

8. Anyone who asks you what kind of car you drive isn't someone you want in your passenger seat.

9. My boss regularly engages me in conversations where he doesn't ask questions. These are not conversations. They are monologues. And usually bad ones.

10. Laundry day is much easier when all your socks are the same and you don’t have to sort them. Also, it helps if your wife does the laundry.

11. Almost no one in my office smiles, flosses or gives compliments often enough.

12. The store-brand jelly, cereal, paper goods, baking supplies and pharmacy products are good enough. However, generic candy just makes you look cheap to your kids. And there is no excuse...ever...for substituting Bravos for real Doritos. Ever.

2009-07-27T14:52:00.003-04:00

Beer, Baseball, Sex and Wasted Cat Litter: My Weekend in Boston

It was a dark and stormy night…maybe not in Boston, but that’s how it felt in my head when it was all over. Beer, baseball, sex and wasted cat litter - just a few of the things that highlighted the latest Semi-Annual Bugs & Cranks outing.

[Ed. note: For the newcomers, Bugs & Cranks is a baseball humor blog I write for when I'm not out trying to save the world, one bus ride at a time. This post also resides there, in a modified format. But I hope, even if you don't like baseball, you'll find something of value below.]

Let’s reflect…

5:19am - The baby decides to sleep in, letting Wifey and I enjoy an extra seven minutes of sleep. Even the world famous “asscrack of dawn” won’t arrive for another twenty minutes. Someone tell those latte-pounding poets that this crap is overrated.

6:11am - Coffee’s up, and I take it like I used to take my women — cheap and bitter. Both Wifey and the baby are drooling, and one of them needs a new diaper. I just breathe through my mouth and avoid both of them.

7:02am - Executive decision: I’m only packing what can fit in my everyday messenger bag. Because why on earth would a sweaty Italian like me need more than two shirts and a change of underwear? And I’d better make sure to throw in a warm hoodie, for those chilly late-July evenings (foreshadowing buffs, take note).

7:07am - Bag is packed, mood is lifted and I’m ready to roll to Beantown. Is it wrong to want to do some pregame drinking at 7am? I’ll hear your thoughts on this right after I finish my beer.

8:48am - I update my Facebook status because I’ve been preconditioned to think that people actually care what I’m doing. One of these days I’m going to make my status say something more genuinely interesting, like “Brad is…sharpening his knives for today’s trip to Six Flags…” or “Brad is…about to dutch oven his landlord.” At least then I’d justify wasting people’s time.

8:49am - My landlord has no sense of humor.

9:09am - Arrive at the bus stop. Just to give you an idea, my journey is going to begin with a 45-minute bus ride, from the booming metropolis of Bristol, Rhode Island — a town where you can say, “Have you seen the Portuguese fisherman with one eye and a colostomy bag?” and need to be more specific.

10:24am - Life is filled with constants. Gravity…the four seasons…death. Well, you can add another to the list. Men over 30, take note: No matter where you are in the world, the only time a group of hot young women will notice you in Barnes & Noble is when you’re holding the latest issue of Gamepro magazine. I tried to show them the copy of Ass Masters under my arm, but it was too late.

10:56am - The MBTA train is delayed, which is roughly the equivalent of saying, “Humans have skin.” While waiting, I had a lively discussion with a Red Sox fan. I said, “I can’t wait for tonight’s game at Fenway. It’s a perfect night for baseball, and the team seems to be coming out of its recent losing streak.” He said, “YOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUUUUUKKKK!!!!!” and promptly fell over.)

12:54pm - Arrive in Boston and text the boss to get directions. Unless the Bugs guys are drinking underneath the highway on-ramp, I think he gave me some bad info. But he finds me soon enough, and after explaining the differences between “left” and “right” to our staff Galileo, we begin the hike up to Faneuil Hall. I am sweatier than a dyslexic filling out a tax form.

1:10pm - Arrive at the bar. Immediately greeted by our old friends Meech and Hall. You know Meech from The Fightins’. You know Hall from “Dateline NBC.” A few puffs later, we’re about to head in when we see our boss wandering in the alley behind the bar. Apparently, he followed his own directions.

1:38pm - I’m on my third beer, and haven’t taken the bag off my shoulder yet. Smitty now has a “usual” order with the bartender. Chalk is discussing his next submission to Catholic Digest with a waitress, until he gets distracted by a picture of Barry Bonds. Now, for my fourth beer in as many minutes…

2:25pm - Foreshadowing buffs, enjoy. The only dry thing I have in my bag is a nice thick hooded sweatshirt - black. But since the alternative is “not leaning on anything that stains” I opt to change in the cozy men’s room. I go in drenched and come out wearing fleece, which makes more than a few people question my BAC and lack of chaperone.

4:25pm - Time to move out. Our tickets say first pitch - 7:00, and we still have to eat something. Of course, despite there being 100,000 restaurants in the greater Boston area (give or take) the group collectively agrees to dine at one of the establishments right outside Fenway Park. Shouldn’t be any trouble getting a seat.

5:15pm - Outside Fenway. Meet up with Hatton who is already in one of the longest, deadest lines I’ve ever seen outside of a theme park. After realizing that this restaurant isn’t giving away free wings and lap dances, we opt for a more roomy environment - the ever-classy Mexican joint, Tequila Rain.

5:30pm - If ZAGAT ever creates a five star rating for “Suck,” I know which restaurant is the odds-on favorite. While sitting on a set of broken stools borrowed from a failed bowling alley, our entire group wobbled our way through a meal of various chicken parts. A busboy actually tried to remove my plate just seconds after it arrived, because it looked that bad.

5:50pm - The Phillies game is stopped because someone is shining a laser pointer onto Julio Lugo. Yeah, it’s distracting, but let’s be real — who the hell is going to waste expensive ammunition on Julio Lugo. Play ball, you big mary.

7:05pm - At Fenway, in our seats. We’re located somewhere between Pesky’s Pole and the North Pole, and our view is obstructed. Not by architecture, but rather by a guy large enough to change tidal patterns in Boston Harbor. Naturally, he likes to stand up a lot, and apparently thinks that $7.25 is more than reasonable for a 4-inch piece of sausage. He has four. By osmosis, I had two.

7:38pm - Big Papi takes one deep to center off Guthrie. It’s nice to see him back to form.

7:42pm - Papi rounds third.

8:11pm - The sun has finally dropped behind the third base stands, and I can comfortably lean back in my chair without leaving an outline. Someone behind me tells me he smells something like salted cod. I just ignore him and pray for a breeze.

9:11pm - Back in my seat after an extended visit to Yawkey Way. I think someone sprayed some Febreze. At least, that’s what I thought was happening. In reality, what actually was going down was that an afternoon of drinking, sunshine and exhaustion was finally taking its toll on my five senses. Now, when most people drink too much, they get funnier, louder and happier. Me? I start apologizing for everything short of the unemployment rate and then get curiously polite (I’m available for parties, if you’re interested). After ten minutes of poorly-timed “I’m sorry”s to the Del’s Lemonade guy, I finally settle in and try to enjoy the rest of the game.

9:51pm - This game is about to end. Adam LaRoche seems to like his new digs, and though he was warming up, Papelbon wouldn’t be needed on this night. Fly ball to right, and the game is over. Sox keep pace with the Yanks, while Smitty starts talking about the 2010 Orioles…through the loud sobbing, that is…

10:08pm - Despite sitting together all night, and leaving through the same exit, the Bugs crew is splintered in half. Ten bucks says I can guess who gave directions.

10:34pm - Arrive at Audubon - a classy little joint that serves Miller High Life in tall boy cans. I’m sure it’s a trendy hipster thing, but it suits my needs perfectly. Take that, you scenester humps. Somewhere, Tyler had a tear in his eye.

11:20pm - It’s not that late, but we all look like we rolled around a subway bathroom. I have a stack of empty tallboys in front of me. Everyone else is drinking liquor and $14 imported beer. I should have taken that as a sign, but I soldiered on…at least until we all decided to leave and finally end a very long day. I apologized to the bouncer for not being friendlier and got into a waiting cab.

————–

The rest, as they say, is history. Well, history that other people can remember better than me. In the end, despite all of the little details that make these events worth recounting (and exaggerating a bit), the weekend was really about a bunch of baseball writers getting together to watch, talk and debate baseball…with a little liquid encouragement thrown in for good measure.

Oh yeah, at the beginning of this piece, I mentioned that sex and cat litter caused a minor scandal on Saturday night. One of these things is definitely true. But I won’t waste your time with those details.

2009-07-22T16:03:00.003-04:00

Yo Quiero a Private Ceremony...

She charmed millions, never peed on camera, and managed to make horsemeat tacos desirable. Alas, Gidget, the Taco Bell chihuahua, died from a stroke on Tuesday night at age 15.

The mostly retired actor/voiceover artist lived out her days laying in the sun and entertaining at shoots when her trainer brought her along. According to her owner, "Gidget always knew where the camera was."

And of course, the nearest hydrant. Rest in piece, you adorable little Mexican...

2009-07-17T08:56:00.008-04:00

Fun with Photos Friday!

(Yes, I'm being lazy...sue me...)

I feel dirty...

Speaking of family values...

Ironically, a Japanese-made camera...

As seen on Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd...

It worked wonders for our kid. Sleeps like a log...

Hello New Vat City! Are you ready to rock????!!!!

I love Blackberries...

Or as I call it..."utopia"...

2009-07-14T13:13:00.005-04:00

The Group Rate Single Finger Salute(s)...

Sadly, other than when I'm discussing bad reality TV stars, this is when I'm at my best. So here's the latest list of seven people that need to purposely swallow their tongues:

1. People who point at their wrist while asking for the time
Oh, is that where people keep it? I think I'll start pointing at my crotch, while jumping in place when I ask the location of a nearby men's room.

2. People in the check out line who wait until their entire bill is rung up before writing out the check
Do you know of a sudden store name change that's going down in the next ten seconds? Did you plan on waiting till the next day? Are you testing out a new signature? As my buddy Jim Norton would say, "eat a bullet."

3. People who are willing to spend ten minutes crawling around like a baboon in heat, just to find the remote, rather than walking to the TV and changing it manually
This is why you're fat.

4. People who say,"You just want to have your cake and eat it, too."
Cake is pretty useless if you don't eat it. Unless you're a clown or a pervert.

5. People who say, "It's always the last place you look."
Really, Columbo? I didn't plan on looking for it after I found it. Which, by default, makes it the last place I look. Let me know how your approach works.

6. People who say, while at the movies, "Did you see that?"
Nope. I was checking the background lighting and wondering if I could figure out who the gaffer is. This oddball, OCD-driven curiosity of mine forced me to completely miss that 59 ft. explosion that rattled my bowels into early submission. Thank jeebus you're here.

7. People who ask, "Can I ask you a question?"
Didn't really give me a choice there, did ya chief?

2009-07-10T08:42:00.004-04:00

Today's Moment of Zen

2009-07-09T08:41:00.001-04:00

Cover Letter

I am a dynamic figure, often seen scaling walls and crushing ice. I have been known to remodel train stations on my lunch breaks, making them more efficient in the area of heat retention. I translate ethnic slurs for Cuban refugees, I write award-winning operas, I manage time efficiently. Occasionally, I tread water for three days in a row.

I woo women with my sensuous and godlike trombone playing, I can pilot bicycles up severe inclines with unflagging speed, and I cook Thirty-Minute Brownies in twenty minutes. I am an expert in stucco, a veteran in love, and an outlaw in Peru.

Using only a hoe and a large glass of water, I once singlehandedly defended a small village in the Amazon Basin from a horde of ferocious army ants. I enjoy bluegrass cello, I was scouted by the Mets, I am the subject of numerous documentaries. When I'm bored, I build large suspension bridges in my yard. I enjoy urban hang gliding. On Wednesdays, after school, I repair electrical appliances.

Free of charge.

I am an abstract artist, a concrete analyst, and a ruthless bookie. Critics worldwide swoon over my original line of synthetic corduroy evening wear. I don't perspire, but sweat profusely. I am a private citizen, yet I receive fan mail. I have been caller number nine and have won the weekend passes. My deft floral arrangements have earned me fame in international botany circles. Children trust me.

I can hurl tennis rackets at small moving objects with deadly accuracy. I once read Paradise Lost, Moby Dick, and David Copperfield in one day and still had time to refurbish an entire dining room that evening. I know the exact location of every food item in the supermarket. I have performed several covert operations for the CIA. I sleep once a week; when I do sleep, I sleep in a chair - made of splintered wicker. While on vacation in Canada, I successfully negotiated with a group of terrorists who had seized a small bakery. The laws of physics do not apply to me.

I am fluent in Microsoft Office and Sanskrit.

I balance, I weave, I dodge, I frolic, and my bills are all paid. On weekends, to let off steam, I invent new forms of origami. Years ago, I discovered the meaning of life but forgot to write it down. I have made extraordinary four course meals using only a butter packet and a toaster oven. I breed prizewinning clams. I have won bullfights in San Juan, cliff-diving competitions in Sri Lanka, and spelling bees at the Kremlin. I have played Hamlet, I have performed open-heart surgery, and I have spoken with Elvis.

But I have not yet worked for your company.

I look forward to any and all future correspondence.

2009-07-01T09:58:00.008-04:00

Now That the Dust Has Settled...

I'm back from Cape Cod. And every day of my rainy vacation, I pondered what to write for Diaries. But for every draft I started, something else happened in the world that rendered it meaningless.

Then I said to myself, "Self, you can't just go and throw together a series of rants about public divorces and a flood of both expected and alarming celebrity deaths. That would go against my style. That would minimize what I'm trying to say.

That would be too easy.

But we still need to cover it. So, let's discuss the past ten days............in the form of nursery rhymes...

Jon & Kate

Little Ho Kate, has damaged her eight
'Cause TLC's crew had to mind them
Leave Jon alone, with nobody home
At the hotel bar is where you'll find him

Little Ho Kate is now filling with hate
'Cause her marriage has now gone to crap
To media she spoke, with nary a joke
About how Jon picked up young girls and the clap

Still, it appears on one day, Ho-Kate also strayed
While Jon quietly denied the burden
But soon they will see, post-paparazzi
That it's their eight children who are hurtin'

Michael Jackson

There was a crooked star
Who moonwalked a crooked mile
He owed a crooked fortune
And was a crooked pedophile

He bought a crooked doc
Who gave him crooked pills
And though Mike died while they were together
The crooked doc still headed for the hills

Now we see the crooked fans
Who write a ton of crooked prose
Who ignore Mike's crooked past
Who forget that crooked nose

In death, he is a crooked hero
In life, he was a crooked mess
His crooked behavior became the source of jokes
Not to mention his crooked way to dress

He dangled his child over a crooked rail
His crooked career ended with a flop
But somehow, despite all this crookedness
Death made us forgive the crooked King of Pop

Farrah Fawcett

Little Miss Farrah, bravely fought cancer
Wiling away her very last days
Along came the Thriller
Who died from painkillers
And stole Farrah's limelight away

Billy Mays

Old Salesman Billy
May have seemed silly
But throw the poor guy a bone
Before the man died
He brought honor and pride
To selling you crap for your home

He took a clean shirt
Smashed grapes that were ripe
Broke out the Kaboom
Stains gone in one wipe

He made Mighty Putty
A strong and powerful brand
It molded, it mended
It could be used with one hand

He went to the malls
Always made a big scene
Brown water turned magically clear
The power of Oxi-Clean

Old Salesman Billy is gone
No more infomercials to see
But where Old Billy is going
The shipping is always free

----------

See? Wasn't that better than me calling Kate Gosselin a shrew for the umpteenth time? Talk to you soon...

2009-06-25T10:47:00.003-04:00

Cape Cod...Finally...

After five straight days of housebound rain, wind, cold, locusts and everything else that appeared at the end of the bible, we finally have sunshine here on Cape Cod.

When I return, I will be addressing the very real role of pop culture in the demise of a very fake TV couple...yes, I WILL be discussing Jon & Kate...but I assure you, it's not really about them.

I hope everyone is well. I have a date with a fishing pole, so I'll see you soon.

2009-06-18T10:03:00.014-04:00

Daddyhood: One Year Later

This year, I get to celebrate Father's Day. And a week after that, my little turkey turns 1-year old.

Wow.

What a year.

I’m not going to lie, I wanted a girl from the outset. Everyone knew it, mostly because I never once fell into that cliched trap of saying, "I just want a healthy child." Bull -- parents always have a preference, and my preference was a little munchkin who followed me around with baby blues.

Mission accomplished.

But because I'm a guy, when she came out with a pair of X chromosomes, a small tinge of concern still hit me. It wasn’t that I didn’t want a girl (I did), or that raising boys would be easier (it isn't). It was just that I didn’t know how I would relate to, or help raise a person that will likely prefer tea parties to Transformers.

Despite my clear desire to have a "daddy's little girl," it was also easy to imagine how I would have brought up a boy. Strict, firm-handed discipline mixed with lessons of mountain biking, the Mets, full contact living room wrestling and practice in opening doors for people...the old fashioned way.

A girl on the other hand? The idea terrified me then, and often still does today. Images of puberty, nose rings, boy band concerts, awkward dad moments and the like made me wonder if I was up to the task.

Then Sophia was born.

My theories were immediately tossed out with the rest of the mess that came out my wife that morning. She was beautiful, and I quickly took to being her father. My heart melted inside me the first time I held her and in later months, when she said “Dada!” and held out her arms to get picked up.

That will be the only time she gets picked up, by the way. I have the padlock ready for my basement door.

Now, my daughter is just now becoming a toddler, so I know that I have many, many lessons still to learn. The teenage years still loom ahead like a storm on the horizon taunting me…with tongue piercings and flavored lip gloss and broken hearts from high school quarterbacks. But, even with only a short time under my belt, Sophia has taught me some incredibly important lessons that I never would have picked up had she not decided to stop by a year ago.

And because you asked nicely, here they are:

1) I am overprotective
Regardless of whether it has gone out of fashion in today’s society, deep in the heart of every man is a desire to protect his brood. Though I’m sure that this instinct is there with boys as well, the strong conviction I have to protect my daughter is greater than nearly anything I’ve felt in my life. It isn’t a feeling that has to be worked up; it’s just there, like a cinder block, or that important Jenga piece, daring someone to move it.

Taking on the protector role means carrying yourself a bit differently. Rather than wandering aimlessly downtown in search of the next bar, I now am more aware of my surroundings and where I am taking my baby. I also find myself a bit less sympathetic when other people’s actions invade my family’s life. A long time ago, I stayed in shape to look good (an epic failure if there ever was one). Now, I try to stay in shape in hopes of developing intimidation tactics for future boyfriends.

Yes, acne-covered fauxhawk boy, I will be cleaning my rifle whenever you stop by. And you might want to set that watch a few minutes ahead, just to be sure she's home when I say so.

2) She softens me
Despite my new NRA membership, I am still turned into a jiggling puddle of goo when she's around. Before Sophia, my compassion, patience and grace were all lacking. I had great pride in the discipline and efficiency through which I ran my life and home. These quasi-tough guy attitudes suddenly seemed a bit ridiculous as I would look into the eyes of my little turkey content with blowing raspberries, chasing the cat and eating copious amounts of...well...anything.

Now, let's be clear -- it's not like I start blubbering whenever a long distance commercial comes on, but every now and then I well up when the little bugger does something cute...even if it means finding lunch meat in my DVD player. My car used to be immaculate; now it has half chewed apple puffs strewn about the back seat. And I don't really care.

And besides, some of those AT&T ads are really well written.

3) Every girl is some man’s daughter
Until I had a daughter I gave this idea very little thought. But once I did, the office sexual harassment lectures became infinitely more compelling. The most recent one discussed pornography, sexual addiction and abuse, but as bad as those things are, only one comment caused the whole audience to stop hitting on their coworkers and become startlingly silent.

“Every time you choose to view pornography, attend a strip club, solicit a prostitute, or in any other way, treat a woman like a piece of flesh rather than a person, remember one thing: That girl is some man’s daughter.”

All the men sat silently. The ones with daughters trembled at the idea of some lech treating their daughter the way they once did. Chuckles left the airspace, replaced by awkward, apologetic glances toward every admin assistant in the room. It was cathartic.

On a side note, my computer is now virus-free.

4) Living for someone else
Marriage is the first lesson most of us receive in learning to live for someone other than ourselves. And just when we start to think we might have that down, children shatter all our notions of self-righteousness. Waking up at 3am; changing diapers that are one movement away from disintegrating; feeding every part of the baby but her mouth; etc…all these things were pivotal in forcing me to abandon (some of) my selfish habits.

And it's not like I wasn't warned. My daughter could care less about my well-planned Xbox schedule or whether or not I have a blog deadline. She told us from the outset that she would be wholly inconvenient.

And she's a girl of her word. Even if that word is indecipherable.

-----------

To close, I know some of the things I've learned may differ from yours, but I sincerely doubt I'm alone on most. The important thing is that all the above lessons will be worth it the moment you open your cards and gifts, and see them signed in crayon, with a touch of Gerber's Veggie Medley on the envelope.

I'll get back to trying to be funny in a few days. But today I raise a glass to all the dads. New, experienced, single parents or fathers of multiples -- Happy Father's Day. We've earned it.

2009-06-15T10:28:00.023-04:00

A Twitter Love Story

Over the years, I've received numerous emails asking me how I lucked out with such a great woman like Wifey. Most of the time, the questions are "How in the blue hell did a shlep like you manage to find a gal like her?" but all the same, it's a story that needs to be told.

Then -- during my week long professional summit -- it hit me. Times have changed, and communication has grown. If Wifey and I were to tell our story today, to our daughter, local college students, or that weird homeless guy who somehow has a Blackberry, how would we communicate it?

Probably like this...

And a relationship was born...

2009-06-08T08:28:00.003-04:00

The Professor is Out...

Thanks to a professional summit, I'll be away from June 8-12, but back in the office next Monday.

In my absence, please review the reading list to your right, peruse my archives or simply hit "refresh" until I return.

When I return (or sooner, if I can muster up the energy at night) I will be addressing Twitter in a new way. It'll make sense when you see it - I promise.

Until then, enjoy the week...

2009-06-02T13:26:00.011-04:00

An Open Letter to My Officemates

I often wonder what people did to really get up the craw of their co-workers in older times. Did they go and handle each other's slide rules with sticky fingers, or blow smoke into cracked open office doors? Maybe they would scratch the mimeograph roller putting creases in your copies. Regardless, I bet it was annoying.

This letter serves as notice to my coworkers that henceforth, any peer, manager, underling or otherwise semi-upright human being that breaks any of the following rules in my desk area is going to get hit. It might be a slap on the wrist, or a smack across the face, but it's coming.

So, the rules:

Do not touch my monitor with your fingers.
Just don't. I have to sit here in my Picasso-designed office chair and stare at this cheap LCD all day to do my job. Having the remnants of your greasy hair or yesterday's dim sum on my monitor makes it hard to see the detail I need to do my job. Imagine I were to come to your car window and wipe a smudge of Vaseline over the center of your vision...with my ass. Yeah, it's like that.

Now, I know that you need to move your finger along when you read something, and I've noticed your lips moving too, but for the love of everything good and holy, can't you use the end of a pen or just hover your finger along? Is your depth perception not working? Can't you wear a glove? Do I look like I own stock in Windex? Next time you see fit to smudge my screen, I'm going to take that blue crap and pour it in latte, jackass.

Do not burp or pass gas in my office.
Hey guess what? I really can't stand the smell of your digestion. I'm sure you're proud you have the time to spend 90 minutes at lunch hangin' at that gyro joint, but I swear if you belch in my office one more time I am going to brain you with a travel mug.

Your gases, whether produced via mouth or ass, are not welcome in my area. If you feel the need to release the hounds, step into the hallway, go back to your own office, or stick your cannon into a vent. Your stench could melt the varnish off a coffee table. I think you need to reassess your fiber intake. Perhaps inhaling an entire box of bulgar flour isn't the best way to start your day.

Do not email me funny pictures you found on the Internet.
Look, I've been online since the early 90s and during this time, I've seen just about everything I want to see on the web. Please do not forward me the picture of the dog with human eyes, or the kids all sitting around drinking. I saw them the first time, back in 1994. And they weren't funny then. They just took longer to load.

Please consider jokes, chain mail, inspirational stories about a nameless person with no legs and a Buick-sized tumor, and anything else that came to you with the initials "FWD:" as falling under this ban. I just don't want it.

Of course, the video of the monkey smelling his own finger is always welcome.
Do not impart your political views on me while I'm typing
I voted for someone. I read the news. Assume these things about me and we'll be just fine. But under no circumstances are you to a) tell me I'm wrong b) ask me why I support ______ or c) try and diminish my viewpoints by offering up your own propaganda. If you don't comply, I will punch you in the genitals.

Twice.
Do not tell me about why I need to see your favorite TV show.
You know I watch a lot of TV. Too much, actually. So, for the sake of office civility, assume that I've either seen the show in question, or do not care to discuss it any longer. Truth be told, I do not care about the fact that you see yourself as a spiritual cast member of "The Facts of Life." Except for the fact that you look like Natalie and smell like a pile of Tootie.

Plus, all I can see right now is your damn finger prints on my monitor all way.

Do not talk to me while I am eating lunch at my desk.
This one is really for the managers. When you come to my cube and see me eating the latest in sub-$3 frozen cuisine, please do not make the assumption that I will be willing to allow my food to go cold while you go over the latest workplan. I'm eating my lunch, and while yes -- I am at my desk -- I'm on my lunch break. Just consider me to be out of the office at one of those restaurants that you don't pay me enough to visit more than once a pay cycle.

Next time you come in and chat until my food is cold I'm going to take my leftovers and stick them in your office next to the books you never read (like the labor laws, or those instructions that came with the deodorant) Then I'll smear my Marie Callender's all over your shiny new monitor. All because you didn't follow the rules.

Asshat.

Love, Brad

2009-05-29T10:08:00.013-04:00

I Have a Confession...

This is so-o-o-o-o-o-o hard. But I feel that I have to clear the air. For the good of my reputation, my readers, and most importantly, my family.

[gasp]

Are you ready?

I'm straight.

There, I said it. And admittedly, it feels good to come clean. I'll give you all a moment to absorb this information.

Phew!

Now, I know this is shocking to some of you. But I ask of you, please try and forget that my two most popular blog posts involve a TLC reality show about overzealous ovaries, and you'll see it to be true. Also, please ignore the fact that I've redecorated this site more times than I've posted on it.

And for God's sake, make no mention of my penchant for using words like...well..."penchant."

I assure you, I'm not gay. And I'll do whatever it takes to prove it. But if you're still too wrapped up in my Jon & Kate expertise to believe me, I invite you to check the photos, friend:

Photo #1:

This is me, Wifey and the little fart factory. Ignoring my failed attempt at a manicured scruff beard, you'll see that I'm just a regular joe with no fashion sense, who makes no attempt to change his image or lay off the burgers. And, oh yeah, I made that kid with my wife, the ol' fashioned way. Yaknowwhutimsayin?

Photo #2:

The wedding night with the cast of "The Sopranos." Not only am I a straight married guy, who likes all them sexy women-parts, but I went one further by spending the after-party with a guy best known as "Big Pussy." I mean, come on. Doesn't get much straighter than that, right?

Photo #3:

And this is a picture of me and some of the other guys from Bugs & Cranks. Just a bunch of dudes, drinking craft beer and good wine together in a nicely furnished basem-----you know what? Let's not use this picture after all...

You get my point.

To summarize, I like women, drink beer, watch sports, and am therefore in no way homosexual. The end.

---

---

---

And now, a word from the actual Professor.

Today, the role of "Professor Brad" was played by an ignorant, falsely stereotyping, self-important jackass. But for research purposes, by a show of hands, how many people would have cared if I actually was gay?

(Wifey, put your hand down...)

Okay, thank you. Now, how many people found the character's use of stereotypes to prove his heterosexuality offensive, inaccurate and wrong?

Just as I suspected. And it seems the majority of the non-drooling world agrees as well.

So, based on these findings, can anyone explain why we continue to inquire about, make assumptions about, and let the media ritually abuse...this guy?

Adam Lambert. "American Idol" runner-up and fan favorite. Five octave range. Bi. Gay. Not gay. Foot fetish. Digs sheep. Who cares? Right now, the only "coming out" announcement this talented singer should be discussing is his album's release date.

Nothing more.

Today, according to the bastion of fact known as Twitter, Lambert is going to make a public declaration of his sexuality. Not because he wants to. Not even because he thinks it's going to help his career. He just wants it to end. Yes, he is only announcing this because it's the one question that reporters continue to throw his way.

I get into celebrity gossip as much as the next guy, and to be blunt, don't particularly care for Adam Lambert's brand of high-pitched dingo yelping. But all the same, we -- both the media, and the media loving public -- should be nothing short of ashamed that this is what qualifies as "news."

Leave the man alone.

2009-05-26T09:14:00.004-04:00

A Moment in Time

We shared a moment on the sidewalk. You wanted to pass me on my left. I wanted to pass you on your right. Then we both switched sides at the same time, resulting in a continued stalemate. We shared a platonic, non-flirtatious man giggle and a knowing glance, and we stopped in our tracks, both politely waiting for the other to make the decisive move.

We shared, for a brief moment, a singular mindset, a consciousness. For 1.5 seconds, every decision we made was inextricably linked. We shared a glance; our eyes met; we shared a slice of life, an understanding. And then you shrugged your shoulders, raised your eyebrows, flashed a stifled smile, and passed me.

On my left.

And I, in time, went on my way as well. But my mind remains consumed with our brief connection, our shared experience, how my entire soul was, for a single flash, open and vulnerable and unabridged, laid out for you to do with as you would. And you took it all in, and weighed all my virtues and faults, all my highs and lows, and decided, “No. No, you don’t get what you want. You don’t get to walk by on my right.” And you passed me.

On my left.

Oh, how I wish I could meet you again! Stand in front of you, face that face once more, and ask you to reconsider. To judge me again, to breathe deep my being, and find that I am not the fool you first found me to be. I wish you could see that I am a man, like any other, like even you. I wish for all the world that I had just one more chance, one more second and a half, to lay my life at your feet, and hope that you’d see the brighter side of me, the glass half full, the silver lining.

Also, you dropped your pen, so I’d like to give that back to you.

(But it’s a pretty nice pen, and if I don’t see you in the next three days, it’s mine, dude.)

2009-05-21T09:41:00.004-04:00

He Went The Only Way He Knew How...

...in Melysa's arms...

Sleep well, little buddy.

2009-05-15T09:27:00.051-04:00

The Beginner's Guide to New Jersey

Recently, I've taken some potshots at New Jersey, much to the disappointment of...well...only one person, but still -- I aim to please all of my loyal readers. I would hate to lose you guys, especially considering I only met a bunch of you last week.

And not for anything, but it's not really my fault anyway.

No, really. Growing up in New York, I've been preconditioned to dislike our neighbor to the west, regardless of whether or not the state had done anything to me, personally. It's not a conscious thing, and I'll even admit to being a little egocentric when it comes to all things NYC.

(Hell, I'll make the ultimate admission of guilt -- I'm originally from Long Island! No, don't pity me -- my therapist says the accent is normal...)

But no matter how guido-fabulous my upbringing may have been, it only takes one visit to New Jersey to see where the mother lode resides. Still, people are stopping by the ol' Molly Pitcher rest stop at an alarming rate, and need all the assistance they can get.

So, as a gesture of good faith, I've decided to break down all of the things a beginner needs to know before visiting the most densely populated state in the union.

Step 1: Become Familiar with Local Wildlife
New Jerseyites are easily recognizable to the trained eye. As in any situation, it always helps to familiarize yourself with regional species and fauna, to better understand cultural differences. Some examples of species you may encounter are:

The new math: XY+XY+XY-SPF+1.2GPA+5lbs lip collagen=3 Tubs of Massengill

Atlantic City offers 10:1 odds that her car has at least one airbrushed novelty license plate,
saying she's a) Italian, b) her daddy's princess, and/or c) 100% bitch.

Bayonne Prep, Class of 2008

Once you are comfortable and can recognize the locals, tread lightly, and enjoy the scenery. But please, despite the fact that all local creatures live off a major toll road, there is no need to taunt the animals with questions like, "Hey...whaht egggzutttt?"

They will get frustrated with the math and bite you.

Step 2: Get to Know the Jersey Shore
No matter where you live in Jersey, you go "down da shawh." Basic geography aside, this is the best place to see those afore-mentioned Jersey customs in action. It's a bastion of ritualistic, carnal lust, bathed in gallons of bottled tan and lip liner.

And the residents effing love it.

As a child, I once visited the shore with my family, in a small town community called Wildwood. Though my memories of 1982 are foggy, I do remember the following about this vacation, in no particular order: Chicken legs...boardwalk fire...Miller High Life...disco...Astroturf on the hotel porch...Aqua Net.

Wait, nevermind. That was last week.

Today, please note that you cannot step onto any local beach without a pock-marked teenager examining your sticker permit. This is to be sure you paid enough money to sit on a filthy stretch of sand with thousands of other people. The permit kids are usually slightly less competent than the lifeguards, but still much more adept at handling your needs than the toll collectors.

Also, I would recommend against entering the water, to prevent any risk of a stray syringe. New Jersey beaches have the dubious honor of having the only ocean water that can be described as "rich and creamy."

Finally, if you drive an IROC, parking is free.

Step 3: Embrace the Local Cuisine
This is going to be a long section, but with good reason. When venturing into the wilds, it's best to eat like a true native. You can't spend everyday living it up at classy joints like Red Lobster or Pizzeria UNO -- save these for special occasions, like a baptism, or parole day. But did you know that Jersey also possesses the largest collection of 24-hour diners in the world?

And they were all designed by the same guy.

When entering any of these diners, know your options. Upon first walking in, you'll be greeted by a woman of Greek origin, standing behind a glass bowl filled with those chalky, gel-filled dinner mints that no one has ever seen in a store...ever. Because she went to Rutgers for a year and a half, she'll quickly grab the appropriate number of ten-pound menus and lead you to a strange neutral area in the middle of the restaurant. This is where you make your first big decision.

After passing the rotating dessert case (which at any time can also hold fruit, butter packets, lunch meat and lottery tickets) you'll be given the option to either sit to the left, in the traditional diner area, or to the right, in the more formal "dining room."

The left option is usually replete with local color. A row of six swivel stools (no more, no less) are parked in front of a glass muffin tray, which holds a collection of pastry old enough to vote. Looking upwards, you'll then find a fabulous selection of cold cereal, proudly displayed atop the service window, as well as a limited selection of beers and spirits.

Further to the left, you'll see rows of vinyl-covered booths, each with its own jukebox. You may also see generically-produced table tent advertisements for unbranded foods. Example, "Spice up your meal with Mozzarella Sticks!" or "Turkey burgers and diet cola - The smart choice for your dining experience." No one knows who makes these, and no one in Jersey has ever ordered a turkey burger/Tab combo.

Of course, you could also go against your political leanings and head to the right. This is where it gets real. If you opt for this, be prepared for the wonder that awaits you. First, you'll pass the lobster tank. Though you won't have long to stare, you may notice that the lobsters seem much calmer, with no sign of that "Please order the lamb chops" look so many shellfish have in a restaurant. That's because they're nearly 100% safe. Diner lobsters average 17.3 years of age, and often have their own offspring, right in the very same tank.

Just don't order the seafood surprise.

Once seated, the ambiance isn't all that different from a traditional restaurant. That is, if traditional restaurants weighed you down in pickled relish and challah bread before you even ordered, and had price tags on every painting in their dining rooms. Yes, in diners, you will never go hungry, and all artwork is for sale. Budget accordingly.

Your menus will be the same on this side of the building, so don't worry about missing any of the magic. Also, don't be surprised if your legs fall asleep in the time it takes to finish reading the laminated monstrosity. Diners have no less than 12 heavily-bound pages for you to peruse, along with four pages of handwritten inserts, neatly connected to the spine by an elastic hairband. This part can get very confusing to the uninitiated, so be careful when ordering. Those (mostly legal) diner chefs have a LOT of things to remember, and can get easily frazzled if you're not clear when you order.

Most of it is edible. But, as a precaution, steer clear of anything stuffed into a grape leaf.

Still, there are plenty of options. Want a burger? Promptly head to a section labeled "From our Glowing, Char-Broiled Hearth." A turkey sandwich can be found in the aptly named "Selections from our Carving Board." And for the brave, seafood delights await you in "Treasures from the Sea."

Got it? Good. Now enjoy your meal as if it's your last.

Step 4: Rules of the Road
I hope you're sitting down. The next section involves the actual movements you will need to make while traversing the side streets.

Firstly, forget you even know what a left turn signal is. Zap it. Ixnay on the eftlay. It never happened, and you don't even know why your car would have it to begin with.

The highers up at the NJDOT know better. Defying the laws of geometry and spatial relations, and throwing caution to the toxic wind, residents of NJ now know that the best way to go left is to actually take your vehicle further to the right.

After arriving at this breakthrough, experts created the jug handle -- a paved anomaly for the ages. Apparently, those pesky "left turn lanes" created too much havoc for residents. So the powers that be carved up a little more garden from the Garden State, and put in a series of extra lanes, complete with their own dedicated traffic lights...you know...to keep things moving...

Don't get it? Experience the science for yourself:

I'll wait while you catch your breath.

To make a logical comparison, start walking in a straight line through your office. As you get closer to your friend's cubicle on the left, wave hello. But before you engage the person in a discussion about last night's "Grey's Anatomy," make a huge wide turn to the right, around the desk of the weird cat lady, before cutting back and approaching her desk from the side.

Yeah, it's about that intelligent.

The one place in Jersey you'll never find a jug handle? The self-serve gas station. Because after 1971, when "The Great New Brunswick Unleaded Drink-a-Thon" killed most of the state's Camaro owners, self-serve gasoline was outlawed, alongside green left arrows.

If you somehow come across a left turn lane leading to a self-serve gas station? Well, my friends, that's what the locals call "Atlantis."

Step 5: Appreciate Local Celebrity
Known by many (degenerates) as the "East Coast L.A.", it's due time the state began getting recognized for its abundance of famous progeny.

Of course, there's the requisite Bruce Springsteen/Bon Jovi/Frank Sinatra connections. But please don't go assuming that the only other famous people from New Jersey were those goombas from "The Sopranos." That would not only perpetuate a stereotype, but also insult the other A-1 talent that arose from the Garden State.

People like...

Whitney Houston (born in Newark)
Once popular singer who got famous, married another (less) popular singer, then began smoking crack like it was holding the antidote.

Martha Stewart (born in Jersey City, raised in Nutley)
Most famous for fraud, pretentiousness and having the best decorated cell in federal prison. Also has a magazine.

David Copperfield (born in Metuchen)
Professional magician now rendered obsolete by the Criss Angels of the world. Most famous for marrying a supermodel and making his career disappear. May or may not be a douchebag, depending on the casino in which you spent your daughter's college fund.

Tara Reid (born and raised in Wyckoff)
Once famous teen actress, now appearing in a local productions of "AA" and "That's the Last Time I Get a Breast Augmentation on Craigslist."

Dave Thomas (born, raised and deep fried in Atlantic City)
Founder of Wendy's Hamburgers, or as the locals call it, "That dressy place we go to when the diner is on the wrong side of the jug handle."

Coming soon: Steps 6-10. Bring extra mascara.

[Special thanks to Jerseysucks.net for the photos, the inspiration, and for simply existing.]

2009-05-12T12:57:00.007-04:00

Now, How Do You Follow THAT?

This is a question I've asked myself since the flood of comments and well-wishes came in from all corners of the internet last weekend.

After all, I'm not a Jon & Kate blogger. Hell, I'm not even much of a pop culture blogger. There are plenty of outlets for people to get their fix of that stuff -- outlets that update daily, if not more frequently, and who do what I did last week on a much grander scale. Me? I'm just a regular guy, trying to find a laugh or six, and maybe bring about a few chuckles from you guys as well. No expectations...no pretense...just a blog.

However, I have to admit that this whole J&K thing has made me think. In the four years I've been running this site, only two posts have gotten me any kind of major attention. That's right -- the two posts about that rubber-groined landbeast in Pennsylvania.

Maybe I'm missing my calling...

Between my personal blog, and my work at Bugs & Cranks, I've seen regular readers come and go. I've enjoyed moderate success in getting my name out there. And I've achieved a small portion of what I set out to do -- have people enjoy my writing.

And I thank you all from the bottom of my heart for it.

But now I need to think this through. I need to decide if it's time I started focusing my efforts on things that will get me the attention I crave, the exposure I need, and an outside chance of taking my hobby and finally turning it into a lucrative and rewarding career. No matter how often I take breaks from blogging, or what's emblazoned on my biweekly pay stub, I am (and will always be) a professional writer. And thanks to a silly pair of posts about a fake TV couple, I got a small taste of what it feels like to preach from a bigger podium.

This is something I've wanted for a very...long...time.

I have no intentions of becoming a poor man's Perez Hilton, or just another face in an endless line of mindless 'net ranters. But I do think that with the right focus (not to mention better use of tags and crosslinks), I can take this humble little blog and broaden its scope to a wider array of people and media outlets. And I can do it without losing who I am along the way.

Diaries started out -- like most blogs -- as a sounding board for my thoughts, and though we've had some facelifts and tone shifts, it's still always been Brad behind the curtain. This will never change. I assure you that no matter what form these pages take, for better or for worse, you will always get pure, unadulterated me.

So, no frets, true believers. This blog isn't going anywhere. That is, anywhere but up. For most people, blogging is a hobby -- a distraction. For me, it's a small step on a lifelong journey, and an outlet to achieve my longstanding goals. Yeah, it's time to take this to another level.

What I'm going to be expressing on these pages? Well, that's going to require a little more thought. It won't be Jon & Kate (at least I don't think so) and it won't be trite, rehashed pablum you could read elsewhere. But it will be honest, funny and original. You have the Professor's word.

I only hope you'll come along for the ride.