What's that smell?

I accidentally stumbled upon my blog today. I haven't looked at it in so long. Like Chinese take-out at the back of the fridge. It's a bit ripe

It's getting close to autumn, the time of year when I rethink not writing that novel I'll never write again. I've not written about three books. Not-blogging must be a great way to keep not-writing. Even if I don't end up with not-a-book, I can get to know my iPad's auto spell features.

But what to write? I don't have a plot. So, back to whining.

An Islamic center, 10 stories with a mosque, is going to be built near Ground Zero in New York City. If they build that mosque in NYC, they'll be seeping their metric values into our communities, our schools. Islamic countries use the metric system. It's downright unAmerican. Soon, you'll go to the store, and all they'll sell is liters and milligrams. How the heck will I be able to determine what a serving size is? How cold is it when Hell freezes over, in Celsius?

I'm confused how this NYC mosque became an issue. The Freedom of Religion and all. Or, is it only freedom of YOUR religion? Sure, violent extremist Muslims brought down the towers. But, I'm doubting their families are members of the new Islamic center. I read it's a more moderate type of Islam. Not like the type of Christianity that literally crucifies a Wyoming kid for being gay, nor bombing the Olympics because they promote abortion--or however the Christian Identity idiot explained the antimultinationalist voices in his head--nor claiming earthquakes are their god's retribution for the country's "evil" behavior, nor stockpile weapons in their sheds for their god's militia, because the end times are upon us again.

Politicians this past week were all over this nonissue, like spitting brimstone at it would create more jobs. Shoot! Lindsay Lohan is more an issue. She's moving to NYC. She'll be looking for work, like a huge percentage of Americans. Maybe she can get one of those green energy jobs I hear are supposed to be coming 'round. Get some retraining about the weather stripping and insulation blowing industry. That's what her new movie, Inferno, is about. Efficient heating with stripping and blowing. That's what I've heard, anyway. If Lohan can get another job, there is hope for the rest of America!
Anyway, I better get some sleep if I hope to work up a plot to wrap my whining around.

Frangible

Frangible. It's a real word. I had no idea. I just thought it was a spelling of "fragile" used to mimic incoherency.

I found my blog post to be frangible. I dropped it, and is split up into a few dozen pieces. Here are some:

***

I could see the cop inside. I was standing next to her car while in line to get in. The cop was counting people to be sure the fire marshal's occupancy limit was not exceeded. It looked friggin' crazy in there. A high energy place.

The woman at the door was checking people. Folks would walk up, and say a name. The woman would check her list, and say, "Okay, you're in." Or, not. Like to me, out in the cold next to the cop's car. I've never really been part of the "in-crowd."

"How many in your party?" the door woman asked me.

"Two," I told her. "But we don't need a table."

She whispered something into the mic at her breast. "Nope. Can't let you in until a table frees up." Shoot. Why not just go home and play video games instead. Pick up a frozen pizza...

I thought of slipping the door woman a couple Lincolns. I mean, after all, this was just Chuck E. Cheese on Saturday afternoon, not a NYC Club with Alica Keys trying out new material.

Outside so long made my kid's ears so cold. He nestled into my neck. Fine. We'll wait for a chance to win cheap plastic crap.


***

The books and magazine articles stress writing in a journal every day. And, a cheap journal, one I didn't have to worry about the cost of the page I was spoiling with drivel.

I picked up a journal a week ago. Still, I can't think of any cheap drivel to put into it. I may as well just sneeze into it. It was cheaper than tissue.

Shoot, I can barely think of a Facebook status every day. What the heck am I going to write in a journal.

The journal's got a pocket, though... That's cool, right? I can't think of a thing to put in the pocket, neither.

***

My boy said, "What's that song playing on the playground speakers?"

"I have no idea."

"It sounds like something from Sesame Street," he mused, "Sounds like it from this angle."

***

I lost my glasses again. I feel stupid. You'd think, seeing being so important to me, I'd remember where I put my eyes.

***

Where's the web site that feeds ideas to bloggers who have nothing to write about, but still have a nagging desire to just keep bull-sh*tting to hear themselves grumble?

I found a book of writer's prompts, but it's all fiction prompts. Nothing like, "What are your five favorite karoke songs and why?" Or, "When was the last time you laughed at someone else's pain?" Or, "Why do you wear the underwear you do?" Or, "Have you ever connected on a different, subtle plane with an animal at the zoo? Like it was talking to you?"

Sh*t. What the hell am I going to blog about?

***

Happy birthday! You know who you are.

***

I can't keep Facebook's "Live Feed" and "News Feed" straight in my head. I don't know why this bothers me.

***

I can feel nostalgia creep into me like Vaporub's pungent sting on the surface, seeping through my pores to suffocate today's reality in a soft, pessimistic gloom that is hard to shake. Then, my family smiles, and I remember I never lived in the 30s.

***

I don't like potato chips much any more. But, I still eat them.

***

Why doesn't Sasha Cohen have her own reality show yet? Or, maybe a video game? Damn. Still can't get a hold of her on Twitter. It's like she wants privacy, or something. Why crave privacy, when she could have thousands of pompous, obsequious armchair figure skaters telling her how she should do a triple Salchow in 114 characters or less? Or, tell her how we, too, felt her pain as she under-rotated and fell on her ass, but soared with her on her spirals. Geez. Privacy. So overrated. Um, not like I'll be friending you on Facebook anytime soon...

***

Yeah, well, like I said. Frangible.

I Need More Buttons To Push

There are five buttons I wished I had installed on my car's dash.

#1: The Block All Cell Phone Reception in a 1/2-mile Radius Button. That'd get the idiot in front of me to shut up and drive. And, don't tell me we don't already have this technology. The government won't tell you about it. They got it from the UFO that crashed into Area 51. (The aliens had been flying while texting.)

#2: The Alien Detector. Then, I know to which cars to follow so I can pull the alien driver over and ask for some of that secret technology.

#3: The Cut the Tailgater's Gas Button. You know the car you see speeding up behind you at 80+ mph, then hangs on your bumper? This button sends a signal to the jerk's car's computer to automatically slow it to 40mph. Oh, yeah. This technology exists, too. Ask the aliens that work at OnStar.

#4: The Pardon Me, I'm Late For Work Button. This would send a radio signal to the car ahead of you who is driving 10mph under the limit. Their car radio would then tell the driver, "Please move to the right lane so the car behind you may pass." This technology exists, too. Aliens tried selling this to the police and paramedics a couple years back.

#5: The Sandwich Button: 'Cause, sometimes while driving, I could really use a fresh veggie sandwich, with a little dressing, maybe some provolone... Drive-thrus just don't cut it. They never have good food, and they take too long. Shoot, I was in a Dairy Queen drive-thru for 45 minutes. And, not for a nice sandwich.

You Gonna Read All of That Now?!

I took my boy to the comic book store. We had to drive through downtown to get there. I didn't know Jacksonville had a hair-burning factory. Smelled horrible. OR, the smell COULD be the Baptist Factory. We've got the third largest Baptist factory in the south! It takes up 11 square blocks, churning out Baptists left and right. Heck! THAT would solve our trade deficit. Yo, China! Send us cheap, plastic, lead-painted toys, and we'll send you a big shipment of Baptists! Oh, wait. We've been sending them missionaries already. China keeps sending them back. We'll have to look into our Baptist quality control department.

ANYWAY-- we drove through downtown to get to the comic book store. I was behind a car with a flapping car flag. It was in Gator colors: Orange and Blue. The flag read, "Jesus." (I think Jesus did some post-grad work at University of Florida. He discovered how to turn water into Gatorade.)

ANYWAY-- We finally made it to the comic book store. I warned the boy about turning the pages of the comic books very carefully, so we wouldn't stress out the comic guy behind the register.

We walked in, and headed for a Spider-man comic. The boy picked one up, and turned the pages with only two fingers, like I taught him. I stood over him like an in-law with nothing to do. "Very good, boy. Doin' good. You like that one?"

Some lady asked Comic Guy if they bought any back issues of a certain title. He told her to try Chamblin Bookmine in the haughtiest tone he could muster while watching us.

The boy picked another Spider-man comic, and rested it on the shelf so he could focus on his page-turning method. Comic Guy pretended to put some comics away next to us. "Um," he said, "Could you tell him NOT to leave the comics on the shelf like that while he turns the pages? They can get caught on the shelf above."

I had my boy hand me the comic. "Oh, sorry," I told my son, "Comics are meant for people without hands."

While my boy was reading Sonic, I said loud enough, "Say, don't breathe on it. The comic will lose 20% of its value."

I gave it a rest when Comic Guy got a phone call. "No. The owner isn't in. What is this about? I don't care if it's personal. He's never in."

My boy handed me an X-Men book with Storm on the cover-- my fave! "Did you lick this one? Or, did you expect me to lick it first?"

Well, we DID pay for some comics with our sullen, crumpled bills. Comics for a KID, of all things!

When we got home, we told my wife about the trip. She picked up the phone and called the comic book store.

My wife asked the phone, "Is the owner there?"

...

"No, I'd like to speak to the owner. When will he be in?"

...

"I would NOT like to leave him a message. Will he be in tonight?"

...

"It's about poor customer service," she told the phone. Today."

Well. The owner is never in, I guess.

But, I promised the boy I would blog this:

The comic guy at the comic book store wasn't very nice. He isn't very nice in The Simpsons comic book, either. But, we didn't get to step all over that title. Yet.

Brother, Can You Spare A , um, Like, Some Money, Dude?

I've been walking the dog some more.

Last night, just after the evening twilight, I walk the dog up to a corner, and two skateboarders scrape by.

"Excuse me, sir?" the black-haired one yelled at me from across the street.

"Yeah?"

"Can I have a dollar?"

This kid is a product of our poor public school system. Our state's kids are growing up without a clue how to properly beg. No panache. No wheedling. Not even a grovel to tug some guilt-and a couple bucks-out of me. They panhandle just like the state. Essentially: Here's a new skateboarder tax: Give me a dollar.

I'm glad there are some private schools to teach some more fortunate kids this valuable skill. Valuable especially in this economy! I mean, how many times have you been at the gas station, without your debit card, no cash, and you just need a couple bucks for gas to make it home? In fact, some kids learn to beg before they can walk! Some even learn to beg instead of walking!

So, for all you folks who've been through Florida Public Schools, and need an appreciation for the sport of scrounge, here are some lines that just may get the job done for you.

*-*-*

I'm from The Immaculate Perception. Around the corner. We see you drive by Sunday mornings. I'd like to explain to you why you need to give me a tenth of what's in your wallet, or burn for all eternity.

I'm collecting donations to buy supplies for my charity car wash to raise money for uniforms for my school's band to wear while they sell cookie dough to fund their trip to Washington, D.C. to play a benefit concert to help starving kids in South America sell popcorn to help the victims of Hurricane Katrina.

My dog needs an operation I can't afford, and it's her birthday today. Could you spare a couple bucks so I could get her something special for her last meal?

Give me a dollar, or I'll have a wardrobe malfunction.

I ran into Samuel L. Jackson, and he said you're not as cheap as everyone says you are.

I know this guy in this apartment building that can turn your ten dollars into fifty. He's really shy, so give me your ten, and I'll be right back.

Mommy! Mommy! --What? You're not my real mommy? Y'know, this deep, personal pain you've caused me could be smoothed over with just a few bucks.

I'm passing the hat here! C'mon, don't cheap out! I had to pawn my ventriloquist's dummy just to buy the hat!

Help! Help! My two-year-old baby wandered out of the house last night, and made it clear across town! I need to send her cab fare.

My job moved to India. Can you spare some dough so I can go chase after it?

Say, stop feeding Africa! I'm hungry and standing right in front of you.

I just gave my last fiver to a hungry skateboarder. Could you spare some change so I can make it home?

*-*-*

There's plenty more, you can bet. I'll be looking for you and your hook. I don't have any cash to give you, you understand. I'm a little light in the wallet this payday. Business has still not stimulated in my neck of the woods, and blogging about idiots don't pay squat, so, um, if you could shoot me a little something-something, you'd make my day. I take Paypal.

Prey Elsewhere

"[A vampire] may not enter anywhere on the first, unless there be some one of the household who bid him to come."
--Dracula, Bram Stoker

So, there's this knock on my door yesterday morning. I tore myself from the latest Facebook app, and with a kid at my elbow, and a puppy at his feet, I opened the door.

Two gray ladies, one two steps behind the other, looked at the puppy, then the boy in his jammie shorts, then my head poked around the door.

"Hello," the first septuagenarian said, "I wondered if we might share a piece of scripture with you today."

"No. Thank you." I brushed my boy back, and closed the door.

As my door shut in her face, she said, "I noticed your sign--" She was pointing to the homey "Peace To All Who Enter" tile hanging in the window. Yeah, well, the old demon hadn't gotten even a toe across my threshold. No peace for her.

"Who was that," my boy asked.

"Just someone selling something we didn't need."

Yeah, I used to tell the godsellers I worshiped a goat, or their god didn't exist as much as mine. But, that takes too much time, and I would have to pretend to care. Now days, I have a kid to protect from their holier-than-thou grasp.

I'm tired of playing their psyche-sucking game. They knock on your door. All they need you to do is answer. Cause, if you greet them amiably, they take encouragement from you they are doing their imaginary master's bidding, then bug your neighbors. Maybe even use your name. But, if you say they are wasting their time, they may steel themselves to stand in your yard and chant a few words to their imaginary master about you, then may even come back for a second helping next month. Woe is you if they bite you. You'll become one of their pack, enter their den of lies, of guilt and ignorance, with pious backbiting. Woe, woe, woe.

So, to all avid proselytizing succubi: Behold, you stand at the door and knock. At my No Soliciting sign.

Laugh and Let Laugh

So, I said, "Sure, I've seen The Holy Land theme park. I've gotta warn you. You WILL get wet on the Jonah in the Whale Ride."

Then, someone said, "Are you joking? I can't tell when you're joking."

Yeah. I get that a lot. Especially when I'm not very funny.

So, in case you're wondering, at left is my face after I just told the computer what I had for lunch. Note the half-closed eyes staring off into space, a little nervous, with a self-deprecating air. I could use a trim about the goatee.

Now, at right is my face just after telling the computer a joke. Notice the snarky smirk, the twinkle in the eye, the cocky tilt to the head. Oh, yeah. I'm joking all right. You should be falling off your laptop, because the joke I told the computer was so funny.

Here's the deal. I've been thinking. (In case you're wondering, when I think, I look very angry, but I'm NOT angry!) Why would someone bother asking me if THEY think my joke is funny? Do I have to carry a laugh track around with me? (Everyone, say it with me: "Is that a laugh track in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?") Why not let yourself decide whether to laugh or not? Don't laugh if the joke is stupid. Laugh if the joke is funny. OH! And, laugh in the middle of a sentence-- for no reason. That is loads of fun. Gets people real nervous real quick.

Anyway, if you're still not sure when to laugh or not, let me revise my little joke. It's like a pop quiz:

---

Hey, great crowd here tonight. Great to be here.

Anyone been to the Holy Land theme park? I freaked out on the Tower of Babel. They make you walk 16 flights of stairs, and when you're pushed off, you scream in 12 different languages. And all the concession stands have all-you-can-eat loaves and fishes. They're practically giving the stuff away. Oh, and my little boy likes the petting zoo, He rides those Four Ponies of the Apocalypse like there was no tomorrow.

Hey, thanks for being here. Remember to tip your bartender and waitstaff. Good night.

---

Soooo, how'd you do? Did you manage to roll your eyes in mock disgust a couple times? That's all I'm asking for. A genuine response from the core of your being. Is that so hard?

Please blink and drive.

On my way to work, I was sitting in the left turn lane (in a car) waiting for the light to change (again). I was listening to some song, grooving to it a little, and I noticed some off-beat percussion. It sounded like sticks clacking together, but they were way off beat. I tried tapping out the rhythm on my steering wheel. I couldn't imagine an audio engineer letting that beat through.

It, er, turns out, the odd beat was my turn signal. So, when I turned my music up louder so I didn't have to hear the turn signal, a small beacon of light blinked on in my head. The reason people don't use their turn signals is because they don't want the clicking sound to ruin their music!

PEOPLE! Turn up your car radios! Turn 'em up LOUD! Then feel free to use your turn signals!

It's probably why all the cool, hip young'uns drive with music that make ears bleed two blocks away! Because they want to use their signals, and be the safe, conscientious drivers we know they are!

In fact, I now understand why the guy I'm following drives with his blinker on ALL the time! He's listening to a great groove, and can't hear that his turn signal is still on! Now, I don't mind at all!

SO, rock on, America! Blast those tunes! As long as you use your blinkin' turn signals!

sigh

Some days I wonder what Pam would do.

Faith, Trust, and Pixie Dust

I've heard candidates for President say they wish they had a magic wand that could fix all the nation's ills.

Why not vote for a candidate that DOES have a magic wand?

VOTE TINK 2008!

Even Tink's campaign slogan captures the hearts and souls of both sides of the aisle:

Faith (Conservative Right-wing tells us is needed), Trust (Liberal Left-wing tells us is needed), and Pixie Dust (what we are telling ourselves is needed).

Yep! Lost your house through foreclosure? Got laid-off? Can't get a student loan? Family torn apart by a stagnate, unpopular war? Well, there's really nothing to it! All you need is a little faith, and trust. And... Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. A little pinch of Pixie Dust!

Get out there and vote! Make it count! It's time for a real change! Send a message to Washington! Vote Tink!

Just keep buying!

So, America is broker than broke. Most American's are up to their Versace sunglasses in debt. There is apparently no liquidity to be found anywhere in the markets. (Does that include the Off and On Liquor Market down the street? They've been getting some business this past two weeks.)

What is a good little consumer to do?

Shop away your troubles!

How about hitting a mall, getting some new clothes, new hair, a tan, bleached teeth, new contacts, then hitting a dance club, down a few brewskis, build another chair, design a shirt, then hit a coffee shop and chat up some neo-luddite philosophy with some folks dressed as merpeople before working on your nose job, all FREE-- then click off your computer, and go to bed feeling like you partied like you were 21 again-- only there was something missing. Like, an honest heartbeat.

That's SecondLife.com. It's fun! It feels real enough! and instead of buyer's remorse, I get the "I'll never get that 8-hours of my life back" feeling. Of course, to solve THAT wasted feeling, just log back on to Second Life, and surf a big virtual wave on Weather Island. Heck, there's even a knit club there-- which leads me to:

To all my knitter friends out there, I look very much forward to seeing y'all every week, and making something tangible.

Masters of Illusion --WARNING: BIG WHINE

I wanted to be a magician when I grew up-- for about three weeks. Master of Illusion, doing card tricks, and making the coin disappear in the plastic box with the false bottom. (Oops! I gave the secret away! See! I'd make a lousy magician.)

I loved watching the magic shows on TV. Like the magician who could turn his lovely assistant into a tiger, then back again. I tried that on my sister. I kept saying the magic words over and over again, but she never got the hang of turning into a tiger. She never disappeared, neither.

Then, I got into advertising. Talk about illusion! Everybody is worried about their product and the image it portrays! What color label most appeals to their target audience of females 17-35. Having to choose the right font for a church to make it seem hip, but not too hip to exclude families.

It's like the kids in high school who need to wear the right jeans, comb their hair the right way, not wear certain colors. Is there ANYTHING a kid won't buy with the word Holister on it? Shoot, way back in my middle school days, you needed to have the right brand of a thick tube of candy-flavored lip gloss hanging around your neck by a cord, and the huge handle of a plastic comb hanging out your back pocket. Or, frankly, you were not cool.

We caught on, though. It's all an illusion.

Like a movie. There's some magic makers there. I swear I want to get a time-share on the planet Naboo. And, how long before you went back in the water after seeing Jaws? Ever shudder taking a shower the morning after seeing Psycho?

One of my favorite directors is Zhang Yimou. He directed Raise the Red Lantern and To Live, both with my favorite actress Gong Li. I could feel the torture of the Cultural Revolution in To Live, and I really want someone to tap my feet with little hammers, like in Raise the Red Lantern.

He also directed the absolutely magical 2008 Beijing Olympic Opening Ceremonies. 2008 drummers perfectly synchronized. Master calligraphers. Dancers. Singers. Joggers all over a globe. Fireworks. Some bizarre movable type board, that moved up and down in letter forms, and water-like drips, and-- there were people underneath each separate character-piece. There was thousands of years of Chinese culture displayed for the world. The Olympic opening ceremonies were the chance for the Chinese to put their best smiling face forward, and say, "Welcome to our home, world!" And, they chose a fantastic film maker to put together their image.

And, for some folks, the illusion was ruined because one little girl sang so beautifully, and another little girl mouthed the words.

Really? You want to pick on that? Miss I-Really-DO-Look-Like-My-Facebook-Photo-All-The-Time? Or, are you really a Mr? You can't find any other itsy-bitsy Chinese elephants in the room to pick on, but a prepubescent lip syncher? That really blew it all for you, Mr. I-Buy-Only-Family-Oriented-Under-Arm-Deordorants? That whole bit where the children dressed as the 56 minorities in China soft-shoeing the Chinese flag up to the soldiers who take it from them wasn't disturbing? I'll bet the 2008 drummers all synched up was looking a bit intimidating to Taiwan-- er, I mean, Chinese Taipei, or to the not-so-autonomous region of Tibet.

Really? Lip synching? The whole illusion is blown, and China sucks because the actual singer didn't look the image someone wanted to portray? Did you watch the rest of the ceremony? (Say, did you know Zhang Yimou was banned from China? And, now he is a welcome celebrity?) The show was AWESOME! It almost made me forget about the city-wide pre-Olympic political dissident round-up.

---

So, I woke up this morning to a wrestling match with my boy. (He's getting better. Nearly had one of my arms pinned down.) When I got around to saying good morning to my honey, she was working on her computer. "Blogging?" I asked.

"No," she said. "I'm making you a MySpace page."

I smiled a very big smile. I've got a groupie! who makes a MySpace page for me, like a politician, or an actress, or a tattoo artist. Wait-- You didn't think those MySpace pages were the REAL politician/actress/tattoo artists, did you?

Oh, btw. Way back when, remember the Taco Bell chihuahua? That wasn't the dog's real voice.

Illusions...

Actually, my wife made me the MySpace page so I could access and read HER MySpace blog.

"We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful what we pretend to be."

--Kurt Vonnegut, Mother Night

Childhood Immersion-- BIG WHINE

I don't even know how many times I've tried to learn a language. Chinese, German, French, Japanese, Spanish, ASL, Italian-- I've got no aptitude for it. I learn how to say, "Where is father?" and "He's been in the bathroom for hours," in five languages, then lose what I learn because I don't use it.

Maybe, just like that TV show, Man Vs. Wild, I could parachute into, say, Shanghai, and HAVE to use it to get around! Like, total life-or-death cultural immersion! I'd definitely have to learn more than just Ni hao! 什么是这炒饭成份？

Then, I got to thinking...

Kids. They are totally life-or-death culturally immersed in Earth.

Then, I kept thinking...

Do kids get angry? Do they get frustrated? How do they express it? Are they even "ALLOWED" to express it? Are they allowed to even experience anger and frustration, even with their parent/guardian?

And, still I kept thinking... (Dangerous pasttime, I know. (Disney fans?))

What if a kid is told, when angry, "No hitting."
And, "No screaming."
And, "Don't take that tone."
And, "You are NOT to use that word."

Thinking, thinking...

Ok, what is a kid to do? Is the five-year-old to simply tell his/her daddy, "Excusez-moi, mon père. Your not-so subtle suggestion I consume the buttered brussel sprouts placed in front of me frustrates me beyond wits end. I've found brussel sprouts spur my gag reflex, making them very unappealing, and hard to swallow. I would rather be politely excused from eating this serving and retire to my chamber for the rest of the evening."

Really?

#$%@ that a-hole driver just @#$%ing cut me the h$#% off! What a #$^%ing &@#%er! And she's %#^%ing talking on her #%^@ing cell phone.

There are extremes, of course.

When could a child begin to control their emotions? To the point of bottling them up to calmly express in words his or her frustration with the current situation? Why not simply say, "Crap!" Then, perhaps ask for assistance if desired?

Or, should they bottle up the anger until the day, months or years from now, when they can lock themselves in their room and tear the books from their shelves, and rend their bed linens...

Hit? Or say, "Crap, moron, idiot, stupid, damn?" I'm not saying kids should have free reign of the available vocabulary. BUT, should a parent blame the environment, the culture for warping the child? And, then attempt to wall-in the child from the "outside" world? (Or, is it just a world the parents find hard to swallow?)

Does anyone out there know how Siddhartha Gautama spent his princely childhood walled in his father's palace? The kid's got to get out there some day, and will s/he be prepared? Or, stunned?

Would it not be kind and understanding for the adult to NOT jump on the child with, "DON'T SAY THAT!" and instead probe the child's current situation BEYOND the words, and help the kid understand the nature of frustration and anger?

How old does a parent have to be to do that? What if the parent doesn't understand the nature of frustration and anger!?!

My wife, while a driver nearly hit her in a left turn, said, "@#$@!"

My boy said, "Can I say that?"

I really don't like to think that much. It's tiring. Where the heck did I drop my sock knitting...

Any thoughts? Be honest, now. It's just thinking.

this guy and work music

I saw a guy adjust his wildly flapping t-shirt with both hands, as he stood up on his motorcycle while speeding away at 65 mph on 9A this morning in rush hour traffic. He snapped a hand-signal lane change, looking in the direction he pointed. I might have been watching an Usher video. Then, he rocked low, side-to-side to change lanes. He must really like the rides at Disney World. At least he was wearing a helmet.

***

Just like everyone you ask will say they have a good sense of humor, everyone will tell you they listen to a variety of music.

I don't.

I've listened to Mariah Carey's Daydream at work for four hours straight today. Then, Christina Aguilera's Stripped for four hours. I've listened to The Corrs' Dreams in the car for over six months. Nothing but that CD.

I've got this iPod playlist I play when I need to work, and just can't get moving. It's got 54 songs in it now. From Girl From Ipanema to Prince's Sexy M.F. I add a couple new ones now and then. This playlist can make me breeze through a load of dishes, or two hours of house cleaning. (I watch old movies when folding laundry.)

Now, there IS some music I can't work to. It's not that I don't LIKE the music. I just can't listen to it AND work.

Like classical music. When classical music is on, I find that I've stopped working, and I'm just gazing off into nothing, listening.

Or, country music. When country music is on, I find I've stopped working, and I'm just crying and wishing I was drunk.

Anyway, at work yesterday, I found I can't work to Ray Charles. I LOVE Ray Charles since I don't know when. But, it was a sad moment when I popped the CD out of my work computer, and told Ray I won't be listening to him any more at work.

Sniff-sniff.

So, greater Earth-area, what music gets you working? Does it matter what the work is? Do you listen to Sinatra for yard work, The Kinks when dusting, and Patsy Cline when cleaning up from last night's lingerie party?

Sharp upward jab to the diaphram

"Thank you for saving my life, Daddy."

Well, it kinda goes without saying, but it's nice to hear it every once in awhile.

I had been looking forward to playing Guitar Hero (Aerosmith version) all day, and I had just got the game turned on, and my nearly-five-year-old was in his little chair, watching the beginning logos flash on.

Just as I start the practice, he sticks out his tongue and asks, "Daddy, is this Life Saver small enough?"

I bent down to look. I couldn't see the thing. Apparently it was green.

So, I started the practice again, and just as I was about to start the first note, the boy stands up, walks toward me, then past me toward his mother.

Sigh. He wasn't breathing. I took off my special Aerosmith guitar, and set it on the couch, and wrapped my arms around him from behind. I hit him with the Heimlich maneuver twice. I was a little low, but I could hear him at least wheezing. I know the story behind the hole in Life Savers candy.

He made it to his mom, and sat and coughed at her until he vomited all over her a couple times.

To make a long story not so long, I got four stars on Love in an Elevator on medium! Way cool.

So, today, I was talking to two mom's at the daycare. They are super moms, and their kids are darn adorable, too. One was telling the other about my boy's choking incident. It turns out, they both said they doubt they'd be able to remember the Heimlich maneuver.

I watched a lot of TV when I was a kid. Every TV series had an episode where someone was choking. I mean, if it wasn't Kris saving Bosley on Charlie's Angels, then it was some kid saving grandpa on CHiPs. Gopher saving Charo on the Love Boat, right before the episode where Charo saves David Boyle on Fantasy Island (fresh from being saved by Kris on Charlie's Angels). I think Shaggy dislodged a Scooby Snack from Scooby-do, smacking the Sloshing Swamp Ghost in the head, knocking it out cold. Hooray for meddling kids who know the Heimlich maneuver.

I think there was some sort of public service campaign. Lots of shows showed it. Then, TV tried it out with CPR. Wasn't there a Designing Women CPR episode after Dixie Carter has a heart attack seeing how they secretly painted her office all black.

Anyway, what's the big public service schtick now? I don't get to watch as many shows now adays. I should ask some kids. I think today is, Recycle.

So, kids, if I'm choking, go throw that water bottle in the recycling bin.

The Things I Miss

The day after I left Minneapolis/St. Paul, the Guthrie Theater started a new production of A Midsummer Night's Dream. It's my favorite play of all time. True, The Guthrie Theater productions aren't some Broadway show. Nope. They are BETTER!

Sigh.

Let's see what my local Jim-Bob Community Dance Troop and Oyster Bar is putting on this weekend...

Ooooo. Daniel and Daniella in the Lions Den. Just bippy. They might have Guinness on tap, though.