Originally published at Big Ugly Man Doll. Please leave any comments there.

The kids have wonderfully different reactions to massive amounts of snowfall. The oldest daughter (the Human Tape Recorder) tends to view school closings with the same outlook Hermione Granger had in the Harry Potter series – “Oh no! Well, at least I’ll have more time to study.”

Needless to say, SOBUMD and I give each other “well it’s not from MY side of the family” looks. But we do it very quietly, so as not to break the magic. After all, the HTR will probably be the one supporting us in our old age, assuming we live long enough to be burden to our kids – which is, of course, my goal.

Number One Son, on the other hand, is enthralled by the idea that snow has closed the schools. This will allow him more time to play with his Bionicles, legos, and video flip camera thingy. The fact that this time away will be made up on what would have been holidays is irrelevant. He’s getting better about the concept of the future – I’m pretty sure he understands things like “tomorrow” at this point – but we’re still really dealing with two senses of time: Things that will affect him this week, and “huh?” He’s got a very firm grip on the past, though; he’s been telling us all morning about how many records this snowfall has broken. All. Morning. Long. Since he woke up at something early.

You’ll have noticed by now that neither of the above examples included anything like “going outside in the snow.” Inside studying, inside playing, and (in the case of their parents) inside finding the perfect ratio of Bailey’s Irish Cream to coffee (which, for the record, is about 1 shot per 6-oz cup). I can’t blame them at all; we have at least 22 inches already, maybe more, and we’re expecting another 6 to 10 before it stops. The branches of the tree in the front yard are touching the ground. (Mind you, the ground has been doing its best to rush up and meet them – some are already buried.) I don’t want to go out there either – drifts of snow in excess of three feet are why god invented booze.

Enter the Reigning Queen of Pink, Grand Duchess of Fluff, Lord High Protector of Barbies, and Baroness of the Hummingbirds. “I can’t wait to go outside in the SNOOOOOOOOOOW!” Oh god. The RQoP is not someone who can be let out to play in this snow on her own. What she’s making up for in attitude is what she’s lacking in altitude – we’re talking about 36 inches of snow and 47 inches of little girl. Not a lot of mobility there. We’ve considered the Pam trick – just put her in her snow outfit (yes, it’s pink; yes, it’s fabulous), hose her down with non-stick cooking spray, and toss her out to see how far she slides. She herself has suggested that we try this with a rope so that we can simply haul her back in when she stops. I’m at least certain that we’d be able to see the pink patches among the white. Perhaps we’ll go out in the morning, if it’s fine. Yeah, and we’ll go to the lighthouse, too.

So, today will be spent studying, playing, drinking, baking, bitching, and in one notable case, practicing our moves for rolling over and being found again in the hope of getting outside. Bring on the snow!  And the corkscrew.

Originally published at Big Ugly Man Doll. Please leave any comments there.

New from the Lego Bionicle Line – Toa Mata Hari! One of the rare female Bionicles, she’s had most of the others, and they’re all in love with her. You can play with her as she plays the guys off against one another! Isn’t she FABULOUS!
American Girl Doll – Sybil! With completely different outfits for Vicky, Peggy Lou, Mary Lucinda, Marcia Lynn, Vanessa Gail, Mike, Nancy Lou Ann, Ruthie, Clara, Helen, Marjorie, and The Blonde. They’d make a ton of money on this one, and it’s the LAST doll you have to buy!
Wii Screw! Put the kids to bed and enjoy the safest sex you’ll EVER have. Remember the plastic sheath you’re supposed to put over the remote? Right. Think Sin City SIMS and you’re close.	[Picture removed in the interest of taste and decency.]
Merrily We Pull Along Duck and Egg Scrambler! Little Johnny can finally help in the kitchen – just put a fresh egg on the duck’s wheels and let him “walk” it for an hour. When the music stops, the egg is ready for cooking – if you haven’t started drinking by then.
Build a Bear. No, yeah, a real goddamn bear. Run!
Shots and Ladders! Get drunk and naked with this new twist on the classic board game. Penalty Shot!
Pre-School Musical! Step into the past with Troysie, Gabby, and the gang as they cry, whine, repeat themselves over and over, and pull each other’s hair… Oh, wait, that’s the real one. Never mind.

Originally published at Big Ugly Man Doll. Please leave any comments there.

Music, they say, can soothe the savage beast, and nowhere is this more evident than in the crib and nursery.  The fussiest babies – and here I can speak with complete authority – can often be quieted through the calming magic of music.  Whether it’s an adult singing to them, a CD played softly, or a lullaby mobile gently spinning a tinkling, twinkling star, music is a nearly universal panacea for the pandemonium of parenthood. 

And if that shit doesn’t work, you can turn it up loud enough that you can’t hear the screaming monsters in the back seat.  As part of my ongoing public service announcements (which are part of my parole), I offer some advice on choosing music that (A) will keep your kids occupied for more than fifteen seconds and (B) won’t have you reaching for the black-market valium you picked up last week. 

The Wiggles.  The best part of any kids’ song is that the tune can be adapted in your head to mean something totally different, and the BEST kids’ music is written with the parent’s needs in mind.  The Wiggles, an entirely too wholesome act from Down Under, does this pretty well.  Such songs as Crunchy Munchy Honey Cakes and Hot Potato remind us that cooking is fun; Dingo Tango and Here Comes A Bear remind us that life can be very, very scary.  Then there are the ones that are obviously for grownups:  

• Let’s Have A Barbie On The Beach – Why yes, let’s! 
• The Captain’s Wavy Walk  (“The Captain, he’s been a-drinkin’, oh!”)
• We’re Playing A Trick On The Captain (While He’s Passed Out Drunk)
• We’re Dancing With Wags The Dog (‘nuff said)
• Wake Up Jeff (The Police Are Here!)

 And last but never least in any Wiggles countdown:  Hey There, Shaky Shaky!   (“Hey there! I wanna shake with you!”)  Let’s face it, this is a kid’s song based on a bad pickup line in a bar. 

 There are some more traditional songs that can be adapted to learning lessons as well.  Wheels on the Bus is a favorite:

 The Baby on the Bus says,
“Waa waa waa,”
“Waa waa waa,”
“Waa waa waa!,”
The Baby on the Bus says,
“Waa waa waa!”
And all the other parents on the Bus give its mommy dirty looks.

 And…

 The Driver on the Bus says,
“Move to the back,”
“Move to the back,”
“Move to the back!”
The Driver on the Bus says,
“Move to the back!”
And Rosa Parks says, “No.”

But one of the all-time best set of songs for kids and their parents came from a Disney show called Bear in the Big Blue House.  The songs have a kind of demented brilliance that’s hard to resist, even long after all my kids have quit watching the show and requesting the music in the car.  From the back seat, over the dulcet tones of the Sex Pistols or Barenaked Ladies, we’d hear the imperious request: “Excuse me, Boo Yang please!”  I’m still not sure if the Boo was for Bear or Big or Blue, but Yang meant songs, and Boo Yang it was. 

Songs like Take Time to Smell the Cheese (“Life is so much betta / when you smell the Feta”) and What’s That Smell? could get us miles without hearing them whine.  (Although “Smells like breakfast – hey, it’s you!” seemed pretty scary; did that 7-foot-tall bear just tell me I smelled like his breakfast?  Run!)  Then there are the Welcome to the Blue House, Good Morning, and Goodbye Songs, all delivered in an operatic boom that we still shout at the kids (GOOD MORNING, GOOD MORNING, GOOD MORNING TO EVERYONE!) even though they’re long past wanting to hear it.  The song Clean Up the House is great for reminding everyone to help clean (“Let’s take it upstairs!”  “Oh, geez, Dad, let’s not…”) and I still remind them to “Brush Brush Bree, Brush Brush Broo!” when going to bed.  Mostly out of sheer bloodyminded spite on my part.  I had to listen to those songs for hours.  They should suffer in turn.

My favorite Boo Yang, though, may have been Shadow’s Lullaby.  It’s a great song, lilting, lyrical, and haunting, that describes how safe you are sleeping tonight because the “Shadows are watching over this house.”   Yesssssssss, that’s the nice, supernatural stalker image I want running through my head as I try to fall asleep.  Can we sleep with all the lights on again, please, at least until I can get Dancing With Wags The Dog back in my head?

And since that was too creepy, we will close with the cautionary tales of They Might Be Giants, who did a kid’s album a few years ago.  From the people who brought us Triangle Man and Birdhouse In Your Soul, my kids are bopping to the strains of: 

• NO!  (which means, and we repeat a LOT in this house, no.  And that’s final.)
• I Am Not Your Broom (nor your maid, damn it.)
• Violin(ce) - and don’t think we won’t resort to it if you can’t behave! 
• Don’t Cross the Street (into oncoming traffic)

 At least from TMBG, we expect it’s going to be weird.  My favorite from the NO! album is Where Do They Make Balloons, and is it the same factory that makes condoms? 

 Music.  It’s not just for breakfast anymore.

Originally published at Big Ugly Man Doll. Please leave any comments there.

A new parent asked me the other day what they had to look forward to as their little darling grew up.  They’d heard of the “terrible twos” and all that, but what about the long view?  How are they when they’re 11, like the Human Tape Recorder, or 9, like Number One Son?  (They didn’t ask about the Reigning Queen of Pink, presumably because they can see that from where they’re standing.) 

I presented my answers with the usual caveat, to wit: there’s “9-yr-old boy” and then there’s Number One Son.   Remember, crazy means not having to sweat the details, such as clean underwear, monetary valuations, and most social graces.  That said, I can provide (and am happy to detail here as a public service) some details into what life is like living with kids aged 11, 9, and 7. 

If you don’t have kids but you’re thinking about it, and you’d like to see what it’s like, the Internet now makes it possible to simulate the, um, experience.   Just living with anyone, never mind the ADD types, under the age of 14, is to live in the bottom of a permanent, live-feed twitter well.  They’re walking twitter accounts!

First, sign up for a Twitter feed.  Second, subscribe to the tweets of every single English-speaking person you can find.  Third, for good measure, subscribe to the tweets of at least 5 percent of the non-English speaking world as well.  Trust me on this.

OK, got that all set up?  Now get a text-to-speech application, set it for automatic, and turn up the volume to just past where it’s comfortable.  Now break the knob off the volume control and throw that sucker away – like the lid to bottle of good Scotch, you won’t be needing THAT. 

Ho.  Ly.  Shit.   They talk all the time, about everything, and nothing, at FULL VOLUME.  I don’t know if it’s because they’re so deaf from listening to each other, or because they’re just trying to be heard over the din.   (There’s a reason they learned their ABCs the hard way.)

OK, if you haven’t lost your mind in the first 5 minutes of this exercise, it’s because we haven’t gotten to the hard part yet.  The hard part is that it is absolutely a matter of life and death that you pay attention to about 1.5 percent of everything you hear.  You will never know WHICH 1.5 percent it is, though, and there are very few cues  to tell you when one of the important bits is coming.  You’ll need to develop a mental low-level Twitter Tween filter to make sure you hear the word “bleeding” among the “im going to the bathroom oh my god I need to go the bathroom its my turn to play the wii I want the remote can I have another sandwich its my turn I’ll use the upstairs one shut up no you shut up ow now its my turn hey mom she hit him non I didn’t and hes bleeding no I’m not shut up oh my god I have to go the bathroom” montage of sound that assaults you every minute of every day. 

Catch all that?  Right.   As I typed this, I decided that there must be a more concise word for “mental Twitter Tween filter.”   And so there is.  The word is headache.

And in case you were thinking about being clever – forget it.  I saw you just now, you put the volume control in your pocket instead of throwing it away like I told you.  Do you know what happens these days when we try to remind them of their, um, ABCs?

BUMD:   “Would you PLEASE stop the incessant noise for one brief, shining, quiet moment?”
Reigning Queen of Pink:   “But Daddy, don’t you want your child laughing?”

OH!  She’s so good with her stiletto, I didn’t even see the blade – until it was stuck in my chest.   They say silence is golden.  Maybe I can convince her that silence is really a bright shade of pink.  In the meantime, where’d I put that aspirin?

Originally published at Big Ugly Man Doll. Please leave any comments there.

I’d like to take a moment of your time to discuss a brief gender gap. If you have multiple children of both genders, or if you teach kids under the age of, say, 18, you’re probably already aware of this difference between boys and girls. If you teach kids under the age of 8, you’re probably very, very aware.

SOBUMD has noticed and pointed out to me on any number of occasions that, on any given laundry day, she will see 5 pairs of underwear from the Human Tape Recorder, at least 7 from the Reigning Queen of Pink, and 1 from Number One Son. This solitary pair of boys underwear highlights the brief gap between genders – why won’t boys change their shorts more often?

In the interests of science, I’ve done some investigative research.

BUMD: Son, why don’t you change your shorts?
NOS: Heh heh heh. I don’t like to take them off because I’ve farted in them.
BUMD: So, the longer you wear them, the better they get?
NOS: Heh heh heh. Yessssssssssss!

So, one possible answer may lay in the marinade effect. Other reasons include an unwillingness to expose Johnny to the elements – it’s warm in there! – and simple fact that baths are icky when you’re nine, so why take one?

Youth plays a role. Most guys don’t pay much attention to the state of their underwear until that underwear stands a good chance of being noticed by non-family females. This would include the unlikely possibility of having sex with actual women, and the even more unlikely possibility of having sex with that same woman a second time. (Meaning on a different day, not just, you know, staying naked.) Boys with very clean underwear are hoping that someone will ask them to remove said briefs. Trust me on this; after a few beers “You should SEE how clean my shorts are” starts to sound like a decent opening line to most of us. (It’s not, by the way.)

So I understand the frustration, but I’m in no hurry for the Number One Son to be wanting to change his underwear twice daily. If you knowhuddimean.

Originally published at Big Ugly Man Doll. Please leave any comments there.

So there we were earlier this school year, driving – again – to school.  You wouldn’t think a lot could happen on a drive like this, because it’s not yet 8 in the morning and we’re only driving 5 blocks away.  You would be wrong. 

For those of you scoring at home, “not yet 8 in the morning” translates to “Number One Son has been up for at least two hours playing games and working himself into a really good crazy.  I mean, there’s “just woke up” crazy, which most of us go through to varying degrees, and there’s “ohmygodI’mlate” crazy, and we all know what that’s like.  What you may not be familiar with, however, is the “slam down whatever food I can find or open and play video games until everyone else wakes up” crazy, which really gets him chuffed into a solid gonzo some days.  An hour later, we’re up and giving him his meds.  In the face of a solid windmill-armed dervish, the chances those medications have of kicking in before he goes to school are pretty much the same odds the 3^rd Grade pet hamster has in a volcano – to wit, not much. 

But once in a while, he finds his coping mechanisms and they work.  For a change, it wasn’t Number One Son screaming arterial homicide out the car window for 5 straight blocks – he leveraged his skills in transference and it was the Reigning Queen of Pink doing the shouting.  In her defense, when she does it it’s not called shouting, it’s called “addressing her subjects.” 

It’s summer, the windows are open, and she sees her friends walking to school.  One of these friends is named, believe it or not, Jack.  Can you see this coming yet?

At the top of her royal lungs, head halfway out the open window, “HI JACK!!!  HI JACK!!!”

You know, we live in the shadow of the nation’s capitol.  People really do turn and look when they hear that.  Some of them are armed. 

We got through the school’s tightened security system and the Stop Sign of Death, and I let them out.  She was still talking about having seen Jack walking to school.  Number One Son, having successfully transferred the crazy this morning, looked at her as they were getting out of the car and, in true older brother fashion, said the one thing most calculated to infuriate her. 

“He didn’t hear you, you know.”

But baby, everyone else did!

Originally published at Big Ugly Man Doll. Please leave any comments there.

The hat that believed in Santa:

 
…and the rest of the collection:

(thanks to docstrange for the title inspiration)

Originally published at Big Ugly Man Doll. Please leave any comments there.

So there I was, washing the dishes, when the Human Tape Recorder walks up to me; all of 4 years old at the time. “Daddy,” she says, “I need Cheerios.”

OK, we can do this. I dried my hands and gave her a fistfull of Cheerios. She thanked me and runs back to the bathroom, where she had been in the first place. I turned back to the sink and the dishes, contemplating the joys of Selective Hearing.

Because what she REALLY said was, “Daddy, I need *more* Cheerios for my duck.”

But I didn’t hear all of that, because deep down I knew that I didn’t want to know anything about what had happened to the *first* set of Cheerios.

And I didn’t want to know anything AT ALL about a duck.

Originally published at Big Ugly Man Doll. Please leave any comments there.

Yesterday the kids learned a new song about a girl named Mary Mack, Mack, Mack, all dressed in black, black, black, with silver buttons, buttons, buttons, all down her back, back, back. Now obviously this Goth chick’s father owns a line of trucks, and she’s in formal black because he’s dead, or getting re-married, or maybe because she’s just full-on emo Goth and it’s a Thursday.

I, of course, was honor-bound to share with them the original song about Mary Mack, which concerns the impending arranged nuptials between the singer and the subject, to wit: Mary Mack’s Father’s Making Mary Mack Marry Me, And My Father’s Making Me Marry Mary Mack.

This is about when these obstreperous and uncultured children sprang on me their twisted favorite, compliments of YouTube, which has an animated yellow cartoon face singing “Mary Mack, Mack, Mack, all dressed in” and here the image inverts to negative and the voiceover yells “PURPLE!”, which is over course the FUNNIEST THING IN THE WORLD if you are less than 10 years old and your medication has worn off.

So this morning, despite my protestations, it was decided that we needed to review what we’d learned yesterday and headed back to YouTube for another round of 4 seconds of Mary Mack shouting purple, to which I was, of course, honor-bound to counter with another round of Mary Mack’s Father’s Making Mary Etc. This lead to a conversation in the car ride to school during which the Reigning Queen of Pink decided that she would never marry her brother. Number One Son explained to her that she couldn’t even if she had wanted to, since (1) you’re not allowed to marry your brother or sister, and (2) her brother was him, and he’d be damned if he’d marry her.

This quickly devolved.

By the time I got these loons to the school, which – to be clear – is only 4 blocks from the house, Mary Mack’s father was wearing purple buttons all down *his* back, presumably in a tight corset, and the Reigning Queen of Pink was marrying Mary Mack, having established that girls can marry girls and boys can marry boys, as long as they’re not siblings. I think we concluded firmly that Mary Mack (Mack, Mack) was all dressed in black (black, black) with silver buttons because her father was marrying her ex-boyfriend, Jack Jack Jack.

I’m sure their teachers wonder what the hell goes on at our house.

Originally published at Big Ugly Man Doll. Please leave any comments there.

The holidays are over, 2010 is here, and we’re typing this year. Let’s start with… The Holidays: A Brief Review.

Now believe it or not, and I’ve been known to lie, but this holiday saga starts at a Borders Bookstore, with a boatload of books and no coupons. Now everybody knows the thing to do with Borders is to print the Coupon Of The Day from the website before you go. I hadn’t known I was going to Borders, which actually happens to me a lot during the holidays, so I have no Coupon Of The Day, but – ah ha! – I have my trusty hat. I may not believe in Santa Claus, but I believe in my hat.

So I find the things I’m buying, walk to the checkout counter, and wait my turn. Once “I Can Help You Down Here” calls me, we begin.

I Can Help You Down Here: “Did you find everything OK?”
Big Ugly Man Doll: “Yes, thanks!”
I Can Help You Down Here: “Do you have a Borders Rewards Card?”
Big Ugly Man Doll: “Ah, I don’t have it with me, but would you mind looking it up under my wife’s email address?”

We do that, and I mention that in addition to being the one to set up the Borders card, she’s also the one who’s going to kill me dead when I get home, because I forgot to print out the coupon – ah well.

I Can Help You Down Here: “Oh. Hmm, well, you know *I* have a coupon…”
Big Ugly Man Doll: “Oh, would you, thank you so much, I really appreciate it!”

He scans his coupon, saving my life and least $15 bucks, and then he says it: “I like your hat, by the way!”

Heh. Not nearly as much as I do. That hat has paid for itself by now, just in people being nice to me. I don’t know why, but it works.

OK, I lied about not believing in Santa Claus. Otherwise how would all those presents get into my stocking while I’m asleep?

Our saga continues with the Actual Christmas morning. SOBUMD and I had impressed upon the three lunatic children that, in the spirit of the True Meaning of Christmas (TMC)™, even better than the gifts of gold, Frankincense, and Myrrh that we’re certain they *were* going to get for us, would be letting us sleep past 7am in the friggin’ morning. Practicing my MBAness, I told them to consider 8am to be their stretch goal.

So, Santa must have done his breaking and entering gig, because when I woke up there were all sorts for things under that tree. I woke, of course, to the sound of three VERY anxious lunatic children walking into our room at exactly three minutes after 7am. So much for the stretch goal – no bonuses for them, although the Human Tape Recorder did get the coffee started.

This was followed by a calm and joyful recitation of the blessings we’d enjoyed over the past year, with each child opening and appreciating one present at a time, taking turns, and contemplating the TMC™.

Yeah, right – maybe when monkeys in elf suits fly out of Santa’s red velvet butt. This was actually followed by a 20-minute orgy of destruction and wrapping paper, bows flying so thick at one point that I could hardly see to unwrap SOBUMD, for which I got whacked upside the head and shoulders. I still maintain that we could have been hard at work conceiving a fourth child and the first three wouldn’t have noticed us.

We hastily dressed and headed to my parents house, for another, slightly more ordered, 20-minute orgy of destruction and wrapping paper. The Clever Grandpa had received, from someone in his office, a bottle of an interesting medicinal beverage called “Chivas Regal.” With all the adults volunteering to test this beverage, the bottle lasted almost 25 minutes. This was followed by a Christmas Day dinner that couldn’t be beat, which may in itself have constituted the TMC™. Having eaten everything but the tree, we came home, filled with love, wonder, cookies, and beef. Also Scotch.

The Holidays continued the day after Christmas, which dawned bright and early with a trip to Pennsylvania, by which I mean we got on the road two hours late, in the rain. The car was loaded, packed with twelve pairs of underwear, eleven well-wrapped presents, ten allergy-safe foods for the Queen of Pink, nine hours of music for the three hour ride, eight overnight bags for the five of us, seven days worth of medication, six winter jackets, five butts in seats, four sets of snacks, three lunatic children, two American Girl Dolls, and a spare tire under all that crap.

You can see where this is going, can’t you? Can’t you?

Right. We’d been driving in the rain for all of 20 minutes when we hit the Pothole of Doom (PoD) at about 65 miles per hour in the left lane with the driver’s side tire. It took another 35-40 seconds to roll on the rim past the other 14 cars who had ALSO succumbed to the PoD and get the van onto the shoulder, by which time smoke was pouring out of the 3 inch square flap of rubber hanging from what had been the sidewall of the front left tire.

It’s interesting what you notice when time slows down and every second counts. As I fought the van, rim-riding my way over to the shoulder, I did a constant check of the mirrors for anything else that might be coming at us. As I watched in the rear-view, I saw a gray-green Mini Cooper vanish into the PoD, lights-first and whole cloth. I guess we were lucky.

Having never needed to access the spare tire before, I proceeded the only way I could imagine – move all the things on top of it to be, instead, on top of the three lunatic children, who were remarkably calm given the sheer volume of things being piled on them. I fought my way to the nut that opens the hatch that holds the tire, and commenced unscrewing the nut. After spinning for a few minutes, I realized that it was just spinning, not screwing – we were screwed, it must be stripped. (I’d’ve rather had that the other way around, even in the rain.) I walked 14 cars back to talk to the guy with the tow truck, to see if he carried spare tires around with him. No. I walked back up the 14 cars to mine, where I noticed a full-sized spare tire under my car, where my screwing had lowered it.

At that moment, even my hat believed in Santa Claus.

I spoke not a word, but went straight to my work! I jacked up the van and it rose with a jerk. More rapid than eagles I changed out that tire, though the strain was enough that I thought I’d expire. I was covered in muck from my head to my foot, and my clothes were all tarnished with oil and soot, but laying my finger aside of my nose, I yelled, “Christmas is ON!” and up the highway we rose.

The road crews were on site paving over the Mini Cooper before we left. I hope they got the people out of the car first – speaks volumes for the sunroof as a safety feature.

And so it came to pass in those days that the Family of the BUMD arrived in Bethlehem, albeit the one in Pennsylvania. We saw wonderful family and had another Christmas Dinner that couldn’t be beat, which had of course been preceded by the obligatory 20-minute orgy of destruction and wrapping paper.

We decided to leave around 2 pm, by which SOBUMD meant “immediately following breakfast,” which proves that women are right about everything. This is proved by the fact that, had we left at 2pm, we would likely not be home yet. As it was, she noticed while gassing up the vehicle, that the driver’s side REAR tire, which had also known the joys of the PoD, had a bulge the size of an ostrich in the sidewall. Not an ostrich egg, a whole ostrich. That we made it all the way up the highway is proof of the TMC™, but I wasn’t going to rely on the TMC™ to get us home. I drove as if on eggshells (ok, ostrich-egg shells, if you must) to the nearest Sears, where George and Allen were happy to help us pick out four new tires and put them on.

The three lunatic children were again remarkably well mannered, I think because we took them out of the car before piling things on top of them this time. We got the car back in a mechanic’s hour, by which I mean three hours, and drove straight to the McDonald’s drive through. The three lunatic children wanted happy meals, I wanted some nuggets, and SOBUMD wanted the car to stop billowing smoke out of the front. We got some food and went back to Allen, who was happy to put the lid back on the coolant container and announce that it was just coolant and water burning off, and didn’t it smell nice? We let him sniff it for a few minutes until it stopped billowing, then continued the drive home.

Were you aware that the combined High School Musical soundtracks have a total of 36 songs and can be played back-to-back-to-back in only 2 hours, 7 minutes, and 28 seconds? No? That’s what got us to Delaware. Grit, determination, and duct tape got us to Maryland, where Number One Son politely waited until we were almost to the rest stop to puke. It was only the TMC™ that got us the rest of the way home, a mere nine hours after we’d left.

From there – the Race To New Year!

There is no joy like the joy of working between the Christmas and New Year’s holidays, because between the people who have scheduled vacations, the people who have decided to take vacations at the last minute, the people who really were planning on coming in but something came up, and the people who are just too hung over to make it in today, the office is basically a full on dance party, except with better parking. And so, arming myself with the above answer to the inevitable “how was Christmas” question, I went to work the following morning.

Being in dance party mode, the idea that I could meet SOBUMD, the three lunatic children, and my father for lunch at the local pizza chain and still be back to the office in time for a 2pm pick-up meeting we’d scheduled in the hallway didn’t seem out of the ordinary. Included in this lunch outing was to be a trip to “Grandpa’s Office To See The Man-Eating Fern.”

The local pizza chain being local, we all met there with our respective cars, and had a dance party lunch that couldn’t be beat – or so we thought. Near the end of the lunch, the 11-yr-old Human Tape Recorder excused herself to the restroom, where she would still be to this day had SOBUMD not gone in after her 10 minutes later. Meanwhile, Grandpa, the Queen of Pink, Number One Son, and myself have paid and processed out, and wait calmly in the lobby until SOBUMD calls from the can to tell us to proceed with them – the eldest is screaming on her hands and knees, and in no shape to leave the comfort of the stall.

What follows is a montage of cold walks, quick car rides, man-eating ferns (only one victim was ever known to survive), and increasingly hysterical updates from the can-phone. The determination was made to leave the younger two of the three lunatic children with Grandpa for a few moments while I went to the stall for a first-hand assessment. This plan was executed with near-military precision, Grandpa having been a Colonel and Number One Son having noticed the proximity of a “Game-Stop” store. As I headed stall-ward, they headed store-ward, Number One Son having explained to Grandpa that he was the proud owner of a gift card good at the Game Stop.

Number One Son, of course, was blissfully unconcerned about the state of his older sister and the state of said gift card, which was of course safe and warm in his room, rather than on his person. Crazy means not having to sweat the details.

Arriving at the stall, the hat was enough to grant even the ugliest of BUMDs access to the ladies room. What followed was a hasty conference:

SOBUMD: I don’t know what to do with her.
BUMD: I don’t know what to do with her either.
HTR: Aaaaaahg!
Pizza Joint Manger: I call ambulance now?
Us: Um, sure.

I used the can-phone to let the dance party in the office know that I was going to miss the 2pm pick-up meeting, then went back to Grandpa and the Increasingly Expensive Children. It is an unwritten law of nature that the longer you keep someone under the age of 10 in a videogame store, the more it will cost you to leave. By dint of a balanced combination of reminders about the TMC™, threats concerning the man-eating fern (seeing IS believing!), and moderate capitulation, we were able to remove them from the store for less than the price of lunch.

With the impending ambulance, we were about to have too many children, too many cars, and not enough adults. The Grandpa, being wonderful and clever, solved one of the problems in a trice by declaring that he would simply take the younger two of the three lunatic children with him to his house, right then, and executed this plan with, again, near-military precision. This left SOBUMD and the HTR in the ambulance and me following in my car. Removing the HTR from the stall was a study in human behavior; there is nothing like the removal of a fellow diner by paramedics, into a waiting ambulance, to get people to say “Check please.”

I will digress for a moment to mention that both the staff of the pizza joint (it was an Uno’s) and the paramedics were courteous, professional, and helpful – not easy in the face of a moaning 11-yr-old girl.

At the local Emergency Room, for those of you counting at home, we now had two drivers and one car, the other car maintaining its position next to the pizza joint. While the local bonestaff wheeled the HTR in for X-rays, I called the dance party to coordinate with the Best Boss Ever. The BBE drove up to the ER, met me there in the Shared Infection Area, and drove me back to the remaining car at the pizza joint. By the time I got back to the ER, the bonestaff had decided that the HTR probably had a mild stomach virus on top of being completely “blocked” – which turns out to be a nice way of saying that she was full of shit.

For this, we needed an X-ray? I could have told them that. Along with some medicines to move things along, we moved out of there, the ladies in their car and I in mine. I followed them home long enough to change clothes, then went back out into the night to pick up some Magic Movement Medicine along with the younger two of the three lunatic children, still hanging with Grandpa and Grandma. Number One Son wanted to go home before I had my coat off, the Queen of Pink wanted to stay through 2010, and the wonderful and clever grandparents were highly amused. We should note here that Number One Son has been known to mention to people that he’d like to go home, even when sitting in his own living room. As noted, crazy means not having to sweat the details.

I got the younger two of the three lunatic children home with the new medicine and noticed that we still had two days to go in 2009.

There being no joy etc., I went back to the dance party the next day, armed now with a story about pizzas and ambulances, which I related to all and sundry. During this time, a consensus was building concerning the disposition of New Year’s Eve; usually we retire to “Grandma and Grandpa’s house in the Woods” in West Virginia, along with said grandparents, the Aunt, and Her Boyfriend. In this case, however, a perfect storm was brewing: The Grandma had a cold and couldn’t talk, the Aunt had twisted her ankle walking across her own bedroom, of course the HTR was tethered to the can, and the weather outside was frightful, with a call for freezing rain Thursday morning. Discretion being the better part of valor, we agreed to meet the New Year in our respective houses. This decision was no sooner made than another pick-up meeting was scheduled for the dance party on New Year’s Eve, freezing rain notwithstanding. Since I wasn’t going to West Virginia, there was no reason to decline, so I didn’t. Donning a coat and tie on a freezing morning in the rain seemed a fitting end to the whole of 2009.

Happiness was seeing this past year in my rear-view mirror as I returned that afternoon from the dance party of my office, to have a New Year’s Eve Dinner that couldn’t be beat, stay up to watch the ball drop, and call MY grandmother, the Queen Mother of Pink, to yell Rabbit Rabbit Rabbit and hang up on the stroke of midnight. It never works; she always yells it first because she knows it’s me.

I was under strict orders from the HTR to wake her up for midnight so she could have a thimble of Champagne and watch the ball drop. As usual, she was unrousable, so I turned off her light and closed her door. Noticing the lights on for Number One Son, I found him awake and reading a book. “Would you like to come downstairs with me and mommy and watch the ball drop and midnight and have a thimble of Champagne for New Years?”

“Well, sure, OK.”

With that kind of enthusiasm, the new year HAD to be better than the last, right? We poured him a thimble of a Champagne, listened to the animatronic head of Dick Clark, and watched the ball drop. Number One Son was uninterested in the bubbly and disappointed in the proceedings: “When do they detonate it?” He’d thought I’d said “watch the bomb drop.” He would never have left his bed for a ball, new year or no.

The wonderful and clever grandparents came to our house for a New Year’s Day dinner that couldn’t be beat, and everyone went home safe and happy, even Number One Son.

The Big Ugly Man Doll is back, with wishes for the kind of 2010 that makes you say “Huh?” at least once or twice a week.

Wednesday, April 29, 2009; 9:19 AM:

(CAER DALLBEN, Prydain) - Taran, Eilonwy, and Fflewddur Flam were diagnosed with Swine Influenza this morning, reports High Prince Gwydion from the castle.  Taran, long known for his association with pigs, was likely the initial vector of the outbreak, and has succumbed to the disease, as has princess Eilonwy.  Flags will be flown at half-staff for a week according to the High King's protocol office.

Medwyn, Prydain's High Veterinarian, has examined samples taken from oracular pig Hen Wen and established that the strains of H1N1 are identical to those of Taran, Eilonwy, and Fflewddur Flam.  Flam was further diagnosed as being "too irritating to die," according to Gwydion, and is expected to make a full recovery.  Farmers Aeddan and Llassar have also been diagnosed with the flu but are recovering. 

 

So it started with this:  http://booksquare.com/open-letter-to-amazon-regarding-recent-policy-changes/

My first comment was that I had a dollar that says someone at Amazon loses a job over this once it gets corrected. Amazon has always been reasonably market savvy - this is a fail of epic proportion. "Should be interesting to watch this play out over the next week."  (Prediction Fail.)

A week, Mr. Big Ugly Man Doll?  This is the INTERNET.   Try less than 24 hours.  Right now, watching the latest, a hacker is claiming credit: http://www.pcworld.com/article/163024/hacker_claims_credit_for_amazons_gaythemed_book_glitch.html

This puts Amazon in a real bind from the PR perspective - do we admit fault and look like buttheads for being bigoted pigs, or do we blame the hacker and look like buttheads because we got burned?  Firing some sacrificial middle manager makes it go away faster and doesn't look as bad as "we can get hacked, you might not be able to trust that the site wasn't compromised."  Bad scene all around.  No one wins.

On the other hand, SOBUMD's first comment when I told her some hacker has claimed credit was "How much did they pay him?"  Not really that farfetched....

The whole kerfuffle does raise questions similar to an arms race, though - who can respond faster?

• Amazon has a *legal* right to decide which books it carries.
• The government has a legal and moral obligation to both uphold the law and prevent discrimination.
• Big Media can bias any given story in whatever direction it feels will help continued sales.
• The mob market has a growing ability to inflict damage where it will as it feels justified.

Should be fun to watch this play out. 

It’s often been noted that great artists and poets and scientists and that ‘creative’ lot seem to do their best work early in life.  (When John Keats was my age, for example, he’d been dead for 14 years.) 

This was hammered home to me this morning as I cooked bacon and eggs for SOBUMD, the Human Tape Recorder, and myself – the Reigning Queen of Pink has no truck with eggs, but claimed the bacon by divine right.  Number One Son had eaten more than 2 hours earlier, having woken at 0Dark:30 to play international Wii MarioCart challenges under his internet pseudonym, Wiimaster™.  (This proves that on the Internet, no one knows the Wiimaster is 8, or that he hasn’t had his meds, which might explain why people on the other side of the planet seem surprised that someone with the cajones to call themselves “Wiimaster™“ keeps driving down the track in the wrong direction, crashing into the other players.  He doesn’t worry about what happens in the game; Number One Son happens to other people.)

But I digress.  Once SOBUMD and the rest of the girls woke, I snapped off the couch and out of my coffee-induced reveries and got to cooking.   The HTR was press-ganged into service whisking the eggs, and SOBUMD did her part as DJ – which is surely a term as antiquated as “Tape Recorder”, but again, “MP3 Playback Device Jockey / YouTube Selection Committee” just lacks that je ne se qua. 

So there I was, wreaking hen’s fruit with sautéed fungi and goat cheese and frying thick smoked strips of yummy pig, when SOBUMD graced us with the dulcet tones of Simon and Garfunkel.  It hit me, as I wailed along with Paul and Art that I, too, was a rock, and that I, too, was an island, that this song could never have been written by a parent.

“I am alone.”  OK, epic fail right from the start.  The concept of “alone” starts to mean, you know, except for the baby, I am alone.   “Silent shroud of snow” – First off, the word ‘silent’ moves into off-line storage with the first kid; rather than being part of your daily vocabulary, it’s just a distant corollary related to the omnipresent “Can you please shut up for one second!”

So let’s review how this classic might have gone if Paul had tried to write it while home with his 3rd Grader:
 

A winters day, 
and the goddamn schools are closed.

I am alone, 
Gazing from my window to the yard below
At my crazy kids out playing in the snow.

I need some sleep, I need some coffee.

These old board-books,
And this ancient stuffed giraffe,
I should throw this stuff out.
Next time I clean their rooms, where the hell’d I put the broom?
I swear to god I’ve lost my friggin’ mind!

I need some sleep, I need some coffee.

And I can’t sleep while they’re outside.
And my coffee’s gotten cold.

 

Ya, just not the same. 

 

So there I was, minding my own business, when Number-One Son ordered me to listen to him read from the book that SOBUMD and I got him when we were in NYC this weekend. First thing to note is that when I walk downstairs and find him watching TV, he's usually watching the Discovery Health channel - so the idea that we got him "The Visual Dictionary of the Human Body" from the Eyewitness Visual Dictionary series isn't as farfetched as it might seem.

When SOBUMD got her hands on the long-awaited seventh book, "Harry Potter and the Shakespearian Ending," she immediately flipped to the end and read the last chapter first. Some people just do that - I used to think it was a nurture thing, but Number-One Son skips around a lot in books as well. Might be genetic.

Speaking of genetic, what do you think you would find at the end of The Visual Dictionary of the Human Body? Right. Give an eight-year-old boy a book - any book, shape, size, length, author, and topic notwithstanding - and in about 7 seconds he's going to find you every instance of any mention of The Reproductive Organs.

(There are entire search engines based on the ability of eight-year-old boys to find the word "penis" in literature.)

"Daddy, you *have* to see this. Come here." I sit down, and he starts reading to me about the different parts of the tongue. So far, so good. He explains that the back section of his tongue, where we taste bitter foods, is where he tastes mint - which is why he doesn't like it. "Well OK," says I, getting up to leave.

"No, wait, you have to see this too! [flip, flip, flip] The Reproductive System!"

Oh boy. And my eight-year-old son, cheerfully sitting next to me on the couch and pointing at the picture of the cutaway cock, starts reading:

"Sex organs located in the pelvis create new human lives. Each month a ripe egg is released from one of the female's ovaries into a fallopian tube leading to the uterus (womb), a muscular pear-sized organ. A male produces minute tadpole-like sperm in two oval glands called testes. When the male is ready to release sperm into the female's vagina, many millions pass into his urethra and leave his body through the fleshy penis. The sperm travel up the... Daddy, what's so funny? Why are you laughing?"

Oh. My. God.

To my credit, I didn't *really* lose it until he said "vag-EEN-a" with a hard "g". The Fa Lupé ion tube, the utter-us, and the OvAre Es, those were funny, yes, but I was able to hold it together and just correct his pronunciation. But the Vag-een-a, followed closely by the fleshy penis... I just doubled over. Never mind that he's eight, has NO idea what he's talking about, and is, I hope, at least 12 years away from finding out that when the male is ready to release sperm into the female's vag-EEN-a, many dollars pass through his wallet before any sperm pass through his fleshy penis.

I'm just glad I didn't have to listen to him try to pronounce clitoris, I'd've needed an inhaler.

Next time, I’m getting him the goddamn Star Wars book.

This needs some work, but....


One day as the Little Red Hen was scratching in a field, she found a grain of wheat.

"This wheat should be planted," she said. "Who will help me plant this grain of wheat?"

"Can’t you even plant a freaking grain of wheat by yourself?" said her asshole boyfriend.

"Is it difficult for you to see situations or individuals realistically?" said her therapist.

"You need to respect other peoples’ boundaries," said her mother.

"Then I’ll do it myself," said the Little Red Hen. And she did.

Soon the wheat grew to be tall and yellow.

"The wheat is ripe," said the Little Red Hen. "Who will help me cut the wheat?"

"Only if we’re going to smoke it," said her asshole boyfriend.

"You must learn to do these things for yourself," said her therapist.

"Put on a sweater if you’re going to be outside for long," said her mother.

"Then I’ll do it myself," said the Little Red Hen. And she did.

When the wheat was cut, the Little Red Hen said, "Who will help me thresh the wheat?"

"Why don’t you come over here and thresh my wheat," said her asshole boyfriend.

"Your parents were never married, were they?" said her therapist.

"Tell your therapist to shut his overpaid, overeducated mouth," said her mother.

"Then I’ll do it myself," said the Little Red Hen. And she did.

When the wheat was threshed, the Little Red Hen said, "Who will help me take this wheat to the mill?"

"Pick me up a six-pack while you’re out," said her asshole boyfriend.

"Did you MapQuest the directions?" said her mother. “Don’t forget the GPS.”

"Are you afraid of allowing other people to be who they are or of allowing events to happen naturally?" said her therapist.

"Then I’ll do it myself," said the Little Red Hen. And she did.

She took the wheat to the mill and had it ground into flour. Then she said, "Who will help me make this flour into bread?"

"Yeah, be out in just a minute hon," said her asshole boyfriend.

"Ohhh!" said her mother.

"You know you’re mother’s sleeping with your boyfriend while you’re out," said her therapist.

"Then I’ll do it myself," said the Little Red Hen. And she did.

She made and baked the bread. Then she said, "Who will help me eat this bread?"

"Oh! I will," said her asshole boyfriend.

"And I will," said her therapist.

"And I will," said her mother.

"You can all go screw yourselves!" said the Little Red Hen. "I’m outta here."  And she left, taking her bread with her. 

Some holiday music is just fine.  Some of it is really, really hard to explain.  I have to wonder about the songs that give away a little too much about the holidays, if you know what I mean - kids are listening to this, you know?

I've heard so many different lyrics to "Carol of the Bells" that I no longer recognize the real ones when I hear it.  ("Would you like an apple pie with that?") 

And then there are the wholly inappropriate songs that should have been retired long, long ago.   SOBUMD and I refer to "Hey Baby, It's Cold Outside" as The Date Rape Song.   Case in point, the fourth and fifth stanzas below are almost completely verbatim from the Frank Loesser original published in 1948.  What the hell was he thinking?   This is probably how it should go:

 

I really can't stay
(but, baby, it's cold outside)
I thought you were gay!
(honey my beard just died)
This evening is done
(Been looking forward to this)
so say buh-bye
(You know you want it, come on don’t lie)

My mother will start to freak
(you’re beautiful when you're humming)
You’re such an ostentatious bore
(listen to the fireplace roar)
My folks are gonna bitch a blue streak
(don’t leave me up blue-ball creek)
well, maybe just a half a drink more
(look over there while I pour)

I know what you think
(this couch has a bed in there)
say, what's in this drink?
(some roofies I mixed in there)
I wish I knew what
(you’re gonna be mine, you slut)
what in the hell?
(Turn off your phone, it’s just as well)

I want to say no, no, no sir
(mind if I move in closer?)
At least I'm gonna say that I tried
(what's the sense of hurtin' my pride?)
I really can't stay
(You know that you can’t hold out)
Ah but it's cold outside
(See baby, it's cold outside)

I simply must go
(but, baby, it's cold outside)
The answer is no
(but, baby, it's cold outside)
The welcome has been
(how lucky that you dropped in)
so nice and warm
(look out that window at that storm)

The gossip’s gonna be horrific
(Gee, your hair smells terrific)
my brother stands six-foot-four
(lose the bra you two-bit whore)
He’s a starting linebacker with
(I said lose the what did you just say)
The Cleveland Browns
(you know I just been clown’n around)

My father has a shotgun
(but, baby, it's – what’d you say?)
He just got out of prison
(but, baby, it's – what’d you say?)
You're really a prick
(I’m feeling a little sick)
You lousey schmuck
(her dad’s done time, it’s just my luck)

We’re gonna have a talk tomorrow
(I hope you don’t remember tomorrow)
unless you get your ass out of town
(you know I love those Cleveland Browns)
I really can’t stay
(Yeah, I’ve called you a cab)
Ah, but it’s cold outside
(Here’s your coat, get outside)
Baby, it's cold outside

 

I mean, sheesh.

One of the many dangers of helping your kids with their homework is that you won’t be able to – sometimes for vastly different reasons. Number One Daughter got halfway through her homework this evening before shouting for help. The assignment was to take any eight of her 18 weekly study words and write at least 8 jokes, with a study word as the answer. 

You can imagine the issue. Can I write jokes? Don’t call me surely. Can I write the kind of jokes a ten-yr-old would come up with, that she can pass off as hers? You must be Lupin, ’cause you’re surely not Serious. I’m just not 10 anymore – no comments, you.

The words to choose from are: applaud, appoint, balloon, cocoon, counsel, coward, daughter, devour, doubtful, exploit, faucet, fountain, laundry, noodle, poison, rejoice, rowdy, shampoo. 

I thought I’d take a moment to share why I can’t do my daughter’s homework for her. The best I could do for her were the following:

• What do you get when you cross a cow with a yard? A coward! 
• Why was Sham in the bathroom? Because he had to shampoo. (They were begging for that.)
• Why did Barack Obama appoint Hillary Clinton to be Secretary of State? He thought she had appoint!
• If a cannibal divorces his wife, does he devour?

 The first two, OK, I’m channeling my inner child. The third, my kid, maybe. The last one, let’s face it, her teacher’s gonna know it’s not a 4^th Grader writing anymore. And then there’s a whole list of “no, don’t write that down.”

• What do you do when your teacher makes you read “Ulysses” twice? Rejoice! 
• What do you do when Oon, the new girl in class, asks to meet you behind the bleachers? Balloon! 
• What do airlines do with dyslexic pilots? Exploit them!
• What did the Boston plumber advise when told the handle on the sink wouldn’t turn? Faucet!

 Please comment with your own examples. You will be graded on punctuation, spelling, and usage. (There will be no math.)

That's right, your favorite game is back - "You know you work in DC when!"  I had a great example today, which I'll use to start the game; please share your own, if anonymously - or as we say here, "not for attribution."

 

You know you work in DC when your kids don't ask if you can teach them to throw a ball, they ask if they can leverage your spherical acceleration experience.

You know you work in DC when you hear about the Attorney General collapsing, and the first thing you think of are the people you know who won't be getting much sleep that night.

You know you work in DC when your idea of "going blackberry picking" has nothing to do with fruit.


 

So there I was, contemplating good excuses for not having updated the Big Ugly Man Doll in way too long, when I was called away to Duty. And by Duty, I mean putting the kids to bed. 

Originally, SOBUMD and I decided, by which I mean she told me, that I should be the one to put them to bed since I didn’t see them most of the day, and this way I could have some bonding time with my lovely children, doting on them in much the same way that you’ll sometimes see a fat guy doting on a really good meal before he tucks into it or, in my case, tucks them into bed for the night. Now that they’re all older and mostly reading on their own, this doting generally involves ensuring the doffing of clothes, brushing of teeth, donning of PJs, hushing of cats, closing of closets, and finding of books, and ends with professions of love and admonitions not to read for too long and to sleep “tight,” whatever that means. (Luckily, they’ve never asked.) 

Tonight it included, as it so often does, researching the immortal question, “Why are you crying?” For the Reigning Queen of Pink was inconsolable to the point of being irritating, which while not exactly a huge feat still merits discussion. I finally got her to stop fussing long enough to whisper the trouble in my ear, “The Pink Bear.” 

Now I need to interject, because the remainder of the story requires knowledge of the evening, which involved Chinese food while watching GodSpell on DVD. All the kids have seen it several times, and they all wanted to see it again. They all sat through it and sang along – despite not finishing their lo mein.

Back to, where was I? Oh, of course, the Pink Bear. “What pink bear, hon?”   [Here let it be known that the accused stood and pointed across the room at her sister.] Ah, I should have known. The rest of the conversation went as follows:

BUMD:  Number One Daughter, what pink bear is she talking about?
Number One Daughter:  She gave it to me, and I told her she was going to cry later, but she said I could keep it.
BUMD:  RQP, did you give it to Number One Daughter?
RQP:  Yes but now I want it back.
BUMD:  Ah ha. OK, you really did give it to her, right?
RQP:  Yes I gave it to her but now I want it back now. [Those who rule by divine right don’t need to use a lot of commas.]
#1 Daughter:  She gave it to me.
BUMD, to RQP:  OK, why don’t you just lay down and I’ll tuck you in, and we’ll see what happens, OK?
RQP [suddenly cheerful]:  OK, goodnight Daddy!
[I walk over to #1 Daughter’s bed and lower my voice.]
BUMD: Where is this bear now?
#1 Daughter: It’s this jelly-bear thingy [here she points at 4 of them that she’s connected into a necklace/thingy]. She gave it to me, and I told her she was going to cry later, but she said I could keep it.
BUMD: Number One Daughter, if you knew that she was going to want it back, did she really ever give it to you?
#1 Daughter: [silence]
BUMD: Number One Daughter, you just watched GodSpell. What would Jesus tell you to do?
#1 Daughter:   [deafening silence]
BUMD: Number One Daughter, you must have known she’d want it back, because you told her she’d cry later. If you knew she was going to ask for it back, was it ever really yours?
#1 Daughter: She gave it to me.
BUMD: OK, you just watched the show, GodSpell. I think you know what Jesus would tell you to do in this situation. You’re a smart girl. Do the right thing. Good night!

And with that I left the room, after having laid a pretty heavy trip on a 10-yr-old who goes to church and CCD. I then, of course, waited outside the door to listen to what would unfold. 

There's a place that I travel
When I want to roam
And nobody knows it but me.

The roads don't go there
And the signs stay home
And nobody knows it but me.

It's far far away
And way way afar
It's over the moon and the sea

And wherever you're going
that's wherever you are
And nobody knows it but me.

The author (who wrote it for the commercial) has updated his site, and mentions a few neat things about the cultural phenom it's become. 

Who says poetry isn't relevant anymore? 

OK, so there were no flings with time, losing track of or otherwise. You really want to know? Well, I’ll tell ya.
 

I was on the campaign trail with Sarah Palin. Oh, sure, the Republican handlers will issue a statement denying it, but that just proves my point, or rather it will, in the event that I have one. But I don’t want to talk about that right now. I want to talk about higher taxes.
 

No, not really. That may have been a cheap shot, but then again these days, shots are the only things that are cheap in this economy. I am glad I don’t have to worry about having money in the stock market right now. You know, anymore. I worried about my money in the market last week. That money would have been safer with my good friend General Mumbate Shambalessen, who was until two weeks ago the Secretary of the Treasury of Nigeria, and needs help cashing his bonus checks now and then.
 

If you wonder how bad the global economy is right now, consider this: I just got a spam email that asked me to please paypal the sender five bucks, in exchange for which he’d take me off his spam list. I was tempted to just send the poor bastard the money, but I needed the $5 for an extra 8 ounces of gasoline so I wouldn’t have to push the car all the way home next time.
 

Lately I’ve been running the car on booze. It’s cheaper. Plus, I get such great looks from the cops who ask me if I’m driving drunk. “No, sir – but the car is!”
 

On the inside of the car, of course, we have the usual suspects. The Human Tape Recorder listens to music – hers, if she has her iThingy with her, or whatever SOBUMD is playing otherwise. (I’m not allowed to touch that dial – no one wants to hear Big Ugly Music.) So there we were, rocketing along the highway, and listening to Pink Floyd. You know the song, because you didn’t need no education either – Hey! Teacher! Leave those kids alone! In this song, if you’ll recall, there is a choir of children in the background (and sometimes foreground) singing with the band – “All in all you’re just another brick in the wall!”
 

The HTR pipes up after listening to the kids for a while, and asks “Is this Kids Bop or something, except without the bad singing?”
 

Of course, in the time it took us to stop laughing we’d used up another $287 in gasoline.
 

Also, and I’ve put it off long enough, but it’s time I stopped moping. They lost. It was the sense of inevitability that did me in, the whooooshing noise of getting to October and just knowing that the 100 years were up, that the Cubs could finally take the World Series and sweep it – they had a great season. It was our turn. Boston had their day a few years back. But this year wasn’t next year.  It was just this year – a good year, but not Next Year.
 

There’s not even anyone to blame. They didn’t even self destruct, or play bad ball. LA just played better baseball. They just got beat.
 

Eh. There’s always Next Year. We’ll get ‘em then, you’ll see.
 

Incidentally, in the time it’s taken me to write this, my car has used 15 cents worth of gasoline. Just sitting there, parked.
 

“Hey, come on – you started this with politics, you can’t just stop writing now,” I hear you cry. OK, I’ll tell you the truth – I’m not just voting, I’m endorsing my pick. I’m endorsing the only ticket to tell it like it is, to always put the needs of American viewers first. I’m writing in Dave Letterman and Tina Fey for the White House in 2008. Can’t you just see Letterman throwing things off the roof of the White House? He won’t veto bills – President Letterman rolls over them with a steamroller. And Tina Fey as VeeP? Heck, she can see the Jersey Turnpike from her house, and a good bit of Long Island.
 

“But where’s the Time Suck?” you ask. Ah, and I’m glad you did. Last week’s TSoW was called off in deference to the grief of Cubs fans everywhere. This week, though, the Suck is ON.
 

This week highlights the fun you can have in the UK, with the British Library. It’s easy. It’s addictive. It’s the whole damn world. I love to read (books, haha!), and if I can’t actually get my hands on them, at least I can turn the pages (though you have to install their plug-in). Plus, I can look at Blake’s original draft of The Tyger. Sheesh. It’s like looking over his shoulder – you can see where his mind was, what he wrote and then decided better of. I often wonder about what the future will find from our drafts – do we save them? How many of us draft on paper anymore; or even keep the drafts if we do? My backups are all of finished copy – I tend to delete the drafts once I’m done with a poem. (Done is a relative thing – they’re never really done. Sometimes they just stop getting better for a long long time.)
 

Anyway, that’s the TSoW. Make of it what you will.
 

This week's time suck came to me just recently, as most of them do. If you are anything like me - and I am not for one minute suggesting that you are, although you do keep reading this - you probably have a thing for maps. Who doesn't? A map gives us a sense of where we are in relation to the world, how we fit in, and in a small way perhaps a reminder that we're all on this shiny blue marble together.

Which brings me to http://www-personal.umich.edu/~mejn/cartograms/ and the wonderful world of the world, along with the WorldMapper Project/. Here are some interesting maps of the 2004 and 2006 elections, as well.

Then there's the Re-Visions of Minard site, which is a great way to dive into the technical aspects of what makes a map more than a map - how you can pack a terabyte of data into a megabyte of space.  I could spend hours with this, and have.

Once again it is time for the TSoW.  This week's Time Suck is for all of us readers, in case you're wondering what to read next - you know, once you're done with the never-ending exploits of the Big Ugly Man Doll. 

The wonderful people at http://www.literature-map.com/ have gifted us with a handy, if erratic, piece of code that will suggest to you other authors you might like based on a proximity map - the closer two writers are, the more likely someone will like both of them.  It's handy despite having an obviously "odd" algorithm, both from the perspective of "well, someone liked it" and from the perspective of "look at all the pretty colors" - just watching the names in the map float around is really kind of mesmerizing.

Useful?  Perhaps not.  A time suck?  Oh yeah.

Look at all the pretty colors!

Whew, that was close!   Hilary Swank is recovering from her recent hospitalization for something benign, and was released from the hospital. That was a pretty near break - Clint Eastwood was on his way to give her an overdose of adrenaline.
 

A long time ago, it became necessary for me to explain the creation of the Universe.  Since there's a lot of concern these days about the Large Hadron Collider getting ramped up to collide us into a black hole, I decided to share with you, Gentle Reader, the true story of how the Universe got the way it is.  It's time you knew.

The void Was.  In perfect symmetry was the void.  Then, without warning or preamble, the space-time continuum Was, and the symmetry was broken, and the void Was Not. 

The continuum brought with it the quantum field, and thus the quantum field Became.  The continuum spun and grew, and the quantum field spun and grew with the continuum. 

Because the symmetry was broken, the continuum did not spin and grow evenly.  Because the continuum did not spin and grow evenly, the quantum field did not spin and grow evenly.  The continuum spun and stretched unevenly, and the quantum field became lumpy.  The quantum field started to clump together throughout the continuum.  The continuum continued to expand and spin and stretch. 

As this happened, without warning or preamble, some very few of the clumps in the quantum field started to duplicate themselves, and life Was.  The continuum continued to expand and spin and stretch.  As this happened, some very few of the self-replicating clumps in the quantum field became self-aware. 

This happened very slowly.
 
The continuum continued, and the living, self-aware clumps in the quantum field began to do interesting things.  They started to count, and math Was.  They started to name things, and language Was.  They started to rail against the parameters imposed upon them by the space-time continuum, and religion Was.  They became self-important, and politics Was. 

They started to use tools.  They manipulated non-living clumps in the quantum field to control the shape of other non-living clumps in the quantum field.  Their best three tools were math, language, and religion.  They used these tools to create stories.  They used these stories to create more math and more language and more religions.  This happened very slowly, and the continuum continued to expand and spin and stretch. 

As this happened, without warning or preamble, some very few of the self-replicating, self-aware clumps in the quantum field realized that they were self-replicating, self-aware clumps in the quantum field, drifting on the surface of the space-time continuum, in the face of the void, and intelligence Was.

Now you know.

I just found out that an old boss and old friend, in every sense of that term, just lived through a quadruple bypass and is doing well.  Always glad to hear good news for a change!  Bill was famous for his unique outlook on life, particularly at work:  "Fuck it.  Doesn't matter."  I'd occasionally find "FIDM" pencilled in as a response to questions of "whadda we need to do about XYZ issue?"   He was *great* to work with!  Glad he's alive.

There are plenty of people who believe that the Large Hadron Collider, CERNs gigantic underground particle accelerator, will re-create the moment of the big bang that created the universe. There are plenty more people who believe that Dr. Frankenstein has really overreached his grasp this time - that as they try to peer into the deepest past of the universe, the LHC will create tiny blacks hole, which "could eat the Earth."  My favorite part is that the objections are based on CERNs failure to provide an environmental impact statement, on grounds that this is a major government action "significantly affecting the quality of the human environment."

Yeah, I can see the paperwork on that.  Just to save everyone some time, I'm posting the first draft here:

Introduction:  We’re CERN, baby.  Do you live around here often?  What’s your sign?

Purpose of LHC:  To boldly collide opposing beams of protons charged with approximately 7 TeVs of energy where no beams have been collided before. 

Need for LHC:  Ever heard of E=MC2?  He was one of us.  We need to reach, to know, to learn.  As we think, so we dream; as we create, so we become.  And besides, we love blowing stuff up.  We’re kids at heart. 

Affected Environment:  Whole goddamm planet, and a sizeable chunk of the solar system. 

Range of Alternatives
Alternative 1:  Well, I guess we could just not turn it on.
Alternative 2:  Instead of colliding the beams, we could cross them!
Alternative 3:  Just Do It.

Environmental Impacts
Alternative 1, Don’t turn it on:  Seems like a waste.  It’s so pretty. 
Alternative 2, Cross the beams:  Try to imagine all life as you know it stopping instantaneously and every molecule in your body exploding at the speed of light.
Alternative 3, Nike:  Might create a few Black Holes here and there.  Eh, just little ones – very tame, is no worry.

 

So there I was, enjoying another birthday party filled with 6-year-olds and women.  And by enjoying, I mean leaning against a wall.  One of the children was late to the party; he ran in and jumped into playing with the rest of the kids.  His mother looked through me, smiled brightly and said, “Hi ladies!” 

Right.  I am the big ugly man doll.  This is why. 

For those of you who may not yet know the reference, you’ll have to see the second of the wonderful Toy Story movies, called Toy Story 2.  (Go figure.)  Near the end, the evil misguided Prospector Pete is strapped to the backpack of a cute little girl, next to a brightly painted Barbie.  The little girl picks up her backpack, notices the new Pete doll, and exclaims to her mother, “Look, Mommy!  A big, ugly MAN doll!” 

When I take my children to these birthday gatherings, filled with pre-pubescent partying and estrogen energy sharing, I am that big, ugly man doll.  The nannies, the moms, the milfs, they do not speak to me unless in dire need.  (“Excuse me, um, the building is on fire, and, um…”)  I used to think that by hanging out with a bunch of cute kids – even my own – the cuteness would rub off on me, and perhaps I would be spoken to.  I also used to think monkeys would fly out of my butt if I waited long enough.  The monkeys are still the more likely outcome.  Er, so to speak.

So, I hear you ask, why in the name of Dr. Horrible and his Sing Along Blog would I not simply ask SOBUMD to take the Reigning Queen of Pink, Grand Duchess of Fluff, and High Protector of Barbies to the damn party?  Well, I’ll tell you.  I did.  She decided that I needed to attend this one myself, in my capacity as the BUMD, simply because “you need more material for the blog.” 

Now, a person with a larger ego than mine might consider this an accolade, in that my work as the BUMD is being requested, being fed, as it were.  There are some issues with this theory.  First, it is widely held to be a fact that there is no such person – you may travel from New York to Norway, from Araboth to Arkansas, from Greece to Gehenna, and you will not find anyone with a larger ego.  (My ego has its own passport, and travels the world.)  Therefore, since only someone with an ego larger than mine would consider this an accolade, and there is no such person, this must be subtrefuge of the highest order.

Since I am, if not the smartest person in the world, the smartest person you’re likely to meet, I have sussed the subtrefuge in play here.  SOBUMD sent me on this mission to remind me that our marriage is the best thing that ever happened to me – (true!) – and that, in her absence, the chances of my having sex with actual women are zero.  (Also true!)

So there I was, enjoying another birthday party filled with 6-year-olds and women.  I was, to the surprise of no one at all, largely ignored – until I overheard someone mention the word Starbucks, whereupon I most cheerfully made it clear that I would certainly be happy to join any such coffee-bound person or group.  (Hey, how about a Venti Caramel Milfiato, with extra whip!)  As I made my way out the door with one of the women, all the rest – and I am not making this up – decided they’d come too.  I can only assume that their decision was based on the desire to protect one of their own.  For the record, that one looked like she could hold her own against two of me, the barista, and the truck parked outside, but hey.  Women are from Venus, I have a penis, and that’s all there is to it.  So, instead of having to actually talk to me, they split into 2 groups – one in front of me, and one in back – and in this fashion we walked to Starbucks.  Once there, I ordered something masculine and tossed it back in one shot, crushed the empty cup against my forehead, and nailed the three-pointer by hitting the trash can from 17 feet.  After finding a napkin and looking like I’d meant to drip hot espresso down my forehead – which Real Men do all the time, of course – I moved closer to the estrogen constellation and overheard a discussion of the Eighties. 

I missed the Eighties, largely due to apathy, but one likes to keep one’s hand in, so I attempted a foray about how old I was getting (relative to said decade).  One of the ladies indicated that she’d recently passed her 20^th High School Reunion.  I mentioned that I had also recently passed – and skipped – the same milestone.  Since there was a pause in the general buzz, I asked her if she’d attended high school in this area. 

This being MY life, she cheerfully recited the name of my high school and the year of my graduation.  When I mentioned that I was in her graduating class, we remarked upon what a small world it was, and checked memories for names in common. 

She, of course, didn’t remember me at all, proving that SOBUMD is right – without her, I could build a freaking TIME MACHINE and my chances of having sex with actual women would STILL be zero.  I remain grateful that the SOBUMD loves me.  I don’t know why, but she does. 

Damned birthday parties. 

Ah yes, the immortal TSoW, in which the Big Ugly Man Doll philosophizes about many things, not least of which is which part of my personal insanity I should be sharing with you, Gentle Reader.  In the case of this week, the topic is death and philosophy - in fact, the causes of death of different philosophers through the ages.  

Here you will find out - because you've been dying to know - what really killed Nietzsche, Ockham (shaving accident), and Aristotle (excessive moderation), among many, many others, many of whom I've actually heard of.  So go on, expand your horizons.  http://people.pwf.cam.ac.uk/dhm11/DeathIndex.html  

Fair warning - unless you have a degree in comparative philosophy, it's not as funny as the cakes.  ;-)