End of 2008

Let me start my "End of 2008" post by saying clear and straight: I have no fucking clue. None. I never have, and the older I get the more convinced I am I will never have one. Normally, I'm ok with this. Zen. Yoda. But not right now.

Right now, I would like a clue. A little insight. I'm having a tough time not getting bogged down in the moment. For the first time since high school, I feel like I'm in high school. And in case you didn't know me then, that isn't a good thing. I lack confidence, perspective, reality, and drive. I find it difficult to trust. I'm quick to anger and cynical. My heart pounds with fear. I'm getting fat again.

"Unclench," I tell myself. "Really, it works its way around, this world. You don't have to push it." I'm carrying the baggage of the past few years too heavily. My past mistakes, losses, responsibilities, and failures are heavy like dripping canvas laid over my head.

And that's not right. Why is it so easy to feel those burdens but so difficult to remember the blessings, wins, privileges, and successes? Why don't they dry those canvases, fill them with laughing gases and launch me into the air? Maybe they do for you. I hope so. For me, it's tougher.

There are some fundamental principles that I want to live by, and I will try to adhere to them better this year. Here are the ones of which I am aware:

1) My daughter first.
2) My happiness is my responsibility, and I can't ignore it.
3) Trust my gut on people. I'm really never wrong when I listen.
4) Get past the grudges.
5) Breathe deeply.

Goodbye 2008. You did a good job of proving to me that I still don't have a clue. But really, that hasn't stopped me yet.

Tune a fish

It has been a while since I blogged about my odd conversations with Miss Neverpoop. I know that these days are limited; the ones where she tells me what she is thinking and listens to what I say. Pretty soon, I will be an annoying voice to her. I will be that guy warning her about boys and reminding her to do her homework and making her help around the house. She has already begun questioning the wisdom of daily naps.

Her negotiating skills are incredible. She would have sold weaker fathers used cars and public bridges by now. She has her parents figured out. She knows that Dad doesn't negotiate with tiny terrorists. She knows that Mom would drop a glass of water when dying of thirst to play with her.

But I think my favorite has been her recent attempts to explore humor. She is very interested in puns and word play, using "toot" and "pants" in conjunction with absurdity. ("This story is about a fairy named Tootypantshead!") Obviously, I have influenced her for the worse.

Lately, she has been naming me after her favorite foods. It makes her laugh, and is often accurate.

Me: Time to put on your coat and head home, Monkey.
Miss Neverpoop: Sure thing, Sucker!

Or even better:

Me: You're pretty wound up today. You must be a giggle-squirrel.
Miss Neverpoop: And you're a cheesy cracker!

How's that for surprisingly accurate?!
Thankfully, her humor isn't limited to just me as the target. Our close friends are part of the fun.
Miss Neverpoop: "I like decorating gingerbread men. I like blue and red and sprinkles. My gingerbread man is going to be Matty, so he won't have any hair."

If I can write this...

It's Thanksgiving tomorrow. The pies are accumulating, with fresh baked rolls soon to follow, thanks to Dr. Wife's mad breadz skillz. I have fled our apartment for the closest Biggby Coffee shop. Not the best in town, but the closest that isn't Starbucks.

It's too easy to put myself in time-out at home. Leave the lights off, the music off, wrapped in my robe, getting more and more overwhelmed by the jobless funk. It's good to be out and see the sun. And good to write.

I alternate between blog posts (most of which will never see the light of day) and song lyrics (none of which will see the light of day). I'm not sure how I landed on writing as a hobby, as I'm neither talented nor trained. Partly, I have been inspired by good storytellers to tell good stories. I suppose my love of tiny, empty notebooks probably helps.

It also seems to help with introspection. Like a lot of you, I fight very hard against depression. It is easy to let cyclic thoughts spiral me downward, back to cold corners, where I sit and stew. In writing, the stupidity and disconnect from reality becomes glaringly evident. I have to lift my head and look around with less jaded and surrendering eyes. The paragraph ends and I get to indent and begin again.

So this Thanksgiving, I'm thankful to English teachers; those who taught me and those who continue to encourage my writing. I'm thankful for librarians, stocking the shelves and steering me. I'm thankful to my mom who read me a million books, and to my dad who taught me to twist the stories. I'm thankful for Bob Dylan and Brett Dennen, who give my feelings words and rhythm. I'm thankful for Dr. Wife reading bedtime stories loudly enough that I can listen. And I'm thankful for miss Neverpoop's first written story: "Matt sat on a cat."

Cooler than an igloo

Stumbled upon this little site that has fun photos taken from unique perspectives, and figured I would share.

Also, thanks to everyone who has read and commented on the facebook version of this blog. You can always find the prettier one here.

Now, it's back to job searching. Enough tomfoolery!

The Motto

After our recent mini-snow storm, Dr. Wife casually mentioned all of the cars that were sitting nose-first in ditches along the highway.
"Hmmm, Self," I said to myself, "I hope they were all ok and prepared for these accidents."

Then it dawned on me... I was not prepared! Nor was Dr. Wife! This is an opportunity for a big geeky Eagle Scout such as yours truly to really go overboard!!
Thus began my project for the day: The Emergency Roadside Preparedness Survival Kits of Ultimate Awesomeness v1.0!!!

Now, keep in mind v1.0 is a working beta version of the kits. There are two kits, one for each car. In the event of a long trip with the whole fam-damily, we would bring both kits.

• Duct Tape- Come on, it's me here.


• First Aid Kit- I went with a pre-packaged one, but it's well-stocked.


• Food- Peanut Butter granola bars and dried fruit.


• Water- 1 gallon jug, plastic, that hopefully won't rupture as it freezes.


• Emergency Blankets- 2 of the reflective material sort.


• Lighter- I will add matches later on, but I'm looking for good ones.


• Candles- 9 hour camping candles.


• Rope- 25 feet of light rope.


• Flares- 3 roadside flares. I promise not to play with them.

I have a few other things to add that are not yet gathered...

• Flashlights- We really have several, if I can find them.


• Spare batteries- To be selected after the flashlights.


• Knives- Of the pocket variety, I have several.


• Cell phone chargers- The little emergency charge packs.


• Jumper cables- Dr. Wife has a set, but I need some for my truck.

I'm ready for suggestions. What do you think?

Four letter words

For the longest time, I reserved the word hate for three things: mornings, cats, and snow. My attitudes have changed somewhat, and it is time to admit that.
First, I don't hate mornings. I'm just bad at them. My change of heart here is a realization that some of the few times my daughter consents to holding still for a snuggle is in the morning. She is normally running, bouncing, jumping, or climbing. So a few cheek kisses before a cup of coffee is an awfully nice thing.

Second, cats can kill me. As far as their attitudes and behaviors go, I tend to like them (other than urination as a form of expression). They are agile and intense. They even tend to like me. They seem to understand that they can kill me just by their presence and are amazed that I am dumb enough to approach, antihistamines or no.

But the third, well, I still hate snow. It has been falling all day now, with terms like "Lake Effect" and "Accumulation" being bandied about on NPR. Sure, sure, this is nothing, yet. It is even melting on the concrete surfaces, and the temperature is still just at freezing. But here is my new reason to hate the snow: I can't avoid it. When I had to live in it before, I could just hide inside. But now I have a four year old.
What's the difference? I will soon find myself, once again, hitched to the front of a sled like a mule. I am already the target of snowballs at crotch height. Miss Neverpoop thinks that the winter is a delightful wonderland of frolic and giggle. No, I'm not so jaded as to deny her playtime in the snow, but there had better be some hot chocolate and peppermint schnapps in my kitchen to recover with.



But for those of you who insist that winter is great, and that I am missing out on the glory of snow, I offer you some snow science. I can't like anything that makes my hands hurt this much, but I can share some of the beauty of science with you.

And as for the word hate, well, I now hate many other things and people. But I'm old enough to let it all rest quietly.

Snowing buckets.

Dinosaur, Jr.

A conversation had the other morning...

Daughter: "Daddy, did you know a boy wore a dinosaur costume to school on Halloween?"
Me: "Wow. What do you think of that?"
Daughter: "Pretty good."
Me: "Do you like dinosaurs?"
Daughter: "Yeah. Dinosaurs always love Jesus."
Me: "Wha?"
Daughter: "They never stop loving Jesus. They never forget to keep loving him always."
Me: "Where did you learn that?"
Daughter: "I just knew it."

Really, I don't have any idea where to begin breaking this down. Do I start with chronology? Reptilian brain capacity? Fundamentalist denial of dinosaurs and fossil records? Really. REALLY.

Halloween

A little late on the typing, but here is my Halloween blog:

My daughter feels like a princess today. A cinderella-fairy-princess, to be exact. That makes a dad feel good. Likewise, she doesn't fear Halloween decorations ("spooky!") and she self-rations candy. Daddy's favorite holiday seems to sit well with her! She went from dead asleep to a sprint for her costume when we said, "it's Halloween."

I still get giddy excited about Halloween. I have to remind myself that it isn't all about me. My job is trick-or-treat escort, costume repair tech, and shoulder-ride chauffeur.

I do long for costume parties and bands. One of my favorites was when Dr. Wife and I dressed as a gypsy and Zorro, respectively. We ventured up to Sacramento and spent the evening swing dancing in costume to Lee Press-On and the Nails. But those years are done for now, I think. Maybe again when Miss Neverpoop is off partying with her own little buddies.

So this year, I forewent the costume and donned a Jack-O-Lantern shirt that my girl picked out for me and watched as she sprinted gleefully, plastic pumpkin in tow. A bittersweet joy, because I wanted to be ringing the doorbells, too, shouting "trick-or-treat!" and hoping for gummy bears.

Mighty Tasty Videos

Despite its hours of brain-destroying entertainment, MTV has done little to provide me with a reason to like them. They are called Music Television, and yet they do little to help music. And I may never forgive them for allowing Carson Daly to feel important. But they have earned a little bit of credit this past week by allowing us to browse through a pretty large archive of old music videos.
Including, They Might Be Giants!

They Might Be Giants |MTV Music

Or my favorite video of all time:

Fatboy Slim |MTV Music

Perchance

Those of you who keep track of my random world, probably know that I have a silly little dream. I want to own my own bar. I also have a great friend who loves brewing beer, and has been teaching me. He wants to own his own microbrewery. Together, we will own a brewpub. Now that I am in the great soon-to-be-frozen North, close to Matt, this has moved from dream to goal.
What's the difference, you might ask? Well, some good folks once told me that a dream is something that you would love to see, but you aren't proactively doing anything about. A goal is then a dream with wheels.
I suppose that moving here is enough to begin the wheelificiation process of that dream, but I need to work towards it more. It can be done. But how? What will be the next big step towards making it happen?
I suppose financial stability is part of it. Which means I need a job. And I need to learn a lot about big brewing. And running a business. And building a business model.
Can I really do this? Really? Don't just bullshit me here. To go from high school teacher seriously in debt to successful business owner is a big leap for me. I'm not used to financial risk. But if we do it right, we could help cure cancer. For the good of humanity, beer must be brewed...

Nap Fu

Tiny Warrior scans her lunch plate. The eviscerated sandwich remains and apple slice fragments are a warning sign to her. Immediately, she assumes the traditional stance known as Crane Too Cute To Nap and states, "I'm not really sleepy today. I think I could watch some TV instead."

The Master, however, has anticipated this move. Timeless Boulder Stance appears. "Sleep is good for you, it will help you grow strong in the ways of Our Clan."

With a fluidity envied by streams, Crane Too Cute To Nap flows into Solid Pine Forest. "But I'm already big and tall. See?"

The Master sweeps The Tiny Warrior into Wings Folded On High, lifting her into a more maneuverable location. Tiny Warrior deftly retreats into her most comfortable Monkey Style. Climbing Golden Ape, Escaping Chimp, and Gibbon at the Temple Gates are all attempted, but the Master lowers her calmly into bed. The skills of Tiny Warrior are great, but Master was well prepared for this morning's lessons.

"Would you like your music during the nap, sweetie?" The Master turns from the bed to the CD player, preparing the Sacred Chimes of Sleep. He spins at the rustle of mismatched slippers scurrying across the floor.

"I have to go peep!" Tiny Warrior unleashes her Faithful Flood maneuver. The Master once again settles to Timeless Boulder Stance. The hands are washed. The Tiny Warrior returns, this time clad in her fairy costume that had been hidden from the Master. "Can you tell me a fairy story?"

The Master is ever prepared, however. "I will tell you the story of Fairy Pewterstink, in whose trust the bathing of skunks is placed. But first, you must remove the fairy wings, wand, crown, purse, and camera. And crawl into bed."

The counter works, and soon Tiny Warrior is seated in bed. She has not thrown her last attacks, however. The pillows are placed against the wall, preventing her from being forced into Bug in Rug stance. The Master begins his tale, distracting her as he dislodges her slippers and removes her hidden Berenstein Bears book. Tiny Warrior sees this just in time to throw one last attack. "The blankets have to be smooth! No blankets on me!"

Now the Master unveils the true power of the Timeless Boulder Stance. He attacks with a Quiet Kiss, deftly closing the room in darkness as he does. The Tiny Warrior is left to her bedroom.

The Master closes his eyes in the next room, reaching out with his trained Kung Fu senses...

He "sees" Tiny Warrior resisting the nap. She tries her most advanced techniques. Handstand of Buddha, Tower of Forbidden Books, Bridge from the Cliff, and Running Cloud Legs. But despite her perfected skills, sleep overtakes her.

Quietly, the Master opens his eyes, and with a silence equaled only by the fall of night, he enters her bedroom. Tiny Warrior is asleep, still in Defiant Tiger stance. Calmly, lovingly, the Master covers her in warm blankets. He turns and leaves, knowing that soon enough, there will be no battles. The student will become the master.

The Great Pumpkin...

It was a week of pumpkin. Brewing a batch of pumpkin beer with Matt (our experiment is fermenting!), pumpkin pie a la Dr. Wife (PhD in Bake-ology), drinking pumpkin beer (Jack's Pumpkin Spice Ale), eating pumpkin seeds (the batch I roasted today has garlic salt), and of course, Jack-O-Lanterns.

Rather than detail the whole weekend in words, I will throw a few pictures with comments in here. I'm not that lazy. I actually resized the pics to fit in the blog easily...



First, a trip to the pumpkin patch. Silliness ensued, including climbing over every pumpkin pile available.


Dr. Wife and Miss Neverpoop getting their swing on...


Then, a brief trip to the playground with Miss Neverpoop.


The design team began work on the carving this afternoon.


The results were some mighty fine pumpkins, de-gutted, de-seeded, artfully sliced, and and candled from within.


The results lit nicely as the sun set...


And I will admit to being painfully proud of my creation.

Johnny come lately...

It may surprise some of you to hear it, but I am often shy. I know, I know... Good ol' Ramblin' Rover? Shy? Ah, but you didn't know me when...

As a chubby young lad with no social skills, making friends was tough. I'm so ridiculously self conscious. The way I look, stand, walk, sound... Every time I enter a new scene I am taken back to those early years when I wasn't as confident. And the calm, steadfast fellow you know and love dwindles back to the geeky fat kid who scurried from class to class because the hallways of school were too awkward to endure for any more time than absolutely necessary.

Today, I left the house alone. Save a foray to the grocery store, this was my first outing in Kalamazoo. You see, the American Homebrewers Association was hosting a gathering at Bell's Brewery, featuring Charlie Papazian. Needless to say, I was eager to see him. I considered even speaking to him, but that was when I imagined a dozen guys at the brewpub.

Try about 150. Bell's brewery is great. It was a hippie friendly environment with decent food and phenomenal beer (a hand-pulled porter tapped for the occasion was my favorite). I did see Papazian, and got to hear his rousing speech to the mass of Western Michiganders who had left their mash tuns and ventured out to hear him. But it was clear I was the only person who arrived at the bar alone, and who knew nobody.

Come on, Rover! Go Big!! Dive in with gregarious handshakes and calm smiles. You know how to do this. You teach people to do this!! But not today, I guess. Despite Old Crow Medicine Show playing on the sound system, and a second beer (this one a spiced stout), I couldn't step up. It just wasn't in me. I came home to regroup before Dr. Wife's department picnic this evening.

I did better there, I suppose. Dr. Wife is a sucker for trampolines, and so left to join the kids for quite some time. I managed some small talk, and hopefully didn't embarrass her in front of new supervisors and colleagues. I was relieved when the mosquitoes indicated that bedtime had arrived for the munchkin.

Strange, eh? Play bass in front of a crowd? No problem. Present to a hundred? Game on. Deliver a speech to 2000? Ok. But meet new people?

Maybe tomorrow I'll try again.

Kalamazoo

Our stay in KC was just long enough to see my folks and have to hide under some stairs from a tornado. The brief stay in Ankany, Iowa was delightful and without trouble. All that remained from there was to drive 9 hours through Chicago to Kalamazoo.

Oh, Chicago, how you taunt me with your delicious food and rich culture, only to turn on me and shut down a major highway, leaving me sitting still on I-80 for 3 hours, only to reroute me in the wrong direction for another 2 hours!

Doing the math, you can see that we did not make it to our apartment in time, nor was I able to get my truck as expected. Instead, we spent a night at a hotel.

Despite that, we are now into our apartment. It is so full of boxes we can't walk. It is insane how much crap we have. It will take me a week to unpack, even working 12 hours a day.

First class...

Yesterday, all of our worldly possessions (including, I hope, my sunglasses) were loaded onto a truck. We cleaned the apartment better than anyone ever has, and began our trek to Michigan. We spent our last night in San Antonio with our dear friend, where I discovered that Dr. Wife is addicted to rock band for wii. An inner rock star peeked out, and it was vicious.
Now, we are rolling along northbound with her royal neverpoopness issuing commands for new entertainment. We will keep you posted.

Testing...

This is a test of the mobile blogger system. Had this been an actual post it would have contained something other than a picture of me having a back spasm while packing.

Mobile

Father Daddy, I have questions...

One of the quirks of our household is that I don't attend church. Not my thing, not going to delve into it here. But Dr. Wife takes Miss Neverpoop, well, religiously every Sunday. So the theological questions pop up from time to time. I usually let Dr. Wife handle these; she's much more educated on these matters.

However, once in a while I get cornered, as on the way to preschool today.

Daughter: "When are we going to die?"

It is amazing how quickly the morning fog can be burned away...

Me: "Not for a long, long time, honey."
Daughter: "I want to see how it happens. Does God live underground?"
Me: "Well, many people believe God lives everywhere, all around us."
Daughter: "Then how will we see him when we get buried?"

A previous drive past a cemetery with another awkward conversation sprang to mind...

Me: "Well, our bodies get buried, but the part that thinks and feels gets to go to heaven."
Daughter: "Where is heaven?"
Me: "I'm not sure how to answer that... it isn't a place that we can see or get to while we are alive."
Daughter: "How big are clouds?"
Me: "Ginormous." Finally, my sort of question. "Bigger than buildings and airplanes and houses."
Daughter: "Weoo, that's reaaaally big. They had better be careful up there."

Another meme

These lists roll through the emails from time to time. Generally, I pass on them, but this one came from Marah, so I will reply by making it a blog meme. She's special like that. Feel free to repost on your own, or to send an email with your answers.

1. What is your occupation right now?
Trophy Husband

2.What color are your socks right now?
Nekkid feet

3. What are you listening to right now?
Miss Neverpoop humming a tune


4. What was the last thing that you ate?
Papa Murphy's Pizza. Yum...

5.Can you drive a stick shift?
Poorly

6. The last person you spoke to on the phone?
Dr. Wife

7. Do you like the person who sent this to you?
Aw yeah!

8. How old are you today?
32

9. What is your favorite sport to watch?
KU Basketball

10. What is your favorite drink?
Well-crafted beer

11. Have you ever dyed your hair?
Just with the halloween spray dye

12. Favorite food?
Sushi. Chopstick-fu battles!!!

13. What is the last movie you saw?
Ratatouille

14. Favorite day?
Halloween

15. How do you vent anger?
Sit and fume...

16.. What was your favorite toy as a child?
Boba Fet Action Figure

17. What is your favorite season?
Summer

18. Cherries or Blueberries?
Cherries

19.. Do you want your friends to e-mail you back?
No, that would be crazy!!!

20. Who is the most likely to respond?
Matt

21. Who is least likely to respond?
Jessica Alba. She never responds to my letters.

22. Where would you rather be right now?
A beach, rocking in a hammock

23. When was the last time you cried?
Tears for Dan Drust

24. What is on the floor of your closet?
A few shoes

25. Who is the friend you have had the longest that you are sending this to?
Not certain, as I really don't know who all reads this blog. Probably Duff.

26. What did you do last night?
Drinking, scrabble, and dumb jokes

27. Plain, cheese or spicy hamburger?
Spicy, please.

28. Favorite dog breed?
Hot

29. Favorite day of the week?
Sundays usually involve a nap...

30. How many states have you lived in?
MO, IA, CA, KS, TX, and in two more weeks, MI

31. If you could be a character in any movie, who would it be?
Superman. Yes, I'm that geek.

Packing up and moving again...

For some reason it has been a tough thing for me to write about. Maybe it's anxiety over the details. Maybe it is disbelief. Maybe it is just frightening. But we are definitely moving.

Our time here has been a dichotomy. We have come to love a few wonderful people, the sunshiny days at Sea World, Sammy's school, and some familiar haunts. But these have been overshadowed by painful job difficulties, housing failures, financial woes, and the stress of feeling like we don't belong.

I feel like I have been trying to walk wearing just one shoe. Things that should be enjoyable are surprisingly awkward. Our apartment has never felt enough like home for us to unpack our boxes. Half the time I can't point north. I still haven't gotten a Texas driver's license!

I really have tried to click here. I had a job, joined a band, and picked a good coffee shop. I attended parades and festivals, drank Lone Star beer, and even tried on some cowboy boots. I think I'm just a Missouri-shaped peg in a Texas-shaped hole.
So I find, once again, the impending descent of packers and movers. We are bound now for Kalamazoo, Michigan.

Why Kalamazoo? Dr. Wife has found a job there that is more her speed and pays better. I'm unemployed, so it is an easy time for me to switch. Sammy doesn't start kindergarten for another year, so this is a good time from that front.

The town itself is a small, college town. That part is more our speed. It is much closer to my brewing brother and to several other close friends. It has bike paths and a climbing gym, several microbreweries and a cute downtown. I will have to deal with some serious winters. They do not screw around that far north when it comes to snow.

My friends in Texas, you will truly be missed. You did a damn good job of loving us, but it's time to hit I-35 again.

The Boneyard Education

A good buddy of mine introduced me to dominoes a few years back (yes, six years probably). I went through a phase where I played a lot and taught people so they could play with me. I spent several evenings at coffee shops with my brother, sipping coffee, listening to indie music, and playing dominoes.

While cleaning the garage, I ran across one of our boxes of dominoes. I brought it into the house, intending to sit with Dr. Wife and play in the evenings and give our scrabble and boggle games a change-up.

"What are those?" asked Miss Neverpoop.
"They're called dominoes, and it's a game," I replied, hope building. She knew how to count. She could recognize patterns. She knew how to take turns (theoretically).
"Can I play?" Her question completed the tower of hope.

So I proceeded to teach her how to play. And she is pretty darn good. No score keeping yet, just matching the pieces, drawing tiles, taking turns. Her attention span is about one hand, maybe two.





This is really the first time she and I have played a game together. Wii bowling, sure, but this one is really a game where we don't just score against each other, we play with each other.

And when she wins, she celebrates by putting on a leotard, sunglasses, and becomes a Badass Fairy of Victory.

Need energy...

Sometimes, I need a little boost to get through the day.

Excelsior!

Upon strolling into my local coffee shop (as we unemployed sacks of crap are wont to do) I was greeted by the cashier shouting, "good morning, Green Lantern!" I forgot, for a moment, that my shirt had the ol' Green Lantern Corps emblem (not Alan Scott golden-age old but Hal Jordan silver-age old).

With X-Men, Batman, Spider-Man, Hellboy, and yes even the Fantastic Four (whose only saving grace is Jessica Alba's fine behind) movies, comics have entered a realm of socially cool that I could have used as a kid.

It is nice that those of us guys who never watch Sportscenter can still share a coded lingo. Talk of power rings, Jack Kirby, Rob Liefeld's complete inability to draw feet, Science!, randomly conferred cosmic powers, and green vs. gray Hulks can connect a room of geeks. We draw alliances, judge moral character, even form little Justice Leagues of Opinion.

Having a daughter whose passion in life is pink and spinny clothes, I assumed that I wouldn't get to pass this along. Then, I met SuperSammy...



In brightest day, in blackest night
No evil shall escape my sight
Let those who worship evil's might
Beware my power, Green Lantern's light!

Weak Skillz

One of the things I hate to hear most is "Daddy, I need piggy tails."
Now, don't get me wrong, I think my daughter looks a-dor-a-ble in pigtails. They bounce as she skips along her merry little way.

But good god I am completely hair-tie incompetent. Clips, bands, ties, braids, ponytails, pigtails, parts: It always ends in tragedy. 30 minutes of me combing the poor kid's head always ends with a touch-sensitive tangle with lopsided, uneven, destined-to-disintegrate fountains of hair. Her fine hair pulls sideways in odd bunches, leaving what appear to be bare patches of scalp! No, she is not balding. Her father is just retarded.

Why don't I get someone to teach me, you ask? I have. I have tried hanging her head over the edge of the bed. I have tried using lotion to help keep the fly-aways down. I have listened to countless dissertations from Dr. Wife on the fine art of the temporary ponytail used while hair gathering occurs. I even googled "incompetent idiot ponytail help" just for fun. All I got was a picture of me in college.

So today, we have one ponytail, cornrow-esque combing lines, a headband, and two clips. I know, she is still the best looking thing walking around. But her hair is a billboard to poor parenting. Dr. Wife had nothing to do with it. I take all blame.

Photog Kid

The Tiny Wonder has managed to capture a few wonderful shots in her most recent camera-attack on the world. My favorite part is the perspective. It's not often your photographer is 3 feet tall.


Here you see Matt and I planning our futures...


Here you see Dr. Wife and Theresa planning to thwart our silliness...


Our lovely vacation homes...



Popeye...


And after the little shutterbug forced me to put a dress on Shamu, she thought they should pose for a picture.

New Testament

Another odd conversation with the Daughter...

• Daughter: "Daddy, how did Jesus make us?"
• Me: "Well, that's not really how it happened..."
• Daughter: "I know how he did it. First, he took a big balloon and blew it up and it made my round tummy. Then he put some cute little toes and some cute little feet and some cute little ankles and some strong legs like this on it and some arms and a head. Then I just started wiggling around and then I was here."
• Me: "Wow."
• Daughter: "That's how I would do it when I'm Jesus."

I had no other intelligent response. I just kissed her goodnight and went downstairs to laugh.

Strange geek

Comic books? check
Sci Fi? check
Science? check
Computers? check
Odd musical interests? check
Role Playing Games? check
Occasional kilt? check
Video games?.... uh, well, check

I have held out on purchasing a gaming system for a while. And by "for a while," I mean 23 years. My last video game system was a used Nintendo, bought from my friend Jube, just as the Nintendo was being phased out. Prior to that, my Atari 2600 was hooked up to the old Zenith. Yar's Revenge.

Nor had I purchased a video game. Not only did I stick with the systems I had, I never bought new games. I only played what came with the used Nintendo and the original games my parents bought for the 2600. When they got boring, I quit playing. And despite the fact that I have owned computers non-stop for 14 years, I never bought a PC game.

Video games serve one purpose: entertainment. And they cost money. I don't allow myself this type of extravagance. Never have. It was drilled into me early that this sort of thing was immature, impractical, and bound to destroy my value to the rest of the world. If I was playing games, I was wasting valuable time that others needed from me. Why would I play a game when I could be studying/cleaning/working/other responsible thing? What would happen if someone needed me to save the earth and I said, "wait a sec, I need to level up first..."?

But yesterday, I bought a Wii.
Irresponsible? check
Expensive? check
Indulgent? check
Will I go to hell for this? check

But in trying to find ways to not go insane, and to find activities that the whole family can play with, this option popped up. So we took the plunge. There were a few obstacles, such as finding one in a store. But with diligence and google maps, anything can be found.

Step one: Dr. Wife. It really was her idea. She was interested in me adding some fun into my life, and in entertaining my brother during his visit. She was also slightly intrigued, though she is pictured next to the word "responsible" in the dictionary and would never admit to something as frivolous as gaming. She seems to enjoy it so far, even going so far as to play a few games last night. Laughter was observed. Mii was made. Good sign...

Step two: Four-year-old. The truth is, I don't need hobbies that take me away from parenting. So this had to be something she could do. She helped make her mii. And then she bowled.

Step three: Rationing. As with any new technology, I have a slight habit of letting it devour my attention, taking away my desire for food, sleep, and human contact. Am I capable of doing this "just a little?" I hope. A good sign is that I did, indeed, sleep last night. And other than this blog, I have not stopped the job hunt or house work today. That's right: I haven't touched my Wii today.

Will I? Probably. I mean, what man left alone all day wouldn't touch his Wii? I know that many of you would play with my Wii if you were here right now. A little bit seems ok. I just can't let myself get obsessed with my little Mii when the big Me needs a job.

Beer, kilts and pipes

The brothers Colin, Ben, and Matt

About a month ago, I had an amazing event occur. I brewed, with the guidance of my brothers, my first batch of beer. It all began with a spanking, as new life is wont to do.
I slapped a yeast pack, breaking a nutrient pouch and starting the reproductive process of a California lager yeast. As the gases built, and the population increased, the babies had to feed. So they were given a light malt, designed to feed the yeast without flavoring the future beer. In this malt they fed, our little yeastlings, multiplying like small-town Missouri teenagers...

The next day was truly the brewing day. Cold beers were consumed in the gorgeous Indiana spring sun. The burners were ignited, and our water was heated to 168°F in preparation for the mash.
The boiling kettle

2.25 gallons of this clear hot water (I still am coping with the non-metric units) were added to the mash tun, a large orange cooler with a false-bottom filter and spigot. To this we added 8-lbs Rahr 2-row pale grain and 1 lb. Simpsons Caramalt grain. This was allowed to stew for 1 hour, as the heat released sugars and enzymes from grains.
Hot water on the move

The grains taking a bath

Three-tiers of fun

Our next tool; gravity. I'm amazed at how simple this can be, in the absence of pumps and valves and gear. A three-tier system was created. The top tier was sparge water at 170°F. Its purpose is to help wash the sugars from the grain and husks. This flowed into the mash tun, our second tier, from a large sports cooler like the other, but without the filter. The mash tun then released our sugary soon-beer wort into the third tier, a boiling tank set on the ground. The sparge water kept the grains out of the nozzles and rinsed them, gravity pulled the wart into the bottom tank. The first few liters that came out were cloudy, filled with grain residue and husk fragments. They were sent back through the spent husks, which acted as a filter. After we began to get clear wort, it was on.
Sweet hot wort; yeast food!

When this was done, we topped off with more of the heated water, and set a very full kettle full of rich, sugary, syrupy wort to boil. During this time, we added 1 oz. Cluster hops, 1 tsp of Irish moss (to improve clarity). At the end of our hour, the beer was ready to be cooled by steam-punk-esque copper coils and prepped for the yeast.
Cold water immersion cooling coils

We drained the boiled wort into a sterilized fermentation tank, a giant clear carboy, and hauled it to the cool basement. The yeast was pitched, and the hungry little buggers began devouring the sugars we had prepared for them. And they shit alcohol my friends. They shit alcohol.
Wind-up and the pitch

I have dragged enough detail into this, my friends, so I will spare you the anxious, father-in-the-waiting-room specific gravity measurements. I will also spare you the delight with which the flavor moved from soggy friendship bread to hoppy alcohol and grain. Two days later, the beer was removed from the protein sediment (more yeast poop) and placed into a second sterilized carboy. The fermentation had gone from an active bubble-dance to a subtle fizz at this point.
So now I wait. Brother Matt will bottle this soon (keg date had been scheduled for August 1st, but I doubt he will wait). And then, I get to meet my baby beer.
Anxious Daddy.

Someone else's treasure?

So what is so special about this trashcan? After all, Sea World has hundreds of them throughout the park. They are in the standard pebbled-concrete enclosures. This one had a fine trash bag and lid. In fact, it was in most ways as natural as they come.

But apparently, this one is delicious. How do I know? Because I watched a two year old boy licking the concrete sides. Not just touching his tongue to it, but truly licking it. His face showed sublime ecstasy as he ran it repeatedly up the sides of this filth-sicle. No grimace of disgust, no hesitation, and no restraint. He licked it with passionate glee. God only knows where his parents were, though the scream that erupted from an angry mother moments later indicated that eventually they noticed Mommy's Little Angel was missing.

But really, all that I could grasp was:

HE WAS LICKING THE DAMN TRASH CAN.

Wabbits...

Job hunting is depressing. I went through the second round yesterday with a marketing company. You know when you leave a store and there's this smiling man with a catchy table who is really excited to sell you a great deal on a fabulous savings package?

That's my job offer. In fairness, the products were legit and good deals. And the manager training me was a genuinely positive guy. But ambush marketing? Sure, I could do that. Do I want to? No.

This would be easier to turn down if any of my other prospects looked better. The jobs that actually appealed to me were filled without so much as a distant wave my direction.

The pressure I'm feeling is really self-imposed. I have income moving my way, and I've been a smart spender lately. But I'm a pretty typical man in that so much of my self-worth is pinned on my financial value to the family. I know, typical male ego...

A decent job is out there, but where? And how will I land it? I really want to own my own business, so I need to get into a business world of some sort. But how? And what? And why won't the breweries in town magically adopt me as their spokesdork?

Now you're older still...

On the way to preschool today...

Daughter: "Daddy, how long until I am 5?"
Me: "You just turned 4, honey."
Daughter: "But will I be 5 soon?"
Me: "It will be a year from now. You get to be a big 4-year-old for a long time."
Daughter: "But I won't just be four. I will get even fourer and fourer."

Being four isn't just an age. It is a state of being that has degrees. Miss Neverpoop seeks to achieve a greater degree of fourness with each passing moment.

I shudder to think what that means for us. More spontaneous feats of climbing? More random fits of independence? A greater level of bedtime combat? A deeper commitment to her puppy impersonations (complete with spontaneous leg-licks)?

Rolling along

Miss Neverpoop's first bike ride at the local park. It was her first time going down hills (which terrified her), and her first time going up hills (which terrified her). She is afraid of everything these days.

• Hills


• Spiderwebs


• Bees


• Dust bunnies


• New food


• Hair


• Doctors


• Medicine


• Band Aids


• Removing Band Aids


• Loud sneezes


• Lint


• Speed Bumps


• Fire


• Pickies (hangnails)


• Toilets flushing


• Going fast


• Monsters


• Moths

It is a little disturbing to see her so frightened all of the time. We never allow her to give into her fears (alright, maybe fire...). We calmly hold her as she faces them. She loves adrenaline, but is terrified of trying anything brand new. If we can get her to try it once, though...

I'm working with that in my own world. Leaving teaching is scary, especially when I failed at doing so last year. In the middle of it all, I am trying to figure out how to find a new job, prepare for the next venture (owning the microbrewery), deciding whether to buy a house, rent, or get the hell out of Texas, refinancing the house in Kansas, and trying to manage the stress without letting daily life scare the shit out of me.

Yeah, working on that. It was a good day for a bike ride.

Sage tortilla

My father can talk. He tells a story the way a builder erects a home. The land is cleared, a foundation poured and cured, plumbing is fitted as frames are nailed one by one into place. Time passes, and the bits and pieces fit together to reveal a home, fully functioning and furnished as the story comes to a close.

This is his way, my father. And whether or not you've heard the words before, you will hear them again. The house will rise.

His best moments of advice are relics of lessons long learned.

Me: "I'm not catching any fish, Dad!"
Dad: "You're just not holding your mouth right."

or

"You need to clean the inside of your windshield, too, son."

and

"Just humor me and bring along a jacket."

because

"Son, haven't you learned by now that I'm all knowing."

which has been proven by

"Now, you can eat a jalapeño but don't touch your eyes afterwards. It will hurt like hell."

It's that last bit of sage wisdom that finally bit me. For although I didn't touch the habañero, it had been put in the wrapper with my burrito at El Pollo Loco.

I hate that burrito.

And I rubbed my allergic eyes.

I RUBBED MY GODDAMN EYE!

An icy hot pick of pain and confusion probed towards my brain. That same alligator-brain immediately commanded me to claw my own eye out. I rushed to the bathroom of El Pollo Loco (which in and of itself is not extraordinary). The door was locked!
It seemed that yes, indeed, the eye would need to come out. Right-the-hell-now.

At times like this I am lucky that Dr. Wife is in charge. She calmly knocked the surgical spork from my clutches and calmly handed me some cool, wet paper towels.

Ah, the cooling glory of water on a humble brown industrial paper towel. Of this, songs are writ.

With time and water, the pain gradually traded places with laughter as my dad's advice came rolling to my mind. Thanks for trying, Dad. I really was listening.

Compliance required

Miss Neverpoop has taken on the role of Miss Bossypants around the house. She barks orders, despite our complete refusal to obey. Requests with pleases and thank yous are considered, but the orders are ignored.
And yet they flow like wine.
Recently, she decided that she wants to enforce a few table rules.

Miss Neverpoop: "Daddy, don't talk with your mouth full, please."
Me: "My mouth is empty, dear."
Miss Neverpoop: "Mommy, don't talk with your mouth full either, please."
Dr. Wife: "OK honey, I won't."
Miss Neverpoop: "Mommy, did you know that I love you even when you talk with your mouth full?"
Dr. Wife: "I'm glad, honey, and I always love you, too."
Miss Neverpoop: "Yeah, but don't eat with your mouth full."
Me: *stifled laughter*
Dr. Wife: "I have to have food in my mouth to eat."
Miss Neverpoop: "Yeah, but don't eat with your mouth full."
Dr. Wife: "Then how can I eat?"
Miss Neverpoop: "It's ok, I still love you even when you do that."

Obedience is necessary, understanding is optional, and love is unconditional. I wonder where she got that.

Social !!!!

What is flunk day? Tradition! Debauchery! Mid-day sex excuse!
At Coe College, where I once slung-a-da-ink, the student council has the power to cancel class one day of the year. At the crack of dawn, the school victory bell rings out over campus and the student council begins pounding the doors, announcing the glorious day that is flunk. Though most are aware the night before, when the student council ruins the surprise by being randomly intoxicated and jubilant with disregard for their next day's chores.
Kegs are tapped across campus, local dance clubs are commandeered, redneck waterpark/golfcart parks are overtaken, and OFUI's were given out for playing Ultimate (Operating a Frisbee Under the Influence).
Half of those days were gone to me, lost in student teaching (which knew no flunk) and organic chemistry lab (which continued sans professor). But the rest of the time was spent being silly with fraternity brothers and Southern Comfort.
Today is flunk day, my Kohawks. Quit working! Get some beer!

Hallmark has a card for it.

I don't know how to write about it. It's been one year since Eddie died. I have tried to write about that day, about the moments that crashed across those of us who loved him. But I can't do them justice. So I won't try.
I learned that day that I can be immeasurably fragile and unquestionably strong at the same time.
That day tempered me, and I'm still raw from the forge. I'm on the right path, I suppose. But I was changed by his passing, as I was changed by his life.
I miss you, Mr. No-Hair. I'm hugging you in my heart, Mrs. No-Hair. I love you both.

The power compels her to color?

A conversation with the daughter:

Miss Neverpoop: "I wanted to color in this coloring book. God made my coloring book so I can color in it, right Daddy?"
Me: "Well, I suppose so. I'm glad you like to color."
Miss Neverpoop: "God made the whole city and the cars and the streets and the roads and the cars and the trees."
Me: "Cool, huh?"
Miss Neverpoop: "And then Jesus got nails in him."
Me: "Well, yeah..."
Miss Neverpoop: "He should color like God wants so that he doesn't have nails in him."
Me: "That's not quite how it works, honey. God didn't put the nails in because he wasn't coloring. Those two don't go together."
Miss Neverpoop: "Yeah, I like to color because that's what I'm supposed to do for God."
Me: "God wants you to be happy and to treat others nicely, dear. And you do that very well."
Miss Neverpoop: "Yeah, I share my colors. That makes God happy."
Me: "I'm sure it does."
Miss Neverpoop: "Then Jesus was put in a rock and a big flat rock was in front of the little rock and some angels opened it to let him out. But he wasn't in there. I think he dug his way out like a dog digs out under a fence if he's a Poky Little Puppy."
Me: "Wow, that's a pretty big idea to work on..."
Miss Neverpoop: "Yeah. Bat and cat rhyme. Cat bat cat dat bat..."

Maybe a little less Sunday school is in order... or more? I don't know what to think of all that. Needless to say, it was a little intense for a 3 year old. Easter Sunday School left some definite impressions, though. I'm a little weirded out by it, to say the least. The ideas are all there, but it seems to be running through some sort of Seuss-ification process that is leaving her with some trippy mental images...

Well Dig My Grave!

Here is what I have been hoping. A chance for my daughter to become Geek version 2.0 in all of her glory. It's a brand new podcast, for 2008, They Might Be Giants for kids. Now, how to subscribe without itunes is my next challenge. Here is a sneak peek.

Minds, hearts, and minnow buckets

I have a lot to write about. I have searched for some connectivity, continuity, or theme under which to tie these things. I have failed. So pardon the complete lack of transition that follows.

The Boomerang Project is in full swing. It's the student mentoring program that I travel with, teaching folks how to build the program in school. It has taken me to Portland so far (hence Goonie Rock), and Austin (just outside the city limits). I love this thing. Very rarely does one get the chance to really examine what they are doing, how they are doing it, and then adapt to all of that. I never feel more professional than when I do this, and it is so immediately rewarding on an emotional and intellectual level. I wish I could do this full time, but that isn't really an option. And the best/worst part, the folks that I work with in this are the type who love, support, challenge, demand, and trust me. I want them in my arms every day.

I returned from the most recent trip just in time for Valentine's Day. Allow me to clarify: I returned just in time for Valentine's Day at an all-girls Catholic school. One large room was closed down and staffed with secretaries. The sole purpose of this room was to receive the massive influx of cards, balloons, bouquets, candies, bears, gifts, and other pink-infused love tokens. The reek of roses rolled out of that room, carrying with it the power to induce drama. Valentine's day seems to divide school-girls into two packs: those with boyfriend drama and those who yearn bitterly for boyfriend drama. Add to this soap-opera scenario the freshman and sophomore class retreats, which took them and their teachers from the building and infused them with church-driven cathartic tears and soul searching.

I overheard things today that no man should have to hear. Stories of teen Valentine lust, two-timing, heartbreak, hatred, jealousy, and angst that ripped all semblence of sanity from my head. At the end of the day, my already ill body felt ripped from my addled head.

The only prescription: more cowbell. No, scratch that. The only prescription: pink Valentine's ice cream with Miss Neverpoop.

A little date with the Snotter Daughter was great. We talked about Valentines cards, and to whom we want to say "I love you", and about swinging on the swings. She was thoroughly impressed that she had a pink spoon and that I had a blue spoon. She talked about her friend Emily, and how she wants to marry her and shower her with gifts of spider-rings, head bands, necklaces, and washable tattoos. It's nice to see her connecting with other kids, even if she does appear to be a tiny lesbian.

My grandfather passed away last night (see? no transition. Just Bam!). His wife had passed a few months back, he had suffered a stroke, and continually fought to recover from that. Riley was a good man: stoic, devoted, hard-working, and honest. I take some pride in that one cannot walk through downtown Kansas City without standing next to a building that either he or my father were involved in building. I am proud of my father, aunt, and uncle who made the choices to make him comfortable during his last months, even though that meant that they might not be prolonging his life. It's the decision I would want made for me. So fire up some barbecue, smoke some strong tobacco in an old pipe, and mow your lawn today in honor of Riley Aquila Killmer. He'd be doing the same for you.

Booty Trap

Guess where I went this weekend. Here's a clue:

Don't you realize? The next time you see sky, it'll be over another town. The next time you take a test, it'll be in some other school. Our parents, they want the best of stuff for us. But right now, they got to do what's right for them. Because it's their time. Their time! Up there! Down here, it's our time. It's our time down here.

The pen is mightier

I bought a pen. I can't remember the last time I bought a pen. Pens arent' purchased. They are acquired. They move, stealthily through the world to my desks, pockets, truck, and kitchen. At night, herds of inky plastic tubes dart from shadow to shadow, searching for the seat cushion cracks and backpacks that they will call home.

I don't mean to imply that I bought a fancy pen. Pilot G-2. Standard notebook use, though the rubber grippy is nice. It really would be a great little night, but I made the mistake of clicking on Denis Leary's "Lock 'n Load" album on the Zune. And realized it was released 10 years ago, right as I was preparing to graduate undergrad.

And then it hit me. My 10 year college reunion is here. I've been teaching as long as it took me to go through junior high, high school, and college combined. Oh, sweet Kevin Bacon Lord of All I'm old! As of this spring, I will have been a father for the same length of time I was a college kid.

There ain't a scotch strong enough to knock that right. Am I really that old?

I suppose I'll go when the time comes. I enjoyed college like Robin Williams enjoyed cocaine. High school is fading from my memory (and junior high was gone from my skull years ago), and if a reunion occurred, I was blissfully unaware. But college? I'll go. I will even pull out my Spin Doctors, Morphine, and Presidents of the United States of America CD's and load them up in anticipation.

Now you're older still

It's probably too cold to be outside, but I forgot my jacket. Low 50's, so I can't complain. Sierra Harvest is the beer special tonight, and I've escaped to The Flying Saucer in the hopes of writing a year-end retrospective full of tears, laughs, and dreams. But my new Zune, in its geeky goodness, has left me recalling liner notes of albums long lost. So here are the liner notes for the latest Ramblin' Rover CD: Losing Latitude.

First, a big thanks to my family. Your support helped make this record jump from my head to the tracks you're hearing. Dr. Wife and Miss Neverpoop, you make me feel big and famous even when record sales are low.

Big props to my posse in the KC and Larry Towns: Ken, Donn, Steve, Joe, Erin, Gregg and Kim, Sean and Renee, Josh and Julie, Barry and Tara, Laura, Shannon, Jimmy and Kaya, Jason and Sarah, The folks at the Americana Music Academy, LHS, The Yarddogs. I'm homesick! Texas is big, but not as big as my love for you all.

All my peeps at Boomerang: I know you get back what you give, but I've got some catching up to do for you all. You've given me so much.
My new eses in SA, it's been quick and dirty. Let's rock through a few more sets and see if you can still dig my groove once we get rolling. You've seen little yet, so hang on.

And the good gang at 727 Production Studios, I can't thank you enough for the international tour this summer (promoting the last album, Domestic Tranquility) and the years of true family support. Brothers and Sisters all.

Jen and Eddie No-Hair. you showed me myself with your love.

2007. Not the beating of 2006, but you left me ugly with some solid punches to the soul. Let's hit gold with the next album, OK?