Ramblin Rover

All Along...

2010-03-01T20:00:00.004-06:00

I don't even know how to write a blog anymore. I used to do this because I needed to talk, and couldn't. Or I needed to create, and couldn't. It made me feel less alone than I do most times. Now it haunts me.
Do I use this to open up? I'm carrying a lot of hurt right now. If I dump that all here, people will want to fix me. The broken boy. And frankly I can't stomach that.
Do I use this to be funny? It feels strained, painful. It just isn't in me anymore.
Do I share my daughter's growth, and revel for a moment in the one great thing I have done? I think right now I just enjoy her when she's here, and try very hard to stop thinking when she isn't.
The thing is, I'm not the man I was, nor the man I want to be, and the man I am is not good enough. So why chronicle it all?
So I give myself a week. If I'm not compelled to write in a week, the blog goes away.
Thanks for reading, and don't worry about me too much. It's just words.

Unclean Thoughts

2009-11-18T14:51:00.003-06:00

I am often slow to adopt trends, fearing the fairweather purchase and fad item accumulation. But one trend in society that I immediately got behind is bacon. Sweet, salty, crispy, hot, bacon. The food, not the Kevin (though he is delicious to some, I'm sure).

Why bacon? Bacon is more than a food. It is a food that you add to other foods to make them better.

Potatoes? Bacon Bits. Chicken livers? Rumaki. Cheeseburgers? Bacon strips. Dog treats? Bacon grease. But what if all of that isn't enough? Well, there is always baconnaise, which can turn any sandwich into a baconwich. Or bacon salt, which can replace Morton's for all purposes in life as far as I am concerned. Chocolate chip pancakes? No thanks, not without bacon. Going to the ballpark? Not without some bacon sunflower seeds. Want a hot dog while you're there? Hmmm... then you need some bacon jam for double the pork action!

There are dozens of ways to cook bacon. Not to go all Gump on you, but it can be fried, baked, microwaved, grilled, sauteed... Why, some folks even cook it in the waffle iron. If you're interested, there is even a book about it.

But is that enough? No. Because sometimes, even when you're not eating bacon, you need bacon. Like ducks need quacks, you need bacon. You want to bath in it, breathe it in, and wear it. Sure, you have issues, but it's bacon.
Have more bacon ideas? Why not send me a letter.

Moms da Bombs

2009-11-16T19:03:00.001-06:00

I am a man of many Moms. I'm not sure why, but I have more Moms than I think is normal.
First and foremost, is the one who birthified me, and is my real Mom. I have been a slacker and not called lately. I'm a bit emotionally retarded of late, as life has thrown me several curve balls with a few more hanging over my head. Sorry, Momma. But I am super proud of her because she has plotted a trip to Mexico for herself for her upcoming birthday! Hooray, MOM!!!! I'm a tad bit jealous. I'm invited to join, but unfortunately that isn't in the cards for me. I owe you, Momma.
Then there is my Stepmom, who has a wicked sense of humor and who has done backflips, along with my father, to be supportive of my daughter and I. Thanks, Nana. I'm glad I get to see you and your kids this Christmas.
I have a Mom in San Antonio, too. She was the English Department Chair, though she kept nominating me to take the position. I would start every day I could by going into her room and hugging her. She adopted me early on to make sure the all-girls catholic school didn't eat me alive! Luckily, she has retired and is safe from them, yet she continues to make me want to hug her at the start of every day!
The Boomerang Project has given me many wonderful friends, and a few of them have decided to mother me, as well. Most significantly, my Detroit Mama wraps me in her fleecy wings of love as often as possible, and her cottage has opened its warm doors to me so graciously. Not a euphamism.
And now, I have a department that is 70% women who have all, at times, jumped up to offer me care and love and support, in a motherly way. They have brought me food, lectured me on caring for my back, given me the inside scoop on how the school works, and have come to look in on me when they have seen people blow up emotionally around me.
I don't know if I radiate a desperation that requires women to care for me like a wounded puppy, or if I just have a baby face, but whatever the reason... Thanks to my many Mommas. Sorry I don't write more!

Ursa Delicious

2009-08-10T22:17:00.006-06:00

One of the recent challenges to parenting began with the movie Madagascar. In this movie, a lion is deprived of his zoo-provided steak, and begins to view his zebra friend as steak. This prompted a conversation with Miss Neverpoop.

daughter: Daddy, does steak come from zebras?

me: No, steak for us comes from cows.

daughter: No, daddy.

me: Really, honey. It is from cows that die for our food.

daughter: No, daddy, it is not a time for joking. We don't eat cows.

me: I'm not joking honey. That's why we are thankful for our food and we don't waste it. Our steak comes from cows.

daughter: Don't talk about cows daddy.

A few days pass, in which life progressed with its usual doll-dressings and poop-encouraging serenades on the toilet. I was working away at my research when my daughter saunters into the room. She has been playing chef with her favorite dolls, each seated around a pretend table set with tiny tea cups and plates. Panda is wearing a tutu.

daughter: Daddy, I made you a special dinner.

me: Wonderful, Monkey, what did you make?

daughter: I made you a bear meat sandwich.

me: A bear meat sandwich? What a new and delicious thing! I want to see!

daughter: Wait here, I will bring it to you.

Behold... a Bear Meat Sandwich...

Lone Burning Ember

2009-08-09T21:15:00.003-06:00

So the dream I have been having recently is set at Boy Scout Camp. But before I dive into my dreams, let's take a splash into my past.

The most life-shaping time in my life was spent in the woods of central Missouri. I worked six years (I regret still it wasn't more) as a camp counselor. At the end of the school year, I moved with a trunk full of clothes and supplies to a one room, screen-windowed cabin with three other guys. Scouts would come in waves for 11 days of merit badging, swimming, and learning how to become men.

That last part is significant. Being a man is something so often defined by being the toughest, or the strongest, or the most admired, or the least sensitive. It's easy, without role models, to let that be the extent of it. But those things miss responsibility, kindness, consequence, work, brotherhood, and humility. These things are only really taught though modeling and experience, and camp was a great chance for that for me.

It hit me at the right time in my life. I was deep in the darkness that comes with adolescence. At camp, I was an important person. I learned to lead a group, to speak aloud, to quit worrying about being cool and focus on the needs of those around me. I learned to be a teacher, a brother, and a man.

My oddly vivid dreams are placed in this setting, on trails that I once walked at night without a flashlight because I knew the rocks and roots like friends. Nothing drastic happens in the dream, but it is a series of events where I must make the best of being unprepared. That is a pretty big thing. Be Prepared. The Scouts kind of harp on that one. In these dreams, I am walking unfamiliar trails, with trees I don't recognize reaching across me. In each dream, I have problems arise that I can't solve, obstacles that I didn't foresee, or jobs that I am incapable of accomplishing. In each, the common factor is that I was unprepared to handle each.

I suppose that isn't surprising. I was completely unprepared to be here in my life. Jobless, injured, isolated, and grasping at a future that I can't foresee. They aren't nightmares, really, but reminders of how I don't want to feel. A good scout is always prepared.

North and Low

2009-08-05T17:58:00.002-06:00

I have been a bad blogger again. It is difficult to motivate myself to write sometimes, though it always helps me feel better. The truth is, it's been a low year here in Michigan. I miss the heat of San Antonio, the friends of Texas and Kansas, having a job and feeling like the man of the house. Graduate school has been nice, but I have ruptured two discs in my back and haven't been able to sit or stand for three weeks now. I am only funded to do research through the summer session, and I doubt I will be able to contribute much from my prone and medicated position. My long-planned vacation to Mexico is occurring without me, and I spend my days eating percocet like candy and waiting for the doctors to consider my pain as urgent as I do.

Miss Neverpoop is at least enjoying her Tour de Grandparent: a three week trip to Kansas City and Fort Collins to visit her four sets of grandparents. She will be joined by Dr. Wife for the last 5 days, who will visit her family. I'm sure by the time I see her again she will be thoroughly pampered by doting parents. Dad will be much less entertaining than the boating, camping, puppy-owning, attention-lavishing grandparents. But that is as it should be.

As for my brain, it has been occupied with a retarded amount of facebook ogling, daytime TV drooling, and moping about. I have lost 15 pounds, because I have no appetite and I spent a lot of my time tensed in pain. It has been a long three weeks, though parts of it were a blur of sedative.

I keep looking for bright sides, but there are few to be had right now. I'm not going to fall apart, but I think life has gotten the better of me for the time being. I dislike being this negative, but until the pain stops this may be the best I can do. I should know more in a day, as I am scheduled for an epidural injection in the morning. If that works, I will be back to mobile by the weekend. If it doesn't, I will get on the list for surgery as soon as possible.

IMG00624.jpg

2009-06-04T17:41:00.001-06:00

Truckma

2009-05-12T20:25:00.002-06:00

It appears without warning. No change in performance. No signs of mechanical trauma. Same six-cylinder sounds. My poor old truck suddenly, quietly, pleads for help. Costly, mystery help.

My normal tact, as this happens quite often, is to wait for a secondary indicator. A misfiring spark plug, a change in gas mileage, a metallic grinding sound accompanied by shrapnel... any of these, really. Then to take it to a mechanic, perform whatever financial maneuver is required to make it go away, and wonder what the hell happened.

Automotive issues confound me. Sure, I teach physics. I can do the math showing what happens in the engine. But that is really different from being able to use the tools and make the fix.

I was brewing beer with my buddy Matt recently. The topic of our dreamed brewpub opened up, and I said that we could do it because between the two of us, I had a degree in chemistry and Matt had practical skills. My audience took this as a dig against Matt. I was confused and didn't understand why. I thought I was complimenting him. You see, here is the truth: I KNOW NOTHING USEFUL!!!! I have no practical knowledge or skills. I can talk for hours about education theory, atomic radii influencing electronegativity, or the influences of Bruce Lee on popular comics. But at the end of the day, I have no job and am getting ready to hand money to someone with practical knowledge so that I can drive my happy ass to the grocery store.

Next time, given the chance, here is what I will say: We can get there, because Matt knows how to do everything, and I can prove it on paper.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to stare at the orange check engine light. If I stare long enough, I may hear the sound of one hand clapping.

Critical

2009-04-29T19:16:00.002-06:00

Dr. Wife is playing softball with her colleagues on a city league team. She loves the game, and was trained by her father at an early age how to do such things as "hustle" and "keep your eye on the ball" and "walk it off." She can hit and throw and catch, though it is possible that after success at each she will jump up and down and squeal gleefully. She can "use your cutoff man" and will "watch the third base coach" when appropriate.

Being new to the city, it was a bit of a struggle finding the fields for the first time. Thankfully, Tom-Tom guided us with the power of GPS geekery (thank you, Skynet). We followed its guidance, dutifully turning right ahead and in 500 yards kept left. Across the train tracks. Past the steel building parts wholesale. Carefully past the strip clubs (Kalamazoo has strip clubs?!). And finally, behind the beer distribution center we found the softball fields and playground.

I'm not a city planner, nor do I pretend to be a civil engineer. I do not have experience in managing softball complexes. But I might suggest that this location is not really conducive to a family atmosphere. The grounds themselves were well kept, though muddy. A few large piles of mulch and sand indicated that the spring parks crew would be improving it even further as the weather continued to warm.

Dr. Wife took her glove and went off to join her team, and I took Miss Neverpoop off to explore the playground. Dozens of dandelions later, we reached the playground beyond the fields. It was in relatively good shape, with no sharp edges or broken glass. A smattering of small children scampered about on scooters and with sticks. All normal things.

I was almost lulled into believing that this was an oasis of safety. I was nearly capable of ignoring the proto-thug graffiti in the small canopy above the slide (U Love Me with the L backwards). I blocked out the fact that three-year-olds were running around for an hour with nary a parent in sight.

But then I found a sign that I could not ignore. A token from my own miscreant past. A piece of paraphernalia that brings to mind stolen cigarettes, knives, and lustful thoughts.

A 20 sided die.

That's right. The park has role-players. Gamers. Dungeons and Dragons obsessed nerds. It isn't fit for decent folk. I felt at home.

Stink Trumpets on a Pale Horse

2009-04-05T18:26:00.001-06:00

Winter is an icy fist of pain pounding at my bones unrelentingly over and over again. Its razor knuckles cut and slice at cheeks that were meant for grinning on sun-warmed beaches. Bitter cold winds whip knives like ninjas across the fields and through my skin. It seems that nothing can stay its awful bite...

And yet, spring... It approaches... I would dare not admit it, but I have received the sacred promise...

The Three Stinky Harbingers of Spring have arrived.

What? You are unfamiliar with this prophecy? Let me tell it for you.

The first shall come as a ghost of a stench... acrid, still coasting on the currents of flurried snow. The second shall be strong, and its carcass shall be seen in black and white and red all over. The third shall be true in the rain, its awful bouquet bringing tears with spring rains. Thus shall three roadkill skunks trumpet the arrival of warmth unto the world.

And I have smelled them. Though snow may ride its way into town tonight, it will be chased out shortly by the overpowering cloud of rancid that hovers for miles around the body of a skunk taken down by a Peterbilt.

The sad part, these skunks have only just emerged from their slumber to eat and fornicate. They didn't know that they were part of a grander destiny. They merely wanted a Bacchanalian celebration to end their winter slumber. Maybe a Chipotle burrito and a foam party or two. Instead, they become part of an annual crime scene that even David Caruso wouldn't take off his shades for.

Welcome, Spring. And a toast to my fallen skunk-homies. The midwest thanks you for your sacrifice.

Remiss

2009-04-02T08:21:00.001-06:00

I'm a bit ashamed of how long it has been since I posted a blog. I suppose I have been a bit uninspired as of late. So I suppose what I will start with is a brief bullet of the weirdness of the Rover life.

I went to Chicago to work on training teachers. It was a disaster, and left me feeling incompetent and angry.

I went to Florida with my brother. It was a sunshiny gift from him, and it was some deep contemplative time that I desperately needed.

I went to Ontario to work on training teachers. I dissected what I did and how I did it. I refocused on new goals and went back to developing skills that needed it. Total success. It left me feeling confident, but exhausted. 8 hours is a long time in a car.

Yesterday was April 1st. I miss you, Eddie.

And now it's back into the dad role. Miss Neverpoop will be getting a spring break starting on Friday. Really, her preschool teachers will be getting a spring break. So she and I are going to be kicking it this week. I need to find some fun and silly new things to do. I need some silly in my days. Thankfully, an almost-five year-old can provide that.

The Fu

2009-02-20T13:18:00.005-06:00

I love martial arts. LOVE. So much that if given the choice between internet porn and kung fu movie clips, I will chose kung fu. Yes, you freaks, I do know that there are videos that include both, but I will leave that blog to other, more twisted folks.

And I love martial arts in all its forms. I love the real, urban-military styles being used by soldiers around the world. I love the mystic KungFu! of fiction, complete with glowing fists and Sinanju masters. I even love the little precious-moment-like children at tae kwon do tournaments with their giant headgear tagging each other for points. I love the slow, grounding, and potentially healing properties of Qigong and Tai Chi.

So why am I not a martial artist? The truth: I'm lazy. It would require me to cut out time and money in my life that I don't want to part with. And I'm afraid of my back. Loading the dishes wrong can leave me limping for months. I'm afraid of what trying to kick above my own waist would do at this point. I'm not afraid of the pain of being punched or kicked or thrown. But living with the deep senseless pain of bad discs is something else.

I miss it. I miss the quiet minded feeling of bunkai fighting drills... The immediate reward of a well executed move as an opponent is stopped... The immediate lesson of a dropped guard or a raised elbow...

It is a transformation of a person. A growth from fat, lazy, anxious people to confident, strong, alert warriors. A balance of quick and calm that I don't feel in other places of life. It is not that I imagine myself ever being Jet Li or Bruce Lee. But it would be nice to feel... more solid?

HULK SMASH!!!

2009-02-19T11:33:00.002-06:00

Do you want to know what pisses me off? Think about it. You may have seen me sad, upset, irritated, annoyed, happy, ecstatic, jubilint, and sleepy. Or any other number of dwarf-names/emotions.

But have you ever seen me flip out? Lose control and throw shit? Punch something never intended to be punched? Or even scream insults at someone? Not just ordinary insults, either, but those deep down, I-can-see-into-your-soul's-weak-spot-and-stab-it insults? Have you seen me lash out with a blind and unreasoning rage as if Cops is being filmed live on my location? Probably not.

It is a rare thing. And when it does happen, I tend to flee the scene before the filters that normally block it all back are blown apart. Even that can be dangerous now that I am big and coordinated. As a fat little kid, it might have been a funny sight to see me storm off mid-scream with tiny fists. But I'm 6'2", 200 pounds, and have no fear of other people's punches. Doors wouldn't open fast enough.

So let's say, for argument's sake, that you needed to piss me off. Outside of truly comic book scenarios, I can't imagine a situation in which you would need this. But let's say it occurred. How would you trigger it?

Money. Having it taken away. Being billed for random reasons. Not being able to talk to a person who has the power or information to resolve or explain the issue.

Now I don't mean the daily occurance stuff. A messed up bill at a restaurant? I would probably just pay it and not worry about it. Rung up wrong at the local book store? No problem, just an excuse to laugh with a new salesperson-buddy. And the monthly bill-paying? Just part of the routine.

But when a billion dollar company tries to send ME to collection for a bill that they cannot justify or explain? When after two hours and five customer service employees representing three different languages they cannot explain the bill and I am STILL being penalized?!

I had to stop writing this for a minute and walk away. Even picturing the scenario was making me sick... You see, this happened to me this morning. I know, you're surprised. And it took every bit of control I had to calm down.

Every.
Ounce.
Of.
Control.

I had to channel my inner Bruce Banner...
I WANT TO SNAP YOUR SOULS IN HALF!!!!
I am a pebble in a stream...
I DO NOT FAIL MY FAMILY LIKE THIS BECAUSE YOU ARE A BLOATED CORPORATION THAT IS WRITHING IN THE FESTERING PILE OF YOUR LIES!!!
My coffee is warm, and that is good...
PRAY TO YOUR BASTARD GOD THAT I NEVER FIND WHERE YOU LIVE BECAUSE I WILL ENTER YOUR HOME AND BURN IT TO THE GROUND AROUND US!!!
Language barriers, international phone delays, and bloated billing systems are not the fault of this man on the phone...
I AM BECOME DEATH!!! I WILL THROW A COUCH INTO YOUR FACE!!!
Say thank you, hang up the phone, lower my shoulders out of my ears...

Really, I was good. Stern, to the point, insistent, but not rude or yelling. But sweet-mighty-Kevin-Bacon I was in a tempest of raw rage on the inside. It was close, but for now, the beast was contained.

Where does this anger come from?! How does it hide within me? Really, not much else can bring it out. Slap me? I'll make a joke. Spit in my food? You'll get a stern reprimand. Fat joke? I make worse to myself most days, I'm sure.

If only I could harness this power for good. Or at least superhuman abilities and superhero physique...

More cowbell?

2009-02-03T17:24:00.001-06:00

I went to the doctor today. I am one of the many people who totally fail at the whole "preventative care" thing. But thanks to many, many people nagging me to get a new doc in this town, I decided to give it a go. Another back spasm was pretty good encouragement, though thankfully it has faded away.

My body and I go waaaay back. And it's a pretty adversarial relationship. It tries to get fatter, I eat more veggies. It gets depressed, I crank up funky tunes. It ruptures discs randomly, I have them removed.

In fairness, I don't always treat it well. God knows I have tried at times to drown it in beer. And I do pretend to be athletic, despite the blatantly obvious evidence to the contrary. It likes sunshine and heat, and I'm living in Kalamazoo.

Can we get along, this oafish tower of flesh and I? Must we continue this cycle of pain? Oh, the huge manatee!

Sorry, melodramatic there...

So, I'm calling a bit of a truce. Body, I promise to regularly visit physicians to check up on you, rather than waiting for you to cripple me with pain. In return, please only turn me into a whimpering lump of agony with good reason. I promise to continue the regular exercise and a reasonably healthy diet (you may still have cookies). In exchange, let's get into those 34 waist jeans a bit more comfortably, ok?

This could work. Maybe this is a dawn of a bike-riding, beer-tasting, child-chasing, bass-playing power team of The Rover and His Body.

Now, body, I just have one question... What are we going to do about the strip of industrial strength adhesive tape holding that damn cotton ball on our elbow? Really, we're fuzzy and it's gonna hurt.

25 Things

2009-01-28T09:03:00.003-06:00

A Facebook originated meme: 25 random things about me. I think among all my readers, I probably have no secrets left. I have collected a large following from all areas of my life. I'm thankful for you all. If you are reading this and have a blog/Facebook/ning page, consider yourself tagged. Write your own list and post it.

1. I have size 13 feet. My shoes are kayaks with laces.
2. I don't like animals. Except to eat.
3. I have been to 4 foreign countries. 2 by plane, 1 by ferry, 1 by canoe.
4. I enjoy cooking, but not recipes.
5. My Kermit the frog impression is nearly perfect.
6. I can mimic bird calls.
7. I grew up with a kid who would have gladly murdered me, and I will never know why.
8. I love airports.
9. I used to type over 90 words per minute. Then I had my pinky kicked inside-out. The letter P now slows me down some.
10. I have always felt and will always feel fat. Reality doesn't matter.
11. I am dangerous to fight with.
12. I am a foot taller than I was as a freshman in high school and 10 pounds lighter.
13. I love wearing a kilt, and own two.
14. I love singing, but should stick to Kermit impressions.
15. I once kicked my wife in the head while competing in a swing dance competition. She forgave me enough to keep dancing.
16. My brother and I have identical voices. We can trick family in person or on the phone.
17. I don't remember junior high. Most of grade school is fuzzy at best.
18. I sing Harry Connick, Jr. in my head whenever I swim laps. I don't know why.
19. I dream of being interviewed on a show played on NPR.
20. I play electric bass in bands on stage, but am uncomfortable with loud stereos.
21. I wanted to name my daughter Kung Fu. Because Kung Fu Killmer sounds damn fine. And her friends could walk up to her and say, "What up, Fu?"
22. I have a tattoo. The ONLY thing stopping me from getting A LOT more ink is money.
23. If you read my blog (http://ramblinrover.blogspot.com) I have made another list like this before that you can find.
24. My hair has been long enough to put in a pony tail and short enough to look like a military cut.
25. I have been shot between the eyes with an arrow.

Indoor Idiocy

2009-01-10T20:12:00.010-06:00

What do you do with a four-year-old on a Saturday when you have recently accumulated a foot of snow? Play outside? WRONG!!! YOU WILL KILL THAT CHILD BECAUSE IT IS ONLY 15 DEGREES!!! YOU'RE AN AWFUL PARENT!!!

No, that sort of fun would be hell on all of us. Instead, we went to Bounceland.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with this strange and mystical place, allow me to paint you a picture (no happy trees needed).
Picture those big inflatable moonwalk things you find at kid's birthday parties (also known as The Pukers). Then add in an inflatable obstacle course of ladders, stairs, slides, narrow openings, and bounces. No, add two of those. Then a few more bouncing rooms, with slides and basketball hoops. Give some of the kids birthday cake. Add a few more inflatable multicolored roller-coasters, and a couple of nearly vertical inflatable slides.

Now put all of this in a large, warehouse structure. Add more children from 9 months of age to 8 years. Crank up some bubblegum flavored rock and roll.

Ta-da.

Not that it was unfun, or even unfunny, but there were a few moments of bewilderment that I must share.

First, this is a picture of the name of this particular inflatobarfer. It reads, "Ninja Jump." It is entirely decorated with spongebob characters. Wha? I suppose there could be ninjas. It's not like I'd see them.

Secondly, is "The Pinata Pit", which appears to be some sort of gallows for children who ignore the "No Cake in the Bounce Area" signs. I never witnessed its use, but I would bet that if anything is hanged from there, it isn't a paper mache burro full of candy.

And then there were some warning signs. Sure, they had real labels, but I think mine are more appropriate and accurate.

No fatties.

This is not a gun show.

Do not headbutt the smaller children. Their heads will asplode.

No B-Boys.

I know what you're thinking: I could do better. Please feel free.

Techsex

2009-01-07T07:01:00.004-06:00

I don't speak German, but I'm pretty sure that if a half-nekkid android popped into my world speaking it, I would learn damn quickly.

Sweet Jebus I'm a geek. Where did this obsession with robots come from? Oh, yeah, I was born in the 70's. Star Wars, Star Trek, Knight Rider, Battlestar Galactica, Automan (yeah, that's right) Tron, War Games, and Terminator. Heck, those are just the live action ones that come to mind. Don't get me started on animation.

And for those of you who were even slightly geeked by the steampunk dinosaur, make the switch to diesel.

NERDS!!!

2009-01-05T12:00:00.001-06:00

I'm sure I have taken the test before, but so as not to leave Viminious hangin' all alone...

End of 2008

2008-12-28T23:28:00.003-06:00

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

2008-12-13T22:16:00.002-06:00

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...

2008-11-26T12:13:00.005-06:00

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

2008-11-21T07:52:00.002-06:00

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

2008-11-19T14:02:00.003-06:00

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

2008-11-17T18:20:00.003-06:00

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.

2008-11-17T14:36:00.000-06:00

Dinosaur, Jr.

2008-11-07T16:07:00.003-06:00

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

2008-11-07T15:52:00.004-06:00

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

2008-10-30T11:11:00.004-06:00

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

2008-10-20T10:01:00.003-06:00

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

2008-10-17T08:39:00.000-06:00

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...

2008-10-05T19:07:00.005-06:00

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...

2008-09-27T18:23:00.003-06:00

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

2008-09-17T15:05:00.001-06:00

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...

2008-09-11T11:21:00.001-06:00

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...

2008-09-09T10:52:00.000-06:00

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

2008-09-09T10:31:00.001-06:00

Father Daddy, I have questions...

2008-09-03T08:59:00.004-06:00

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

2008-08-31T08:27:00.002-06:00

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...

2008-08-28T11:28:00.003-06:00

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

2008-08-21T08:29:00.005-06:00

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...

2008-08-11T16:12:00.000-06:00

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

Excelsior!

2008-08-08T19:10:00.003-06:00

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

2008-08-01T08:02:00.004-06:00

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

2008-07-31T09:16:00.002-06:00

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

2008-07-30T08:45:00.001-06:00

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

2008-07-08T10:37:00.004-06:00

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

2008-07-05T20:15:00.012-06:00

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?

2008-06-14T11:22:00.004-06:00

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...

2008-06-11T09:51:00.004-06:00

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...

2008-06-05T20:44:00.003-06:00

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

2008-05-26T20:19:00.004-06:00

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

2008-04-24T18:37:00.003-06:00

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."

"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

2008-04-17T14:07:00.002-06:00

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 !!!!

2008-04-15T13:52:00.001-06:00

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.

2008-04-01T13:40:00.001-06:00

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?

2008-03-25T13:39:00.002-06:00

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!

2008-02-19T21:51:00.004-06:00

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

2008-02-15T09:27:00.002-06:00

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

2008-01-28T09:37:00.000-06:00

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

2008-01-14T19:31:00.000-06:00

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

2008-01-01T19:20:00.000-06:00

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?

Tradition

2007-12-28T12:11:00.000-06:00

4 Christmases.
4 puke sessions.
4 fevers.
Miss Neverpoop is nothing if not predictable. It wasn't a total loss, as she had enough energy to open presents and play with them. She likes to string the process out over six hours rather than tackle the gifts in one furious rip-fest. Her favorite gifts so far:

A barbie pony with interchangeable heads. Never mind that she owns no Barbies. It is the sheer fact that it has a little equine wardrobe that can be dismantled. Including heads.

A Dora the Explorer coloring book with pictures that appear when water is brushed on. 4 pictures that dry and disappear, only to be rejuvenated by a fresh mopping.

The Fisher Price Digital Camera. Pics below.

Name that tune

2007-12-03T14:42:00.000-06:00

"I never worked a day in my life. I just laid back and let the big beat lead me."

My buddy Lush (Turgid) has earned this motto for himself. He exudes the back-of-the-beat soul that one would need to wear this on a T-shirt without having to explain it to anyone. Down to the rooster-on-a-noose tattoo on his calf, it's clear that not only does he march to his own drum, but also owns it. What time is it? According to the antique pocket watch that's resting in his hamfist, it's time to be cool.

"It's clobberin' time."
"I'll buy that for a dollar."
"Holy cow!"
"And that's the way it was."
"Don't touch that dial."
"Come on down!"
"Up, up, and away!"
"Excelsior!"
"Be prepared."
"Vir Quisque Vir."
"Tune in, turn on, drop out."
"I shall return."
"Double down."

The good ones have a motto, a slogan, a guiding principle that when uttered conjures their image in the minds of those who hear. It is more than a mission statement, and more than a bumper sticker. It truly embodies their physical and emotional presence in a tiny verbal punch.
Who do you know who carries one of these? Which are your favorite famous lines for famous folks? What line would you assign to someone in your life? So here you go, reader. A challenge that might be meme-worthy:

You tell me: when I enter the room, what song plays? Or what slogan fits me in your mind.
I tell you: what song plays when you enter my room, or a slogan that I think fits.

Go!

For this no Yello Sub?

2007-11-26T17:52:00.000-06:00

Recently Dr. Wife learned that her company is undergoing a merger. By "merger" I mean a hostile takeover in which everyone is up a creek with an invisible paddle that no one will tell them the location of.
Here is what we know.

She has to reapply for her job. She knows this because when she was sent to HR to get questions answered, she was met with a room full of computers and instructions to apply for her job online.

The job will be posted for other applicants.

If hired, there will likely be a pay cut.

If hired, she may be without work for the week before and the week after Christmas because her current business ceases to exist before the new one offers jobs.

The salary bonus that they have been dangling before her to get her to do the work of two people the last six months is vapor.

Her main hope is that her main boss, who likes her work, doesn't quit in the process.

She has worked so damn hard for so long with no reward, and now this. We had hoped that by working for a non-profit firm she could avoid some of this sort of BS, but that is apparently not the case. She has done all that one could ask of her, and then some. She just doesn't deserve this.

I'm mad. I'm punch people mad. I'm kick doors down and push people into traffic mad. I have a few silent moments right now. It's probably best for the world. I can't even crack jokes I'm so mad.

Antischmacterial

2007-11-11T20:08:00.000-06:00

7:15 a.m., just 4.5 hours after falling asleep after a blues gig. The room is still dark and I am still asleep.

daughter: "Don't worry, Daddy, I got it out."
me: "That's nice dear."
daughter: "Yeah, you're still asleep, so I just did it myself."

drip. drip. drip.
I awaken and look into the proud face of my self-dressed daughter. She is holding a roll of toilet paper. It is thoroughly soaked. And dripping on the floor. And down her arm.

daughter: "Yeah, it fell in the toilet."
me: "So you reached in and got it, huh?"
daughter: "Yeah, but I was already done with it, so that's okay."

Scooz me

2007-10-30T14:08:00.000-06:00

Thursday night I worked late. Another round of parent teacher conferences. And although it was a useful night, I was glad to come home to find a cheerful hopping daughter. We popped some popcorn, I fixed Grandma a margarita, fired up some Winnie "El Pooh", and sat with The Tiny Wonder for some snuggle time.

It was all cute peaceful Daddy-time until the potty break began. Tiny feet raced to the potty with cries of "I don't need help!" I waited. Actions occurred appropriately, but no child emerged. Instead, I heard a tiny, fake fart.

"PBBT." *giggles*

More farts. *cackles*

More variety and volume. *intense chuckles*

Pretty soon the bathroom was echoing with a continuous roll of fart-laugh-slobber. It lasted 10 minutes while my mother and I just shook our heads in silent recognition of a dominant gene rearing its clown-wigged head.

Dad: "Come on, honey, it's time to get ready for bed."
Daughter: "But I need to tooty some more."
Dad: "I think you've done a pretty good job already."
Daughter: "Oh. Scooz me. *giggles*"

She hate me

2007-10-16T21:08:00.000-06:00

The kids don't care about it as much as I do. This is the typical lament we science teachers share. And because I didn't recognize this, I bored the hell out of my class today.

I thought to myself, "Self, you should play for them a broadcast from Science Friday that discusses the relationship between evolution and intelligent design. After all, you are beginning a unit relating evolution to environmental science and you teach in a catholic high school."

So I fired up the intertubes. The radio program played. I took notes on the board, along with the kids. At important points, we paused and discussed. At first, ideas were shared. I got the students used to identifying the various panel guests on the program. But as the hour wore on, I could see it. The thin film of detachment covering their once bright and shiny eyes. The strings of drool began their inexorable reach down, down, down to the desks.

How could this be? The discussion was entirely about communication! It contained no science jargon (which amounts to triptophan for kids). I paused for interaction with carefully planned questions! I asked them to share with partners their opinions! It was IRA FLATOW for crying out loud!

I just wanted them to know why there is a debate at all. If scientists are so sure of evolution, how can their be arguments against it? And, more importantly, I want them to not just accept evolution, but be good scientists and look at the data and evaluate.

I wanted them to care.

Rookie mistake.

I can get kids interested in science by providing relevance. But true caring? Can anyone do that? Can any teacher move a student from being interested in something new to truly caring? I believe not. Caring comes from the heart, not the mind. I can inform, and inquire, and cause inquiry, but caring comes from experience. It is experience that causes us to care. Some event in our lives must reach down to that core and really change us. I can set the stage for those moments, but I can't force them.

Route 66

2007-09-25T20:52:00.000-06:00

I've been musing lately with the idea of taking a group of students on a summer trip. Some outdoor excursion steeped gently in science. French teachers find themselves traipsing off to France. Geography teachers explore Australia. Hell, even PE teachers take kids on ski trips. Why not me?

But where do we go? I've got some thoughts: Yellowstone, the Grand Canyon, canoe trips... I should probably stay stateside for my first foray.

Where, were you my student, would you like to go with me? Fun is important, and the world offers an education that no classroom can match.

*for those who read the first draft, my apologies for the poor editing ;)

Why the blues?

2007-09-13T22:05:00.000-06:00

I'm a 31 year old white guy. So why do I want to play a form of music that, frankly, doesn't connect to my target demographic at all?

It has to do with the role of a blues bassist. Solid. Locked in. Supportive. Essential. It is who I want to be in and out of music.

I just don't want to be the front man. If I was on the cover of the CD case, you'd turn it over and put your beer on it. I lack the looks and the flash needed to be the face of band. But I can be the backbone.

So what is the root of me? What is it that makes me important to the people I love? I think it's that I provide something solid in a pretty transient world.

The Black Crows, Led Zeppelin, The Rolling Stones, Nirvana, Red Hot Chili Peppers. Solid, based in blues, and except for Flea, can you name the bassists? Probably not. But turn on an album and cut the bass on the EQ. Is it as good?

Would you miss me if I wasn't playing in your band? If I am living my life right, the answer is yes.

Reduce, reuse, recycle

2007-09-11T19:14:00.001-06:00

The Goober Pea and I were on the way home from pre-school.

daughter: "Look! I have little fuzzies on my legs like you, Daddy."
me: "Yes, but yours are little and fine and blonde. Mine are thick and dark."
daughter: "Why?"
me: "Because I'm a big old daddy."
daughter: "Yeah, but not too old. We can still keep you."
me: "I'm glad."
daughter: "Yeah. Pretty soon you'll be too old and then we'll have to get a new daddy."
me: "No way! Only one old daddy for this family!"
daughter: "But when you are too old we will have to get a new one. OK?"

Does she know something I don't?

My ACT proved it long ago

2007-09-10T19:41:00.000-06:00

Was there any doubt?
Though I am a little concerned about the low computer scoring... I had better geek a bit more in that field...
Wouldn't want people to think I was socially capable...

Clean thoughts

2007-09-08T20:19:00.000-06:00

A standard fixture in every good science class is the long, black-topped experiment table. It gleams glossy, its days marked by on the barest of nicks; scars from the Battle of Education. It's badges are two, small, ringed holes.

Many assume that these holes are to support lab equipment during fits and bursts of hands-on education. But the Insidious Dr. Science(!) knew their true purpose, and he shared it with me in a temple lab in the ruins of a shrine dedicated to Robert Hooke.

They are finger locks. Teenagers are compelled to discover them through trial by fire.

CSG*: "Mr. Rover, come here!"
Me: "No. I am old. You come here, lazy youth."
CSG: "Mr. Rover, come here!"
Me: "Dare you ignore this lesson, child?! Fine. I shall approach that you may learn."
CSG: "I put my finger in this hole and I can't get it out! It's too tight! I'm stuck!"
Me: "Of course you are, my child. It was written in the Tome of Hypotheses. 'If the finger lock is present, the child must become ensnared.'"
CSG: "How do I get out?"
Me: "You must remain calm. Your mind must recede, allowing your body to slow for 3 days, growing ever slimmer, until it is freed. Or, dish soap could work."

This child owes me cookies for many reasons. Feel free to list them all.

*CSG = Catholic School Girl

I'm getting too old for this...

2007-08-25T19:34:00.000-06:00

Friday night was the local catholic schools' sweat-and-stink sleazefest (also known as back-to-school dance). First, let's address the facts that you are all wondering about.

Yes, it is coed, as it involves several of the local schools.
No, they were not wearing their uniforms, you sick monkeys.
I was there as a chaparonne, required as part of the job.

The job itself was relatively straightforward.

Stand around looking important.

Prevent teenage boys from hitting each other.

Keep the 1200 some odd dancing pheromone factories from knocking over the DJ stage.

Walk into the middle of the sweaty, grinding, hormonal, mass of teenage bodies and tell the girls not to grind their booties onto the crotches of the boys.

Stop the crowd surfing.

Let's just say that any successes achieved in any of this were only when students realized I was in their immediate vicinity. At several points, stopping in the throng even became dangerous. I realized this when suddenly a mini-skirt clad teen butt started bouncing against my thigh. Nope, she didn't bother to look first to see if I was a chaparonne. She just found a pelvis and tried to dry hump it. When I tapped her shoulder to get her attention, all I got was an embarassed grin and an immediate vanish into the dance.

Now most of you are thinking to yourselves, that doesn't sound so bad. But let's explore my options.

Smile and enjoy it: that makes me a dirty old man and gets me fired.

Stop the rump rub: that prevents me going to jail and embarasses a girl into behaving.

Freak out, scream, and curl into a ball: I considered this, actually, but I was worried that being horizontal would only make things more dangerous.

Sure, there's a little part of me that feels hypocritical for stopping the simulated soft-core that was going on that night. But then I remember that in 12 short years, I will get to club the pancreas out of a teenage boy for trying to dance that way with my daughter. And a quiet peace comes over me.

It's made of people!

2007-08-25T19:07:00.000-06:00

Aspect 3: Big Red Soda. In my never-ending quest for the Essence of Texan, I have come across something called "Red Soda" or "Big Red Soda". They appear to be much the same, but that is all I know of them. At first, I thought they might be bottled by the folks at Nihi, a division of RC that still produces Peach Nihi soda in some parts of the country, as well as grape and blue cream soda. But I was wrong.
So what is this stuff? Damned if I know. All anyone can tell me about it is that it's "good with barbecue." This makes it competition with beer in my world, and that's a competition nothing can win. When asked what flavor it is, folks around here reply, "Why, it's red, silly."
Red is a color. Not a flavor. I even marginally disapprove of strawberry, cherry, or cinnamon, the internationally accepted flavors designated as red, being called red.
So will I try it? Dare I sample something whose only claim to the world is "I'm red"? I shall. The next time I approach a fountain, I will swerve away from the Cherry Coke, or Dr. Pepper, or even my more usual water. My cup will runneth over with Red Soda, and I will drink with gusto. And maybe a straw. Hell, I drank Lone Star beer. I can handle anything.

Chaos and rain

2007-08-18T19:39:00.000-06:00

Since most of you waited until after the weekend to respond to my blog, you can only blame yourselves for my current employment. That's right. I now teach catholic school girls.

It really wasn't what I wanted to do, but it seems to be sitting alright in my craw. It is time for Miss Neverpoop (yup, she's at it again) to start pre-school, I couldn't afford out of state tuition for graduate school, and our house in Kansas hasn't sold. This left us financially pinched. And, let's face it, I'm not a homebody. I had expected to be able to work on painting, repairing, sorting, organizing, and unpacking. Instead, I found myself pacing the boxes in our garage, fuming at life. Not a good scenario. The depression was creeping in.

It was actually that silly meme blog I posted that really pointed it out. If I was a color, I'd be gray. Dr. Wife was surprised by this.

Dr. Wife: I thought your color would be blue.
me: No, I've always been gray.
Dr. Wife: No. In college, and for quite some time after, you were blue. Not bright blue, but true blue.
me: I suppose. But I'm certainly gray now.
Dr. Wife: I know, but you can change that.

So I got to thinking; what was it that made me gray? The truth is, it was not having a dream and the opportunity to pursue it. College was a time for dreams, and I lived them fully. I thought that the future held something for me, and that I was gaining by pursuing. I was alive in a very blue way.

I haven't felt that way in a long time. I haven't really had a dream or a goal. Being around my friends in Mexico reminded me that people admired and respected me, but I don't really understand why. So I have gone back to something that used to inspire me; teaching.

As for the burnout, I was certainly there. But it seems that time off treats me just as badly. I am hoping that working with such a very different bunch of kids, in a very, very different setting will help me feel connected again. I am also teaching a course that I am not even remotely familiar with. It will be nice to be a student again. Speaking of which, one of the perks to this new job is that they will pay for me to take a course every semester, even working on a Master's degree. I can have my cake and eat it, too.

So it remains to be seen... will this be good, or bad. My only concern is that the large jug of holy water just down the stairs from my room boils every time I pass...

In trouble...

2007-08-10T20:05:00.000-06:00

I have been offered a job teaching physics and environmental science at an all-girls catholic high school. I have to decide whether or not to take it by Sunday. Discuss.

Meme yes, nap no

2007-08-07T12:52:00.000-06:00

I am listening to the girl talk and sing to herself in the next room. She is in bed (read, bouncing around the room) and doing her best not to fall asleep. Naps are her enemy, and she occassionally wins. The cold she and I are fighting makes her grumpy and needy, but she isn't getting the exercise she needs to conk out. So she is getting some enforced room time that is about to expire. It's a shame. I could use a nap myself, but I can't sleep with her singing.

So, here's a meme I stole from hideehogal. For those of you who don't know how a meme works, if you read it, you do it for yourself and post the results. The basics of this one involve just completing the sentence. I added some reasons in there for fun.

I am meme:

If I were a stone, I would be... limestone. Not the best looking, but dependable to build with.
If I were a tree, I would be a... silver maple. Again, my best isn't obvious at first glance.
If I were a bird, I would be a... raven. Kinda sneaky.
If I were an insect, I would be a... caterpillar. Fuzzy.
If I were a machine, I would be a... all naughty jokes aside; an old truck.
If I were a tool, I would be a... Phillips screwdriver. Nothing fancy but essential.
If I were a fruit, I would be a... peach. Fuzzy and sweet!
If I were a flower, I would be ... columbine.
If I were a kind of weather, I would be... a crisp breeze.
If I were a mythical creature, I would be a... ancient wizard.
If I were a musical instrument, I would be a... cello. Oddly enough, it's one I don't play.
If I were a kind of profession, I would be... a life coach. I do that quite a bit, I think.
If I were an animal, I would be a... bear.
If I were anything in the world, I would be... a mountain.
If I were a color, I would be... grey.
If I were a fragrance, I would be...cookies. Everyone likes the smell of cookies, right?
If I were an emotion, I would be... comforted. I am the best when I can bring this to my girl.
If I were a state or feeling, I would be... peaceful.
If I were a sound, I would be....a contented sigh.
If I were an Element, I would be... oxygen. Not always on the front of your mind, but just try to get by without me!

Cheap therapy...

2007-08-06T16:03:00.002-06:00

I was having a frustrating day. I discovered that my new hopes of starting in on a Master's degree have to wait a year until I establish Texas residency. And I can't apply for teaching jobs here because my certification is lost somewhere in the pile of crap that remains in the garage since the move. I had started getting hopeful, which was a definite mistake.

So, I decided to tackle a job that I could complete. First, I found a stud in the ceiling by my favorite method: hammer and nail. Then, I drilled a hole using my power drill. POWERTOOLS RULE!!!! I then took a big utility hook and screwed it into the stud. Sure, it's against my lease. But right now my care level for such things is dialed in at about a -3.

The final result; a perfect place to hang the Snotter Daughter's souvenir from Mexico. Now, I need a little rope to adjust the height a wee bit...

Jam can scram

2007-08-03T10:11:00.000-06:00

The last couple of trips to the jam session have left a bitter taste in my mouth. Last night, it was crowded enough that I managed to play two songs. As the new guy, I get stuck with the other new guys. I get up there and am told we're playing The Thrill is Gone in A minor. No problem. I've done that a million times. Until I catch some dirty looks and cold shoulders from the horn section. What? Have I screwed up? Yes, it sounded off, but I played the part... It turns out, around here, they play it a little odd, with a turn at the end that I (having not played with these guys before) wasn't aware of. I caught on, but it wasn't until I had certainly shot myself in the foot with the cool kids. Damn.

I'm a little pissed. All I got was a look that said "F-you" when I needed someone to tell me F-E (the missing two notes). Sure, I missed the notes. But really, throw the new guy a bone. At the end of the tune, the horn players walked off stage. The next turned out even worse, as the guitar player named a tune that the drummer and I hadn't heard, and started a lead solo without cluing any of us in to the key. More of me on stage sounding like crap.

I know this is a lot of whining. I probably have beach sand left in my butt or something. But I think I am done with this jam session for a while. I am tired of looking like an ass because of poor communication. I know I will screw up from time to time, but I'd sure like it to be my own fault. And holding a jam in a performance setting isn't what I am into.

I was spoiled by the jam sessions at the Americana Music Academy. These guys got together in an old house. Varying levels of ability. We would sit in a circle, and one of the players would name a tune, play a little rhythm, and we would pick up and join in. It was a true learning experience. I think the jam session here is a chance to prove yourself and show off for other good musicians. It really isn't about learning. I wish I had a place to host one of the kansas-style jams I am used to. I need a learning opportunity, where failure is part of the process.

Jiggity jig

2007-08-01T13:55:00.000-06:00

Geek paradise.

Mexico. It was a fantastic, relaxing, refreshing, warming time with some people that I have learned to love more than my own limbs. I did enough that I feel that I experienced the Yucatan, saw enough to appreciate my own comfortable life, and relaxed enough to feel rejuvenated.
I will share more as time allows. The in-laws are visiting on the return trip with the newly-spoiled toddler, and I am going to be busy for a bit more. I'll even throw in a few pics that we took that will hopefully give you a glimpse.

This was taken at the coral reefs we could see from our balcony. Snorkeling rules.

Mexico bound...

2007-07-18T21:36:00.000-06:00

That's right. The vacation dreamed of for the last couple of years is about to occur. It is disturbingly complicated in its execution. We are flying one grandparent to pick up El Toddler Grande and take her back to Colorado. Then when the vacation is finished, we will fly another grandparent back with La Hija del Fuego to Texas. That is three round trip tickets just for babysitting. Damn.

The upside is, Dr. Wife and I will be surrounded by some of our best friends in scenic Puerto Morelos, a tiny fishing village between Cancun and Play del Carmen. Add tequila, snorkeling mask, and a little sight seeing. It should be a good week.

The tiny little village has what they call an "internet cafe." I will blog some from the road, if time permits. Maybe even a picture or two.

Until I depart, go ahead and give me some advice for the trip (other than not drinking the water). Go!

Flash stupid

2007-07-15T11:39:00.000-06:00

I decided this morning that I would go find a nice nature trail in the city of San Antonio. I did some searching, and found a trail site that described the location of a 5 mile nature trail. After a brief Google Maps consultation, I took off.

My bad choice occurred when, upon arriving at the desired area, I found a road block. You know the ones, the orange and white saw-horses that are put up when, say, a road has flooded out. I mean, come on, who really believes those things anyway?

Now, I'm an experienced driver. I know that you don't drive into water. And there was none, so I followed a little dirt access path past the barracade. Oddly enough, another driver did this shortly afterwards.

I drove slowly down the road, looking for evidence of this trailhead, and as I reached the top of a hill, I saw that there was indeed flooding across the bottom. So, I turned around, figuring I'd try again another day and just hit the gym. The car behind me turned around after I did, obviously reaching the same conclusion. However, she did so much more quickly. Which is why the cop who was guarding the flooded road caught her first.

I finished turning around and attempted to drive calmly passed the officer and back out past the barricade. He gave me a gesture of "talk to the hand" which I interpreted to mean "stop."

At which point, he began the rather intense interrogation. The sole purpose of which seemed to be getting me to understand what a complete idiot I was. He examined my Kansas information, and listened to me explain that I was a clueless hiker looking for a trail (thankfully, marked up Google Map was handy). He berated me with some pretty deserving little jabs, and then asked me a rather odd question:

Officer: "Are you a mass murderer?"
Confused me: "No, sir. I'm a high school teacher."

I left with a stern warning, and I doubt the woman pulled over before me (who was waiting in her car during my questioning) got away as cleanly as I did. A tow truck was approaching as I left...

One fiddle ... check

2007-07-14T19:45:00.000-06:00

I am attempting to distill from the masses of people I encounter the true essence of Texan. Although the stereotyped "cowboy" and "Mexican" can be found, I'm pleasantly surprised at the range of characters. It is refreshing to know that my previous definition of "Texan" needs to change. So I am going to try to define and experience these common Texan commonalities, or Texanalities, as I filter them. My goal is to allow you, my precious reader, the dream of becoming a Texan without ever having to give into the stereotypes that you so feared (such as Fat Rattlesnake Rancher).

Aspect 1: Lone Star Beer. It seems to exist solely in 16 oz. tall cans, though it has recently been created as a "lite" beer. It is the favorite of cowboys, blues musicians, punks, psychobillies, and texicans alike. Upon cracking one of these tallboys open, one immediately tastes its peers: Schlitz, Natural Light, and Old Milwaukee. If it weren't for the good blues at the bar while I was consuming this rusty-urine flavored carwash water reject, I would have puked it back into the can. I will never drink it again. Ever. But since I have consumed one, I am closer to being Texan.

Aspect 2: Cowboy Boots. I am going to buy a pair. I haven't worn any since I was six, and I doubt that pair would fit anymore. It seems you don't have to be a cowboy to wear them here. Just willing to commit to wearing jeans. We may wait for winter for this experience. It seems that a true Texas man doesn't mind dehydrating through his undercarriage, but I like to let a cool breeze in from time to time. Cowboy boots around here can be worn with suits, slacks, dresses, kilts, jeans, but not shorts. It is amazing what a variety there are. There will be an entire blog about the shopping trip. Just you wait...

Duck, dodge, parry, thrust...

2007-07-11T20:53:00.000-06:00

One of my favorite books is called Snow Crash, by Neal Stephenson. In this book the main character, Hiro, thinks to himself,

"every man believes that he is tough. And when he believes he isn't tough, he still envisions that if he were to seclude himself in a Tibetan shaolin monastery and train for years, he could become the toughest, most bad-ass man alive." *

It is because of this, as well as a knowledge that someday boys will want to date my daughter, that I want to enroll her in a traditional Kung-Fu school. There, she would learn to kill with her bare hands, balance on bamboo poles, snatch the pebble from my hand, and wield the un-em-ori death touch. What father doesn't want this? Can there be an end to my life more honorable than my daughter driving her tiger strike through my chest to rip out my beating heart, screaming "I WILL marry, father, and your corpse will sit there quietly as I do!!"? I think not...

Dr. Wife, on the other hand, is a closet ballerina. While I am delivering deadly blows to imaginary enemies in the mirror, she is quietly doing pirouettes and plies, delicately balancing on her tip toes. The prettiness of it causes me some trauma, but I understand that all girls are raised to be prancing ballerinas (unless their fathers intervene with instructions regarding the proper usage of meridian pressure points in combat situations).

This has caused within our household the achievement of a compromise. Young Pie has taken her first gymnastics class at the local gymnastics/cheer/dance academy. Complete with leotard. How is this a compromise? The first years of Kung-Fu training involve teaching flexibility, resiliance in falls, balance, coordination, and the ability to follow direction from the Master. So does gymnastics. Dance focuses on basic moves, stretching and strength, balance, and an appreciation for grace and prettiness. So does gymnastics.

It remains to be seen where the Young Wonder will take this. She may choose to compete, to cheer, to dance, to ballet, to Kung-Fu, or none. But she will be prepared for the time when she must leap to the air and snap a kick into the throat of a young suitor who asked to hold her hand.

*This is quoted poorly from memory. Read the book, as it relates strongly to the influence of language on the development of society and the roots of communication. And it has a guy with a nuke tied to his brain.

Fragment #2

2007-07-05T22:29:00.000-06:00

The process of prepping Miss Neverpoop for the movie began days earlier. I drove past the theatre and pointed it out...

"In there is a great big movie. We are going to go watch it with some other people. It's a movie about a rat who likes to cook. The movie is called Ratatouille."

The next step was talking about volume. Many wise guys told me their kids were afraid of the loud music, explosions, etc.

"This movie is so big that the music and sounds are loud. If they get too loud, you can sit on my lap until it's quiet again."

To which she replied,

"They just need to slow the movie down and calm down to make it a little quieter. Slow it down..."

So when Ratatouille began, she sat in my lap, eyes glued to the screen, tiny fist full of popcorn. Dr. Wife cajoled her onto her lap soon after, but that overwhelmed little smile stayed stuck to the screen the whole time.
Her take,

"I like Ratatouilles. They snuggle me and are nice and don't bite and they like to cook sometimes. I'm going to take a good nap tomorrow so we can go to the big movie again."

Fragment #1

2007-07-03T20:36:00.000-06:00

It's been a blogtastic couple of days, so I will break it into little chunks. Hopefully, I will give these little views their due.

But first, let's paint a picture in your mind of the writer, and what the world around me is. First, rain. More flooding, but we're undamaged. It does leave Miss Neverpoop and I stranded a little more, as it isn't safe to drive these streets during the flash flooding. Then, the lack of poop. It has been more than a week, which means it was time for another dose of suppository glycerine.

Please tell me why my daughter holds in her poop until it hurts her. Please? After giving her the medicine, she looked at me and said, "Daddy, you weren't very careful with my body. You gave me an owie on my poopy hole. You need to be more careful with me." I am an awful, wretched creature.

She still is holding it in, but she and Dr. Wife have drifted off to sleep in a little cuddled mass in bed. Thanks to the glycerine, it will only be a matter of time before she unplugs, and her body mass drops by half.

So I am listening to the rain bursts roll through, watching some mindless TV, drinking bourbon and trying to forget that I hurt my little girl tonight. I know, following doctor's orders and all. But damn, her little face cuddling up to me, wondering why we had to do that...

In the next installment, I will tell you about Sammy's first movie at a theatre last week, and her opinion of Ratatouille.

Serious Parenting News

2007-06-30T20:53:00.001-06:00

If your little ankle-biter loves Veggie Booty, you need to read this after throwing it away.
No joke.
Now.
We are lucky, with no problems, but it is giving some kids a serious case of Salmonella. That is a whole level of poop problems that I want nothing to do with.

Prime again

2007-06-29T21:38:00.000-06:00

I turned 31 today. Last year I spent the birthday soaking my feet in a wading pool on the porch while drinking cheap beer out of the cooler (softball leftovers). This year, I took my daughter to the gymnastics and dance academy for open gym, spent the afternoon trying not to clean the house, and playing play-doh fun factory. Another daddy birthday. Where are the strippers? The debauchery and hilarity? Well, none of that. Just a little fattening food.

The day did have a very bright side to it. I finally got to meet the family foretold to me by Mr. and Mrs. No-Hair oh so long ago. We had dinner with The Crazy Mexicans. Who, despite the nickname, were not crazy. They just have a two year old. That qualifies anyone as slightly insane, though they were as genuine and down to earth as you could ever ask for. I feel more at home tonight than I have felt since coming to Texas. I feel adopted by some great people.

My wife fell asleep while putting my daughter to bed. This is probably a 70% of the time occurrence. I suppose that means I get to dive into the book she got me for my birthday, The Gates of the Alamo. Not a bad ending for the day, though I will admit to having my goals set a little... differently... ;)

More Tales from Target...

2007-06-26T19:04:00.000-06:00

After a ridiculous search through a poorly organized warehouse store (yes, I asked for help 3 times), Miss Neverpoop and I had this conversation:

daughter: "Are you angry?"
me: "No, I'm just frustrated with the store."
daughter: "Can I see your angry face?"
me: *grumpy face*
daugher: "I can make an angry face, too."
daughter: *much tinier grumpy face*
me: "That's pretty good."
daughter: "Mine's better. It helps me see in the dark..."

I believe her powers are beginning to manifest. It's early, but best not anger her...

Why?

2007-06-25T20:24:00.000-06:00

A conversation on the way home from Target:

daughter: "Are those clouds moving?"
me: "yep"
daughter: "Why?"
me: "The wind is pushing them."
daughter: "I can't see them moving."
me: "They're very big, so they move slowly from our view."
daughter: "Are those clouds moving?"
me: "yep"
daughter: "Why?"
me: "The wind is pushing them."
daughter: "Is the wind pushing them?"
me: "yep"
daughter: "Why?"
me: "Above the northern half of Texas right now is a low pressure system. This is an area where the air isn't pushing hard. All of the high pressure, moisture-filled air from the gulf is pressing in on it and spinning past us in a generally counterclockwise motion. That's why we have all of these storms popping up over us."
daughter: "Do monkeys poop?"
me: "yep"
daughter: "Do elephants poop?"
me: "yep"
daughter: "Do flamingos poop?"
me: "yep"
daughter: "Do gorillas poop?"
me: "yep"
daughter: "Do hippopopotomuses poop?"
me: "yep"
daughter: "I want to color one."
me: "okay. We printed one out for you at home to color."
daughter: "Do monkeys poop?"
me: "yep"
daughter: "Don't talk, daddy. It's supposed to be no talking."

It's pronounced yawn-ee...

2007-06-22T19:24:00.000-06:00

Alright, so I am kicking butt and taking names at the gym now. But I need a good soundtrack to work out to.
This is your mission: I need upbeat, driving music to get me moving. And you will build the playlist. It can be from any genre, lyrics are optional, but I probably won't include showtunes.
Comment with the songs I should buy (steal) and include! Go!

It's only wafer thin...

2007-06-20T07:31:00.000-06:00

I received some bad news yesterday when attending my new gym orientation session. It appears I am obese. According to the dude with the calipers who pinched me four times on my upper body, I am just over the line into obese.
He then promptly asked me how the hell a whale got so far inland, and whether or not I feared harpoonists. Or, he said something about how my BMI indicates that I really am just slightly above normal. But I heard that as, "don't feel bad, fatty fat fatterton. Someday we'll learn how to dig holes big enough to hide your body from sight and the general public won't have to live in fear of your blubber any more."

Here's how my brain handled it...

Cognitive side: suck it up. You know you're not obese, but you are smart enough to know you need to join a gym and get in shape.
Emotional side: that huwt my widdle feewings.
Evil side: listen you scrawny little track-champ. I learned how to snap your neck with a punch to the head when you were still wondering what color your pubic hair would be. Give me one more reason to show you that intense rage trumps muscle right now.

So, I combined all of them and went through a tour of the weight machines with him. He was convinced, and I agree, that free weights will help me build muscle faster. But I am going to ignore soon-to-be-punched-boy and trust my physical therapists.
Now, if you'll excuse me, Dora and Diego only provide Daddy one hour of shower, blog, and news time in the morning. I suppose she could watch more TV, but I wouldn't want her to get so fat that she can't help her father shuffle his mouth-breathing gargantuan body through the buffet line.

One for Lush...

2007-06-17T20:37:00.000-06:00

On Thursday, I found a blues jam to head for. It was pretty hip. It took place on a large stage set up for big shows. There wasn't much of a crowd, but I got to play with a full horn section, which is a damn rare treat. It was even cooler when I found out that the saxaphone player was a guy named Bobby Rey, a Texas saxaphone legend whose claim to fame was playing with the Hollywood Argyles in 1960 when they recorded Alley-oop. I know this will impress no one. Except Ben.

A little spacing could help...

2007-06-14T18:22:00.001-06:00

It is always important to proof your work...

Kill it kill it!

2007-06-14T09:15:00.001-06:00

I am trying to help a friend in Lawrence, and needed to use the good ol' intertubes. Here is my setup (warning, geekspeak follows. Real words found after geekspeak.):

Cable Modem (decent enough, supplied by giant cable conglomerate that didn't want to use mine).
New Wireless Router (less than 3 months old, 802.11 g/b broadcast so the older lappy can use it).
Desktop in bedroom (using a wireless connection, because there's no cable in the master bedroom, wtf).
Laptop in dining room (about 6 meters from the wireless router).

The computer in the bedroom has no trouble browsing the interwebs, and is connecting with excellent signal strength. However, it cannot access the router using its address and a browser. Curious.

The laptop cannot do a damn thing. No IP address can be obtained, though signal strength is excellent.

After the proper hip gyrations, troubleshooting, chicken sacrifices, go-spurs-go chanting, and restarting, no success. At this point, I decided to go for the repair method that is recommended by every tech person on the planet. Unplug the router, wait 10.234 seconds, then plug it back in. Restart the lappy and try again. It works.

Here is why I am pissed off. I KNOW NOTHING!!! I DON'T KNOW WHAT CAUSED THE PROBLEM, OR HOW IT WAS CURED!!! To me, this method of repair is like going to the doctor, and having her stop your heart, slap on the paddles, and rid you of the flu by reincarnation. It's the Dr. House method of IT work.

Who is the bitch who designed this "feature" into wireless routers? Why do they all do this? Show me his face and I will shake it off his head.

Do you want to know the right way to fix a computer? Ask Dr. Wife. The laptop had a problem: the power supply jack had broken free of the motherboard, to the point where no amount of wiggling would allow it to take a charge, rendering it ultimately useless. Her solution was to dismantle it, find the broken part, order a replacement, remove the old piece and its solder, solder on the new piece, and put it all back together. That's how you fix a computer. You blindly rip out its guts, trust your instincts, and use molten metal to rebuild it better, faster, stronger. We have the technology...

Y'all gots one a'dem blawgs?

2007-06-08T12:34:00.000-06:00

After a brief but refreshing stop in South Bend (pre-Mexico trip warmup), we have arrived in San Antonio. The apartment, although sizable, is now filled with hastily packed boxes, and we are wading through them, room by room, trying to find such sundries as bowls, underwear, toddler paraphenalia, and screwdrivers. I found the scotch last night, and thankfully a liquor store (not in a box).

I had forgotten about apartment living, so we will start this off with initial impressions. It's a nice enough place; clean, well-manicured, gated. It has the usual quirks, such as broken items painted over rather than repaired (paint doesn't hold shelves in place, by the way). We hear running and thumping from neighbors. Even in the duplex we have lived in we didn't get that. It's tough for me to tell if Miss Neverpoop is awake and jumping or if it is the neighbors. But there are two things we have that have made the hasty move managable: a two car garage (read: box room) and a swimming pool.

Ah, the swimming pool. The ultimate in toddler bribery devices. She will do most anything (except poop) to swim in the pool (hence swim diaper). She loves the thing. It is clean, the kids who are there are all supervised. And Sammy is happy.

So what's next?

Goal 1: make the home livable and de-cluttered.
Goal 2: find a public library and a park to hook Sammy up with some form of non-daddy climbing entertainment.
Goal 3: find a good preschool full of minions to do Sammy's bidding.
Goal 4: get daddy a job.

When the ol'blue truck o'fun arrives, we will begin exploring the world. Speaking of exploring, have you ever been forced to watch an episode of Dora the Explorer repeatedly? If so, watch this now! Do it! Don't question it! Just do it!

Mae Culpa

2007-05-29T21:22:00.000-06:00

Since my other post is a bit serious, I decided I'd try a something more conversational to round out the night. So, meme it shall be, thanks to The Bookpusher. 8 random tidbits about me.

There lives a man named Derek, who hates me so much he would gladly kill me, and I don't know why.
I bought a harmonica last week. I do not yet play the harmonica.
I don't like to rewatch movies or reread books.
I was born with pyloricstenosis. My stomach wasn't connected to my intestines properly.
I like to travel because of the complete anonymity of being a face in the airport.
I met my wife in a chemistry class designed to help us all get to know each other. She immediately went back to her roommate and told her that she would never even consider dating me. I immediately started dating the student advisor who ran the little group.
I have been on the cover of the newspaper in Lawrence twice, and didn't know it either time until after the fact. Once was yesterday, so I am told.
I don't really like animals. Not at all. No hatred or malice, just a complete dislike.

Consider yourselves memetagged.

With a drink

2007-05-29T19:40:00.000-06:00

I'm having troubles gripping the idea of my imminent move south. I have made a list of chores to do, easily beyond my means, and am merely biding my time until the move occurs.

Then what?

This is really the part of this that is giving me the most trouble. At some point, I will be in Texas. Here are my top contenders:

Go back to school to study business.
Go back to school and get a masters in something so that I can teach at a community college.
Get some IT training and an IT job (exactly what, I don't know).
Find some mindless job, maybe in a coffee shop serving cookies and cappuccino.
Sit in the fetal position and worry about this damn house not selling and watching our few months of two paychecks whither away into oblivion.

It is weird for me to be so directionless. It will also mark the first time in 25 years I am outside of an academic setting. It has been easy to just follow it along. Stepping out has me weirded out.

Mostly, I just feel adrift. I am not a provider, a homeowner, a leader, a teacher, a band mate, or any of the other titles that have comforted me over the years. I feel like the title of dad is the only one left for me. And although it's a good job, and one that I want to do better than any other, it leaves me lonely for Me. I'm not improving anymore, and I lack the drive to decide how to go about it.

I'm growing a mental beer gut, I think.

Race til ya drop...

2007-05-25T20:00:00.000-06:00

I just finished my last day as a teacher. I have been working non-stop trying to get done, and now it's done. I am so worn out I can't even really think about it yet. Thankfully, I was spared most of the sappy goodbye stuff because we were all in such a rush to get our rooms emptied out for remodeling.

I'll write more when I think more. Now, time to write a new chapter.

And I would do anything for love...

2007-05-21T19:33:00.000-06:00

I thought I knew what I was getting into with this fatherhood gig. I expected the sleepless nights. I anticipated losing the roles of man, husband, individual, in favor of the bigger title of Daddy. But I never anticipated having to lubricate a little girl's anus so that she could drop a turd.

Before you call SRS, hear me out. She hadn't crapped in two weeks. I have been giving her laxatives for the last five days, hoping for a less invasive solution. I have upped the fruit quantity through the roof, and she eats a cup of shredded wheat on the way to school every morning.

But today, despite the best efforts of a reassuring and loving Daddy, it had to be done. She didn't eat all day, and refused to play in favor of sitting on the floor trying to shove the poo back up into her body by sheer force of toddler will. So at the advice of the local nurse practitioner (read: saint), I bought a small bulb of glycerin suppository complete with narrow tube.

She trusted me, the deed was done, and after a few moments of futile angry struggle in which our tiny-fisted soldier knew the gates were opened, the beast was released.

I will spare those of you with weak stomachs, or the ability to do math well enough to know that no 27 pound child should have their weight cut in half in a few traumatic moments. Suffice it to say she still put up a valiant struggle.

She sleeps now, our soldier against defecation. Her belly newly filled with apologetic ice-cream with sprinkles. She lost this round, but I promise she is happier for it.