Ursa Delicious

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...

Remiss

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.

Indoor Idiocy

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.

Tune a fish

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

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

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

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

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

Or even better:

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

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

Nap Fu

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Great Pumpkin...

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

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



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


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


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


The design team began work on the carving this afternoon.


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


The results lit nicely as the sun set...


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

Father Daddy, I have questions...

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

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

Daughter: "When are we going to die?"

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

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

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

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

The Boneyard Education

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

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

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

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





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

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

Excelsior!

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

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

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

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



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

Weak Skillz

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

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

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

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

Strange geek

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Someone else's treasure?

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

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

But really, all that I could grasp was:

HE WAS LICKING THE DAMN TRASH CAN.

Now you're older still...

On the way to preschool today...

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

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

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

Rolling along

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

• Hills


• Spiderwebs


• Bees


• Dust bunnies


• New food


• Hair


• Doctors


• Medicine


• Band Aids


• Removing Band Aids


• Loud sneezes


• Lint


• Speed Bumps


• Fire


• Pickies (hangnails)


• Toilets flushing


• Going fast


• Monsters


• Moths

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

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

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

Sage tortilla

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

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

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

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

or

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

and

"Just humor me and bring along a jacket."

because

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

which has been proven by

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

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

I hate that burrito.

And I rubbed my allergic eyes.

I RUBBED MY GODDAMN EYE!

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

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

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

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

Compliance required

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

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

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

The power compels her to color?

A conversation with the daughter:

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

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

Well Dig My Grave!

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

Minds, hearts, and minnow buckets

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Antischmacterial

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."