squidbag

Abby's House

Today is my daughter's fourth birthday.  You can use this blog to read back to when she was born, and posts commemorating her first, second, and third birthdays.  If you so choose.  You will feel compelled to do this, and be unable to resist the cuteness.

We had Abby's party yesterday from noon on, and this was the first year that she was really adamant about what should happen at her party.  Not pushy or nasty, just extremely matter-of-fact.  This would be a Cheesecake and Dancing birthday party, and while it turned out that there was slightly less of either than anyone would have expected, we satisfied her every request.  There was a pink cheesecake (and fun conversations at the bakery as the big guy in black wearing sunglasses ordered his pink cheesecake) and mix disks, seventeen folks were in attendance, and Abby, her friend Olivia, and some other folks got down to Run's House.  There is video, and I'm working on it.  Thanks again to everyone who attended and who enjoyed Abby's menu of hot dogs, nachos, cookies, and chopped fruit and veg.  It was a good time, and my living room is mostly pink.

Today is her birthday actual, and chill by comparison, though we will be having the obligatory Five Guys meal & opening cards and such.  Abby is a big girl now, reading some words and short phrases, playing games and registering definite opinions about her environment and its goings-on.  She and I spend all day together these past five months, and she is my constant helper around the house, assisting with dishes and laundry, pushing the vacuum and dusting.  She's my shadow for most of my time, and I'm looking forward to watching her get more and more Abby with every passing day.

Happiness to the birthday girl.

I Am Stage Left

Last night, I spent the better part of my evening in a concrete hallway while my fingers were jammed in a metal door spending time with half-naked women and a guy in drag.

More properly, Nashville in Harmony paired up with Voices of Kentuckiana to finish off their Spring concert season at the Blair Music School's auditorium on the Vanderbilt campus, and I worked the door, upstage left, allowing the talent to make smooth on-and-offs from the apron when they had to do costume changes and when they had to move part of the chorus off-stage for certain numbers.  

My door was visible from the far corner of the front door, and I had really had no cues given to me, so I watched nearly the whole performance through a small crack in the door with my fingers stuck in behind the door latch.  Whenever people came at me, I opened the door, directed them down the steps and hallway and then let them use the cues I assumed they already knew to go back out.  I judiciously turned my back when the ladies were changing, helping one person with zipper and clips, and helped the guy in drag straighten his boobs.  I shot the breeze with the ASL guy (neither of us believe in hell), and generally had a very good time.  It's a fun place from whence to see a performance, and since my kids were with SuperMer, I got to really concentrate on the music for a change.

I enjoyed myself thoroughly, and we didn't make it back home until almost midnight.

Captain America vs. Sarah Palin

 

From LetsBeFriendsAgain.com, as indicated.  Lots of comic book related foolery.  Several other things at the site made me laugh, too, but none quite so much as this, for obvious reasons.  Console yourselves with the fact that Cap would never hit a woman unless she was either  A) a Terrifying Villain bent on World Domination, B) a Cyborg or Robot, or C) a Nazi.  Or all of the above.  Just citing precedent. 

Zombie Song II

(Inspired by "Goin' Down the Road Feelin' Bad," a traditional song which was introduced to me by my brother-in-law, Brian Guy, and which I thought was a Grateful Dead song, exclusively, until I did the web search to thank somebody.  So, thanks, Brian.  Also thanks to Julie Allen for giving me an excuse to post this after I had forgotten all about it.  And you can any and all of you go look for Zombie Song I.  Be my guest.)

I shuffle down the road, feelin' dead.

I shuffle to the church, feelin' dead.

Wish I weren't a zombie, 

but here we are, now I'm undead,

Shufflin' down through half-life, feelin' dead.

I don't like eatin' skin,

but that's the state of the rot I'm in,

and I don't want to chase you folk,

but that's the job, and I work,

'cause bein' a zombie now's just what I gotta do.

Just what I gotta do.

I prefer burgers to brains,

but despite my culinary pains,

I gotta come after your brain-pan,

and run you down to your last stand,

'cause bein' the un-dead, that's my job these days.

Bein' un-dead, that's my only job.

I shuffle down the road, feelin' dead.

I shuffle to the mall, feelin' dead.

Wish I weren't a zombie, 

but here we are, now I'm undead,

Shufflin' down through half-life, feelin' dead.

When you shoot us through the head, 

we try not to take it hard,

harder at least, than we normally would,

but it's hard to keep at the shuffle, 

when most of humanity's hustle, 

is engaged in turning tail and running away.

They turn that tail and then they run away.

The social life's depressing, and your

organs are melting down,

your eyes get all shiny, 

and you move from town to town,

trying to find a quiet zombie way.

Just trying to find that quiet zombie way.

I shuffle down the road, feelin' dead.

I shuffle to the mall, feelin' dead.

Wish I weren't a zombie, 

but here we are, now I'm undead,

Shufflin' down through half-life, feelin' dead.

Assertions & Froot Loops

(this exchange was between me and my two kids, Max who is 8, and Abby, who is almost 4, while they ate Froot Loops and I made coffee on Thursday morning.  You have to wake up on your toes at my house.)

Max: (coming off a previous statement) ...like Batman, he's got the cave.

Me: (quoting an old prank call) "He lives in a lair.  Wayne Manor."

Max: (to Abby) So he keeps it in his lair.

Abby: Superheroes don't have lairs.  Just bad guys.

Max: Yes they do.

Abby: No they don't.

Me: (gently) Wait - Abby, why can't superheroes or good guys have a lair?  I understand what you mean, I think, but don't you think what some good guys have are lairs?

Abby: Why do good guys need lairs?

Max: What about Perry the Platypus?  That's a lair.

Me: What about Superman?  Does the big frozen Fortress of Solitude count as a lair?

Max: A cave is definitely a lair.

Abby:  Okay, I guess so.  But just Batman and Perry.

Max: And Shrek!  He says it right in the movie, "Ogres have lairs, like an onion."

Me: That was just terrible.  Please get dressed.

A few things, the first major one being Abby's out of nowhere opinion about good guys' living spaces - where does something like that - an understanding of what a 'lair' is coupled with a definite opinion about its applicability - come from?  I hope to hear more of that.  Second, when did my son start in with puns?  That's a pretty good one, too.  I'm so glad that pretending for years to like Jesse and Mitch's puns is now going to come in handy on daily basis.  Apparently sugary breakfast cereals are good for stimulating weird brain activity, yeah?

Enjoy your Friday.  Have some Froot Loops.

Hairventure

I'm in the habit of letting my hair get long and shaggy and hard to deal with - and then even slightly past that point, the point at which others will begin to give me "who's frikkin' Cousin Itt over there" looks - before I get a haircut.  Consistency in personal appearance has never really been one of my strong suits.  (My strongest suit is the one with all the muscles on the outside.)  Except for the black thing, that's pretty consistent, but I'm tired of talking about that.  "It's a black thing, you wouldn't understand," and he chuckles quietly to himself.  The morning after I get a haircut, I always find myself in the shower with too much shampoo in my hand.  I glop it out of the bottle like I still got a mop on my head, and now I have a sudsy surplus and an aversion to waste.  So I shampoo everything else.  Eyebrows, beard, body hair - I have healthy and manageable pubes.  I usually do this after the head hair, then rinse off my Poofro and feel the water drip onto my ears from the really short hair on sides, knowing I won't have to go through another haircut for a while.

Because I hate fucking haircuts.  Hate.  I do.  Essentially, I have to fork over money and time occasionally because I can't see the back of my head with my glasses off, and if I shaved my head, that would take maintenance I'm not really excited about, either.  I'm pretty sure my bald head would be scarred and somewhat bullet-shaped, too.  Haircuts annoy the shit out of me, I only wish they were quicker.  This luxury shampoo / heated oils / scalp massage / bullshit conversation thing (what others refer to as small talk) is not for me - I want Speedy the Barber with clippers and a pair of shears.  It ain't hard: three and half inches on top, number four clipper guard on the sides and back.  Says the guy who can't do it by himself, and so must sit in a chair wearing a dress squinting with his glasses off trusting an odoriferous (everyone is, at that proximity) total stranger to not fuck up my head.  "There's a big tip in it for ya if you can not fuck my head up.  Thanks."

Worst barber experience ever?  The time my mom's haircut lady fucked off to deal with some kind of dying or curling or perming emergency and left me sitting in the chair (wearing the dress) for near an hour while Don McLean's "American Pie" played over and over.  I don't know why, I only know that I hate that fucking song to this day.  Best one?  The one-eyed early-onset Parkinson's guy who gave me a flat top in high school (At the Flat Top Barber Shop off Thompson Lane, natch) who hand went from spin cycle to solid rock the moment the clippers came on.  Completely awesome, even if (as it's been pointed out by Nick Doobs) that haircut did make me look like the bully brother from the Home Alone movies.

So I needed a haircut, having not had one in something like six months.  A couple of weeks ago I decided to go to the Gateway Barber College, because I had never had that experience, the amateur barber experience, and since I hate going anyway, I figured what the hell, yeah?  Keep it interesting.  It certainly wasn't any cheaper, and it definitely wasn't faster, so those don't fly as motivations.  But it was kind of an adventure, and that's usually worth it, yeah?  Yeah.  Abby and I set out with our Google Map (sometimes reliable!) and found it at the end of a crappy strip mall on Broad Street.  It was one of those places that, even with the address in hand, was kind of hard to find.

We went in and were greeted by an older Mary, for lack of any better term.  Gray hair dyed blonde and moussed into wind-tunnel excellence, tuxedo shirt, too much bling, gentle stride.  He sat me down and huddled with the trainees who had been roaming the floor like extras in a zombie movie when I walked in.  After some initial reluctance by the students, Mary found me someone who eventually agreed to cut my hair.  First thing she said to me was "I've never cut men's hair before.  With scissors."  Well sister, belt me in and give me the grand tour - let's do this thing.

Sister was nervous, but Mary walked her through the 1st part, and both of them cut some of my hair.  They had some kind of procedural difference which will become important later.  Mary pissed away off to deal with some other student, and left Sister floundering and unsure of a next step.  Sister snagged Blondie the Instructor walking by, and Blondie pitched in and while badmouthing Mary's procedure, clippered the back of my head, going into great detail about the "line formed by the occipital bone."  During this, Sister got a call that her daughter was sick, and began informing people that she would have to leave and pick her up.  She became anxious and jittery after this, so imagine my relief when Large Colorful Jacket Lady finally arrived.  Without my glasses, I really couldn't tell you much about her, but LCJL took over the whole haircut, finished it up, gave instructions about shaving and brushing, further disagreed with Mary's procedure, and sent me on my way.  The whole thing took about 75 minutes, four people touched my head, Abby made friends with a Korean lady who gave her some kind of spicy candy with a label on it I couldn't read - and I liked my haircut okay.  I guess.  Whatever.  It's shorter, and I don't look like a pinhead.  Good enough.

I think the memory will have to fade before I'd go back, though.

Cold Storage

George Carlin's got a track on Place for My Stuff called (I would imagine) Icebox Man, where he talks about cleaning out his refrigerator.  He points out that saving leftovers gives you two separate good feelings: "When you first put them away, you feel really intelligent- "I'm saving food!" And then, after a month, when hair is growing out of them and you throw them away you feel...really intelligent- "I'm saving my life!" Douglas Adams also addresses, at length, the adversarial relationship many people have with their refrigerators, in Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul, not only would Dirk Gently rather have his fridge carted away by thugs than open and clean it, but his then disposed of appliance spawns a new and terrible God from its depths.  So - well established then: we hate cleaning our fridges.

As some of you know, in addition to my new responsibilities, (or lack thereof, depending on whether or not you're my former employers) I have been feeding our house almost all of their meals since January.  I have also fed guests, dinner and weekend, and have had to learn to cook to do this.  I knew how to make about four things that weren't breakfast five months ago, and now I could prepare a different dish for three meals a day for three weeks or so, I think.  I am compiling a cookbook in a green folder in the kitchen - things that worked, things that didn't, other people's recipes, things I'd like to try - and I keep the counters and dishes and cookbooks in a state that facilitates my relative inexperience in the kitchen.  The one thing I haven't done in about five months though, is really clean out the damn fridge.

Remember, I've been learning.  That means experimentation and leftovers.  It's like Dr. Moreau's fucking lab in there, or one of those museums of terrors, like Ripley's, especially up against the light at the back of the top shelf where the things are slightly frozen, suspended in ice crystals like Captain America, motionless and backlit in clear plastic containers.  It's a telling moment in a man's life when he's standing there betwixt the sink and the trash can calculating whether or not the sheer grossness of the pinkish-grey unidentifiable stench-laden mass of lumpy goo (might have been raw chicken?) is worth simply throwing out the receptacle that's held it for the past few months.  I ended up saving the container.  I decided that it was unfair that it pay for my mistakes.  

Brine spuds long enough and they become glue. Green beans in...something, noodles returning to their original state, tomatoes liquifying, chicken stock in a jar becoming foul, and many unrecognizable items.  If it's in foil, and I don't remember it, it's gone.  I'm brave but I'm not stupid, and simple pragmatism keeps me from wanting to clean my own vomit out of my kitchen.  Which I suppose is the best lesson here - messes just get bigger and badder the longer you put them off and shove them into the back.  I'd hate to have to move again this soon, so I guess I'll step up my fridge cleaning regimen.

Warren Ellis & RED

I tried to get you to read this.  I really did.

Warren Ellis' fantastic three-issue (like two in the chest, one in the head) limited series about a CIA agent yanked from retirement back into a world he had willingly left, illustrated with powerful clean lines by Cully Hamner - it's called RED.  And I really did try to get you to read it.  But it's so simple, and it's only three issues long, and the storyline seems so basic until YOU ACTUALLY READ THE THING, which is why I cajoled you and left it out and repeatedly recommended that you read it.

But you waited for TPB.  And they did that, but they stuck it together with Tokyo Storm Warning, which was alright, but they don't go together.  Not really.  And then they released it again (which, in all fairness, I didn't know about until I started looking for links to put in this entry).

And now, you've waited until they've actually filmed a movie of the thing, starring Bruce Willis, Morgan Freeman, Helen Mirren, John Malkovich, Brian Cox, Mary-Louise Parker, Richard Dreyfuss, Julian McMahon, and Ernest freaking Borgnine.  ERNEST BORGNINE via WARREN ELLIS!  It is as I predicted; in the days before governments collapse and the ginger voodoo priestesses come from their underground sex palaces and lay the fish of plenty before the Earth's people and we live together for 1000 years in a haze of glory  Ernest Borgnine shall speak with the voice of Warren Ellis, and the people shall hear his voice, saying: For fuck's sake, read this before the probably awesome movie comes out!!!

Kidthink

This picture is of Max  and Abby having a decadent lunch of fruit, PB&J, Spaghettios with franks, cheese balls and strawberry yogurt after getting rained on during the first part of Free Comic Book Day.

MAX

Max is a huge fan of mythology, and has recently had kind of a perfect storm of Greek myth, comic books and Bible story inflame his mind in this regard.  Last week, while I was making dinner:

"Why is it that in every religion, one of the Gods - or just God, if they only have one - has to come along and kill people every now and then?  Is it just to make people afraid?  Zeus kills the Titans, and then is pretty bad to humans once he's in charge; the Gods have all these kids in Percy Jackson, and they don't even care about them.  And there's an Indian destruction god, and then Christian God floods the world and then kills people for what seems like no reason.  Gods kind of suck.  I think Galactus is a god to the people in the Marvel Universe, and if I lived there, maybe I would start a church to Galactus.  What I was really thinking though was what if Zeus is still around?  Or Odin and Thor?  Just because no one believes in them anymore, doesn't mean that they're not still there, maybe getting mad at the way people act and thinking about killing them.  Or sending them to Tartarus or Hell or whatever when they die.  Maybe people should just try to follow ALL of the gods since no one really has any idea who's around, or this is all just made up." 

This led to an extended conversation about myth and power, reincarnation, karma, doubt, Job, Sodom & Gomorrah, cultural mores and how they spawn and foster certain religious beliefs, the control of people through religion, and so on.  And all of that was before the recent 2010 Ill-Publicized Flood of Nashville.  I would totally go to Church of Galactus services.

ABBY

Why does my daughter wash her hands before she flushes?  Because somewhere along the way, someone has taught her to run from the toilet while it's flushing (presumably due to airborne fecal matter) and how can she was her hands if she's just run completely out of the restroom?  She will then come back in and flush later.

Why are they called berries?  Because bears eat them.  Duh, BEAR-ees.

Eating animal crackers, some of which are broken coming out of the box: "Daddy, which animal's butt is this?"

Finally, Abby tells the weirdest, most non-sequitor knock knock jokes you will ever hear.  

HER: "Knock, knock."

YOU: "Who's there?"

HER: "A cow in a tree, living there with oranges!" or "It's a friend with bread!" or "BEEP-BEEP! Car!" After this, she laughs uproariously, usually kicking her feet to boot.

Cinco de Mer-O

Today is my friend Meredith's birthday, and for her birthday, she's getting to rip up carpet, throw stuff out, and otherwise repair flood damage to her condo.  Whoo-fucking-hoo.

We went and did some of it yesterday - worms out of the garage, furniture stacked in weird Tetris-style monolithic configurations against the prospect of another rise in the lake that is still her backyard (with a chick in a kayak in it, natch), hauling some stuff out and testing electronics.  The fact that she has to spend her birthday this way sucks, but Mer is a beacon of smiling perseverance, and you should all know that, is what I'm saying.  When the rains came on Saturday, my family of four got stuck in Nashville, with no unflooded interstates available to get back to M'boro.  Mer put us up for the night, and then ran back to the 'Boro with her dog, Max (yes, this creates confusion) for Sunday night and Monday.  Not everyone can spend the better part of four days with me, so props are in order.  She was able to get back in yesterday, so most of the major work (I say, as someone who does not have to put the furniture and pictures back) will be done this evening.

Anyway, whether you know Mer or not, you should be sending her 100 proof birthday goodness.

And happy anniversary of the Battle of Puebla, too.