Cheeky's Hideaway

Happy Father's Day, Dad!

I wrote this for the boys over at Dadcentric, and am republishing it here because I can and you can't stop me.  Check out the rest of their memories there, then take some time to call your father and wish him the best.  Chances are that Brut (by Fabergé) you bought him when you were 7 is still in the medicine cabinet, and he'd appreciate the call a little more.... 

I don't think my dad knew how to deal with me for the first 15 years of my life.  He came from hearty German stock, grew up on a farm and quietly bore the weight of the world on his shoulders without a grumble.  I was much more like my mom, overly dramatic and expressive.  My whole family was a chaotic swirl of noise and idiocy, and he seemed to always hover on the periphery, dependably mowing the lawn or moving the sprinklers and only occasionally stepping in to resolve a dispute, generally with the threat of a good spanking.  As such he took on sort of a remote and mythical image in my life, like a golem or a tiki, and his stoic demeanor was his trademark.

On the day I left home, I stood in our driveway, all my worldly possessions crammed into the back of a U-Haul latched onto an unfortunate Mazda 626.  I was about to drive from Spokane to Minneapolis to take a new job and begin a new life on my own.  I stood on the threshold of an exciting new experience and faced the house I grew up in without much thought to what I was leaving behind.  My family stood around me, offering all sorts of advice and good wishes and pleas to call at every rest stop along the way.  As I worked my way through the goodbyes I came to my dad, who had always patiently supported me as I dreamed of this day.  And for the first time in my life I saw him crying.

It hit me like a sledgehammer as this man, who had always been the inscrutable rock of my existence, bore in his face and manner all the love, the pride, and accumulated joy and grief of our relationship.  His voice broke as he reached our his hand and said, "Good luck, son.  I'm very proud of you, and I love you."  Although it wasn't the first time he'd said it, it was the first time I understood what it meant to him, the staggering depth of love buried beneath his calm exterior.  The love a father bears for his first-born son.

My eyes were wet for three hundred miles that day.  I haven't been the same since.  Thanks, Dad.

8 AM

I am sooooo juiced for tomorrow morning.

After two insufferable years with the crappiest, most aggravating, poorly designed, useless piece of garbage phone in the history of telecommunications, I'm getting an iPhone.

I've been drooling over them for a year now, but Verizon's absurd contract terms and termination fee has kept me from pulling the trigger.  Meanwhile all the cool people are googling themselves as they walk down the street, or twittering about how the dork next to them (i.e. me) is carrying some lame-ass phone that doesn't even play movies.  In my line of work if you don't have an iPhone you might as well be carrying a beeper.

The line at the AT&T store down the block has already formed, and the Apple Store has had a line since last Saturday.  I can only think of one thing that would get me to camp out for a week on a urine-soaked sidewalk, and this ain't it.  But come 8 AM you'd better believe I'll be scratching at the window of one of those stores.  I will not be denied.

And finally, my life will be complete.

It's On, But Not 'Til After Blues Clues

(Cross-posted on DadCentric, 'cause it's just that funny to me)

Yo Daddy So Old When I Asked For His ID He Gave Me a Rock

I creaked and snapped my way out of bed this morning to find myself yet another year older.  Not that I ever bounded out of bed or anything, but the significance of the day made me notice the strain in the joints a little more than normal.

I'm a prime number again.   I'm Cool Hand Luke's prisoner number.  I'm rubidium.   I'm the amount of weeks Thriller was #1 on the pop charts.  And then there's Dante's girlfriend (NSFW)....

You're as young as you feel, right?  By that standard I'm still in my late 20's, largely because I was just as out of shape and irresponsible then as I am now.  Hell, if Cheeky keeps demanding I launch her into the air like a rocket I may end up in better shape than I was then.

We're keepin' it pretty low-key, I think, since I don't like making a big fuss about birthdays (he says, as he posts this information on the internet for public consumption).  There's nothing I want that isn't expensive, impractical, or an unnecessary exercise in personal vanity.  And until Congress gets off its ass and declares my birthday a national holiday (call your congressman!) I'd prefer to celebrate by kicking back and enjoying the day in peace rather than being serenaded by Benihana waiters with "Happy Birthday" in Japanese.  Yo, tanjoubi omedetou!

They say that growing old is like climbing a mountain; you get more tired and short of breath, but your view of the world improves.  Here's to another year of spectacular views.

BEHOLD EXCALIBUR!!!!

Plasma.  50 inches.  1080p.

The real reason I'm not blogging much.

Even America's Got Talent looks good in high def.

Happy Father's Day To Me

I'm still not comfortable with the concept of me being a father.  I don't mean "caring for and raising a child"...I'm actually OK with that.  It's the concept of "father" as in "Father's Day" that's foreign to me. 

I get stuff for my dad on Father's Day.  He's part of a fraternity of hard working chaps with pipes in their mouths and a firm but kind lesson to share with Wally and the Beav.  What the hell am I doing lined-up with them?

People asked, "What are you doing for Father's Day?" and I never had a response.  It just seemed like any other day to me, except that I had to frantically scramble for a card and gift for my dad (again).  I'd probably do what I always do:  chase Cheeky, watch bad TV, herd dysfunctional goats, and concoct excuses for why I wasn't doing something more productive.  My dad lives where Father's Day was invented; I live where chop suey was invented.  Again, the application of the title seems ill-fitting.

So when Oodgie asked me a few weeks back what I wanted for Father's Day, I told her I didn't need anything.  After all, it's just another day in the life.  But she pressed me on it, so I went for the brass ring:  The only thing I wanted was Guitar Hero II. 

This was a long-shot since this gift neatly encapsulates everything Oodgie hates in the universe:

1. video games
2. loud, awesome, rocking music
3. me ignoring her for long periods of time

So why not?  I figured I'd have no chance of getting it, and Oodgie would be off the hook getting me anything else.

But far be it for my wife to deny me anything I truly want.  And so it is with a plastic guitar, generously decorated with stickers by Cheeky, that I officially accept the mantle of "father."  I've got me a fine woman.

Party at my place, guys.  Alice Cooper, Guns & Roses and The Stooges will be your musical guests.  Oodgie will likely be somewhere else. Thanks, baby!

I Need a Life

Good For What Ales Ya

I'm blessed with pretty good health, and I almost never get sick.  As strong as my genes are, however, they are no match for a twelve-hour bender, and without proper planning I can still end up in fetal position for hours the morning after I experiment with a mixture of Patron and PBR. 

Medical science has been kind enough to explain the causes of hangovers, but it's up to us to deal with the treatment.  And how often are we in a condition or mood to do that?  Fortunately for you I've had plenty of practice, and I've decided to impart to you some wisdom I've learned over the years to help you combat alcohol's insidious sibling.

Water - You know when you're at a party, it's 1 AM, you've had a bottle and a half of wine, and you say, "I'd better have a glass of water so I feel better in the morning."  That glass is like the advance force that goes into battle and suffers the heaviest losses.  Without reinforcements that poor glass is just a casualty of war.  Water is essential, but you'd better fill the largest container possible when you get home (bucket, watering pot, tub) and drain that bad boy.  You've got to commit if it's going to save you. 

Vitamin B-12 - This is a placebo.  A huge freakin' lie.  They say B-6 is supposed to help, too.  Don't believe them.  When was the last time any vitamin not shaped like a Flintstone did you any good?

Hair of the Dog - This may have worked in college, but nowadays just the smell of liquor the morning after has me training to be a super-model.  If you still think this is a good idea, you'd better be either pledging Delta Tau Chi or working the twelve steps.

Bitters & Club Soda - This is my secret weapon.  I had one of the worst hangovers of my life the night after drinking at The Union at U of W the day before my friend's wedding reception, and I learned this trick from a bartender who spotted me trying to keep an omelet down the next morning.  A few ounces of club soda (preferably in a rocks glass) with some bitters shaken in has pulled my stomach from the brink of gastrointestinal suicide on dozens of occasions.  A splash of Sprite or 7-Up makes it go down easier.  I HIGHLY recommend this solution, and await your personal thanks the next time you try it.

Pedialyte - I have to confess I haven't tried this, but a buddy of mine (who, full disclosure, works for Abbott Labs) swears by it.  Anything specifically designed "to prevent dehydration due to diarrhea or vomiting" sounds logical to me.  I'm guessing that if any community has ready access to this stuff it's my readers, so if anyone has a chance to try this out let me know!

Actually, I may have a chance to try these this weekend, 'cause we're taking a much-needed vacation this weekend.  (Cue Michael McDonald)  We'll be strolling the lazy streets of Key West with margaritas at our lips and the promise of sleeping as late as we want for three days in our hearts. 

We're packing the Pedialyte. 

If you don't hear from us in a week don't send help.

"The Project"

It used to be that the second quention which needed to be answered whenever I moved was "where will all my CDs go?" 

I had hundreds and hundreds of them, lovingly arranged in alphabetical order (except for blues, jazz, and soundtracks, separated by genre) and neatly displayed on wooden shelves specifically built for the purpose. 

I loved the tactile sensation as I ran my fingers of the jewel cases, looking for the disk that would fit my mood, from Grant Green to Poison.  I could immediately identify the disk by the color on it's spine and location on the shelf from across the room.  I would pour over liner notes and album art with the same enthusiasm I'd expend on the "Week in Review" or the X-Files (before the whole Cancer Man subplot got out of control, of course).  I'd buy the album, then I'd buy the remastered version of the same album, THEN I'd buy the expanded version of the remastered album.  On a pie chart of my monthly expenses, it would be the big blue slice wedged between "rent" and "food", and indistinguishable in size from either of those.

Times change, though.  The demand for apartment space grew while the cost of digital storage shrunk, and by happy coincidence I discovered the magic of portable music.  I can carry a month's worth of music with me wherever I go (and I do) and eventually the shelves of music gave way to giant folders which gathered dust under an armoire.  I embraced peer-to-peer file-sharing and enjoyed the financial windfall.

But what about all those CD's....

Enter "The Project"

Phase 1 of the project began in 2000, when I got my first little MP3 player--a portable doohickie that could hold up to 25 songs, with no skipping!  That was when I took all my favorite work-out songs and made them digital, and swapped them out whenever I wanted a change.

Phase 2 of the project began in 2002, when I got an iPod.  Not only did I have a reason to burn a LOT of my music, but I discovered a major obsessive-compulsive disorder:  the need for accurate tagging.  I spent hours looking up track numbers and correcting genres.  I broke greatest hits albums up so that I'd have the original album and release years listed.  And the album art...oh, the album art...had to be exactly right, even though I couldn't even see it on my iPod.  It was during phase 2 that Oodgie initially questioned her decision to marry me.

Phase 3 of the project began in 2004, when I got a large external hard drive.  So much space...there was no reason why I shouldn't fill it with ALL my music, right?  Even the bluegrass albums!  Who cares if it will never make it on my iPod!  Phase 3 was basically a repeat of Phase 2, just with less popular music.

Phase 4 of the project began in January, when I suddenly decided that all that music wasn't a high enough quality, and I decided to start over completely and burn them all again at a higher bit-rate. 

I bring them to work and burn them while building PowerPoints.  I tag them during commercials.  I search for the original Billy Idol album art while Cheeky smears strawberries into her hair.  I waste time looking up the year The Specials recorded "Ghost Town," because I know it wasn't 1992 (it was 1981), no matter what iTunes says.  I ignore my friends, my family, my blog, and my health.

All these phases have been contiguous: I've been doing this for 7 years now.  And I'm still not done.

It's amazing to me that I can spend so much time and effort on something this massive--and ultimately unnecessary--yet can't finish a New Yorker article or take out the recycling until the 2-liter bottles are spilling into the hallway.  I'll put an hour and a half into the Rod Stewart or Eric Clapton box sets, but I won't put 10 minutes into finding a good closing for a blog.  (as you'll soon see)

What happens when I finish?  Will I suddenly have hours and hours of spare time to devote to some new business opportunity or a novel?  Or devote the energy to enhancing family life?

My guess?  Phase 5.

Anyone else got an obsession worth talking about? **

*  the answer to the first question was always, "just give me one and put the rest in the fridge so they don't get cold."

** see, that's a lame ending...a cheap ploy for comments.  Told ya.

Quickly Press Up, Down, Up, Down, Left, Right, Left, Right, Up, Down, Start to Unlock Total Frustration

One of my many vices--a list that includes microbrews, komodo dragon eggs, and wearing Kiss makeup to work--is video games.  It's a vice that isn't so popular with the other residents of the house, one of whom wants me to "relate to your family" or "listen when I'm talking to you" while the other thinks the TV is just a communication device to Orson Elmo.  But as I've said before, I love my games, and as scintillating as folding laundry or reruns of Seinfeld may be I'd still rather have a controller in my hand, dishing out some pain to genetically mutated zombies.

Thanks to the IRS, who was kind enough to sit on a large stash of my cash for the better part of last year, we've decided that it's OK to invest a little money in our own happiness.  Oodgie, bless her, knew that this meant that if I didn't upgrade from my Xbox--which was already two years old--I'd whine like a two year old who'd gone three minutes without candy.  Enter the Xbox 360.

I hooked the bad boy up this weekend, and popped in the game which one friend described to me as "like crack, but more addictive."  It was completely awesome.  But it did expose one fatal flaw in my plans.

I'm not very good at video games.

What's hard to explain to Oodgie, after coming to bed at 4 AM with sore thumbs and a bad attitude, is that I spent half that time trying to do the same thing over and over again, but failing miserably the first 30 times.  I just can't let puzzles lie, and damn it if I'm going to let some alien invaders enchanted sorcerer Lego jedi pinhead programmer get the better of me.  And like many things in life that confound and annoy me, I express my frustration verbally.  Loudly.  Angrily.  And generally with great profanity.

If you're curious (and I'm sure you are) I have found a video replica (below, NSFW) of my gaming experience online, so scarily identical to mine that it could only be an illegally captured recording of me.  If you have the patience, I encourage you to sit through the duration, because only then can you truly capture the suffering, the tenacity, and the futility of my efforts.