Optimus Prime Takes Las Vegas.

Many of you saw the Facebook posts, a few commented and liked them and a handful of you asked what the deal was with posting pictures of Optimus Prime from various and often random spots in Las Vegas. So now I will write about the story of Optimus Prime:

Our son Gabe has liked Transformers since he saw his first episode of Transformers: Rescue Bots on Netflix. One day, while walking the toy aisles of the local MegaMart, Gabe happened on these tiny Transformer action figures. I don’t remember which ones we bought first but over time we ended up collecting Heatwave (a firetruck), Chase (a police car), Bumblebee and Optimus Prime. Over the next few months Gabe would ask to bring any combination of those four on trips with us. Gabe loved his Transformers and they have been his travel companions on many excursions, and they are probably in the top 5 of his favorite toys. What started to become apparent was that they were more than just toys to him. They protected him and our family to the point that he went through a few weeks where he insisted that the “boys” watched over all of us sleeping.
A couple of weeks ago, Bec was very ill with a sinus infection, unable to talk and without a voice, we pretty much made her stay in bed. Gabe had Heatwave in is hand, and in the sweetest fashion, he climbed over to his Mama and said, “Here Mama, take Heatwave, he’ll help you feel better.” Hello heartstrings, lets yank on you a bit. Needless to say, a tear was shed by Mama and Daddy. Its what nearly every parent wants to see in their child; a kindness and sensitivity that brings hope that your child is that sweet and generous kid that grows up to be a gentle and happy man (tearing up again as I write). Mama gladly accepted and found herself on the path to recovery just in time for our trip to Vegas. (I hope Bec writes something about her journey, because this Vegas trip was huge for her in her newfound life as an amazing portrait photographer)
The night before we were set to head to Vegas, Bec was talking to Gabe about being gone for a few days and trying to help him understand what we would be doing and how long we would be gone for. Sometimes I think these conversations are really for the sake of us, the parents. Gabe seemed hardly phased by the idea of us being gone for a few days; he was thrilled that he would get to spend uninterrupted days with his “Mom” (his grandmother, Sue) and Coco (their Havanese). I can’t speak for other parents, but this first trip away from our son was so difficult, We’ve never been more than fifty miles away, so there always was that comfort of just knowing we were less than an hour away if anything went wrong. We are so fortunate to have a sitter like “Mom” because Gabe loves her so and they have wonderful times together, and Gabe looks forward to seeing her every time, but when you hand over the most precious person in your life and you say “please, don’t let anything hurt him, don’t let him change while we’re gone, and make sure we come back to the same beautiful boy we’re leaving” you are putting the highest level of trust in someone. That is not easy. So you have that conversation with your three year old, but its mostly for you. During the conversation, Bec asked if she could take Optimus Prime and Bumblebee with us to watch over us on the trip. Gabe said Bumblebee had to stay but it was okay for us to take Optimus.
The morning of the trip, we decided that Optimus would document our trip and we would have a way to share our trip with Gabe. One of his boys would be with his Mama and Daddy and he could share in the trip as well. It wasn’t until we were standing in line at the check in counter at the airport that we truly felt how hard this was going to be to leave Gabe behind, but we decided that Optimus would keep him close to us while we were apart. And so the Optimus journey took place. I hope that you followed it, or maybe just saw a couple along the way. Each time we took them, we felt our son was right there with us, and in many ways he was. Mom would show him the pics as we posted them and then in our evening FacetTime chat we would talk about OPtimus’ adventures. So this is the story of how Optimus Prime became the subject of our photo story. It may be a little goofy, but so is this beautiful mighty family of mine. Whatever we do, it’s quite frequently done with passion and love and laughter. I hope that I can always look in my son’s eyes and let him see how much I love him, but at the very least I want him to know he is never far from my thoughts, even in the Sin City. I love you, my beautiful son.

Sensor Chips and Salsa

I’ve tried, I really have. It’s partly your fault. You encouraged it with your laughter. At the very least you acknowledged its presence and reacted in some way. I’m speaking of that nasty little tendency to say the most absurd thing at the most absurd time. Whether it be making that most untimely, unsavory joke that makes people a tad bit uncomfortable or saying something hilariously funny while you have the misfortune of being smack dab in the middle of consuming fluids, I do it! I’m the one who makes people laugh, chuckle, giggle snort or spit take. I’m trying to stop. I made a committed effort to seek therapy. I mean a half-hearted attempt at standup. Okay, fine… a weak attempt at an on the air joke contest. It didn’t work. I don’t tell jokes incredibly well, I don’t write “material”. I improvise, I riff. If I were a famous comedian I would be Robin Williams, but I don’t have nearly the fortitude to sustain that level of insanity/genius/ history of substance abuse. Instead I must lay this heavy burden on you my friends, relatives, neighbors, co-workers, the random person that just asked how to get to Carnegie Hall (practice baby practice), etc. You are being asked to tolerate my absurdity, try desperately not to laugh too hard at my jokes, or at least limit it to a slight chuckle that you mask with a cough. Without you, I don’t know if I can finally act my age, say the adult things, and not make people shoot Dr. Pepper through their nose. Is it too much to ask for your assistance in my time of need?

Screw it! After a few weeks I’d probably go off on a Linsey Lohan-esque binge, where I wrap my clown car around a candy pole, walk off muttering non-sequiturs, stumble into the local grocery store and start spouting off horrific puns as I head to the fabric care aisle in search of an irony board. See...you either chuckled or groaned and now I am forced to continue!

The Hunt for Drama Llamas and Trolls

On my recent expedition into the Dark Territory of Cyberland, I came across a wise chieftain of the FaceSpace TweetLife clan, who instructed me on the many pitfalls of traveling in CyberSpace Land and took me on safari to examine the many lethal creatures of this enormous, yet instantly accessible, expanse of virtual world. In their natural habitat, these fierce creatures embodythe dangers of “the Interwebs” (as the simpleton tourists have dubbed it). The most destructive forces, such as the Trojan Horse (keen in its chameleon like capabilities), ravage the land in its entirety, but others are quite territorial in nature and occupy only a certain habitats in this land.

Within Cyberland exists a virtual paradise for tourists to come and share in its fruits and joyous landscape; the So Shell Land. Picturesque flora and fauna remind visitors of days gone by, while creatures of every shape and size allow people to see the current affairs of this beautiful land. This land also contains two dark and insidious inhabitants that have been known to terrorize and harass unsuspecting tourists; damaging their property, stealing food and water, and inciting fear and mistrust. On occasion visitors will completely vacate this paradise and altogether refrain from visiting Cyberland. With the dangerous nature of these two beasts in mind, I implored Pacu, our guide, to allow us to track and observe the behavior of the beasts known as Drama Llama and Troll.

At first glance, causus problemus the common drama llama and postus crapicus the Poster’s troll (named after the first victim of the troll) appear to be unrelated species, but upon thorough DNA examination, it has been determined that the drama llama and the troll are rather close evolutionary cousins. The llama predates the troll several millennia and actually migrated across a cyber bridge from the Real World. The llama has lived a rather stout existence in homo sapien society, but has flourished in Cyberland as its ease of access to all visitors has been prodigious. Poster’s troll seemed to have evolved after the llama’s introduction into Cyberland, The chief distinction from the llama and the troll is that the troll has become more adept at camouflaging it’s interactions with visitors often times steadily stalking its prey while making a clear sign of disinterest to it. However, after long observations, this researcher has determined that the common drama llama and Poster’s troll have very similar feeding, reproductive and survival habits and must be handled and controlled in the same way. Through processing of observational data, genetic coding, fecal examinations and allegorical accounts a proper care, management and control protocol has been formulated. Recommended best practices, precautions and policies will be issued in an upcoming article in the Journal of Screwed Up In the Head. I will post it to this site.

A Very Special Day

Three years ago today we were blessed with the most amazing gift, one that has filled each day since with something wonderful, beautiful, heart-wrenching and terrifying. I have loved many things and many people but I have never been this emotionally tied to one thing. A tiny smile, a giggle, a magical phrase can completely change the woes of any day, and a tear, a cough or cry of pain can illicit feelings of sadness. On this day three years ago, I gave my heart to a tiny little boy and he keeps winning it every day.

Happy Birthday Gabriel!

Each day I am more proud of you and each day I fall deeper in love with the little person you are becoming. I see the best of me and your mother in you and try desperately to help you survive the worst of us. I try to remember everything that my parents gave me that made my childhood joyous and special and shelter you from those things that were hurtful and sad. I hope one day, when I am very old and very gray and you have a son of your own that you can say as I often do of my father, “There goes my hero, a man who loved me with all his heart and tried to give me his best every day, No, he’s far from perfect, but he’s loved me as perfect as he could.” Forgive me for the days when I’m not my best, and there will be plenty. Send me your psychiatrist bills, I’m sure I’ll earn them. You’re only three today so none of this makes sense but maybe thirty years from now it will, and I pray with all my heart that we are blessed enough to sit down and reflect with each other on those thirty years. No one knows when we will part but I will desperately try every day that we have together to let you know how much you are loved, cherished and held dear.

Happy Birthday my baby boy, Daddy loves you more than you could possibly know!

Not A Thing In Common

(Warning: This is a fair and balanced political opinion piece. Only read if you are a sane and rational person)

If you believe the news, whether you want to label it conservative or liberal, we have nothing in common and the evil from the other side is coming to get us. You're either a bleeding heart liberal or a right wing conservative. Obama is the devil or Mitt Romney will send us back to the 1950's with his crazy Mormon views. Labels, labels, labels. It's how our politics are spoon fed to us, and I'm absolutely through with it. It's incredibly lazy and shame on us as a nation for accepting it. I'm not deluded enough to believe that we all have the perceived time to research every issue, every candidate and every media source, but please don't regurgitate something that Rush Limbaugh or Al Franken spouts on the air. They're cashing large checks because they move your meter with ridiculous assertions and hyperbole, and by how they manage to stratify us as a nation. We are taught to despise that which does not match our own identity: Judeo Christians vilify Muslims, Republicans disparage Democrats, blacks accuse whites. All to distract us from the great truth: The ties that bind are deeper and stronger than the chasms that seperate.

YOU WANT THE TRUTH?!... YOU CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH!!

We all struggle for the same things. The writers of the Declaration of Independence put it this way: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.” Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. It seems so simple, but its really what we're all after and most of us are struggling in the same way to get there. The vast majority of us either pay rent or a mortgage, have utilities to pay, and then add cars, amenities, food, school. We all struggle with how we're going to support ourselves, our children, our aging parents. We consume, we pay taxes, we work. Most of us would want to pay less in taxes, earn more, have less unemployment, have a safe secure future for ourselves and our families. Yet, we still have nothing in common? Oh wait, I forgot. Your faith, the color of your skin, your sexual orientation. That is what makes us different? Don't we all just want to practice our faith without fear, be treated as equals in our society, allowed to love who we are compelled to love. So if our differences are what is used to divide us, shouldn't our acceptance be that which unites us. If I expect the right to express myself in my own fashion, should I not be the first to defend another's right to the same. In a sense we have forgotten what it means to be a true American: the right to civil dissent and civil discord should be defended by every citizen and on every account, even if they disagree with the point of view of the one they are defending (i.e. I am a Pro-Life supporter and express my opinion vehemently but I must defend the Pro Choice supporters right to express their opinion and even more so I must defend their civil liberty to practice their choice unimpeded). Imagine how much more could be accomplished in our Great Society if we were all committed to reaching a common ground. If the idealogical precepts we held dear, were those of defending the life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness of our fellow citizens and not the promotion of our own individual ideals.
Yes, its a brave new world, and maybe our candidate won or maybe he lost. Maybe that ballot issue or levy that was important to us passed or failed. Either way, remember that we are all Americans and have one President, one Congress, and one Supreme Court. We make change through healthy debate not derisive assaults, through coalitions not demonizations, through partnerships not fractures. Together everyone achieves more, that is what makes us a team. We're passionate because we care, but we're all on the same team.

The Day I Learned To Live

Warning! This is not the normal farcical blog you get from me.

It started like most days do. I was heading out to do a job about an hour away, just cruising along in my van, when everything changed. At first it was a pain in my jaw, then discomfort in my shoulder, then dizziness and I knew something was very wrong. The little article I read on Yahoo the night before said if you were feeling these symptoms, you very likely were in the early stages of a heart attack. In the midst of panic, I pulled to the side of the freeway and dialed 911. Trying to calm myself and not pass out, I waited for the ambulance to arrive, hoping and praying that they would be there in time, begging God not to let my son grow up without his Dad. Then I had to be call enough to call my wife and wake her with the news of something that has always been in the back of her head: her “unhealthy” husband riding in an ambulance to the hospital. I can only imagine the thoughts that crossed her mind.

They took me into the ambulance and hooked me up to the EKG machine, took my blood pressure and my pulse. Good news…no active heart attack…but my BP was really high and my heart rate was above normal. Paramedic said “your call, but what would your wife tell you if she were here.” Off to the hospital we went. Blood draws, urine tests, doctors and nurses asking me questions, until finally the result: “Mr. Pacheco, have you ever been diagnosed with high blood sugar? Your blood sugar was over 500 upon arriving at the ER, and it appears you have Type 2 Diabetes.” I was admitted for observation, a stress test and diabetic treatment.

I would be lying if I said I was surprised. In the back of my mind there’s been this feeling that I was headed for this, but as stupidity seems to have invaded my life, I failed to change before I hit the wall. They say for addicts and abusers you have to hit rock bottom before you can change. Truth be told, I am and have been for a great deal of my life, a food abuser, and this is the rock bottom for food abusers like myself. I ignored doctors, family, and friends, continuing on a destructive path of obesity, food abuse, and overall poor health. Now for my sake, and the sake of the people that rely on me, I must change. I must become a healthier, happier me and in turn provide a solid example for my son and his future sibling(s) to look up to and learn from.

It’s been three weeks since the scare of my life and I am happy to report that I am on the path to wellness. I know that this will be a long journey with potholes and hazards but, gladly, less likely dead ends. One thing that has become clear to me is how poorly I was treating my temple, the one tangible visible gift that we are given. I’ve shed just over ten pounds, and eat things that actually sustain me as they should. I don’t feel starved or deprived and I miss very little of the foods that put me on the path to destruction. When I do feel like eating those destructive things the choice becomes an easy one: life or death.

I’m learning to control my sugar through diet and medication, but I hope that one day in the not too distant future I will be able to control it through diet and exercise (a work in progress). Every day is a learning experience in my life as a diabetic, but every new day brings a sense of hope that I can live a long and full life because I know I have the power to make a difference in my own health. Please don’t pity my condition for I brought this on myself, and I can bring myself back. Today I continue on this path to recovery so that tomorrow I can see what the world has in store. This begins the journey of a diabetic!

An Open Letter to 2010

Dear 2010,
Your reign has come to an end, and like most of your predecessors, you leave in your wake some powerful memories. I know some people aren’t your biggest fans, yet some people view you as the best that’s ever been. I try really hard not to apply such hyperbole to you and your kind because you are always so full of contradictions. In truth 2010, you brought something that no other year has bestowed on me (well, years 1973 through 1991 had no shot at doing it, and 1992 through 1996 were on the serious doubt list) and for that you rank as my best so far. Thank you for the gift of our son, Gabriel Alexander Tomas Pacheco, for he has been a blessing, and has made you my banner year. Other years in the future may bring other blessings that will parallel you, but you my friend are the pioneer year. You also brought us what no other year has been able to bring; a World Series Champion San Francisco Giants. You have also given me a wealth of memories of friends and family that will sustain me for years to come. Not all of what you delivered to my doorstep has been good, but I understand that everything you bring, good or bad, builds the house of memories that I reside in.
As you go on your great journey into past, know that you hold a special place in my heart, and I sincerely hope that those people I hold dear will look upon you with the same kind eyes. And for those that don’t, may the end of your reign bring them comfort and hope, and may your newest sibling bring them greater happiness than you could. I have not the slightest idea what 2011 will hold for my mighty little family, but I hope she aspires to be as wonderful as you.

Goodbye 2010, and thanks for the memories!

Daddy's Peak

I believe my son to be the Mount Vesuvius of baby poop. His pants clearly are the Roman city of Pompeii. I will try desperately not to be too graphic. Many of you parents may have a dootie volcano of your own, but to those of you who either have no children or whose children were born with a “elimination system” of moderate proportion, you haven’t a clue as to the eruptions some of us have experienced. I’m not referring to stink. That is a completely different beast that I think no diaper-changing victim ever avoids. Even those who are convinced their own pooh doesn’t stink are quite convinced that their offspring were passed over in that genetic trait. Once the tiny humans dabble in non-milk like foods its “watch out olfactory nerve, war has been declared on our nasal passages”, and stink arrives on your door step, prepared for a long stay.
No, I speak of eruptions of such velocity and volume that they obliterate the “no leak” seals of the most advanced diaper technology and turn your baby’s wardrobe into Rorschach blots of brown. Fortune blesses you if the mini Mauna Loa was someplace other than in your arms or to the laundry goes your favorite golf shirt, the one you shot your best round ever in. Worse yet is during the diaper change. We’ve all heard the cute little stories of baby boy getting his diaper changed and suddenly springs a leak while mommy or daddy tries to stem the flow by covering him with another diaper. I am here to tell you that there is more than one orifice down there and only one word comes to mind when thinking of what that orifice delivers; splatter.
There must be some sort of scientific miracle that is present in my son’s digestive tract that will one day revolutionize closet storage. I believe it is something akin to the Space Bag (as seen on TV). Food enters the digestive tract at a certain volume. It is compressed like in a vacuum storage bag, but unlike adult elimination systems, upon exit it returns to an equal or greater volume than its original state, and is accompanied by an accumulation of compressed air. This forces the doo-doo (parental technical term) out the tiny orifice creating thrust and the aforementioned splatter. As eruption continues, the individual battling the “magma” flow quickly becomes aware that even Pierce Brosnan couldn’t abate this natural disaster. So, perhaps FEMA on the speed dial was a good idea, and just wait for the disaster cleanup crew to arrive.
It could’ve been worse. You could’ve been wearing your favorite toga, enjoying some “adult” entertainment, when your entire city was decimated. For now, it’s just your clothes, the carpet and your ego, which I believe covers the majority of what’s always at stake in child rearing anyway.
Ahh, life at the base of an active volcano.

Foot in Mouth

My son has mastered something that took me years to perfect and quite frankly I’m a little peeved about it. Quite simply he put a foot in my mouth. It was his foot and he enjoyed it immensely, giggling and laughing the entire time (I usually insert my own and it receives a completely different reaction). At that very moment I realized that I was solidly and firmly entrenched as his dad. I had become the person I had promised myself I wouldn’t become; the parent who got giddy over the smallest milestones, and I dragged my wife into it. We both spent the better part of five minutes opening our mouths wide as our son joyfully directed his tiny four month old feet into our respective pie holes, all the while marveling over how smart and coordinated our young brood was. If someone had a video camera, we would have been the toast of YouTube for candid videos of IDIOTS! Yet, I feel no shame nor need to apologize for our amazement and wonder at this tiniest of milestones; a simple act that let us know our son was thinking, contemplating, planning even the method in which he would transform us into blathering imbeciles. I do believe it is in moments like these that tiny humans realize the collective power they can assert over the more mature members of the species. With a giggle, big smile, or coo we become incapacitated to experience any other feelings but awe and pride. We want to shout from the rooftops “My baby boy picked his nose…I mean checkout those motor skills!”
It’s true; Mother Nature inserted a parental instinct in all mammals to ensure protection and development of their offspring. Not present in fish, insects or reptiles, nurturing and parenting are mammalian concepts, and contribute to the success of more complex species. Unless, of course, we’re talking about the hairless apes affectionately known as man. Human beings challenge the concept of evolutionary apex when it involves our interaction with our offspring, particularly in the developmental stages between birth and preschool. Sometimes I wonder how our children evolve past potty training. Most of you are parents, and therefore are incapable of having an unbiased viewpoint on this, but how many of you have seen and heard how we speak to our infants. I believe chimpanzees have more complex language skills than human parents do when in front of a three month old. I used to laugh hysterically at morons making “baby talk” with their mini-people until I found myself making the following statement: “Who’s the cutie booty baby with the peepee weepy diapy? You are, yes you are! Now diddy dirty daddy’s gonna make your dirty diapy go buhbye!”
At least now I can be certain of one thing; my son will be one evolutionary rung higher than his dear old dad. If he can remember to keep putting his feet in other people’s mouths and not his own, he may even amount to something more special. Yesh you will, Gaby the Baby, yesh you will!

Five Lessons for my Son

These are things I learned from my parents, my wife, my family, my friends and a ton of acquaintances. I hope my son will learn them sooner than I did.

1. Have firm ideas and flexible beliefs.
Don’t be afraid to challenge conventional thought, but be prepared to have your ideas challenged as well. Rigid beliefs are the downfall of humanity because they exclude new learning and new experiences. If your beliefs are flexible, the world will provide you with daily lessons and you will continuously adapt to its ever changing landscape.

2. Invest in people not objects.
Toys are great, but they will never replace the joy that comes from the people who you share them with. Money will provide things, but it will never buy the love and admiration of your family and peers. Possessions are nothing without people.

3. The relationship you have with yourself dictates how you relate to others.
If you have a positive healthy relationship with yourself, do things that nourish you body and soul, you will attract those who are available for that type of relationship with you. If you treat yourself poorly, fail to love yourself in a positive way, you will treat others poorly and attract those that will abuse you and take advantage of you.

4. The only way to never fail is to never try.
Failure is a life lesson. The most successful people in this world have fallen flat on their face multiple times. What makes them special is that those failures don’t define them but rather inspire them to do better and achieve more. Don’t be afraid to fail. You have people that love you unconditionally, and will always be with you either in body or spirit. Pick yourself up and dust yourself off because success is around the corner.

5. Its never too early, and it’s never too late.
Today is a gift, it’s why they call it the present. Do things as soon as you can, but don’t fret if it does not all get done today. Make the most of the moment, and cherish each opportunity as it comes. Some people spend their life planning for the future and lamenting when the unexpected happens. Others lament everything that has happened and fail to see the opportunities ahead of them. Use the past as a lesson, and look to possibilities of the future, but always live in the now.

Father’s Day

It was minutes after midnight, the beginning of my inaugural Father’s Day, and my son said Happy Father’s Day in a way only a one month old can do: he cooed, smiled, and dropped the diaper mess of all diaper messes. Somehow, I theorized that he was delivering an almost Zen-like commentary on what our relationship would be for years to come. Initially it seemed like what he was saying was “Daddy, we’ll chat, we’ll laugh and then you’ll have to put up with my shit, because you love me.” That seemed a little crass, even for one so young, and even at this age he seems much more pensive than that. I had to seek deeper meaning from my little bundle of joy. Perhaps what he was trying to say was “Daddy, they’ll be days when I make you proud, and days that we’ll laugh, but sometimes I’ll make a big mess.” This seemed a bit more of the level of the males in my family; philosophical, yet playfully mundane. Yet, for the boy who posed as Buddha in his mother’s womb, it lacked the touch of the chubby little Enlightener. It was then that the truth was revealed to me, and my little wonderful cherub set my mind ablaze:
“Dad…Shit happens! And when you feel it coming, chuckle, call your Dad and hope he knows how to clean it up!”
Thanks Dad. For all the messes you kept me from making, and all the messes you helped me clean up because life can be messy and sometimes you just have to chuckle and learn to lean on the people that love you.
HAPPY FATHER’S DAY to all you Dads!!!

Applicrack

If you are a FaceBook user, you may be victim to the most heinous crime of the century and you probably enjoyed it. Somehow, someway, the deft little code monkeys (inside joke that I stole from a great big code monkey) at FaceBook (FB from now on) managed to write something that was once thought to be impossible. The code monkeys (actually not real monkeys, because that would be creepy, but rather cyber geeks chained to their cubicles, fed Doritos once an hour, and given inter-venous Red Bull) have incorporated real, honest-to-goodness crack cocaine into miniature programs called applications (they use the cute “app” abbreviation much like the cyber drug lords at Apple use for their synthetic narcotic, iCrack and the meth-heads at enMotion use a fruit based drug called the Crackberry) These tiny little “programs” are disguised as tiny little programs that have cute little furry animals, or cyber people working on farms or in cafes, or Medieval Vampire Mobsters who do nothing but amass friends and money and beat each other up. These “apps” may seem mundane and simple at first, but the slowly drag you in with promises of fun and friends and ways to grow your little empire of bliss. But much like crack (and porn, ironically), soon you find yourself devoting every waking moment to amassing enough points to “level up” so you can get a new stove, a new type of pet/crop, or a new weapon that decimates all players in the vicinity of Iceland (a FB user recently used this weapon, called ASH HOLE). Finally, your wife walks in on you foaming at the mouth, slapping the veins on your arm, crying in agony, as your FB shows that your “apps” cannot be accessed today because of system maintenance. Those damn code monkeys are hard at work screwing with your high, and its time for you to take back your life and resume playing World of WarCraft until three in the morning.

Join the Club

Why does it seem that parenthood is like a fraternity/sorority of excruciating pain? The phrase misery loves company can be used in this application. Every time my wife and I say we are expecting our first child there is an immediate reaction of joy, “Oh my God, congratulations!” or “You must be so excited!” or “I bet you can’t wait.” Then follows what I call the “tell”, that pause of doom that lets you know this is a parent, and suddenly they are reminded of Dante’s Inferno, the third ring being occupied by parents who are forced to repeat the third trimester, labor, delivery, and the post partum 3 months. Their eyes glaze over, a wince appears on their face, but just before you ask them “What’s wrong?” they quickly recover and give you the “I can only be happy if more people join us” lie of; “You’re going to love it!”
This may be a sophisticated form of hazing, with the intention of making expecting parents terrified of what the next few months will hold. It seems that it succeeds quite regularly, and appears to be a time honored tradition and a method of retrieving some of the dignity that was lost when it happened to them. In sociological terms, this is referred to as a cycle of behavior (violence, abuse, etc.) that is perpetuated by its victims in order to be accepted by their tormentors. This cycle must be broken, and as a man of conscience, I feel it my responsibility to break this chain. No longer will we fear hormones, delivery rooms, crying babies, poopy diapers, and insomnia. No longer will we strike fear into the hearts of already nervous expecting parents just because it was done to us.
HEAR ME NOW! You people looking to procreate will only receive the truth, not exaggerations designed to make you freak out and run away. We will comfort you and ease you of your worries. Besides…if you can survive the first trimester of psychotic hormones, projectile nausea, defacto celibacy, and extremely tender breasts then YOU’RE GOING TO LOVE IT!

Vegas, Baby!! Vegas Baby?!

Your parents probably told you the story while you cringed, asking to be spared of the gory details, the nightmarish thoughts of your parental units getting all “brown chicken, brown cow”! Thinking that telling you would be some proof of how special your creation truly was, not realizing how it created uncomfortable thoughts of how your celibate Puritanical Mom and Dad could get busy and thus void your illusion of being the second Immaculate Conception. You survived it and maybe it, unbeknownst to you, was actually a rite of passage into adulthood: yes, Virginia, Mommy and Daddy perform the horizontal Mambo, they may even talk dirty to each other, and the bottle of “vitamins” on the Daddy’s nightstand, and the “massager” in Mommy’s dresser drawer are for having adult fun.
When I came to realize these things, I in some way promised myself and my future children that I would try to create them in the most mundane fashion that produced the least amount of possible back story. As fate should have it, the first addition to our loving family will one day be tortured with the terribly fabulous way in which they were conceived. I’ll spare you the details (mostly because I certainly remind you more of Tom Arnold than Tom Cruise) but it really all started because we just needed a vacation. Our most favorite place to go has always been Las Vegas, and this time we tried to keep our trip on the DL, a couple’s getaway if you will. We would actually get adult activities in; if you catch my meaning (previous trips prohibited such activity based on poor timing).
Las Vegas is a fabulous city with an exceptional marketing campaign that completely captures the frivolity and carefree attitude you are lead to believe exists. They promote an amnesia based vacation getaway that completely absolves one of any repercussions for the wild and crazy time they may have. They tell you it never happened. They are lying to us! I am here to tell you that on May 17th (or near that date anyway) there will be flesh and bone proof that What Happens in Vegas Doesn’t Stay There! And in about sixteen years that poor proof will hear all about it!

Strange Things Are a Foot

I am convinced that my foot must taste delicious; better than the most luscious strawberries, juicy than prime rib, more divine than the finest chocolate. Why else would I be so compelled to place it in my mouth with such great regularity? I refuse to give specific examples, mostly because you, in all likelihood, know my wife and she probably has divulged some of my most dandy moments. I could claim a complete misunderstanding in many cases, but that would be pointless because “stoopid” really isn’t a language and therefore, by definition, can’t be understood. Most of you know me to be a relatively intelligent and literate individual, but for some reason unbeknownst to me, I am on rare occasions (mostly between the hours of 11pm and 1am), suddenly transformed into Captain Dumbass, the insensitive jerk, foot-cuisine connoisseur.
In desperation, I consulted the Dr. Oz Show (shut up!) for answers. Amazingly Dr. Oz explained that during fetal development, a certain chemical is released into the baby’s blood stream that actually slows the activity of the right brain, which houses much of the emotional sensitivity and communication skills. This chemical is predominantly found in highest quantities in roughly half of developing babies, and continues to dominate that population through their adult life. The chemical? Why TESTOSTERONE of course!! At this point, I would ask that the males in the room quickly run for cover…or assume your traditional position when you receive the “I told you so” moment from your estrogen rich partner. If you are gay men, you may simultaneously point the finger at each other. For our lesbian friends, clearly you have perfect communication skills; you may now leave the room.
So, it is clear that my affinity for my foot is not through any fault of my own. It is clearly my mother and father’s fault and God (non-denominational deity may be substituted here) had a part in it to. Testosterone was given to me, I never knowingly took it, nor was I aware of the effects it was having on me. Aside from the penis, the beard and the amazing amount of muscle, there were no indications that I was benefiting from these. I blame this all on my wi…mmm…warfle…wurble… wow, this foot tastes like strawberry cheesecake!

As Holes go…this one is a Metaphor!!

Like every other unreasonable hormonally challenged guy on this planet, I knew I could fix it. It would of course save us money and what could those over priced technicians do that Mr. Handyman couldn’t. First it was the plumbing auger that was five feet to short. Then it was the drain pipe that was 5 inches too short, followed by the root kill that barely reached the root. I realize now after ten projects in between that I have a common condition that plagues nearly seventy five percent of men (the other twenty five percent of males are “fabulously” gay or filthy rich which means they lack the gene that causes…): Handyman’s ADD. Wives, at this time I invite you to leave the room. Trust me, the last thing your dear husband wants you to read is this admission of a condition that has the following symptoms: hard charging, assertive statements full of excessive testosterone that sound something like “I refuse to pay a bleeping repairman $50 an hour to stand around and tell me that a bleeping screw is loose!!”; multiple trips to the local home improvement store for “the part I know will fix this damn thing,” utilizing terminology such as “thing a ma jig” or “special fitting”; belligerent responses to simple questions such as “when did you plan on finishing that hole?” using quips such as “do you know how to fix it? Didn’t think so!” and “you got a better idea” ; sudden postponement of project to begin another project that suddenly becomes more important “I got to fix that screen door before I can get the drain to work”; and finally the realization that a qualified technician is needed “I could do this but I don’t have the right tools for the job and that tool is just too darn expensive.”
Ladies, if you ignored my warning and still happen to be reading this blog and it sounds amazingly familiar, take two deep breaths and step away from the knife set. He’s only doing what he is genetically compelled to do because in less civilized times, the man was the hunter and therefore was constantly needed in the society. There wasn’t a local grocery and a group wouldn’t outsource their hunting needs. In modern times, however, the only needs a man fulfills involve sex and upkeep. If he’s married, sex is a ritual performed once or twice a month simply to ward off any evil spirits lurking under the covers, which can also be accomplished by using a sanitizing detergent bath. Fortunately for our modern male homo-sapiens, upkeep seems a decent way for a man to remain dutifully needed and not totally replaced by a battery powered substitute. The difficulty lies in keeping enough things in disrepair that the female feels compelled to continue utilizing her husband, but he must be on guard not to let everything go awry for she may elect to replace him or phone a suitable substitute. While this vicious circle of repair is not consciously put into action by males, it does however preserve our place in the society. So when the toilet is on the fritz for several weeks, just remember it’s all societies fault and we husbands need to be needed, too!

Every Day’s My Birthday

It happens to all of us once a year (unless of course you were born on February 29th, then you get one every four, which means you look really old for your age). It’s supposed to be a celebration of one more year of living, but it has always struck as a little odd that we only celebrate in increments of years. Imagine if we could celebrate every day, another day of living. Why is it people who are closest to death are the only ones that finally get that feeling of joy over one more day. If all of us could actually start each morning in celebration, imagine just how much better life would be. Then it dawned on me why we don’t and I fear this may sound a bit cynical, but its big business’ fault. Yes, the conspirators that brought you Enron, the Recession, and a host of other scandals now want you to be grumpy in the morning, irritated during the day and angry at night. Why you ask? Simple, it’s the revenue streams. Let’s start with grumpy mornings. If you leaped out of bed, thrilled to greet the world, rested and excited to meet the challenges of a new day, what wouldn’t you need? Exactly, Caffeine! Think of the billions of dollars we spend on products to get alert and awake, because we have to drag our rear ends out of bed, because we are not genuinely happy about having to get out of bed. Starbucks alone would collapse from early morning happiness. Imagine the horror of “dinks” strolling out their front door, cheerily climbing into their Beemers, cruising past the local Starbucks and cruising into the parking lot at work without the double espresso in the cup holder. Talk about economic collapse, the government would create a stimulant stimulus package for coffee mega-companies.
If caffeine production must be preserved, think of what we would have to do for the pharmaceutical companies. Think about how many of the people you know are on some kind of mood altering substance, whether they are anti-depressants or anti-psychotics. Now I’m not saying that some people don’t need medication but I think the vast majority of us are just bored and frustrated and feel like rats trapped in a maze. It’s amazing how much our beloved technology has not increased our free time but rather trapped us in an inescapable never-ending circle of availability. When do any of us actually hang up, or tune out? When do we disconnect with the rest of the world and connect with the people under our roofs? When do we actually take time to listen to the silence? Take a minute to turn off every piece of communication device you have for one hour. If you don’t actually go crazy from withdrawal, you may actually get to a place called serenity and you might feel the inner peace and tranquility of…hang on, got a call from the pharmacy on the other line…Xanax must be ready…oooh, just got a fantasy football update…I could use a latte espresso bumbalala…

Friends, Romans, Countrymen…Send me your ideas?

A few weeks ago I placed a note on Facebook soliciting blog ideas, and a few of my concerned friends sent in rather creative ideas listed below (the names of been changed to protect the goofy):

Trachel: If snails could run...

Cho: I was also thinking about young kids with cellphones. I saw a 10 yr old kid at 9 this morning talking on a cell. WTF could he possibly have to talk about?

Blainie: ok.. we need your take on one of the biggest debates in history... Jeanie vs. Bewitched

I thank them for their bravery, as I’m sure they were aware they would end up in a blog. As an homage, I shall address their issues (no, just the ones listed above…Jerry Springer can handle the rest!)

CHO:

Young kids with cell phones will prove to be an evolutionary necessity. Millennia from now the human race will no longer have opposable thumbs and their fingers will shrivel to nubs, due to the over usage of video game controllers. By having our children constantly place cell phones to their ears, eventually the equipment, much in the same fashion as the Borg, will become biomechanically integrated into their skull. Thus eliminating the need for key pads as messaging and dialing will be brain activated.

Blainie:

I Dream of Jeannie. Barbara Eden was hotter and wore less clothes. Really? There was a debate?

Trachel:

If snails could run, Nike would slap endorsement stickers on their shells and start an ad campaign: Nike….How fast could you run carrying your house?...Just Do It!!

You too, could make it to my blog!!

Why is 007 singing Abba? And other reasons men hate chick flicks.

My wife loves me. To prove this, she spares me the torture of watching the root of all evil in a masculine world: the chick flick. Typically these films star Reese Witherspoon or Julia Stiles, and involve a sappy adaptation of a rip off of a Shakespearean play. The goal of said movie is to move the audience (predominantly estrogen dominated homo-sapiens or “FABULOUS!” individuals) to tears or uncontrollable giggling. Clearly this is not a safe environment for the typical male, for at some point in time the females in the audience will see the romantic short-comings of any male in the room. Expressed in the following generalities: “Why can’t he be more like Freddie Prinze, Jr?” or “Do you think I could be doing Matt Damon?”

Occasionally I risk certain death, and tolerate one of these time honored bits of cinema in order to spend some quality time with my better half. And so was the case a few days ago when I allotted space in the omniscient DVR (see Give Me TiVo or Give Me Death) to record a movie my wife had shown interest in months ago as it made its theatrical debut. The movie in question was particularly dangerous because it involved two words that are synonymous with death in the male dictionary and when combined are on the level of Armageddon: Broadway and Musical!!

This movie also involved another scary proposition: the seventies disco band ABBA. In one fell swoop, I ventured into the straight man’s Bermuda Triangle of movies, all for the sake of love. I vowed to enjoy this time spent with her and therefore looked to enjoy the film, but it all took a tragic turn for the worse when James Bond, right before my disbelieving eyes, began to sing and dance! He of the cool cars, hot women, dangerous weapons and Judo CHOP (I know, wrong dude)! That’s right, Pierce Brosnan, our beloved James, of the long line of Mr. Bonds, 007 turning in his MI6 rating (and Man-Card) to yodel some Scandinavian disco band tunes for a few bucks. This is an outrage, a disservice to all the hardcore tough guy movies that earned their metal by being manly men. If Pierce now, what’s next? Antonio Banderas singing Andrew Lloyd Weber show tunes? Clint Eastwood starring in a Western Comedy Musical? Or perhaps you’ll steal our favorite X-Men hero and turn him into a singing dancing sweetheart? If this is how the feminine side of the world is going to play, we demand compensation. Give us one of your Broadway Stars for us to turn into a manly man. Send out Nathan Lane this very second!!!

Resurrected Movie Trailer Guy: “They took his family!! They took his fame!! They even took his…Gucci Man Purse!! Now he’s very unhappy!! This Summer Nathan Lane is the Perminator!!

Nathan Lane: I’ll be….FABULOUS!!!

Rock of Old Ages

In two weeks I turn thirty six years old and that doesn’t really bother me, mostly because I keep hearing that thirty is the new twenty. I have no idea what that means exactly, but I think it has something to do with plastic surgery or global warming. Either way, according to “experts” I should be feeling younger even though my cartilage is outgrowing my muscle mass. I am beginning to hope that VH1 and these so called experts would sit down and hash out this “youth movement.”
While experiencing one of those bouts of “growing pains” that hovered somewhere between my knees and ankles, I decided to ease into my recliner…er…relaxation chair and watch some TV when what to my dismay, old people in makeup appeared on the screen. No, I wasn’t watching re-runs of the Golden Girls, or Six Feet Under. I was watching….KISS!!! You remember, Knights In Satan’s Service, the dudes in the Kabuki Faces. Paul Stanley, in his Kiss outfit was bare-chested and, believe it or not, doing some strange air humping maneuver. Kudos to his ability to be incredibly flexible in his eighties, or at least it seems he’s that old since Kiss’ music was big on 8-Track. I believe carbon dating has tracked that back to A.G. Bell’s first recording.
It’s clear that rockers no longer have the decency to die at an early age, or at least fake their own deaths and head to an undisclosed location getting fat and living off of the royalties. Maybe they should take their cues from legendary blues players at the end of their careers. These guys didn’t try to headline tours with names like “Backward in Time Tour” “We’re Still Alive Tour” and “We Spent All Our Money On Drugs, Enormous Mansions, and Cars, and This Has To Pay The Retirement Home Tour.” No, John Lee Hooker made guest appearances at benefit and festival concerts and people were in awe that he could still do what he did. Maybe they should take their cue from the Rolling Stones, who unbeknownst to many rock fans, actually died in a tragic group nicotine/tar overdose in their London, England studios in May of 1968 (Concert Promoter Bill Graham in fear of losing money, had the band resurrected by the Hells Angels in a secret voodoo ritual just in time for the Altamont Speedway Free Festival in 1969). They technically are on a limited 50 year engagement loan from Dark Angel Entertainment (Mick Jagger wrote Sympathy for the Devil as a tribute to the CEO).
Good news from Depends Undergarments: They’ve developed their latest line specifically for aging rockers, with streamlined edges guaranteed not to show through improperly fitting leather pants (sock pocket available for that “enhanced” rocker look).