Nothing pisses me off more than finding out that some jerk upset one of my kids, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
I know that in the long run, the best thing I can do is offer love, understanding and support, but parents out there probably know what I’m talking about; that feeling of helplessness sucks, and makes me stabby.
I played poker last night at Commerce with a one-armed Chinese man, a drug dealer, and Shane Nickerson.
His fingernails were stained black, the same color as his black Los
Angeles Dodgers cap. His huge adam’s apple pushed out against two or
three days worth of stubble. His blue eyes were bloodshot and pinned,
and when he walked up to the table, he bounced his head around, pealed
a one hundred dollar bill off a thick gangster roll from his pocket,
and said, "Yeah-heah-heah-ha-ha-hah-heaaah!" He was one of the worst
players I’ve ever seen, and that wad of bills came out of his pocket
for several rebuys while I was there.
While it’s very convenient to play online, one of the major benefits of
playing live poker is seeing characters like Suckout Guy and One Armed
Man. Shane and I also saw a guy in a floor-length oilskin duster who
had a Texas Rangers star to accompany the feather on his fedora, as
well as a gaggle of outrageously hot girls in too-tight cowboy shirts.
The guy in the 8 seat at our table says he took the SAT with me at
Granada Hills High about sixteen years ago, and at one point stacked up
over $500 in front of him by making boat-over-boat.
I‘m writing this last night, which is actually right now, but is also last night. Hooray for TypePad’s "publish this later" thingy!
Still with me?
Okay. I have to stay up another 90 minutes or so while my punkin pies cook. I’m taking them to my brother’s house for dinner tomorrow. Why did I just put them in the oven at 10:15 PM? I’m glad you asked. Because I didn’t realize that I had about a pinch of ground cinnamon in the spice rack. As this is much less than the required two teaspoons, I drove myself to the market, so I could spend thirty-two fucking dollars (american) on four different stupid spices. It was really funny when the checkout lady saw my spices on the belt and said, "Don’t even look at the price. Just swipe your card and get back home before you realize how bad you just got screwed." Apparently, I wasn’t the only stupid-husband-in-charge-of-pies who had been in there tonight. When I got home, I turned on the oven to pre-heat, and began the process of mixing my thirty-two fucking dollars (american) of spices together. I reached for the required 2 1/2 cups of sugar . . . and discovered that we were entirely out of sugar.
I walked into our bedroom, where Anne was already tucked in and watching TV.
"We’re out of sugar," I said, as if telling her this would get her to release some of the vast stores of sugar she’d been hording in a secret root cellar that I’d never seen in the seven years we’ve lived in our house. This was a repeat of the conversation we’d had twenty minutes earlier, when I walked in and said, "We’re out of cinnamon, ginger, and ground cloves."
"Remember when I called you from the store this morning, and asked you to double check, and make sure you had everything you needed to make pies?"
"Uh-huh."
"And remember how you said, ‘uh-huh,’ and kept watching Battlestar Galactica?"
"Uh-huh."
"Yeah."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Do you need anything from the store?" I said.
"Believe it or not, since the last time you asked me twenty minutes ago, nothing new has come up." She said.
"Okay. I’ll be right back." I got the hell out of there, hoping that I could somehow convince her that it was all a dream tomorrow. And by tomorrow, I mean today, but really tomorrow.
I drove to a different market this time, and picked up one pound of sugar. The store was swarming with panicked idiot husbands like myself. The atmosphere was similar to the card aisle in the twenty-four hour drug store around midnight on February 13th.
But the important thing is, I have punkin pies in the oven, now, and I’ll have to stay awake for another two hours while they do their thing. So instead of playing poker with Shane and Joanne, I’m writing a little bit, then I’m going to get back to reading Blink, which is a fascinating book that I highly recommend to everyone.
Here are a few random thoughts before I get offline:
Following up on my last post, where the discussion is currently all about music (which makes me really sad, because it entirely misses the point of that story): if you are bored to death with the average radio option out there, and if you find yourself longing for an awesome radio station that plays really great music in a format that completely does not suck, you should really be listening to Egg Radio.
"Before you decide that everyone knows something (or no one does), take a second to realize that you’re wrong." –Seth Godin.
Carly lists her top ten cheesy movies, including this turkey (har. har. har.):
8. Anaconda
The true star of this movie is yet to be determined, but it’s a tie
between Jon Voight’s facial expressions and the rubber snakes that
terrorize the crew. Of course, Ice Cube calling one of them a bitch is
high on the list.
Carly’s number one on the list has got heat.
I took my cat, Biko, to the vet earlier this week. Biko is Sketch’s brother, and is the runt of their litter. He’s the only kitty left, and he’s the one we thought we’d lose first, for sure. The vet said that he was in perfect health, had even gained a little weight since his last visit, and that all his bloodwoork is normal. He will probably live to be one of those very old cats who is over twenty when he dies. The very next day, Anne found out from her eye doctor that she is incredibly allergic to Biko, and he’s giving her some sort of allergic conjunctivitis. She told the doctor that there’s no way we’re getting rid of him, and he gave her a prescription that costs eight hundred gazillion dollars a week. It’s funny and a little sad that she’s allergic to him, because they totally love each other — Biko sleeps on her side of the bed most of the day, and he snuggles up around her side at night. She said, "I love him as much as he loves me, so I’ll just deal."
Back in the very early days of The Internets, when it was a big deal to telnet into your friends’ machine at school or ftp issues of Phrack to each other, my friends and I would collect and pass around really weird and obscure mix tapes. One of my favorites had Buddy Rich freaking out on the tour bus, a bunch of prank calls to Red (the inspiration for Moe on The Simpsons), tons of pre-CD Jerky Boys, and several clips of Casey Kasem freaking out about moving the time of his show, and a long-distance dedication. I can’t believe how hard it was to find some of those Casey clips, but here are two of them: "It’s ponderous man. It’s fuckin’ ponderous." and "The Dead Dog Tape." If anyone reading this has access to other outtakes like these, and you’re willing to share them, please let me know. Update: These links seem to be down, probably because the link got WWdN’d. I tried to find contact info to apologize to the hosting site’s webmaster, but came up empty. If someone has these files and would like to host them, let me know and I’ll change the links.
Last night (tonight) Nolan spent close to two hours reading this book that one of his teachers gave to him, and only put it down when he was too tired to keep reading. He told me, "This is way better than TV." When I went into his room to tell him goodnight, he’d fallen asleep, listening to Audio from Blueman Group.
Okay, it looks like the pies are just about done, which means that I am, too. Happy Thanksgiving to those of you who celebrate this holiday. I hope you get to spend it with people you love.
I had to use Anne’s car to drive the kids to school this morning, and when I turned it on, her XM radio was tuned to the 80s station.
Ryan hopped into the car, and though I was seriously rocking out to NuShooz, grabbed the radio and changed it.
"What do you think you’re doing?" I said.
"Changing the radio station." Translation: You are so lame. I rule because I am sixteen.
"Well, when you’re driving in your car, you can change the radio all you want. But when I’m driving, if you’d like to change the radio, please ask first." Translation: I may be lame, but I’m still your parent.
I backed out of the driveway.
Ryan sighed and rolled his eyes. "May. I. Change. The. Station?" Translation: You are so lame. Now I will use the words you requested, but I will deliver them as sarcastically as possible. I rule because I am sixteen.
"No," I said. "You may not." I took a deep breath, "Baby! Ah-ah-ah- can’t wait! Muh-nah-nah-nah-nah-bop-de-bop Muh-nah-bup-bop-be-bop!" Translation: I can be just as annoying to you as you are to me. Age and treachery will always win over youth and vigor. I rule because I am thirty-three.
From the backseat, Nolan said, "Wil, this is really horrible . . . radio. You will note I did not call it ‘music.’" Translation: I’m not going to join in the lameness this morning. Rather, I will make a joke to diffuse the tension. I rule because . . . I just do.
"I know," I said. "But now that I have the power of horrible 80s pop music, there is nothing that can stop me."
Ryan and Nolan both said, "What?" Translation: What?
Before I could dazzle them with yet another brilliant non sequitur, the song ended, and the opening strains of Mr. Roboto filled the car.
I stole a sideways glance at Ryan, and caught him stealing a sideways glance at me.
"Is this Mister Roboto?" He said. Translation: Uh-oh. I love this song, and I know you’ve heard me listening to it in my bedroom. How am I going to maintain my carefully-crafted facade of indifference to everything?
"Yep," I said. "You’re wondering who I am-machine or mannequin! With parts made in Japan, I am the modren man!"
"Did he just say ‘modren’?" Nolan said. Translation: What the hell does modren mean? Can I say hell in my thoughts? I guess I can, since nobody can hear me. Hell hell hell. Hell damn hell. Damn damn crap. Crap damn —
"Inded he did," I said.
"What is ‘modren’?" He said.
"It’s Dennis DeYoung’s concept album version of modern," I said.
"Does this have something to do with mullets?
"You know it does," I began.
"Because the mullet was the official harcut of rock and roll in the eighties," Ryan said. "I remember." Translation: I was paying attention to you that one time. But you’re still lame. Nothing personal.
I put on my best Dennis DeYoung voice and nudged the volume knob just a bit closer to eleven. "I’ve got a secret I’ve been hiding under my skin! My heart is human, my blood is boiling, my brain I.B.M!"
I glanced at Ryan again. His right leg was bouncing along with the music, and his head was bopping just a little bit. Translation: Must . . . maintain . . . carefully . . . crafted . . . cool . . . but . . . losing . . . battle . . . against . . . the . . . rock . . .
I pulled into a long line of cars and waited to make a left.
"Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto, domo…domo," I looked in the mirror at Nolan, who was struggling to suppress a smile.
"Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto, domo…domo," I looked at Ryan, and pointedly turned up the volume again.
"Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto, domo…domo," I pulled the middle and ring fingers of my right hand into my palm, and folded my thumb over them. The light changed, and we inched toward the intersection. I subtly rocked the goat back and forth, just at the wrist.
At the top of my lungs, I belted out, "Thank you very much-oh, Mr. Roboto, for doing the jobs that nobody wants to. And thank you very much-oh, Mr. Roboto, for helping me escape just when I needed to!" Ryan shook his head, and began to smile.
"Thank you-thank you, thank you! I want to thank you, please, thank you!" I sang, a bit of Shatner creeping into my Dennis DeYoung.
Ryan laughed. Translation: Okay, you’re still lame, and I’m still so cool because I’m sixteen, but we’ve got a long history together, and now that I realize you’re not buying into my bullshit — yeah, I said bullshit. What are you going to do about it? — I’m going to give it up and enjoy this. Because I am sixteen, not only do I rule, but I can completely change my attitude in a nanosecond.
Traffic grew heavier as we got closer to the school. I turned the radio down to a reasonable volume. Translation: I don’t need to embarrass you in front of your peers . . . this time.
"The time has come at last to throw away this mask, so everyone can see my true identity…" I sang.
Ryan joined me: "I’m Kilroy! Kilroy! Kilroy! Kilroy!" Translation: See? I may be totally cool because I’m sixteen, but I’m not totally lame, either. Remember, if is you who must learn how to deal with me now, because my brain is all messed up. I’m not trying to be a jerk. Honest. I can’t help it sometimes.
"Who is Kilroy?" Nolan said.
"I have no idea," I said, as I pulled to the curb and they opened the doors. "But you can be sure he wore a mullet."
"I love you guys," I said. "Have a great day." Translation: I love you guys. Have a great day.
"Okay," they said, "we will." Translation: We love you, too. Even though you’re totally lame.
I pulled away from the curb, as Mötley Crüe’s Home Sweet Home began to play.
I sang, "You know I’m a dreamer, but my heart’s of gold . . ." No translation is necessary.
It’s amazing the things you can learn from the Wikipedia.
During a bit of research just now, I ended up at The Mullet. The list of well-known people who have worn The Mullet over their lifetimes is quite impressive. Here is an incomplete and randomly-ordered sample:
I’m Wil, your guide to the world of facts. (With apologies to Futurama.)
Ah, one more bit of praise for WikiPedia: A few months ago, I noticed that there was an error in my filmography there. I posted about it in my Slashdot journal, and the error was corrected within ten minutes. Contrast that with my entry at IMDB, which contains numerous errors. I’ve repeatedly contatcted IMDB to get the errors corrected, most recently over a month ago. To date, the IMDB has never responded to my requests, either via e-mail, or by editing the content.
