Tuesday, March 09, 2004
a simple twist of fate
I started this blog last week because, well, like I basically outlined in my first posting. . .
Oops, I'm sorry, my head just about exploded. A brief sample of a Sammy Hagar song ["sample of a Sammy Hagar song"?] just popped in there. Yes, yes, yes, you aging surf-punk, there is still only one way to rock, and to me it still is all just mental masturbation.
"Wouldn't it be really cool," I thought, "to get all liquored up and have somewhere to record all of my witty-oh-so-witty thoughts and comments about American culture, pop and otherwise."
"Yes, yes, yes! I can interject just as much thoughtful commentary on the American political scene as George Will does on that Sunday morning talk show." I told myself, out loud, because, yes, like all brilliant and gifted people, I talk to myself. Although I might answer in different voices, I still know I'm the only one in here.
"Yeah, that would be totally BITCHIN'!" I told myself. And "Hell yes, that would KICK ASS!"
Getting back to the point, this still may turn into that. I do have a fondness for the drink and a tendency to ramble on.
And while The Wife has a nearly infinite level of patience for these characteristics of mine, it is not, by any means, TOTALLY infinite patience. That's okay. We share many, if not most, of the same characteristics and tendencies. That's why she's perfect. She also has a fondness for the drink and a tendency to ramble on.
So I thought, "Well, I'll start a blog. Woo dee fucking hoo! Less time spent rambling on means more time for getting it on!"
Very clever Mr. Bond, but not so fast. My plan was perfect.
Until professional and personal worlds collided. Along came The Boy. He profoundly changed our world. And the clock is ticking.
The Boy had no one in the world to advocate on his behalf, no one to love him; which is tragic because he is beautiful and amazing in his own very special medically involved lumpy-headed way. He's a ward of the state. So The Wife and I, being people who have a profound, if not pathological, devotion to "special children", stepped forward to take on that responsibility.
Well, you may recall recent highly publicized incidents in Texas and Florida (it's always Texas and Florida, and I'm sure it's just a coincidence that the Bush family has strong ties to both states, but that's a topic for another day) where children ended up missing, injured or dead because the government agencies whose job it is to protect those children screwed up. Yes? Good. Well, in part due to that, they no longer just hand out children to people. It is a very lengthy, detailed, and intense process. The Wife and I are adopting The Boy. We started the process in September. We were going to be finished in possibly April but most likely May. The process was rolling slowly but steadily along.
Ms. von Munchausen changed all that. She almost killed The Boy. He apparently almost died in the ER. He spent two days in the hospital. And this same State Child Protection Agency that has done everything up to and including asking us to bend over and cough, metaphorically speaking, to prove our worthiness to receive The Boy sent him back to the crazy woman's so-called Home for Children with Significant Medical Needs.
Fuck.
We have to get him out of there and we have to get him out of there fast.
Back in the 80's, during this whole "feed the world children starving in Africa send your money and your cans of beans now and you can see Phil Collins play in two different bands on two different continents in the same day thanks to the miracle of the Concorde" frenzy, I had a very liberal aging hippie sociology professor. Yes, I know. . . yada. . . yada. . . yada. . . a very liberal aging hippie sociology professor? at THE university? How shocking.
He cited some probably made up USA Todayish statistic and told the class that every other second somewhere on this planet a child dies. I got this image of the Old Testament Grumpy Old Man In The Clouds God sitting up in Heaven beside a giant grandfather clock holding a sniper rifle.
And ol' God, well. . . he's just a sittin' up there in Heaven, next to the clock, in his boxer shorts, drinkin' Icehouse tallboys and chain-smoking Marlboro reds. Like some country redneck in a wife-beater t-shirt whose ideal Saturday afternoon is spent sitting in a lawn chair in front of the trailer picking off squirrels.
TICK. . . BLAM. . . TICK. . . BLAM. . .
The clock just went TICK.
There's The Boy.
|
Oops, I'm sorry, my head just about exploded. A brief sample of a Sammy Hagar song ["sample of a Sammy Hagar song"?] just popped in there. Yes, yes, yes, you aging surf-punk, there is still only one way to rock, and to me it still is all just mental masturbation.
"Wouldn't it be really cool," I thought, "to get all liquored up and have somewhere to record all of my witty-oh-so-witty thoughts and comments about American culture, pop and otherwise."
"Yes, yes, yes! I can interject just as much thoughtful commentary on the American political scene as George Will does on that Sunday morning talk show." I told myself, out loud, because, yes, like all brilliant and gifted people, I talk to myself. Although I might answer in different voices, I still know I'm the only one in here.
"Yeah, that would be totally BITCHIN'!" I told myself. And "Hell yes, that would KICK ASS!"
Getting back to the point, this still may turn into that. I do have a fondness for the drink and a tendency to ramble on.
And while The Wife has a nearly infinite level of patience for these characteristics of mine, it is not, by any means, TOTALLY infinite patience. That's okay. We share many, if not most, of the same characteristics and tendencies. That's why she's perfect. She also has a fondness for the drink and a tendency to ramble on.
So I thought, "Well, I'll start a blog. Woo dee fucking hoo! Less time spent rambling on means more time for getting it on!"
Very clever Mr. Bond, but not so fast. My plan was perfect.
Until professional and personal worlds collided. Along came The Boy. He profoundly changed our world. And the clock is ticking.
The Boy had no one in the world to advocate on his behalf, no one to love him; which is tragic because he is beautiful and amazing in his own very special medically involved lumpy-headed way. He's a ward of the state. So The Wife and I, being people who have a profound, if not pathological, devotion to "special children", stepped forward to take on that responsibility.
Well, you may recall recent highly publicized incidents in Texas and Florida (it's always Texas and Florida, and I'm sure it's just a coincidence that the Bush family has strong ties to both states, but that's a topic for another day) where children ended up missing, injured or dead because the government agencies whose job it is to protect those children screwed up. Yes? Good. Well, in part due to that, they no longer just hand out children to people. It is a very lengthy, detailed, and intense process. The Wife and I are adopting The Boy. We started the process in September. We were going to be finished in possibly April but most likely May. The process was rolling slowly but steadily along.
Ms. von Munchausen changed all that. She almost killed The Boy. He apparently almost died in the ER. He spent two days in the hospital. And this same State Child Protection Agency that has done everything up to and including asking us to bend over and cough, metaphorically speaking, to prove our worthiness to receive The Boy sent him back to the crazy woman's so-called Home for Children with Significant Medical Needs.
Fuck.
We have to get him out of there and we have to get him out of there fast.
Back in the 80's, during this whole "feed the world children starving in Africa send your money and your cans of beans now and you can see Phil Collins play in two different bands on two different continents in the same day thanks to the miracle of the Concorde" frenzy, I had a very liberal aging hippie sociology professor. Yes, I know. . . yada. . . yada. . . yada. . . a very liberal aging hippie sociology professor? at THE university? How shocking.
He cited some probably made up USA Todayish statistic and told the class that every other second somewhere on this planet a child dies. I got this image of the Old Testament Grumpy Old Man In The Clouds God sitting up in Heaven beside a giant grandfather clock holding a sniper rifle.
And ol' God, well. . . he's just a sittin' up there in Heaven, next to the clock, in his boxer shorts, drinkin' Icehouse tallboys and chain-smoking Marlboro reds. Like some country redneck in a wife-beater t-shirt whose ideal Saturday afternoon is spent sitting in a lawn chair in front of the trailer picking off squirrels.
TICK. . . BLAM. . . TICK. . . BLAM. . .
The clock just went TICK.
There's The Boy.
|
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