bring the noyz

In keeping with today's theme of mildly vitriolic public service announcements, I kindly offer another.

It is directed at motorists, at the drivers of all automobiles and particularly those obscenely large behemoths somewhat misnamed as sport utility vehicles.

As you may recall, a couple months back I resumed my habit of bicycling around town three or four days a week as a means of exercise, to strengthen the body and refresh the mind.

My recent experiences have reminded me of lessons learned years ago.

Apparently when somebody is driving in this city, they typically do just that. They drive. That is to say, what they do is just drive, neglecting other tasks typically associated with the act of driving, like looking.

It is quite shocking to me to realize just how many drivers just drive without looking. How so many fail to remember the most basic rule of the road they are first taught as toddlers, "LOOK BOTH WAYS".

So, please drivers and friends of drivers, please pass along the following important public service announcement: "LOOK BOTH WAYS!"

In order to further drive home the point and to hopefully help you to remember this lesson, I am proud to publish here, for the first time, the lyrics to a song I wrote several years ago on this very topic:

Another fucking asshole in a fucking big-ass truck
If God made shit brains well then you'd probably be in luck
Another fucking asshole, some dumb yuppie bastard jerk
Hey put down that cell phone man, you're driving not at work

I'm jumping on my bicycle and cruising all around
Pray some fucking idiot doesn't run me down
I'm jumping on my bicycle and cruising down the street
Pray that you don't send me and my soul to God to keep

Another fucking asshole, just another fucking asshole
Another fucking asshole, just another fucking asshole

Another fucking asshole in a fucking SUV
If God made piss brains if I were you I would not pee
Another fucking asshole, some bleached blonde beamer driving bitch
Please just pay attention please don't make my family rich

I'm jumping on my bicycle and cruising all around
Pray some fucking idiot doesn't run me down
I'm jumping on my bicycle and cruising down the street
Pray that you don't send me and my soul to God to keep

Another fucking asshole, just another fucking asshole
Another fucking asshole, just another fucking asshole

Thank you. That is all.
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In today's snail mail we received a public service announcement from the State Department of Family and Protective Services. We are on their mailing list because of The Boy and the still unresolved nothing has been done to this day drama of his permanent arrival in our home (and a great example of why I have absolutely zero faith in this government agency and their ability to actually protect children).

This is what it said.

So remember my dear reader, and never forget the descriptions and meanings of basic transportation related words: CARS are NOT Babysitters, SPORTS UTILITY VEHICLES are NOT Soccer Moms, BUSES are NOT Teachers. VANS are not Auto Mechanics. POLICE CARS are NOT Donuts.

We live in an idiot state.
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This morning I realized that just like rap superstar and Beyonce banger Jay-Z, I also got 99 problems but a bitch ain't one.
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I'm have little doubt that you and I, my dear reader, share some hazy drunken stoned wacked out of your gourd memories of a wild and wacky rock and roll night.

It has been significantly more than awhile. By my math, at least a decade plus ago.

But a good time is always a good time, and good man will always be a good man.

S.A. Mourns the Passing of Legendary Taco Land Owner

Friends, family, and music fans are mourning the death of a San Antonio icon. Ramiro “Ram” Ayala ran Taco Land, a bar known for helping develop and showcase countless musicians. He was shot to death Thursday night during a robbery.

“It's a sad day in the music business,” explains booking agent Roland Fuentes. “Tacoland was Ram. His attitude. His style.”

Taco Land is known worldwide; legendary for live music and it's unusual owner. If you listen to San Antonio music, you know about the small bar with character on W. Grayson Street just north of downtown. Patrons knew Ayala, 72, as a gruff curmudgeon of a bartender – with a heart of gold. He opened his one of kind bar to everyone from the homeless to rich college kids. Everyone was welcome.

Sometimes even I hate the world I live in.

You'll understand when you go on down to Tacoland.
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With honor and distinction I am pleased to announce the arrival of a dear old friend from my days at The University to the blogosphere.

He is in therapy now. So please be gentle.

He started his blog on the advice on his therapist who recommended it as a means to confront and finally address some old long buried issues.

Please join me, my dear reader, and welcome Colt Barrington with an enthusiastic and noyzy round of applause.

Thank you very much.
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It is with some sadness, my dear reader, that I must report to you the retirement of Cardinal Fang.

He is moving on, presumably to pay more attention to the completion of his novel and "to embark on an emotional, physical, and spiritual rebirth . . . one that has been a long time coming. And, as such, I must cast aside some of my old methods of communication . . . this one, obviously, included."

While I wish him well, I personally urge him to reconsider such drastic action.

He writes:

Besides all of that . . . I’m tired of ranting. It’s quite fucking useless.

It's not fucking useless!

My dear, dear Fang, your humble blog provides nearly endless entertainment for those who know and love you. It's nearly the sum extent of my knowledge of that other game they call football. It provides a means for regular communication about the events in your life for those kept separate by distance and the events of our own daily lives.

He continues:

I don’t really give a toss anymore what our politicians do. All politicians are evil. Every last fucking one of them. . . .

I couldn’t give two tugs of a dead dog’s cock how much lower the great seething mass of citizenry is willing to sink in search of the next crumb of celebrity gossip. Concentrate on your own fucking lives, you pathetic vermin. . . .

Fang, as one of my oldest and dearest of friends, I again plea with you to reconsider! I beseech thee from the bowels of Christ! It is for precisely those reasons you mention that we need you to continue.

I would gladly give a dead dog's cock two tugs, and even consider using my teeth to do so if it will provide incentive for you to continue. The world needs your acerbic ranting, creative cussing, and innovative use of expletives as you describe the antics of the ignorant unwashed masses and the egocentric pig fucking bastards who govern them.

Orwell writes:

"To the future or to the past, to a time when thought is free, when men are different from one another and do not live alone -- to a time when truth exists and what is done cannot be undone: From the age of uniformity, from the age of solitude, from the age of Big Brother, from the age of doublethink -- greetings!"

My friend Fang, although there are many who will argue that it is fading and sadly nearing its bitter end, we still live in an age when men are different from one another and do not live alone. Thought is not as free as it once was, and some thoughts certainly cost more than others, but we have not yet fully slipped into the age of uniformity and solitude.

So long as you, dear Fang, I, and the millions of others like us out there across the realms of physical and virtual space continue to rage against the dying of the light a small glimmer of hope remains for the future.

I do not presume to be so selfish as to ask you to continue for myself. I also am not so foolish to believe that you will continue to write and rant to satisfy the needs of your as caricatured as they are beloved European vanity and British ego.

But for Chis'sakes man, think of the children!

For the love of all that is holy, think of the children, think of the future! Every blog posting is another message in a bottle, you cannot possibly predict whose shore it will someday wash upon.

Our words are our weapons, and yours are frequently daggers piercing Ceasar's side. Please my dear friend, heed my council, and make your mantra the same as one oft intoned by the goat scrotum sucking politicians whom we despise, "For The Children. . . "

It is our only hope.
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Charges Against Teen Upgraded After Dog He Allegedly Raped Dies

"When I got here we were laying on the deck looking at him and he had his pants down and he was doing sexual activity with the dog like a man would do to a woman."

Possible Jeff Foxworthy line? "If you neighbors come home and catch you fucking their dog, you just might be a redneck."
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The Wife and I have just tucked The Boy in bed after making the obligatory calls to The Fathers.

It's Father's Day.

Quite strangely still, at least to me: I am one. Who'da thunk it?

Friday afternoon The Nurse (a.k.a. The Boy's Virtual Aunt) took him away to spend the weekend with her family. This is great for The Boy, as she has three boys of her own very near the same age of The Boy. Her kids love him. They play with him, they yell and scream and jump and climb all over him. They fight over who gets to do things with him. The entertain and amuse him. It's as beautiful as it is perfect. It fills a large gap in the life of The Boy by providing about the only thing we cannot provide on our own: opportunities for The Boy to interact with his peers without disabilities.

Who did you learn more from about the world and how it works when you were a kid? Really now, be honest. Your parents? Your teachers? Or your peers and friends?

Try as hard as I may I can never truly understand what is and/or what is not cool to a four year old.

The Wiggles? With begrudging acceptance, okay. They cover "Tie Me Kangaroo Down Sport", so they can't be all bad.

That damned purple bastard? No fucking way.

While The Boy partied and played with his peers, The Wife and I had a rare opportunity to do the same.

We travelled southwards on the Modern American Mississippi to the fair burg of New Braunfels to visit the historic village turned tourist attraction that lies within its borders: Gruene.

(New Braunfels? Where is old Braunfels? Is this it?)

"Why," my dear reader you may be asking yourself right now, "would you do such a thing?"

Welle'me tell ya.

The Old 97's played a two night stand at Gruene Hall recording a live album.

"A live album?" you ask.

Yes a live album. I loved hearing a song introduced with a slightly misquoted Cheap Trick reference: "This next song is the first song off our new album."

When it comes out I urge you to buy it and listen for the guy in the audience yelling "PLAY FREEBIRD!" in between every song. That person is me.

Or rather, that person would have been me, if The Wife and my best judgement had not intervened prior to the start of the shows. Okay, it was mostly The Wife, because my best judgement does not have a reputation of being all that good, particularly after I've sucked down a few cold ones.

I still think it is a damn funny idea. Maybe next time I go see a band who is recording a live album. . .

The Wife loves the Old 97's. After the past two nights, so do I.

While she would not actually leave me for Rhett Miller she would at least consider it if given the opportunity. Can you blame her? He is so fucking hot. Hell, I'd consider leaving her for Rhett Miller if given the opportunity. He's just so fucking hot it transcends gender.

Seriously.

So for Friday and Saturday night we took in the sights, the sounds, the smells of The Old 97's. From the front row, or damn near it.

They rocked the house with their high energy Buckaroos meets The Beatles surf/cow punk alt country rock and roll occasionally seasoned with a dash or two of Brian Wilson or a Sergio Leone movie soundtrack.

For the life of me I can not tell you, my dear reader, what was hotter: the Band, the Women (The Beautiful Wife included), or the Texas Summer Night in a sold-out and un-airconditioned dance hall.

It was great to see four guys who obviously were having the time of their lives just get up there and play.

No keyboards, no drum machines, no sequencers or samples. No elaborate stage show. No costumes. No pyrotechnics. No sucka MC's. No dissin' DJ's. No scantily clad women bumping and grinding (at least not on the stage). None of the pretense and bullshit that seems to accompany a lot of what passes for music today.

Just four guys playing beautifully crafted songs. Just four guys that still look surprised when a grateful and appreciative crowd sings along with every one.

It was freakin' awesome! If you don't believe me, here's a second opinion.

All for now. More info on the weekend's events will most likely follow soon, unless something else I find more interesting comes along. . .
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Recently, while'st cleaning out the detritus and debris that we all somehow gradually accumulate in our email inboxes, I came across one of those annoying chain email letters that I received years ago.

Now typically, my dear reader, I feel just about the same way about chain letters as I do about other such magical mystical mumbo jumbo, such as your horoscope from the daily paper, superstitious systems to win the lottery, chicken entrails, or organized religion.

(Marx was quite correct, "Religion is the opiate of the masses." As I have not read any of his writings since my days of youthful enthusiasm and liberal idealism at The University, I do not recall if he also went on to correctly conclude that it is also a placebo. But I digress. . . )

In this case, I was compelled to not click delete, and to allow it to slowly settle down to the bottom of my inbox and dormantly lie there. Why I have not yet deleted it will soon become clear.

Here is that email chain letter. I share it with you now, my dear reader, as a public service in order to help those in need:

Date: 1 Apr. 1997

Dear Friends,

My name is Warren Pratchett. In December 1996 my Plymouth needed major brake repair, and the bill collectors were hounding me like you wouldn't believe. I was getting no hours at my job at Chuck E. Cheese's. The only escape I had from the pressure of failure was my computer, my modem, and masturbation. I longed to turn my avocation into my vocation.

Today I get oral sex from beautiful women daily, and I haven't needed to masturbate in months.

I am currently siting in my home, receiving incredible sexual pleasure from a woman I have never met before this afternoon, and may never know the name of. I have more orgasms than Heidi Fliess client Charlie Sheen. Anyone can do the same. This amazing program works perfectly every time, 100% of the time. I have NEVER failed to receive oral sex whenever I wanted. Best of all you never have to leave home except to go to your mailbox or post office.

In October 1996, I received a letter in the mail telling me how I could receive oral sex whenever I wanted. I was naturally very skeptical and threw the letter on the desk next to my computer. It's funny though, when you are desperate, backed into a corner, your mind does crazy things. I spent a frustrating day looking through the a copy of Penthouse Forum, masturbating. The stories were absurd at best. That night I tried to unwind by booting up my computer and sending e-mail to several of my friends. I read several of their replies and than glanced at the letter next to the computer. All at once it came to me, I now had the key to my dreams. I realized that with the power of the computer I could expand and enhance this astonishing formula into the most unbelievable flow of oral pleasure that has ever been created. I substituted the names of many of my friends in place of the post office and electronically did by computer what others were doing 100% by mail. Now only a few letters are mailed manually. Most of the hard work is speedily uploaded to other Internet accounts throughout the world. If you believe that someday you deserve that lucky break that you have waited for all your life, simply follow the easy instructions below. Your dreams will come true.

Sincerely yours,
Warren Pratchett

INSTRUCTIONS

Follow these instructions EXACTLY, and in 20 to 60 days you will have received more oral sex than God. This program has remained successful because of the HONESTY and INTEGRITY of the participants. Please continue its success by carefully ADHERING TO THE INSTRUCTIONS.

Welcome to the world of borderline prostitution! This little business is a little different than most whorehouses. Your services are not given for money, but done for the oral sex you will get in return!

1.IMMEDIATELY travel to the homes of the first 5 (five) names listed below starting at number 1 through number 5. When you arrive, simply give them oral sex.

2.REMOVE the name that appears number 1 on the list. Move the other 9 names up one position. (Number 2 will become number 1 and number 3 will become number 2, etc.) Place your name, address and zip code in the number 10 position.

3.Send the new letter with your name in the number 10 position to ten (10) separate friends via postal mail or e-mail. Call the file, "Oral Pleasure can be yours... FREE!"

4.Within 60 days you will receive more orgasms than Tony Randall before the taping of episode #132 of "The Odd Couple". Keep a copy of this file for yourself so that you can use it again and again whenever you need sex. As soon as you mail out these letters people will begin giving you oral sex, so that they can be assured of receiving it themselves in the future. This is a service. This is perfectly legal. If you have any doubts, refer to Title 18, Sec. 1302 & 1341 of the postal lottery laws.

Remember as each post is downloaded and the instructions carefully followed, five members will be reimbursed for their participation with oral sex, the likes of which were unimagined by even the mighty Hercules. Your name will move up the list geometrically so that when your name reaches the number five position you will be receiving so much oral sex, even porn star Ona Zee would blush!

1.Leeta Matheson
338 N.W.35th St.
Corvallis, OR 97330
USA

2.Richard S. Clancy
307 S. Division #4
Ann Arbor, MI 48104-2203
USA

3.Kimberly DePinto
560 Memorial Dr.
Westgate Apartments, #406
Cambridge, MA 02139
USA

4.Clark Westfield
1104 John F. Kennedy Boulevard
Bayonne, NJ 07002
USA

5.Jennifer Tew
45283 Sycamore Court
Utica, MI 48317
USA

6.Diane Loken
20 Brimwood Blvd., TH#29
Scarborough, ON M1V 1B7

7.Craig Shergold
1629 Oak Ave., 2nd FL
Evanston, IL 60201 USA

8.R. James McAllister
2160 Frederick St.
Concord, CA
94520

9.John K. Fisher
180 E. La Verne Ave #8
Pomona, CA 91767
USA

10.Maxine Newman
606 Lewis Avenue
Dayton, Ohio
USA

The following letters were written by participating members in this program.

To Whom It May Concern:

About six months ago I received the enclosed post in letter form. I ignored it. I received about five more of the same letter within the next two weeks. I ignored them also. Of course, I was tempted to follow through and dreamed of constant, hours-long orgasm, but I was convinced it was just another gimmick and could not possibly work. I was wrong! About three weeks later I saw this same letter posted on a local bulletin board in Montreal. I liked the idea of
giving it a try with my computer. I didn't expect much because I figured, if other people were as skeptical as I, they wouldn't be too quick orally pleasure some 28 year old woman they have never before met. But, I give my life partner oral sex weekly in my province and have nothing to show for it but the occasional dinner and a movie. This week I decided to look at this as my weekly 'gift'. I went to these people's houses, and orally pleasured them each, as
directed. Two weeks went by and I didn't receive any oral sex. The fourth week rolled around and I couldn't believe what happened! People kept showing up at my door, and offering to go down upon me! For the first time in ten years, I was in sexual ecstasy! It was great. Of course, it didn't take me long to go through my 'earnings' so I am using this excellent opportunity once again.

Follow the instructions and get ready to enjoy.

Please send a copy of this letter along with the enclosed letter so together we can convince people who are skeptical that it really works!

Good Luck,
Charlene Karlotta
St Agathe Que.

Additional Notes:

This system works equally well for males and females. If you are heterosexual and don't wish to receive oral sex from a same-sexed person, or are homosexual and don't wish to receive oral sex from a different-sex person, simply tell them it is not necessary when they arrive, and continue, as before! It's just that simple!

Notice the date. Some things are too good to be true.
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The stakes are very high in Iraq. I think no matter where you stood on the decision to go to war, that most Americans can agree that succeeding in Iraq is critical to our safety and security. It would be absolutely the wrong message to send to set some sort of artificial timetable. It would be the wrong message to send to the terrorists; it would be the wrong message to send to the Iraqi people; and it would be the wrong message to send to our troops.

-- press briefing by Scott McClellan, June 16, 2005

As the June 30th date for Iraqi sovereignty draws near, a small faction is attempting to derail Iraqi democracy and seize power. . . Some have suggested that we should respond to the recent attacks by delaying Iraqi sovereignty. This is precisely what our enemies want. They want to dictate the course of events in Iraq and to prevent the Iraqi people from having a true voice in their future. They want America and our coalition to falter in our commitments before a watching world. In these ambitions, the enemies of freedom will fail. Iraqi sovereignty will arrive on June 30th.

-- President Bush Discusses Iraq in Saturday Morning Radio Address, April 10, 2004

(Bold emphasis mine)

I love Big Brother.
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I am fully aware that my humble tale of my day's events pales in comparison to the Events of Real Significance.

(Today's news is especially poignant as it is so near the 11th anniversary of this Great Event in Media Coverage of Celebrity Crime. Synchronicity indeed. Or perhaps not.)

I care very little for the ways of that world, and although it fascinates and entertains it is not the focus for tonight's ramblings.

This is:

Many, many, many previous times I have shared with you, my dear reader, numerous Antics and Adventures of My Life as a Special Education Teacher. Some good, some not so good, some just plain odd.

Such are the ways of my world.

There are times when I feel, rightly or not, as though you, my dear reader, still do not grasp completely the mundane joys of my daily life. How could you? For many, if not most, it is something you have never experienced.

So please allow me to further explain and clarify with the following list:

(As an aside and to ease your concerns before I continue, like all of my coworkers I am fully aware of and trained in following Universal Health Care Precautions.)

(As another aside before you read further: you have been warned, and it is not pretty)

BODILY FLUIDS/SUBSTANCES PRESENT IN MY CLASSROOM TODAY:

1) Saliva
2) Mucous
3) Urine
4) Feces
5) Vomit
6) Blood
7) Semen
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and there is nobody left to answer. . .

London calling to the faraway towns
Now war is declared, and battle come down
London calling to the underworld
Come out of the cupboard, you boys and girls
London calling, now don't look to us
Phoney Beatlemania has bitten the dust
London calling, see we ain't got no swing
'Cept for the ring of that truncheon thing

It's about 8:30 on a Friday night. Big fun in the Big City. The Wife and The Boy snuggle together in our bed and sleep soundly. The bedroom television acts as a nightlight. On "Dateline", Angelina Jolie (shwing!) explains to ignorantly deaf and irony lacking ears our shared annoyance at a culture busily ignoring important issues in order to worship at the Altar of Celebrity.

The Wife is exhausted from getting up at 2:30 am to do her homework and prepare for her nursing school clinicals today at the children's hospital. The Boy just spent a day with wires glued to his head. So he is also justifiably wiped. Sleep my loved ones, sleep. . .

I have just returned from making a quick trip down to our neighborhood convenience store. The dogs were hungry. Not anymore. Total time, less than 15 minutes. Ah, that's why it's called the convenience store. . .

I start the car in the convenience store parking lot.

Visually I scan my surroundings and focus with amused reminiscing detachment on a group of late middle school or early high school age boys. They're just hanging out while doing their best to look cool on bikes and boards. Judging from the products they hold it appears as though they are seeking a greater level of sugar buzz. With wolfpack eyes they watch a young woman riding by on a bicycle.

[A young woman on a bicycle? I don't believe in Peter Pan, Frankenstein or Superman. But once again I digress. . . ]

Auditorially I start scanning the radio for something minimally entertaining enough to keep my attention for the brief drive home.

The Clash, "London Calling", about half-way through. Cool. Haven't heard this song in a long long while. So I do what all good people do in such situations. . .

I turn it up man and metaphorically (emphasize metaphorically as my trip home takes me past an elementary school) rock out with my cock out.

The song ends as I pull in the driveway. I hear the soothing softly smoky sounds of the FM radio female DJ. While I do not recognize her voice, I can tell by her tone that I have inadvertently tuned to mega conglomerate corporate evil.

The classic rock station?

No you di'unt! (Please visualize appropriate and correspondingly sassy hand and/or body gestures here.)

The sands of time continue to resist my best shoveling efforts. They have piled high enough to allow me to begrudgingly accept the fact that The Cars are now considered classic rock; but The Clash?

(Please hold your breath with the appropriate amount of disdainful irony as you notice the Sony logo on the linked Clash website.)

Ah, come the fuck on!

To add insult to injury and finish salting the wound the DJ says something like this:

"That was the title track from The Clash's influential 1979 release. Also in that set were tracks by Rod Stewart and Emerson Lake and Palmer. . . "

Tracks by Rod Stewart and ELP? Along with The Clash?

My head is exploding.
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The Boy is currently wired.

Not for sound. Not for speed. And certainly not in the metaphorically descriptive all hopped up on coke or meth or even sugar and caffeine.

But wired nonetheless.

Currently there are twenty electrodes glued, yes glued, beneath his amazing curls to the skin of his wonderfully lumpy head. They are attached to a device about the size of an original tricorder on about a two feet tether that is literally locked in a small black pouch designed to be carried around wherever you go. Like a man purse.

(Yes tricorder. Secret confession number whatever. . . I was once something of a Trekkie. Accept it. Deal with it. I have. I will always cherish the memory of meeting William Shatner at the 27th Annual Chief Autorama and asking him to say "warp speed". He refused, the wonderfully cheesy bastard. So I settled for asking his opinion of ultra 80's hottie and TJ Hooker co-star Heather Locklear. His response, "She's aces." True story. I'm joshing you negative. And as always, I digress, and I didn't even get into the issue of the man purse. . . )

We are about eight hours into a 24 hour EEG. Tomorrow afternoon we take The Boy back to have all the gear removed.

A couple weeks ago The Boy did something strange. Twice. Quite frankly it was rather frightening and most likely neurological in nature, like a seizure, but not quite.

Briefly:

A couple of Tuesday afternoons back The Boy was just chillin' at home and all was fine. Suddenly without warning or apparent cause, his pulse went up to over 150 bpm. His respirations shot to at one point over 100 per minute. His body temperature blazed to about 102 degrees.

It happened in a flash, stayed for about 45 minutes then suddenly at about the time we were seriously debating a trip to the emergency room all his vitals went back to normal. He did this twice that afternoon.

As he was not sick, the only logical conclusion we could reach is that something neurological is going on. This was the logical conclusion because we have always known The Boy has some serious neurological issues. It has been and forever will be a guessing game as to just how serious. But it is our hope that the 24 hour EEG wll help.

The EEG will literally allow us to see what is going on in his head over the course of a typical day.

Details as they emerge. . .
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Man with what appeared to be a bloody chain saw let into U.S.

“Nobody asked us to detain him,” Anthony said. “Being bizarre is not a reason to keep somebody out of this country or lock them up. ... We are governed by laws and regulations, and he did not violate any regulations.”

Anthony conceded it “sounds stupid” that a man wielding what appeared to be a bloody chain saw could not be detained. But he added: “Our people don’t have a crime lab up there. They can’t look at a chain saw and decide if it’s blood or rust or red paint.”

Being bizarre is not a reason? Hmmm. . . you think that's why They let us stay?
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This morning I woke up and cried. I didn't mean to do so. I certainly did not wish to do so. I just did. I awoke and uncontrollably wept for a minute or two.

I had another dream about you. This time while the outcome was the same the method was different.

This time you were not alone in your home with the cold steel of a gun. I was with you.

The exact reasoning was never made clear, but there was something horribly wrong with you. It was killing you slowly and painfully, as if it were a terrible and terminal disease that over the course of months or even years would cause you to waste and whither away. There was no treatment, no cure, you had surrendered all hope. Rather than wait for the inevitable conclusion you opted to hasten the process.

In the dream your doctor gave you some sort of drug that over the couse of a day made it seem as though you got progressively more blissfully intoxicated until you simply passed out.

Kinda like when you'd visit me in the dorm in college.

Over the course of that day we had a great and now hazy adventure, visiting the places and people we knew. The atmosphere was always festive and sometimes bordered on the frantic because we knew our time was limited.

Kinda like those nights after we scored some ecstacy or some acid. We'd drop it and then hurry across town trying to get to our destination, typically 1805, before the drugs took effect and we could no longer safely drive. Inevitably we would have to go by someone's house for something and then stop at the store for smokes or beer. It was always a race down to the wire that we didn't always win. But somehow we stayed out of the hospitals and jails.

The dream ended, in of all places, a giant shopping mall. Strangely appropriate given the grotesque Sprawl consumer culture where we grew, lived and played for many years. We were hurrying through a mall, trying to get to one more destination. Where were we trying to go? Why were we there? I don't know, it was afterall the world of dreams and as I stated seems strangely appropriate.

You were weak, weary, delerious and staggering from the effects of the mysterious drug your doctor prescribed. You lied down on a bench. I sat beside you cradling your head in my lap and holding your hands as you folded them across your chest. You closed your eyes, smiled slightly with a small sigh and simply stopped breathing.

I felt great sorrow and sadness, but took some comfort in the knowledge your suffering had ended.

And then, for your last act and final statement, you did as the dying often do. As your muscles relaxed you voided your bowels and bladder all over the bench and marble floors of the mall, thus quite literally shitting all over and sending an ultimate "fuck off" to the world and culture I have come to so passionately despise.

It was an oddly beautiful moment.

I heard people screaming as a crowd begin to assemble around us. It is as though their screaming woke me up.

The Wife had gotten up hours earlier to study for the first nursing school test of the summer semester. I was alone. For a few moments I felt very alone and I cried.
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The Boy is four years old today!

Busy planning, preparing, clearing the clutter and cleaning for the party that will be this afternoon.

More later. . .
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"vacatium never endum, it only changum locatium"

True. Quite true.

Day 1 recap: mission accomplished, mostly.

Señor Suavé's words rang true. The pool is closed on Thursday's for it's weekly cleaning so I did not have the opportunity to jump into its cool waters.

In lieu of the swimming and sunning I spent some time at home with The Boy. He was in a great mood. A few good moments with The Boy beat's the Hell out of hours swimming and sunning anyday.

But I managed to get in the remainder of my day's planned activities. Yesterday afternoon I was sweating in the afternoon sun while enjoying the sensation of a breeze gently blowing across my pale body I had a two part revelation:

1) I really suck at disc golf.
2) I don't care.

Although I easily hit twice as many trees as baskets I still had a glorious time.

Today's plan:

After I finish my morning coffee the local cool hangout slash coffee shop (and this posting) I will return home to participate in The Boy's therapy. Today is a double: the occupational therapist and the speech therapist are doing a joint session. Because The Boy has his therapy sessions during the afternoons I usually do not have the chance to participate. I am looking forward to sharing my insights and hearing those of the therapists.

Following the joint therapy session, on the bike over to Señor Suavé's parkside condo. From there onward to the pool!

The sky is currently cloudy. The weather radar indicates huge storms a hundred miles or so off in the west and they are heading this way. Their current track appears to be slightly northward as they move to the east, so I remain optimistic if not exactly confident that the weather will hold and improve and I can finally have my day of swimming and sunshine.

In the event the weather deteriorates Plan B involves abandoning the water filled pool for the kind covered with green felt while enjoying a tasty brew. Either way, not a bad way to spend an afternoon.

So please wish me luck and keep my in your thoughts of good fortune.
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A couple weeks back I received the following unsolicited advertisement in my electronic correspondence:



Originally I found it rather amusing, in that make you grin but not quite make you laugh kinda of way. The second time I looked at it I thought it was just plain fucking funny. I mean really now, look at the way she's posing in the photo. And how could I possibly resist the temptation to click "Apply Online Now" to get educated and begin a career as Counter-Terrorism?

Homeland security is creating more jobs?

As I thought about it my amusement melted into a disturbed state. There is something wrong, very wrong, very very wrong about the whole idea, about the concept and thought process behind the ad. There just is.

I can't quite put my finger on it, but there is something about the ad that frightens me because it reminds me of this.

Because I couldn't quite clearly identify what it is exactly, in the interest of clarity I did a little Google search to research it and learn more in hopes of figuring it out.

If the ad bothers me I'll bet it totally freaks her world.
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A well deserved and highly earned break from reality.

My brief week off from work between the end of the school year and the start of summer school is winding to a close.

Well, I say a week off from work, but in actuality it has only been a break from my paying job. It has not been a break from the necessary tasks of daily living: laundry, dishes, sweeping the floors. And father duty is a 24-7 job. It has been a week of calls for doctor's appointments and dealing with the mundane intricacies of Medicaid forms, of press 2 now and please call me back soon.

But not today. And not tomorrow.

The Wife has started the summer semester clinicals, she is currently in the pediatric ward of the local children's hospital. I anticipate many interesting stories and discussions about sick kids over the coming evenings.

The Boy is home with The Nurse. She tends to his daily needs. She is a home healthcare nurse. That is her job and the reason for my recent dealings with Medicaid.

So my dear reader, I am proud to announce that for today and tomorrow I am on vacation.

I am currently enjoying a large cup of organic bird-friendly Guatemalan at our neighborhood hangout and coffee house.

There is nary a cloud to be seen, real or metaphorical.

The itinerary for today and tomorrow:

Awake around 8:00, check on The Boy who lies sound asleep snuggling his Sleepy Time Frog, a gift from Uncle Suave on The Boy's first official night in our home. The Boy sleeps with it every night.

Following a brief check of the morning's news, and a good yet quick floor swiffering, a game of Madden.

The Nurse arrives around 10:00.

Off to the coffee ship with our shiny still relatively new iBook to finally experience the cool joy that is free public wi-fi access. We purchased it this past spring primarily as an essential tool for The Wife's studies. This is my first real opportunity to play with it. Awesomely cool.

Sometime around noon or so I will head back home, check on The Boy, then jump on my bike and head to the vast expanse of city park that sits virtually at our backdoor. Today solo, tomorrow with the fellowship of a good friend or two who I coerce and tempt into taking a day off. Some biking, some hiking, some just plain goofing around outside then a round or two of disc golf until the sun begins to bake.

Then off to the spring fed pool where the water is always a crisp 68 degrees and the grassy hillside is covered with the nubile bodies of coeds in bikinis ripe for the ogling. Sometimes they go topless. That is most always The Wife's first question when I return, "Did you see any breasts?" she asks with a laugh at her husband's juvenile nature.

Okay, I admit it, it's nothing The Wife is not already aware of, my friends and I, we like to look at girls. Who doesn't? What the fuck is wrong with you if you don't? Once upon a time we were dubbed the "Masters of Subtlety" by a small flock of short skirted women who noticed the intensity of our gaze as they walked by the patio of our now closed but still favorite and sorely missed beer joint. Masters of Subtlety indeed.

I will cleanse my body and my soul in the clear water and lie on the hillside finishing books half begun while soaking up the sun's life giving rays (properly suncreened of course, SPF 15, SPF 30 if the need arises).

As the afternoon begins to wind down it will be time to jump back on the bike and head back to the coffee shop hangout to slake my thirst with a cold one or two.

Then home for dinner and an evening with the family.

Life is good.

Let the fray begin. . .
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