Arachnisomnia

Well, the coyotes didn't come by last night.  No.  Spiders did, however.  Spiders by the dozen.  After about the twentieth time of getting out of my chair to kill a spider in the tent, the little ones decided that maybe sleeping there was not such a hot idea. So all six of them crammed into the camper to sleep.  

Nice, cozy, and comfortable.

Mom wasn't about to sleep in the tent.  So, that leaves the car.  Yes, gentle readers, we slept in the car.  Can't begin to express my happiness, the sheer joy, over the bonding experience the Mrs. and I shared.  A priceless memory, indeed.

Next year it's Chucky Cheese.  Period.  

Mild Wilds

Big man turns seven today. Seven...

He and five of his first grade buddies are coming over for a camp out. The six of them whooping it up in the woods just outside of town. Sounds fun doesn't it? There will be games, hot dogs, S'mores, and bug bites, followed by more games, late night snacks, copious Sprite consumption, and then the obligatory bug bite scratching.

The boys are sleeping in my old man's safari tent. It's like a small city under canvas. The Mrs. and I will be in our pop-up camper next door. I anticipate taking night watch shifts. Can't have half crazed, muddy urchins with distended bellies wandering off the reservation.

Last time we camped there, the coyotes came in around 2:00 am. Not sure how close they actually got, probably not close at all, but it's impressive to hear the pack warble and howl at close range. If the beasts do make another appearance, I anticipate setting a world record for the number of seven year olds that can pack into a small camper in the shortest time.

A Tale of Two Little Bitties

Been out of town for a few days. Glad to be home.

I had to use both sides of my brain equally over the last few days. Mental gymnastics is not an Olympic sport for a reason people.

The logical side of my feeble brain keeping me in check, filtering out the stupid, preventing embarrassing moments whereby a letter of apology and monetary restitution are involved, in addition to battling nerves and feelings of resume and song pedigree inadequacies. All of this while trying to turn the creative side loose to the point where I can be free enough to forget where I am and who I'm with, and just make up stories like I've been doing my whole life.

I picture a respectable fella in perfectly pressed slacks, button up dress shirt, wire framed glasses,and an accountant's disposition, probably name Edwin, or something like it, stepping into a cage match with a dude in baggy shorts, a loud Hawaiian shirt, sunglasses tan, and a 1988 Firebird mullet who goes by the name E-Dog. The thought of either of them actually winning outright is pretty scary. Equally scary is that both exist within the small confines of my skull and very routinely run into one another. The resulting chaos is both deafening and exhausting.

Edwin is tired of writing checks to support E-Dog's irresponsible ways. E-Dog thinks Edwin smells like file Folders.

When it comes to finances and business, the best I can hope for is that E-Dog is sleeping off a hangover in some strangers front lawn cuddling their plastic flamingo. When it comes to matters of love and writing, I hope Edwin takes a couple puffs from his asthma inhaler and agrees to spend the next several hours with the math club from the local university solving for pi.

Run Down III

3.5 songs in 2 days.  Great people.  Great place.  Very grateful.  

Run Down, Part Deux

One and a half today.  Brain is mush.  Great concert tonight.  I'm ready to head home.

Run Down

Two sessions today.  Two songs.  

Didn't it throw up on anyone.  Think I contributed.  

Looking forward to tomorrow.  

Update

Held the baby La Pointe.  Not sure how the physics work, but the little peanut somehow managed to yak in the pocket of my shorts.  I'm carrying her up here, she yaks in my pocket down there.  

Awesome.

I will say it again, for the record, Nick and Allie are probably the cutest couple ever.  It's just gross. 

Coming Soon

Songwriters are a little nerdy. I own that.  I am that.  Cool with it.  That's why I like being around a group of writers.  It's nerd-a-palooza and I get back stage passes.

Now, allow me to to expose my full frontal nerdity. (Not mine. I lifted it from a TV show.  So choice.  I can't stand not using it.)  I loved being moved by a song.  No effective way to put it into words.  Every once and a while you hear a song that stops you, that stuns you, that stirs you up. You want to know the words.  You want it not to end.  You want to hear it again just as soon as it is over.

Tonight, dear, sweet, gentle readers, I had me a moment.  Power of the Cross by Shelly Johnson.  Remember the name.  The song will appear on Natalie Grant's next project.  If Natalie does half as good as job as Shelly did tonight, I'm telling you.....

I put the over and under at 4 on the "what am I doing here".  Been here less than a day.  Trust me, you should have taken the over.  

People, a tear trickled down my cheek before I realized  I was starting to cry. 

Road Trip

I'm out for the next couple of days.

It's important not to stink it up while I'm gone, actually have to be productive and on my game. Give it 3:1 odds, with an over/under on how many times I silently ask myself "what are you doing here" at 4. Place your bets.

Behave yourself gentle readers. I'm watching.

Buffalo Boy

Took the little man for his first chicken wings. The ranch on the fingers, the buffalo sauce smear around the mouth and up on the cheeks, the wide eyes when the first tickle of spice registered, all of it, priceless.

4 mild wings, 3 Sprite refills, 2 wet wipes, 1 very proud dad.

This father thing is a good gig gentle readers. I highly recommend it.

Blog

Click over and read Danielle's blog.

It's not easy at times, the things she posts. It's always well done however. For obvious reasons, I can't read her everyday, but I'm always glad I took the time to do so when I'm through.

I have a particular affinity for Peds and nurses that staff children's hospitals.

http://6yearmed.blogspot.com/

Work Rule #421

If your voicemail is full and can no longer accept new messages, please do not leave me a message, ask me to call, then not answer your stupid phone.

If you do actually want to play this way, have the decency to leave the following message:

"Hey I'm way too lazy and scattered to delete old crap from my phone. Accordingly, I'm going to now make it incumbent on you to continue to try me until I actually answer. If you don't, then I can easily claim you never tried to call me back at all. Then it's not me who is the lazy, unprofessional one, it's you. So, good luck trying to find me. Chances are, my phone is my other pants, on the dresser, or buried in a spot where I can't hear it ring. This is called WA, or Work Avoidance, and you're now, willing or not, my accomplice. Hugs and kisses....I'm out."

Not German

I'm late to the party, but I just started listening to Francesca Battistelli.

Which brings me to her name.  Seriously?  I believe I had this once at Fazzoli's.

What ya listening to Bill?  Well, Franco Beasts of the Serengeti, Fresca Peanut Butter and Jelly, Valerie Bertinelli, My Boots are Gross and Smelly...I don't know her name, actually, but her music is fantastic.

Behind the Scenes.  Money.    

Rat Pact

I know you’re in this lab because you had a thing for the TA. That is until you found out his girlfriend was a Kappa, and your all like, eewww I hate Kappas. The lab’s all the way across campus and you’ll never use this behavioral psychology crap anyway since you’re going to be a hot fashion merchandiser, and stuff, with your BFF Bri from the Omegas. Then daddy said if you quit now he’ll take away the Mustang, so, like, you’re stuck and whatever.

So look it, let me make this easy one you. I’m going to make you a deal. A bargain, if you will. You like bargains right? Go ahead, get the gum off your finger, put it back in your mouth, shake your head up and down like this...good. Very good. I’ll make sure the information you have to write down on your cute little clip board that you've been so kind as to bedazzle is small enough that even you can handle it. Single digits, that means only one number. No fractions or icky decimals. Seriously, put the clip board down, and I’ll even scratch my paw over the column the little-wittie-bittie number goes in. Simple, right? Again, gum in your mouth, off your finger, focus please. OK. I’ll do it all semester long, and before you ask, that's like three months worth of classes. Really, really. Trust me.

All I ask is one thing, one very simple thing. Are you with me? Follow along. I'm down here. Focus. here's what I want.

For the love of all things holy, stop moving my freakin’ cheese!

Dear Bill

As you know, we get lots of mail here at the Blah Blog Network. Too much to share really. However, we received a letter this week that I thought would be worth posting.

Brad Labdonovitch from Los Lunas, NM writes:
Dear Bill, long time reader of the Blah. Love it. However I am a little concerned with the number of posts that reference Doritos and Jennifer Gardner. Obsess much?
My question pertains to women’s underwear. I attempted to purchase some undergarments, a bra, in particular, for my wife for Mother’s day. I had every good intention, but became quite frustrated and upset once I entered the Victoria’s Secret store. Too many choices. Too intimidating. What’s a guy to do?

Brad, Brad, Brad, I feel you. I’m picking up what you’re puttin’ down. Who among us hasn’t set foot in a Victoria’s Secret store and been instantly intimidated, intimidated to the point of just asking the clerk to bag up one of everything so you can get the heck out of there? Look, it’s not like you can just loiter in the store for hours, looking over each item, holding it up to get the mental picture of how your wife would look in it. What if you buy it too big, what if it’s too small, what if she questions why you’re buying fancy stinking underwear in the first place when there’s a mortgage to pay and a kid to get trough school? You’re among friends Brad. We understand. Never fear. Consider the Blah your under-wire here for support.

Next time you’re in the purveyor of panties, the underwear utopia, otherwise known as Victoria’s Secret, and you are shopping for a bra, think this way. Bras fall into four easy to understand categories.

The Catholic-built to lift the masses
The Salvation Army-Helps lift the fallen
The Presbyterian-Keeps them staunch and upright
and The Baptist-Good for making mountains out of mole hills

Grab a bag of three cheese Doritos and follow along here kiddo.

Does she need something professional, but nice, something to boost her spirits at work? Go with a beige Presbyterian. Find one with a little lace, and you’ll have both form and function.

Child bearing and gravity got your woman down? Salvation Army to the rescue baby. I recommend something in aqua blue or a shade of pink, because who says charity work has to be dull.

Night out. Little black dress. Kids at grandma’s. Class reunion perhaps. Clearly, the Baptist is in order. You know Brad, every community in America has seventeen Baptist churches in it. It’s like mitosis, when a Baptist cell starts splitting, it grows exponentially. As far as this intrepid blogger is concerned, the same theory applies to the Baptist bra. You’ve got your first Baptist, your second Baptist, the strapless Baptist, the public Baptist-meets in the front, the liquor store Baptist-meets in the back, the fundraiser chairperson Baptist-always leaves you asking for just a little bit more, the devout Baptist-the kind that makes sure they don’t dance around, and finally, the inner city choir Baptist-you know, the kind that makes you jump to your feet and shout Amen! Can’t go wrong with a Baptist. Trust me.

The Catholic, well, I think you get the idea.

Brad, there you have it. Useful information that will one day come in handy. But then again, what else would you expect from the Blah…

Thanks for reading. By the way, buy the appropriate Baptist and take your wife to see Ghosts of Girlfriends Past starring Jennifer Gardner. In theatres now….

Peace.

Black Market Boxers

Read a blog today about fire, about losing homes, about being displaced. The blogger noted that he was preparing a suitcase just in case he had to make a run for it. Got me thinking. What would be in my bag?

There would be some cash, a debit card, ID, insurance information, and a passport. Only if time allows, grab some underwear. Totally optional, but a good idea. There would be a pair of jeans, some socks, tennis shoes and 5 Hawaiian shirts. OK, maybe 10.

A bottle of Amoxicillin, a jar of Purel, three bars of antibacterial soap, and a 45 caliber hand gun-because I’ll need to clean the germs and filth up one way or another.

Lap top, iPod, cell phone and various chargers, of course.

A snack size bag of Doritos and my Power Card from Lamar’s Doughnuts. Hey, disaster or not, I’m one dozen away from a free dozen and I’m not about to leave it behind. Besides, it could come in handy for the people in the cots next to me at the Red Cross shelter.

“I’ll trade you three Doritos and a glazed for your tooth brush. I’ll make it two glazed, and I’ll throw in a bar of soap, if you kick in your boxers. My hands are clean and the doughnuts were free, but the chaffing is killing me!”

There would be space for a small digital reorder so I could play back some 20 pre-recorded messages to myself. Ones like “don’t give up”, “take your medicine”, “never trust anyone at a rest stop”, “If anyone named Willow or Moondance offers you something for your headache, politely decline.”, “Hey Bill, call your attorney. In light of the recent natural disaster, you maybe able to get a continuance on the Jennifer Gardner stalking thing.” You know, important things, to keep me grounded and safe.

I’d take my ShamWow. I don’t know, it’s just so darn handy.

A multi-tool. Not sure what it is, but that survivor dude on TLC said never leave home without one.

Lastly, a large note written in indelible marker that I could pin to my jacket telling anyone that finds me to speak slowly, use small sentences, and by no means offer up any sugar or caffeine, and to call the toll-free number for missing or exploited husbands immediately.

Yah, that should do it.

Blog Power

Did a few posts on the swine Flu. Couple days later I'm sick. Just now recovering.

Coincidence?

Today was supposed to be a little piece on the financial services industry and the bail out.

Thinking better of it now. I like my checking account and credit score the way they are thank you very much.

Got a great bit on Viagra and Propecia, but that's definitely out....

Little Bugger

Here he is, my little Heteroptera Pentatomidae, from the first grade play last night.

Not going to say he was brilliant, but…

This picture was taken prior to taking the stage. Notice what’s in the background? He was hanging out with the lady bugs. Yep. That’s my bug all right.

“Yo ladies. Praying Mantis is having a little get together tonight. He lives just a few leaves down the road. If you’re not doing anything later, I thought maybe we could scuttle on down there, eat a little decaying matter, catch the fireflies 10:30 set, you know, just kinda hang out. BTW, spots are hot!”

Inventory

• Wife still loves me even though I don't know where the laundry room happens to be and I occasionally act like a college freshman: Check
• Little guy is healthy, happy, and playing the stink bug in the first grade play tonight: Check
• Employed: Check
• Free to make my own choices, exceptions being controlling the remote and not being allowed to eat three bean spicy nachos ever again. Ever: Check
• Pudgy: Check
• Writing: Check
• Sunny and temps in the low 70's: Check
• Short pants: Check

Let's see...forgetting something...what is it...ahhh, got it!

Grateful: Double Check

Say Government Issued, FDA Approved, Cheese

Oh my gosh, Mr. President, these people really have no idea how much this is going to cost them do they? Sssh, just keep smiling boys. Cute and cuddly agents of change. Just keep smiling.

Reason I Love My Wife #437

My wife likes to watch John and Kate Plus 8. Me, I’d rather chew my own leg off. Have you seen it? I’ve been "fortunate" to catch a couple of episodes.

I’ve come to a conclusion, an easy one I might add: Kate is an angry shrew.

John, over time, must have cultivated some Zen like ability to focus on the large paychecks coming in order to tolerate the attitude, eye rolls, sarcasm, and bitterness that seems to drip from her. The way she talks to him sometimes, gentle readers. Wow.

If that was my house, we’d have a new rule. Kate wouldn’t be allowed to talk to me. Ever. She’d have to write down her instructions or comments on paper with no punctuation, lest she scream at me with the use of multiple fat bolded exclamation points or angry underlines. Nope. She’d get a cocktail napkin and one short, dull pencil per day.

Seriously I just envision him leaving the interview couch the two of them sit after filming and running to the bathroom to get away from the cameras, gripping the sink with both hands, feet shoulder width apart, and just silently screaming until spit runs out of the corner of his mouth and the urge to throw her out of the upstairs window passes.