So my boys and I, we've got this game we play when we are in the car called Good Spot.
What you need to spot is a Volkswagen beetle aka the bug car.
It goes something like this:
"Bug car!" hollers Spencer.
"Good spot," I say.
We have since added motorcycles and motor homes.
And convertible.
The granddaddy of them all being a convertible bug car.
Which gets the double good spot.
Like, "Bug car. Montezuma."
Now I don't know how convertible started getting called Montezumas but I assure you it had something to do w/ Spencer and his growing Hot Wheels collection.
Anyway. "Bug car. Montezuma," gets the double reply: "Good spot, good spot."
Also worthy of the double reply are blue or green bug cars.
"Bug car!" Spencer will holler. "Blue."
"Good spot," I'll say.
"Dad, it was blue. That's 'good spot, good spot'," he'll remind me.
This has been going on for about two years or so.
Which means that younger brother Cole is starting to get in on that act.
Although he often just yells out "bug car" or "good sport" at the most random times.
Until yesterday. At Spencer's soccer practice.
We all got out of the car, and parked across from us was a blue VW bug car.
"Bug car," said Cole as he pointed to it.
Spencer looked at me, said aw man and then, "Good spot, good spot," to his brother.
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
Thursday, September 15, 2005
Through The Pores
I am sick.
Stuffy nose. Congested head. Fever. Cough.
And when I am sick, I get a junkie's sweet tooth.
I want salt and sugar; I want potato chips and starburts; twix bars and kalamata olives.
Junk food. Just give me junk food.
I once worked with this ex-junkie. She was a courier with me in DC back in the late '80s. She told me she could smell a junkie a mile away; could smell the cut oozing through their pores. The body's way to extract the poison ebbing through it's system.
I can smell myself today. I could shower twice a day during times like this and still smell the infection, seeping from my skin. I burn incense. Make potpourri. Spray air freshener. Nothing covers the smell. I change my dampened shirts several times a night. My pillow cases as well.
I had a coughing attack last night. Coughed so hard that I fell into a dry heave jag - I'd do anything just to catch my breath before the next wave hit. Made some lemon tea with honey and laid on the couch. Watched late night television.
Was duly impressed by Bryan Adams concert piped in from Ireland. Yes. That Bryan Adams. Mr. Cut's Like A Knife. The band played as a three-piece w/ Adams mostly handling the bass duties. His guitar player was a real scorcher. Fuck. I kept going back to it. I flicked between that and rock start-like illusionist Criss Angel. Now that guy is out there, man. Out there.
I came to the conclusion that late night tv is so much better then daytime tv. But late night tv is best enjoyed under the storm of sickness, when you are too tired to care about it all. Or hopped up on a handful of your favorite street drugs.
Either way, it's the pores you'll be smelling.
Stuffy nose. Congested head. Fever. Cough.
And when I am sick, I get a junkie's sweet tooth.
I want salt and sugar; I want potato chips and starburts; twix bars and kalamata olives.
Junk food. Just give me junk food.
I once worked with this ex-junkie. She was a courier with me in DC back in the late '80s. She told me she could smell a junkie a mile away; could smell the cut oozing through their pores. The body's way to extract the poison ebbing through it's system.
I can smell myself today. I could shower twice a day during times like this and still smell the infection, seeping from my skin. I burn incense. Make potpourri. Spray air freshener. Nothing covers the smell. I change my dampened shirts several times a night. My pillow cases as well.
I had a coughing attack last night. Coughed so hard that I fell into a dry heave jag - I'd do anything just to catch my breath before the next wave hit. Made some lemon tea with honey and laid on the couch. Watched late night television.
Was duly impressed by Bryan Adams concert piped in from Ireland. Yes. That Bryan Adams. Mr. Cut's Like A Knife. The band played as a three-piece w/ Adams mostly handling the bass duties. His guitar player was a real scorcher. Fuck. I kept going back to it. I flicked between that and rock start-like illusionist Criss Angel. Now that guy is out there, man. Out there.
I came to the conclusion that late night tv is so much better then daytime tv. But late night tv is best enjoyed under the storm of sickness, when you are too tired to care about it all. Or hopped up on a handful of your favorite street drugs.
Either way, it's the pores you'll be smelling.
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
Post Nasal Ping Pong
You know what I'm talking about.
When you got that congested head and stuffy nose.
Decide to hit the sack. And then it starts: first it flows to the right side of your head. You have to wait a moment or two to breathe during the transition. Then it's time to blow.
After a while you switch sides, lay on the left side of your head. And the sinus migration begins. Your tongue starts to taste like the underside of a college dorm room rug. And then you surface, can breathe again. Blow.
I did this for several hours last night. I'd say I didn't sleep but then again I did have some twisted dream about getting a job as a custodian at one of the local middle schools. Had to learn how to use the tile buffer on my own. "You'll figure it out sooner or later," he said. "You're a smart guy. You went to college," said my wisened supervisor.
The weird thing was that I had to diagram on a school map where I found stuff. Like broken glass by gynasium, soilded diaper under sliding board, lost sweatshirt near the monkey bars. I had to draw these little icons of the stuff I found on this map.
This is what you get when you send your kids to school and live off of a steady diet of pulp fiction and detective shows.
When you got that congested head and stuffy nose.
Decide to hit the sack. And then it starts: first it flows to the right side of your head. You have to wait a moment or two to breathe during the transition. Then it's time to blow.
After a while you switch sides, lay on the left side of your head. And the sinus migration begins. Your tongue starts to taste like the underside of a college dorm room rug. And then you surface, can breathe again. Blow.
I did this for several hours last night. I'd say I didn't sleep but then again I did have some twisted dream about getting a job as a custodian at one of the local middle schools. Had to learn how to use the tile buffer on my own. "You'll figure it out sooner or later," he said. "You're a smart guy. You went to college," said my wisened supervisor.
The weird thing was that I had to diagram on a school map where I found stuff. Like broken glass by gynasium, soilded diaper under sliding board, lost sweatshirt near the monkey bars. I had to draw these little icons of the stuff I found on this map.
This is what you get when you send your kids to school and live off of a steady diet of pulp fiction and detective shows.
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
Froggy Went A-Courtin'
Froggy must have the hots for my wife - because she found him in the shower last night with her.
Lord knows how a frog got into my house, much less nestled up in the corner of our tiled shower.
According to this site - http://www.herpsofnc.org/herps_of_NC/anurans/Hyl_chr.html - I believe he was either a gray treefog or a green one. He definitley looked like a rock. And I had just found a treefog on sunday in - where else of all places - the treehouse.
And I was reminded of the turtle my neighbor JB found earlier in the summer.
"Greg," he said over the phone. "I found a turtle in the road and I don't know what to do with it."
"Let him go," I said.
"You've got to see him," he said.
Fucking thing was as big as a hubcap.
I shit you not.
It was either a yellowbelly slider or river cooter.
http://www.herpsofnc.org/herps_of_NC/turtles/trascr.html
Whatever it was, he was big and most likely older than all bloody get-out.
At first I figured we'd keep him as a pet and the boys could hand him down to their kids because surely this guy was going to outlive everyone. So I put him in the fenced part of my yard and went to bed. Next day I woke and a couldn't find him. How do you lose a turtle as a big as a hubcap I thought. The wife figured he'd crawled under the deck and was going to die a slow death, one that would bring lots and flies and other critters who like to feast on the dead.
Then I saw some brush move one day from the kitchen window. The fucker was huffing down the fence line obviously looking for a way to get out.
Then the wife calls and said that some girl she works with has pet turtles. "She let's them sleep in her bed," she said. My wife will believe anything. So this girl and her husband came over to rescue the turtle. I asked them basic questions I'd think turtle lovin' folk would know like how old do you think he is and what kind of turtle is it. Of course they know nothing. Real turtle lovers these people are. So smart guy husband picked up the beast and his lady sticks a blade of grass in front of his mouth. He does nothing. "Well, he's not a snapping turtle," she said. Fuckin' crikey mate! I could have told you that. And if it even crossed your mind he might be a snapper would you put your finger anywhere near his mouth?
I wonder if that turtle soup was good?
Lord knows how a frog got into my house, much less nestled up in the corner of our tiled shower.
According to this site - http://www.herpsofnc.org/herps_of_NC/anurans/Hyl_chr.html - I believe he was either a gray treefog or a green one. He definitley looked like a rock. And I had just found a treefog on sunday in - where else of all places - the treehouse.
And I was reminded of the turtle my neighbor JB found earlier in the summer.
"Greg," he said over the phone. "I found a turtle in the road and I don't know what to do with it."
"Let him go," I said.
"You've got to see him," he said.
Fucking thing was as big as a hubcap.
I shit you not.
It was either a yellowbelly slider or river cooter.
http://www.herpsofnc.org/herps_of_NC/turtles/trascr.html
Whatever it was, he was big and most likely older than all bloody get-out.
At first I figured we'd keep him as a pet and the boys could hand him down to their kids because surely this guy was going to outlive everyone. So I put him in the fenced part of my yard and went to bed. Next day I woke and a couldn't find him. How do you lose a turtle as a big as a hubcap I thought. The wife figured he'd crawled under the deck and was going to die a slow death, one that would bring lots and flies and other critters who like to feast on the dead.
Then I saw some brush move one day from the kitchen window. The fucker was huffing down the fence line obviously looking for a way to get out.
Then the wife calls and said that some girl she works with has pet turtles. "She let's them sleep in her bed," she said. My wife will believe anything. So this girl and her husband came over to rescue the turtle. I asked them basic questions I'd think turtle lovin' folk would know like how old do you think he is and what kind of turtle is it. Of course they know nothing. Real turtle lovers these people are. So smart guy husband picked up the beast and his lady sticks a blade of grass in front of his mouth. He does nothing. "Well, he's not a snapping turtle," she said. Fuckin' crikey mate! I could have told you that. And if it even crossed your mind he might be a snapper would you put your finger anywhere near his mouth?
I wonder if that turtle soup was good?
The List
Books I want to read.
Memoirs: from James Frey and Augustus Burroughs.
Bio: Nick Tosches penned tome on Dean Martin
Housebroken by David Eddie. The fucker who beat me to the stay-at-home-dad published punch
and I just picked up Robert Stone's Dog Soldiers...
Memoirs: from James Frey and Augustus Burroughs.
Bio: Nick Tosches penned tome on Dean Martin
Housebroken by David Eddie. The fucker who beat me to the stay-at-home-dad published punch
and I just picked up Robert Stone's Dog Soldiers...
Reading
I've taken - in my newfound free time - up reading again (yeah, mike i'll read that fucking screenplay soon).
I tackled The Comedy Writer by Peter Farrelly. One of the Farrelly brothers most noted for movies like Dumb And Dumber and Something About Mary. I had read the book years ago when it first came out. Friggin' hilarious. So I sent it to my brother Mike who is the funniest person I know and he's not even a comic. Anyway, I spotted it at the library book sale and figured it was time to revisit it. And I cracked up all over again.
I just finished Laura Lippman's Baltimore Blues. An awesome crime novel set in Baltimore. She's like a female verson of one of my favorite crime writers George Pelicanos, whose novels all take place in DC.
I tackled The Comedy Writer by Peter Farrelly. One of the Farrelly brothers most noted for movies like Dumb And Dumber and Something About Mary. I had read the book years ago when it first came out. Friggin' hilarious. So I sent it to my brother Mike who is the funniest person I know and he's not even a comic. Anyway, I spotted it at the library book sale and figured it was time to revisit it. And I cracked up all over again.
I just finished Laura Lippman's Baltimore Blues. An awesome crime novel set in Baltimore. She's like a female verson of one of my favorite crime writers George Pelicanos, whose novels all take place in DC.
Back To School
It hasn't been easy for the boys. Neither has warmed up to the idea of school.
My 5 yr. old Spencer has broken down into tears just about every day that I've dropped him off at kindergarten.
I'm not quite sure what this is all about as he had been going to a playschool several days a week for almost three years. Best I can guess is that going from a hippie co-op w/ young girls as teachers to public school where Mrs. Doubtfire is his homeroom teacher has been the most traumatic.
Cole, whom I thought would be digging the interaction w/ other kids (he often seemed bored by me over the summer) has gone the route of his older brother and cries like he's in need of an exorcism every time I drop him off.
These are the joys of parenting my friends.
My 5 yr. old Spencer has broken down into tears just about every day that I've dropped him off at kindergarten.
I'm not quite sure what this is all about as he had been going to a playschool several days a week for almost three years. Best I can guess is that going from a hippie co-op w/ young girls as teachers to public school where Mrs. Doubtfire is his homeroom teacher has been the most traumatic.
Cole, whom I thought would be digging the interaction w/ other kids (he often seemed bored by me over the summer) has gone the route of his older brother and cries like he's in need of an exorcism every time I drop him off.
These are the joys of parenting my friends.
ReCap
The summer went something like this:
a. spencer learned to swim, and when i mean swim i mean cannon balls into the 4 ft. deep end w/o me or the lifeguard having to worry about him drowning.
b. he also learned to open his eyes under water
c. he also taught his younger brother cole how to do the heavy metal rock sign
d. my band - chest pains - played out severla times. live footage can be seen at: www.soundsreelgood.blogspot.com
e. i taught a class on how to make a zine at the Duke Young Writers' Camp (http://www.learnmore.duke.edu/youth/ywc/ywcofferings.htm). i had two classes. one comprised of six middle school girls and another comprised of 13 high schoolers (10 girls, 3 boys). i learned that technology has greatly altered the course of adolescence. i took the middle schoolers to a dance performance by the ADF (http://www.americandancefestival.org/) where one girl text messaged her friend during the entire 20 minute performance. in the high school class, i watched a young crush develop between two students - who shared iPod earpieces in class everyday. one day, while taking a field trip to 9th Street - the main drag of stores by Duke - i said to them as they walked earpiece-to-earpiece, "back in my day, when we liked someone we held hands." of course all i got was blank stares. fucking old man that i am.
f. i had a piece published at www.wordriot.org. ironically, after all these years of writing, it represents my first piece of fiction published. and it's a fucking doozey.
a. spencer learned to swim, and when i mean swim i mean cannon balls into the 4 ft. deep end w/o me or the lifeguard having to worry about him drowning.
b. he also learned to open his eyes under water
c. he also taught his younger brother cole how to do the heavy metal rock sign
d. my band - chest pains - played out severla times. live footage can be seen at: www.soundsreelgood.blogspot.com
e. i taught a class on how to make a zine at the Duke Young Writers' Camp (http://www.learnmore.duke.edu/youth/ywc/ywcofferings.htm). i had two classes. one comprised of six middle school girls and another comprised of 13 high schoolers (10 girls, 3 boys). i learned that technology has greatly altered the course of adolescence. i took the middle schoolers to a dance performance by the ADF (http://www.americandancefestival.org/) where one girl text messaged her friend during the entire 20 minute performance. in the high school class, i watched a young crush develop between two students - who shared iPod earpieces in class everyday. one day, while taking a field trip to 9th Street - the main drag of stores by Duke - i said to them as they walked earpiece-to-earpiece, "back in my day, when we liked someone we held hands." of course all i got was blank stares. fucking old man that i am.
f. i had a piece published at www.wordriot.org. ironically, after all these years of writing, it represents my first piece of fiction published. and it's a fucking doozey.
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