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Thursday, November 17, 2011

Paging Charles Bronson

CSI was here today...

And this is my story.

I picked up my youngest son. His mom had his brother at a road trip soccer game almost an hour away. I was looking forward to getting some one-on-one time with him.

He wanted a Monster Burger. I very half-assedly tried to talk him out of ordering it. But then figured being the monster it is we could split it.

We got back to the apartment and I let us in. Immediately something felt off.

I went over to my desk (where I usually place my computer at the end of the day) and quickly noticed my cord was gone. I turned around and saw the PS3 was gone. Nothing but dust in its place under the TV.

He went into the bathroom to take a dump and I went into the bedroom. I saw my nightstand drawer overturned on my bed and the contents of it - some old journals, homemade cards from the boys etc. - sprawled across my bed. I came back out of the bedroom and scanned the room. All kinds of top dollar shit (bike, amp, stereo, TV) still in view. And then I noticed the back of the door.

I yelled out (silently in my head), "I've been fucking robbed!"

I went back over to the desk. Checkbook was still in plain sight. I was confused (and clearly not much of a crook because I couldn't for the life of me understand why who ever broke in chose to leave so many valuables). I would understand much later when the police arrive.

I snapped a few photos with my phone and headed over to the leasing office with my son. He asked questions about the "break in" while this here dad tried not to scream at the top of my lungs or cry in utter frustration on how violated I felt at the moment. I explained the situation and we headed back home trying to figure out what had happened. At first I thought the culprit came in through the window and then "broke" out the front door.

I told you I wasn't much of a criminal.

I dialed 911 and put in my call. An officer arrived a short time later to make a report.

"Looks like he kicked in the front door," he said.

"But there's so much shit he didn't take," I said pointing to my guitar, bass amp, bicycle, TV, stereo. "I don't get it."

"It has to fit in a backpack," he said.

It's was all starting to make sense now.

The officer asked for serial numbers none of which I had readily available. Sure I've got manuals, and hell, even the boxes the digital camera and PS3 came in. But no serial numbers.

"Most people don't have them," he said.

In an odd twist of events, he asked if I still skated as he looked at the skateboards littering the floor and hanging on the walls finishing up with a "street or vert?" question. I'm a musician too he said as he took pen tip to tongue before he asked what else had been stolen.

It was at that moment that I realized my fucking Mac laptop has been pinched. It's impossible to explain the feeling one has at that moment; the moment when you realize that the novel you've worked on for years, that the screenplay your were two thirds of the way through, that the years worth of short stories and poems penned, that the many photos of your children or your awesome iTunes library had just vanished from your world.


And most likely forever.

And suddenly you want to cry. But you can't. No not in front of your son and not in front of a cop. You make a mental note to do that much later, like maybe when you are typing out a blog post... sniff.

He broke my concentration when he said, "What an awesome bachelor pad!" beforing turning to explain CSI would arrive soon to dust for prints.

This is my reality TV motherfuckers. Please change the channel.

CSI came in with their cameras and white gloves and explained how "easy" it is to kick in a door... and boy doesn't that just make you feel so much fucking safer?

They took photos, and my fingerprints, before explaining how to clean up the dust or whatever that black powder shit is they use to do their job. And then they were gone.

And that's it.

I'm left to dig through my stuff to see when was the last time I backed up my work on disc but I don't dare do that at the immediate moment for fear of the worst which I am currently unable to face or comprehend.

I'm not into guns and don't really consider myself a violent person. I'm much more pacifist anarchist than ten-knuckled thug but right now vigilante justice sounds downright gratifying.

There's no justice, it's just us.

Monday, October 24, 2011

Family Style

I have catered on and off for the better part of fifteen years.

Most of the parties are broken down into a service style: heavy hor d'oeuvres, buffet, served and family style.

Family style, for the uninitiated, is when you put just about everything you can on the table: preset as we say in the business.

So the other day I worked a party.

Family style.

Cue No Trend...

Thursday, October 20, 2011

Do You Know What This Is?

It's called a Cootie Catcher.

As a parent, I am continually amazed at what things transcend generations.

Take this little bugger for instance. This origami-like fortune teller is a flashback from my days in elementary school and I was quite surprised when it resurfaced a few months ago through my boys. Hell it probably was more than a year ago but the parental calendar isn't always a Gregorian one knowwhati'msayin'? In this modern age it is good to see them enjoying things from my youth - in those days before cell phones and streaming movies - like rubber band airplanes or skipping stones on the water.

The basic premise of these is that you choose from a word on the side, then the letters are counted out. This exposes the innards of the mechanism which has each open-faced page printed with a number. You choose a number, the child flutters it, then you chose another number and yet another round of fluttering ensues.

Then you peel back the number it landed on and it reveals your fortune.

The words on the outside of this homemade cootie catcher?

Iron Maiden, Chest Pains, Shang-a-Lang and Led Zeppelin.

Nice right?

Now the fortunes:
-Sing any song you like.
-Sing a Led Zeppelin song.
-Sing any song you want.
-Free pass.
-Sing Especially in Michigan.
-Sing a Chest Pains song.
-Sing a Jimi Hendrix song.
-Sing a Black Sabbath song.

Fuckin' priceless ain't it?

Now you know why I'm holding on to this one for the memory books.

Monday, August 15, 2011

Half Full or Half Empty?

I do not know this man nor claim to know anything about how he got to this point in his life.

I do know that the day I snapped this photo it was grotesquely hot out.

And I also know that he was snoring and that he had a half empty twelve pack rested on the back of his wheelchair.

It got me thinking, "How do you overcome adversity in your life?"

You could be like Lance.

Or you could be like Amy.

You can let life get the best of you or you can get the best of life.

And so this photo will remind me that I need to get the best out of life because I will never know when life may one day get the best of me.

Saturday, August 13, 2011

Friday, March 25, 2011

Friday Foto

Not much to say about this picture if only because I know nothing about Batillus.

I was walking back to my car after the OFF! show and was encouraged to pop into Reservoir to catch a set from Caltrop.

These guys were on stage. I wish I could explain them. You can toss around words like metal and doom but they were so much more and so much less than those two genres. Prog metal? Who knows.

One thing for sure - the band was tight and the dude could holler.

Thursday, January 20, 2011

Dude. Sweet.

They are brothers.

And they act like such.

Some days they finish each other's sentences.

Other days they mock each other.

Some days it is pure comedy.

My youngest knows the bar scene dance from Pee Wee's Big Adventure - they both know who Booji Boy is - and they have got their own schtick that is so cabaret.

They are precious. Dude. They are sweet.