Carbon Copy

I'm not planning on departure to the next existance anytime soon. However, should I meet my unfortunate demise, after all the useable parts have been extracted, dissected, and studied for the good of science and art of course, somebody please oh please have the good sense to do the natural thing.

And turn my remains into 240 pencils.

Torn

It's really cold and rainy and crappy out. But this made me laugh when I wasn't expecting to today, so I'm sharing.

Yay for self deprication!

Welcome to My Neighborhood

It seems my current town of residence Largo, FL is making the news, but not in a positive way. For those who have not read the reports of transgendered City Manager Steve Stanton, I feel I must bring to light this act of discrimination:

Stanton: Abrupt Firing a Surprise - via St. Petersburg Times

Not that I would know anything about living with a life changing secret, but this seems it would be so much more difficult. I wish I could be as brave or outspoken but it seems even that right is being trampled upon:

Distributing fliers, she runs into trouble - via St. Petersburg Times

If you so wish to show your support sign the Stand with Stanton petition.

All By Himself

Some monkeys will gladly dwell in their poop. Some longer than others. And some will throw it at you.

As happens with autistic kids a lot, many don't get the concept of going to the potty. It's no surprise the Younger Monkey has shown little interest with not staining his underoos. But rather, waiting until he's done the deed and then vicariously informing us of a job well done squishing from his pants. With the help of his school, he's been in underwear for a while, with the hope that he'll just find it gross, or that something will just click. But to no avail.

As I recall, potty training the Elder Monkey was easy. One weekend we just put him in underwear. The first time he felt it all dribble down his legs, it freaked him out. A lot. It's been relatively smooth sailing since, although he seems to have picked up from some bad habit of not going 'til the last second when enthralled in something that is far more pressing. Like getting past the next level of Jimmy Neutron: Attack of the Twonkies.

I tell him to go. "I don't have to go." I'll watch him gently rock back and forth like a ship at sea. "I don't have to go." I smell a storm brewing. "I don't have to go." At this point, batten down the hatches and make sure there's no one in the way. "I have to go NOW!" The waves are so tumultuous at this point that pants are on the way down before he even gets there. "Um, Can I have some new underwear..."

I sit back and sigh. I could go on and on with I told you so, but I feel like this must be payback of some sort. I'm not sayin' I have personal experience with this problem. I'm also glad my mom doesn't have a blog or internet access.

Ok fine. I am in fact sitting in a poo right now from the excitement of news I just learned that I couldn't hold back.

Let it be written that this morning the Younger Monkey was watching TV, he uttered his small but mighty "Uh-Oh!", that usually foretells a disaster from the from very bowels of, well, the bowels. As fearful and quizzical looks are exchanged and the preparation of new armor is eminate, he unexpectedly dashes to the other end of the house. To use the potty on his own. Afterwards he proclaims "Whew, that was close." Kachow!

True, he still won't poop when cojoled to. But it brings hope for the future that we won't have to invest in some stock with Serenity for Men.

Perhaps the measure of true victory is breaking through your tribulation and coming out on the otherside wearing clean undies.

Easy as Fish on a Stick

The ongoing saga of homework with the Elder Monkey has been getting much better lately. I never said I knew what I was doing in this whole parenting thing, but it sure took a while to figure out the right after school groove.

At first, you see, I was the opposite of pushover with all this. I was determined that homework was to be done right away and he will sit there, young man, even if it took us all afternoon. It was totally bogus. Homework, in the first grade anyway, is designed to take fifteen minutes, tops. Factor in all the whining, time-outs and meltdowns, it would turn into a few hours. I hated doing it as much as he did.

And so I was bamboozled, of course, since being the perfect child, never having this problem in my youth. Ahem. "Not again." "This is boring." "I can already do this so why do I have to?!" Gee, that sounds vaguely familiar. Maybe he's got more of the aforementioned perfect child in him than I thought.

So it seems, parents have homework as much as kids do. For me it's figuring out that you can have discipline and not turn into a dictator. The whole balance thing with being the dad and trying to fashion some respect but also making sure they don't COMPLETELY hate you. It's probably inevitable but I still gotta try, right?

Generally, the actual process of doing of the homework has gotten far easier. And so it seems with mine, a yogurt, a pretzel and an hour of free time first instead of a kitchen table SWAT team lock down right after school works much better. Once we get going, reading is fine form, his handwriting is a zillion times better, and math has always been a slice o' pie.

It still takes a bit of prodding though, when 4 o' clock rolls around, especially if things are making explodey sounds. Which is why today, when I saw that he was to write poetry, I drew a complete blank as to explain how one actually writes poetry without breaking into a lengthy dissertation on how things don't always have to rhyme to be a poem. There are times I forget he's doing the homework and not me. And then I remember he should of course get away with rhyming as much as possible while he still can.

So here's what he came up with. With perhaps the tiniest bit of help from Dad and Grandma but, you know, sometimes collaboration is mutually beneficial for all parties involved.

Ahem ahem ahem:

A polar bear lived in an ice cave.
people say he was very brave.
He hunts for seals.
He eats them as a meal.
And on holidays he eats fish sticks.

Sketch o' the Day ~ The Hibernator

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | Finish

Just as he had with it's brothers and sisters, Bartholomew's steady hum would thrive as as many season's as it took until the doll's stitches and stuffing would begin one of it's own.

By the Book

I must admit I am extremely ill-read. I can't actually remember the last book I read. I find this to be sad and irritating.

To ammend this and score some Dad Karma, I've started this week to read to monkeys at bedtime. I could give a million reasons why I haven't done this before, but it's all really a bunch o' coddleswap. So Friday night, I decided to forego all excuses, picked up the tome that is the collected Chronicles of Prydain and began reading The Book of Three in the best epic storyteller voice I could muster.

As is the case with most things new, there was protest. That is until I read the first sentence aloud: "Taran wanted to make a sword..."

Eyes widened and mouth shut so fast I am sure there was some kind of fwap, zhwip or kaching heard off in the distance. As the Elder Monkey too wishes to make swords (doing so frequently with sundry household items), if one could learn the craft from hearing about such an endeavor surely it must be worthwhile.

And so he listened intently as Dad began to slaughter all kinds of Welsh-like names. Words with lots of double "ll" and "wy", sounds that make one sound slightly drunk and tongue tied. Go ahead and say Fflewddur Fflam several times in a row without spitting all over yourself.

Soon the intent of making a sword had gone by the wayside and given way to learning greater things such as the silliness of why anyone would listen to an oracular piggy, "meditating" is best done by closing one's eyes and lying flat on the back at least twice a day (and then snoring), and that really you don't go into deep, dark woods without expecting to be run over by a freaky guy wearing a skull and antlers.

And then there is Gurgi. Described as half man, half animal, Elder Monkey keeps changing his mind about what he is. First a baboon. Then an armadillo. Currently a speedy three-toed sloth. Every time yearnings for crunchings and munchings abound, a kind of weak-kneed giggle takes over. The one where you lose all muscle control and can't sit in your chair upright. Almost as if someone had also smacked him, along with Gurgi, in his poor tender head.

The Younger Monkey could have cared less really about listening, and much like Gurgi howled and squirmed in his usual ritual, until my drone surprisingly lulled him into sleep. I think, yes, we will be reading at bedtime from now on.

Superduper Lover

Was there any ever doubt?
via Articulatory Loop

Oh, and at first I didn't see that you had to set it to "Super Male" and came up with this lovely creature:

The Quest For Spamalot

When I heard that Monty Python and the Holy Grail was being made into a Broadway musical, I thought that was a great idea. Sort of. One must venture cautiously when tampering with things that aqcuire a cult-like following. Even my dad, overly critical fellow that he is when it comes to filtering his entertainment choices, fondly recalls his own hysterical laughter when he first saw King Arthur galloping, sans noble steed, over hill and dale accompanied by a man pounding together coconuts. I mean what could there not be to love?

Last night, my main squeeze treated me to Spamalot. As lines from the movie are quotidian for us we weren't sure what to expect.

The audience was composed primarily of two groups: The uninitiated, who were simply present as die-hard theater goers with season passes to everything, and the die-hard devotees of the film with their prop coconuts and killer bunny hand puppets on hand. Although a fan, I am hardly die-hard anything, so by default it was interesting to hear distinct portions of the audience react to different things.

For those in the know, the biggest obstacle this show has is hearing the original dialogue delievered by a voice you aren't used to. Everyone who loves the film knows that it's not just the ridiculous nature of the dialogue, but the idiosyncratic delivery that catches your ear. It's like a foreigner mispronouncing a word. Those who are fluent can't help but want to correct. Homage is good, I am sure, but this seems a different beast.

So anytime a signature phrase or scene was reenacted onstage, it was simply not funny. The Knights who say Ni were not as amusingly threatening. Brother Maynard reciting the instructions for sacred artillery? "...then lobbeth thou thy Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch towards thy foe, who, being naughty in My sight, shall snuff it. Amen." High-larious. But here, it had all the character of a bored sunday school teacher.

The best bits often were when it deviated and embraced, even parodied, it's Broadway style theatrics. Additions such as a Lady of the Lake diva with her "Laker Girls" made for a show that was completely unrecognizable as a Python adaptation. I'm used to the film so much that it was jarring for me, but probably perfectly acceptable as campy show. The quest for the grail, in a show stopping number, becomes the quest to make it big on Broadway "You can't be successful on Broadway without any Jews." Which, now that I think about it, is probably a Pythonesque joke where the play is lampooning itself, as the movie skewered its attributes of being a feature film.

It was all a different flavor of silly and maybe just tad too hokey for my taste. Perhaps it just wasn't dirty enough. Not in the perverted way, but as in, "Where is all the mud, filth and spurting appendages?" It was all clean bright and shiny castles and expensive storybook forest trees with all the shit cleaned off. Hm, okay, maybe a little in the perveted way. There were no spankings to be found either.

All of this is not to say that I didn't have a good time. It wasn't ever boring, just more "The Producers" than "Python". But then, not being a veteran of what to actually expect from a nationally touring, professional musical it was a treat just to go. I got a good chuckle out of it. Truthfully, the whole Broadway scene is really a little bit weird to me. (Uh-huh, you say, but you dig strange British men who dress in drag...) Maybe I'm just not the all-singing, all-dancing gay on the avenue...

Oh, who am I kidding. I'm just jealous of people who can get on a stage without throwing up. The tiny black woman in my brain just smacked me upside the lobe and gave me some major head swivel.

How To Poop The Japanese Way

My sister knows me too well, I think...



Mental note: Acquire happy, singing toilet to inspire younger monkey to unchi unpapa. Reward with shiny pantsu with a big red star. That's the ticket.

Cheek to Cheek

Online quizzes are always the same for me so I don't partake of many. I'm rather predictable it seems. I already know that I'm Spiderman, for example.

But still sometimes I think, am I really that predictable? So you tell me... is this a good thing or just plain boring?

The Slow Dancer


Deliberate Gentle Love Dreamer
(DGLDm)

Steady, reliable, and cradling him tenderly. Take a deep breath, and let it out real easy...you are The Slow Dancer.

Your focus is love, not sex, and for your age, you have average experience. But you're a great, thoughtful guy, and your love life improves every year. There's also a powerful elimination process working in your favor: most Playboy types get stuck raising unwanted kids before you even begin settling down. The men left over will be hot and yours. Your ideal man is someone intimate, intelligent, and very supportive.

Your exact opposite:
The Hornivore

Random Brutal Sex Master

While you're not exactly the life of the party, you do thrive in small groups of smart people. Your circle of friends is extra tight and it's HIGHLY likely they're just like you. You appreciate symmetry in relationships.

ALWAYS AVOID: The False Messiah
CONSIDER: The Gentleman or The Slow Dancer

The 32-Type Dating Test

Homework Bound

Each week, I pray to the homework gods that it will be a good week. I must not be making the proper sacrificial requirements since it seems to be getting harder with every passing day. Currently, the Elder Monkey has no video games for an indetermined time because he blew a gasket, a fuse and I think some vital fluid lines on a particular Tuesday two weeks ago when I said it was time to sit down and do the deed. How dare I!

Homework seems to have the opposite affect on this particular monkey than it's intended purpose. I usually do it with him since I have them in the afternoons. Which makes me as awful and hideous as that forbidden piece of paper with those squiggly things called words appears before him and out goes all manner of rational thought. But we do it and I'm sooooooooooo the devil. At the top of the hit list.

Oh, the impudence! The gall! How dare I make "i" come before "e" and other cryptic nonsense! A silent "gh" in "thought"? Bolderdash! Even and odd numbers? What whacko decided that was a good idea!? Growl, moan, mutter...

The Elder Monkey is in First Grade so it's only supposed to take all of ten minutes and sometimes ends up being over an hour. This is not all his doing of course. There are outside forces at work; the younger monkey, the dog, snacks, extremely urgent potty breaks, the younger monkey and the dog digging holes, swords, itchy clothes, poop, the younger monkey and the dog eating dirt... Goodness knows, there are battles to be fought (but not necessarily won) and treasure to be looked for (even if never found) so who needs homework!?

I know he can do it just fine and these distractions don't work on me much anymore. I have seen the proof when it clicks. He does have a point. The problem is he thinks like I do. I just went through a whole day of this stuff, why exactly do I have to do MORE? I try to steer him in the right mode of thinking. If the right motivation is presented though we get through it. As we read every night, he has still has stumbles on those boring words like "nearly" and "sometimes". But give him "sarcaphogas" and "tyrannosaurus" and his native tongue has been awakened.

Today was a good homework day. And so I make big freaking deal out of it and every one is happy for the moment. Tomorrow, however, is another Tuesday which means, writing a story of his own. He loathes long form writing with the fury of a raging bull. I am sure not to wear red on these days and make sure more erasers are on hand.

I will not be blamed for the tripping of any office fire alarms should you send burnt offerings at your hastily constructed post-it note and paperclip pyre in prayer for mercy on my meager soul. But thanks anyway.

Live From Your Living Room

Today, my dad and I went to a house concert.

I've heard of these before but have never been to one. House concerts are up close and in your living room performances where you usually have to bring your own chair. Generally, these to seem to feature folky types, who prefer smaller audiences without the fear of having beer bottles thrown at them. Unless of course their songs encourage this kind of thing. They also do it as a way to travel without having to pay for a stage, sometimes get a place to crash and meet the people; a great "grass roots" effort to get your name known in a personal venue.

It didn't hurt, of course, that it also doubled as a pot luck. Any excuse to consume free food in exchange for making guacamole (which I will also consume) is A-OK in my book. I'd probably hold a house concert myself, except I'd have to call it a "Large Walk-In Closet Concert". There is also the fear that they might get sucked into the black hole and then I'd have guilt when I have to ask myself, "Whose remains ARE these?" when I clean it out twenty years from now.

My dad had never heard of this type of concert (which surprised me) and asked me to go with him. We went to see Pierce Pettis, a superb singer songwriter of whom my dad is a big fan. It was just him and a guitar and some stories. I basically sat next to him while he played.

All in all I enjoyed it. But now I'm totally spoiled and it reminded me why I am already an old man in some respects. And not just because I actually knew and enjoyed his cover of Wichita Lineman.

I rarely go to concerts. I can't remember how many concerts I've attended but it's been very few. They were always full of smoke and pot and booze and the people who had already absorbed too much of the aforementioned smoke and pot and booze. The tickets were pricey. It was so loud that the next few days strangers mistook me for a retired, deaf Canadian. "Eh? What was that again? Eh? Speak up, sonny!" I'm sure I enjoyed seeing whoever it was I was musically obsessing over at the time but always came home feeling like a train wreck.

My, look at the time, I must now shuffle off to bed after I take my teeth out.

Sketch o' the Day ~ The Proclamation of Ashes

click to enlarge
Progress: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | Finish
When left with enough time to simmer the best kind of incandescence is often found rising from the feral innards of soot, scraps and sundry.

---------------------

Dear Secret Simon,
Congratulations on turning two years old today. Now go forth and rampage outside in your underwear.

Peace,
Alden