Hey, Michael, Stay In The Boat And Leave the Shore Alone

Tuesday, October 21st, 2008

Remember when Michael Jackson was the bestest best-selling artist of all time and smashed all types of barriers (financial and racial); remember when he was a red leather jacket-wearing trend setter who singularly propped up the zipper industry for most of the early ’80s; and remember when the scariest thing about him was his habit of wearing white socks with dark shoes, thereby hinting to us that he was more like our grandparents than either of them truly suspected?

Yeah, me, too.

On the other hand, the zombie arm falling off is still pretty damn funny:


We miss you, Early ’80s Michael.  You big weirdo.

Make like a tree and leave.

Tuesday, October 21st, 2008

Big Damn Picture

Tuesday, October 14th, 2008

Not much to say today, but here’s a Big Damn Picture of Auggy’s first time on the swing:

Where You When OP Died?

Tuesday, October 7th, 2008

We’ve all done it: we’ve been happily jamming to a tune at high volume in our car, windows down, when we roll up to a red light and find a bunch of people staring at us.  Apparently, not everyone is convinced Barry Manilow’s Can’t Smile Without You is a rip-roaring song worthy of blast-level sound.  To some, this is an embrassing reveal of our souls, to others–espeically those of us in  high school way back in the mid-’90s–it was a great opportunity to pull up next to a hapless red light victim and start blasting away the first few lyrics of this song:

Ah… Lion.  You were like Dokken wannabes.  And those in the cars next to us (for yes, I had cohorts) were okay with the heavy metal-ish chords which started off the song.  But when Lion sang “Transformers!” it ain’t nothing but a baleful gaze they sent our way.

Anyway, speaking of  youth, there are some world events where the announcements of such blaze a marker in your mind so deep and so permanent that you know exactly where you were when you heard, say, about JFK’s death (not me; I wasn’t even daddy’s little squirt or mama’s little egg bunch at the time), or the Challenger explosion (walking the hall at my elementary school when someone shouted that news bit out–I thought they were joking).  Perhaps the tragedy that loomed the largest in my pre-pubescent days wasn’t a political event, or a space shuttle kaboom.

No, it was the announcement of this scene:

Poor, poor Optimus Prime.  Hasbro, in a cynical attempt to sell new toys, actually created an entire movie (Orson Welle’s last flick, by the way) to showcase the death of its old line.  Numerous familiar robots were slain to make room for the newer, sleeker generation, and it caught all of us Transformer fans by surprise.  Expecting a rocking movie of bent and burnt metal, we were forced to face the reality that, yes, even Optimus Prime is expendable when corporate greed comes a-knockin’.

So, where was I?  In my classroom, a victim of a loud-mouth spoiler who rushed in to tell everyone Prime had passed.  I didn’t want to see the movie–I had to see the movie–I hated the movie–I own the movie.

Now, where were you when Optimus Prime died?

A Career Path For My Son

Monday, October 6th, 2008

He's either going to be a knight...

Or a jester...

Or, a mermaid.

You can see why I’m rooting for one of the first two.

God, My Ex-Girlfriend

Friday, October 3rd, 2008

The phone rang just past 1:00 this morning.  I grabbed at it, hoping to catch it in time before it woke up the Insta-Princess and our wee one.

“Hello?”

HI.

“God?”

HE-HEEE.

“God, is that you?  It’s almost 1:15, what are you doing?”

HIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII.

“God, are you–are you drunk?”

NO.  NOOOOOOOOOOooooOOOOOOOOoooOOOOoOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.

MAYBE.

“Dude, you can’t be calling this late.  You’ll wake the baby.”

BUT I LOOOOVE YOU!  I L-O-V-E EVERYONE!

“That’s great–really–but I have to get to work in the morning.  Plus, like I said, there’s the baby to think about.”

I CAN ALWAYS TAKE AWAY HIS HEARING.  IT DIDN’T SEEM TO HURT MOZART.

“You mean Beethoven?”

YEAH, HIM.

“No, leave Auggy’s hearing; just don’t call so late, that’s all.”

BUT I LOVE YOU. YOU’RE MY BEST PAL, MY BUD.

“Need a ride home, huh?”

THAT JERK GANESHA HOOKED UP WITH SOME STUPID TRAMP AND LEFT ME ALONE. HE’S GOT A FRIGGIN’ ELEPHANT HEAD AND HE STILL GETS AN UNHOLY AMOUNT OF PLAY!  IS IT THE TUSKS?  THE TRUNK?  I CREATED THE FUCKING RAINBOW AND HE GETS NOOKIE!

“Well, yeah, sure, but the rainbow… it’s kinda seen as a gay thing.”

REALLY?

“Pretty much.”

OH.  THAT HELPS EXPLAIN THE BATHROOM ATTENDANT TONIGHT.

“Listen, you’re God, you don’t need a ride home.  You can just snap your holy fingers and you’re there.  What do you need me for?”

DON’T DRINK AND DIVINE, THAT’S MY MOTTO.

“Okay, where are you?”

THE HURRICANE, OVER IN WESTPORT.  LOTS OF HOTTEES TONIGHT.

“Fine, I’m on my way.”

WHAT ARE YOU DRIVING? IT SHOULD BE SOMETHING FLASHY SO THE BABES ARE IMPRESSED.

“The Civic.”

TRICKED-OUT?

“No, just the way I bought it six years ago.  Doors open the regular way, it runs quietly, and the same stereo system with which it rolled off the lot.”

GOOD TUNES?

“Bee-Gees.”

NOT GOOD ENOUGH.  BAM!  THERE, YOUR CIVIC IS NOW A MERCEDES.

“Really?  That’s awesome!  That’s frickin’ sweet!  That’s–”

HAW HAW!  JUST KIDDING!

“You’re a douche, God.”

AND PEACE BE WITH YOU.