I'll Try Non-Sequitors for $400

Why does Starbucks open franchises that have one or no bathrooms? How can you sell a product that makes you have to poop, and then be like "No, sorry. You can try the deli next door." That's like a movie theater that doesn't have seats. "Why would we have seats? You can still watch the film..."

How many "skips" and "reverses" is it fair to save up in a game of Uno before you put them all down at once and make your 10 year-old cry?

When you are awarded the task of driving an Access-A-Ride in New York, does your name tag read "Reckless C**k"?



















Global Warming. I know it's not warm. It's weird. And it's been raining in New York for 5 months. My ark is halfway done. And don't give me that crap it's a "Rainy Summer." Rainy Summer? When the hell have we had a rainy summer? I remember when it used to snow. And I remember Hurricane Gloria. But this? No one is alarmed by this except me?

The Cadillac Escalade Hybrid. Or, rather, The Cadillac Environmentally Inconsequential Small Penis Converter.

I finally hooked up my High Def television. Sigh. That's what gets people all crazy? It's like a 3-D movie. I already see in 3 dimensions. And now I can see what effects shots George Lucas chose to lowball so Yoda could adjust his crotch before he lays a smackdown on Bad Acting.

We got Roxy's birth certificate mailed to: Rodney Sterbenz. Her name read: Roxy Serbenz. And now they rejected our submitted revision because neither of us included a photo ID. Grrrr.

John and Kate Plus 8. The pop-culture equivalent to the question "Who left that half-eaten sandwich on the counter?"

I watched my neighbors fight outside their house today. F**k you! F**k me? F**k you! I don't care. You don't care? I don't care. Oh, you'll f**king care tonight. Yeah, big f**king tough guy. F**k you. And so on. Sometimes it's nice to be in the Bronx. When else do you see this kind of magic?

Oh yeah, http://fuckyeahanimalswithcasts.tumblr.com/. Plaster magic.

Your Music Sucks

My Dad has 7846 songs on his Ipod.

The Hold Steady. Penguin Cafe Orchestra. Aberfeldy. A bunch of stuff no one ever listens to but are like, "Oh, this is great. Who is this?" when they hear it.

Me? I like the one called "Vacuum."

But I can only listen to the first 10 seconds because after that I remember I was supposed to be screaming my head off, and I would really hate to shirk my responsibilities at so young an age. I do have Character Development to think about, you know?

As a total aside, tell me I don't look like an old man in those headphones.

Man vs. Baby: Dutch Kills Review

Me: Glerbel lerbel blah der flan
Roxy: You obviously had a good time tonight.
Me: Blerbel ballah doo
Roxy: For those just joining us, my parents just got back from their date. They had dinner...
Me: Thrrrrp.
Roxy: Dinner at a Thai restaurant, and then they picked up their friend Brent and went to a bar.
Me: Blurble woooooooooooooooooooooo.
Roxy: That's right. Dutch Kills, a swanky little speakeasy in Long Island City.
Me: Glabbitty powerblatch compligloobin.
Roxy: With very powerful drinks.
Me: [burps]
Roxy: But delicious. The most delicious he's ever had.
Me: Slurrrrrrrr....zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Roxy: My night was so-so. I had gas. The bottle was not quite warm enough. And mommy wants me to go to bed, so I can't even finish this review.
Me: Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Roxy: And Daddy's asleep. Way to go, barkeep.

"Stand Back," said the Elephant, "I'm Going To Sneeze!"

I feel bad about not posting last night. But pushing through the mess, the boxes, Max's bronchitis, marital strife, post-partum depression, and an utter depletion of all of my resources, consider yourself fortunate from the upper tiers of Schadenfreude: The Musical as we've just added the following cast member: Constipation.

If I had the time, I would have Photoshopped that into a Playbill. But since I don't, consider that a free joke you get to assemble in your mind via The Imagination.

Now imagine a baby that didn't poop for 2 1/2 days. That's 2 1/2 days of clogged pipes and fussiness. And that's 60 hours of Parental Joy and Wonderment as your baby punches, claws, writhes, cries, whimpers, and farts her way into your heart.

She was obviously horribly uncomfortable. The internet said to try and instigate the process by taking the baby's temperature with a rectal thermometer. And that didn't work.

So as Roxy had an appointment with the GE doctor yesterday ANYWAY, we told her that we thought the Benedryl and/or the oatmeal were the culprits. Her reccommendation:
Frankly, it's the brand I would use. And it's got a penguin on the box. Why? This isn't the candy aisle. No kid is going to go down the Laxatives/Incontinence row in CVS and say "Mommy, can I get these suppositories? Please? Please please please please pleeeeeeeeeeease?" leaving poor little Dulcolax stuck sitting on the shelf because they didn't have the personification of not being able to s**t on their box in cartoon form.

Suckers.

I told Max she would have to go first to make sure it was safe for Roxy. She said, "I dare you to go near my tush..." And while even in humor I'll explore most things, a ten-year-old daring me to do this makes me think Leni and Max should have a conversation about good hygeine.

But I digress. All in all it was a convenient little suppository. It has a cross-guard just like on a sword to prevent over-insertion. It's pre-lubricated. And it was supposed to work within 15 to 60 minutes.

Unless it's been a few days in which case it takes 1. And you better get your hands out of their fast.

Want some imagery?
The suppository came immediately shooting out with a few hitchhikers, like big green pilotfish hanging on a shark. And when I say shooting out, remember this was a baby that woke us up from deep slumber pooping in her diaper under a blanket. It went about 18" across the couch. And that was only the beginning.

You wan't heartbreak? Take a look.
This was diaper number 3.

Cut to 30 minutes later when Leni went upstairs for a nap. Max and I were watching Roxy, Roxy had just finished filling diaper #4, and I quickly changed her in my lap (stupidly stupidly stupidly) without a changing pad. I figured, she's gone 5 times. I'm sure I have at least a minute to swap diapers before she...

Nope. All over me, my hands, my chest. I had to try to catch it all in a soiled wet-one like some soft-serve ice cream machine gone mad because it kept coming out. It KEPT COMING OUT. And Max, my assistant, was laughing so hard she started coughing, abandoned me to go in the kitchen to get a glass of water. And it was still coming out.

How much poop can a baby make? More than you can fit in your hand. This is a fact.

This is also a fact:
Someone feels better.

Why?

What does this even do? When you stop me from leaving the store, what exactly is it you are trying to achieve? You don't check my bag, you don't look at the products listed below. You simply scribble this little talisman on my receipt to ward off, presumably, the Evil Spirits plaguing your parking lot. Because I can't conceive of any other reason to make me wait, on another line, to get your security guard's autograph.

Is it a novel? Am I part of an underground artistic movement? A decades long performance piece where I line up allll the receipts I ever got from Home Depot and Best Buy to finally decode the message. "Ohhhhhh, wow. That's amazing. I don't know how you guys pulled this off."

I want to know how this works. I want to know what being detained at the worst store on the planet to get what I, ostensibly, could just do in the car by myself on the way home does to prevent theft. And, particularly, which Criminal Enterprise it is in the end that is perpetually thwarted because this jackass scribbled on my receipt?

Because I think those kinds of criminals are already in prison.

My Michael Jackson Story

This is a picture from the actual event the story pertains to. It's from the November 2001 record signing for MJ's Invincible CD release. It was at the Virgin Megastore in Times Square, NY.

I was working for Largent Studios at the time as a Set Designer, doing construction and modelmaking, events, that sort of thing. And this was just another job, the kind of job you wind up working 34 hours in a row (which I did) because your boss is a control freak (don't even deny it, Kevin) and everything has to be just right.

Random fact: That's the $10,000 rented table he doodled in Sharpee on. I didn't find out until I brought it back to the Soho dealer (my assistants wrapped it up at the location), and spent 2 hours hunched over it with a Q-tip and some alcohol until he was satisfied the table wasn't ruined. And I've always kicked myself for not just buying it and saving it for a rainy day.

But that's not the good part.

In addition to the little stage MJ sat on and greeted his fans, we also had to construct a "green room" of sorts in the store as well. This was for privacy. We made a pipe and drape box, fairly large to accommodate his entourage, make up mirrors, hair station, couches, etc. (For those who don't know, Pipe and Drape are vertical and horizontal poles you use to frame out a room or hallway, then attach Curtains to to act as walls. It's easy, and looks fairly respectable). So we have this one room.

But, we also build another room, a smaller one, at the end of the large one, that was just for Michael. And this was made clear: No one was to enter that room except for Michael. It was a place he could go to get away from everything if he needed to, a refuge, a sanctum.

So, we have the 2 rooms, the stage, the Virgin Megastore, thousands of fans. It was a circus.

Michael arrives, jumps on a car, everyone goes bananas, and he goes inside. Straight to the green room. Remember that detail. Straight to the green room.

And we wait.

After an hour, he comes out, sits down, signs CDs, and I think he did that for about 2/3 hours straight. No breaks, trips to the bathroom, no disappearances. Just sat and signed and said "hello" until someone decided enough was enough.

Then, he went straight back into the green room for a bit, and left. All told, it was about 4 or 5 hours.

So why is that so interesting? Well, because I was running the job, I was the first person to go back into the green room. I was also the first person to go back into Michael's private room. And what did I find waiting for me?

A 1.5 liter Poland Spring bottle full of urine. Warm urine. So warm, in fact, there was condensation on the top because he hadn't quite filled it all the way. He stopped about an inch from the top.

How do I know it was really his? I don't. But 5 hours drinking water and signing CDs under hot lights without taking a single break lends me to believe certain things. And if you're a eccentric celebrity who guards his privacy and would rather not use the dirty Virgin Megastore bathroom but are alone in a closed off room and have a bottle handy, who's going to know? You and whoever finds it. And even then, who would believe it?

Now, regret is a funny thing. Because where I feel it was imprudent to not blow my savings and buy that table he had autographed time and time again, decorating it with doodles and versions of his name, I REGRET not saving the bottle of urine.

Because the only thing, and I mean THE ONLY thing, more bizarre than an auction for Michael Jackson's nose (which, my spider-senses tell me, will be imminent), is an auction for 1.5 liters of his urine.

Or 3 half liters...

Temperature may vary.

Not Quite the Zapruder Film, But Close

This morning I was shooting miscellaneous footage of Roxy. Usually I'll keep the camera on Burst Mode so I can capture precious moments like this:
I like watching the whole arc of emotion and the subtle shift between "what the hell was that red light on the camera" to "fine if that's how you're going to play it I'm going to cry for no reason." I wish I had caught a little bit more before she lost it. I like it when she looks like a grumpy old man about to yell at some kid on his lawn. But every once in a while you capture something spectacular. Something rare and once-in-a-lifetime kind of special. Like the Loch Ness Monster or Britney Spears wearing underpants. Something.....wait for it....

Something like this....



I especially love the part where she turns purple.

Oh, and holy s**t, they lost Michael Jackson's nose? Remind me to tell you my MJ story tomorrow. Wait. You're the internet. Nevermind. I'll remind myself to tell you my MJ story tomorrow. Better?

Top 10/Top 5

Top 10 Things I Can Do When Roxy Is Sleeping (without waking her up):
10: Unpack Boxes
9: Cut my bookshelf in half with a Circular Saw
8: Screw anchors into the wall above her head
7: Administer her Zantac (I use a syringe, squirting it into her mouth)
6: Change her diaper
5: Kill Nazis in Call of Duty 2
4: Take flash pictures
3: Hammer metal brackets into the shelf supports in the closet
2: Crunch cellophane wrapping into a recycling bag
1: Clip her nails (that's me in the picture, a nail-clipping ninja)

Top 5 Things I Can't Do (without waking her up the instant I try):
5: Have sex with my wife
4: Have sex with my wife
3: Have sex with my wife
2: Try to take her out of the sling and into her crib
1: Have sex with my wife

Bad Idea Wednesday

Being home all day unpacking boxes can lend itself to exploration of things you might not have done under other circumstances.

Trying on all of your pants.
Collecting the screws from the spice rack you are disassembling.
Wonder if buying "Footballer's Wives: Season 1" was a waste of money.
Drink a lot of beer at 2 PM.

I did each of those, in order. Which one am I paying for the most?

Here's a hint: It's not Footballer's Wives.

Shhh....

I've been worried about meeting our new neighbors for the past few days because our downstairs bathroom doesn't have a curtain in the window. This is exceptional for the sole reason that if I am standing up going to the bathroom, and I reached out my free hand, my neighbor, standing on his porch, could reach out his hand and probably touch mine. I understand the mere mention of this comes across as entirely suspect. But the point is that since I hadn't met them yet, the last thing I wanted was for our meeting to transpire while I was, in fact, holding myself going to the bathroom.

"How's it going?" I'd say.
"Uh, fine. Fine. You?"
"Can't complain." I'd look down, then back at him. "You know, ha ha, they don't look that close from the street. The houses, right?"

Thankfully, we successfully avoided this as we wound up meeting on the corner last night as they were returning from vacation. We made a little small talk. I complemented him on his gargoyles. He told us where to get the best pizza.

And then I mentioned how quiet it was.

He had obviously lived here for wayyyyy too long, as he countered with the fact that sometimes you can hear I-95 (which is a considerable distance away). And I can attest this is true. Unless there happens to be a cricket nearby whispering quietly to another cricket. Then you can't. At least, you couldn't last night.

But quiet may be relative. It may be circumstantial. Because growing up next to a Firehouse wasn't bad, unless it was 12 noon, 6 PM, or anytime someone set themselves on fire with their toaster. Because at that point, you put on your helmet, rush to the basement, and kiss your ass goodbye.

Same goes for living next to the Long Island Railroad. I mean, you don't have to wear a helmet. You just have to have good reflexes as your utensils dance across the table. It's terrible.

So cut to this morning when LaGuardia Airport decided to re-route planes over our house. And I mean over our house. As in, I've had 4 beverages and free peanuts since 8 AM.

One thing he did make note of was the fact that occasionally you can also hear the NYPD firing range, located South of us. That's right. A firing range. And I'm left wondering how far away is the sound of a hail of bullets still audible?

I swear, if I find out our other neighbor is a Trumpet Repairman we're moving.

Milch Schneller!

As we were instructed by Roxy's Gastro-enterologist, for the past 2 weeks we have dilligently bottle-fed Roxy breastmilk, weighing each feeding down with a few teaspoons of Baby Oatmeal. And this seems to be helping. She's like a normal baby now. She doesn't get so angry when you poke her with a stick, nor does she look like that little reptile baby the blond lady gave birth to on "V" when she cries. We even slow danced to Neil Diamond today. It was a really sweet moment. She fell asleep in my arms, and then farted on my hand.

The issue, now, is that it's not helping Leni. Dilligently bottle feeding your baby breastmilk means dilligently acquiring a surplus of breastmilk which means Leni spends a lot of time hooked up to a machine that makes a whoosh sound and then spits the milk out into a bottle. Nor does it help when you ask your wife which breast is self-serve and which one is full service. She feels like an udder. Well, at least she did for a bit until her breastmilk started to disappear today.

Her doula said stress could be a factor. I guess it's like an erection. If you're worried about keeping the erection (I keep mine in a box), the more you worry the less engorged you are likely to be. And the less engorged you are means you are more likely to keep worrying about it. It's a vicious, floppy cycle (I hear). Unless, of course, you are trying to keep your erection at bay (swords are good, or citronella). I picture my 10th grade Trigonometry teacher Mrs. Tutschulte. She wore sleeveless shirts and had this flappy arm-hang thing. I just inject her into any fantasy and that's that. I think most guys have an Anti-tumescent agent they employ to dispose of inappropriate erections. If not, use me. I don't care. I'll make time.

So, here we are. A picture of Nazis and somehow, we've landed on a post about my erection. This is not going well at all.

The point was that now, Leni's doula and the head of the Breast Feeding Association of New York (or something like that, if you can believe that that exists) have told her quite adamantly that they are appalled she would contaminate her breastmilk. Roxy will grow out of her Colicky phase, and that to continue on the path we have chosen (the oatmeal), we are dooming her to a life of allergies and illness and something else that is really, really bad. Like, live in a cave and become a vigilante, kind of bad.

We have a doctor on this side that says Zantac and Baby Oatmeal.
We have a Lactation Consultant that says breastfeed and a medical-grade pump.

So, who's right? The Milk Nazis or the Nonplussed Pediatrician?

Let's see: the cosine of C is equal to a squared plus b squared plus...

There, worked like a charm.

Settling Up Old Scores

Just when we started getting the Reflux/Colic thing under control, who comes knocking at our door? Eczema. Allllll over her face and head. And just to make sure that was itchy enough, it spread to her chest, shoulders, arms, and back.

What does one do to get rid of Eczema on an infant? See if you can guess. It rhymes with Nothing.

I don't know who pissed off who in the Universe, but Cosmic-ly speaking? We are even, dickwad.

Although you did make her adorable, so I can't be that mad. Look at her in that tub. Sigh.



P.S. 1 more day to our move to City Island so my posts might be a little on the light side. Consider this your SlimFast 100 calorie Blog Entry warning. You will have to fast until Monday. But next week you'll be served a virtual cornucopia of comedy, wit, and sarcasm. A deep fried double-bacon cheeseburger wrapped in Popcorn Butter soaked slices of Pizza.

How's The Move Going?

Great, really great. The fact that Leni is working nights hasn't affected us at all. She's been a huge help.

Consider the Lobster...

Google the word "exotic" and guess what you get:
White people from California. As an aside, who the hell works at Google, anyway? Midget Inuit Indians? I just don't know who could look at that picture of Steve, Trevor, Jessica and Kylie and think, man, they must lead fascinating lives in...Cal-lee-for-nee-ya. Calleeforneeya. Doesn't that sound neat? And exotic?

Anyway, what you don't see are pictures of the Maldives or rare plants and the like. Nor do you see this:
But you should. Because should your Hamster ever fall ill or get it's toe stuck in a wheel, you will have to take he/she/your-guess-is-as-good-as-mine to an Exotic Pet Specialist. And that's what I had to do today. Oh, and as an aside, I've finally found something more embarrassing than giving my email, "mrhotshotsmartypants" to a prospective employer: Shouting the answer to the question "What's your hamster's name again?" across a busy doctor's office.

About the same time Roxy was gearing up and starting the vocal warm-ups for her concert tonight (just come to anywhere in zip code 11375...you'll hear her), I lost the coin flip and headed off to the Vet to see what we could do for Max's pet.

I'll give you a clue to the answer. It rhymes with Methal Pinjection.

Leni was right. The growth under Lobster's chin had in fact gotten smaller. And that's because what she was looking at wasn't a growth. It was a thick, gelatinous yellowy-mayonnaisey pus that had scabbed over. Lobster probably scraped some of it off, so when Leni looked at it again, of course it looked smaller.

What was the pus coming out of? I have to tell you, I don't consider myself to have a weak stomach but when the Vet cleaned it out, I almost threw up. It was an abscess. A hole. A hole in her head about the size of a dime and a 1/4" deep. And her head was swollen, eyes half-way closed, teeth distended...She was obviously in pain and not going to live long.

The Vet offered an aggressive approach of antibiotics, topical creams, and surgery. But with a Colicky baby and the fact that we're moving on Saturday, the last thing I want to do is nurse a hamster back to health, which, from all appearances, was most certainly going to be a failed exercise regardless. Plus, who's going to buy a little tiny defibrillator when she's gone?

He agreed that the most humane decision was to put her down. Though for $149, the most economical decision would have been to give her back to Max so she and Neglect could finish Lobster off for free.

I chose Humane.

I signed the neccessary papers, said my goodbyes, and texted Leni the bad news. And then the nurse asked me the following question:

"Would you like her ashes?"

I actually laughed. "No, thank you." Why would I want her ashes? Are there people who do? Are there people who shuttle their iguanas ashes safely home so they can bury them? "Oh, my god, Patches, no! Sob! I'll take you home. I'll take you home, big guy. Why??? Whyyyyy??!!!!!"

Is that what things have come to? Now that I think about it, let's see what Google has to say about: Hamster Mausoleums.

Ask a silly question...

Paging Dr. Kevorkian...

Just before Max left for Toronto, we noticed that her hamster, Lobster, had a strange growth beneath her chin. I know that that sounds like I'm setting this up for a joke but she really does have something serious going on. And by "serious" I mean something life-threatening. Although by "serious" I also mean serious to my daughter. I could pretty much take it or leave it.

Leni checked the lump again on Sunday and apparently told Max that Lobster looked better and was going to be okay. Frankly, I'm not sure what hamster Leni was looking at, because when I checked Lobster today, she was busy meeting with a Hamster Funeral Director and had already picked out a shoebox to be buried in.

And I know it will sound insensitive because it's not like the hamster has a lot of luggage or furniture to move to the new house...even if she did it would be in miniature...but Max doesn't even really play with Lobster anymore...So I wouldn't be terribly upset if Lobster just went ahead and booked a ticket to the Great Big Hamster Ball in the sky? What if I drop the hamster off in a little basket at the pet store?

Is that so wrong?

Man Vs. Baby: Public Enemies Review

Me: So, we were talking about Public Enemies directed by Michael Mann...
Roxy: We were. We were. I have to say, I thought it was really generous of him to share the credit this time around.
Me: Share what credit?
Roxy: Directing.
Me: He was the director...
Roxy: No, I know, but, the other one...
Me: What other one?
Roxy: Did you see the movie?
Me: Yes, I saw the movie. That's why we're here.
Roxy: Remember all those grainy, hand-held scenes?
Me: The ones that comprised more than half of the film, yes.
Roxy: He let his nephew shoot those.
Me: Get out...
Roxy: 100% serious. With a cellphone. I guess the kid did some really great work at his Bar Mitzvah and Michael decided to give him a shot.
Me: That's amazing.
Roxy: It's genius. What he does is this: Take Period Content, in this case the 1930's, and uses an anachronistic/technically distracting visual style...
Me: Like the kind you see on YouTube...
Roxy: Just like the kind you see on YouTube, in order to disconnect the audience from the film...
Me: If boredom hadn't done it already...
Roxy: Which, in this case, it had. [laughs] Then you mix equal parts You're-Not-Interesting-Just-Because-You're-Standing-There and Let's-Frame-Her-Out-A-Little-So-We-Can-Get-A-Better-Look-At-The-Wallpaper with a good sized portion of Machine Guns and you have one powerhouse of a film, I can tell you that.
Me: I'm guessing you didn't like it...
Roxy: Didn't like it? If I wasn't a baby, I would have shot Dillinger just to end the freaking thing.
Me: Yeah, it was pretty long.
Roxy: And I love long. I watched Shoah twice. In a row.
Me: So, final vote...Yay or nay.
Roxy: Oh, man, I don't know...Ummmmm, I'm going to have to say pencils in the eyeballs.
Me: Pencils in the eyeballs. That's fair. I'm going to say, finger breaking through the toilet paper.
Roxy: That's terrible.
Me: Yeah, I know. It sucks, but, as far as experiences go, there are far worse out there.
Roxy: I'm going to agree. Let's say: Two fingers breaking through the toilet paper.
Me: Done.

Sadness

Sadness is being drunk off of 2 beers and falling asleep, upright, in a chair watching the movie Point Break.

Pathetic would have been masturbating to it.

Missed that one by thiiiiiiis much.

Colic Loses Some Suction

Today sucked, plain and simple. How much did it suck? Try Kevin Spacey in the bushes. Try the Dyson Root 6. Try George Lucas making a few script revisions to Indiana Jones 4.

Between no sleep and a baby that can't physically be laid down unless she's sleeping, the day started off in the toilet, reaching speeds of up to a 4 hours delay for Max's flight to Toronto to see her Dad (really, Air Canada? A 4 hour delay? When the entirety of the Northeast is basking in sunshine? Did the captain misplace his took?), until the climax, which was Roxy's entry into the Loudest and Longest Continual Wailing Contest (she took 1st place with 3 hours, 22 minutes...way to go, Sweetheart!).

Leni's mom was over pretty much every night this week, but not tonight. So this was the first real evening I've had Roxy all to myself without adult supervision. This was also the first real moment I've ever truly apreciated that Calgon commercial from the '80's. It's like those moments you hear a phrase and all of a sudden you realize what it actually means outside of the idiom. Roxy was shaking in my hands, eyes wet with tears, her face a deep shade of Plum, and I thought: Man, oh, man, could I use a bubble bath. Except the bath fantasy also included Vicodin and Megan Fox asking me which bikini I like better, this one, or this one.

But then all of a sudden Roxy quieted down. It was 7:30 PM, so, frankly, she was due for her evening tantrum. But it didn't really come. I don't know if the medicine is working, or if Jupiter aligned with Mercury, or if Roxy somehow intuited how close she actually gets each day to spending the weekend in a burlap sack. At the bottom of a river. And then she does this while I'm feeding her.

Is this what it means to be a parent? Was this one of those special moments you look down at your child, your heart swelling, soul opening up to the universe, and think: Oh, fine. I guess I can always drown you tomorrow...

99% Colic, 1% Jokes

Colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic colic. Seriously, Joyce? Was 1983 missing something so crucial between Def Leppard's Pyromania and Prince's 1999 we needed this?

You know what I need?

I was talking to my mother the other day. I know I said "talking," but if you read this regularly you know I meant "complaining." And after speaking in detail about how incredibly difficult the situation with Roxy has been, my mother said: Oh, sweetheart, it sounds like you really need a break.

Well, there's the effing understatement of the year. Yeah, I need a break. I also need a magical unicorn that farts hundred dollar bills and Skittles. I know that sounds gross but in the fantasy the Skittles don't smell like donkey poop.

They taste delicious.

Can I Have the Etymology, Please?

Boy: "Uh, G-a-s-t-r-o...Can I have the sentence again?"
Judge: "Normally, yes, but this is a blog. You'll be able to read it."
Boy: "Yeah, but, I mean, I hardly think it's fair to be penalized because of the medium someone other than me chose to depict this bit in..."
Judge: "But it's a Spelling Bee..."
Boy: "Not my fault. Maybe next time do a joke about Wheel of Fortune or something..."
Judge: [pauses] "Fine."
Boy: "Fine?"
Judge: "Yes, fine. The sentence is: Your daughter has symptoms of Gastro-Esophageal-Reflux."

I found it remarkably sad that out of the entirety of human existence and advancements in the field of medicine, the only offering I've been given to explain my daughter's inconsolable crying and screaming until she turns purple was that wonderfully ubiquitous term: Colic.

I hear: She's a baby.
Babies Cry.
It's not abnormal for babies to cry.
My daughter/son cried for 3/6/9 months straight every morning/day/night until one day/overnight/all of a sudden, he/she stopped.

That's great. But other than a slap on the back and a "hang in there," I'd like to know why my daughter's screaming. I can't just be an intolerance to my song parodies.

I was busy today. I did my research and took Roxy to another doctor, armed to the teeth with information about Colic and Reflux. Because in some sense, the symptoms overlap and they are, at times, very similar, if not the same. Arched back? Spitting up? Red throat? Check, check, and check! Reflux it is!

So at least, now, we have a beginning. We filled a prescription for Zantac. We'll hold her head under water if she shows any fear of crossing streams, and feed her a smaller amounts more frequently.

Wish us l-u-c-k.

I Am Delicious

Swingtime for Hitler

Here it is. The exquisite 20 seconds Roxy decided to stop screaming today. If you think this was easy, imagine being at Michael Jackson's Memorial service trying to capture a moment that depicts something even remotely in the neighborhood of "Dignity." Good, are we on the same page now? I had to put her in the swing sideways, and stuff the underside of the cushion to the left and right so she felt comforted.

Just to give you a frame of reference to what today was like: Shove a jackhammer up your urethra and drink a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon. Actually, do that in reverse. And then shotgun another beer every ten seconds for the next 6 hours. Simultaneously, watch the film (using that word lightly, btw) Miami Vice, except watch it on 1/4 speed and hit yourself in the face with a shovel every time Colin Farrell touches his hair.

Oh, and somewhere in between Suffering and Despair, try to get some packing in. You're moving July 15th.

They don't tell you about this. No one talks about Colic. No one says, "Are you nuts? Don't have kids...if they get colicky, man, you are so effing screwed! Go to Malawi, they're, like, giving away kids there!" The same way no one tells you you'll be having sex like Navy Seals for the rest of your life: Swift, Silent, and Exacting.

I guess you could have also have said: In a tent full of dudes covered in sand. But that seemed like the type of joke only one or two of you would have read and said "No way, you f***ing NAILED it, man! Ahhhh ha ha ha, you too?"

An Open Letter:

Dear Whore,

I thought we had an understanding. I was under the mistaken impression that if I couldn't grow a beard, you would stay nice and sharp. I know razors get dull, but certainly not after one or two uses. And certainly not maintaining the kind of facial hair I require you to manage. There are 12 year-old Hasidic boys with more respectable mustaches.

But this betrayal, this type of insult will not go unpunished Gillette Mach3 Power Razor.

Imagine my surprise when I employed you this afternoon, only to find my face scraped clean of both my meager hirsuteness as well as flesh. Had I wanted this many nicks and scrapes I would have cut the foreplay and shaved with a jigsaw jumping on a trampoline. And to hell with grammatical errors. I would have shaved with a jigsaw while I was jumping on a trampoline as well as with a jigsaw (that was itself) bouncing up and down on a trampoline. I would have held the whole rig to my face.

Was it your friend? Was it the Bic Soleil, my wife's supposed razor, that lulled me into this disfiguring deception unawares? Should I have been suspicious? I didn't remember leaving you in the shower, but it was possible I had. Yet judging from the trough cleaved into my face, you occupied yourself with not just Leni's armpits, but both of her legs as well. Or was it just one? One long silky leg wrapped in 80 grit Sandpaper?

I was under the impression that your days of shaving around were over. I guess I was wrong. But this will be the last time I am cuckolded into 5 o'clock shadow...obviously however long it takes me to actually accumulate what would be considered "5 o'clock shadow."

Bitch.


Yours in hatred,

Rodney

Double Feature

As a midday special, I've decided to share 2 links with everyone that if you reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeally wanted to stretch it, could probably find some parallels.

1. This one is for a panoramic view of Michael Jackson's basement. It's interactive, you can scroll around, and if you use the "hand" icon on the Spiderman mannequin, he giggles...just kidding. I wouldn't use the "hand" icon on anything. Not without washing first. This is Michael Jackson we're talking about.

http://www.pinsane.com/pinorama/events/MJ_09/kr/michael_jackson_arcade_entry.html

2. And this one is for a brothel in Prague. Everything is free, all the girls, toys, trapezes, accoutrements, and delousing. The only hitch is you need to sign a release that says you give permission to have your session filmed, recorded, and broadcast on the internet! How crazy is that?

http://archive.bigsister.net/en/welcome.php


So which one gives you the creeps more? I have my pick. At least you CONSENT to being filmed in the whorehouse, right? At Michael's, things would be different. You'd hear that falsetto voice over the loudspeaker: "Go stand next to the Power Ranger...closer, closer...closerrrrrr. Now pretend you're picking up a nickel..."

Full Moon Expected

According to my Moon Phases Calender, the next full moon will be Tuesday, July 7th. Unless you live in our house, in which case every day is a Full Moon Extravaganza, a Poopy Diaper Parade and a Cavalcade of Colicky Something that starts with a "C."

I'm sorry. I just totally lost my train of thought. Leni is eating tuna fish right next to me in our bedroom and it smells so freaking bad. I don't know how people eat tuna. You should have to eat it out of the bottom of a garbage can with the alley cats because that's how it smells like it should be eaten. You don't get nauseous eating fresh baked cookies, right? Even worse, Max has been boasting that she blew up the bathroom in the hallway and can't go to bed because she can't get to her bedroom, so I guess I'm stuck here as well. The only thing that's missing is a few gassy Grips from the TV show Damages and I'll be on my way to winning tonight's Olfactory Fear Factor.

I don't know. Now what the hell do I write? I guess I'll fill you in on last night's mystery guest.












Drunk guy comes up to Leni and puts his hand around her arm. And I guess, in retrospect, I have to give the guy credit. Why not open with your best stuff, you know? Why not come hit on a married woman sitting next to her husband? What have you got to lose?

That's what I say. Open with your best stuff because you really might not get another chance. ABC. Always Be Closing. Always. Be. Closing. Although, I guess it's more like ABCAVVVD. Always Be Closing And Very Very Very Drunk.

Bryon: "Wait, wait...Listen, listen, listen, listen, do you have any girlfriends? Do you? Do you have any girlfriends like you? You are so hot. Seriously. Listen. Listen. Listen, okay? Okay? Okay, seriously, do you have any girlfriends who look like you? I mean, cool, cool and awesome. You know? Because, wait, wait, wait, listen, because I've banged a lot of cool girls...wait, wait, listen, listen, okay, listen...I've banged a lot of cool girls but they were never awesome, you know? Not like this."

He had to keep stopping to tell us to "listen" because we were laughing so hard.

Bryon: No, no, no, where are you from?
Leni: Here.
Bryon: No, seriously, where are you from?
Leni: Here. Forest Hills.
Bryon: Where?
Leni: Forest Hills.
Bryon: No, no, no, seriously.
Leni: I was born here.
Bryon: I live here. I lost my license in 3 DWI's and I can't drive. [turns to me] That's why I live here where do you live? Where do you live? Where are you from?
Me: Long Island.
Bryon: Where?
Me: Long Island.
Bryon: [accusatory] Where?
Me: Huntington.
Bryon: Where?
Me: Huntington Bay.
Bryon: Where?
Me: 128 Bay Drive. It was a green house.
Bryon: Cool. Cool. I'm from Centerport. Cool. Cool. Cool. Cool. Here, take it. Take it. Here. Take this. Seriously. Take this. You can call me. Serious. No. No. No, no, no. Call me.

We hurried out of there probably a little too quick for Bryon's liking, but I was about to wet my pants. I had to go to the bathroom really bad; I just couldn't leave Leni alone with this guy.

So to the person with the Grey Jeep and suspiciously wet bumper?

It wasn't personal.

Actually, it was Chivalry.

Drunken Bloggen Spectacular

Leni and I had a date tonight. Leni's Mom came in to watch Roxy so we could go out and, essentially, get s***faced. And even though it took 2 hours to get her to calm down and fall asleep, we eventually were able to leave.

Leap forward to 11:30 PM when Leni and I are very very very drunk and are still laughing about the fact that Leni was hit on by a guy who I think good friends of mine know from growing up. Do any of you know Bryon Clegg? I think he sailed with my friend Brandon. First he asked if Leni had any girlfriends. Then he wanted to make sure I knew how hot he thought she was.

"No, no, no, no, no, no, no...Seriously, she's hot..."
"I know, dude." I said.
"No,, no, no, no, no, no no no no..."

I didn't find out his name until we left and Leni handed me his business card. I didn't even pee in the bar because I knew he would ambush her as soon as I left so I peed on the street after I left.

Don't read this entry. It's terrible. I'm in baaaaad shape. Not as bad as Bryon Clegg, but close...

Spinnny

Nasty Little Hobbitses!

See if you can guess which one of my daughters was a complete monster tonight. And don't give me that crap "Oh, come on, it can't be that bad..."

Yes, it can.

I would rather listen to a recording of "We Built This City" over and over again on the radio for 36 hours straight. Even if it was on a half-station mixed with static and a Mexican Soccer match at top volume (with the occasional "Mr. Tambourine Man" Shatner business sprinkled on top). All of that would be preferable to tonight's main event.

If all you've had is a baby that never cried and was such a precious little angel you've spent the last few years kicking yourself you never took her to that casting for a Pampers Commercial, go back to the Land of Unicorns. My baby doesn't wear Bubble Gum Lederhosen to school. She wears other babies. Right before she eats them. I'm serious. She is that evil.

In other news, Max and her friend Ilene spent such a considerable amount of time making, and I quote, "The World's Smallest Water Balloons," I just had to share them with everyone.














Max (that's her on the left), even demonstrated how each one had "actual" water inside.














The only drawback was I had to convince the two of them that it was, in fact, dangerous for them to put them in their mouth. Unless they were older. In college, really. And only, then, if they were realllllllly strapped for cash. And only, only then, if maybe they could sew the stuff into the lining of their suitcase instead. That way if they got busted, they could just say they left it in storage at that hotel they stayed at in Playa Del Carmen for a night and thought it looked funky when they got it back, but couldn't really say for sure what was different. You know?

[Note: That last paragraph was for satirical purposes only. No member of my family, past or present, has ever been a drug mule, nor a sociopathic fictional character from an extremely popular fantasy series]

How The Hell Would I Know? I'm A Baby.

Did New York make me hard? I don't know. Maybe to some degree. But my reluctance to smile at people who smile at Roxy stems from another very similar annoyance. Dogs.

Dog owners will attest to the fact that when someone comes up to you and addresses your dog, YOU are immediately responsible to continue the conversation, yet now, instead of the character DOG OWNER, you have been cast as DOG.

Person (talking to dog): Hi, there, cutie! What's your name?
You (as Dog): Puddles.
Person (now excited): Puddles! Hell-lo, Puddles. You are a cute widdle puppy! Yes, you are! Yes you are!"

And it's the same for babies. Leni says I shouldn't be so unfriendly, but if I decided to respond to people's curiousities all the time my baby would wind up sounding like as big an a**hole as I am.

Person: Oh, my goodness. Look at you! Aren't you the most precious thing I've ever seen?
Me: Uh, yes?
Person: She is bea-uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu-tiful! How old are you, sweetheart?
Me: 36.
Person: Wha? Oh, shoot. [Leaning in to Roxy] I meant you, darlin'...you look brand new. How old are you?
Me [Pissed]: I'm 21 days old.
Person: Twenty one! Look how long you are. Are you going to grow up to be long and tall?
Me: Really? This is the conversation you want to have with a baby? You don't want to ask me if I can see ghosts or if I'm really a Knight from The Crusades? You want to know if I'm going to be "long." What about the Laffer Curve? Vespucci's shakey methods for calculating longitude? Something interesting. What about the fact that you're talking to something that cannot speak? Do you speak to shoe boxes at home? Or the toaster? Then how about letting me stagger out of this cloud of coffee breath and urinal cake eau de bug repellant you've spritzed all over yourself and let me have a little peace and quiet!

Now, can anyone guess who went to the Roosevelt Field Mall today with Leni & Max to go shopping for Skorts?

L-O-L-A Looooolllllll-la

This is a self-portrait of how I spent last night. From the hours 2:30 AM until about 5 AM when Roxy finally fell asleep and STAYED asleep, I walked around with her in the sling and my pinky in her mouth.

This is what works. If whacking a badger with a bratwurst made her go to sleep, I'd have a picture of that as well. Although, in hindsight, I realize how peculiar a metaphor that is. And it's not just the inclusion of the bratwurst. It's trying to decipher whether the badger is being assaulted or, perhaps being mislead by the innate whimsicality of the word "whacking," is simply asking for it.

I digress.

You're welcome to your own opinions on Baby Wearing and my soothing Roxy with my pinky (which, obviously, will become less and less appropriate as she enters her senior year at college). At 3 AM, you do what you can to steer clear of Sylvia Plath territory.

Which brings me to Netflix. Perhaps the greatest discovery I've made this past few weeks has been their "Watch Instantly" function, which offers a relatively good selection of TV shows and Movies that you can access any time, at any point, free with your membership. Should you make it through 10 gruelingly mind-erasing minutes of Guy Ritchie's film "Revolver," just turn it off. If you ever want to continue the lobotomy, Netflix will remember your position. Or pick something else from their library. Watch "Slap Shot." "Strangers on a Train." Watch "The Beastmaster" and wait for the moment Marc Singer's career disappears into obscurity.

I chose "Tootsie." And the Universe, through the All-Seeing Internet, helped me smile once again. Because they don't just offer you "Tootsie." Netflix would also like to offer you a few other cinematic experiences that are, in their opinion, "most like Tootsie." So when you choose a film about a man who cross-dresses to become a woman, they recommend "Spice World."

You probably had to be there.