Boo!

We carved pumpkins last night after I got home from work, and while that was probably the last thing I wanted to do, I decided to jump in and not be a curmudgeon about the whole thing.

Speaking of curmudgeons, what do you think Mr. Murphy from around the corner was doing last night? Probably digging a trap door underneath his mailbox to bring kids splashing down into the moat in his basement so they can marinate for a while before he eats them. I'm serious. He can't bring them through the yard because of his very large and very hungry dog; there would be nothing left.

So unless some Mash 4077 helicopter delivery-drops bundles of costumed children into the back yard, it seems the only logical way is to tunnel under.

But this has nothing to do with my pumpkin. So here it is:
That's right. My bat has pumpkin WINGS! Beat THAT!

Too Much?

You know those Christmas houses that have so many lights no one else in the neighborhood has any electricity and astronauts can see the illuminated rooftop Santa from Space?

This isn't anything like that.

But whereas I did criticize my neighbor for hanging Michael Myers on his door, I imagine some might think my mantle centerpiece is a bit inappropriate. But that depends on which side of the humor fence you fall on.

How do you feel about this?
Gross, right? Except it's delicious. It's a cake. German chocolate, vanilla pudding, Tootsie Rolls. We're making it for Max's Halloween party tomorrow. I'm serious. Go Google "Litter Box Cake" and come back. I'll wait.

...

See? It's nasty, but also really funny. So while Max and I were decorating for Halloween, we came up with a number of ideas. We wrapped our faces in tin-foil and then wrapped the face-form around our sconces, like this:
And they looked really cool. We hung spider webs and rubber spiders, put creepy candles in the windows, placed owls and witches on the shelves and windowsills, skeleton bones in the fireplace. Except when we were done, we had an entire bankers' box of rubber rats left over from last year (we had done an entire theme of our house being infested with them, wire-tying them to the railing and the ceiling and the walls).

So what could we do this year that was new? What depths of our imagination could we plum for inspiration with allllll these rubber rats?
It must have come to me in a dream. ;-)

I Asked The Universe For A Miracle...

If you know me then you know how I feel about Williamsburg and the denizens who troll the streets wearing their grandmother's wedding dress and tube socks trying to avoid soap.

So if you know how I feel about Williamsburg, you won't be surprised at all to learn how excited I am about this website:
LATH.COM

You know what the acronym stands for? Look At This F**king Hipster

Here's something to wet your whistle:
*Sniff* I'm so happy I could cry.

"Is That Poop On Her Eyebrow?"

Honest answer? Yes. Yes, there is poop on her eyebrow. Yes, there is poop on her mouth. Yes, I think she got some of it in there but no, not that much. At least I hoped not.

But I'm really starting way too far into the story. So let's go back. Let's get into the time machine and travel allllll the way back to 4:55 AM this morning.

Leni and I agreed to alternate last night. I would take the first feeding, she would take the second, and so on. The 1 AM feeding went off without incident: Roxy fell back asleep, Leni didn't wake up, I had a dream about a talking Unicycle who was also a landscaper as I leaned over the crib with the bottle...So everything was as it should be.

Now, knowing that I would be able to rest until my alarm went off at 6:30, I allowed myself the rare opportunity to enter deep REM sleep.

Until this: "Sweetheart?"

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz....

"Sweetheart? Hey, wake up. In the interest of keeping this quick, can you change her diaper?"

Leni obviously needed help and was keen on getting Roxy back to sleep as soon as possible. So standing up, barely conscious, I stumbled over to the crib with a diaper.

And this is where everything went to hell in a bassinette.

Sometimes she just pees. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, you just swoop one diaper off and another one on and no one gets hurt. Everyone gets to walk away unscathed.

But not this time. She had pooped and not just a little bit. At first I thought it must be a joke, that someone had poured an entire bowl of creamed spinach into her onesie. But I had already pulled the tabs on the diaper, and she was really beginning to kick. Like an angry grenade. With legs. That likes to scream.

So I picked her up, hustled her over to the bed (so I had a little more room), and laid her down. What do you think happened next? Clearly, we had been burgled. There were no wipes. No washcloths. Nothing. Not on my side table. Not on Leni's side table. Not on the dresser next to the crib. Someone had cleaned out our bedroom. So half asleep, holding Roxy's ankles up in the air, I don't notice that the diaper has fallen completely open beneath her. Except by the time I realize this, it's far too late.

She kicked it, once, twice, encasing both of her feet. So I grab them again, now with both hands. Leaving myself wide open for a frontal attack. And it was in that moment of weakness, in what can only be described as something so sadistically sinister, that she grabbed the diaper.

And not, like, grabbed it and just squeezed it. She grabbed it and began wielding it. As if it were a weapon, a mighty sword to defend herself against invisible bats or diaper goblins. I don't know. All I know is that by the time Leni came back with the bottle, this was pretty much the situation for both of us:
Without the cleats.

Trick or Treat, Smell my Fe...Jesus Christ, Run! Run For Your Lives!

You have a few options when it comes to decorating for the holidays. For Halloween, you can put paper ghosts and bats around your windows. You can put sound-activated eyes that light up and shake when someone walks by.

Or you can put this guy on your front door:
If you're having trouble, that's a dummy of Michael Myers (from the Halloween movies) holding a bloody machete hanging on the door. Now, a glowing jack-o-lantern says "Hey, this may look a little spooky, but really it's not. So come on up here and get you some Skittles."

A Michael Myers mannequin says: Come to my house and I will eat you. No joke. Remember Timothy Prescott from last year? I made some really delicious Timothy/Ritz Cracker sandwiches. Pass that gate and you're mine.

But what if you're a little kid who doesn't know who a machete-wielding maniac is? How else do you know not to come to this house? Let's take a look first:
I counted 4 major warning signs. Here they are again:
1: Beware of Dog. Sometimes that's just a deterrent for Jehovah's Witnesses, but probably not here.
2: Freddy Kruger mannequin. This is the second time we are being dissuaded from coming to the front door. And if a dream-stalking serial killer is telling you not to come any closer, well, that's probably sage advice.
3: That weird additional barbed-wire-David-Koresh-style extra fencing added to the top. The subtext here is: You may get in, but you are never, ever leaving my lawn.

How do I know that is true?

#4: The 800 pound pitbull that chased us away. Honestly. I was too scared to take it's picture. So what do you say, we just skip the Murphy's house this year, alright?

One Two Three Shoot!

I'm trying to understand my audience, here. I write a blog entry entitled "Can you call your baby a f**king a**hole?" and no one writes a single comment. I know that question might not be as pertinent to some as Health Care Reform but I certainly wouldn't have anticipated it slipping under the radar completely to vanish into thin air. I mean, no one responded.

But I make an invisible cake to trick Max into thinking we ate it all...and I have picketers waiting outside my front door before work. So what can I conclude from this?

Mischief beats out Provocation. Play more pranks on Max.

Now, I don't know if Max will appreciate the efforts I will be undertaking for the sake of my writing, but data supports the fact that YOU, my readership, so to speak, will.

So whenever Max comes back from her trip to California, I will certainly do my best to meet your demands accordingly.

Thank you.

R

Can You Call Your Baby A F**king A**hole?

When did this whole sacrosanct thing happen? Was it always like this? Were babies always untouchable? Why can't you say you hate babies? Because they're cute? Is that it? No one has a problem eating Veal Parmesan because no one thinks Cows are cute. If I had a Beagle Puppy Sandwich, people would be revolting in the streets. Because Beagle Puppies are cute. And no one, I hope, eats babies. But the point is, and I know I'm going to take heat for this, sometimes babies suck.
"Oh, come on. What did you expect? Sometimes babies cry. That's what they do..."
You're right. Babies cry. But no one says they cry for 24 hours straight. And no one who has gone through Colic says it with a smile. No one walks out of a Prison Camp wiping their foreheads saying, "Phew, I'm sure glad that's over. I could sure use a glass of milk." Because Prison Camp is torture. Sleep deprivation is torture. And that's the truth.
So when I need to wake up at 6 AM for work and Roxy wakes up at 5 AM and proceeds to tantrum and twist and fuss and refuse her bottle and kick her diaper off only to finally accept her bottle a half an hour later and then finally falls asleep at 5:57 AM...how could you see that as anything OTHER than intent?
Love has nothing to do with. I love both of my daughters and would fight to the death wielding only the bloody stumps of my limbs if that was all I had at my disposal but that doesn't mean I don't want to strangle them.
I spoke to an 82 year old woman once. She had been married for 61 years. I said, "In all that time, did you ever think about divorcing him?"
She smiled and said, "Divorce? Oh, no, never divorce. I thought about Murdering him. That I thought about quite often."
And it's the same kind of thing. It's the thing you have to whisper and only to someone you sense might feel the same way about their kids.
No, she's great. Roxy's great. But sometimes, I don't know, she can be such a f**king a**hole.
And they'd nod and say: Right?

Cut the Blue Wire

Having your Mother-In-Law stay with you for an extended period of time (meaning anything over 6 minutes) will transpire, of course, with the appropriate pluses and minuses. But these attributes usually come hand in hand.

On the plus side, you have the person who taught your exceptionally gifted wife how to cook. On the minus? You have the person who taught your exceptionally opinionated wife who runs the show. Here's a hint: It's not me.

Plus side, the house is immaculate when you get home. Minus? Wait, no, there's no minus here.

Plus side, there's someone to watch the baby while you fight with your wife. Minus? Considering how thin the walls are, the last thing I need is another woman in the house who thinks I'm an insensitive a**hole.

You have to take the good with the bad. Except the problem is, as the only male, I'm always outnumbered. Especially since Leni and her Mom are both mothers. No one, not in this house or on this planet, is going to convince either of them that they are wrong.

Which brings me to formula. Apparently I was mixing it wrong. We give Roxy Similac Isomil. It comes in powdered form. So in order to make a 4 ounce bottle, you put 4 oz. of water in a bottle and then add 2 scoops of formula. So far so good. Except I mentioned that I put the powder in first.

I might as well have said I put a 50/50 split of Jack Daniels and Ipecac in her bottle.

Mom: What do you mean? You can't put the powder in first.
Me: Why not?
Leni: Because you're not adding the right amount of water.
Me: Sure I am. I fill it a little bit past 4 ounces.
Leni: But why would you do that? The directions are on the container...
Mom: And all that formula is on the bottom. It may not get mixed in.
Me: No, I mix it all in. I just make sure I have a bit more liquid than the 4 oz. mark.
Mom: But you're changing the chemistry of it!

The chemistry of it? Let me tell you something. I've mixed about 10,000 glasses of Nestle Quik in my life and every god-damned one of them was delicious. And I sure as hell didn't have a problem with the chemistry of it. Yet, by this point of the conversation, it's gotten fairly tense and they decide to make 2 new bottles, using both methods, to see how far off my bottles have been.

So how do I defuse this situation before the bomb explodes?

I have the option of saying I don't think it matters if the proportion is off 1/4 of an ounce and that they're being ridiculous. Offend my Mother-In-Law who is helping us for free. Tell her that when Roxy had her stomach virus, she didn't give a rat's a** how much water was in the formula, she'd pour a bunch of Pedialyte in the bottle too, change the chemistry as well, and therefore hoist by her own petard.

But you can't say that to your Mother-In-Law.

You can smile...And you can say, I didn't think about that. You're right. I'll do it your way from now on.

So take your pliers out, place them over the red wire, and hope to g-o-d it sounds believable.

Look What I Can Do!

I don't know. I don't know what the hell she's doing but she seemed so proud of herself I just had to share it with you.

Shakira-califragilisticexpialidocious

I guess last night wasn't so bad.

It was around 11 PM and I was falling asleep against the mole-fan I was operating. I don't know why they're called Mole Fans. Apparently Wikipedia doesn't either. Are Moles (the animal) particularly quiet (like the fans)? No idea. Neither one of them can see, I guess, but then neither can a spatula and that's not called anything derived from the Animal Kingdom like the Lion Fork or something, so who knows...

Anyway, this is what it looks like:
And this is who I was silently aiming it at:
I actually worked with Shakira a few years ago but there really wasn't any reason to bring it up other than to look tragically desperate to speak to someone famous (remind me to tell you about my excruciatingly awkward semi-aborted conversation with Jodie Foster sometime). Turns out being exhausted was less obvious and less sad, so I mentioned that I had a 4 month-old who liked to wake up every hour or two and cry for a bottle.

"Four months? And that's only the beginning," she laughed. And she was right, although maybe a bit off on the timing. Because if you've read this blog from the start, you know that the real beginning started here:
Anyway, spending a few hours wafting Shakira's hair with a fan wasn't such a bad way to end the week. It could have been Tom Arnold.

I even tried to get her to help.

Shakira: [leaving] Good night, thank you everybody.
Me: Good night.
Shakira: Hey, good luck with your 4 month old...
Me: Oh, yeah, thanks. I need it.
Shakira: Bye.
Me: You know, if you want, you can babysit...
Shakira: [laughing] I don't know. I'd have to think about it.
Me: Oh, come on. You have an entourage. You can share the responsibility!

All in all, she was exceptionally gracious and lovely. So if I do ever work with her again, I can mention that I'm the one who tried to get her to be our nanny in a not-at-all-solicitous and ultimately charming and non-desperate manner.

Although I might not. Cheerio!

It's Official!

Today is as good a day as any to begin recognizing and celebrating 3 important things in my life.

1. I'm old. I know 36 isn't over the hill but when you see Christie Brinkley and you think "Holy Christ, that woman is hot" (at 53 no less) and the kid next to you says "who's Christie Brinkley?", you may not be pooping in your pants on line at the pharmacy but you're absolutely past the point of no return.

2. My 2 year wedding anniversary takes place on Monday the 19th. If you know either Leni or I well, this is a greater accomplishment than you can possibly imagine.

3. We returned the Hospital-Grade Breast Pump Leni had rented. You know what that means? Bye-bye breast milk. Bye-bye Breast Milk means Hello hormones! And Hello Hormones! means Leni and I will start having sex again! Yayyyyyyyy!!!

Oink, Oink

I left for work this morning at 6:30 AM and have just arrived home (11:12 PM). The sum total of my parenting today consisted of pulling Roxy out of my armpit (this is where she likes to sleep) and leaving a pink ballpoint pen that smelled like bubblegum for her on the kitchen table next to a note.

I don't know how this blog is going to be interesting at all in the months to come, as working in the Film Business leaves little time to have a personal life, and even less for a family life.

But until I get to that breaking point, here's a picture of Roxy from yesterday. She's started eating solid food, and by that I mean spoonfuls of soupy baby oatmeal. But it's great to see her develop new skills like holding onto her feet and filling up her diaper so that it squeezes out the waistband.

If there's one thing I do know, it's that she will be just like Max and love bacon.

Dear Janeen,

Thanks for the query. I placed a call today to Hertz to figure out why they are so punitive to the outer boroughs. Ready?

Historic Liability Costs

Historic, as in, say, The Gettysburg Address. Apparently "data" shows that everyone in these three boroughs (Queens, Bronx, and Brooklyn) really suck at driving. Or rather, really suck at driving someone else's car.

So feel free to lie and say you live in Manhattan. And don't worry about hitting anything there, either. We've got you covered.

Rodney

Hertz: Sure We Rent Cars, But Did You Also Know We Suck Donkey C**k?

I'm working on Ugly Betty this week, and as my wife is still working over at Uncle Carl's, I had to rent a car this weekend. Being the resourceful young man that I am, I employed the use of the Interweb in order to simplify the process.

My only mistake was going to Hertz.com, where the only evidence I found of anything "Simple" was in their criteria for employment. This is a company that appears to have hosted Stupidity to pandemic proportions.

Let's start with my "guaranteed" quote for a 1 week rental: $260.82. I could rationalize spending two hundred bucks for a rental car. What I couldn't stomach, on the other hand, was showing up to Rental Office and being charged $411. Where did $150 materialize from? Why the discrepancy?

This (taken from my confirmation email):

QUEENS,BKLN,BRONX RESIDENTS-RATE MAY NOT APPLY-CALL 18006543131

Minimum Age 25 outside US - Exceptions may apply
RETURN TIME AT OR NEAR LOCATION'S OPENING OR CLOSING HOURS

ONLINE CHECK IN CONFIRMED

The key phrase is "may not apply." May expresses a possibility, a contingency, like, if I beat my ho, I may not make it to the Crab Shanty tonight. And then, amidst all the other debris in the confirmation email, you are supposed to call that 800 number. But don't bother. Because Hertz has a POLICY that anyone living in Queens, Brooklyn, or the Bronx (Hooray, City Island!) has to take it in the a**. Those people have to pay MORE. Why? I don't know. Why say I may do $150 of damage to the inside of that car you will never be able to attribute to me when I am absolutely going to do $150 worth of damage to that car you will never be able to attribute to me. But that's besides the point.

What is the point is that they won't tell you this on their website. They WANT you to go to the office. They WANT to leave you stranded Sunday morning staring at a blank employee and blinking cursor next to the exorbitant amount because that leaves you with only 3 choices: Pay it, Walk out (literally) and find another option, or Hold the grudge until the waiting period on your Glock 19 is over.

Leni and I had plans that day, plans that didn't include a 10 year-old who likes to complain she's always bored and a baby that likes to cry for no reason. And with a little more digging I established that the lowest class car I could rent from them would cost $380. So, reluctantly, I decided to pay it. It wasn't worth the time or the fight (although in hindsight it was because our nanny was 2 hours late and ruined the day anyway, but that's neither here nor there).

But had I not decided to rent the car, I never would have had this amazing conversation, solidifying my position that Hertz may have the dumbest group of Lysol-huffing morons (no offense to Lysol, btw, I love your products) ever assembled beneath a corporate umbrella.

Look at this picture:
That's aircraft cable connecting the 2 fobs. It does not disconnect. This piece of information is crucial.

Me: Is this a spare?
Hertz: [squinting] Yeah.
Me: Does this come apart? This ring?
Hertz: No.
Me: It doesn't?
Hertz: No.
Me: Then why have two keys?
Hertz: Well, if you wanted to return the car to a different location, and you lost one of the keys, they would have one to bring the car back up here instead of us having to send them one.
Me: [holding the ring up] This is in case I lose one?
Hertz: Yeah.
Me: But you realize that if I lose one of them...
Hertz: ...
Me: ...I lose both of them.
Hertz: ...
Me: They're connected.
Hertz: Man, I don't make the rules.

But I do. I make the rules. So here's one I'd like everyone to follow: Don't Use Hertz. And don't let any of your loved ones use them either. Or even mild acquaintances. Anyone. I'm serious.

Human Scenery

They used to be called Extras. But I guess over time they started to feel like their contribution was somewhat more substantial, and that the phrase "Extras" was somehow derogatory or diminutive or, I mean, really, who really gives a s**t what they think, but the point is we are now supposed to refer to them as (drumroll please): Background Artists.

Now, the term Artist suggests the creation of something. That these people are demonstrating with incomparable facility, range, and grace the illusion of something special. Of Reality. Of moments reflected from the measureless spanse of the universe to create a legacy of events that are as timeless as the creation of the Great Pyramids or Alexander's conquests across Mesopotamia.

A man walking his dog.
Someone carrying a newspaper.
A woman in a hurry to catch a train.
Or, and this is my personal favorite, two people having a conversation.

I can't convey accurately how terrible these people are. I can give you an example, though. Imagine you are a man holding a bikini on a hanger. It doesn't matter why you are holding the bikini. Someone dropped it. You're a nice guy so you pick it up to hang it back up. Whatever, stop getting stuck on the details. The important thing is that there is you and the bikini. Now, visualize 200 people lined up in front of you. These people are Background Artists. One by one, they will all walk past you, and in procession, dazzle you with their wit. Because they are magicians. They are conjurers of the spectacular. They are "Artists."

And it will sound like this:

I don't think that's going to fit you.
Isn't that a little small for you?
That looks a little small for you...
Don't they have that in a bigger size?
Wow, I didn't know guys wore bikinis!
Do they have it in red?
What about a one-piece?
Isn't that saucy?
Are you sure that isn't too small?
Meee-ow!
Look out Swimsuit Models!
Maybe you should try the size 8...
Is that even going to fit you?
Maybe you'll like the thong better.
[whistles] Sexy Mama!
That color will look nice on you.
Can I try one on?
It's like in Borat! Ay Liiike!

And on and on and on. And some of those probably sounded funny because I wrote them now as an example.

But, now that you've come this far on my longwinded diatribe, come a little further. Here's the set-up: There are 150 extras sitting by a pool, and I have to pass out tropical drinks. They are made with water and food coloring (for martinis and cosmos); grape juice (for white or red wine); ginger ale (champagne); and orange juice (color it and its a whole lot of other drinks). I have 40 drinks on the tray and it is heavy. I quickly move from couple to couple so I can get the next tray.

Ready?

Me: Take any 2 drinks.
Background: Are they alcoholic?
Me: No.

Me: Take any 2.
Background: Is this wine?
Me: No, it's grape juice.
Background: What's this one?
Me: This one's your drink, now take it.

Me: Any 2 drinks...
Background: I don't know...I like the blue one...Oh, what about this one...Hmmm...
Me: There's no wrong answer. Just take one already.

Me: Take any 2 drinks.
Background: Can I drink this one?
Me: I just need you to hold it.
Background: But what if they make me stand somewhere else?
Me: The awesome part about these glasses are that you can pick them up and bring them with you.

Background: Do you have any food?
Me: Nope, just take 2 drinks.
Background: I'm really hungry.
Me: I'm not a waiter, I just need you to take a drink.
Background: Which one?
Me: Any one.
Background: There are so many.
Me: I know. And this tray is really heavy so...
Background: What's this one?
Me: [resting tray on lounge chair and passing him one] This one's your drink.

Me: Take any 2 drinks...
Background: Are they alcoholic?
Me: No. Just take 2.
Background: Hmmmm...What's this one?
Me: It doesn't matter. I don't want you to drink it. You just need to hold it.
Background: What if I want to drink it?
Me: Buy some Immodium.

Me: Take any 2 drinks
Background: Are these real alcohol?
Me: No, but what I like to do is put one real drink on the tray like a game and you have to try to find it.
Background: Really?
Me: No!

Oh, Poor Bastard

I know, I'm not making any friends talking about the fact that I'm working down in a tropical paradise. It doesn't matter that we're working really hard, in 90 degree heat, ridiculous humidity for 13 hours starting at 6 AM each morning.

If I said the following: I had to carry 6 directors chairs, 4 heavy bins of glassware, a case of grape juice, and 5 trays of food 500 yards across a beach to the location.

What you would hear is: ...across a beach...

And what you would think is: ...stick it...

So it's a lose/lose proposition to tell you about today, but I'm going to do it anyway. I'll go ahead and do the easy part for you too.

What you will hate me for: ...jetskis...crystal blue water...sunshine...

What actually happened: For 3 hours I had to run several hundred yards back and forth along a beach wrangling 4 jetskis pretty much by myself beneath the blistering sunshine and after they called cut I had to pull the 8000 pound hulks back down into the water (because the fake cops drove them 10 feet up onto the shore) which sounds easier than it is as anyone who has ever had to pull a wet elephant across a gravel driveway by its toenails will tell you.

Hurumph.

Wha' say Oldboy?

The resort I'm staying at is so big that I spend a lot of time on a golfcart. Our appointed local driver/teamster/guide is called Fast Eddie. Everyone has a nickname here: Smokey, Guinness, Dr. Feelgood, Big Sharon. Everyone. Except me.

In the case of Fast Eddie, he's about 5'5" and walks faster than any human being I have ever met. I'm 6'3" and from Manhattan. Both of those attributes should be enough to exhaust anyone attempting to keep pace with me. But not this guy. I had to ask him to slow down a few times today just so I could stay with him. And it's not like he's driving the cart in front of me and I'm chasing after him. He's just walking in front of me and I can't keep up.

Regardless, Eddie knows everyone at the hotel. Everyone. There are 8,000 employees at the resort, apparently, and I can say with the authority I've achieved riding in his cart that he knows every one of them. Even the ones in cars who drive past us. This morning someone yelled something at him at an intersection. He jumped out, ran across the street, and gave the guy some money. Apparently his friend needed some for the tollbooth.

So because I've watched him joke, flirt, catch up and wave to legions of other Islanders, I've started to pick up some phrases. My favorite is "Wha'say Oldboy?" That means "How's it going, Guy with Rake?" Or, "You look like s**t, Construction Worker." Or, "Something Something Something, Unconscious Man Beneath the Palm Tree." Sometimes I like to yell it to random landscapers or bellhops and watch their confusion as they turn to see a white kid smiling and waving as we zip by on the cart.

And apparently I've become a bit of a cause celebre. What exactly made me stand out farther than all of the other guests and crew members? My tattoo. This is the actual artwork that was used to ink it.
Whether you like it or not is not the point. I love Monty Python. I think the Ministry of Silly Walks is one of the most spectacular sketches of all time, so I designed the artwork with John Cleese's profile in the center in the negative space. So at first I was like, Wow, they love the Flying Circus in the Caribbean.

But they don't watch Monty Python down here. And Fast Eddie said he wasn't even sure what that was. He asked if it was some kind of dessert. So why would my tattoo impress so many of them if they didn't know who John Cleese is? And more importantly, exactly who did they think my tattoo was of?
F**king Michael Jackson. Except I guess it was F**king Michael Jackson holding a briefcase.

So not cool.

Eureka!

The problem I have working with homophobic men is different than the problems I have down here in the Caribbean. In New York, you really just have exchanges of witty banter or disparaging remarks about not liking sports or a shirt someone is wearing. You don't really have situations where you need them to do something that will make them really uncomfortable.

Which brings me to the issue of Sunblock Application. Now, I only know a handful of people down here on this crew, so I'm at somewhat of a disadvantage when it comes to selecting an SPF and applying it. Sure I could have bought the kind that comes in the aerosol can, but I like to try to help the environment. But no male friend of mine is going to hear that logic and spend even a single minute rubbing sunblock onto my shoulders. God forbid you make a joke and start to groan about how good it feels. Goodbye Pete and Hello Sunburn! And so I've been stuck contorting my hands like Houdini behind my back trying to reach my shoulder blades but it just won't work.

So rather than try to track down one of the females I only remotely know to help me for some awkward small talk and an even more awkward favor, I decided to come up with a solution.

First I tried a litre water bottle. But the full one was too heavy to maneuver into the right places and the empty one was slippery and just as useless. So what did I do?

I smeared a bunch of sunblock about chest height onto the glass patio door and then smeared my back around against it until it was rubbed in.

And as far as I can tell it worked because the only place my back hurts is the place that gets the crap beaten out of it on the waterslides.

So take it from me Lonely Dudes. If you're ever stuck in a hotel room and just can't bring yourself to ask one of your guy friends, or more likely, convince ANY of them to help you, try the glass door. It's not a bad solution.

Turn to Page 31 in your Vocabulary Workbooks

Sadness: Dropping your sunglasses in the urinal at Target

Grief: Plucking them out barehanded before they become entirely submerged

Anguish: Having none of the faucets work

Now let's look at some Antonyms!

Hope: Lysol 4-in-1 All-Purpose Cleaner

Delight: Finding a dishtowel in Aisle 5

Exuberance: The soothing pine-fresh scent on my fingers

Christmas Comes Early

This was Roxy on Friday the day before I left. And I hate to boast, because if my daughter looked like an alien I would admit that she looked like an alien and probably make fun of her, but my god, look at that smile.

Sigh.

Skype This!

Well, I made it to the Caribbean just fine. I'm not sure if I'm allowed to tell you where I am so I'll just leave it at somewhere very warm, somewhere the water is crystal blue, and somewhere they are now missing a can of $4 Pringles from the minibar.

After arriving at the hotel, we found my room wasn't ready yet so we all went to my friend Pete's room that happened to be connected to Duke's room. And just so you know the cast of character's for this week's blogging (because I'm not coming home until Saturday and so any Parenting I do will be via the Interweb): Duke (the Propmaster), Pete (his 2nd), and Chris (the 3rd).

So while we were preparing to leave for the beach, Duke comes into Pete's room wearing an old-time-60's-type short bathing suit, a blue t-shirt, and a bright white sun hat Gilligan would have been proud of.

But he seemed uncertain, observing himself from several angles in the mirror.

Duke: Guys, what do you think?
Pete: About what?
Duke: The hat, I don't know about the hat. What do you think about the hat? Awesome? Or not awesome?
[pause]
Me: What was the, uh, second choice you gave us?

Overall, though, I think the hardest part about this week, other than missing my wife desperately, will be delicately balancing how amazing it is here without it sounding like I'm rubbing it in. Which is what I normally do. Suckers.

I didn't mean that. Unless your name is John Romer. In which case I did.

You Suck, Sterbenz

As we close in on 4 months without any sleep, my wife (in an amazing moment of generosity) helped secure me a spot on a trip to the Caribbean with another TV show. Usually I just get to go to Greenpoint and work near the Poop Factory. It's not really called The Poop Factory but it processes sewage and if you've driven near Greenpoint then you know what I am talking about so the fact that I actually get to go on a plane and go somewhere is a big deal.

But what I am looking forward to more than the sun and the beach is a nice, quiet, dark hotel room where I can sleep for 8 hours uninterrupted.

8 glorious hours.

In addition, hopefully this week away will help my creativity resurface so I can keep blogging because this week at Uncle Carl's, shooting 16 hour days, has given me a cold, an aching back, and the ability to sleep with my eyes open while performing other tasks...like blogging.

I don't know if I'm even making sense right now.

So let's wrap things up. I am exhausted. The Blog sucked this week (I admit) but I hope to make up for it. I am going somewhere warm where I can sleep. Everyone is fine, here. We're all fine.

How are you?

P.S. Here's a video of me eating a really big cookie from the same TV show. I guess if you watch the show you will recognize it. If not, I guess it's just me eating a really, really big cookie for no particular reason.